#i never left that damned desert and its becoming a problem

[farther-north]

I feel so bad for anyone who will ever ask me what my roman empire is because shawty sit down, grab some popcorn, you're gonna have to sit down and listen to me rant for over 2 hours about either The Crane Wives, Desert Duo, or both IN DETAIL with all my theories and headcannons ;;;;;;-;

[shanastoryteller]

Do you think you'll tackle Serene and Endymion in your Greek Myths? They are gorgeous btw. ;)

Not all titans were subdued. Not all were lost, or chained, or changed.

Some simply endured, too large and distant to be concerned with matters of titles and thrones.

Helios raged. Even bound within Tartarus, his sun burned brighter and angrier with each day, feeding off the hatred of the cursed titan. Seas turned to deserts as water was baked out of the earth. Apollo scooped up Helios’s chariot, bringing the sun to bear and returning a normal rhythm to the days and nights. Helios’s rage burns him even still, but the chariot has at least accepted its new master.

Artemis becomes associated with the moon because she is her brother’s other half in all things. But she constructs her chariot herself and it is used for races and to transport huntresses and little else.

The moon’s first goddess has never left. She has dragged the moon across the sky in her chariot of starlight uninterrupted for over a millennia.

The titan Selene did not join the fight of the new gods and the titans. She did not defend her brother nor did she attempt to save him.

But neither has she acknowledged the new pantheon. Zeus rules the sky and has demanded an audience with her many times, but she has never granted it. Zeus chases her chariot, but even riding lightning he can’t catch it when she unhooks the moon and no longer has its weight slowing her down.

Poseidon shakes his head and says, “Leave her be. I am the master of the sea and yet if I suddenly had to push forward every inch of the tide myself, I wouldn’t be left with much power to do anything else. All you’re doing is causing problems for the rest of us. Leave Selene to her work.”

Artemis agrees. If even Poseidon thinks bothering the moon titan is a bad idea, then they should listen. Usually he can’t be bothered to have opinions about anyone outside of his own wife, and even that’s rare.

Zeus gives up. Time passes, as it does, and no matter how the sun bucks and fights against her brother’s grip, sometimes going too quick and then too slow, the moon continues at the same steady pace.

Artemis grows stronger beneath moonlight. This must be because of her worshippers, or perhaps her brother’s. She never answers any prayers for tides or from people lost in the darkness, refusing every attempt to give her a power not her own, but her silence doesn’t seem to discourage anyone. Under the night sky her chariot moves impossibly fast and moonlight seems to always find her through the trees, which makes hunting difficult, but she doesn’t dare complain.

She does not want to earn Selene’s ire.

But despite her best efforts, Artemis does not manage to avoid her attention.

She is separated from her huntresses, spending the third night in a row tracking down a leopard that Demeter claims she drove mad on accident. Artemis doesn’t believe her, but the truth is irrelevant. This creature stalks and kills with Demeter’s blessing upon it, taking down all manor of creature and person.

Her temples have been filled with those begging for her aid. She’s blessed many spears, but her blessing doesn’t seem to be able to outweigh Demeter’s.

That irritates her enough that she’s seeing to this personally. She’s going to skin that damn leopard and wear it’s pelt to the next meeting of the pantheon.

One moment she’s skulking beneath a canopy of leaves, following several drops of blood she’s convinced will lead her to her prey, and the next the hair of her arms is standing on end and her heart is beating fast enough to make her light headed.

She swings around, spear raised, convinced that the damn leopard has found her first.

It’s not the leopard.

“You are the one they are praying too,” says a woman, her body soft with roundness and with the palest skin Artemis has seen on a living person. The extra skin beneath her chin gives her a perfectly circular face and the pockmarks across her face and body are a perfect echo of the moon’s many craters.

Selene tucks her ink black hair behind her ear and looks at her with equally dark eyes.

Artemis was born long after the war with the titans and she’s never ventured into Tartarus. She had assumed their presence felt much the same as other gods, that perhaps it was similar to the feeling of getting caught up in Hera’s rage.

It’s nothing like that.

Selene’s power is like a physical weight, as if they’re suddenly underwater and it’s surrounding them everywhere. Artemis lets it push her to her knees, bowing her head and trying to force her heart to calm. “Titan Selene. I swear that I did nothing to encourage them. I have not claimed any of your power.”

She should have done more than ignore them. She should have toppled temples and killed dissenters. She should have redirected their prayers. Anything to prevent what’s happening now.

“Would you like to?”

Artemis risks raising her head. Selene doesn’t sound angry and she doesn’t look it either. “I don’t understand.”

Selene gestures to the sky. “The moon is different from the sun. The sun pushes forward on its own and must be restrained and goaded in equal measure. Untethered, it will still rise and set. The moon must be pulled. It wants nothing more than to rest and unprompted it will stay motionless. If I step from my chariot for even a moment, the moon halts. It is unmoving now, as we speak.”

Artemis looks up. The moon always looks still to her. She wonders if the tides have noticed the difference.

“I have not been able to walk among earth for more than a few moments since I forged my chariot, lest all that follow the moon also go still and silent. They call you a moon goddess.”

“Please don’t make me take your place,” she says, not above begging. If the goddess traps her on her chariot, Artemis won’t have a choice.

Selene smiles, amusement making her eyes sparkle like distant stars. “You are young. You could not survive the chill or the weight for long. But perhaps you could endure for an hour or two.”

“I don’t understand,” she repeats, but some of her fear is starting to recede. Selene is not speaking like she’s going to strike her or curse her.

“There is a man,” she says, then pauses.

“Oh,” Artemis blinks, then, “Um, that’s not really my area. I could ask my brother?”

Selene laughs. “No, that is not necessary. I just need time. Will you steer my chariot each night so that I may walk across the earth unworried? Then you shall be a moon goddess in more than name.”

A titan, offering to share power for so little a reward? There has to be a catch. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll take too much?”

“I am not a goddess as you are a goddess,” she says, her derision light enough that Artemis can choose not to take offense to it. “My power neither grows nor dwindles based on the opinions of mortals. If you gain more, I do not have less.”

It shouldn’t be that surprising. All gods have some level of innate power. But not like this, not something that could alter the course of a planet, not this large and this terrifying.

Artemis decides then that Selene must be the most powerful of the titans. Anything else is too much to think about.

“I accept,” she says.

Selene reaches out, wrapping her thick fingers around her wrist, and then Artemis is somewhere else and she’s freezing.

“You get used to the cold,” Selene says, nudging her to the front of her chariot. The starlight glitters beneath her, driving home how her own silver chariot is nothing more than a pale imitation, no matter how it shines. “I drive the chariot forward with own will.”

Artemis’s works similarly. She focuses, and the chariot lurches forward, but then it jerks backwards. She glances behind, seeing the massive moon attached to the chariot with pulsing, heavy black chains. She tries again, slower, but no matter how much power she puts behind it, the moon won’t move forward a single inch.

“It’s alright,” Selene says. “I’ll help. You’ll grow stronger.”

She leans forward and spits out into space. Her saliva splits into two and then grows, until two massive, pearly white great wolves are standing at attention. Selene summons more of that strange black chain, looping it around the wolves’ chest and forming a hook to pull it through the front of the chariot before handing the ends to Artemis.

They’re heavy enough that she can feel the weight dragging her arms down. “What do I–”

Selene whistles and then wolves bound forward. For a moment they just strain against their chains, but then Artemis adds her own power to push the chariot, and then slowly, painfully, the moon is dragged forward.

“Good,” Selene says, the word settling into Artemis’s bones. “Stop when you must, but not before. I will feel the moon’s stillness and return.”

Her disappearance leaves the air surrounding Artemis even colder, but she refuses to shiver and instead urges the wolves faster with a snap of the celestial chains.

~

Endymion spends most of his nights on the tallest mountain within walking distance of the city, tracking the stars’ movements so that his fellow astronomers can check their equations against the realities of the heavens.

It takes him much longer than his colleagues and he blames it on an unsteady hand.

The truth is that his hands are perfectly steady. He has a one tablet of star positions and several rolls of linens with paintings of the moon. He’s not a very good artist, but something about it compels him, and so he spends hours each night determined to capture ever crevice and angle.

“Why are you always looking at me?”

He startles, dropping his brush, and turns on his heel to see who on earth is up here with him.

It’s a woman, with long black hair and a large body. There’s a puckered line along her cheek and he resists the urge to press his fingers against it, to follow it’s path until his fingers reach her lips. The soft pink of her plush mouth is the only bit of color on her.

Her question catches up with him and he sputters, “I’ve never seen you before!”

He would remember.

“You are always looking,” she insists, walking towards him. “What do you see?”

“I really haven’t seen you before,” he says, but doesn’t move away when she comes right up next to him. This close, he can see some faint color in her cheeks. He wonders if there are any other parts of her that tinge from pale to pink.

He feels heat rush to his own face at the thought. The bright moonlight that lets him see her so clearly is the same moonlight that’s going to give away his indecent thoughts.

But she doesn’t call him on it, instead pointing down at the crumpled linen. “Why?”

“Oh,” he flushes even more. “I don’t know. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? That’s reason enough.”

Endymion waits for her derision, the same that he’s received every time he’s gotten caught, but instead she curls her hands into the material of his shirt and says, “I agree,” and then she’s yanking him down to press her lips into his.

He tries to convince her to follow him home, but instead she disrobes right there and he can’t argue with that.

“Be here again tomorrow night,” she orders when the sweat is cooling on their bodies.

She likes to order him around. He doesn’t mind. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

“I will not answer questions that you already know the answer to,” she says, and then kisses him again before he can argue.

He means to walk down with her, to escort her home at least, but the moment he turns his back on her, she’s gone.

It takes him seven more nights with her for him to work up the courage to call her Selene.

She smiles and bites his shoulder, the imprints of her teeth a perfect circle.

gods and monsters series, part xxxiii

read more of the gods and monsters series here

[ultraericthered]

Anime Update V3 2

Vinland Saga S2 - Gardar didn't last too long against Snake (Gardar and Snake, ha ha) before he ended up getting taken out of there to be put back in chains. The rest of the episode was spent on Arnheid's backstory with Gardar and the son she lost, as well as the reveal that she is now pregnant with Master Ketil's child. Eeeeugh!

Hunter x Hunter - Leol's party got sent out by the King's Royal Guard to hunt down Killua, Cheetu is still on the move from Shoot and Knuckle, and Meleoron finally got found out by Gon in the desert, but he seems to want to defect from the army and reason with Gon, which I don't buy for a minute, he's up to something else here. But I have to mention that this was the 100th episode in this entire anime and it ends in a way that left me unable to stop laughing for a good while - the human-looking Chimera Ant sniper who was trying to pick off Killua gets exposed as a small octopus-looking Chimera Ant named Ikalgo, and when Killua brings up he resembles an octopus, Ikalgo shrieks "DON'T CALL ME AN OCTOPUS!" The screen freeze frames, and as the narrator caps it off he too describes Ikalgo as resembling an octopus, prompting a echoing repeat of Ikalgo's line. Just...after 100 episodes of anime, what a way to end this milestone!

SHUFFLE! - Rin is understandably having difficulties coping with the recent changes in his life, which includes different fan clubs for Sia, Nerine, and Kaede who all hate his guts for his closeness with the girls. We see more from Rin's friends and learn that Sia had met with Rin once when she was younger that Rin can't recall, and then one day while walking from school, Rin lets a mysterious new girl into his life, a Demon friend of Sia's named Primula. When she follows him home to Kaede's house, it's decided that she will live there too.

Fate/Stay Night: Unlimited Blade Works - Reached the part where the big Emiya showdown has ended and then Archer is slain by Gilgamesh, who asserts himself as the final enemy who wants to use the Holy Grail to exterminate the majority of humanity so that the world can be made better by virtue of being inhabited by only the truly strong and worthy, which he'd rule over as their king. He's so infuriatingly high-and-mighty and contemptible, but he does one decent thing at the very end by turning Shinji into the body horror that will become the Grail's vessel. Shinji can never deserve it enough!

KonoSuba - Kazuma has continued to show us how out of his depth he is as a "hero" in this world, and Aqua, for a goddess, is so damn incompetent and useless that it becomes all too clear to Kazuma that they're not getting anywhere fast as they are, so they put out fliers to recruit another party member, which they get in the young dark mage Megumin. And the one thing that was kind of distracting me in the episode was Megumin's portrayal: Erica Mendez doesn't do badly as her voice, but she's such a clear Rikka Takanashi clone that I'm always expecting Margaret McDonald. This isn't a dub-exclusive problem either: Maaya Uchida (Rikka's seiyuu) did voice Megumin in the Drama CDs, but the anime cast Rie Takahashi in the role instead. Why? Anyway, she's going to be a handful with her insistence on using this one destructive darkness spell all the time, and at the very end there appears a new, different sort of "Darkness" to deal with...

Symphogear XV - At last I started the final season with its premiere, where our girls go to Antarctica (hello, Place Further Than The Universe!) and fight a new sort of enemy that's been unleashed by an offshoot of the Bravian Illuminati who diverged from Adam's plan and are under the employ of someone else. In between we flash back to how this got started, with some new cute HibiMiku to spare.

Eureka Seven - Renton's still got it good with Charles and Ray, but its contrasted not only by the disarray back on the Gekko, but with Renton acting out and trying to save a terminally ailing Voderac girl against the advice of Charles and the wishes of the people at the sanctuary he wants to bring her too, who only display hostility and prejudice against her for belonging to the same group of people who terrorized them, killing and injuring many. There are some very harsh life lessons Renton is forced to learn here and he understandably does not take well to it. His guilt over his own sins are paralleled with Holland, who hesitates to tell Eureka that Renton ran away and when he finally does, still can't bring himself to admit out loud that he's the one most to blame for it, leaving Eureka to blame herself instead.

Gintama - Keeping with the continuity of this crazy show, Odd Jobs receive two Amanto carpenters - a Red and Blue Oni looking pair - from Sakamoto as an apology for destroying their home just two episodes back. Shennanigans ensue with Gintoki marveling so much over how good the two are at their work that he cons them into working extra to improve and "restore" the place, even making up some bogus fable about an unshakably helpful, dedicated and skilled carpenter named Mokishi, and these cheap tricks somehow work on the two carpenters every time. It all ends in a perfect Brick Joke where all the extra handiwork on the Odd Jobs place literally goes flying off into orbit with just the push of a button. So brilliantly dumb!

AND

My Dress-Up Darling - I think this anime and March Comes In Like A Lion could work well as a set labeled "Your Lie In April, But Actually Healthy, Uplifting, and Competently Conveyed." Much like how Rei Kiriyama was like a Good Counterpart to Kosei, Marin Kitagawa is like a Good Counterpart to Kaori, a extroverted, perky, silly, beautiful blonde bombshell who transcends Manic Pixie Dream Girl as her own aggressively confident force of nature unto herself, but while Marin is every bit as pushy, naughty and teasing as Kaori could be, she is also more earnest and sincerely well-meaning towards the friends she interacts with. Already I find myself enjoying the shit out of Marin and Gojo's dynamic and want to see them push all the way with it. Really my only big point of critique would be with Gojo, not because of his character, but because of his backstory: it is comically rushed and just ridiculous in its very nature, yet the show tries to convince us that it left major mental and emotional damage on the guy? I could not buy it, I just think Gojo is oversensitive and lacks commitment to try to really achieve something meaningful, and he's been clinging to that one childhood experience as an excuse to keep himself that way. Here's hoping Marin helps him get the f**k over it!

[ratofthemedievalsewers]

Heart of Steel - Part I

DBH Connor x Male Reader

Word Count: 2.5K+

Content warning: Minor injury detail, PTSD, language

Original game dialogue I got from this video:

https://youtu.be/32Np9LKI1Vg

We were attacked in the night.

After returning from a mission back to an outpost several miles from the red zone, we removed our gear save for a few pouches on our belts we could bother with later. Our team leader set up a fire while the SQ800s, CyberLife commissioned combat androids, began loading up the trucks with extra artillery and resources. A job that could have waited until morning, but Alpha always gave the androids something to do. He said that they creeped him out when they would just stand there in a dormant state, waiting for their next mission to be given to them.

"You know what I'm going to do when I get home?"

"Here we go again."

"I'm going to get me a WR400," Foxtrot; not everyone's favourite but he certainly kept us entertained when there was nothing to do.

"Uh-huh and with what money are you going to be using to pay for this WR400? A military salary definitely ain't gonna cut it." Echo always called out Foxtrot's bullshit, he was the only one that had the patience to deal with him.

"Fine, my birthday is comin' up, if you put towards two-thirds of what it costs we can share. How does that sound?"

"I am not sharing anything with you, I don't know what diseases you carry." Their constant back forth sent chuckles through the group.

"Alright, that's enough you two. It's getting late and past everyone's bedtime, I want you all awake by O-five-hundred at the latest," Alpha would often stop them before Foxtrot would take it too far, but he could never hide the twitching smile on his face.

"Yes sir," Foxtrot mock saluted as he stood from his seat around the campfire. "Hey Echo, that offer is still-"

One moment Foxtrot had a wide grin on his face, the next there was a hole in his head between his eyes, the sound of gunshot ringing in everyone's ears.

"SHOTS FIRED! GET TO COVER NOW!"

"FOXTROT IS DOWN! I REPEAT, FOXTROT IS DOWN!"

It was dark, we couldn't see where they were firing from. The android was the only one still standing, firing off in random directions as they were gunned down. The next was Delta, shot in the left shoulder, then the throat. My gun was back in my tent and there was no chance of me getting it. Stupid.

"MEDIC! GET TO DELTA! NOW!"

"GRENADE!"

I heard the thump by my feet before I saw it. You would think it would be terrifying, to know you're staring death in the face, but for a second it was peaceful. My body was cold and I already felt like a corpse, the Rigour Mortis freezing me in place, just softly gazing at what would kill me.

Something grabbed me before the grenade exploded, saving my life but destroying the android.

The bedsheets were crumpled and soaked in sweat again when my eyes shot open. It was hard to breathe, the panic was still running through me and closing up my throat at the memory.

In; one, two, three, four. Hold; one, two, three, four. Out; one, two, three, four. Hold; one, two, three, four.

It took a few minutes for me to remember where I was. That I was home and that I was safe. Out of nervous habit, I gripped my dog tags, they were wet from the sweat that had soaked through my shirt in the night.

"Shit." It was four in the morning, there was no chance of getting any more sleep and the station wouldn't be open for another two more hours at the least. Saying that; Fowler wanted to speak to me first thing, which never meant anything good for anyone.

It was aching again at the joint. The biomechanical component always felt itchy where it joined at the elbow. Anytime I would have that dream I would scratch at it in my sleep, it was like my subconscious knew it didn't belong. It knew my rotting left arm was still in the desert somewhere being picked apart by vultures.

It's almost ironic; to be saved by an android and then to have part of one attached to me. I hated it.

*****

"Morning Cyborg, you look like shit." Gavin was forever pleasant to talk to.

"Fuck off, Reed." He constantly hovered around the coffee machine, hogging it like it was his newborn baby. "Is Fowler in yet?"

"Not yet, you in trouble?" He took his time making his coffee, exceeding in being the department's resident asshat. "Did he catch you looking at porn on your work terminal again?"

"I'm pretty sure that's only ever happened to you." Not wanting to be reminded of his previous escapades I got no response. Gavin let out a small huff before moving to the side with his fresh cup of coffee, freeing up the machine.

"Officer (L/N)." Oh for fuck's sake.

"Sir?" Captain Fowler stood outside his office, his coat half soaked from the rain.

"My office, I need to speak to you." He didn't give a second glance to me before turning and letting the glass door shut behind him.

"Ha, good luck cyborg." Shooting Gavin the middle finger, I followed Captian Fowler into his office.

"What was it you wished to talk about, sir?" Feet shoulder-width apart, back straight and hands behind my back; habits from the army were destined to die hard. Often I would find myself moving my hand up to salute before leaving the presence of a superior, something else for Gavin to make fun of.

"You're aware of the deviant cases I've assigned to Lieutenant Anderson, correct?" Fowler sat at his desk, wet coat now hung on its rack, but there was slight dampness to his suit blazer where his coat had been left open.

"Yes sir. I believe he's being accompanied by a prototype RK800 from Cyberlife."

"That's correct. I'm sure you're aware that these deviancy cases are on the more..."

"Dangerous?"

"...Unpredictable side. Now, I can't exactly issue a gun to a prototype android if it's going to be in the field and, while I value Hank as a police officer, his record is on the rougher side."

"Captain Fowler, with all due respect, I don't believe-"

"Office (L/N), with all due respect, you don't have an opinion in this matter. I want you to accompany Lieutenant Anderson in these assignments just in case a deviant becomes too much for him or this android to handle. You've certainly got the skillset for it and you're not unfamiliar with working alongside androids, unlike quite a few officers in this department."

"I understand that, but-"

"Whatever you're gonna say I don't want to hear it." Captain Fowler didn't give me a chance to argue as he stood and walked to his office door, the annoyed look on his face worsening. "Hank, in my office!"

I let out a sigh before Captain Fowler turned back to his desk. Through the office wall made of glass Hank reluctantly made his way towards us grumbling something under his breath at the request, the RK800 model obediently following behind him like a little, lost puppy. Hank sat in the chair opposite Fowler while the android stood next to me, giving a small smile as a greeting.

Captain Fowler was the first to talk, "I've got ten new cases involving androids on my desk every day. We've always had isolated incidents, old ladies losing their android maids and that kind of crap... But now, we're getting reports of assaults and even homicides, like that guy last night. This isn't just cyberlife's problem anymore, it's now a criminal investigation and we've gotta deal with it before the shit hits the fan. I want you to investigate these cases, alongside officer (L/N) and see if there's any link."

"Why me? And why do I need a god damned partner? A stupid android is already too much. Why do I gotta be the one to deal with this shit?" Props to Hank for trying, but arguing with Fowler was like talking to a brick wall. "I am the least qualified cop in the country to handle this case! I know jack shit about androids, Jeffery. I can barely change the settings on my own phone."

"Everybody's overloaded. I think you're perfectly qualified for this type of investigation," They were already starting to blow up at each other.

"Bullshit! The truth is nobody wants to investigate these fuckin' androids and you left me holdin' the bag!"

"CyberLife sent over this android to help with this investigation and I've given you (L/N) as well. You've got a state of the art prototype and a leading police officer to act as your partners."

"No fuckin' way! I don't need partners, and certainly not this plastic prick and some action hero fucker."

"Nice working with you too, Lieutenant Anderson," I said under my breath, not intending for the others to hear. Connor turned his head slightly in my direction, I could see his LED blink yellow for a moment before going back to its bright blue.

"Hank, you are seriously starting to piss me off! You are a police lieutenant, you are supposed to do what I say and shut your goddamn mouth!"

"You know what my goddamn mouth has to say to you, huh?"

"I'll pretend like I didn't hear that, so I don't have to add any more pages to your disciplinary folder 'cause it already looks like a fuckin' novel! This conversation is over."

"Jeffrey, Jesus Christ! Why are you doin' this to me? You know how much I hate these fuckin' things. Why are you doin' this to me?" Most of the department knew why he had such a distaste towards androids, no one could necessarily blame him. Ever since losing his son Hank had become completely different as both a person and an officer. Admittedly, Fowler was harsh on him, but if he wasn't then Hank would drift.

"I've had just enough of your bitching. Either you do your job or you hand in your badge. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do." Hank left in a strop, letting out his frustration on Fowler's office door.

"Well then..." Connor was quick to break the tense silence. His voice caught me off guard, it was smoother, more human than any android's I had heard before. The SQ800's voices had always been more robotic than other models so it had been a shock when the androids back home had sounded so normal, it felt like that all over again. It was jarring. "I won't keep you any longer. Have a nice day captain."

Connor left and I followed behind, giving a small nod of dismissal to Fowler despite him still looking at his terminal screen.

The android went straight to Hank either oblivious or ignoring the lieutenant's current bad mood, granted there was never a time the bastard was in a good mood. Heaven itself could rain down on Detroit and he'd huff at it like a hair in his food.

"I got the impression my presence causes you some inconvenience, Lieutenant. I'd like you to know I'm very sorry about that. In any case, I'd like you to know I'm very to be working with you." Ever the enthusiast.

"I'd give in now. You're talking to a toddler in a fifty-year old's body and the toddler is having a hissy fit." I half sat and half leant against Hank's desk, using my arms to support my weight.

"Apologies, I don't believe I've introduced myself. My name is Connor, I am the android sent by CyberLife." He turned to me, a gentle and manufactured smile on his face. "It's a pleasure to be working with you too, officer (L/N). I'm sure we'll make a great team."

"Er... (Y/N) is just fine."

"Is there a desk anywhere I could use?"

"No one's using that one." Hank points to the desk opposite him, while still sulking like a child.

"Gasp, it speaks," I said in a sarcastic tone while turning to Hank.

"Fuck off. I've already got an android on my ass, I don't need you on it too."

I grabbed a terminal pad before perching myself back at the edge of Hank's desk while Connor got comfortable at the empty one. The light at the side of his head flashing yellow for a moment like he was hesitant to speak."You have a dog, right?"

"How do you know that?"

"The dog hairs on your chair. I like dogs. What's your dog's name?"

"What's it to you?" Hank shifted in his seat, "...Sumo... I call him Sumo."

"Under all those shitty shirts and questionable stains there's a warm, beating heart," I say more to myself than the other two, skimming over the recent case files sent in by Fowler.

"Officer (L/N)... (Y/N), knowing that we'd be working together I read your academy and field records. You have quite an interesting background."

"Oh yeah, then you understand that I may be a little driven to get these cases over with. I can't say I'm a fan of you terminators."

"I understand you have a... warped view of androids due to what you've experienced, but I hope you understand that I am your partner and not your enemy."

"Connor, you're not my partner, you're cyberlife's latest gizmo for us kick around." I sigh, turning to sit at my desk adjacent to hanks, taking the terminal pad with me. "Just look through the deviant case files. Terminals on your desk, knock yourself out."

They're nothing but machines. They are not your friends.

"Two-hundred and forty-three files, the first date back nine months. It all started in Detroit... And quickly spread across the country." Connor had only connected the terminal moments before.

"Don't work your CPU too hard," I mutter under my breath, catching a quick huff of amusement from Hank.

"An AX400 is reported to have murdered a man last night. That could be a good starting point for our investigation." Hank was doing his best to pretend Connor didn't exist, but the android was persistent. Connor stood from his chair and made his way into Hank's personal space.

"Uh, Jesus..." Hank turned his chair away.

"I understand you're facing personal issues, Lieutenant, but you need to move past them and-" For an android, Connor has some balls on him.

"Hey! Don't talk to me like you know me. I'm not your friend and I don't need your advice, okay?" Hank's mood had soured like milk, it wouldn't be long until Fowler was adding another page to Hank's disciplinary folder.

"I've been assigned this mission Lieutenant, I didn't come here to wait until you feel like working."

"Connor, you're just gonna-" I had wasted my breath, Hank had already stood and was grabbing onto Connor by the collar of his Cyberlife jacket and slamming against the screen next to his desk. "Hank!"

"Listen asshole. If it were up to me, I'd rather throw the lot of you in a dumpster and set a match to it. So, stop pissing me off... or things are gonna get nasty."

"Hank," I placed a hand on his shoulder to try and lightly pull him away from Connor but only earned a nasty side-eye. "Leave off him, you don't get paid enough to replace him."

"Lieutenant... Officer (L/N), uh... sorry to disturb you," Looks like the tin can was saved before Hank could knock the light out of him, "I have some information on the AX400 that killed that guy last night. It's been sighted in the Ravendale district."

"I'm on it." Hank didn't glance back when he dropped Connor's collar. The puppy dog look on his face almost made me feel bad for him... almost.

"Come on, WALL-E. Don't want to keep the old man waiting."

[jangofctts]

Are You in Or Out?

Rated: Explicit 

Word count: 11.5K yall I am SORRY

Warnings: good lord y'all here we GO-- smut, explicit language, violence and mentions of blood and gore, injuries, unprotected sex (don't be a dick, wrap that stick!), oral (m&f receiving), blindfolding, vaginal and anal fingering, vaginal and anal sex, double penetration, spit is used as lube but for the love of GOD doNT DO THAT, there are some dom vibes on Paz’s end    

Summary: The job you’re on takes a turn for the worst--Paz comes to your rescue and you're brought to the Covert. There you meet Din Djarin. though during a good natured sparring session, you’re suddenly stuck between an age old rivalry that spirals out of hand. Hopefully an agreement can be met. 

a/n: hey...how y’all doin....SO lemme explain you smthn. I said helmets must be OfF--giv me them LIPS BABEY so this is a slight AU in which mandos can see other mandos’ faces. ya get me? I also tHot that it would be nice and fun to set the timeline 5-6 years BEFORE the plot of the Mandalorian so we gots a younger din here. anyway, as always enjoy and I hope you like!!

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes—

Some as little as burning your finger on the nozzle of a smoking blaster or tripping over your own shoelaces. Simple things. Mindless things. 

Nothing that could ever compare to the catastrophic decision of picking up bounty hunting as a reliable source of income. 

The little ones were easy—tax evaders and deserters of the Empire—most who’d yield and gladly follow without complaint just at the sight of your blaster pointed between their eyes. And the gag of it is—most of the time you never bothered to load the damn thing. 

Reckless.

An invitation for disaster. 

But skirting that precarious edge, one little slip up away from plunging head first into inevitable trouble is better than Bracca. Stars—anything is better than Bracca. There’s no glory in bounty hunting but there’s even less in ship scrapping. Abysmal pay in exchange for risking your life on rain slicked metal with only the Ibdis Maw to break your fall.  

The guild you work for is considerate—scratch that. Greef Karga is considerate. Sure the flirting is a touch unbearable but it saves your ass in the long run. All easy money bounties set aside for you in exchange for a cheap drink, hollow laughs and sugar sweet smiles. 

It’s enough credits to get by—more than plenty to rent a room and charter a ship. 

But there’s only so many bounties to capture within the limits of the guild and oh so many people the empty blaster trick works on. And so the credits begin to thin; it gets too expensive to buy off a pilot and the debate over buying food or being able to pay for your room becomes more frequent than the scraprats that skitter inside the walls.  

It’s suicide to snag a higher paying bounty because....well—these bounties shoot back. 

Whatever.

 Might as well die trying. Who knows, maybe you could score big time if you manage to pull this off. 

Maybe. 

                                                       -=-=-=-

You’re not sure who’s more surprised—Karga when you asked for the bounty or yourself when he actually gave it to you. 

“Are you sure, kid? This could—“

“End in a fiery shitshow? Yeah—I figured that,” you sigh, swirling your drink with a little complimentary toothpick. “But I need the money.” 

“Hah! You’ve got guts, girl.” He flashes you a smile and smooths down his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Tell you what. The last assignment was just taken but I’m sure if you run you could catch him. Work somethin’ out.”

Jumping from your seat, you throw on your coat and toss a couple credits onto the table to cover the drink. “What’s he look like?” 

“Big fellow—Mandalorian. You’ll know when you see him.”

You shout your thanks over your shoulder and hightail outta there. The landing docks aren’t far, you can see them from here. It’s finding the guy that could pose a problem.

If he hasn’t already left, you bitterly think. 

However, it seems the universe is on your side today. Karga was right. He is big. Stands out like a sore thumb against his ship that glitters dully in the overcast sky. Kinda like an oversized blueberry. A yellow and blue blueberry….not important—

“Hey! Hey, you!” You’re so close, just a couple yards away. You swear and hurry up your pace as he steps onto the loading ramp. “Big guy! Large...blue man?”

You trip over your own feet as he turns his head. Fuck—

No way are you gonna be able to bargain with this guy. Built like a fucking AT-AT and probably just as stubborn. After all, no one would ever be dumb enough to come between a Mandalorian and their quarry. You grimace, and suck in a breath—

Before a word even leaves your mouth he interrupts with a steady, unwavering;

“No.”

Your brows furrow. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“I know what you were going to ask,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I work alone.”

Ok, then. You didn’t want to resort to begging, but you’re kinda running out of options here. You take a steadying breath and plant yourself at the bottom of the ramp. “C’mon man. Look—I’ll let you take seventy percent of the cut and I can—“

“You’ll let me?” He repeats, the staticky tone of his voice dropping into an edge more cutting than broken transparisteel. The metal platting on the ramp vibrates from the weight of his step to move closer; Stars it takes every fucking inch of willpower to hold your ground. “You’re lucky if I let you leave with your life. Get lost.” 

Fuckfuckfuck—you should listen. You wanna fucking run for the hills and never look back in case he comes looking to purge your name from the kriffing galaxy. You clench your jaw and steel your nerves. Too bad—you’ve dug your heels so far into this empire of dirt and false bravado that your only way out is continuing to poke the sleeping bear until he snaps your spine or caves.

You have to crane your neck to glare into that dark strip of his vizor, seeing as he’s invited himself into your personal space. “No.”  

“No?” He mocks, now toe to toe with your scuffed up boots. 

Your teeth clench, a scalding flush burning through your cheeks and all the way down to your chest. He’s toying with you—finding amusement in your stubbornness and apparent lack of braincells for challenging him. “You don’t scare me.” 

The man hums, a deep purr that rumbles through his entire ribcage as he raises his gloved hand. You curse yourself for flinching because surely he’s about to crush your skull like a fucking grape, but no. All he does is fix your rumbled collar then pat your cheek.     

“I don’t need the extra baggage.”

“I’m not baggage,” you sneer, slapping his hand away. “I can handle myself.” 

“With an empty blaster?” He points out, tipping his head to the side. “Your parlor tricks won’t do you any good on this job.”

“I’m a good shot!” You sputter, placing your hands over you hips and mustering up your best glare. “W-when I have ammo…” 

“Right.”

Meeting Paz Vizsla, could have gone far better, to put it into the most simplest of words. Jagged and hard to settle into a routine around each other for the journey to Nar Shaddaa in a tiny, old, and cramped freighter ship. Most cycles you have to wedge yourself beside a cargo crate to sleep. In addition to that, how it’s able to break through the atmosphere let alone fly is beyond you—an entire mystery on its own.       

At least you’re able to sit in the spare seat inside the cockpit—one of the only places available to stretch your legs. The only problem is that it’s also where Paz Vizsla likes to lurk (well, not lurk—it’s his ship and it’s where he can comfortably fit but—to each their own). 

There’s a net of tension still woven between you—each interaction like tiptoeing over eggshells. Though, like all things, it becomes simpler. There’s not exactly any ongoing conversations—you don’t want to pry into a life you know nothing about—it’s not your business despite the cumulation of questions that linger in the back of your mind. You know when to take a hint—not every person is willing to indulge you about their livelihood, and surely not something as secretive and well guarded as the Mandalore.  

Familiarity is what you want to call it. Comfortable with each other’s presence with small talk speckled in throughout the never-ending vastness of hyperspace. Compared to the infinite turmoil in your life, slippery footholds and uncertainty—Paz Vizsla is steady. In a way— predictable and safe in the confines of this ship.       

You’d even go as far as to label him kind, a friend maybe—if you look past the grumpiness and rather poor taste in corny jokes. You know it’s stupid, no doubt stemming from the deep ache of loneliness that comes hand in hand with staking it out on your own in the galaxy; but you can’t help but wish that this could be a new normal. Not some once in a lifetime thing where you both part ways, fade into the recesses of memory and leave it at that. 

If things go well—and rarely do they on a job—maybe you’d pluck up enough courage to ask him if you could stay. There’s no harm in it…right?

                                                 -=-=-=-

Well—the cynical part of you was right.

It did end up in a fiery shit show. 

Turns out the stupid quarry you’d been tracking excelled in long range weaponry. A former marksman for the Empire to be exact. Guess that tidbit of information wasn’t pertinent. A need to know sorta thing, if you will. 

You feel the molten bolt of plasma connect with your side before your ears pick up the sound of a weapon firing, like a crack of lighting in the empty alleyway. And before your body even connects with the duracrete, Paz is returning fire. A brilliant neon red against the hazy blur of shadowy buildings.  

Kinda weird how knocking the back of your head hurts worse than the literal blaster wound burned into your side. Shock maybe. Or the heat from the plasma cauterized each veins and artery it tore through and ate away at flesh and nerves. Hm…          

You’re sprawled in a wet pool of something—either your own blood or a puddle of stagnant gutter water and damn—you’re wearing your favorite shirt.

It doesn’t matter at this point…

You’re choking on your own air from the big ass hole blasted into your diaphragm, so to say things are looking grim is an understatement.  

Nar Shaddaa isn’t your first choice to kick the can on, but hey—not everyone gets the luxury of dying on Naboo. And just as you’re ready to slip away into that sweet, sweet abyss, it seems your fellow armored friend has other plans. 

The beskar is freezing against your cheek after he deadlifts you off the duracrete—you remember that plain as day. That and the hushed rumble of Paz’s voice insisting you save your dwindling supply of air instead of apologizing to him—or ordering you to stay alive for kriff’s sake. It’s impossible to argue with Paz—like trying to bite through durasteel, and while those beckoning tendrils of eternal slumber are mighty tempting, you cling to your life with all the strength you have left. After all, inconveniencing someone with a corpse is such a party foul to the highest degree.    

The rest is muddled—like dredging up silt and clay in a murky river that just leaves you with a pounding headache between your eyes. It’s a terrible mess of pain and bouts of temporary consciousness, mistaken with fever dreams and yup—more pain. The only consistent is Paz—hovering nearby or settled beside you—through thick and thin as you heal. 

There’s no solid reason your brain can conjure as to why he brought you to the Covert—it’d have been easier to just dump you at the nearest hospital and be done with it. You’re not his responsibility and you’re too afraid to ask what it means. Too many possibilities—too many answers you aren’t in the mood to face or untwist.     

And so you leave it be, set aside for another time—which brings you to the present day…        

You’re splayed over your little makeshift cot, feet propped up on a spare pillow as you scour through a cheesy Coruscanti gossip magazine. It’s years old—the only piece of entertainment you could find other than a weapon in the Covert. And seeing as a massive hole had been blasted through your ribcage, picking up the clever art of throwing vibroblades or shooting targets to pass the time was out of the question.   

Even if you’d rather fall into a Sarlaac pit than stare at the wall for hours on end yet again—it hasn’t been all that bad. It’d taken weeks before you regained enough strength to sit up on your own, let alone walk—and walking is putting it lightly. It was more of a stiff legged shuffle better suited on a two hundred year old woman seconds from disintegrating into dust at the mere hint of a breeze.  

Not to mention—your right lung was all but shredded. Ripped apart from the plasma bolt and miraculously reconstructed by a more than questionable bacta tank, hopeful thoughts and well wishes. To this very day you still sound like a broken air filter. 

Eh.    

Could be worse. 

At least you aren’t dead. 

Just another setback that adds on the growing pile of reasons why never to leave the Covert. Free food, free board and mild entertainment to top it off. Paz had stayed at your bedside for the most part while you recovered—stuck with babysitting your sorry ass until you regained a bit of mobility. The times Paz hadn’t been at your side to stave off the boredom, it was up to you to find your own fun. 

Snooping is what Paz had labeled it—but you saw it more as an adventure. You met Din Djarin exploring (lost is what you actually were) in the dimly lit underbelly of Nevarro, after all. Yes, you may have scared the ever loving shit out of the poor guy and yes, he may have singed off your brows with a five foot jet of fucking fire—but hey. No one got hurt.        

And you made a new friend. Sorta…Din is difficult to read, subtler in his soft spoken words and quiet demeanor. A bit like a skittish loth-cat at the start, but nowadays it’s not uncommon to find him lounging in the same space as you or hovering over your shoulder, awfully curious in whatever it is you choose to do. Like Paz, Din isn’t overly fond of sharing much information about himself but he never complains after you regale tales of your own vastly fascinating past. He seems interested enough—tilts his head a tick to the right when you speak to indicate that yes, he’s listening despite the unforgiving dark line of his visor.      

There are others in the Covert too—some so elusive you have a hard time believing they exist. Shadows of what they once were before the rise of the Empire. And so, you count yourself lucky that you’d been introduced to two others—Aeris Fenn, a young man nearly as tall as a Wookie, and a woman named Ives Arrey; her armor a flashy green—damn near florescent in the light. 

They’re nice enough company. Aeris is a chatterbox, his wit sharper than a blade but lacking in any forethought before he speaks. Ives is the far opposite—rolls each sentence in her mouth before she voices it, but in no way is she angelic. Maker—you’d bet your entire left asscheek she’s behind each bad decision and silly shenanigans Aeris sticks his nose into. He never learns—not after a harsh chiding or cuff around the helmet from Paz or the Armorer could dampen is childlike enthusiasm or steer him away from repeating the same mistake over and over.  

Though if you read one more kriffing sentence of this garbage magazine you’re about to invite chaos himself to entertain you. Good thing too because just as you sit up to find the red armored Mandalorian—Paz rounds the corner and steps into your little broom closet that hardly passes for a room. 

“Paz!” You greet, tossing the magazine over your shoulder. “Please tell me we’ll be doing something interesting or else I might start ripping my hair out. Or maybe commit a heinous crime—haven't decided yet.”      

Paz grunts and shakes his head. “You’ll be doing neither. But today we’ll be sparing—hopefully that will curve your boredom.”

You scrunch up your face. “Sparring? Er, no thanks—I choose life.” 

“You breathe funny since your injury,” he says, jabbing a finger between your ribs. “And all you’ve been doing lately is laying around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you sneer, tucking your arms over your chest. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to be running laps with half a lung.”

“It’s like stretching a muscle, you need to gain your strength back.” He retorts. “This will be good for you.” 

You groan and flop back into bed. “I don’t wanna. I was pretty much dead like three cycles ago—cut me some slack, man.”

There’s a brief silence as if he’s mulling over your words, but he’s stubborn. You crane your head to look at him as he says your name with a deep sigh attached to it.   

“Truthfully, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.” He says it quietly, fragile even, like he’s still expecting you to tip over and die on the spot. You very well might.  

You huff. “Wow. Thanks, Paz.” 

You feel his heavy stare through the helmet. “What happened to you that night was a mistake. It wasn’t preventable but the least I can do is teach you basic selfdefense.”  

You gripe out your complaints but you know you’ve been beat—and well, a bit of your agreement is based on guilt. 

Damn it.  

                                                     -=-=-=-

It’s weird to see Paz without his heavy duty gear—like seeing him naked or a crab without a shell. The only piece he continues to wear is his helmet and padded gloves and under clothes, but it’s still weird. Strange enough that it shocks you tongue into remaining still instead of bitching about this. 

He leads you to a wing of the Covert you’ve yet to discover and ushers you through the doorway. The floor is padded, a bit smaller than you expected and already occupied by none other than Aeris Fenn. 

It’s a whole other kriffing shock to the head seeing him without the plates and layers of fabric and beskar too. The armor makes him bulkier—fuller and much more intimidating. Now, with only his black underclothes on, Aeris could be the spitting image of a sentient tree. Willowy limbs that stick out like branches as he stretches on the padded mat. He lazily swings his head around as you greet him, his face still covered by the black beskar painted with streaks of red. 

“So you choose sparring over knife throwing?” Aeris snorts. “And to think I thought of you as a friend.” 

“You think I chose to be here?” You say, grumpy and still upset at the choice of activity. Really, a brisk walk around the Covert would’ve been fine.

Aeris shrugs. “Ah, and I see you’ve roped in my favorite vod. Tch, he uses his fists instead of his words to teach. I wish you luck—you’ll need it.”      

You open your mouth to retort but Paz beats you to it. 

“Leave.” 

“I’ve just arrived, actually,” Aeris scoffs, folding his torso over his other leg to stretch. “Perhaps you could reschedule. After all—our guest is quite free most days.” 

Welp—you’re perfectly fine with that. Problem solved. 

You spin on your heel and make a break for it but Paz snatches your wrist and pulls you back to his side. “Aeris.”  

“Paz,” Aeris mocks, tipping his helmet to the side. 

Paz exhales, a long, tired sound and grovels out another plea in clipped Mando’a. Aeris languidly stands and brushes off imaginary dust from the front of his pants. “Sorry, what was that? I don’t understand your accent.” 

“Boy—“

“No, no, it’s alright.” Aeris sighs, waving his hand in a mopey display as if he were told that his birthday party were canceled for the fifth year in a row. “I’d have trouble speaking too if my enormously thick head were cooped up in that little bucket of yours all day.”  

You wince. 

In the time you’ve known Paz Vizsla, he’s never been one to launch into rash decisions fueled by anger—he lets it simmer and build like an oncoming storm over the ocean. Devastating once it reaches land.

Aeris bobs his head and inspects his black leather glove, picking at a loose thread on the inseam over the thumb. He clicks his tongue. “Or'dinii—you’re going to kill her.”  

Your offended scoff is ignored as Paz steps forward; jutting his chin up to even out the few inches Aeris holds over the man. “You still haven’t learned to shut your mouth, boy.” 

The tension surges and crackles like a volt of electricity through the air—unresolved and ready to ignite with the sparking embers of Paz’s growing irritation. It’s not a fight Aeris Fenn will win. He’s volatile and hotheaded—but his expertise is in long range weaponry. Precise, deadly and swift—not whatever this little pissing match is heading towards.    

Aeris clicks his tongue as Paz digs a fist into the black fabric of his shirt. Paz yanks him forward, the metallic clink of their helmets colliding an unpleasant scrape that pierces your eardrums. Aeris snarls out sharpened words in Mando’a as his willowy fingers shoot up to curl beneath the lip of Paz’s helmet. 

In the blink of an eye, Paz lifts Aeris up by his collar and launches him across the room like he weighs nothing more than a couple of down pillows. His helmet meets the wall with a resounding clank, chipping some of the red paint outlining the visor. Ouch. 

Like a kicked dog, Aeris clambers to his feet, still dazed and swaying and for a fearful second you think he’ll retaliate. But with whatever braincells he happens to possess today—he instead spits out a venomous curse that even yourself would hesitate to repeat. He leaves without another word, bristling with rage. 

Your flash Paz a questioning stare. “The hell was that about?” 

Paz waves it away with an irritated grunt. “His heart is in the right place but he is young. Aeris doesn’t understand his place in the Covert yet and I doubt he will for years to come.” 

You frown. “Poor guy…” 

Paz mutters something under his breath. “Enough distractions. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Y’know…I think that’s enough excitement for today. I think I’ll be going now—“ Your last ditch attempt at weaseling out of this is quickly thwarted the moment you turn your back.  

You wheeze as the heel of Paz’s palm shoves into your shoulder blade, the force of it sending you stumbling to the ground. “Paz—“

“Go on. Hit me,” he orders. You squeak, narrowly avoiding the well aimed kick that skims the top of your scalp. 

You scramble to your feet, skirting out of range of the oncoming right hook. “So you attack me instead?” 

“How do you expect to catch quarries who are bigger than you?” He presses. You hiss as the points of his knuckles dig into the meat of your shoulder. 

You dance out of reach and rub your arm, a dull throb flaring up in the muscle. “I dunno—electrocute them?”

“Not if they take you by surprise.” 

You screech as his knuckles skim your cheek. Adrenaline pierces you veins and you wildly throw a flaky punch that wouldn’t even impress a toddler. He catches your fist with ease, his entire hand dwarfing your clenched fingers. “You can do better than that.” 

You snarl and struggle to rip your hand back. “I’m a scrapper. I don’t fight.”

“No,” he retorts. You fall onto your ass as he abruptly lets go of your hand. “You’re a bounty hunter.” 

You roll your eyes. “Hardly—why can’t I just stay here?”

Although there’s nothing to see with that swatch of black covering his eyes, you can certainly feel the look he’s giving you. A deep sigh hisses through the vocoder. “You can stay here—“

A triumphant smile splits across your face—

“—but not without contributing where it’s due.”

You puff up your cheeks and let out a dismayed stream of air. “Booo—lame.”

He sighs again and helps you off the floor. “Even if you leave the Guild, what I’m teaching you is helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “I’ll give you a call after I use your invaluable skills to beat up some thug.”

Paz ignores your comment and turns on his heel. “Let’s go through it again. This time use your front two knuckles instead of your whole fist.”

As your eyes land over the stretch of tight fighting fabric over his back an idea pops into your head. It’s a petty move but getting a punch in is fruitless—like trying to beat up a brick wall. You don’t fancy a broken hand and your knuckles are already bruised and swollen to the point where it’s hard to bend them. 

And so, without any forethought and with a running head start, you launch yourself onto him, your arms coiling around his neck. It does the job—takes him by surprise and makes him tip to the right. 

Aha! Yes!

Your reign of victory is short lived, however—

He latches onto your forearms strung around his neck and yanks. And much in the same way he threw Aeris like a sack of potatoes—you’re no different. For a short stretch of time that feels kriffing endless; you soar through the air, your directional whereabouts violently ripped out beneath you and equally nauseating in the same breath. 

Why you ever agreed to this—you don’t know.   

Your shoulder blade connects with the mat first, leaving behind a dull sting as you roll and tumble with uncontrollable momentum. Oh, yeah—you’ll feel that in the morning. 

Groaning, you thank the Maker that your body eventually settles into a miserable little pile of limbs and pain. But, it seems whatever higher power that lingers in the edges of the galaxy hasn’t decided to put you out of your misery just yet. 

A bulky shadow blocks out the dim lighting overhead, and for a brief anxiety ridden moment you’re afraid it’s Paz. You roll onto your back with a pathetic groan, a beg for mercy on the tip of your tongue—but as your eyes flutter open they’re met with an entirely different man. 

Din Djarin looms over you, his head cocked to the side as you blink in dumbfounded bewilderment. Ah, hell— 

You swallow, a furious heat bitting at your cheeks. “Uh…fine weather we’re having…”

“We’re inside,” he states with a brief glance up to the ceiling. 

You purse your lips. “Huh.”

With a pensive hum he offers his hand, you sigh and roll over, accepting his gloved hand. He hoists you up easily and adjusts your rumpled collar. “You ok?”

“Pfft, yeah,” you groan, rubbing your throbbing shoulder. “Never better.”

The low grumble of your name is a cross between disbelief and irritation. Din jerks his head, his attention zeroing in on Paz. “Are you trying to kill her?” 

“She isn’t made of glass.” 

“She is still recovering—“

Normally you’d intervene, but their bickering is tiring and it gives you the excuse to lie down. By the time one of them caves you’ve counted exactly one hundred and twelve weird ceiling stains. They should get that checked out.  

“Very well,” Paz snarls, cutting through your wandering thoughts. “You teach her.” 

Din scoffs, his shoulders drawn tight as he stomps over to your splayed out self. “Get up.”

“Geez, fine,” you grumble, not in the mood to test his patience further. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Later he’ll no doubt apologize but right now? He has to prove a point. Din cuts right to it, moves in close to place your clenched fists in the right stance and nudges at your feet until they’re a bit wider than hip distance. 

“You have to get in close with a bigger opponent,” he says, stepping into your space until your fists are close enough to touch his chest. “We don’t have much range here—easier to break our guard too.” 

“Right. And how would you suggest I do that?”

“You’re always beating me at cards.” Din says, tipping his head to the side. “You have a clever mind. Use it.” 

“But I always cheat.” You point out, dropping your guard to swat at a stray hair.   

He catches your wrists and returns them to where they ought to be. “Quick enough to get away with it.” 

You make a noise of uncertainty but do as you're told. Din takes a couple steps back and with a rough order you begin. 

He’s faster than Paz—bats at your guard in quick bursts and steps away when you attempt to hit back. It’s a dance almost—somehow elegant in its brutality of bruises and flashes of pain as you move around one another. Compared to Din, Paz is almost clumsy but unpredictable. Din—despite the rapidness of his attacks and evasiveness, becomes predictable.

He steps to to left—you follow. He rocks onto his toes to jab his fist forward and that’s where you find a break. Punching Din’s helmet won’t do you any good but catching the juncture of his shoulder with your elbow is completely feasible. Too bad that you’re not the only one with a clever mind.        

Din uses the momentum of your attack to catapult you to the ground—his own body rolling with you in order to capture you in a headlock of sorts. This sucks. After this you’ll never be setting foot in this Maker forsaken room again. 

Din tightens his elbow that’s looped around your throat as you squirm and flail, trapped against his chest. He grunts as your elbow digs into his ribs but holds steady and snakes his free arm across your front, pinning your limbs to your body in an unbreakable vice. All mobility is cut off as his knee pushes between your thighs, locking your leg out into an uncomfortable and frankly quite awkward angle. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, you arch as the crown of his helmet skims along the curve of your throat; the bite of beskar frigid and startling against your flushed skin. You can see his visor out of the corner of your eye; glittering and dark like the polished obsidian on Black Spire and endless like the greedy maw of a black hole. 

Your breath hitches as he shifts and curls his head closer to your ear. His voice rumbles low and deep through his chest and vibrates against the delicate cartilage. “Yield.” 

However much your pride wrestles with the sensible part of your brain, it’s all for naught as you jerk your head in defeat.  

In retrospect you should’ve said something—used your voice or made some kinda sound because suddenly Din’s forearm digs alarmingly hard into your windpipe. He read the stuttered jerk of your head as another pitiful act of defiance but no. Nope. 

Here you are—asphyxiating.   

Not exactly what you had in mind, being strangled by a Mandalorian and all—but a chokehold where you could very well die was not it. 

Fuzzy darkness begins to shade the corners of your vision, lightheadedness and a curious warmth that prickles down your spine settling low in your belly. A raspy gasp manages to slip through your blocked off airway, and stars why does this feel good?  ��

“Din—”

Paz’s sharp bark is distant above the ringing in your ears and it all stops.

You gulp in air that burns your throat like refined fire whiskey—hunched over the mat as a large palm rubs soothing circles over your upper back. You cough and roll over, sounding like a dying animal run over by a speeder then hit with a spiked club to polish it off. 

You’re quickly herded into Paz’s arms and pulled into his lap. Still wheezing and attempting to recover lost oxygen, whatever Din is trying to say translates into an indiscernible hum against the ringing in your ears.  

“I’m fine,” you mutter, though neither of them care to listen. Like bristling wolves, snapping at each other’s heels.  

“Apologize to her,” there’s not so much as a centimeter of room to argue. “Now.”           

It’s nice of Paz you suppose—defending your honor and what not, but you’re not a vengeful person. It was an honest mistake and you want to explain that so Din quits looking like a kicked puppy, yet the sudden touch over your ankle stops you. All the times Din has initiated contact it’d been a friendly pat to your shoulder or ruffling you hair, and while touching your ankle isn’t exactly scandalous it’s certainly an odd place to put your hand on. 

Your fingers clutch Paz’s shirt as you eye the man lingering at the bottom of your feet, his gloved thumb unconsciously rubbing patterns into the exposed skin between your boot and your pant leg. “Cyare—I’m sorry.” 

You blink and lick your lips. Interesting. “I-I don’t know what that word means.”

His hand inches higher, resting on the swell of your calf. “Sweetheart…darling…loved one—“ 

There’s a shift—a dark undercurrent that none of you should be dipping your toes into. There’s a million and one things to say or do to sever this at the root, but are you going to? Nah. 

Din’s thumb now rests over your knee, goosebumps following in his wake. “Should I keep going?” 

It too hot—stuffy with both of their heavy stares locked on your flushed face. You squirm and glance up at Paz who only offers an impassive stare. Great.   

“I can make it up to you,” Din continues, his hand stationary—a warm weight even through the fabric of your pants. “If you let me.” 

Your mouth feels drier than the desert on Jakku. This…nothing good could come out of what Din is hinting at. This is uncharted territory—launching yourself into the great unknown without any idea of what’ll fester and grow if you agree. 

It’s not like it hasn’t crossed your mind—it’s just…it’s never been both of them at the same time. These men are short-tempered, an open flame to jet fuel with deeply seated ire woven into the very fabric of their beings. You’ve barely scratched the surface on the inner workings of their mutual hostility, but you’re bright enough to question if this will make it worse. Tinder and brittle twigs feeding and enabling the hungry flames of rivalry to spiral and consume with chaotic brilliance of a dying star—

But, oh—

Isn’t it worth taking the risk? 

You suck in a grounding breath and slowly extend your leg that Din touches, gingerly skimming the toe of your shoe along the inseam of his inner thigh. “H-how would you…make it up to me?”

Din preens at your answer and shuffles closer, lifting your legs so that they rest in his lap. Devotion drips off his words like a fine liquor as he toys with the laces on your boots. “Anything—say it and it’s yours.”    

Sparks of molten heat race down your spine and metastasize in your lower belly, spreading through each vein and artery like a some sort of invasive ivy. You spare a look up at Paz as he shifts.      

“Go ahead, girl,” Paz assures. “Answer him.” 

It’s an unspoken, buzzing sort of thing like the static air before a storm, crackling and surging with pent up energy. You all know the implications of what’s to come—but it’s your words, quiet and steady that irons that nail into your coffin.

“Take me like you mean it.” 

The next few moments pass in a dizzying blur, a mess of anticipation as your shoes are yanked off, your pants following soon after and tossed into some unknown corner of the room. Paz helps you out of your shirt, a shiver wracking through your body from the chill, leaving you bare save for your underthings. Yet the warmth that seeps through his shirt and his hands that linger over your ribcage do a lovely job at making up for the cold.

Din shuffles closer and brings his fingers up to cup the side of your face, lowering his head to rest the crown of his helmet on your forehead. “Wanna touch you.” 

Your breath hitches as Paz’s hands sweep up your torso, cupping and kneading your breasts. “Y-you already are touching me, Din." 

Paz snorts as the rough leather of his gloves scrape over your skin and unhook your bindings. You hardly hear Din over your own whine as Paz rolls your hardened nipples between a forefinger and thumb. 

“I want to feel you—without the gloves,” Din clarifies, fighting to keep your attention on him. “Will you let me?”  

Maker that shouldn’t even be a question. You moan out your approval, delighted that both of them decide to slip off the padded fabric. Din touches your bare thigh the same moment Paz returns his hands to your tits and it’s exhilarating. The rasp of their bare palms against your flesh is addicting—something so foreign and warm compared to their usual armor and thick layered clothing. 

You arch into Paz’s hand as it curls around the base of your throat, a tentative pressure but still heavy. “You’d let us do anything, wouldn’t you? Needy little thing.”

“Yes,” you croak, already debauched and falling apart at the seams. “Anything.”

You’re all too happy to fade away in the embrace of the larger man but the other participant is far from letting that slide. Din grabs your hand, guiding it towards the front of his trousers, the drawstrings already loose and easy to pull aside. He groans and twitches as your fingertips flirt along his navel, then curl over the waistband, tugging his pants the rest of the way down to pool around his knees. 

You reach for the already impressive outline of his cock pressing against his boxers, but Paz cupping your cunt through your underwear just before you touch Din is distracting. You gasp and arch as Paz digs the heel of his palm against your clit, electrifying ecstasy zipping down your spine with each touch. 

There’s a twinge of guilt after Din huffs and drags your limp wrist back to his cock, this time encouraging you to palm him by guiding your actions with his own hand until you lazily oblige. Din’s quiet grunts, gravely against the vocoder do nothing but throw more jet fuel to the fire inside your belly. The growing urge to actually touch him gnaws and corrodes the forefront of your brain. With a firm yank his boxers are quick to join his trousers and Maker—

Fuck—

Will he even fit?

Din is thick, rosy brown and flushed at the tip and beginning to curl towards his bellybutton. A bead of liquid shines at the tip, dribbling down the underside as he wraps his fist around the base of his length. He gives himself a languid stroke before he, once again, reminds your hand of what it’s supposed to be doing. Din is searing in your palm, molten and stiffening to hardened steel in your grip.   

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Din hisses as his head rolls back onto his shoulders. “S-so pretty holding my cock.”

Your desperation tears at your insides, insatiable and Maker— you wanna taste him. You want to hear every little stuttered moan and feel each twitch of his hips as he claims your mouth as his own.    

But before you’re able to ask Din if he’d be willing to fuck your throat, Paz grips your knee and slings your leg over his thigh, murmuring praise as he peels off your underwear. Paz’s hand snakes down to your pussy and runs two thick fingers through your already slick cunt, then delicately parts your folds. 

It’s like a fucking bomb going off as his thumb grazes over your swollen clit. His forearm locks tight around your waist, keeping you in place as you arch and tremble. Paz is feather light and teasing, as he strokes over the little bundle of nerves in a painstakingly slow rhythm. 

“Paz—“ 

He nudges your cheek with his helmet and chuckles. “You’re so sensitive, vaar’ika. Such lovely noises too.”  

Paz trades in his light touches for using his two fingers instead. They form a relaxed ‘v’ shape, trapping your clit in between the digits as he massages in a steady up and down motion. You cry out, every nerve shocked and flooded with saccharine pleasure, shoving you so treacherously close to that precarious edge of release.      

You have no fucking chance as a different set of fingers, leaner in length but just as bulky, carefully prod at your entrance. Din’s pointer finger slides into your cunt, quickly adding a second as your core clenches and stretches for him. The dual sensations over your clit and Din’s fingers steadily pumping and curling inside you send you hurling into that dazzling white-hot pleasure.     

Throwing your head back, you cry out—a jumbled mess of their names or just nonsense— pleasure crackling out from your core and all the way down your legs. Your cunt tightens like a vice around Din’s digits, your legs twitching as your high dips into prickly overstimulation. You whine, and swat at Paz’s hand, Din pulling out his own fingers a moment later and wiping your wetness on the inside of your thigh. 

Your head rests in the crook of Paz’s shoulder as your breath fans across the side of his helmet, fogging up the metal where the blue paint is chipped and scraped away. The shirt he wears smells a bit like sweat but the underlying scent of him is comforting—worn leather and something crisp, like fresh laundry. You don’t mean for the words to slip out—

You know better than that, but everything feels muddled and silly and, and, and—

“I wish I could kiss you.”  

It’s like dousing ice cold water on a pile of smoldering coals. A silence, petrifying and like the inhale before jumping off a cliff and into a rocky sea, ensues. Stupid, stupid, stupid—  

Paz shatters the fragile suspense with a rich laugh that burns away all the icy worry making itself a home in your ribcage. He moves his arm up, his fingers gripping your jaw to fix your gaze onto the other Mandalorian. “You want his mouth on you too?”  

You whimper and nod, but it isn’t enough. 

“Use your voice vaar’ika,” Paz hums, pressing the crown of his helmet against your cheek. “Tell us want you want.” 

“I-fuck—” Paz’s fingertips sneak up your torso, rough callous catching deliciously on your skin. “I wan’t your mouth on me. B-both of you.” 

Paz chuckles and releases his hold on your chin. “You’ll have to be blindfolded, sweet girl.”

Din scoffs, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. “Like she’d want to see your face anyway.”

“Please,” you mewl, turning your head to curl into Paz’s neck. It’s not ideal, but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make. “I don’t care. I need—“

“Patience, little one,” Paz purrs, rubbing up and down your bare sides in a soothing manner. All it does is stoke the flames. “You’ll get what you want.” 

Paz shifts, reaching for your abandoned shirt and stars—

You can feel his cock, firmer then tempered durasteel and poking into your lower back. Oh, hell—these men are going to ruin you. 

You’re nudged forward, your vision going dark once your shirt is securely tied around your head. The knot traps a few hairs that pull sharp against your scalp but the measly pain is worth it. Oh so worth it.  

“Is it too tight?” You hear Din ask, concern lacing his gravely vocals. 

You wave your hand in dismissal. “S’fine.”

“Cant see anything either, right?” 

You squirm, your patience spreading thin. “Din, please.”

“Fine.” There’s no bite to his tone and under different circumstances you’d have more composure. Acknowledge that they’re putting their religion, their whole being into your hands—a fragile trust that could so easily be shattered. 

Your ears pick up their subtle movements, their helmets landing onto the thin mat with soft thunks. With bated breath you wait for them to jump into action, seize every spare moment to taste your skin and breathe the same air. But—

“You need a haircut, vod.”

“And you need to shave.” Retorts Din with bitter indignation. 

“It’s hardly even stubble.” He chortles. You giggle and twist away as he scrapes his prickly cheek up and down your neck. “Besides—she likes it.” 

There’s another lull, and with the blindfold everything is amplified—the quick and quiet breathing of Din on your right and the slide of fabric against skin as Paz shifts. Your attention is captured by Din’s bare palm, warm and calloused like weathered leather left out in the afternoon sun. He caresses the outside of your thigh in smooth, longing strokes, enraptured by the softness of your skin. You whimper and let your leg fall open, exposing more of your thigh for his curious exploration. 

The sudden touch on your cheek is jarring. You know Paz is there—it’s not an easy thing to forget the solid chest you’re leaning against but it’s hard to focus. Difficult to settle on one thought before it slips away like grains of sand between a clenched fist. Paz’s touch is heavier than Din’s, ambitious and greedy but…mindful. Even as his fingers spread along your jaw and drag you into a deep, mouthwatering kiss. It’s…stars—   

There’s nothing that can describe this. No word that could ever hold a candle up to the way his lips, plush and soft, move against yours. His nose brushes against your cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his warm tongue sliding against the seam of your bottom lip. 

You whine and bury your hand into his hair as Paz groans, a low rumble in his throat. You wonder what color it is, but carding your fingers through the curls atop his head suffices for now.

Your curiosity is abruptly ended as Din’s hand snakes around your forearm. You’re forcibly yanked away, only to be met with another pair of lips. Din murmurs an apology at the sting of his teeth bumping into your upper lip, but the pain is hardly the first thing on your mind. 

Din’s kiss is devouring—  

Scalding and bright—the galaxy, a thousand suns, all there ever will be and all that ever was. The way his lips move against yours is a devastatingly sharp contrast to the steady, syrupy sweet kiss Paz offers. Desperate and eager to surround you in his own arms—steal away any lingering thought and replace it with him. Din Djarin—  

You gasp as Din’s teeth nibble and pull on your bottom lip, only a moment before he surges closer, wrapping his hand around your jaw to hold it open as he licks deep into your mouth. Breaking for air, Din tangles his fingers into your hair at the base of your neck and yanks, baring the column of your throat. His travels down, the tender kisses morphing into teasing nips and lingering sucks that’ll turn into tender bruises in the morning. 

Din hovers over your breasts, his heated breath and cooling saliva the catalyst to the goosebumps that rush over your skin. He lightly tugs on your nipple using his teeth, then plants a sweet kiss over your sternum.   

“Can I taste you?” Din murmurs, his lips ghosting over your flesh. “Maker—wanna put my mouth on you.” 

“Din—“ A different set of lips latching onto the juncture of your neck and hijacks your train of thought. Wipes your mind clean until Paz is the sole thing you can consciously focus on. 

Paz laves his tongue over the shell of your ear and urges you to lean back against him once more. Your nose scrapes against his stubble as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his hips lazily rolling his hardened cock into your backside. 

“Or…” Paz rumbles, capturing your hand and interlacing your fingers with his. You marvel at the sheer size of his palm—astounded still when he leads his and your hands to palm his cock. “I could give you this. Fuck your pretty little cunt until you’re screaming for me.”

It’s a punch to the gut. Why the fuck do you have to choose? You squirm as Din points his tongue over your nipple then sucks it into his mouth. 

Working through the fog in your head, the answer is clearer than fucking crystal. Because who in their right mind would turn down a Mandalorian’s request to eat you out? Not you, that’s for sure. “Din—want your mouth.”

Din huffs in triumph and slips between your legs that part to accommodate his broad shoulders, leaving no patch of bare skin untouched and worshiped. You shiver as his tongue circles around your bellybutton then retreats. Din settles his head beside your knee and mouths a kiss there.  

You whine his name and buck your hips, heart beating wildly in your ears. The teasing is unbearable and, stars—if he doesn’t start now— 

He nibbles on the inside of your thigh, laving his warm tongue over each mark he leaves behind, buffering the sting of his teeth. Din snake his hands under your ass, hooking your knees over his shoulders as he heaves your cunt closer to his mouth. Din’s thumbs part your soaking pussy, his breath hot fanning over your cunt. His tongue his scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your slit all the way up to your clit. 

Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through you. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—fuck. Fuck, you need more.   

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are obliterated; nothing but the warmth of his tongue, and his lips, devouring you as if he were a man seconds from death and you’re his saving grace. That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade into smoke—but you’re not going anywhere. Not even a million credits could convince you to push Din’s head away. 

He sinks two fingers into your clenching hole and curls his fingers, stroking and curling his fingertips to make you sing. Zeros in on that little spot that causes the involuntary twitches of your leg and wrenches embarrassing, high pitched mewls that fill the room. You’re careening towards your high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure. 

“Shit—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must hurt. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth. 

Your release unfurls through your body like sticky molasses—smoldering embers that seep into each limb until they’re heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to think and at this rate your brain is as good as gone.   

You pay only a fraction of attention to Din as he kisses his way back up your body and lands a final one over your lips. His thumb grazes over your chin, his gravelly words of praise cutting through some of that foggy haze, how good you were, how fucking delicious you tasted when you came on his tongue. You taste your own arousal on his mouth as he noses your cheek and captures your lips in another kiss.           

“Are you done?” Paz asks dryly, much too barbed to be thrown your way. You groan when Paz jostles your limp body as he hoists you back into his lap.

“Just starting, actually,” Din quips. “Why don’t you hand her back over? I’ve got some more things I wanna try.” 

Paz scoffs and secures a heavy arm around your middle. “Greed will get you nowhere.” 

“Neither will your arrogance.” 

“Shut up—both of you,” you interrupt. Your voice is raw and choppy but it does the job. “Just fuck me already.”

For now their little spat is sidelined—it’s not worth ripping off that bandage of a temporary truce. There’s a chaste moment of quiet, like they’re considering tearing into each other’s throats instead, but with a touch to Paz’s thigh the standoff fizzles out. 

“We need to work on your manners,” Paz suggests, curling his large, calloused hand around your neck in a loose hold. “I believe it’s please fuck me.” 

Maybe if you weren’t practically a pile of brainless goo, you’d argue. See how far you can push—though this time you fold. “Please fuck me. P-please—I need it.” 

Seemingly satisfied with your answer; Paz wedges a hand between your bodies to grip his cock and run the tip through your folds, soaked from you own wetness and Din’s saliva. The head of his member nudges at your entrance, and wether it’s his size or the fact you can’t see anything—you panic. 

Your hand shoots out, nails harpooning into the meat of his forearm. “W-wait—you’re too b-big.”  

Paz freezes and moves you up his lap and presses a kiss over you hairline. “We can stop. Just say—“

“N-no, I’m fine,” you assure, planting an apologetic peck on his stubbled jaw. Stopping is the last thing you want to do—it was just…overwhelming. A sensory overload testing the very fringes of your being. “Go slow?”

You feel his head bob in compliance as he moves you back to where you’re hovering over his cock. You relax this time, not as many alarm bells clanging through your head as your cunt flutters around the fat tip and then that glorious, first thick inch. Paz’s thumb bumps over your throbbing clit, coaxing your pussy to take him further. 

“Yeah, that’s it vaar’ika,” he grunts, his breath fanning over your neck in quick pants. “Taking my cock so fucking well. So nice and pretty.”

Your pussy flutters, fresh waves of arousal hot and burning.You nearly keel over when Paz starts shallowly rocking his hips, easing your body the rest of the way down his length until the back of your thighs touch his. Maker—how the hell is he all the way inside? You can feel him in your fucking guts—         

“See?” Paz purrs. He sucks a bruise into the meat of your shoulder and pushes his palm against your lower stomach, making the fit even tighter. “Fits fucking perfect.”

The noise your cunt makes pulling out and the debauched moan that filters through his vocal chords is obscene. If anyone where to walk by, well—it’s certainly not training that’s going on, for the better lack of words. 

Paz holds true to his word—keeps his pace limited to deep, languid thrusts that brush up against something that makes your whole body shake—like strumming a golden chord molded to a musician’s fingers. Fuck—he’s doing all the work too. Lifting you by the swell of your hips and pulling you down onto his cock with a rough buck of his hips. 

Abruptly, he slows to a gentle rocking—quick to lock you in place as you thrash and roll your hips. “Paz—n-no. Keep going. You n-need to—“

Paz silences your please with a wet, open mouthed kiss. “Our friend looks lonely. Why don’t you use that pretty mouth and suck his cock?” 

Din. 

You hear the man curse in Mando’a, probably some stab at Paz—

But with a pat to your outer thigh, you don’t need any more prompting—you’d give up your left hand to get a chance to suck him off. With the help of Paz, you’re eased onto your hands and knees, shocks of white-hot pleasure zipping through your core at the change of angle. Like this Paz is seated deeper inside, stabbing into each spot that makes you sing.    

Fuck—your arms are shaking—only able to hold yourself up for half a click and then you’re sinking face first into the floor, ass in the air as he fucks into you. Paz clicks his tongue and wraps his arm around your front, pulling you back up from your slumped position. 

“I told you to suck his cock, girl. Not take a nap.” Paz accentuates his words with heavy, well measured thrusts—the kind of force you know will leave your whole lower half throbbing and sore in the aftermath. 

You whine as Paz grabs a hold of your jaw, digging into the tender joints until your mouth falls open. “Good. Keep it like that.” 

Paz’s hand falls away, replaced by a softer touch. The pads of Din’s fingers hook under your chin, guiding and tempting you nearer to what rests between his legs, hot and heavy and large.       

You feel the tip of his cock, flushed and pulsing, rest on your bottom lip. You lap up the beads of sticky precum with kitten licks that morph into suckling the entire head. Din grunts out your name and tangles his hand into your hair as you tongue at the ridged frenulum. He never forces you to swallow down more of him—lets you cradle the first few inches in the wet warmth of your mouth and languidly roll the pad of your tongue around him. 

You want to take him deeper, let Din fuck your throat raw, but your jaw already aches. Your lips are pulled tight around his shaft, drool dribbling down your chin and landing on the mat below. You’re not sure if you could take more of him without the danger of your teeth catching or dislocating your jaw. So you manage like this—hollowing out your cheeks and and using the momentum of Paz’s thrusts to pleasure Din.          

It’s frustrating—it must be each time you let his cock slip out of your mouth to breathe or the fact Din isn’t able to fucking fit his cock into your mouth. Annoying that you aren’t able to think properly to help him out a bit ore when that said brain is being fucked straight outta you, put through the wringer and then body slammed onto duracrete. 

Din cups your cheek, strokes over your skin with his thumb and maneuvers himself out of your mouth. You whine and lean into his palm, his touch addictive like smoldering coals in the dead of winter.    

“You want me there instead of him?” Din purrs, using the tips of his index and middle fingers to tilt your chin and drag you into an open mouthed kiss. “Fuck you like you deserve.” 

The profane imagery of Din between your legs instead makes you clench tight. It only takes a couple seconds and a few more feverish kisses before you’re nodding to his request. Paz mutters a swear, hesitates, and reluctantly pulls out, leaving your cunt empty and aching with need. 

Din, however, is speedy—quick to hoard you to himself and yank your legs over his hips so that you’re draped on his lap. He jumps straight to the point, no fancy maneuver or drawn out teasing—just grabs the base of his cock, slides the flushed tip between your folds and sinks into your cunt. Even after your pussy had been stretched and molded around Paz’s length, you struggle to take Din’s entire cock into your aching center. It’s easier than Paz but, Maker—not by much. 

You whine, harpooning your fingernails into his shoulder once he bottoms out. Din snarls a curse and latches his teeth onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder, prickly pain shooting directly to your belly. “Fucking tight. H-how—fuck.”

There’s no time to adjust before Din sets a pace, harsh and desperate—his hands digging into the flesh of your ass for better leverage. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end before it could be yanked out from under him. Din’s staggered exhales below your ear are interlaced with subdued moans that start low in his ribcage then dip into a higher, airy pitch. A delicate sound you’ll guard closer to your chest than any secret you possess for the rest of your life—precious and yours. 

Din turns his head to steal a kiss. “You feel fuck—fucking good. Wanna feel you cum around me. S-squeezed so fucking hard around my fingers—“

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Heat sizzles down each vertebrae in your spine, burning up each and every cell with the brilliance of a wildfire. Stars, this is gonna destroy you.      

Din’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of blistering warmth that knocks you off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs. Your nails dig into Din’s back as you shake and grapple for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you.  

“Good girl,” Din praises, pace faltering from just how tight your pussy squeezes and flutters around his cock. “S-such a fucking good girl for me.”     

Regaining some semblance of control, you realize he’s still fucking going—still rock solid and throbbing, fucking you through the aftershocks of your release. Your arousal turns sharp, like rough cotton over a fresh sunburn as it dips into overstimulation. It’s not unpleasant but Din has to slow his hips to a delicate roll for you to recover.            

In the time it takes to inhale, a different calloused hand kneads into your lower back then smoothes up your spine. A second later you feel the scrape of Paz’s stubble prick along your exposed shoulder as his tongue drags along your sweat dampened skin—all the way up the curve of your neck and ending at the shell of your ear. 

You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but as Paz crowds closer the tip of his cock pokes at your other hole. With a surprised mewl, you tense and shy away—but he follows, molds his chest against your back to sandwhich you in. The hand gripping your bicep jumps to your neck and pulls your head against his shoulder. 

Two of Paz’s fingers dip down the curve of your ass and brush along the puckered skin—far less jarring this time. “Do you want to be fucked here too?” 

Maker—

You’re gonna fucking explode.  

Stuffed to the brim already, it’s hard to imagine Paz cramming himself in along with Din. A little red light blares in some corner of your mind but it’s quickly soothed as Paz plants soft kisses over your cheek and jaw. You trust him—there’s no reason to think he’ll hurt you or push you to the point of pain.

You catch his mouth with a kiss and rock your hips back. “Y-yeah, ok. I trust you.” 

You feel his smile curl against your cheek. “Don’t worry vaar’ika—I’ll take care of you.”

Paz strokes your bottom lip with his thumb and kisses the crown of your hairline as you sink into him. With his ring and middle finger, he pushes past the seam of your lips. “Suck.”

You obey, sealing your lips around his two digits and coating them in your saliva. Paz pulls them out with a pop and moves them between your legs, and with the added wetness dripping from your cunt, the first finger is easy enough. The second and third have you gasping as he scissors them and stretches your tight hole wider. You claw your nails into Din’s shirt—and he’s no better—Din’s own hands are clamping around your hips, struggling to keep still and biting back moans each time your cunt constricts. 

Your hips begins to meet the thrusts of Paz’s fingers as your body familiarizes the feel of him there. It’s a deep thrill that rushes up through your spinal cord—much different from anything you’ve felt before. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Paz goads, chuckling when you whine as he extracts his fingers. “I think you’re ready to take my cock, yeah?”

You shudder and nod, your voice no more than a squeak as it pilfers out. Paz strokes the top of your head and tips you forward into Din’s eager arms as Paz slicks up his length in a mix of precum and your dripping arousal. He touches the swell of you ass in warning, lines himself up with your hole and wedges the tip of his cock inside of you.     

Involuntary tears dampen your makeshift blindfold as Paz buries himself deeper, his rumbling tone urging you to relax—relax even though your mind is drowning in an ocean of arousal and swirling emotions you have no hope to pin down and analyze. It’s for the best—thankful as Paz bottoms out that it wrenches you back to a feasible reality you’re able to manage.

“Shit—I-I’m gonna die—“ You sob, writhing at just how full you are. But there’s nowhere to fucking go—     

“Easy,” Din breathes, and you wonder if he’s said it to keep his own head on his shoulders. “Easy.”

Din’s gravelly rasp cuts through the fog in your head, and stars—you sound like you’re fucking dying. Your wheezy breaths and lightheadedness would certainly suggest that—but no…no, you’re fine. Better than fine.     

A rush so acute and devastating launches up your spine as Din’s patience cracks. He experimentally rolls his hips and that’s the end of it. You’re swallowed up in that riptide you fought so hard to avoid—fuck. You won’t be the same after this. How can you?  

You can feel them both, separated by a thin wall as they sprint towards their own highs. You’re never once left empty—Din reaches the end of you as Paz pulls out and while there’s not exactly any finesse involves it’s the best fucking thing you’ve felt in your entire life. There’s no bickering—no teasing and you’re struck with an idea that makes you clench tight around both of them. You wouldn’t mind if this was the way they decided to settle scores or finally see eye to eye.   

This time you can’t discern your high—just a constant overflow of ecstasy and dazzling arousal like an imploding supernova. You cry their names—sob and shake in their hold with such fervor that Paz traps you tighter between them to keep you still.  

“Fuck—you get so fucking tight,” Paz growls, blunt nails digging into your hips. “And so fucking wet.”

His fingers touch the inside of your thigh and stars—he’s right. “I get to fuck your cunt next time—see how much you’ll drip for me.” 

Even if the blindfold were off—there’d be nothing to see but a white wash of nothing. Blinded by pleasure and bursting at the seems. 

Jealous, Din steals your breath away with a kiss, licking and nipping at your swollen lips until you whine his name. His jagged pants fan across your chin—chapped lips and patchy facial hair tickling across your bottom lip as you breath the same air. 

Din whispers your name like a prayer, his fingers clutching tight around your thighs as his pace starts to flounder to choppy jerks. “Shit. I-I’m close—“

Your fingers twist into his hair. “Yeah—ok baby. Let go.”

Din’s teeth sink into the base of your throat and cums. His seed coats your insides—hot and copious and fucking shit—if there’s a next time you want him to cum in your mouth.      

You don’t get time to relish Din’s stuttered gasps of your name, laced with praise and a show of a tender and bleeding heart before Paz is gathering up your hair in a tight fist and jerking your head up. “You—you want me to cum too? Say it.” 

Without a breath of hesitation you beg for it, cry and arch into him. It does the trick—

Paz is loud—shouts a thunderous roar and buries his cock deep into your hole. Din is still recovering from the aftershocks of his release when Paz pulls out after what seems like ages pumping you full. His cock no longer there to plug you up, his cum begins to dribble out and mix with the mess between your legs. Your legs shake and you wobble--crying out as Din slips out, your body dreadfully empty and aching.     

You're lowered to the mat by Din and if you weren't still trying to formulate words, you'd thank them. Lips dart over your cheeks and hairline, and for once nothing needs to be said. It’s nice...the radiating warmth from their bodies and the simmering flush through you body is something you could get used to. But you’re no stranger to the shifting tides of the future. 

You shrug it off.    

Your eyes are heavy and with one of them stroking your hair and the other your thigh, you drift to sleep. Later—later all unspoken things and disastrous words can be dealt with tomorrow. You must be dreaming when it’s said--careless and bold, but the words nestle into your heart and sprouts with fear. 

“You love her, don't you?” 

translation:

vaar’ika--pipsqueak 

or’dinni--dumbass idiot 

vod--brother/comrade 

tag list: 

@bobafctts​ @djxrxn​ @teaofpeach​ @corrupt-fvcker​ @nelba​ @datmando​ @ben-is-a-hoe​ @dreams-like-clockwork​ @aerynwrites​ @auty-ren​ @huliabitch​ @anxiety-riddled-mando​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @trippedmetaldetector​ 

[whatifxwereyou]

The Oncoming Storm Part 2: Fire

Fandom: Mortal Kombat 2021

Liu Kang x Reader or Kung Lao x Reader

Summary: You wake up somewhere strange *again*. This time your underground and greeted by Liu Kang. For some reason you trust him, but why?

A/N: Have I mentioned I’m a huge fan of the slow burn? Whoops. I’ll let you guys know when the paths are branching between Lao/Liu. Thanks for reading and hope you keep enjoying! Also, thanks for coming to my TED talk.

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Warm flames flickered off brown-gray stone walls. Other than the burning flame to your right, the room was small and dark. There was no door and you could hear movement somewhere beyond its opening. I’m underground, you thought. The air smelled musty and it was so dry that your nose burned. Underground and maybe in the desert. You closed your eyes again quickly.

In your mind’s eye you pictured the small purple flower Kung Lao had given you in your youth. Frail and rare. Many flowers had grown in your hometown but purple had been a new and exotic color. You’d always been fond of it afterward. You’d never gotten the chance to tell Kung Lao that. For a time you had kept it pressed between the pages of your favorite book as a memorial to the boy who had been your best friend. You hadn’t thought about the flower in years. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about him.

The details of what happened were fuzzy. You remembered the fight in your shop and remembered waking up to the face of Kung Lao. It was still insane to think that the boy you’d thought dead was, in fact, alive and in good health. It was even crazier to think that he’d been the one to save you from the fire in your shop.

You shook away the memory lest it return you to the darkness of unconsciousness.

You were, again, in an unfamiliar bed but things were vastly different. You’d been cared for and changed into a modest dressing gown, judging by the soft but coarse material. This had likely been done by a health professional. You were certain that Kung Lao must have brought you somewhere to be helped. Then again, most hospitals you knew of weren’t underground and they certainly didn’t use these types of gowns. It wasn’t a hospital gown, more like the type of gown that would have been worn for bed in ages past. Long and thin, but warm. You pictured it off-white. The one you wore had no sleeves, most likely for ease of access since you’d been injured.

You had to decide if you should panic or not. If you looked around and saw a medical professional or Kung Lao then you would remain calm. If you didn’t then panic seemed the way to go. Opening your eyes again, you were relieved that the world didn’t spin and you weren’t nauseous. But there was no doctor and definitely no Kung Lao.

There was a different man in his place, unfamiliar, shorter in stature, his gaze focused on something other than you. He was dressed mostly in black, no sleeves (which seemed the fashion of this underground wherever), and a red sash tied around his middle. His demeanor was calm and quiet and in his left hand he clutched a string of prayer beads. His skin was dusted with soot or grease, you couldn’t tell. He looked as though he had been handling charcoal for hours. He was also surprisingly muscular.

And handsome. You wouldn’t deny that you’d admired him. His brow was knit with concern and as you shifted, he turned toward you. Brown eyes met yours with genuine concern and he held a hand up defensively. “Take it slow.” His voice was soothing but this was all too familiar.

A strange bed and a stranger next to it after having fallen unconscious. He was telling you how what to do and how to feel. Again. Not a chance! On the small table next to the head of the bed there was a bowl half-filled with water and some medical tools. The tool closest to you was a hook used for stitching up wounds. It wasn’t the best weapon but it was all you could reach. You sat upright quickly, snatched the hook, and moved far enough away from the stranger that you had room to breathe and could better gauge his intent and reactions.

But you had moved too quickly and suddenly there were ten of him as the room spun. You thought you might puke if he got any closer. That would get him away from you, probably better than the needle would. Much to your surprise, he laughed with the subtlest of smiles. The smile radiated more from his eyes amidst his worry than it did outwardly. “You’re surprisingly fast for someone who has been in and out of consciousness for over a week.”

“A… a week?” You stuttered and forced your vision to focus on the blurry version of him smiling in the middle. Thankfully, your brain obeyed and the room stopped spinning. He didn’t seem to pose you any threat. You could tell just by his smile. A smile that made him all the more handsome. The time that had passed was not important so you didn’t wait for an answer to your initial question. “Who are you? Where am I? And where is Kung Lao?” Those three things were at the top of your list now that you were thinking clearly. There were a hundred other questions you had about Mortal Kombat, the dragon mark on your back, and other realms but you figured those could come later. Dealing with the here and now; that was the right way to do it.

“I am Liu Kang.” He bowed his head, holding up his prayer beads as he did. “You are in Raiden’s Temple where the Order of Light gathers to protect Earthrealm. Kung Lao is off on an errand at Lord Raiden’s behest. I assure you that he did not wish to leave you but had little other choice.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, you leaned against the cool stone behind you. Answers, finally. “I’m Y/N. Thank you for answering my questions.”

“Kung Lao mentioned you would likely be defensive.” Liu Kang gestured to the bowl on the nightstand. “I have been caring for your wounds. I do not usually tend to the sick but I promised my cousin that I would see you were cared for.”

“Cousin?”

“Kung Lao. He is my brother. Not by blood but by bond.”

That was a relief. At least this complete stranger had a connection to the other near complete stranger that you’d met the last time you’d woken up in a strange place. Wait… hadn’t you gone blind? Setting the hook back down on the side table, you patted your face in search of a mark or wound that would have caused that. There was none. Liu Kang’s eyes were sparkling in amusement.

“The last thing I remember is losing my vision.” You explained.

“Yes, about that.” Liu Kang moved the hook back to its original place. “The men who attacked your shop were vicious and cruel warriors. They were gifted but squandered their gifts to satiate their greed, a thing that can never be sated. You did the world a favor by stopping them. However, the blades that wounded you were coated in a rare poison. It is lucky that Kung Lao found you and could bring you to us for treatment. The blindness was a temporary side effect of the poison.”

“Poison?” This was wild. That morning you’d been stocking your shop and had taught a class of ten-year-olds. Now you’d been attacked, killed a few men, and had been poisoned. Wild. You supposed, in reality, it had been over a week ago and not that morning. Whatever. You decided to take the blows as they came. Deal with the problems and insanity as it happened. It was the only way to keep a clear head.

“It took many days and much prayer but we bled the poison from your wounds. Now they should begin to heal.”

“I’m still stuck on the poison part of this story. Really? Who does that?”

“You must be very resilient, Miss Y/N. Even the mightiest of warriors poisoned so terribly would submit to death. You are a fighter.”

“Thanks… I think.”

Liu Kang bowed his head again respectfully. He was easy to talk to, you weren’t sure why. You’d been careful around Kung Lao but you found yourself immediately not careful around Liu Kang. There was an instant connection to him.

“I was ill as a child. It made me more resilient to sickness, perhaps.” You had been ill but it had been the kind of illness that parents sent their children away for, the kind where they couldn’t explain how their child saw or did things beyond their understanding. It had made you terribly sick and weak. Why were you telling him this? It’d slipped out of your mouth without permission from your lips.

“I have not met many who would credit childhood illness for their resilience.”

“Perhaps I’m more stubborn than most. I’ve been told I have thick skin. The kids would tease me for being different. I was told that I would never be strong. I would never catch up. Never be normal. I didn’t like that word, not even as a kid.”

“Which one?”

“Never.”

That subtle smile again. Damn, it was attractive.

“I’m sorry.” You laughed with an apologetic bow of your own. Your head spun and you mentally cursed your politeness. “I didn’t mean to say all that. It just slipped out.”

“It’s no problem. I would like you to continue your story if you would.”

“Only if you’re certain.”

“I assure you that I’m not merely being polite.” There was something genuine about his words, as if he considered them carefully before he spoke. Perhaps Kung Lao had warned him about you. Or perhaps he was just careful. Your first instinct had been to jump at them both. It was their every right to be defensive but you couldn’t be blamed either. “How did you overcome your illness?”

“I fought. I worked harder than most did just to be on the same level as everyone else. I grew out of my sickness with age and thanks to my hard work I became stronger than most. After that I dedicated my life to teaching others to become strong, to be more than the ‘never’ we’re told we’ll be.”

“Admirable.” Liu Kang seemed as relieved as you had been upon discovering he was not there to hurt you. Maybe he’d been worried about your intent too. “It is nice to have another worthy of their marking.”

“The dragon mark?”

“Yes.”

“About that…”

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Kung Lao said something about being chosen because of the mark but I’m guessing that the mark only came to me because I killed those men. Am I right? It had to belong to one of them. It’s less like I was chosen and more like… I stole it.”

“Yes. Did Kung Lao tell you? He said you wouldn’t understand.”

“I assume that he would have told me but then I went blind. As you can imagine, I no longer cared much about the mark after that.” You laughed and so did Liu Kang. His laugh was quiet and genuine. It made you smile far more than should have been allowed. His joy was as comforting as the flickering light of the candle on the side table. “I didn’t have the mark that morning. I can only assume that was when I got it. Weirder things have happened so it was as good a guess as any.”

“Your intuition is remarkable.”

“What happens next?”

“For now you heal.” Liu Kang gestured to your arms. The gauze wrapped around your forearms was stained with blood even though the dressings looked fresh. You didn’t feel any pain. Either you’d been given good drugs to deal or adrenaline was protecting you. “You are in no condition to begin training. Lord Raiden has been told about you. I am keeping him informed on your condition.”

“So, you’re my babysitter.”

“I prefer caretaker. But yes.”

“If it’s been a week and I’m still bleeding like this then I have a feeling it could take awhile to heal. Can I learn more in the meantime? About any of this? I don’t want to just sleep and sit around doing nothing. I don’t know anything about this place and I know very little about the Order of Light. And I definitely don’t know anything about this mark or Mortal Kombat.” Liu Kang seemed surprised, but pleasantly so, as if this were something he’d greatly desired to hear.

“You really want to learn more?” He smiled brightly. You nodded. “The masters have trained me for years in matters of Mortal Kombat and the protection of Earthrealm. I would be happy to teach you if you would allow me.”

“I would be delighted to have the company, Liu Kang.” You very much meant that.

“I have some work to do around the temple but we can start this evening.”

“Perfect.”

Next Chapter >>

[fanfoolishness]

the naming of things

Din Djarin names the wounds earned in The Prisoner, and reflects on the hunter becoming the hunted. ~1700 words, Din & Grogu, hints of Din's life before he met the kid, a bit of whump and a bit of hope. Takes place at the end of Chapter 6.

*

Hyperspace stretched around them, the promise of freedom streaming beyond them in blue-white light. The glimmers played over his visor as a sigh, long and weary, stole from his mouth. He sagged against his seat, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder at the wide-eyed child watching him.

“I told you that was a bad idea,” he muttered, more to himself than the kid. He swallowed. It’d been damn close for both of them.

Reflexively he reached out, unscrewing the little control knob from its lever. He reached back and dropped the ball into the kid’s waiting hand. It was the least he could do to make up for the droid menacing the kid, Mayfeld dropping him on the floor, their taunts... Not to mention the way Din had pretended the kid was just a pet, and nothing more.

...He’d done it to take the heat off the kid, of course.

Still felt lousy about it, though.

A bad idea.

The words echoed as a refrain, a hum that fell away into the whirs and vibrations of the Razor Crest around them. Din winced. He’d known better. Or should have, anyway. He closed his eyes, suddenly powerfully tired.

A burble played out, bright and cheery behind him. He lifted his head and realized he’d stiffened badly in his chair. How long had he been sleeping? His head pounded.

“Come on, kid,” Din said, getting slowly to his feet. Bruises throbbed beneath his armor, making him recoil each time a normal movement forced one to bear pressure. He tried to count them all, a habit he’d picked up from older Mandalorians in the Corps. Name your wounds. Face them clearly. They’ll hold less power that way.

Some of the fighters had been cocky with their naming, proud of how many wounds they’d sustained without going down. They sang their battle-scars to anyone who'd listen (and many who couldn't care less). Others had used it as a way to distance themselves from the pain that might otherwise hold them back. These days Din preferred to use the technique as a way to review his fights, to forge the damage into another weapon, to make himself harder, fiercer, sharper for the next battle.

It was also a good way to remind himself to examine himself thoroughly for injury, so that he could tend to his body as he tended to his armor. It had been a long time since he had found a Mandalorian healer to do so for him, someone he trusted who could treat his wounds while also honoring his armor. He had given up on healers outside of the Way years ago.

Din steadied himself on his feet, calculating. Bruise over the left flank. When the Devaronian slammed me against the console. Watch for blood in the vacc tube later, might need bacta if the kidney’s involved. He reached out to the kid, who held out his arms to be picked up. Searing pain over the bicep. Xi’an’s blade. Cleaning and tissue glue. He nestled the kid against his side, grateful that that, at least, did not spark awareness of a new wound.

The kid pulled him out of his cataloguing, rolling that little ball between his hands and swinging his legs. He tilted his head curiously, ears shifting to the side. Din glanced down at him, fighting a fleeting dizziness.

“I know. You gotta be hungry by now.” Din’s own gut rumbled, though he felt vaguely nauseous. He frowned.

Drowsy. Dizzy. Nauseous. Headache. His frown deepened. Concussion from Burg? He didn’t specifically remember getting hit in the head, but the fight had been a blur. He let out a long breath, irritated more than anything else. Concussions were nasty to treat. Either you wasted precious, expensive bacta on them, or you muddled through them for days, always with that nagging knowledge that they stacked: from fight to fight, from year to year.

At this point in his life, another concussion was the last thing he needed. Bacta it was.

He carefully made his way down the ladder and into the hold, shuffling toward the cabinet where he kept the rations. Bruise or torn muscle, back of the left thigh. Another blow from Burg? It was getting hard to remember the specificities of the fight.

The kid started reaching towards the cupboard the instant Din turned to face it. His fingers splayed wide, straining for the food he knew was inside. Despite himself, Din smiled.

“Don’t worry, kid, I know it’s dinnertime.” Ought to keep him occupied enough for me to do a once-over, and get that bacta started.

The kid stuffed the control knob into his mouth, and Din’s half-smile vanished instantly. “Get that out of your mouth, you’ll choke on it!” he scolded, fishing it out of the kid’s small jaws with a gloved finger. The kid screwed up his face into the beginnings of a wail, and Din shook his head, instantly regretting the action as his stomach swooped with nausea. He swallowed down his gorge, sucking in a deep breath.

“That’s enough playing with that for now,” he managed. “You can have it back sometime when you aren’t hungry.” He shoved the ball into a belt pouch, then opened the cabinet, scanning it for food. He came up with a stack of flat womp rat jerky, a wedge of bantha cheese and a pair of millet cakes. “How’s that for dinner, buddy?”

The kid swiveled to look up at him, all clearly forgiven, judging by his beaming expression and upturned ears. He let out a loud giggle and grabbed for the jerky first, happily stuffing a piece into his mouth and working it with those little teeth. But the smell, normally appetizing, turned Din’s stomach.

“Here,” he said, attempting a gentle tone. He limped to the rack, setting the kid down on his own bed and laying out the food around him. “I’ll be just outside. Getting ready for bed. You stay here, understand?”

The kid blinked up at him, golden crumbs of buttery bantha cheese clinging like a constellation all over his chin. Then he took a bite of his millet cake, holding it daintily in one clawed hand.

“Good,” said Din in relief. “You’re busy.” He closed the door to their cramped sleeping area, slumping a little against the door. He made his way over to his medkit, keeping one hand lightly against the wall. The Crest thrummed beneath his touch. Almost lost you and the kid, he thought tiredly. They never meant for me to get out of there alive. They had no honor. They never had.

And that had been obvious from the start, he’d known it just the same as he knew Tatooine had a binary star, but still. Sometimes the question wasn’t is a fatal blow coming, sometimes it was just will it be a blaster? Or a blade? He could kick himself for the wounds from both he’d earned from this crowd; some of them wounds he had never named.

Maybe that was the real problem.

“Like old times,” he murmured, regret twisting, fleetingly, within him. He opened his medkit, staring at the bacta hidden in its recesses. All that remained was a single slim patch, cut down to a sliver from multiple uses. He blinked. Of course. He should have remembered, but then, thinking clearly was a little difficult right now. He grimaced through the haze.

Using it now meant there’d be nothing left for another fight, another day. He didn’t like traveling so scanty. Yet he and the kid were fugitives, and bacta hawkers knew all the talk, as well as what kind of credits that talk could fetch. They’d likely turn him and the kid in just as soon as anyone else. They wouldn't be able to resupply any time soon.

He glanced slowly at the closed door to the sleeping rack, then reached up to remove his helmet, setting it down beside him. He kept his eyes half-lidded, avoiding the ship’s dim lights, and carefully fixed the last bacta scrap over his forehead along the area that felt most tender.

Gradually it seeped in and the ache dulled, lessening substantially. He knew from experience this wasn’t enough bacta to fully resolve a concussion, but it would have to do.

....How long can we keep this up?

He stiffened at the sudden thought. Without the covert, without signs of other Mandalorians to help them hide, he and the kid were some of the brightest targets in the galaxy. He’d known it, accepted it, but the empty wrapper of the bacta patch still sat in the palm of his hand, far heavier than it should be.

The Armorer had spoken of hunter and prey. He knew which he’d always considered himself to be, ever since the day he'd first put on his helmet. But thinking of the kid in there, cheese all over his tiny, happy face, the words felt more real than they ever had before. How long could a hunter survive as the hunted?

For a moment, Din let his eyes fall closed. Felt the bacta working, felt the fog receding, just a little. Just enough.

He crumpled up the wrapper, tossing it into the waste tube with the food wrappers from the kid's meal. He took a deep breath, looking through the neatly organized medkit, pulling out what he needed. Antiseptic. Tissue glue. Painkillers. He ran through the list of named injuries in his head, setting out a plan for himself.

It took him the better part of a standard hour to address the different wounds, and when he had finished, aches improving, he realized he’d become ravenous. He rummaged through the cupboard, coming out with a handful of rations. He slipped his helmet back on and opened the door to the sleeping rack.

The kid lay there peacefully, surrounded by crumbs, snoring lightly with his tiny nose twitching. Din chuckled, sidling in next to the kid and putting his feet up. He shifted the child’s small body until the kid was sleeping against his hip.

Din raised his helmet slightly, enough to take a bite of millet cake smeared with desert honey. Maybe it was the bacta working, but it seemed like the best thing he’d eaten in weeks. He took another bite, then another, raising and lowering his helmet each time as he did so. It took him a moment to realize this was the first time he’d eaten anything in the same room as the kid. For some reason, it didn’t bother him.

He smiled, looking down at the sleeping child. “Don’t worry, pal.” The kid babbled quietly to himself in his sleep, smacking his lips and curling up even closer to Din’s hip. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

[ibijau]

Forbidden love pt5 / on AO3

Lan Xichen's first idea, upon learning that Wei Wuxian had returned to the world of the living, was that he must have done so through cruel and evil means. That possibility was considered, and quickly dismissed. Lan Qiren knew who his guest was, and he would never have tolerated the presence of a dark spirit inside the Cloud Recesses, least of all that particular one. 

Guessing the reason for his silence, Wei Wuxian grinned awkwardly. 

"Yes, you might wonder about this," he said gesturing at himself but careful not to wake the child sleeping on his lap. "I didn't steal this body, it was gifted to me. Against my will, might I add. That Mo Xuanyu kid was pushed into giving up his life, so I could be brought back and help some other kid named Xue Yang make sense of my own damn research." 

That Xue Yang would be involved in whatever was happening surprised Lan Xichen very little. That boy and the work he'd done to decipher Wei Wuxian's notes were what had started this entire mess.

“Much as your inventions have increased their fortune,” Lan Xichen said, “I find it hard to believe the Jins would want you back.”

His eyes fell on Jin Ling as he said so, and to his credit, Wei Wuxian’s expression turned sombre at the reminder of what his actions had cost Lanling Jin.

“The Jins don’t know that I’m alive. Poor Mo Xuanyu didn’t have friends it seems, so nobody realised the change. And Xue Yang didn’t tell anyone. Even if Mo Xuanyu wasn’t very popular, I think Jin Guangshan might have taken offence if he’d realised that one of his bastards died to revive the man who killed his heir. It was our little secret, Xue Yang and I.”

“How long ago were you brought back?”

Wei Wuxian paused for a moment as he tried to remember.

“About a month, I’d say. We spent most of that stuck in a secret room where Xue Yang worked, so it was hard to tell how much time passed, at least until they sent us away a week ago.”

Saying this, Wei Wuxian glanced again at Jin ling, this time with an air of concern.

“I wasn’t given details at first,” he explained. “Just that Xue Yang, me, and some Jin disciples were to take Jin Ling to a secret location and keep him safe. I hadn’t really heard about their trouble with the Nie at that point, because Xue Yang didn't care about that. But the Jin disciples were a chatty bunch and I was able to get some news through them… and to guess the parts they weren't talking about.”

“Jin Ling really wasn’t kidnapped then,” Lan Xichen realised. “I knew da-ge would never have done that. Even at his worst, he would not harm a child.”

“But others might,” Wei Wuxian retorted, glancing at Lan Qiren, who appeared to have heard that whole story before. “See, our official instructions to keep Jin Ling hidden. But then, both those Jin disciples and Xue Yang were each given another set of secret instructions. I heard about Xue Yang’s first, but I think you’ll prefer to hear the other ones before. The Jin disciples were told that if other sects realised Jin Ling hadn’t been taken away by the Nie, Xue Yang was to be killed and blamed for the incident while I, or rather Xuanyu, would pretend to have been taken by force as well, and act as a witness.”

That was a cunning plan, and Lan Xichen wondered if it didn’t bear the mark of Jin Guangyao’s cleverness. After all, if Xue Yang died, there was much that might be blamed on him. The Jins might even try to make peace offerings to Qinghe Nie by showing they had finally done what Nie Mingjue had asked them to do for months now. Nie Mingjue would refuse. He would have refused if he had been in a healthy state of mind, too smart not to see this for a ruse, and he would refuse in his current state, too unwell to hear about peace. That might rally more sects to Lanlin Jin’s side, if Jin Guangshan and his son navigated the situation well and told everyone that Nie Mingjue was once more unreasonable.

It would even work on the Lan elders, too eager for peace to look at its cost.

“Now that’s bad enough,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “But Xue Yang had his own orders., in case the situation between Lanling and Qinghe got to a stalemate. He was told he’d need to kill all our guards, then kill Jin Ling and display his body in as awful a manner as possible, and in a way that would give the impression Qinghe Nie was responsible for it. He found it so funny he thought he’d share that plan with me, since he expected I’d have little love for my nephew.”

Feeling faint, Lan Xichen stumbled a few feet and had to lean against the nearest wall for fear he would collapse.

“Who gave that order?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“The one man who’d have everything to gain from being rid of Jin Guangshan’s heir,” Wei Wuxian answered. “And who most desperately needs for Qinghe Nie to be seen as evil, so people forget that he caused this war that’s waiting to happen.”

Even though this did but confirm his doubts, Lan Xichen was so shocked that all his strength left him and he nearly fell to his knees. Whatever else he had become, Jin Guangyao had once been his saviour during the war, then his friend, and eventually his sworn brother. He had kept the hope that things might be resolved in a peaceful manner, long after everything showed it to be impossible. And even if that friendship had shattered beyond what could be repaired, Lan Xichen had comforted himself with the thought that Jin Guangyao had only behaved in such a terrible manner because his father had forced him to choose filial loyalty over other duties.

It was a comfort Lan Xichen was now robbed of. Even if Jin Guangshan was sure to still carry his share of blame, it could not be denied anymore that Jin Guangyao was perfectly capable of evil on his own.

“When Xue Yang explained this, I decided I couldn’t stay out of it,” Wei Wuxian resumed. “I killed him without too much trouble, but it attracted the attention of those Jin disciples. I ended up forced to kill them too, but not until one of them explained what their instructions had been. That’s when I figured I had to get Jin Ling somewhere safe,” he added, looking mournful. “The best option would have been Yunmeng, but Jiang Cheng would skin me alive on sight."

Lan Xichen, still leaning with his shoulder against the wall, let out a joyless laugh.

"Most likely." 

"So I decided I'd try to see if Lan Zhan might help. Even if we've not always seen eye to eye, he is the most honourable person I know, and I was sure he'd help with Jin Ling even if it was me asking." 

Whatever strength had returned to Lan Xichen’s body nearly deserted him again at the thought of what his brother might do, when he would know Wei Wuxian to be alive again. 

"I'm sure he would," he muttered.

"But when I arrived here, they told me Lan Zhan wasn't available,” Wei Wuxian continued as if he hadn’t heard. “I was lucky though, and someone recognised Mo Xuanyu’s face, but not Jin Ling's because I'd wrapped him in a shawl. They figured I couldn't be ignored, so they took me and little Jin Ling to see Lan-xiangsheng, who hid us here while he figured out what to do.”

“I won’t be able to hide you much longer,” Lan Qiren replied. “It will become noticed that I have been eating more than usual. It is only a shame I had not realised Xichen was helping his brother escape. The Jingshi would have made a great hiding place for you and that child until we decided how to handle that.”

“I did not want you to be blamed if Wangji’s escape was discovered,” Lan Xichen said.

"I’ve raised both of you,” Lan Qiren retorted, “And done a poor job of it if some elders are to be trusted. I’d have been blamed even if I protested my ignorance. Where is he?" 

"Safe," Lan Xichen only said.

"Can we send those two to him?"

It was a good option to consider, but Lan Xichen still shook his head. Since the Jins had claimed Jin Ling was in the hands of the Nie, if he were discovered in a house that belonged to Nie Huaisang they could use it as proof that they’d said the truth. Likewise, if Nie Mingjue came to hear about it, he might take it as evidence that his brother was conspiring against him, and Lan Xichen could not do anything that might further endanger his dear friend.

Wei Wuxian agreed when Lan Xichen explained his reluctance.

“The best place for Jin Ling to be right now is Lotus Piers,” he claimed. “I can’t take him there, but as far as I know Jiang Cheng admires and respects both of you. If you bring him his nephew and explain what happened, he’ll listen.”

“He would at the very least declare himself neutral if his nephew were returned to him,” Lan Qiren agreed. “Or he might even join Nie Mingjue to demand Jin Guangyao be brought to justice. That would only leave the problem of what to do with you.”

“I’d quite like to stay out of this mess if I could,” Wei Wuxian retorted with a smirk. “But I can't do that until another matter is settled. I too must see Jin Guangyao punished for his crimes, even if they weren’t against me.”

As he said that, he lifted his left arm which had been wrapped around little Jin Ling, and cautiously lowered his sleeve to reveal a deep red cut which looked as if it were on the verge of an infection.

“I had two when I awoke in this body. The ritual mo Xuanyu uses demands that I accomplish his last requests, and those marks are a proof of that. The other went away when I killed Xue Yang, and since I’ve read Mo Xuanyu’s diaries, I have good reason to think this second one demands the death of Jin Guangyao. Poor kid had to blame someone for how miserable he was, and it’s his half-brother who assigned him to help Xue Yang.”

“And is there a time limit for Xuanyu’s revenge to be accomplished?”

“Probably, but I don’t know it. The wound has been getting a little painful lately, so I guess I should hurry.”

Presented with a problem to solve, Lan Xichen’s energy returned and he was finally able to stand straight again as he applied himself to finding a solution. The other two did the same, and silence fell onto the house.

“I have a suggestion,” Lan Xichen said after a moment. “Uncle, I think you should be the one to bring Jin Ling to Yunmeng. You are Jiang Cheng’s senior and his former teacher, so the respect he owes you will make it easier for him to accept what happened. For my part, I will take Wei Wuxian to the place where Lan Wangji is hidden. Wangji will be sure to keep an eye on him and on his health until other problems have been dealt with.”

Hearing this, Lan Qiren frowned. His nephew was hardly any happier at the idea of allowing a reunion between Lan Wangji and the man who had ruined his life, but leaving Wei Wuxian in the Cloud Recesses wasn’t an option, and neither was just releasing him without knowing what he might do while his life depended on Jin Guangyao’s death. But if Lan Wangji were told about the situation, he would do everything in his power to keep Wei Wuxian safe and out of trouble.

“When Wei Wuxian is safe,” Lan Xichen continued, “I will go to Qinghe and free Nie Huaisang.”

“That seems unwise,” Lan Qiren protested. “I like the boy well enough, but this is too dangerous. How would you even get inside the Unclean Realm?”

“It is not as impenetrable as it is reputed, and Nie Mingjue used to trust me enough to share some of its secrets with me when we were young.”

It was odd to think of that faraway youth, when they’d only been insouciant children. At the time, Nie Mingjue’s father had still been alive, and his eldest son hadn’t been forced yet to turn so serious. One afternoon, when Lan Xichen was visiting with his uncle, Nie Mingjue had shown him a secret passage so they could go play without anyone bothering them. It had been many years, but Lan Xichen was sure he would find that passage’s exit again. Then it would only be a matter of finding where Nie Huaisang had been imprisoned and releasing them.

“That’s still a great risk to take,” Lan Qiren insisted.

“It is,” Lan Xichen conceded. “And yet it must be attempted. Aside from Nie Huaisang, who has ever been known to convince Nie Mingjue to change his mind?”

Lan Qiren protested against that plan, as did Wei Wuxian, not that his opinion could have mattered to Lan Xichen. And yet, since neither could suggest anything better, that was the plan they adopted.

[gem-rewatch]

SU rewatch- S1E11- Arcade Mania

Hey, long time no see!

I’m desperately bored in solitary quarantine at university right now, and decided to try and pick this SU rewatch series up again for fun. It’s been a while since I’ve watched through the show in order. Plus, now that this show is completely finished, there’s plenty more connections to make. I can’t promise I’ll be consistent with this, but at the very least I can have fun trying to make a few more posts at my leisure.

Anyways. With that business out of the way. Let’s get right on to the show!

We begin with yet another mission Steven’s guardians have brought him along on! I believe this is the fifth mission we know of that he’s accompanied them on so far. (Lunar Sea Spire, Inverted Pyramid, the unknown mission he returns from in Tiger Millionaire, the desert, and now this one.) It’s really sweet seeing the Gems begin to trust him tagging along more often. There will come a day in the near future where missions become routine for Steven, but in these early episodes, you can really tell that each and every one is a brand new adventure.

In terms of plot, though, this episode is honestly Future Vision: The Prequel.

We learn a lot about Garnet’s abilities and her role in the team here, even if all of these details aren’t spelled out word-for-word quite yet. Hints towards her future vision we see this ep include:

Garnet moving ahead of the group to be in the perfect spot to catch Steven when he falls.

Her flawless moves while fighting and dodging the monsters.

Her becoming a master at the rhythm game later in the episode.

Like, damn. Look at this.

Look at her go.

My Q U E E N!

I had to gif all of this just because it’s such a beautiful and smooth sequence of animation.

If there’s one thing all of the Crystal Gems can 100% agree on, it’s that Garnet is friggin’ amazing.

Garnet: “Let them go. They’re just parasites. If they want to be a problem, they’ll have to answer to me.”

So, does this statement mean that- at this present moment- her extended stay at the arcade was entirely beyond her future vision? That the only futures she saw were ones where she was actually present to deal with containment of the Gem parasites? Given that later scenes insinuate she’d never been to the arcade before, and would have no “data” about its games to factor into her internal understanding of the world, this seems likely.

I adore the gradual palette change here, from shadow, to setting sun. It’s a nice detail that adds so much more life to what could otherwise be a rather mundane transition scene. It seems like unique palettes were more common in early SU- I wonder why Crewniverse stopped implementing these as often later on?

Pearl, entering the arcade: “Humans find such fascinating ways to waste their time.”

Thanks, Pearl. Love you too. <3

This sequence of Pearl failing at playing a car chase/road rage game hits so much different knowing what happens in Last One Out of Beach City. It’s genuinely radical how far she grows in confidence from this point, because here, she seems so shackled to rules and guidelines. Now that we know about her rebellious past, it might be tempting to write this characterization off as “early series weirdness,” but... I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.

Instead, I wonder if she’s working through grief-related regression.

Think about it... the pain of Rose’s passing is still so fresh for her. She was a rule breaking rebel once, yes, but she spent all of those days at Rose’s side. And I get the sense that she’s poured so much of herself into keeping Rose safe, into the rebellion against Homeworld, that without those, she’s caught in a vacuum. What IS her purpose now, when the very person she rebelled for is gone?

So she slips back into old pearl-like habits. Chronic rule following, and a fear of deviating from norms. How familiar. Thankfully, much of her arc throughout the show is her directly growing beyond these habits to live boldly as her own Gem.

The friggin video game when Garnet knocks its head off: “TELL MY WIFE I’M SORRYYY!!!”

Yo, what the fuck. This line is both hilarious and messed up, all at once. Please tell me the game isn’t sentient.

Aaaand here we finally introduce Garnet to the video game sensation that is Meat Beat Mania! This game is perfectly suited to her and her power of foresight because its patterns are algorithmic and not vulnerable to spontaneous deviations, and thus easy to predict, with enough input. She’s probably getting a quick rush of satisfaction with every correct move, and she barely has to exert any energy with her future vision to get that rush. After years and years of wading through endless possibility at every avenue, this video game’s patterns must be a rejuvenating breath of fresh air.

It’s addicting.

...Kinda makes me think of how I get sometimes when I play solitaire on my phone for an hour straight. After a while, I barely even think, I’m just shuffling through my deck and moving cards almost on automatic. I don’t have to use much energy to play, and it gives me animated fireworks every time I finish a match. It’s a win-win.

Amethyst: “I’MMA WIN AN AIRPLANE!”

I don’t know what it is about the way Michaela Dietz says the world “airplane,” but this makes me laugh every time. Does... does she think she can win a genuine airplane here because she saw Onion win a tiny motorbike from the ticket booth?? Amethyst, oh my god. XD

She’s got the spirit, this wild child.

So, moving on- we meet up with our crew later the next morning, Garnet nowhere to be seen. There’s an interesting exchange I’d like to highlight real quick-

Pearl: “If we’re supposed to fight a giant foot, Garnet would let us know.” Amethyst: “Yeah, Garnet’s the boss!” Pearl: “Well, we’re all a team. Garnet just has heightened perception that guides us towards our mission objectives.”

Considering the specific phrasing Pearl uses here- “heightened perception” instead of “future vision-” did Garnet outright tell the two of them to not explain her powers, just like she told them not to mention she’s a fusion? Because I’m pretty sure no one ever uses the phrase “heightened perception” again in reference to her powers.

Given the fact that Garnet chose to keep the knowledge of Ruby and Sapphire under the table until she felt Steven could understand her better, my guess is that this is a similar scenario.

Ahah, I genuinely can’t tell if this is Steven being gullible, or just impulsively playing along with Amethyst’s antics. Still- gross, kid. Don’t wipe your wet cereal face on your shirt! Ew! :O

When he goes outside and starts to use a kiddy metal detector to scan for quarters... so THAT’S where he finds his arcade money! Because I can’t imagine Greg is financially able to give him that much to spend on non-essentials at this point in the show.

Okay, so... I just want to bring light to the fact that Garnet has literally been in this arcade ALL NIGHT LONG.

It was evening when she first arrived here- the sun was visibly setting in the background, and when Steven, Amethyst, and Pearl left, the sky was dark. But now it’s morning. Steven was just seen eating breakfast. And Garnet is STILL HERE.

Does this mean Mr. Smiley locked her IN? I have so many questions... Did he try to get her to leave, only to be intimidated by her complete lack of response? I would kill to know more about this interaction. Poor Mr. Smiley. That man deals with so much bullshit in this town, huh?

Geebus, is Garnet a solid wall. Previous episodes have shown Steven forcibly shoving whole tons of food, and swinging a mini-freezer over his head, and yet he can’t get her to budge even an inch.

I absolutely adore how he climbs up her frame like a koala, though, ahah. Cute.

Meat Beat Mania announcer: “That’s rare!!” Steven: “Oh my gosh...!”

I take these two lines as evidence that this is the first time Steven’s ever seen Garnet’s eyes. Specifically, the fact that there’s three of them. Which, makes sense- since Garnet is still really reserved emotionally at this point, and is only begins to get in the habit of taking her visor off to show Steven her full face later on in the show.

This expression deeply hurts me.

Steven’s so distraught here- because the others are in danger, the town is in danger, and he doesn’t have his trusty, dependable guardian who catches him when he falls and beats up scary monsters for him. Without her, the whole team is vulnerable and blind.

He feels alone. He feels... powerless.

And so he responds to that confusing, powerless feeling by trying to compensate with his own power. When all other routes he can think of fail, he smashes the video game console.

It... uh, it works... but once again, Steven entirely fails to consider the consequences, huh? He experienced a little bit of character growth in this regard in the episode Serious Steven, but even past that it’ll remain an recurring issue for him. Hell, his impulsiveness is a general character flaw even stretching into SUF.

In summary, though:

Poor Mr. Smiley. He works so hard, and doesn’t deserve this BS. ;-;

[amispnrewatch]

SPN 1x06 “Skin”

Okay, I’m gonna try to type while I watch this time instead of forgetting this blog exists until the episode is almost over.

You can tell the footage for the previously on segment was saved on a VHS copy instead of the original film that the show was shot with because even in the HD iTunes version I have it looks low quality as fuck. And jumpy in the way that brings me back to my teens watching the WB all the damn time.

I love this song. WTF is this song. Shazam says “Good Deal” by Mommy and Daddy. I… have no comment, except that it sounds like everything I was listening to in college at the time this shit was airing.

Aaaaand not!Dean turns around to face the SWAT team after obviously torturing some woman. THAT is a cold open.

I wanna know what that car is in the background. It’s pretty. Maybe a convertible Impala? They have similar grills. This is not at all important.

Also, I love that with these higher definition versions of the episodes you can see that Sam’s email is lawboy and whatever dot com and that people in the fandom have started calling him Law Boy. It’s hilarious.

DEAN: Well, what exactly do you tell ‘em? You know, about where you’ve been, what you’ve been doin’?

SAM: I tell ‘em I’m on a road trip with my big brother. I tell ‘em I needed some time off after Jess.

DEAN: Oh, so you lie to ‘em.

SAM: No. I just don’t tell ‘em….everything.

DEAN: Yeah, that’s called lying. I mean, hey, man, I get it, tellin’ the truth is far worse.

SAM: So, what am I supposed to do, just cut everybody out of my life? (DEAN shrugs.) You’re serious?

DEAN: Look, it sucks, but in a job like this, you can’t get close to people, period.

Aaaaand now I have Dean and Cassie feelings again and we haven’t even gotten to her episode yet.

SAM: No, man, I know Zack. He’s no killer.

DEAN: Well, maybe you know Zack as well as he knows you.

Aaaaaand now I have Dean and Lee feelings and we’re nowhere near Lee’s episode in season 15.

YOU JUST BLEW THROUGH A STOP SIGN DEAN WTF.

Little Becky. Oi with the reusing of names.

Of course Sam made friends with a bunch of rich kids while he was at college in a desperate attempt to try to be normal.

SAM: You know, maybe we could see the crime scene. Zack’s house.

DEAN: We could.

REBECCA: Why? I mean, what could you do?

SAM: Well, me, not much. But Dean’s a cop. (DEAN laughs.)

DEAN: Detective, actually.

I love that Dean was like “how dare you call me that.”

Okay, after a bit of research, I totally want to take a day trip to Bisbee, Arizona, but it’s already in the 90s here in the desert and it’s not even May so that trip is going to have to wait until… winter or something. There is no way in hell I’m going deeper into the desert when the weather gets hotter.

It’s a historic mining town tourist trap looking place now which is exactly the kind of shit I love.

SAM: Bec, look, I know Zack didn’t do this. Now, we have to find a way to prove that he’s innocent.

I mean, not technically, technically you would 1) NOT FUCK WITH A MURDER INVESTIGATION YOU’RE NOT LEGALLY INVOLVED IN BECAUSE ANYTHING YOU FIND WOULD BE INADMISSABLE IN COURT 2) find evidence to provide a reasonable doubt for the jury that he did commit the crime. You know, like a lawyer would need to do, Law Boy.

DEAN: I just don’t think this is our kind of problem.

When I made my husband watch this show with me (he’s seen it all at least once now over the years) this is the recurring thing that drove him crazy.

You guys can’t even go in through the back door? Or shut the front door behind you? Really?

REBECCA: (tearfully) Well, there’s no sign of a break-in. They say that Emily let her attacker in.

Yeah, that doesn’t even really mean that she knew her attacker. Just that it was someone she let her guard down around or got in some other way. See: The Son of Sam and Nightstalker, etc.

Love the pinup magnet on the fridge. I’d throw shade at that, but I have a pinup magnet on my fridge too so… pot kettle and all that.

Okay, both people in the next couple are gorgeous.

And oh wow those special effects changing eyes… wow.

This poor couple. I feel so bad for them in this episode.

How… how are the police gonna explain the way he was able to beat himself over the head with a bat??? I…

I love that 5:30 in the morning on TV is clearly like… 10 AM.

Okay, this is a really unrelated point, but the graffiti on the dumpster here reminds me of the Teen Wolf fandoms use of the name Void!Stiles when Stiles Stilinski was possessed by a Nogitsune… I just spent way too long digging through YouTube and my Tumblr tags from back when those episodes were airing looking for a few specific videos and couldn’t find them. The TL;DR reason I bring it up here is goofball, bi-coded main character guy getting possessed by an entity set on destroying the people he loves. SOUNDS LIKE THIS EPISODE AND A WHOLE LOT OF SPN RIGHT. I love that all these monster hunting shows call out to each other.

This scene haunts me years later and I don’t even WATCH Teen Wolf. I just watched the fandom on Tumblr collectively lose it’s shit then tripped down a Hale Pack fanfiction rabbit hole.

ANYWAY

Back to Supernatural, a show that also treated its fan base, cast, and characters like garbage! Huzzah!

DEAN: Well, there’s another way to go—down. (They look down and notice a manhole.)

I’m gonna be mature and ignore the double entendre there…

But I love that Dean thinks of the world in 3D. Which sounds like a dumb statement to make, but this is honestly a good example of that in action.

SAM: I bet this runs right by Zack’s house, too.

Really Sam, sewers run by houses? SO WEIRD. I WOULD HAVE NEVER GUESSED.

DEAN: You know, I just had a sick thought. When the shapeshifter changes shape—maybe it sheds.

SAM: That is sick. (DEAN puts the bloody pile back on the ground.)

Guys, there is a WHOLE ASS EAR in that pile of yuck you’re looking at. I think it’s pretty safe to assume the shapeshifter indeed sheds its skin like a snake. A much… gooier snake.

Sam’s friend is rightfully pissed at him for fucking with the crime scene.

This is before the pearl gripped guns?! Wow. I never noticed that before.

Also, this whole episode gives me feelings.

++++

Cool. Tumblr mobile ate a whole section of my notes on this when it crashed for NO APPARENT REASON. Love that.

It always boggles my mind that actors can trust the people they’re working with enough to let people “tie” ropes around their neck or put them in actually dangerous positions in a scene.

SHAPESHIFTER: He’s sure got issues with you. You got to go to college. He had to stay home. I mean, I had to stay home. With Dad. You don’t think I had dreams of my own? But Dad needed me. Where the hell were you?

SAM: Where is my brother? (The shapeshifter leans in close to SAM.)

SHAPESHIFTER: I am your brother. See, deep down, I’m just jealous. You got friends. You could have a life. Me? I know I’m a freak. And sooner or later, everybody’s gonna leave me. (He backs away.)

SAM: What are you talkin’ about?

SHAPESHIFTER: You left. Hell, I did everything Dad asked me to, and he ditched me, too. No explanation, nothin’, just poof. Left me with your sorry ass. But, still, this life? It’s not without its perks. (He laughs.) I meet the nicest people. Like little Becky. You know, Dean would bang her if he had the chance. Let’s see what happens. (He smiles and covers SAM with a sheet.)

This exchange is just… so much. So many feelings. And I will forever (unless we magically get a fix-it fic mini season someday…) be SO MAD that none of this got resolved in that pointless, trash heap of a finale.

REBECCA: Okay, so, this thing—it can make itself look like anybody?

SHAPESHIFTER: That’s right. (She chuckles.)

REBECCA: Well, what is it, like a genetic freak? (The shapeshifter laughs.)

SHAPESHIFTER: Maybe. Evolution is about mutation, right? So, maybe this thing was born human but was different. Hideous and hated. Until he learned to become someone else. (REBECCA looks around, uncomfortable. The shapeshifter’s eyes glint silver, and he smiles.)

It always amazes me how much of this show is a pile of accidental queer allegories parading around in an ill-fitting toxic masculinity suit.

Vulcan mind meld! I love nerd!Dean. Also, I’m rewatching Star Trek: TOS with my husband, because that is what my life amounts to these days, rewatching comfort TV and flailing over the bits I love.

This post does a better job than I can do of pairing up screen caps with the dialogue of this next scene. SIX EPISODES IN. They’re dumping all of this character depth SIX EPISODES IN. FUCK THIS SHOW FOR NOT EMBRACING ITSELF.

Okay, I love that he screams back in her face after he threw the phone. It’s not something to laugh at because the situation is horrifying, but I can’t help laughing at it every time.

AND THE WAY THEY CUT THESE SCENES. Going from him winding his hand back to backslap her directly to him dropping the chains on the table to show how hard he must have hit her without actually making the actors hit each other. Good job editing department!

I… don’t understand the shifter’s motivation for killing people. If he can take over people’s identities without killing them, why kill them? Is it just because he’s a homicidal, rapist piece of shit? Cause that’s all it seems like.

How did the SWAT team even know she was being attacked? Why can the snipers aim no better than Storm Troopers?

Ugh, these kind of transformation body horror scenes are exactly why werewolf stories have never really appealed to me much. Like, I could do without watching your ribs move and teeth fall out, dude.

BUT.

THIS FUCKING SCENE.

I looked up the song that’s playing over shapeshifter!Dean being caught by the SWAT team and then going through the grotesque transformation. (And as far as I know, the iTunes version has the original music from the episodes.)

It’s a song called “Mary” by The Death Riders

Who's your mother, who's your mother here boy // Who's your mother, whos your mommy dear // Who's your father, who's your father here boy // Who's your father, who's your daddy dear

Silently screaming // Where everyone knows // Daddy's always watchin' // Where everywhere - everywhere I go

I don't wanna be a freak show pretty boy anymore // I don't wanna be a full time slave // I don't wanna be your midnight cowboy anymore // I just want to be Mary

This is… a fascinating choice. Here are the rest of the lyrics. The song as a whole has a weird incesty kinda vibe to it? Kinda like when SPN tries to straight-wash itself and misses the mark wildly. (Like Dean’s male siren episode.)

The midnight cowboy line reminded me of 12x11 and the bull riding scene with “Broomstick Cowboy” by Bobby Goldsboro playing over it

Dream on, little Broomstick Cowboy, // Dream while you can; // Of big green frogs, // And puppy dogs, // And castles in the sand.

For, all too soon you'll awaken; // Your toys will all be gone. // Your broomstick horse will ride away, // To find another home. // And you'll have grown into a man, // With cowboys of your own. // And then you'll have to go to war, // To try and save your home.

And then you'll have to learn to hate; // You'll have to learn to kill. // It's always been that way, my son; // I guess it always will.

Because, you know, why not add tons of feelings into the lyrics, right?

Props to the people who can embrace their rewatches and reclamations of the show with ease. Because every episode seems to remind me of how hollow and tragic Dean’s ending was and I just… struggle all over again.

Anyway, back to the episode so I can move on with my day.

REPORTER: An anonymous tip led police to a home in the Central West End, where a S.W.A.T team discovered a local woman bound and gagged. Her attacker, a white male, approximately twenty-four to thirty years of age, was discovered hiding in her home. (A sketch of DEAN appears on the screen.)

DEAN: Man! That’s not even a good picture. (SAM looks around cautiously.)

SAM: It’s good enough. (He walks away.)

DEAN: Man! (He follows SAM.)

(CUT TO: Alley. DEAN and SAM are walking. DEAN steps into a puddle.)

DEAN: Ugh, come on.

I love that we get two tiny little back-to-back vanity moments for Dean here. One commenting on the sketch artist rendition of him being broadcasted on the news and the other tripping in the puddle. There is literally someone running around the city trying to kill people while wearing Dean’s face, but Dean is still concerned with how he looks appears to others. He’s still concerned with keeping up his own performance. The shifter left him with just a t-shirt, so he doesn’t even have his usual comfort layers on and at any moment someone could spot him and call the police or try to kill him for assaulting Sam’s friend. His life is wildly out of control in that moment and the only thing he can try to focus on is his appearance (something semi-controllable) and finding the shifter before any of that other shit can happen.

One day I want to put together a like top 10 episodes focusing on / explaining each TFW character from the series. Like the kind of list you could show someone who’s never seen the show, but has OPINIONS about the characters (or who hasn’t seen the whole show and seen the growth they went through… you know, like the people responsible for the travesty of 15x20). This episode would be on that list. I’m not sure how I could manage to make a list of only 10 episodes to understand Dean Winchester by, but eh.

SAM: What are you gonna do to me?

SHAPESHIFTER: Oh, I’m not gonna do anything. Dean will, though.

SAM: They’ll never catch him.

SHAPESHIFTER: Oh, doesn’t matter. Murder in the first of his own brother? He’ll be hunted the rest of his life. (He picks up a sharp knife and examines it.)

Speaking of season 15 in general, this right here. This was Chuck’s villain story arc thesis statement. AND THEY DROPPED THE GODDAMN BALL WITH IT. I think that’s the thing that honestly pisses me off the most these days (about 5 1/2 months from when the finale aired) is that they tried making the whole thing a tragedy but did such an awful job with it that it just ended up like a deflating condom balloon at a dive bar concert. Disappointing and gross. The finale for season 14 set them up SO FUCKING WELL and it just… didn’t get there.

Becky’s parents are gonna be pissed at how torn up their house is after all this shit…

And you’re not shooting him when you first see him strangling Sam because…?????

I like that he took the necklace back. Also, is this kinda Dean death number .5 of the show? Like it wasn’t him but it was also kinda him. Eh.

At least they left the windshield on Baby this time. Reflections are better than tearing her apart.

[ironmandeficiency]

laying low

pairing: fennec shand / reader

word count: 3019

summary: she didn’t want you to retire because you were the only one she trusts to have her six. you retired because you couldn’t let yourself fail and get her killed.

a/n: i want her to step on me but also i wanna be the one (1) person the stoic badass is soft for. also i’m posting from mobile again so ✨hooray✨

warnings: angry fennec, parting on maybe-bad terms, canon typical violence, being kidnapped, toro calican himself is a warning (undid his death for the sake of plot)

“is this really what you want? to sit here and let yourself rot?” fennec was bitter. you hated seeing her like this and nearly every muscle in your body ached as she spoke. the two of you worked together like a finely-tuned machine and she clearly thought that you retiring was a waste of potential. but when you slipped up and nearly cost fennec her life, you refused to endanger her with your presence. she was far too valuable to you and you would do anything, even retire in this skughole, if it meant keeping her safe.

after a speeder crash you endured during a fight against stormtroopers, it severely impacted your ability to fight. fennec knew that you wouldn’t be the same, but that didn’t bother her. there were only one or two more bounties picked up afterwards because you realized you had become a liability. fennec was having to cover your ass more often than not and even though she insisted that it wasn’t a problem, you had to do something different.

picking up a little slack would be miniscule if you were with her but you didn’t see it like she did. you had been her longest companion and the only one that she’d ever let see her weak. life came with trauma, and with trauma came nightmares — she remembers the first one she had early into your partnership, the way you held her close and anchored her to reality. from then on it was decided: you were it for her. not that she’d ever tell you, but it was true nonetheless.

you sighed at her words; the very same thoughts went through your head at the beginning of this plan but it was the only viable option for you. “it’s all i have left. maybe i can find some peace before hunters come looking for me.” you pour two mugs of caf, setting one on the table in font of an empty chair as an invitation for her to sit. she doesn’t.

the anger in the air around her nearly chokes you with its intensity, rising in the air like heavy plumes of smoke from a raging fire. you’re unsure what you can say to tame the blaze, if you even can at all. normally you would know the exact words to say to bring her down when she’s this upset, but now you were the root of the problem and there was nothing short of foregoing retirement that would make her happy.

fennec continues talking about the brave fighter she fought alongside turning into someone she didn’t know, how you’re showing your belly to the world like the damn tooka sunbathing in the windowsill. the venom she’s spitting doesn’t bother you. she’s angry and hurt, probably feeling abandoned by you and your decision to stay and make a home.

“if you ever need somewhere to lay low, i’ll always welcome you. we’re partners fennec, whether fighting side by side or not.” you wanted to give her that much. even if she wasn’t ready now, you would always welcome her into your new home, into your arms the way you’ve yearned to for years.

nothing is said to acknowledge your words. you didn’t think she would say anything anyway but it hurts regardless, another reminder that she doesn’t like this the same way you don’t. all she does before leaving you is grabbing the mug from the table and pouring its contents down the drain, letting the mug clatter in the sink once it’s empty.

maybe one day she could see that you were doing this for her. maybe one day, probably long away from now, she would walk into these doors with the weight of the galaxy being dropped on your doorstep. with a soft smile and open arms you would greet her and show her what it was like to live the quiet life.

for now, you would just have to settle for the warm embrace of the memories you shared, hoping that more could be made in your new little hut.

it’s been close to six months since you retired. you hadn’t seen or heard fennec since she walked out of your front door wearing her signature scowl. it still stung, after all this time, that after everything she wouldn’t even comm. you’d tried that the first couple weeks after she left but there was never a reply, only a dwindling hope and the worry of not knowing if she was okay.

that was one of the biggest benefits of traveling with fennec; you would never have to worry where she was because she was always right beside you. there was never a nagging worry that ate at you, no nightmares allowed to linger since her touch would ward them away. life without her was a new normal

there would be days where you would see something and want to tell her about it, throwing her name over your shoulder only to remember that she was never there to hear what you had to say. the comms you sent grew further apart as time went on, eventually stopping altogether. she would never reply anyway, there was no reason to waste both your time and yours on something seemingly broken beyond repair.

she may not have been dead, but you still lost her.

several more weeks went by and you had grown accustomed to the solitude. sure you would socialize when going to the market for food and supplies, but it was never anything of substance, only mere pleasantries and remarks on the quality of the items you bought. somehow you were far more weary during retirement than you had been before it.

your mind would drift to her still, wondering whether she had found someone else to watch her back or if she was vagabonding all by her lonesome. how you yearned to see her again, hear her voice or feel her hands gently help you when you fall like you have lately. it’s like your body doesn’t see the reason to keep up. you exercise to the best of your ability and try to stay fit as possible, but you’re still losing your footing more and more often, even at home.

it comes to a head when you’re making breakfast. everything had been okay prior, but one little nudge of your bad leg against a table corner and you’re sprawling. laying on the floor covered in your breakfast, it takes you thirty minutes to muster the strength needed to stand on your own.

the next day, you get a cane. you loathe having to buy it at all, hearing her voice calling you old and jokingly asking where your grandchildren are. it’s either a cane or losing what little mobility you have left, so you go with the former. you despised the visible display of your weakness, grated on what pride you had left. if fennec could see you now, what would she say?

the man had beat his way into your home with every intention to rob you and take what little supplies you had. he had been traveling for days in the desert and was tired. but then he saw exactly whose house he was robbing and he had an even better idea: take you to what used to be jabba’s palace, now ruled by bib fortuna.

see, the paths you used to tread alongside fennec provided ample opportunities to make an enemy here and there. jabba was one of them simply because you refused to work for him, and with his death, you had a little bit of peace. fortuna never attempted to seek you out but anyone who knew of jabba’s grudge against you would be wise to the reward your capture would produce.

this young hotshot was foolhardy and far too cocksure compared to his abilities. if you were in the body you used to have, this buffoon (who made his name very known to you in some sort of dominance attempt?) would be dead thrice over. but time wasnt kind to you and you still have a near-lame leg, so at his mercy you were.

you just wished he would shut his damn mouth for longer than it took him to suck in another breath. he must not realize that silence is far louder than jabbering when it comes to someone holding your life in their hands. maker forbid you have peace in your final moments, apparently. figures.

jabba’s former palace was soon in your line of sight and if you weren’t positive that you were being led to your death, you’d have been grateful to be freed of the nuisance that was toro calican. all the assurance you could find as he hauled you out of his speeder was that his arrogance would soon get him killed if he continued the way he was going.

toro dragged you to the throne room with a hand roughly dripping your bicep, trying to hurry you along as if you still had two normally functioning legs. you knew he knew about your predicament, your lack of fully independent mobility a frequent topic of his. “ease up, wank stain! you know i have a lame leg!” his answer was an aggravated huff and his blaster pressed harder into your lower back.

the lower you descended, the deeper the dread sank into your gut. this was actually real, you were about to die. peace had been made long ago with the knowledge of someone possibly wanting to find you, but now that it was happening… completely different.

you wondered if fennec would ever find out about your death. or if she did find out, your brain would questioned if she would even care. of course she would, your heart consoled, think of how long you traveled together! the trust! the bond you two share transcends time!

but you cut your journeys with her short, there was no telling. there were so many things you wish you could have told her, not just about the feelings that only grew in their intensity during her absence from your side. you wanted to tell her about the stray tooka that you took in when you first settled down; she had a litter of kittens and one of them had a glare that rivaled your dear assassin’s. there was an action holonovel you read once that had you cackling, imagining your fennec cutting off all the frivolous villain monologues with a blaster to the face.

she was never told these things and now that you were becoming rancor chow, she’d never even know them. the idea of dying before telling fennec everything that you’ve been stewing over for so long, not telling her you loved her, fuck was it heartbreaking.

a mumbled curse fell from your lips when you felt saltwater make a descent down your cheeks. you didn’t want your harbinger to see you this weak, this vulnerable, but you had no choice in the matter. your hands are bound by a pair of shockingly sturdy binders and there was no way for you to wipe the tears away. all you could do was blink them away, then meet death with your chin up and your love in your heart.

“now what do we have here?” that was most certainly not the voice of bib fortuna. you opened your eyes to find a broad man clad in green beskar occupying the throne. your common sense identified him as boba fett, which you should have thought was impossible. then again, you didn’t think it was possible for someone to be as annoying as toro calican. it was a day of being proved wrong, it seemed.

anyone could see that toro wasn’t prepared to see someone that wasn’t bib on the throne. his eyes had grown to the size of the twin suns and even through your wet eyes, you could see his facial expression morph from his fake swagger to a dog of uncertainty. nevertheless, he persisted, throwing you down at the foot of the throne. “there’s a bounty on their head and i’ve come to collect the reward.”

boba fett, even through the beskar, doesn’t seem pleased. he doesn’t move his helmet’s line of sight from toro as he speaks, something you’re grateful for. “there’s been a, how do you say, recent transfer of power. and with that change came a new way of doing things, you understand.” he scoffed at the man, your proximity to the throne enlightening you to just how annoyed he was becoming in such a short period. it seemed that toro had that effect on everybody.

“how do i know this is actually someone with a price on their head? what evidence do you have that proves their identity?”

it was clear that your captor didn’t expect to have to prove a damned thing. what a fool, not even bothering to prepare for a single unexpected event. you were almost ashamed of having been overpowered by him at this point. “anyone who’s anyone knows, this is the former partner of the late fennec shand! i’m sure you heard abour her demise — that was me by the way — and now i’ve brought her partner to you, to be taken out of commission…”

all the hair on your body stood on end. fennec was dead? killed by the very man that brought you in? no, not your fennec. she wouldn’t be overpowered by this arrogant bastard in her sleep with a hand tied behind her back, there was no way. but boba said nothing to negate the rumors and that told you everything you need to know. “if you have even a morsel of mercy, by the stars make this quick. if she’s really gone, then i’ve kept her waiting for far too long.”

those were the first words you’ve spoken since toro bound you and dragged you like a ragdoll from your home. there was no reason to entertain the man, but there was the tiniest sliver of a chance that you could implore the mandalorian in front of you to end your life with the efficiency he was known for.

he asked the man his name and merely hummed in acknowledgment when it was boastfully given, like his name meant something to a battle hardened mandalorian such as boba fett.

if you had paid attention to boba’s demeanor since your arrival, you would have noticed that something in his air changed when toro spoke about being the one to kill fennec. some would have mistook it for disbelief but it was much more than that. boba knew that toro was indeed the man who shot fennec shand, but he was not the man who killed fennec shand because she simply wasn’t dead.

she was, in fact, just in the next room scavenging for another bottle of fluorescent blue spotchka when her curiosity was piqued by the conversation occurring in the throne room. at the way the voices seemed to be familiar, she abandoned the search and decided to see for herself what the commotion was.

what she found sent liquid fire through her veins. you, on your knees and head bowed just enough to show resignation and grief, binders shackling your arms and fennec knew that you wouldn’t be able to get up on your own because of it. toro calican, the man who nearly killed her all those sunsets ago in the middle of tusken territory standing above you with a wicked sneer on his lips. this would simply not do.

“word of advice, calican,” she made her presence known with her voice, walking around to boba’s right hand side and leaning a hip against the throne. “always make sure your kills are dead before you leave them. leaving them for dead? that’s how you make enemies.” her blaster was out of her holster and firing before toro could reply, and boba was impressed with the speed she fired with. he had a feeling that it had to do with the figure at the foot of his throne.

your eyes had to be deceiving you. there was no way, toro killed fennec… right? so how in the stars was she here now? the feeling of her hands on your cheeks, warm brown eyes giving you much needed comfort after what you’ve been through. you didn’t even register boba leaving his throne until he’s on the ground in front of you, unclasping your binders with the gentleness one would treat an injured animal. maybe that’s what you were to him, a pitiful tooka missing a leg that was dropped on his doorstep.

before you can venture deeper into this rabbit hole, your body is pulled off the questionable floor and into fennec’s embrace. the way she felt against you, the calluses of her hands as she held you, it was home. you didn’t know when the tears had come back but she was quick to wipe them away with the pads of her thumbs.

“seems you found trouble. what happened to laying low, huh?” her comment brought a ready chuckle from your throat and a small smile to her lips. sweet maker how you’ve missed that smile. “maybe you’ll be safer here, what do you think?”

any and all words elude you. nothing on this planet or any other in the galaxy could drag you away from her now, not when she’s as beautiful now as the day you met her, when she gives you the smile you knew was only saved for you. “i’m always safer with you, fennec.”

she hums, her lips pressing to your forehead to ground you both in the reality of being together again. “i’ll have to say the same about you, desert rose. nearly died only a week after i left your hut.”

“only a week? i thought you’d last longer than that.”

“it was because i didn’t have you. but we don’t have to worry about that anymore, do we?”

she was right, you wouldn’t have to worry about losing her for the rest of your life.

fennec shand taglist: @cryptidcody @sacred-things @clownocoruscant @steel-phoenix @aerolanya @felucians @bookbandobssessed @senator-nahberries @obirain @themarcusmoreno @jedi-mando @flightlessangelwings @whovianwar @hornystarwarsbisexual @kaermorons (i love this handle bye ohmygod)

[starwarsnonsense]

Why the ending of ‘The Rise of Skywalker’ hurts you so damn much right now

In a post from a few days ago, I wrote about how a big part of why Ben Solo’s death is causing intense grief and sadness is the success of the film’s depiction of the Reylo dynamic and Ben’s progression from selfish to selfless love. But there’s more to the ending of the film than Ben’s death, and I would say the scenes that follow and how they are framed carry the bulk of the responsibility for the emotional devastation people are experiencing right now.

Ultimately, what The Rise of Skywalker lacks in its ending is a sense of catharsis - since we see no meaningful emotional resolution for Rey, the viewer is robbed of any real sense of peace or closure. We witness Rey’s stunned shock in the moment that Ben slips away from her, but the emphasis is then immediately shifted to Leia (we are to understand that she only allows herself to fade when her son passes on, with mother and child leaving the world together). 

It’s possible to understand the reasoning behind this (by having Leia’s spirit hold on for so long, suggesting she desperately wanted to be there to guide him into the afterlife, they are clearly attempting to sell the viewer on the extent of her devotion to her child), but it doesn’t work due to the sad reality that the sequel trilogy simply never built up the relationship between Leia and Ben. It’s well known that the original vision for Episode IX was that it would be Leia’s movie, presumably giving her a critical role in her son’s redemption, and it’s clear that J.J. attempted to honour this intention with The Rise of Skywalker despite having very limited footage to work with. In a world where Carrie Fisher were still with us and able to act face-to-face with Adam Driver, convincing us of Leia’s abiding love for her only child and her renewed investment in his redemption (a necessary development, given her despondency regarding Ben in The Last Jedi), the juxtaposition of her ‘passing on’ with Ben’s would have had a much greater emotional impact. 

But as it stands, Ben Solo’s last meaningful human connection, as established over three films, is with Rey - and we never really get to see her mourn for him. This not only makes Ben’s fate sting that much more - it also shortchanges Rey herself. Ben’s joy and relief during as he held Rey in his arms were matched only by her jubilation at finally finding herself able to squeeze the hand of Ben Solo, the man she had loved and seen even when he was at his darkest as Kylo Ren. While Ben at least got to die knowing he had saved the life of the woman he loved, secure in the knowledge that she loved him as he loved her, Rey is left bewildered and alone in the crumbled ruins of her grandfather’s sin. She has nothing left to hold on to other than her almost-lover’s clothes.

When Rey returns to the Resistance base amidst the celebrations, we see her looking utterly grief-stricken as she embraces Finn and Poe. But the shots are fleeting and ambiguous, open to the viewer’s projections due to the chronic indecision that cripples the whole film - who are Finn and Poe crying for? Leia, who they had previously mourned? Snap, who only Poe had any sort of tangible relationship with? And what about Rey? Is she crying for Leia? Ben? Her own parents, now she knows they actually cared for her? All of the aforementioned? This sort of ambiguity is great when we can expect a continuation, an answer, but this is meant to be an ending. In view of that, it’s a serious problem that we don’t even know who our leads are expressing sadness for. 

This issue is only compounded by the final sequence on Tatooine. Rey travels there with BB-8 alone, undercutting the sense that she has found her family and belonging with the Resistance - she chooses to travel alone with a droid, which is a particularly striking decision when it’s remembered that Rey is shown repeatedly identifying with the suffering of droids throughout the film (specifically, she recognises how D-0 is skittish because he has been treated badly by a past owner). The decisions made surrounding Rey on Tatooine recall how she was in the earliest sequences of The Force Awakens, sledding down slops and trekking the desert with BB-8 - it really feels like she has regressed, becoming a child again instead of achieving maturity. This impression is heightened by the characters she is shown to interact with across the sequence - specifically an extremely rude old woman, who demands her name, and the benevolent Force ghosts of Luke and Leia, who gaze upon her contentedly from a distance. 

All of this creates dissonance when viewed in relation to the culmination of Rey’s dynamic with Ben, since we are seeing a young woman who has had her first great love and counterpart in the Force snatched away from her having that massive loss completely erased. Instead of giving her space to grieve and recover, Rey’s final scene is used to serve the legacies of the heroes of a previous generation. When she assumes the Skywalker name, she is also assuming responsibility for the Skywalker legacy. The Skywalker legacy is also Ben’s legacy, but the film has no apparent interest in reminding the viewer of that - there is no allusion to Ben, let alone an appearance by his Force ghost. It’s a bizarre and baffling decision because it’s essentially J.J. Abrams undermining the mythic power of his own characters. Their victories and losses are brushed into the margins of the film, sacrificed at the altar of phoney nostalgia.

I wish J.J. had made different decisions and quite simply made a different film, but he did not. However, I am optimistic. I am already seeing fans, particularly female fans, recognise the omissions and gaps in the narrative, taking steps to fill them with their writing, art and discussion. Transformative fandom has rarely been more critical than it is right now, and I’m grateful to everyone that is, to mangle a quote from J.J. Abrams’ own movie, beginning to make things right again.

[blessedboo]

Mama | Oscar Diaz.

Oscar Diaz x Reader

Summary: You’re pregnant. The announcement to Oscar doesn’t go so smoothly. 

Requested: Yes - “Hi I love your work so far! I was just wondering if it would be okay for you to write an Oscar Diaz imagine with the prompt #10 you’re going to be a dad? But change it up slightly by highlighting his fears of raising a son. Seeing as how it runs in his family for boys to join the gang. Sorry If it’s a strange request!! Much love x”  [Anonymous]

Prompt: Yes [My 150 Prompts] -

10. “You’re going to be a dad!”

Warnings: Angst to fluff. Pregnancy. 

Word Count: 1.9K

A/N: This prompt was on the FLUFF list, but we’re switching it up and going for an initial ANGST route. I’m trying to tackle these requests dawg, please forgive me for the delay. 

The quiet sound of plastic crashing against the bathroom floor amplified in your head. 

It felt as though time slowed and the rattle of the pregnancy test slowed with it. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

It was taunting you, a reminder that you had to tell Oscar sooner or later. It wasn’t abnormal for you and him to spend sleepless nights talking about the future.The possibility of marriage, owning a house and, of course, having a baby were ideas you aspired to. You two always bickered about the minor details of the life to come:

“Rustic? Really, baby? I was thinking modern and marble. Dream big, live bigger.”

“Fine, maybe five dogs and three cats are a little much. How about three dogs, two cats and a turtle to compensate?” 

However, if there was one thing you both agreed on, it was that you would wait until you had children. Specifically until you were both financially stable, married and far away from the dangers of Freeridge. Emphasis on far and away. 

That was the plan, a good one too. But you were taught that things don’t always go as planned, and you were now living that notion. 

Your sunken eyes stared into your reflection, worry etched into your tear-stained cheeks. The way-too-bright white light of the mirror’s bulb illuminated your concern mockingly. After a few sniffles of self-pity, you dabbed at the puffiness laying under your bottom lashes as you wiped away any residue. 

Your breaths were shaky, attempting to maneuver around the nail you were biting on while you paced back and forth. The atmosphere got hotter as the four surrounding walls seemed to close in on you, the floor swaying under your feet. It was too hot for comfort. Too hot. 

Sweat. Trickling. Wipe.

The tight space was suffocating, the lump in your throat felt larger than before. Tighter, tighter. Too tight. 

Breathe. Door. Open. 

You gripped onto the handle, gasping as the cool air of the hallway eased you into its soothing arms. Every ounce of panic, everything you over thought increased tenfold. Your mind ran laps intrusively. You were creating doubts you hadn’t considered and problems you didn��t want to face. You wanted to make it stop, but you didn’t know how. And the one person that could was the one person you hoped to avoid. At least for a little longer.

That was when you heard the door knob click, keys shifting in its place. Oscar’s here. You froze, cursing the universe for making your unspecified wish come true. 

“Shit. Shit. Shit!” You murmured under your breath. 

He barely got the chance to properly step into the house before you ran up to him.

Without thinking it through, your arms enveloped him into a hug. You let your heart grasp the solace it needed in that moment. Oscar was your safe haven, and in times of conflict, it was instinct for you to gravitate towards him and the comfort he provided. 

Using his own to reciprocate the embrace, they wrapped themselves around you like a warm blanket. You sighed, inhaling long and deep.

He placed a gentle kiss on your hair before taking your chin in between his thumb and index to tilt it upwards. 

“Hey—” He paused and took in the current state of your features. Your eyes were glossy, lids droopy, shoulders slumped. You embodied the definition of lackluster. That sweet smile, that infectious spark of energy he craved … It was missing, and he didn’t like that. “—¿Qué pasa?” 

“Oscar, do you love me?” You blurted out. 

He pulled back a little, eyebrows furrowing at the unexpected question. Thinking he misunderstood, he tilted his head. Your lips parted as you moved your hands to cup his face.

“As if you have to ask,” his lips curved into a half-smile. “Yes. Of course, Y/N. Why?”

You nodded, diverting your attention to anywhere other than the worry in his eyes. You took your hand in his as your fingers intertwined seamlessly. Your hands were clammy, and you knew he could feel the spots of dampness from the way his palm shifted at the feel of them. You anxiously led him to the couch and sat him down. 

The realization that this pregnancy could  either make or break your future together started to dawn on you. The thought of him leaving you had your stomach churning and your throat tightening. It wasn’t something you wanted to imagine, let alone become a reality. 

“I’m not going to beat around the bush. So, here it goes,” you breathed out in a tone that was almost unintelligible. “I-I’m … You’re …  Uh, me. Fuck,” you hissed. Your hand flew to your thigh to try to stop your leg from bouncing, but that only led to your nails lightly scratching the skin in repeated motions instead. 

“You, you. Youaregoingtobeadad,” you squeaked as your head dropped down.

Raising an eyebrow, he shook his head at you, unable to make out the incomprehensible jumble of word vomit that spewed out of your mouth. 

“A little louder, nena,” he squeezed your hand reassuringly. 

You gulped. “Oscar Diaz. You’re going to be a dad, mi amor.” 

His jaw slacked. Any muscles that worked to hold up a familiar, comforting expression fell. 

A canvas having its paint wiped away into a blank nothingness was the best way to describe the way he looked at you. The loving touch of his fingers around yours was replaced with emptiness as his limbs retracted closer towards his body, and farther away from yours. 

You couldn’t decipher the emotion that hid behind those eyes. There were no telltale signs he conveyed, no words either. You could hear the heavy rumble of your heart ringing through your ears, the thump of the drum eating at you in anticipation. 

“Say something, damn it!” You croaked in a voice so fragile, so brittle. You wanted—no, you needed—him to do something. You were vulnerable and overwhelmed, feeling as  though the force of a thousand stones weighed on your chest. You wanted him to hold you, console you, ease your anguish. Something. Anything. 

You hadn’t even taken notice of the tears welling up in your eyes until they trickled down your chin, black spots forming one by one on your gray sweater. 

He blinked stoically before looking away. His handsome features coldly hardened into a look of distaste as he shunned you. Your palm rushed to cover your mouth, miserably concealing the broken sputters and gasps; he couldn’t even look at you and it was soul-crushing. Every inch of him clenched with anger, from his fists to his teeth.  

Before you knew it, his heavy footsteps trailed a scorching path towards the door. The slam of the wood against the frame thundered, causing your sobs to pour out of you in a heave. 

As you swung the door back open, your clouded vision was met with a blurry, deformed sight of Oscar’s silhouette near the vibrant cherry red shape of his car. Rage roared within you through the depths of your core. 

You couldn’t believe him. 

After everything you two had been through, this was the moment he chose to leave. The only difference now was that he wasn’t just deserting you, but his unborn child too. 

“You said you loved me, you lying son of a bitch!” You bellowed. Completely distraught, you fell to your knees and continuously wept your disappointment, your ever-growing pain. 

And just like that, his engine revved as he took off into a destination unknown. 

—

Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days. Days felt like forever. Forever felt like a long time. 

In reality it was five hours. Five tiresome hours. Five too many, five too long. No calls, no messages, nothing. That went for you too, you did absolutely nothing except wallow in your melancholy. 

Wrapped in a blanket burrito, you cradled yourself into the fetal position as you clutched onto your stomach. You held onto your belly as if you were actually holding onto your child. But considering Oscar left, you might as well. 

Groaning, you rolled over and stretched before blankly staring at the ceiling. You paid attention to the gentle whirring of the fan above. Soon enough, the sight turned into a hallucination of a baby crib mobile instead. You envisioned what the life ahead would be like as a single mother - buying toys and cute clothes, breastfeeding, pre-school, all of it. 

You sighed, closing your eyes and smiling softly as you soothed your mind. Stroking your stomach, you whispered to the little creature: “Don’t worry, baby. We got this.”

“Yeah, we do.” 

Your eyes shot open as you sprang upright, your head darting towards the direction of the low, soft-spoken voice. In front of you, the man stood slightly hunched in the doorway. His demeanor was tense, yet seemingly weak. 

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Oscar!” 

The buttons of his shirt were now undone, a sleeve rolling down his shoulder. With a hand rubbing the nape of his neck, his lower lip trembled, eyes glossy and a little red. You had never seen him look so defeated. Whether it was guilt, fear or frustration, you didn’t know. But whatever it was, it clouded his entire being in that moment.

“Cariño, I’m so sorry,” he croaked. 

“Go away.” You started to blink back tears, the anger flooding back at the sight of him. 

He shook his head as he approached you, arms opening up as if to plead for your forgiveness. When he realized you weren’t going to accept his embrace, he distanced himself by sitting at the edge of the bed. Oscar sighed as his head dropped into his hands, mumbling words you couldn’t hear. 

“Y/N, I love you. I love you more than anything and anyone. I’ve never loved like that, and I haven’t been loved like that,” he gulped deeply. “Not until I met you.” 

You uncrossed your arms as you focused your gaze on the slow rise and fall of his back. 

“When … when I left earlier, I was scared. I didn’t think I was ready to be a father. Frankly, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I will always have my doubts and fears, they follow me wherever I go. But with you, I won’t have to deal with them on my own.” He turned to face you, holding out a shaky hand for you to grasp onto.  

“Please,” he mouthed silently. You nodded, reluctantly taking his hand as he brought you closer to him. 

“I fucked up with Cesar by bringing him into all this gang shit. I brought an innocent kid into a life he didn’t deserve. I grew up having to be a father to a brother without ever being a son—”

“—But I’m not Ray. I’d never walk out on you, on us. On all of us,” his gentle fingertips caressed your belly as his lips curved into a loving smile. He looked up at you with such sincerity and pure adoration, as if an epiphany was hitting him right then and there. 

You were the mother of his  child, the woman he wanted to cherish for the rest of eternity. Nothing else mattered more than to be with you, his everything. 

You cupped his cheek as your foreheads connected, noses meeting at the tips. 

“I’m going to marry you, Y/N. I’m putting a ring on that finger and we are raising this family together. I’m going to be a good father, a better man than mine ever was. Lo prometo, mi vida,” he whispered, his thumb delicately tracing your cheek. “It’s you and me against the world, always.” 

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” you murmured. 

“I can’t believe we made a baby,” he chuckled. Leaning forward, Oscar placed a sweet kiss on your soft lips. “Congrats, mama. We did it.” 

____________________________________________

Spanish translations - [Correct me if I’m wrong]

¿Qué pasa?  - What’s wrong? / What happened?

Nena - Baby. 

Mi amor - My love.

Cariño - Sweetheart.

Lo prometo, mi vida - I promise, my life (my everything/darling etc.)

[sondrawr]

Where Monsters Dwell

“What kind of place is this?” “The kind of place where fairy tales live and monsters dwell.” —Smoke Bitten

Adam Hauptman is intimately acquainted with fear. It was born in a jungle in Vietnam and never quite left him. Even in his happiest moments—of which there were many, especially recently—it lurks in the fringes. Lying in wait.

When he sees Mercy broken on the burnt grass, seemingly dead, he feels that fear claw up his chest and strangle him. He blacks out for god knows how long, his worst fear playing like a feedback loop in his mind. It isn’t until Samuel, still wolf, bites him in the arm that he finally comes to.

That’s how Adam finds himself, naked and half covered in blood, cradling Mercy’s body. His pack huddles around him, worry creasing their faces. He feels the stink of his fear billowing out of him like smoke, choking everyone around him.

“She’s alive, damn it!” Gary finally manages to gasp. He is panting, voice raspy. How long had he been trying to tell him?

Adam reaches down into himself and feels for that thread-thin bond that connects him to his heart’s mate. It’s there, flickering. He grasps it in both hands, wrapping it around his wrist, anchoring himself to sanity. To her.

Mercy survives that night, like she has done so often before. But one day her luck will run out; his fear whispers the words he knows too well. She’s not like Coyote—damn the man—who resurrects like the sun every morning.

Adam hates beyond telling that her unconquerable spirit is wrapped in such an insubstantial thing as human skin and bones.

:::

Adam first met Mercy Thompson in Montana when she was about thirteen years old. He was up on business, Alpha of a New Mexico pack and newly engaged to a blonde, 22-year-old coed named Christy.

Mercy at the time, before the deaths of her foster parents robbed her of childhood, was still all scraped knees and awkward arms of adolescence. Jutting chin and slumped shoulders—defiant and bored.

There was a ghost of a bruise on her face from the accident where she wrapped Bran’s brand new sports car around a tree. He had heard of that incident within hours of it happening, as he suspected most wolves did, even across the ocean. Mercy’s antics were already famous.

She sat on a chair outside Bran’s office, the scuffed toe of her sneaker knocking into a leggy console table nearby. Looking at him sidelong, she had the air of someone waiting their turn at the principal’s office.

When the door finally opened to let him in, he asked, “What did she do this time?” He stepped around Bran to enter the office.

Bran’s mouth pressed flat in an irritated line, while Charles smirked in the corner. He was the one who answered: “Something about chocolate Easter bunnies.”

“She poisoned a group of boys at school,” Bran snapped, closing the door a little too roughly behind Adam.

“Really?” That seemed a bit extreme for the young girl, whose reputation for pranks were mostly harmless, if effective.

“She injected several chocolate Easter bunnies with ipecac,” Charles explained. “And then warned the boys not to steal them, or ‘they would pay.’ They, of course, did not listen. Apparently the boys had been in the habit of stealing the younger kids’ candy for a while.”

Adam laughed despite himself.

“She wants for discipline,” Bran said with a frown.

“Mercy has plenty of discipline,” Charles answered. “It’s the focus of it, that’s the problem. Her interests are too narrow and she has an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“And her foster father can’t do anything?” asked Adam.

Charles smirked. “If Mercy were a wolf, I wouldn’t be surprised if she outranked him. Any good she does is out of love for Bryan and his mate, not because of fear or intimidation.”

That was, Adam realized, the principle by which Mercy lived her life. It was the driving force of all she did for her family and friends—the pack she forged for herself, not with magic ties but by fierce loyalty and reckless love.

:::

It has been months since she recovered from her devastating injuries. Injuries that Samuel said at first would be the end of her. Her survival is nothing short of a miracle and, Adam suspects, a bit of Coyote’s magic.

Now night holds new terrors for him. He lays in bed at night just listening to the steady beating of his mate’s fragile, mortal heart. Dreading the day when it would inevitably stop.

:::

Mercy was twenty-three when he next saw her in the middle of a Washington desert. Alone in the world but still causing trouble. The first order of business for his newly arrived pack was eliminating the rogue wolves who were harassing her. Saved without so much as a thank you.

Was it coincidence or conspiracy that brought her to the Tri-Cities when Bran had ordered Adam to move his pack north from New Mexico? Coincidence on her part probably, but definitely not Bran’s, whose machinations were wide reaching and infamous.

That Adam bought the property behind her trailer was pure, ornery spite on his part.

She had marched up to him on the first day of construction and stuck a finger in his chest. “Tell Bran that I don’t need a babysitter,” she told him, eyes flashing. “I’ve done fine for eight years without his help—I’m done with wolves.”

“Good to know,” he answered, because he knew that response would drive her crazy, and turned back toward the construction of his pack house. He imagined her making faces at the back of his head and smiled.

:::

He kisses a line down her body, pausing at the shiny-pink of each new scar. Scars she earned in defense of his pack—in defense of him.

And he knows his love is killing her.

Oh god, would her life be better without him? Yes, the fear—the monster—inside him says. Yessss. We will kill herrrrr.

Panic like bile rises in his throat, and he gulps it down. Beneath him Mercy tenses, sensing his change of mood. He murmurs quietly, nuzzling her, lulling her back into softness underneath him. His lovely Mercy. His mate, for who he would willingly lay down his soul, let alone his body.

Whom he would kill for. Without question.

This. This will be his goodbye, then.

He presses a kiss to her inner knee, to her neck, and then presses into her, drawing a sigh from her lips. With his own he continues his careful ministrations, whispering a benediction against every mark on her skin that dares to be there because of him.

:::

His touch is a disease. His touch is a curse.

He can’t bear lying next to her and not touching her, so he doesn’t. He stays late in his office. He sleeps in the spare guest room. It’s killing him, but every day she’s alive, and it’s worth it.

It’s killing him that she wanders the house with those empty eyes, a line of concern between her brows, the hurt and confusion that clearly marks her face.

But at least she is alive. And soon, it will be over.

:::

Adam’s favorite memory of Mercy—the one he thinks of before he puts the gun to his head—is of her in the wedding dress too fancy for the church reception that his pack and daughter put together. She’s dancing with Jesse, at the heart of the people he loved most in the world, swaying to a country song blasting from the church’s ancient speaker system. And she turns to him and smiles.

He can see it as clear as if it were right in front of him. There was so much love in her face then. How different are those faces, the one from his memory and the one Mercy wears at this moment, when she finally sees him for the monster he is.

But she is not disgusted and horrified, as he feared she would be. She is furious. She throws a barrage of words against him, her unfettered anger like a battering ram.

In the years Adam had known and loved Mercy, he has become intimately acquainted with her many moods. Sneaky, playful, worried, content. They were as familiar to him as the feel of Mercy’s calloused hands in his.

Her white hot rage was something entirely new. And through clenched teeth she seethes a truth so utterly profound, that in that moment it shatters the madness that grips him. He lowers the gun in his hand.

Three simple words they had spoken to each other again and again. Whispered in passion and in play. Promised—sworn.

“You are mine.”

:::

He believes her. And for now, so does the monster.

You are mine.

You are mine.

You are mine.

He follows her home, to bed. And though he can’t make love to her like he wants, he worships her body with oil and hands and mouth.

It isn’t until she is completely sated and asleep when the monster rips through his body again. A monster that he now realizes is the ugly marriage of his own fear and self loathing, and Elizaveta’s death curse.

But instead of hurting his mate like Adam fears, the monster scrabbles out from beneath the covers and huddles in the corner of the room. It sits there watching his mate, the covers rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing.

Within a few minutes, the even breaths stutter and stop. “Adam?” she calls, voice rough with sleep.

It’s the monster that growls in response, and Adam waits. It didn’t work, he thinks. The monster is still here. Will you finally leave me like you’re supposed to?

And still he remembers her promises: You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says sounding annoyed. “Get back to bed. I’m cold.”

Oh, my Mercy.

After a moment, the monster cautiously approaches the bed, and it creaks under the sudden weight. It wraps itself around her, tucking her head under its chin. She draws up the covers over them both, and they settle to sleep.

For the first time in a long time Adam prays. Let this be enough. This love. Let me be enough to keep her safe.

If God is kind and he is lucky, maybe it will be.

Maybe the monster will love her, too.

[aislingyngaio-games]

The Tifareth Balance

I think this goes all the way back to the gnostic tree, and how everything has to be brought into balance to achieve Final Heaven.

Introduction: Where the Characters Begin in FF7

At the beginning of the story, Aerith was treated all her life as special by certain individuals - Turks, Shinra/Hojo, Elmyra, Zack. This gave her a very young Queen Victoria levels of self-importance and obstinence, very self-centered world view if you will, and that's why in OG she's always asking Cloud what he thinks about her etc (which actually implies she's rather confused that she isn't already the center of his world somehow) during dialogue options. This is also I believe partially why she seems to sense Ifalna, Elmyra’s husband, and Zack enter the Lifestream, yet seems inured when two reactors, a plate, and the related mass loss of life occurred. Surely she should have been overwhelmed by the sheer number of souls passing back into the Lifestream, yet she seems perfectly deaf to this mass upheaveal and more concerned about her own earthly affairs as she meets Cloud? Sounds oddly cold for a steward of the planet who could hear its cries, however faintly. There’s no Obiwan-Alderaan moment for her at all. Her starting point is that she misses the forest for the trees.

Meanwhile, we have Tifa, who though in her youth was the center of a circle of friends, we learn during the Lifestream that none of them actually understood her, esp obvious during her grief over her mother's death. For an introvert, this is actually a deeply socially draining experience, and since then, given how one by one her social circle deserted her and the village for job opportunities, she is left to believe she's simply a cog in the Grand Scheme. She's always had to suppress her own self and think of others before her. It doesn't matter that she probably wants to leave the village that's been emptied of her peers - she's the chief's daughter so she must stay. It doesn't matter that she disagreed over the reactor bombings, for the Greater Good Avalanche must do something to save the Planet, so she had to acquiesant against her own wishes. It was she who worried and grieved most for the two reactor bombings and the plate fall and its associated loss of life, even though she still had Cloud with her, and realistically couldn’t actually hear the cries of the Planet. Her starting point is that she misses the trees for the forest.

In other words, at the beginning of the story, Aerith is too selfish and Tifa is too selfless. And as author Rick Riordan once wrote, "The most dangerous flaws are those which are good in moderation. Evil is easy to fight. Lack of wisdom… that is very hard indeed." (Athena, The Titan's Curse)

Aerith’s Character Arc in FF7

Over the course of the story, we see Aerith, even while leveraging her position and her blood against Shinra's encroachment, was equally afraid of her own powers. She ignored and hid herself away from the problems of Gaia, hiding under the protection of Elmyra for as long as she could. She disregards opinions and feelings of others like when she totally misjudged how to handle Barret's raw emotions over Corel at the Gold Saucer. She was not at all oblivious to Tifa's feelings yet still attempted to monopolize Cloud's attentions in front of her. This behaviour can be traced back to her need to stand firm against the Turks’/Shinra’s persuasions, though when used on regular people like the team, it is very offputting, abrasive, thoughtless and likely was what actually alienated her peers from her growing up. Ultimately, she made the fatal mistake of believing she knows what's best for the group in merrily skipping off alone into the Forbidden City (I mean, sure, we all know Cloud was unstable from the Jenova manipulation but there were 7 other sane party members who could have been consulted and split up before she skipped off unprotected?), and ultimately her fatal flaw of arrogance and selfishness caused her death. Not because she meant to die, knowing it will protect the planet, because she'd always intended to return to the team ("She talked about the future more than the rest of us"), but she died anyway because her arrogance and selfishness were her fatal flaw.

I think it is only in death, though unaddressed explicitly by the game story itself (which of course remains on the living party members, and therefore is the story of life, and how life still moves on after death), that she truly grasped the littleness of who she is. That ultimately, back in the Lifestream with all the other Cetras, she was finally able to understand that in the end, she was just another Cetra in the great battle against Jenova. Sure, she was the Cetra who summoned Holy, but it was actually doing more harm than good by itself. It was only with the collective power and force of the Lifestream, of all who were born of the Planet and all who returned to the Planet, that Meteor was able to aid Aerith (Holy) in pushing back Meteor. In accepting her ordinariness among the Cetra is when Aerith truly becomes the mother of Gaia, even if nobody other than the FF7 team will ever remember her name. Her legacy lives on in Gaia, along with the legacy every other Cetra died to preserve.

Aerith's character arc is to temper her selfishnes with selflessness, to care for the welfare of all instead of the welfare of a few individuals, and to recognise that she is but a small part in the greater plan, that it is ok to not be special. Her special blood didn't stop her from dying, nor was she alone the only saviour of the Planet. In the end, I believe that Aerith's journey in FF7 is her journey to understand that no matter how special she seems to be, in the end, the Planet will still live on without her too, with Nanaki as the probable successor to her decimated race's role as the new steward of the Planet.

Tifa’s Character Arc in FF7

As for Tifa, her character arc is the complete opposite: to temper her selflessness with selfishness. How odd a concept for a protagonist! Except it goes right back to the balance necessary to achieve Final Heaven ("The most dangerous flaws are those which are good in moderation"). Tifa is shy, she is reserved, she always puts the needs and wants of others above her own, even if she disagrees. She didn't challenge Barret when she disagrees with his methods. She didn't challenge Aerith even when her own feelings were hurt, yet still she was kind in the face of such unkindness (intentional or not). She suppressed her own feelings for Cloud and tries only to behave like a friend to him even though she feels more. And most damning in her character arc, she didn't challenge Cloud over the knowledge that "I waited... but Cloud never came." It was the only piece of the Nibelheim incident she could recall clearly, but because she was too insecure in her own memories (though the rest of the Incident could be chalked up to the trauma caused by her almost dying by Masamune, Cloud's alleged absence at Nibelheim wasn't, because she had pinned her hopes on his arrival and her disappointment was palpable) she allowed what she knew to be false to stand in between them for the sake of Cloud's mental stability.

I have posited in another post that Tifa is not only the heroine of FF7 but the co-protagonist as well, or at the very least the deuteragonist. It is very telling that 10 minutes after Aerith's death, the team went snowboarding, whereas when Cloud and Tifa were both broken emotionally by Sephiroth and had their joint Heroic BSoD moment, the game experienced a timeskip. How odd that the permanent physical death of a valued party member didn't stop the game dead but the death of Cloud and Tifa's trusts in their own memories did? Yet it is important to mention as too many times already Tifa has simply been dismissed as unimportant, as simply the crutch, the guide to Cloud's story and nothing more. This could not be further from the truth. Tifa's story does not simply inform Cloud's. Tifa's story is ENTWINED with Cloud's. Even as their stories run parallel to each other's, crossing the same events, their arcs are both independent AND interdependent on each other's. Tifa is not simply a plot device or the narrator or whatever one calls Tifa in an attempt to dismiss her role in the bigger FF7 story. (And I mention this because even some Tifa fans forget this in their desire to whitewash Tifa's culpability in the Northern Crater affair, which is actually a key turning point in Tifa's hero's journey)

Someday perhaps I will write a full breakdown of Tifa’s hero’s journey (because it’s honestly frustrating to see claims – even from Tifa fans – of Tifa needing a character arc of her own when it’s always been in FF7 all along if only players will take off their protagonist/Cloud-tinted glasses) in greater detail, but for the sake of the discussion of her arc in the context of the gnostic tree and the role of balance within oneself, I will simply say this: that it is only in the death of her trust in herself, and in seeing the emotional death of the one she holds most dear (Cloud’s mental stability shattering at the Northern Crater), that she learns she cannot simply stand passively by even in the face of what she knows to be wrong, just to protect someone else’s feelings and wants. She learns that even inaction has consequences. That she has to be brave enough, assertive enough, just selfish enough to place her own needs and desires, her own thoughts and beliefs, on an equal importance to the rest of the party, even the Planet’s. That just because the world is ending, it doesn’t make her personal struggles any less important than the world’s problems, it doesn’t mean the problem can be ignored or that it will simply go away, or even that it’s unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

She erred, she fell, she “died”. And she learned, she grasped the second chance with both hands, and at Mideel, she stood firm and said, “This is where I want to be. Being with Cloud. Caring for him.” It wasn’t revenge she pursued any longer, or high-minded abstract ideals like saving the Planet. She still would help save the Planet if she could, but for once in her life, she put her foot down and make clear her own priorities – to be by the side of the one she love above all else. And she could make this decision without jeopardizing the Planet because of her ordinariness. She wasn’t imbued with special powers or special bloodlines or special keepsakes and her absence will most likely not affect the Planet’s safety or lack thereof. Even in her absence, we are sent on story missions that still ended in failure – heck, even after Cloud and Tifa rejoined, the Huge Materia space mission still failed anyway, because the point is... just because one wants to save the Planet doesn’t mean one can (after all, summoning Holy didn’t work either, at least not at first).

This is also paralleled with Tifa’s caring of Cloud: there was literally no guarantee that Cloud will ever recover from his Mako poisoning – he could be a vegetable forever, and yet this is still Tifa’s choice. This isn’t just about Cloud, but about Tifa asserting her desire to be with Cloud even in the face of both world destruction and his permanent vegetative state. This is who Tifa wants to be, who Tifa chooses to be. This isn’t something being pushed onto her as part of some “greater good” that she should ignore her own wants and needs for. (And to all those who deride Tifa as being weak for making her choices all for one man, remember that feminism isn’t about a “strong independent woman who need no man”, it’s about having the right to choose who we wish to be without being forced by any societal expectations of us. “Life doesn't make any sense without interdependence. We need each other, and the sooner we learn that, the better for us all." — Erik Erikson. If anything, Tifa choosing to stay by Cloud’s side is the very definition of feminism – it’s not about what we do, rather, that we have a right to choose without being shamed for what we choose to do)

Yet in the Lifestream is when she truly finds herself together with Cloud. She learns that, though she believed she is too ordinary to be special to anyone (remember, though she was the center of her group of friends in her youth, none of them really looked back when the time came for them, or at least she thought none did more than mere talk anyway), she was actually the reason for Cloud’s entire journey, that he reciprocated special feelings for her, that he always intended to return for her. She learned that, just as Cloud’s impetus was her reason for taking up martial arts (one of the few acts of “rebellion”/assertiveness in her youth where she was probably pressured to stay in the village either due to her father’s position or her gender), she was the reason for Cloud’s desire to be a hero too. Tifa was special in her ordinariness. She meant enough to someone who meant enough to her.

Tifa’s arc is to recognise that though she won’t ever be important to the Planet as an individual, she was important enough to the one that mattered most. It is not wrong or “selfish” to find individual love and prioritise it equal to the needs of the Planet. And in the end, it was this revelation and resolution of both her and Cloud’s mutual feelings for each other that gave Cloud the strength he’d previously only accessed from despair five years ago, the strength to defeat Sephiroth. And it was only with Sephiroth’s defeat that Holy was unleashed, and only when the Lifestream joined its chorus that the Planet was ultimately saved. In the end, it was the importance Tifa “selfishly” placed on her own wants and needs that saved Cloud, and by saving him, the Planet as well. If she’d been told that Cloud’s predicament, a single individual, was nothing in the face of the end of the world, if she hadn’t been just that little bit selfish in the face of her extreme selflessness, it might have simply brought them nothing but destruction.

Conclusion

In this sense, I believe that Aerith and Tifa were indeed developed to be two halves of the same whole. They started off as two extremes in terms of personality – Aerith was self-centered, assertive and intransigent, while Tifa was selfless, passive and insecure. Yet these are only negative traits when taken to extreme, and by meeting each other, by learning from each other, tempering and moderating each other’s behaviour, by Aerith learning to be more considerate, more humble and more persuadable (because my god, was Aerith utterly brattish and unbearable in Remake before she met Tifa), by Tifa learning to be more assertive, more confident, to take pride in herself, the two halves of a whole bring each other to balance and become better versions of themselves for it.

"The most dangerous flaws are those which are good in moderation. Evil is easy to fight. Lack of wisdom… that is very hard indeed."

P.S. tagging @enigmaphenomenon as it was your twitter thread that inspired this post. A lot of the thoughts in this impulsive post probably definitely needs a hell lot more refining by more critical minds but I hope this is a good starting point for discussion.

[mightysteelix]

Hunger - A Bleach Weight Gain Story

Yeah, another finished story. In the clichéd plot (but who reads kink stories for the plot), Grimmjow discovers the joys of fast food and being Grimmjow, goes too far with his newfound passion.

Grimmjow growled. The orange bastard had dropped him to lounge on the bed, counting the seconds while he came back. “Amuse yourself,” Ichigo had said before nudging the door close. “I’ll be home once college ends!”

“And how you propose doing that?” Grimmjow roared after him, but the strawberry ignored him and ran to catch the bus or something. Grimmjow did not care about the human world customs; it was a temporary lodging until Ichigo tired of it and came to Hueco Mundo.

At least, that was the plan. But his patience was stretched thin, and he wanted to tear the flat so that Ichigo had one reason less to stay. He barely held himself back - and the mocking mustache guy on most book covers made it worse. That face was made for being slashed.

If Grimmjow went and destroyed everything, Ichigo would only anger - onetime fury, which would not help him. Fine, no wanton destruction, no matter how much Grimmjow wanted it. How should an Arrancar enjoy this boredom?

Leaving? Grimmjow snorted. He had to stuff himself in a damn uncomfortable gigai that was tight in the wrong places and limited his powers until he was a weak human. Why would he wear it? If he left as is, one pathetic shinigami or another would chase him and waste his day with the blandest fight ever. They should send captains after him, at least!

He did not do much in the tiny apartment, either. The TV set lost its charm after a few hours of sitting; why did humans enjoy it like a bunch of brain-dead zombies? Another thing he would never understand. And reading Ichigo’s extensive collection of ‘The Canterbury Tales’ or ‘The Waste Land’? He would rather fight the weakest shinigami! (It had happened once - that fourth squad twerp, who only flailed and ran.)

What did Ichigo enjoy about this life? It was bland, long-drawn, and so secure that Grimmjow was going to be sick. Where was the excitement of fighting for one’s life? Where was the push to survive and grow stronger? How had someone like the strawberry become so powerful in such a peaceful place? In Hueco Mundo, they’d be at the top of the food chain; hell, they could kick Tier off her throne and show her the real boss!

As he thought of that, Grimmjow’s stomach rumbled. “Could have let me hunt, at least,” he murmured while patting his abs above his Hollow hole. “But no, even that would be too much.” Pluses were off-limits, per Ichigo’s orders - not that he cared about his opinion. Still, if he angered him too much, it would give him a fight - and also break whatever connection they had. He could chase a random Hollow or two, but they tasted like shit. Anything short of a Menos Grande wasn’t worth the effort.

“Damn, where did he throw it?” Ichigo wasn’t starving him. He had explained something about ordering takeout and left a number on a note, along with some paper scraps. It could not be that easy (who gave food for them), and Grimmjow would have to force himself in the gigai, but if it quelled the hunger, he would handle it.

One phone call later, the extra-large menu was on its way, and Grimmjow was forcing himself into the damned artificial body. The cursed shopkeeper must have made it uncomfortable on purpose. Grimmjow felt as if his clothes - two sizes too small - would tear apart at the first movement. Still, somehow he dragged himself to the door, picked the food, and gave the papers. He even got some metal pieces - spare change or something like that.

Fine, perhaps the living world was not completely shitty. But the food had to taste worse than the sand. It couldn’t be so easy!

Grimmjow sniffed the burger and licked his lips. It smelt delicious - but not in the way of freshly killed souls. His fangs tore an enormous chunk of the meal, and he gulped down. Then he had another bite. And another. Compared to Pluses, it was still nothing. To the rubbery butter as hell Menos Grande? A universe of difference - and all that a mere phone call away as long as he could throw some papers.

Once they ran to Hueco Mundo, Grimmjow would struggle for food once again. One never knew when they would find prey in that dark desert. So, why not let himself enjoy a chance any Hollow would kill for? He would order those extra-large menus over and over until the money ran out. Ichigo had told him to amuse himself, had he not?

----

In the past few weeks, Grimmjow had realized some things. First: not hunting the food down was damn amazing. Second: human foods had more variety than the Menos. And third - most important: he had to try them.

Once the door slapped shut behind Ichigo today - “I’m coming back soon, I promise!” - Grimmjow punched the number of a pizza place. His stomach growled; he could barely stand hunger. A horrible habit for Hueco Mundo, where food was scarce. But here, where he could stuff himself after a single call - not a problem! His lips dried as he ordered all the snacks he wanted: a pizza after a pizza, heavy with toppings and sauces, plus countless bottles of soda.

“Twenty minutes!” Grimmjow roared as he slammed the phone close. “I’ll starve!” At least, it gave him enough time to force himself into the gigai. The constant junk food was a godsend for his appetite, but not his waistline. His trim body - sculpted by the harsh life - had succumbed to the calories, and now he sported a new, soft belly. If he sucked in and flexed, he could still notice the distant memory of abs. Not that it mattered. Grimmjow wanted to eat; anything else was secondary. The damned strawberry had better decide to pack his things for Hueco Mundo before Grimmjow grew even larger.

Although - an insatiable smile formed on his face - if he gained so much, he would frighten most of his enemies. Who would want to challenge a wrecking ball of an Arrancar? Grimmjow patted his belly and felt it jiggle. It was small, far from a proper gut. If he wanted to reach that size, he had to double - no, triple! - his efforts. To keep his stomach stuffed and stretched, always seeking more. To eat and eat, to be pinned under the weight of his overfilled stomach and force more greasy fries and sugary donuts in his maw. To grow unrivaled, unstoppable, gargantuan.

Grimmjow got hard. Fuck, where was the pizza? He had to stuff himself on the verge of a food coma and jerk off now!

Fine, he’d get in the gigai to pass the time.

Was the damned thing always so tight? The washboard, fake abs pressed over his newly formed flab. The pecs cramped his sightly sagging moobs. His arms and legs felt squished into sausage casings. Did the cursed shopkeeper expand those? To hell, even if he did! Grimmjow would not ask him! He’d break this one and order a bigger size!

Slowly - because at any sudden movement, the thing would split at his stomach, and Grimmjow wanted to juice as many uses as possible - he stood by the door and waited. At the set hour - roughly the same every day - Grimmjow opened, took the tower of pizzas, and threw the man his money. “Be faster next time!” Not that it mattered; next time, he would buy something else.

Finally, he left the damned gigai. And for the best, since that puny fake body would not survive longer. Grimmjow plopped on the bed and rubbed his achy belly. His fingers sank in the soft flesh.

“You’ve rested enough,” Grimmjow decided, opened the first box, and grabbed a pizza slice. The gooey, salty cheese melted on his tongue, and he forced it whole in his mouth before he could sample it better. Damn - he’d eat the second one slower for a better sense. Expect, as soon as the greasy slice entered his mouth, he devoured it to sate his craving. Fine, he’d stuff himself first and then taste-test! In quick succession, the slices disappeared. One pizza had not made a dent in his hunger. At least he had nine more.

His belly rumbled. “Time to see if Hollows are truly insatiable!” Slices full of spicy meats and dense, caloric cheese were devoured by his gluttonous mouth. His fingers stained with grease, but he did not care - not as long as he had more to eat. His gut pushed out with every gulp, expanded, and still roared for more. Not bad - but he could do much, much better.

The second pizza - this one with multiple cheese toppings - was almost nothing, either. Grimmjow felt a faint sense of fullness, weak but there. His hunger won over it as he gulped the third one. The rim of his pants was digging in his belly and pressed deeper and deeper with each hearty gulp. He winced; he should take them off, but that meant that he would stop stuffing his face for a second; a second, when he would not chew and swallow. As if!

The fullness was replaced by a dull ache which would only grow stronger. How would it not when Grimmjow’s gut was protruding over him like a dome and poked out more and more before his eyes? It was sticking out, rounded than it had ever been, filled to the brim with food. And it rumbled for more.

Grimmjow was even hornier. Hastily, he devoured the rest of pizza number four and - using both hands - began feeding himself the fifth one. He did not tend to his dick as the Arrancar’s natural limitless hunger forced him to engorge himself into total temporary immobility. And through the mist of arousal, greed, and pain, he missed the door opening.

----

Ichigo entered his home. “Hey, Grimmjow!” he shouted in the small apartment. Strange: no murderous, bored out of his mind kitty had pounced on him. “Speak up if you’re jerking off again because I don’t want to see it!”

No reply. Ichigo shrugged, guessed it was safe enough, and entered the bedroom. A risk he should not have taken.

He’d rather have caught Grimmjow jerking off - then he could explain why he was so flustered. Instead, he had to deal with an overfed, bloated, greedy Arrancar, whose football-sized gut jutted out of his body, and he still was reaching for the next slice of pizza. Ichigo bit his lip. He was absolutely not getting hard at that sight!

He had to act. No, he should have acted when Grimmjow wasted so much cash on food or when he got softer. Actually, Ichigo did one thing: he left his not-exactly-boyfriend-but-more-than-a-fuck-buddy more money to satisfy his gluttony and hoped he would stop at a reasonable point. Except - and he knew it too well to be a mistake - Grimmjow was the opposite of reasonable.

“Are you only gonna watch, or you’ll help?” Grimmjow fisted his gut - taut like a drum - and drew Ichigo’s attention. “Bring the pizza to my mouth, for example! With this overfilled tank in the way, it’s painful to reach for it!” The stuffed sphere responded with a low rumble. The recently gained layer of flab was stretched, and it was rock hard to the touch.

He had eaten himself into temporary immobility and wanted more? Amazing. If Ichigo went and fed him... No! He shook his head. It was anything but amazing!

Even if Grimmjow had missed Ichigo’s growing erection, he must have seen his burning red face.

“Did a Hollow eat your ears? Come and feed me. I’m starving here!” A strong pat, accompanied by a loud echo, dried Ichigo’s lips.

Starving. Ichigo gulped. Four empty boxes were haphazardly thrown around the floor. The fifth one was lying nearby. All that food and Grimmjow still needed to indulge his gluttony more. If this kept on, Ichigo would jizz his underpants like a dumb, horny teenager.

And the Arrancar did not help. “Or take off my damned tight pants.” His fingers tweaked near their hem. The engorged gut left no breathing space, and if Ichigo pulled them down, he would find a sore, red line.

Cold shower: Ichigo needed one. Otherwise, he would make a very hasty, horrible decision.

“Or rub my belly, at least, because this thing is pretty packed.” Grimmjow gave it a few powerful pats. It gurgled, and the Arrancar let out a long-drawn burp. “Ya see?” Oh, Ichigo definitely did. Grimmjow had eaten like a ravenous beast, encouraged by Ichigo’s ever-growing sponsorship. Now, Ichigo was not sure if Grimmjow could eat without thrashing restraint. And it was all his fault.

Fine, Ichigo would think with his dick this time! “You want to be fed?” He came closer with a single shunpo and grabbed a slice. “Better prepare because I’m doing it!”