#all i ever do is jump from one unfortunate hyperfixation to the next

[sigmundthesorcerer]

if baby boy didn't want to get adopted, he should have tried having better parents 🙄

[the-scandalorian]

Tempered Glass: Chapter 7

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit) Word Count: 5.5k Warnings: slow burn, canon-typical violence, cursing, pining, Din in suspenders, fluff Summary: Din takes a job with his old crew, and you and the kid wait for him on Arvala-7. Notes: Sorry this took me forever!

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Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

After you left the atmosphere of Tatooine and jumped into hyperspace, Din swiveled his chair around to face you in the copilot’s seat.

“I should take a job. Everything we made went to Peli, and I don’t like being low on credits. There’s a crew I used to run with...I can reach out to them...” he hesitated then added, “but you and the kid can’t come with me.”

“What do you mean I can’t come with you?”

He sighed, shoulders dropping. “I mean, I don’t trust them enough for you and the kid to come.”

“If you don’t trust them, wouldn’t it be better to have backup?”

“I just—,” he looked away, “I don’t want them to know either of you exist.”

“If you don’t trust them, should you be taking a job with them?”

“We don’t have a lot of options.”

“I could get work somewhere. We could go somewhere safe enough for a few weeks. There are some places where I have contacts, and non-bounty hunting work is usually less conspicuous.”

“I don’t think we should stay anywhere that long right now.”

“But—”

“I’ll feel better if you and the kid are safe together.”

“I—”

When he bowed his head in a silent appeal, your determination crumbled.

“Ugh, fine.”

He sighed in relief, reaching out to rest his hand on your knee briefly. His touch was reassuring.

“But, just so you know, this is only going to work once, so don’t think that my staying back with the kid is going to be a regular thing.”

He removed his hand and turned back around to face the viewport.

“I am taking your silence as tacit agreement,” you said to the back of his helmet.

He chose to ignore that, fiddling with the controls instead.

***

Now that you’d both admitted you wanted to stay together, abandoning the pretense of strategy and convenience all together, things were a little off between you and Din. Neither of you were used to being vulnerable, so conversations were slightly stunted again. You found yourself being overly polite, and Din was doing the same.

That first night back on the Crest, he offered you his bunk.

“I’m not taking your bed. You need it to take off your helmet.”

Besides the unshakable lingering chill of the hull, sleeping there wasn’t that bad. You usually slept with every sweater you owned on and that kept you warm enough.

“Use it when I’m not. You shouldn't have to sleep on the floor.”

“Sure, thanks,” you agreed, knowing you’d never take him up on that. You didn’t want to be on a different sleep schedule than he and the kid.

You did try to nap with the kid in Din’s bunk the next day because there wasn’t all that much to do in hyperspace. As soon as you lay down, though, you knew it was a mistake. First of all, it was crazy uncomfortable (somehow not better than the literal floor and the close walls made it slightly claustrophobic), and second—and far more importantly—it smelled overwhelmingly like Din. It smelled like his pine-y soap and beskar and blaster residue and leather and whatever else made up his infuriatingly good scent. It conjured images of crackling fires and golden skin and warm embraces and taut muscles.

Shit.

There was no chance you were going to be able to fall sleep when all you could think about was him.

The kid, on the other hand, was snoozing contentedly beside you. When you’d fully given up on napping, you edged your way out the bunk carefully, doing your best not to wake him.

Din was sitting in the hull on a long crate against the wall, cleaning his blaster, the pieces spread out next to him. Usually, when you were in the hull at the same time, you’d find a place across from him. Instead, you purposefully sat next to him, drawing your knees up to your chest and leaning against the wall.

You decided you were going to push through this awkward phase and make things not weird right there, right then. And you were going to do that the best way you knew how.

He tilted his helmet toward you momentarily then refocused on the blaster in his hand.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes,” he said, running a rag along the barrel.

“How does one develop a catchphrase? Does it happen organically or is there an iterative brainstorming process?”

Din paused, sighing dramatically, set his blaster and the rag down next to him, and pushed himself back until he was also leaning against the metal wall. His helmet clunked slightly as he relaxed it back. “This is the way is not a catchphrase. It’s a tenet of the Creed.”

“And ‘I can bring you in warm or I can bring you in cold’ is also a tenet of the Creed?”

He lolled his helmet to the side, looking down at you. “Okay, fine, that one isn’t,” he conceded.

“So you admit it—you have at least one catchphrase that you regularly use on bounties.” You smirked up at him.

Without missing a beat, Din fixed you with that unreadable visor and quipped: “I’ve been told I have a sexy voice. I’m just giving the people what they want.”

Your jaw dropped, a shocked laugh echoing through the hull. You had planned on teasing him and had not expected him to turn it around on you so smoothly.

“Uh... I was sort of hoping we’d stick to our unspoken agreement to not bring up the stupid things I said when I was drunk.” You looked down at your hands, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

“Oh, definitely not.”

You looked back up. “Alright, well then in the name of fairness, we’re going to have to get you really drunk the next time the opportunity presents itself, so we can see what embarrassing things you say.”

He paused for a moment, considering, then said, “Does that mean you’ll carry me home?”

You cracked a smile, nodding vigorously. “Of course. That would only be fair.”

A warm laugh rasped through the modulator. You crossed your ankles in front of you, letting your knee rest against the cold beskar on this thigh.

“I feel skeptical of that promise.” He dropped a gloved hand to your knee.

“Okay, okay I can’t promise to carry you home, but I can promise to tie your shoe if needed.”

“My boots don’t have laces.” He lifted a foot off the ground to show you.

You shrugged playfully: “Well, that’s not my fault.”

“This doesn’t sound like a very good deal for me. I tied your shoe and carried you home.”

“To be fair, both were against my will.”

“But necessary.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Okay, okay, I can’t carry you, and I can’t tie your shoe... so I’ll...,” you bit your lip as you fished around for something else to offer, “...hold your hand? And not let anyone tickle you.”

He huffed and rubbed his thumb over your knee: “I’m not ticklish.”

You pursed your lips. “Right, sure, of course not. My mistake.”

He harrumphed. “Can I ask you something now?”

“I’ll allow it,” you intoned seriously.

“Where are you actually from?”

“Naboo. Most of my back story was true—I just left out the one major detail.”

“Your favorite color?” he deadpanned.

You laughed. “Yes, exactly. What about you? Where are you from?”

“Aq Vetina.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

“When my parents died there, I was rescued by the Mandalorians and raised in the Fighting Corps.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, placing your hand over his and squeezing gently. “That sounds like a tough life for a child.”

“It was all I knew,” he explained, shifting slightly.

“Still, that can’t have been easy. It makes sense that you couldn’t leave the kid.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, solemnly. There was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there moments ago.

“Less serious question,” you replied, changing the subject to something lighter.

“Okay.” He relaxed a little.

“Why don’t you ever use a straw to drink with your helmet on?”

“These are the things you think about?” he laughed. His laugh was usually a quiet, muffled sound through the modulator, but it was getting easier to pick up on it. “There’s a seal on the helmet, otherwise the filters wouldn’t work,” he tapped the release on the side of his head. “So a straw isn’t a possibility, unfortunately.”

“Mmm,” you responded, “that is disappointing.”

He gripped your thigh lightly, turning toward you. “I, uh, heard back about the job... while you were asleep. It’s a go.”

“Ah... great. I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t hear back.”

“I know. It will be fine.”

“Okay... So, any ideas for where the kid and I should stay?”

To your surprise, Din explained that he had a trusted friend on Arvala-7. When you agreed to the plan, he disappeared to the cockpit to set the nav—a two-day trip.

***

That same evening, you discovered a new favorite activity on the Crest. Before bed, the kid was being particularly fussy, so you pulled out your data pad and downloaded the first children’s book you could find. It worked liked a charm.

From then on, it became a daily routine: you’d read to him until his eyelids drooped before his nap and before bedtime. Regardless of his mood, listening to you read seemed to soothe him. You’d pull him into your lap and settle onto your stack of blankets against the wall. He’d watch your face, enraptured, as you relayed story after story to him. His favorite—the story that elicited the most chirps and grabby motions and ear wiggles—centered on a family of frogs. You revisited that one at least once a day, sometimes more if he was grouchy.

You weren’t sure how to feel about his hyperfixation on that particular story given his appetite for frogs.

At this rate, your digital library was going to be largely children’s books. You didn’t mind.

You noticed that Din would find something to do in the hull while you read. The first couple times, he sat and cleaned one of his many weapons or sewed a hole in his flight suit. Very quickly, he stopped bothering with an ostensible task and would just sit and listen.

When you were still 15 hours out from Arvala-7, Din was seated on his usual crate in the hull, the one next to the weapons cabinet, as you finished the final page of a particularly thrilling story about a snail. The kid was snoring softly in your arms, so you clicked off your datapad, and got up to settle him in his hammock for his mid-day nap.

“You’re good with him.” Din was leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“I guess,” you shrugged, snapping the door to Din’s bunk shut and turning back to him. “I just think about what I liked as a kid. I loved when my parents would read to me.”

He nodded, helmet trained on the floor between his boots.

“I’m sorry—” you started, realizing how that must have sounded to Din.

He looked up and cut you off. “Don’t be. It’s nice for him to have some normal kid experiences.”

“You know what he’d really love?”

“What?”

“If you read to him.”

He dipped his helmet slightly in acknowledgement, rolling his shoulders back at the same time like he was uncomfortable agreeing with that.

Several hours later, you pulled Din down next to you in your normal pre-bedtime story time spot. He had the kid in his arms. You switched on your datapad and toggled through the catalog of books you’d downloaded, all of which had colorful covers and silly, whimsical titles, until you found the frog book.

“Here,” you offered, passing it over to him.

You leaned your head back against the wall and closed your eyes, listening to Din’s serious, even voice narrate the heartwarming hijinks of a family of frogs. The kid cooed and babbled along.

To your (and the kid’s) utter delight, Din’s rendition slowly evolved into a full-on dramatic reading, complete with sound effects and slightly different voices for each character, as he leaned into whatever prompted the most enthusiastic responses from the kid. You kept your eyes closed and said nothing, worried that if you drew attention to this new development, he’d get self-conscious and stop. You couldn’t help from smiling a little though.

When the story came to its conclusion, you opened your eyes. Din was scrolling through the library of options, browsing for the next book. “What do you think? Which one next?” You looked at him, but he wasn’t asking you. The kid let out a string of gibberish, pointing with a teeny finger. Din read out the titles of several options, selecting the one that triggered the most animated trill.

As Din began the story, he shifted until his body was flush with yours. The places where his beskar made contact with you were cold, even through the fabric of your clothes, but you didn’t mind.

By the time Din finished the second book, the kid was displaying the telltale signs—drooping ears and unfocused eyes—that bedtime had arrived.

Din handed you the datapad and stood to tuck the kid into bed.

As he shut the door to his bunk, you said, “I think you just put me out of a job.”

He scoffed, but you could tell he was pleased.

***

As you got more comfortable around each other, Din took to walking around without his armor—beside his helmet—on. Most of the time, he’d even leave his gloves off. He wore either a flight suit that zipped up the middle or a black shirt and pants...with suspenders. The first few times, it was jarring to see him like that, without his armor. He looked wrong. It was like seeing a turtle without its shell... but if turtles were sexy.

The first time he emerged from his bunk with the suspenders hanging loosely by his sides, you stopped dead, mouth hanging open. He tilted his helmet sharply at you: “What?”

“You sometimes wear suspenders under your armor?”

“...Yes?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you and the goofy grin that spread across your face.

“What?” he prompted again, shoulders pulling up toward his neck.

“I just really wasn’t expecting that,” you laughed.

“What were you expecting?” The playful note in his voice left you flustered. He took a step closer, much more relaxed now that he was the one doing the teasing. He was getting too good at flipping things on you.

Instead of answering—because you were not about to address the fact that you had absolutely thought about what he wore under his armor—you strode up to him and pulled the suspenders over his shoulders. He stood uncomfortably still, arms hanging awkwardly by his sides.

“What are you doing?” He looked down at his shirt then back up at you.

“I just want to get the full picture.” You looked him up and down.

“Thought about this a lot, have you?” He quirked his helmet down at you suggestively. It was only the second time you’d gotten that particular flavor of head tilt, and you...didn’t hate it. It made your neck feel hot. You disregarded the intense desire to grab him by the suspenders and jerk him toward you.

Instead, you narrowed your eyes at him, enjoying this new bold flirtation. Without looking away from his visor, you hooked a finger through one of the suspenders and pulled it out a couple inches, letting it snap back against him.

“Ow.” He stated it so matter-of-factly that it obviously hadn’t hurt, but for dramatic effect, he rubbed the spot on his chest where it hit him.

“You’ll survive,” you assured him, patting his shoulder and brushing past him to climb the ladder to the cockpit. When you sat down in the pilot’s seat and kicked your feet up to rest on the console, you still had a smile on your face.

***

A few hours later, you were seated in the copilot seat with the child held tightly in your lap as the Razor Crest descended through the atmosphere of Arvala-7. On the way, Din shared how he’d met this friend—he had helped Din when he was originally tracking down the child months ago.

However, when you asked what his friend’s name was, Din said he didn’t know. Honestly, you weren’t even that surprised. Just exasperated.

Din told you the details of when he tracked down the child, including the assassin droid he'd crossed paths with. He explained how he’d teamed up with IG-11, but in the end, he had to destroy the droid to protect the kid. The anger in his voice was raw when he described watching IG-11 point his blaster at the child.

As the dusty, cracked surface of the planet came into view, you asked, “Is that what caused your thing with droids?”

“What thing?”

“Din.”

He was silent for a long moment.

“Droids destroyed my home planet, killed my parents. They’re the reason I was a foundling as a child.”

His words washed over you, and your heart dropped. You leaned forward in your seat to put a hand on his shoulder. He stayed perfectly still, helmet trained on the controls in front of him.

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded stiffly and reached up to squeeze your hand briefly.

“We’re about to land.”

You took that as a cue to drop the subject for now.

***

You and Din, the kid in his arms, approached a small collection of low structures. You swept your eyes across the uniform landscape—all was dry and sienna and flat. The Ugnaught’s homestead was the only sign of habitation in sight. The buildings were brown and domed, and windmills creaked slowly in the warm breeze. Three blurrgs in a large corral watched you balefully.

“Mandalorian!” the Ugnaught greeted, emerging from the door of his low home.

“Ugnaught,” Din replied with a nod.

“I did not think I would see you here again. What business brings you back to Arvala-7?”

“I was hoping that my friends could stay with you for a couple nights—I’ll pay you for the lodging.”

Of course he'd refer to me and a literal infant as his "friends."

You introduced yourself, offering your hand.

The Ugnaught bowed his head slightly as he clasped your hand: “It is nice to make your acquaintance. I am Kuill.”

At least Din knows his name now.

Kuill turned back to Din. “The child remains in your care,” he observed.

“Yes,” said Din, offering no explanation. He set the child down on the ground, and he toddled his way slowly over to Kuill.

Kuill scooped up the baby, and he chirruped happily, reaching toward his whiskery mustache.

“It hasn’t grown much.”

“I think it might be a Strand-Cast.”

You shot Din a skeptical look. He’d never shared this particular theory of his with you.

“I don’t think it was engineered. I’ve worked in the gene farms. This one looks evolved. Too ugly,” mused Kuill.

You raised your eyebrows at the frankness of his statement. He is not ugly.

“Your friends are welcome to stay with me. No payment will be necessary. I have spoken.” Kuill turned and headed back inside without so much as a backward glance.

“I insist,” Din said to his back.

Kuill disappeared into his home.

Din turned to you: “He does that. Just ends a conversation like that.”

“I understand why the two of you get along so well. Men of few words.” You raised an eyebrow at him.

Din nodded, reinforcing your point inadvertently.

You and Din stepped closer to each other at the same time. For the first time, you let the concern you were feeling color your features.

“I’ll be back in three days, if not sooner.”

He was padding his timeline in response to the worry that was etched across your face. You knew Din could defend himself—that wasn’t your fear. It was that, whether he liked to admit it or not, he occasionally let trust blind him. The irony of that wasn’t lost on you, considering how long it had taken for him to trust you. This was the trademark paradox of Din. He was loath to fully let people in, but he had a tendency to take people at face value and assume they would keep their word—because he always kept his word. He had a surprisingly generous worldview for someone with such a violent profession and brutal past.

Din reached down to grab something small that was tucked in his belt—the metal ball from one of the controls in the cockpit that the kid loved to play with. He occasionally pretended to be irritated whenever he wanted to play with it, but you knew he found it endearing.

He handed it to you. “He’ll want that.”

You smiled and nodded, looking at the sphere in your palm. Din raised a hand to your chin and tilted your face back up to his.

Do we... hug? He doesn’t seem like a hugger.

So instead, you offered, “Be careful, okay?”

“I will,” he promised. He stayed there for a moment longer, looking at you and rubbing his thumb along your cheek. Before you could decide if you should also try to hug him, he turned abruptly to walk back to the Crest.

You stayed and watched him as he walked the distance back to the ship and disappeared up the ramp. You stayed and watched as the Razor Crest rumbled to life and took off. You stayed and watched as it ascended through the atmosphere and vanished from view.

***

It was a relief to be off the ship for a few days—even if Arvala-7 wasn’t exactly your ideal planet. It would be a treat to eat real food, instead of shelf-stable ration packs, and to have more than the limited space of the ship to move around in... not to mention an actual bed.

Kuill was a kind and welcoming host. He offered you his spare room, where you placed your things, and you sat down for tea together in his small kitchen.

“How did you come to be in the company of the Mandalorian and the child?”

“I guess he has a soft spot for people who are wanted by the Empire?” you chuckled, and Kuill nodded somberly. “Now, we’re just helping each other out.” You weren’t really sure how else to explain it.

Kuill didn’t press you anymore than that, nodding sagely. Instead, while you sipped your tea with the kid on your lap, he told you about his background—decades of indentured servitude to the Empire before he worked off his debt and bought his freedom—in the solemn, frugal way that was clearly characteristic of the Ugnaught. You understood why Din trusted him: he was forthright, calm, wise.

“What can I help you with while I’m here?” you asked, already anxious to find something to occupy your time.

“You are my guest. You do not need to do any work.”

“I would be happy to,” you insisted. “I would rather be busy. I can help with cleaning or repairs—whatever you need. My formal training was in programming, but I’ve picked up general skills along the way.”

Kuill nodded and said, “Come.”

He turned and walked out of his house. You set down your tea on the table and followed him, the child tucked in the crook of your elbow, happily clutching the silver ball. Kuill stopped in front of the workstation that was a short distance from his doorway. Tools and wiring and various speeder parts were arranged on and around a long workbench and a collection of smaller tables and shelves. The circular backdrop of the workbench was the repurposed window of a TIE fighter.

An assassin droid was laid across the tabletop.

“Is this the droid that Mando shot?”

“I believe so, yes. It was left behind, in the Mandalorian’s wake of destruction. I found it lying where it fell—devoid of all life. I recovered the flotsam and staked it as my own in accordance with the Charter of the New Republic. Little remains of its neural harness. Reconstruction will be quite difficult.”

“What are your plans for it?”

“To convert it from an assassin droid to something more useful: a protocol and nurse droid.”

You nodded. “Handy.”

“I will have to reconstruct the neural harness, and then it will have to relearn every function from scratch. It will be a blank slate on which to program something nurturing instead of destructive. You may help me restore him if you would like.”

“Of course.”

The two of you got to work.

***

That night, when you lay down to sleep, you tossed and turned. The child was snuggled in a makeshift crib next to your bed. You found yourself sitting up periodically to check on him. Every time you checked on him, he was sleeping soundly.

Eventually, you slipped out of your bed, tiptoed quietly through the house, and walked out into the cold, clear night. You walked aimlessly for a while, circling the corral of blurrgs. They were asleep, eyes shut tight, standing in a close clump. Then you turned to head out across the open plain and watch the stars through the thin veil of clouds that dusted the sky.

You were starting to regret that you hadn’t pushed harder to go with Din. He was with a whole team of people who sounded untrustworthy at best, malicious at worst. You couldn’t help but think of all the things you should have said to him before he left. You hadn’t even hugged him.

It was freaking you out a little just how attached you were to a man who you’d known for a couple months.

You walked until the chill of the night air became too much, then turned back.

In the morning, you sat at Kuill’s kitchen table again, feeding the child. Kuill moved around the small food prep area, pulling together breakfast and making tea.

You followed Kuill as he went about his daily jobs, caring for the blurrgs, doing routine maintenance, and continuing the work on IG-11.

You were sweating in the sun, hands covered in grease, concentrating on refitting a damaged arm joint when Kuill’s calm voice brought you out of your train of thought.

“It is curious that the Mandalorian elected to keep the child.”

You looked up at him. “He secretly has a soft heart,” you said, smiling to yourself.

“Yes, that much is clear, but he is also set in his beliefs, and this choice went against the Guild Code. What is curious is that such a small being could inspire a change of heart in such a rigid person.”

You considered his words.

“I... think he was just waiting to find a greater purpose than hunting, to find someone to love, you know? It comes naturally to him, but I don’t think he’d ever had the chance.”

Kuill hummed thoughtfully. “Is that not what we are all doing—looking for a greater purpose?”

“I guess?” You shrugged.

“And have you?”

“Have I what?” you asked, wiping a bead of sweat off your forehead.

“Have you found the greater purpose you were looking for?”

You considered for a moment then said, “Well... I found a purpose a long time ago, when I joined the Alliance, and since then, I’ve been too busy trying to escape the wrath of the Empire to really think about what’s next in the larger sense... Staying alive has been the main priority.”

Kuill hummed again, glancing over at the kid. “You weren’t looking for something greater, but it appears to have found you.”

“I...,” you started. You watched the child, who was siting on the hard ground admiring the silver ball clutched in his hand. “I’m not sure.”

“I have spoken,” said Kuill, bowing his head, and he lapsed back into silence.

You watched the kid as he dropped the ball and staggered to his feet, squealing excitedly as he chased a lizard that darted past him. You wondered where Din was at this exact moment, and your heart squeezed in a familiar way.

***

The second night was much like the first. You walked outside for some time, thinking of all the awful things that could be happening to Din.

What if they turn on him?

What if another hunter finds him?

What if he doesn’t come back?

It wasn't a crazy thought. You were used to people not coming back.

Until that moment, you hadn't considered that you'd be the sole guardian of the kid if Din didn't return. For a split second, you felt the crushing weight of responsibility for the life and safety and happiness of the tiny green child that Din must feel at all times.

Eventually you fell into a fitful sleep, waking early, and the day dawned bright and cold. As the sun climbed, the chill rapidly dissipated, making way for a dry heat that seemed to be the only weather condition on Arvala-7.

You spent the morning helping Kuill continue the repairs on IG-11. You did your best to not count the hours that slipped by. He’d said it could take three days, so there was no reason to be concerned yet.

But... did he mean he would return ON the third day? Or the fourth day?

And for that matter... did the day he left count as day one? Or was yesterday day one?

Did he mean seventy-two hours from the time he left? Or that he’d be back at the start of the third day?

How did I not clarify this before he left??

That evening, you were in deep in discussion about artificial intelligence when Kuill said, “I believe your Mandalorian has returned to you.” He pointed behind you, and you whipped around to see the Crest touching down in a cloud of dust in the distance.

“Will you—?” you asked, turning back to Kuill.

“I will watch the child.” He seemed vaguely amused by your enthusiasm.

You sprang to your feet and walked as fast as you could toward the Crest. You briefly considered running, but that felt dramatic. He’d only been gone a couple days.

Why did he land so fucking far away?

You’d made it about half the distance when the ramp of the Crest finally began to lower with a hiss. Your resolve snapped, and you started to jog. Din descended the ramp, and you were so relieved to see him that you weren’t even embarrassed anymore that you were literally running to him.

Din cocked his head—a curious head tilt—when he saw you sprinting at him across the dusty ground. He paused at the bottom of the ramp.

“Are you—?” he started to say as you crashed into his chest and wrapped your arms around him. He barely budged upon impact.

His shoulders relaxed immediately, and he pulled you tight against him.

Well, if he wasn’t a hugger before, he is now.

“I’m okay,” he reassured you.

“Good,” you said into the fabric bunched around his neck.

After a moment, you released him and stepped back, the steadying weight of his hands remaining on your arms. He looked like he was in one piece, but the slight heaviness in his shoulders told you that the job had taken a toll on him.

“I, uh, missed you too,” he said, a little awkwardly.

You smiled at him and took his gloved hand in yours to walk back towards Kuill’s home. You felt slightly giddy that you were casually holding the Mandalorian’s hand. He seemed taken by it too, his helmet tilted down to where your fingers were intertwined.

“The kid?” he asked, looking up to your face.

“He’s good. Misses you, I think. Ate several frogs. And one lizard. The usual. He is disgusting,” you laughed.

Din made a sound that you would almost swear was a snort. “Yeah, he is,” he agreed fondly.

Kuill was waiting outside his home, the child in his arms. When you and Din were close, Kuill set him down, and the baby tottered over to wrap his tiny arms around Din’s calf.

You watched as Din bent stiffly, slowly to pick up the kid.

“You’re hurt,” you realized.

“I'm fine,” he said.

You felt sure that wasn’t true, but you let it be for the moment.

“Thank you,” Din addressed Kuill. He reached into the pouch of his belt for credits.

“I will not accept payment,” Kuill insisted, shaking his head. “In fact, your friend here helped me make great progress on my current project.” Kuill raised his eyebrows at you.

“Very well,” Din acquiesced.

You gathered your things and said your thank yous and goodbyes, returning to the Crest, which—with a jolt—you realized was already starting to feel like home.

***

Chapter 8

***

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[thegingeralien]

Thought I might share my “doing homework with adhd” tips in case the might help even just one person (because that would make me feel happy).

Who am I to be giving you advice? Good point! I am still terrible at studying and I’m 26 and at University for the millionth time. But I have studied A LOT in my 22 years of schooling with varying degrees of success.

I see a lot of people, especially teenagers or first year university/college students, with ADHD asking for tips on how to study. But if you do a google search most of the websites and advice that comes up can be extremely ableist. So I hope I can help someone!

TIPS TO HELP YOU STUDY WHEN YOU HAVE AN ADHD GREMLIN BRAIN!:

1. Chewing gum!

- This might come across as a weird one, but it has actually really helped me. I use it as a form of stimming to help keep me focused and concentrating. Other forms of stimming can potentially end up being more of a distraction when you actually need to be reading or writing - but they can help if you just need to be listening. Try not to get a bubble gum or fun flavoured one though - as they can end up making your mouth feel dry, lose flavour quickly, and just give your brain way too many sensory things to become distracted with.

2. Buying colour coded stationary!

- New stationary can make me really excited to start studying, but that excitement never lasts long and the act of buying stationary can sometimes become it’s own hobby. That’s not what we are going for here. I really recommend, especially if you are a visual learner like me, to buy colour coded stationary. This means removable page markers, different coloured post it notes, highlighters, sometimes even pens. This way if your mind jumps from one topic to the other, it doesn’t matter. Go with the flow. Forcing your ADHD gremlin brain to focus can be extremely counter intuitive. So pick a colour for each topic, and stick to that system to find organisation among your own chaos!

3. Buy a really cheap, boring year diary with hardly any writing inside.

- Not sure if your school/university has their own diary but they can be perfect for what I am on about. Generally you can find them for really cheap, soft cover, no writing or designs within the dates. Just dates, days, weeks and lines where you can write your homework. This helped me a lot in High School. I wish I had kept doing it in University, but I am good with giving advice, and not so much with taking it. I used to decorate the outside of it however I wanted. Some years I would redecorate the same diary every semester. In the public holidays or holiday days I would colour those lines in with different highlighters to make it look like a rainbow. But every assignment due date, homework, draft, rewrite, form I had to bring back, library book due date, school activity days, ANYTHING to do with school I would write in there with reminds and check lists. Important due dates would be highlighted, general homework and daily to do lists t(o help me not leave my assignments to the last minute) would have a tick box beside them (because ticking tick boxes is free dopamine). Try to not put birthdays or fun things in it. This is a small way to stay on track so it helps you actually stay on track with the big things when you’re home.

4. Big whiteboards stuck on the wall where you can’t avoid it.

- This is not something I had in school, but I so wish I did. I have been using this recently to keep on top of house work (as maintaining your own house is tiring) and my small business or other things I really can’t avoid. If I physically write it down (not just in my phone) it psychologically does help you commit it to memory. Again, physically putting a line through a task you just completed is a hecking great rush of dopamine. But the biggest reason I love my white board, I can’t ignore it. It is stuck to the wall and is never out of sight, out of mind. I can’t put my phone or diary down and then refuse to look at it until I’m past the due date. Again, I’m not a perfect person, there are days where I don’t do anything I have written on the white board. But the great thing is, I don’t have to continuously feel like I failure, as I can wipe it all off the next morning or week and start fresh. I also put important things I have to remember that I’m doing during the week so I don’t forget them.

5. Icky Medication.

- I know not everyone wants to be on medication, and I understand. I am not forcing you to. No matter what your opinions are, you lovely gremlin who is still reading this post, regarding medication, you are valid and I respect you. My personal experience with medication has not been the best. I have been misdiagnosed for a severe chunk of my academic life which has seen me trying to focus and maintain school work under some even worse states then I am unmedicated! However, since receiving my diagnosis and finding the right ADHD medication for me, I have the ability to get so much work done without having to unnecessarily struggle. It’s unfortunately not magic, it will not turn me into a robot that makes me do work and turn out incredible, noble peace prize winning assignments (as much as I wish that were possible). I still have the ability to be a lump, doom scrolling through tumblr, forgetting to eat, and ignoring responsibilities. But it really helps me when I sit down and start that thing that isn’t fun. Yesterday it helped me hyperfocus on cleaning my office which was a terrifying room to be in. So it’s pretty close to magic in my opinion!

6. Accessing Disability Support at your place of learning.

- Not all of you taking the time to read this will have either a) an offical diagnosis or b) a good disability support available to you wherever you are completing your studies. And that is okay. This dot point just won’t be for you right now. But keep it in mind for a time when it might apply to you, as it’s something I never thought I would need, but will never take for granted ever again.

- If you have an offical diagnosis and Disability Support, make an appointment with the disability support adviser. DO IT NOW! Get your psychiatrist to write a diagnosis letter outlining that you have <enter superpower that makes you hilarious here> and that you are receiving <enter x,y,z treatment here> and that you would benefit from receiving <enter what you have always wished you had on the days you can’t make your ADHD gremlin brain do the thing here>. Now these benefits can be, but not limit to: automatic extensions on ALL assignments, extra time on exams, extra breaks to walk around while taking exams, special consideration when marking assignments, my university allows me to take exams in a separate room with only the other students in my subject who also have disability support (occasionally I have taken an exam alone with only a tutor present) so I don’t get distracted, permission to take fidget items into class or exam (I have the option to wear headphones, as long as I can display that they are not connected to anything). Maybe you can come up with some great ones for you with your disability advisor or your psychiatrist.

- The disability advisor will often go through your course outline with you at the start of each semester or year. This is annoying and a great time for disassociating, but can be useful in hindsight because you are made aware of everything that will come up during your class so you are not surprised. Because lets be honest, it is unlikely you are going to look at the course calendar too often.

- Side Note: I make an appointment every semester with my disability support officer for my area of study to make sure I have my special considerations for the year. Now I may go through the whole year without ever using my considerations. However, the fact that I know they are there takes an insane amount of pressure off of myself. If I’m having an insanely screwy loony tune mental health moment, I can email my coordinator my disability plan and say I need an extension due to personal reasons, and WHOOP, there it izzzzz.

7. Dedicated one thing or a few things that have nothing to do with food/alcohol/other substances to reward yourself with for doing the thing!

- This may not work for everyone. It doesn’t always work for me. I used to reward myself with food, but that only reinforced my stimming with overeating and my already bad relationship with food. And I feel as though that would be the same with any other substance that can be linked with addiction. (Addiction is a tough word, cause what aren’t I addicted to, I have ADHD, but hopefully you get what I mean!).

-Now, boring try and not choose this aside, lets think of somethings that work really well as rewards!

- My partner likes to come give me a kiss and a hug when ever they have written and reread a paragraph, you might buy a book when you get a really good mark, you might want to go make a cup of tea and watch an episode of your hyperfixation after studying for <enter a good period of time here>, you might allow yourself to partake in an activity you usually do while procrastinating (but at least this time you know you aren’t putting something off), talk to someone who you know will tell you they are proud of you as they understand the mental struggle you go through to concentrate (if you can’t think of anyone, it is 110% okay if that person are the amazing people on tumblr or the adhd tumblr chats. We will freaking pop a bottle of champagne for you cause we get it!).

- Try and make what ever you choose be something in a different room or away from your working space. Getting out can really calm you down.

8. Don’t be afraid to ask for assistance.

- This is true for anything, but I don’t mean just asking your teacher to give you extra help understanding the task and marking rubric. Many people online, tutors, librarians at your school, past or present students offer assistance rereading and making small edits (they won’t make it magical unfortunately) to your assignments. If you are like me and once you have written or completed the dreaded thing, you can not imagine or force your gremlin brain reread or edit the thing. So it can help to just delegate this to someone else, who hasn’t read it before, so they won’t disassociate or skim read it. They will often notice things you never would have even if you were neurotypical as that is just what happens when you have been working on something for so long.

9. Repetitive music.

- It generally helps if this has no lyrics. Lo-fi is amazing. Classical is alright too if it works for you, but both my partner and I agree that it can really assist you to keep up pace and focus when the beat is a high and repetitive (almost meditative) tempo.

10. Limit your screen space.

- This is a tip completely from my partner @dr-adhd who also has ADHD, is an avid PC gamer and is consistently in a battle with their gremlin brain to focus on completing their PhD. They have discovered that it really helps them to limit their screen space - simply put, work on one screen only. They have done more work more easily when they have their one screen on their laptop to focus on. Whereas their office has multiple screens so they could be playing runescape, watching YouTube, listening to lo-fi and doing work - which never worked (shocking right hahaha).

11. At the risk of sounding like a Mum... Put your phone and other electronics other than the assignment necessary one, away.

- I am a Mum, but to a fluffy puppy dog, so I hate to sound like my Mum when I was in high school, but she was right. Mobiles are the single easiest and biggest distraction in ADHD history. I often, even at coffee shops, have to turn my phone over so that I am not consistently looking at it every time the screen lights up to say the pizza place has sent me a coupon, or a carpet place that has been having a sale since I was born is... still having a sale, or a friend from school wants you to watch this TikTok. Even though you might not want to ignore your friends, because people pleasing, difficulting making/keeping friends and RSD are hecking real things, but they can all wait. Trust me, none of them are urgent. That TikTok will still be funny in an hour or two. And I’m probably completely right when I say that whomever just messaged you, never replies as quickly as you want them too. So I doubt they are going to think twice if you are MIA to finish your thing.

My partner or I might add to this later, but at the moment I already know that I probably wouldn’t read this wall of words if I was the one reading it, so if you are still with me, THANK YOU and I really hope I might have helped you. Sorry for the mound of words, but maybe you can reblog, screen shot, or save this and read a dot point at a time or refer to it when you need. Don’t be afraid to ask questions, I promise what ever it is, I’ve asked the same thing once in my life or something MUCH stupider.

[eliemo]

Something Long and Stupid

Summary: Remus knew he wasn't a good person. He was Deadpool, a killer for hire, "the merc with a mouth." He'd come to terms with what he was a long time ago. He didn't need Spiderman to remind him of what he was.

He didn't need Virgil to come into his life and make him question it for the first time

TWs: Violence, threats, strong language, blood

Notes: Superhero au, Spiderman Virgil, Deadpool Remus, enemies to lovers Dukexiety

New project that nobody asked for. I know I should finish my ongoing wips before starting a new one but I do not control the hyperfixation.

(Part 1) (Part 2)

When Virgil kicked Remus in the chest and sent him hurtling off the building into an active construction site, Remus found himself thinking about how they’d met.

Honestly, it hadn’t started off much better. Spiderman was a piece of shit who thought he was so much better than Remus just because Deadpool killed some people every now and then.

Well, that had been the first impression anyway. They hadn’t exactly started off on the right foot.

Remus had been doing his job, thank you very much, he was a mercenary for hire, it wasn’t like he’d been going after a gang of strangers for fun. And he certainly hadn’t needed help.

There were three of them and one of him, just some standard thugs that had been causing a bit too much trouble for people with more money to spend, their names already set to pay for Remus’s rent this month.

He’d unsheathed his swords, (guns would make it over too quickly, and what was the fun in that?) letting the assholes get their hopes up by grabbing for their own weapons and then—

Then all his targets were all suddenly covered in webs, firmly plastered to the nearest wall with threats and screaming that Remus ignored in favor of whirling around, slicing the air with his blades.

“Hey, what the fuck?”

Spiderman was half hanging off the wall, stepping back down onto the ground when he saw Remus staring. “You’re welcome,” he called, like Remus had asked for him to come in ruin is fun.

Remus scoffed, because rude. You don’t just steal someone’s kill like that. But at least they were immobilized now, which meant shooting them and getting the day over with would be a piece of cake. The webs weren’t budging no matter how frantically they kicked.

He yanked his gun from his belt to do exactly that, only to have another web (seriously, fucking spider webs had no business being this strong) wrapped around his wrist, another pulling the pistol right out of his hand.

“Uh, motherfucker?” Remus took a step back, furiously grabbing at the lingering webs with his bare hands, grimacing at the way it clung to his leather. “Jeez, you want me to decapitate them instead?”

“They’re already down,” the asshole said, like Remus hadn’t noticed. “Back off, Deadpool.”

Remus didn’t have time to be surprised that Spiderman knew who he was, far too busy wanting to run over and punch him right in his stupid masked face. “Ok, clearly you don’t know my deal. Move it, Webs.”

“Then you don’t know mine,” he said, masked eye staring blankly from underneath the hood over his suit. “I’m not letting you murder defenseless people.”

“They’re not fucking defenseless.”

“They’re not breaking free,” the spider said. “The cops will take whoever I capture for them. Call them and leave.”

Remus scoffed and tightened his hold on his sword, wondering if he really wanted to get into a fight with Spiderman in the middle of the afternoon. It was only fucking Tuesday, he was too tired to deal with this shit. “And they can take them in body bags. Give me my gun back.”

Remus was a good foot taller than him, and loaded with about three times as many weapons, but the masked asshole didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. God, he was probably smirking under his suit.

“I finished the fight, I get to decide.” He turned around, his back to Remus like he didn’t even care. “Maybe try to be faster next time.”

“Oh, fuck right off with that,” Remus snarled. “Fuck off. Fuck off and suck a fat dick, you fucking—”

“Either you walk away, or I leave you tied to the wall.”

“Kinky,” Remus smirked, even if Spiderman couldn’t see it under his own mask. “But fat fucking luck. No way in hell am I letting some bitch in black and purple spanx steal my kill.”

Spiderman actually had the audacity to sigh, like he was dealing with a petulant child. “Nobody’s getting killed.”

“You know, I’ve got more than one gun,” Remus said, mentally calculating how fast he’d have to move to shoot every single person in this alleyway. “I’m playing nice. Get out of my way.”

“You’re not shooting someone who can’t fight back.”

“Oh, are you the moral police?” Jesus, Remus wanted to punch this guy. “Man, fuck off. It’s none of your business.”

He grabbed for his other gun, only to immediately feel something wrap around his waist and legs, yanking hard and lifting him into the air. He shouted something he really hoped no pedestrians were close by enough to overhear, doing his absolute best to give Spiderman his coldest glare as he was slammed against the brick wall, upside down, held firmly down by fucking spider webs.

“Oh, you bitch.”

Remus twisted and thrashed, and while he could feel the webs giving way already it would be a good few minutes until he was free. That fucking asshole.

“Next time I see you I’m cutting off your spider ass and hanging it on my fucking wall!”

Spiderman ignored him, and Remus watched as he grabbed the thugs Remus was supposed to kill and one by one swung them out of the alleyway before disappearing completely.

That whore.

It hadn’t been long, unfortunately, until they’d met again, and Remus had of course tried to punch the asshole right in the head.

They’d ended up on the same rooftop, which was even worse because Remus came up here to relax. Spiderman had just been sitting there, legs dangling over the edge as he watched over the city, looking almost peaceful with his hood down and the sun beating against his mask.

So Remus had immediately vaulted over and swung at him as hard as he possibly could.

And then he’d missed, because of course Spidey had to have fucking inhuman reflexes, which was bullshit. He’d ducked away and managed to jump to Remus’s side before Remus even registered that his fist had met nothing but air.

“Can you leave?” Spiderman asked, so unbothered it only made Remus angrier. “I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Making sure people don’t get killed,” he said, moving back towards the ledge. “You should try it sometime.”

Remus crossed his arms, watching the vigilante in disbelief. “You get that I’m a mercenary, right? You’re surprised by the killing thing?”

“I’m not,” he said, and he still wouldn’t even look at Remus. “But I’m stopping it when I can.”

“Oh? So you’re ruining a small business?” Remus threw his arms out and turned towards the ledge overlooking the bustling city. “Spiderman doesn’t support small businesses, you heard it here first, folks!”

Spidey was staring at him now, and Remus had a sneaking suspicion he would not appreciate the look he was being given if the mask was taken off. Asshole.

“I don’t support killing people, Deadpool.”

“Sucks,” Remus said. “You should’ve stayed out of the way. If I wasn’t so kind and generous I would have shot you.”

“You mean if you hadn’t been tied up and defenseless,” Spiderman corrected, and Remus was right back to wanting to punch him. “You’re lucky I didn’t get you arrested.”

Remus dramatically put a hand to his chest and gasped, walking along the roof’s edge. “Oh no. What ever would I have done? I’d be defeated! My one weakness. C ops.”

Spidey didn’t respond, but he did get up and move away when Remus got a bit too close to where he was perched on the ledge. Ha .

“Maybe I should have called the cops on you, Spidey,” Remus added. “They’d finally catch the masked menace. Some jail time might humble you.”

“I’d be fine,” Spiderman said. “I wasn’t the one tied to a wall.”

Remus hopped back onto the roof with a growl, grimacing at the reminder of how long it had taken to get those webs off his suit. “Yeah, don’t do that shit again. Seriously, I can and will end you.”

“Get in line behind half the city, Deadpool.”

Remus scoffed, something he apparently did a lot of whenever talking to Spiderman, and followed him across the rooftop. “Man, your ratings are shit. At least I don't act like a hero.”

It was hard to see, barely noticeable, but Remus saw Spidey’s shoulders tense, just a bit. Apparently he’d struck a nerve. Good.

“I don’t act like anything,” he said, and it was just a little less cocky than before. “I’m just trying to help people.”

“Oh, so you’re playing hero.” Remus grinned, moving until he was crouched right in front of the vigilante. “Ooh ooh, let me guess...you’re in college. You’re ...22. Maybe 23, or 24. You got these big bad powers one day and figured you were the only one in the whole wide world who could protect the people who couldn’t protect themselves.”

Spidey didn’t answer, just looked at him with that blank, unamused stare, so Remus continued. “Or were you born with them? Doesn’t seem like it, you’ve only popped up in the last two or three years—”

“It’s none of your business,” Spiderman cut in, and Remus smirked. “And you’re wrong, for the record.”

“Oh I am, am I?” Remus asked, amused despite himself. “If nobody wants you, why are you even trying?”

Spidey was tense now, and doing a real bad job of hiding it. “Maybe I don’t give a shit what people think.”

“Right.” Remus didn’t need to see the guy’s face to know that wasn’t it. “You do realize how much money you could make with those powers, right?”

“I don’t care,” he said. “I’m fine doing what I’m doing.”

Remus looked him over, he’d seen spidey all over newspapers and on TV before, but this was the first time actually talking to him in person, besides the other day when the asshole had ruined his afternoon. Honestly, it was kinda underwhelming. He expected the suit to be higher tech, at least.

“Are you broke?” he asked. “You seem broke. I could make you a way better mask, by the way. It looks like shit.”

“I’m sure,” Spidey said, completely ignoring his generous offer. Rude. “And how much do you get paid for killing people?”

“A lot.”

Spiderman hummed nonchalantly, no longer looking at Remus. “Well, I’m glad it’s worth it.”

“It is! I sleep like a baby in my king sized bed.” And yeah, that was a little bit of a lie. Barely.. He wasn’t living that luxuriously, New York was expensive as shit, but based on his tech he was way better off than Webs.

“That’s wonderful,” Spiderman said and damn, apparently the masked menace was capable of being a sarcastic bastard as well as a cocky asshole. “You done pretending now? Can I go?”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“Yeah, ok.” Spiderman was back to sounding arrogant, and Remus couldn’t remember why they were talking instead of fighting to the death. “I know you sleep like shit.”

Remus actually laughed, humorless and cold, because what the fuck?

“Oh yeah?”

“Nobody kills for a living if their life is going great,” Spidey said. “What horrible trauma pushed you to that decision?”

Oh, this motherfucker. This piece of shit. He was so dead when Remus could catch him off guard.

“Nobody puts on a costume and fights crime when half the city wants him dead if his life is going great, either.” Remus smirked, moving to try to get Spidey to look at him again. “At least I get money for it. No student loan debt at 26 is pretty nice.”

He probably shouldn’t have given the vigilante that was quickly turning into his sworn enemy his age but eh. What was he gonna do, kill him? Remus didn’t stay dead.

“That’s great,” Spiderman said. “And all it cost was people’s lives.”

“Yep!” Remus hoped it came out cheery enough to piss him off a little more. “Think of it this way, Spidey. They’re gonna die anyway.”

Spiderman immediately straightened up and stalked to the other end of the rooftop, clearly wanting the conversation to end. Mission accomplished. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s true!” he called, just to drive home the fuck off a bit more. “Someone would have gotten to them eventually.”

“They’re still people, Deadpool.”

Remus shrugged. “Good people don't get hits put on them.”

“Maybe not,” the vigilante agreed. “But good people don’t murder in exchange for money, either.”

Remus barked another laugh at that, more genuine this time because... yeah? Duh. “No shit. I never fucking said I was a good person.”

“You’re lucky you haven't killed anyone innocent yet.” And goddammit there was that ‘hero’ shit again that made Remus want to throw up. He’d just been starting to have fun, too.

“It’s still not your business.”

“It will be,” Spidey said, perched on the ledge in a way that would make Remus dizzy if he cared. “Stick to killing criminals and we'll be fine.”

“Oh?” Remus followed, smirking in a way that would probably get him punched if he took off his mask. “Are you gonna come get me if I’m not good?”

“That’s my job.”

“Aw, don’t worry,” Remus teased. “I’ll wear something sexy for you.”

“Gross.”

“Love you too, Spider Babe!”

Spidey scoffed, responding with a gloved middle finger when Remus winked. Remus watched a web shoot from his wrist, and suddenly Spiderman was gone, swinging across New York rooftops, leaving Remus to try to figure out how he was getting down.

Remus honestly hadn’t expected to see him again. He was fucked in the head, but he didn’t have any plans to lose control and start killing everyone in sight. He was an asshole, but he wasn’t a villain Spiderman needed to spend time tracking down. New York was busy enough for both of them already.

He did plan on chucking the nearest heavy object at him if he ever saw Spidey swinging past. That never ended up happening. Not that he cared. He didn’t miss him.

He expected to catch a glimpse of him eventually, maybe close enough to yell a few lighthearted threats or call him names, but nothing as entertaining as the argument on the roof.

What he hadn’t expected, was to run right into the masked menace while walking home in the middle of the night.

Remus had just finished a job, something standard and quick, and after wiping the blood from his blades he’d decided to take the long way home. The sun had set, the night air was crisp and relaxing, and it helped Remus forget about the blood stains he needed to wash away.

He’d been cutting through sidestreets, mentally mapping out how to get back to his place. He turned a corner into an alleyway, and—

And there was Spiderman, hunched over himself and leaned against the wall like he’d been using it for support, shaking, gasping, and completely drenched in deep red blood.

Remus froze, and Spidey did too as soon as he registered Deadpool standing just a few paces away, the two of them staring silently for what felt like an eternity.

“Dude,” Remus said when he found his voice. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Spiderman was clutching at his chest, black and purple suit barely able to hide the red stains, leaned heavily against the brick wall as he watched Remus warily. “Nothing.”

“Don’t be stupid. Whose blood is that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he snapped, and his voice was wavering. “Keep walking.”

Remus took a step forward, frowning at the way the vigilante went tense against the wall. He ignored it. “Whose blood is it?” It came out more of a command than a question this time.

“Mostly mine,” Spiderman said, and Remus could see it pooling around his gloves now that he was closer. “It’s fine.”

“Why’re you bleeding?”

“None of your business. Go home.”

Remus tried to get a better look from where he stood, well aware that approaching might not be the best idea right now. “Was it a gun or a knife?”

“It was none of your business and you need to go away.”

Remus watched him, incredulous, because the idiot was barely standing and losing way too much blood way too quickly, and he was pretty sure Spiderman didn’t have Remus’s whole immortality deal.

“You really want to bleed out on the street like some street thug?”

The vigilante hesitated, and Remus listened to the way his breathing was turning into awful sounding wheezes. “I’m...not going to bleed out. I’m fine.”

“Oh, yeah?” Remus challenged, probably a bit more aggressively than was needed for someone who looked like they were about to keel over. “Walk over to me then.”

He’d expected the lack of response, but even though the eyes built into the suit were practically lifeless (he really should get him some more advanced goggles. He’d be a lot more approachable if his eyes weren’t so blank) Remus could still see his whole body tense in fear.

“No,” he said, low and trembling. “Fuck off.”

“Spidey, this isn’t a joke.” Jesus, that was a lot of blood. “You’re gonna bleed out.”

“And you can throw a party—”

“Fucking come here.” He hadn’t meant to snap, but he wasn’t going to just stand here bickering with the city’s hero until he dropped dead. But Spidey still shook his head, pressed even further against the wall now, and Remus sighed. “Fine.”

Remus took a few steps forward, initially planning on prying his arms away to get a better look at the wound, but Spiderman flinched back, trying to scramble away like Remus was coming at him with a weapon.

Well, Remus supposed that made sense. He had threatened to kill him a couple times last time they spoke.

“Chill it, Spidey.” Remus crouched a bit, suddenly painfully aware of how much taller he was, carefully holding his hands out. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I don’t believe you,” he shot back. Which...yeah, fair. “I know you want to.”

“Does it look like I have a knife in my hand?” Remus asked. “No. Chill out and let me see.”

Spidey didn’t pull away when Remus took his shoulders, but he did flinch as soon as Deadpool touched him, probably involuntarily. Remus ignored it, focusing instead on figuring out where the blood was coming from. It was almost impossible in the dark lighting, especially up against the black suit.

“It’s...not that bad,” Spiderman rasped. “Seriously.”

Remus wasn’t buying that for a second. “What happened?”

“I was stupid, that’s what happened,” Spidey said, arms still wrapped firmly around himself. “It...there were five of them and one of them got lucky with a knife.”

“Jesus, fuck.” Remus pulled back, trying to figure out what to do. “You are stupid. Where?”

He only hesitated a moment. “Uh, my chest. I heal fast.”

“Jesus. How fast?”

Spiderman shrugged, then obviously regretted it when it pulled at the stab wound. “Hopefully fast enough,” he said. “I’ll be fine tomorrow or I’ll be dead.”

“Jesus,” Remus said again, because what the fuck else was he supposed to say? “Sit down. Jesus Christ.”

Spidey thankfully did as he said, though Remus suspected it had more to do with the fact that he couldn’t keep himself standing anymore rather than actually following instructions.

He wasn’t fighting anymore, almost limp as Remus took his wrists and moved them to his sides, but he did look like he was ready to bolt the second Deadpool made one wrong move.

Like he wouldn’t fall right on his face and hurt himself worse if he tried.

Remus could see the source of the blood now, a deep gash across his upper chest that had apparently sliced the black and purple suit like butter, still gushing crimson with each passing second.

Shit.

“Alright, uh.” This wasn’t his expertise in the slightest. Other than digging out some bullets, Remus didn't have to tend to his wounds. “I don’t think I have any fabric or...oh, your hoodie. Hand it over.”

Spiderman stared, and if he didn’t hurry up and get with the program Remus was going to knock him out and handle this himself. “Why?”

“Because you’re bleeding out. Give it.”

Spidey at least had the sense to listen and carefully peel the hoodie away from his suit, sliding it down his arms even as his gloved hands shook violently. Remus couldn’t help but wince at the noise Spiderman tried to choke back, because that had to hurt like a bitch.

“Maybe, like...lay down?” Remus suggested. “Yeah, do that. It’ll help.”

Spidey still hesitated, even as the blood continued to flow and he started to slide down against his will. “I...need to see what you’re doing.”

Remus sighed, bunching up the hoodie and pressing it firmly against the wound, ignoring the strangled gasp that came from the vigilante. Blood was quickly soaking through the cloth, and Remus just pressed harder.

“I’m just putting pressure on it to stop the bleeding,” Remus said. “If I wanted to kill you I’d leave you here. If it stops bleeding you’ll heal, right?”

The only answer he got was another wet, trembling gasp when Remus pushed harder, Spiderman’s blood soaking into his gloves. It took a second for him to realize he was grasping at Remus’s wrists, his hold weak.

“H-hopefully,” Spidey managed, and he really didn’t sound great. His eyes were drooping, and Remus figured the biggest danger right now was letting him fall asleep. “Or, you know. I’ll die.”

“You’re not gonna die,” Remus said without thinking. “I’m gonna stop the bleeding, you’re gonna heal with whatever weird powers you have, and then you’ll be less of a careless idiot next time.”

A few moments passed without an answer, and for once Remus wasn’t entirely sure how to fill the silence. The only sound between them was Spiderman’s labored, ragged breathing, which at least sounded a bit less shaky and faint as Remus continued to press down.

“What are you doing?” Spidey asked eventually, catching Remus completely off guard with the stupid question. “Why are you...trying to help?”

Remus wasn’t trying to do anything. He was helping. The city’s beloved hero would have been dead five minutes ago if he hadn’t managed to interrupt Remus’s perfectly nice, peaceful walk.

He hadn’t even really thought about it. Remus was an asshole, a murderer for a living, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t the guy who was going to leave New York’s savior to bleed out in an alleyway.

Besides, he’d been the first person Remus had been able to have a somewhat entertaining conversation with in months.

“Somebody’s gotta save everyone,” he eventually settled on, still pressing hard against the wound. “And I refuse to be the city’s only mouthy vigilante.”

Another beat of silence, and for a moment Remus thought he might have fallen asleep. “I don’t...save anyone. And I’m not mouthy.”

“You do,” Remus argued. “And you are.”

“I don’t,” he snapped, and at least he didn’t seem inclined to argue about the mouthy thing. “You do your job better than I do.”

Remus took a moment to look over the bleeding hero. He was weak and trembling, and probably dangerously pale and clammy under that suit. The blood flow had definitely slowed, but it hadn't stopped. There was a good chance he wouldn’t remember a damn thing Remus said to him tonight.

And if he did, it’s not like he really gave a shit, anyway.

“I’m a mercenary,” Remus said. “Anyone can kill someone. It takes something a lot stronger to save them. So shut up and stop being self deprecating.”

Spiderman shuddered when Remus carefully peeled back the bloody hoodie, leaning in to get a better look at where they were at. Either he was just that good at fixing stab wounds, or Spidey’s healing powers were gradually starting to kick in.

Remus decided to go with the former. He deserved it.

“I got someone killed tonight,” Spidey said, quiet and unbearably sad. “She...she died because I wasn’t fast enough, and I didn’t—”

“You can’t save everyone.”

The vigilante pulled his hands away from Remus’s wrists, like he’d just realized he was holding them. “I should have tried harder.”

Remus sighed. “You tried hard enough. You did fine.”

That was apparently the end of the conversation, Spiderman falling back into silence as Remus went back to making sure he didn’t start bleeding all over the place again. He didn’t have anything on him to properly clean it up, he wasn’t sure he even owned a first-aid kit, but Spidey’s breathing was starting to even out, and after about ten minutes or so the blood stopped flowing completely.

“You, uh...you good?”

“I’ll be fine,” Spiderman said, and it didn’t sound like a desperate lie this time. He still looked like shit, but he was able to slowly sit up on his own. “Not dying this time. Just...still hurts.”

They were plunged back into silence, slightly less tense than before but no less uncomfortable. Remus eventually relinquished his hold on the hoodie when Spidey was able to carefully take it from him.

Right, he was fine now. Remus didn’t need to stay, it wasn’t his business anymore. It hadn’t been his business to begin with.

“I...owe you,” Spiderman said, almost like it was strange for him to admit. “So, thank y—”

“Don’t thank me, Spidey.” God, this had been a mistake, hadn’t it? “Seriously. Just buy me a pizza sometime and we’ll call it square.”

Spiderman stared for second, unsteady hands holding his own hood to his chest, but the small laugh that escaped at least sounded genuine, and no longer quite so pained.

“Ok,” he said. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Remus hesitated before standing, not really sure if it would be more rude to leave or stay at this point. Spiderman probably didn’t want a mercenary for hire standing over him while he was wounded, whether Remus had saved his life or not.

Remus was still just as far from a hero as the villains Spiderman fought, and both of them had a reputation to keep.

“You sure you’re ok?” Remus asked. “I can like...stay. Or call you an ambulance or...something.”

“I’m good,” Spidey said, sitting up with a small hiss of pain until he was propped up against the wall, breathing still heavy. “You stopped the bleeding, I’ll live. You can go home, Deadpool.”

“Right.” He carefully stepped around the vigilante, still keeping a close eye on his chest to make sure the bleeding didn’t start again. “Just don’t die after all my hard work. My gloves are fucking soaked.”

Spiderman scoffed, but it was more good natured and light than it had been the last time they talked. “You got it.”

Remus kept walking down the alley, only turning around once more before turning the corner at the end. “And don’t forget my pizza, Spidey!”

[absinthe-and-abstinence]

An Unhealthy Obsession: Chapter Seven

Cafe Bustelo and Bets

TW: Slight implications of death and mention of slitting wrists.

<3

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Morning came early.

The sunshine dipped its fingers into your bedroom, even through the blinds, and eventually, you couldn’t fight it off anymore. The alarm clock next to you displayed 7:53 and it wasn’t until then you realized how early it really was.

You did your morning routine of using the restroom and brushing your teeth, but you skipped washing your face – you had done so last night, and you really didn’t need the cold water to wake you up more.

What you hadn’t done after last night was change clothes or at least both on sleepwear. You changed out of your jeans and collared top from yesterday and opted for sweatpants and a crop top instead. While looking to see if the outfit would be suitable to show in front of Spencer, you also added foundation and basic makeup as well. It felt like too much, but since he was going to see you often, you wanted to look decent in the meantime.

Speaking of Spencer.

You crept out of your bedroom, careful not to creak the floor or have the door to the bedroom squeak. You tiptoed around his room – in which you heard the distant sound of snoring, a good sign – and found your way downstairs.

Snoring was a good sign.

It meant he hadn’t escaped.

That, and he felt comfortable enough to sleep.

Imagine; Spencer climbing into the same bed as you. He’d slip in between the sheets and snuggle up against the back of your body. His body would warm your own, and his breath would tickle your ear. As he’d begin to give your neck kisses and move slowly down, you’d be able to…

Focus.

You walked around the downstairs, seeing if anything had moved or shifted during the night. Although the study light had remained on, nothing seemed out of place, and a book seemed to have disappeared from one of the shelves. You weren’t able to recall which but hoped it was a well-written one.

You started up the French press and took your pills in the meantime. They weren’t much; just birth control, some season allergy pill, and Airborne. You had started taking Airborne and other Vitamin C supplements during the pandemic, and even though this world you were in hadn’t left you in quarantine or wearing masks, you continued to take it. It just seemed like routine, and something familiar.

You groaned and wished for your Adderall again. Hell, you’d even go back to Ritalin at this point. Unfortunately, they didn’t really give out these drugs without a prescription, and your doctor was ten years into the future on another plane of existence. Your thoughts, now that you weren’t hyperfixated on kidnapping a man, seemed jumbled and jumped all over the place.

In the meantime, you’d just self-medicate with coffee. Maybe it wouldn’t be noticeable.

Taking your first sip of coffee, felt refreshing and your mind seemed to instantly calm itself down. You walked over to the couch and sat yourself down with your cup. You weren’t really one for meditation, but sitting with a warm cup of coffee on a sunny morning was the closest thing to it. You took your time drinking it. Even though your mind had been up and running only a few minutes ago, it seemed to calm down enough to gather your thoughts. Those thoughts turned into questions, and part of you wished your mind wasn’t as coherent as it was.

Now that Spencer was here, now what?

What do the collar and cuffs actually do?

What happens if he escapes?

What if the team goes looking for him, if they haven’t already?

Would you ever explain the fact you were from a completely different reality?

Would you ever say ‘I love you?’

A lot of these questions you didn’t quite have the answer to if any at all. The degree of uncertainty you had. Had not been calculated beforehand. Before, the only thing on your mind was Spencer. Now that you had him here, the consequences and effects seemed out of your control.

You took your mind off this by starting breakfast.

Mixing up some flour, water, and eggs, you greased a couple of large pans and started to heat them up. While heating, you washed and cut up an array of fruit. Blueberries, strawberries, bananas…you placed them each in separate piles and went to the fridge to grab out bacon. After analyzing the contents of the refrigerator for a little while, you found the bacon and shut the door. To which, to your surprise, stood Spencer, still yawning and wiping the sleep away from his eyes.

“S’morning.”

You yelped in surprise, which startled him. You clutched the bacon you got out of the fridge as you chuckled.

“Sorry – I didn’t see you standing there. Good morning, Doctor.”

Still squinting and waking up, he raised an eyebrow at you.

“Good morning, Spencer. The prefix seems to be…a reflex,” you said. It was a lie, you liked the sound of the word ‘doctor’ leaving your mouth, but kept that to yourself. “How’d you sleep?”

He scratched at the collar around his throat, the metal resting against his Adam’s apple. He didn’t seem to respond to the question, only yawning in response. He had decided to wear the Cal Tech shirt with a set of plaid bottoms that looked just like you had imagined. When he stretched, the shirt rode up a little, only revealing a sliver of his stomach. It was enough to make you blush, so you went back to work. You put down the bacon and started to open the container, then tried a different question.

“Which book did you pick to read last night?”

He sighed and looked at you.

“Paradise Lost. It’s always a good classic.”

Of course he would think of Paradise Lost as a ‘good read.’ You struggled reading through it each time it was required for school, and even then you had the internet for help. The idea of anyone reading it for fun made you laugh, and he took note of that.

“Sorry; I’m not laughing at you.” You took some bacon and threw it into a sizzling pan. “I, um, always have had a hard time reading it. I’ve tried but I’ve never really understood it.” On cue, Spencer began to recite:

Into this wild abyss, The womb of nature and perhaps her grave, Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire, But all these in their pregnant causes mixed Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight, Unless the almighty maker them ordain His dark materials to create more worlds, Into this wild abyss the wary fiend Stood on the brink of hell and look a while, Pondering his voyage...

You stared at him in amazement. Even knowing he had an eidetic memory, it was impressive. His voice was that of silk and honey, and you hung onto each word. It was as if the text you had struggled with for years was illuminated all at once, and Spencer began to breathe life into the words themselves. The way he pronounced each syllable and fluctuated the tone gave meaning to the reciting, and you were blown away.

He cleared his throat and continued. “That’s from Book II. It’s about Satan standing on the edge of Heaven and Hell, and is thinking about his journey. His journey, of course, is trying to visit the other world that God created and spoke about. Now, this isn’t canon of course. The idea of Satan or even what we think of…”

Spencer talked the entire way of you making breakfast. He’d find a new line of information that dove off onto another subject, and even though the beginning of the conversation started at seventeenth-century poetry, the conversation dipped into Mesopotamian mythology and American politics.

As you flipped pancakes and fried bacon, you asked interjecting questions. Even if you weren’t always able to follow along, you tried your best. On your second cup of coffee, you started to feel more comfortable asking clarifying questions. You had learned about lilu, a bird monster, and the Deist belief that the Founding Fathers used to regulate their idea of politics.

The more you asked about and allowed him the room and time to talk, the more light came to his eyes. His eyes flickered back and forth rapidly as if reading from his own memory. He talked with his hands often, wiping away imaginary old ideas and grouping together new ones. Your favorite, however, was when he’d get stuck and the words wouldn’t come to him, and he’d ruffle his fingers through his hands. Watching his fingers glide through his locks gave you heartache in the second, wishing it was you.

“Well,” you finally stated, after he finished his explanation on Nihilism, “breakfast is ready. I’m okay to eat wherever, so you can choose if you want the couch, the dining room, or even just in here.”

Lost in thought still over the concept of Nihilism, he startled at your words and blinked, taking a few seconds to process what you had said. He glanced at you, then glanced at the food all made, then back at you.

“You didn’t stop me from talking.”

You grinned. “I didn’t mind. I learned a lot.”

He shifted his weight and leaned against the wall. He crossed his arms.

“Tangents are easy for me to go off of. I tend to ramble quite a bit.”

You walked over to him, and replied,

“It’s not rambling if you know what you’re talking about.”

He stared back in confusion. As if to answer, you cupped his face and brought it down closer to your level. You stood on your tippy-toes, and kissed the top of his forehead. Moving away from his forehead, your face full of blush, you made a decision.

“Let’s eat in the dining room. The sunlight is streaming in and it feels perfect.”

You started to bring in the food and cups of coffee into the dining room. As you took trips from the kitchen to there, you noticed that Spencer started to rub the top of his head, where you had kissed him momentarily.

You’d always wanted to do that.

Once everything was set up, you walked back into the kitchen with Spencer’s cup of coffee and handed it to him. He hesitated before taking a sip, then took a large swig. His eyes lit up and he began drinking more.

“Now I know you like sugar, but I wasn’t sure how much, so I just placed some sugar on the table.”

He took another sip. “This…this is,” he stammered, “this is really good coffee.”

Sheepishly, you placed some hair behind your ear. “I, um, used to be a barista. I know which beans to get and for the most part how to prepare them.” You laughed. “I’m decent at hot and iced coffee, but anything blended gets a bit more tricky.”

He finished his cup and immediately went over to the French press. “You know, it’s not very good to leave the coffee in the press. It can, um, over-extract the grounds.”

It was your turn to cross your arms. “I know. I just brewed this round while you were talking. It hasn’t been very long.”

He poured the rest of the coffee into his cup and eyed you.

“What was I talking about?”

You weren’t sure if this was a test or not, but you had an answer nonetheless.

“The misinterpretation of Lilith.”

He pursed his lips and picked up his coffee again. You continued.

“She’s not actually a character in the Bible, and isn’t really referenced in the Christian Bible. She’s written in the Alphabet of Ben Sira and was a loose translation of—”

He held up his hand as if to stop you.

“You…remembered what I was saying?”

You didn’t see your face, but you were sure that oblivion was written all over it.

“Of course. You were talking, and it was interesting, so of course I was paying attention.” You tilted your head. “Why?”

He chuckled and started to walk over to the dining room. Funny – this was the first time he had chuckled. “Nothing,” he said, whipping his hand as if to dismiss the conversation. “Just surprised, is all.”

---

Breakfast was mainly quiet, until the end.

Spencer placed his silverware onto his plate and sighed.

“So,” he asked, leaning his head onto a fist he had made a hand, “what are you going to do with me?”

You finished your bite and stared at him.

“What do you mean?”

He took his other hand and ran it through his hair. Gah, he looked so cute when he did that.

“Well, you’ve kidnapped me, placed me into restraints, and then just…” he paused, playing with his hair, “you haven’t really done anything to me yet, so I wanted to know what was in store.”

You crossed both your arms onto the table and leaned forward with them. “What do you mean,” you asked again.

He moved his hands into his lap and licked his lips. “Are you going to stab me?”

“No.”

“Are you going to shoot me?”

“No,” you said resigned.

“Will you torture me to death?”

“Spenc—”

He continued, rambling. “Hang me? Slit my wrists and let me bleed out? Overdose me? Drown me? Tear my skin off?”

“Spencer.” You stopped him from going down his disturbing serial killer list. He paused, with the fear in his eyes returning from the other night. You put your hand on his shoulder, and he winced at the touch.

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m not going to torture you or drug you, or do any of the other things you said.” You removed your hand from his shoulder and brought it to the base of his chin, using this to move his face towards yours.

“I’m not going to hurt you. The last thing I want to see you be is in pain.”

His face still pointing towards yours, his eyes flickered downwards and towards any direction that wasn’t eye contact.

“Listen,” you said, your voice soft and gentle. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I don’t want it where you have to worry about me trying to see your guts on the floor each time you enter a room. I want you to feel safe here. I’ve been trying to make it nice for you, and if there’s anything – anything – I can do to help, I’ll do what I can.”

He took your hand away from his chin and guided your hand to the vibration of the collar. He whispered, almost not audible. “Is this here to make me feel safe?” He placed your hand around his right wrist, where the cuff was located. “Are these here to make me feel comfortable?”

You sighed. “I was afraid of you running off once you got here. I didn’t want you escaping before I had a chance to meet you and have you here for a while.”

He grunted. “So you want me locked up and ask if I’m comfortable?” He took his hand off of you and grabbed his plate. “Well,” he replied with the iciest tone, “at least I’ll be the coziest abductee the FBI has seen when they find me.” He walked into the kitchen to place his dishes into the dishwasher.

When, he said, not if.

You massaged your temple and as he came back to grab his cup, you brought up a topic you may soon live to regret.

“You like challenges and puzzles, don’t you, Spencer?”

Silence.

“I’ll give you one.” You ran your fingers through your hair and placed them around your neck. You sat over hunched, elbows resting on the table.

“If you can figure out the password for the collar and the cuffs. If you’re able to solve it on your own – no lockpicking and no hack-wiring. If you can guess the code correctly,

You can leave, and you’ll be free to.”

You looked your body off of the table and saw a bewildered Spencer Reid standing above you.

“I won’t follow you. I won’t grab you again and force you back here. You’ll be on your own free way, and I won’t make contact again unless you want to.”

You stook out your hand meekly, instantly unsure of what you were offering. After all your planning, after all your hard work and the passion that had driven you to here; were you really going to just give it up?

Before you could second-guess yourself out of the situation, you felt a firm and warm hand enter yours, and shake. There was no paperwork, but a contract felt like it had been signed. The terms and conditions were outside your control now.

“Deal.”

[immortalcoelacanth]

Between the Walls, Chapter 1: Roommates (Dream SMP fic)

I've noticed there's an unfortunate lack in Borrower AU content, and as that shit is my jam I'm putting forth the content I wish to see into the fandom XD

To quote my friend, "I do not control the hyperfixation"

Word count: 4497

Summary: At first retirement had sounded like an excellent idea. Make a house far away from everyone else, get some peace and quiet, no longer concern himself with the total garbage that was the local government. Nice things, relaxing things.… 

But then the scratching in the walls started happening.

Techno groaned as he flopped backwards into his chair, tired eyes staring into the glowing fireplace as he relaxed after his busy day. A day full of building, repairing the damage dealt by the creeper population, and…

A day spent trying to find any signs of his thief.

You see, Techno had assumed that retirement would be an excellent way to unwind from the massive amount of blood that had been shed after L’Manberg went up in smoke, as well as the aggravation he felt towards his sweet, innocent cows being slaughtered and his bunker being raided.

Raided and dismantled thanks to Phil stealing his bookshelves and in turn chunks of the wall.

It was scuffed, horribly scuffed, and left him with one option.

Relocation.

That, combined with the wanted posters Quackity had hung up demanding his capture and subsequent execution after what he had done. Honestly, talk about the biggest character arc for Quackity, going from fearing him to taking an active role in trying to end his life.

Too bad for him that Technoblade never dies.

But still, having to constantly deal with being attacked while no longer having a truly safe and secure base was troublesome, so he had sought out to make a new home far from L’Manberg and all other communities.

The isolation did not scare him, on the contrary he liked having a space all to his own with no worries about socialization or someone bothering him. Besides, Phil could always visit him if he wanted some company.

Fortunately, constructing his new home had taken relatively little time once he had found the best spot for it, and with some help from Phil, moving all the important resources and equally important fixtures of his home had taken even less time.

All in all, Techno had managed to acquire a new sanctuary away from all the plotting and scheming, although he had a feeling someone would try to mess with him at some point, and he had plenty of space to make a brand new vault. He had achieved peace and quiet, and was even in the process of planning on making a turtle farm. Surely all these positive developments would mean he was happy, right?

Well, he would be if it weren’t for the fact that there was a thief rummaging through his home.

It started with small things, like his chests becoming less and less organized over time. Yes, there were moments where he simply chucked whatever useless items were in his inventory into the nearest empty chest, but he would never clutter up chests containing important items, like potions and enchanted books.

So, finding several misplaced items as well as random blocks of dirt and stone, practically pebbles given their size, while also finding certain resources such as wood and leather missing was the first sign of something strange going on.

The next was the odd noises that seemed to come from the walls of his home. Faint scratches that would be inaudible to anyone but himself due to his heightened hearing. It reminded of a rat infestation, and he unconsciously shuddered.

Not due to fear or discomfort, but the sheer amount of work it would take to get rid of a pest infestation. At that point he might as well take his house apart and build elsewhere.

However, despite his suspicions and hypothesis, there was practically no evidence to support. There were, thankfully, no signs of rat activity, or activity from any other pests. No scratches, bite marks, signs of wood decaying, or anything like that. Other than the noise and the strangely messy organization of his chests, there was no sign of the thief.

And he had looked.

Intensely, as best he could. Logic and inductive reasoning had led him to this conclusion. There was a thief, so there had to be signs of this thief somewhere. A lack of footprints meant they must use pearls to get around. The fact that his rarer resources had not been stolen, his potions of strength and enchanted books, meant that his thief was either unconcerned with stealing things of value from him and just wanted to mess with him, or they were a cocky idiot.

… So it was either Ranboo or-

His ears perked up, cutting off his train of thought as he glanced over at the nearby wall. His eyes narrowed and he pushed himself up and out of his chair before striding over to the wall, cape swishing about behind him.

He pressed the side of his head against the wall, eyes closing as he tried to focus on where the sound was coming from. It was here! It had to be! There was something hidden in this very wall. The source of his annoyance, his thief.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Techno readied his axe, and swung it down-

                                                   xxxxxxxxxx

There are times where Tommy can’t stop himself from looking in the nearest reflective surface and asking how he managed to fuck things up this bad. It was painful to recall the steps that had led him to this outcome, the signs obvious but he had been too stupid and ignorant to pay them any mind.

Causing trouble was in his blood, something the local borrower community had reluctantly accepted over the years, helped by how eager he was to throw himself into dangerous situations. Something that should have been concerning to the adults who watched them, taught them how to borrow, how to gather items and even hunt in order to survive, but he had learned that lesson at a very, very young age.

The lesson that no one would step in to help him if he was in danger. That he was on his own and had to prove his worth in order to stay, constantly putting his life on the line for the slightest crumb of respect.

To hear someone say that he had done a good job, to be thanked for his hard work instead of always being brushed off and ignored.

Of course, his friendship with Tubbo helped to soothe that constant within him, dulling the sting of rejection while reminding him that there was one person who truly cared about him. One person who would always be there for him, would lift him up when he was down, and jump into any situation to protect him.

Orphans had to stick together, after all.

And it was a good thing they did end up working together as the duo balanced each other out perfectly. Tommy was far more outgoing and blunt, hotheaded being the best word to describe him. He was willing to do whatever he needed, always ready to speak up when he thought there was bullshit going on, and spoke his mind freely.

It was an ironic honesty, a trait that one assumed would help to attract friends but only aided in driving them away.

Meanwhile, Tubbo was much softer in some ways. Much more reserved than Tommy, he was more of a thinker and planner. Nowhere near as comfortable with spontaneous action as his friend, but he had the knowledge and skills to reign in those impulsive actions before things got dangerous.

They were the best of friends, pals to the very end.

Even though they would never see each other again.

And it was all his fault.

Tommy had ruined everything.

The plan had been simple, easy. All he wanted to do was mess up Mrs. Brigsburry’s house. Just a tiny touch of crime and freaking the old bat out.

She deserved so much worse because of that day. The pot that had been thrown at Tubbo and how much blood Tommy had seen running down the side of his face. The bitch’s shrieks and curses as she insulted them over and over again.

Swearing they both should have died with their parents-

How was he supposed to know he accidentally left one of her rags near the lit stove, the fire within causing the piece of fabric to ignite and in turn allowing the flames to spread to the rest of the house.

It was a good thing she lived on the edge of Borrowton, the fires thankfully only burning her home to the ground.

No one wanted to live near an asshole like her.

Tommy, who had been feeling proud of himself, quickly experienced true regret and fear once the meeting started. Shouts, demands, and insults had flown through the air, many of the people he had grown up with insisting that he be tossed out for what he had done, exiled from the only home he had ever known.

It had been terrifying to see how quickly everyone had turned against him, how they refused to give him the chance to defend himself or even explain why he had done what he did. Not even Tubbo had been able to protect him from the crowd’s wrath, his attempts at standing in front of Tommy and blocking him from sight thwarted when one of the adults grabbed his arm and dragged him elsewhere.

He would never be able to forget the haunting sight of Tubbo reaching for him, tears pouring from his eyes as he screamed his name over and over. It was the last time he had seen his friend, too.

And yet, this was not the worst part of his punishment.

He had been given an hour, one measly hour, to pack up everything he had ever owned before being forcefully exiled from Borrowton. The realization of what was happening had slammed into him all at once, leaving Tommy trembling and unable to move.

He was going to lose everything he had ever known, everything he had worked so hard to build, Tubbo-

He was going to lose his Tubbo.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

No amount of begging or pleading had stopped the adults who dragged him to his shoddy, shared home. He had groveled on his hands and knees, promising to change, to do better, to do whatever they wanted if they just let him stay.

Don’t take my Tubbo away. Don’t take him away. I need him, I need him-

Smack!

The harsh sting of his cheek and the painful sensation of his neck snapping back from the force of the slap was enough to snap Tommy out of his trance. He blinked and looked around, feeling all the more disconnected from reality as he noticed the two bags that had been placed beside him.

One for food, and one for clothes and tools.

… He was really getting exiled, wasn’t he?

“You have no one to blame but yourself for this.” The adult beside him grumbled, dragging the stunned teen up to his feet and shoving him towards the door.

“Front gate. Now. And if I find you causing more trouble, you’ll be leaving with nothing but the clothes on your back.” The man sneered.

For a moment that spark of anger rose up in him, rage flowing through his veins and making his fists clench while he ground his teeth together. The urge to lash out, both physically and verbally, was strong, and yet…

As quickly as those feelings emerged, they faded, and Tommy was left feeling hollow and drained. What was the point in fighting back if all he did was get himself into more trouble. It was obvious they weren’t going to change their minds, he would be exiled no matter what, and if he did lash out-

Tubbo screaming his name as he was dragged away, snot and tears flowing down his face. Thrashing and struggling in a futile attempt to reach him.

… The risk, the damage he could do to his friend, was far greater than the satisfaction of breaking the man’s knobby nose. So, with extreme reluctance, Tommy left the house and made his way towards the front gate. The streets were surprisingly empty, he had expected to see a mob of people cheering while watching him leave, maybe even get the occasional bit of dirt thrown his way.

Treated like the trash they thought he was.

His send off lacked all formality. Only the usual guards of the gate were present, and even then they paid him no mind. He was simply shoved towards another borrower, a lady this time who, based on the immense amount of foliage covering her clothes, spent most of her life out in the wild.

God, how would he ever survive out there. Between the wild animals, the shitty weather, and the mobs that would wander the lands when darkness fell, he was doomed.

He had only ever known how to survive in his community, where you could barter for goods and depend on someone to help you. Now he wouldn’t have any of that. There would be no shelter, no safety in numbers-

No Tubbo.

Numb, Tommy was shoved towards the woman and quietly took note of the presence of the animal he could not see before. It was a fox, quite large compared to him and the other borrowers, and domesticated since it wasn’t ripping anyone apart.

… Or maybe it was just waiting until he got outside, then it would rip him to shreds. Wouldn’t want any blood splatters staining the inside of the gate.

He was so absolutely, royally fucked.

“C’mon, we gotta get moving.” The woman barked, grabbing his arm and pushing him towards the fox with little care for his comfort and the fact that she was adding more bruises to his arm. Tommy hissed in pain and rubbed the aching spot while glaring at her.

Everyone in this place was a fucking asshole.

“Alright, alright, chill the fuck out. I’m moving.” Tommy grumbled as, after a moment of hesitance, buried his hands in the animal’s warm fur and climbed up its side. A moment later, the woman jumped up to join him, taking a seat near the fox’s shoulders while Tommy struggled to pull his bags up as well.

Finally, once his meager supplies had joined him, it was time for them to set off. He had nearly been thrown off as the fox stood up, and when the animal sprinted out of the hidden tunnel and into the fading sunlight-

Well, it was a good thing he managed to grab hold of his bags before they were knocked off. He shuddered in the sudden, stinging breeze, and did his best to hunker down into the warm fur below him. He had no idea where they were going, no clue what far away biome he would be abandoned in, and quietly decided to not think about it further. The last thing he wanted to do was to start crying.

… Even if he had been ever since they first left the front gate.

He quickly rubbed at his face, trying to dry the lingering tears so there were less signs as to his degenerating mental state, and instead decided that it would be best to strike up a conversation, something that would help to distract him from what was going on.

Tubbo, Tubbo. He missed Tubbo. He wanted to see Tubbo again-

“Name’s Tommy!” He called out. “What’s yours?”

Silence was his answer.

“... Well fuck you too then.”

Much like the start of their journey, the rest of the trip was silent as the fox ran through various biomes, fields, and forests. On multiple occasions they stopped, the woman gathering some sort of herb every single time.

… Perhaps she was making drugs.

Tommy snorted to himself at the joke, mood lifting just the slightest bit before plummeting back to bedrock. God, he was tired. His body ached from sitting still for so long, as well as the general discomfort from the fox nimbly jumping from cliff to cliff, ducking around trees, and just being an agile shitbag. It was annoying and he hated it.

… Hated the fact that he was getting further and further away from his friend. Hated the fact that the fox could cover far more distance than he could ever hope of traversing on his own, and that the odds of him managing to reunite with Tubbo at some point were growing slimmer with every block they crossed.

Eventually they reached the coldest biome Tommy had experienced yet, ponds covered by ice and snow layering the ground. The snow seemed to muffle their surroundings, the only sounds coming from the snow crunching under the fox’s paws and the animal’s panting as it started to feel the strain of their journey.

And yet, for as desolate as this tundra seemed to be, Tommy spotted something in the distance. A structure that was definitely man made and appeared to be well taken care of, which meant there was someone living there.

Someone he could mooch off of and boost his chance at surviving his exile.

It had been a stroke of pure luck that he had managed to convince the borrower escorting him to change their route, practically begging her to take him to the lit house that was just barely visible through the snow.

The sounds of Tommy sniffling and sobbing since the start of their journey had probably helped to wear down her resolve to take him to wherever he was originally supposed to go.

In the end, she had agreed and directed the fox towards the house. It was interesting to see her previous confidence of navigating the cold tundra diminish the closer they got to their destination, as though she was unsettled by the house.

Strange, but then again she probably thought the same of him and how much of an idiot he was for getting kicked out of somewhere perfectly safe.

Safe aside from the prying eyes, the cruel words and harsh hands. His salvation was Tubbo and their whispered promises. They would leave one day, set out into the world and make their own home.

The moment they arrived at their destination, the woman wasted no time in metaphorically, and literally, kicking him off the fox. He dropped into the freezing snow, landing face first, and pushing himself up seconds later to cough out the chilly substance that had invaded his mouth.

The memory of Tubbo laughing as his snowball hit Tommy in the face, the other teen turning to the side and yelling about how “cold as shit” it was.

“Maybe you should try keeping your mouth shut for once.” Tubbo teased as Tommy, snow still stuck to parts of his face, flipped him off.

“Fuck you.”

Tubbo’s laughter rang out around them, and the teen kept laughing until his face was red and tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes.

… Damn, it was cold.

Trembling, he stood up just in time to dodge the bags that had been carelessly thrown his way, getting a concussion from one of his tools would definitely be a death sentence in this situation, and he promptly flipped the woman off.

“Oi! Watch where you’re throwing that shit!” He shouted before crouching down to inspect his supplies, quietly relieved that nothing seemed to have been damaged. “Fucking bitch...”

She just rolled her eyes in response to his insults and looked unimpressed as he grumbled, huffed, and got himself organized. No words were exchanged between the duo, no goodbyes or wishes for good luck, just the howling of the winds while the borrower made his way to his new home.

As Tommy had trudged through the too tall snow, he had been oblivious to the way the woman stared at the house, eyes wide with some sort of emotion. Was it fear? Not quite, it was more a combination of dread mixed with reverence, emotions fueled by her knowledge of the being who resided in this place. A whispered phrase floated through the air, much too quiet for him to have heard. It was a simple sentence that made her stance and understanding of the situation clear.

“Blood for the Blood God.”

Then she fled, leaving Tommy alone to deal with whatever fate he had stumbled into by breaking into the house.

And what a house it was.

All pretty and neatly designed, complete with various floors and tons of storage, and even some decorative flowers outside the windows, which meant Tommy had many things to rummage through. The roaring fireplace was an added bonus since the cold was one of the things he had been the most worried about.

Knowing those assholes, they had probably planned to abandon him somewhere in the tundra, leaving him alone and freezing in the cold…

Honestly, all things considered, this was a good place to settle down in. He had basically everything he needed, as well as access to some rarer resources too. It was ideal, practically perfect given how easy it would be to create small, unnoticeable entrances into each chest for him to use to snag items, but there was one downside to his new home.

His roommate.

He was tall, far taller than anyone Tommy had ever seen before, and he looked… weird. Like one of those pig monsters he had heard stories about back in Borrowton. Monsters from hell that craved gold and bloodshed. With his pig-like features, including a set of tusks that poked up from his lower jaw, he was a perfect match for those nightmarish beasts.

… But, they weren’t in hell, and this man seemed to be far less gold and bloodshed obsessed than the stories had said, even with the various scars the borrower had seen littering his body.

It was weird, he was weird, and the weirdness had only increased the more time Tommy spent in the house. Despite his regal attire, consisting of a flowing cape and golden crown, it was obvious that the pig-man was no prince or nobility. Plus there were those shitty reading glasses Tommy had seen him wearing once, stuck together with taping and looking like they were on the verge of breaking again. He was the strangest combination of loud-yet-awkward behaviour, something that the borrower actually related to quite a bit. His roommate was not “normal” and acted how he wanted, whenever he wanted, with little regard to how “improper”, “violent”, or “rude” he was.

Like Tommy…

He found it comforting to know that there was someone else more like him out there, someone else who was unlike everyone in Borrowton, someone else who would know what it felt like to be treated as an outcast, like he did not belong there or anywhere. Stuck in this new place, he did not feel as alone as he originally expected.  

He did not consider the possible problems this could cause in the future, of course. Tommy had never the best at planning ahead since that had been Tubbo’s specialty-  

But, the positives ended there as he realized that trying to survive in this relatively small, isolated house was going to be far more of a challenge then he had originally anticipated, with his roommate presenting the greatest obstacle to his success. Breaking in had been easy, actually situating himself and building a decent base within the walls of the house was downright impossible in these circumstances. At most he had managed to dig out a shitty hole close to the fireplace where he stashed all his stolen goods.

And even if he wanted to leave, it was impossible thanks to all the snow and how bloody cold this damn biome was!

So, here Tommy was, having essentially trapped himself with some creepy pig guy who owned too many weapons for comfort and was decked out like he was about to fight the whole damn world. Sure, his house was pretty nice, there was tons of food for him to steal and snack on, and the resources were plenty, but he would have rather had anyone else as a roommate in this situation.  

At least this guy was in retirement, or whatever that meant.

He let out an annoyed sigh, arms dropping as he allowed his axe to rest against the wooden floor of the passage he had been carving out. While most of the house was made out of concrete, Tommy had focused on carving passages through the wooden supports in order to have a network of tunnels he could easily move around in without being spotted. All in all, it was a good plan, even if it was a massive pain in the ass to make.

It was like every time he started making a tunnel, no matter what time of the day it was, that piggy dipshit would show up and start stalking the walls, looking for him!

… Granted, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to make boar-face all suspicious by messing with his chests, but Tommy needed the resources! And it was pretty funny hearing the surprised sounds the man would make echo through the house.

His trouble making nature might have been the cause for his exile, along with some other bullshit, but that did not mean he would try to suppress it, even if it would be better for him in the long run. That was like asking to stop breathing. It was just a part of him that could only be controlled and never truly stopped.

… He missed Tubbo. He missed him so much and the ache in his chest still had not faded, and he felt all hollow and empty, without purpose-

Unfortunately for the borrower, the world refused to give him a break as he spiraled, his negative emotions distracting him and preventing him from paying attention to his surroundings.

Like the footsteps that were slowly getting closer to his location.

Without warning, the wall beside him cracked and split open, and Tommy let out a terrified shriek. He jumped backwards, dropping his axe in the process as light spilled into the carved out passage.

The now exposed passage.

A passage that had been cracked open by a certain pig man who had clearly been awake instead of asleep like he had assumed. Brilliant red eyes met terrified blue, and Tommy swallowed nervously.

Of course, of fucking course! As if the world didn’t hate him enough as is! Now he had to deal with that pig shithead who’d been tormenting him for days with his stupidly good hearing, preventing him from making any progress in creating his new home.

And of course the second he tried to make a tunnel this bastard just had to appear and ruin everything!

On the plus side, he had not actually done anything yet, although Tommy was certain things would turn south soon based on the axe the man was holding. So, he would live for now, and his shocked state allowed the borrower to make the first move.

“How do,” Tommy greeted, tilting his head to the side and smirking. “You ugly motherfucker.”

If he was going down, he would go down swinging.

                                      xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Technoblade, holding up a cup containing Tommy: So I found this, anyone wanna trade a book of mending for him- Tommy: *feral screaming intensifies*

[cursedbcrn]

THE TVDU TIMELINE (AND HOPE’S AGE)

Okay, so I know this is like the most controversial topic of the TVD wiki, but during our rewatch of the show, I’m realizing that the timeline on the show (particularly Legacies) is just... super compacted, so here is my take on how the events of the show play out over time and how that might affect the ages of various roles. If anyone hasn’t watched Legacies or actually cares about spoilers... beware.

If you pay attention to the words and the dialogue in the show, they actually drop a fair number of hints as to the passage of time on the show. In the past, I always assumed that it followed the same timeline as most shows, where each season is equivalent to one year with episode air dates matching with what’s happening canonically on the show, but it’s actually not the case in Legacies, where, between the pandemic and general wonky primetime airing schedules, the timeline is a little more difficult to follow. 

Examples of the above include early S1 where the first few episodes are literally happening over the course of several days, maybe two weeks. There’s a few times the characters say things like “yesterday” or “a few days ago” or “last week” in their dialogue. Obviously, this might change as I keep rewatching (like a fool because this is a damn hyperfixation), but here’s what the timeline is like in my head.

Starting from the top, S5 tells us that Hope is 15 at the time that all of that plays out, and there’s an unknown time jump between the end of TO and the beginning of Legacies. We’ll come back to this later. 

Like I mentioned above, the first few episodes of S1 happen very quickly (going to find Raf and Landon, Landon stealing the knife, the dragon, the football game, the discovery of the monsters, the twins’ birthday). These all happen in a matter of days, maybe two weeks at the most. When the Honor Council stuff is happening, Lizzie asks Raf to the twins’ birthday “on Friday”, so we know it’s coming up quick. And the twins’ birthday is the first real date that we have confirmed on the show. So 1x06 is occurring on March 15. The next real “date” we have is in 1x12, where we know the school is on spring break. Now idk about y’all but in the states and when I was in school, the latest spring break ever seemed to be was like early/mid-April? So it sounds like the gap between 1x06 and 1x12 is a handful of weeks at most, which makes sense. During this time is the whole part where Hope goes and gets Landon back, the djinni episode, and the slug debacle. As far as the passage of time goes, there isn’t a lot of it during these plot points. 

Then we hit the end of the season and summer break. So S1 has happened over the course of like... three months, and S2 picks back up at the beginning of the next school year. Unfortunately, events like the Miss Mystic Falls Pageant and Founders Day don’t actually have set dates in canon so it’s difficult to tell what the passage of time is supposed to be like. However, we do know that 2x08 (the Santa episode) occurs in October. So the first half of S2 takes place over the course of a month or so? After that, the next hint of time that we get is the culmination of the season, where Dark Josie intends to push up the Merge timeline and do it on the twins’ birthday of that year. So we’re back to March 15 of the next year, and two seasons have passed in the span of one in-canon year. 

Now this is where the timeline gets even MORE messed up because of the pandemic and the weird airing schedules. But 3x01-3x04 were always supposed to be part of S2, so that’s where I’m putting it. Given the reactions by Alyssa and the rest of the witches in 3x01, not that much time has passed since Dark Josie was banished, there is again urgency with Raf’s problem, the musical, and then the confrontation with the Necromancer. 

It feels like there is another time jump after 3x04, because Kaleb references Sheriff Mac moving to Savannah with Maya, and Josie is working on her transfer over to MFHS. I’m guessing that most public schools aren’t going to handle transfer requests at the end of the school year, so it sounds like we’re back to the end of the summer again by the time 3x05 happens. This also makes sense in context of what’s happening in the A plot, where Hope is losing herself in her search for Landon, which probably would actually take months. However, once she finds the Monkey’s Paw and Cleo enters the picture, things begin to pick up again. 

Now I’ll be perfectly frank, I only sat through S3 once (and I’m not looking forward to doing it again) so I’m not as in tune with that season as much as I am with the others, but again, it does feel like time moves quickly. With the monsters constantly coming and the appearance of golem Landon to push along the narrative, I can believe that this happens over the course of a few months, taking us to maybe November or December of that year, approximately a year and a half since S1 began. And of course, once Mali-Landon leaves, everything kicks up a notch. Like with S2, 4x01-4x04 were meant to be part of S3, and that’s where it makes sense narratively. 

Hope makes the realization that she needs to become the tribrid in the Star Wars episode, and everything from that point on shoehorns her into that point. Again, we don’t have direct dates or events to mark the passage of time, but just going off what happens in canon, from the time they wake up from the vision quest to the end of 4x04, I don’t think there are any days where the Squad is just taking a break and lounging around (with the exception of 4x03, but I wouldn’t call that lounging around). 

Now we know that there is no timeskip between 4x04 and 4x05 because Lizzie directly alludes to the night before in her opener, so everything that’s happened since the beginning of the show has now occurred within something like two years (not the four I was assuming up until now). Again, with the urgency of the plot, Hope is not just sitting around and twiddling her fingers once the threat of Triad comes up, and the Squad is not waiting for Hope to come back. Hope’s actions include learning about Triad, having her misadventures with Clarke, Salvatore Idol at the school, her confrontation with actual Triad and Aurora, and her confrontations with Lizzie. Similarly, there is no time jump between 4x09 and 4x10, as the episode tells us. All of this is happening in a span of weeks, not months. 

All that said, it feels like about two years have passed since S1 began. Hope was 17 at the time (having just turned 15 when S5 of TO happens and taking a little over a year off to grieve, thus setting her back one school year and putting her in the same grade as the twins, and half a school year where she’s just in her room watching Cutthroat Kitchen by herself). She is just about to turn 18 by the time she jumps into Malivore (I’m keeping the May birthday even though I just wrote this entire meta on why air dates ain’t shit), and is a few months shy of her 19th when she has her first death in 4x03. 

[slashertalks]

I think the most enjoyable thing to me about film review is how fluid it is. Not only is the medium, by nature, ever-changing, but with personal experience comes a shift in opinion that can change perspectives so much it requires a completely new piece. Though this work is not coming out of so drastic a change, it is coming out of a desire to rectify something put forward in my previous SAW review. Similarly, it is a statement of something core to my beliefs with all my reviews: that “bad” films are not always truly bad. Often, they’re quite enjoyable.

Now, I should put forward my frame of reference for this, in the form of two facts. The first: my current hyperfixation is SAW. The second: the only two SAW films I’ve seen are the original, and SAW 3D. Do with this information what you will, but I think it’s important to acknowledge that what I’m writing comes from a place of intense personal passion, and simultaneously intense disinterest. See, when I say SAW, I mean specifically Doctor Lawrence Gordon and Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. To a lesser extent, I am also fixated on the production, but that’s relatively common for me. The technical, visual aspects of a film are often just as important to my enjoyment of it as anything else— I’m more inclined to enjoy a film with physical effects and mechanics, both of which SAW has plenty.

This piece is serving as both an expansion on my original short blurb on SAW, and an acknowledgement that SAW 3D is not, as I put it, the horror equivalent of “a daytime soap opera.” It is, quite simply, a fun movie.

Do I have any background in any of the characters beyond Dr. Gordon himself? Not in the slightest— I’m coming into this movie with no expectations for how Hoffman or Jill Tuck should behave. This is, perhaps, a flaw of my own attention span. I tend to jump about through franchises: for years, I’d only seen the first and third Friday the 13th movies. I still haven’t seen the second or sixth Nightmare on Elm Street. My viewing history is filled with maybe somedays, films I’m certain I’d enjoy, most often part of franchises I know I like, but I just don’t have the motivation to sit down and watch them. Saw 2-6 and Jigsaw are part of this category.

What does that make SAW 3D, then? Lacking background in characters beyond Lawrence, whose appearance is unfortunately limited, what do I get from what was supposed to be the close of the franchise?

Not much, quite honestly.

SAW 3D is not a film rich in much. Beyond a trap made of an entire building which feels a little too poetic for Hoffman to have made (judging, again, by my admittedly-limited knowledge of the character), and an enjoyably gruesome trap made for a group of neo-nazis (I SQUIRMED watching this one!!!! SQUIRMED!!!! I can’t remember the last time I had to look away from a movie!!!!!! Even on a second viewing, I had to close my eyes at this part! Can you tell how exciting that is?), SAW 3D feels rather slapped together. I’ve heard as well that the director had no desire to actually direct the film, which makes things difficult.

What does a film do when saddled with an unwilling director? Its best, of course, and SAW 3D is still a valiant enough effort. Is it a masterpiece? Not by any stretch of the word, but it’s fun. This here is why horror is one of my favorite genres! SAW is a masterpiece of modern horror, a reflection of the magic of A Texas Chain Saw Massacre! A rarity! A gem! I couldn’t be more enthusiastic about this film. SAW even surpasses Texas Chain Saw in one area: the actors, director, and staff had fun making this movie! I will always sing praise for Texas Chain Saw; it is the film I consider the penultimate horror movie, unsurpassable in its legacy. It captured a sort of magic in how gut-wrenchingly horrific it is with such minimal blood: it’s all psychological.

As previously said, I feel that SAW captures that same magic. The film has minimal gore, a byproduct of its limited budget, but is remembered as much more brutal than it actually is— it became the springboard for a franchise absolutely drenched in disgusting moments. SAW 3D’s neo-nazi trap is chief among them, for me (that back glue? good GOD man....). Yet, where the cast of Texas Chain Saw have many painful, sweaty, exhausting moments to remember (the actor who played Nubbins was a veteran and has stated that his time working on Texas Chain Saw was worse than his time as a soldier), the cast of the original SAW had a blast, proven by an audio commentary filled with James Wan, Leigh Whannell, and Cary Elwes all poking fun at each other (and a ridiculously goofy Marlon Brando impersonation from Mr. Elwes — I genuinely can’t recommend the commentary enough).

Even separated completely from my personal passion for the film, it’s an amazing feat for me to sit here and say to you all that a film has, in one instance, surpassed for me my pinnacle of horror. How often does that happen? 

Yet, I still haven’t completed my thoughts on SAW 3D. Circling back, I have to laugh. I’ve unintentionally mirrored my own Texas Chain Saw viewing pattern with my SAW viewings: for quite a long time, I’d only seen Texas Chain Saw and TCM: The Next Generation. If you’ve been here long enough, you’ve seen me mention TNG time and time again. To recap, for those of you who may be seeing my writing for the first time: it’s a genuinely HORRIBLE film. It is, however, a favorite of mine— enough so that I own it on DVD, now. TNG is a purposefully bad film, created with the intent of antagonizing the viewer and calling to attention our pattern of complacent viewership. In my original piece on TNG, I state that “my problem with modern horror is that it’s loud, the violence is gratuitous and charmless ... because supposedly that’s what a Modern Viewer [sic] wants. TCM4 takes these things, grinds your nose into them, and says ‘fuck you, you want this? here'” (source).  Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation defies the conventions of modern horror in a deeply obnoxious, yet thought-provoking way. SAW 3D... does not.

SAW 3D’s greatest problem is, perhaps, that it’s exactly what audiences demand. Though I must admit the 3D is tasteful, and I’m grateful for that, the fact remains that the movie lacks innovation. While it doesn’t necessarily need to innovate as the close of a franchise, I ultimately think it’s ridiculous to have tried to close the franchise at all. As much as I hate the trend of reboots and remakes in the modern market, particularly modern horror, I must acknowledge that studios will milk a popular franchise for all that it’s worth, and sometimes more (I’m looking at you, SyFy Pumpkinhead sequels).

SAW 3D is the victim of an unfortunate situation. An over-saturation of SAW films in the market meant waning popularity, coupled with a fanbase still dedicated enough to want a finale, and a director lacking interest in the project (we all get tired of things, no matter how passionate we may be in the beginning— I hardly blame anyone for being tired of the franchise after the way they churned those films out). This isn’t to imply any of the films are bad, especially since I haven’t seen them! There is, however, an undeniable pattern to horror films which has persisted since the 70s and 80s: horror franchises tank after 3-5 films. Some are lucky, some less so, but the range of 3-5 films seems to be the golden one for horror. For a movie franchise, seven films is comfortably beyond that, and SAW 3D is misleadingly the seventh film.

For as much as I’ll happily sit down and watch it, SAW 3D puts nothing forward and asks nothing in return. A franchise that started with such a dramatic bang went out with a fizzle (or would have, if not for Jigsaw and the upcoming Spiral). It’s enjoyable to see the reverse bear trap used. It’s enjoyable to see Lawrence again, and to watch Hoffman lay on the ground and get poked (quoth the reviewer: get his ass, Larry). It’s... fun, but it’s cheap fun. It’s fast food horror. I’m happy to have it once in a while, but the late 2000s to 2010s were oversaturated with similar films. I want more from a movie meant to close out something as dramatically influential as SAW, something so enrapturing! Something which I can confidently say exceeds Texas Chain Saw Massacre in one important area! Damn it, the SAW franchise deserved better than this!

Maybe it’ll get it, with the Spiral reboot coming out. Maybe it won’t, who knows? I’m interested to see how Spiral plays out, and I have surprisingly high hopes. Between that and the Candyman remake, there are a lot of  “re-” horror films I’m genuinely looking forward to. I haven’t felt this way about a horror re-anything since Evil Dead in 2013, and I’m feeling cautiously optimistic. We’ll see what the future holds — hopefully something that’ll be handled better than the original franchise was, though I don’t think Hollywood will ever learn to distinguish a dead horse from a live one. They’ll just keep beating and beating every horse in the stable. Perhaps I’m really a pessimist about all this, but again: personal experience. I’ll keep my cautious optimism up, and keep an eye out. I’m planning on watching Dying Breed and Cooties soon (two films with Leigh Whannell in them), so expect at least a short blurb on those two, and who knows? Maybe you’ll see something big about Spiral in the future. After all, if even a fizzle like SAW 3D can make me squirm even now, I think there’s a lot of hope to be had.

[mrs-mystica]

Us Against The World [Demus/Dukeceit]

Pairing : Deceit and Remus

Alternative title : Fitting In | Deceit Edition

TW : Homophobia, mentions of porn, verbal abuse, cursing, angst

Author’s note : Deceit’s name in this OS is Damian. I will change it if we get a name reveal. In the meantime, I hope you’ll enjoy this OS ! c:

Masterlink

Human AU

Third Person POV

Damian always had a hard time to fit in. Through his life, he accumulated labels that only made his life harder. He always considered his existence a curse, as if someone up there hated him and wanted to see him suffer. Everything about him was seen as abnormal and unnatural by the society. First of all, there was his face. When he was younger, there was a gas explosion in his house. He was unfortunately there, half of his face burnt in the process. Doctors were proud to say that it was a miracle that he survived. Sometimes he wished he didn’t. He was stared at anywhere he went, making him stay mostly at his house. He didn’t go out a lot, but why would he anyway? He didn’t have any friend. His entire school life had been characterized by rejection and bullying. He never learned to make friends. Neither did he learn to trust others. There was a guy once when he was a kid who tried to play with him. Damian enjoyed his company, it was nice to not be alone anymore, but it didn’t last long. Peer pressure was too strong, and scared to be the next victim, he was gone the following day. The hardest part was hearing him insulting him the following week, to be accepted by the others.

Damian learned his first lesson. Humans are sociable creature and could die without it. People would do anything to feel accepted by the greater group, even if it means crushing the others who don’t fit.

He ended up leaving school. However, he never stopped to learn. He would spend his days reading and searching new things on the internet. He couldn’t satisfy his thirst of knowledge. He discovered himself a passion for snake and other reptiles. They were such impression creature. Whenever he would try to bring up the things he learned about reptiles, his sister would call him out for being a nerd. He thought it wasn’t a bad label, but what hurt was the laughters of his family. They mocked him on everything he liked. They told him it was a stupid hyperfixation. And when he acted offended, they brushed him off by saying that it would go away anyway and that, looking back, he will also laugh at himself, thinking it was stupid.

Damian learned his second lesson. Everything and anything said will be submitted to others’ judgement. And it didn’t matter if it was welcomed or not.

He stayed at his family’s house until he was finally considered an adult. It was around that time that he found out about his sexuality. It’s not like he had the occasion of learning about it since he spent most of his journey inside his house, alone. He discovered it by surfing on the internet, finding more and more attractive men who would catch his eyes. And then, he wandered on some 18+ websites, confirming his sexual attractions. He never thought twice about it. He was really bad with social norms, since he never truly had a social life. Therefore, he didn’t know much about the heteronormativity of the society. So, when his mother told him it was time for him to have a girlfriend, he casually answered that he wasn’t interested in girls. He didn’t know that about the shitstorm that was coming his way. His mother screamed, insulted him, more than he ever was at school, and told him that no son of hers would be a fag. And nothing that Damian would say could change her mind, or even reach her ears.

Damian learned his third lesson. Humans hate to be proven wrong. Cognitive distortion can be such a powerful thing, making someone truly believe in their own lies and beliefs.

Damian moved out of the family house. It’s not like he had a choice anyway. He managed to find a job that didn’t require him to have a standard face. He was a mascot. It wasn’t so bad. His face was hidden and the pay was decent. He managed to live on his own. He still had a hard time to live his daily life, going to the grocerie being a nightmare with all the eyes staring at him. At one point, he considered doing his grocery in his costume.

One day, he had to buy new clothes. His old ones were ripped and he had avoided going to the mall long enough. He really had no choice but to get new ones. It took him all of his courage to get there. He was wearing a hoodie, his hood on his head, trying not to be noticed. He entered a clothing shop and started to look around. He was happy to see that the seller was already helping another customer, so she didn’t come his way.

As he was looking at a piece of clothing, he heard someone speaking behind him.

- Hello dear! Do you come here often?

Damian froze. Why on earth was someone speaking to him. At first, he thought the person was speaking to someone else. He put his hand on his burnt half and turned around a little to see the man behind him. There was no doubt. The stranger was looking directly at him. He had a wicked smile on his face and a mustache on top of it. His hair messy and his clothes were ripped here and there. He had a lot of piercings, two on one of his eyebrows, three on top of each ear and one of his tongue. The most unconventional ones were two piercings on both of his cheeks. He had a weird expression in his eyes. Damian answered with a shaky voice, clearly destabilized by the man in front of him.

- Um… Hello? Not really? I try to… avoid public place the best I can…

The stranger tilts his head a little on the side, seemingly confused.

- Well, why a beautiful specimen like you would to do such a thing?

Damian blinked for a second. Was he crazy or was the man in front of him… flirting with him? Was his hand really covering all his burnt? He thought it was, otherwise, why would this man find him attractive?

A mother and her daughter entered the store at this moment. The little girl stared at Damian and then pulled her mother’s sleeve to show her what she was pointing.

- Look! Look Mama! The man has a weird face! Is he a monster?

Damian cursed internally. No, his hand wasn’t big enough to cover his entire burnt. He pulled his hood deeper onto his head as the mother made her daughter exit the store, visibly uncomfortable. A realization hit Damian. Then, it meant the man saw his face… And he continued his flirting? He looked at the man that was still staring at him. Damian could feel anger rising in him.

- This is not funny. Go make fun of someone else.

The stranger laughed.

- Making fun of you? Why would I? I’m deeply serious, dude! You look great!

The man then took the opportunity at Damian’s confusion to take his arm and write his number down with a pen.

- Please, call me sometimes, I’d love to learn more about you~

He winked at his sentence and then left the store. Confused, Damian could only stare at him, walking away while swinging his hips. He looked back at his inked arm. What the hell had just happened?

***

It took Damian some time before he had the courage to call the mysterious stranger. But it was worth it. His name was Remus. He was the most eccentric person he had ever known. He didn’t care about any social norms. If he wanted to wear a skirt because he thought it looked cute on him, then he wore a skirt, and damn that he rocked in that skirt when they went to a coffee shop together for the first time. They learned a lot about each other that day. Damian didn’t feel like he had to hide anything from the other man. He never looked at him weirdly, he never commented on his scar and he didn’t laugh at his interest. He even winked and told him he would love to see his two pet snakes in his home. The conversation then turned a lot around Remus. His story was surprisingly similar to Damian’s, but the biggest difference between them was how Remus perceived his past. He didn’t miss his family one bit, even saying that he was glad that those toxic jerks were now out of his life. He told Damian how his household was a jail and how he could never truly express himself as a child. He was always compared to his twin brother, how he should be more like him and less like… himself.

- And now that they are fucking gone, I can finally do anything I want. Let’s say, if I wanted to jump on this table right now…

Remus then hopped on the table that was separating them, approaching dangerously his face to Damian’s face.

- …Then nothing would be stopping me.

He smirked as he noticed the blush on the other man’s face. Of course, all the eyes in the coffee shop were now on the weirdo on the table. But for once, it didn’t matter to Damian.

- Yeah, sure, but what if one of the employees asks you to get down?

Remus laughed even more.

- You really think they would do anything? Sure, it’s weird, but as long as I don’t break anything, they won’t do anything. People are too scared to act, they need a real reason to do so. Otherwise, they just watch.

Then, Remus moved forward and sat on the seat next to Damian. He then sat on the chair and put his shoes on the table, his hands behind his head. Damian couldn’t help but giggle at the sight.

- You sure are a unique individual.

Remus smirked as he turned his head to look at Deceit.

- Hey! If I’m gonna have a crowd watching, I better put up a good show, so they have a reason to watch!

The words really hit Damian. There was something wise in those words in which he could relate. Whatever he would do, people would always stare at him. If people were going to judge him no matter what he did, he shouldn’t care what he does and just be himself.

The two became quickly good friends. They would spend a lot of time together. Remus really helped Damian with his self-esteem issues. He pushed him to express himself more and to not be afraid to be who he truly was. He stopped being afraid to go out. He also started to wear bright colors, which he never did because he didn’t want to draw attention on him. He learned that he loved the color yellow and he loved how it looked on him. He started to wear fedoras, ignoring all the jokes he saw online about “fedora guys”. He felt better about himself. And it was all thanks to Remus.

One day, Damian was humming a song as he was picking up food in a grocery. He didn’t see the woman who was entering the same alley as he.

- Damian?

Damian jumped as he heard his name. He knew who that voice belonged to, but he had to look at her to make sure it was real. As he saw her face, his face lost all his colors. Her mother was there. He hadn’t seen her in a long time. And she had an even more disappointed look in his eyes than when he left her.

- What the hell are you wearing? Yellow, really?

Damian couldn’t move, nor could he spoke back. He was like a deer in front of a car at night, unable to look away from the light that was blinding him. The only person whose opinion mattered to him anymore was there. And she still wasn’t proud of him.

- You look even more like like a freak than the last time I saw you. Did your boyfriend tell you you looked good it this? He sure lied to you. If you even have one.

Anxiety was taking over his body. His mind was swirling with thoughts. He could feel his panic growing in his chest. It was too much.

- Hellooo? Earth to Damian? You became deaf or what?

Damian dropped the basket containing his grocery and then ran. He ran out of the store. He ran to his apartment that was far away. He didn’t care. He just wanted to run away from her. Tears were dropping out of his eyes as he ran. He felt ridiculous. His confidence was destroyed into crumbs. As he was running, he noticed the passers that were staring at him. They all thought like her, that he was ridiculous, that he looked ugly, that he looked like a monster. He wanted to run and hide. Hide away from everyone. He never wanted to see the light of day again. He was ashamed. Of what? Of his appearance. Of who he was as a person.  Of everything.

He finally reached his apartment after minutes of running. He quickly closed the door behind him, falling into the ground as he was finally feeling safe. He cried louder. He couldn’t see anymore, his tears making it impossible to see in front of him. He had a hard time to breath, partially because he had just ran like a mad man, outstanding his usual running performance, and partially because he was having a panic attack.

He felt something vibrating in his pocket. He couldn’t hear the ringtone, he was too far gone. The sensation was unbearable. He threw the phone in front of him. The impact made the phone answer Remus’ call. He tried to say hello, but he quickly heard Damian hyperventilating through the phone. He said he would be there in a minute. But Damian couldn’t hear him. He was too far gone in his panic attack. He didn’t care, nothing else mattered, all he could think about was his mother. How she looked at him. How she made him feel like a failure. How he hated himself.

Remus was true to his words and he arrived at Damian’s apartment quickly. He didn’t bother knocking on the door. He swung the door open to reveal a curled up Damian on the ground, screaming and crying.

***

After a lot of efforts, Remus managed to calm down Damian. He was still crying, but at least he had regained contact with the reality. He was now sitting down into Remus’ lap while he was stroking his back. Damian’s head was laid down on Remus’ chest and he looked at the empty space in front of him, now feeling numb after crying all the tears of his body. After some long minute in silence, all Damian could say was sorry.

- I’m… sorry… I’m not as… strong as you… I can’t… I can’t just not care…

Remus stopped stroking his back. He didn’t accept his apology.

- You shouldn’t be sorry, none of this is your fault.

He clenched his fists, visibly angry.

- Screw her. And screw everyone else while we’re at it. If they all are too stupid to see the beauty in you, then they don’t deserve it. This world is crooked. It can only see people through predetermined boxes.

Remus took a deep breath to calm himself down. He then took Deceit’s chin in his hand to make the man look into his eyes.

- But we’re more than that. We are ferocious beast, we can’t exist in their world because we don’t fit in their boxes. I see you for who you are. And the real you is beautiful. If no one else is able to see you like I do, then it will be us against the rest of the world. Together, we can be stronger than them.

Remus approached Damian’s face. The poor man was a blushing mess as he looked deeply into his eyes. Remus wiped a residual tear that was on Damian’s cheek with his sleeve and then whispered to him.

- What do you think? Let’s say fuck the society, you and I, together.

Damian couldn’t help but giggle a little at the other man’s words.

- That must be… the most anarchist confession I’ve ever heard… And it’s perfect like that.

He then smiled and kissed the man. Remus was more than happy to kiss back. They could feel a shiver going through their bodies, as if electricity was going through their veins. They kissed passionately for god know how long. They broke their embrace after a while to regain some air. They were both panting. They both laughed as they looked at each other. They felt so lightweight, it was like something heavy finally left them both. Damian then puts his hand on Remus cheek and smiled at him. He then looked at him with a determined look in his eyes.

- Okay. Let’s try this again. This time, together.

It was Remus’ turn to look at Damian with a tender smile as he put his hand on Damian’s burnt cheek.

2880 words

[aroseandapen]

Hitting the nail right on the head (or the head on the nail)

Read on AO3

Fandom: Danganronpa V3: Killing Harmony Rating: Teen/Mature? Yeah Pairing: None Word Count: 2366 Summary: In a re-write of a scene from the chapter 3 investigation, Kurochi Ouma finds his brother in the hall lying face-down in his own blood.

Some things to note for this:

I guess this was inspired by the Kokichi-has-a-twin theory, but not actually really related to it (I haven’t even done any research into it actually! And as of right now I’m not interested in jumping into theories and stuff).

Mostly written as I was watching someone play through Chapter 4. As of posting this, I just finished the Chapter 5 trial.

Kurochi is the Ultimate Cryptographer in this. Not relevant in this drabble, though.

Written for Ry! @tricky-leader, who dragged me into hyperfixation hell with this amazing boi.

“I’m going to go back to Angie’s lab,” Kurochi announced, not expecting any response as he turned back to the door. Perhaps he could check the scene again once more—there had to be some clue that pointed towards a victim that wasn’t a vengeful spirit risen from the dead.

“Ah, I’ll come with you—I think I’m done checking on everything in here,” Shuichi said, to his surprise.

“Yes, Angie’s death is the one we should be investigating, it’d be wise to do another look around.” And Maki as well, to his dismay.

Not that he could do anything about it. He shrugged, nudging open the door with an air of nonchalance so as not to betray the tension that he felt. Whenever he looked at Maki, all he could see was her hand around his brother’s throat. Unfortunately, she and Shuichi were investigating together, and Kurochi didn’t think he’d get anywhere if he snapped that no, she could not continue her investigation that would undoubtedly benefit them all during the class trial. So he kept his sighs to himself, and stepped into the hall—

—to find a body on the floor.

His breath tore from his throat in a ragged exhale, the air stolen from his lungs and the heat from his veins. For a good minute, he didn’t understand the scene before him, because it just couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. First Angie… then Tenko… then… but… it couldn’t be—.

A gasp behind him as Shuichi and Maki exited the room startled him, scattered thoughts crashing together like on stretched elastic bands, leaving his mind more tangled than before. His head spun, eyes fixed on the body, the rhythm of his heart in his chest a rapid staccato against his rib cage.

“Kokichi!” He heard his own voice call out his brother’s name, not conscious of saying it himself. The scene looked unreal; the room spun around him. Blood. Kokichi. Kokichi’s blood. On the floor. He gaped, mouth working open and closed without another sound escaping it. Dead, his brother was—.

The bloody face rose from the floor. Kokichi’s trademark grin beamed up at them, like blood didn’t drip down the sides of his face, like a small pool of crimson hadn’t gathered where his head had been resting, and Kurochi didn’t know whether he wanted to cry or shake his brother silly for scaring him like that.

Worse still, Kokichi sprang up from the floor, graceful as ever. His laughter rang out as if he’d told some hilarious joke, but none of them mirrored his actions. Kurochi couldn’t move, feet rooted to the ground. Part of him thought that it had to be a hallucination, his shock forcing his imagination to deny the truth and conjure the image of his newly deceased brother up and on his feet. His eyes fell to the floor, to the blood staining the wood. He felt sick.

“Did I surprise you? Were you going to scream and cry in terror?” Kokichi laughed, carrying on like nothing happened.

Yes you did, you bloody jerk, Kurochi wanted to say, but the unintentional pun stirred a queasy feeling in his stomach. He couldn’t find his voice past the lump in his throat. All he managed was a hard swallow and wide-eyed stare while he waited for the tilted room to right itself. Was the room even askew? Everything in the damn world was screwed up, culminated in his own brother’s death during this hellish game they’d been thrust into. In that moment, nothing felt real to him. Kurochi could vanish from the face of the earth, and it’d still go on indifferent to his plight.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

Kurochi jumped at Shuichi’s voice, head whipping in the direction of the two others in the room. In his surprise, he’d forgotten that Shuichi and Maki had accompanied him out into the hall. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the static building up inside and finding it impossible to do. Only one thought managed to surface in the hopeless mess of thoughts and anxiety in his mind; if Shuichi saw Kokichi move and grin then Kurochi wasn’t seeing ghosts. Kokichi really was alright.

His gaze drifted back to the blood spattered against the floorboard. Not alright, actually. That didn’t seem any level of ‘alright’ to him, but Kokichi was alive for certain, and perhaps that was blessing enough in the middle of a killing game.

When Kokichi didn’t immediately respond, Kurochi’s eyes snapped back to his brother’s face. He looked faint, swaying side to side. A tight ball formed in his chest as he rushed to Kokichi’s side with quick shaky steps, placing a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder. He could feel Kokichi trembling under his touch with a motion so slight that he wouldn’t have noticed if not for the physical contact.

“Kokichi?”

His brother started. He dipped his shoulder, stepping to the side to subtly pull away from Kurochi’s touch. The grin returned to his face with greater force than before, as if to hold his dazed expression at bay. “Oh, sorry… I’m just a little light-headed from the blood loss. Yeah this is real blood…”

Silence punctuated his admission. Kurochi felt his heart twist in his chest, letting his hand fall to his side, but he didn’t say anything. Shuichi spoke up first, hesitance coloring his tone. “…Okay, so what are you doing?”

An innocent question, and yet a hot flame of anger ran through him. Just like that, Kokichi’s injury no longer mattered, even while the blood remained shiny and wet on his face. Kurochi whirled on Shuoichi, face twisted. For the first time since they woke up in that godforsaken place did he raise his voice at the other, shoving his words at him with a sharp bite to them. “Oh you know, he’s only bleeding from a head wound, what else!”

That seemed to shame him. Shuichi shifted in obvious discomfort, not daring to meet Kurochi’s glare, gaze fixed on Kokichi instead. Good.

“It’s fine, Kurochi!” Kokichi waved him off with a giggle. “I just got curious about something, so I decided to search the empty room next door. Th-then suddenly…”

Once again the grin dropped from his face, his mouth a stiff line as a queer look shadowed it. Kurochi stepped closer on instinct, hand once again on Kokichi’s shoulder with a firm grip on it. Not giving his brother a chance to back out, he reached out with his free hand to push his hair back to check on the wound. Right there on his forehead, no longer bleeding but still fresh. It took a beat longer than last for Kokichi to try and move away again, a hand at his wrist peeling Kurochi’s from his forehead. His hand came away red and sticky.

It took a moment for Kokichi to find his train of thought again to continue. “I-I stepped through the floorboard.”

“You stepped through the floorboard?” This time Shuichi had the witherall to sound concerned, although Kurochi didn’t know whether from worry for Kokichi or for the problematic floorboards themselves. As angry as the thought made him, he at least understood that much. The floorboards fit so well together that stepping through any of them shouldn’t be possible. It made for a dangerous place to walk.

“Geez, that got me good.” If Kokichi couldn’t find it in him to pretend, the pain must be terrible. With the shudders that ran through him, Kurochi feared that Kokichi really would collapse under just the weight of his hand. He clenched his hands into fists, resisting the urge to grab his shoulder again, lest he’d be rebuffed for a third time. “Cuz of this, I-I tripped and fell pretty hard.”

When Kokichi drifted back into a dazed silence, Maki’s cold tone echoed in the quiet hall. “If you’re going to lose consciousness, do it after you tell us everything.”

Kurochi never felt the urge to strike someone as much as he did in that moment. He wanted to punch that condescending expression right off that girl’s face, especially when Kokichi immediately forced a smile back onto his face and apologized for his own faintness. A head injury, he has a concussion, Kurochi wanted to snap at her. Even if she hates his brother’s guts, she could at least show some basic human empathy for a guy that looked like he was about to pass out.

He forced back the desire. Punching the Ultimate Assassin could only end poorly for a tiny, thin-armed boy who literally couldn’t throw a punch to save his life. He swallowed back the sensation of his own uselessness rising in his throat like bile, remembering how easily Maki had wrapped her hand around his brother’s throat. In the end he couldn’t do anything, just like he couldn’t now.

All unaware of how dearly Kurochi wanted to hit Maki, Kokichi told them what had happened, that a crosspiece under the floorboard was missing and caused his foot to fall through when he put his weight on it. Before he could tell them anything more than that, however, the school bell rang out, signaling the end of the investigation.

Maki looked more disappointed than she had any right to at that. “I guess… time is up.”

“Aw maaaan, it’s cuz of you guys, I didn’t have enough time to check on something…”

Kurochi sent his brother an incredulous look. When they’d come out into the hall, they’d found Kokichi face down on the ground. Although he’d played it off like a trick, Kurochi couldn’t help but think that he hadn’t intentionally laid down there waiting for someone to pass him by and think that a third person had died. Especially if he’d wanted to check on something. Kurochi didn’t think that he could’ve gotten to it regardless of their interference.

“What were you trying to check?” Shuichi asked at the same time as Kurochi said, “Maybe you should’ve been getting your head checked.”

“Aww Kurochi, that’s mean! I actually wanted to re-research the seance again, so I brought this document with me.” Kokichi held up The Caged Child, waving it before he flipped open to the page with the seance instructions on it. The three of them shuffled closer to look down at the book with him. “But unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything new that could be used as a clue. Kiyo perfectly reenacted the seance as what was written in the document. He drew his magic circle the same exact way as in this picture.”

Kokichi tilted his head, either thinking about something or fighting back the effects of his head wound. Kurochi wished that he’d been present during the seance, just so he knew firsthand what had happened during it. For the most part however, he was glad that he hadn’t been. Not that he thought that ghosts were real, but maybe it was better not to test out his theories with the supernatural like that.

And Kurochi wasn’t keen on being there when Tenko died.

A beat passed, and Kokichi continued, “Not only that, he used the same exact tools too. Nothing suspicious about this whole thing. Well, I wanted to check the finer details but…” Kokichi grimaced. “I-I’ll tell you about it later… a-at the… class trial so… see ya there…”

With unsteady balance, Kokichi turned and began to make his way down the hall. His footing seemed off, the effects of the blood loss obvious in each shaky step. Kurochi lurched forward, making it to his brother’s side before he could get too far on his own. No way was he going to let him collapse on the way without anyone around to help him back up or to give two shits about him in the slightest. Neither Shuichi nor Maki seemed inclined to care in any case, so Kurochi would have to do that all himself.

Yet they only made it a few steps more before Shuichi cleared his throat, calling out, “Ah… Kokichi?”

Kurochi glanced back over his shoulder while Kokichi slowly turned about to face him. Shuichi wore a sheepish expression, one which Kokichi returned with another forced grin. He wanted to be away before his entire facade broke, Kurochi knew, and Shuichi was making that difficult here. “Yes, Shuichi?”

“Are you… going to be ok?”

A brief silence followed the question. Kurochi looked to his brother to see that a contemplative expression had overtaken his face, mouth pressed into an oddly serious line. Or perhaps that was because of the concussion as well. But after the moment passed, a mischievous smile lit up his eyes. Kokichi shrugged and tucked his hands behind his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll die before I even get to the class trial. Nee-heehee, then you’re going to have to figure out who killed Angie without my adorable face there. I hope you cry for me, Shuichi—except no, that’s a lie. An evil overlord like me doesn’t need tears from those on the opposite side of the law, but thank you for your concern Mr. Detective. I’ll see ya soon!”

Kokichi’s grin turned sly just before he spun back around. The movement had him teetering on his feet, losing some of the effect of his little speech. Kurochi reached out to steady him, and Kokichi managed not to topple over. Once he righted himself, he continued down the hall with greater purpose, steps heavy and echoing in the empty hall. “Either in the class trial, or together in Hell!”

As the brothers made their retreat, Kurochi heard Maki speaking to Shuichi, telling him to just ignore Kokichi. She wouldn’t care whether he died or not, even if he was completely innocent. At least Shuichi had proved him wrong just now, even if he had to be properly scolded before he voiced his concern. There was hope for him yet.

Kurochi steered his brother into the bathroom on their way out. Time to get him cleaned up and to check on his injuring before Kokichi went and hurt himself even more.

[penumbra-rp]

Congratulations Aman, you have been accepted for the role of Alastor Moody!

This does mean that he has unreasonable standards for the world, sometimes. He can expect it to be…better than it is. He feels the presence of the younger order members a lot and considers it a personal failure that they’re involved. The ‘adults’ should be handling this on their own.

Admin Ash: Aman, it was all about the details when it came to your application. The fact that you didn’t shy away from Alastor’s disabilities ( the lost sight in one of his eyes and his utilizing a cane to get around after his leg amputation ), the fact that he’s so close with his little niece to allow her to interview him for her school project, the way that you carefully selected traits that showcased both the positive and negative points of his personality, even the pleasantly surprising music minor he took in school! All these things and more added something to our rough and gruff Moody that made him all the more human, all the more intriguing, and those special touches are why we can easily leave him in your capable hands. I, for one, am rooting for Order Dad Moody try to fix the world to his vision of ‘better.’ 

Please check out our checklist for joining Penumbra.

01. Out of Character

NAME: Aman

AGE: 24

YOUR BIRTHDAY: 9/11.. Why do you need this

PRONOUNS: She/her

TIMEZONE: PST

02. In Character

CHARACTER: Alastor Moody

CHARACTER’S PRONOUNS: he/him

FACECLAIM: Charlie Hunnam

CHARACTER’S BIRTHDAY: November 5th

PERSONALITY: Let’s go with 6 personality traits, and throw some negatives and positives into both of them.

Decisive

He’s not one to linger over decisions. He decides where he aligns very quickly and sticks with it unless something contrary smacks him upside the head. This includes but is not limited to how he feels about people, his alcohol of choice, and what fruit to toss in his bag for a backup snack later.

He’s a creature of habit. A lot of decisions he’s made are because they work (or because they’ve worked once).. Or even the other way around. He ate shrimp and got food poisoning once? Alright, forget shrimp, who needs it anyway.

He can usually fit things into neat boxes. We’ve got good, bad. Any shades of gray are tossed right into the bad. Better safe than sorry, after all.

Steadfast

Once he commits to something, he’s gonna do it. Doesn’t matter if it seems impossible, he’ll figure out a way. This can and definitely does lead him into some messy situations, especially because he’ll sidestep some rules to do it.

He’ll often butt heads with people who feel differently than him. It is very possible for him to argue for hours over something. He likes to think that eventually, enough reason will make someone change their mind. So yeah, he’s the old dude that gets into facebook arguments with the person who posted an anti-vaxx article. And then he’ll spend the next hour grumbling about it to everyone around him.

He’s not easily won over by the ups and downs of mass media. Whatever the hell Amazon did now is gonna have no sway on whether or not that HDMI cable is getting delivered to his place.

He can be a very strong pillar in times of doubt. He might not be the warmest, but he definitely is there to remind you you’re doing the right thing. Or call you out when you’re being a shit.

Extroverted

He gets energy from being around people. It helps him keep his head straight when he’s with company he enjoys. A lot of his friendships are built on mutual respect and bickering.  His sense of humor has grown a little twisted over the years.

That being said, he picks and chooses who he trusts very carefully. People fit in very specific roles and tend to learn about him accordingly. It’s very possible that those he works with might not know about his sexuality or that he adopted a dog last year. He tries to keep talk of work out of his romantic relationships, which has definitely led to a weird encounter or two when they stumble across his guns.

He can be pretty candid in situations and knows how to deal with the consequences of his actions/words… or at least he thinks he does.

Adventurous

He can be a bit of a thrill seeker. He’s spent a lot of his younger years with various adventure sports and enjoys the outdoors. Mountain biking, hiking, ziplining, skydiving, paragliding, and outdoor climbing have been a thing.

He’s been in a shit mood about his injuries fucking up his ability to do some of what he’s used to. He has definitely had to reassess his limits, but… he definitely gets a rush out of pushing himself to his limits.

The rush can come inside a city, too. He isn’t the type to sit still and is always poking his nose into something.

Obsessive

He can be very single-minded and has a tendency to hyperfixate. Often times, his cases take the spotlight (at the moment, it’s about The Dungeon). It can be hard for him to pull away even when work is over. He’ll spend his free time doing research, recon, lining up clues. This leads to a lot of falling asleep at his desk and then waking up with a bad neck.

Sometimes he’ll sidestep his own care while doing it. His leg, for example, definitely needs some attention every day. He’ll eat rushed meals just so he can get done faster.

The obsessions can def go somewhere else. He’ll get a crockpot and spend 3 weeks trying out different recipes and make more servings than can fit in his tupperware.

He has a lot of miscellaneous knowledge of random things.

Idealistic

His niece dragged him out to watch Captain America: Civil War a couple years back when he was visiting (shut up). Since then, Captain America is his fav superhero (fuck off, he’s never gonna say this out loud). He likes a man who knows his good from his bad and sticks up for his ideals. Doesn’t matter what the government says, what the red tape is. You should know where you stand.

This does mean that he has unreasonable standards for the world, sometimes. He can expect it to be… Better than it is. He feels the presence of the younger order members a lot and considers it a personal failure that they’re involved. The ‘adults’ should be handling this on their own.

He tends to hold himself to a higher standard, often involving pushing himself beyond his limits. He struggled a lot with losing his leg, since he still wants to do everything he could before.

BRIEF BULLET POINT BIO:

Irene Moody likes to blame her gray hair on Alastor. Honestly? She might not be wrong. A healthy baby boy should not have found himself in as much trouble as her son did. But where there’s a will, there’s a way– he’s a Moody, after all. The young Alastor collected bruises, scabs, and scraped knees like most boys collected comic books. Hell, she’d even bought a stack of them in the hopes that he’d sit down. It’d worked for the month that it took him to read through them all, and then he was jumping off beds with the sheets tied off as a cape.

It’s a good thing his mother is a nurse because the boy found himself back in the hospital on a monthly basis. His father claims that they could have bought a yacht with how many bills piled up, but as a writer, he’s always been a man of hyperboles. Alastor never quite minded the hospital atmosphere when he was younger. He’d lay back on his bed with his eyes open to all the possibilities in the white walls.

Their cozy little apartment was never quiet, between the two kids squabbling over toys, the radio cranked up to full volume in the kitchen, and the TV buzzing in the living room. His father was possibly the only person in the family who could keep an inside voice for longer than an hour. Alastor likes to think that things have calmed down since then, but their yearly Christmas gatherings show otherwise.

With a sister 3 years his elder, Alastor’s the baby of the family but was never quite treated like it. In fact, he complains that he got all of the problems with being the youngest with none of the benefits. Marie would argue back that he never actually fetched anything she asked him to so he’s not allowed to complain.  The pair would argue over everything, only ever aligning on the decision to get pizza for dinner. Leaving them alone always led to markers to the wall, ruined cushions, shredded bedsheets and, if their parents were unlucky, a food fight. Prank wars were not uncommon in the Moody household.

As a child, he picked up on concepts quickly, but would have a hard time keeping focus. His grades fluctuated as he danced from subject to subject. When he looks back, all he remembers are his red hot ears, ringing, and unable to process the long lectures from his father. Once they began, they never quite stopped. He began to dread the updating of the progress sheets that were fixed to the fridge, with more frowny stickers than smiling ones.

Alastor his report card once. He’d lied and said it’s delayed while forging his mother’s signature. For the month after, he held his breath around his parents, waiting for it to come around and smack him in the face. Miraculously enough, it never did. His sister likes to blackmail him with it even now.

At age ten, he discovered the Hardy Boys. Despite all his indecision, he latched onto the concept of becoming a detective and never looked back. The boy collected memorabilia and had about 3 different magnifying glasses. Grabbing his dad’s glasses from the other room became the mystery of the missing spectacles. Figuring out what to wear became the Closet Case. There was an unfortunate year where he insisted on wearing a detective hat at all times. He’s tried to consolidate and burn all the evidence, but a few pictures keep coming out of the woodwork… another mystery.

The kid never quite managed straight As, but he excelled where he applied himself. A little elbow grease and some late nights set him up for an admission at Hogwarts. Hit parents never quite got off his back about his performance, however, slipping away to college made it easy to unsavory hide the bits and pieces. He quickly picked a major in criminology and settled into it.

The music minor wasn’t planned. In truth, it was him foolishly following a crush into a entry level piano class. He fell in love that year. With piano, with music theory II, with the history of rock 101.

Before he knew it, his college years were over and he was thrust into a job in law enforcement. With his sights set on detective and an unwavering determination, he muscled his way into the role within a few years.  They blur together quickly as he hops from case to case, head bent down, crease between his eyebrows and small frown on his face. His days and nights are spent wrapped up in his newest obsession.

Never one to turn down a good adrenaline rush, Alastor took to adventure sports quickly. At first, it was simply a few good hikes and some mountain biking, but outdoor rock climbing, hang gliding, and bungee jumping quickly became favorites. He’d poke and prod people into trying things out.

Alastor’s the type of person who’s cut out for being a detective. He’s the type who can’t sit still when he knows he can be doing something. It’s probably why he keeps going back. The first accident involved losing his eye. The second, breaking his nose. The third, his leg’s amputation. Plenty of scars and bruises litter the spaces in between. Each time, he was put on desk duty and each time, he found a way to remind his peers that he’s still up for the job.  The loss of his leg’s still fresh but the invitation to join Operation Auror is one that he’s meant for.

Misc Headcanons/Thoughts

His colleagues are pretty smh because he keeps getting hurt and coming right back. There’s a betting pool somewhere about wtf Moody’s gonna end up getting himself into next.

He’s actually a bit of a klutz since losing his eye.

He adopted his dog, so he didn’t name her. But he really wants a dog named Jovi

His sister lives in America and his parents spend most of their time there

He has a really nice sound system set up in his place

He can play piano, guitar and is currently learning the flute

He has a bad habit of biting his nails

INTERVIEW:

i. How do you feel about your current occupation?

“Alright, kid,” Alastor starts gruffly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, looking down at his niece. A flicker of regret flashes across the ten year old’s face as she sits in front of him, worksheet in hand. He grins and gets going before she has a chance to pick someone else to interview. “Let’s get one thing straight. If I didn’t like this job, I wouldn’t be doing it. You’re gonna be hearing this damn debate your whole life.” He puts on a voice as he continues, pulling a face as he mocks the voices that he remembers looking up to as a child. “Do something you love so you’ll be happy. No, you don’t need happiness in work, just stability. Blah, blah, blah. It’s all bull. Do what works for you. You’re the only one who knows what you need… This job, though? With what I’ve got going on’d, it’d drive a guy crazy if he didn’t live for it. ”

ii. What song would you say describes yourself?

“Ah…” He trails off, scratching his beard as he thinks over it. “Ya ever heard of Akimbo? It’s by Stradeus. This beat that gets me every damn time, you can feel it in your bones. Actually, hey Google.” Alastor leans back, squinting a little to see if it lights up in response. “Play Akimbo.” He nods and sits up a little more as the music fills the room. “You can just feel the tension build in this song. It just keeps going, and going, like when you know you’re onto something.” He holds up a hand, listening, forcing his niece to sit through the rest. “And right there in the middle, it backs off, for maybe just a second to breathe. Everything’s just still, pulling itself back together, then we’re going hard again.” His fingers strum against his thigh along with the music as he squints down at his niece’s page. “What’s next.”

iii. Does reputation matter to you?

“I mean I’ve done plenty and people better damn well respect that. But you’re not gonna find me tripping over my feet trying to kiss ass for approval, if that’s what you’re asking.” He’s been told it might make things easier, sometimes, especially with all the damn red tape in the department. Alastor, mind your own business. Don’t be so rude. Be careful about how you approach them. But then, maybe in the end it just comes down to the question of how well you’re willing to compromise yourself just to take the easy way out.

iv. What is your relationship with your parents like?

Alastor doesn’t answer this question immediately. Like any relationship, it’s changed over the years, and peeling back the layers is a process that could take a couple hours in it of itself. His parents have always pushed him to be his best, whether that be in grades or etiquette. He’s taken some of the lessons, shunted others, but there’s no denying that he wouldn’t be the man he is today if not for them. But none of that is a conversation for their grandkid. “Not bad. They in your hair, kid? Get overbearing sometimes, don’t they?” he asks, deflecting any further questions.

v. What languages can you speak?

“I had to learn French in high school, but that’s a bit rusty. Damn French people get annoyed when we use English and then get snarky when we use broken French. Can’t win unless you figure out how to dislodge the sticks from their asses. Anyway, I picked up some German a couple years back when I was working on a case. Mmm, that’s about it.” He pauses, then frowns, as he thinks about the ex who taught him some Arabic, but that was only enough to figure out when her parents were talking about him.

vi. If your home was on fire and you could only save one item, what would you choose?

“We’re going to use the term 'item’ loosely and say Luna.” He gives a small nod towards the dog asleep on the rug by the… fireplace. He frowns. “Oi, that wasn’t a hint, was it? Go put out the fire and turn on the heater.” He responds to her hesitation by picking up his cane and knocking her legs gently.  He has to smother a smile as she grumbles and gets up. “Go. I’ll wait.”

vii. Which Hogwarts University faculty did you study at? The Gryffindor School of Applied Science, the Ravenclaw School of Humanities, the Slytherin School of Social Science, or the Hufflepuff School of Art?

“Slytherin, criminology. Want to know the secret, though?” He leans in a little, smiling playfully, and doesn’t wait for an affirmation before going on. “There’s a bit of puff in there. Did a minor in music. See, now get what I mean about the what you love, what makes money debate? I’ve heard everyone talk shit about the other twenty times over.”

vix. What is your social media username?

“AlastorMoody. Luckily I’ve got a unique name, so it wasn’t taken. Not gonna lie, if I had to come up with some nonsense, I wouldn’t have made one.” He might enjoy the avenue for arguing with people online, but any butchering of his name leaves him cringing. His unique name has opened up to more ridiculous puns than he knows how to respond to. Alastor shakes off the thought and continues. “Let me know if you take a look, there are definitely a few articles I’ve linked to that I think you should read.”