#this universe just. doesn’t seem like there are any limits. so there’s no tension or cohesive feeling to it. so I just end up not caring lo

[baronessofmischief]

Rebel Moon on Netflix is sooooooo soso bad guys 😂 like at least there’s space Charlie Hunnam with a Scottish accent and sometimes the main character has a flashback where she has a better haircut AND there’s a sibling duo who have the best costumes in the movie but the story? The script? The movie structure? Cohesiveness? Absolutely terrible. And there’s still 45 minutes left

[aimmyarrowshigh]

2022 Fic Roundup Meme

Total Fics Posted: 975 so far (two are hidden right now because they're for anonymous exchanges!) but by the end of the year, it SHOULD be 1,108. I've got three more exchanges due by the 31st, plus 40 #hanukkahbingo drabbles, and then hopefully daily drabbles are back now that the Star-Spangled Big Bang is over and my brain is being a little less eaten. We'll see if Fandom Trumps Hate starts eating my brain, though, because that's the longest of my remaining 2022 stuff!

Total Words Posted: By the end of the year, it should be ~175,000. Currently it's 150,181.

Total Words (of Anything Excluding Blogs) Written: Somewhere between 200,000-250,000, I think, which is pretty usual for me. Most of what I write I just kind of immediately post, but I do have some WIPs kicking around the ol' WIP folder. I didn't start using a comprehensive wordcount tracker until mid-October, so I don't know exactly!

My favorite fic story this year: Either Not In The Answer But The Question or Five Times Captain America Fucked A USO Girl & One Time Steve Rogers Got Fucked -- I'm proud of both, but in different ways. I think both really challenged some of my writing hang-ups and turned out well. I'm happy with all of the longer-than-a-drabble stuff that I wrote this year, though! And I mean, most of the drabbles, too, but there aren't any that necessarily stick out in my head as far and away better than the others.

My best story this year: Not In The Answer But The Question, although I do feel like I rushed the pacing on the last quarter because I had to make the BB deadline (hah). People seem to think it still sticks the landing, though!

Story most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion: I'm actually going to give a real answer for this one this year, which I usually don't, but I'm going to say that I thought both a smile on your immortal face and Gee, I Hope You're Ready for a Fic About Death would get a couple more hits than they have. I know neither is a massive fandom, but Beetlejuice The Musical DOES have over a thousand fics and there ARE a lot of WLW American Girl fans, so I thought both would get a little more traction than they have. But it's okay! I had a ton of fun writing them either way, and I'm really happy with how they turned out.

Sexiest Story: Five Times Captain America Fucked A USO Girl & One Time Steve Rogers Got Fucked is the smuttiest thing I've written in YEARS and I think the sex all turned out pretty well! I don't write many E-rated drabbles because it's difficult to create sexual tension within the word limit in a way that's ~satisfying, so there isn't a ton of competition haha. I am going to attempt the MCU Kink Bingo in 2023 though!

Most fun story: Ooh, good question. I'm gonna say Gee, I Hope You're Ready for a Fic About Death because it makes me laugh and because it was a really quick writing process because I was having fun. "Fun" isn't necessarily my brand when it comes to writing? For someone who only likes bubblegum pop and Disney Channel Original Movies, I pretty much only write super thoughtsy-feelsy quiet, meditative character studies, lol.

Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters: To coopt myself from the 2012 meme, “if I write a fic and it doesn’t change my feelings on the characters or fandom in some way, then I don’t think I wrote it correctly.”

Hardest story to write: I'm going to answer this with one that isn't posted yet and say my massive shrinkyclinks longfic that I started in 2021 and had hoped to finish and post this year! It's been a much slower writing process than I wanted it to be, just because I want to get it Exactly Right and because longfic makes me super anxious about My Value And Worth In This World Hinge On This Story And Whether People Like It.

Biggest surprise: Reiterating from last year's meme -- "Actually sticking to the drabbling! In the past when I tried Three-Line Fic Thursday and Five-Sentence Friday, I failed miserably, and I’ve failed myself at drabble challenges, too. But for some reason this time it’s stuck and is genuinely working to remind me that I can get words out, I can have ideas, and I can get those ideas out in words. Yay!"

A story I want remembered: I mean, if I wrote anything this year that anyone remembers fondly, that makes me happy. But I do have a soft spot for Not In The Answer But The Question.

Resolutions for 2023: FINISH LENT FROM TOMORROW (TODAY WAS TOO SMALL FOR US). BE A FINISHER. FINISH THE THING. Also, do Femslash February and a drabble March Madness again because they were really fun this year!

[thricemarked]

ON THE FAIRY REALM.

LAYOUT.

The Fairy Realm exists alongside the mortal world and it mirrors said dimension... Though, it carries its own features as this realm is indeed separate from that of mortals and other dimensions, yet those who enter it can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia regardless if they’re in a Fairy Court, the wilderness, or within figments and ruins of a civilization - though they can’t quite place their finger on as to why things are so familiar to them... This is entirely different from the mortal realm, isn’t it?

One can travel the realm like an endless world as it has a larger and theoretically infinite size than the mortal world, where it is indeed finite and limited...  As and if someone travels alone, one might become eventually tempted to become a victim to the Fae, eventually growing desperate for a guide. Although as it is infinite and not confined to any limitations, those who aren’t originally from or accustomed to the Fairy Realm will feel as if they’re travelling down corridors within a maze.

Those who are inside this realm will quickly notice that the layouts around them aren’t consistent and change frequently. This happens at extremes where if one were to sleep in middle of a barren wilderness, upon waking they might find themselves inside a ruined castle in an overgrown jungle despite never moving an inch. Let alone, an important thing to note is that this realm doesn’t tolerate to being surveyed in the slightest. As though if it were watching the creator of the potential map, the layout would change in the blink of an eye.

COMMONALITY.

The two realms of both mortals and Fae have a very strong common place in nature, albeit one realm is more disconnected from the topic. Yet, to draw those whom are curious and trying to connect with such details of their limited world... The Fairy Realm touches the mortal world in places where they have identical entrances and common feelings at the time. If the Fairy Realm decides to be a dark place at the time, it’ll create a Fairy Circle in a cemetery in the mortal world.

NATURE.

Time is on a different axis within the Fairy Realm as if it acts on a will of its own even though it is bound to the constant universal flow of marching forward. The flow of time can feel at times slower in some areas and quicker in others... Another thing of note is that if one were to spend an entire year in the realm with Fae, 100 years would pass in the mortal world. The seasons & weather aren’t bound to any external force like how the mortal world’s systems are influenced by things like space. One could blink and see a sunny day in spring, before being pulled into a snowstorm in winter.

Instead of having a static environment, the very thing that where most travel across also seems to have its own sense of mischief. Mountains, caves, trees, groves, and ruins can appear before when no such things were visible before, but they can also disappear as soon as one looks away. Rivers can seemingly change their direction at a whim and at times waterfalls can be seen going upwards, seemingly influenced by an unknown force, but it’s just a fact of the realm itself.

Although the Fairy Realm is separate from the mortal world, it is influenced by the natural tension of the other dimension as some call them sibling dimensions. If an unnatural disaster is occurring in the mortal world, things will be more difficult in the Fairy Realm — regardless if one is mortal or Fae.

SURVIVAL.

How one survives in the Fairy Realm is important, especially if they were never meant to belong in the dimension in the first place. Food & drink from the Fairy Court are commonly known to have hallucinogenic and — if one is lucky — euphoric properties. These are mainly foods, alcoholic beverages, and narcotics created to trap mortals & non-Fae to persuade them to bargain for their freedom and protection... Though, most who fall down this path end up becoming victim to the Fae’s trickery. However, if one especially has experience living in the wilderness or if they can manage to decipher the texts of left behind civilizations, the food & drink there can be trusted — if one knows what there is to trust.

THE SUPERNATURAL.

While humans tend to be naturally dispositioned to falling victim to the Fae, most supernatural beings who enter the Fairy Realm can seek peace & refuge here as they aren’t the main targets for the realm’s tricks and their main points of weakness aren’t active as if to passively keep them within the dimension longer than they normally would be. Yet, demons of full-blood or otherwise cannot enter the realm under normal means and feel unbearable pain when they’re near the realm. Full-blooded ones would quickly die if they were to enter while those that aren’t full-blooded would likely be manipulated into the Fae’s hands.

[qu-film-history-to-1968]

Effective Horror Without Graphic Violence

The film The Old Dark House was a horror film released in 1932 and follows five people as they are forced to stay at an old home during a large rain storm. The home has another five occupants, some friendly while the others pose a threat to the main characters. However, like many other films of the time period, what this film was allowed to show was heavily restricted by censorship. The film was produced by Universal and the major limitation they faced was not being able to use graphic violence. That is often a major element of horror films as it’s an easy way to create a sense of fear in the audience, so Universal and the team behind The Old Dark House had to come up with a way to create fear without resorting to violence.

The primary methods of delivering fear to the audience in The Old Dark House came down building mystery and suspense. The tension and mystery is set early in the film by one of the home’s residents, Horace Femm, being seemingly afraid himself about needing to stay in the home. He apologizes to our main characters about them being forced to stay, but doesn’t explain why he seems so fearful. Another resident of the home Morgan also creates fear in the audience. He doesn’t speak and he looks significantly more menacing than anyone else. The danger behind Morgan is also built upon by Horace and Rebecca Femm as they mention how he can be violent if he begins drinking. The largest mystery of the film comes down to Saul Femm, who all of the residents are afraid of. They don’t talk about him though, Horace for example just tries to avoid him entirely. All of these mysteries combine together to raise the tension in the home as you wait for something to happen. It makes the eventual reveal of Saul more effective, as he’s been built up for the entire film. This was all without using any on screen graphic violence, only using the character’s dialogue and actions to raise the tension until it finally snaps. I would also argue this sense of mystery continues to linger after the movie finishes. Despite not doing anything directly harmful, Horace and Rebecca Femm still don’t seem fully trustworthy. It’s hard to grasp exactly who they are and how they’ve been able to survive in that house for so long. Are they part of the evil in the home or are they truly innocent? I felt as though a definitive answer wasn’t exactly given even by the film’s end, but that also keeps the tension high leaving the film. The Old Dark House shows that even without graphic violence, it is still possible to create an effective horror film.

   Michael Jones

[jan-michalczyk-portfolio]

My journey in The Fat Club project

The critical review of my film 

It must be admitted first that the final version of The Fat Club is very different from the initial ideas. The narrative structure’s change was caused by sudden and unexpected circumstances our group has met. To begin with, the main actor who agreed to play Michael resigned only a day before planned shooting. It was clear for us we didn’t have enough time to go through another casting process once again. The idea of making the film as his POV was born due to our difficult situation. At first I was rather sceptical towards it, I never really enjoyed films shot from someone’s POV. I thought they were tedious and awkward cinematography-wise and, finally, difficult to film. However the main theme of our film is Michael’s mental state, preventing him from having a clear, rational view on reality. We decided to play on it even more which almost in a hyperbolic manner would depict his struggles. Thus, the takes and storytelling are more chaotic, less coherent as he suffers from psychotic disorders as well. According to McGregor (2022) altering the point of view can have a profound impact on how the audience interprets the scene or character’s action.

When it comes to my critically reviewing the finished project, it took me some time to gain a distance. Being completely honest and true to myself, I’m satisfied with the portrayal of Michael’s insanity through chaotic and short shots. Arcena argues (2012, p.27) that the successful portrayal of psychosis in Clean, Shaven (1993) directed by Lodge Kerrigan was achieved through including typical for schizophrenia types of hallucinations and overall disorganised narrative. That allowed it to authentically depict the chaos of insanity, making its audience uncomfortable and sometimes confused. Our final edit made it look like even he didn’t know what was exactly happening – was there a ritual? How did he get back home? Nevertheless, I believe if the idea of shooting the story from Michael’s POV had been born earlier, the overall execution of our film would be more clear and more aesthetically refined. I, as the director and the screenwriter, had to focus much more on the events and its sequence in the final edit, so naturally I had less time to polish up the overall aesthetic attributes which I initially wished to include – electronic music, flashing unnerving images during Michael’s psychosis or brief hints about Michael’s past. 

What have I learnt from this project? 

The extensive amount of troubleshooting we have had during the whole production process has, once again, made me face the harsh reality of filmmaking. This however gave me numerous obstacles to be challenged with and helped me grow as a future professional screenwriter and director. 

The most important lesson I’ve learnt is to believe my own creative instincts. It’s easy to give up when things don’t go according to plan but I seemed to have forgotten about the charm of any creative industry. If something doesn’t work, there are millions of other solutions to my problem. The only limit there is, it’s my own creativity. Unlike in science, there are no wrong or right answers. Another equally important lesson is more a reminder than anything new. That is, organisation and communication. It’s fairly obvious but incredibly easy to get lost. Everyone in our crew is just a human being who deals with their own problems outside the university. However as a team we should always be there for each other as the film is a collective goal. It’s impossible to get on well with everyone all the time but respect is key. I often felt disrespected when some crew members didn’t respond to messages or didn’t engage much but fault was also on me. Did I voice my concerns properly? Not always. Did we have a meeting regarding strictly our issues? No, we preferred to blame it on lack of time, so tensions between the group members have had an impact on the film. 

Communication, mutual respect and thorough organisation are key to any successful production. 

Reflection on my role 

This project has shown me how challenging and difficult it is to hold two roles at the same time. However at the same time it allowed me to answer my biggest question – what am I really interested in? Now I know that it’s screenwriting. As much as I enjoyed having the final decision in creative choices on set, I still was more focused on storytelling. 

Directing is about executing the story, making it come to life but screenwriting is creating it from scratch. When the script was finished, it was very interesting to see others’ reactions and thoughts of the story which allowed me to gain new perspectives. Nevertheless I feel as if my directing didn’t focus enough on the complexity of psychosis which would enhance the tragism in Michael’s story. Referring to the views of Poseck (2006), Christopher Nolan in Memento (2000) used the theme of anterograde amnesia (difficulty to recall past events due to amnesia, trauma) as a storytelling technique. He wanted to force the audience to make an effort in order to understand the scheme of the plot. I regret I didn’t play on this trope more but left some scenes too confusing, in my opinion. 

My contribution in terms of professionalism, expertise and innovation 

The three years of my study taught me how to maintain a professional attitude during the production. With acquired skills I was able to stay in touch with actors, guide them through the script and give tips. I knew I had to maintain a positive atmosphere on set which would encourage others to give their best. For example, when working with the actor playing Old Michael I would chat with him during breaks. He turned out to be a highly experienced performer and listening to his story not only allowed me to build mutual respect but was also an interesting insight from the talent’s point of view. 

The knowledge of storytelling techniques helped with writing the script which conveyed the right content. I was able to focus on key themes in the story while keeping the short format. Also when watching favourite films I started to pay attention to certain aspects such as the way characters were introduced and how they later developed. 

Finally I learnt how to innovate already known themes and tropes according to my vision. For instance, Michael’s difficult internal problems weren’t heavily based on dialogues but expressed through chaotic reality from his POV. This depicts how incoherent the world can be if you suffer quietly, not truly knowing who you are. 

[chord-of-souls]

Alcest’s Neige on his otherworldly childhood experiences

“I can’t describe it with words; it’s very astral. I think the dictionary doesn’t have enough words. I was seeing (these visions) and I didn’t know what I was seeing – a different world with different shapes and different colours – and to compare it I like to use the example of when people have a near-death experience and go away from their body, (except) I was conscious during these visions.”

“I think we all have these visions as children. I don’t believe in heaven, more intermediate dimensions – a different world. Closer to Buddhism. The universe is infinite, not only in terms of planets and stars, but also in terms of other dimensions. (We are limited by our perceptions) so we look for the infinity in terms of distance. “We all have the flashes I had as a child, and as a child we have a much more pure and fresh vision of these things but I think we can lose them as we get older. We lose our innocence and enchantment about the things that happen to us. There is a change as we get older.”

“I don’t know if I ever really want to experience (the visions again). I don’t know if what I have had is enough.”

“The screams [in my music] are not my human side, but more the frustration I have of just being a human now and not being able to feel these things again and not being able to reach this world again. (It’s something ) I can’t express well with gentle singing – they are the voice of the human condition and frustration.”

Source: https://echoesanddust.com/2012/01/interview-alcest/

Q: So, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but it seems that in a lot of the interviews you've given over time that the trigger or impetus for a lot of your music writing, at first or at least, is a childhood experience you had, almost like a daydream.

A: Yeah, like a spiritual experience, something that I know as very nice, not like a dream or a fantasy. Like a glimpse into another dimension that I gained access to.

Q: How old were you when this happened? 

A: Four or five.

Q: Oh, wow. And you remember where you were when you saw this?

A: Yeah, I mean, it happened several times. I was in the car with my parents, or at school, or anywhere. It’s like a memory that comes back to you. A memory, but not of anything that exists on this planet or that you could see.

Q: Did you ever feel frustration towards the attempt to describe those experiences or trying to express them?

A: Of course, of course. Every day, all the time. Because I feel like I'm some kind of outsider. I didn't hear about anyone having a similar experience, and I feel like I have one foot down here in this reality and another foot in something else. So I'm always stretched between two different worlds, and it creates a lot of tension and frustration. I am a very anxious person too. I mean, I have a dark side, definitely, and I try to find a harmony between my more spiritual side and a more down-to-earth and anxious side. That’s the whole point, I guess, trying to find harmony, you know?

I've always been attracted to spiritual questions like the afterlife and the essence of what we are, are we the soul, what is the soul, if we are just humans or if the nature of the soul is actually much more than just being human. That’s what I did. The existence of God, the meaning of life, what are we doing here? And these are questions that I've been asking them myself since forever, and at the same time not being religious, because I’m not a religious person, I don't follow any fucking book and I don't listen to anyone. No one is going to tell me what to believe in. I had a chance to experience something, and that's worth all the books in the world.

When I wrote Souvenirs I was still very young, some of the songs were written when I was maybe 17 or 18, I was really, really young. And then Écailles was written in my early 20s. I moved away from the South of France and went to Paris, and I started to have like a real adult life, with adult problems and everything. And it’s difficult to have this side that is so disconnected from everything and so beautiful and pure and having to live a life, with everything that it implies, all the suffering. And because I think also I am a natural nostalgic and melancholic and anxious person, that's a part of who I am. And yet, that's where it started to appear, at least in Alcest. I was involved in darker music before that, but Écailles is the first dark Alcest album. It still has a lot of beauty, it’s still very, very dreamy, but it’s an album of longing and melancholia.

When I released Souvenirs, I didn't know…. I mean, I guess I was politically unaware, because it was a very provocative record in the end. Some people felt offended by that record because it was so uplifting and so fragile. Metal is all about being a real man who wears leather and spikes and fights warriors in the north, you know? And then I came with my springtime, happy, fragile, otherworldly stuff, using the same instruments, using blast beats, using tremolo-picked riffs. But I guess I was a little bit crazy, because now I wouldn't dare do it again. 

Source: https://machinemusic.net/2020/02/19/machine-musics-albums-of-the-decade-an-interview-with-alcest/

A: Alcest is not a fairytale; what I sing about is real. I am not the only person to have lived an extrasensory experience. For me it’s a part of reality, just one that not so many people are aware of. I think we are very limited in our perceptions as human beings, as beings of flesh. If I had not had these experiences as a child I would be maybe a nihilist or an atheist, but I had these experiences and they totally changed the way I see life.

Q: That’s true. You’re not the only person to have had an extrasensory experience.

A: For example, people who have had near-death experiences. What they describe is very similar my visions. We can’t adequately describe these experiences because they’re so beyond our ability to perceive. When these people are brought back to life what they say is ‘I can’t describe it. It was so beautiful’. It changes lives. There is a book called Life After Life by Raymond Moody; it’s a classic of esoteric literature. All these hundreds of thousands of people who have experienced this are describing the same thing.

Source: https://www.invisibleoranges.com/interview-neige-alcest-amesoeurs-old-silver-key-lantlos/

“I had some flashes and visions of a place that didn’t look anywhere close to something real. I have no idea why I had this, or where it came from. It was somewhere very magical—the most beautiful thing you could ever think about. I don’t know what to call it, I don’t know what it is. I just know it has transformed me.”

Stéphane Paut is describing his first memory. For many, that would be something from our early childhood: perhaps a trip to Disneyland, or the day we started preschool. For him, however, it's a series of divine, abstract images, which he believes emanate from a time before his own birth. “It sounds strange, but I believe in life after life and life before life,” he elaborates. “Maybe some memories weren’t erased.”

“This album [Spiritual Instinct] talks about how I try to apply my spirituality to my very ordinary human life, and how I live with my darkness,” he says. “I always feel like I have one foot here and one foot in my other world. That creates a lot of anxiety and tension, and that’s where [the] heaviness comes from.”

“I’ve always felt that I don’t really fit in in this world,” he admits. “Because of my experience, it’s like I’m too alien or too different.”

Source: https://www.stereoboard.com/content/view/225460/9

“In my childhood I had some "visions" of an unknown place, of another dimension, and since my 2005 Mini-CD Le Secret, Alcest is the musical testimony of these experiences. Recently some books about esotericism have brought me some answers about that subject. At the moment I think these visions come from a place that could be a kind of "intermediate stage." The soul would rest there between two earthly lives and for some time would be liberated of the burden of incarnation. Maybe I kept some memories of this state of consciousness. I couldn't tell precisely if these experiences were sorts of memories from this "other world" or if they were an ability, which I had as a child, to catch sight of the doors of a parallel dimension, of a hidden reality. I hope these questions will be answered one day.

“What I'm certain of is that things I perceive in these visions don't look like anything I have seen in my current life or even in my dreams. It's an indescribably beautiful place where everything-- trees, glades, and brooks-- produces a pearly light and where a faraway and celestial music floats in the air like a perfume. In such a place the spirit wanders without its mortal coil and deprived of the five senses pertaining to the body. It perceives what surrounds it in a completely different way such as I couldn't describe with words. There, one no longer feels moral and physical suffering, diseases, anguish of death but only a feeling of peace and indescribable ecstasy. The place is inhabited by beings of light who are infinitely benevolent, protective and who communicate by talking directly to the soul, in a "language" beyond words. Of course, that was just a clumsy and incomplete description. To understand me fully, it's better to listen to my music.”

Source: https://pitchfork.com/features/show-no-mercy/6659-show-no-mercy/

“When I was a child, when I was very young, I would have these visions of this place and I didn’t know what it was. When I grew up, I would think back to this when people would talk about the after-life. This might sound crazy but I thought maybe I might have kept a memory of the place I was before being here. In a lot of religions there is a place like that, like in the middle. I don’t know if it was that but it seems like something very similar. Or maybe it is the future. Or another side of reality. I think we are very limited in ours senses as human beings. Animals can hear sounds we can’t, that doesn’t mean the sound doesn’t exist. So I think our sight is limited, in that sense, in what we call reality. We don’t know anything, really. That’s why the theme [of the album] is perception because we think we are in control of our bodies but our souls and perception of all that is totally different.”

Source: https://www.metalsucks.net/2012/01/19/alcests-neige-the-metalsucks-interivew/

[melbournenewsvine]

Review: Ghost Stories Athenaeum Melbourne

How do you review a show that relies on its secrets being kept? That implores you not to talk about it, lest you ruin the fun for everyone else? That’s the bind any reviewer heading along to Ghost Stories faces; to explain what the show is like, without revealing, well, anything really. Billed as a live horror movie – played out in front of you, on stage – this British horror-themed play written by Jeremy Dyson (The League of Gentlemen) and Andy Nyman (Derren Brown TV and live shows, Peaky Blinders) certainly offers scares aplenty. The question is, what kind of scares are you actually in for? I must admit, I’m not the jumpy kind, and I don’t scare too easily – which means I’m perpetually in search of something that will deliver the thrill of a proper jump-scare. The trailers certainly promised it so; filled with white-faced punters in the audience, it shows the scares, but never the stage. What is it they say about what you can’t see? Alas, Ghost Stories sits more in the deliciously schlocky, B-grade horror film space for me, rather than anything Blair Witch-worthy of genuine fear. But this doesn’t make it any less enjoyable. In fact, perhaps it makes it moreso. Three creepy stories, told with a generous swathe of winking humour, spin their narratives around a lecture made by Professor Phillip Goodman (Steve Rodgers) – a man who questions the very validity of the stories he has collected in his pursuit of the supernatural. Delivered as a lecture with montages, it’s an unusual structure for a play, and perhaps suffers from that sinking feeling like we’re back at University, rather than watching something spooky. Rodgers is excellent though, pacing it all perfectly as he brings the audience on side, before we start to question it all after something malicious or monstorous jumps out at us. First up is Jay Laga’aia as Tony Matthews, a security guard who stumbles upon some bumps in the night. Laga’aia is top tier in a role that suffers from too many long pauses – an attempt to build tension which instead just feels dull – but he capitalises on these moments, filling them with character. Darcy Brown is Simon Rifkind, a kid that finds himself on a deserted road late at night. Despite a truly cheesy (but immensely fun) horror storyline, Brown leans in – perhaps a testament to the direction of trio Jeremy Dyson, Sean Holmes and Andy Nyman, who seem to understand their source text. This is probably the best set piece of the three, accompanied by some of the best mood-setting lighting I’ve seen on stage of late. In fact, all of Jon Bausor’s production design is on point, and along with the lighting, aids in building the narrative perfectly. Special effects by Scott Penrose are fun for what they are – but in this day and age of film technology and digital SF, I wonder if Ghost Stories suffers from our general lack of wonder and amazement when something is executed live in front of us. There are limitations, after all. Nick Simpson-Deeks is slimy banker Mike Priddle in a role he feels made for. Although some of his jokes fall flat, he’s at his best when he’s not playing for the audience’s laughs. Add a fun little twist at the end, and Ghost Stories wraps itself up in a nice little shlock-horror bow. If you go in expecting to be scared off your seat, you may be disappointed. But accept it for what it is – a bloody fun night out for B-grade horror afficionados and fans of the supernatural – and you’ll be a happy little camper. BYO torch. Ghost Stories plays until November 5, 2022. Get your tickets here. Want more Melbourne theatre? Check out our list of the best theatre and musicals this month. Source link Originally published at Melbourne News Vine

[jasonsutekh]

The New Mutants (2020)

A group of mutants are brought to a hospital to learn how to control their powers but tensions increase when it’s clear they are unable to leave and their nightmares begin to gain new life.

 It was a different kind of Marvel film to the usual line, even for X-men. For one thing there was a clearer story which went deeper than the mindless light show of the larger budget films. The cast was all decent and limited to mainly just 6 characters with varied and interesting back stories which were engaging to see revealed.

 The setting had some advantages and limitations; it allowed us to share the characters’ sense of confinement but the white walls were a bit bland and chasing through similar corridors wasn’t terribly stimulating. The young characters all got to pair up except one which was a little sad for them. Dr Reyes was the only one not to have their fear shown and it’s a notable absence since hers would have been one of the most different and curious.

 The effects were done better than a few of the recent superhero installments, possibly due to there being less focus on them so more time and attention could go into what there was. The references to the larger fictional universe were fun as always and the new demon creatures looked fairly creepy, it’d have been good to know more about them.

 One reference that didn’t have the right effect was the reveal of the villains running the operation. It might have just been for the fans of the franchise but when it appeared it seemed like a promise to see the antagonist in question so it was disappointing when it didn’t occur. Perhaps it was being saved for a sequel that doesn’t seem likely to happen any more.

 5/10 -Can’t find a better example of average-

 -The rights to the franchise was bought by Disney so the planned sequels were cancelled.

-The hospital used for the film was the first mental hospital in Massachusetts.

-The comic series this film is adapted from lasted for 100 issues.

[theninaproject]

ok a little bit of (maybe bullshit) costume analysis here for your consideration: the triangle pocket on Mike’s shirt here... reminded me of the triangle symbol used on the pink triangle pride flag. (not to mention the fact the muppet poster behind him has a rainbow on it already lmao)

(the first flag pic is taken from footage of one of the ACT UP protests of the 80s)

EDIT: now that there’s confirmation from Finn that this outfit was handmade for Mike this season... I’m gonna post this again lol.

[tw for the Keep Reading section: contains references to/images of gay men in N*zi concentration camps and discusses the persecution of gay men. nothing graphic, but i wanted to put a warning just in case...]

(+ disclaimer: i am not a historian or prominent activist, any and all of this research has been conducted by myself and is limited to what i have currently seen/read. i do not claim to be an expert. some of the information i have may be faulty, plain wrong, or now outdated. feel free to let me know if you spot anything that is incorrect, has bad sources, or is disrespectful so i can fix it!)

now, while i certainly would hope mike’s struggle with identity and his feelings would become more overt over the course of the season, if this is where they’re going to officially take mike’s character, it would make sense to have the first few episodes using mostly coding/subtext to convey Mike’s confusion  until mike feels ready to talk about it and feels he has the right words so it doesn’t feel too abrupt to general viewers not as closely following/used to decoding subtext (which would also make sense because, again, in-universe he likely doesn’t have the words to describe his feelings and experience just yet).

so, without further ado, here are some more examples of the pink triangle and how these messages and their imagery could tie into a possible arc where we see Mike struggling with his sexuality this season...

the famous SILENCE = DEATH flag here also reminded me so much of Mike likely having a ‘One Way’ or ‘This Way’ sign pointed directly towards his closet in his room back in Hawkins... aka he will have to stay silent/in the closet if he stays in Hawkins or doesn’t get away for a while to ‘find himself’. now combine this with the fact that Mike is going to Cali for spring break and therefore getting a chance to get out and far away from Hawkins (and his “closet”), that makes his upcoming arc this season even more compelling to me.. if i am onto something here.

+ since this season will likely already contain heavy themes of how, over time, the continual Lack of Access to Info, Spreading Misinfo & Cover Ups, Repression, Secrets, Lies, and Mistrust as a result of those Lies = Escalation of Tension and even Death [be it a physical or metaphorical death, of self/of relationships/trust/community/etc] what with Vecna being the new big bad or whatever, it would make sense more than ever for them to tackle this side of Mike’s character this season...

as it seems like the 2019 HBO Limited Series on Chernobyl has inspired a lot of the visuals/coloring for this season (and the Duffers even managed to snag the makeup artist from the series to work on the makeup/SFX for Vecna this season), I’d imagine this quote could apply to this season’s themes just as well: “What is the cost of lies? It's not that we'll mistake them for the truth. The real danger is that if we hear enough lies, then we no longer recognize the truth at all.” and these political themes are certainly still just as relevant today as they were in the 80′s.

(separating this bit from the rest since it’s a bit of a detour from the topic as it pertains to themes of this season/series as a whole, rather than relating to specifically Mike’s struggles with sexuality..)

+ [ST4 SPOILERS AHEAD] the themes of ‘going out west’: consider the lyrics from the song that plays over Mike reading his letter from El, California Dreamin’, “i’d be safe and warm if i was in LA...” (compare this to how Will described the ‘Upside Down’ as somewhere dark, empty, dangerous and cold..) and how also in the letter, one of the lines El pens is ‘I think you will love it here [in California].’ when Cali is ...

(blue text’s source: http://picturethis.museumca.org/timeline/reagan-years-1980s/gay-lesbian-rights/info)

[the potential for any ST4 SPOILERS currently leaked Ends Here.]

now, onto the triangle symbol itself. the upside down pink triangle symbol was made infamous as a piece of pink cloth that was sewn onto the uniforms of gay men in N*zi concentration camps as a way to identify them and persecute them.

the placement of these patches was located where the right breast pocket was/would be. so maybe you can see why i immediately did a double take seeing that triangle on the right-side pocket of mike’s shirt.. again, i would certainly hope they’d get more overt as the season goes along-- but i could understand using these subtle cues to the LGBT viewers at first as a way to sort of signal that ‘hey this is where we’re going with this character’

i believe this history ties in as well with a theme in ST of how the 80′s a lot of knowledge and access to information could be more easily limited/relegated to what media you were able to see or read due to there not being an easily accessible source of endless information (and misinfo alike lol) in most people’s homes like we have now. a lot of the history on the pink triangles was difficult to divulge for a long time as well, due to the ongoing persecution of the LGBT community-- so it was unsafe or just didn’t seem wise at the time for survivors, who had already been forced to endure such unspeakable trauma, to hold onto these things which would likely only serve as painful ‘reminders’ for most.

of course, this could all just be coincidence... it could just so happen that they wanted a simple shape and the one they used was a triangle, maybe the costume designer just likes that shape for pockets, or maybe it was generally a popular design in the 80′s (i’m not a fashion expert, nor was i coming of age in the 1980′s so sorry i’m not sure either way there lol)... but if it isn’t a coincidence, i could see this being a visual representation of mike’s fears of his secret being ‘found out’ while also aimlessly signaling how he desperately wants someone who is gay to notice the signals he’s giving off-- he wants someone who understands to answer his changed demeanor as the cry for help it is. it’s even harder to ask for help when you don’t currently have the words for what it is you’re struggling with, because that isn’t me saying mike consciously was thinking these things when he chose that shirt, but rather it’s a way of conveying the subtext/what mike is feeling and thinking by the designers to the audience through recognizable symbols.

(here are some links to sources with more information on the pink triangles:

/ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLwSF9uhNQQ&ab_channel=PoweredByRainbows%E2%84%A2

/ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kj-wGkcyTL8&ab_channel=UnitedStatesHolocaustMemorialMuseum

/ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OxH1rqBAgw&t=747s&ab_channel=JamesSomerton 

/ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o84srvQAaWk&ab_channel=CambridgeDocumentaryFilms

/ https://thereaderwiki.com/en/Pink_triangles

/ https://www.nationalww2museum.org/war/articles/the-men-with-the-pink-triangle-heinz-heger)

the pink triangle was a symbol eventually reclaimed by LGBT activists and became a more well-known symbol amongst the community and then to the general public in the late 80′s/90′s. sometimes this reclamation involved turning the triangle from upside down to right-side up, as a “reversal” of its original usage, and has since been used and adapted as such onscreen... take, for example, one of the costume designs for Dr. Frank ‘N' Furter here...

(https://forward.com/culture/352199/the-secret-jewish-history-of-the-rocky-horror-picture-show/ & https://medium.com/thinking-about-queer-art-performance/rated-r-for-resistance-c6e21611a0fa)

but again.. this could all be a massive stretch so.. just take it with a grain of salt! these are purely inferences i’ve made thru my own lens where i recognize a lot of this imagery pretty immediately so i have a bias probably lol.

+ new addition post-s4: I also found it interesting the parallel between how the Act Up organization made their own shirts for protests and how Dustin makes specific mention of how The Hellfire Club makes their own t-shirts..

[panlight]

i think one of meyer's biggest problems (i mean aside from the obvious) is that to her, the characters in her book that aren't bella and edward are just set dressing. she doesn't understand that anybody could see esme, for example, as a tragic character whose human life was defined by loss and abuse, because to her, she's just a plot device. she's The Mom, full-stop. jacob's imprinting doesn't register as horrifying because renesbait is the perfect daughter who deserves the perfect happy ending (a doting husband and probably kids), and jacob is just perfect for her! he's big and strong and loyal, and he won't age and die on her! she doesn't seem to get that people could see these characters as anything other than vehicles for bella and edward's story (and renesbait's, down the line). she has exactly one (1) story that she wants to tell, and anything else is just flavor text.

though to be fair, this started as her personal fantasy. when she got a book deal, she then had to go and beef up the story, which i think is where a lot of the worst stuff comes from.

Yeah, pretty much this.

And this is why romance novels and rom-coms that focus on just one couple (vs an ensemble like Love Actually or something), usually have a pretty limited cast because, who cares? The point is the relationship between the two leads, you don't really need or want anything else. Maybe a quirky or sassy friend (Alice) and a rival (Jacob) or some sort of inconvenient girlfriend/fiancee/ex (sort of Tanya? but not really) and that's all you really need. Family might exist for funny meeting-the-parents scenes but you don't need a backstory on the parents. You don't need a backstory on the quirky friend.

But after she invented Edward, she said she couldn't imagine him without a family. He MUST have a sister like Alice. But that's not enough. SM is from a big family, Edward deserves a big family, so then she invents all these other characters to be The Mom and The Father Figure/Mentor, then The Big Brother. Then oops, Quirky Sister and Big Brother need romantic partners, so here comes Mean Sister and The Vampire-y One. And now you have this huge cast with thinly sketched (but interesting!!!) histories that she doesn't plan to actually DO much of anything with, they just exist to be The Family. None of them have a story arc of their own. I mean I guess there's sort of "Rosalie learns to like Bella" but that's still Bella-centric and is more about Bella's fantasy of a perfect forever family. Does Jasper improve his control? Is Alice vicariously living through Bella's human experiences meaningful? Does Carlisle successfully convince others to try vegetarianism? Who knows, who cares, not the point.

And then she just keeps adding more characters! The cast of the Twilight novels is huge; it's like a Harry Potter universe of characters when the storyline is a pretty insular romance. She invents all these fascinating characters who can turn into wolves and then again, doesn't follow through with anything. Does Leah find peace? Do she and Emily mend their friendship? Who is Embry's father? Doesn't matter. Not relevant to Bella's story.

There's the Volturi, who at first to seem to be about world building and lore, but then they just sit on there thrones so much they've started to petrify. They literally don't do anything! And again, to tell this story you maybe need like one leader and one scary weaponized vamp, but we get THREE leaders and a whole bunch of named vampires with different powers who again, never really get to do much of anything. What's the point of the history between Amun and Demetri when it's never mentioned at all?

Then all the visiting vampires. She obviously LOVES Garrett and Benjamin, you can just feel the "aren't these characters SO COOL?!" pulsing through the page. But other than Garrett's big speech [which feels weird because we only just met this guy. Usually a character who had been there since the beginning would have this moment, a moment that we had been building up to for four books. Maybe Carlisle gets to make his final plea for vegetarianism. Maybe Esme, always quiet, always on the sidelines, steps forward and surprises everyone with her defense of her family and their way of life. Maybe Jasper, the one who wasn't totally sold on this diet, who wouldn't have tried it at all if not for his gift basically forcing him to, gives an impassioned speech from the POV of a former human-blood-drinker that appeals to the other vampires better than any of the veggie-from-the-start Cullens could. But no, it's Garrett, whom we met like 50? 100? pages ago, but since we're told he's a Revolutionary, and a Patriot, that's all the weight we need], none of them really matter or do anything. Benjamin could have left Amun in the end and that would have been something, but, no. It's still Bella's shield that gets all the credit for saving the day. It's still her story and her fantasy. And that's fine! Certainly there are plenty of male-centered power fantasies where some average guy turns out to be the chosen one and better at something than the people who have trained for it for years and gets love and power in the end.

It's just weird that the story she wanted to tell was pretty much just Bella and Edward Fall in Love and Get Married and Bella is the Best Vampire and yet she invented all these other characters without giving them any larger purpose. They have backstories that SEEM relevant but never go anywhere. Esme having met Carlisle when she was a human teen never comes up. Carlisle's mother dying in childbirth is never mentioned during the debates over Bella's pregnancy. Emily's scars are clearly supposed to be a warning about the dangers of being involved with supernatural beings, but it's a warning Bella ignores (and that's not even getting into using the suffering of an Indigenous character to teach a white girl a lesson). Leah's dad only died so Edward could be confused about 'the funeral' and think it was Bella's; it's never really brought up otherwise. There's no reason the rest of the pack has to be so crappy to her, it doesn't go anywhere. How much would the main story really change if Edward were the only vampire and Jacob the only wolf? Sure, some plot beats would be different without Alice to predict things, or without the tension between the Sam and Jacob factions in BD, but overall you could tell basically the same story without literally everyone else.

[ragingbookdragon]

The Best Of Us

Batfamily x M!Reader

Word Count: 3,035 Warnings: Angst

Author's Note: And here we are with a Batbrother fic! Enjoy! -Thorne

It wasn’t an inferiority complex. Not really. He wasn’t prone to anger or any of the other symptoms listed under it—and he checked. Multiple times. But there was something about being the only non-vigilante in his family of vigilantes that made him feel inadequate compared to the rest. Bruce had the Justice League, Dick and Jason had their own fantastic groups that saved the day, and Tim and Damian were still in school, but even they had their groups too. Hell, even Alfred still had contacts from his days in MI-5. And yet, he had none of the skills his brothers or father had, no extensive martial arts training, master detective skills, or weapon mastery. He was completely normal—or maybe abnormal in this case. And on some level, he resented that he couldn’t be like his family—maybe he did have an inferiority complex.

***

The greatest thing in (Y/N)’s mind about still being allowed to live at home was that no matter what, there was always food around to eat—Alfred saw to it that every growing man in the house had enough to eat—that being said, their grocery bills were outrageouslyexpensive.

He balanced his tablet in one hand, the other hand adjusting the tie around his neck as he stepped into the kitchen, quick to raise the tablet in time to avoid whacking his youngest brother in the head.

“Morning,” he greeted, taking his seat at the table, just after Jason’s. A chorus of tired, ‘mornings’ came back at him and he quirked an eyebrow. “Wow, loving the enthusiasm this morning, guys.”

Jason snorted and propped his chin on his palm, watching (Y/N) for a moment. “I seriously don’t understand how you’re always so chipper in the morning.”

He huffed a laugh and took a sip of the coffee that Alfred set down. “Someone has to be the ray of sunshine in this group of gray clouds.” (Y/N) cast a glance at Dick who was shoveling eggs into his mouth. “And it seems like our eldest is busy feeding his bottomless pit.” Dick was fast to shoot him a glare, that he returned with a smile.

Just then, Tim trudged into the kitchen in an oversized hoodie and plopped down in his seat, immediately shoving the plate in front of him to drop his head onto the table.

“Jesus Christ, you guys,” (Y/N) sighed, flicking at his tablet for a moment. “You’ve seriously gotta take a day off to recuperate.”

“What do you think we do during the day?” Dick retorted, taking a swig of milk.

“Okay I think you’re confusing the entire day with the first half,” he reasoned. “When I say take a day off, I mean the whole twenty-four hours.” He glanced at everyone, and the only person who seemed to not be tired was Alfred, and that’s partly because (Y/N) believed he was immortal. “You guys are gonna run yourselves into the ground,” he said. “I just don’t think—”

“We know what we are doing, (Y/N),” Damian interrupted with a glare. “We know our limits better than you do.”

He let out a sigh and shook his head. This conversation had happened many times before and it wasn’t anything new.

“I’m not saying I know them better than you Damian, I’m simply saying that you guys should take a day to relax so that something doesn’t happen on the job that you can’t control.”

(Y/N) glanced at his father. “Dad, c’mon, you know I’ve got a point.”

Bruce hummed and flipped the page of the newspaper. “So does Damian.” He met (Y/N)’s eyes and nodded. “You don’t have to worry so much, (Y/N). We know what we can handle.”

He stared at Bruce for a moment then scowled. “I don’t even know why I bother,” he muttered, and Damian was fast to chase his comment.

“I don’t know why you bother either. You’ve never once experienced what we do every night.”

(Y/N) met his youngest sibling’s glare. “Just because I don’t stick my neck out for each person in this city night after night doesn’t mean that I don’t know what it’s like to be exhausted.”

Damian crossed his arms over his chest. “So, you know what it’s like to be exhausted from blood loss because you’ve been stabbed or shot? Or to be exhausted from saving the lives of innocent people? You do?”

“I—” (Y/N)’s mouth opened, then he snapped it shut and looked away with a darkened expression, tasting something sour in his mouth. “No, I don’t.”

“That’s what I thought,” Damian finalized, and in the wake of the uncomfortable tension, a cellphone went off.

Everyone started looking for theirs, but (Y/N) muttered, “It’s mine.”

He picked it up and put on a cheerful voice. “Good morning Angela…yes, I just got the floor plan…” he tapped at the screen on his tablet. “Do me a favor and move the people from table eight to table three. Mr. Robinson is better friends with Mrs. Grace and will certainly give us a warmer atmosphere in that area.”

(Y/N) paused and listened, then he stood from the table and pushed his chair in. “Let me get to the office and we can situate the rest of the guests for tonight…alright, see you soon. Bye.”

He pulled the phone from his ear and ended the call, then took the black backpack that Alfred was holding to him. “Thanks Alfred.”

“Of course, Master (Y/N). Have a pleasant day at work.”

He huffed a laugh, but it was anything but amused. “I have to give a speech tonight in front of the entire company and three different magazines.” He glanced at Bruce. “Think you’ll be able to attend tonight? It’d mean a lot to me.” Bruce grunted, his way of telling (Y/N) that he’d try, but to not hope for a miracle.

It was fine, he was used to parentless ceremonies and events. He cleared his throat and shrugged on the backpack, making his way to the garage door.

“See you guys later.”

***

He’d given a few speeches in his short twenty-four years, and while he’d never say he was an expert on public speaking, he did know his way around a podium. That being said, every time he had to do a speech, he felt like vomiting—nerves he chocked it up to.

(Y/N) cast a glance around the packed ballroom, quietly groaning at the massive amount of people. His own table was empty, save for Angela and thank god for him, Lucius. He couldn’t help but frown at the name tags sitting in front of the empty seats.

“Wondering where the rest of the gang is?”

He met Lucius’ eyes and gave a halfhearted smile. “I’d like to think they took my advice and took the night off but…something tells me that the night called to them.” His lips pulled downwards. “I’m not going to act like this is a surprise, Lucius. I couldn’t even get them to show up for my university graduation.”

(Y/N) smiled and stood up, grabbing the notecards beside him. “What makes you think I could get them to show up to this?” He left the table and moved to the side of the stage, waiting for his name to be called. His fingers briefly shifted to his chest, feeling his heart fluttering beneath chest, nerves causing his breathing to come in short bursts. (Y/N) shut his eyes and took a deep breath, letting a pleasant smile cross his face as the presenter called his name, and walked up the steps.

The bright flash of photography momentarily blinded him, but he smiled through it. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us tonight at the Centennial Inside Alliance Award Ceremony.” He flashed everyone a million-watt smile. “My name is (Y/N) Wayne, and as many of you know, I am a senior editor for Inside Alliance. It is my pleasure tonight to recognize Inside Alliance’s top writer for the year.”

(Y/N) glanced around the room, making sure to catch the eyes of the hundreds of guests.

“Inside Alliance was created on August fourteenth, nineteen-twenty by a group of immigrant mothers and fathers who wanted to bring knowledge of their homes and cultures to the rest of world. Some of those countries being Germany, Romania, Greece, Ireland, Italy, Israel, and many, many others.”

“The production of their valuable time and extensive care created one of the greatest magazines that is still in business today, that brings attention to the worldwide issues that many groups face, while still connecting to their roots of educating the public on cultures and groups.”

He smiled. “It is with my upmost honor that I congratulate and introduce Miss Flora Janaliyeva, one of our newest and greatest writers that has joined Inside Alliance, and the winner of tonight’s Inside Alliance Award.”

(Y/N) turned to the side and grinned at Flora as she ascended the stairs. Her long black hair was braided down the length of her back and she wore a bright and floral-patterned gown. She reached (Y/N) and he reached with his right, shaking her hand, and handed her the glass award with the other.

“Miss Janaliyeva, it is with honor and congratulations that I give you this award for your excellent talent and recognition of ability from Inside Alliance.”

She smiled brightly and accepted the award. “Thank you, Mister Wayne, the honor is mine.” He nodded politely once more and descended the stairs as she began her speech, quietly taking his place back at the table.

“Well done, Mister Wayne,” Lucius smiled and (Y/N) let out a deep breath.

“I’m just surprised I was able to do that without stuttering or panicking.” He glanced over, smile lowering slightly. “Lucius, are you alright?”

The older man dabbed at his forehead and nodded, though when he breathed, it sounded labored. “I’m fine,” he assured, then reached up to rub at his chest.

(Y/N) shifted. “I don’t think you’re alright Lucius.” He leaned over. “Are you having chest pain?”

“I—yes,” he grit out then met (Y/N)’s gaze. “My chest is getting—tight and I…and I—”

He started to slump over and (Y/N) shot to his feet, eyes widening with fear. “Lucius!” The yell startled the crowd and Flora, who all looked over at the two.

(Y/N) pulled the older man back and pressed his ear to his chest, listening. He pulled away and yelled, “Someone call an ambulance! I think he’s having a heart attack!”

He helped Lucius to the floor and immediately pressed his palms to the man’s chest, starting compressions. His breath came in panicked spurts and he kept looking at Lucius’ face.

“Just hand on Lucius. You’re going to be okay.” (Y/N) kept at it until the EMT’s arrived and they knelt beside them.

“Let us take over.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, too afraid that if he did, Lucius would die, but one of the EMT’s placed a hand on his shoulder while the other slide their hands underneath (Y/N)’s.

“Son, we’ll take it from here.”

(Y/N)’s arms went slack, and he let the medic pull him away, watching as they took over and started moving him onto the stretcher.

“Please, save him. He’s—he’s friends with my family I—”

The medic nodded firmly. “We’ll do all we can.”

And all (Y/N) remembered was someone ushering him into a taxi heading for the hospital.

***

The first people that arrived were Lucius’ family who were grateful for (Y/N)’s actions, but the young man could barely grimace as they disappeared into the hospital room, leaving him sitting outside, his head in his hands. Tears gathered in his eyes as he thought back to what the ER doctor told him.

***

“Mister Fox is in a stable condition, but you have to understand, Mister Wayne, his heart is very weak.”

“But—but he’ll be okay right?”

“Based on Mister Fox’s past conditions, he’s verging into heart failure. His heart is too weak to keep up with what the body needs.”

“And…and what does his body need at this point?”

“At this point? A new heart.”

***

He sucked in a breath and fought to keep the sob from escaping his throat, just as heard, “(Y/N)!”

His head shot up and he saw his father and older brothers coming down the hallway. (Y/N) clambered to his feet.

“Dad I—” he started, but cut off as he choked on a sob, and Bruce pulled him into a hug, holding (Y/N) as he sobbed. “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I tried my best but—”

“Shh,” Bruce hushed, a firm, but gentle hand coming to rest at the back of his son’s neck. “You did all that you could.”

He pulled back and wiped his face. “But Lucius needs a new heart, and I don’t know what to do. I should’ve seen this coming. He hasn’t been feeling well the past few weeks and I—”

“(Y/N),” his father said firmly, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. He met Bruce’s eyes. “This wasn’t your fault.”

His libs wobbled and he whispered, “But if I were like you guys, I would’ve seen something earlier. I didn’t and now…” sighing, he added, “and now Lucius needs a new heart, or he’ll die.”

Bruce’s sigh was heavier than (Y/N)’s and it made his chest heavy. “We’ll get Lucius a new heart, (Y/N).”

He lowered his head and lamented, “I’m sorry, dad.”

His father squeezed his shoulder then lead him towards Dick and Jason. “Take (Y/N) back home for the night. I’ll stay here with Lucius’ family.”

They nodded and led their brother down the hall, arms firm across his shoulders in a comforting way. They didn’t say anything, knowing that there wasn’t much to offer, but their support was enough for (Y/N), even if he felt horrible.

***

For being the World’s Greatest Detective, his son was evidently the World Best Hider, because it took Bruce a long time to finally find (Y/N). He stepped quietly over to the form sitting on the ledge and took a seat beside him, silently gazing out at the backyard. A bottle appeared in his vision and he focused on it as the smell of whiskey reached his nose.

“Where’d you get that?” he asked but took the bottle anyway.

“Jason gave it to me earlier.” He watched Bruce take a sip. “Figured it fit the occasion.”

Bruce chuckled. “That sounds like Jason’s way of dealing with a problem.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, passing the bottle back and forth, simply enjoying the calm around the manor and night.

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?” Bruce suddenly said.

(Y/N) sighed and set the bottle down, kicking his legs out off the roof. “Lucius said he hadn’t been feeling well recently. And I just passed it up to getting older.” He looked at his father. “If I’d actually paid attention, then I would’ve seen the symptoms.”

“Do you actually know what the symptoms of heart failure and heart attack are?”

“I…no, not really.”

“Then you couldn’t’ve known.” He looked at (Y/N). “Lucius works in my office every day. If anyone should’ve known and seen it, it should’ve been me.” Bruce shook his head. “But you did everything you could at the awards ceremony, and that saved Lucius’ life tonight. You did good.”

“I could’ve done better.” (Y/N) muttered. “I should’ve. I’m your son and I’m practically useless to the family but—”

“Woah, woah,” Bruce interrupted, brows furrowing as he asked, “What are you talking about?”

(Y/N) turned to him. “I am the least useful person in this family. I mean you and the guys are these crazy intelligent, vigilante master detectives and I’m just me.” He wiped away a tear that fell from his eye. “I can’t speak seven different languages or solve murder cases with a single strand of DNA left at the scene of a crime. Hell, I can’t even throw a punch.” He sighed heavily. “The last time I tried, I broke my hand.”

Meeting his father’s gaze, he said, “I just want to be like you guys.” He lowered his head. “I just want to be normal and not an outlier in the family.”

Bruce simply stared at him for a long moment, and while he’d never been privy to let his emotions show on his face, he let them this time—shock and shame. Shame that he didn’t see his greatest achievement suffering.

“(Y/N).”

He didn’t look up at first, but then he did. “Yes sir?”

“How long have you felt like this?”

(Y/N) shrugged. “Forever?”

His father sighed. “Son, I…I never wanted you to be like us.”

He gaped at Bruce. “What?”

“(Y/N), every person in this family is driven to do what we do because of our childhoods. You’re the only one who doesn’thave any skeletons in his closet.” He stared at him. “We wish every day that we could be like you and not a day goes by that we don’t think that.”

“I…what?” he floundered, absolutely bewildered at the idea that his father and brothers wanted to be the most boring person ever. “There’s no way that’s true.”

“It is.”

“No.” (Y/N) huffed. “I’m me. I’m plain and boring, work a nine to five job me. I mean I write for a magazine for god sakes! And you guys save the world!”

Bruce chuckled. “And what we wouldn’t give to be just a bit more normal like you, son.” He shrugged. “You think you’re inferior because you’re not a vigilante, but you’re the one thing that keeps us all sane. You give us the perspective of someone who isn’t what we are. Of someone who’s completely normal.”

He reached over and placed a hand on (Y/N)’s shoulder. “And being normal? Being you?” Bruce squeezed firmly. “I don’t want you to be anyone else.”

(Y/N) gazed at him, and though he felt tears in his eyes, he didn’t blink, didn’t let them fall. “I’ve only ever wanted to make you proud.”

Bruce smiled heartfully. “You do, (Y/N). Everyday. Because you’ve always been the best of us.”

[jangofctts]

Are You in Or Out?

Rated: Explicit 

Word count: 11.5K yall I am SORRY

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

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

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

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes—

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

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

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

Reckless.

An invitation for disaster. 

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

Maybe. 

                                                       -=-=-=-

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

“Are you sure, kid? This could—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need the extra baggage.”

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                 -=-=-=-

Well—the cynical part of you was right.

It did end up in a fiery shit show. 

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t matter at this point…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eh.    

Could be worse. 

At least you aren’t dead. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You huff. “Wow. Thanks, Paz.” 

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

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

Damn it.  

                                                     -=-=-=-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Boy—“

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

You wince. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “Poor guy…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not if they take you by surprise.” 

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

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

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

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

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

A triumphant smile splits across your face—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aha! Yes!

Your reign of victory is short lived, however—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You purse your lips. “Huh.”

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

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

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

“She isn’t made of glass.” 

“She is still recovering—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here you are—asphyxiating.   

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

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

“Din—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, oh—

Isn’t it worth taking the risk? 

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

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

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

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

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

“Take me like you mean it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck—

Will he even fit?

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

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

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

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

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

“Paz—“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish I could kiss you.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paz shifts, reaching for your abandoned shirt and stars—

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

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

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

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

“Cant see anything either, right?” 

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

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

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

“You need a haircut, vod.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Din’s kiss is devouring—  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Neither will your arrogance.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Din. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maker—

You’re gonna fucking explode.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug it off.    

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

“You love her, don't you?” 

translation:

vaar’ika--pipsqueak 

or’dinni--dumbass idiot 

vod--brother/comrade 

tag list: 

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

[lowkeyorloki]

Stolen

yes i already posted a fic today... but i didn’t want to wait for this one ;)

smut, only 18+ please

~

Loki Laufeyson has never done anything in his life but take.

He doesn’t say that to make himself out to be a villain. He’s not fighting for some noble cause, he’s not under some impression he’s an entirely moral man. No one is.

But Loki is somewhat justified. He was stolen himself. By taking, he was simply getting back what the universe had pulled away from his grasp.

Loki was done giving, is really what it was. He pledged, all the way back when he found out he was a Jotunn, that he would never give again.

You were no exception.

Loki took everything from you- your love, your lust, your whole being really. Well, you gave it to him. Loki was a prideful man though, and he liked to pretend in the back of his mind he was the one in control, even if that wasn’t always the case.

He’s pretending that now. 

You’re nude, just like Loki, and your back is pressed against his bedsheets. You’re all around the room, your pants your moan, your sweet smell. Loki dips down, taking your nipple in his mouth, and moans. You taste sweet too, like honey. Like the most expensive wine on Asgard, catered specifically to Loki. That was what you were like. You were a drug to him. 

You want him, right now, all of Loki. You don’t seem to be in a teasing mood tonight, and in all honesty, Loki isn’t either. He feels a carnal desire in the pit of his stomach when he looks at you. You, with your messy hair and blown-out pupils. Arching your back off Loki’s bed just feel your skin against his for a second.

You were a needy girl. Naughty, at times. Just the way Loki liked you to be. 

Loki’s prepped you for his cock already, letting you fuck yourself against his fingers for a bit. He licked your juices right off his hand, letting you watch as he did so. You had trembled underneath him, surely holding back a whimper. You always did that. Loki hated it, when you hid your pleasure from him. But it was no matter, it was always apparent at one point or another. 

Loki lowers himself to catch your lips against his before he enters you, feeling sparks behind his closed eyes when you bite down on his bottom lip. It’s one of those nights sex is more of a physical act than a loving one, when you and Loki both needed to relieve the tension. 

And Loki wants you right now, he even needs you. You’re so eager, so ready to want him back.

Loki kisses his way down your body, between your breasts and stopping at your lower belly, just above where you need him the most. Your muscles shake with anticipation, and Loki grants you a searing kiss on the inside of your leg. It’s going to leave a mark, one Loki will surely revisit later. 

Loki draws in a breath as he enters you, watching his own cock disappear into your willing body. Your nails rake down his back, and Loki prays there will be scratches tomorrow. Anything to remind him of you.

He thrusts, so deep inside you he almost fears you’ll break. But that’s something about you Loki loves so much; is that you never do. You cry and you scream and sometimes you become a different person entirely- but you’re always there the next day, picking up the pieces of yourself. It’s admirable, it’s enviable. Loki doesn’t dwell on it, it makes his heart too full.

Almost as full as you. Loki is so far inside you, your warm walls clenching around him. Your hips cant every time Loki’s do, as if he is the governing force of your body. 

“You’re alright.” Loki says, voice as steady as it can be when you’re making him feel so good. You squirm underneath him, struggling between needing to adjust to Loki’s girth and needing more. Loki shushes you, threading his fingers with yours as he allows you the time you need. When you’re ready, Loki exits and enters you again, setting a swift pace you can both handle.

Watching you experience euphoria is a priviledge, one Loki doesn’t ever want revoked. He reaches between your bodies, his fingers quickly finding your clit. He catches sight of your cunt when he does this, and feels his cock throb inside you. You’re so wet, the curls at the base of Loki’s girth glistening where they’ve touched you. Loki revels in the moment, knowing this part of you was Loki’s. The rest of you he had to share with the world, but this part- the awe-inducing, intoxicating, earth-shattering orgasm part- was Loki’s alone.

The rest of the world. What would they do, if they say you like this? At the mercy of someone else, red-faced and breathless and absolutely wrecked. The idea of Midgardians looking at Loki, knowing he was the one to provide you such excitement, makes him stroke your clit faster. You let out a cry from underneath Loki, begging for more and less all at once. Between your body, your smell, your noise, Loki almost comes right then and there. But years of self control spare him the humiliation, lets him focus on you.

“So wet.” he coos, driving you as close as possible to your limits. “Is it all for me, love?” your answer if muffled, toyed with by the sheets. Loki bucks his hips, causing you to let out a moan. “I can’t hear you.” he growls. You open your eyes.

“All for you.” you say breathily. You’re about to say more, but Loki silences you with a kiss. That was enough surrender for tonight. 

“I’m going to cum. Fill you up with my seed, ruin any other lover you may take if I haven’t done so already.” he had. The first time Loki fucked you he took away every other man’s ability to provide for you. It was selfish to do, but Loki couldn’t help it. Everything about you was delicious, and Loki wanted everything about you to be his. 

He makes good on his promise, coming inside you with a shout. You knit your eyebrows when he does, sweat forming an even sheen on your forehead. Drops of Loki’s seed trickle down your legs as he eases himself out of you. Loki gathers them on his fingers, then inserts his digits back inside you so you can have your release.

It’s not often that Loki lets himself come first. You’re the only one he’s been comfortable doing it around. But, when Loki’s head is light and hazy with afterglow, he can coax you to the edge, watching you respond and react to his touch with more efficiency than if he were still chasing his high. That’s what Loki does now as follow suit, your moans echoing off the small room. 

Your body goes limp, so Loki gathers it in his arms, placing chaste kisses to your head and murmuring what’s practically a love letter in your ear. 

Loki was always taking from you.

But for the first time in years, he was also giving. 

[winterscaptain]

figure it out.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: this has been in my wips for literal months as i’ve done my best to get it just right for yall. i hope you enjoy it, and tell me what you think! There’s an addendum to this one, and i’m already working on it, but we’ll see a few more things before that’s ready :)

words: 3.5k warnings: sex mention, sex implication, language

summary: “love is like a backache. it doesn’t show up on an x-ray, but you know it’s there.” - george burns. au!january 2012. 

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | requests closed!

You roll over in bed when your alarm goes off, but you don’t get very far. Aaron throws an arm over you and pulls you back to him with a grumble. 

You huff a laugh and wiggle up against him. It’s all a tease and you both know it - there isn’t any time to get up to anything fun before work, but it’s far too entertaining to rile him up.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” His voice escapes his lips between your shoulder blades and you can feel his smile. 

“Oh, trust me, babe. I can finish.” 

He hums, his smile breaking out into something real. “I noticed.” 

+++

When the two of you finally make it out of bed (surprisingly still on time), you grab one of Aaron’s scarves and a hat on your way out. It’s your turn to drop Jack at school today on your way into the office, and the task serves two purposes. 

The first? It’s nice to spend time with Jack, just the two of you, when it’s your turn and you’re not on a case. It’s the same for Aaron, who always leaves a little earlier so he and Jack can sit down somewhere and have breakfast together.

The second is pure logistics. You two can’t show up to work in the same car at the same time, so a convenient excuse to separate and stagger your arrivals is welcome. 

“Really?” 

Aaron’s question stops you at the threshold and you look over your shoulder “What?” 

“My hat? My scarf?” 

It’s almost too tempting to cave when he’s looking at you like that - his tie hanging around his neck, shirt untucked, arms crossed, and playful frown hiding a smile. 

“Yeah. It’s warm and it’s here and we’re late.” 

Jack squints up at you and says, “We’re not late.”

“You’re not late.”

The observations come within split seconds of each other and you laugh. 

“Fine. Not late, but warm. And you have more hats.” You scamper back into the house to plant a kiss on his lips, smoothing the hair at his temples. 

Jack’s laughter is the underscore to your next quip. “You’re very handsome and I’m sure you’re very smart so you can figure it out.” 

“Yeah, Dad,” Jack chirps. “Figure it out.”

He has nothing to say to your retreating forms as he catches a glimpse of your smile through the crack in the closing door.

+++

Emily and Spencer are away at a conference-book-signing thing, so it’s just the five of you and Penelope this morning. You’d normally figure that would be Rossi’s purview, but apparently - 

“My book-signing days have been put on hold indefinitely in favor of -”

“ - He’s back.” Garcia interrupts, tossing case files at all of you. The conversation is cut short and you suppress a smile. “The Marin headlands last night.” 

You can see Aaron’s lips pull as well. 

It’s the little things. 

Penelope gestures with the notes and crime scene photos appear on the screen. “David Atley and Nicole Puli, both 24, both grad students at Berkeley, shot multiple times in their vehicle-- wait for it--” She clicks again and a familiar sigil appears. 

“The Zodiac?” Morgan’s shock is almost sardonic in its delivery. 

Rossi snorts. “No way.”

“Come on,” Derek says, amused, while JJ chimes in as well. 

 “It's gotta be the 2.0 version.”

While neither of you speak, you share a glance with Aaron. You’re kidding. 

He only raises his eyebrows for a split second and shrugs. 

There’s some part of you a little paranoid that you’re the most obvious couple to exist in the history of the universe. Sure, the team has been teasing you about your friendship for years, the will-the-won’t-they of it all, but now that it’s real you’re almost terrified that they know everything. 

Thus, the overcompensation has been wretched. You and Aaron barely look at each other in the field if you can help it (which you usually can’t) and he tends to put you with Derek more often than not. 

In truth, the others have noticed, but are far too interested in the spectacle to say anything. Emily’s almost certain the two of you have slept together, and Dave may or may not have suggested the possibility of a secret marriage during your period of suspension. 

However far-fetched and ridiculous their theories, they know you two well enough to know that something happened. The tension is gone. 

Derek almost finds himself missing the tension. There hasn’t been much to tease you about lately in its absence. 

“Yeah, you would think so, except for the crazy similarities in the MO.” Penelope clicks through the photos as she talks. 

“I'm talking same victimology, same geography. And,” she adds. “Two souvenirs were left at the crime scene.” She clicks once more and stands back for the full effect. 

“He left a photo?” Rossi asks.

She hums in the affirmative. “Local police say that is Marcia Miller. She was found near Napa in 1971. Strongly suspected that she was a victim of the Zodiac, but police never confirmed it and they didn't publicize the case.” 

Morgan’s still squinting at the screen. “So the Zodiac took this photo at the killing and then saved it all these years?”

“The Zodiac's last confirmed victim was the cabdriver Paul Stine,” Dave notes devolving into a conversation about The Zodiac, his timeline, his signature. 

It’s nothing new - The Zodiac Killer’s case details are common knowledge in your line of work, nevermind the sheer number of copycats that try their hand at the highly-ritualistic murders before inevitably getting arrested. 

There’s a reason this guy hasn’t been caught in forty years. 

After a few minutes of bouncing between you all, Hotch pushes back from the table and stands. “Have Reid and Prentiss meet us in San Francisco. Wheels up in 30.”

He heads straight to his office to collect his things and you swing in by the tips of your fingers for just a second. “You wanna call Jess or do you want me to?” 

In the middle of throwing files in his briefcase, he doesn’t look up when he answers. “Can you, please? I was supposed to meet with Strauss this afternoon and need to stop by her office before wheels up.” 

You smile at him, tapping the door frame twice. “You got it.” 

+++

It’s boots on the ground right away when you land in San Francisco. You drive to the crime scene with Aaron in the passenger seat beside you and JJ in the back. The radio’s on, and you sing under your breath, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel as you make your way up to the crime scene. 

Before you get to the local FBI agents, JJ catches you by the sleeve. “It’s nice to have music in the car again.” 

You just smile at her. Aaron looks a little puzzled. 

The three of you wipe the looks off your faces by the time you get to Agent Lynn. 

+++

“What did JJ mean?” Aaron asks you. 

The two of you are alone for the time being, posted up in the conference room with the old Zodiac case files. You look up. “Hmm?” 

“What did she mean when she mentioned the music earlier?” 

“Oh.” A little flush of embarrassment shoots down your gut. “Derek pointed out to me last summer that I didn’t play any music in the car.” 

...while you were gone is the thing you don’t say, but he knows that’s what you mean. 

“I didn’t really notice.” You shrug to cover your fib. “I guess I’ve reacquainted myself with the radio in the last couple of weeks.” 

Aaron hums, returning to his work. Something’s off, but you’re sure it’ll come up later. 

+++

“You don’t think it’s really him, do you?” You ask, unbuttoning your shirt and throwing your pajamas on. 

Surprisingly, this case seems to be one of those that allows for sleep at regular hours. For that, you’re grateful. It’s much harder to find time to wind down with Aaron at the end of the day when you’re all forced to sleep in shifts. 

Aaron shakes his head, “No, I think Reid’s right. We’re looking at a particularly sophisticated copycat.” 

“Isn’t that kind of worse?” Hopping up on your bed, you curl up and look at him over your nose - a clear invitation to join you. 

With a huff down his nose and a little smile, he flops down beside you and props his chin on his arms over your belly. “Could be. Luckily, we have Reid.” 

You almost think he’s going to say something else, but he gets that pensive look on his face again. 

“What?” 

With a sigh, he says, “I’m just thinking about what JJ said.” 

“Oh, Aaron -” 

He doesn’t let you finish. It’s probably a good thing. You didn’t know what you wanted to say anyway. 

“I knew how hard it was on me, but I’m realizing more and more how hard it was on you, too.” He shakes his head. “I feel ...I don’t know. I feel like I should have known better… or something.” 

Winding your fingers in his hair, you sit in silence for a moment. He doesn’t have anything more to say and eventually he crawls up your body and settles in under your arm, his head on your chest and legs wound between yours.

Sometimes, you’ve found, he likes to feel small.  

“You’re safe and you’re home. That’s what matters.” You kiss the top of his head. “And I love you.” 

He hums, arcing into your touch and wrapping an arm around your waist. “I love you.” 

+++

You spend much of the next day chasing Spencer around the city, keeping notes handy (for yourself, not for him - he doesn't need them) and reporting back on his discoveries to the team like some kind of overwrought and hyper-trained secretary. 

Stepping off to the side, you answer a call from Aaron. 

“Hit your limit yet?” 

You look over at Spencer, who’s flipping through a newspaper like a man on a mission. “It’s actually kind of entertaining.” 

And that’s actually true. Watching Spencer push the limits of his intelligence is always a treat - it happens so rarely you almost forget how much you enjoy it every time. 

He huffs into the phone. “Hang in there. We’ll all meet back at the precinct once Reid’s done -”

“Doing magic?” 

“Exactly. Keep me posted.” There’s a pause. It’s an odd little habit you two developed in the field to leave space for the words you can’t say in front of the others. 

I love you.

“Me too.” 

+++

You’re almost asleep when a sliver of yellow light shoots across your room, promptly disappearing as the door to the hallway closes. 

He pads across the room and slips under the covers. “Hi.” 

A little smile crosses your face as you roll over to face him. “Hi.”

Before you can say anything else, his hands are on you and he’s half on top of you as he captures your lips. 

Needless to say, the lack of sleep is worth it. 

+++

Emily, long after she and Aaron are the only ones left in the precinct conference room, squints as she notices something right under his collar. 

He’s already loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt, no longer standing on ceremony now that all the local police have retired and the rest of the team gone up to their hotel rooms. There’s not much to do, but the compulsion to get ahead for tomorrow is one neither one of them can shake. 

What Aaron failed to remember when executing his wardrobe adjustment was the rather...spirited romp in your room the night prior. The little purple swatches painted on his skin just under the line of his collar stood out stark against the crisp lines of his dress shirt. 

Fortunately for you, there was no way in hell the rest of the team would find anything he left on you last night. 

Emily reaches into her purse and pulls out a tube of concealer and a powder compact. Though he’s more olive-toned than she is, it’ll be good enough in a pinch. “Hey, Hotch.” 

He looks at her over his nose, his eyes tired. 

“You might want this for tomorrow morning.” She pushes the crisis control kit across the table to him, but he only frowns and deepens his squint. 

By way of explanation, she reaches across the table and presses the tip of her finger into one of the visible bruises in the hollow of his throat. He flinches, freezes, and then immediately drops his head into his hands. 

It’s easy to say Emily is amused in the extreme. “Those look...really fresh.” 

He shakes his head, insisting as he picks up a file at random, “They’re from before we left.” 

It’s only because it’s Emily that he’s even humoring this conversation. 

“No they’re not.” She sticks her tongue firmly in her cheek. “These ones are though.” She points at yellowing marks on his collarbone and he smacks her hands away. 

“And I know what fresh hickies look like, Hotch. Those are fresh fresh. Like, last night fresh. And we’ve been here for four days.” She frowns, tracking back through the day. “When on earth would you have time to -” 

A series of images flash through her head, random wayward connections flashing together in an alarmingly clear picture.

You, avoiding her at the office back in September with quickly-covered marks painted across your neck.

You, flirting with Sean and having way too much fun doing it, looking over his shoulder at ...someone else.

Hotch, in a perpetually good mood (for him, anyway, and despite looking ill-slept) for the last five months. 

The way the mistletoe kiss at Dave’s Christmas party looked way too easy, too familiar. 

And now, the obvious indicators that Hotch is not only getting it, he’s getting it good. 

If he got those last night…

Wait. 

Their hotel rooms are right next to …

Oh my God. 

Hotch watches the realization flash across Emily’s face, and he knows you’re both busted. Instead of losing her shit like he expected, Emily just leans back in her chair - smug. 

“So. Are you still Not the Boyfriend, or has there been an update?”

He sighs. 

The corner of her mouth tips up. “How long?”

“For which part? The not-boyfriend part, the boyfriend part, or this part?” He gestures vaguely to the space behind his tie, and Emily snorts. 

“Just spill it.” 

Holding up a finger, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, dialing the first number on his speed dial. 

You’re hardly asleep, sitting up in bed waiting for him with a case file in your lap, when you get the call. You’re not sure who’s listening, so a “Hey, Hotch. What’s up?” will have to do. 

“Emily knows.” 

You straighten. “How?”

“Doesn’t matter. She knows.” 

There’s a scramble, and suddenly Emily’s on the other end of the phone. “He’s got very questionable and very fresh bruises just under his collar. Care to explain?”

There’s another shuffle. 

“Ignore her,” Aaron says. With a hand pressed to your forehead, you understand the question implicit in his phone call. 

“Just tell her. It’s basically her fault, anyways. If she hadn’t ditched it then we’d have our heads up our asses for another five years.”

“Alright,” then, after a second of realizing you don’t sound sleepy at all, “Go to bed.”

“I’m in bed.” 

He rolls his eyes. Emily can only look on with amusement, gleeful in the extreme. “You know that’s not what I mean. Go to sleep.”

“Alright, alright. Fine.” You reluctantly close the casefile and put him on speaker so he can hear the light click off. “I’m going to sleep.” Then, “I love you. Come up soon.”

“Okay.” He shoots a glance at Emily. Because he’ll never hear the end of it anyway, more ammo won’t hurt at this point. “I love you too. Now, really. Go to slee -”

You hang up on him. He double-takes at his phone for a moment before shoving it back in his pocket. 

He’s met with Emily’s surprisingly moved eyes. “You’re...okay.”

What she means is, You’re happy. 

He knows. 

He nods. “I’m okay.”

She puts her files down and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table and lacing her fingers. “Tell me.” 

So, he does. 

He tells her about the way you stuck to him like glue through the divorce, the way you wiggled your way into Haley’s heart, captured the love of his son, and earned the trust of his entire family. 

He tells her what Haley said in the hospital, the tenacious care you showed his unyielding and unwilling ass when he was healing, the way your grief soothed his in the wake of Haley’s loss. 

He tells her about the moments of euphoria in the years of want and doubt and fear. 

He tells Emily about the day she died, how there was nothing more painful than that necessary lie. He tells her how easy it was to lie to the others, how it ripped him in half to lie to you. 

He tells her about the day he left for Pakistan, about the fight the night before, the kiss he pressed to your cheek on the tarmac, the endless, wretched nights missing you in the desert. 

He tells her about the fight when he finally came home, skims over the following days, jumps and meanders around to Christmas, to moving in, to the bliss that now seems to follow him wherever he goes. 

Emily watches the smile that plays at his mouth when he talks about you, the softness in his eyes as recalls the look on your face and the words you said and the way you are with Jack. There’s a kind of peace in him that she’s never really seen before. 

Maybe, she imagines, it was there before she met him (the second time). Maybe this peace existed with Haley. Maybe this is the most she’s ever heard him speak at once. Maybe it makes her smile. 

Maybe this peace is what his love looks like. 

If that’s the case, she thinks, you are very lucky indeed. 

It could have been hours, it could have been minutes, but at some point he stops talking. 

“Hotch?” 

He looks over at her, the softness lingering in his eyes. 

“I’m really happy for you.” 

His lips twitch. “Thanks.” 

“And you know it’s my God-given right to tell everyone else once this case is over, right?”

+++

You actually are asleep by the time Aaron gets back to the hotel. He leans against the wall in the dark with his hands in his pockets, enjoying the peace before the inevitable shitshow. 

He crosses the room and crouches at your side, running the back of his fingers over your cheek. You stir, sleepy noises leaving your throat as your eyes crack open. 

“Aaron?”

“Yeah. Just me.” 

You smile a little and close your eyes again. “How’d she take it?”

“Remarkably well.” He kisses your forehead. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“No,” you whine, drawn-out and slurred. “Don’t leave. Stay. I set an alarm.”

With a resigned sigh, he strips and slides into bed behind you, wrapping you in his arms and holding you close. 

+++

You and Aaron sit on proverbial pins and needles for the rest of the case, but Emily keeps her word. The only indication of her knowledge came the morning after her chat with Aaron, when she pulled you to her and hugged you so tight you could hardly breathe. 

She seizes her moment on the plane, about halfway home. 

“Derek, you owe me fifty bucks.” 

She hardly looks up from her book as she speaks. 

He takes off his headphones and wrinkles his brow. “What?”

She repeats herself, slower, as if she was speaking to a child. “You. Owe. Me. Fifty. Bucks.”

“...Why?” 

Emily finally looks up from her book to pointedly stare at you and Aaron, seated next to each other and sharing a bag of Goldfish you stole from Jack’s snack drawer. You’re both reading from the same file, absently reaching for crackers as you go along. 

Derek’s confusion continues to smother his face until it finally clicks in. 

He steals a page from Reid’s notebook and balls it up, tossing it across the plane and breaking your concentration. You look up, only a little startled, to find a face-splitting grin blinding you across the cabin.

Derek’s small ruckus has drawn the attention of the rest of the team - well, all except JJ, who’s fast asleep on the couch. 

There seems to be a collective sigh of relief as money exchanges hands. You’re not quite sure what the bet was, but Emily seems to have won handily. 

Aaron takes your hand under the table, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

It doesn’t. 

Everyone simply returns to their tasks, little smiles on their faces. 

+++

tagging: @quillvine @agenthotchner @hurricanejjareau @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @genevievedarcygrangerwriting @ssaic-jareau @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @hotchsflower @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @dwellingsofrosie @pan-pride-12 @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @cevanswhre @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321 @zizzlekwum @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @this-broken-band-girl @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @winqhster @arthurmorrgans @the-falling-in-the-danger @softbibxtch @iconicc @mangoberry43 @andreasworlsboring101 @kerrswriting @mac99martin @itsalwaysb33nyou @baumarvel @kerrswriting @messyhairday-me @ssworldofsw @deagibs @crazyshannonigans @moonshinerbynight @jhiddles03 @teamhappyme @mendesmelodies @starsandasteroids @unicorn-bitch @ambicaos

[diavolosthots]

Hi! Can I please request Solomon with female!MC? Let's say they're not very close, civil/casual at most but with some distance since they don't get to spend time with each other, but MC has a crush on him. And one day they just find themselves alone together and there's some awkward tension. Aaaa I don't even know where I'm going for, lol. But you know, there's some kind of electric thingy happening. I hope that makes sense?! Hehe thanks

Honestly i dont know where i was going with this but ya know. Also you said female but honestly theres no genitals or breasts or the like mentioned so although its tagged as F its honestly more GN

Tension ( SOLOMON X F!READER )

Life in the Devildom was honestly not what you expected at all. Had someone told you that demons actually exist, and that wizards and witches were real, you would’ve laughed in their face because wow that seems… a little too far out there, Karen. Yet, here you are, besties with the Devil, speaking with Lucifer himself, and crushing on a wizard that doesn’t even know you exist. Well, he knew of your existence, but how much could that actually mean when you rarely ever talked with one another. Luke was your only way to get to the guy, and even then, you both tried to avoid him in the kitchen because no matter how much you liked Solomon, his cooking is atrocious. You’d rather drink bleach than try that again. Sadly, he’s a little too dense to realize that, although the Gods have blessed him with magic, they certainly didn’t bless him with basic cooking skills. All of that, however, doesn’t really seem to matter much when all you really want is his attention. 

Unbeknownst to you, he’s quite curious about you as well. His feelings are neutral, he thinks, and if anything, he’s just more concerned with another human being in the Devildom, one who seemingly can’t defend themselves, although he has no proof of that. He’s curious on how your stay will turn out, if it even turns that is. You could always just get eaten by demons and in that scenario, he isn’t sure if he would’ve said, “I knew it!” or genuinely be upset. Maybe a bit of both? To him, he thinks, you’re just a science experiment at the moment, and he’s thinking of doubling up with Satan to see how far he could push your limits. He knew he needed to push his own limits to get somewhere, so why wouldn’t you be the same? Honestly, he thinks that humans have that in common; needing to be pushed to their limits to unlock their full potential. 

But anyhow, the point is, you two can’t really form a meaningful relationship for the life of you. Even at RAD, where you have most classes together, it always seems that you’re getting dragged away, or he finds himself surrounded by succubi that would love to kiss his naked feet. Weird, but okay. The incubi are up your arse, too, so it’s not really something unusual. It’s just that it feels like the universe is.... Forcing you to be apart almost? Through really weird circumstances. “We’re still going to the spa later, right, (Y/N)?” Asmodeus pulled you out of your thoughts, twirling a strain of your hair in his fingers. You forced a soft smile, honestly not feeling it anymore, but not wanting to let him down, “‘of course.” but that’s when it happened. Complete darkness. All the lights, even the fires, inside of RAD seemingly went out. Diminished. Poof. Gone. Was this what hell was actually like and the powers of the Devildom were finally tired of Diavolo being too soft?

“(Y/N)?” You felt a hand on your arm and screamed, only for someone to laugh and you quickly figured out it was Solomon. “Solomon?” You felt around in the dark until your hand finally touched something; a coat. You breathed a sigh of relief and moved a little closer until you felt his body heat, but not his body because that’d be weird. “It’s you. What’s going on.” He’s glad the dark is covering him because the sudden touch does have him feeling some type of way, but that’s probably because he can’t see and all his other senses are going crazy. “I don’t know. I’m even more confused as to why everyone else seemed to have left. I walked around a bit and I’m not bumping into anyone, I can’t even hear anyone, except for you. My magic isn’t working either for some odd reason, so I can’t even light a candle or the like.” “You carry candles around?” Honestly it shouldn’t surprise you but you were still kind of confused by his statement; who carries candles around?

A soft laugh filled the air around you and you could’ve sworn you felt the rumble in Solomon’s chest as the sound left him, “yes, of course. You never know when you’ll need them.” But you only frowned, glaring at him although you’re not sure if you’re facing him in the dark, “so you carry candles around but no matches?” Silence. Solomon, truthfully, felt a little bit embarrassed, but he recovers quickly, “well, usually I’d just use my magic.” Another wave of silence passed and you heard Solomon shift before the sound of a chair moving across the floor could be heard and you assumed he had sat down and the silence ensued until he interrupted it, “any reason this could have happened? The Devildom is in complete darkness, not even the castle is lighting up.” You looked forward to where you’d think the window is and he’s right; not even the castle is lit up.

“Do you… do you think something happened to Lord Diavolo that is causing the Devildom to be so dark?” He snorts, silently making fun of that, “why? Because he’s the only light down here?” “Th-that’s not what I meant! I mean… he is the most powerful being down here right? So maybe, if he lost his power, even just for a moment, all of it would be gone.” Solomon hummed in thought, thinking about it but ultimately deciding against it, “no. His powers, or lack thereof, shouldn’t affect all the sources of light…” back to silence. Honestly, that was the worst part about this. The constant silence. It’s so draining and so overwhelming all at once. You knew he was right there, just an outstretched hand away, but at the same time he didn’t feel close enough, “(Y/N)...” your name falling off his lips brought you back and you looked at him, well… you looked in the direction where you thought he would be. Suddenly, a pair of hands snuck around your waist and pulled you into a seating position. You quickly figured out that this was his lap.

“Solomon…!” Your body was tense against his, although you had to admit he did feel fairly warm and theoretically speaking, you could potentially relax against him. “Hm? Oh, right. Sorry about that, I was just thinking that if everyone else disappeared, there’s nothing keeping you or I from disappearing either, and I rather keep you close to me before that happens.” His reasoning seemed fine, although that didn’t make you feel any less tense. Honestly, there was so much tension all around. It was as if he was the cause of the tension, and you were beginning to understand exactly why. You swallowed thickly, shifting in his lap a bit until you, presumably, faced him. His grip on your hips never faltered, and instead, firmed up. “Solomon I… This may sound dumb, but… can I kiss you?” A sudden rush of confidence flew through you and your hands moved to find his face, cupping it gently. You hoped he looked at you right now or this could end kind of awkward, “yes.” 

He didn’t know what prompted him to agree to it but he found himself leaning up a bit, trying to find your face. His lips found something and his eyes immediately fluttered close, his lips pursing to kiss it, only to find you laughing and he immediately pulled back, thinking this was a joke, “I… I hate to break it to you but that was my eyeball.” Well now he’s laughing too. “Haha… well… take two?” You nodded, forgetting that he can’t see and leaned in, kissing his forehead on accident, “you need to lean up, too, Solomon!” He’s grinning, although you can’t see, “what if I wanted a forehead kiss? Besides… third time’s a charm, no?” Once again, you both tried, finding the corners of each other’s lips and moving in from there, smiling into the kiss. The tension seemed to lift, at least for you, and you wondered if he felt the same tension before, “see? Third time’s a charm.” 

He didn’t dare pull away too far, leaning in to kiss you again, his hands sliding up your curves to get tangled in your hair and move your face just a little bit closer against his. You sat there, in his lap, kissing him for what felt like hours, and even after your lips were swollen and numb, you couldn’t help but lean in for another, and another, and another… the light never turning back on as far as you were concerned. 

[aeide-thea]

i adore and value fanfiction enormously, but i do wish we could strike a balance in our discussions of it between [μέν] sneering at it and [δέ] claiming there are no downsides whatsoever to having it comprise the entirety of one’s reading (ey says, as someone whose reading it has lately comprised the vast majority of)?

like, there’s that post that’s all, ‘classic literature is inherently difficult to read unless you have the vocabulary and pop culture knowledge of an 18th century nobleman’ (which i’ve done my best to avoid engaging with, because while i think the post’s validation of pleasure as the primary driver of reading is net good, its anti-intellectualism drives me batty), but anyway i saw a longer, more nuanced iteration of that thread and it got me thinking: one downside of an exclusive, or at any rate chauvinist, focus on fanfic, it seems to me, is the risk of forgetting how to acquaint oneself with new universes through immersion, and how to derive stimulation (rather than discomfort) from the suspended uncertainty that is part and parcel of immersive learning...

like, a subsequent post in that same thread observes: ‘when you read Classic Literature™ in [the] context of academia? We’d always get at least a week-long crash-course on the relevant historical context, social tensions, religious understandings, pop-science misconceptions, common literary tropes — And we’d get handed a selection of short stories and poems from other contemporary authors for a sense of the General Cultural Vibe — THEN we would finally read the book.’ which like. fine! but what was the crash course for those short stories and poems? (zeno’s paradox as applied to background reading, anyone?) you always have to start somewhere, and at the start you aren’t going to have context for it, and you’ll feel a little as though you’re groping around in the dark and probably stumbling a little—that’s normal. that’s how it feels to start something new.

it’s like showing up in a language class the first day and not understanding half of what the teacher says to you. imagine if the discourse around language learning was ‘it’s perfectly fine if you’d rather use your precious free time and limited energy to engage with a language that’s Relevant To You instead’—like, of course it would be fine in a certain sense; but equally of course a stubborn universal adherence to that attitude, and in particular the decision to go around vocally patting yourself on the back about it instead of just, you know, quietly engaging with your own language, would be (rightly) seen as weirdly insular and anti-intellectual of you!

anyway i love fanfic and it’s honestly most of what i read these days but like. it doesn’t exercise certain parts of my reading brain that do, actually, feel good and serve me well to exercise, and like. not everyone can exercise! i’m very bad about exercising lately! but it’s good and healthy and rewarding to move your body a little if you can, and the same is true of your reading brain, and i wish the culture on here weren’t so firmly divided into the two weirdly binary camps of (1) ‘sneering at fanfic’ or (2) ‘denying that anything whatsoever could be missing from yr reading practice if fanfic is all you’re reading.’