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art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament · 9 months

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Behold, a bracket!

Text form below the cut because trying to copy all the 256 into the alt text sounded.... horrifying. Warning for 128 matchups, seriously, this list is long, and so I've avoided adding the artists until the polls.

a note: the pinned post has started misbehaving, so only open polls will be directly linked. closed polls instead have the results page linked in the set header, all the polls are linked from there

Set 1

The Lament for Icarus (Miao He) vs The Lament for Icarus (Herbert Draper)

The angel came to me in a fever hallucination, perched upon my bed as I returned from the bathroom. vs Sweet Brown Snail

Figures vs A Philosopher Lecturing on the Orrery

Happy Shoppers vs Hubble Deep Field

Lovers Painting vs Bath Curtain

Dr. Helen Taussig vs Une Martyre

Orangoutang étranglant un sauvage de Bornéo (Orangutan strangling a Borneo savage) vs Can’t Help Myself

Rape vs Technicolor Hiroshima

Set 2

A Walk at Dusk vs Based on “Autoportrait with the Model” by Maria-Rayevska Ivanova

Diary Page vs Les Jours Gigantesques (The Titanic Days)

Dead of Night vs You Won't

Christina's World vs Bobby

Untitled (I’m Turning Into A Specter Before Your Very Eyes And I’m Going To Haunt You) vs Two Sisters (On the Terrace)

Sharecropper vs Lustmord

The Parca and the Angel of Death vs Untitled (Zdzisław Beksiński)

Stress vs The Fallen Angel

Set 3

Device to Root Out Evil vs Travelling Light

Diana vs Fifty Days at Iliam: The Fire that Consumes All before It

The Plains, from Memory vs Exotic Bodies

Doubting Thomas vs Self-Portrait in the Bathroom Mirror

Empty Nest vs Somebody Fell From Aloft

Anguish vs If I Died

Cat in Obsolete Bath vs You're Not Boring Anymore

Salvator Mundi (Savior of the World) vs Untitled (billboard of an empty unmade bed)

Set 4

There Will Be No Miracles Here vs Symphony of the Sixth Blast Furnace

Fox Hunt vs Tarpaulin

Khajuraho Group of Monuments vs Ranakpur Jain Temple

ปราสาทสัจธรรม (The Sanctuary of Truth) vs Grande Panorama de Lisboa

Heroic Head of Pierre de Wissant, One of the Burghers of Calais vs The Weather

The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit vs If this is art

Statue of Vincent and Theo van Gogh vs Jeanne d’Arc écoutant les voix (Joan of Arc listening to the Voices)

Fountain vs Judith Slaying Holofernes

Set 5

Cueva de las Manos (Cave of Hands) vs Cave of El Castillo

Chauvet Cave Bear vs Uffington White Horse

Laocoön and His Sons vs Winged Victory of Samothrace

Crouching Aphrodite vs Statue of Taweret

Guardian Figure vs Kūya-Shonin (Saint Kuya)

Ancient Greek doll vs Arena #7 (Bears)

Enbu (炎舞) (Dancing in the Flames) vs Yearning Shadows

Belfast to Byzantium vs Freedom

Set 6

The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayan vs Portraits

The Blood Mirror vs Nighthawks

Electric Fan (Feel it Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate vs "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.)

Lady Agnew of Lochnaw vs Forgotten Dreams

Saint Bride vs Pixeles (a group of 9 works)

War Pieta vs The Sunset

The Handmaidens of Sivawara Preparing the Sacred Bull at Tanjore for a Festival vs Ajax and Cassandra

Nāve (Death) vs Abstraction

Set 7

Yes vs Meeting on the Turret Stair

Hacked to Death II vs Stańczyk

Closeness Lines Over Time vs Voice of Fire

The Maple Trees at Mama, the Tekona Shrine and Tsugihashi Bridge vs Portrait of Sir Thomas More

Survival Series: In a Dream You Saw a Way vs Takiyasha the Witch and the Skeleton Spectre

Death blowing bubbles vs The Kitchen Table Series

Painting 1946 vs In the Grip of Winter

Untitled (Black and Gray) vs NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt

Set 8

Blue Plate Special vs Red Cedar

Palace of Fine Arts vs Mosque–Cathedral of Córdoba

Le Château des Pyrénées (The Castle of the Pyrenees) vs Susanna and the Elders, Restored - X-Ray

Moby Dick vs Viva la Vida, Watermelons

Venus Envy Chapter One (Of the First Holy Communion Moments Before the End) vs how to look at art

St. Sebastian vs Untitled #12

Carroña vs The invincible one

Untitled (Two Dogs) vs The Dog

SECOND HALF

Set 9

David (Donatello) vs David (Michelangelo)

The Other Side vs The Temptation of St. Jerome

Seated Woman with Bent Knees vs Starry Night

Headdress - Shadae vs Untitled for the Image Flow's Queer Conscience exhibit

Woman with Dead Child (Frau mit totem Kind) vs Les Amants (The Lovers)

Siroče na majčinom grobu (Orphan on Mother's Grave) vs You Make My World a Better Place to Find

Fighting Against SARS Memorial Architectural Scene (弘揚抗疫精神建築景觀) vs Fallingwater

Resting vs The Hull

Set 10

Olive Trees vs Worship

Glow vs Wheatfield with Crows

Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X vs Untitled (He Plays Very Badly)

D.I.Y. by John Wiswell vs The Tragedy

Judith and the Head of Holofernes vs Beethovenfries (Beethoven Frieze)

The Memory of Me (How Could I Forget) vs oh god i had a really big epiphany about love and personhood but i’m too drunk for words

I am happy because everyone loves me vs 瀕危形態 (Endangered Forms)

Three Scaffolders vs Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan

Set 11

San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk vs Water-Lilies, Reflection of a Weeping Willow

The Grief of the Pasha vs Monolith in Vigeland Sculpture Park

Passion vs Space Diner

Hamlet and Ophelia vs Two Earthlings

Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth vs Seer Bonnets

Photograph from "SNAP OSAKA" Collection vs Clytemnestra after the Murder

“Untitled” (Perfect Lovers) vs The Lovers (TIE)

Kedai Ubat Jenun vs Orange Store Front

Set 12

The Apotheosis of War vs Portrait of the Dancer Aleksandr Sakharov

Julie Manet vs Mouth

The Icebergs vs Kaleidoscope Cats III

Maman vs Caza Nocturna (Night Hunt)

The Book of Kells Folio 188r: Luke carpet page vs Ardagh Chalice

Yusuf and Zulaikha vs Dome of the Rock mosaics

Rowan Leaves and Hole vs Untitled (prisonhannibal)

Le Désespéré (The Desperate Man) vs The Dedication

Set 13

Deimos vs Dog and Bridge

The Mocking of Christ vs Prudence

The Broken Column vs Siberian Ice Maiden shoulder tattoo

Transi de René de Chalon (Cadaver Tomb of René of Chalon) vs Head of Christ

The Day vs Spirit of Haida Gwaii

Eleanor Boathouse at Park 571 vs Jatiya Sangsad Bhaban জাতীয় সংসদ ভবন (National Parliament House)

Juventud de Baco (Bacchus Youth) vs Barges on the Seine

Oath of the Horattii closeup vs Visit hos Excentrisk Dam (Visit to an eccentric lady)

Set 14

Christ Crucified (With Donor) vs St. Francis

Thunder Raining Poison vs Piazza d'Italia

The Grove vs Among the Waves

Pintura Mural de Alarcón vs Sagrada Família stained-glass windows

Noonday Heat vs La Dame à la licorne (The Lady and The Unicorn)

Matroser i Gröna Lund (Sailors in Gröna Lund) vs Gielda Plakatu

Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks vs The Garden of Earthly Delights

Kuoleman puutarha (The Garden of Death) vs Haavoittunut enkeli (The Wounded Angel)

Set 15

i've wasted a lifetime pretending to be me vs da oracle

minus #37 vs Panel from Fun Home

Excerpt from illustrated edition of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner vs La Mort de Marat (The Death of Marat)

The Veil vs Düsseldorf 4 (Museum Kunst Palast)

Capriccio vs Zodiac calendar for La Plume

The official imperial portrait of empress dowager Cixi vs José y Maria

Blooming Lilacs vs Lágrimas De Sangre (Tears of Blood)

An Interlude vs Boy Staring at an Apparition

Set 16

Mermer Waiskeder: Stories of the Moving Tide vs The Gran Hotel Ciudad de México Art Nouveau interior

Unfinished Painting vs To Arms!

Memorial to a Marriage vs The Island

Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn vs A Few Small Nips

Saturn Devouring His Son vs Guernica

Fairy Princesses vs Lamentation over the Dead Christ

Mummy with An Inserted Panel Portrait of a Youth vs Little Girl Looking Downstairs at Christmas Party

Agnus vs The Cup Of His Murders Is Flowing Over And In His Coat Shall Be Many Curses

#art that fucks you up tournament #announcement #links are in the read more!

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chaotic-tired-fox · 9 months

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Resident Evil obscure facts PART 3

Since y’all like these so much

(Probably the last part since I really scraped the bottom of my brain here)

Part 1 Part 2

☠️ Hunk telling Nighthawk to go and leave him during RE2 4th Survivor is the first time we see him respond with any emotion or concern for anyone else other than his mission.

☠️ Nikolai and Sergei Vladimir were friends and fought together in the soviet war.

☠️ Sergei Vladimir and Ozwell E Spencer were also old friends which is how Sergei came to rule over the UBCS in the first place. He was completely loyal to Spencer.

☠️ Chris bulking up between Code Veronica and RE5 was a direct response to Wesker being able to beat him so easily. He wanted to get stronger despite Wesker possessing superhuman strength.

☠️ Claire and Leon have a really shaky relationship thanks to Leon’s loyalty to the US Government. He doesn’t deviate from this until RE6 when he decides to defend Helena Harper and sympathises with her actions.

☠️ The knife Leon carries in the RE4 remake is the same knife Marvin gives him in the RE2 remake

☠️ Jake Muller said he was trained by an unnamed mercenary, some speculate this could have been Hunk as he became a mercenary after the Umbrella trials in 2003

☠️ The metal band Ice Nine Kills made a song based on the Resident Evil franchise called ‘Rainy Day’ (and its very good I recommend)

☠️ For Hunk to snap necks the way he does would require a hell of a lot of strength

☠️ Umbrella Corps (which is canon) set after Resident Evil 5 has voice lines from Wesker in it which implies he may be still alive.

Quote: “The circumstances of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

☠️ In Resident Evil 4 The Merchant’s eyes are blue but glow yellow in the dark/at night. In the Remake he doesn’t do this.

☠️ Luis Sera was Catholic which was the original religion of the village before Saddler moved in.

☠️ In Operation Raccoon City Nikolai has a scar on the side of his face but in the Resident Evil 3 Remake he doesn’t

☠️ Chris’s height was changed from 5’11” to 6’2” in later games

☠️ In Resident Evil 7, Ethan loses his left hand, in RE8 he loses his right.

☠️ ‘Master of Unlocking’ is perhaps the most well known ongoing Resident Evil reference not only in the series but many other games as well including most recently as an achievement in the game ‘Killer Frequency.’ You’ll find it most commonly as the name of trophies.

☠️ In Resident Evil 3 Remake RPD, Carlos makes a quote about cameras being used to kill monsters which is a reference to the Fatal Frame series.

☠️ Also in the RE3 Remake, we never truly find out who Nikolai’s client was and Jill never does the ‘detective work’ on it either. It’s theorised that it was Sergei Vladimir as he is the only person Nikolai had any kind of contact and relationship with.

☠️ There is an unofficial Resident Evil 4 inspired puzzle game on the Switch called Safe Room where you organise items into differently shaped grid boxes. Perfect for those that enjoy the satisfaction of good inventory management.

☠️ Crimson head zombies are a mutated variant of regular T-Virus zombies that can happen sometimes if you ‘kill’ them. But they are actually the midway point between a regular zombie and a Licker. (Note the sharp claws)

☠️ Rebecca’s coffee order is an iced caramel macchiato

☠️ Extra fact: I write Hunk related short stories on AO3! I’d love if you checked em out! The link to my fics is HERE

Death Island spoilers below!

☠️ In Death Island, Chris and Leon have matching watches

☠️ As of Death Island, all five of the main characters have been infected with something and cured.

☠️ Chris mentioning Piers in Death Island is the first we’ve heard of him since RE6 (and it hurtttt)

☠️ It’s implied that Chris finding Leon in Vendetta and bringing him back saved his life. We see his mood has greatly improved since then

☠️ We don’t actually have an answer for when Leon and Jill first met but it could have been around the same time he met Chris in 2010

☠️ Once again the trend of Leon crashing every vehicle he touches continues!

#resident evil #resident evil facts #chris redfield #leon s kennedy #jill valentine #claire redfield #rebecca chambers #resident evil hunk #piers nivans #resident evil operation raccoon city #nikolai ginovaef #sergei vladimir #albert wesker #resident evil death island #leon kennedy #ethan winters #resident evil 4 #jake muller

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missmonsters2 · 1 year

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—NIGHTHAWK | EIGHT

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x OFC/Fem!Reader

Summary: The Poe Cup race has long passed and Wednesday actively tries to ignore the bet she's made. She may have won, but why does it feel like she's been defeated? She may be able to ignore it during the day, but not so much at night.

Warnings: Wednesday laments over planning a date. Enid is exasperated. Thing, our lovely messenger. Xavier gets threatened with jail. Mother!Weems

Series Masterlist | Library Blog | AO3

Reminder there’s no taglist but you can follow my library blog for notifications 💘

Note: Wednesday: I will threaten you with a horrible time—wait, no not like that.

Part Seven

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Nighthawk: Noun. A recurring thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt, a looming and shapeless future—that circles high overhead during the day, that pecks at the back of your mind while you try to sleep, that you can successfully ignore for weeks, only to feel its presence hovering outside the window, waiting for you to finish your coffee, passing the time by quietly building a nest.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"Why are you rearranging everything?" Wednesday asks, her voice dull but tinged with a hint of annoyance.

You look at her sheepishly. "Sorry, I know you're trying to write."

Wednesday sighs, letting the ire settle away. After all, this was your room. But Wednesday had taken your words about coming here for some peace and quiet last week seriously and brought her typewriter the next day to your room, and it's been there ever since.

Wednesday actively doesn't think about what it could mean that she'd been moving her stuff over into your room slowly because, at the very least, she still goes back to her own to sleep at night.

She actively doesn't think about anything to do with you during the day.

"Why are you rearranging everything?" Wednesday asks again, her face unimpressed with how you've shuffled your coffee table, the inside of your closet, and how you've been eyeing your bed as if it was next.

You purse your lips as if debating whether or not to tell Wednesday the reason, but when she pinches her eyebrows at you, her gaze becoming more narrow, you relent.

"I thought it'd be nice to have more room..." you mumble, rubbing the back of your neck.

"You've already optimized the space to its full potential," Wednesday raises her brow at you. "You won't be getting anything more unless you start throwing away things and you own nothing like the miserable orphan you are."

You can't help but laugh.

"I was thinking of giving away the coffee table," you admit with a smile. "One of the gorgon girls in the woodworking class said she could make me an extendable coffee table that I could fit into my closet."

"Why have you asked her? It is doubtful her skills would be superior to mine."

"Because you're not taking woodworking and it would have to be an extracurricular activity to do outside of class, and I feel like there's more interesting things you could be working on," you point out, giving up on rearranging and sitting on your bed.

"Like what exactly?" Wednesday flatly asks, her gaze studying your fictitious nonchalant face.

"Do you like horror movies?" You ask instead of answering Wednesday's question, which makes the gothic girl's mouth twitch in annoyance.

"If you're asking if they scare me, then no," Wednesday answers succinctly, with a tilt of her chin. "But I do enjoy watching them if they're done well."

"Me too," you tell her. "I mean, they do kind of scare me but I also kind of enjoy the feeling because then that means the movie was good."

There's a ghost of a smile on Wednesday's lip, too quick for you to see.

"Which ones have you seen?" Wednesday asks, curious about what your tastes are. "Which ones terrify you the most?" Her eyes are glinting.

"Not too many," you give her an amused smile. "Remember, I didn't really have access to the internet for entertainment, and I'm not really one for watching it by myself."

You sit in thought, and Wednesday waits in anticipation. This was the kind of information that Wednesday had been waiting for because it was difficult to gauge what you were afraid of.

"I think maybe paranormal movies?" You say, your tone lifting at the end like you were unsure.

Wednesday's face fell. "You're scared of ghosts?" She asks, thoroughly unimpressed.

"Hey," you kick her foot lightly with your own. "How are you supposed to fight something that is already dead? They clearly already have the upperhand."

Wednesday lifts her hands and starts counting on her fingers. "Rituals, spiritual artifacts, using a psychic, destroy whatever is holding their attachment here, become a ghost yourself and—"

"Okay, okay, I get it," you laugh. "I still find them unsettling, though."

"Ridiculous," Wednesday scowls with distaste. "There are far more horrifying and interesting genres."

"Well," you say lightly, and Wednesday looks into your eyes. They gaze into her like they want to draw her in and send a secret message. "Guess you'll have to show me one of these days."

Wednesday wants to ignore the secret message.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"You'll have to show me one of these days."

The words kept repeating in Wednesday's mind, torturing her while she tried to sleep. Usually, it'd be lovely, but Wednesday would've preferred that it was her nightly sleep paralysis afflicting her instead.

Wednesday had successfully ignored the fact she had won the bet of winning the Poe Cup race. It makes her irate that she’s won yet she feels like she’s been defeated. At least during the day, she was able to ignore it. At night, it haunted her and cost her sleep.

On top of that, Wednesday was still looking into what her vision could possibly mean. During the day, she spent all her time analyzing you, searching for clues that you might turn on her just like Tyler had. It would be just her luck to have it happen to her a second time.

But while Wednesday could see something lurking underneath your mask you put on to others, and even sometimes to her, you seemed mindful about the pace to be close. It was different from Tyler, who constantly made it known exactly what he wanted from Wednesday and that he wanted it immediately.

Wednesday had been snooping around, hoping to trigger another vision, but nothing had come; therefore, she was at a dead end. She supposes she could just bring the issue to your attention and hear your thoughts, but for some unknown reason, she was reluctant.

"You'll have to show me one of these days."

Damn it all, Wednesday sighs with force.

The task at hand was overdue, and Wednesday wonders if you wonder if she'll keep her word and plan this...date. The idea of being thought of as someone who couldn't keep their vows was disconcerting and disgusting.

This was ridiculous, Wednesday thinks as she removes her covers and sits up. So utterly ridiculous.

Wednesday Addams never backed away from a challenge, and she was most definitely someone who kept all her threats and promises.

She grabs a piece of paper, neatly scribbling words onto it before she tosses the pen to the side.

"Thing," she whispers, even though nearly nothing could wake Enid at this hour. The disembodied hand gets up from his resting place and scuttles quietly over to her.

"Drop this off and bring me a reply," she tells him.

He looks at the note and starts signing words to her.

"Yes, what's wrong with what I said? It is succinct."

Thing makes a show of being exasperated with her using his fingers but takes the note and scurries off.

Wednesday doesn't return to bed, waiting impatiently for Thing to return with her arms crossed, her index tapping her inner arm. It's minutes before the hand returns with a note in return.

"Was she awake?" Wednesday asks, and Thing indicates that you were. He passes her the note.

Wednesday grins, but it looks maniacal.

'Are you threatening me with a date? I thought you'd never ask.'

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

The sounds of Wednesday typing lull you through your headphones. It's a consistent sound, and the only break is when the sound of Wednesday returning the carriage as the page hits the end.

It was late at night, and it was unlikely for either of you to go out again. Since it's just the two of you in your room, you have your wings out, carefully preening the feathers with your fingers. The scars were healing nicely, but any forceful exertion would make them split open again, and you were not keen on that happening. You're also pretty sure Wednesday would be disgruntled with you if you did as well.

"How are your wings?" Wednesday asks as she takes a break from her writing.

"Sore," you admit, ruffling them lightly. "I can't really stretch them without re-opening the wounds, and they're usually hidden inside my back most days."

"I've been meaning to ask how that works," Wednesday stares at you while you gently massage the sore areas, being very careful of how far your stretch.

"I wish I could explain, but I really can't," you shrug. "It's just innate in faeries to be able to hide their wings. How does it all fit? I'm not sure, really. Most likely evolution and fae magic."

You were really focused, seemingly annoyed with where you couldn't reach.

"Do you want assistance?" Wednesday offers.

You freeze for a moment, looking up at Wednesday. The idea of Wednesday's fingers going under the feathers and pressing her fingers carefully against your wing was...a lot.

"Oh, uh," you remove your fingers from your flight appendages. "No, it's okay."

"Why?" Wednesday raises her brow. "You're clearly struggling. Do you not trust me to handle your wings carefully?"

"No, no, it's not that," you correct immediately. You sigh for a moment, feeling the heat rise to your ears. "It's just..." you shift on the bed. "You know my wings are sensitive."

Wednesday nods. "And I will be meticulous."

"It's not that," you mutter, feeling warm. "You massaging them...touching them...like that..." your voice trails, and you feel slightly mortified. This was so embarrassing.

Wednesday seems to catch on immediately, and her back goes straight and rigid. "I see." Her voice is brisk.

"Yeah," you say quickly back. "It's, you know...just ticklish," you say to avoid the awkwardness, but you both know it's not quite that.

Wednesday just nods, not pushing to offer her help further, but there is a curious look in her eyes. You don't dwell on it as you check your watch.

"Oh, shit," you sigh as you stand, gently brushing the last of your feathers with your fingers.

"What?" Wednesday asks with a frown, watching your wings disappear.

"Larissa is leaving for some conference. It's apparently a long trip and she needs to drive out tonight."

Wednesday recalls Weems mentioning her absence for the weekend and a group of teachers being in charge, but there was hardly a need for concern as it was the weekend.

"I have to go see her off," you tell Wednesday. "It'll probably be a couple of minutes. Are you going to stay here writing?"

"I will be finished in a couple of minutes as well," Wednesday says. "I will be returning to my dorm room for the night. I have preparations to finish."

"Preparations, you say?" A sly smile on your lips that Wednesday rolls her eyes at.

Since that night after the Poe Cup race, there haven't been any kisses. Wednesday's still figuring out what to make of it all. You seem content with how things are, and Wednesday was slowly studying her own desires and how to handle them accordingly. Sometimes, Wednesday thinks it was easier kissing a serial killer.

At least with the serial killer, she didn’t have to do any date planning. But since she was, she was going to do every single part of it correctly and perfectly. Wednesday mindlessly thinks she’s probably been driving Enid insane and feels gleeful at the thought.

The sly smile turns soft, the rarity that only belonged to Wednesday. You lean over and faintly kiss her on the cheek, and your warm lips tinge Wednesday's cool skin. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

You leave Wednesday sitting in your room with a soft click of the door, heading out to the front gates. There are still some students wandering about, and you give them friendly, light smiles with a short wave of your hand as they greet you.

Inwardly, you sigh.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"I'm very serious," Weems gives you a stern look. "If there's anything wrong, you're to go to the nurse immediately. Don't think I've gotten over the last incident you had with the gorgon girls."

"I told you it was an accident!" You sigh almost dramatically. "They're nice girls! They're just...enthused...and strong."

Weems merely rolls her eyes but doesn't comment on it anymore.

"I will only be gone for the weekend, I should be back Sunday night. It will be a short meeting."

"I know," you say, hiding back your sigh. "It'll be fine. I'm just going to be doing homework over the weekend."

"Right," Weems raised her brow, and an amused and wry smile graced her lips. "And by just doing homework over the weekend, you mean having a date with Miss Addams?"

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at Weems. "How did you know?"

Weems just makes some noncommittal noise before sighing. "My life seems to be fated to be entwined with the Addams family."

You look at her curiously, but Weems waves you off before she looks at you with a mildly uncomfortable look. "Do I need to give you the talk—"

"No!" You say immediately, cutting the principal off. Heat rises up your chest, burning the tip of your ears, and your cheeks feel hot. "It's—" you clear your throat into your fist—"it's fine. I'm good, I know."

Weems's face is slightly flushed red at the apple of her cheeks, and it makes you feel better. The two of you chuckle, letting it die into a comfortable silence.

"I'll be home in two days," Weems repeats, softer this time.

You nod. "Okay," your voice softer as well. It was strange, but you really did like having Weems around, despite Wednesday's grumbling about her. "Have a safe trip."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Saturday passed quickly, and Enid could not be more thankful. If there was one more annoying thing than Wednesday obsessively investigating things, it was Wednesday obsessively trying to plan a date. Her grim roommate was extra unbearable this entire week.

Thing dropped off a note to you earlier today to meet in Wednesday's room at precisely 7PM with your laptop. While Wednesday executed her plan, Enid kept her company for most of the day.

"I'm surprised you were able to actually cook dinner here," Enid says dryly. "I can't believe you made your own makeshift stove and didn't burn our entire room down."

"Controlled arson is child's play," Wednesday drawls. She finishes setting up a projector she's borrowed (stolen) from a classroom before setting down a blanket with some cushions. She looks at Enid. "Give me all of your pillows."

"What? Why?" Enid frowns.

"Because only I enjoy sitting on rigid and awkward angles that may give me back or neck pains later," Wednesday explains succinctly while she grabs the one pillow from her bed, tosses it on the floor, and then grabs a black fuzzy blanket.

Enid sighs, reaching for her pillows and tossing them onto the blanket. Normally, she might've denied her roommate the request, but it was clear that Wednesday was trying to make this the perfect date from the way she's been obsessing about it all week, meticulously planning and researching.

It was endearing to watch, but Enid wouldn't say it out loud.

"You will change the pillowcases and wash the old ones when I'm back tomorrow," Enid warns her roommate, who noncommittally nods.

Then Wednesday freezes. "You're not returning tonight?"

Enid smirks. "Nope. I'm having a sleepover with Yoko tonight." She then gives Wednesday a look. "I won't do it too often, especially since Fae has her own bedroom you guys can be doing your dates at."

"It's smaller," Wednesday mutters, even though she knows it would've been fine to do it at your place. But Wednesday chose to do it in their own room so that she could rely on Enid returning in the worst-case scenario where the date was a failure.

Wednesday checks the time on her wrist and finds she has no time to make adjustments now. It was 6:55PM, and you'd be arriving soon.

"Leave," Wednesday dismisses Enid, who sighs at her roommate's callousness but still wishes her good luck as she goes to find her vampire best friend along with Thing.

Time ticks slowly as Wednesday checks to ensure the sea witch paella she made is still warm. She does a final review of all her preparations and stands near the door.

Wednesday wouldn't describe herself as nervous, but she does feel an uncomfortable pressure in her chest and something twisting in her stomach.

It's nauseating and exhilarating.

7:00PM.

Wednesday waits, telling herself that while it's annoying that people are not customarily on time, it's not abnormal.

7:05PM.

You were late, but Wednesday isn't worried. You aren't typically late to things, but there's been an occasional time she'll catch you out of breath running to class or to their nightly meet-up.

7:15PM.

Irritated.

Now Wednesday is irritated with how inconsiderate you were being and plans to make you reiterate what you were doing every single minute to be late. She knows you know the time to meet was 7PM. When Thing dropped off her note to you, you also provided a note back saying, 'You have such a way with words. See you at 7PM sharp then.'

A liar is what you are, Wednesday thinks with a downward curl of her lips. Wednesday pinches the bridge of her nose, annoyed at the fact that she has a stupid phone that is utterly useless. She wanted to throttle both Xaiver and Enid for endlessly praising how useful it was to have one.

7:30PM.

Wednesday clenches her jaw as she blows out the candles and turns off her makeshift stove. She's vexed, but a larger part of her doesn't believe you'd not show up. The vision Wednesday had during the Poe Cup race appears, and she briskly strides out of her room.

Not in your room.

Not in any of the classrooms.

Not in the garden.

Not in the cafeteria.

Not in the library.

"Addams," Bianca greets with a raise of her brow. "Aren't you supposed to be on a date?"

Wednesday stops as Bianca approaches her. "You knew?" Her eyes narrow.

Bianca rolls her eyes, her blue eyeshadow accentuating her eyes. "Of course. Fae briefly mentioned it in the afternoon with a sickeningly happy look on her face. Can't say I see the charm of being on a date with you, but I digress."

"So you did see her earlier then?" Wednesday asks pointedly, ignoring everything else the siren said.

Bianca raises a brow slowly at Wednesday's behavior. "I did, but she left for her studio about two hours ago. Why?"

Wednesday doesn't bother answering, walking past Bianca with haste.

There was only one place left to check, and Wednesday expected you to be there. You had better be sitting in your studio, having lost track of time, and Wednesday would berate you. But you'd be there to apologize, and they could salvage what was left of their date, and Wednesday would pointedly remind you that it was your fault their food was cold. They'd watch their horror movie as planned, and it wouldn't matter if it'd be late into the night because Enid wasn't coming back anyway.

Because if you weren't there, Wednesday would certainly kill someone.

"Wednesday!" Bianca calls as she strides to catch up to Wednesday as they pass the Quad, grabbing the attention of Enid, Yoko, Xavier, and Eugene.

"Wednesday!" Enid calls after her best friend, but she ignores it, walking with a distinct purpose to your studio. Enid and everyone else get up with haste to follow after their friend. "Wednesday, where's Fae?"

The familiar tree trunk comes into view, and she does the same sequence of action she always does to enter, not caring that she looks insane.

"What are you doin—where'd she go?" Eugene asks, his eyes narrowing as if that would allow him to see Wednesday again.

"It must be a fae realm," Bianca deducts, thinking back to her conversations with you. "Sirens have something similar. She must've created one out of her studio. Just follow what Wednesday did."

One by one, they repeat the actions, and Enid is the last to go through. And when she enters, she finds Wednesday a few feet away from her, eyes narrowed with her jaw clenched.

They don't have time to take in the space and view, as amazing as it is.

"This isn't right," Wednesday grits out, her hands forming into fists. "This isn't the studio."

It looks perfect—neat and tidy.

Untouched.

"What do you mean?" Bianca asks as she looks around. "This has to be Fae's studio, I can see her belongings. Look—these are the vases and pots she made in pottery class."

Wednesday's eyes move to look at the three pottery pieces Bianca is pointing at sitting in a cluster on the coffee table. They weren't perfect, a little wobbly, and you had laughed when Wednesday pointed out every imperfection and questioned why you even let them go into the bisque firing to set.

But you said you liked how they were very clearly flawed and still worked without a hitch.

There was nothing out of the ordinary, and they were most definitely yours.

The only problem was that earlier today, Wednesday had come into your studio while you were studying. You had given Wednesday a strange look but asked no questions as she grabbed the soft, fuzzy black blanket you favored. You bought it in town recently after Wednesday started to help you apply the salve, picking black specifically because you hadn't known Wednesday like you do now and heard she was allergic to color.

It was for the cooler nights, not that the cold ever bothered Wednesday, but it didn't stop you from carefully draping the blanket over her. Now, it was in preparation for tonight's date when they were watching horror movies.

Yet, the soft black, fuzzy blanket in her room was also folded neatly on a shelf inside a trunk-turned rack. Which also wasn't where Wednesday had taken it from earlier today.

"This is weird, though," Enid mutters, inhaling deeply through her nose.

"What?" Yoko asks as she takes off her glasses and looks around.

"Wednesday, you said you and Fae are here pretty frequently, right? I thought you came here earlier."

Wednesday nods rigidly.

"That's weird," Enid ponders, tilting her head. "I can barely smell you and Fae in this place. It's like...very stale. Months old, at least."

"Wait," Eugene furrows his brows. "How is that even possible?"

Xavier looks in deep thought, holding his chin as he thinks, but Wednesday already knows. Especially after Enid confirmed the scent.

It all leads to one conclusion.

This wasn't your studio, or more accurately—you and Wednesday haven't been in your real studio for some time.

"Is there anyone in this school that has Fae's number?" Xavier asks, and it makes the room tense. "Does she have Snapchat or anything that could show her location?

Bianca shakes her head. "No, she doesn't have any social media and she hasn't even given me her number, not that I think it would be useful, anyway. She's never on her phone except to watch her shows or read. Half the time, I'm convinced she probably just leaves it lying around."

"We...we should contact Weems, right?" Eugene asks as he looks at everyone.

"Even if we do, Weems won't make it back until the morning, at least," Xavier points out. "But we should."

You were missing.

No, you've been taken.

The thought felt hollow, like Wednesday couldn't believe it. It only lasted a second before pure, unadulterated fury filled her. It was like a hot white ball forming in her chest, making her clench her jaw, barely able to contain the noise she wanted to let out.

Wednesday hadn't been watching for you just half a day, planning this ridiculous date that you had been so stupidly excited for, and you were taken.

Wednesday can only blame herself.

She blames herself for so many things.

Indulging you.

Indulging herself.

She should've never agreed to this date—she should've never agreed to you.

Why couldn't she just have dismissed you as another passing curiosity? Why couldn't she have just gotten what she needed to know and left you? You should've been nothing more than a passing, disturbing thought.

It would have saved her from feeling so wretched now.

"Wednesday," Enid says softly. She lifts her hand to gently touch her roommate but thinks better of it when she practically smells the anger radiating off the grim-looking girl. "Wednesday," Enid repeats instead, "We need to find her."

"Of course," Wednesday snaps, unable to even comprehend that she was snapping at the wrong person. "Spread out and start searching every corner of this inane institute."

Xavier looks upset. "Wednesday, you shouldn't look alone—"

"Go, or I will unapologetically send you to jail for a second time," Wednesday cuts off, threatening the tall, lanky boy with a glare.

Bianca grabs the sleeve at his elbow, dragging him out while the others follow.

Thing is the only one left with Wednesday, and he stands on top of the table, waiting for Wednesday to say something.

Wednesday's jaw is clenched, and her hands are closed in tight fists.

The problem was that Wednesday did indulge herself, and now you were hers, even if she refused to say it out loud.

You. Are. Hers.

You were hers to make pay for making her feel so wretched over you.

"Thing," Wednesday bites out. "Bring anything personal of hers. Bring me anything that looks out of place."

The mystery brought her obsessive personality up to the front, and she would solve it.

Wednesday was going to find you—because you were hers—and she would slowly maim whoever had taken you.

PART 9

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday x reader #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams fanfiction #wednesdayedit #wednesday addams x you #mm: my fics

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brewsterispunkk · 2 years

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Mando Fic Recs🖤

as always: all credit goes to the authors. these are just works ive thoroughly enjoyed and am just trying to share them and give them exposure!

******

• @charnelhouse ‘s mando masterlist ~~~ i wish i could pick just one fic to recommend but the truth is that these are all god-tier. no skips.

• king of cups by @gaiuswrites ~~~this series is amazing. i binged it in like one sitting a while back.

•mutual by @the-scandalorian ~~~ all of this writer’s work is fantastic, but this one especially!

• nighthawks by @pedros-mustache ~~~ I’ve followed this story for like a year, and it’s absolutely amazing. flawless. they do enemies to lovers so so SO well.

• healing pains & road to recovery by @liltangerineart ~~~ so so cute. the PINING. amazing.

• literally everything by @absurdthirst ~~~ this masterlist is just *chefs kiss*. Sweet and smutty and all of the above.

• silent voice by @writeforfandoms ~~~ sweet din with plus size!reader.

• lighthouse by @mandoblowmybackout ~~~ din falls in love. thats it thats the fic.

• reunion by @whirlybirbs ~~~ friends to lovers and a reunion with our beloved . this one is so good.

• maybe it’s a sign by @outercrasis ~~~ modern!din & a road trip. i think about this one at least once weekly.

• silence in the stars by @moralesispunk ~~~ post-grogu softness and hurt/comfort. amazing.

• of constellations and creeds by @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa ~~~ ive reread this multiple times and every time it hits. a must read.

•and, of course the obvious: rough day by @no-droids

#pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandolorian season 2 #mando imagine #mando #mando and grogu #mando x you #mando x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin imagine #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din x y/n #din djarin smut #din djarin headcanon #din darjin #din x reader

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dykeinthedark · 1 year

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im bored so 5 edward hopper paintings and a piece of media they remind me of (i fucking LOVE edward hopper paintings pls indulge)

1. Summer Afternoon, 1947:

This reminds me of Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen. Just, the whole vibe looks lonely, quiet, and intimate, but full of potential energy all the same.

2. High Noon, 1949:

My Own Private Idaho. Obviously. I actually think the shots of the house in the desert from the movie could be referencing this painting. I’d like to imagine that woman is Mike’s mother. god i fucking love that movie.

3. Nighthawks, 1942:

I know everyone knows this one. this one to me is Darkness on the Edge of Town by Bruce Springsteen. the whole vibe kinda reminds me of the depressing working man vibe of the album and specifically the song. i wrote an essay on this album analyzing it through a queer lens and i brought up this painting idk it just. it fits.

4. Gas, 1940

This reminds me of Bojack Horseman season 4 episode 2 “The Old Sugarman Place.” Such a great episode and if u havent seen it i totally recommend watching the series. It’s so beautiful and this road with the gas station reminds me of the road out from the house into town where things went wrong and man. it’s so heartwrenching.

5. New York Corner, 1913

Scapegoat but this reminds me so much of Catcher in the Rye. It looks like winter, and it’s in new york city. Actually a lot of edward hopper’s whole career could be catcher because it’s just all about lonliness and people. This is how i think holden caulfield sees the streets; it looks bleak and everyone is the same.

#art history #edward hopper #webweaving #bruce springsteen #catcher in the rye #mopi #my own private idaho #bojack horseman

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pedros-mustache · 1 year

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nighthawks (19)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: 5.4k+

warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, allusion to smut (creampie), language, x fem!reader

a/n: i have rEtUrNeD! thank you for your patience, for your kindness, and for your support. even if i’m the last gal standing, i’m finishing this dadgum story if it is the last thing i do.

also: i play fast and loose with some mandalorian lore in this chapter. figured i would give a heads-up in case that is important to you. 😘

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-SEVEN—LOCATION: UNDISCLOSED JEDI TRAINING CAMP

Hours later, the Sunder lands in the same place it did seventy-six days ago: on a rocky patch of earth swallowed by fog and mystery. From the open mouth of the cargo hold, you peer into the mist, imagining what lay beyond the edge of the clearing. Skywalker’s academy sits at the very edge of the known galaxy, but maybe that was always his intent. You don’t know much about the Jedi—only the rumors that swirl through the galaxy like hushed whispers—but it seems to you that the Jedi thrive on secrecy and shadow. You couldn’t pinpoint your location even if you tried.

You suppose it doesn’t matter. You are here, standing in the Sunder and on a planet you never thought you would see again. You have been afforded one too many second chances over the course of your obstinate life.

You refuse to fuck up again.

Something thuds on the cargo hold floor behind you, and you look over your shoulder. Din stands in front of an open weapons cabinet. He slowly strips himself of his armor one methodical movement at a time. Like a priest preparing for a ritual sacrifice, his mood is a solemn one. Not quite sad, not quite happy either. Sober perhaps. There is a chance that the hunt for Crik could go sour and—

You shake the thought off. It is poison to an already-feeble stomach.

Though visiting home did you well, you have yet to reconnect with the snarling girl of one-hundred-seven days ago. Something in you has quieted since returning to your birthplace. You don’t like the feeling, that tranquility in your chest. The places that once churned with anger and regret have turned peaceable and mellow. It is… unnatural. Uncomfortable.

Inhaling sharply, you wade through your clouded mind to find a spot of clarity. Now isn’t the time for introspection. Time is wasting with Crik ever on the move.

You close in on Din’s side, leaning against the weapons cabinet as he hangs the remaining portions of his armor. “What is it you’re going to say? To Grogu?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, avoiding your pointed gaze. He exchanges his tac belt for a heavy cloak, and the fabric transforms him from a warrior to a wanderer. “But I want to see him. Just in case.”

Just in case. The sense of foreboding shrouding those words brings a chill to your spine. Your mouth runs dry. Fuck, just what is it you are asking him to do? Sacrifice himself for you and your quest for revenge? It’s too much. It is all too much to ask.

Surely someone else is on the hunt for Crik; you cannot be the only one. A renown swindler, an expert smuggler—you remember Din said there are at least seven fobs with his name on them floating around the cosmos, if not more. Someone else could do this; someone else could bring him in.

But no. This is your fight, and Din offered it to you so easily, so confidently. He wants this maybe as much as you do.

“Hey.” Din touches your shoulder. You blink, and the belly of the Sunder comes into focus, as gray and cold as it has always been. Din though—Din touches your arm with a warmth that goes straight to your stomach. “It will be okay.”

“Yeah.” You step away, nodding in earnest as you hurry to tidy the floor. You shove a random boot beneath your arm then grab a scratchy blanket and throw it over your shoulder. “Yeah, I know. It will be fine.”

You move deeper into the cargo hold, further away from Din and the nerves that cling to your skin like a germ. Your arms grow heavy with the objects you collect from the floor. When was the last time someone cleaned up in here? Would a little organizing kill the man? You can barely form a path to the turbolift with the number of boxes scattered across the cargo hold. It’s almost as if the Mandalorian’s habit of decluttering and stripping the ship of any human touch was suspended. As if he were preoccupied with something—someone—else over the last few months.

On that thought, you drop your gathered items to a wooden crate in the middle of the ship. You sigh, hanging your head in remorse. It’s wrong to brush aside Din’s attempts at comfort; it’s wrong to overlook the obvious signs of his affection. But you can’t help yourself. Not when you and your mistakes are the reason he now straps on a pair of hiking boots so he can say goodbye to his son. Just in case.

It’s too much. It is all too much to ask.

The wooden crate you lean against boasts a small pile of veritable junk. In addition to the things you picked off of the floor, there are a few wayward screws and an empty holster draped over the corner. Out of curiosity, you lift the holster and find it is not empty; the weapon inside is merely small. You haven’t seen it before, and you pride yourself on your knowledge of the Sunder’s weapons cache. Not so long ago, Din made you catalog every Makerforsaken weapon in the ship and this definitely wasn’t in the small blaster container.

The weapon is small, only large enough to fit snugly in the palm of your hand. You curl your fingers around the black hilt, rubbing your thumb over the ribbed base. Strange thing, this weapon. You frown as you turn it over in your hand. It pulses with an unseen energy, like a mystic heartbeat, and all your worry about Din and the weight of what is to come, about Crik and journeying to Hoth, about your own complicated existence, vanish. The weapon catches you in its trance, and you stare back, unblinking. You find a small circle inlaid on the side with your nail. You cock your head, scratching the button as you ponder.

Across the room, Din must wonder at your sudden silence. His canteen smacks against the weapons cabinet as he turns to look for you. When he sees you, you hear him take two hurried steps forward. “No! Don’t—”

Too late. You push the button.

With a hiss, the weapon in your hand extends.

A jet black blade fringed with glowing white light cuts through the dim atmosphere of the ship. Long—sharply hewn point—heavy—alive. The weapon is bold and understated at the same time. It is haunted and holy. It is something otherworldly, sent from the heavens or maybe the pits of hell. Maker, you don’t know. You don’t know but it clings to you.

Your initial instinct is to drop the thing, to escape what is so obviously not meant for you, but your fingers tighten of their own accord. As you stare, the weapon’s power seeps beneath your every pore. You swear you can hear the blade itself singing a far away lullaby, a song of old, one that touches something deep in your heart.

Yes. Yes! it calls. Our mother, our mother.

Your heart pounds, and your ears ring. Blood rushes through your veins, potent and sizzling with energy. You cannot breathe—cannot think—as the words of the weapon flood your senses. Sight and sound merge into a pinpoint focus on the faraway language that curls through your mind.

Mother—mother—mother.

Sacred mother—holy mother—at last joined with her holy mate.

Come to us, Mother. Return to—

“Scout.” Din’s voice is low and gentle, a shepherd consoling a lost sheep. You startle, gasping for breath as his hand comes to rest on top of yours. The words which consume you begin to fade, dripping from your mind like ink spilled on blank parchment. “That’s not yours.”

You do not look at him. You cannot look away. “But—”

“Let me take it.”

Without warning, he presses the inlaid button, and the blade disappears within the hilt on a soft whoosh. In an instant, the magnetic hold of the sword is gone. The vice-like grip that held your mind releases, and you sag backwards, falling against Din’s chest. You exhale, trembling.

“What—what was that?”

“It’s called the Darksaber.”

“I heard it… singing.”

Din stiffens. The tension is subtle, but you can feel it in the way he shoves the Darksaber in his waistband with a snap. There is something wrong here, something very wrong.

Din circles to face you, his hands firm on your shoulders. “What was it you heard, mesh’la?” The concern in his voice is evident, and that concern is strong enough that you know beyond a shadow of a doubt you have opened something bigger than yourself.

You want to answer him and parse out the strange words that still ring in your ears

but—

Ka’ered enters the cargo hold. “Ready to go, Mandalorian?”

Turning your face to the newcomer, you blink away the tears rimming your eyes. Your muscles vibrate with unspent energy, your stomach a clenching pit of anxiety. You feel sick. Whatever it was you saw and heard in the Darksaber, it feels like too much for you to consider right now. There will be time later, after Grogu and Crik and righting the wrongs of so long ago…

Din isn’t so quick to sweep the moment under the rug. “Your timing is shit,” he tells Ka’ered.

Ka’ered looks back and forth between you and the angry sheen of Din’s helmet. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You answer the question in unison.

Your eyes flash to Din’s, and you grit your teeth. “It’s fine. We need to get going anyway.”

You can almost feel him roll his eyes as you brush past. “Scout—”

“Mando, please. We can talk about it later.”

“When later?”

“I don’t know. Just—later.”

“I’m getting tired of all the laters. There are things we—”

A two-toned beep fills the cargo hold. Din shakes his head in frustration as he hurries to the table on which he left his communicator. He glances at the face of the tech piece then shoves it in his back pocket.

“Gods-fucking-damn-it,” he mutters. He grabs his knapsack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder. “Skywalker is ready.”

“Then let’s not keep him waiting.”

As you prepare to slowly follow Ka’ered down the loading dock, Din catches your bicep at the top of the ramp. You look away from the unsteady doctor to meet the inexpressive helmet of your lover. You already know what he is going to say before he says it, but still, you listen.

“Later is going to come, Scout. Before we go to Hoth, you and I are going to sit down and talk. About everything.”

A tucked-away sliver in your chest flares in indignation. He can’t tell you what to do. Since day one the Mandalorian—Din Djarin—has never been able to tell you what to do. Though you love him, though you would happily kill for him, you are not his puppet. You are not his plaything. You are your own, molded by the hard work of your own hands.

Have you really changed so much in your months with him? Have you truly forgotten what it means to be fashioned out of fire and brimstone?

The ember of that faraway girl—so brash and rude and everything you need to be on this next hunt—glows in the pit of your stomach. You cling to the hot violence of your youth, stroking it between love-soaked fingers. Come on, you think. Come to life again just this once.

There—you see her—in the corner of your heart, backed between a rock and soft place. You stretch out your hand, and she snarls. Somewhere inside, you smile.

You jerk your bicep out of Din’s hand. “We’ll see about that,” you bite, your tone gone cold with disdain. You take a few steps down the ramp before tossing an upturned brow over your shoulder. “Later.”

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-NINE—LOCATION: HEGORA

Din can tell you feel out of place. Out of practice. Out of control.

You duck, you thrust, you parry, and yet—

you fail.

Time and time again, the muzzle of his gun comes to rest on the exposed flesh of your waist or the small of your back. “Dead,” he says, the word toneless. “Again.”

It is the strangest thing, this sudden change in you. You struggle where you did not struggle before. Though you fight him with the tooth-and-nail bite of the first day he met you, you are uncoordinated and sloppy. You do not think before you act, and you pay the price. With painful repetition, your back, your ass, or your knees become intimately acquainted with the soft earth.

To your credit, each time he bests you, you accept defeat without argument. You rise on trembling legs, square your center, and you fight him again. You are dogged, a typhoon struggling against the house upon a rock. You do not give up. You fight your hardest but it is as if every sliver of training he has drilled into you over the past six months has disappeared. You have reverted back to your old ways—and he’s not sure how to respond.

Since arriving at Skywalker’s academy, you have retreated into yourself. You are standoffish, bordering on cruel. During Din’s brief meeting with Grogu, you stood to the side, arms crossed, face pulled tight in a frown. You gave Ka’ered a half-hearted wave when he elected to remain at the academy to help Skywalker with his trainees; you barely said a word on the trek back to the Sunder, even after Grogu reached out to toy with the end of your braid in a kind farewell. Irritable—despondent—a mere fragment of the girl he has come to know and love.

So he elected to bring you to Hegora before facing the frigid wilderness of Hoth. It has been one-hundred-one days since Din last brought you here yet it feels like one-hundred-one lifetimes with all that has passed. It was here, though, where your partnership first began to blossom, and he is hopeful it is here he can root out whatever bitter weed is now poisoning you.

Din knocks you to the ground again with a firm elbow to the center of your chest. You weren’t looking, were distracted by something off in the distance, so he took the opening. You hit the ground with a weak grunt, your palms breaking your fall before your head can connect with the ground too. Sweat rolls down the side of your face, and you groan, angling your head back to face the sun.

“Damn,” you mutter—as though you had a chance, as though you were even trying.

Frustration worms beneath the concern cocooning Din’s patience. He grabs the front of your tunic and lifts you from the ground with a rough heave. “For fuck’s sake, Scout. What’s wrong with you?”

He tries in vain to keep the irritation out of his voice but he cannot understand this change in you. All your skill, all your focus—gone in the blink of an eye, shattered like glass upon an unforgiving floor..

You shove him away. “I don’t know. I just—” You sigh, neck drooping, eyes shut. “I don’t know.”

“Are you scared?”

Head lifting, you narrow your eyes. “No.”

Din scoffs, the irritation in his chest flaring with your obstinance. “Liar.” He flips his blaster over his wrist to return it to its holster. “There are things we need to discuss.”

“Yeah?” You brush your braid over your shoulder. “Like what?”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

With a dismissive wave of your hand, you step away, reaching for your canteen discarded on the ground. “I just want to get this over with, Din. I don’t want any distractions.” You take a swig of water then wipe the back of your hand across your mouth. You keep your gaze fixed on the horizon, and he wonders where your thoughts float off to.

Gently, he sets out to plead his case. You are skittish, and for good reason; he must tread carefully. Still, Din can’t shake the feeling that setting out for Hoth with so much other weighing down the hunt is a bad idea.

“We should talk—about the Darksaber, about what your father said to me on Inora, about Grogu and what’s going to—”

“No.” You shake your head and toss your canteen to the side. “I can’t do that right now. We need to get Crik.”

“We won’t get Crik if you are distracted.”

Eyes snapping to face him at last, you stab a finger in the direction of his chest. “We won’t get Crik if you are filling my head with—with other things.”

“These aren’t other things. It’s your future, our future.” He winces at the edge in his voice. Gently—gently—he can’t fuck this up for fear you will run to Hoth with your vision painted scarlet.

“I don’t want to talk about our future. I want to get Crik.”

“So do I.” He pauses to ease his tone to a caress. “But I want to know that you’re with me.”

You hesitate, and the bewilderment that twists your brow almost makes Din wish he hadn’t said anything at all.

“Haven’t I made myself clear? I’m with you until the end.”

“The end of what? This job? This year?” He steps forward to take your hand, but relents when you withdraw, shoulders pulling back in defense. He holds up his palm in surrender. “Talk to me, Scout.”

You work your jaw back and forth for a moment of consideration. Your eyes darken as a nameless emotion rises to swallow your face. When you speak, your voice is hardly a whisper, a soft breeze caught in the grass. “I’m with you to the end of the fucking universe.”

The breath in Din’s lungs catches in his throat. He grunts to dislodge the feeling. He nods. “Fine.”

“Good.” You blink, swallow hard, find a comfortable place for your feet to rest. You fist your hands and square your center. “Now fucking fight me, Mandalorian.”

Cocking his head to the side in approval, Din pulls a small blade from the belt on his waist. He flicks his wrist, and the smooth, shining piece of metal ejects with a click. “Show me what you’re made of, mesh’la.”

With an angry screech, you shift your weight onto your back heel and attack. Your right leg explodes outward as your hips rotate in a semicircle. The heel of your foot strikes Din’s wrist, and his fingers reflexively relax. The knife falls to the ground.

But Din Djarin is quick. Always has been, always will be. And this journey to Hoth will test every hard-trained muscle in his body. He needs to be ready—just like you.

As the knife tumbles to the ground and before you can resume your fighting stance, Din circles his fingers around your offending ankle. He yanks, pulling you roughly in his direction. You collapse, your forearms taking the brunt of your fall. Still, you crawl forward, desperately searching for purchase between the grass and the dirt. He grits his teeth and tightens his hold on your ankle.

“Not so fast.”

But you are quick. Always has been, always will be. And this journey to Hoth will test every hard-trained muscle in your body. You need to be ready—just like him.

Propelling your weight over your shoulders, you flip to your back, your free leg swinging as you go. The firm tread of your boot connects with his arm, and again he releases you. Grunting in frustration, he withdraws a different knife as you scramble to your feet.

A line of dirt cakes your cheek. You spit a wad of blood to the ground. Beneath his helmet, Din smirks.

Sunlight glints off of the painted blue dagger you unsheathe from the leather scabbard tied around your thigh. As if you can sense his amusement, a grin of your own captures your face. Somewhere overhead a bird caws, circling the valley, the same valley in which you sparred before.

He moves first.

Din angles his shoulder inward as he rushes forward, but you have enough time and enough wherewithal to step to your left, positioning yourself just out of reach. The corner of his pauldron catches your shirtsleeve. He catches a whiff of your perfume—a gift from your mother—on the wind. He was close, but not close enough. Fast, but not fast enough.

Reaching out, you fist your hand in the loose fabric around his neck and use the momentum of his body to jump onto his back. You cling to him like a lichen to rock, bearing down hard from your position above his head. Your legs wrapped tight around his chest, you lean hard on the back of his neck, trying with all of your strength to force him to his knees. You knock his head to the side with an errant elbow. He teeters, but does not fall.

He dips at the waist. With half of your body poised near or above his shoulders, the sudden shift throws your center of balance off of its smug perch. You gasp, and your hands release his helmet and his arm to grip his pauldrons. Din uses the change in position and the momentary fear to reach over his shoulder and locate your armpit. He grips hard, securing his hold, before throwing his hips backward and up. You slide from his back with a soft oof.

But you take him down with you. Your fingers remain attached to his pauldron, and as you fall, he tips to the side. When you hit the ground, his knee buckles beneath the weight of your body pulling against his. He falls, and his head bangs against the earth with a heavy thud.

Upper hand found, you push him to his back, setting your knees on the juncture between his shoulders and his armpits. The fine point of your dagger digs into the flesh of his neck. You grin, sweat glistening on your forehead. “Gotcha.”

He swallows past the dry patch in his throat. “Unfair advantage. I hit my head.” He sucks in air as he struggles to catch his breath. “I’m out of practice.”

You cluck your tongue in mock-scolding. “Excuses, excuses.”

“No. It’s the truth.” Gently, Din removes you from your seat upon his chest so he can sit up. “That time on Inora was the longest stretch of unpaid leave I’ve taken in awhile.”

You roll your eyes. “You need to get out more.”

“You just want to see me work in the field without my armor on.” He nudges you with his shoulder, and the smile with which you reward him is enough to steal his breath away all over again.

“Maybe.” You give a playful shrug of your shoulders, nudging him back. “A girl can dream.”

A moment of quiet passes. Din extends his canteen to you, and you drink readily. You dutifully look away when he takes his own mouthful of water. One day, he muses. One day soon.

Hegora has not changed in the months since he first brought you here, but you have changed. He has changed. The landscape still rolls into infinity, gentle and graceful and everything Din sees you becoming. The rocks remain steadfast, the treetops swayed by the eastern wind. Din is somewhere between the rocks and the trees, forging a new path, a new Way.

With you.

“Let’s hash it out then. Right now. Before tomorrow, let’s put it all out on the table.”

Din looks away from the distant grove of trees, pulled from his thoughts by your resolute voice. “Really?”

You nod. A sweaty lock of hair falls in front of your face, but you push it away. “I hate to say it—really I do—but you’re right. We have things to talk about, and we should do it before we go after Crik.

“Okay.” Bracing his elbows on bent knees, Din begins with a question. “Why have you been so angry since we left Skywalker and the kid? We’ll go back once this is all done, give him a proper home…”

You pause to peer up into the bright, blue sky. Drawing in a deep breath, you steady yourself. Din covers your hand with his gloved-palm, and you turn to look at him. Your face softens as your fingers twist to notch between his.

“I needed to dig in,” you say. “Try and find the me from before. The girl who fought so hard against everything and hated everyone.” You hang your head on a sigh. “I found her, and I thought she would help me get ready to fight Crik, but…” Twisting a blade of grass between your fingers, you shake your head. “I don’t think it worked. She’s not… me anymore.”

“No, she’s not.”

You look up. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“Guess not.” You blink, eyes wide with questions. Din just squeezes your hand. “I like you like this. I mean, I like you angry and rearing for a fight, but I like you like this too.”

“Like what?”

He hesitates then moves to cup your cheek in his palm. His thumb brushes over the smear of dirt on your skin. “You know it now, all of the things you ignored before. You are forgiven—treasured—” His heart lifts to his mouth, and he does not fight the confession any longer. “Loved.”

He swallows hard. He watches your face. He waits for you to respond.

Loved—I love you. Please hear me.

You suck in a quivering breath as tears flood your eyes. Scoffing, you shake your head and avert your gaze to keep the tears from flowing. With a laugh, you shove his shoulder. “You would,” you whisper, wiping your now tear-stained cheeks. “You would tell me you love me like this. So matter-of-fact.”

Din rubs his hand along the back of his neck, his face warm. “Can’t seem to stop forming attachments to the people who come into my life and are supposed to be temporary. First Grogu, now you…” He shakes his head on a rueful chuckle of his own. “I’ve got a type, I guess.”

“I’m not temporary, Din. I told you: to the end of the universe.” Before he can question you any further, you twist your legs to the side and angle your torso to better face him. “My turn for a question. The Darksaber, what it said to me back on the ship… What does it mean?”

“Gotta tell me what it said first.”

“It called me its mother. Sacred mother—holy mother—at last joined with her holy mate, it said. A bunch of nonsense, but…” Your brow furrows as the brief moment of amusement drains from your face. “I felt it—in my gut and in my head.”

Din leans back, resting his weight on his palms. A cool breeze whispers over the heat rising in his body. His heart thuds against his ribcage. Externally, he is relaxed, a man lounged alongside his partner. Internally, the significance of your revelation is not lost upon him. In fact, it drowns him in reality. If the hunt for Crik goes sideways, he risks losing you. Mandalore risks losing you. Suddenly, cruelly, the promise he made to you to bring Crik to justice seems foolish.

“Mando?” You wave your hand in front of his visor. “Hello?”

He snaps to attention, clearing his throat. “There is a legend. On my home planet, the Darksaber is wielded by the rightful ruler of Mandalore. This is widely accepted. But there is a legend about the Mand’alor’s mate…”

You lean close, hooked on every word. “Well?”

“I haven’t thought about it for a long time. I learned about it as a kid, didn’t think it mattered, wasn’t really sure if it was real. But then I won the saber and—”

“Din, tell me for fuck’s sake! What does the legend say?”

“The Mand’alor’s mate will rise like a phoenix from the ashes.” He continues quoting those ancient words drilled into his head as a boy. “Fire and ice, fury and forgiveness. She will be two sides to her own coin. She will rule longer than the Mand’alor himself, and she will bring an upheld peace to the clans.”

“So you think… the Mand’alor’s mate… is me?”

“If you believe the legend, then who else?”

“What about Grogu?”

“After Hoth, we’ll go get him. He can come with us.”

“To Mandalore?”

Din shrugs. “If that is what we decide. But we don’t have to make up our minds now.”

Rising to his feet, Din offers his hand. You take it, and he pulls you to standing. Your body falls flush against his, and he molds his fingers to the curve of your hips. He dips his head to press the curve of his helmet to your brow. You hum with appreciation as you wrap your arms around his neck. Your fingers find the unshorn ends of his hair, and he is home—here, with you, on the Hergoan hillside.

“You really do, don’t you?” The whisper cuts through his honey-sweet reverie.

“What?”

“Love me.”

Without hesitation, he responds. “Yes.”

The corners of your mouth pull into a girlish smile. Your eyelashes flutter across your cheekbones, and the sun shines from beneath your very skin. He is besotted. He is in love.

He reaches out to curl his finger around the ends of your hair. “My girl,” he whispers.

You laugh and roll your eyes in jest. “Your mate, apparently. Not sure we had an option to avoid all this. We might have been fated to end up this disgusting.”

Din thumbs your chin with the knuckle of his forefinger. “In another life, I’d fight fate to make you mine.”

“I still have questions.”

“I know. For what it is worth, me too.”

Sliding your hands from his neck down his arms, you peer up at Din with a sweet glaze covering your face. So unlike before, so precious now. “Kiss me,” you whisper. “Before tomorrow comes and things get desperate, kiss me.”

When your eyelids flutter shut, Din pulls the helmet from his head. He drops it to the ground, and he thinks he hears it roll away, perhaps down the slope, but he doesn’t care. He catches your face between his hands, and he kisses you. Over and over, his tongue roaming through the open cavern of your mouth. He kisses you until your knees buckle and you sink to the waiting earth.

He takes you beneath the sky, amidst the waving field grass, with your legs wrapped tight around his back. He buries himself to the hilt of you and spills himself within you because he cannot help it and you beg him (“Inside me, Din. Please. Please.”).

After you have both found release, he sucks a dark mark on the side of your neck as you catch your breath, your nails drawing idle patterns along the skin of his shoulders. “My mate,” he murmurs.

“My Mand’alor,” you reply.

When night falls, he sleeps beside you under the stars. You lay tucked between his arm and his chest and your cheek is hot on the skin of his collarbone. Hegora spins on its axis, hurtling through the universe at break-neck speed, but you are safe at his side.

He could ask for nothing more.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TEN—LOCATION: HOTH

Snow and ice—as far as the eye can see. Blinding whites and blurry grays, all mixed together in a cacophony of bitter cold and wind. You stand at the top of the loading dock, bundled in the winter gear you stopped to purchase on Nevarro prior to entering Hoth’s atmosphere.

You stare into the beast that is Hoth’s unfeeling climate, and the beast stares back.

Yesterday…

Letting go of the girl you were for good…

Mandalore and the saber’s mate…

His mouth on yours and his body between your legs…

He loves you…

Din loves you.

More than you are able to process overnight, but it’s okay. You have time. Surely, you have time. There will be time for talking and planning and learning the true depths of each other when your business with Crik is through. But first you must complete the one thing you set out to accomplish. Long before Din and offering yourself to the Guild, there was Jeelia.

You suck in a breath. For Jeelia—always for her.

Sensing your resolve, Din interlaces his fingers with yours. He cocks his head to the cold wilderness as a gust of wind sweeps snow up the loading dock.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go.”

NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

#din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut

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