#(of course she gets a buff from the fact one of her fists is metal and has hydraulic enhancements. but still-)

[sonicprim3d]

" An' this is why we punch 'em instead of tryin' to intimidate 'em. "

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough  Am I giving enough  Have I paid my debts  Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker -  and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

[gaylittlewhumpee]

put back into place || viking whump

this is just a random first person whump snippet without any context lol, hope you like it. it´s set in the tv show "vikings", doesn´t contain any spoilers, only my best friend and me cuz i love whumping myself uwu

cw: alcohol, belting, manhandling, beating, brief mentions of non-con and r@pe, brief mentions of pregnancy and abortions, some heavy language, knife whump, ragnar being protective and getting his revenge on that dumb drunk dipshit, a shit ton of sarcasm

The light of the fire glistened against the metal cups and the candle holders, gold and matted, weakly illuminating the dark hall. Men were laughing, drinking, drunkenly dancing and sharing stories, as they always were, while eating - and making a huge mess, of course.

I sighed. I was holding a cup, almost untouched, and playing with it anxiously. I didn't really like the ale, unlike my friend, who already downed three drinks and now was very cheerily devouring the fourth one. I scoffed a little and sipped from mine. I had to admit it wasn't bad, the ale was pungent and sweet, but I didn't really like the idea of getting drunk around a bunch of two-meters-tall, buff, scary viking men who mostly knew shit about consent and didn't care about what an age gap is. And the last thing I wanted was getting raped and getting pregnant with a child of some drunk-ass 40-years-old fucker in a world where abortion wasn't invented yet.

,,You look like a lost puppy, dude,” Jáchym laughed softly and nudged me, making me smile weakly. ,,What is it?”

,,I just… I don't really like this, bro,” I replied reluctantly, gesturing with my cup to the whole hall. ,,Ragnar and mostly everyone who we know isn't here and were left in the company of a bunch of dangerous drunk dudes who could crush my skull with one hand. Of course I don't feel good.”

He shook his head. ,,Why would they want to hurt us? Look, don´t worry. If you want to, we can go, get some fresh air or something.”

I looked at my feet and squirmed nervously. ,,Nah. You don't have to leave just because of me. You look like you're enjoying this. It's okay.”

,,Alright,” he shrugged and finished his drink. ,,But if you change your mind, just tell me.”

I nodded and decided to try to fight my anxiety. Fuck this, alright? We're here. How many times will we get an opportunity to feast with fucking vikings? I downed my drink in one go, squinching my eyes at how it stung in my throat. Jáchym quietly cheered and quickly followed my example. I smirked at him and peeled myself off of the wooden pillar I was leaning on, diving into the crowd.

My heart was pounding in my chest so loudly I almost choked on it, but I headed to the table, eyes fixed on the big goblet with more ale. I reached over the shoulder of some man, who was laughing loudly about something, and tried to grab it, but he quickly caught my hand and forced me to topple over at the table, getting more laughs from his friends around.

,,Sorry,” I yelped out, trying to pry myself from his iron grasp, ,,I just- I just wanted to fetch the ale.”

The man's eyes narrowed. He reached for the goblet. ,,You wanted this?” he asked. I slowly nodded, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment as more looks landed on me.

,,Yes,” I replied. ,,Ye- yes. I´m sorry.”

He looked me straight in the eyes and strengthened his grip, as he slowly turned the goblet upside down, pouring its content onto the floor. His friends´ laughter rumbled in my ears as he grinned at me, without a trace of humor. I squirmed again.

,,Hey, leave her alone.”

Oh my fuck, bro, I swear to gods, don´t fight this dude, I prayed quickly as Jáchym approached us, opening the man´s hand and forcing him to leave my forearm. I backed off as fast as I could, grasping the bruises he left, watching him and my friend with wide eyes.

The man stood up slowly, hovering over Jáchym as he tried to keep balance. My friend was apparently too dumb to do the logical thing, which was turning around and running for his fucking life, but instead, he striked first.

The man groaned and fell back onto his seat, grabbing his bloodied nose. Now Jáchym backed up, probably finally realizing that fighting a viking wasn't the smartest thing to do, but the man grabbed his shoulder and punched him. Well, he tried, Jáchym dodged it at the last time, and the man´s fist just lightly stroked his cheekbone instead of landing on his chin.

I forgot that I was fucking terrified, my blood raced through my veins. My heart was pounding so fast it hurt. I forgot how to breathe. And, I did the dumbest thing possible. I jumped forward, head-butting the man´s face before he could punch my friend again.

He groaned, I felt his already injured nose to crack, and white stars of pain flew across my skull. He grabbed my throat and threw me to the ground, as one of his friends twisted Jáchym´s arms behind his back to stop him from fighting again, even though he thrashed around and tried to stomp on his feet.

I tried to get up, but a kick forced me to fly back to the ground with a pained gasp. Jáchym managed to strike the face of his opponent with the back of his head, but a punch to the gut forced him to topple over, wheezing for breath. The man over me grinned as he unbuckled his belt.

,,You gonna fuck this little bitch, Hrolf?” one of his friends laughed, watching the whole scene while drinking his ale.

The disgusting piece of shit, apparently named Hrolf, just sneered. ,,I´m not fucking dogs,” he snarled, erupting more laughter from his great pals. ,,I´m just gonna put these two sneaky pieces of shit back to their place.”

His belt landed on my arm, leaving an angry red mark. I yelped and tried to pull away, but to no use. The leather of his belt hit my skin again, and again, and again, no matter how much I squirmed. In the end, I just curled up, covering my head with arms, quietly weeping and hoping that he'll get enough soon.

My hopes apparently came true, since the blows stopped coming. Hrolf scoffed. ,,And now the other one.”

Oh well I think the fuck not, I thought, pulling my bloodied arms from my head. Jáchym growled and fought against the two men who were manhandling him, trying to push him down. Hrolf raised his arm, ready to hit him.

I bounced off the floor and flew forward, kicking him in the groin with all the strength I had. Which wasn't much, but it was enough to force him to screech and topple over, falling back onto his seat hard. Jája pulled himself out of the grasp of the two men, quickly stepping away.

The metal buckle of the belt landed on my face, erupting in a white-hot lash of pain. I fell to the floor, feeling the metal taste of blood in my mouth, but I looked up at Hrolf with a bloody grin when he turned around and left the scene with a scoff, swaying and grabbing his crotch.

Jáchym´s warm hands lifted me up. I wiped the blood from my face, hissing as I touched the open wound and splitted lip.

,,You alright?” he asked, concerned. One of his eyes was already swelling up. I frowned, gently touching it, and he softly tsk-ed, pulling away from my touch.

,,No, bro. Are you alright?” I replied, voice full of worries. And blood. It´s sweetness mixed up with the bitter aftertaste of the ale.

He shook his head. ,,No. Let's get out of here.”

I agreed with all my heart. We supported each other as we stumbled out of the hall, into the cold darkness of the night.

>><<

Rangar´s eyes were piercing me as he softly turned my head with his fingertips, examining the marks.

,,You say he beated you two up for getting a drink?” he asked Jáchym, who stood a few feet away.

My friend nodded with a frown. ,,Yeah. He said something about putting us back in place or something,” he confirmed, his face dark with anger. I shivered softly when I saw his expression. Ragnar turned my attention back to him.

,,Um, I mean, it was kind of my fault,” I admitted quickly, stuttering a little when faced with his blue, stark eyes, who did not blink. ,,I- I shouldn't have sneak up on him like- like that, I´m really sorry-”

,,Stop it,” Ragnar cut my stammering. ,,He hurt you. Floki,” he turned to the boat-builder who was watching the whole scene, leaning against the frame of the door, ,,go find Hrolf. Tell him I want to talk to him, now.”

Floki sneered a little and perked up. ,,Of course, Ragnar,” he grinned, as he always did. ,,I will tell him.”

He disappeared and Ragnar sighed, patting my shoulder. I let out a soft gasp of pain and he immediately stopped, gently grabbing my side instead. ,,I´ll deal with him,” he promised to us. I felt the anger building up inside him and I shivered, clinging to Jáchym instead. ,,Come with me.”

>><<

,,Hello, Hrolf,” Ragnar greeted the man who entered the hall coldly, not even turning around to face him. I sat at the heel of the stairs leading to the chairs dominating the room, trying to hide in the shadow. Jáchym didn´t. He sat at the top and was piercing Hrolf with the deadliest stare he knew, considering the fact that one of his eyes was swollen and almost closed.

,,What is it, Ragnar?” Hrolf asked, the trace of sarcasm too visible in his voice.

,,You know why I wanted to talk to you,” Ragnar said softly, still with his back turned on Hrolf as the man approached. ,,You hurt these two.”

Hrolf scoffed. ,,The girl sneaked up on me. She then disrespected me, and the boy tried to fight. I simply put your slaves back to their place.”

Now Ragnar turned around swiftly, facing the smaller man, their faces only a few inches apart. ,,They´re not slaves,” he corrected him, voice terrifyingly calm and low. ,,We found them while raiding, but they're not slaves, Hrolf. I think of them as high as of my own children.”

Hrolf threw his arms apart. ,,Well, I didn't know that you were so keen on them,” he snarled in irritation. ,,They annoyed me. I fixed that. If they learned their lesson, I have no problem with them. Is that all, Ragnar?”

Ragnar smirked, locking Hrolf´s arms in an iron grip. ,,No.”

He head-butted Hrolf´s face so fiercely that his head flew back, breaking his already kind of damaged nose once again and leaving a bruise around his eye, similar to Jáchym´s from yesterday. Hrolf howled in pain, but Ragnar´s grip forced him to stay on his feet. Ragnar grinned wildly as he flicked a small knife from behind his belt - and then he turned to me. I shrivelled and curled up under his gaze.

,,Come here,” he ordered me, still holding a groaning Hrolf in one hand and the blade in the other.

The last thing I wanted was to get close to a furious Ragnar with a knife in his hands, but his command was just impossible to ignore. I shakily got up and approached him, my eyes flickering from the glistening blade to Hrolf´s fucked up nose to Ragnar's stone-cold face with a soft smile on it.

,,Closer,” he gestured, softly taking my chin to lift it up, examining the place on my cheek where the belt broke my skin. ,,Hmmm.” He turned back to Hrolf and lifted the knife.

I backed up, knowing very well what he was about to do, and I also knew that there was no use in trying to stop him. I just turned away, trying to ignore Hrolf´s pained gasps and panting as Ragnar slowly, too slowly started to carve the same wound into his cheek. Jáchym softly hugged my side when he felt me shivering, frowning, but not turning away.

Finally, Ragnar was done, the bloodied knife fell to the floor and Hrolf was quietly hissing.

,,Now, I think we're good,” Ragnar said, still not letting him go, watching the blood drip from his chin. ,,But to be absolutely clear…” He pulled Hrolf even closer, so close he felt Ragnar´s breath on his ear, ,,You ever lay a hand on them again, and I will cut it off myself. Understood?”

,,Ye- Yes,” he gasped, gulping. ,,I understand.”

,,Good,” Ragnar smiled and let him go. ,,Now, be on your way.”

Hrolf started to back up, wiping the blood from his face, leaving the hall abruptly, shutting the door behind him. Ragnar let out a huge breath and picked up the knife, wiping it against his pants. Then he looked at us.

,,Which one of you broke his nose the first time?” he asked.

,,I think it was me,” said Jája.

Ragnar grinned and reached a hand out to him, helping him to get up. I quickly stood up too, my eyes flinching from Ragnar back to my friend.

,,Good. The next time, punch out his teeth too, boy.”

[rose-of-gabriel]

Stalker

@ghostoftreebeard was unfortunate in that they got me for RebelCaptainSecretSanta, and I did not get my life together until now. So yeah, sorry about that. 

Thank you for introducing me to the wide world of rogueone!collegeAU

prompt: “Oh my god, are you stalking me?”

Cassian doesn’t even know her name, and trust him, it’s not for lack of trying. At first, he had barely noticed her, save for a passing “she’s hot but I’m not going to entertain that thought any further because you’re the TA, Andor. For God’s sake!” As that first term went on, he realized she wasn’t doing any of the assignments, and while she always showed up for exams, her tests ended up in the trash instead of on Professor Draven’s desk. Cassian tried to look her up in the student registrar, but she didn’t match any of the I.D pictures. She’s a ghost, haunting nearly every class he assists for the next three semesters.

Maybe she’s just a history buff. All of Draven’s lectures are open to the public, and plenty of locals take advantage of that fact. Cassian suspects she’s a student, though, with her worn out Yavin State hoodie and battered rucksack. Despite his responsibilities during lecture, Cassian’s eyes always drift to the back of the room, where she sits with her feet propped up on the seat in front of her, hair in a messy bun and eyes smudged with black liner. Cassian wishes she would sit closer so he could make out the color of her eyes.

It happens in the spring. He’s TAing for Draven’s class on the U.S Reconstruction period when she doesn’t show up the first day. He tells himself that he doesn’t care, but he can’t deny the disappointment when she is absent the following class period, as well. He does not spend extra time in the library or walk extra slowly to the bus stop in hopes of seeing her. He definitely doesn’t get to class early next week, staring at the doorway as students pour into the room. He nearly loses hope when – just as Draven begins the lecture – she stumbles in.

Cassian prays that no one notices his involuntary gasp. Even from the front of the room, he can see that her lip has been busted open, and a massive bruise swells over her right cheek. There is a large bandage over her temple and her knuckles on both hands are wrapped in gauze. Cassian’s ears are ringing as he takes in the sight, a million questions racing through his head. He notices distantly that a few other students turn to look at her before whispering to their classmates. She doesn’t seem to notice or care, pulling out her notebook and propping up her feet like nothing is out of the ordinary.

Draven normally wants to hear Cassian’s feedback at the end of each lecture, but today he’s out the door before Draven even closes his laptop. Half of his brain is chanting that this is none of his business, this is none of his business, this is none of his business! The other half is locked on to the back of her head, weaving through the rush of students in a desperate attempt not to lose her. He doesn’t have a plan, or a real justification for what he’s doing. Sure, he’s decent in a fight, but he doubts whoever did this to her is going to show their face in broad daylight. The thought of that person sends his blood boiling and has him clenching his hands into fists. In that moment, he’s certain he could tear a man limb from limb.

The woman heads to the coffee shop a few blocks from their building and Cassian pauses at the edge of the sidewalk. This is when he should stop. He knows this, knows that he should never have come this far, it’s just… the idea of anyone hurting her fills him with more emotion than he’s felt in years. Something inside is telling him to trust his instincts and follow it, follow her.

He doesn’t give himself time to second guess when she comes out of the coffee shop, just puts one foot in front of the other. She heads to one of the computer labs, next, prints something, then to the park where she plants herself on a bench and pulls out a book. She lays down as if she’s in her living room and not a public park, holding the book to keep the sun off her face. Cassian decides to sit down at one of the metal picnic tables and pull out his own book, though he doesn’t retain a word of it. He’s idly thumbing the corner of one page when suddenly a hand is snatching it away from him.

“Ay!” He exclaims, the word dying on his tongue as he looks up.

Her injuries are even more worrisome up close, but not nearly as frightening as the death glare she is giving him. “You stalking me, Mr. Andor?”

His mouth struggles around a response, his thoughts far too preoccupied with the color of her eyes: green, with flecks of gold, like stardust.

Eventually, his brain catches up to the present and he says. “I could argue that you’re the one stalking me. I’ve seen you in every class I’ve taught for the last three semesters.”

She crinkles her nose, clearly not expecting that. “I like history, sue me.” Then she shakes her head. “Wait, how the hell did you follow me around all day and then somehow turn this on me?”

Cassian can’t help but laugh at that. “I’m not a very good stalker. I don’t even know your name. You’re not on the student roster.”

Her posture loses some of its edge, voice sliding into something more playful. “So you looked me up then, aye?”

A shiver runs through him. He admits, “It’s hard to resist the mystery.”

His eyes lock with hers for a few moments, entranced by their depth. Then his focus turns to the gruesome state of her face and his stomach turns. She notices, and all softness in her expression vanishes.

“Ah, I get it.” She growls, letting his book drop to the table with a bang. She gestures to her face. “You saw this and thought I needed your ass to follow me around and what… protect me?”

“No,” Cassian says immediately, because its true! He doesn’t doubt for a second that she can take care of herself. “I just… I was just worried.”

“You don’t even know me.” She scoffs, turning on her heal and marching away from him. He nearly chokes trying to find something to say, anything that might make her turn around, but words don’t come. He gets up slowly, embarrassment and frustration churning in his gut. Then, before he can grab his things and sulk home, she comes back, this time stepping into his personal space.

“And not that it’s any of your business,” she says, jutting out her chin, “but I got these in a fight and won. I don’t need some stalker to protect me.”

She stomps away again, but only makes it a few steps before Cassian finally finds his voice. “I know you’re smarter than everyone else in that room.” She stops. “I know you could ace those exams in your sleep.” She doesn’t turn around but inclines her head, so he knows she’s listening.

“I know you drink black iced coffee at every hour of the day, and you fiddle with that necklace when you’re thinking.” She faces him, hand settling over her sternum where he knows a large stone sits hidden beneath her shirt. He’s watched it dance between her fingers more times than he can count. It’s fueled hundreds of questions that keep him up at night, never dreaming he would know the answers.

She approaches him slowly, like a cat assessing a stranger. She stands within arms’ reach of him, eyeing him curiously. Figuring he has nothing to lose, Cassian continues.

“I’m guessing you have at least one tattoo,” she raises a coy eyebrow, “and your favorite color is green.”

That earns an explosive laugh. “How the hell do you figure that?”

Cassian shrugs, fighting a smile. “Wild guess.” Green is definitely his new favorite color.

She rolls her eyes. “We’re adults. We don’t need favorite colors.”

“I disagree.”

She makes a dismissive sound, but her lips creep up in a smirk. Cassian feels warm down to the tips of his toes. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, knowing that he is being utterly ridiculous.

With a sigh, she squares her shoulders and says, “You want to get a drink, stalker?” Cassian hasn’t fully processed her question when she starts backing away, wearing a self-satisfied grin. “My name’s Jyn, by the way.”

0o0o0

They end up at the Cantina, a bar just off campus that’s popular with undergrads because they never card. Cassian learns that Jyn’s a sociology and criminology double major. The history classes she audits are just for fun. She’s also pretty good at coding, turns out, and helps student clubs design their websites. In turn, Cassian reveals that he went to Yavin for undergrad on a scholarship, but when he was a kid, he wanted to be a spy.

Jyn laughs. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Cassian takes a swig of his beer. “Really?”

“Of course. When Draven turns to you during lecture, you’re able to nod like he isn’t putting everyone to sleep.”

Cassian chokes on his beer, which makes Jyn laugh even harder. He laughs too, even as he tries to clean up his shirt. Soon they’re both on their third beer. The sun is far below the horizon and the Cantina is buzzing with people. All through the evening, Cassian resists asking about what happened, but his worry must still be evident, because eventually Jyn sighs, fingers pulling at the cord of her necklace.

“These guys have been bothering my brother for a while. I needed to send a message that he’s off limits.”

“Is your brother in trouble?” Cassian keeps his voice even, free of judgement.

Jyn wrestles with what she wants to say next. “You know the Empire?”

“The neo-Nazis cult?” Cassian can’t suppress his shock.

Jyn nods. “My brother got caught up with them after his mom died. He didn’t buy into their shit, it was just better than getting lost in the system.” Her eyes flit to his, then latch back onto the table. “Anyway, after a few years, he finally broke ties and ran. That’s when my dads found him and took him in.”

Cassian’s speechless, so many questions battling in his head. He settles on the most impossible one, the one that has him brimming with nervous amazement. “You took on a fascist cult single handed?”

Jyn seems surprised at his question, like she can’t believe that’s what he got out of the story. Then her lips are slowly pulling upward, and she’s shaking her head in fond disbelief.

“Not in its entirety, but a handful of guys, yeah.” Then her expression sobers, and he knows the playfulness in her next words is a disguise for genuine fear. “Ready to run?”

Cassian answers sincerely. “No. Based on my experience in the system, I don’t blame your brother.”

Relief and surprise wash over her features, piercing green eyes going wide. Several weeks pass before the subject is brought up again. Several weeks of grabbing lunch after class, of Jyn stopping by during his office hours. Several weeks of dinner at his place and study dates at hers. He meets her brother. Her dads ask about him when they call. He talks about her to his friends and they’re all probably sick of it by now, but he doesn’t care. Cassian Andor is happier than he’s ever been.

[mxrcayong]

the avatar series: 01.15

masterlist.

previous | next 

chapter fifteen

Tari has never felt this anxiety before.

Okay, wrong.

She may have felt this anxiety before, but in a past life. She was certain this was how Aang felt before storming Fire Lord Ozai’s temple; the rumbling in the pits of their stomachs, the paranoia that something is right around the corner, the inability to sit still.

However, unlike Aang, she has no clue who her enemy is. She felt like she barely scratched the surface of the plot against benders. Is there even a singular enemy? Tari can’t keep her thoughts on track, each of them constantly venturing to every possibility that could even occur – and the more potential outcomes she’s thinks of, less end in favorable ways. Consequently, Tari is having reservations about letting her friends accompany her. Maybe I should go alone, she told herself.

The seven of them sat together in their ‘temporary strategy room’, waiting for Sukiara to enter to give them their final briefing for the following evening. It was the afternoon of the day before the mouse trap for benders. She told them to be here as soon as the bell signifying when the canteen workers will bring lunch inside, which happened around ten minutes ago, rings.

The only conversation in the room came from Sonan, Doyoung, Jisung, and Yuta – who were still just getting to know each other without any sense of awkwardness. “Yo, how did I never see you before?” Sonan exclaimed, lightly slapping Jisung’s shoulder as he mentioned his mom loves her shop. “What’s your mom’s name?”

Jisung smiled sheepishly, “I don’t often go with her though. I’m always at school or with Yuta.”

School. Tari’s heart hurts. She never went to school – she never had the ability to, but from her knowledge of her friends’ adolescence and of any media regarding education; she knew it was imperative. She knew that it’s considered the gateway to life. Jisung hasn’t crossed that yet…he’s only going to be graduating in a few months. His life only just started.

Doyoung motioned to Yuta, pointing at Tari who was now lost in space for the millionth time today. In particular, she was facing Jisung – spaced out. They didn’t know she was thinking about Jisung’s future, how he might’ve turned out if he never got involved with her. In fact, she wondered where everyone would be if they didn’t get involved with her.

Safer, she thought, for sure.

At Doyoung’s hand motion from across the table, Yuta’s hand rested on Tari’s knee. The sudden contact was cold – potentially due to a few of his rings, but it sent tingles down her spine. She looked up, eyes wide, to see Yuta bowing his head to be in her eyeline. He sent her a soft smile, which Tari can imagine will calm her down in any other circumstance – but not right now. She stopped staring at the teenager and stared down at her lap, refusing to look up.

Because – right in front of her, sat Johnny and Kilari sharing mumbled words.

She hasn’t had a proper conversation ��� more than four words – with them since the day he and Kilari stormed out. Looking at them has made her heart heavy as she can’t tell if the look in their eyes were concern or despise. She has lost two people who mean the world to her and looking at them just reminded her of all of the possibilities she has lost.

Suddenly, the clinking of heels hitting the floor and the slide of the door echoed throughout the room – interrupting the limited conversation within the room. Tari couldn’t help but pray to any significant being out there – thanking them for distracting her with news.

Sukiara clapped her hands, standing in front of the corkboard like a professor whose waiting for their students’ presentation. A small smile playing at her lips as she scanned everyone’s faces, she asked a simple question made way too complex in this situation; ‘how are you feeling?’.

Lost. Scared. Conflicted. Confused. It felt like Toph has metal-bended her feet to the ground, making her unable to stand without the weight of the world holding her back. Unfortunately, this wasn’t reflected in the hum shared by everyone else around the room.

“Well,” Sukiara chuckled, “that responses was expected. Let’s go over the plan again, shall we?”

The plan, sure, sounded solid but Tari was left feeling more clueless than ever. As everyone around her nodded and agreed, they were borderline excited to experience this action firsthand. Tari couldn’t stop thinking about what her job will be.

Yes, her job is to restore balance in the world. Her job is to reduce the threat.

But what does reducing the threat even mean?

Tari doesn’t know what to do. What if she can’t restrain them or arrest them? What if she has to murder them? The thought of taking a life sent shivers down her spine and made her want to repulse.

Everyone was standing up, ready to resume their last day and evening of training. It was potentially their last night of their stay here and they intend to take advantage of the evening meal. Yet, Tari was stuck in her seat – her concerns weighing her down.

Amongst the chaos of everyone sorting out where they’ll be going, Sukiara asked a question that Tari never thought she’d have to hear. “Tari,” Her voice trembled slightly, which was unlike her. “Do you remember how to blood bend?” Sukiara’s voice betrayed her cold exterior, conveying a thousand of worries and preoccupations occupying her mind.  

Of course, Tari did. It was a traumatic year.

She has yet to experience being heavily blood-bended, as Sukiara only did minor ones to demonstrate the power blood bending has. But she has blood bended before, and the sensation of rats trapped inside of her skin; scratching her from the inside, trying to break through her skin and escape. Oddly enough, it wasn’t painful. Sukiara had to blood bend Tari to remind her that even what felt simple may be the most harmful actions of them all. Blood bending was only something a master – no, even better than a master – water bender can do easily. It tends to be stronger under the midnight moon, but the strongest water benders can do it at any time. Tari was lucky. Her teacher – Sukiara - was the daughter of Hana’s block mate, who quickly learned the essence of what Hana did.

Hana was the originator of the blood bending technique and created it with cruel intentions. She was captured by the Fire Nation and prevented any access to water. But she found another source of water; blood.  It is the most malicious bending out there, hence why it’s the only one that’s been banned and deemed illegal – even before the anti-bending regime. Tari, of course, has never met Hana. But Aang did. When she learned how to blood bend, every night she felt transported to that moment. She’d be the first Avatar to learn blood bending, as Sukiara thought it was important – despite being illegal. But she remembers the fear in Aang as he saw the prisoners Hana took, as he saw Katara become unhinged, how she changed.

It was a reminder back then. The Fire Benders were seen as the cruelest and inherently evil – capable of burning and destroying. All the other bending seemed inherently harmless, only capable of harm when armed to. But this reminded them water even can be poisonous, harmful. This reminder only hit harder when Aang went to the dragon temple with Zuko to meet the original fire benders. Due to Aang’s deep and thoughtful learnt wisdoms, Tari has always had an open approach to benders and each of the nation’s cultures.

Sukiara snapped in front of Tari’s face, taking her out of her daze. Tari nodded slowly, choking on her spit at the implications of the question.

But no one else seemed to catch how Tari’s breathing slowed, her eyes widened, and her body stilled with the mention of the forbidden action. Doyoung, even, couldn’t see it. They were all in shock.  

“You know how to blood bend?” Kilari asked, although Tari couldn’t tell if she was even more upset by not knowing this.

“I thought it was illegal.” Sonan inquired, her eyebrows furrowing.

“Wow.” Jisung practically cooed, staring wide-eyed and impressed at Tari.

Yuta just smirked, while Johnny avoided eye contact. Doyoung? He was just trying to gauge how Tari was feeling about everything.

Tari felt all eyes on her, as if a spotlight was pointing at her. She hated this; all the attention. I’m not Aang, I’ll never be as good as him, she would think when special attention was diverted to her when she was younger. She has never learnt to like it. “Uhm, I’m going to meditate.”

“I’ll join you.” Doyoung offered, fully knowing that they wouldn’t meditate but just talk about how Tari is feeling. He already had one foot out the door when Tari turned around quickly and refused his company.

Her eyes were stern and Doyoung has never seen this emotion on her face before. She was the palest she’s ever been, her lips slightly blue and parted, her body trembling. It was as if someone locked her in an iceberg. “I want to be alone.”

feel free to skip this part, I just wanted to add some fluff

After being practically abandoned by Tari and due to not needing to train with Yuta, Doyoung found himself with Johnny and Sonan in the weaponry room. Doyoung sometimes forgets how buff Johnny actually is; defined muscles and biceps. He went to work out with Johnny once before but ended up sprawled on the floor complaining about soreness. That was when Doyoung decided to stick to bending gyms.

Essentially, Johnny often would joke about being the ‘weakest’ in the group due to not being able to bend. Yet he’s anything but.

“You gotta turn it into a dance.” Johnny teased Doyoung and Sonan, as he started moving his fists to a silent rhythm they couldn’t hear. “It’s how you make it fun.”

Doyoung chuckled, “Do you think we can connect our phones to the speakers before we fight?”

“Yeah, totally.” Sonan said sarcastically as she was browsing the options of weapons. “ ‘Hey excuse me sir? I get you’re trying to kill us, but can we just put on Sorry Sorry?’”

“And ignore the classic ‘I Want It That Way’?” Johnny dropped his jaw in fake offense, temporarily halting his actions to fix the tape on his hands. “How dare you?”

“You are…” Doyoung started.

“My fire,” Johnny continued, singing dramatically to Sonan as she rolled her eyes.

“My one,” Doyoung turned to Sonan as well.

“Desire” Johnny held the note as long as he thought he should.

“Believe,” Doyoung’s arm went dramatically in the air.

“When I say…” Johnny trailed off, both of them not motioning to Sonan to finish the chorus.

“I want it that way.” Sonan groaned, trying to cover up her laughter with annoyance. “Shut up!” She busted out in chuckles as she saw how they started to pout. “We need to train.”

Stone cold and alone; what Tari is used to.

And where she finally felt like completely and utterly herself for the first time in months, maybe even years.

The moment her knees fell onto the stone gazebo, she felt all her emotions wash over her. It was the triggering moment, the push off the cliff, the final button. Soon, her forehead was resting against her arm as she bowed forwards – her arm resting against the gazebo.

She felt like she hasn’t cried in so long. She hasn’t really had a reason to. She had Johnny, and Doyoung, and Sonan, and Kilari. She had ‘Iroh and Me’ and Hendery. She had so much than she would’ve thought. Yes, she now has Jisung and Yuta. But she could lose them easily within the next day, and she expects them to slip through her fingers  

But I can’t fail them. More than I already did.

She climbed up from her bow and kneeled. Placing her forearms on her legs, she closed her eyes and faced the sky.

“You know, you don’t always have to be in the gazebo to call me.” Aang teased, his spirit appearing behind her. He approached her before joining her by kneeling next to her. “You’re not okay.”

Tari sighed, “I’m worried about tomorrow.”

“The attack on benders, right?” Tari nodded Aang’s clarifying question. “What are you worried about?” Although they share the same life, they do not share the same brain. Yes, Aang’s knowledge and memories are stored in Tari’s brain – but it only grows continuously. He can’t have access to her thoughts unless she voices it to him.

“What do I do when I see…well, whoever?”

Aang sighed, “You know I’ll be honest with you.” He let out a sad chuckle, as if reliving his past. “When I had to fight Fire Lord Ozai, I asked Yangchen, Kuruk, Kysohi, and Roku what they thought. And they all told me to kill him.” He shrugged, “I’ve never taken a life before that.”

Tari smiled to herself, recalling his memories with him. “Yeah, I think that’s the reason I didn’t want to talk to Kyoshi.” Kyoshi was definitely the most cutthroat out of all of them. Not to say she was cruel because she was anything but that, but she’d be ready to kill someone when she deemed necessary.

Aang laughed with her, already sensing Kyoshi’s spirit ready to fight both of them for refusing to kill. Aang entering the Spirit World when he passed had Kyoshi argue with him about sparing Fire Lord Ozai’s life on and off for five years. “Yeah, honestly, after I spoke with her, I regretted it too.” Tari rolled her eyes. “But, I think no matter where we are on this – we all have our biases. Obviously, I’d tell you to not take his life, but it really depends on the situation.”

“So, let me offer you the wisdom given to me and my own.” He paused dramatically. Always the one for dramatics, Tari thought to herself in a playful manner – momentarily forgetting that he can’t read her mind.

“Yangchen told me this isn’t about us, it’s about the world and selfless duty calls you to sacrifice your own spiritual need.” He started, the gentle breeze growing stronger at the mention of the airbender. Tari thought of her encounters with Yangchen, an Air Nomad who was devoted and fierce. She never backed down from a fight or a challenge. As a result, she is still prayed to for protection today. “I agree with this, but sometimes, you know more about the world than you think.”

“Kuruk,” Kuruk was the water bender Tari was raised to be like, after all, he was the last Water Nation Avatar. Funnily enough, the mention of his name seemed to evoke a mighty wave crashing against the rock below them. However, thinking of Kuruk, her heart hurts. He lived in a peaceful time, often attributed to Yangchen’s contributions. But he was arrogant, brash, and careless. Consequently, he lost his fiancé and the love of his life. He never found love other than that. “He said you must actively shape your own destiny and the destiny of the world. So yes, take action. And remember what you do has a consequence.”

A faint smile and subtle eye roll came from Aang and Tari knew Kyoshi was next. “Kyoshi told me only justice will bring peace.” He let out a dry chuckle, “which of course, to her – justice means ending anything that threatens peace.” The two chuckled softly, Tari desperately trying to avoid sniffling as her nose was still blocked from crying. “But justice means different things and sometimes, that means giving people the opportunity to be better…when you think they won’t or can’t cause any more harm.”  

“Lastly, Roku said you must be decisive. Although this implies you cannot falter,” Aang paused, turning to look at Tari directly rather than around the two of them – his brown eyes staring straight into her as if they were reading her soul. “You can. There’s no wrong in taking time and sometimes decisions will be poorly received, but if you don’t act fast enough – you may lose the opportunity forever.” For some reason, she thought of Johnny with his warning of not acting fast enough. But she couldn’t dwell on that thought.

“My advice is when we hit our lowest points, we are opened to the greatest change.”

Tari furrowed her eyebrows, “And what does that mean in this context?”

Aang let out an exaggerated wink, “It’s for you to find out.”

“I called you to help me, not give me-“ Tari groaned, her head falling back as she resembled a child whining about not getting a toy they wanted in the store.

“But something else is on your mind?”

Tari’s words escaped her before she could even process them. She told him of Doyoung, of Johnny, of Yuta and Jisung, of Sonan and Kilari – of everyone she may be hurting or endangering. Aang was quick to remind her of her relationships with Toph and her daughters, of Aang’s own children and Katara, of Suki and Sokka’s daughter, of Zuko and his grandchildren (who she may or may not have had her first kiss with). Aang was quick to remind her that some friendships can transcend lifetimes, and if they leave her? The friendship isn’t worth it.

Nightmare after nightmare, the night didn’t seem to get any better. She can’t imagine the sunrise tomorrow feeling any lighter than the darkest of nights, which she knows will be tomorrow night.

Tari was restless; waking up with a fright from her minimal hours of sleep. The bungalow echoed her friend’s breathing around her as her body jolted upwards. Her chest was heaving and she felt like she couldn’t catch her breath.

It was just a nightmare, she told herself. It’s tomorrow. They aren’t dead. But maybe her unconscious mind was right; maybe all her friends and loved ones will die tomorrow. Maybe she’ll continue to hurt and disappoint them.The only ideal outcome out of the dream that left her sweating in bed is the fact that once she’s gone, the burden of being the Avatar will be placed upon someone more worthy.

She scanned the room, just as a reminder that they are alive and are untouched. But she noticed one makeshift bed empty. She tried to see for any sign of life and immediately caught sight of the door leading to the cliff open.

After debating between floating using air bending or merely tip-toing, Tari decided to shuffle her feet to the door. Closing it softly after her, she already saw a figure sitting at the cliffside on the bench.

“I’m surprised to see you up.” Tari’s voice was small and groggy, as if a mouse had just woken up from a thousand-year slumber. It was so quiet Johnny could hardly recognize it. He looked up to give her a soft smile, scooting over on the bench to let her sit next to him.

The invitation felt strange. They haven’t exchanged a conversation that consisted of more than six words since he and Kilari stormed out. But Tari accepted it. It gave her hope – maybe, just maybe, they’ll be okay again.

He shrugged, his voice distant as his eyes focused on the line where the night sky meets the sea. “Couldn’t sleep. Why are you up?”

“Nightmare.” Johnny knew Tari was prone to nightmares, often dismissing them and helping her cope with them by saying she has him and she doesn’t have to interact with the subject of her nightmare in reality. Unfortunately, Johnny had a feeling he couldn’t say that right now. “You should sleep.” Tari commented, avoiding eye contact as she sat with her legs crossed on the bench. The last month has been definitely affecting their relationship. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one always preaching health.”

Johnny chuckled sadly, shaking his head playfully. Eventually, he looked up and stared into her eyes. She missed his brown eyes; the sparkle in them, the way they furrowed when he was concentrated on his next article, or the way they lit up when he saw his next potential photograph “Tari,” Johnny’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She asked, her eyebrows furrowing. If anything, she felt the need to apologize. But she never knew when the best time would be.

The non-bender bit his lip. “For treating you like I have. You never deserved that.”

“No, Johnny, I’m sorry for never telling you the truth.”

“But Tari, you didn’t need to. Being the Avatar doesn’t change who you are.”

Tari sighs, “But it does.” She emphasized, almost yelling at him as she’s frustrated with how kind he is being. He deserves to hate her. “I’ve disappointed you.”

Johnny sucked in his cheeks as he turned away, his hands lazily interlaced together as his elbows rested on his knees. When Johnny looked up again, Tari made sure to memorize his eyes at this moment; full of kindness, warmth, love, and care. Not full of the rage or disappointment Tari has grown accustomed to over the last few days.

“Tari, you could never disappoint me.” He sighed. “I was mad at first because yeah, I thought you were lying to us. But it was something you got to choose to share or not. Once the anger subsided, I was mostly disappointed you couldn’t trust me.”

Tari’s heart broke. She scanned his face for any sign of malice, before eventually deciding on scooting closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder. Almost instinctively, he wrapped his arm around her back – rubbing up and down to do whatever he can to soothe her. “You, Doyoung, and Sonan are the three people I trust most in this world.” She emphasized. “Kilari is a little bit too tempered and impulsive for me to trust her with it, but I trust her almost the same amount.” Tari chuckled. “But especially you, Johnny.”

“Tari…” Johnny trailed off, finding himself lost in Tari’s eyes. “If things don’t go well tomorrow, I don’t think I can live with myself if I don’t tell you this.” The last few days of seeing Yuta constantly crave her physical affection while Johnny struggled to even catch her gaze for longer than 30 seconds made Johnny face the facts. And he’d hit himself to the Spirit World and back if he didn’t act on his feelings. His gaze soon found itself on his fingers as they fidgeted with each other. He decided to tear them apart and move one hand to Tari’s hand that was resting on her knee.

Panic filled her as Johnny’s sudden seriousness. Was he okay? Or was he terminally ill? Is he going to leave me? Not only that, but does he think he won’t survive tomorrow? If he thinks that, maybe I should go alo-

Before she knew it, his soft and plump lips landed on hers. They felt like home. The kiss was delicate, like the flutter of butterfly wings on her lips. It all felt so calming and normal, as if they’ve done it millions of times before. She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, bringing him closer. Johnny pulled away, smiling – incredibly proud of himself that Tari was as red as a tomato. Ultimately, he wasn’t quite aware of his own similar complexion.

“You were my best friend for the first year I knew you.” He smiled, again capturing his lips with his teeth. “But in the second year, I think I fell for you harder than I knew.” Tari turned away from him, trying to avoid his gaze. Her mind wandered to Yuta – a boy who kissed her quite literally the day prior.

Stop thinking about boys, Tari chastised herself, you have a bigger mission to accomplish. “Johnny, I don’t think I’m in the right mental state to answer you right now.” Johnny nodded understandably. “I –“ She was about to explain herself before johnny interjected.

“There’s a lot going on Tari. You never need to explain yourself to me.” He smiled softly. “I know you, Avatar or not. I’ll always be here. If you love me or not.” Tari’s heart exploded that she barely had control over herself as she found herself placing a short peck on his lips one more time. “You know, you have very beautiful eyes.” He mumbled under his breath, but Tari acted like she couldn’t hear it – too shy to respond.

Once she felt the awkwardness bubble within her and the dire urge to run away and avoid talking about the kiss, she jumped up to her feet and brushed her pants of the non-existent dirt that gathered. “I’m going to try and sleep again. I’m still so sorry about what happened. I really adore you, Johnny.” He sent a small smile and wave to her as his focus went back to the stone courtyard. “And Johnny?” Tari called, as she started to close the door. “Try to sleep too, please. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Tari rushed back into the bungalow while Johnny sat on the bench, smiling at the moon like a fool.

request anything for future parts / penny for your thoughts here

[feijuan]

Fist of the Blue Sky: Regenesis, Am I Right?

This review contains a lot of spoilers -- I do not know how much of the anime is congruent with the manga, and as such there may be manga spoilers in this review as well. 

Click here to read on Wordpress!

On one hand, as we all ought to know very well,  

But on the other hand, I think I liked season 2 of Fist of the North Star: Regenesis more than the first, somehow. I also hate to admit there were parts of season 2 I liked completely unironically, as ridiculous and contrived as most of it was. Such is often my experience with every Fist of the North Star anime, game, etc, that I watch -- though I expected it much less from this, on account of it being maligned by pretty much everyone I know who knows anything about Fist of the North Star, for

Being made entirely in CGI (though I still think it’s the designs that are awful, and not necessarily the fact that it’s CGI, but to each their own I suppose when it comes to visuals)

Apparently not following canon much at all, but that doesn’t matter to me because I don’t know anything about Fist of the Blue Sky canon anyway, which makes my viewing experience… interesting… because I just had to accept whatever nutso bonkers lunacy I saw on the screen as truth.

I berated the first season quite a lot, not just for issues in adaptation, but for issues that are almost certainly in the source material as well. I thought the setting was a ridiculously contrary backdrop for the kind of martial arts antics happening on screen, in a literary and in a visual sense. The martial arts themselves, while always ludicrous in the franchise as a whole, were especially so in Fist of the Blue Sky - and in Regenesis their visual presentation was frankly awful, managing to be both tacky beyond imagining and super underwhelming. The writing had serious problems that required -- I'm not kidding and wish I was -- a Magical Jewel That Showed The Antagonist The Truth to resolve the finale, and the backstory we saw through this Plot Orb was complete and utter nonsense, the likes of which I haven't quite seen in a very long time. This really doesn't even cover all of the issues in the first season of Fist of the Blue Sky: Regenesis alone, because the majority of the characters aren't great either, including the protagonist whose value largely seems reliant on being an allusion to the already beloved Kenshiro, and the abundance of small contrivances throughout to fuel completely unnecessary conflicts.

As objectively bad as Regenesis was though, there were some things I enjoyed about it, namely a few of the characters. I loved Fei Yan and Erika, and as much as I hated Yasaka at first, he grew on me – though that was born from the absurdity of his redemption that made it impossible for me to take any of his crimes seriously. On that line of thought though, what I often enjoyed about season 1 was the spectacle of it, and I think that’s pretty clearly evidenced by my liveblog where I was either losing my mind and frantically posting screencaps to try and even begin to understand what I was looking at and how it was possible, or posting about Fei Yan Being Great. And sometimes complaining when I had the energy to think about the awful writing, instead of laugh it off…

So that was season 1. But what did season 2 have to offer, and could it redeem the anime, even a little bit? Well, short answers: A bit more, and not particularly. So let's get to the list making:

Things I decidedly didn’t like at all about Season 2

Need I even say anything about how the CG model proportions are still awful... looking Yu Ling's model makes me ache all over. But not only are the models in general still grotesque, but there were a few too many instances of flashbacks where characters were supposed to be teens, but they either had a kid model, or an adult model. There's no inbetween.  It's extremely weird and jarring when in one flashback Simeon looks like a 12 year old with similarly young looking Himuka, and then "a few years later" Simeon still has the 12 year old boy model, while Himuka has evolved into a 30 year old buff martial artist.

Fei Yan is Still Dead and Yasaka is good but he's not that good. This is admittedly a petty complaint but try to understand... Fei Yan was really good. And I miss him. Thank you for listening.

Fei He was wildly under-utilized, under-developed, and usually just a woman for male characters to make fun of or infantalize -- which is a crying shame (and unfortunately par the course for the franchise, ahem) because she was a link back to Fei Yan and his legacy. Having been partially brought up by him and idolizing him in her youth, she arrives near the end of season 1 to track down Kasumi, who she is pointlessly misled into believing killed Fei Yan for a few episodes. Later in season 2 when she does discover it was Yasaka who killed Fei Yan, nothing… happens, because by that time she has already come to respect Kasumi, so it’s trivially easy for Kasumi to convince her to forgive Yasaka just like he did. Once her initial motivation is snuffed out, she just becomes a detached ally of our secondary protagonist group, which consists of Yu Ling, minor members of the Green Gang, and the worst characters of the entire show!

The comedy duo. Far and away the worst aspect of both seasons of the whole show. The CG? The ugly art style in general? The casual misogyny? The non-canon mismatched cult planning world domination with nuclear weapons? That all pales in comparison to the damage these freaks wreck on every episode they are in.

Their horrendous “bits” are where like 80% of the misogyny this show displays actually occurs. Their boorish fantasies are used as vehicles for the only fanservice scenes in the entire run, and they make up ridiculous plans for Fei He to carry out that degrade her and make her a joke.Their bits are tone-shatteringly out of place and usually shoehorned into every episode since their introduction in the middle of season 1 at the worst time possible. I’m still seething about their prolonged scene in the finale where Yu Ling inexplicably rubs the metal-haired one’s head while her fiancee fights for his doomed life, and he pretty much c*ms and his metal wig falls off to reveal a single disgusting hair on his head -- we literally cut away from the final fight in the whole series so we can see THAT. LIKE WHAT? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

This show is already so far-fetched and often unintentionally hilarious that it doesn’t benefit in any way from having gag characters in the first place. It’s a net loss in entertainment value, really, because all the gag characters did was ruin serious scenes and interrupt outrageous scenes that were actually funny.

Fei Yan died, Yasaka died, Kasumi died, but THESE CHUCKLEFUCKS LIVED? #JUSTICEFORFEIYAN #GOTHRIGHTS

The whole thing with the vampire cyborg mad scientist soldier making pseudo-zombies. That was a lot even for Fist of the Blue Sky: Regenesis.

Oh, and another quick note about Fei He being poorly utilized: I also didn't like at all how she is revealed to have fallen in love with Kasumi in the finale... like c'mon. Was that necessary? They barely ever spoke! A woman can care about a man dying without being A Thing, Fist of the North Star...

Things I unexpectedly didn’t hate and even sort of liked to varying degrees about Season 2

Speaking of Kasumi, he was a lot more likable in this season and I don't know if it's because we naturally got to know him better as we spent more time with him, or if it's because he just Did More Good Stuff than before, but I'm leaning towards the latter. I really liked his tender moments with Erika going up to the finale and his fight with Himuka was leagues above any of his fights previously in terms of giving us some actual meaningful insight into his personality and beliefs. It's a shame these moments happened in the last two episodes of the series... But I am willing to concede that they were fairly successful in making me like him just in time for him to honourably wander off into the desert and die. Thanks.

As much as I heckled the literally religious cult composed of men in black, mysterious worshippers with pointed hoods sitting around a table plotting world domination, mad scientist soldiers, and assorted martial artists, I ended up kind of liking where the story went with it and the themes that were developed in the last stretch. The second arc had a very on the nose stance on war and weapons of mass destruction as the worst of humanity's creations, and we see it in a lot of places in the story. The narrative unfolding at a time when World War II was on the horizon, the nuclear bomb schematics that had been causing all of the strife in the story being erased from Erika's (a little Jewish girl, as well) mind in the end, and how Himuka was driven to villainy by war and became convinced the only way to create a future without it, was to hit the Hard Reset Button on the earth's population. For all its shortcomings with dealing with the -isms, Fist of the North Star has at least always had anti-war themes, but I especially liked how they were more focused and rooted in history in this season of Regenesis.

I actually... liked?! The villains?!

Simeon had a motivation that was irrational and pathetic, but made sense because of his background. Instead of the story trying to redeem or sympathize with him, he is simply pitied by Himuka who usurps him and puts him out of his misery, which is very rare for Fist of the North Star as a whole. It shouldn't be as rare as it is.

While I liked the anti-war themes, Himuka's motivation felt a lot less organic than Simeon's in my opinion and required a whole episode to be dedicated to explaining it to us, which I'm not a huge fan of unless it's really compelling -- and I don't think it was. Nevertheless I did enjoy his final fight with Kasumi and the philosophy of it, which made it harder than usual not to bend to the narrative's will and mourn him.

They weren’t glorified misogynists or cartoonishly evil goons! 👍

Himuka betraying Simeon and becoming The Real Big Bad was also rather fresh for Fist of the North Star, and it's a shame that it was spoiled in the opening, because if it wasn't I think I might have been surprised. Regardless, shifting gears like that was a good move in my opinion -- even though, yeah, The Villain Is Your Brother, Again.

When Kasumi wins his final battle against Himuka, and Himuka says "I have always been a vessel of nothingness. There is nothing to spill from inside of me" and he like, turns to stone in the rising sun, instead of dying from his wounds? Did it make any sense? No. Was it was raw as fuck and did I love it? Yes.

Erika... her arc in season 2 is very bittersweet, but it is undeniable that I was relieved when Kasumi erased her memories. It's probably not kosher, but when I was watching it I agreed with the narrative's claim that her only way to be free of her immense suffering and live like a little girl should was to clean the slate, and months later when I think back to it, I'm still okay with it. A little girl watching her parents die and being burdened with knowledge that can destroy the world, and everything that happens to her and her guardians because of wicked men trying to get that knowledge from her... I can't really fault the idea of taking that away from her and letting her finally rest. Go play in a sandbox dearest Erika... run along...

Every episode felt like 5 minutes long!

So that's the final impressions of Fist of the Blue Sky: Regenesis -- I ended up having more to say about it than I thought I would, considering how I was speechless most of the time I was watching it... with a list of Positive Points that long, you might be tricked into thinking it's unexpectedly good; but despite everything I liked about it, I can say with confidence that Fist of the Blue Sky: Regenesis is not good. All of the issues from the first season do carry over into this one -- the contrived story-telling and egregious tonal dissonance, lackluster characterization and poor handling of character drama, and just plain absurdity of most things happening on the screen remain intact. Had it not been for a small hand full of likable characters and some good themes trying to pierce through the hideous hide of this story, it would be thoroughly unremarkable, perhaps not even worth touting as a hilarious spectacle of out of context screenshots.

I can't be too sour though, because then I would be dishonest. It's clear as day that while understanding why it is so maligned, I enjoyed many parts of it far more than expected, and the experience of watching it with my partner was fun and at times even emotional. And as much as I can say with confidence that Fist of the Blue Sky: Regensis isn't a good anime, I can also say with confidence, that Fist of the Blue Sky: Regenesis was not even remotely the Worst Anime Of 2018. I think it's very telling that in the anime community, being completely mediocre with bad aesthetics and bad story adaptation are worse sins than that of, say, The Master of Ragnarok & Blesser of Einherjar and Death March to the Parallel World Rhapsody which are both "escapism" series that aired in 2018 and were rampant with pedophilia and slave fetishization that were popular on Crunchyroll when they were airing. Front Page Popular.

Needless to say, watching lots of airing anime every season gives me a sense of perspective and I use it, and so I am content with admitting that I happily watched Fist of the Blue Sky: Regenesis every Monday that it aired and often had a great time, oftentimes because it was an absolute riot to see, and sometimes because despite everything, it could be... decent!

[Happy very belated New Years everyone! I finally finished writing something, so hopefully this bodes well for my productivity in 2019! Enjoy and thanks for sticking with the blog!]

[sav-wites-everything]

Science Partners (Peter Parker x Reader) - Part 5

A/N: Here by popular demand is Part 5!!!! So, I have already seen Spider-Man: Homecoming (AND IT WAS AMAZING!!) but I will keep this series as spoiler free as possible!!! (partially because the timeline of events I created are different than the movie so it would mess things up anyway!) I will kind of allude to the events with Vulture but won’t go any further than what the trailers have shown!! Anyway, Enjoy!! xx

Warnings: hurt Peter, tension, sad :(

PART 1  PART 2  PART 3  PART 4  PART 6

“So,” Ned began, scooting closer to Peter at the lunch table so he could whisper, “When you got like, buff and stuff from the spider bite, did uh... anything else change?” At this point, Ned was nodding down towards Peter’s lap. 

Peter nearly choked on his cold burrito. “Dude!” he shouted through a mouthful of beans and cheese.

Ned threw his hands up in defense. “I’m just curious!”

Peter shook his head and checked his phone. He was growing impatient as he waited for Mr. Stark to get back to him with details on their next mission. Ever since Berlin, Peter had been itching to see some more action than the petty crimes around Queens.

Interrupting Peter’s thoughts, you dropped your bag on the table and sat down in a huff. Your face was flushed from running down the hall. “Sorry I’m late, guys. Mr. Namara called a last minute Mathlete meeting.” Neither of them responded. Ned was looking at Peter strangely and you were sure his eyes kept trailing to his... Couldn’t be. Peter was engrossed in his phone. “Earth to Dorksville,” you chimed, waving your hand in front of Peter’s face. 

Peter shook his head as if coming out of a trance and looked up at you in surprise. “(Y/N)! When did you get here? Where have you been?” he said rapidly. You just shook your head and chuckled. Although you kept a pretty neutral facade, his response ticked you off. This had been happening for awhile now but after the two of you started dating, it seemed to get worse. He seemed to be constantly distracted. The pair of you hadn’t been together long (the dance was only two weeks ago), but it still annoyed you. 

“Are we still on for dinner tonight? I’m super excited to try that new...”

“Can’t. I’ve got some stuff to do for the Tony Stark Internship.” Peter went back to scrolling through his phone and vigorously texting. 

You pursed your lips, grabbed your bag and stood up. “Ned, still need help studying for the math test?”

Ned looked between you and Peter, cocking a worried eyebrow. You just shrugged your shoulders and rolled your eyes. He gave you an apologetic smile before saying, “Yeah, that’d be awesome. Come over after school?”

You nodded an affirmative and gave one last glance at Peter who was completely oblivious to the exchange you just had with Ned. Your shoulders drooped as you turned to walk away. “I’m gonna go eat lunch in the library,” you mumbled, “See you later.” With that you walked away, your head low and anger chewing at your belly.

Peter looked up nonchalantly from his phone and a frown creased his face. “Where’d she go?” he said, genuinely confused.

Ned shook his head and groaned at his distracted friend. “She went to go find a new boyfriend,” he said, hoping to make Peter realize what he’s been doing. 

He snapped his gaze to Ned, suddenly alert. “What?!”

“Good, now I have your attention. She went to the library to eat but if I were her, I’d be looking for a new boyfriend.” Ned took a bite of his pizza, staring at Peter sternly.

“What are you even talking about, dude?”

Ned let out a laugh at how clueless Peter was. “You know, Pete, you’re right. I’m sure she loves having all of her plans with you cancelled so you can go catch bike thieves and mope over Tony Stark.” 

“I catch more than just bike thieves and I don’t mope!” Peter lowered his voice to a whisper, “I’m the Spider-Man, Ned. I have a responsibility to the people.”

“Well, why don’t you tell her that?” Ned whispered back, irritation in his voice.

“I.. I can’t.” Peter swallowed hard, averting his gaze.

“Why not? She’s your best friend too. Not only that, she actually agreed to be your girlfriend. Do you think you’re ever going to get a girl like her again? She deserves to know and if you won’t tell her...”

“Ned! You cannot tell (Y/N)! You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone and she counts in that promise.”

Ned grimaced at Peter, angry at him. “Fine,” he said flatly, “but don’t come crying to me when she leaves you.” Just then the bell rang. Ned got up quickly from the table, leaving Peter behind. 

Peter’s shoulders drooped and he slowly got up from the table. He checked his phone one last time before dropping it into his pocket. Ned had to be wrong. Ned was protective of their friend from the beginning. That’s all this is. Peter cancels a few dates and Ned overreacted. That’s all. You wouldn’t leave Peter... Right?

During gym, you ignored Peter like it was your job. He noticed this. It was fitness test day so that meant people broke off into their own groups to talk. You were with some of your other friends, leaving Ned and Peter by themselves. They watched you the entire class period. You definitely seemed to be venting to your friends because every now and then, one of them would shoot Peter a dirty look. 

Peter did everything in his power to look inconspicuous as he got closer to you, trying to listen in on the conversation. “So, are you going to break up with him?” your friend, Liz, asked. 

Peter put all of his attention on you, not caring if anyone noticed. You shrugged your shoulders and mumbled, “I don’t know..” Peter’s heart sank. “Probably not.” His stomach tightened and color came back to his cheeks. “If I had something like a Tony Stark Internship, I’d probably be the same way.”

Your friends nodded in a hushed agreement before Liz broke into a smirk, “But if that Spider-Man ever showed up, you’d definitely leave Peter, right?”

You giggled at this and Peter noticed an adorable blush rise to your cheeks. “Well, of course,” you giggled. The softness that was overtaking Peter was suddenly replaced by anger. “A guy with that much bravery and heart must know how to treat a girl right.” Peter didn’t even stop to consider the fact that you were talking about him. To him, you were talking about a different person. You were crushing on a different guy. 

Peter stormed back over to Ned, not wanting to hear anymore of the conversation. “She likes Spider-Man more than she likes me!” he whispered angrily.

Ned shrugged his shoulders and sympathized with you, saying, “Well, with the way you’ve been treating on of my best friends, I’m starting to like Spider-Man more too.” Peter dropped his shoulders and hung his head. He let out a heavy sigh before getting on the floor and angrily doing sit-ups. 

That night, you sat on Ned’s bedroom floor, monotonously drilling Ned with equations. You barely touched the Chinese food that Ned’s mom had ordered for the two of you. Frustrated, you threw your notes to the floor and put your head in your hands. Ned, who was sitting across from you, put a warm hand on your shoulder. “Did I do something wrong, Ned?” you mumbled into your hands. 

Ned looked bewildered at your question. “(Y/N), no!”

“Then what’s going on with him? Is... Is he just not interested anymore?”

Ned took your hands away from your face so he could look at you. Silent tears had began sliding down your cheeks. “(Y/N), before you two actually started dating, you were all he talked about. I’m sure that now that he has you, he couldn’t be happier.”

“Then why does he cancel plans? He barely pays attention in chemistry. Hell, he doesn’t even hang out with both of us. He should be here studying with us!” Your voice cracked with a sob. The tears began to flow harder. You knew Ned was the one you would break down to about this. 

Ned got up on his knees and enveloped you in a hug. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to tell you the truth about Peter but he couldn’t. Why couldn’t he? Just because Peter told him not to? You had the right to know and he didn’t care how angry Peter got at him. 

As Ned opened his mouth to tell you the truth, there was a knock at the bedroom door. Ned released you and you hurriedly tried to wipe away your tears. Ned’s mom poked her head around the door and said with a wide smile, “Peter’s here, dear. (Y/N), honey, are you okay?”

You nodded and forced a smile. “Just a really spicy bit of the chicken.” Ned’s mom nodded understandably and left her position at the door. Peter walked in, a grin on his face. 

“Chinese food? Why didn’t one of you call me?” he said, as if he hadn’t noticed that your eyes were puffy from crying. 

“Did you really get into another lab accident?” you said, concerned laced in your voice. You stood up and grabbed Peter’s face, any thoughts of animosity gone. He had a cut above his eyebrow and a bruise was forming on his cheek bone. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s Tony Stark. Shit happens, ya know?” He brushed your hands away and sat down next to Ned, leaving you standing. He leaned in and whispered to Ned something you couldn’t hear, “There was this huge metal bird guy..” Your fists clenched with anger. 

“No, I don’t know!” you shouted. Peter looked up at you, shocked and confused. “I don’t know how you let Mr. Stark do this! Can’t you ever just tell him no? He works you like an adult but you’re still in high school! You just let him use you whenever he deems it necessary, which is all of the time! Why don’t..”

“Why can’t you understand that this is important to me?” Peter shouted back, standing now. He towered over you and his eyes were dark. “I’m making something of myself and you can’t seem to support that anymore! I would have never asked you to be my girlfriend if I knew that you wanted all of the attention in the world!” Peter stopped in his tracks. His face went pale and his mouth stood open. His hands began to tremble as he realized what he said. “(Y/N),” his voice wavered, “I didn’t..”

You held up a hand to stop him and shook your head. All of your anger was gone. You just felt... empty. “You’re right, Peter,” you began flatly, “I should be more understanding. I see now just how important this internship is to you. It’s more important than your girlfriend. It’s more important than your two best friends. It’s more important than school.” Peter tried to cut in, reaching a hand out to you. You took a step back and continued. “I get it, Peter. I don’t want to get in the way.” You bent down and scooped up your notes and backpack. You looked Peter square in the eye. The pain you saw swimming in his eyes almost made you bite your tongue but it came out anyway, “I’m sure you and Mr. Stark will make a lovely couple.” You walked out of Ned’s room without giving Peter time to reply and slipped out the front door into the chilly, night air. 

You gave a harsh sob when the cold air hit your lungs and you let the tears fall freely. You started walking home, hugging your jacket tightly around you, tonight’s events eating at you.

Peter sank to the floor in defeat. His hands shook and he clenched his jaw. He lost you. He really lost you. All because he felt the need to keep his stupid secret. Why would he say those things to you? He didn’t mean it. You didn’t ask to hang out any more than you did before he started dating you. 

“Well, you did it. I’m sure the bike thieves will be happy to hear that you can devote all of your time to them,” Ned said with malice. He looked hard at his friend. 

“I’m gonna go home,” Peter mumbled.

“Good idea.”

The next morning, Peter lay in bed, staring blankly ahead of him. Maybe he’d pretend he was sick. He couldn’t see you today. He wouldn’t be able to bear seeing you in the pain he had caused. Peter was so engrossed with his self-pity that he didn’t hear the phone ring or notice his Aunt May walk into his room. “Peter?” she asked, her voice shaking.

Her voice piqued his attention. He sat up in bed and looked at her with concern. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Do you know where (Y/N) is? Her mom called and said she didn’t come home last night.”

A/N: Oooooooooooo cliffhanger!!!!! I’m sorry this one is such a downer but you need a little raw emotion and heart ache every now and then. Keep an eye out for Part 6 and send in your requests!! xx

Tags: @notawarriorjustyet @scottsxmmxrs @glupijelen @conboyrachael @mylameinternethome @woah-broah @libby822 @basket-of-dragons @miraisnotavailable @purebabysethwright @fae-tus @gerardwayisapotato @thebookisbtr 

Let me know if you want to be tagged in upcoming chapters!!!

[poketin]

Eyesagao AU - Void Times

guess what i did instead of studying for my midterm on tuesday haha oops

i was inspired by my beautiful friends @tracelii and @ellieofmidnight and their amazing writing for our fucked au <3 i haven’t written in a while, only one thing for eyesagao as well, and i apologize for that deeply. enjoy this little piece of banter between ian and elsa in the void anyhow!

Elsa stumbled in from nowhere, practically popping into this plane of existence out of nowhere, all breathy sort of giggles and mussed up clothing and hair. Small bruises crowded on her neck and collarbones as if she was becoming possessed by the monster from Devious House 7 (Resident Evil 7 reference? Like the possession?).

“I see you were out enjoying yourself.”

Ian tried to make his tone as neutral as possible, but the curtness cut through all the same. Subtlety didn’t seem to come easy to him these days, as evidenced by Elsa’s face falling.

She bit her lip, shame and apprehension radiating off her. She crossed her arms and glared as Ian cursed himself inside his mind.

He was way too tired for this.

“Oh, I’m not allowed to have fun anymore? Wasn’t the point of bringing me here so that I could take a breather from all the shit going on?”

“Ellie doesn’t get to relax.” Elsa flinched as if he had struck her, Ian’s expression unchanging. Not even his unflinching gaze had strayed from her. Since when had things gotten this cold? “Neither does Traci.”

Elsa was hurt, but there was some anger clawing at Ian’s throat and it was hurting him too much to keep it in. He was confused and angry and...terrified, but most of all he was sick of everything, and Elsa fucking the enemy definitely wasn’t helping matters.

“Besides,” he continued after letting his previous words sink in. “I brought you here to sleep. Sleep so you could be of better help to our friends. Or my friends, if you aren’t taking this seriously.” He didn’t exactly condone what he just muttered, but if there were any wounds festering, the bad shit needed to be ripped off and aired out.

“I thought...are we not friends, Ian?” she said in a small voice. His heart didn’t even have the chance to beat before she started talking again. “Humor is how I deal with shit times, Ian. I thought you would understand, Mr. Sarcastic,” she grumbled as she pulled up the large leather jacket that seemed to be sliding off her (where had she gotten that?). “I just needed a break.”

“Are you content to be their toy?” He heard Elsa suck in a breath, but paid her no mind. “You don’t mind how they’re using you, or like how they’re, I dunno, basically the asshole, empty versions of your friends?” She seemed to mutter something about how they weren’t using her, but Ian silenced her with a look. “Didn’t the gray Ellie—”

“Kelly.”

Ian blinked, and his anger sputtered and died like faulty engine. “Excuse me?”

Elsa blinked right back, seemingly regurgitating this name automatically and without thought. “Um...her name. It’s Kelly. Not gray Ellie. I mean, then it’d be Grellie, right? Grayllie? Right? Right. Sorry, continue.”

He rolled his eyes. How deep was this girl? “Didn’t Kelly try to kill you or something? It happened a bit ago but even your memory isn’t that bad.”

Elsa smiled and waved a hand dismissively. “Nah! I mean, yeah, she probably was trying to kill me. Or maybe just scaring me? Either way, she’s not so bad! She’s mean in that good way that I like, and it’s super fun when she—”

“Did she give you the jacket?”

Elsa made a strangled noise of realization and tried to hide the jacket with her arms—despite the fact she was practically drowning in it. Unimpressed, Ian raised an eyebrow.

“Um...right. The jacket. That jacket. This jacket?”

Elsa hooked her fingers into the leather collar and tugged, fiddling with it so she wouldn’t have to match Ian’s stare. Once it became obvious he wasn’t going to let up, or even say anything, she grimaced and glanced upwards into nothing, blushing.

“No, Grace gave this to me after...uh. After we talked. About stuff.” She sighed and looked directly at him. “Fuck it, you already know anyway. Grace is Traci’s gray clone person—she’s really big, like super-buff-biker-chick-with-a-metal-baseball-bat-deal going on, wowza—and we were fooling around and stuff and she actually gave it to me—or lent it, I guess. I was going to decline—maybe it had like a tracking device in it or something—but unlike Traci, Grace isn’t really...smart? Like she’s smart in other ways, but Grace is more impulsive and stuff, while Kelly’s pretty witty, like she does this thing where—” Ian was staring at her. “What?”

“Geez when are you going to introduce them to your parents?” he snarked. She stuck out her tongue, but she trailed off and began fiddling with her fingers before speaking again.

“I...I can’t do without fun. This is how I’ve scraped through life, Ian! There’s always time for myself. And that sounds selfish as shit but it’s not like I can wave everyone’s problems away with a snap of my fingers.”

Ian quirked an eyebrow and allowed himself a small grin. “How do you snap and wave at the same time?”

Elsa snorted and finally sat next to him, leaning on his shoulder with a sigh. “I’m...sorry.” She touched one of the many dark spots on her neck, and breathed out shakily. “I needed a distraction I guess. It doesn’t hurt that they’re both smoking hot either—”

She fell with an ‘oof’ as Ian scooted as far away as possible. “I really don’t want to hear what or who you’ve been doing stuff with. Fine, distract yourself however you like, whatever helps. But I don’t want to hear about it. Just don’t die.” He yawned. “Now shut up, I need sleep.”

Elsa nodded gravely. “Yeah, me too,” she said, electing to stay on her side in as dignified a position as possible. “Those gals really wore me out.”

“Ugh.” Ian turned on his side, away from the walking ‘just for the articles I swear’ FunGal magazine that was next to him...Huh. “Hey, Elsa?”

“Mhm?”

“If someone found out you had a FunGal magazine collection, or they found you with one in hand, what would you do?”

“I’d do what anyone with common decency would do, Mooseman.”

He dared to lift his head and look at her, and he was greeted with eyes shining like stars, a grin that was as lopsided as they come, and a fist raised patriotically into the air...the angle a bit strange because of her position, but it worked all the same.

“I’d show them all the best girls of course!”

“Which are…?”

“All of them, duh.”

Ian smirked as he settled down again. Optimism upheld by her personality...and lots of sexy things. Yeah, it was nice to see how little everything had really changed her.

Hopefully, things would stay that way.