#this post brought to you by i just learned there was a mass shooting on valentines day

[fagutt]

i feel so sick with my deep deep hatred for the usa and its political climate. what the fuck am i supposed to do? i can barely afford to live here, there's no way for me to move to a different country. as if any of them are actually better anyways, everywhere is fucking rampant with transphobia and racism and misogyny. i hate that my rights could be taken away any day, they actively are in some states, or that i could get shot walking down the street and it wouldn't even make the news anymore. how am i supposed to want to fix my life when the second i sort myself out i'll just have to confront every fucking societal issue that surrounds me every day?

[melanie-ohara]

Weapons Training: A Liara/Shepard Drabble

Time to post a Mass Effect drabble! There may be more of these for other relationships or other series at some point, depending on how this does - so if you like it, please share!

“So you have been in a fight then?” the human Commander asked, leading Liara into the elevator. She leaned against the wall and regarded her with folded arms.

Liara nodded. “Mostly wild animals. And a few pirates, trying to steal artifacts from dig sites.” She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks and looked at her feet. “My biotics are quite good, but I’m afraid I’m not much use with weapons.”

The lift shuddered to a halt and the bay door slid down. Shepard shot her a disarming smile. “It’s okay, you’ll learn. If you’re coming out into the field with me you’ll need more than just your biotics. Come on.” Liara followed the human out of the lift and across the cargo bay. She wasn’t sure what Shepard had in mind, but she was more than happy to trail her around the ship and watch her flame red hair bounce ever so slightly as she walked. Everything from her steady gait to her broad shoulders and the hard muscles of her arms breathed the kind of easy confidence Liara had never had.

She shook herself as Shepard brought her to a halt next to Garrus Vakarian’s makeshift workbench. She exchanged what sounded like a grim in-joke with him - something about organs that would probably make Liara a little queasy if she heard any more of it - and the turian laughed.

The human picked up a pistol from his desk. “This one?”

“Yep,” Garrus said without looking up. “Charged and locked, I checked it myself.”

“Thanks, Vakarian.” As far as Liara had heard, Shepard called almost everyone by their surname. Never Kaidan, Ashley, Garrus, Karin; always Alenko, Williams, Vakarian and Chakwas. Not her though. She was always Liara to Shepard. She forced herself to try not to read into it.

“This,” Shepard was saying, holding the pistol up to Liara with her pale pink finger pressed along the side of the barrel, “is an M-3 Predator heavy pistol. The heat sink can take 15 shots before it hits critical. It’s lightweight, fast-firing, and accurate at short to medium range. Take it.”

Liara shuddered a little as Shepard laid it almost delicately in her palm. Liara’s fingers curled around the grip and Shepard quickly pinched her index finger and moved it away from the trigger. “Careful, Doc. Fingers away from the trigger until you’re ready to put a hole in something.”

Liara felt heat rising to her cheeks again. “Right, of course. Sorry, Commander.” She let the weight of it sit for a moment. “It’s lighter than I thought it would be,” she said. Shepard smiled.

“Precision engineering,” she said. “Vakarian and I have fiddled around with it a bit. Lightweight materials, disruptor ammo, that sort of thing.” Liara could feel Shepard’s penetrating, almost luminous green eyes following her every move as she passed the gun from hand to hand. The intensity of it, of her, made her want to lie down. She steadied herself with a long breath.

“Comfortable?” the human asked, arms folded across her chest again. Liara wished she wouldn’t do that. The way it made the muscles in her forearms stand out made it very difficult for her to focus on anything else. “Great,” Shepard said with an encouraging smile. “Now shoot Wrex.”

“What?”

“He won’t mind.”

Liara looked over the bay at the massive hulking krogan in the corner, who was currently slurping down an entire pack of nutrient paste.

“Commander, I - ”

Liara didn’t even process Shepard moving until after it happened. The human wheeled around her in a blur, and she felt the pistol leave her hand as Shepard twirled past. There was no force, no snatching - she didn’t even feel her grip as she stole the gun away. Shepard’s little manoeuvre left her with her back to Liara, their shoulders lightly touching. The human brought her gun arm up and nearly deafened Liara with two blasts from the pistol. She yelped involuntarily, immediately feeling extremely silly when nobody else in the room even reacted.

Liara looked over at Wrex. For someone who’d just been shot twice in the chest, he seemed remarkably calm.

“Shepard.”

“Wrex.”

Liara could just picture the infuriating grin on the human’s face as she lowered the gun. Liara tried to put on an indignant face to cover how rattled she was as she turned to face the other woman.

“I’m sorry, Liara, that was a bit cruel,” Shepard said, entirely failing to look bashful as she held the Predator out for her to take. “Practice rounds,” she said by way of explanation. “They’ll still kick like the real thing, but they’ll only sting your target.”

“Or tickle, in Wrex’s case,” Garrus commented. He still hadn’t looked up from the sniper rifle he was calibrating on the desk. Liara took the gun back from the human and took extreme care to keep her finger away from the trigger.

“Nice,” Shepard observed of her trigger discipline, and Liara cursed how the human’s approval made her feel. The Commander wasn’t even three decades old yet! She knew it didn’t mean the same thing for other races, but she couldn’t understand why someone less than a third her age could make her feel like a schoolgirl with a silly crush on a teacher.

“Now then,” Shepard said, all brisk manners as she stepped right up to Liara and took her gun hand in hers, rudely oblivious to the effect it had. “This button under your thumb retracts the firing mechanism and engages the mag hook for holstering to your armour. Try not to get your finger caught in the trigger array when you hit it, I used to do that all the time.”

Shepard’s thumb guided hers to the switch and the pistol whirred and folded up, then unfurled with a satisfying click when she pressed it again. Liara couldn’t help a giddy, breathless smile coming to her face when Shepard manipulated her digits. It felt so… intimate.

“These lights here show that you’re shooting disruptor rounds. You know what that means?”

“Yes, it - ” she stopped to clear her throat, far too aware of the slight warmth and weight of Shepard’s body so close to her own. “It means there’s an electrical field that charges the ammunition as it passes through the barrel. On contact with a kinetic barrier it disperses the charge, overloading the capacitors and weakening their integrity.”

“Top of the class.” Shepard’s voice was low, appreciative, and made sweat bead on Liara’s brow. Images of the commander mumbling compliments like that to her under silk sheets burst into her mind and she felt heat rising into her face as the human gave her another of those damnable smiles.

“Alright,” Shepard said, stepping away. Liara immediately missed the absence of her form in her personal space. “That’s the basics out of the way. Weapon up.”

Liara lifted the gun, stabilising it with the other hand and lowering her centre of gravity, the way she’d seen Shepard do on Therum.

“Not bad at all,” Shepard mused. Achingly slowly, she circled Liara to check her form. After a second, Liara felt Shepard against her and couldn’t stop a gasp as those strong arms snaked along her own. “Sorry,” the commander whispered in her ear as she made fine adjustments to the position of her arms. “Didn’t mean to spook you.” Liara could almost feel the Commander’s lips on her ear as her breath tickled along her skin. Shepard’s hand settled on Liara’s as the asari fought to control her breathing. The human must be able to tell, surely. The idea was mortifying.

“It’s okay,” Shepard reassured her, mistaking her shaking arousal for nerves. “Just slip your finger up against the trigger and slowly squeeze.” The Commander guided Liara’s fingers with her own as she talked her through it. “Take all the time you need, just feel it glide back.”

Shepard’s low voice flowed like liquor. The dark, rich asari wine she had shared with a colleague. A prelude to faltering touches, soft lips on her own, fingers on her bare back…

“You feel that?”

“Yes, Shepard,” Liara breathed instinctively and blushed bright pink when she heard the pure need in her voice. The trigger had settled, almost imperceptibly, under their pressed-together fingertips.

“Any more pressure and the mechanism will shave a millimetre of metal from the ammunition block, lower its mass to near nothing, and accelerate it out of the barrel at nine hundred metres per second.” Shepard’s voice made everything else disappear until all that was left was her and the weight of the pistol they were holding.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Liara squeezed the trigger a fraction of a centimetre more and the shot burst from the barrel. The world rushed back as the gun bucked against her palm and sent a shockwave up her arm. She felt Shepard take most of the recoil for her, and then suddenly her arms slipped away. Her body left Liara’s.

“Great!” Shepard cheered. “Right in the chest.”

Wrex rolled his eyes. “Yeah, good shot kid,” he rumbled. Liara smiled, shaking herself out of whatever strange haze always seemed to fall over her when Shepard touched her. She looked over at the Commander, hoping the human wasn’t totally oblivious to what she was doing to her.

“Okay, take a few more shots. On your own this time.” Shepard settled into that oh so familiar, oh so appealing pose with her arms folded across her chest and her weight on her back foot. She blew a stray strand of red out of her eyes and watched as Liara settled back into the position Shepard had moved her into.

“Very good,” Shepard commented.

“I’m not likely to forget it, Commander,” Liara murmured. She took aim at Wrex, who theatrically rolled his eyes and waited. She squeezed the trigger slowly, trying to forget about the warmth of Shepard’s arms around her for now. The kick was much worse without Shepard to stabilise her, but the bullet still found her target and she grinned at Shepard. She smiled back.

“Again. Five rounds, centre mass.”

It took her a few attempts and one embarrassing overheat, but she managed to hit Wrex five consecutive times. The krogan sighed and rolled his shoulders.

“Why don’t you make the turian target practice instead?” he growled at Shepard.

“Because you’re my favourite,” the Commander shot back. The massive krogan growled and stomped into the lift. Shepard waved him off as Liara laid the pistol back on Garrus’ workbench.

“Well done, Liara,” Shepard said, stepping close to her again. Liara thought she was slightly too close to be entirely innocent, but maybe humans had different expectations. She suddenly worried Shepard thought she was being aloof when she maintained a respectful distance.

“When we’re in the field, I want you to hold back, okay?” Shepard’s hand found her shoulder and gripped just enough for Liara to feel it through her uniform. “Stay behind me, use your biotics, and only worry about stripping shields with the pistol. And if anyone drops your shields, you put up your barrier and I’ll shoot them full of so many holes their mother will feel it, alright?”

Liara would have laughed at the joke if Shepard didn’t seem so intense, so instead she just nodded. The human lightly squeezed her shoulder again and let go of her.

“Okay, tomorrow we’ll start hand-to-hand practice.”

“Oh goddess,” Liara muttered.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” Shepard reassured, completely unaware of what the thought of the beautiful human woman grappling her and tossing her on the floor so she could straddle her actually did for the nervous asari scientist in front of her, though Liara’s daydreams usually involved fewer clothes, more soft beds, and definitely much fewer people standing around working on weapons nearby.

“I’ll see you later, Liara.” Shepard nodded to Garrus once before striding towards the lift, leaving Liara flushed and flustered in her wake.

[iamnotawomanimagod]

2022 Year in Review

I'm so late, pretend I did this like five weeks ago.

I was tagged by the incomparable @lucerants for a 2022 Year in Review!! Here we go! I'm also gonna talk about 'em all so this is gonna get long!

Top 5 Movies you watched this year:

1 - The Medium (2021)

This is an excellent and disturbing Thai horror film about possession. The last thirty minutes are such pure insanity, all I could do was stare at the screen with my mouth gaping. Highly recommended if you love horror.

2 - Encanto (2022)

What a delightful and beautiful film! I loved the themes of family, being true to yourself, and the importance of acceptance. The music absolutely slaps - if "We Don't Talk About Bruno" didn't get stuck in your head this year, did you really live??

3 - The Fallout (2021)

This was one of the first Jenna Ortega films I saw, and I really enjoyed it. She and Maddie Ziegler had great chemistry and did a really good job of portraying their new-friends-but-also-maybe-more relationship. And it was a truly heartbreaking and very real depiction of what being a teenager in our mass shooting saturated society must feel like.

4 - Spiderman: No Way Home

I'm not really into Marvel, as a rule, but I had to check this movie out since they brought Tobey Maguire back. I was surprised at how emotional I got when story lines from over a decade ago got some closure, especially since that closure came with a lot of empathy for the villains. It was a really fun, meta, fan-servicey movie that made me smile, and even tear up a bit at the end.

5 - Everything, Everywhere, All at Once

Technically I watched this movie at the very beginning of 2023, but I'm going to add it here now because I think it's a movie that truly defined and reflected the feeling of being alive in the early 2020s so well. It was so brilliantly written and shot, just an absolute phantasmagorical roller-coaster of action, comedy, and incredibly heartfelt emotion. I had only heard good things going in, and this film absolutely lived up to my high expectations.

Top 5 TV shows you watched this year

1 - Station Eleven

This show changed me. It's truly one of the most beautiful, well-written, gentle, and human stories I've ever witnessed. It took a setting and premise I thought I was done with forever - post-apocalypse fiction - and made something profoundly impactful. Get the tissues. Prepare to feel everything.

2 - Interview with the Vampire

This was such a delightful adaptation, especially in the ways they changed it. Jacob Anderson as Louis captured the character in a way that brings incredible nuance, even more so in his position as a black gay man in the early 20th century. Sam Reid was an electric and terrifyingly appealing Lestat. And Bailey Bass brought Claudia to life and managed to perfectly portray her various life stages, even as she remains ageless. It's just a really, really good interpretation of a story that I already loved, so it was a joy to watch.

3 - House of the Dragon

I love messy blondes, I love tragic love stories, I love women and their complex and tender and vitriolic relationships. Also dragons. I'm interacting with the fandom via a ten-foot pole, and am very pleased that two of my most treasured mutuals (Luce, Rosy <3) were along for the ride with me for s1.

4 - The Wilds (s2)

I'll never forgive Amazon for giving this show the axe. I'll also never forgive the fandom for reacting to the boys so negatively. S3 would've been incredible. But! I'm glad that we got s2, and got to see more from the Unsinkable Eight. I'm glad we got to meet the boys and learn their stories. I'll always be impressed and grateful for the way this show handled a storyline about sexual assault between young men. And even though there are still so many unanswered questions and we needed an s3, I'm glad that pretty much all of the mysteries introduced in s1 were wrapped up by the end. Better to have loved those castaways and lost them than never loved them at all!

5 - Our Flag Means Death

This show was such a salve - a joyful little pirate sitcom that played on sitcom tropes in a way that made every episode a delight. It was funny, charming, and beautifully shot. I'm so excited for season two!

Top 5 DnD Campaigns you watched this year

The biggest shift in my life this year, especially in terms of media I consume, was my discovery of DnD actual play shows. If I wasn't actively watching a TV show this year, D20 was on in the background. I watched these campaigns multiple times each. I am obsessed.

1 - Critical Role's EXU: Calamity

One of the most heart-wrenching stories I've ever seen, beautifully told and acted by an incredible team of DnD players. The ending is so bittersweet and perfect. I caught the finale live and it wrecked me, I spent the last hour of it weeping. (It was also 1am and the end of a six-hour marathon.) What a masterpiece. The Bronze Ring endures.

2 - Dimension 20: Fantasy High Sophomore Year

This is my favorite campaign by the folks at Dimension 20. The fact that it's live, so delightfully chaotic, and has the lowest production value of any other season makes it so charming and comforting to me. Plus Kalina is easily a Top 3 D20 villain.

3 - D20: A Crown of Candy

Coming up at a close second, A Crown of Candy was the first D20 season I finished. I binged it in about two days (didn't watch the Adventuring Parties at first, though) and felt so thoroughly ripped from the world when it was over that I kinda mourned a family of candy people for like two days straight. It's such a fun, technicolor, sugary-sweet world - but the plot and characters are so complex, so dark, that I was completely swept away by their story. It's just a really well-built and clever world, and it features some of my favorite D20 characters ever (Amethar, Saccarhina, Lapin, and Calroy.)

4 - D20: The Seven

Since The Seven is set in the same world as Fantasy High, I went in with really steep expectations. I was definitely not disappointed. The vibes and relationships between all of the women at the table is so genuine and infectious. The story is touching, but there's so much chaos and so many shenanigans from the characters that there's also so much to laugh about. It's another comfort rewatch, for sure.

5 - D20: Misfits and Magic

Aabria as a GM is always a good time for me, and I really loved seeing this cast parody the Harry Potter universe (and associated "kids at magic boarding school" trope) with such affection, but also incisive criticism. It's funny, light-hearted, and also really fun to watch Brennan be a PC, and get to bounce off the other players as a single personality. (Evan + K = 4Ever)

Top 5 Songs of this year

(I'm not gonna take this from Spotify, although all of these songs were in my top 20)

1 - "It's Called: Freefall" by Rainbow Kitten Surprise

This song did it all for me in 2022. It was a comfort song, a pump-up song, a breakdown song, and a sing-a-long and dance song. I don't know why it struck such a chord with me - I'd enjoyed plenty of other RKS songs before, but never on this level. It just resonates. It was my top song of 2022 on Spotify, and given that the four next songs are all by Halsey, that's saying something.

2 - "Whispers" by Halsey

After seeing this song live, it swiftly reentered my top 5 from IICHLIWP. It's an intense experience even just as a studio track, but the way Halsey sang it in person elevated the song to something even more painfully relatable and real. It's a song that's followed me into 2023, that's for sure.

3 - "Bounce Man" by Twenty One Pilots

I didn't like most of Scaled and Icy, but this song was a huge exception. It was my go-to whenever I needed a pick-me-up. That addictively catchy chorus, the fun beat, the lyrics being hopeful in the face of a scary situation (classic TOP) - that's a combination that hits just right on a tough day.

4 - "Fucks Me Up" by Anthony Green

On the other side of the coin, this song will make you cry on that same tough day, but you'll feel better afterwards. My husband and I share a love for Saosin and Circa Survive, mostly because of Anthony Green's incredible vocals. This entire album is gorgeous, but this song (and the last verse in particular) - well, it fucks me up!

5 - "Tree House" by Alex G feat Emily Yacina

This one is sweet, fun, and calming, and is going to remain in my rotation for a long time to come. It reminds me of my best friend (she did show it to me, but it'd remind me of her even if she hadn't,) and makes me feel so cozy and safe. It's just nice. :)

Top 5 albums of this year

1 - If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power by Halsey

For the second year in a row, this album owned my entire life. Most of my top ten on my Spotify Wrapped was devoted to this album. I still go buckwild when I heard "Easier than Lying" and it's my most played song on Spotify EVER, which includes like five years of music-listening. Getting to see most of these songs live (and then some, that 2hr set was crazy) made for one of the best nights of my entire life. It was an emotional experience bordering on spiritual, which is not a place I normally visit. It's Halsey's masterpiece, a perfect marriage of her abilities as a lyricist combined with some of the best production they've ever had. I just love it so goddamn much.

2 - Boom. Done. by Anthony Green

This album is a beautiful, heart-wrenching, honest reflection on addiction, recovery, and trauma. It's sonically very soothing, but lyrically absolutely crushing, which makes for a very tender experience. My husband and I spent most of the end of the year with these songs on rotation when were listened to music together, so this album is going to hold a special place in my heart for a long time.

3 - HOLY FVCK by Demi Lovato

I feel Demi has always been destined to make an album like this. Their voice is perfect for rock music, and the honesty in her lyrics (which reflect her very difficult life experiences) just work so much better with guitars and drums behind them than snyth beats. I didn't love every song on this album, but it's definitely my favorite work by Demi thus far.

4 & 5. Hopeless Fountain Kingdom (Live at Webster Hall) and Badlands (Live at Webster Hall) by Halsey

Although these are two very different albums, I love them for the same reason, which is that they both are records of Halsey performing live. I truly think live performances are where they shine the brightest, and many of the live versions of these songs have completely replaced the studio versions for me.

Top 5 fictional characters of this year

1 - Rhaenyra Targaryen and Alicent Hightower (House of the Dragon)

As Luce said, you cannot separate them, it causes wars. I love them both so much. And I'm gonna love and hate watching them continue to tear each other apart.

2 - Louis de Pointe du Lac (Interview with the Vampire)

Jacob Anderson just killed the fuck out of this role, and made me appreciate Louis in a way I never have before.

3 - Adaine Abernant (Fantasy High)

I actually can't put into words how much I love Adaine, or why. If you know, you know.

4 - Kirsten Raymonde (Station Eleven)

I'm always a sucker for a fierce, protective woman with a metric fuckton of baggage, who still manages to maintain a heart of gold in the midst of a horrible situation. Kirsten is all of that, and so, so much more.

5 - Lizzie Saltzman (Legacies)

I just think she's a really fun extension on Caroline Forbes' character, as her heir apparent, and she was often the funniest and most emotionally engaging character on the show. Plus, y'know, Hizzie.

Top 5 games you played this year

The Quarry

The Mortuary Assistant

Animal Crossing: New Horizons

The Long Dark

Martha is Dead

5 Positive Things that happened, no matter how small!

1 - I got to see Halsey in concert at my favorite venue!

2 - I moved to a bigger place!

3 - I went and visited my best friend in October!

4 - I got a new job!

5 - I spent a lot of really wonderful time on this website making dumb jokes, crying over shows, and chatting with all of you! <3

Since I'm so very, very late in posting this, I'm not gonna tag anyone, but if you wanna tell me about something you enjoyed last year, feel free!!

[kemakoshume]

Hey hey! As a HUGE Asahi simp, I was hoping it would be okay for me to make a request? I would love to see Asahi with a female chubby reader who is insecure because she feels like he deserves better. And of course I wouldn't be opposed if you wanted to mix in some smut too! (I personally feel like praise kink and body worship would fit Asahi so well)

No pressure to do this if you don't want to or are too busy! But thank you if you do <3

a/n; okay first of all thank you SO MUCH for the request!! you're my first one :'D pls send in requests anytime for whatever you want. i'm chubby and i, too, am a big ol asahi simp so if i could kiss you for sending this in, i would.

my requests are OPEN! ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*. here are da rules. tl;dr – 18+ only (if you have no age in bio or your pinned post, i'm not filling your request), no heavy taboos... that's kinda it lol.

warnings; negative body talk, mentions of past ED, a smidge of self-imposed angst. [nsfw] oral (receiving), good ol fluffy body praising smut. fem!reader, CHUBBY!READER! in my mind, reader and asahi are in their mid 20s here.

「show me you love me」 ₍˶ˆ꒳ˆ˶₎✼:♡*ﾟ✿

Growing up as the "fat girl" amongst your peers is never easy. How pretty you are doesn't matter, how smart you are almost adds insult to injury, and everyone refuses to see you past your body. Friends, family, doctors, teachers. No one sees you.

So, as soon as you're able to, you started doing all the trendy workouts, the diets (both good and bad), the treatments. You name it, you tried it. You had dietitians and "weight management" doctors and pills and injections and... yeah. At the end of all that, going into adulthood, all you had to show for it were old needle prick scars, a bruised sense of self-worth, an unhealthy relationship with food, and even less muscle mass than you'd started with.

It was exhausting, and you were tired. So, you stopped. You learned how to eat for sustenance and pleasure. You danced because you felt like it, not because it was cardio. You ate what tasted good and brought you joy, and you spent more time with the people you loved instead of running yourself ragged inside your own head. Then, suddenly... life felt better. Not a constant day-to-day battle with food and your body, but something you had all the power to mold into what you wanted it to be.

Then you met Asahi, and fell in love, and for a long time your past filled with self-loathing and doubt finally felt like it didn't matter. Love had found you, for you, and nothing could steal that joy away.

Until, of course, life tried.

You wished you were strong enough to say it didn't win, at least for a moment.

"Hey honey," Asahi called, coming into your shared kitchen while fastening the last few buttons on his blouse, "I got called in to fit some models for a last-minute shoot and my assistant won't be back from maternity leave ‘til next week. Wanna come?"

You hummed, pondering the offer in your head as you tasted the soup simmering on your stove.

"Let me think. A Sunday filled with free luxury gifts from the modeling agency, free food from the meal carts, and getting to see my gorgeous, talented, amazing boyfriend in action? Yeah, I think I'm down for that. What all do you need me to do?"

He rounded the island of your kitchen, wrapping you from behind in a hug. His long hair was tied up into a high bun that matched your own poof. The sleeves of his button-down were skillfully rolled up to expose his forearms that flexed as he squeezed your soft body tighter, careful to pull you away from the stove instead of closer to it.

“I just need some help wrangling little things. Safety pin for a dress here, clamp for a shirt there, maybe a coffee if the day runs long. Yadda yadda.”

“I think I can handle that,” you said, nodding to yourself, “Soup’s done. Put it in the fridge for me? I’ll go get dressed and we can go.”

“Okay,” he said, leaning in to give you a sweet kiss on your plump, heat-flushed, cheeks.

You made quick work of rummaging through your shared walk-in closet, throwing pieces around until you had something remotely resembling a put-together outfit. You weren’t anything like your boyfriend when it came to meticulously piecing together clothing until you looked runway ready, but you did okay. Years of learning how to dress in a way that accented your rolls, curves, etc. had come in handy.

“Ready honey?” he called up the stairs, the sound of keys jangling in his hands audible even from where you sat at your vanity.

You snapped on your favorite gold tennis bracelet, slid on white tennis shoes to match your cropped leg pants and breezy t-shirt combo, and laid on a long thin cardigan. You smiled when you realized you were wearing something pretty similar to what Asahi had on.

“Ready!”

As soon as you walked into the brightly lit photoshoot studio together, you were instantly bombarded with a flurry of people. In true assistant fashion, you’d tried to hold one of Asahi’s many bags but no, the long-haired brunette wasn’t having it. His tailor kit and satchel hung from his free arm while his other was busy holding your hand. Though, that didn’t last long, since both of you were immediately herded into opposite directions to prep for the shoot.

Asahi had (thankfully, over the years) become a much more organized man with the good sense to add notes on what went where on the itinerary slid into the front of his bag. You sped-read through it, figuring out your to-do list relatively quickly. You flipped through the hanging bags of covered clothing to match each outfit to each model’s name, steamed all the *needs steaming* tagged garments on the appropriate temperature, and made sure all the shoes matched with their assigned outfits all before lunch.

“You’re killing it baby,” Asahi said in passing, kissing you behind the garment racks as he grabbed the next outfit they needed on set.

“Thank you honey,” you said, looking just as proud of yourself as you felt, “This was way more than just grabbing a “pin or two” like you said but I’m glad I could help. It’s fun seeing the looks all come together. You’re really good at this babe.”

Despite how tiring the day had been, getting to see Asahi in his element this way was extremely interesting to watch, since you were only used to seeing the prep beforehand and the result after. Being apart of bringing it all together was invigorating. 

“Sorry,” he said, looking it, “The project director slid the itinerary into the bag and gave you the bag and pulled me away, then by the time I came to take over you were already halfway through steaming the first few dresses, and the models needed to start fitting and-”

“Honey,” you chuckled, shutting him up with a kiss, “One, I was there, I know. Two, don’t worry about it. I would’ve gotten bored just standing around handing you stuff. I’m glad I could help.”

“I’m glad you were here too hun. The best, most gorgeous, assistant around. 

“Asahi!” a manager called out, probably wondering where he’d wandered off to.

“And, that’s your queue,” you laughed, sneaking in one more kiss, “Need anything else before I head home? Wanna cash in that offer for a coffee?”

“Please,” he rolled his eyes, “I’m gonna crash soon if I don’t get one. Should carry me ‘til we’re done with these last few shots.”

“Can do babe. Now, go. I’ll just bring it over.”

With that, he was on his way back over to the hustle and bustle of the shoot. It’d been a busy day, admittedly. Before you knew it over four hours had passed by in a flash, but it had been fun. Busy as hell, but fun. You weren’t surprised he needed a coffee. 

You made your way to the crafts table, grabbing an orange muffin before you set the espresso maker on for his coffee. You picked at it while you watched the shoot progress from afar, seeing girls change from your boyfriend’s clothing back into their robes and vice versa. 

"Oh, hi! You must be Azumane's assistant, right?” a girl said, sliding up next to you at the craft’s table, “I’m Bella. I’m one of the models. Uh, but you literally just watched me walk over here from the set so I think you knew that. Wait, sorry, was that rude? I didn’t mean to make it sound like I’m a huge deal or anything. I just meant I thought you saw me so, you know, of course, the girl taking pictures is a model. Duh.”

Her rambling threw you off a bit. You weren’t expecting the beautiful, long-locked, thin brunette to be the nervous type. Was she even nervous? Maybe it was just her personality to be a chatterbox, who knows?

“Uh, yeah,” you chuckled, “I am his assistant for today. I’m not normall-”

“Ah! Oh, yeah. I heard something about you being out for a new baby,” she interrupted, snapping her finger like she’d discovered something fantastic, “Wow, you're glowing! Postpartum looks good on you. You know, the stomach doming thing will die down in a few weeks."

"Stomach doming?" you squinted, not missing how she’d gestured at your stomach when she said that. 

"Yeah, your stomach," she said, pointing down, again, to the offending flesh as she stuffed a donut down her throat, "My cousin just had a baby a month ago and her's looks exactly the same. She can't breastfeed or anything so the weight is coming off super slow for her too. Don't worry, it's totally normal. Sorry, I didn’t mean to notice that you hadn’t pumped since we got here. I’m just really in tune with stuff like that, yunno? Ugh, it's so crazy what our bodies are able to do. Sucks we can't all snap back like Kim K or Beyonce, or at least afford the surgeries to “snap back,” if you know what I mean. Hm, oh well. You look good despite the weight anyway, you don’t need any of that stuff."

Is this what Asahi liked? Tall bimbos with long wavy hair that had no filter and even less meat on their bones? Why would this be the type that he’d choose to model his clothes? Sure there were a few girls modeling his clothes that were bigger than this model, but still. She was so… pretty. She was eating that donut even though she was that thin and still looked amazing. She was effortless. Asahi was talented, effortlessly. Maybe he deserved someone who looked more like her, who was beautiful without trying. The kind of girl who looked pretty in his clothes without trying.

"Oh, thanks," you muttered, throwing the muffin in your hands into the garbage can next to you while you picked up the coffee, "I'm gonna go wrap up and head home. Thanks for the chat, Bella."

"Of course! Good luck with the new baby and everything. We'll take care of Mr. Asahi while you're gone."

You shuddered, speed walking your way around the set until you found your boyfriend kneeling down underneath a model's dress, clasping pins here and there. A female assistant, presumably the photographer’s assistant, observed for the sake of consent and all that, helping the girl with her bodice clasps.

"Hey babe," you called, not wanting to interrupt but you needed to get out of there. Now.

He came out from the layers of frill around her legs with one last pin in hand, his eyes wide behind his little reading glasses perched on his nose.

"Yup? Did you get the..."

"Yes I did," you said, handing him the coffee you’d almost forgotten in your haste, "Need anything else?"

"Nope, I think we're good here now. All the girls are in their last outfits, everything else is organized, and the photographer's lovely assistant here, Leah, already packed all my other stuff so I'm good to go. Wanna take the car and go home? I'll be right behind you. Leah offered to drive me, she doesn't live too far from us."

You shook your head, yes, trying not to look as dejected as you felt.

"I'll see you at home then?" you said, leaning down to give him one gentle kiss before you left, "Leah, bring him home in one piece please."

The petite, young, objectively gorgeous girl beamed as she flashed her glossy white smile at you. Her hair was shoulder length and dark, an almost blue-black. Her eyes were green like sea glass, and she had a few subtle piercings both in her ears and her nose. She was thin, but curvy, and held weight mainly on her breasts and her hips. The teenage version of you, still there buried deep in the recesses of your mind, would've literally killed someone to look like her. Maybe she was more his type instead. Driven, talented, and objectively gorgeous. It made sense.

"No problem Mrs. A. I'll have him home to you in no time. We should be done soon so yeah, be right behind you."

"Great," you said, finally moving and making your way down the walkway to the parking garage.

The ride home was tense. You had your music up way too high, you were driving just a touch too fast, and the lump in your throat was threatening to make tears form in your eyes.

“She’s another assistant. You trusted his other assistant to bring him home all the time, people drop each other off. It’s not that serious,” you muttered to yourself, finally pulling up to your home.

You were dating a fashion designer. A man surrounded by incredulously thin women and men all the time. You had to be more chill about this. He was a good man, you knew that. He’d never said anything to make you feel like your body was an issue, he’d always said things that alluded the exact opposite, actually. So, why? Why did you feel this way?

You’d made it about halfway through your shower and self-loathing when you heard the alarm door chime ring through your house. 

“Honey! I’m home,” Asahi yelled.

You didn’t bother yelling back, knowing he’d hear the shower running eventually and either know why you didn’t respond, or he’d come to find you.

Eventually, he did, rounding the corner into your bedroom just as you exited the shower. He had a bowl of the soap you’d made cradled in his hands with a potholder underneath.

“There’s my gorgeous girlfriend,” he said, not at all subtly looking your naked body up and down.

You covered up with a large fluffy towel, taking your favorite body oil in hand to pat it into your damp skin.

“Yup, here I am. You made it back faster than I thought you would.”

“Really?” he asked, inhaling a spoonful of soup, “We wrapped fast today, everyone was tired and ready to go home. I’m surprised that you came in and showered before you ate something. I wasn’t moving around half as much as you did and I was starving halfway through the shoot.”

“Oh?” you said, feeling anger beginning to bubble beneath the surface of your skin, “Surprised I couldn’t wait an hour before I stuffed my face?”

He was taken aback by that, setting the soup bowl on top of your dresser next to the door before he came in to wrap you in a back hug.

“Okay. We’ve been together for three and a half years. I know what misdirected animosity sounds like in your voice and that was it. What’s going on?”

You let your head loll back against the sliver of exposed chest peeking out from his shirt.

"It’s just,” you sighed, “One of the models thought I was your actual assistant because I'm so fat. She assumed I was the one who had the baby and kept commenting on my body, and it… it was really humiliating, honestly. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.”

"Oh baby,” he groaned, pulling you into a real hug from behind, kissing the underside of your neck. 

“And I just, I let myself go on this mental spiral about her and the other models, and I started wondering if you deserve a better-looking girlfriend, one with a nicer body. You work in fashion, you could easily do way better,” you scoffed to yourself, pointedly not looking at yourself or him in the mirror.

His head snapped up to look at you.

“Excuse me,” he said, appalled, “You have the absolute sexiest body I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s protected you and carried you through any and everything you’ve been through, how could I not love it? You’re also the most beautiful you've ever been as long as I've known you. I can’t get over how gorgeous you are. I brag about you to literally anyone who’ll listen. Hell, I spent the whole car ride home talking to Leah about her taking some shots of you, in my designs, for her final portfolio. She was so excited about it."

“Really?” you asked, your voice more of a whine than a real question.

He chuckled, kissing your cheeks.

“Yes! She saw the little yellow boho number I made on one of the models and thought you’d kill it in that for a concept shoot. She’s been planning it for months. She just hadn’t found the right muse until I showed her my favorite photos I have of you. Well,” he hesitated, “not my favorite favorites, but my normal favorites.

You chuckled, sinking more into his arms. He was running his hands along the span of your waist, pulling ever so slightly at the towel wrapped securely around you.

"So, looks aside, even though yours are great, I hope you know that you're more than I deserve. You make me so much better and happier than I ever was on my own. I have no idea how I managed to get such an amazing, talented, smart, sexy person to love me."

He had one hand lightly gripping your upper jaw, his fingers playing with the loose curls that’d escaped from your bun and laid beside your ears.

“I want you to look at yourself for me baby,” he said, kissing down the side of your neck.

Your eyes fluttered open to look at your reflections in the mirror. Your chest was red already just from his hands moving exploratorily around your body. His hand that wasn’t on your face was coming up the slit of your towel, reaching the top to undo the knot you’d made to keep it up. It tumbled to the ground, exposing you fully to him. 

“See how pretty you are?” he asked, running his hand along your stomach, lightly running his nails along the delicate skin until he reached your breasts, taking one of your nipples between his thumb and pointer finger to squeeze it gently, “I think you’re so pretty when you’re making this face just for me.”

You looked down from his face in the mirror to yours, taking in the pink flush on your cheeks. You’d bitten your lip, leaving it bite swollen and red as well. 

“I’m pretty?” you asked, a soft moan escaping your lips when Asahi lowered the hand he’d held your jaw with down to your pussy, using his foot to slide your legs apart and force you open.

“So pretty,” he said, running his fingers through your quickly moistening folds.

You let him explore you, tilting your head to the side to give him full access to your throat. He kissed and sucked at the skin, leaving small bites and bruises in his path down to your shoulder. He tugged gently on your hardened nipple, rubbing the swollen nub between his fingers.

To say you wanted him badly would be an understatement.

“Do you wanna move this to the bed?” you sighed, a small moan escaping your lips when his fingers delicately swirled around the surface of your clit.

"Please?" he whimpered in your ear, his voice barely a whisper.

He turned you around in his arms, pulling your naked body flush against his own. He kissed you as he walked you both backward towards your bed, careful not to stumble and send you both toppling down to the ground.

You pawed at his clothing, all but physically ripping apart the fabric of his shirt trying to get it off while he hastily unclasped his belt. Dragging his slacks down the length of his legs until they found their place on your carpeted floor.

“I wanna show you,” he said, breaking apart your kiss to toss you onto your sheets, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He wasted no time lowering himself down to your sex, gently pushing his thumbs down into your arousal slick pussy, spreading the lips apart gently to expose your most intimate parts.

"You're so wet for me," he commented, placing sloppy kisses on your clit, "Always so perfect."

He ran his tongue down your cunt and back up again, spreading the juices seeping from your slit around. You couldn't help the moan that came from your lips when he began flicking the little bud with his tongue.

You held his hair in your hands while he licked your clit, letting yourself melt into the pleasure the man you loved, that loved you back tenfold, was coaxing out of you.

You cried out his name when you came, making it sound more like a prayer than a simple collection of syllables.

He crowded into your space after that, cradling your legs as they were wrapped around his waist. He kissed you while he fucked you that night, licking and caressing every part of your skin that he could reach.

He made love to you like his soul would abandon his body if he didn't physically give you everything he had. So many sweet nothings and praises whispered into your ears as he brought you to orgasm again. No matter how hot you felt, or how tired your bodies were getting, you stayed wrapped up in each other. Not moving even when he came deep inside you with your name spilling from his lips. You just stayed like that for a while, him plugging you to keep you full until you physically couldn't stay that way anymore.

And when he bathed you after that and made you popcorn to munch on in bed while you watched a movie together before you inevitably fell asleep, you knew. This man loved you more than words themselves. No one could disrupt that. You just had to be more firm in your self-confidence, and everything will be okay.

[bokettochild]

About Legend having insane leg strenght: what if the reason he never brags about that is because he's embarassed about it? He thinks that pulverizing a boulder with a kick is either something everyone can do or too similar to a bunny. One day he and Four get dumped into a monster camp without their items or weapons and Legend takes desperate measures to ensure they don't die: anihilating the entire camp with only his legs. He is unironically and literally capable of killing someone with his /1

This ask references this post btw, so, check it out if you need context!

Honestly, I loved this so much! THANK YOU!!! But I am half asleep, so the cool stuff I saw in my head is being stinky and not comng out. I'm sorry, hope you like my half-asleep drabbl of Legend being weak as shit while simultaneously having the strongest kick out of the whole Chain XD

Legend hates being at Ordon.

It’s not that he hates the people; he’s used to country folk, he was raised around them, heck, his grandparents have the same strong twang in their voices that everyone in Twi’s village does! He loves the fresh air and the sounds of animals and the sight of growing things everywhere he looks.

But he hates looking around and seeing Twilight’s entire village (even the freaking kids!) wander around lifting things that probably equal his entire body weight!

Seriously, Malo (that was the terrifying toddler’s name, right? That’s what Twilight said when he introduced them all, right?) could lift up a small goat with ease, and he was an actual toddler!

What was Uli feeding her children that they turned out this strong? Were all the village women using it? How on earth was every person in all of Ordon fully capable of throwing Legend over their shoulder?

It hadn’t happened yet, but Legend was on guard because it was only so much time before someone figured out it was possible, and it wasn’t as if he could fight them off.

He wasn’t jealous, definitely not. Not even when he saw Twilight carrying a mother goat across the village with an easy stride as he brought the nanny back to her pen. When he buried his face in his arms and sighed it wasn’t because he was remembering how much he had to tug and pull to move a basket of apples, no, it was just because the mere thought of carrying goats for the foreseeable future made him tired. Definitely.

But this strength was just an Ordon thing, right? It was totally just something that was common in Ordon, and Legend took comfort in that as he sat on the front porch of Uli and Rusl’s house and helped with the mending.

Even their blankets were heavy, what the heck?

But then Sky walked past.

And Sky was carrying a barrel, an entire barrel. One that swished and clunked with the sounds of grain filling it, and if the small trail of spilled seed that followed after the hero meant anything, then that thing was full.

Okay, so Skyloftians were strong too, no big deal.

Big deal.

Their entire visit to Ordon, helping to hide away animals and supplies before a local monster band stole them, was spent with Legend trying desperately to not be jealous as he watched everyone from Wind to Time lift and carry things that he couldn’t even knock over if he pushed against them.

It wasn’t even that most of thing things were heavy, it was just... he was weak.

Uli’s gaze when she’d figured out the truth had been surprised, eyes blown wide with shock as she watched as Legend, who’d opted to help indoors since he knew working outside would lead to him being more a burden than an aid, struggled to lift buckets of water to fill the wash basin. Dark brown eyes had followed him as he’s left the bucket outdoors and stomped inside, hissing and wheezing under his breath as he moved his attention to his bag and grabbed one of his power bracelets.

“Hun,” Uli’s soft country twang caught his attention as the woman drew close, concern filling her warm gaze. “Are ya’ feelin’ alright?”

And reputation or no, Legend’s Gran would have his hide on a hitching-post if he even so much as dropped his manners. There was something about country folk that was so inherently polite and welcoming, that even the salty vet couldn’t help but return with the same manners that his Gran had pounded into his head since childhood.

“Yes, ma’am.” Crimson trailed up his neck to blossom across his cheeks and shoot up his ears. He tried to ignore that Uli had a baby on one hip and a bushel of food on the other, breath contained and relaxes as she stood there, no hint of strain in her face or body language. His fingers trailed along the clasp of his power bracelet, shame building inside as he shuffled his feet.

You just can’t walk away when lady’s talking to you, especially if she’s being all polite like and just makin’ sure you’re okay.

“Are you injured?” The farm-wife pressed. “You were huffy something huge with that there bucket.”

And Legend would like nothing more than to sink into the earth as he glances over the full bucket of water that no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t lift. “I’m just not much of a farm-hand is all, ma’am. I’ll be right as rain in a tick, just needed to grab something I forgot.”

And while the look Uli gives him is a bright smile, he knows worry when he sees it peeking out of someone’s gaze. He tries to ignore that, instead turning back to the chores he’d been assigned and trying his hardest to ignore ethe fact that no one else was wearing power bracelets when they all came back for dinner that evening.

He’s not strong. So what? He can lift his sword well enough, and he can do most other things too when he wears the power bracelets.

Yes, he knows that Ravio warned him about not developing muscles if he relied on objects so much, but he’s never had time to work out or build any muscle mass, so when he needs it it’s a bit more important to just get his work done rather than hope he’ll develop it. He’s paying for that, and he knows it, but he can’t really help that he doesn’t have the time or space to really do anything about it.

Oh well, at least the others haven’t caught on.

Warriors hefts a huge rock over his shoulder and throws it, chuckling deep and loud as he smirks at the rancher. “Beat that!”

They’re clearing a road where an avalanche swept through and blocked off the main entrance to a local town. They’ve been at it for hours, and while Legend tries his hardest to be discreet by sticking to things he can actually lift, even if it does require his bracelets, the others have devolved into a contest to see who can throw stuff the furthest.

There’s nothing on the other side of the road except for the edge of a swamp, and even Legend has to admit that it’s ridiculously satisfying to hear each of the heavy stones go ‘plop’ as they land in the marsh.

Twilight smirks at the captain, all his sharp teeth on display as he hefts a rock that’s the size of Wild and easily bigger than half of the rest of the heroes. “Watch and learn, city boy.” Twilight grunts (well at least it took some effort) before throwing the boulder and watching with the rest of them as it soars through the air and lands with a dramatic ‘splosh’ in the middle of the swamp. Cheers erupt from the younger heroes, and a few even drop their own burdens to give a brief round of applause.

Warriors humphs shrewdly, gaze thin as he looks over at Twi, who only cocks a brow in challenge. “Anyone think they can beat that?”

Legend finds his gaze meeting Four’s swirling hazel, and they both quickly look away from the captain, both well aware that the biggest rocks they’ve lifted are maybe the sizes of their heads, and no where near the horrific loads that the taller heroes are tossing left and right.

“I’ll try!” Wild’s eyes are flashing as the kid clambers over the rock slide, eyes darting to and fro until they land on what has to be the biggest, most horrifically sized piece of rubble Legend has ever seen. The Champion beams, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles briefly before taking the stone in both hands and lifting it over his head and throwing it.

The swam erupts in goop and several of their group yelp and have to dark back as smelly water sprinkles the edge of the path. Wild beams down from his perch on top of the pile, hands on his hips as he looks down at them. “Who dares challenge my strength?”

“How about you, Vet?” Warriors nudges him lightly, chuckling with a cocked brow. The man is just teasing, and he doesn’t mean any harm, but Legend finds himself irritated anyways. He doesn’t know what it is about Warriors, but the man gets under his skin entirely too easily.

“No thanks.” He grunts, hefting his own stone (so small in comparison) a bit higher and adjusting his grip as he walks over to the swamp.

Wild scrabbles around above, knocking stones aside and sending them rolling down towards the vet. Legend rolls his eyes, dodging quickly around a few and kicking some of the larger ones in the direction of the swamp.

He smiles to himself at the satisfying ‘plonk’ as each one hits the surface.

Four’s head aches and the next time they see Warriors they’re going to kick him in the shins.

The captain is good at planning, usually, but if his planning means that Four is waking up to stare around a vast room where people in red and black PJ suits are eating bananas because said plan went wrong, then they think they’re a bit justified in wanting to kick the captain.

They’d reach to rub their head, to adjust the headband that’s riding too low and letting their hair all hang in their eyes, but their hands are bound behind them, and they’re left huffing their breath and scrunching their nose in an effort to relive their irritation. Their mind is too wild to shake their head, but they let their eyes wander.

Legend’s violet gaze meets theirs, sharp fury bubbling below the surface as Legend sits across from them, hands bound behind him, a rope leading from his wrists to a hook in the wall that is definitely higher than either of the two of them can reach.

As unkind as it is, they breathe a sigh of relief to know they aren’t alone (even if being four people in one body technically means that they’re never alone as is). It’s...nice, having Legend around. They don’t know what it is, but the taller boy feels safe and that’s something that they, especially Red, fond comfort in.

But the fact that two of them are here means that Wars is getting both his shins kicked, fair is fair.

Legend squeaks in that harsh way he does when he’s angry, a poor and rather adorable attempt at a growl, but apparently, he’s unable to make any sort of guttural noise, so the squeak is the best he can do. “I am going to strangle Wars when we get back. Yiga? Seriously?”

They raise a brow. “Weren’t we fighting moblins?”

“And a Talus. Unless these guys have transformative rings, then someone messed up.” The vet grates out, but before he can try and unravel their situation any more, a masked face is shoved into the vets own, one of the pajama clad banana eater’s apparently trying to leer over the vet, breath strong and rank even behind his mask.

“So! The friends of the hero awake! You will call me Astorah! Leader of the Yiga and supreme priestess to Lord Ganon!”

“I’ll call you annoying and maybe alive if you let us go.” legend drawls, unimpressed. “Seriously lady, get your face of mine or I’ll knock it in.”

They smirk. Legend is as polite and well-mannered as can be around the country villages, but the minute he’s away from thick mountain drawls and country twang, the Vet becomes a sour and salty speaker who’s as likely to threaten you as o smile at you. It would almost be funny if they weren’t being held captive.

Astorah makes an indignant sound, hand shooting out to smack Legend across the face. The vet can’t do anything to stop it, and the blow sends his head swinging to the side, a faint grunt escaping as the self-declared priestess stands to her full height (she’s taller than either of them at any rate) and promptly orders her subordinates to see to it that the prisoners be brought to ‘the mountain’.

“The hero will be looking for his friends,” The pajama clad leader declares excitedly, hands rubbing together like a villain in a bad stage play. “So, let's help him out, shall we?”

The vet and smithy exchange a glance, each somewhat surprised at how... pathetic their opponent seems to be.

“Their screams should do the trick; all heroes listen to cries of help after all.” There’s a mad waver in her voice and the pitching is all wrong.

She’s delusional. Vio whispers, and the rest of them are inclined to agree.

Across from them, legend scowls as another red and black clad weirdo comes to grasp his binds, unhooking them from above as yet another does the same to Four.

Ideally, they would try and escape now, but legend only follows along slowly as Astorah leads them through the endless halls and up step after step, murmuring, laughing and shrieking loudly as she goes, hands fluttering and gestures erratic as Legend’s scowl grows more and more each minute.

It all seems rather pathetic, all thing considered, until another, larger, more intimidating individual stops them, voice harsh as it grates out something in a language neither hero can understand. Astorah protests and shrieks at the figure, but they disregard her and instead turn to the heroes.

“Put them back, screams echo within a cave far better than on a mountain top.”

Four’s stomach sinks. Being outside means being closer to escape, means finding the others easier and kicking Wars for landing the in a battle where two of their own had been captured by the enemy.

Legend seems to be of the same idea, his eyes flashing as he pulls at his bonds, tugging away from the guard holding onto him.

The oddly garbed enemy slaps him again, but Legend doesn’t seem to be affected, only pushing harder and biting towards the next hand that swings his way. Astorah pulls away with a light sob, shrieking when Legend’s teeth keep hold of her hand while the enemies around them erupt into action.

Fours unsure of what happens next, their head is still spinning, and quite honestly, they’re sure Hyrule will declare him concussed when they get back, but he does see blows being thrown Legend's way, blades being drawn as shouts echo around them.

There’s a dark of movement, and one of the enemies falls. Four stares in shock for half of a moment before turning their gaze to Legend, who, for all intents and purposes, looks half feral.

Blood stains the Vet’s bucked teeth and his hair swirls as he spins and ducks beneath blows. His hands are still bound tightly behind him, a rope trailing on the ground as Legend evades contact, yet somehow still manages to down another enemy.

Four would try and help, but their mind is spinning, their brain not yet up to date with what their eyes are seeing, that and they’re still bound themself, their arms are fastened behind them and they’re not even sure how Legend is managing to get blows in.

And the he sees.

The vet’s boot swings up to make contact with one of the jaws of the enemy.

Yiga. Wild had told them about them, the Yiga clan, people out for the hero’s blood. The word only comes to mind now, but they’d had to tune out of the battle for a brief moment to remember it. They’re brought back to it as the sound of an agonized scream breaks through the air, accompanied by the harsh snapping sound that Four knows too well from having broken their own bones.

Legend fights with his hands behind his back, kicking out like an angered horse and injuring any who step near. It’s impressive honestly, watching how blood spurts and bones crumple from the force of the vet’s blows, and all that without having use of his hands.

The Yiga back away, eventually leaving the room entirely as Legend squeaks out an angry Legend sound after them, before turning his attention to Four. Four says nothing, and it appear Legend thinks that that’s okay, because he darts towards the door they had been headed too, leading Four with nervous glances being thrown back over his shoulder every few minutes.

The mountain top they emerge onto is higher than Four expected, and they want nothing more than to snuggle down in the cozy parka Legend once leant him, but they have none of their items, and they’re lucky to even be out in one piece.

It takes a lot of work to climb down a mountain with their hands tied, but their fingers are too cold to make any good of the knots, and they manage in the end to climb down. They’re in the last legs when Four notices what looks like a small group of travelers below, and they can almost hear the singing of the Four Sword from them.

They’d dropped their blade in their battle, the very reason they were caught in the first blade. They’re not happy someone else touched it, but they are glad they didn’t leave it behind.

“Four,” Legend’s voice breaks them from their thoughts, and as they turn to face him, they find that Legend’s face is flushed, ears twitching nervously as he avoids their gaze. “Could you...not tell the others about all that?”

“About what?” They clamber down another stone, Legend still within sight as he trails down beside them.

“The...kicking.” Legend flushes. “I know you guys- most of them anyway- could have it handled better. I just, Wars is bad enough as is, I don’t need him bring up my lack of strength next time he decides he needs ammo to mess with me.” There’s a scowl on the vets features as he hops down and across and small hold in the mountain side. “I get it, I’m weak in comparison, they could probably have beheaded those guys with their bare hands, but mine fingers are shit o a good day and-”

Four doesn’t know if they actually figure something out or randomly spew words, but Legend’s eyes turn to them in surprise when the smithy stares down at him. “You do know most Hylia’s can’t do anything by kicking each other, right? I’m planning on kicking Wars when we get back, and the most it’ll do is bruise him.” Their voice is flat, but they let Viol take over, he always had the best endurance out of them when it came to rocky places anyways. “You kicked a man’s ribs in, Legend.”

And it’s not funny, it really isn’t, but they giggle, watching as Legend flushes before their eyes, and when the others trail up towards them, gazes curious and concerned, Four is laughing hysterically.

It could be the head wound, it could be Legend’s face, but the thought that Legend was able to kick a man's ribs in and hadn’t done so to any of them yet was both surprising and highly relieving for whatever reason, and it’s hilarious listening to Legend try and explain himself as the vet protests and struggles against the fact that apparently Hylian’s don’t usually have enough leg strength to kill people with.

Yes, people died back there. Yes, Four just watched them die. Maybe it’s Shadow’s influence, but Four can’t find that they're overly bothered. They are tired and injured and cold, and if they can laugh about something as ridiculous as Legend’s strange strength imbalance, then Hylia danggit they’re going to!

They never do kick Wars’ shins in, they giggle to hard at the thought that Legend doing so could actually break them, so they topple over before they can lift their feet.

[maxwell-grant]

What are your thoughts on Jekyll/Hyde and his archetype of the human periodically changing into a monster ?

Jekyll & Hyde was the 2nd horror story I read following Frankenstein, I got it off the same library and it always stuck very strongly with me even before I got into horror in general. I even dressed up as Jekyll/Hyde as a kid for a school fair by shredding a lab coat on one side and asking my sister to make-up claw gashes on my exposed arm and paint half of my face, although in hindsight I think I ended up looking more like Doctor Two-Face than Jekyll/Hyde, but I was 12 and didn't have any Victorian clothing to use so I had to make do. The first film project I tried doing at film school was intended to be a modern take on Jekyll & Hyde, and I didn't get much farther than a couple of discarded scripts

Much like Frankenstein, Mr Hyde as a character and a story is something that's kind of baked into everything I do artistically. And it's not just me, as even in pop culture itself, none of us can escape Mr Hyde. I would go so far as to argue Mr Hyde may be the single most significant character created by victorian fiction, if only by the sheer impact and legacy the character's had.

(Fan-art by guilhermefranco)

Part of what makes Mr Hyde such a powerful and lasting icon of pop culture is that the very premise of the book invites a personal reading that's gonna vary from person to person. Because everyone's familiar with the basic twist of the story, that it's a conflict of duality, of the good and evil sides, but everyone has a more personal idea of what those entail. Some people make the story more about class. A lot of readings laser-focus on sex and lust as the driving force, and there's also a lot of readings of Mr Hyde that tackle it to explore a more gendered perspective, and so forth.

I don't particularly take much notice of the Jekyll & Hyde adaptations partially because the novel's premise and themes have become baked so throughly into pop culture and explored in so many different and interesting ways, that I'm not particularly starving for good Jekyll & Hyde adaptations the way I am for Dracula and Frankenstein. The Fredric March film in particular is one that orbits my head less because of the film itself (although I do recommend it), but because of one specific scene, and that's when Jekyll first transforms into Hyde on screen.

Out of all the things they could have shown him doing right that second, they instead took the time to show him enjoying the rain.

Just Hyde taking off his hat and letting it all cascade on his face with this sheer enthusiasm like he's never been to the rain before, never enjoyed it before, and now that he's free from being Jekyll, he gets to enjoy life like he never has before. It's such an oddly humanizing moment to put amidst a horror movie, in the scene where you're ostensibly introducing the monster to the audience, and it makes such a stark contrast to the rest of the film where Hyde is completely irredeemable, but I think it's that contrast that makes the film's take on Hyde work so well even with it's diverging from the source material, even if I don't particularly like in general interpretations of Hyde that are focused on a sexual aspect.

Because one, it understands that Jekyll was fundamentally a self-serving coward and not a paragon of goodness, and two, it also understands one of the things that makes Hyde scary: He wants what all of us want, to live and be happy. He's happy when he leaves the lab and dances around in the rain like a giddy child, he's happy when he goes to places Jekyll couldn't dream of showing up, he's happy as a showgirl-abusing sexual predator. Hyde is all wants, all the time, and there's not that much difference between his wants, his domineering possessiveness, and the likes exhibited by Muriel's father and Jekyll's own within the very same film, which also works to emphasize one of the other ideas of the original story, that Edward Hyde doesn't come from nowhere. That no monster is closer to humanity than Mr Hyde, because he is us. He is the thing that Jekyll refused to take responsability for until it was too late.

(Art by LorenzoMastroianni)

While many of the ideas that defined Mr Hyde had already been explored in pop culture beforehand, Hyde popularized and redefined many of them in particular by modernizing the idea. He was the werewolf, the doppelganger, The Player On The Other Side, except he came from within. He was not transformed by circumstance, he made himself that way, and the elixir merely brought out something already inside his soul. To acknowledge that he's there is to acknowledge that he is you, and to not do that is to either lose to him, or perish. Hyde was there to address both the rot settling in Victorian society as well as grappling concerns over Darwinian heritage, of the realization that man has always had the beast inside of him (it's no accident that Hyde's main method of murder is by clubbing people to death with his cane like a caveman).

I've already argued on my post about Tarzan that the Wild Man archetype, beginning with Enkidu of The Epic of Gilgamesh, is the in-between man and beast, between superhero and monster, and that Mr Hyde is an essential component of the superhero's trajectory, as the creature split in between. That stories about dual personalities, doppelgangers, the duality of the soul, the hero with a day job and an after dark career, you can pinpoint Hyde as a turning point in how all of these solidified gradually in pop culture. And I've argued otherwise that The Punisher, for all that his image and narrative points otherwise, is ultimately just as much of a superhero as the rest of them, even if no one wants to admit it, drawing a parallel between The Punisher and Mr Hyde. And he's far from the only modern character that can invite this kind of parallel.

The idea of a regular person periodically or permanently transforming into, or revealing itself to be, something extraordinary and fantastic and scary, grappling with the divide it causes in their soul, and questions whether it's a new development or merely the truest parts of themselves coming to light at last, and the effects this transformation has for good and bad alike. The idea of a potent, dangerous, unpredictable enemy who ultimately is you, or at least a facet of you and what you can do. That these are bound to destroy each other if not reconciled with or overcome.

You know what are my thoughts on the archetype of "human periodically changing into a monster" are? Look around you and you're gonna see the myriad ways The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde's themes have manifested in the century and a half since the story's release. Why it shouldn't be any surprise whatsoever that Mr Hyde has become such an integral part of pop culture, in it's heroes and monsters alike. Why we can never escape Mr Hyde, just as Jekyll never could.

It is Nixon himself who represents that dark, venal and incurably violent side of the American character that almost every country in the world has learned to fear and despise. Our Barbie-doll president, with his Barbie-doll wife and his boxful of Barbie-doll children is also America's answer to the monstrous Mr. Hyde.

He speaks for the Werewolf in us; the bully, the predatory shyster who turns into something unspeakable, full of claws and bleeding string-warts on nights when the moon comes too close… - Hunter S. Thompson

There is a scene in the movie Pulp Fiction that explains almost every terrible thing happening in the news today. And it's not the scene where Ving Rhames shoots that guy's dick off. It's the part where the hit man played by John Travolta is talking about how somebody vandalized his car, and says this:

"Boy, I wish I could've caught him doing it. I'd have given anything to catch that asshole doing it. It'd been worth him doing it, just so I could've caught him doing it."

That last sentence is something everyone should understand about mankind. After all, the statement is completely illogical -- revenge is supposed to be about righting a wrong. But he wants to be wronged, specifically so he'll have an excuse to get revenge. We all do.

Why else would we love a good revenge movie? We sit in a theater and watch Liam Neeson's daughter get kidnapped. We're not sad about it, because we know he's a badass and he finally has permission to be awesome. Not a single person in that theater was rooting for it to all be an innocent misunderstanding. We wanted Liam to be wronged, because we wanted to see him kick ass. It's why so many people walk around with vigilante fantasies in their heads.

Long, long ago, the people in charge figured out that the easiest and most reliable way to bind a society together was by controlling and channeling our hate addiction. That's the reason why seeing hurricane wreckage on the news makes us mumble "That's sad" and maybe donate a few bucks to the Red Cross hurricane fund, while 9/11 sends us into a decade-long trillion-dollar rage that leaves the Middle East in flames.

The former was caused by wind; the latter was caused by monsters. The former makes us kind of bummed out; the latter gets us high.

It's easy to blame the news media for pumping us full of stories of mass shootings and kidnapped children, but that's stopping one step short of the answer: The media just gives us what we want. And what we want is to think we're beset on all sides by monsters.

The really popular stories will always feature monsters that are as different from us as possible. Think about Star Wars -- what real shithead has ever referred to himself as being on "the dark side"? In Harry Potter and countless fantasy universes, you have wizards working in "black magic" and the "dark arts." Can you imagine a scientist developing some technology for chemical weapons or invasive advertising openly thinking of what he does as "dark science"? Can you imagine a real world leader naming his headquarters "The Death Star" or "Mount Doom"?

Of course not. But we need to believe that evil people know they're evil, or else that would open the door to the fact that we might be evil without knowing it. I mean, sure, maybe we've bought chocolate that was made using child slaves or driven cars that poisoned the air, but we didn't do it to be evil -- we were simply doing whatever we felt like and ignoring the consequences. Not like Hitler and the bankers who ruined the economy and those people who burned the kittens -- they wake up every day intentionally dreaming up new evils to create. It's not like Hitler actually thought he was saving the world.

So no matter how many times you vote to cut food stamps and then use the money to buy a boat, you could still be way worse. You could, after all, be one of those murdering / lazy / ignorant / greedy / oppressive monsters that you know the world is full of, and that only your awesome moral code prevents you from turning into at any moment. And those monsters are out there.

They have to be. Because otherwise, we're the monsters - 5 Reasons Humanity Desperately Wants Monsters To Be Real, by Jason Pargin

(Two-Face sequence comes from the end of Batman Annual #14: Eye of the Beholder)

For good or bad, Hyde has become omnipresent. He's a part of our superheroes, he's a part of our supervillains, he's in our monsters. He lives and prattles in our ears, sometimes we need him to survive, and sometimes we become Hyde even when we don't need to, because our survival instincts or base cruelties or desperation brings out the worst in us. Sometimes we can beat him, and sometimes he's not that bad. Sometimes we do need to appease him and listen to what he says, about us and the world around us. And sometimes we need to do so specifically to prove him wrong and beat him again.

But he never, ever goes away, as he so accurately declares in the musical

Do you really think That I would ever let you go...

Do you think I'd ever set you free?

If you do, I'm sad to say It simply isn't so

You will never get away FROM MEEEEEE

(Art by Akreon on Artstation)

[epona610]

A Comparison of OUAT Redemption Stories

So I was DMing with someone about a different show entirely, and I brought up OUAT because I loved/hated this show so much and it’s largely based on redemption stories. I was going to briefly explain why I find Hook’s arc so compelling (though not without its flaws, of course) and Regina’s so lacking, but it turns out that I still cannot write briefly about this subject. So I’m posting this here because this is what my blog was originally about, and I find I still feel very much the same way even after a few years have passed. I want to preface this by saying I haven’t rewatched the show since it went off the air, and I certainly could’ve forgotten some things. And I’m obviously biased in that I loathe the character of Regina so much, although here I’m trying to explain exactly why I can’t stand her.

Hook and Regina were both motivated by revenge for the deaths of their first loves. Rumple murdered his ex-wife and Hook’s current lover/partner/co-captain, Milah, so Hook set out to kill Rumple himself, the Dark One, who is one of (if not the) most powerful beings in their world. Hook caused a lot of harm to innocent people as collateral damage, but eventually he gave up on the idea of revenge and basically peacefully coexisted with the guy who had murdered his first love and chopped off his hand. Regina’s mother was the one to kill her first love, but did she go after her? No, she went after the ten-year-old child (Snow) whom her mother had manipulated into telling about her first love (by playing on Snow’s feelings for her dead mother, whom Regina’s mother had murdered). Regina was going after an innocent person from the beginning because she was afraid of her mother. 

Then there’s the scale of the harm done. Regina: literally slaughtered at least two whole villages, sent countless children to be literally eaten by a cannibal, cursed an entire population by permanently altering their minds, has murdered so many people and taken so many hearts she lost track of whose was whose, illegally adopted a child whom she knowingly raised in a town where no one else grew or aged and then gaslit him when he caught on, murdered her father in order to cast the curse. Hook: was a pirate so he has killed people (we learn that his rings come from murder victims, whose names and circumstances he remembers) killed his own father (who had sold him into child slavery) thereby orphaning his little brother, killed David’s father, backhanded Belle across the face once, shot her so she’d cross the town line and lose her memories, sort of turned Baelfire over to Peter Pan (but only after Bae refused to let Hook hide him so I never got why he felt guilty over that honestly). No indiscriminate mass murder that we know of. 

And of course there’s the remorse or utter lack thereof. Regina is constantly defending her actions. I’ll use her own words to illustrate. She at one point says to Snow: “To be fair, I was threatening you. Everyone else just became collateral damage.” And then later we get this infuriating exchange:

Regina: Need I remind you I dedicated years to knocking you down? But nothing could stop you. 

Snow: You took my kingdom, cast your curse, I lost my daughter for 28 years.

Regina: And then you found her. 

Clearly no remorse or recognition for the fact that she stole Emma’s entire childhood from her and her parents. And the classic, said as she was escaping a tree that attacks people’s regret: “I did cast a curse that devastated an entire population. I have tortured and murdered. I’ve done some terrible things. I should be overflowing with regret, but I’m not.” 

I feel that I should add that she ends that last statement with “because it got me my son”. And that sounds lovely, but that means that she doesn’t regret the harm she’s done since getting him (continuing to enslave and sexually abuse her victims, murdering Graham, attempting to murder the entire town so Henry would have nobody else to love) or even more notably, the harm she’s done to Henry (raising him in a psychologically unhealthy environment, cursing him in an attempt to curse his mother, gaslighting him, attempting to murder his entire family, altering his memories, etc.) Regina says time and again that she “gave up on revenge” against Snow, but as far as I can tell, she only decided she was satisfied because she’d succeeded in irreparably harming Snow. She took away her chance to raise her daughter, who ended up being raised in an abusive foster system and felt obligated to give up her own child. 

And then I compare that to Hook’s apologizing and making things right with people he’s hurt, like Ursula, his younger brother Liam, and David. And then he and Belle become close friends and eventually they have this conversation:

Belle: I’m sorry, I can’t stay here. If Rumple finds you harboring me...

Hook: His wrath will be an added bonus.

Belle: I don’t understand. Why would you risk your life for me?

Hook: Long ago, I... I tried to kill you in the queen’s castle once. I failed. But along the way, I did something I can live with no longer. I laid a hand on you. And there’s the matter of my shooting you at the town line.

Belle: Yeah, well. You’ve changed since all that.  

Hook: Maybe. I have a long road to travel before I can be someone I can be proud of. Despite the forgiveness of others, I must forgive myself, and I’m not there yet.

So yeah, that’s a summary of why I find Hook’s redemption arc to be (somewhat) believable and satisfying and Regina’s to be... basically nonexistent. The show tells us she’s a hero and a good person now, but she never apologizes or shows remorse. She makes it abundantly clear that she’s doing good only in the hopes of getting happiness for herself, which she absolutely feels entitled to even though she’s taken it from so many others (the amount of times she complained about not getting what she wants despite occasionally doing the right thing is incredible). She still even has a bunch of hearts whose owners she apparently forgot! There’s no indication that guilt weighs on her at all, or that she even feels any guilt. I can’t buy a “redemption” from someone who never shows remorse or accepts responsibility.

Note: these quotations weren’t taken from memory, nor did I go back and watch the episodes. They came from the OUAT transcripts found here.

[kstewdeux]

Inspired By This Post

Summary: Kagome demonstrates what she’s learned from Sango and Inuyasha is brought to his knees

Save The Horse

‘This is what I get for bringing her,’ Inuyasha thought miserably as he pried his face out of the dirt and shook himself to get rid of the dust. It seemed like a good idea when he first thought of it! Three years away from her had caused problems that he was still working out. Twelve months in and there were still times he woke up in a cold sweat even though she was right there - his heart beating so fast it started skipping. Nightmare upon nightmare with him still crouched at the bottom of the well believing he would never get to see her again and fighting back the crushing despair that accompanied realizing he very well might be alone forever. Bringing her with him would keep his mind clear. If he could physically see her, he wouldn’t be distracted during battle or rush through things that shouldn’t be rushed. It was crippling how often he obsessed over seeing her again - to make sure she actually came back. A few times he’d even lost focus and nearly taken an unnecessary hit. The fear always there that maybe he’d gone insane and that her return was just some grand hallucination everyone was going along with out of pity. Sometimes it got so bad he’d even randomly tear up even though there was nothing to cry about anymore. She’d come back but the very idea she’d be taken from him again…

That she wasn’t real…

Anyway this foolproof plan to keep a clear mind and alleviate his lingering depressed paranoia had just been shot to shit. One utterly devastating movement on her part and he was an even bigger mess than he would’ve been if he’d just gone it alone.

 All it took was for Kagome to show off her imaginably hard-earned expertise in horse riding and combat tactics. That was all it took to turn his legs into jelly and melt his mind to the point he tripped over his own feet. But how else was he supposed to react when his woman demonstrated her strength, agility and grace? In the span of less than a minute, Kagome had gone from a riding position to literally balancing herself on the back of a moving animal and aiming her bow at the same time. When she hit the mark with expert precision and maneuvered herself to her original position without so much as losing her breath, his whole body had shivered and next thing he knew he had faceplanted in front of an enemy. This had to be the most humiliating moment of his life to date….

Or the onset of his inevitable descent into madness because Kagome being strong enough to kick his ass rather than resorting to using beads to take him down was simply too good to be true. His mind making fantasies come to life because he’d officially cracked.

Groaning, Inuyasha shook his head to clear it. No. No, he wasn’t crazy. Kagome pulling that horse trick off was just a fluke. Woman did try things every once in a while that just miraculously worked out…

Amber eyes darted up to locate his wife and another involuntary groan passed over his lips at yet another position he had no idea she could do. It almost looked like she was falling off the horse – almost parallel with the ground, she was holding herself up with nothing but muscle mass while also managing to shoot an enemy straight in the face.

If his eyes were wrong, he suddenly didn’t care to see right ever again. That had to be the single most arousing thing he’d ever seen her do. Almost like it was picked straight out of his dreams.

So what if he’d finally gone crazy? Totally worth it.

‘You’re not crazy,’ Inuyasha chided himself silently as he shakily got to his feet, ‘You know she’s been taking lessons. Maybe that’s where she learned how to do…”

A shuddering sigh escaped him when Kagome slid to the other side of the horse and repeated the action.

“That…oh shit…”

In hindsight, he should’ve asked more questions when Kagome told him Sango was giving her horseback riding lessons alongside the twins. It never even occurred to him that it would be battle related. While he’d seen the slayer do some of these moves riding Kilala, it never crossed his mind that those moves might translate to other animals. What else had Sango been teaching this woman?! A shiver ran down his spine at the image of them wrestling in a more aggressive way before he forced his mind to get out of the gutter and focus on the task at hand.

Demon horde. They were fighting a demon horde.

With a learned hand, Kagome suddenly turned her weapon with a flick of her wrist and smacked the ever living shit out of a demon that had gotten too close for comfort purifying the bastard who exploded in a cloud of pink dust. Despite his half-assed efforts to stay online, Inuyasha’s executive functioning crashed. It was literally all he could do to keep his legs from going out from under him. His breathing heavy and shaking as he tried to keep control over his impulses.

Later. There’s be time for that later.

Later…

A involuntary moan passed over his lips while his eyes glazed over imagining a whole new world of possibilities before his whole body jerked when he remembered that they’d come here for a reason.

Demon horde. Right. Helping. A thing he should do.

Before he could fully collect himself, Inuyasha’s higher thought process flew the coop when, with what could only be described as a showing of brute strength, Kagome swung down one handed to land a kick that sent a demon flying before effortlessly pulling herself back up with awe inspiring grace.A normally unshakeable man crumpled to his knees - a prisoner of his own making as the miko took on the last two demons with a smirk that had shivers running down her husband’s spine.

Somewhere in the most distant part of his cloudy mind the thought once again occurred to him that he should probably be helping right now but when his wife made any help unnecessary with one last arrow which held such a punch it blew her hair back, his thoughts officially flatlined.

“Inuyasha?” Kagome breathed anxiously as she about turned her horse and made her way over to his shaking form, “Are you okay?”

Dilated amber eyes locked onto hers when she slid off her ride but before his wife could ask any further questions, his lips were on hers and with a few simple maneuvers, Inuyasha made sure that horse wasn’t the only thing his wife rode that day.

[didanawisgi]

Martin Luther King Jr., Guns, and a Book Everyone Should Read

BY JEREMY S. | JAN 15, 2018

“Martin Luther King Jr. would have been 89 years old today, were he not assassinated in 1968. On the third Monday in January we observe MLK Jr. Day and celebrate his achievements in advancing civil rights for African Americans and others. While Dr. King was a big advocate of peaceful assembly and protest, he wasn’t, at least for most of his life, against the use of firearms for self-defense. In fact, he employed them . . .

If it wasn’t for African Americans in the South, primarily, taking up arms almost without exception during the post-Civil War reconstruction and well into the civil rights movement, this country wouldn’t be what it is today.

By force and threat of arms African Americans protected themselves, their families, their homes, and their rights and won the attention and respect of the powers that be. In a lawless, post-Civil War South they stayed alive while faced with, at best, an indifferent government and, at worst, state-sponsored violence against them.

We know the Supreme Court’s Dred Scott decision of 1857 refused to recognize black people as citizens. Heck, they were deemed just three-fifths a person. Not often mentioned in school: some of that was due to gun rights. Namely, not wanting to give gun rights to blacks. Because if they were to recognize blacks as citizens, it…

“…would give to persons of the negro race . . . the right to enter every other State whenever they pleased, . . . and it would give them the full liberty of speech . . . ; to hold public meetings upon political affairs, and to keep and carry arms wherever they went.”

Ahha! So the Second Amendment was considered an individual right, protecting a citizen’s natural, inalienable right to keep and carry arms wherever they go. Then as now, gun control is rooted in racism.

During reconstruction, African Americans were legally citizens but were not always treated as such. Practically every African American home had a shotgun — or shotguns — and they needed it, too. Forget police protection, as those same officials were often in white robes during their time off.

Fast forward to the American civil rights movement and we learn, but again not at school, that Martin Luther King Jr. applied for a concealed carry permit. He (an upstanding minister, mind you) was denied.

Then as in many cases even now, especially in blue states uniquely and ironically so concerned about “fairness,” permitting was subjective (“may issue” rather than “shall issue”). The wealthy and politically connected receive their rights, but the poor, the uneducated, the undesired masses, not so much.

Up until late in his life, MLK Jr. chose to be protected by the Deacons for Defense. Though his home was also apparently a bit of an arsenal.

African Americans won their rights and protected their lives with pervasive firearms ownership. But we don’t learn about this. We don’t know about this. It has been unfortunately whitewashed from our history classes and our discourse.

Hidden, apparently, as part of an agreement (or at least an understanding) reached upon the conclusion of the civil rights movement.

Sure, the government is going to protect you now and help you and give you all of the rights you want, but you have to give up your guns. Turn them in. Create a culture of deference to the government. Be peaceable and non-threatening and harmless. And arm-less, as it were (and vote Democrat). African Americans did turn them in, physically and culturally.

That, at least, is an argument made late in Negroes and the Gun: the Black Tradition of Arms. It’s a fantastic book, teaching primarily through anecdotes of particular African American figures throughout history just how important firearms were to them. I learned so-freaking-much from this novel, and couldn’t recommend it more. If you have any interest in gun rights, civil rights, and/or African American history, it’s an absolute must-read.

Some text I highlighted on my Kindle Paperwhite when I read it in 2014:

But Southern blacks had to navigate the first generation of American arms-control laws, explicitly racist statutes starting as early as Virginia’s 1680 law, barring clubs, guns, or swords to both slaves and free blacks.

“…he who would be free, himself must strike the blow.”

In 1846, white abolitionist congressman Joshua Giddings of Ohio gave a speech on the floor of the House of Representatives, advocating distribution of arms to fugitive slaves.

Civil-rights activist James Forman would comment in the 1960s that blacks in the movement were widely armed and that there was hardly a black home in the South without its shotgun or rifle.

A letter from a teacher at a freedmen’s school in Maryland demonstrates one set of concerns. The letter contains the standard complaints about racist attacks on the school and then describes one strand of the local response. “Both the Mayor and the sheriff have warned the colored people to go armed to school, (which they do) [and] the superintendent of schools came down and brought me a revolver.”

Low black turnout resulted in a Democratic victory in the majority black Republican congressional district.

Other political violence of the Reconstruction era centered on official Negro state militias operating under radical Republican administrations.

“The Winchester rifle deserves a place of honor in every Black home.” So said Ida B. Wells.

Fortune responded with an essay titled “The Stand and Be Shot or Shoot and Stand Policy”: “We have no disposition to fan the coals of race discord,” Thomas explained, “but when colored men are assailed they have a perfect right to stand their ground. If they run away like cowards they will be regarded as inferior and worthy to be shot; but if they stand their ground manfully, and do their own a share of the shooting they will be respected and by doing so they will lessen the propensity of white roughs to incite to riot.”

He used state funds to provide guns and ammunition to people who were under threat of attack.

“Medgar was nonviolent, but he had six guns in the kitchen and living room.”

“The weapons that you have are not to kill people with — killing is wrong. Your guns are to protect your families — to stop them from being killed. Let the Klan ride, but if they try to do wrong against you, stop them. If we’re ever going to win this fight we got to have a clean record. Stay here, my friends, you are needed most here, stay and protect your homes.”

In 2008 and 2010, the NAACP filed amicus briefs to the United States Supreme Court, supporting blanket gun bans in Washington, DC, and Chicago. Losing those arguments, one of the association’s lawyers wrote in a prominent journal that recrafting the constitutional right to arms to allow targeted gun prohibition in black enclaves should be a core plank of the modern civil-rights agenda.

Wilkins viewed the failure to pursue black criminals as overt state malevolence and evidence of an attitude that “there’s one more Negro killed — the more of ’em dead, the less to bother us. Don’t spend too much money running down the killer — he may kill another.”

But it puts things in perspective to note that swimming pool accidents account for more deaths of minors than all forms of death by firearm (accident, homicide, and suicide).

The correlation of very high murder rates with low gun ownership in African American communities simply does not bear out the notion that disarming the populace as a whole will disarm and prevent murder by potential murderers.

Centers for Disease Control (CDC) estimated 1,900,000 annual episodes where someone in the home retrieved a firearm in response to a suspected illegal entry. There were roughly half a million instances where the armed householder confronted and chased off the intruder.

A study of active burglars found that one of the greatest risks faced by residential burglars is being injured or killed by occupants of a targeted dwelling. Many reported that this was their greatest fear and a far greater worry than being caught by police.48 The data bear out the instinct. Home invaders in the United States are more at risk of being shot in the act than of going to prison.49 Because burglars do not know which homes have a gun, people who do not own guns enjoy free-rider benefits because of the deterrent effect of others owning guns. In a survey of convicted felons conducted for the National Institute of Justice, 34 percent of them reported being “scared off, shot at, wounded or captured by an armed victim.” Nearly 40 percent had refrained from attempting a crime because they worried the target was armed. Fifty-six percent said that they would not attack someone they knew was armed and 74 percent agreed that “one reason burglars avoid houses where people are at home is that they fear being shot.”

In the period before Florida adopted its “shall issue” concealed-carry laws, the Orlando Police Department conducted a widely advertised program of firearms training for women. The program was started in response to reports that women in the city were buying guns at an increased rate after an uptick in sexual assaults. The program aimed to help women gun owners become safe and proficient. Over the next year, rape declined by 88 percent. Burglary fell by 25 percent. Nationally these rates were increasing and no other city with a population over 100,000 experienced similar decreases during the period.55 Rape increased by 7 percent nationally and by 5 percent elsewhere in Florida.

As you can see, Negroes and the Gun progresses more or less chronologically, spending the last portion of the book discussing modern-day gun control. It’s an invaluable source of ammunition (if you’ll pardon the expression) against the fallacies of the pro-gun-control platform. It sheds light on a little-known (if not purposefully obfuscated), critical factor in the history of African Americans: firearms.

On this Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I highly recommend you — yes, you — read Negroes and the Gun: the Black Tradition of Arms.

And I’ll wrap this up with a quote in a Huffington Post article given by Maj Toure of Black Guns Matter: 

https://cdn0.thetruthaboutguns.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/huffpo-maj-toure.jpg”

[yusuke-of-valla]

Peace of Mind

Whumptober Day 3 Prompt: “Who did this to you?”

Summary: Shiho decides to find out what Ann is keeping from her.

Wordcount: 1330

TW: Mentions of Kamoshida, mentions of abuse, nothing explicit.

AO3

~

Ann, bless her heart, is a terrible liar.

She passes of cuts and bruises as “work out trainging” or clumsiness, but Shiho isn’t stupid. She knows Ann is lying to her and that hurts. Wasn’t keeping secrets from each other what caused all the trouble with Kamoshida?

The voice of Shiho’s therapist reminds her that Kamoshida is responsible for all that trouble with Kamoshida, but even if that’s true, that thought doesn’t help. Her therapist says it will, eventually, but eventually isn’t good enough because Ann’s being hurt now.

They go for a walk and Ann can barely keep up because she’s so sore. Shiho slows down to keep pace, and asks, gently, if everything’s alright.

“Everything’s great!” Ann says, cheery as always, and something in Shiho’s heart twists because Ann means it. She’s lying when she says she got knocked over at a photo shoot or that she cut herself cooking, but she’s telling the truth when she says things are fine. 

Ann’s getting hurt and she thinks it’s fine.

Shiho wants to be sick. 

Her parents are touchy about her going anywhere near Shujin, so the school is a no go. Instead, she hangs around Shibuya keeping an eye out for familiar faces before she finally spots Ryuji. She weaves through the crowd, trying to catch up with him and breathes a sigh of relief when he finally stops near the accessway.

Shiho finally manages to catch up with him when the world rips itself apart.

The people disappear and Shiho stops cold. The sky is red suddenly, and the air feels wrong. On the bright side, Shiho now has a clearer view of Ryuji. Ryuji who is... wearing a strange costume? And also with a bunch of other strange looking people. There’s someone with a mop of black fluffy hair… Kurusu? And then there’s one in a catsuit with twintails and.

Oh. 

Ooooooooooooh.

Ann is a Phantom Thief. They’re all Phantom Thieves. Shiho kind of hates how much sense it makes. Because of course Ann would fight Kamoshida for her. And given that they have weapons, it probably involves fighting somehow?

Well, that answers some of Shiho’s questions. It raises many many more but at least she now understands why Ann was lying. She isn’t sure it’s safe though and Shiho… really wants Ann to be safe. So, while Ann and the others are busy discussing something, Shiho slips behind a post so they can’t see her. She’s not going to stay long, she just wants to get a sense of how much danger Ann is in for herself, since Ann is clearly willing to downplay things for Shiho’s sake. 

And what do you intend to do if she is in grave danger? You think you’ll be able to stop her?

Shiho’s nails bite into her palms. She… she doesn’t want to be kept in the dark at least. Even if she can’t stop Ann, she wants to know. The Phantom Thieves start down the stairs and Shiho follows closely, trying to match their pace, but that doesn’t last long.

The tunnels don’t have nearly as much space to hide, so Shiho has to stay behind a bit further so she can hide behind corners and hidden areas. Still, she manages to keep up. 

Or she thinks she does, but she ends up in an open area and they’ve all disappeared.

“Are you serious?” Shiho moans. Gah, this is probably why they’re called “Phantom” Thieves. Her best bet at this point is probably to turn back the way she came when there’s movement out of the corner of her eye.

Shiho brandishes the baseball bat she brought (what you thought she would go to investigate her best friend's mysterious injuries and not show up ready for a fight?) 

“Who’s there!”

“I think I could ask you that first.” One of the Phantom Thieves slips out of the shadows -- one of the ones Shiho doesn’t recognize, a tall guy wearing blue. “You’ve been following us since the station. Who are you?”

“I’m-“

“Shiho?!” Both of them turn to see Ann leave her hiding spot. Shiho has a good look at Ann’s outfit which is uh… very reminiscent of the types of outfits supervillains on shows Shiho really enjoyed watching used to wear. Shiho’s thankful for the red lighting of wherever they are because that’s probably hiding her blushing. 

Probably. 

Hopefully. 

“What are you doing here?” Ann asks.

“Uh… making sure you’re alright?” Shiho says, fumbling with her bat. “I mean you were clearly lying about the bruises and the injuries so I just wanted to know.” 

The rest of them have caught up now and Ryuji looks at Shiho’s bat. “Wait, were you planning to investigate Ann’s injuries and just… start swingin’ if you found out who caused them?”

“Yes.”

“Hell yeah!” Ryuji puts his hand up and Shiho returns his high five.

“Let’s not encourage people rushing into danger unprepared,” a thief who kind of looks like -- oh what was her name? Niijima! That’s right, -- the student council president says.

“Isn’t that literally what you did three days ago?” Kurusu replies. 

The thief-who-is-probably-Niijima’s face goes red under her mask. “Well yes, and I think we can all agree that was a bad decision.”

“We can catch up later,” the tiny... cat thief thing? (Wait -- no. He’s a literal Cat Burglar!) who Shiho completely missed says. “Hanging around too long in one spot is dangerous, especially with someone who can’t fight.”

“I’m not helpless.” Shiho says. She wants to sound tough, but it sounds like she’s pouting, even to her.

“Mona didn’t mean it that way,” Ann says, placing an arm on Shiho’s shoulder. “Let’s just go.”

That should be the end of it. They pile into the cat burglar (Mona’s)? My Neighbor Totoro-inspired bus form, and they leave Shiho at the entrance and Shiho continues worrying over Ann, even though she knows what’s going on now.

Ah, but how often are things that simple?

They’re almost at the exit when some huge hulking mass barrels into the side of the bus, and suddenly the group is surrounded by strange looking monsters. Ann and Ryuji waste no time putting Shiho between the two of them. Niijima is doing something to help the unconscious Mona. One of the monsters sends out a blast that chills Shiho to the bone. The tall one whose name Shiho hasn’t learned looks takes it the best of them, standing tall and immediately going in to counter attack.

Ann and Kurusu take it the worst, in taking sharp breaths and shivering due to the cold. Shiho rushes to Ann’s side, taking off her jacket and putting it over Ann. 

As if that will help.

Ryuji’s looking at Kurusu, incredibly concerned, but throws a look back at Shiho. He’s tense. Shiho’s heart gets caught in her throat. He doesn’t want to leave her. He wants to protect her.

Because she’s always getting protected, isn’t she?

Hmm it seems as though you can’t do anything.

The words are true, and they are devastating. But still, Shiho grits her teeth and stands up. “No. I can do something. There has to be something.” 

Suddenly, pain rips through her skull. She doesn’t flinch though, because even if it’s excruciating, well. She’s felt worse. 

Very good. If it seems like there are no paths before you, ‘tis best to cut your own, isn’t it? If we’re in agreement, shall we forge our contract?

Shiho’s hands find her face, and after digging her nails beneath the hunk of metal in front of her eyes, it’s easy to rip it off.

“Isabel! I need you!”

A burst of energy shakes the very foundations of the tunnel they’re in. There’s a large disk in Shiho’s hand, a gem that shines a brilliant blue even amidst the red light of the tunnel placed in the center. She doesn’t really understand what just happened, and she doesn’t care.

Shiho Suzui is going to fight.

[zosonils-art]

ohhh can we hear more about sweet woman 🥺

we totally can!! infodump about this gaslighting gatekeeping girlboss is under the cut as always

sweet woman was commissioned by a super classy french dessert restaurant called the orgueilleux pâtisserie [orgueilleux being very poorly google translated french for elitist/snobbish lmao], acting as both a chef and a mascot! the gimmick worked wonders for the restaurant's popularity, with rich people coming in droves to experience the novelty of food prepared with a robot master's help, and she was quickly promoted to social media manager as well as her original duties. despite her cutesy demeanour, she's much smarter than she looks, and is equipped with an in-depth understanding of chemical reactions and inhumanly accurate sense of timing and spatial awareness. she knows hundreds of recipes and most of them cost several hundred dollars to make

her personality is more deliberately engineered than most robot masters, designed to fit her appearance and be marketable. she's unwaveringly cheerful, incredibly extroverted, and just silly enough that it's cute rather than grating. she plays these traits up a lot for the cameras, exaggerating her energy and playing dumb when it'll appeal to the masses, but even when she doesn't have her public image to consider she's a bubbly and energetic goof. she's a stubborn optimist, and if she can't find a bright side to look on she'll take out a flashlight and make one. her optimisim makes for a good workplace morale boost and an even better social media presence, although when combined with her ditziness and being a bit out of touch from almost exclusively interacting with the 1% it often makes her come across as insensitive

since she's in the spotlight a lot, most of sweet's hobbies and interests outside of work are still carefully selected to match her public image and look good on an instagram post. she has a passing interest in shopping and fashion, and enjoys going to parties and gatherings and what have you to meet new people. she also loves to experiment with cooking and come up with new recipes, some of which end up on the orgueilleux menu. she does, however, have a private interest in chemistry! as mentioned earlier she knows a fair bit about it already, since cooking is just chemistry with a restricted set of substances, and in her own time she ended up getting curious and reading into the sort of reactions that arise from chemicals she doesn't work with. she rarely mentions this interest herself, but she gets super excited if someone brings it up or gives her the excuse to talk about it, and it's probably listed as super secret trivia about her on the pâtisserie website

unlike other robot masters, sweet has an acute sense of both smell and taste! [since robots seem to only use e-tanks for fuel, there's not much benefit to smelling or tasting things, so i personally believe that most of them don't have those senses unless it'd directly benefit their job.] being able to actually taste the food she cooks makes it much easier to tell if she's doing it right, especially if she's trying to come up with something new. she's also capable of replenishing her energy by eating - it's less efficient than e-tanks, but she thinks they taste gross so she always opts for actual food. fittingly, she has a massive sweet tooth, but she's accustomed to only the highest-class dining and dislikes cheaper or less 'refined' tastes

her magical girl vibe, brought to you by someone who has watched maybe 4 episodes of anime that weren't sonic x, is entirely an aesthetic and marketing gimmick rather than serving any functional purpose. she'll play it up for promotional videos and photoshoots, twirling her fork-trident thing and striking dramatic poses and calling out thematically appropriate attack names like 'sparkling sugar swirl' and 'cinnamon whirlwind' whenever she does anything, but it's mostly for show. while she genuinely enjoys the shouting and posing and twirling, she massively tones it down when she's not performing, maybe occasionally saying an attack name at a reasonable volume while she works. her fork-trident thing isn't even a real weapon, magical or otherwise. it's just styrofoam with metallic paint on it

sweet's weakness to harpoon shot was decided before i figured out exactly what tide man's weapon would be, going on the idea that getting food wet tends to make it sad and gross. this logic doesn't quite carry over with harpoon shot being, well, a harpoon rather than something specifically water-based, but i imagine shooting a cake with a harpoon would also be a very one-sided battle so this weapon wheel makes sense i promise. i guess you could also make the argument that it's because sweet is only experienced with a fake pronged weapon made of foam and would be completely blindsided by a real one? maybe it's that tide is so staunchly anticapitalist that his weapon inherently vibe checks her? i'm grasping at straws a bit over here but listen, if mega man 5 can insist that water is elementally weak to trains, i can insist that it's elementally strong against the french

i think her stage could be some kind of factory! lots of conveyer belts definitely, maybe some crushing hazards, definitely a few mets. the idea there is that she's seized a major food processing plant and is using that position to wreck the regional supply chain. even when she's evil, she basically keeps the exact same personality she shows to the public with only a noticable capitalism upgrade. she has pretty much no combat abilities on her own, but at her own suggestion she was upgraded to shoot a specially formulated icing that's acidic enough to burn through thin metal, finally putting her interest in chemistry to use. her fork-trident, on the other hand, was not changed in the slightest. still just styrofoam. i think it'd be pretty good if she opened her battle with it but even if it hits mega man it only deals one point of damage and the second it touches something it snaps in half and she never pulls out a new one

designing sweet was pretty fun because she's pretty different from my usual taste in character design! my experience with the magical girl genre is that i read about half of sailor moon when i was 12 and absorbed everything else through pop culture osmosis and tv tropes pages, so it was definitely fun to draw what i think a magical girl might look like. i also don't use oranges and yellows much, so picking out her colours made for an agonising exciting challenge! she didn't change too much from the initial microsoft paint sketch, although she lost a skirt layer along the way because i didn't feel like figuring out how to draw another one, and her weapon was originally just a big fork that probably would have been a ksjfjhkjhfillion times less cumbersome to draw. oh well. live and learn [HANGIN ON THE EDGE OF TOMORROW]

that about wraps it up for sweet woman, i think - thank you so much for asking about her!! here's the transparent art and the version without 15 different filters on it to make it look kinda like an 80s anime screenshot

[stephenjaymorrisblog]

The Good Guys with Guns Take a Coffee Break

Stephen Jay Morris

5/28/2022

©Scientific Morality

I was 11 years old in the year of 1966. I didn’t care about current events, just baseball scores and the top 10 songs on the record charts. There were a couple of news stories, however, that drew my attention that year. On August 1st, one was featured on the nightly news. Some Marine Vet had gone on a shooting spree at The University of Texas, from the top deck of its main building. His name was Charles Whitman. The night before, he’d murdered his mother and his wife. The next day, he brought a cache of weapons to the University. After he killed 14 innocent bystanders and wounded 31 others, the cops fatally shot him. I recall how this event really fired up my young imagination. For four years, my elementary school teachers and administration had terrified us with warnings about how the communist Russian air force might be dropping bombs on us at any moment, or how the USSR would be launching nuclear missiles! If that wasn’t enough, I began worrying, ‘What if a sniper gets on top of the school roof and takes pot shots at us during recess?’ That possibility scared the pants off of me!

I used to get bullied at school and I would fantasize about bringing a gun to school and blowing the kids away; with a machine gun, no less. One of the few friends I had told me, “Why don’t you just kick him in the nuts and run like hell?” But that sniper story stayed with me for decades.

Then, beginning in the 1990’s, stories of multiple mass shootings in schools started to surface. In 1999, there was one at Columbine High School in Colorado. More soon followed. After a while, it became almost routine. Victims’ survivors were filmed, laying wreaths of flowers at the massacre sites. Debates about gun control took center stage on radio and T.V. talk shows. Politicians made speeches. Network news would report on an incident for a week, and then simply return to news as usual. Author, Gore Vidal, called America, “The United States of Amnesia.” Oh, how correct he was. Tragically, mass school shootings have continued into the 21st Century.

Fast forward to May of 2022. It was a heavy news month. First it was, “The War in Ukraine,” then a mass shooting in Buffalo, New York, where some White kid went into a local supermarket and shot up the store. He shot 13 people, 11 of whom were Black, 10 of them killed. Subsequent news reports revealed the shooter described himself as a fascist, a White supremacist, and an anti-Semite, based on the 180 page document he’d posted on social media. This 18-year-old male drove three and a half hours (over 250 miles) to do his horrific deed, which he’d carefully planned for months. His resident community is lily white. Now, to the subject at hand.

On May 23, 2022, some 18-year-old, Hispanic youth shot and killed 21 people, including two teachers and 19 children, ages 9, 10, and 11, at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. He wounded 17 others. He carried this out after he’d initially shot his grandmother in the face. Sound familiar? Reporters later learned that there were as many as 19 cops in the hallway outside the two classrooms, for about an hour, who did nothing, as they heard multiple bullets fired inside.

One factor particularly glaring to me is that, to date, no one has addressed the obvious racial aspect of this story: the majority of the 19 victims—all but two—were Hispanic. It is a well-known fact that White Texans have a bigoted dislike of Brown people. (The 1956 movie, “Giant,” highlights this issue. It was James Dean’s last.) But, back to my point. Why did the all those cops stand idly by while the massacre was occurring, not moving an inch to try and stop it? Because they didn’t care! When a stark, crazy, Latino is shooting and killing little Hispanic kids, who cares?! You can be sure that, had those children been Aryan, the cops would have been right on it, guns blazing, in seconds! The media couldn’t hide the racial component of the Buffalo killings. But, as for this story? Nothing yet.

Have you ever seen a Conservative protesting against the Nazis or the KKK? Neither have I. The Klan and the American Nazis will brag, without reservation to you, about their hatred for non-White people. They are blatant racists. Conservatives are latent racists and are passive/aggressive about it. They will have a campaign of talking points proclaiming how America is not a racist country. Then a shooting will occur and they will turn it around, proclaiming, “It’s the Left’s fault!” Excuse me, I mean “It’s the woke’s fault!” You hear them condemn “Communism,” but never “Fascism.” Why? Maybe it’s because they are Fascists themselves. If they do condemn Fascism, they redirect their political definition and call them “Leftists.” Dinesh D’Souza does that shit. Who is he? Go to any 7/11 convenience store in California; you may see him as a cashier.

So, when will these shootings end? Unless we get new Constitution, or we have a workers’ revolution, NEVER!

Below is a photo of Charles Whitman. The shooter at Texas University 1966

[flowerfan2]

The Etiquette of Affection

I’ve been loving Ted Lasso lately, and when I discovered that there were not very many fics in the fandom, I decided to do my part and contribute.  For your reading pleasure, have a little Ted Lasso/Trent Crimm first kiss... set mid-season two.  On A03 here.

In other news, I’m working on a David/Patrick AU, but it’s taking it’s time and probably won’t start posting for at least a few more weeks.

_________

The Crown and Anchor is boisterous and crowded, and Trent has no idea why he’s here, nursing a pint in a corner.  If he wanted to properly drown his post-Christmas sorrows and try to ignore the fact that he’s alone at the start of yet another new year, he could have found any number of less sticky establishments.

Trent takes out his phone, frowns at it, frowns at himself and at his pathetic situation, and tries to find something vaguely interesting to read.  

His moment of peace is disrupted by a group of people coming into the pub, and Trent winces when he sees who it is - Ted Lasso, accompanied by various Richmond staff and hangers-on.  There’s a cheer of welcome as they make their way in, Richmond having won its last game, appeasing the masses until the next loss.

Trent really can’t believe that Lasso has done as well as he has, despite all the odds.  Trent has a begrudging respect for the man.  And, if he lets himself admit it, a teeny, tiny, just barely there bit of a crush on him.

He lets himself gaze in Lasso’s direction.  There’s something compelling about him that isn’t captured by his aw shucks appearance.  It’s in the way he looks at you when he’s baring his heart to the world, opening up his chest to do it.  The way he tries.   Lasso brings earnest to a whole new level, and doesn’t flinch.  It makes Trent want to cry.  This, in turn, makes him want to bash Lasso over the head.  Or snog him senseless.  At this point, he’ll take either one.

Just then the man’s god-awful accent cuts through the clamor of the pub’s well-lubricated patrons, and Trent ducks his head.  He doesn’t want to be caught looking.  He doesn’t think he can take it tonight, can hold himself together if Lasso calls him over, says “call me Ted” again, and pats him good-naturedly on the back.  

Trent pays his tab and takes his leave.  Outside there are remnants of dirty snow clogging the streets, colored red and green by the winking Christmas lights on store windows.  Trent takes out a cigarette and lights it, inhaling deeply.  He’ll just calm his nerves here for a few minutes, then make the trek back to his flat.

The door opens a few minutes later, the rush of noise getting Trent’s attention.  It’s Lasso - of course it is - but he doesn’t see Trent, who has flattened himself against the wall.  Lasso looks around for a moment and then heads away from the pub, whistling what sounds frighteningly like a pop song from the 80’s, until he slips and crashes to the ground.

Trent is next to him in an instant, crouching down and letting his hands flutter to Lasso’s shoulders.  “Coach Lasso, are you all right?”

Lasso doesn’t open his eyes, and Trent fumbles for his phone, his heart racing.  But before he can dial emergency services, Lasso’s eyes blink open.  

“Coach Lasso, it’s me.  Trent Crimm.”

Lasso’s mouth quirks up in a smile.  “From the Independent.”

“Yes.”  Trent feels a traitorous beat of happiness at the worn joke.

“What happened?”

He raises an eyebrow.  “I don’t think you need me to figure it out.”

“But that’s your job.  Investigation, and such.”  Lasso struggles to sit up, and Trent wraps an arm around his shoulder, ignoring the fact that his own trousers are now soaked.

“Fine.”  He takes an exaggerated look around.  “I believe you fell on a patch of ice.”

Lasso starts to nod in agreement, but he grimaces at the movement.  “That’s why you win all the awards, I can see it now.”

“Are you injured?”

Lasso seems to assess the situation, moving his arms and legs.  “No, don’t seem to be any worse off than before I went down.  At least other than a sore head.”

“You might have a concussion.”  Trent helps him up, resisting the urge to trace his fingertips across Lasso’s head and check for a bump.

“I doubt it’s anything that impressive.”  Lasso tries to brush himself off, but the slush has soaked into his (very well fitted) jeans, and he sighs.  “Oh well, tomorrow’s laundry day anyway.”  He looks at Trent, and something flits across his expression that Trent can’t catch.  “Thank you, Trent Crimm from the Independent.”

Trent tries to suppress his answering smile, but he does a poor job.  “It was nothing.”  They stand there in silence for a strange, extenuated moment, and then Trent opens his mouth and - figuratively - leaps.

“May I walk you home?”  He refrains from explaining himself any further, although the excuses are on the tip of his tongue - in case Lasso is actually concussed, to make sure he gets some safely.

Lasso’s face brightens with unaffected pleasure.  “Why, that’s mighty nice of you.  Thank you.”

They walk in silence towards Lasso’s flat, both of them with their hands shoved into their pockets, elbows brushing occasionally when they shift to the side to allow another pedestrian to pass.  Trent knows Lasso lives near Brewers Lane, and he’s not surprised when Lasso comes to a stop a few minutes later, digging a key out of his pocket.

Trent draws in a deep breath, ready to say good night, when Lasso shoots him a shy smile.  “Want to come up?  I won’t make you tea, but I’ve got some hot chocolate, or pop.  I’d offer you a real drink, but given what I’ve learned from far too many lectures about concussions - not my own, mind you - that’s probably off the table.”

When Lasso stops babbling Trent tilts his head and nods, and Lasso laughs.  “A man of few words.  I can’t imagine you’ve ever been called that before.  Come on.”

Trent follows Lasso up the stairs and into his flat.  It’s surprisingly nice, warm and welcoming, like everything about Lasso.  

Lasso busies himself making the hot chocolate - from packets, in the microwave - and serves it with a plate of biscuits that unlike the hot cocoa seem to be homemade.

“Did someone make these for you?” Trent asks, and Lasso grins from the other side of the couch.

“Me, myself and I, I’m afraid.”

“No need to apologize.  They’re quite good.”

Trent sips the hot chocolate, avoiding the miniature marshmallows.  Lasso starts talking about a holiday dinner at Higgins’ home, how all the players brought their favorite foods.  How he’s so fortunate to be a part of the Richmond family.

Trent finds himself wishing he could have been there.

“Why’d you leave?”  Lasso asks, and Trent wonders if he missed the lead-in to this question.

“Leave where?”

“The pub.  Tonight.  You were there, but when I went to talk to you, you were gone.”

Trent finds himself held in Lasso’s searching gaze, and he doesn’t have any choice but to tell the truth.  “You.”

Lasso rears back in mock offense.  “Now, that is not what I wanted to hear.  What have I done this time?”

Trent tries to answer, he really does.  But Lasso is blinking at him so sincerely, he can’t find the words.  Throwing caution to the wind for the second time tonight, he leans in, close, until he can feel Lasso’s breath on his cheek.

“May I kiss you?” he whispers, hardly breathing.

“Always so formal,” Lasso responds, and then Lasso closes the distance.  It’s soft and tentative, until it isn’t, both of them sliding closer, Trent finally getting his hand in Lasso’s hair, trading eager kisses until they are forced to pull back to breathe.

Lasso leans his forehead against Trent’s and lets out a low chuckle.  “Trent Crimm from the Independent, now will you call me Ted?”

Trent laughs too, feeling lighter than he can remember.  “Yes, Ted.  I think I can manage that.”

[ziamhaze]

My Future in Fic

Yeah, so, the 100k fic that I’ve been working on for the past six months?  The one that was going to be uploaded to AO3 last week?  Yeah, it’s accidentally getting published...

Where do I start?

I suppose with a massive thank you to anyone who’s clicked on any of my fics over these past two years.  I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again.  I never ever thought about writing as a career.  I’ve never written anything prior to my Harry Potter AU Compartment 451.  I didn’t even take an English class in undergrad or grad school.  I genuinely just had an idea for a fic I wanted to read and since no one had written it, I had to do so myself.  Since then, I’ve written every single day for 2 years.  I left my job in the entertainment industry, got accepted to one of the best creative writing programs in the world on a scholarship, and now one of my stories is being considered at Harper Collins.  Yes, the Harper Collins.  It’s the longest shot in the world, but for legal reasons I was not allowed to upload the fic version on any website prior to submission.  Even if they don’t pick it up, I’ve been advised to continue to shop it around to agents.

What I can do, however, is share the premise.

If you’ve been following my tumblr and watching my tags - I SEE YOU ALL OUT THERE - then you’ll know that this fic was meant to have Zayn with his signature undercut hairstyle and one more little thing...

Someone sent me an ask a while back about what this fic was supposed to be about.  I believe I said something about it being an adaptation fic, but not from a film/tv show/other piece of literature, from a song.  This next fic was meant to be an adaptation of the song Younger by Ruel.  Later on, it also took shape with the help of Remember by Liam and a few others that you can find here.

The miniature summary is as follows:

When his father suddenly passes, twenty-nine-year-old Liam Payne is brought back to the Sydney suburbs where he grew up.  He doesn’t plan on seeing his childhood best friend, Zayn Malik, at the burial service.  They haven’t spoken since going from brothers to strangers one fateful day fifteen years prior.  But Zayn puts an end to this when he approaches Liam after the burial, offering his condolences and asking if Liam can help his archaeological research team with photographing their newest project.  The unexpected closeness forces each man to wade through uneasy emotions.  For Liam, a mixture of grief, lost identity, and confusion over why he’s willing to interact with the one person he swore he’d never forgive.  And for Zayn, a tidal wave of anxiety that comes from finally facing a part of himself he’s always chosen to deny.  When We Were Younger is a story heavily rooted in blurred identities and exploring what loss can look like in two different scenarios: death and friendship.

For obvious reasons, their names will be changed.  Liam, to Hutton.  Zayn, to Cairo (his ethnicity will also be changed to Egyptian).  As you can see, it was meant to be my big ‘enemies to lovers’ fic.  Technically, it’s ‘best friends to enemies to lovers’, but you know.

Right, so what does this mean for me going forward?

I still have so much inspiration when it comes to writing Zayn and Liam as characters.  I don’t plan on putting a complete stop to writing them, but with my career taking this large of a turn, I do have to prioritise my time.  That said, as of now, I can’t afford to write long-form fic any longer.

Soon, I’ll be starting a PhD program where I’ll be writing another full-length novel for mass publication.  For fun, here’s a little insight on the two ideas that I’ll be pitching:

1.  Underground boxer (loosely based off Liam) falls in love with arms gang leader (loosely based off Zayn).  Throughout their love story, the latter has to outrun the psychological trauma his father (the leader of Zayn’s rival gang) still throws his way. 

2.  Cold War AU.  Paris, circa 1950/51.  Ambassador’s son (loosely based off Liam) befriends new student (loosely based off Zayn) at the international school.  Paris is a ticking time bomb; war is about to break out at literally any second.  The two clearly have feelings for each other, but can’t act on them because homosexuality in the 1950s...yikes.  When war does break out, the two are separated, and as Liam’s character goes out to find Zayn’s, he learns a secret of his that changes everything.

Whichever I don’t write for the PhD will be the novel I write following it.

In the meantime, I’m going to continue to write (and edit) like crazy.  Ever since I randomly wrote C451, there hasn't been a day that’s gone by where I haven't written something.  It may have only been a paragraph or two, but never zero.  This is how you get better.  This is the equivalent of going out and shooting free throws for 30 minutes a day.  You have to put in the work in order to get better.  I'm very lucky that I'm incredibly self-disciplined and I've been able to crank out as many stories as I have over the past 2 years.

That said, I’ll be writing shorter little oneshots.  I have several ideas that I’ve been sitting on, but haven’t ever thought to write because I HATE writing short stories.  Little ideas that don't have huge plotline/climax potential, but that I want to just see on paper, I'll probably end up writing.  If I had to guess, I'd say they'll come out to around 10-15k.  Also, sequels?  Prequels?  Haha, you never know...

I’ve also got a series called “Sleep Drabbles” that are, yes, you guessed it, a series of drabbles based around one theme: sleep.  I also have a few scenes that I want to write which are based on ziam’s kids, not actually ziam themselves.  If there’s enough demand for that, I can upload those too, but they’re quite niche, so I don’t think the general fandom would be very interested.

As far as frequency for all of this, I have no idea.  I’ve always done things at my own pace and written stories that I want to write, for myself.  That won’t ever change, so I don’t want to commit to one drabble a week or one short-length fic per month.  It takes me weeks (months for this last fic) to research and interview the necessary people to get character arcs correct/believable.  I love that part of writing, and so if I have a little story that I want to write that may only be 10k but takes me ages to put together how I want, then so be it.  I will always be around to answer asks/messages and please, continue to tag me in your writing tag posts!  But please, no prompts.

So, that’s my future with fic.

Again, I cannot say thank you enough to every single one of you.  Every single thing that people tag me in (@malik-payne , @zqua1d , @zentiment , @liamisthesun , @redyellowberry I’m looking at you), I appreciate and love!  The recommendation lists that people have put me on, THANK YOU!  It’s wild to think that I used to look to rec lists for years and now I’m on them.  @ziamfanfiction THANK YOU for always having my back with exposure!  @paynefulperiods , my beloved beta reader, THANK YOU for always encouraging me and putting up with shit first drafts.  @march-z5 , THANK YOU for always being on call for ideas and listening to me bang my head against the wall at 4 am.

Now, might fuck around and make a fake picspam for the fic that never was...

Also, all of the behind scenes pages for each of my fics are now public, so feel free to check those out here.

I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for making this journey possible. I know people say that a lot when they gain a following of any sort, but I truly truly mean it.  You have to have talent in order to be an author, but you also have to have people who want to read your stuff.  Proof of concept is a real thing.

So thank you a million times over.

Speak soon my friends.

[of-tatooine]

for the record. | chapter 1 - alpha

off-duty time would not last you for too long.

After all these years, the world never ceased to remind you that rules never changed.

While the players of the game always rotated along with the enemy and the friendly alike, this dangerous life that many chose to lead had undeniable constants - etched onto your brain in a devout mantra, something to remember in your darkest or most fleeting moments.

Kill, or be killed.

That was the first thing that they taught you, at the beginning of those long and arduous days of training in the barracks. Scout out the situation and if there is any sign of remote danger, pull your gun first, or you will end up with a bullet in your head. Sometimes, it was better to shoot first and then ask questions - if you were still alive by then.

Though in your line of work, the learning phase never ended. Warfare shifted and changed constantly, forcing you to adapt. It was something you had to just come in terms with. At that point in your career, as sad as it was to think about it from a civilian’s perspective, it was all more creative and effective ways of getting confirmed kills. New weapons, new tactics brought with them new problems - along with new ways of dealing with them. Technology tackled advanced aircraft and armor, adding up to your arsenal.

One thing remained the same.

It all added up to the big stirring pot of the everlasting recipe - mass destruction.

And with destruction came in the casualties. The aftermath of modern combat. The rivers of blood on pavement, hands clawing at the burnt metal, scathed bodies crawling out of the smoky debris. Sights and sounds and screams you wanted to erase from your memory for a lifetime. The pain coarsing through the body after the penetration of a bullet. Sickening roars of helicopter engines giving out.  

Yet, as a soldier, all you could do, all you were authorized to do was to bury them deep down - so you could live to see another day. Another day to fight for the flag. For peace, for honor and for the sake of lives.

The lives of many against your only.

The warm mug a welcome distraction in your hands, your eyes would wander around the busy Regent Street of London, people walking around in the usual hustle and bustle of the shopping district. The smell of freshly ground beans from the cafes scattered around, mixing in with the pleasantness of the gray post-rainfall. A spectrum of vibrant colors of shopping bags and clothes pleasing your eyes - it had been a while since you had gotten to enjoy a couple of hours all saved for yourself. The book whose pages were between your fingers moments ago then closed, as your conscience lost itself within the faces creating the sea of people.

The lives you were sworn to protect. Sometimes it felt like remembering another life, far far away - that you had been one of them. A civilian. Who needed protection in times of immediate danger.

Some were smiling and laughing, without a care in the world, radiating energy and happiness which had been a blessing in the usual London gloom. Some were in professional attire, their strides just a bit faster  and their expressions harboring that of stress, concern and exhaustion. Not too long ago, you had been one of them - but your brain did not let you dissociate from the constucted reality you had left just yet.

None of those troubles mattered when snipers left and right rained bullets on you. The stress of studying for a big test was nothing compared to being caught in blast radius, fearing to look around you so you do not see your friends dead and gone.

The echoes of your last name originating from an accented, deep voice reached your ears, rippling inside the busy cafe you had chosen to visit for the day. Coming closer and closer until they associated with a couple thuds of heavy feet and finally, a face, as you turned around to face whomever was looking for you.

Out of all places, Captain.

It did not take you too long to get to your feet out of respect and sheer habit, offering him a nod in an attempt to hide your surprise. “Sergeant,” he would greet you with your rank, the commanding voice he used on the field to lead dampened - yet still powerful. It even had a small smile attached to it too, which was not unusual.

It made the thumping of your heart slow down. A civilian visit from your Captain usually meant bad news and noticing his mouth curl up under the beard calmed you down more than you ever thought.

“Captain Price,” you greeted back, arm gesturing to the seat right in front of you across the marble table, inviting him. “Please.”

The man, whom you had become so used to seeing in the famous military green was dressed in the simple and casual combination of a black jacket   with jeans. It was a welcome change - not often did you see your commanding officer at a coffee shop in the heart of the city. Consequently, the air had been a bit awkward - just like how it felt when you felt the need to always show your best self, like there had been no room for mistakes.

That did not mean you could not try to get on his better side.

“Can I get you anything, Sir? Tea? I doubt they have a good pint here.”

That was when he looked directly in your eyes.

They said all soldiers had this blur in their eyes wherever they looked at. That no matter how happy they had been, no matter how much sparkle covered their worn-out irises, the dusty haze that veiled them was ever present. His familiar blue glint was subdued by some unknown, yet not lifeless. Not soulless. There was some sort of drive fueling him, the origins of it unbeknownst to you - the only thing you could discern was that it must have been for some good, judging by his chuckle and the slight shake of his head.

A file stamped with the all-too-familiar red confidential sign slid across the white marble along with him as he got settled in the chair, leaning his elbows slightly over the top.

“Raincheck, Sergeant, but I do have something that you might like.”

And with that, his fingers pushed the rather thin file over to you, blue eyes gazing around the shop as he undoubtedly made sure everyone was minding their own business. Here at London, he knew he had been safer than most places and yet you could only attest to the cautiousness of the man.

An eyebrow slightly raised as you leaned a bit forward, the initial welcome surprise slowly yielding to apprehension of what was inside the document. Another mission assingment had been the last thing you wanted to see after the literal living hellhole of the battlezone you had last been to. A part of you did not want to open up that cover but the other half of you yearned desperately to.

With a quick look to confirm, once you got his nod, you yielded to your other half.

And with every second spent looking at the papers containing profiles and overviews adorned with the faint Crusader shield watermarks, your eyebrows would furrow even more in confusion. Towards the bottom of the page, you could spot the one-liner character profiles for soldiers - some you had recognized and worked with, some names ringing no bells at all.

Then there it was. It was a mystery to you why it had taken you that long to find it. Right under the line occupied by a certain “John ‘Soap’ Mactavish” was your full name, with a old picture of you that belonged to one of your earlier days of training.

What the hell kind of a name is Soap?

“Now, I know you’re on the reserve for the time being,” Price spoke, breaking you out of your silent concentration as your head snapped up to divert focus into him. “But your skills in combat were not unnoticed.”

That made you proud inside, yet on the outside - it manifested in a subtle way of a simple yet courteous nod as you waited for him to continue. Closing the file for the time being, you felt the air shift as he leaned in towards you - voice dropping lower and tone growing grave.

“We have a huge war looming in the horizon, Sergeant,” he said, piercing orbs staring right into your soul. The kind of stare that could have the toughest of soldiers crack and break down, that could stop the bullet in trajectory.

“Millions of lives are at stake. You saw what happened in Urzikistan - you were there, on the frontlines.”

The mere mention of the place made your jaw clench and a gulp run down your throat, the memories of utter bloodshed still fresh in your mind.

“It is going to happen again.”

“How can I help?” slipped out of your mouth before your brain could control it, completely forgetting the fact that you had been granted off-duty time and was currently on it. Forgetting that you had to worry about taking care of your own demons in your head first, before jumping right into a war you thought you had just ended.

“I want you to be on my team,” he simply said, a look of reassurance thrown your way as he folded his arms on the table, head tilting just a bit to gauge yur reaction. His finger reached out to gently tap on the folder, gently opening the tab and pointing to the list of soldiers including yours truly.

“You will be working with handpicked warriors, the toughest of them all. Undertaking the most covert and dangerous operations - changing the world as you do it.”

There was this tone of finality in his voice that made it feel natural for you to follow everything he was instructing you to. Of course it was - he was your commanding officer, yet what he was asking out of you this time was much more than a simple recruitment for an operation.

No, what he made it sound like was that his team would be something akin to a ghost - working behind enemy lines, not alerting a single soul. It honored you that he had included you along with the names of seemingly renown soldiers, selected for off-the-grid duty due to your previous success. But was there really a need to add any additional danger to your already-risky life? It was a miracle you had not died yet and you were not so sure if another covert operation team would help with your chances. These kinds of operations only ended in either of the two ways - your mutilated corpse in a body bag or carrying your friend’s instead.

There probably also would not be many other occassions where Captain Price, one of the most trusted officers in the Services, would approach you with such an opportunity.

As your mind raced in crazy thought traffic, the sounds of the outside world and the otherwise peaceful cafe had been muffled. It was only you, him, and that little paper file you grazed your fingertips on, in order to maintain at least a slice of reality. Decisions like these had never been easy to make, especially when they would completely change your life and possibly your entire outlook. They never would be easy - there was not much “easy” associated to your line of work.

And yet going into it in the first place was something you had willingly chosen.

After all of that blood, sweat and lead - how could you say no?

Taking a deep breath as your lips moved to echo your determined voice, you spoke sofly with a nod. Chest loosening as you let out a breath you had no idea you had been holding for so long.

“I’m in, Sir.”

The ghost of a smile turned into a real one as his hand extended itself over the table, an almost proud nod as you shook it as firmly as you could.

“Welcome to the 141.”

next chapter

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Star-Crossed: Bound by Blood

Chapter One

Master List

Pairing: Mando/Din Djarin x OFC Baast’Mal

Warnings: I'm making this up as a go, Canon divergent from the series during chapter 13, mild violence

A/N: I make this stuff up as I go along, if I screw something Star Wars-y up, apologies in advance, I didn't do it on purpose, but I'm new to this Fandom. I will be cross posting this story between AO3 and Tumblr except the smutty bits. Those chapters will only be available to registered users on AO3. (I'm trying something new for people who want to read here on Tumblr, but to also avoid the smut for minors controversy. We'll see how it goes.)

*I do not have a tag list* Please follow the story on AO3 if you want email updates, or follow @tilltheendwilliwrite-library where I post the new/latest chapters of all my stories.

***

In the sweltering heat of the jungle, Din Djarin crouched to better scan for tracks in the rotting foliage at the base of the tall trees. Pools of light made it difficult to adjust correctly for the shadowy depths; add in the thermal activity of the plants and animals in this stinking sewer of a planet, and he was having a hard time tracking his quarry. 

When he'd accepted the puck, he hadn't known what he was getting into as her chain code was surprisingly sparse. The only additional information he had was her name - Taa Marel - her last known location and face. 

And what a face. Even on a holo, she was stunning, not that the Mandalorian would let that sway him one way or the other. 

He'd tracked the stolen ship from Bogano, where she'd initially been hiding out to this skug hole of a world that was made to torment men in beskar, causing them to swelter in their helmet.

The kid, however, loved the place. 

Constantly cooing, riding in his pouch, he touched everything he could get his chubby green fingers on. Leaves, flowers, bugs; those, of course, went straight in his mouth. By this point, Mando accepted the womp rat could and would eat just about anything.

Upon arrival, they'd found the ship nose down, destroyed, and abandoned, but the crash landing had created just enough space for Mando to set the Razor Crest down. Then the hunt began.

After three hours of slogging through the heat, he was ready to kill her. After four, he decided death was too good for someone who made him sweat this hard. After five, he was determined to make her suffer. But they were closing in. He could feel it like an ache in his bones.

Tracks led forward, but something didn't sit right with that. They were too obvious. After hours of following such a well-covered trail, this was an insult to his skills. Footprints led straight down a game trail like a beacon meant to lure him astray.

It wasn't right, too easy by far, and the skin on his nape crawled.

He looked up, straight into the eyes of the woman he was hunting. Even through the distorted colour of heat vision, he could see they were a vibrant green.

He moved on instinct, whipcord shooting out, wrapping around her shoulders, and dragging her out of the tree.

She screamed the battle cry of a hunting cat, an inhuman sound before she twisted mid-air and landed lightly, crouched but on her feet. 

"Taa Marel, I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold," he warned her, hand hovering over his blaster.

"That is not my name. And I choose option three."

Her voice kicked him in the groin and made his dick twitch. Stunned, he could only watch as her hands came up and nails like talons shredded his whipcord. 

Someone had left a few things out of her chain code.

"Put the child down."

Mando blinked. "Why would I do that?" 

What did she want with his foundling? Had she heard about him? Would she attempt to take him? 

"I intend to kick your ass, Mandalorian, but I do not hurt children. Put him down."

Surprised, Mando reached for the strap across his chest instead of his blaster. "You're not going to run?"

She lifted a proud chin. "You will continue to hunt me. I would rather die than return to that hell hole, but I will not go easy. I will fight."

She was beginning to impress him with more than just her face. 

Din lifted the strap over his head, his eyes fixed on the target, studying her outside of the holo he'd memorized. 

She stood with her chin raised, body slightly turned in a stance that bespoke proper training. If one could call it that, her green tunic had no sleeves, crossed over her breasts, tied just beneath them, and ended a few inches thereafter, baring the wealth of sun-darkened skin over tightly packed muscles. Pants hugged slim hips, billowed at her thighs, and tied tight to her calves thanks to the soft, short boots that went to her knee. 

Sweat gave her a sheen that made her glow, her vibrant eyes shadowed behind thick, long lashes. Her face was a treasure trove of sculpted brows, sharp nose, and high cheekbones over lips that looked like ripe fruit, begging for teeth. 

A mass of hair, the colour of sand, fell in heavy waves to her hips. It began to darken toward the tips until it was as black as the deepest corner of space.

As he moved the kid, she untied a thin cord from her wrist and slowly began to bind her hair in a low tail.

He'd never met a woman like her, a bounty like her, ever. This one - fugitive or not - had honour in her.

The kid cooed and waved. Her lips twitched into a smile as she winked and waved back.

"Fear not, Mandalorian. Should I kill you today, I will raise your foundling as my own."

Din's blood ran cold. "You won't get the chance."

He hung the child's satchel on a low tree knot and drew the beskar spear from his back in the same motion. Though he'd won the spear from magistrate Morgan Elsbeth on Corvus and helped the Jedi Ahsoka Tano defeat her forces, the Jedi held no answers when it came to the kid. Though, Din wondered if that had more to do with him than the little green monster. She'd told him to seek another Jedi, someone with more training than she, but had given him no direction in which to search.

"He is rather cute," she smirked. "But his kind age so slowly. You will be long dead before he is grown."

Mando paused. "You know of his kind?"

She arched a brow. "You do not?"

He lowered the spear and held up his off-hand. "I am tasked with returning him to his people."

Her posture never changed, but her eyes filled with sorrow. "He has no more people. The last of his kind, or what was thought to be the last, died some years ago. Master Yoda was his name."

"I'm to help him find the Jedi," Mando murmured.

Her eyes lost their sadness. "I cannot help you."

"Will not."

"They are one and the same," she whispered. 

Lightning fast, she rushed him. Mando barely blocked the first swipe of her claws before the second clanged off his pauldron. He used the spear's shaft to knock her back, even as she kicked him in the ribs, bypassing the beskar.

"Do you know the life you condemn me to, Mandalorian, if you return me to that horrible place?" she asked, crouched once again, a few feet away.

"You're a bounty. I don't make deals," he stated, watching his quarry while keeping his body between her and the kid. His ribs smarted, but he'd had worse.

"No. You just work for the people who Purged your planet!" she spat, leaping and clawing. 

She was fast, damn fast. Barely able to keep up, it was all Mando could do not to lose ground until he saw an opening and swept the butt of the spear at her leg.

She jumped back, breath coming hard.

"I didn't ask who the bounty was for." Greef Karga offered him the chance for a big payday, and right now, they could use it.

"You work for the Empire," she sneered. "Returning me to torture and experimentation. Do you think I was always like this!?" She stood and held out her arms, flexing fingers tipped in dark claws. She bared her teeth, revealing wicked-looking canines, then lifted a portion of hair to reveal a sharply pointed ear.

Again he paused, a thing unheard of, to ask, "What are you?" Her chain code said human, but she was certainly not that.

Her proud chin lifted in defiance. "Do you know what a Zentari is, Mandalorian?"

Din inhaled sharply. "That's not possible. They were wiped out."

"All but one. I am Baast'mal, last of the Zentari. The Empire took me as a child and used my gift to ruin me. They bound my blood to the Corellian Sand Panther and Manka Cat. They have so thoroughly defiled my biorhythms that if the constellations were kind enough to cross my path with that of my mate, I do not know if I could bond with him." Pain flickered across her features. "I am sullied, broken. I am a monster," she whispered before shaking herself free of the melancholia and raising that proud chin once more. "So kill me if you can, Mandalorian, for I will not go willingly."

The beskar spear fell from his fingers as Din dropped to a knee and bowed his head. "I am a Child of the Watch. I must offer aid, Zentari. This is the Way."

"The Way?" She took a step back. "The Mandalorians no longer follow the Old Ways. They no longer conceal their face from all but their riduur and ad. The creed is long dead."

He shook his head. "My Tribe is one of zealots. We hold to the old ways of Mandalore. I only recently learned of this as I was raised with them in hiding. The Purge took much, but the ways of the Zentari are remembered in the covert."

She hesitated, eyes wary. "I have faced Mandalorians before. They knew not the Way."

Din stripped his gloves from his hands and held them out, palms up as if catching water. He raised them above his head and brought them down over his helmet, appearing to another as if he washed with air. "Zentari of the Bright Star, may the constellations bless this warrior with a treasure greater than beskar that they would be mine. Cyar'ika. Ka'rta. Riduur."

She inhaled sharply. He watched her fight tears, lip trembling before she closed the distance between them and knelt. She dipped her fingers into his cupped palms as if they held water, brought them to her brow and stroked them down over her eyes and out along her cheeks. 

Her hands shook as she lifted them toward his helmet and laid her palms lightly on the sides of the beskar. 

His hands gently grasped her wrists, her skin warm and soft beneath his fingers. She wouldn't remove it, that he was sure of, but it was an instinct he couldn't deny when someone touched his helmet.

Her voice was whisper soft when she spoke. "Mandalorian, Holder of the Creed, blessed of the constellations. May you raise warriors strong in the Way and find your riduur. Your cyar'ika. Your ka'rta." 

"This is the Way," he murmured, shaken by the encounter.

"This is the Way," she agreed as she drew him forward until his helmet lightly kissed her brow.

The shudder that raced through her raced through him with equal intensity. The Zentari race was a myth, a legend, a beautiful dream. They were so lost to time Din felt like his heart would burst with joy. 

"Have you ever removed your helmet, Mando?" she asked softly.

The shortened form of address made his heart skip. "Not before any living thing." The Droid on Nevarro didn't count, and no matter what Bo'Katan said, the creed was his way. He would never show his face to any besides his wife or children. 

Let Koska scoff as she liked at his traditions. She had not found a Zentari. She likely wouldn't know what to do with the Zentari if she did.

Din rocked back on his toes and pushed to his feet, surprised when she followed him with equal grace. "Zentari, we should return to my ship. The Alor will want to meet you. The covert will rejoice."

"Baast."

He froze as her hands landed lightly on his beskar covered chest. "What?"

"To you, I am Baast." She stared into his visor as if able to see his eyes. 

"Baast," he murmured, wishing he could speak her name without the modulator.

"Yes, Din Djarin," she smiled. 

He still held her wrists, and his hands became her shackles. "How do you know that name?" he demanded.

Long lashes swept her cheeks, a coy smile curling her lips. "Grogu told me."

His grip tightened more. "Who is Grogu?" 

She tilted her head to look past him at the kid cooing at them. "He is Grogu."

"You can understand him?" Din asked, his shock registering even through the modulator. 

"Not in words, but he speaks to those who can listen. Images. Impressions. The Force is strong in him," she smiled at Grogu. "He loves you."

"He's okay." Mando was grateful for the helmet that hid his foolish grin.

"You fool no one," Baast chuckled. She gently twisted her wrists, reminding him of her bondage. 

He let her go and stepped back to pick up the spear. 

"You are a man blessed of beskar," she murmured. "You must be a great hunter."

"Something like that," he murmured. It still shamed him how he'd acquired his armour, but if he hadn't turned in the kid - Grogu - he wouldn't have been as well-equipped to get him back and keep him safe as they ran from the Empire.

Baast headed for Grogu, her smile growing as she lifted down his carrier and situated the baby against her chest. Grogu giggled and babbled something Mando didn't understand.

"Oh, I see," Baast chuckled, casting a side-eye his direction.

"What?" Mando muttered.

"Clan of the Mudhorn. A clan of two." She flicked her claws over his sigil. "I wondered. Grogu explained."

Mando glared at the kid- Grogu. "Don't tell her all my secrets."

Grogu cooed. Baast cuddled him and smiled slyly. By that look, he was pretty sure it was too late for his secrets.

He turned to go, heading back the way he'd come. It would take hours to return to the Razor Crest, and it was already getting dark. 

***

They didn't make it back to the ship before nightfall, but he found a hollow tree in which to spend the dark hours. Creeper vines had choked the life out of the behemoth, leaving them in a cage of vines and dry, dead bark with a wealth of firewood to choose from. 

The fire burned brightly, drafting well, casting shadows across Baast's face and keeping the larger predators at bay. She slept curled around Grogu, lips gently parted. The air had finally cooled at sundown, but now he could see the shivers and goosebumps developing on her flesh. 

Slowly, he leaned forward to remove the cape from his back. Then, just as quietly, he rose, rounded the fire, and draped it over her and Grogu. She stirred but didn't wake, and Din returned to his watch on the far side of the fire.

A Zentari. He could scarce believe it.

She was a myth made flesh—a beautiful dream. Once, when Mandalore still followed the old ways, Zentarus was where many warriors sought their mates, their most cherished riduur. 

A Zentari was always fast and strong and incredibly rare. They grew quickly but aged slowly, their years stretching out into eternity, some said. Fine in face and form, when they met their match, they bonded, taking on traits of the other and giving a few as well. 

A Mandalorian could live a very long time with a Zentari mate. 

But most Mandalorians came home empty-handed as a bond with a Zentari could not be forced, but those who the stars smiled upon, those most blessed with a cherished mate, bonded in ways that grew legends. It was said their children were the most incredible of warriors.

Baast'mal was everything he imagined when told stories of Zentari as a child new to the Tribe. It didn't hurt that she was the most mesh'la female he'd ever seen. Fast. Strong. Deadly. He wondered at what the Empire had done to her, how they could force the blood bonds on Sand Panthers and Manka cats, and just what other mutations they'd caused.

He also wondered at her Force sensitivity. What she felt or even what she could do had not been discussed, but Mando knew there was more to her than he had yet discovered. 

But it was the ache in him, the growing need to once again touch her skin that concerned him. 

It was primal. Feral. It clawed at him. It had him itching to be closer - much closer - to her. He wanted to show her his face and hope she found him as pleasing as he did her. 

Din had nothing to go by in comparison. He'd seen his reflection before, of course, but he had no way of knowing if a woman would think him handsome. He'd had encounters before, ones in which everyone walked away satisfied, some paid for, others freely offered, but the helmet and the beskar never came off.

With her, he wanted to be bare, stripped off all trappings. Din wanted to feel his naked skin against hers. He wanted to taste it.

"You are a very loud thinker," she mumbled, bright eyes glowing softly beyond the fire. 

Mortification filled him. "I'm sorry, I-"

"I do not know your thoughts, Mando," she clarified, "just feel a gentle buzzing from the beskar. It restricts what I pick up from you."

Relief almost had him sagging. Baast closed her eyes, but he was loath to let the conversation end. 

"How old are you?" She looked young, maybe twenty-five.

Her brow twitched, amusement in her smile. "It is rude to ask."

"I wondered how long the Empire had you," he explained. 

Shadows darkened her eyes. "Forty years."

"But they've only been around for thirty," he frowned.

She gave a hollow laugh and sat up. "They have been around much, much longer. I remember the day they came for us. They slaughtered all who fought, men and women. Every child they could catch was rounded up and taken away." She looked away, down at dark claws. "I was the only Zentari to survive the experiments."

"I'm sorry." He was. "I know what it's like to lose everything."

She tilted her head. "You were a foundling."

It wasn't a question, and Din didn't answer her.

"They began experimenting with my blood almost immediately. I was ten when they bound traits of the Manka to me. I was fifteen when they brought in the Panther."

"How? Why?"

Her eyes burned into his. "Because they could." She flexed her fingers. "Because they are depraved. Because they are monsters, who turn others into abominations."

"You're not."

She looked at him in surprise.

Din shifted until he stood and made his way around to her side, where he offered his hand. Baast took it and joined him in the shadows as he led her a few steps away from Grogu. He stripped his gloves from his hands, the need to touch her no longer under his control.

Slowly, he reached up to caress her cheek. He pushed her hair back, revealing the pointed tip of her ear. Her eyes gleamed from behind heavy lids when he stroked his fingers down her tricep and finally cupped her elbow.

He closed his opposite hand around her nape; his thumb pressed to her spiking pulse. "You are no monster."

"My blood is sullied."

"Perhaps. But you remain unbroken," he murmured. "You lived. You escaped. Mesh'la, you are a beacon of shining hope to my Tribe. If there is one Zentari, perhaps there are others."

She closed her eyes. "There is not."

"How do you know?"

A tear trickled down her cheek. "I felt the last die three years ago. It was what gave me the strength to escape."

"Mishuk gotal'u meshuroke, pako kyore," he murmured, rubbing his thumb on her pulse.

"Pressure makes gems; ease makes decay?" A small smile twitched her lips. "Am I a gem, Mando?"

"No." 

She arched an amused brow.

"You are something more precious than any gem," he murmured.

Colour dusted her cheeks. "A Mandalorian who has a way with words? I truly have seen it all," she teased.

He sighed and made sure it echoed through the modulator. "Get some rest." He attempted to move away, but she grabbed him by the belt.

"Stay."

"Baast?"

"Stay." She took his hand, led him closer to Grogu, encouraged him to sit against a fallen chunk of tree, and then curled up beside him, tucking herself under his arm.

"The beskar is too hard," he worried.

"No harder than a prison cell, and you are much warmer. I have not known the comfort of another since I was seven," she admitted.

He sighed again but gave in, curling his arm around her.

"Thank you for your cape."

"Hm."

Her chuckle was more of a low purr. When it rippled through him, Din swore he felt something inside him purr back.

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