#she's impervious to flame guys

[tarmairons]

Esmé probably just used her skills to make a fire extinguisher or something to get out of the hotel fire because as a general rule, she’s not allowed to die

might i interest you in @astoriamalvoy‘s genius theory:

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

plop

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

/

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

[bvccy]

Tenderness and Ferocity | 4. The Third Night

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes x Hydra!Reader Fic Synopsis: The Winter Soldier is starting to make stupid mistakes in the field, which is Bucky's way of trying to wrest back control and sabotage his handlers. Hydra brings a new doctor to figure out what's wrong with him and fix it. As she spends time with him, she becomes fond of the Winter Soldier, and he becomes fond of her. Bucky has other ideas. Or, a fic in which the Winter Soldier is the good guy and Bucky is actually the bad guy. Warnings for this chapter: light Smut Word count: 1984 Read on AO3: [link] [Previous Chapter] [Fic Masterlist] [Next Chapter]

"This is a love that equals in its power the love of man for woman and reaches inwards as deeply. It is the love of a man or of a woman for their world. For the world of their centre where their lives burn genuinely and with a free flame." — Mervyn Peake

 "See you tomorrow, Eeli!"

"Bye!"

"Night, Benji!"

"Good night!"

"Bye, Suzi!"

"Have a good night!"

She said her goodbyes to the evening staff, the duty officer, the cleaning lady, and made her way down the white corridor that led to the bus, which took all the day staff to their living quarters. She tried not to hurry too much, not to hold her purse too close, nor to smile too widely. She breathed a sigh of relief once she took her seat, her head leaning to cool against the window.

Although it was only evening, in the late winter it already looked like the dead of night, blackness stretching out forever starting fifteen feet from wherever you stood. The sparse trees looked like cardboard cut-outs under the stark nightlights, lifeless against a starless sky. There was a tranquillity in the effect: a feeling that, in a world where everything was fake, you too could be whatever you wanted.

The bus bumped along as usual, carrying its quiet cargo, but until she was off it she couldn't shake the nagging shame that was burning a hole in her purse. She surreptitiously squeezed it down, letting herself lean heavily against it while she looked out the window and tried not to think about getting shot.

The apartment complex was easily within driving distance but completely out of view of the Headquarters, even with the flat emptiness that lay between. It was built especially for the civilian workers, and named the Administrative, Medical, Economical, Research and Innovation Cadres Apartments. Or, as Hydra referred to it with great amusement, A.M.E.R.I.C.A..

Its outside inherited the bleakness that came with rushed work, cheap materials, and failed modernist concepts, but the inside had been renovated over the years into something that was at worst ergonomic, and at best managed to be cosy. It almost felt like home, and for a lot of the staff it had to be.

The ride squeaked to a halt, jolting its passengers awake. They waddled out in orderly fashion, saying their thank-yous to the driver, and their good-nights to each other as gradually they each went to their wing.

A few token trees, grown very tall over the decades, were spread around the park before the main entrance, their barren branches lit pale gold by the lamplights. The round fountain at the centre was finally unfrozen for the first time in months, its water sitting in a motionless reflection of the sable sky.

The night guardsman watched everyone amble in, nodding and smiling to whoever spared him a glance as he cradled a chipped mug of coffee in his chubby hands. She mouthed a "Hello" to him and kept on walking, her eyes going back down in what she knew was her usual 'tired' look and nobody spoke to her when they grouped up in the elevator, or when they spread out in their own directions, and then finally she was safely inside her little apartment — locked up and double-bolted.

She placed her purse very carefully on the hallway table. Put her coat up, tucked her shoes away, turned on the lights, turned on the heating, and went through the usual ritual of taking everything off and stuffing it in the laundry bin before taking a shower.

Dinner was, as usual, replaced by a cup of tea and biscuits in bed while her hair slowly dried, wrapped up in a thin old towel. She sipped her tea while scrolling through feeds of news articles, celebrity scandals, the occasional cat video, not really paying attention to anything. As soon as she could justify it to herself, she rolled out of bed and took her cup and plate to the kitchen. She brushed her teeth in a rush, brushed out her tangled hair, then finally approached the purse that was sitting innocuously in waiting.

It was stuffed full of notebooks, emergency cosmetics, obsolete post-its and little lozenge tins, so she had to dig a little until she found the one booklet where, as if by accident, a crisp white page had slipped in. There was hardly any way for someone to detect it, of course — "analog technology" is the safest way to smuggle information — but it didn't stop her from trembling all the way home.

She unfolded it, and smiled tenderly at the sight of the precisely drawn clock face. With the tip of a finger, she could just about feel the indent where the pen first went into the page, a phantom of the energy that passed through his arm for just one moment.

She put all her things away, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed with it. The lamp shining outside was enough for her to make out the page as it rested by her pillow. She had taken it without any particular idea of what to do with it, but she just knew she had to have it, had to have something from him.

The logical side knew that this was a normal emotional reaction for a woman, stuck somewhere without a palatable selection of men, however numerous. Her body recognised, before her head, that the Soldier would be quite a catch even if they weren't stuck in the middle of an industrialised nowhere, and in short order had reached the conclusions that he was: pretty nice, tempting, wasted on Hydra, stupidly beautiful, distractingly virile, before finally settling on him being utterly desirable.

Her head was still stuck at "wasted on Hydra".

But it would get there eventually. The more of him she brought out, the easier it was for her to see him as a person — and people can be admired, liked, and even wanted. For now, she would make do with this schoolyard token and allow herself to enjoy whatever she wanted in her mind.

She already couldn't remember what he felt like under her fingers, how exactly his voice sounded, even his face became blurred the longer she was away from him, but she could easily summon back the memory of what it felt like to be around him.

He was so pliant, especially that first day all strapped up and helpless. It was a heady combination — a dangerous killer rendered harmless. She liked dominance in the opposite sex, but there was just something about a big strong man being subdued like that while she had full control — made even more exciting, paradoxically, by his lack of interest in her.

She noticed him stare quite shamelessly, but blankly; that was just his programming assessing a threat, like all the other soldiers in the program... that's all it had to be. The Director's crass joke at her expense didn't make it any better, as if he wanted to remind her specifically that the Soldier didn't, and couldn't, find her nor any woman desirable.

Still, she could have done anything she wanted with him. The following days when he was free, he still obeyed her every word (mostly). But he also started speaking a little out of turn and telling tepid jokes; the progress, on a professional level, was considerable. When she had him eating out of her hand, it dawned on her how dangerously close she was to taking advantage of him — dangerous, of course, only if she got caught.

Fortunately she’d had the sense to ask for no surveillance, and had nurtured a reputation of being professional to a fault, unmoved by the raw masculinity of the Winter Soldier recruits that her other colleagues openly gushed over, and generally impervious to male charm — mainly to make it easier to turn down flirtations from the desperate men stuck there. "Don't bother with her. I already tried. You don't stand a chance."

She understood their loneliness, even sympathised with them, but she couldn't take the chance of opening herself to someone only to be used up, as it happened to so many others stuck there; especially not when none of them made her feel anything. Her Soldier though, he made her feel something...

He was more than just another big, dangerous man. In their efforts, Hydra had made him into an ideal. Unfortunately, they also misunderstood the nature of what they made. They thought they were creating a weapon — they did — but Hydra treated the masculinity inherent in her Soldier as just an excuse for brutality, deprecating what he really was and could be. Masculinity was about control and power — to be unleashed when necessary and otherwise reined in, a pack of wild dogs left unfed by their master and held back, held back, held back, to be all the more vicious when finally released.

By misusing her Soldier, they misused that which they channelled through him; the source of that ideal inherent to all men but which favoured so few; which expressed itself through tenderness, and ferocity.

Hydra unwittingly created a weakness, a crack for her to crawl into and bring out that which lay, waiting, underneath the mind. They had no patience for these abstractions, no way to deal with them, and so instead they brought him down and kept him there, ready to use when the brutality was needed.

She closed her eyes and tried to bring back the frissons she felt at the sound of his voice, rough and hanging heavy but so velvety sweet still, the shape of his body silhouetted in the shadows, his artist's-fingers resting obediently on the table, and that surprising mix of chocolate brown hair and grey eyes...

Maybe next time she could have him write something, she could analyse his handwriting; he should definitely still know how... Would he write in cursive or print? Would his letters be thin and sharp, or sensuously curved? Would they be large and take up a lot of space, or small and unassuming like he seemed to be sometimes...

She buried her nose in the pillow, feeling only her own perfume — would he like it? what would it smell like after he spent the night? — and wrapped a leg around the bulky duvet that wasn't nearly big enough to pretend...

Her fingers touched the page again as she squeezed her legs together, her other hand caressing her neck in lighter and lighter touches until she could almost imagine it being his breath, fanning over her skin from above.

She let go of the paper and turned on her back, shivering and sighing, and slipped her hand underneath, down the centre of her chest, stopping just at her lower stomach and pressed down — the way she thought he would if he caught her, if he wanted to hold her still. She bit her lip and teased her throat, content now that her imagination found what it wanted.

Maybe, he wouldn't catch her... Maybe he would break free and come to her, find her in bed, hold her against him, try to seduce her into running away with him. To make it more fun, she'd struggle. She allowed herself a half-bitten moan as she instinctively throbbed at the idea, and pressed harder, canting her hips more and more to an imaginary rhythm that he set.

The thought of his heavy shape pressing her down, his penetrating eyes above her, his uncertain smile, hopeful, desirous, and just that singular pressure... the feeling of being wanted, of being held, in the place where she most wanted him — not even between her legs, but deep, deep in her womb — was more dizzying than any sticky thing she had ever done on her own because she actually wanted him.

She let her imagination exhaust itself while in parallel her mind searched for ways he could break out, of how they could escape together — the mad dream of running away.

[rhys-rambles]

FIGHT CLUB | 1999

I was introduced to the movie Fight Club around 3 years ago. It wasn’t until recently I’ve become interested in it. So here’s my Fight Club breakdown :) WARNING FOR SPOILERS!!

For those who don’t know, Fight Club is a cult favorite novel that was later adapted into a film released in 1999, directed by David Fincher. Starring Brad Pitt, Edward Norton, and Helena Bonham Carter.

The story of Fight Club revolves around three main characters. It’s told from a first-person perspective by a nameless character that’s commonly called ‘the narrator’, who has a dead-end white-collar job at a major car company and has fallen prey to what he calls the ‘Ikea-nesting instinct’. Dictated by social norms he walks perfectly in line like a docile sheep, which translates into an inauthentic, repetitive and empty life.

He suffers from a bad case of insomnia, which causes him to be neither fully awake, nor fully asleep. Sometimes, he entertains self-destructive thoughts: as he flies around from state to state for his job, he prays for a crash or mid-air collision every time the plane bankes too sharply on takeoff or landing.

During a flight, he meets an eccentric and hypermasculine character named Tyler Durden.

Tyler seems to be the direct opposite of the narrator. He’s a wolf rather than a sheep, disentangled from society, and impervious to social norms. He takes what he wants, without asking, and whenever he pleases. He’s self-sufficient, has no superiors, and doesn’t care about material possessions.

The movie later reveals that Tyler and the narrator are the same person, as Tyler is a product of the narrator’s imagination, that’s probably induced by severe insomnia combined with dissatisfaction with a dull, meaningless existence and a lifetime of repressed urges.

The narrator is addicted to going to support groups for specific illnesses because these give him the opportunity to cry, which seems to be a remedy for his insomnia. The downside of his behavior is that he isn’t genuine; he has no testicular cancer, or blood parasites, yet acts as if he does, so he can reap the benefits of these sessions.

But these benefits come to an end when another non-genuine visitor starts to join the sessions as well. This is a woman named Marla Singer, and her motive for joining these sessions is, and I quote: “It’s cheaper than a movie and there’s free coffee.”

Marla is a self-destructive, chain-smoking fatalist, who’s expecting to die at any moment, but finds it tragic that it never happens. She steals food and clothes for a living and attempts suicide by overdosing Xanax.

Even though the narrator, Tyler, and Marla are totally different personalities, they all live their lives accompanied by a nihilistic undercurrent.

Tyler seems to have figured out what causes this emptiness, and during the course of the story, his solution unfolds. Unfortunately, his character slides from a sage-like father figure to an anarchist terrorist, who’s out to destroy modern civilization. Nevertheless, he exposes a series of harsh realities about modern life that are worth contemplating.

Anti-consumerism

The anti-consumerist stance of Tyler Durden becomes obvious when he verbalizes his concern about the modern way of life. Shortly after the narrator meets Tyler, he discovers that his apartment went up in flames. After this unfortunate event, realizing that he has no friends to call, he calls Tyler. The two meet, and the narrator complains about losing his furniture, and his respectable and almost complete wardrobe. Tyler responds rather indifferently and slightly sarcastically before he begins to express his views on the matter. Quote:

“We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra…”

It becomes clear that Tyler has quite an unconventional view of what’s good and bad. Murder, crime, and poverty are generally considered bad things, while consumer goods like televisions, clothing from a certain brand, products that help to hide aging, enhance bedroom performance, and help us with weight loss, are considered preferable.

Tyler has a contempt for the artificial, as opposed to elements that have been a natural part of the human condition, probably as long we exist. This way of thinking touches upon an ancient Cynic philosopher named Diogenes of Sinope, who believed that modern, civilized life hinders our natural state.

At the end of the movie, it appears that the narrator has destroyed his apartment himself when he was taken over by his alter ego, Tyler Durden. This deed was the first step onto the road of detachment from his property, into a more authentic way of life and to (how Tyler puts it): “reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions.”

The narrator moves in with Tyler, who lives in a dilapidated house with ongoing leaks, power failures, and no Ikea furniture. Slowly but surely, the narrator indeed detaches from his previously destroyed property. “Things you own end up owning you,” Tyler tells him. And this simple piece of wisdom probably hits home, when the narrator realizes that he doesn’t need all these worldly goods, and is actually much happier without them.

Non-conformity

Tyler Durden is a non-conformist, and shows, again, similarities with Diogenes, who not only purposefully lived in poverty, but also rejected social norms. For him, social constructs are nothing more than a superficial layer of culture that represses our true nature.

Diogenes lived in a barrel, Tyler lives in an abandoned building. Diogenes urinated in public, Tyler urinates in the soup of a restaurant.

The narrator, on the other hand, seems to be the embodiment of conformity, as he adapts his lifestyle completely to societal expectations. The problem with this behavior is that we dedicate our existence walking the paths that people other than ourselves have laid out for us. This need to conform, the fear of falling by the wayside, this sickly preoccupation by what others think of us, this necessity to keep up with the Joneses: what an exhausting way of life, just to feel ‘accepted’.

So, what if we stop caring? What if we reject the generally accepted norms, and choose our own values, elect our own leaders, determine our own goals, regardless of the social expectations? This is a fundamental difference between the narrator and Tyler Durden, who puts it like this: “I am free in all the ways that you are not.”

Ironically, later on in the story, Project Mayhem, a terrorist organization led by Tyler that grows out of Fight Club, is a textbook example of conformity, as it’s members wear the same clothes, are absolutely equal, abolish their names, and are referred to as space monkeys that sacrifice their lives for a greater cause. We could say that by rejecting one doctrine in order to be ‘non-conformist’, we often imprison ourselves in another one.

Fighting and masculinity

Fighting and the experience of pain play a significant role in Fight Club. At the beginning of the story, Tyler asks the narrator to hit him as hard as he can. He explains his strange wish by saying: “How can you know yourself if you’ve never been in a fight? I don’t want to die without any scars.”

So, the narrator hits him. Tyler hits him back, and the two engage in a fistfight. Both seem to feel surprisingly pleasant afterward and decide to do it again. Their nightly activities on a parking lot attract the attention of other men, that are also interested in joining these non-hostile fistfights. And thus, Fight Club is born.

It’s widely known that voluntary exposure to certain forms of pain makes us stronger in the face of adversity, which could be a legit reason to partake in these fights. As the narrator states: “After fighting everything else in your life got the volume turned down.”

However, Fight Club is more than just a metaphor for dealing with hardship through exposure: a physical fight, and the violence and aggression that goes with it, resonates with the primal part of our being.

Not only the men in the story are attracted to the violence of fighting; Fight Club as a movie and novel was so impactful on its audience, that real-life Fight Clubs started to emerge.

The story shows an experiment in which the members of Fight Club pick fights with random strangers (and are supposed to lose), which isn’t as easy as it sounds; most people do everything to avoid physical conflict.

But Fight Club makes us wonder if it’s a good thing that we’ve lost touch with these primal tendencies. Should we repress this part of human nature? Or, perhaps, integrate it in healthy and constructive ways?

Self-destruction

When the story progresses, Tyler and the narrator begin to see the world through a different lens. Tyler criticizes the modern self-improvement hype by saying: “Self-improvement is masturbation. Now self-destruction… ”

This statement is slightly confusing, as the increasingly destructive nature of Fight Club, in which faces are permanently mutilated and teeth are knocked out of people’s heads, doesn’t seem to be a sustainable way to live.

But Tyler might be onto something when we look at self-destruction as the destruction of a false self.

‘Self-improvement’ often points to the accumulation of external goods: a better house, a better job, a better body, more money. But why should we endlessly want to improve ourselves? Why can’t we just be happy with how things are, and take life as it comes? Or as Tyler states:

“I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let’s evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”

We create an identity through material wealth, and social status. And as far as Tyler is concerned, this false sense of self must be destroyed, before we are free to do anything we want. Therefore, the ‘space monkeys’ of Project Mayhem live by a mantra which goes like this:

“You are not your job, you’re not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis. You are all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.” - Tyler Durden, Fight Club

Tyler makes a so-called human sacrifice, namely a man called Raymond who works a dead-end job in a convenience store. Raymond wanted to be a veterinarian, but didn’t make it because it was “too much studying.” Tyler threatens Raymond, saying that if he doesn’t start studying within six weeks, he’ll kill him.

In this scene, Tyler points to another aspect of self-destruction: the act of letting go of fears, negative self-talk, and all distractions, so we can fully focus on our purpose. It’s the destruction of everything within ourselves that holds us back from living life on our own terms.

A near-life experience

Many people go great lengths when it comes to pain avoidance. The problem is that running from pain means running from an inevitable part of life.

The prospect of incurring pain makes us anxious, and often leads to self-indulgent decisions. That is: choosing the less painful path, even if a more painful path guarantees more success and pleasure in the future.

Tyler Durden deals with this by inflicting a chemical wound on the narrator’s hand using lye.

As expected, the narrator does everything to escape the pain: he uses visualization techniques he learned at a seminar, and retreating in his cave to find his ‘power animal’. But Tyler slaps him in the face, forcing him to stay with the pain, saying: “This is the greatest moment of your life, man. And you’re off somewhere missing it.”

For the narrator, Tyler has one central goal: he must reach bottom. After putting him through suffering, and destroying his false identity, there’s yet another aspect that must be crushed: hope. Losing all hope is freedom. And, therefore, he must reject what has rejected him: his father, and God. I quote:

“Consider the possibility that God does not like you. In all probability, he hates you.” - Tyler Durden, Fight Club

Tyler states that we don’t need God. That we shouldn’t care about redemption and damnation. And if we’re God’s unwanted children, so be it. Thereby, we lose all hope, but are also liberated from religious doctrine and fatherly authority.

Now we’re truly free. Now we can create our own meaning, and live how we want to live.

Tyler emphasizes the importance of knowing what we want in life. To achieve this, we must be willing to get out of our comfort zone and jump into the unknown without safety brackets.

The narrator, however, has difficulties letting go of security. He begs Tyler to not mess around when he lets go of the steering wheel in a driving car while hitting the gas. Tyler calls the narrator ‘pathetic’, and yells: “hitting bottom isn’t a weekend retreat. It’s not a goddamn seminar. Stop trying to control everything and just let go!”

After an inevitable car crash, Tyler states that they just had a ‘near-life experience’.

Wrap up

Fight Club is a story about rebellion against the status quo and a plea for the simple life. It criticizes the ways in which we are so hung up on security, and material possessions, and how people let social norms dictate their lives.

‘Stuff’ has become our religion. The idols we worship are Ikea and Starbucks. And the more we immerse ourselves in such an empty and unfulfilling existence, the more we start to resemble the things that we produce: manufactured products rather than authentic human beings.

Tyler shows us a way out. And even though his insights are profound, the execution is questionable. Fight Club, and its terrorist branch Project Mayhem, show us how easy it is to oppose one ideology, in order to fall into another, and how a cult-like echo chamber built on rigid beliefs could become very destructive.

Nevertheless, Tyler challenges us to be self-sufficient and disobedient to the authorities that let us down, to live authentically and in the moment, to confront our fears, to boldly step out of our comfort zones, and let the things that don’t matter truly slide.

[cuuno-moved]

Rate the dream smp by the likelyhood to commit accidental arson and somehow get away with it. Include mexican dream and purpled.

oh hell yes.

tommy- he canonically committed accidental arson and immediately did not get away with it.

tubbo- honestly? he'd get away with it just because he's tubbo.

wilbur- it wouldn't be an accident and he wouldn't get away with it.

dream- well, they'd all know it's him, but what're you gonna do, tell god to put down the torch? the world goes up in flames and the arsonist is the only one who can put it out.

george- he would get away with it purely because dream simps for him. there's no other reason.

sapnap- it would not be an accident.

fundy- he's very clever, he'd figure something out.

eret-depends. dream would probably defend her, unless he doesn't, then they're fucked.

niki- oh yeah, she's impervious to the law.

jschlatt-he is the law

quackity-this guy has started so many accidental fires, and he has gotten away with all of them.

technoblade- honestly? he would, because, again, what are you going to do? execute him???

phil- it wouldn't be an accident, but he'd get away with it so easily.

bad- i hate to say it but bad has absolutely committed arson on purpose and gotten away with it

skeppy-this guy gets framed for everyone else's crimes.

purpled- he would've been fine, but then he stabbed someone on the way out.

mexican dream- he would've been fine, but then he started asking the judge and jury if they wanted cocaine.

[ziggyzagreus]

The Craftsman’s Son

[Note: Hey y’all! So, I mentioned briefly in an ask reply to @silverwindsblog that I have an OC design and layout for Icarus!!! But, since I am not an artist, I have to write a bunch of drabbles about Icarus instead!!

I intend to make this a recurring series, basically just Zagreus meeting Icarus from time to time throughout the regions... It would mean a lot to me if you guys would let me know what you think!!! I have had ceaseless brainworms about Icarus since I started Hades and found he wasn’t in it. Feel free to tell me what you think of him, I can also use prompts/feedback as ideas for more drabbles with him!]

[AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960650/chapters/71065722 ]

[Summary: In Zagreus' many escape attempts, he runs into a mournful Shade who knows a thing or two of failed escape attempts. 

Icarus wanders alone through the levels of the Underworld, too afraid to face his father, even if the man weren't cursed to never see his son again.

Zagreus once again tried to pull some strings with his father's contracts.]

~~~

Chapter 1.

The chambers in which Daedalus forgot his tools were always empty of genuine company when Zagreus arrived – no sign of the master architect before nor following confrontation with any shades commanded to cease the Prince’s forward venture.

Emptier still, were the chambers before much more threatening foes, the terror at the brink of every region. Zagreus had been hoping for Charon’s shop, but instead heard over the bubbling lava of Asphodel the familiar chime of a blessing. Even from a shade, and one who was so meticulous in life now cursed to be somewhat forgetful with his things, the improvements granted by Daedalus’ craft were nothing short of miracles.

Rounding the corner and bounding up the few stairs into that waiting chamber, what Zagreus did not intend to see was a figure already at the tool itself, examining the binding at its handle with such familiarity that the Prince would take to dismiss.

Zagreus slowed his fiery pace and entered the room calmly, though his heart pounded in wary anticipation. “There is usually no one to greet me at these things, mate. I do hope you’re not some new, frightening instillation sent by my father to keep me from getting to that hammer.”

The shade looked up then, wide eyes a dark brown that would be welcoming if not for the hollow expression they took on. The shade was that of a young man, tousled brown locks curling about his ears and in every form of heedless unkempt. The shoulder of his chiton was clasped with one firm buckle, leaving much of his torso bare, as bare as his feet on the thankfully cool stones. Not that shades could feel much, that were, but Zagreus still cringed to think of this young man wandering about the flaming coals with nothing but the skin of his toes as a barrier.

The shade spoke then, and his voice was the deep timbre of a young man past adolescence – yet it carried a wispy, wistful nature of sorrow to soften it. Zagreus’ eyes came back to his face, met those eyes. “No, it would do me no good to believe I could cause you trouble. Just passing through at the same time, so it seems. Would you… like me to fix up that blade for you?”

He gestured toward Stygius, held firmly in the Prince’s grasp, and the creak of wood and leather, the rustle of feathers suddenly drew Zagreus’ focus away from his face and now to the tattered, scorched skeleton of wings fastened to the shade’s arms. The leather straps of harness bound to his shoulders and over his pectorals was clasped with welded metal, but the wood and wax of those wings melted in bubbled white scarring – melted, combined with the skin of his muscled arms and marred back.

“You’re Icarus,” Zagreus blurted out, and instantly regretted the insensitivity. He had heard of the tragedy of Daedelus’ son, heard how the father mourned in sorrow just as much as his anger. Zagreus did not expect to meet the boy himself at all, figured he had been cast into one of the lesser shades wandering Tartarus for some crime of little achievement.

Icarus huffed a soft, bitter laugh, lips curling into a delicate smile. “I am. Does that surprise you? Son of the great Daedalus wandering about, picking up his father’s forgotten tools instead of working at his side.”

Zagreus stepped forward, comfortable now in the knowledge that he would be done no harm, but guilty curiosity swept over him in this unfortunate legend’s presence. “Not really, just… Well, I’ve never seen your father about these parts either. Always seem to miss him, I usually find his hammers to fix up my own weapons and be on my way.”

“Well, leave that to me, then. You look like you could take a rest.”

Zagreus nodded and handed Stygius over, watching as Icarus examined the blade delicately, the muscles of his tattered arms shifting as he held and hefted the blade to check for imperfections. “This will be better done by the hands of an apprentice craftsman himself, no doubt. Thanks, mate. Really.”

“It’s my pleasure, good Prince. Wouldn’t do well for you to be running forward complacent in this blade’s integrity. I’ll have it fixed up in no time.”

Icarus got to work. Zagreus watched, the clanging of metal ringing in his ears, reverberating off the cavernous chamber, the stalactites above and the stone tiled floors, the rock walls surrounding them. Despite the state of his body, Icarus worked quickly, much more surely with the tool and the blade than Zagreus had in his own attempts to improve his weapon. Being in the Underworld alleviated him of the hurts of mortals, and while the lingering scars remained, his movement was uninhibited by anything more than the remaining bulk of the wings.

“Have you seen your father about, Icarus? One day – or, er, night – I’d like to thank him for his skill. Even with only one of his tools and little crafting knowledge, I can usually make something of my weapons.”

Icarus stiffened slightly for a moment, his smooth motions interrupted with a pause. Zagreus cringed, knowing immediately he had broached an uncomfortable topic. Much like when he pestered Eurydice about Orpheus and she grew heated, Zagreus felt a guilt bloom from that curiosity that still did little to quench it.

“I have not,” Icarus replied sorrowfully. “Part of my father’s sentence here is to work without furthering his legacy. And that means I will never complete my apprenticeship.”

The Prince’s brow furrowed, laurel sizzling. “But thousands of mortals read his writings, follow his plans and skills up on the surface, surely that accounts for something? Daedalus’ legacy is everywhere, even in the walls of my father’s house. How does that make sense to be his curse?”

Icarus shrugged and held up the hammer. “He’s not the man he once was. There are flaws in even the finest of his architecture, now. And the other humans cannot copy exactly what his intentions were.”

“Oh. I… think I see. Still though, surely you’re bound to run into him one time or another, picking up after him like this.”

Icarus frowned again. He resumed the work on Stygius, nearing the end of his repairs and brow furrowed in a thoughtful brood. “Forgive my bluntness, Prince, but I don’t think I could face my father even if given the chance. Here is your blade, how does it feel?” He dropped the hammer handle-first into a slim loop on his belt, the weight tugging the leather down just slightly, but seeming at home tucked against the apprentice’s side.

Zagreus acknowledged the subtle suggestion to change topics, and took Stygius. It felt lighter, somehow, and cleaner. He spun it experimentally a few times, rolling his wrist to follow the motion. It felt lighter, but more lethal. He wondered if it would be possible to pierce armor, now. “Razor sharp.”

Icarus smiled softly, a pitiful twitch of the expression registering on his sad face. “It is. Do be careful, good Prince. I… I know you are determined in your path, so I will not tell you to turn back. But do not underestimate your foes. No amount of confidence makes you impervious to error.”

“I will be careful, thank you, mate. Where will you be next?”

“Somewhere my father had been before, most likely. I hope we do not meet too often, for your success in escaping this place. I know a thing or two of failed escapes.” Icarus looked down, once again exhaling that brief huff as if he had said something painfully ironic; in all fairness, he had. But Zagreus knew it not his place to take any humor in this shade’s cruel fate.

Zagreus nodded, and rest Stygius on his shoulder, walking ahead while waving back. “Until next time then, Icarus. I wish you well in the meantime.”

To be continued...

[seanfalco]

Angst number 11 and/or Random 32 for Nathanxreader (so excited that you started writing for him, its gonna be great 😁)

Fandom: Misfits Pairing: Nathan x Reader Word Count: 1126 Rating: M Warning(s): Language, Blood, Gore/Death Prompt: “Can you shut up for once in your life?” + “I could punch you right now.” a/n: It took me a bit to decide how I wanted to go with this.  I altered one of the prompts slightly, but it has the same vibe.  Got a bit angsty there, but I know you like that, Shye >_> Also, same reader from Bad Kids’verse

——

“I bet I could do that,” Nathan mused suddenly, sitting up in his lawn chair to peer over the edge of the roof.

“What you on about?” Kelly asked, adjusting her sunglasses as she turned to look at him.  

You could guess by the calculating look in his eye what he was thinking and you didn’t like it.  “Don’t you even think about it,” you warned, throwing him a pointed look, which he shrugged off -- meeting your glare with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, c’mon, if I fall to my death, no harm done, right?” he exclaimed, rationalizing.  “I’ll just wake up again, good as new.”

“Yeah, but what if you don’t die and just break both your legs?” you shot back.  “You may be immortal, but you’re not impervious to pain.”

“Seriously, what are ya talking about?” Alisha demanded, sitting up from where she lay, sunbathing.

“That Super Hoodie guy,” Nathan exclaimed, as if it were obvious, “he’s got moves, but I bet I could totally do that too, y’know, become a parkour master!”

“Uh uh, there’s no way,” Curtis cut in with an amused smirk, shaking his head.  “You’d totally break your neck, man.”

“Yeah, and that’s my point, I can’t die, so I don’t see what all the fuss is about!”

“Yeah and don’tcha think I don’t like watching my boyfriend die horrifically over and over and over again?” you exclaimed, throwing your hands up.

“It is rather disturbing,” Simon added quietly and you turned to look at him before swinging your gaze back to Nathan.

“Thank you.  See!” you exclaimed, gesturing to Simon.

Nathan regarded you for a moment, his face solemn before standing and stopping in front of you, placing his hands on your shoulders.  “In that case… don’t watch,” he said simply, fighting back a grin before planting a kiss to your cheek and heading toward the railing at the edge of the roof; beginning to stretch.

With a frustrated huff you went back to your seat, angrily fishing for your pack of cigarettes and lighting one with the lighter Kelly wordlessly offered to you.

“Alright, ladies and gents!” Nathan announced, several minutes later after loosening up, turning to face them and spreading his arms wide, “I’m gunna parkour my way down to the sidewalk below, or die tryin’!”

Rolling your eyes, you leaned back, completely ignoring him; not even giving him the satisfaction of your attention.

“You’re an idiot,” Kelly exclaimed in solidarity, flicking ash into the ashtray at her feet.

“Well, go on then,” Alisha said, gesturing to the edge of the roof.  “Let’s get this over with.”

Frowning at the lack of enthusiasm, Nathan spun dramatically, climbing up to the ledge before gauging the distance and preparing to jump, swinging his arms and bending his knees in tandem several times before finally leaping.

Despite deciding you weren’t going to watch, Nathan’s triumphant shout a moment later brought you to your feet and you leaned over the ledge to see what had happened.  Somehow Nathan had managed to land on a nearby ledge several feet over and he turned, craning his neck to look back at you, flashing a surprised grin when his footing slipped and he fell backwards; his startled expression the last thing you saw before he hit the ground below with a sickening thud.

Spinning away from the scene with a gasp, you clapped a hand over your mouth with a choked sob-- you didn’t think you’d ever get used to that.  You knew soon he’d be getting up again, completely fine, but you couldn’t get the sight of him out of your head -- limbs sprawled limply; laying in a crumpled heap below.

Taking a deep breath you headed to the stairwell and made your way down to where Nathan had landed, trying to calm your nerves, but by the time you reached the ground floor and knelt next to him your anger had only flamed hotter.

“You fucking idiot,” you muttered at his lifeless body, as the warm pool of blood beneath him spread, beginning to stain his orange jumpsuit.  You held your breath as several minutes elapsed -- minutes that felt like hours, until he finally stirred, gasping a ragged breath as he blinked up at you.

As soon as he saw you he winced at the anger simmering behind your eyes before having the decency to look properly abashed, slowly pushing himself up.

“I could punch you right now,” you growled, frustrated tears welling in your eyes.  “I told you how much I hate watching you die, especially for some stupid stunt, wondering if this’ll be the time something goes wrong and you don’t come back,” you exclaimed, a stray tear rolling down your cheek as your voice trembled, despite your best efforts at keeping it under control.

“The fucking nerve, I swear, you fucking hypocrite,” you continued, only picking up speed, barely giving Nathan a chance to get a word in edgewise.  “I know how much you fucking hated watching me die that time, so don’t--”

“Can you shut up for like a second?” Nathan exclaimed breathlessly before abruptly kissing you, effectively cutting off your tirade.

“That’s not fair!” you cried as soon as his lips left yours.

“I know!” he exclaimed hastily, “it was the only thing I could think of in the moment.  I’m sorry, okay.”  The sincerity in his voice brought you up short; the rest of your argument dying on your tongue.  “I didn’t think,” he muttered, his eyes darting away from yours.  “I got caught up in the moment and I didn’t…” he trailed off, swallowing.  “You’re right, it killed me having to watch you use my power and that was only once.  You’ve had to watch it happen, fuck, I’ve lost track of how many times now.  I’m sorry, [Y/N].  Please don’t hate me.”  

He lifted his eyes to yours then, reaching up to wipe away the wet trail down your cheek with his thumb.  “You must really like me though, huh?” he murmured, a grin breaking through.

“I thought I’d made that obvious,” you replied as a shaky laugh left your lips.

“Look, I promise I won’t do something stupid like that again… on purpose,” he added, his grin widening as you rolled your eyes.  “Now, c’mere,” he exclaimed, pulling you in for another kiss, his arms tightening around you, crushing you to his chest as if he didn’t want to let go.

“Isn’t it a little gruesome making out in a pool of your own blood?” you said, raising an eyebrow at him and Nathan glanced over his shoulder to the pavement behind him.

“Huh, I hadn’t noticed, I’m a little preoccupied,” he replied, grinning against your lips and you gave in, kissing him back.

[shnuggletea]

Chapter Two of D-Men is now live! 

The prequel to Feudal Connection’s Best Dark Fanfiction 2020 Cell Mates continues! For the awesome and beautiful event @inuparentsday​, we see Izayoi and Toga finally meet! And get a few more looks into the world before Cell Mates. 

Art by @kirrtash​ for the event can be found here!

Don’t forget the playlist!!!

Tag List!

@underwater0phelia​ @lavendertwilight89​ @mamabearcat​ @nartista​ @nopenname22​ @echobows​ @superpixie42​ @smmahamazing​ @redflamesofpassion​ @jme-chan​ @cstorm86​ @cicleydark-light​ @ruddcatha​ @lavaffair​ @kirrtash​ @sistasecbhere​ @obsessandfangirl​ @britonell​ @lordofthechips​ @mcornilliac​ @faolenwolf​ @keichanz​ @phoenix-before-the-flame​ @artisticloveexpressitsall​ @lamuertadehambre​ @noyourenotreal​ @mitty-san​ @thenoammonster​ @little-deeluna​ @royaltrashpanda​ @sailorbabydoll92​ @storyweaver2017​ @malditamigs​ @adorabubblesblog​ @petri808​ @anniehcresta​ @fan-dumpp​ @itzatakahashi​ @utakuprincess​ @theschultinator​ @all-too-ale​ @little-inukag-obsessed​ @theseagullqueen​ @queenofthesquirps​ @jolinaaa00​ @knowall7k​ @neutronstarchild​ @fawn-eyed-girl​ @eringobroke​ @sapphirestarxx​ @clearwillow​ @dangerouspompadour​ @misspepperpottss @kagometaishostory​​ @egosolivagant​​ @fandompromptsandfun​​ @fandomartlover​​ @fanficnewbiee​

Always feel free to let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

Chapter Two

As far as cells went, this was far from the worst Toga had ever been in. After all, he’d been married once. 

He laughed at the joke inside his head; even Miya would have laughed at that one. The monk was nearby, watching and waiting. Or he was supposed to be. The whole point of allowing these humans to capture him was so they would know where they were and what they knew. And just how many of them there were. 

It wasn’t just for his kind, it was for the humans as well. If MiLady and her croons discovered this place first then they would blow it up and call it a gas leak. Accidents tended to happen to humans that knew too much.

Toga wasn’t surprised his weapons were taken but they took his clothes too! Including his jacket! More than just for warmth, the fire rat robes it was made of kept his chest from being easily pierced. It was his armor and he very much wanted it back. Especially with the guys in lab coats coming in close and carrying needles.

He hated needles.

“Are we sure these will even work?” A skinny one with thick glasses asked.

They all looked to the tall guy with long hair. He was the one that ‘greeted’ Toga when he arrived. They’re boss, Toga didn’t so much as sit a little straighter as the tall man stood before him. The only thing that separated them was a thick layer of glass. Did they think the caution stickers on the front of the glass somehow made it stronger? None of them seemed to realize that, if he didn’t want to be here, it would be nothing for him to leave their small prison.

“What’s your name?” The man asked.

Toga eyed the needles again as the men stepped closer. “Well… my enemies call me Fighting Fang. While my friends call me Toga.”

He put it to the humans to decide; friend or foe.

“Will this needle pierce your skin?”

Twerking up a brow, he eyed the man carefully. “Yeah…”

“Good. Dr. Yosh?”

The boss gestured to the skinny one (a Dr. Yosh it would seem) and he stepped up to the glass. Pressing some buttons that Toga could hear and not see, a small hatch in the glass opened up. The cage was just long and deep enough for him to lay down on the raised floor. Miya would bitch at him later but unless he wanted to break out of this cage without any idea how much these humans knew about them then he would have to let them take his blood. 

Just as he said it would, the needle broke through his skin and allowed them to take his blood. Toga wasn’t impervious (hence the need for his armor) he just healed quickly. So quick that most wounds were similar to the needle under his skin like a pin prick. Right now, Toga wasn’t sure which was more annoying. A shot to his gut or the Prick smirking at him. 

“Guess you’ll be calling me Fighting Fang then.” He spoke as calmly as possible to the man in charge as they stared one another down.

“Is that a threat?” Dr. Setsuna asked.

“No. I just don’t like you.”

The jerk laughed and took a small vial of Toga’s blood. “Like I care.”

He had spoken softly as if he didn’t know Toga could hear him. When Dr. Prick looked over his shoulder back at him, he was clearly gaging to see if Toga had heard him. Resisting the urge to flip him the bird, Toga remained as if he had heard nothing. The point was to learn what they knew; not give them more information. 

Maybe he could steal his blood back on the way out? He also wasn’t sure how much it mattered; he and Miya had watched them collect samples of Snowflake’s blood she left behind that night. What was some more blood for them to play with?

“Dr. Hime? You’re still here?”

One of Takemaru’s lab partners stood in the doorway of her lab. She wasn’t leaving until they did. And even then, she was going to take a peek at whatever they were working on. “Yes, of course.”

“Dr. Setsuna has another sample for you to examine.”

More blood. Was there a point to studying this one or would he simply tell her not to worry about it a few hours from now? Izayoi took it regardless. It was a piece of the puzzle and she hoped it would help her understand the samples she had already. 

Extraction, Quantification, then Amplification. Steps she had run so many times in her lifetime that it was muscle memory. It was how she knew she hadn’t made a mistake when again, animal DNA was present with the strange markers that even she couldn’t identify. This time it was canine DNA. 

Was this some kind of joke? Was Takemaru messing with her and wasting her time?! Fuming, she left her lab and stormed over to the one across the hall. The lab assistants were still in a tisy with excitement and all Izayoi could think was that they should have their coffee privileges revoked. 

“Dr. Setsuna!” 

He turned and smirked at her as she stomped over to him. “Dr. Hime, you’re still here?”

Like she was going anywhere with all this bullshit going on. “Yes.” She answered with a hiss of irritation.

“Well then. Since you’re so… insistent, I suppose you can get a peek at our new project.”

She hadn’t expected it to be this easy. Takemaru was bragging and it only made her feel sick as he placed a hand on her shoulder to guide her around. A sickness that grew when she spotted the man that had entered through the loading bay was now in a cell. A cell that wasn’t constructed hastily; it had been there long before the man showed up.

And there was more than one.

The man looked alright, laying out in the cell like it was any other night or as if it were his couch. His eyes found her and he sat up a little straighter in his box but it didn’t allow much movement. It was more than enough for her to feel light headed. 

The blue streaks on his face she saw before. Now in a white t-shirt and pants like a test subject, she saw matching marks on his arms and one peeking from under his shirt on his side. But that wasn’t what had her struggling to breathe. It was his eyes. They were amber. Like crystalized sap that was held up to the sunlight. They glimmered and glowed and stuck to her; as if sticky like sap too.

“Izayoi, this is our new specimen.”

She wanted to glare at Takemaru for his informal tendencies as well as calling a man a specimen. But her eyes refused to leave the strange man. His long, flowing locks didn’t help; he was very handsome. 

Now close, he grinned back at her through the glass and winked. “You can call me Toga.”

Before she had a chance to say a single sound, Takemaru stepped between and started pushing her back. “As you can see, we have a lot to do here and it is already very late.”

“Wait! You can't just lock him up…”

“He volunteered. There is no harm being done here. Now excuse us, Dr. Hime, as we get to work.”

She was shoved back out into the hall and the door was locked behind her. The sound echoed off the walls. 

“Volunteered?” She said to herself. They had no clue she’d been there when they ushered the man in with cuffs on his wrists. 

Izayoi hated lies.

Busying herself with blood samples and other tissues from other cases sent her way; Izayoi bided her time until the sounds of others in the hallway came to her door. It was one am and those bastards were finally leaving. The locks on the door clicked loudly and Takemaru followed behind the others; leaving last. She waited a beat to make sure no one was coming back and rushed to the other end of the hall. There were video cameras in her lab but that was due to the nature of her work. Many of her cases involved criminal activity so she never questioned the need for her and her assistants to be watched. Izayoi had to hope it was a different story for Takemaru’s lab. But with them imprisoning people she had little doubt they were filming in his lab.

Her ID/access card in hand, she swiftly ran it through the reader; not surprised in the least when she was denied access. Glancing around her twice (making sure she was really alone) she pulled out another ID card. Takemaru was so full of himself that he had a bad habit of leaving his card in the break room. Izayoi had intended to give it back to him but after two weeks of his patronizing ways and his ease with getting a new one, she didn’t feel the need to be so… helpful. Instead, she helped herself. 

Takemaru didn’t even cancel the card. How is it an idiot like him got promoted over her? She rolled her eyes at the thought; she lacked an important piece of anatomy and that was it.

Slowly, Izayoi made her way to the back of the large lab; looking for cameras as she went. Not in sight of the ‘cage’ yet and already the man somehow knew she was there. “What are you doing here so late?” Taking the last few steps, she revealed herself and the man wasn’t surprised in the least. “Someone as pretty as you shouldn’t be out this late alone.”

“So if I was ugly it would be okay?”

He smirked and gave her a wink. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

His eyes were hypnotic. Maybe that was why he was in here? That didn’t make sense, why would Takemaru care about magnetizing eyes. “I’m not sure you understand the meaning of that proverb…”

“It means that everyone is beautiful to someone. So no, even if I found you unattractive, it still wouldn’t be alright that you were out this late alone.”

Izayoi shook her head. Not because she didn’t like what he had to say but because it was far from the point. “What are you doing here?”

“Me? I’m enjoying this lovely cell. Isn’t that obvious?” He gestured as much as he could to his small surroundings. Which wasn’t much.

“Why?”

He leaned forward until his breath fogged up the glass. “Cause I’m special.”

At some point, Izayoi had gotten closer too, her hands now on the glass between them. “Why does your blood have canine DNA mixed in?” Her eyes danced from his amber eyes to his blue streaks. “They… would have sanitized you… washed the paint off your face…”

His head tilted to the side at her but then he held up a finger; the long claw on the end of it made her shiver. Then he licked the finger and ran the wet digit right through the middle of the mark on his arm. “Not paint. Just skin.”

“A tattoo?”

“Who would get tattoos like this? On purpose?”

“Same person who donates their body to science while they’re still alive?”

He rested his head against the glass and (although impossible) she swore she felt the heat of his skin through the glass on her fingertips. “You got me there, I guess.” He stared up at her through his lashes, watching her every micromovement. “Izayoi, right?” She nodded. “My friends call me Toga.”

“And those who aren’t so lucky?”

He sat up at that and crossed his arms in defiance. “What are you doing here? You don’t strike me as the type to be into freak shows…”

“I came to… get you out.”

He huffed, a broad grin on his face that made his eyes sparkle. “You don’t even know me. I could be a killer.”

Izayoi considered his words carefully as well as his demeanor. “Two blood samples came to my lab tonight. One that had feline DNA mixed in. It arrived before you did. Then I got another sample of completely different DNA. Which I can assume is yours?” He didn’t nod or react in any way but she continued regardless. “Did you kill the person with feline DNA?”

Toga scrutinized her, studying her face. “I didn’t. But I did get you your blood sample if you know what I mean.”

“You hurt her?”

His smirk returned at the mention of a gender. “Clever. And yes. But believe me when I say she deserved it.”

Izayoi couldn’t explain it but she did believe him. He could have been telling her what she wanted to hear though; he was in a cage and at her mercy. “I need to get you out of here now. Before anyone comes back.” She looked at the keypad but there was no card access. You had to know the code. “Any chance you caught the code for this?”

“They didn’t share that sort of thing with me.” She passed him a glare and he chuckled softly. “I did hear the keys. If you press them again, I’ll know which ones are the right ones.”

“If I put in the wrong code it’ll set off an alarm for sure.”

“What if we broke the glass?”

She looked around the lab for something to use. “It’s way too thick, I’m sure. I could maybe try a chair but there’s probably an alarm set to it too…”

Loud squeals filled the air as well as a red flashing light. Izayoi turned back to the glass but it was gone; the large and thick layer was now mostly on the floor in large chunks. And the cell was empty.

“Oops.”

Now she squealed, spinning on her heel to find Toga right behind her, breathing down her neck. “Holy shit!”

His hands went off, showing off his claws again. “Sorry. But I didn’t want you getting in trouble”

Her mind spun as she looked between the man and the broken cell. “Could you get out the whole time?! What the hell?!”

“I was just visiting,” he said casually while slipping his hand into hers, “I’m going to need your help getting a few things.”

His ‘jail break’ was a little earlier than he had originally planned. But the Doctor was so damn cute, he couldn’t help himself and was showing off a bit. She also seemed to know the most about him and his people out of all the others in this place. Which wasn’t much.

Her hand felt so small in his and he was trying to focus on not crushing it. She also wasn’t pulling away from him even with his claws. Dr. Izayoi Hime was intriguing to say the least. And her scent had his other senses in overload. Toga knew better than to get in over his head… for now anyway. He had more important things to worry about, following Izayoi’s scent back to her lab. 

“I’m going to need those blood samples you have.” She shook her head at him and his response (without control) was to pull her closer. Now towering over her, he looked deeply into her fawn colored eyes. “It’s not safe for you to have them.”

Izayoi’s heart skipped and settled quickly. It was clear she appreciated honesty. So how honest would he have to be with her now to keep her safe? Because at this point, he was very attached to her and he didn’t just mean their hands. 

“Cameras…” She didn’t point and he felt like an idiot because he could hear them clearly now as they turned. “If I just give you the samples…”

“I get it.” He held up a claw and placed it to her neck carefully so as not to cut so much as a fine hair on it. “Please, get the samples and trash them.” She moved and he followed, keeping close to her while trying to keep watch. The lights were still going crazy and the siren was really getting on his last nerve. “Do you know where they’re keeping my clothes and the weapons I had on me?”

Dr. Hime finished dumping the blood down the sink and then filled the vials with some kind of liquid solution. “I might know.”

They said nothing more while in the room with eyes and ears. Toga kept his wits this time as they entered a room at the far back of the facility. Only to have Izayoi lead them to an elevator. It was the same one they had put him in when he got here and he had counted the floors. They were on floor twenty out of twenty-four. Toga had no clue how many floors were owned by the scientists but now he knew floor twenty and floor sixteen where theirs as Izayoi led them off on the lower floor.

She took his hand again but when he heard the whir of a camera and yanked her back. With one arm around her neck he felt the situation looked far more threatening for the Doctor. “Sorry about this…” he took a deep whiff of her scent and her soft black hairs tickled his nose, “actually, that’s a lie.”

Her hands were gripping his forearm but they did nothing to hide the small shake she did from his honesty. Nor the thumping her heart did from his closeness. It all made her scent permeate more and she smelt like sweet peach blossoms. 

Izayoi took one hand off him to point. “It’s the room up there but there’s another lock on the door.”

They stumbled up to the door and he pulled it open easily. “Must have forgot to lock it.”

“The building is on lock down,” she hissed when he lied to her, “that means everything locks automatically.”

Once out of the hallway, he let her go completely and began to search. “Well, I was right about one thing. You hate liars don’t you?”

She was stunned at the doorway. “Yes.”

“Guess that means you’re not a fan of that Setsuna guy?”

The little huff she did as well as the roll of her eyes was adorable. “He’s my boss.”

In a small locker along the wall, Toga smelled his scent. He popped open the locker like a can of soda and turned back to Izayoi, her eyes wide. “He’s a dick.”

Toga didn’t give a shit about his shirt and slacks, they were replaceable. So the only thing he grabbed was his jacket; the fire rat robes. “We came all the way down here for a worn out coat?”

He was shoving his arms through it and searching the rest of the space hastily. “Not everything is as it seems.”

“Is that your way of dodging the truth?”

Stopping, he looked back at the perturbed beauty with a grin. “It’s not a lie. I just don’t have the time to explain it more than that.” Izayoi rolled her eyes but no longer seemed pissed. “I have to find my swords.”

“Swords? You go around with swords?! What are you a ninja??!”

Laughter spilled out of him and he causally wrapped an arm around her waist to ‘escort’ her out. “Ninja. I like that.”

Out in the hall again, he held Izayoi tightly to give off a sense of captivity. Toga was certainly taking advantage though, turning her so her curves pressed against him. She had to tilt her head back to look at him; her light browns actually made him shiver when they found his eyes again. “I don’t… I don’t know where your swords are.”

She was whispering and it wasn’t because of the cameras. He was pretty sure they couldn’t hear much over the sirens that continued to irritatingly blare. “That’s okay, we’ll find them together.”

Before she could say anything else, he had the two of them back at the elevator. He was no longer hiding his demon speed; she had already seen his strength a few times. Izayoi looked pale and he felt her go slack in his arms. So he switched to carrying her. Sweeping an arm under her limp legs and lifting her was easy since she didn’t fight him on it. The many floor numbers were before him while Izayoi blacked out in his arms. 

“Alright… if I was a demon sword… where would I be?”

“Demon?” Izayoi murmured.

He doubted she would remember this. As it were, she was likely to think the whole night was all a nightmare. Leaning in, he whispered in her ear. “That’s right, Izayoi. I’m a demon.”

“Demon….”

“A dog demon to be exact. Some call me Fighting Fang while others call me The Great Dog General.”

“Fighting… Fang…?”

She was really out of it and if her heart and breathing wasn’t regulated, Toga would have been concerned. It was all just too much for the sweet Doctor. “Yeah. But as I said before, you should call me Toga.”

He pressed the floor they started on, twenty, and the box lurched. “Toga…”

Izayoi was grabbing his armor tightly in her fist; she was starting to rally. “My friends call me Toga. And you are definitely a friend… at least.”

The elevator was fast and they would be back at her lab soon. And Izayoi was blinking away her confused and overwhelmed sleep. Toga would never be able to explain it other than he felt it was his last chance, his only chance, lifting Izayoi up and gently pressing his lips to hers. It gave him a rush, a shot of adrenaline that had his heart racing and his body tingling. 

Her eyes were wide open when he opened his. She might remember that part but he had no problem with that. “Welcome back.” He smirked.

The ding of the elevator pulled her bright eyes from his and they moved in sync to put her back on her feet. She tried to walk out on her own but he couldn’t stand that; grabbing her and pulling her back like she was in danger. There was nothing to fear, only him. But she didn’t fight him (yet again) as he pressed her to him. 

“What are we doing back here?”

“We aren’t doing anything,” she got his meaning instantly, glaring up at him, “I’m going to find my swords.”

Izayoi shoved him hard. It did nothing but he noted her anger regardless. “There are seconds left until the building will be swarming with cops and other people with guns!”

He huffed. “They really need to work on their response time…”

“It’s the middle of the night and we’ve never had a break in before.”

“This isn’t a break in, it’s a break out.” Gently, he pushed her into her lab. “Stay here and wait for your friends. I’d say I’d see you later but…”

“You’ll never make it.” She said, stepping out of the safety of her lab and up to him.

“I think I’ve proven my abilities tonight. I’ll be fine.”

Her hands shot out and grabbed his arms. It shouldn’t have stopped him but it did. “Toga, listen. You need to leave now or they will keep you forever.”

“Izayoi, I let them bring me here in the first place…”

“And now they know more about you! You don’t think they’ve already set things in motion to make it harder for you?” He really doubted it since Dr. Setsuna had been at many of their battle scenes after the fact, collecting whatever he could and yet he still put Toga in that pointless cell. “I’ll find your swords and get them to you.”

He twerked a brow up at her in true interest. “You? Won’t that break some code of ethics and go against your personal morals?”

“It would be worse if they locked you up again.” 

She was flushed, her skin hot with embarrassment and he felt a need to touch it; to feel the heat. Brushing the pads of his fingers along her cheeks he soon had her blush against the palm of his hand. Her head tilted back again and he instantly thought about her lips on his. They had been soft and warm. Just a peck, he hadn’t gotten a taste but he imagined she was sweet like her scent. 

But he was also running out of time.

Miya was going to kill him, messing around like this and completely forgetting his mission. But Izayoi was a good distraction, pulling her close and whispering into her face. “Alright, Dr. Hime, I will entrust the return of my swords to you. Listen carefully. You can NOT touch them.”

“How am I supposed to get them if I can’t…”

“Then find them and tell me where they are. I’ll come back and get them. Either way, don’t touch them. It will kill you.”

She was shaking her head but he knew she would listen, pulling her the last few inches to plant his mouth on her forehead. She leaned into it, pressing her skin deeper into him. He had to force himself to let go of her and it was a struggle. One he had never felt before; not for anyone as his muscles strained just to push her back enough to break contact. 

“Thank you, Izayoi.”

He caught the small stumble she did when he released her completely; stepping back and speeding away. There was a window at the end of the hallway and he was at it in a blink of a human eye. Looking back over his shoulder, Izayoi was still watching him; her eyes were wide again and her mouth parted. Toga had to force himself again to keep moving away from her, breaking the glass with ease and leaping out of it. Twenty stories was a bit much, even for a demon, so he had to bounce his way down off the building next to him. Rolling to his feet once he hit the bottom, he dared to look back at the window high above. It was nothing for him to make out all the details of the shattered window and marks he had also left on the side of the building.

So he could make out every detail of Izayoi’s astonished face as she hung dangerously out the shattered glass; watching his every move.

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[angrycasual]

Bound by flame is so frustrating because it could be such a good game if the devs had just played it a little before shipping it. There are so many little issues and the balance is, well, there's none of it. Nothing in the game was touched at all for balancing purposes. The dodge is a million times better than the parry and basically makes it obsolete. On console the fact that the parry is on a shoulder button that you can't remap makes that fact even more pronounced. The archers are so unbelievably overpowered it's insane. The arrows are aimed at you no matter how the enemy itself is positioned. The arrows go through walls and the archers themselves and enemies. The archers are always positioned in a fight so as to be impossible to sneak up on (and thereby take out before alerting the whole squad).

The shield guys are unbelievable overpowered. They are basically impervious to attack from the front and back, as well as the sides that should be undefended. Daggers cannot break shield, nor can your companions. Your two handed weapons can sometimes break shields, but the game decides when it wants to allow it. Most fights against shield guys goes --> kill everything else --> stand in place blocking while your companion kills it.

The companions are not created equal. Mathras and Rhelmar are literally zero help because not only can you not command them to block, but you can't tell them to fall back when they've taken aggro nor can you tell them which enemies to attack (ie archers and lower health targets) thereby making their impact nonexistent except in the most perfect of circumstances.

Every fight that's forced (mason's recruits, randval 1v1, captain 1v1) is needlessly frustrating because everyone does entirely too much damage and the terrain is specifically created so as not to help you. There's no cover, and in the captain fight the tiny tunnel makes the camera fight against you the entire time by making sure you can only see rock and wood. You literally have to use the meager sound cues or just guess to make sure you don't get hit, unless you make sure to stand on the edge of the cliff where there's no ceiling.

And then the perfect parrys and perfect dodges only hinder you, the absolute opposite of what it should do. In basically all the boss fights (the concubines and last boss especially) you need to try your hardest to not get perfect dodges, because the devs who must have played the game only on recruit, decided to have every perfect parry and perfect dodge have an instant counterattack. Which is so unbelievably not good (and actively is trying to kill you) because after most of all of the bosses attacks are followed up with more attacks, which you are immediately hit by because your character decided to get up close and personal when you desperately needed them not to. And god forbid this is an attack that knocks you down, making certain that your perfect dodge (which /should/ only be beneficial to you) gets you instantly killed. This means your only chance of not dying after accidentally perfect dodging is to increase your interuppt chance, and not only is interrupt chance difficult to get, but is in no world something that should be required after a perfect parry or dodge. During the last boss if I make the mistake of perfect dodging the dagger assault I need to face my character 180 away from the boss so the momentum of her attacks takes her out of the range of the boss, because if I allowed the counterattack I would literally, instantly, die. This is such an insane oversight I wonder at if this game was play tested at all.

And the end boss. Literally everyone agrees that it is absurdly difficult for no good reason. With 54% damage resist (plus her -25% damage due to poison), she halves my health in one hit. That's about 60 damage. there are no checkpoints, so don't die. Which means, don't get hit twice in a row, and don't let the dragon breath touch you for over 1.5seconds. You have no companions so not even an iota of extra damage or healing despite having a companion for the entirety of the game. When any game tries to emulate dark souls they always have the mistaken idea that difficult means unforgiving. And it is absolutely unforgiving. Stunlocks, wonky hit boxes, dragon breath having no visual indicator you're in its range, and absurd damage done by everything, is not only not a fun boss, but it's not well designed.

Any one of these issues would have been caught before release by people who cared, but because fun came second to trying to be stupidly difficult, nothing was fixed. And that is so frustrating when you can see the potential the game had. Basically, I think devs should always be forced to play their own game on their hardest difficulty before they're allowed to sell it, because otherwise you get frustrating, unfun experiences like this

[x-files-imagines]

Love, Requited

Request: Could you do a Mulder x reader where they're trying to catch something like in Stretch (Eugene Rooms) and the reader almost gets killed because she and Scully decided she would be bait. Maybe the bad guy has her cornered when Mulder saves her, and later he's yelling at her and Scully when he accidentally reveals he likes reader. Sorry if that's too specific! You're a really great writer by the way.

Summary: Scully and Reader hatch a plan behind Mulder’s back to catch a man who uses fog to suffocate his victims. Mulder does not take to it well.

Pairing: Mulder x (f) Reader

Warnings: angst, some violence, mild snogging

Word Count: 2,041

A/n: I hope that this was what you’re looking for, Anon! Thank you for the kind words and, of course, the request itself; it was fun crafting this Tooms-esque monster. Anyhow, for my other readers, I hope you guys also enjoy!

“Are you sure about this?” Scully quirked an eyebrow as she handed Y/n the harness to be used for a quick getaway. Y/n hesitated, but firmly nodded her head, slipping into the harness.

“He seems to have taken a particular liking to me. I think he’s most likely to fall for the trap if I’m the one,” Y/n replied, trying to keep her shaking hands still. Nick Wilson, or, as Mulder and Y/n had come to refer to him, Mist, had made the young agent his latest target, and she and Scully decided to lay out a trail for the suffocating monster to follow, which would ultimately lead to his capture.

“I still don’t understand how he does it,” Scully said. She glanced out into the empty street. The two agents were standing in the shadows of a shop front, waiting for Mist to emerge from his apartment in the building across the street. “How an ordinary man can asphyxiate his victims without laying a single finger on them. The use of noxious gases would explain it, if it weren’t for the fact that all of the coroner’s reports found no traces of harmful substances in the victims.”

Y/n pursed her lips, electing not to reply. Scully knew that she sided with Mulder on this particular case; now was not the time for more debate. Instead, she fiddled with the buckles and straps of the harness, adjusting the fit and hoping that this plan she and Scully crafted would work. It was a little crazy, and both of the agents chose not to fill Mulder in on it because he would have adamantly opposed the idea of putting either one of his partners in such direct harm’s way. But it was true that Mist seemed to have singled out Y/n as his next victim, and any other person in her place would result in a failed operation.

“Let’s go over the plan one more time,” Y/n said, wanting to stay focused on the present. Scully sensed her unease and reached over to give her arm a quick squeeze. She went over the details once more while Y/n tried to adjust her sweater so that it covered the harness.

A brief silence passed between the two of them, until Scully tugged Y/n’s sleeve, glancing across the street. There he was: Nicholas Wilson.

“You’ll be okay, Y/l/n; Mulder and I will be sure of it,” Scully whispered and silently slipped through the door, into the darkened shop. It was time. Y/n inhaled deeply and exhaled as she forced herself step from the shop front, exposing herself to the light of the yellow street lamps. She looked down the street, feigning indecision, trying to buy Scully time to run up to the rooftop whilst catching Mist’s attention without catching his eye.

When she was sure Mist was watching her, she turned and walked briskly down the sidewalk, eyes trained on the alleyway she was to enter. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets to stop their shaking. A thick fog that hugged the ground began to roll and sift around her ankles. So Mulder’s theory was correct.

Y/n picked up her pace, wondering if Mist would wait to attack her until they were somewhere secluded, or if the fog would soon be seclusion enough for him. She turned and entered the alleyway. Now was an appropriate time to turn around and pretend to notice him for the first time, she thought. But, when she glanced over her shoulder, the alley and street beyond were empty, save for the fog that only continued to thicken and rise.

Wait, Y/n wondered, her eyes widening. He doesn’t control the fog; he is the fog.

Y/n knew she was in trouble then. She turned on her heel and tore off in the direction of the dead end she and Scully had staked out. She had to get this over with, before it was too late.

Soon, she could hardly see in front of her, so thick was the fog. But she could see just well enough to catch the turn and sprint to the dead end where the clip for the harness hung from a thick cable. Y/n turned around to make sure Mist had followed her down the alley, and, sure enough, as the fog silently and menacingly crept down the road towards her, the figure of Nick Wilson slowly began to materialize from the rolling clouds. His eyes glowed silver, and his mouth curled into a grin that made Y/n’s blood freeze.

Wasting no more time, Y/n grabbed the cable and fumbled with the hook, her hands still unsteady. Mist continued his steady advance.

“Stay back!” Y/n shouted. It was the cue that she and Scully had decided upon to signal she was ready to be pulled up on the rooftop.

Mist laughed with a deep, unsettling rumbling from his chest. “My darling agent, you should have known you were next on my list.”

“That is precisely why I’m here,” Y/n replied, her voice steady despite her ever-growing fear. Where was Scully? “I said, stay back!”

Finally, the groan of the motor was heard from above. Mist furrowed his brow in confusion, and looked up to the source of the sound. Y/n released a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She was safe. Any second, she would be pulled up to safety to the rooftop with Scully, and Mulder, hiding somewhere in the shadows, would take care of the rest. Slowly, Y/n began to rise from the ground.

But then, a long whine, some gurgling, and then the machine stopped. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Y/n’s panic rose, while her body remained a foot off the ground. Mist brought his gaze back down to Y/n, and his chilling grin grew even wider.

“Clever attempt to ambush me, but it looks like I’ll have you after all,” he said, losing his slow and steady gait, sweeping forward to grab Y/n by the throat. Despite hanging a foot from the ground, Mist still had an inch or two over her.

Y/n’s adrenaline surged, and she gave her attacker a firm kick to the stomach. He doubled over and stumbled back a few steps, which bought Y/n enough time to unclip herself from the pulley. She fell to the ground, landing on her elbow in a way that sent stars into her eyes. Suddenly, gunshots were heard from above. Scully.

But when Y/n looked up to Mist, she did not find a bleeding man; instead, an apparition of the once solid figure stood before her, impervious to the bullets from Scully’s gun. His silver eyes burned with anger, and, as he flared his nostrils, the fog covering the alleyway swept past him and saturated Y/n’s lungs. She couldn’t breathe, no matter much she gasped for breath.

“Goodbye, Agent Y/l/n,” Mist drawled. Y/n’s vision began to get hazy as the fog continued to suffocate her. No! she thought, Not yet! But she was fading by the second. 

Then, an angry voice -- not Mist’s. Her bleary eyes could just make out a bright yellow light flashing in front of her, like a flame, and then, suddenly, her lungs cleared. A pair of strong hands grabbed her, helping her sit up straight as she gasped for the cool night air.

Y/n’s vision finally cleared, and she looked up to find Mulder’s deep, brown eyes on her, his brows knitted in anxiety.

“Mulder,” Y/n choked out, and he pulled her into a hug, rubbing her back and rocking her back and forth. Over his shoulder, Y/n saw Scully running towards them.

“Wilson?” Scully asked, searching the alley for any signs of a return attack.

“Gone,” Mulder replied, letting go of Y/n and rising from the ground. He offered Y/n a hand up, and she took it, gratefully. “I think he’s gone for good.”

Scully’s expression read that she thought otherwise, but she said nothing more. All three agents were too exhausted for an argument. Well, two out of the three.

“Why would you do that?” Mulder demanded, rounding on Y/n. Her arms were crossed, her body shivering as she began to calm down. She had prepared herself for this.

“He wanted me next. Simple as that,” Y/n replied.

“I thought we were going to have someone else act as bait,” Mulder said. “Or, at least have a plan that was a lot safer and didn’t put you in so much danger!”

“It worked in the end, Mulder.,” Scully placed a hand on the bristling agent’s shoulder. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Mulder shrugged Scully’s hand away, turning his angry eyes on her. “What if it didn’t work? What if I wasn’t there?” he cried. “Y/n would have been dead. Why would you let her put herself in all that trouble?”

“Mulder, calm down,” Scully’s voice lost its consoling tone as she became more frustrated with his outbursts. “Your adrenaline is --”

“No, this is serious! You shouldn’t have let Y/n get herself almost killed!”

“Why are you so worked up over this?”

“Because I care about her, of course! If I lost Y/n, I-- I--”

“Mulder!” Y/n cut in, just as frustrated with his antics as Scully, but also growing in anxiety of what he was trying to say. She pinned him with a stony gaze. “Don’t blame Scully. This was largely my idea. I insisted upon being the one to lure Mist here. He had no interest in anyone else. Don’t you understand? Anyone else, and this plan wouldn’t have worked. Anyone else, and he would’ve found me at a time in which you and Scully wouldn’t have been around, and then I really would’ve been dead.”

Mulder was silent. He searched Y/n’s eyes, as if he were looking for another reason to stay angry. He found nothing, and finally relaxed his posture and looked down at the pavement. Scully smiled grimly and gave Y/n a knowing look.

“I’m going to survey the area, see if there’s anything we’re missing here,” she said and left her partners behind to sort out some feelings she had been all-too-well aware of for far too long.

Y/n sighed, and rubbed her arms, trying to summon some warmth to her skin. Mulder noticed, and he quickly slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Y/n smiled in appreciation.

“You know, I meant what I said,” Mulder met Y/n’s gaze, a deep expression in his eyes that she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“What?”

“I care about you,” he said, smiling softly, a little sheepishly. “A lot.”

Y/n had a sense of what Mulder was getting at, but she was too nervous to make the assumption. Instead, she carefully said, “Well, I care about you too.”

“No, no, what I mean is --” Mulder took a step closer to Y/n. They were barely a foot apart. Her breath was caught in her throat, but not because of the fog. “And I think you feel this way too, so I’m just going to say it.”

There was a pause, and Mulder looked up to the stars, as he was asking for whatever alien up there, watching them, to give him the courage to say his next words.

“Well, actually --” and Mulder leaned in, closing the space between him and Y/n with a kiss. It was soft and somewhat hesitant, yet entirely inviting, and Y/n found herself leaning into him, despite herself.

When they parted, a certain look in both of their eyes was more than enough to confirm that, yes, the feeling was mutual. They laughed, and Mulder quickly dipped his head to steal another kiss. Y/n felt over the moon.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Scully called from the other end of the alley. She wore a satisfied smirk, glad that the two finally had a heart-to-heart about their long-repressed feelings. Turning on her heel, she said, “Let’s go.”

Y/n and Mulder shared one last smile, and they strolled easily, happily, and relievedly back to the car where Scully was waiting.

[gear-project]

Annon-Guy: 1. Do Gears in general (Sol, Justice, Testament, Dizzy, Sin and Post-Overture Ky) have an Accelerated Healing Factor or just good durability? 2. Is there also a limit to what they can heal from? I know Justice dies canonically do to a fatal strike from, Sol while in a few Non-Canon endings, Sol dies from a Time-Paradox, Dizzy is killed off-screen by someone through unknown methods (I-No most likely did it through torture) and Testament dies from a Forest Fire.

1. In the case of Prime Field Gears, it's a combination of both, though they aren't completely impervious to injury.

Dizzy is durable enough that a basic katana sword can chip on her skin (when Baiken tried to cut her).

2. As is the case with most Gears, Magic-based or Magic-infused attacks work well on Gears, particularly instroment-based weapons, like the OutRage.  There are some Giant-based Gears that are resistant to Magic, but they are rare and often slow-moving.

3. Sol didn't actually "die" from the Paradox, he just received a lot of physical/psychological damage.  After Asuka corrected his way of thinking about the Paradox (by giving him a hint about how it worked, via Self-Assertion), Sol was able to correct the situation in a different timeline.

Even in the case of a more powerful paradox, Sol wouldn't die, simply because of the Flame of Corruption Seed inside his body, which acts as a power source for his Gear Cells.  Sol and Aria are the only Gears known to have this ability.

4. As for Testament's "bad ending routes", Dizzy could have been killed, as could Testament, but not simply because of a forest fire.  In that "bad timeline", Testament's forest was being raided by a large enemy force (presumably the P.W.A.B. and an army of bounty hunters).  In Dizzy's case, it would take "a lot" for her to be killed, so most likely she was unconscious from a severe attack.

Because Dizzy is near identical to Justice in terms of physiology (being a Backup of Justice), it would be extremely difficult to kill Dizzy (but again, not impossible, as was the case with Justice).

In one of the other "alternate timelines", A.B.A. was given the task of capturing Dizzy for the P.W.A.B., and technically speaking A.B.A. and Flament Nagel would be "strong enough" to put up a fight against Dizzy, but it's unlikely they could actually kill her, mainly because Flament Nagel isn't a Magic-based weapon (even in his Shinigami form).   They could put up a fight with raw power and speed, but it wouldn't do much good.

That, and Dizzy’s ability to adapt quickly to battle situations and evolve is currently unmeasurable.  (Even Millia Rage states that Dizzy is a monster in this regard, that it would be better for everyone if Dizzy never fought anyone ever again.)

[tbsongs]

chapter 18 preview

Harry had two playlists set for the party to celebrate the first weekend where all his friends were back in town – the way, he decided, to kick their spring semester off right.

The main playlist was for the kick back, expertly crafted to slowly build with the level of alcohol in body until Party in the USA could come on and everyone would drunkenly sway with red cups in the air and belt it out at the top of their lungs. Songs For The Best Night it was aptly named.

And there was his personal playlist, the one with all his favorite upbeat songs. Harry often didn’t listen to music through a Bluetooth speaker – usually preferring headphones or his record player. But these songs were made for that – as if there were any other way to listen to Crazy In Love. He’d be mixing cake and icing for his cake pops and drop his spatula to hold his fist up in the air and grind his hips in the air to the uh, oh, uh, oh, uh oh – oh na na.

This playlist was made for him to let the music flow, tilt his head back and belt lyrics – to dance like nobody was watching.

And usually there wasn’t.

But Louis, bless his soul, was trying to help Harry set up for his kick back.

Louis stepped back into Harry’s living room from the back porch, finished setting up the cheap metal firepit and all the chairs he could around it. He took off his coat, tossing it over the back of the couch, as the heat from Harry’s place warmed him. He pulled the sleeves of his hoodie over his fingers. “Haz, I’ve finished up in the back,” he called.

But Louis didn’t think that Harry could hear him. Because Lizzo was absolutely blasting over the speaker.

He stepped into the kitchen to find Harry with a pale blue bumblebee apron wrapped around his body, his back towards Louis. He was bare foot with his head tilted back, curls cascading down his back. He punched the air as trumpets pounded and swelled aggressively. The music started to rise with the chorus I’m cryin’ cuz I love you. Harry belted out a rift along with Lizzo, turning his body and finally, he came face to face with Louis.

He stopped in his tracks for a moment, eyes wide and chest huffing. His cheeks were flushed and his hair wild. Lizzo kept singing on behind him, leaving just the two of them paused, frozen.

Harry’s eyes raked up and down Louis’ body and a smile easily fell over their lips.

Harry picked up a frilly white apron, placed it over Louis’ head, and used it to drag Louis closer when the music picked back up again. Louis laughed, loud and with his entire body jostling with it. Harry tied the apron for him quickly then put both of his clutched both of his fists in the air to make a complete show of singing the end of the song.

Louis leaned over, kissed his cheek, when the music slowed down. “How’s your buffalo dip coming?”

Harry gave it one last mix before he nodded. “All done,” he said, taking off his apron. He hung in on the hook near the door. “I’m gonna go get changed. Let people in for me, yeah?”

“’Course, babe.” Louis said, taking the apron off that Harry put on him, silently chuckling at how ridiculous he figured he looked in it. But perhaps, he thought, it wouldn’t look so ridiculous if Harry wore that for him with nothing on underneath.

He’d have to admit that he would like that.

Before he could get too distracted by those thoughts, a quick knock came from the door.

He soothed a hand down his hoodie when he pulled it open, Niall loudly spilling through with two other guys trailing behind him – Aaron and Nick.

“Lou, mate!” Niall called, eagerly. He wrapped an arm loosely around his shoulders and pulled him close, he was deceptively strong. “Good to see you. Your break was good, yeah?” Niall was already walking towards the kitchen – being the first person Harry made friends with at Kentwood, Niall had no issues making himself at home. They used to room together, when Harry stayed on campus. He pulled open the fridge, grabbing a handful of beers.

“Yeah, my break was good, man. Yours?”

“Can’t complain, man. I know you know Aaron,” Niall said, making quick work of popping the tops of the beers. “You met Nick Grimshaw?”

“Can’t say I have,” Louis said extending his hand towards Nick. “I’m Louis, do you work at the station?”

Nick’s eyes looked up, his perfectly quaffed hair bouncing with every movement his head made. “Yeah, I’ve got the morning show.”

“Nick’s a great host, real funny. He gets a lot of guests in for the station.” Aaron reached for the beer extended towards him from Niall, downing a quarter of it. Niall complained angrily behind him that he didn’t cheers first while another knock came from the door.

“I better go get that. Harry should be out soon,” Louis said, shuffling towards the door.

He heard Niall call “Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” behind him and figured Harry was now in the kitchen. Louis pulled open the door, finding Liam and Zayn excitedly talking to two girls. One, Louis recognized as Madison, another radio show host he had met once or twice. Judging by the low position of her hand on the other girl’s hip, he be willing to guess that it was the girlfriend he heard so much about.

Jess, Louis found out, was her name. She introduced herself just as Harry snuck up behind Louis to invite everyone in. Harry pressed his chest to Louis’ back as he opened the door wider to usher everyone in. Harry had a fajita bar set out on the table, strips of chicken, steak, and veggies in separate bowls on warming plates and toppings scattered around.

Everyone built their own plates, squeezing together in Harry’s living room, sitting on the couch, arms of chairs, floor cushions. Everyone chatted happily through the food, jovial laughter spilling through the air.

“H, did you set the firepit out?” Liam asked, finishing the last of his beer and gathering a few plates.

“Lou set it all up. Everyone want to go out there?”

With collective nods of agreement, everyone shrugged back on their heavy coats or bundled up in blankets to go huddle around the firepit on the porch. “I’ll get everyone a fresh round before I head out,” Harry as the party started to spill outside to the sounds of S.O.B by Nathaniel Rateliff and The Night Sweats fittingly played over his speaker.

“Baby, what’ll you have?” Harry called to Louis, clapping along to the song.

“Whatever ya pour me, gorgeous.” Louis called, stepping outside with the lighter to shivering voices, urging him to hurry up. “Alright, alright. Calm it you lot,” Harry heard him say as he slid the door closed.

Harry bounced around to the song, mixing a vodka soda for Jess, a couple of rum and cokes for Liam and Zayn. He grabbed a few beers and a bottle before heading out. After he passed the drinks around, he took his saved seat next to Louis, huddling under the blanket he had set over his shoulders.

Louis sniffed the cup before he brought it to his lips. “What is it?”

“Mixed that guava mango juice you like with some fruity vodka.”

“The juice in the glass bottle?”

“The very one,” Harry said with a smile, pressing his cup to Louis’ for a quick cheers.

“I’ve never been to a party before,” Jess spoke to no one in particular, face flush and a soft look on her face. She hiccupped around her cup, nursing her drink slowly.

“Not even in high school, babes?” Niall asked, turning towards her.

“Nah, never. Home schooled. Didn’t even have my first sip of alcohol til Mads gave me some wine.”

Madison shivered beside her, but not from the cold. The alcohol warmed their bodies, made them feel impervious to the cold – young and free from even nature’s elements. “That wasn’t a great night,” she chuckled.

“What were the parties like?” Jess mumbled, casting glances around to the group.

“Lots of kids acting way too mature for their age and too loud music.” Zayn responded.

“And games, like weird sorts of games.” Liam said, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“This is pretty tame, if I’m honest, as far as parties go.” Niall added.

“Hey,” Harry drawled slowly. “I throw a good party.” He spoke defensively.

“Want something to liven it up?” Zayn asked, with a smirk. He reached into his pocket, pulling open a metal case. He popped it open, holding a few rolled joints to the group. He took one out, placing it behind his ear, before passing the case around to the group. “Lou, hand me that lighter, will ya?”

Jess passed the case to Niall without so much as a second glance. “What kind of games?” She asked Liam.

“Like spin the bottle, never have I ever kind of games.”

Niall took a joint, waiting for the lighter to follow the metal case. He passed it to Nick, who let it go straight to Louis. “None for you, Nick?”

“No, if I smoke while I drink, I get really nauseous for some reason.” He said with a shrug. “I always have to stick to one or the other.”

“Ah, that’s fair, mate. Tough luck, though.”

“What’s never have I ever?” Jess asked. The fire picked up as Liam sat another log into the flames. It licked up, casting a glow against his face while he answered her question – like he was telling some scary ghost campfire story.

“You basically go around the circle, say something you haven’t done. If someone in the group has done it, they drink. And you just keep going around.”

“Let’s play! Can we play?” Jess asked excitedly. Louis picked up the metal case as it came to him.

“Share one with me, love? Don’t feel like going in on one by myself.” Louis whispered over to Harry.

“Sure thing.”

“Let’s play, eh lads? Like we are proper teenagers again?” Niall asked the group, not willing to let the excited look fall from Jess’ face. After getting what seemed to be an affirmative answer from the group, although most of them admittedly were paying more attention to lighting their joints, Niall said, “I’ll start.”

Niall mulled it over on his inhale, holding the smoke in his lungs. On his exhale he hummed. “Never have I ever seen a Star Wars movie.”

Everyone took a sip of their drink. “How have you made it twenty years and have never seen a Star Wars movie?” Louis asked. While Liam said he knew what they’d be playing for the next movie night.

Nick was next. “Never have I ever had sex with a girl.”

“Never, mate?” Niall asked, wrapping his lips around his beer and taking a sip. Nick just shrugged. It was Liam’s turn.

“Never have I ever broken up with someone over text.” Liam said. Niall drank. “Niall! What happened?”

Niall started to giggle, taking another drag from the joint. “In my defense, yeah. I didn’t think we were together. We had one date in high school, and she told everyone she was my girlfriend – like everyone. The date didn’t even go well. She only talked about herself and dug her nails into my thigh the whole time.” Niall shrugged through everyone’s apologies.

Harry took his turn after he pulled the smoke into his lungs and exhaled. “Never have I ever had a one night stand.” He raised a nonjudgmental eyebrow and smirked as he watched Louis take a sip.

“Never have I ever gone skinny dipping.” Louis said, laughing. He knew that Harry, the first time he ever got drunk, threw his swim shorts off and jumped in the pool with his friends. He saw the blush creep over his cheeks as he drank.

Zayn held his drink up before he drank. Then it was his turn. “Never have I ever been spanked, sexually.” He threw a pointed look at Liam. Liam blanched at Zayn, scarlet shading his face. Louis heard dark expletives come out of Liam’s mouth as he threw back the rest of his drink.

“You did that on purpose, mate!” Liam said, shoving a hand onto Zayn’s chest. Zayn and Louis both fell over, clutching their stomachs and laughing.

“Wait, wait. Payno. Please tell us what happened?”

“Only if you want to,” Harry clarified.

“Okay, okay. There was this girl I was dating freshman year. She was just really into trying new things. She wanted to try everything,” Liam said, shrugging. When Niall tried to press for more information, like what exactly she wanted to try, Liam dared him to try and find out.

On Madison’s turn, she said, “Never have I ever tried bondage.” Liam drank.

“Never have I ever been a Dominant.” Liam drank.

“A submissive?” Liam drank again.

“Never have I ever had sex outside of a home,” Jess said.

Harry mulled over drinking. Technically, it was just oral sex that time in the studio. Did that count? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Louis watching him. He raised his cup to his lips; Louis perfectly mimicked his motion. Harry wondered if they were thinking the same thing.

“Let’s head inside,” Nick called, watching the fire die out. “It’s getting fucking cold.”

Harry stood, felt his head sway and giggles start to erupt out of his mouth. When he got his blood flowing, tried to use what fine motor skills he had, his vision felt like he went into the settings on an old DVD and set it to widescreen. He smiled and held onto Louis’ hand. He saw the same thing wash over everyone else’s faces as they stood and walked inside too.

They all sauntered inside to Wannabe by the Spice Girls.

“Oi, let’s play the other game you mentioned, Li. Spin the bottle!” Niall called.

“I’ve actually never played.” Zayn reflected, plopping down on the floor. Liam worked with Harry in the kitchen, making everyone fresh drinks. Really, he just put the most effort into making his own mojito and left everyone else’s drink to Harry. He did help carry them though.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

A Flame For A Cabbage (Part 1)

Summary: The world is at war, it has been for a hundred years or so. The tribes have fallen and the Earth Kingdom is next. In the midst of a war, an ambitious merchant simply tries to sell cabbages. Azula-Cabbage Man Role swap AU

The sky hanging above the wall is an incredible sight, a canvas of orange with splashes of pinks and golds. It is a fine opening to what may very well be a final day. In her travels, Azula has heard tell of it. Of a device that set to breech Ba Sing Se’s walls. Even still, she has a job to do. She isn’t particularly worried about trifles outside of the wall. She fashions her hair into a scraggly topknot--she can never seem to tame her locks--and slips into her day clothing. 

She doesn’t have much in way of possessions just a  small cabbage stall--already twice destroyed by the Avatar and his companions--and the essentials, a few changes of clothes, a makeshift comb, a waterskin, a few pairs of shoes, and some kitchenware and gardening tools. She puts on her conical hat and heads out and into the streets. 

She can hear the rumbles even from this distance and considers that maybe it is a horrid idea to find herself outside. But then, maybe she can sell a few doomsday cabbages. She pushes a cart full of them into the center of the market square. 

The square is bustling and jovial. Azula can’t help but be intrigued, it perplexes her how they can be so happy with their sanctuary seconds away from a breech. A woman passes by her stall. “Would you like to buy a cabbage?” She asks. “It may be your last chance to buy one, now that the war has reached Ba Sing Se.”

“Excuse me?” The woman tilts her head. 

Azula conceals an exasperated sigh. “The city is going to fall and we are all going to die today. I recommend buying a cabbage as your last meal.”

The woman gulps and walks away. A rather brisk and hustled walk. Azula pouts to herself, she never has been particularly great with people. Not friendly conversation anyhow. She wonders if she may have come on too strong. She approaches the next passerby differently, “would you be interested in a doom’s day cabbage?”

“Doom’s day?” The man asks. 

“Yes. Doom’s day.” 

“What do you mean?”

Azula blinks, “I mean that the wall is about to be breeched so I am offering you a good quality final meal.” She pauses, looking at the tray of food that he is already holding. “Rather something to enrich the one you already have.”

The man seems to consider for a moment and Azula dares to get her hopes up. She thinks that today will be her lucky day. With the Avatar and his friends preoccupied with the wall, there is no one to make a mess of things. The man pats his pockets. “I think that I just spent the last of my money on this.” He motions to his meal. 

Azula nods. “You should make better spending choices in the future. Good day.” 

The man frowns and makes his way away from her stall. She is almost certain that she has offended him somehow, but she opts to pretend that he had simply been mournful of his lost opportunity. 

She greets a second man and offers him a cabbage. 

“Maybe tomorrow.” The man smiles. 

“But there will not be a tomorrow.” Azula insists. 

He halts in his tracks. “Why wouldn’t there be a tomorrow.”

Azula founds herself staring in bemusement again. Could it be that they really don’t know about the drill. That they are absolutely oblivious to what transpires just on the other side of their walls? Azula parts her lips. “There’s a drill.”

“A drill?”

She nods. “It is Fire Nation. They are going to breach the outer wall very soon.” 

The man gives an uneasy chuckle and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He mumbles something before taking off much like the first woman. Azula sighs. She wonders if the Earth King knows about this, perhaps word has not reached him yet. Mayhaps it is she who should bring it to his attention. Her expression dims, who is she kidding? She can’t even sell a single cabbage much less be able to deliver profound information to the king himself.

She re-adjusts her hat and decides to herself that if she can sell just one cabbage, she will bring her news to the Earth King. She tries to draw consumers in but she doesn’t have the spunk nor vigor that the woman running the meat cart does. And she doesn’t have that suave and slick voice that the man running the jewelry stand boasts. She certainly doesn’t have the perky, cheeriness of the brother-sister botanist duo. 

She is just Azula. 

She supposes that her voice is pleasant enough and that her appearance is at least somewhat charming. But the baggy cotton pants and shirt she wears do her no favors. She is exceptionally average in those regards. But she has a sharp mind and she is something of a prodigy. She knows so, her father has said as much. Even if he hadn’t, she hasn’t seen anyone grow a cabbage as fast or as large as the ones she grows. The sheer amount of them is impressive if she must say.

She decides that she is wasting her talents on people who can’t recognize her talents. If she wants to do this, if she wants success--and she will have it one way or another--she will need to be bolder. 

She looks towards the sky; it is clear and blue. Early afternoon. She still has much of her day to accomplish what needs accomplishing. 

.oOo.

“This drill is a feat of scientific ingenuity and raw destructive power. Once it tunnels through the wall, our troops will storm their city. The Earth Kingdom will finally fall, and you can claim Ba Sing Se in the name of Fire Lord Ozai. Nothing can stop us.” Vows Qin.

Tylee taps her chin, “hmmm, what about those muscley guys down there?” Once quick glance into the drill’s binoculars reveals a team of well chiseled men. They slam rocks up against the drill’s framework. 

Sie listens intently to the conversation, wondering just were his life has gone wrong. He doesn’t wonder for too long, he thinks that he can pinpoint the exact moment when things had taken such a stark turn. 

Qin flashes a confident and boastful smile. “Please! The drill's metal shell is impervious to any earthbending attack.”

But that doesn’t alleviate the queasiness in Sie’s stomach.“Oh, I sure hope it is, War Minister Qin…” He trails off, he knows how these things usually go after a healthy amount of experience. “...but just to be on the safe side.” He looks to Mai and TyLee. “We should probably take care of that.” He cringes to himself as another rock collides with the drill. 

Twirling knife around her finger, Mai remarks, “Finally.”

Sie winces to himself, he hates when she does that. One of these days she is going to take someone’s eye out. 

“Something to do.” Her words are punctuated by a clunk and a shout. There it is. The moment he had dreaded. Mai apologizes less than half-heartedly. 

.oOo.

There, that should do, Azula thinks to herself. She knows that her task is no longer going to be easy. She is well aware that she has maneuvered herself right into the general vicinity of the Avatar himself. But she is a girl of goals and plenty of determination.

“Excuse me! You can’t be out here right now!” Calls the general. 

“I can be! And I will be! Maybe you don’t have the nerve to come down here and do what is necessary, but I do. I’m stronger than you.” Is what Azula would have declared had she heard the man over the sound of whirring mechanics and rebounding rocks. Instead she continues arranging her stall as though he hadn’t spoken at all. Because, as far as she is concerned, he hasn’t. And really, if a plea falls on def ears, has a plea really been made at all? Azula doesn’t ask herself this question because she has no reason to. 

Instead she taps one of the earth warriors on the shoulder. “Would you like to buy a cabbage. Battles are exhausting, you will have an advantage if you aren’t fighting hungry.”

“WHAT?” The man hollars over the noise of the drill. 

“These cabbages will help you prevent the apocalypse.” Azula speaks with more volume.

“WHAT!?” He repeats again. 

She flinches as the man drops to the ground. The man’s attacker waves before cartwheeling over to the next. Azula narrows her eyes, to think she had a sturdy sales pitch going for her too. 

.oOo.

Sie is growing more and more anxious. Mai and TyLee have returned and the earthbenders have been dealt with. But he knows that there will be more of them. He just knows it. He is also well aware of just how much trouble the Avatar can cause after having run into him in Omashu. But where is he? Where. 

A horrid noise violates his ears. “Congratulations, crew. The drill has made contact with the wall of Ba Sing Se, start the countdown to victory.”  

So why is it that he begins counting down to their defeat. It might be that he knows deep down that the protagonists always win. That those are the rules and he can deny them no more than he can deny the knife-related background death of one of the drill staff. His corpse has already been drawn out of the frame (blood and all) with no trace of it ever having been there. But with no place for it to have been reasonably moved to. 

He decides that it is also worth noting that a cabbage stall has been erected just outside of the wall. He wonders what kind of ploy this may be.

“War Minister, an engineer was ambushed! His schematics were stolen!” Declares one of the personal, confirming his suspicions about that damn cabbage stand. 

“Titans, go!” He coughs, “Sorry, I mean, let’s go ladies.” Whatever that cabbage merchant has planned, he won’t let it succeed. Too much is at stake here. His nation is depending on him and the Fire Lord, his father, has set expectations high. He dreads to think of what could happen if he comes home without victory. He can’t allow himself to end up like his banished and scarred brother. 

.oOo.

She watches them fall left and right, her potential customers drop like flies. The worst of it is that they actually seem interested in buying cabbages off of her. The problem is that by the time she has successfully communicated over the drill’s volume, they only have time to smile and say, “yeah, I’d like one” before a Fire Nation soldier intervenes. 

Feeling utterly defeated and rather useless, she makes her way to the infirmary. The least she can do is offer them a free cabbage for their troubles. She has an excess of them and she decides that it wouldn’t pay to waste a perfectly good cabbage. 

With a pang in her heart, she gathers a few of them into her arms and wanders back within the wall. This, of course, would have been a pristine opportunity for Sie to make a move but he has already opted to go after the ambushers. So, as most mishaps accidentally are, Azula blissfully avoided her own.

For some reason she ponders what everyone used to say of her; that she was born lucky. 

The sky is still blue and the temperature is pleasantly warm. Several of the soldiers take comfort in her cabbages. She supposes that, that is what matters; that people know the value of tedious and painstakingly grown produce. Particularly of the cabbage variety.  

Despite their suffered injuries, they seem happy. 

In fact, they thank her for the cabbages. 

No, she decides, she has hasn’t been born lucky. She forges luck for herself.

[daydreamindollie]

m.yg | The Innocent and The Sinful

Fragments Series: Just another incomplete written piece/plan/idea - not edited, not proofread, just raw writing w/ my notes 

|| opposites attract oneshot series ||

A/N: Yoongi’s one, I actually dusted up quite a bit so there aren’t any notes, just pure writing. I was ready to write an extended, very steamy scene in this but I guess that intimidated me and made me mentally shut down when writing this knowing that I had planned such a scene for the future of this oneshot. Don’t get me wrong, I was really excited to be writing smut for the first time...but, I also get nervous really easily and I’m a perfectionist+procrastinator - not a good combination! 

WARNING: May contain some conflict and violence nothing 

✚          ✚          ✚

The probability that two drastically opposing worlds should collide was highly unlikely, even more so the fact that they should harmonise under aesthetic melodies, and yet, despite this common perspective, it seems as though the path of two repelling ways of life magnetise along their way, and consequently, cross directions.

Such an innocuous stammer within one's path appears as irrelevant as the frequent act of unnamed strangers brushing shoulders, but an interaction must never be underestimated as the world's way of making an individual's tilted stage right again, can be a very peculiar thing.

☆

A night out with the usual gaggle of friends was well underway, falling upon its second hour the instant the clock ticked past eleven thirty (evening).

It was clear from the many blokes, who flashed ill grins upon catching the glint of uncertainty in your eyes, that this was an unfamiliar atmosphere for you, and suddenly, your friends' offer for free food and subsequent peaceful nights-in, no longer seemed worth-it as the sweat of discomfort tickled your brow.

"You look very tense there sweetpea!" Jia, the usual 'mother' of the group and your roommate, shouted from beside you, barely succeeding in overcoming the suffocating blare of music, "Have a drink and lighten up!" she encouraged, being strangely negligent to the obvious consequence of alcohol, especially in your circumstance. Not only were you a lightweight but everybody else within your group was drunk beyond the line of no return and someone needed to be responsible. 

It wasn't going to be Jia, definitely not - leaving only you.

"No thank you Unnie, I think I'll just go out for some fresh air." hefting a heavy sigh, you flashed a reassuring smile before making your way out. A clearing of the mind requires a cleaning of the air.

☆

"You're telling me," Yoongi stressed, an influential figure despite his diminutive build, "that nothing can be done to solve this." his voice hard and his eyes cold, a visible shiver rattled the spine of his unfortunate man of business.

"I'm sorry b-" the man attempted, only to be talked over by a booming voice.

"'Sorry' isn't going to fix things you little bastard, now, if you don't want my men coming after you, and the people you care about, then you better shut that bullshit-talking mouth of yours and get things done because I don’t pay you to hear crap fall out your asscrack of a mouth - got it?" the fire in his eyes was raging and untamed, hoping to rampage and set ablaze all that dared confront it - the poor man before him being the first victim, with licking flames already setting his toe-curled feet ablaze.

"Y-Yes S-“

"Now get the fuck out of my sight." once the stammering man had finally left, pudgy face sweating bullets of liquid fat and spindly thin hair clumping at his expansive forehead, Yoongi turned to his men. There was evident stress knotting his usually undisturbed brows. "I'm going for a smoke. I'll be back in thirty minutes.”

☆

Hissing at the bite of your stiletto heels, you attempt to savour the crisp night air without grimacing at the filth surrounding you, only able to fully disregard it by tilting your head towards the star-dusted night sky. Slowly, your mind began to clear and a small smile pinched your flustered cheeks, bad experiences truly brought out the good in all the little things - much like the majestic beauty of the night.

So spellbound by the charm of the late evening, you were innocent to the approaching danger, coming at you in the form of an intoxicated, stout man, drenched in a scented smog of liquor. He had no real intention of anything ill and would've let you be if he hadn't drowned himself in the immoral fluid beforehand.

Now, all acts and thoughts were unfiltered and ethics were cleared off his table of prioritised considerations.

At the sight of your figure, hugged tightly by the dark fabric of your dress, an animalistic growl of unadulterated desire left his chapped lips and, noticing your impervious state, he strides forward carelessly.

Taking a chance on his luck, he smiled satisfactorily when he stumbled into your frail figure and smirked at the vulnerable squeal that left your delicate lips when his heavyset frame fell onto yours and forced you against the cold brick wall.

☆

Regardless of Yoongi's pronounced reliance on nicotine during times of distress, he never truly liked the act of smoking; he always grimaced in the seconds leading up to lighting the cancer stick before inhaling a breath.

Another thing that he absolutely detests, in spite of his criminal line of work, was the sight and racket of harassment, especially now, when his wick of tolerance had already been burned up to only a hair's breadth from the night's deficient chain of events. Using up the last of that wick, Yoongi could only stand for less than a minute before he stuffed the cigarette back in its packet and approached the inebriated attacker.

"Hey, asshat," he grumbled, waiting for the man to turn before landing a heavy blow to his jaw, knocking him out cold with the propelled force of his frustrations. It was definitely a good way of de-stressing and Yoongi would have taken up boxing if he wasn't so indolent with the burdens of his position. Hence why, when Yoongi knew the harasser was down for the count, at just one hit, he stepped away and finally lit his cigarette - he probably wouldn't finish it completely after such relief. 

He didn't care for the girl the man was molesting, he only wanted peace and quiet when having his smoke but probably secretly wanted to punch a man as well - any man - after such vexing news was delivered to him tonight. For that reason, he didn't pay you any mind and selfishly savoured the silence as he took a drag. 

This man was something unworldly to you. He had taken on a bozo twice his size and won with just a single hit, now, he was lighting a cigarette, going about his business as if what he had just done was nothing out of the ordinary. 

Stepping closer and scrutinising his anatomy within the moonlight revealed how truly exquisite he was. His lean, ample limbs were garbed in a fitted black suit, darker than night and appearing silky under the rough stare of yellow street lamps. 

Supple ivory skin stretched over the features you were able to see bare: his face, neck and hands. The milky expanse of his nape silently pleaded for the sinful mark of bruising kisses, unsatisfied with the ink of a spiralling tattoo that climbed three delicious inches up the side of his neck, leading your mind to darkly ponder where it starts under the collar of his shirt. The hand he had holding the cigarette had long fingers with bulging veins decorating its back, leaving a simply intricate ring to embellish one elegant finger. His mysterious eyes were half hooded by a shadow containing undisclosed secrets that you yearned to acquaint yourself with, loving how the breath of smoke he exhaled spiralled into distinctive art before disappearing. 

Building up the courage, you stepped further forward, "u-umm..." you timidly began, “Thank-"

"Go home." he blatantly hissed, not sparing you a glance and, instead, took the time for another puff. Your morals weren't as such, however, because you needed to thank someone whose actions were worth appreciating, but as you stuttered to protest, he brushed you off once more.

"C-can I at least buy you lunch?-“

"Look, I didn't do it to help you, I just wanted some peace and quiet. Now, if you have half the brain that I think you do, then you'll take this chance to get the fuck out of here.”

Naturally, you were hesitant but complied with his harsh command. You didn't think any less of him because of his confession; it doesn't change the fact that he saved you from a traumatising experience, so he still deserved your proper gratitude. He wasn't willing to accept it and it's his decision whether or not he does, yes, but you were determined to repay him.  

☆

It was unusual for you to frequent a bar, even more so if the bar was the one where you were physically assaulted at. Your behaviour was very suspicious and your friends were quick to catch on, confronting you the night you're about to leave your shared apartment once more. You always left at the same night, at the same time with the same intentions in mind - you just need to see him again. 

"I'll be leaving now," you announce, slipping into your heels as your reflection stares back at you with satisfaction. 

"Babes, you've told us what happened to you that night, right?" your roommate confirms as she stood beside the door, causing you to raise a brow as you gave a reassuring nod. "Everything?" she pressed as you gave another nod, “Then…why do I feel like you're leaving one very crucial detail out?" her eyes are piercing you judiciously as you struggle to maintain a calm demeanour.

"Jia, I've told you everything," you promise a white lie. 

"Oh really?" the stare she sends you is chilling, "Because, it doesn't really make much sense if the first time a girl goes out in forever, gets harassed and suddenly makes it routine to visit said bar on the same night, at the same time, weekly!" avoiding her eyes, you attempt to cover your endeavours, "Well?...Did this guy threaten you or something? (Y/N), you know that I'm here for you." the hard front she puts forth slowly wore down with concern until only watery agony was present in her eyes.

"I-It's not like that Jia.”

"Then please tell me, Sweetie. You know how I hate being kept in the dark about these things." clearly, the stress was getting to her and you felt extremely guilty for causing such strain on her everyday deliberations; she already had many other things to reflect on, she didn't need you forcing more stress atop that. You remember how you told her your altered story of the night - one where there was now a mysterious, cold-hearted stranger saving you - and she was close to tears, apologising for not being a good enough friend, proven in her failed act of saving you. "I''m not here to judge you...I'm just concerned. Please tell me so that I'm self-assured that you'll be fine…and that I don't need to stalk you just to make sure you're safe." it was a joke that you embraced with a half-hearted laugh, encouraging you to tip the scale in favour of her apprehension. 

"Alright...I'll tell you," and that, you did. As promised, she didn't judge you but put forward her own advice, the lines of stress no longer creasing the space between her expressive brows. 

"Is he so handsome that you have to go so badly?" she jests, her enquiry still half-serious. 

"Very!" you giggle. Staring up at the clock on the wall, you gasp, already half an hour late.

"Sorry for keeping you but I'm thankful that you've finally told me." 

With a hug and a quick farewell for the night, you were off, taking care not to fall in your adequate stiletto heels. 

☆

It was the same scenario. This had become so routine that you were running through the upcoming events of the first few minutes into the club in your head. Everything flowed like clock work, which would be - to a normal person only wanting the norm - perfectly fine but you didn’t crave the norm, you were craving, yearning, and pleading to a non-existent god that he be there tonight. And yet, what should you do if he did show? In his mysterious, slender frame, enveloped in it’s cloud of mysterious musk that you were only barely able to savour briefly in your even more brief encounter. That night seemed to occur eons ago and it was eating you up inside. 

please remember that this is, unfortunately, not going to be continued as it is a part of my ‘Fragments’ Series, where I just post works that I have discontinued, maybe still in its drafting/notes-infused stage. I know it might seem like a pointless series but I’m proud of all my works and love to share more than I should.

[reciprocityfic]

a slight return home, chapter 5

Title: A Slight Return Home Fandom: The Walking Dead Pairing: Rick x Michonne Rating: T Summary: Rick’s death shakes Michonne’s world to its core. With her daughter and her remaining family, she tries to navigate her changed life, and all the struggles and surprises that come with it.

Author’s Note: Hi guys! Here's chapter 5 of A Slight Return Home. It's short, and a little different stylistically than I've been writing in this story so far, but I hope you like it anyways.

I listened to Shrike by Hozier while I wrote this, from his new album Wasteland, Baby! The title of the chapter comes from that song. The whole album is really amazing, and I encourage you to listen to the whole thing. 

read chapter one on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter two on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter three on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter four on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter five on archive of our own or ff.net

remember me, love, when i’m reborn (interlude)

Sometimes she thinks that he isn't dead.

It's silly, she knows. It's stupid. And most importantly, it's impossible.

Because she saw him. She saw him, standing before the bridge, a herd ambling towards him. He was covered in blood - in so much blood. She could detect the desperation - the resignation - in his eyes even with the distance between them, and she just had to get to him. She just had to get to him, and be there with him, because together, they could do it, because they were the ones who lived, because they didn't die, and she just had to get to him.

And then…

And then.

It didn't matter that they never found his body. She saw him. She watched it happen. She watched angry hues of red, yellow, and orange violently blossom and ravage the sky. She felt the heat of flame on her skin. She heard the ringing in her ears for a week afterwards, an incessant hum that taunted her, hissing reminders of her new truth at her in every still moment.

he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead…

He's dead. He's dead, and it's impossible.

Time passes. And she watches her children grow.

Judith's personality reveals itself more and more with each new day. She has her father's bravery, her mother's tenacity and wit, and her brother's heart. She gets taller, her blonde hair gradually turns brown, and her eyes darken to a deep hazel.

She changes. She's no longer the baby she cried over at the prison, nor the little girl that lost her father, all those years ago. She's different. A bit harder, a bit wearier. But there's still a brightness in her eyes, a hopefulness in her heart. An innocent naivety that she promises to preserve as long as it's safe to do so.

RJ turns into a little person, with his father's thick curls and brilliant smile, and her chocolate eyes and soulful laugh. Green is his favorite color. Apples are his favorite food. He loves to draw and paint with his sister, and build toy train tracks and sing songs with his mother.

His favorite thing to do is listen to stories about his father. He stares up at his mother, or sister, or the two of them together, with wide, shining eyes, caught up in every word that falls from their lips. And when they're finished, he asks for more, begging to listen until someone is needed elsewhere, or until he drifts off to sleep.

Her children are her light. The only illumination in the constant darkness of her life. And her only aim is to love them, to protect them with her entire being. With her last, dying breath.

And she clings to them, with all her might.

Sometimes she thinks that he isn't dead.

It's impossible. She knows.

But sometimes, she'll wake up in the morning, and she'll feel him. Not his spirit, or his soul. Him. Like their atoms are entwined together with bonds wholly impervious to any amount of distance or time. Like they're connected by some cosmic, invisible string.

And she can feel him. He's not next to her. Not there with her. But she's filled with the inexplicable knowledge that somewhere, out there, he's waking up too.

Sometimes, she'll watch Judith and RJ together, and when she smiles, it puts a pang in her heart. And not just because he's not here with his family. With her. But because he's somewhere, out there, and he's so far away. Because he's not where he's supposed to be.

But she pushes those feelings back, files them away in some dark, rarely-touched corner of her brain. She vows never to feel them again. They're useless. Empty. Will only do more harm than good.

She was there. She saw it happen. He's dead.

He's dead. He's dead, and it's impossible.

Time passes. And it gets easier, just like Aaron said it would.

But it doesn't get better.

She still misses him with the same searing pain, that steals her breath in quiet moments and dizzies her. There's still a hole in her heart, gaping and pouring blood. She's still a puzzle with a missing piece, forever searching for a completion that doesn't exist for her anymore.

She learns how to deal with it - how to function while irreparably wounded - and in that way, it gets easier.

But it doesn't get better.

(She's accepted the fact that it never will.)

Sometimes she thinks that he isn't dead.

It's impossible, she knows. She knows.

And she swears to stop thinking it, to never believe it, to beat it down and extinguish its burning so it never returns. Because it's futile. Meaningless. Will only do more harm than good.

She saw him, she saw it, he's dead.

(he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead...)

He's dead. He's dead, and it's impossible.

But sometimes.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, she thinks that he isn't dead.

(Sometimes, she thinks he's somewhere, out there. She just has to find him.)

A/N: There ya have it! 

Like I said, this chapter is short, and a little different, but it's really supposed to serve as a setup for the second part of this story. I'd love to know what you thought of it!

See you (hopefully) soon!

xoxo, Rebekah

[f4liveblogarchives]

Fantastic Four Vol 1 #116

Thurs Jul 25 2019 [06:01 PM] Wack'd: Yes, it's our first Doom team-up! But more importantly--holy shit is that a gradient on the title at the bottom?!

[06:01 PM] Wack'd: A bold new age of comic book coloring is upon us! [06:02 PM] Wack'd: Meanwhile, in the credits, Lee's title has been changed from "plotter" to "editor" [06:04 PM] Wack'd: The remaining three decide they need to make a plan themselves and I gotta admit? I'm surprised that this is our first issue where Reed literally can't work out the solution for them [06:04 PM] Wack'd: With this established a pattern, that's a good hook [06:05 PM] Wack'd: So it turns out the machine Reed slipped into earlier was radioactive [06:05 PM] maxwellelvis: oops [06:06 PM] Wack'd: And Sue determines that they might be able to trace that radiation signature to find Reed, using one of his gizmos [06:07 PM] Wack'd: (They can't use an actual geiger counter because, if an ordinary device could find the amount of radiation on Reed, he'd be very very screwed) [06:08 PM] Wack'd: Unfortunately, the landlord has got out and led the cops to the Baxter Building [06:08 PM] Wack'd: So Johnny fire-bombs them [06:08 PM] Wack'd: He fire-bombs the cops [06:08 PM] Wack'd: Normally I'd be all for this but, uh, time and a place, dude [06:09 PM] Wack'd: Good luck avoiding jail after that! [06:09 PM] Bocaj: Consequences are for people without superpowers [06:09 PM] Bocaj: like money [06:10 PM] maxwellelvis: "Fuck da police!" [06:10 PM] maxwellelvis: "Not now, Bic-head!" [06:10 PM] maxwellelvis: "JOHNNY NO!" [06:10 PM] maxwellelvis: "JOHNNY YES!" [06:10 PM] Wack'd: So rarely do heroes wading through the sewers acknowledge that actually it's not a fun time

[06:11 PM] maxwellelvis: Spider-Man grumbles about it all the time. [06:11 PM] Wack'd: So! Was Reed mind-controlled? Yes and no [06:12 PM] Wack'd: Reed's earlier boastfulness was him daring the Over-Mind to try and take him over [06:12 PM] Wack'd: Counting on the idea that he'd be able to resist [06:12 PM] Wack'd: And, well [06:12 PM] Wack'd: NOPE! [06:13 PM] Wack'd: Reed's arrogance gets his ass completely, thoroughly kicked [06:13 PM] Bocaj: Good [06:14 PM] Wack'd: Even the ol' "power of love" trick doesn't work!

[06:15 PM] Bocaj: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrvh_jB6c70 [06:15 PM] Bocaj: Hey this is some good imagery though [06:15 PM] Wack'd: It is! [06:15 PM] Wack'd: Buscema rules, actually [06:15 PM] maxwellelvis: Pretty sure that's why they got him to draw all those Conan comics [06:16 PM] Bocaj: I mean, he still can't draw children like a lot of artists can't [06:16 PM] Bocaj: Franklin is an unending nightmare [06:16 PM] Bocaj: Cherubic terror [06:16 PM] Wack'd: Anyway Reed is two seconds from being full-on mind-flayed when Johnny and Ben show up to kick the Over-Mind's ass [06:16 PM] Wack'd: Considering this went great when it was all four of them I'm sure this'll be no sweat [06:16 PM] Bocaj: wtf is sue? [06:17 PM] Wack'd: Glad you asked [06:17 PM] maxwellelvis: Getting backup, I think [06:17 PM] Wack'd: She's on monitor duty [06:17 PM] Bocaj: 😐 [06:17 PM] Wack'd: But seeing the guys getting their asses kicked she's like "actually, fuck this" [06:18 PM] Wack'd: And flies over to force-field Over-Mind into submission [06:18 PM] Wack'd: But hey, uh, remember last issue when he effortlessly broke her force field? [06:19 PM] Wack'd: And also how he just kind of in general is impervious to fire and brute force? [06:19 PM] Bocaj: yes [06:19 PM] Wack'd:

[06:20 PM] maxwellelvis: I was kinda hoping you'd say "Archie doesn't" [06:20 PM] Bocaj: So its not going great is I think what you're insinuating [06:21 PM] Wack'd: You know what? Picking up Johnny by the head *while he's flamed on* is one hell of a move [06:21 PM] Wack'd: Respect [06:21 PM] Wack'd: Also I initially interpreted this as Over-Mind hitting Ben with Johnny [06:22 PM] Bocaj: you gotta hit that motherfucker with this motherfucker [06:22 PM] Wack'd: Which also woulda been pretty cool [06:22 PM] maxwellelvis: You know, for a guy called "Overmind", he's surprisingly beefy [06:22 PM] Bocaj: Might overmind [06:22 PM] Wack'd: He was super strong first and then his entire race filed their brains into his head [06:22 PM] maxwellelvis: Ahh [06:22 PM] Bocaj: As ya do [06:23 PM] Bocaj: If you're a space nonsense [06:23 PM] Wack'd: So with Johnny and Ben out of commission and Reed being promoted to Over-Mind's second-in-command, Sue decides she needs backup [06:24 PM] Wack'd: (She also evades Over-Mind ordering Reed to kill her by taking her weird space bike as high as it could go, and then doing a hairpin turn which causes Reed to topple over, which is pretty neat) [06:25 PM] Wack'd: So anyway, about backup [06:26 PM] Wack'd: The Marvel Universe has conspired to that basically every single superhero has some out-of-NYC stuff happening in their own books [06:26 PM] Wack'd: (Or so the narrator claims--I'm certainly not about to go check) [06:27 PM] Bocaj: It was neat but probably unsustainable how the marvel universe used to do that [06:27 PM] Bocaj: If Iron Man was said to be too busy to do Avengers one month then his book tended to reflect that [06:27 PM] Wack'd: Huh! [06:27 PM] Bocaj: If Beast popped over to do an X-Men crossover, then he's not in Avengers [06:28 PM] MousaThe14: Yeah I’m relistening to Jay and Miles from the start again and it’s interesting to know that they at least attempted to keep that sort of thing consistent with Wolverine disappearing from the main book to have his own solo series and other such things [06:28 PM] Wack'd: Man Buscema out here killing it with the splash pages

[06:28 PM] Bocaj: I know that during Jim Shooter's era he tried to keep things organized like that so that the shared universe felt more unified. And with New Universe every book was supposed to progress a month at a time with every issue but not all the writers got the memo [06:29 PM] Umbramatic: oooh [06:29 PM] Wack'd: Kinda makes long-form storytelling tough [06:29 PM] Umbramatic: but huh [06:29 PM] Bocaj: It does [06:29 PM] Umbramatic: ye [06:29 PM] Bocaj: Its more manageable if the universe is smaller [06:29 PM] Bocaj: That space bike looks unnecessarily unergonomic [06:30 PM] Wack'd: And while I'm handing out kudos, the color department's doing killer work

[06:30 PM] Bocaj: Anyway, there's a website that tries to put all the marvel universe in a chronological order. I'll go check what they have to say [06:31 PM] Bocaj: (Huh, Franklin looks less horrific here) [06:31 PM] Wack'd: I feel like with Stan and Jack gone, everyone's starting to stretch their muscles a bit [06:32 PM] Wack'd: Or maybe it's just the natural progression of time, who knows [06:33 PM] Bocaj: Ok so the Avengers were busy with the Kree/Skrull War, including having to deal with the skrull cow loose ends that Reed left behind [06:33 PM] Bocaj: Thanks Reed [06:33 PM] Wack'd: Sue rolls a nat 20 on persuasion

[06:34 PM] Bocaj: Did she invent his honor and nobility out of whole cloth and mindfuck him into thinking thats who he was for decades to follow? [06:35 PM] Wack'd: It's been there in a few previous issues, though thanks to Stan it comes and goes depending on the needs of the plot [06:35 PM] Wack'd: I remember during the arc where he trapped them in Latveria the story couldn't make up its mind whether or not he cared if his subjects died [06:36 PM] Bocaj: Where he had the DOME? [06:36 PM] Wack'd: He also has a tendency to let the Four go when he's bored, which I suppose is kind of honorable [06:36 PM] Bocaj: if you think Goku is honorable [06:37 PM] Wack'd: But yeah, the idea that he isn't just an egomaniacal loon has kinda gently poked him on the shoulder now and again [06:38 PM] Wack'd:

[06:38 PM] Wack'd: "In about 20 other issues, but I don't recognize it either" [06:39 PM] MousaThe14: Old Man Johnny [06:39 PM] Wack'd: Doom and Goofy have the same dentist apparently

[06:39 PM] Bocaj: "I'm glad we don't have to deal with a bossy autocrat who tells us what to do everyday" [06:41 PM] Wack'd:

[06:42 PM] Wack'd: So Doom's plan is that Over-Mind will be too distracted by Johnny and Ben to fight Doom, who will use a "stop hitting yourself" device on him [06:43 PM] Wack'd: But anyway Doom does the comic book thing of announcing his moves [06:43 PM] Wack'd: And Over-Mind is, as established, not an idiot [06:43 PM] Wack'd: So he ignores Ben and Johnny and just wails on him [06:44 PM] Bocaj: Ha [06:44 PM] Wack'd: Sue was the contingency--she could use her force fields to protect Doom [06:44 PM] Wack'd: But, uh [06:45 PM] Wack'd: Well, he was supposed to take more of a beating first [06:45 PM] Wack'd: To weaken him [06:45 PM] Wack'd: So her force field does nothing and Reed is still convinced he needs to murder her, so [06:45 PM] Bocaj: This plan is butts [06:45 PM] Wack'd: It would've worked if Doom wasn't a boastful idiot! [06:46 PM] Bocaj: It was fundamentally flawed [06:46 PM] Wack'd: Fair

[06:47 PM] Wack'd: So! [06:47 PM] Wack'd: Doom is down. Sue is down. Johnny and Ben are worthless. The gizmo is broken. And Reed is more of a jerk than usual. [06:47 PM] maxwellelvis: Only the author can save them now [06:48 PM] Wack'd: Man, Archie Goodwin's way more buff than I thought he'd be

[06:48 PM] maxwellelvis: Oh no, not THIS asshole [06:49 PM] Wack'd: You're acquainted, I assume [06:49 PM] Bocaj: He's a gem fusion [06:49 PM] MousaThe14: The Stranger is looking less like a hobo than I last saw him [06:49 PM] maxwellelvis: He's the guy who basically heralded in one of the X-Men's lamest periods by literally spiriting away Magneto and Toad to his alien zoo. [06:49 PM] MousaThe14: But last I saw him was in an Essential X-men [06:50 PM] Bocaj: I like that his icon is his own mustache [06:50 PM] Wack'd: So turns out murdering Sue is a bridge too far for Reed, even as mind-whammied as he is, and he passes out [06:50 PM] Bocaj: They call that the ghola test [06:54 PM] Wack'd: Stranger: You call yourself unbeatable, and yet you are the sum of the Eternals, who were once beaten.   [06:54 PM] Wack'd: Over-Mind: By the survivors of Gigantus. What of it? [06:54 PM] Wack'd: Stranger: 😏 [06:54 PM] Wack'd: Over-Mind: well shit [06:55 PM] MousaThe14: The Eternals? You mean the Irrelevants? [06:55 PM] Wack'd: These Eternals will eventually be retconned to be those Eternals [06:55 PM] Wack'd: Don't worry about it [06:56 PM] Wack'd: Anyway the Stranger traps Over-Mind in the Micro-verse and pisses off [06:56 PM] MousaThe14: This is one hell of a deus ex [06:56 PM] Wack'd: It was actually set up earlier in the story! [06:56 PM] maxwellelvis: That's all the Stranger is is a walking deus ex machina [06:56 PM] Wack'd: It's more of a Chekov's gun, really [06:57 PM] Wack'd: If you put a race of beings capable of defeating your baddie above the mantle in the first act... [06:57 PM] MousaThe14: Oh well that’s fine. [06:57 PM] MousaThe14: Setup payoff, only the most basic form of storytelling. You’re free to go, F4 comic. [06:58 PM] Wack'd: Anyway Doom decides he's gonna go walk it off and next time, Richards! Next tiiiime, that whole bit. [06:59 PM] maxwellelvis: "Oh, by the way, Reed, I despise you, and all that you stand for, and oh you know the rest!" "He's a good kid" [06:59 PM] Wack'd: Johnny's pissed that the Stranger let them get their asses handed to them for like three issues when he coulda curbstomped Over-Mind whenever he wanted [06:59 PM] Wack'd: And concludes this was an act of deliberate malice on someone's part [07:00 PM] maxwellelvis: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U96sqmTFsss [07:00 PM] Wack'd: For once, Johnny actually has a point before storming off

[07:01 PM] Wack'd: The Watcher, seeing this, decides "fuck it, I'm gonna make this mean something"