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jangofctts · 3 years

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Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one)

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to.

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you—

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible.

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here.

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction.

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.”

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning.

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.”

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either…

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow.

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are.

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?”

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it.

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you.

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air.

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter.

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more.

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.”

Touching.

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow.

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.”

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen.

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor.

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.”

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three.

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand.

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop.

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.

You scowl. “It’s fine.”

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose.

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums.

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel.

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face.

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep.

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.”

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin.

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward.

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.”

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you.

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers.

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw.

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers.

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not.

Whatever.

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare.

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need.

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp.

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet.

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides.

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away.

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off.

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no.

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head.

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat. Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts.

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter.

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise.

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans.

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world.

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

#well it aint that good but it honest work wkerkjehr #my writing #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #fanfic #star wars #sw #star wars fanfiction #jangofctts

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docholligay · 4 years

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I go to Holocaust movies alone.

Mostly I tell people that I don’t watch Holocaust movies, that I don’t go to Holocaust exhibits, because I am not the target market. I don’t need to be reminded that the Holocaust happened, I don’t need to remember that human beings were murdered because they had the misfortune of being born the scapegoat, masterminding the world from their tailors’ benches and lawyers’ offices, as if we found the cunning to run the world but had not yet figured out to convince people we were human.

But I do go, sometimes. And I go alone.

It isn’t even a matter of not wanting to go with goyim--it’s true that I don’t watch Jewish movies with them, that I never trust them to understand and I am unwilling to be their Virgil in the Inferno that is the layers of Jewish thought and ethics and culture, some circles so intangible to me that I am not certain I have the words to explain what they misunderstand. It’s true that I hate they way they look over at me every five minutes as if to gauge my reaction, as if to see if they are experiencing it enough. It’s true that I won’t let them mine my pain for their clarity, and It’s true that I get tired of how lapsed Christians never really lapse in their hearts, the same as a Jew can only wish to stop being one. We are always a part of the things that built us, even if we hate them.

Maybe this is why Jews are comfortable hating God as they walk into temple.

Bold of him to assume it’s even about him.

But no, I don’t watch Holocaust movies with other Jews either. In this, I am as solitary as an oyster, to steal the wisdom of Charles Dickens, and that feels right. I have long taken my pain and my irritation and tried to turn it into something beautiful, even as I tell myself it’s alright to let it sit. Its alright to let sand be sand.

But here I am again, writing about why I don’t let anyone come with me, thinking I can make it poetic. Sometimes hermit crabs make their shells from trash, you know. They’re adaptable.

The movie was about Jews who hid in Berlin, after it was declared free of Jews. People who hid who they were and who passed through the streets brushing shoulders with goyim who maybe didn’t want them to die but maybe didn’t care if they lived.

My throat caught three times. I am a Montanan as much as I am a Jew, and so I choked it back, and I looked away from the screen, and I ate the genocide of a family I should have known but that the Germans shot into a ditch, and that salt tore into my throat.

I just took a drink.

I was the only Jew in the room, and I know this because there are only fifty or sixty of us in the city, and there were maybe forty people in the theater, and the quick math I did in my head made me silently thankful that I wouldn’t have to deal with the spectre of talking to someone about my feelings. Out of our fifty or sixty, only fifteen or less of us are Fievel goes West Jews. Only fifteen of us know to pray in Hebrew and shut up in English, and have no trouble with these two truths.

I’ve known the guy who sells tickets behind the counter since I was twelve years old. He looks at me with a sense of pity and tells me he hears this movie is wonderful, and I hate him instantly. I don’t watch Jewish movies with goyim. Except when I’m outnumbered in a tiny one room art theater where the tickets and the popcorn and the screen are all run by the same guy, who knows I’m a Jew and for one miserable second I think he’s going to ask me to say something. He gets a line forming. I’m lucky.

What should I say? What could i say that would not be laying out the loss of fifty percent of the Jewish population like a goddamn breakfast buffet, so people can take what they want and feel satisfied, so they can leave the rest and never think about it?

Judaism teaches us that anger is useless and worse, that you must turn it into love and into action. That you should learn that so well that you should have to feign anger when someone trespasses. Y’Israel doesn’t mean “struggles with God’ for nothing. I’ve never gotten there. All I do is burn with a white-hot heat as the woman on screen dyes her hair blonde. All I do, as Cioma fakes a passport, is look around at the goyim in the crowd, and wonder how many of them would turn me in for a free year of Amazon Prime. The stakes in my head become losing their jobs, and I wonder instead how many wouldn’t.

I hate them all. But I say nothing, because anger is useless, and because you pray in hebrew but shut up in English, and because I couldn’t even answer the cries of whoever it was that was machine gunned into the dirt, a language I don’t speak and world I don’t know, but one that grabs at my ankles, like a hound from hell, since I was six years old.

The men are outside, smoking, after Berlin falls. A Russian soldier comes to shoot them, and they yell, over and over, that they aren’t Germans, they’re Jews, that Germany would never let them be both and so they are Jews.

The soldier doesn’t believe them. Hitler killed all the Jews, he says, his gun cocked and pointed and full of fury. But he has a moment. Where God pins him and he believes.

“Say the Shema.” He says.

The movie explains it for the forty nine other people in the room, but I know instantly, it wouldn't matter if they had never set foot in temple since their bris, they would know the shema, our prayer, our central call and the thing that should be on your lips as you die, and they do. They recite it beautifully and perfectly.

The Russian soldier nearly sobs. I bite my tongue and take a drink.

He was a Jew, too, serving in the Russian Army. He believed Hitler had done it, killed every German Jew, but here were two men reciting the Shema and living. Two Jews, if nothing else, had fought through all the years of war to live, and so we were not done yet.

They cast him well. His blue eyes are like mine, and I recognize the rage in them as he pointed his gun.

I go to Holocaust movies alone, because you never point a gun at anything you don’t want to kill.

I slip out as soon as the movie ends, when the lights are barely up. There’s a voice echoing in my head, one that says I have a responsibility to everyone who didn’t make it. I’ve never hidden. Maybe that’s the benefit of living in a place with almost no Jews. I fought for every point of that star my entire life, and I refuse to give an inch.

There’s a Nazi resurgence in the west. From Portland to Pierre, there’s flyers and threats and decisions to be made. My great grandmother said that if you are where people want to kill you, don’t be there. But she wasn’t a Montanan. She moved here from the present day Ukraine, and she was that until the day she died, whatever else she tried to be. We are always a part of the things that built us, however much we hate them.

I press against the door, and go out into the street and the grey and the coming night, the thoughts of a family with no papers and no chance to run on my mind.

The cold wind hits me in a staccato beat the way I imagine the bullets hit their bodies. But I’m a Montanan as much as I’m a Jew. I’m a grizzly bear with a tallit draped across my shoulders. I feel the bullets.

All it does is piss me off

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pengiesama · 5 years

Text

The Real Library of Alexandria Was the Friends We Made Along the Way (Fic, TOZ/TOB, school AU)

Title: The Real Library of Alexandria Was the Friends We Made Along the Way Series: Tales of Zestiria / Tales of Berseria Pairing: Gen Characters: Laphicet, Mikleo, Sorey, Velvet

Summary: Phi crusades against two Bigger Kids making noise in the library. He winds up discovering some common ground, and becomes leader of the nerdiest gang this side of the hemisphere.

Link: AO3

This was written for After School Heroes ( @ashtaleszine ); a Tales Of zine focusing on school AUs!

The zine's purchase period is now over, but you can check out some of the other fic and art from the zine in the links below.

ASH's Tumblr: http://ashtaleszine.tumblr.com/ ASH's Twitter: https://twitter.com/ashtaleszine/

Read on Tumblr!

“…I’m not saying that you’re wrong. I’m just saying that you’re vastly misinformed.”

“So, really, you’re saying I’m wrong.”

“No, I’m saying that you’re misinformed, and that your flair for the dramatic has led you to an incorrect interpretation of our sources…”

Phi did not mind listening to debates on topics that interested him. And this one did -- he’d always liked Ancient History and was happy to hear someone discussing it with such knowledge and passion. His own class at school was currently covering the period, but...well. When all they were expected to do was to be able to name city-states and list off a handful of gods, trying to engage his classmates in discussions was an exercise in futility. Even his teacher wasn’t much better. Such was the struggle of being ten years old and maybe a bit too well-read.

No, no, the topic wasn’t the issue, nor was the debate. There was just a time and place for this kind of thing, and the public library after school fit neither of those items. There also was a need for one’s indoor voice. Phi peeped over the top of his book, scowling. His baleful stare, full of judgement and righteous fury, went entirely unnoticed. This wasn’t really that surprising, as Phi was halfway across the reading room and half-buried under a pile of heavy books at his table. He thought of clearing his throat in an accusatory tone, but the idea of making a peep in the library was anathema to the very core of his being. Sure, this section of the library was deserted except for Phi and the debaters, but...but it was the principle of the thing, and that principle was what set man apart from beast.

The two intrepid historians were wearing uniforms from a high school across town. Their status as Bigger Kids gave Phi some pause in confronting them. But with the library’s honor to defend, could he ever forgive himself if he let cowardice win? Phi thought briefly about how his babysitter Velvet might handle the issue, then paled, and stopped thinking about it, because it was kind of scary.

“—Sorey, your arguments show a level of understanding that I’d expect from someone whose historical knowledge came from half-remembered edutainment cartoons from ten years ago, not from someone who I thought knew better,” said the white-haired boy wearily.

“Look, Mikleo, I know that attributing the destruction of the Library of Alexandria to a single catastrophic event ignores other things that led to its decline—”

“And leads to more public disinformation about a section of history that’s already rife with it.”

“—but,” said the brown-haired boy (the other boy, Mikleo, had called him Sorey), pressing on. “Even if there were other events which led to its eventual decline, dissolution, destruction, etcetera, what I’m saying is that the most important and impactful of these incidents was it being set ablaze in the Siege. Aurelian’s attack on the city and the destruction of the Serapeum are drops in the bucket in comparison, when the bulk of the collection was already lost at that point!”

“But they were still important events in its final decline, no matter what your little fanfic daydreams of travelling back in time with a magic firetruck to play hero! And all this assumes that the Library even was damaged in the Siege, considering that accounts of the time are contradictory.”

“Ancient accounts from any ancient historian worth their salt all agree that the library was damaged by Caesar’s short-sighted shenanigans! And it’s not a magic firetruck. It’s—”

“Yes, yes, it’s powered by advanced technology made possible by a time loop that hinges on the hero saving the Library from being burned. You act as though I don’t pay attention when I edit your work. But if you really want to be taken seriously, you have to address the other aspects of its decline that can’t be solved by a firetruck falling from the sky.”

Sorey squinted at the ceiling in thought. “...the firetruck could fall from the sky onto Aurelian.”

“Then you’re getting into further divergent history when a Roman Emperor gets killed like a wicked witch from the Land of Oz. And there’s still the Serapeum to consider.”

“The firetruck could fall on Theophilus too.”

Mikleo appeared to be dumbstruck by this statement for a brief moment, then nearly flipped the table in rage.

“You can’t solve every tragic historical event by dropping firetrucks on it!” he all but shrieked.

“It’s called poetic irony!” Sorey shouted back. “And it’s art!”

Phi agreed with both boys on their more intellectual points, and neither of them on their thoughts about art and literature. More importantly, he also agreed with them on the importance of preserving cultural institutions, which meant that he was duty-bound to intervene in this fight before they destroyed this library too. Luckily, he knew the Dewey Decimal System like the back of his hand, and quickly collected a volume of text that might be able to smother the flames of this debate before they spiraled out of control.

Phi marched over to the older boys’ table, and – taking a page out of Velvet’s book on confrontations – slammed the volume down as hard as he could onto the wooden surface. But, as he was still a polite boy, he was sure to scream “excuse me” while he did so.

The two older boys stared at him, wide-eyed and silent, as the bang and scream reverbed off the library’s walls. Taking the opportunity for their undivided attention, Phi opened the book he’d brought over to the appropriate page and tapped a heading.

“Ptolemy VIII’s mass purges of Alexandrian intellectuals who opposed his seizure of the Egyptian throne, and the accompanying political turmoil in the Ptolemaic dynasty at the time, weakened the Library considerably,” Phi began, confidently. “This sent the Library into decline, well before Caesar’s invasion over a century later.”

The shock and confusion melted away from Sorey’s face. He reflected quietly on Phi’s thesis and gave an embarrassed little smile.

“...I guess I really did kind of get hung up on the dramatic events, huh?” he said sheepishly. “Man, with all the craziness going on during that period, it’s kind of a surprise the Library didn’t get set on fire sooner…”

“I don’t think there are enough time-travelling firetrucks in the world to drop on all the troublemakers back then,” Mikleo agreed. “But I’m guilty too, of only looking post-Siege, and at the Roman side of things.”

“And you’re both guilty of yelling in the library,” Phi added. “I could hear you all the way over there.

He pointed accusingly towards his table, which was still piled high with books. The two boys looked abashed.

“I’m so sorry,” Mikleo said. “We...we didn’t see you over there.”

Admittedly, from this table, it was quite hard to see where he’d been sitting, buried behind the books. Sorey, for his part, was already on his way over to Phi’s table. He looked over some of the volumes, interest clear on his face.

“Wow...no wonder you schooled us on this. I’ve been meaning to read some of these!”

“Well, don’t start with that one,” Phi said, gesturing to the volume in Sorey’s hand. “You’re not going to understand it without some background knowledge...”

When the time came for Phi to leave, he had lectured both boys quite thoroughly on history – and what’s more, he had quite completely forgiven them for their sins. Despite their...eccentricities, Sorey and Mikleo were very knowledgeable on ancient topics from around the world, and treated Phi as their equal -- not just some novelty to be humored and “corrected” on topics he knew like the back of his hand. They promised to be here again tomorrow, to talk more, and...and Sorey had talked about making an Ancient History Club, for the three of them, and that would just be too cool…

“It sounds like you had fun,” Velvet observed, after Phi had breathlessly explained to her all the above. “Give me your hand until we’re done crossing the street.”

Idly, Velvet wondered whether she should go through the trouble of inspecting these two new friends of Phi’s – and by “inspecting”, she meant putting the fear of god into them, and by the fear of god, she meant the fear of her.

Phi dutifully grabbed Velvet’s good hand and continued. “We’ll have official meetings once a week and unofficial get-togethers on the other days of the week, except Tuesdays, when Sorey has Track club and Mikleo goes to Home Ec club, but that day I think I can go to the library anyway and just plan our activities for the rest of the week…”

…but, honestly, they seemed like they were a perfect fit for Phi already. Velvet walked with him, hand in hand, and decided to hold off. At least for now.

#tales of zestiria #tales of berseria #tales of zestiria the x #i guess this is my personal tales of zestiria tag now #a tenderly crafted fanfiction #zines #afterschoolheroes

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eligrantbooks · 5 years

Text

gotta vent about my day real quick

highlights of the day

> be professional ghostwriter.

Agreed to edit a 25000 word segment of a finished manuscript for a much loved regular client, who said the MC’s dialogue needed to be punched up. Easy enough. I figured it would take a few hours.

Was briefly excited to discover the manuscript was for a concept I had outlined and written several chapters for a few months ago.

Excitement rapidly dwindles as I realize that beloved client has hired another ghostwriter to write the majority of the book. Which would be fine, except this other ghostwriter has no fucking idea what they are doing.

Formatting is a god damn disaster and I spend several hours just getting the document into a workable condition.

You ever open a word doc, look at the navigation pane, and just see a wall of blank links, because someone applied the header formatting somewhere and then just hit enter a million times instead of using a page break like a civilized god damn human being?

in the middle of this forest of blank headers, actual chapter titles are scattered at random, and also they only applied the header to roughly one out of every five chapters or so, you know, just, when they felt like it. when the spirit took them. when the stars aligned. when the feng shui was right.

Also, apparently they like the way first line indenting looks but don’t know how to make word do that (spoiler: its easy as shit and takes like two clicks) so every once in a while they start manually hitting tab before every line, until they get distracted and stop for a while, luring you into a false sense of security before they remember and start doing it again.

Sometimes, when a scene transitions but they dont want to just end the chapter for some reason, they break it up with spaces. Other times, they like to use asterisks. Once or twice, just for flavor, they throw in one of those page width lines that word makes when you type a line of hyphens.

There is random highlighting in places, for no discernible reason.

Once I have the document formatted in a way I can bear to work with, I start actually reading through it. About the first seven chapters were written by the client. They’re cheesy but solid.

Then I get to chapter eight, and the suspicions i had begun to form while putting the formatting through traction (namely that whoever did this was a fuckwit) quickly crystallized into a shining certainty that my beloved client had mistakenly hired An Ass Clown.

Not just An Ass Clown, but An Ass Clown who thought 50 Shades was a beautiful love story, actually.

And they gave This Ass Clown, this literary reprobate, this paste eating remedial english mother fucker, my outline.

let me clarify that i did not expect to have sole control of this story when i produced the outline for beloved client, and I was okay with that. That’s how it works. If I’d been dead set on writing this myself, i wouldn’t have sold the outilne to beloved client. but it really rubs salt in the wound to have spent hours of my life crafting the bones of this story, which i really liked and was excited to see take shape

and then find out it has been put into the pie fondling hands

of An Ass Clown.

first hint that something has gone drastically wrong: the arrival of completely unnecessary and ridiculous fantasy names for things.

“oh we dont drink coffee in this book. it’s kofee. at least until three chapters from now when i forget and it becomes kofe. Oh, and watch out for those thornaby bushes! I’m going to misspell that one literally every time I use it! It’s entirely possible that this isn’t a fantasy name at all and I just have a small seizure whenever I try to type the word thorn bush!”

second omen of my impending anuerism: phonetically written accents which are so comically stereotypical and inaccurate that native speakers of that accent should be entitled to financial compensation, except they can’t even stick to the stereotype accurately, producing gems such as “It’s not safe in that there pen with ‘em swine, young miss.” I don’t even know what accent that’s supposed to represent. To top it off these accent abominations are sprinkled in with all the consistency and reliability of a lactose intolerant cheese enthusiast’s bowel movements.

But this, I tell myself, moving on, is not my problem. I just need to punch up the mcs dialogue. It’ll be fine. I can do this. I just need to take this shit: ��A fond idea, but I doubt I have that ability.” I joked. “I can’t imagine living without true sunshine. Even the triplet moons must shine less brightly without their sister sun.” and make it… not like that.

Except, and here’s where I start hitting the real roadblock guys

this book is in first person.

essentially, the entire novel is the MC talking.

So sure I can change the spoken lines, but her internal monologue

which is, i remind you, the entire narrative

her internal monologue is going to keep being maggie gyllenhal’s character from The Secretary if her copy of the script had been swapped with just a binder full of sonnets written by a middle school english class during the Shakespeare unit.

I get to chapter ten around three in the afternoon. I have been working steadily, with an unusual degree of focus thanks to my recent adderal prescription, since ten in the morning.

this is where shit begins to go truly bananas.

this is a YA beauty and the beast type fantasy

that good fun indulgent shit that’s almost as enjoyable to write as it is to read

usually. previously. before i had to endure this traumatic twelve hour experience.

Chapter ten is the first big “dinner” scene. this book isn’t being shy about pulling from the source material, but that’s fine. the beast “apologizes” (heavy quotes there) for having earlier used magic to force the heroine to answer his questions truthfully. They talk and almost seem to making progress for a bit, and then have a fight and storm off. Standard stuff.

Except, uh, the beast’s apology is, essentially “Yeah I shouldn’t have done that.” “so you’re apologizing?” “no but it’s the best you’re going to get so deal with it.”

and the headstrong, independent heroine who wears pants and wrestles pigs and dont need no man

just kinda rolls with this. There’s giggling.

They have their big dramatic fight, exit stage left, much angst and todo.

The next morning heroine wakes up to find the beast has (presumably) snuck into her room while she was sleeping and dumped a bunch of new dresses on her. he has also (apparently) replaced her brain with Bella Swan’s more vapid cousin.

She forgives him instantly. Because pretty dresses. She also starts calling him master, because why not. She has, over night, become the darling submissive Tumblr doms dream of.

This is not a bdsm book. I am eighty percent certain it doesn’t even include soft core smut. I’m telling you this so that you understand this transformation was not a contrivance in order to facilitate kinky sex. I have written a contrived set up to a sex scene or two in my day. This is not that. This is Not what is in the outline. I know, because i wrote the outline. It is My Outline.

No, The Ass Clown just… decided to do this. Apropos of nothing. I’m beginning to think the Ass Clown’s decision making process involves whipping pies at a comically large dartboard. And all the options on the dartboard are just “lol whatever”

By the time I get to chapter eleven, wherein our newly lobotomized heroine is “excited to wear a new frock and please the master!” - direct quote I have given up any pretense of editing dialogue and I am just straight up rewriting shit using the previous garbage as a loose outline.

I have eaten, maybe, three bites of a bowl of oatmeal all day. I have not taken a bathroom break since before noon. I have missed my deadline. Beloved client is concerned. I’m sure I can still do this, I just need a few more hours.

the words sound like truth but my soul knows i am a liar

I frantically restructure scene after scene, deceiving myself each time that it will be the last, and I will be able to get this crazy train back on the rails. But this crazy train has no interest in being on the rails. It’s a direct line no stops right off the edge of the cliffs of insanity.

The beast jumps unpredictably from homicidal rage and threats of violence to jokes and flirting as though he did not just declare her his property and threaten to rip her tongue out a few paragraphs ago. Heroine swoons and sighs and giggles regardless of whether she is dealing with Dr.Jekyll or Christian Gray on PCP.

But I’m still sure I can do this. I’ll just adjust these two full chapters to make her appropriately scared and angry, and then replace this weird conversation here with a heartfelt apology from him and an effort to do better. That will totally work. Unless, you know, it turns out that conversation I want to replace only starts out with them joking and laughing together, and turns into him berating and abusing her mid paragraph of a fuckin montage a page later! But, haha! Why would The Ass Clown ever do that? It would be completely irrational, tonally jarring and out of character! Only a seltzer slinging rainbow suspender-ed peanut butter fumbling son of six fucks would do that.

so of course The Ass Clown did that.

It’s eleven at night. I know when I’m beaten.

I inform beloved client that the Ass Clown has bested me and I can do no more.

She is very understanding.

I send her what I managed and I check the added word count while im at it

i added a full 6,000 words to that manuscript just trying to patch up this sloppy motherfucker’s lopsided prose and gossamer thin understanding of narrative structure

son of a bitch had about as firm a grasp of romance as i currently have on the trembling shreds of my sanity.

their grip on character writing could not be more tenuous if they had first dipped the target brand Hulk Hands which I assume they always have on their person into a barrel of adult-film-grade silicon lubricant and then taken their Leapfrog 2-in-1 Leaptop Touch down a waterslide.

Do you know how much I usually make for 6000 words?

$180.

Do you know how much I made for enduring this ass blasting, which I naively believed I could tackle in a matter of hours?

$100.

You owe me $80 Ass Clown. And I aim to collect.

Also I lost my damn mind for a minute and said the words "i dont know shit about fuck my guy” to my actual father on facebook

so there’s that.

#reposting from my rp blog #i need to get better about not using it as a personal

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actually-impostor · 6 years

Text

Chaconne

Warnings: Major Character Death, car accidents, stabbing, suicide. Angst. the deaths aren’t exactly explicit but they are basically what the fanfic goes about so please keep a heads up. Mentions of therapy.

Pairings: Past Royality [Patton/Roman], Analogical [Logan/Virgil]

Under a read more because of the heavy themes the fanfic revolves around.

Please listen to this song while reading [LINK]

Also, before you all procede, this story is basically to celebrate the fact that i have 2,029 followers [?!?!!!!!!!! WHAT?!?!?!?!], I’m sorry the thing i decide to bring as celebration is a 1,480 [or something] words fanfic of pure angst. Enjoy

-0-0-0-0- o0o o0o o0o -0-0-0-0-

He stared as they lowered the casket to the ground.

A morbid part of his mind thought that it was fitting. Fitting that their last goodbye would be in the same place where they were first introduced, fitting that the same song was playing, fitting that similar enough people were present.

A hand on his shoulder made him look at the man he saw as a brother. Tears were running down his face.

‘He looks more affected than me’

“Let’s go home”

He didn’t want to. But he was scared of voicing the fact that, without the other, that place didn’t feel like home. He was scared of acknowledging that he was gone.

Everything in that house was full of memories, of the ghost of his loved one.

They meet in a rainy day of July, the sky dark with grey clouds, and a casket being lowered to the ground.

It was not someone he had spent a lot of time with, but his best friend had once been in love with the other and he had been there for emotional support.

Roman Torres had been the oldest child of a calm family. His twin was currently staring emotionless at the last resting place of his brother.

Logan hadn’t thought much of it; a shock response was maybe the responsible of the lack of emotion on the younger twin. But Logan had enough present of mind to realize the bandages all around the emotionless boy.

He thought to ask Patton later, to ask about what exactly had happened. The answer was a surprise. For what he knew Roman was egoistical and self aggrandizing. But to think he had protected his twin instead of himself during the car crash…

A new found respect blossomed in his chest. Roman had obviously been a good person who worried for those he loved.

When Patton and Logan had reached Virgil to offer their condolences the shorter boy had snapped, slapping Patton’s hands away

“Don’t fucking touch me”

His voice was raw, and Logan wondered if he had been crying.

“Kiddo-”

“It should’ve been me!”

That silenced them, at least enough for Virgil to smirk at them and chuckle. It was the saddest sound Logan had ever heard.

They didn’t saw each other after a few weeks, where Patton had finally managed to drag Virgil away from his room, and they had gone out. It wasn’t happy, no matter how much Patton tried to light up the situation.

Almost at the end of the day Virgil stared at them, his inexpressive mask slowly crackling and leaving space for eyes full of rage

“Why are you pitying me?”

“I don’t pity you Virgil”

“Then what the fuck is going on! Why do you suddenly want to spend time with me! Im not Roman! He is dead Patton! he’s fucking dead and its time you start to face it”

A silence surrounded the table, only broken by their heavy breathing. Patton stared at Virgil in shock, his mouth opening and closing with no clear idea what to say meanwhile Logan stared at the other in surprise.

But Virgil was far from done

“You think is easy to wake up, to see myself and remember him every day?! Do you even have any idea how fucked up the house is?!”

Virgil laughed, tears running down his face while his fist balled in his eyes. He was shaking all over, and Logan had never seen someone break so extremely in front of him.

Patton reacted for instinct, throwing himself to hug the shorter boy. In a matter of seconds they both had sunken to the floor, Patton hugging the shaking man to him and curling protectively around him. A failed and weak attempt to protect him from the world.

Things had gotten slightly better after that. Virgil was allowing himself more expressions, and in a desperate attempt to look less like the ghost that followed him everywhere he had dyed his hair, warm brown locks now a vibrant and deep purple, carefully maintained bangs now covering part of an eye and enhanced by a subtle Mohawk , a piercing crossing his eyebrow and another in his tongue. He was trying to put as much distance as he could to the pictures in his house.

Logan had tallied and noticed every single change, a mental list in his brain that grew bigger and bigger by every detail he noticed. It was like he could do nothing except but to keep count, to notice, to feel a pull every time Virgil added or took something away from his persona. It was relaxing and unnerving.

Sometimes they got together without Patton; those days were a quiet companion was everything Virgil wanted. Days where he could let his emotions out in the form of words, of tears where he knew he wouldn’t be judged. Days where the only thing he wanted was to fight someone and have his body aching for days to come, if only to make the physical pain be stronger than the emotional.

They were counting on each other.

It wasn’t always an up curve. There were days where Virgil smirked, a depressed chuckle leaving his mouth. Days where Virgil questioned why they were there, why they tried, days where Virgil felt guilty for being alive.

Days where Virgil curled down on himself, sobbing and begging Patton for forgiveness, because if Roman hadn’t protected him then Patton could still get him back, they could talk things out; they could go back to being the perfect couple everyone knew they would be.

Patton never knew quite well what to do during those particular break downs. But it was okay, a few hours in a cuddle pile usually gave the younger one a clearer mind.

He had tried therapy, once. The doctor explained how his survivor guilt would eventually disappear, and that had been enough for Virgil.

The Ghost was one day going to stop following him around, and he was content with that.

His relationship with Logan started slow, in a day where neither had suspected it would. In the middle of a breakdown where Logan couldn’t help but to think Virgil was the most beautiful human to ever exist.

They had kissed because Virgil needed to feel he was connected to the actual reality. They had kissed because Virgil had grabbed a fistful of Logan’s turtleneck and had kissed him, angry lips pressing against surprised ones. A small hint of salt from the tears, a small taste of mint from the ice cream, and perhaps the most important moment in their friendship.

It was hard, and complex; because Virgil hated medical help, and Logan just wanted him to get better, to not be swallowed whole by the deep of his depression. But he figured he understood, at least a little. Virgil had lost the other part of his soul, the only other person who would understand him fully.

A part of him thought that Virgil should know better. A small, selfish part of him thought that Virgil should realize that they would eventually pull apart, but he never mentioned it. It would do no good to say something he knew Virgil knew.

So he kept silent, and he helped when he could.

They had spent a year as a couple when they moved in together. After three months of living together Virgil re-started therapy. After four years of living together he asked Virgil to marry him. After 5 years of living together they went to Patton’s wedding.

After six years of living together Logan was starting to realize how strong Virgil really was.

He stared at the empty kitchen, at the empty studio, at the empty bedroom.

He felt like he left a part of his soul in the cemetery.

Roman Torres had died because an irresponsible driver had skipped a red light, crashing against the side of the car and leaving all its occupants in a heavy state of injury. The younger Torres was pressed against the window the driver had impacted. His older brother had noticed, the scene going in slow motion, and had thrown himself on top of his brother shielding him.

Virgil Torres had died in the hands of a greedy man who only wanted money. It wasn’t supposed to be like that, but the man was desperate and he didn’t want to wait until Virgil passed him the things. Instead he stabbed him, took his phone and wallet and left.

Virgil Torres had bled to death, scared and alone.

Logan Sanders had died because of a gas leak. His windows closed and doors trapped to make the smell stay inside.

Logan Sanders had died alone and empty.

Because he wasn’t as strong as Virgil. Because they had spent all that time together. Because Logan had promised himself that they will die together too.

#necro writes #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #only mentioned in a few parts #analogical #past royality #angst #character death #please let me know if i should tag something else

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yougoatthis · 7 years

Text

got assalted last night

so we went to the bar last night eh...u might have seen a couple of my snaps... i was pretty lit took a couple muscle relaxants couple advil and half an anti anxiety pill with bunch of drinks. i was feeling pretty loose... pretty on fleek..found some Minnie mouse ears some jumbo glasses in the snow was wearing them having the trillest time in the bar. Couple girls sitting down and one dude i was chatting up and the dude across the table was taking my pic with his friend haah bla bla bla.... anyways these girls at same table ask if i have a lighter..i currently did not for some reason and was like "no sorry i dont"... then they asked if i could get them one...and well i was kinda like damn these chicks hella lazy but im not doing anything so yea ill be a bro.... i go out to smoke balcony ask around..one guy says he has one but its his last so he would want it back... i said no problem i think these girls only need it for a bit...i didnt have any change so i gave him a 5 dollar bill as a deposit and said ill come back in 15 or 20 min. he was chill with that...i go back to the girls and one guy, hand them the lighter and say "here u go but just to let u know i need to give it back to this guy i gave a 5 dollar deposit ahah"... they said okay yea no problem.. i also let them know that the smoke pit was closing in 15 minutes to which they replied "yea no thanks come back in 15 and well give it back".....so 20 minutes goes by i come back.... the three of them havent seen to have moved at all... i say hey look balcony is closed now can i have the lighter back or u guys going to use it outside.... the girls said we gave it to our friend and pointed to guy behind me walking to to the table so i turn around and ask the guy "hey bro u got that lighter your friends here gave to you" he said "nah i never got a lighter i think its that guy who has it" points to another guy on my left walking up to the table.... i ask him same thing but also adding that i just gotta give it back to guy i borrowed from.....meanwhile im still standing at the table so the girls can hear all this and but are ignoring and talking to that one guy whos been sitting down the whole time...the last bro though says listen buddy the girls are fucking with you they have the lighter.... so now im looking at the girls and the guy sitting down and these two other guys who have also sat down and im standing... i say "hey listen i dont usually care that much its just a lighter but i went and got it for you and gave a guy 5 bucks who's expecting it back and i know one of you has it so can i have it back please and ill help u get a light later in the night when u actually plan on having a smoke"...one bitch faced dumb cunt looks at me and says "you are not getting your lighter back so just fuck off" at this point i am flabbergasted that 5 people who seemed chill are just letting this happen like its completely normal...so i walk off stunned not sure what to do..... i then sober up enough to realize what they did is not okay and this shit will not stand. i was however not by any means sober at this point... as i am walking i see salt and pepper shakers but u know like in corona bottles. i take the salt one pop off the lid walk back and to table pour a big fat line on their table that was empy and say "Heres seven years of bad luck motherfuckers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" i start briskly walking away but i didn't get more then a step before first bro that been there the whole time splashes his drink all over me from across the table throws his glass at me which smashes at impact with my cranium.. i am but a dazed, smelling like rum and coke soaking wet still walking off... i quickly realized i am severally outnumber 5 to 1 but like 3 to 1 cause girls dont count .... an idea pops into my head.... if im going to get the shit kicked out of me i need one of two things.. some back up... or my buddy to snapchat it/ upload to worldstar... i spot my friend from across the bar.. he is 6'5 and a real bro... i make my way to him tell him i might be in some trouble. we look over to other side across the whole bar at the table and i see this blue shirt roided out glass thowing motherfucker making his way through the swarm of people his eyes locked on my minnie mouse ears...i am ready, more than ready i am stoked.. i know how lit i am right now that this is going to be good i can take this fucker shits going down.... im thirsty for some blood... revenge flowing through my veins in the sea... a trickle of blood on my head from the glass ......who does that... douchbag of the year thats who.....he makes it right up in my face.. im waiting for him to strike first he gives me shove.. i step back one.. feeling the energy flow through me i am charged ready to go full force fists are clenched here we fucking go BUT WAIT!!!!!!! he pulls out a quick attack!!. its a trap card! in my brief moment of hesitation he has time to pull the salt bottle from behind his back and sprays it in face like a squirter getting double penatrated and finally cums ...its everywhere mate im fucking blind there is salt in my eyes i cant see shit it burns... one eye seems to be functioning enough to watch this coward ass bitch run back to his table....looks like i dunked my whole head in salt.. a little bit got on this bro behind me to and he is chapped... i tell him its that blue shirt fuck across the table.. hes fucking livid.. im blind in one eye but raging like a bull... the march is on. we start making our way back across the bar...all bets are off anything goes,. someone is going down hard tonight.... and hes wearing a blue shirt. 20 feet away now...15...10...fuckkkkkk bouncer is right between us talking to the girls while the blue shirt is sitting down back at his seat like nothing happened.. bouncer looks at me..hes got questions... im at 100 right now.... things need to change.. i open my mouth pull my tongue out and look at it.... yes its fucking silver. its my time to shine. time to bullshit like ive never bullshitted before. i bring myself down to 1... he says "these girls are saying u poured salt on all over them bud its time to fucking leave" i say " listen man thats not what happened, but i have no problem grabbing my jacket and leaving i dont want any trouble or confrontation but that guy behind you just came across the bar and poured salt in my face for no reason" thesed girls are now bitching in his ear he shushes them then tells them to go sit down back with blue fuck. bouncer says "did u pour salt all over them first though".... i say "buddy does it look like i poured salt on them.." he turns his head around to no joke like 10 feet behind us the three of them sitting at their table talking to each other pretending like nothing happened and they had won. they all looks fine. actually they look good... finely groomed... blue fuck is probably soaked between the legs with shit running down to his ankles but u cant see that the table is in the way... he looks back at me, my eye is watering face is fucking red shirt soaked salt all over me in my face hair ears on my shirt.. like fucking everywhere he says okay.. he believes every word im saying.. i can see it in his eye..he feels bad for me..he wants justice.. he asks me which guy i said that guy right behind u...in the blue..... he starts walking to go around the table.. meanwhile i step forward to across the table... stick out my hand and say loud enough that they can all hear including the bouncer who is now but a couple steps away walking around backside of this big table..... i say hey bud no hard feelings.. lets just be cool as my hand is extended waiting for a shake i fucking know will never come... and as i say it i wink right in his eyes and put a huge smirky grin on my face...... i see flames bursting out of his ears.. ive tipped the scale... he is about to explode foaming at the mouth. To little to late bud the bouncer puts his hand on his shoulder. blue fuck snaps throws his hand out of the way and stands up.... i retract my hand take two steps back and bring out the popcorn.... bouncer doesnt fuck around. Grabs him by the legs lifts him up and body slams down hard... im grabbing my ipod trying to snapchat its not woprkign its not working!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i just enjoy the moment.. bouncer fucking elbows this kids face so hard into the floor headlocks and starts dragging him out... i raise my hands start the slow clap. it feels so fucking good.. one girl is crying other is screaming. im practically laughing right back in there stupid cunt faces. One of his buddies thought hed step up to plate takes a swing at another bouncer.. bouncer hits back guy hits back again damn this sit looks even...bouncer charges fucking tackles him throws him across the table. he rolls onto chairs gets up 4 more come in and fucking sedue the guy smashed his head into the wall dragging him out by is feet... i am in tears laughing my crew is behind me now watching the whole thing. ... i turn to the bitches and say..... "thats what u get for bic'in me...guess your bad luck has already started"... one chick kicks me in the shins and they both go running off....... and that is some of the best 5 bucks ive every spent... like i said... i got asSALTed

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obaewankenope · 7 years

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The Gospel of the Anakin Apologist + The General Rudeness of Unrelated Comments on a Post

So @stonefreeak had an anon show up and whine about Padme. I and @sanerontheinside added our two cents in then *waves hands* SOME ASSHOLE shows up and wants to play ‘Anakin is a victim and Padme is a stupid ho and Obi-Wan is to blame for EVERYTHING EVER’ on the post even though, amusingly enough, it has no bearing on the discussion in the slightest.

Ergo I got vexed.

Actually all of us did bc wow stupid much.

The rest is under a read more because wow this got long and salty.

Also I’m tagging people so they can share the salt: @meabhair, @kyberpunk, @maawi, @markwatnae, @lilyrose225writes, @knight-kennedy, @punsbulletsandpointythings, @deadcatwithaflamethrower, @myurbandream, @jhaernyl :)

You see, we were discussing Padme as a female character and the double-standard around female characters being expected to be perfect and male characters essentially being able to do whatever the fuck they want so long as they’re pretty (pick a fandom, any fandom, you’re guaranteed to see the same dichotomy in treatment of male - female characters).

Apparently we can’t do that shit tho bc ‘oh no you’re blaming my bae!!!’ like wow, really fucking stupid much.

Anyway, to explain why I’m raging (why all of us are raging actually: it’s glorious to behold and I feel so blessed to experience the righteous fury of my spouses and friends) I personally feel like this particular person has literally pulled the embodiment of that “she doesn’t even go here” meme because whoa boy, their reblog does not belong here.

Now, in general I’m usually quite happy to let the morons roll on by like the sad little tumbleweeds of ignorance they are. But not when it’s on a post informing others of the behaviour and perception of gender/sex relations and treatment of characters in fandom. When you show up here and want to blame a single character who is flawed, especially just to venerate and excuse the behaviour of another flawed character... well, then I feel obligated to respond.

It’s not personal it is it’s just in my nature.

Okay so, first paragraph of their reblog (and subsequent stupid dialogue included) sums up the situation on Mustafar as ‘Padme should have been a good wife and sided with her genocidal husband who just helped wipe out thousands of lives (including children) bc she’s his wife’ and that ‘Obi-Wan is responsible bc he tried to do his duty as a Jedi’ and apparently that’s wrong as according to the Gospel of the Anakin Apologist.

Of course, they make a general, sweeping statement about Obi-Wan, describing him as a ‘fantastic space cop but an asshole friend and a person in general’ which, as I’m sure you’re all aware, shows a typical lack of understanding of what the Jedi are in universe, and also the background of Obi-Wan and Anakin’s interaction.

This isn’t unusual and I’m not gonna berate people for not knowing about the EU (Extended Universe) materials, or those damned benighted Junior Apprentice (JA) novels about Obi-Wan’s padawanship (and Anakin’s later on). The thing is though, there is plenty of information available about Obi-Wan, his background and so on on various websites -- Wookieepedia, to name but one -- so I don’t think it’s fair to be so quick to judge a character, any character, without understanding their background.

Even if this blogger is uninitiated into the ranks of SW lore and such, even if they only have the movies to go on, I still consider them to have a shockingly particular mindset and perspective of the relationship between the three protagonist characters.

So, here’s the thing, the below is a direct quote from their post. As you can see it’s... a particular perspective.

Padme should have sided with Anakin or Obi-Wan clearly when Anakin confronted her about Obi-Wan being on the ship, Obi-Wan killed Padme by appearing while they were talking, Padme might’ve been able to talk some sense into Anakin or join him, i guess Obi-Wan was afraid Padme would flip sides and decided to burst out with his “hello there” bullshit, if i was Padme i would have immediately said “that fucker snuck on my ship i had nothing to do with this, take care of him my love!” or “oh shit, well i didn’t plan this Obi-Wan tag in!” i know she was shocked and all that jazz but lady think on your feet, you went to meet your fugitive husband who just killed a academy full of space coplings on isolated planet and a space cop popped out of your trunk, use your words and use them quick! Anakin choking his wife in anger is understandable when you think of it from his perspective, “ok im on the hide from the law(Jedi), ill contact my wife and get her to safety” “hi love i came alone as you asked” “oh thank god for a moment i thought you might sympathize with the corrupt jedi” *Obi-Wan dumb ass pops out of the shadows* “hello there bitches!~~” “wtf Padme?! you brought a cop to our meet out?! you do know i am wanted dead right!? You little bitch! i did this all so i could keep you alive and this is how you repay me? i killed younglings to get this power Padme fucking younglings! you ungrateful little bitch ill kill you!” “hey bro let her go you said you wanted to save her right? kind of doing the opposite right now” “… god damn it i hate it when he is right, lets fight!”

First of all, they’re working on the assumption that Anakin was hiding from the Jedi. Second of all, that he was hiding from the Law(Jedi). Perhaps their memory has failed them, but I’ll provide a little breakdown of how the third movie actually went so they can understand that their initial narrative is... well, to put it plainly, ‘wrong and really wrong’.

1. Separatists vs Republic battle with Obi-Wan and Anakin going after Dooku. Dooku dies by Anakin’s hands after being disarmed (this is murder btw, rules of war mean that if your opponent loses or surrenders, then you don’t kill them -- this is generally considered a war crime).

2. Obi-Wan and Anakin talk about stuff and then Obi-Wan heads off to chase Grievous alone. This is after Anakin has been put on the Council by Palpatine even though he’s only been a Knight for a while. The Jedi do not approve, Obi-Wan is cautious and advises Anakin to be careful (Anakin ignores him by the way and continues to be friendly with Palpatine).

4. While Obi-Wan is off after Grievous, Anakin has Palpatine’s identity revealed to him. Gets played into saving him from Mace and co in order to keep Padme alive (even though she isn’t dead by the way). Anakin then goes to the Temple with a collection of Clones and helps murder every Jedi there. He purposefully murders the children in the Council chambers.

5. Obi-Wan is nearly killed after defeating Grievous because of Order 66. He escapes and hides. Meets up with Yoda and Bail. Goes to the Temple. Finds out that Anakin killed Jedi and is heartbroken by this fact. Then he goes to Padme after being tasked by his superior to go and defeat Anakin. He tells her the truth and she refuses to believe him.

6. Padme goes to meet with Anakin who is on Mustafar, drowning in his angst-ridden guilt of now having become an accomplice to genocide. Obi-Wan tags along, knowing that Anakin and Padme love each other so much that both would forsake their duties. He hides and Padme doesn’t know. Anakin doesn’t notice.

7. Padme rejects Anakin BEFORE Obi-Wan shows himself, because she realises he’s literally gone crazy. Then Anakin turns on Padme and chokes her into unconsciousness, even though she’s heavily pregnant and he ‘loves’ her. Obi-Wan gets Anakin to focus on him and they fight.

8. They fight to the point where Obi-Wan has the high-ground and Anakin does a stupid and gets his limbs cut off. Obi-Wan leaves him to burn to death (brutal) and goes to Padme. He takes her for treatment and instead watches one of his oldest friends die while her children are made into orphans.

9. Movie ends with Anakin becoming the giant suit version of Vader and Obi-Wan on Tattooine delivering Luke to his aunt and uncle.

Anakin isn’t evading the law, aka the Jedi, he’s killed them. Obi-Wan is the one evading the law because it wants him dead. Anakin is on Mustafar because Sidious told him to take out the Sep leadership. Padme meets him there after hearing the truth from Obi-Wan and only believes it when Anakin admits it himself. Then she rejects him. Obi-Wan does his duty as a Jedi -- sworn to destroy the Sith -- and the end is that Padme dies because Anakin loses his temper and lashes out at her.

I may be Anakin apologist but considering his situation he didn’t act out of character, id be pissed off too if i contacted my wife when i am in hiding and she brings a cop there (it seemed like that to Anakin since he didn’t know Obi-wan snuck on board) before i can explain myself to my wife

Firstly, you are an Anakin apologist and he did act out of character. His behaviour after discovering Sidious’ identity and stopping Mace from killing a Sith Lord is out of character. Anakin is a bright, kind and friendly child with a temper issue. Anakin is someone who hates injustice and despises the way some people are treated by others for no other reason than because of where they were born or who they were born to. He was a slave and then he became a Jedi; he went from victim to protector. His final character jump sent him from protector to oppressor. That’s not in character, that’s specifically cultivated and justified behaviour because he puts his own needs above absolutely everything else.

He also had the chance to explain to Padme. He didn’t deny what he did and Padme actively rejected him when she realised he wasn’t sorry for what he’d done ‘in the name of love’. You’re justifying abuse and don’t even realise it.

Think of it like this, in a galaxy where there are force powers etc shit you keep seeing horrible nightmares of your wife dying, your mother gets kidnapped by space isis and killed, you butcher the village in retaliation and tell your wife about it, after which the greatest political figure of your “country” tells you that there is a way to save your wifes life from the faith that seems foretold (like someone offering you a cure for cancer when you think your wife has cancer), the old dude tells you you have to do something to get the cure (equivalent would probably be extracting stem cells from kids spines or something lethal), well you love your wife and can’t let her die because love, well you go and do the dirty deed like a loving husband would can’t let your honey bun die, now you’re kind of in hiding waiting for your old dude friend to wipe out the cops (rought shit but it will all be worth it when i save my wife from certain death), you contact your wife and tell her to meet you in some backwater planet where you two can talk it out, you can tell her why you did it and you can finally save her from her faith, your wife finally arrives the joy we are finally together, listen wife the reason i killed the younglings is “Everybody down on the ground, the Jedi man has arrived!”, all your efforts to get the cure, all you did in the name of saving your wife and she brings a cop to execute you (that’s what he thought and can’t blame him, how the fuck did she not know Obi-Wan snuck on board?)

Firstly, Shmi Skywalker was kidnapped and tortured by Tusken Raiders on Tattooine, not ‘Space ISIS’. The settlers on Tattooine are the proverbial invaders of a planet where the Tuskens are the natural species. So your metaphor is inaccurate and shows but a lack of understanding and also a clear desire to produce extreme sympathy for Anakin. We don’t know why the Tusken’s took Shmi but it’s generally considered unusual behaviour. We do know that they have attacked farms on Tattooine before and that they have been united by an ex-Jedi at one point when Obi-Wan was in exile. This is all we know. So you’re making an assumption that they’re evil terrorists when you don’t even have the material to back you up.

Anakin killed an entire village of Tuskens, including women and children. There is no excuse for that. Unless you think it would be acceptable for a US soldier to execute the children in an Iraqi village because some of the inhabitants were part of Al Queda?

Obi-Wan had already informed Anakin in Attack of the Clones that ‘dreams pass in time’ referring to Anakin’s recurring problems with his dreams about his mother. Anakin didn’t inform Obi-Wan of anything after that and so Obi-Wan has no knowledge. He tried to help, in his own way. Anakin’s behaviour and fear of what he dreamt about Padme drove him to extremes of behaviour -- the love he held for her is what destroyed him because he was so selfish as to refuse to let her go.

The dangers of attachment isn’t of falling in love, it’s in that love turning into obsession which is what happened with Anakin. Palpatine used Anakin’s fears of losing Padme to sway him into his service and with Mace’s death, sealed his fate and that of Padme.

Do you honestly think Padme would have died had she not been choked into unconsciousness by her ‘loving’ husband on a boiling planet of death, after the revelation that her husband had willingly committed genocide because of his love for her?

If you do then there’s no hope for you.

The dialogue of the Mustafar scene is below, read it and perhaps recognise that Anakin admits to having become obsessed with power and paranoid. Perhaps also recognise how Padme only rejects him after he says he’s going to overthrow the Chancellor and together they can rule the galaxy.

Padme: Obi-Wan told me terrible things Anakin: What things? Padme: He said, you’d turned to the Dark Side. That you... killed younglings? Anakin: Obi-Wan is trying to turn you against me Padme: He cares about us Anakin: Us? Padme: He knows. He wants to help you... Anakin, all I want is your love Anakin: Love won’t save you Padme, only my new powers can do that Padme: At what cost? You’re a good person, don’t do this! Anakin: I won’t lose you the way I lost my mother. I am becoming more powerful than any Jedi has ever dreamed of. And I’m doing it for you. To protect you Padme: Come away with me. Help me raise our child. Leave everything else behind while we still can! Anakin: Don’t you see? We don’t have to run away anymore. I have brought peace to the Republic. I am more powerful than the Chancellor. I- I can overthrow him. And together you and I can rule the galaxy. Make things the way we want them to be Padme: [backs away, shaking head] I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Obi-Wan was right, you’ve changed Anakin: I don’t want to hear any more about Obi-Wan. The Jedi turned against me, don’t you turn against me Padme: I don’t know you any more. Anakin... you’re breaking my heart. You’re going down a path I can’t follow Anakin: Because of Obi-Wan? Padme: Because of what you’ve done! What you plan to do! Stop! Stop now! Come back! I love you! Anakin: LIAR! Padme: No! Anakin: You’re with him! You brought him here to kill me! [Starts choking HIS WIFE] Obi-Wan: Let her go Anakin!

The end of this interaction is that Padme rejects Anakin for going power-mad, Anakin admits he’s become a stranger to her and then attacks her over a perceived betrayal -- out of character for someone who at the beginning of the movie thought Padme might have been cheating on him and then APOLOGISED for thinking such things in the first place.

In conclusion to your post that I’m not going to ever reblog, but will link here so others can read it in full, I have to say that your ending paragraph is... well, a fantastic example of selective thinking and something I daresay several of my friends from my psych classes would have had a field day with the dispositional and situational bias you exhibit.

who nearly killed Anakin and Padme? Obi-wan freaking Kenobi, well done douchebag, be sure to lie to his son that Vader killed Anakin to pit a son against his own father, Obi-wan was a fantastic space cop but an asshole friend and a person in general, dude is the reason Luke’s father is a space cyborg and Padme is a corpse, but that’s not all let’s turn their son into a space cop and tell him to kill daddy cyborg, he’ll never know it was his father, if he did this could really backfire but who gives a shit ill probs be dead by then

#Star Wars #Meta #Meta Mic Drop #Anakin Skywalker #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Padme Amidala #MAKE WAY APOLOGISTS I AM SALTING AND BURNING MY WAY THROUGH YALL

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impala-dreamer · 7 years

Text

Whitlock Manor - Chapter Eight

SPN FanFic

~Y/N and the Winchesters work a haunting in Rhode Island that quickly turns into something very unexpected…~

Reader, Dean, Sam

1,253 Words

Series Blanket Warning: NSFW. Sexual Content, Mild Violence, Character Injury.

A/N: Hope you’re enjoying this! Let me know what you think.

Chapters: ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~

Dean ran through the Manor with Y/N in his arms. He had wrapped her in his blue flannel and cradled her against his chest, holding her tightly as he flew back to the massive staircase, hoping to run into Sam.

He found a plush sofa in the Den and lay Y/N down carefully on it. He pressed his bandana to her head and sighed gratefully when it came back dry. Dean was sitting next to her, holding her hand when Sam found them. He burst through the open door, a man on a mission, carrying Sarah’s diary in his hand.

“Dean!” he called to his brother upon seeing his head pop up from in front of the sofa. “What are you doing? Did you find Y/N?”

Dean nodded solemnly and looked down at her unconscious form.

Sam rounded the furniture and fell to his knees when he saw Y/N. “What happened?” his voice cracked as he ran his hand down her warm cheek. Sam kissed her forehead and closed his eyes as Dean recounted the attack in the garage. When his brother was done he sat back on his heels and opened his eyes, ready to finish working the case. That's when he noticed Y/N draped in Dean's oversized flannel.

“Why is she wearing your shirt Dean?” he asked, slowly climbing to his feet.

Dean fumbled and then cleared his throat, deciding on full disclosure. “We...have been kind of hooking up all night.” Dean cringed when Sam's eyes transformed from concerned to sad. “I think it's got something to do with the house, or the ghosts, I don't know what but it's like we can't control it. She's insatiable. And I can't… I mean, it's not like I've ever really even thought about it before...and then...she jumped on me and… she's so… and her tongue…”

“Stop.”

“Something just comes over us, it's like a cold...pushing hand...and I have to have her...and she's just a bundle of sex and it's like...her mouth is so…”

“Enough!” Sam yelled, stopping Dean's rambling confession.

Dean clamped his lips shut. The silence was harsh. Dean stood there, confused and quiet as waves of anger pulsed from his younger brother. “Wait… did you guys?”

“No.”

“Because you seem a little…”

“Did you have sex with her?” Sam asked with sad eyes, searching Dean’s face for his tells.

Dean shook his head and looked down at his boots. “Not like… intercourse…”

Sam balled his fists and turned away, his face filling with blood, reddening his cheeks.

“Am I missing something?” Dean asked, looking between Y/N and Sam.

Sam took a deep breath and pushed everything away. He did not look back at Dean, but picked up the diary and handed it to him as he began relaying the new information he had gathered. “Lindsey, the nanny, was pregnant with Frederick's child. She went to him and begged him to leave Sarah and marry her instead. Obviously he refused.”

“And Lindsey lost her shit and started waving butcher knives around?” Dean interjected, flipping slowly through the pages of the diary.

“Yeah.” Sam finally turned back to face his brother. “That's what it looks like.”

“Then why are all the ghosts attacking Y/N?”

“I haven't gotten that far yet Dean.” Sam sighed and brushed his hands through his hair. “Let's just burn them all.”

Night had fallen around the Rhode Island coast. The cloudless autumn afternoon had given way to an inky black sky peppered with sparkling pinpoint stars and a glowing orange moon.

Y/N woke up alone, cold and confused in the Den. Her head ached and she became dizzy when she stood up, forcing her back down to the cushions for a moment.

The dim lights flickered and she raised her eyes to see the spirit of yet another Whitlock child standing in accusation, pointing a short, pale finger in her direction. Y/N shook her head and pushed herself up off of the couch. “What do you want from me?” She was no longer scared, she was tired and annoyed. Her voice cut through the chilled air, ringing through the room, but had no effect on the ghost. “You don’t wanna talk to me? Fine. I’ll just leave.” Y/N shrugged and turned towards the door. Before she reached it, it slammed shut, locked by tiny invisible hands. Y/N rolled her eyes, “What else you got?” She mocked the ghost as she slowly backed up to the fireplace and grabbed the iron poker from it’s place against the marble mantle. “You wanna play? Come on! I dodged all your books and utensils, whatchoo got for me now?”

The child ghost flashed before her, and Y/N swung the poker, shattering the translucent visage in a flurry of sparks. The door unlocked and Y/N spent no time running through the mahogany portal, rushing through the hall, calling for the boys.

“Sam!” Her words were visible in the suddenly cold air.

“Dean! Come on guys!” The wall scones blinked on and off behind her and Y/N took off, weapon in hand, running through the mansion in search of her friends.

“At least they’re all in one spot and we didn’t have to go hunting for them.” Dean had been chatting the entire time they were outside; trying to get Sam to talk to him while they turned over the cold earth. “What’s this gonna be, nine birds, one stone?” Dean laughed and tossed his shovel up onto the ground, pulling himself out of the final hole.

Sam ignored him, pouring salt on the other bones they had uncovered.

“You just gonna give me the silent treatment forever?” Dean pushed him, brushing dirt from his jeans.

“Probably,” Sam barked.

“He speaks!” Dean joked. “You want to tell me what the problem is, or should I just keep guessing?”

“You know what the problem is Dean.” Sam tossed the last of the salt into Sarah’s grave.

“No, I don’t.”

Sam growled and turned to face his brother. “You and Y/N. That’s my problem.”

“Why? I told you, it’s the ghosts or something. I can’t control it! She attacked me.” Sam looked away, his jaw clenched tight. “Wait… do you… you like her don’t you?”

Sam shook his head, trying to get Dean to drop the subject. “You do! Dude, since when?”

“Since forever Dean! You’d know that if you bothered to open your eyes. I’m fucking in love with her, man!”

The revelation shut Dean up. He had had no idea about Sam’s feelings. They were all friends, at least that’s what he’d thought. Sure, maybe Y/N was a little more gentle with Sam, they sat a little closer, touched a little more often but…

“Does she know?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know,” Sam replied sadly. “I never said anything.” He picked up the red gas can and uncapped it. “I should have said something.”

“It’s not too late you know.”

A loud crash came from the house. The boys looked up to see a second story window shattered, Y/N’s body pressed up against the panes. She screamed, her voice echoing through the dark night, riding the wind to their ears, “Sam!”

The brothers exchanged panicked looks. “Burn them, I got her.” Dean said as he took off towards the house.

Sam’s heart raced as he doused the caskets in gasoline, straining his ears to listen to the battle raging inside.

Forevers: @atc74 @autopistaaningunaparte @bea789 @because-imma-lady-assface @babypieandwhiskey @britt-spn @charliebradbury1104 @chaos-and-the-calm67 @chelsea072498 @chuckangel @cici0507 @clairese1980 @collectivekiera @cyrilconnelly @demonangelimpala @dustycelt @faithfulpanicmoon @feelmyroarrrr @flowermisha @freaksforthewin @frenchybell @fuckyeahfeysand @gemini75eeyore @ghostkitty1103 @im-super-potter-locked @inmysparetime0 @jpadjackles @jotink78 @kristaparadowski @katrodriguez99 @lavendellove @luciisthebest @mamaredd123 @mogaruke @megafrontliner311 @megansescape @mija-novella @milkymilky-cocopuff @mrsbatesmotel53 @my-life-is-here-soo @myfand0msandm0re @mysteriouslyme81 @naadestiel @notnaturalanahi @percussiongirl2017 @percywinchester27 @poukothenerd @riddikulus-obsessions @riversong-sam @sam-winchesters-long-locks @smoothdogsgirl @summer-binging-spn @superbasementflower @supernaturallymarvellous @supernaturalyobessed @thecynicalnerd @the-latina-trickster @therewillbeblood @tom-is-in-my-tardis @typicalweirdbookworm @thegreatficmaster @vine-colored-assbutt @whatareyousearchingfordean @xxthevampirediariesexpertxx @yearoftheweasley @youtubehelpsmesurvive

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