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crienselt · 2 months

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So a few days ago I saw someone (elsewhere) questioning Zutara fans’ excitement about the scarf scene. It wasn't a mean comment, more general curiosity. And well, I didn't have time to get my thoughts out then. But they haven't gone away, so I'm getting them out here:

Here’s what everyone need to understand about Zutara shippers. We were baited baaaad during the initial run of the show–from the magazines to the shorts to the trailers and how they were cut. And Zuko and Katara’s relationship on the show certainly underwent a lot of development and featured objectively emotional–if not overtly romantic–moments between the two. We were well fed, and we had reason to hope. Right up to the end, we had reason to hope.

The shipping wars were the shipping wars, of course, with all the usual tensions; there are always going to be overzealous fans of each (and any) pairing willing to get toxic. Generally, I think Kataang fans were always jealous of Zutara’s popularity and Zutara fans, post finale, were jealous of Kataang’s, well, canon status. But really it operated much the same as any other large fandom’s shipping wars.

And then came Bryke and the panel where they showed and mocked Zutara fan art, some of which had been created by teens if not straight up children. Then came their, “Come on, kids! It was never going to work. Zutara is just dark and intriguing.”* And the pièce de résistance, their telling Zutara shippers (specifically girls/women) that they were doomed to have failed romantic relationships. Like, what? The thing with the art was arguably cruel, and the rest of it was oh, so condescending. Just all around not well done.

The after effect was that Zutara went from being simply a fanon pairing to a wrong pairing. The ATLA fandom at large became a far more hostile place for Zutara fans, who were now more commonly deemed delusional and viewed as lesser fans. The vitriol only got worse when the show came to Netfilx and the next wave of antis rolled up with their co-opting of legitimate socio-political terms to paint Zutara not just as wrong but morally corrupt if not evil. It’s all very puritanical.**

So Zutara fans need to be reminded that we weren’t delusional, and we aren’t alone. It’s why it means so much to know that Dante Basco and Mae Whitman shipped their characters. And that so many other VAs came out as Zutara supporters too: Jack De Sena, Michaela Jill Murphy, Grey DeLisle, Janet Varney--even the cabbage man. For it to be revealed that it was discussed in the writers room; that the writers fought over it; that it WAS a canon possibility. (And that writers Joshua Hamilton and John O’Bryan are perfectly comfortable admitting their preference for Zutara.) To know that the Elizabeth Welch Ehasz described Zuko and Katara as an “Avatar-style Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” in the script for The Southern Raiders, and used the phrase “Zutara-feuling synchronicity and cooperation” to describe their action sequences. To see Giancarlo Volpe, a Kataanger, admit Zutara might been the better pairing in retrospect and choose a quiet scene between them (to see their “chemistry”) as what he’d most look forward to in the live action adaptation. It’s why we cling to the artwork done by Korean animation director. We aren’t delusional. We aren’t alone.

But try telling that to the general fandom, right? Most are ignorant of a lot of this, particularly Hamilton and O’Bryan’s revelations re: the writers room. A lot of Zutara fans don't even seem to know. But being baited by Netflix on their official accounts? Oh, people see that. And we are reminded in a big way that we aren't delusional and we aren't alone. And everyone else has to remember it too.

So, of course, we're having fun clowning over the scarf scene. And I think most Zutara fans know we are clowning. I don't think most expect to get canon Zutara in live action because of one little scene or the fact that their Netflix icons are facing each other. (I headcanon that that was totally the doing of Zutara shipper on staff, though, lol. Because there are a lot of us, and we are everywhere.)

And this is okay. Zutara has been doing just fine as a fanon ship. Meanwhile, NATLA might actually do Kataang justice. It always worked better as a future ship. (Really all the pairings do. But I especially don't ever need to see another 12 year old kissing let alone making out, in animation or live action, ever again.) There's a reason Padme and Anakin don't get together in Phantom Menace, after all. Also, there's always the chance they could give us Dante's or Mae's headcanon of them basically suppressing their feelings and choosing duty over love/right person-wrong time. And the odds of getting some more moments to clown over are high enough.

Anyway, TLDR: Zutara has been made to feel like an out-of-nowhere crack ship and the live action crumbs remind us that it is not. And this is at least partially why we are enjoying it. (Because, also, it's just fun!)

*Side tangent: I’ve never gotten this dark and intriguing comment. Even during Season 1, the height of the capture fic era, Zutara was always a ship fundamentally about hope, predicated on Zuko's redemption. (Back in the day, there were also plenty of antis arguing that there was no way Zuko would ever be one of the gaang.) And they say “intriguing” like it’s a bad thing? Are we not supposed to be interested in the relationships of their characters???

**There have been some very good think pieces written lately on late stage capitalism and consumption as morality. Worth googling.

#Zutara #atla #natla

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eatommo · 1 year

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All is Fair [d.d]

Summary: A heated argument lets emotions, and confessions come to the surface.

CW: din djarin/female reader, the helmet stays on, angst, misunderstandings, mutual pining, confessions of love, din leaves bruises on her, marking kink, rough sex, d/s dynamics, use of pet names, p in v, creampie, mentions of gambling/bets, mando'a, oral (m reciving) (I probably missed some sorry)

a/n: This is a little messy, I'm just falling so hard again and need to get some of my own pining out. enjoy :)

You swear you hear the creak of his gloves tightening around your arm, “I told you to stay inside the ship.” His fingers are thick and robust as they dig into your flesh, properly leaving your skin purple. Helmet sweeping side to side he scans the crowd for someone showing too much interest, “The imps have eyes everywhere, you're going to get us killed.”

“Right. Because you’re an average man walking around, definitely not inside your own fucking casket.” His grip gets impossibly tighter, and he stops in his tracks, halting your movement completely. The adrenaline in your body peaks as his blank, concealed, stare fixes on your face.

“You’re tiresome. Did you know that?” His voice is pure vitriol, you’ve never seen him so angry. “I don’t care if I get killed but you can’t be bringing the kid out for a dessert run.”

“It was his idea!” Deep down you know he’s right, but being cooped up in the crest for weeks has made you all antsy, and the kid was very persuasive. “We didn’t just get cookies.” You try and keep your tone even, emotions mounting in your throat. “I got some bacta, and a new compressor for the carbonite chamber.” His posture is iron, shoulders, and head still as a rock and you trail off.

“You could’ve told me to get those things.” He turns away from you and pulls you back towards the ship. There are several coos and cries from the pouch now snug to dins hip and covered by his skewed cape. “You can’t let the baby tell you what to do.”

He’s been nothing but kind to you, and although you hate him confronting you he would’ve gotten anything you asked for, he always has. “You’re right, I’m sorry, but you don’t need to scold me like a child.”

His hand loosens slightly as if he is becoming conscious of hurting you, as he practically shoves you forward with his body while you instinctually resist. “This isn’t the first time you haven’t listened to me.”

You set your jaw, swallowing more bitter words, and scan the crowd with him, slightly turning your head every few steps to get a glimpse of people behind you, just like he taught you. Miraculously, you make it to the hangar without another bitter word.

Even as he pays the balance of the ship repairs his hand doesn’t leave its place on your arm, the man glancing between the two of you suspiciously. Your cheeks heat in embarrassment, and you begin to feel like a scruffed loth cat. “Do you have to drag me by my bones?!” You twist your arm in an attempt to escape, but all it does is shoot lightning through your arm down to your wrist.

He remains silent until he practically throws you onto the ramp of the ship. To further your shame, you trip and fall to your knees scraping them both on the rough texture of the ramp. With a huff and barely-kept tears, you storm up the ramp and drop the sack of supplies on a crate, heading straight to the fresher for a rinse in the shower, in a desperate effort to collect yourself.

The ship takes off in no time with a lurch and the immediate hum of hyperspace envelops the crest. Only then, do you feel safe enough to let out a choked frustrated sob. The cry is relatively quick, and the water does wonders for the tight knot of the new bruise on your arm, but not quite the cleansing of your heart you were praying for.

You rinse the soap from your hair rigorously and not kindly, in an attempt to shake the need for these bruises to linger until they faded without the use of bacta. He would think you were being ridiculous, he might even taunt you about being young and dumb if he found out how you felt about him. You’d be lying if these weren’t tears of heartbreak, he embarrassed and chastised you in front of crowds of people and practically dragged you halfway across town.

Yet, you found yourself wanting to seek him for comfort. Longing for the long nights of telling him about your childhood on bespin, and the comfort of his laugh as he gave you a simple story about the fighting corps that had your eyes full of admiration and bewilderment. He had been kind and soft and protective. Today was the first time you remember him being so assertive with you, with enemies and bounties yes, but never to you.

Maybe it was time for you to take off. The thought felt like a slap on the cheek, and you bite your lips as you swipe across the ripped flesh of your knee. It is not a terrible scrape, but the skin is tender and bruised around the minor cuts. You wanted him to apologize, and you wanted him to see you bleed, you knew he’d feel terrible, he stepped on your foot last week and apologized three times.

Stepping out of the shower you realize that in your rush to the refresher, you didn’t grab a pair of clothes. Swearing to yourself, you take a look at your dirty clothes from earlier. They're caked in sand, and rather than put them on you’ll wrap yourself in -shit- his towel. Sending a prayer to the maker, whoever she may be, you open the doors and set your gaze on the floor towards your bunk and set course confidently. Unaware he is watching intently from the container you left your sack on until his boots are in your vision.

He hears the squeak die in your throat and watches your heart race as he scans your near-naked frame with his visor. His breath catches in his throat at the sight, his hand still radiating warmth from holding your skin even with his gloved hand. He wanted you, and his body responded to the small friction of your body against his front like he was a teenager. Then he starts picking up on the scrape on your knees, and the swell of a bruise on your left arm. As your heart leaps into your throat, he drops to the floor on his knees, he hurt you. In his scared frustration, he scolded and towed you around like a misbehaving massiff.

This is where his career failed him, he could de-escalate a bar fight, but he had heard apologizing to a woman was not easy, especially when he so desperately needed you to forgive him. Not to mention the beautiful distraction of his cock twitching in his pants as he settles on your face, trying not to think about your skin smelling like him. “Focus.” Fuck. Did he just say that out loud?

“What did you just say?” You take a larger step forward, your leg peaks out of the wrap of the towel, wrath keeping you from caring. “I always admired your bravery, and now I’m wondering where all the audacity came from.”

He stammers, modulator picking up his sharp confused gasp, “No. I mean-”.

You don’t give him the chance to finish. “I want to go home.” The words dry your tongue to ash. But his posture goes rigid again, and for the first time since you met, you’re afraid of him.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” As a wave crashes over him, he resets. His shoulders slumped over, and the helmet hanging as if he is adverting his eyes. You watch with bated breath as he reaches up in a familiar movement, flicking through types of vision processors in his helmet, and your blood turns cold.

With a fluid movement, he guides your hand to his shoulder with his free hand and reaches for your calf with the other, pulling your leg free to examine the scuff on your knee.

You misread him and in your panic pull away, falling over your own feet his grip catches you as your towel parts to reveal almost your entire body to him. He’s standing slightly, having to abandon his seat in his efforts to catch you. The helmet snaps to your eyes, and then to the wall beside you as he stands you up.

You take a step back while adjusting your towel and holding it closer to you. “I’m mad that you treated me like a child.” He keeps his eyes trained on the wall, “I shouldn’t-”

“I panicked, I was worried.” He is defensively talking over you, but also afraid to tell you of his feelings for you so his voice is low.

“Be carted through the city on a leash like some misbehaving whore.” The words are pouring out of you as if coating your tongue with honey as they crack across his bleeding heart, far too much happening too fast as he scrambles to catch up.

“I want to go home.” You say it again, but this time it's less convincing as he comes to rest on his knees in front of you.

“I’m sorry.” He creeps pathetically closer to you, resting back onto his feet and leaning the forehead of his helm against your stomach seeking comfort that's more intimate than you’ve ever offered. “I’m not good at these things.” He shifts again, this time looking toward your face until just the chin of the visor is digging into the skin of your abdomen, “I’ve never had the chance to look after something I’ve cared about so much.” His voice although clear is quiet, shy even, “I was so scared I didn’t even think until I saw you set the bacta on the crate.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, tears slipping down your face wordless as you watch him grovel, you must be dreaming.

“Ni ceta.” His heart aches in time with the throbbing pain of his knees on the floor, and for the first time since pridefully placing his helm on his head, he wishes he could abandon it at your feet.

Everything he does is intense, he is fiercely protective, he is lethal, and you might even describe him as passionate when it comes to his creed. The child, who you assume is somewhere sleeping, was possibly the most fiercely protected baby in the galaxy. Having come to know him over the last few months, you wondered how he ever survived on his own, he cherished the companionship the two of you have brought and he always seems to welcome your antics, often at his expense. Like a light in a dim alley, the conclusion flickers in your brain, it's the only thing that makes sense.

“I’m sorry I brought him into danger.” You clear your throat, unable to look away from the dim reflection of yourself in his visor. “I’m just feeling a little like a prisoner.”

He says that unfamiliar phrase again, “Ni ceta, mesh’la.” [I kneel, gorgeous] In what you assume is Mando’a, “I will do better.” Your hands twitch at your side, as you fight the urge to caress his head.

“Okay.” You give a reserved nod, the ice in your heart melted and you feel as vulnerable as ever. “Is the kid asleep?”

Mando gives a soft hum, “He ate a few cookies and then promptly collapsed in his pram in the cockpit.” You realize his voice is hoarse but he clears it, “Can I give you some bacta, and make you some caf? I know you won't forgive me right away.” He trails off, as the glint of his helm holds your stare.

“I’m not upset with you anymore, you don’t need to get anything for me, I can still walk just fine.” A small giggle erupts from your chest, surprising the two of you. There he is.

He stands but doesn’t do anything but lean back slightly, “I want to. I feel terrible.” You take a step back as he stands, he speaks in a hushed tone, “I’d carry you around if that’s what you’d wanted.”

There’s a glitch in your brain he doesn’t miss, and it's hard to ignore the small sound that you make, suddenly he’s thankful for the privacy of the helmet and the loose-fitting fabric of his flight suit. “Is it what you want?” This is an interaction he is slightly more comfortable with, albeit a little rusty.

You clear your throat and shake your head as if the intrusive thoughts will fade with the harsh movement. “Yes and no.” You settle on a bit of honesty while also playing coy. “Who doesn’t want to be carried around by a big strong mysterious man? It’s every girl's dream.”

“Maybe I should add that to the list of services I provide.” He is leaning up against the walls of your bunk, subconsciously blocking you from abandoning the conversation and seeking the warmth and privacy in your bunk.

“We probably would make a killing. But I wouldn’t want you to…” You trail off, not initially liking what the taunting was morphing into, but what the hell? “To carry anyone but me if I am honest.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want me to?” He’s tasting the sweetness of your confession on his tongue, processing it while trying to keep the tone light.

“I want you to want to do those things outside of guilt.” The conversation is far past smooth, nothing like the holodramas you’ve imagined the two of you a part of. “I want you to like spending time with me.”

“I do feel guilty, but I would do these things for you regardless, and I do like spending time with you. We both do, or I wouldn’t fight so hard to keep you here.” There’s an air of caution in his statement, he’s scared of rushing headfirst into his adoration of you and scaring you, even if his face is protected in his bashful admission.

“You do?” You squint an eye at him as if scanning him through your own tech-clad helmet. “Are we on the same page?” You chew on your lip, analyzing his cool, relaxed posture before settling on his pitch-black visor again, in the flicker of your heart you know he’s meeting your stare. “I like you.”

His chest rises sharply with an inhale as if he’s been injured and you quickly try and find a way to backpedal out of this conversation. “Well, maybe we aren’t. I was going to say I’m in love with you.”

If you didn’t know the child was asleep, you would’ve thought he was pushing you toward his dad. There was a tug at your heart and you rush to embrace him, met with the cool metal against your bare skin. Your instinct calls for you to kiss him, and you want to terribly, but you’re unsure of what his customs allow.

You let your hands search for the gaps in his armor, looking for warmth and settling right below the gusset of armor on his back and squeeze him so impossibly tight he groans contently. “This feels so weird, I’m sorry I don’t know what to do.” Your cheeks heat, and he chuckles.

“What are you trying to do?” He finally seems to have settled into the space in front of you, a pliant but also stiff bundle of warmth juxtaposed by the cool faces of his beskar plates. “I can take the armor off if you’re trying to get comfortable.”

“I know how to do it, I just don’t know if I’m allowed to. I want to kiss you Mando…” The bashfulness in the way you bury your face into the crook of his arm, makes his heart skip to an unfamiliar beat in his chest.

“I can take everything but the helmet off, I would eventually. I’m not ready for that.” Now he’s the insecure one, how could you want to be with him without seeing him? “I know it’s not ideal, I’m sorry.”

You sense the insecurity right away, and rather than letting it fester in his always-thinking brain, you do your best to soothe his worries with a caress and a change of subject. “Everything else you say?” Lifting your brow, you hook the rim of his chest plate with your fingernail, separating it slightly from its place. “I can wait for the helmet,” you look up through your eyelashes, “ I want to feel you.”

Lacing your fingers through his, you stroke the palm of his hand silently asking for permission to remove them. He nods slowly, and you slide beneath the fabric slowly revealing the tanned, callused skin. Human skin.

You remove the other glove, letting your fingers soak in his radiating warmth. Drawing long slow circles on his palms, you search for his approval but his head is fixed on your hands in his. He is rigid and his posture is stiff, as if afraid if he moves you’ll stop.

Every nerve in his body is alight, he’s practically vibrating as you run your fingers along his skin, your hands are cold and feel wonderfully soft. It takes everything not to whine when you go to take his vambraces off and the comfort of your touch is ripped away from him.

“I don’t know how to do this.” You admit, well aware of the whistling birds that are more than dangerous and you're afraid to set them off. He laughs nervously, and you’re leaning so close to his face that you can almost hear the air without the modulator.

“It’s safe.” He reaches over and shows you how to remove the armor. As you lift it away you motion for him to remove the other one while you get to work on his chest plate. The heavy metal plate joins the rest of it in a compartment to his left, and you lay your hands flat on the broad plain of his chest.

He moves, remembering his strength, and tilts your elbow until your hand is resting on the zipper hidden beneath the collar of his cape. Working in tandem, he removes his cuirass as you unzip his flight suit.

Your vision rakes over the ripple of his muscles, a few bruises and scars mark his skin, and you without thinking lean in and leave an open-mouthed kiss over a yellow bruise on his left peck. This time you are close enough to hear the whine that escapes from beneath the helmet in time with his posture going slack with a flood of goosebumps on his skin.

The noises go straight to your core, the idea of this hard exterior broken by a hint of your mouth on his chest is enough of an invite to step closer. Slotting between his feet, you press your mouth to the center of his sternum, chasing it as he flinches away from your cold hands brushing against his lower stomach before curling into the fabric to pull him tight against you.

He steps back, maneuvering around the crate and leaning against the wall behind it so he can slot his thigh between your legs gently inviting you to grind against the cool metal plate, only separated by an ever-falling towel his brain scrambles, only thinking about how your mouth feels hot against his skin and wondering what you taste like.

You lean harder into him, feeling the weight of his cock dig into your stomach and trying to focus on nibbling on the tight muscle of his shoulder as the fabric of his flight suit falls off his shoulders. You hear a loud clang as he throws his head back, likely breaking something behind him, when you dig in your teeth and suck hard on one of his collarbones. You suckle and kitten lick at the same time, the groans and shivers only provoke you further, only pulling away when your lips start to feel swollen.

He’s thankful again for the privacy of his helmet, as frustrating as it is to not return the favor he can’t seem to regain control of his limbs and jaw, everything going slack as he fights the urge to rut against your body like a horny teenager.

The weight of what's left of his armor is dragging the thick fabric to the floor, revealing the rich sculpted muscles of his abdomen and the tortuously scandalous dip of his hip bones. The dull ache of your jaw is ignored as you trail down his warm skin, laving across his nipples as you take your time kissing him, tasting the salt of his skin.

You blow across the trail of kisses, knowing that the air will feel cold and feeling a little dauntless. A shiver rolls through him, bringing his hips forward as if begging for your attention. His cock struggles against the fabric of his underclothes, its weight heavy and practically weeping a delirious amount of precum. It's the hitch of your breath at the realization of his size that breaks his stupor. Digging one hand into your hair and shoving the final confines of his clothing to the ground, he takes his cock into his hand, using the precome to tease the head just above your waiting mouth as you admire.

You finally meet the visor with your eyes again, as he stokes himself tauntingly above you, he’s thicker than any you’d seen before, his fingers not even connecting around its circumference, and the flesh is a tad darker than his skin, with slightly darker veins throbbing for your waiting mouth.

He swears under his breath, as you let your tongue rest on the underside of his thick tip. He pulls you onto him, barely pressing into your mouth but the edge of his heady moan is irresistible, you need to hear it endlessly until he begged you to stop. You take more of him in on the accompanying thrusts, swallowing around him as tears brim your eyes. There's a sense of desperation as he loses his composure his movements less consistent and his body relaxes into the skilled warmth of your mouth.

By the time you work your way to the base, his sparse curls tickle your nose as you hum around him in contentment, and drool runs down your chin onto your chest. You realize in embarrassment that you were holding onto the towel, placing it under your injured knee for padding, and you settle more comfortably onto the ground, allowing you to start caressing his balls with your hand.

His gasp is sinful, depraved even as his hand furls tighter in your hair, teasing the line between pain and pleasure. You moan around him as he twitches against the back of your throat. Gently you shake your head side to side, as you get the last inch or so into your mouth. You hear another loud smash as his head hits the wall a second time, you pause waiting to hear the hiss of a cracked pipe. Instead, he tugs your head back and forth, hand griping tight but the pace is teasingly gentle.

Humming in approval, you look up, watching his body fight for breath between curses and moans. Maker was he handsome, his skin was riddled with various scars and bruises but remained soft and clean, the muscles of his body taut with pleasure and even quivering in his legs as he fought the urge to cum down your throat.

Surprising himself, he guides your head all the way off him, letting himself get a good look at your swollen wet mouth and your naked body as he pulls you back to your feet. “You’re so beautiful,” he is practically whispering, and you feel as though he’s caressing you with his voice, “Can I,” you step closer to him, pressing more open mouth kisses to the tender base of his throat, “Kriff, Can I fuck you?”

You hum against his skin in affirmation before taking his collarbone between your teeth and sucking a fresh mark into it. His arms wrap around your frame as he effortlessly lifts you and you wrap around him, pressing a few gentler, less hungry kisses to the helm where you envision his hairline. He manages to open the door to his bunk and lays you down.

He finally gets your entire body laid open for him, letting his hands caress your sides, committing the shapes of your body to memory as he runs over the planes of your body, stopping for a moment to drag his rough fingers over your nipples. You arch into his touch, feeling as though he is dragging a heated blade of pleasure across your skin. Coaxing your thighs open with the backs of his hands, he emits a low groan as he swipes two fingers through your folds. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he rolls your clit between two fingers effectively shutting you up. He nudges against your entrance and then slowly stretches you open while continuously toying with your clit, scissoring two fingers while paying close attention to any shifts in your breath and small noises.

He pushes his fingers up, and your legs try to close as the new pleasure makes your vision fuzzy. “Keep those legs open for me c’yare.” He demands, massaging that spot a few more times, and you feel as though you’re gasping for each breath in time with the movements of his fingers.

Just when you’re about to start begging for him to let you cum, he stops completely, using the moisture on his hands to slick up his length haphazardly before lining up with your fluttering pussy.

Again, his gentleness stuns you, slowly rocking his hips as he edges deeper into your core. The stretch is shocking at first, but he gives you plenty of time to adjust, slowly circling your clit with his thumb. He hooks your legs around his waist, grinding deeper and deeper until his face is hovering inches from yours.

He presses his forehead to yours in a keldabe kiss. Each slap of his hips is punctuated by your breathy gasp that fogs up his visor. He’s finally close enough to your skin to smell his soap lingering, and it awakens a part of his brain he didn’t know existed.

“You’re mine, mesh’la.” He rubs your clit just a fraction harder, “I wanna hear you say it.”

You struggle to get enough air in your lungs to speak, but the need to please him is greater than your need for breath, “Yours Mando,” His body is fire compared to the cool air of the crest, causing your skin to flush hotly, and a sheen of sweat coating your body, “Anything you want.”

His grunting is entirely animalistic, the ship could fall out of hyperspace or get attacked by purgills and he would be none the wiser. The tight grip of your pussy drives him further into insanity, he feels his orgasm creep up his spine and even then he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop. “Yeah? I’m gonna cum inside you baby.”

He sits up slightly, changing the angle of his hips to shove impossibly deeper into you as you tighten around him, your own orgasm brimming. With each faltering snap of his hips, your whine grows louder until you’re pleading with him to cum inside of you, feeling like it’s the only possible way to bring you relief.

He cradles your head in his arm, needing to feel your moans ripple across his skin as he feels you squeeze him like a vice, your legs shaking and practically bucking him off you with the force of your orgasm. It’s only a few more thrusts before he’s spilling himself inside you and grinding deep until his nerves are on shot and his body is ready to collapse from the stimulation.

A few quick moments pass, and while collecting your wits, you search his visor again, longing for just a bit of eye contact, but unable to find anything, you give him a soft smile. “I owe Peli 50 credits.”

Almost unbelievably bubbly, he resigns “I owe her 150, I think we got caught in a sure bet.” You feign surprise. “I can’t believe she knew before we did.”

“Sounds like she was a double agent. Maybe she just thinks she’ll get another baby out of it.” Your cheeks heat before you can finish speaking and he’s blushing profusely beneath the helmet.

He hums in contentment, letting some of his body weight rest on you as he slips free, before shifting to lay your head on his chest. “I love you.” His hand rubs circles at the base of your neck, but he can’t help but stare at the dark bruises on your arm. “I’ll get up and get you some bacta in a moment.”

“I love you too.” You listen intently to the steady falling rhythm of his heart, as you come down from your highs together. “I think I’d rather have them.” You gently run your fingers over the deep purple marks you’ve sucked into his skin, smiling sadistically at his sharp intake of breath. “It’s only fair.”

#din djarin fanfic #din x reader #the mandalorian #mandalorian smut #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x reader #din djarin x reader smut #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian spoilers #star wars fanfiction #star wars

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aeide-thea · 7 months

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thinking abt like. how hostile this website makes us to one another, and to good-faith discussion—

someone i follow fact-checked a post and was like ‘actually the murdered relative in question was her great-uncle, not her father,’ which, fine, yeah, precision abt stuff like that is good and respectful!

but then in tags they were like ‘that’s a really weird claim to have made, OP, especially when everything else here was basically accurate???’ and i just thought to myself—isn’t the best-faith assumption here also the likeliest, namely that they simply misremembered?? why jump straight to characterizing the situation as a ‘weird claim,’ and implying something ambiguous-but-negative abt their motives and/or character?

and like. a while back i did basically the same thing myself: someone had posted a photograph of a gay family that cropped out their visibly disabled daughter, and i was like 🧐 and went up my ladder about it; and then later i saw they’d been like ‘i just saw the cropped version somewhere and thought it was sweet and wanted to share it, i didn’t know it wasn’t the original!’

and like. yeah, it’s good to do a little research on things before you post them, and maybe tineye would have turned up the original for them, but. their intent hadn’t been what i’d indignantly implied it might be; and i felt (and feel) bad about the tone i’d taken wrt their post, and abt having potentially directed third-party vitriol their way because of how i’d framed things—which was, frankly, the result of my failing to do enough research before posting, or at least to think through whether i had any actual evidence for what i was claiming?

anyway, i’m sure i still make unfair assumptions—we all do! but i do try to take a beat and make a little extra effort to think: is the most likely scenario here actually that this person is deliberately misrepresenting things? do they deserve my casting aspersions to that effect? or is it just that they don’t know what they don’t know, and they haven’t thought to double-check themself, and they’re human…

because the thing is, being kinder and being more intellectually rigorous actually go hand in hand here? it’s good not to ascribe motives to people that you have no active evidence of, both because reflexively doing that is a hostile approach to the world that makes you pricklier and less patient, and because it’s exactly the same sort of sloppy unsupported assertion we fact-checkers are supposed to stand against!

anyway. longer post than intended, but. some Food for Thought maybe. <3

#like. ultimately how can we claim to be working towards a better world if we aren’t working not to jump down people’s throats without cause.

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rollingsins · 1 year

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three's a crowd, part seven

summary: you hadn’t expected this. to fall in love. with not one girl, but two. you hadn’t expected to ruin their friendship. love triangle au.

pairing: emma myers x reader, jenna ortega x reader

warnings: language, angst.

word count: 3k

a/n: couple more chapters to go, and then we're finito. Love hearing your thoughts, as always, don't be afraid to hit that ask box!

The rest of the week passes by in a blur.

You cry yourself to sleep the first night.

Lay wide awake for the second.

Memories flash by like nightmares. Emma and her sweet smile, walking you home that first night. Emma and her blue eyes, sparkling pretty as she’d kissed you.

Her lips. Soft, so so addictive.

Her voice, quiet. Shy.

The feel of her under you, on top of you, near you.

The look in her eyes when she’d realized you’d betrayed her.

The sneer in her voice as she all but called you a whore to your face.

The heavy finality in her voice as she’d told you she was done with you.

It’s too much. You feel it all too much.

Anger, at yourself. Hatred, towards yourself.

Grief, loss, hurt, despair. Everything.

So you lock yourself away like a hermit. Your apartment is your shell. You don’t have to film, thank god, so you don’t leave. Spend hours toiling in bed, staring at the ceiling. Taking long, hot showers. So hot the water scalds your skin.

It feels good to hurt.

It feels cathartic, like the physical pain will take you away from the grief swirling in your chest, if only for a moment.

Georgie calls but you don’t answer. Joy calls but you hit decline. Hunter calls and you laugh.

By the third day, people are knocking at your door, shouting at you to come out.

Not Emma, not Johnna and not Jenna.

But everyone else.

You don’t care. Let them stand out in the hall shouting.

You just want to leave this set and these people. You want to never see any of them again.

Maybe Georgie. Definitely Georgie.

But everybody else? You’ll pass.

Definitely not Emma. Definitely not Johnna.

It hurts to think about Jenna so you don’t. Let yourself stew in your own self-hatred instead.

Maybe you’ll become a painter, you muse, laying in your bathtub, fully clothed, the fourth night. Tortured artist sounded like a fun gig, you were already half-way there. You’d buy a house in the middle of nowhere and never look at any girl twice again. It was better that way.

It would hurt less.

You let yourself imagine for a moment. And then the buzz of your phone jolts you back to reality.

You almost hit decline straight away. No doubt it’s Georgie again, despite your explicit message you didn’t want to talk.

Your fingers hover over the phone as you read the caller name. Your heart seizes. Anxiety washes through your body.

It’s Jenna.

She hadn’t called, not yet. Not texts, no voicemails.

You don’t even know if she knows. But she must, why else would she call you?

You bite your lip, then accept the call.

“Hello?”

“YN,” Her voice is low. She sounds a little surprised, like she didn’t expect you to answer. You feel yourself start to sweat, grip the edges of the tub, “I’d ask how you are but-”

“You know then.” You say.

She pauses.

“Georgie told me.”

That two-faced little weasel.

“-Don’t be mad at him,” She says, hurriedly, as if she can read your mind, “He’s really worried about you, he says you won’t answer your phone. It’s the only reason he told me.”

You bite your lip, vitriol at him softening.

“Does everybody know then?” You ask, though you already know the answer.

The slew of missed calls and cast members trying bang down your door tells you the answer.

“They’re worried about you,” Jenna says, “We’re all worried about you.”

“Even her?” You say after a long moment.

Jenna pauses.

“Especially her.”

“She hasn’t even bothered to call,” You bite back.

Jenna says, “She’s afraid that if she calls you-“

“I’ll what?” you ask, “Throw myself off the balcony or something?”

Jenna pauses.

“She just doesn’t want to upset you anymore”

You pause, mind reeling, for Jenna to know this she’d have to have spoken to Emma. There’s a thought, niggling deep in your stomach. It gnaws, you want answers.

“What did you say to her?” You ask, brows furrowed, “When we came around on Saturday. She was fine and then you spoke to her.”

Jenna pauses.

“I don’t…” She trails off.

“Did you ask her to break up with me?” You ask, desperately. You want to understand. You need to understand.

“No,” Is all she says.

She doesn’t bother to elaborate. It makes you furious. A tired kind of furious. A silent kind of furious. The taste in your mouth is sour and you don’t want to talk to her anymore.

Not if she won’t be honest with you.

“Well, this has been fun,” You say, “Good chat. Thanks for checking in or whatever-“

“YN-“ Jenna says, voice sharp. She wants to say something, you can tell by her tone.

You wait a moment.

But she doesn’t speak. The only sound is the hum of your refrigerator and her sharp intake of breath.

“Goodbye, Jenna.” You say, and hang up the phone.

On the fifth day, Georgie breaks the door down.

Literally.

“Sorry,” He says, a little out of breath as you stare at him from your spot on the sofa, “Just needed to check you were still alive.”

He hugs you. Tight. So tight you find it hard to breathe.

Then, he settles in beside you. Close, like he’s scared you’ll run away.

“We’ve missed you on set,” He says.

You cross your arms, “I wasn’t on the call sheet,” You say, “It’s my week off.”

Georgie hums.

“You could have answered your phone,” He says, “Everyone’s worried.”

“So I’ve heard.” You grumble. You sink back into the sofa, “What about Johnna? I bet she’s doing somersaults.”

“Everyone.” He insists. He squeezes your hand, “It’s a shitty, complicated situation, but no one wants you to not be okay. Even Johnna.”

You hum.

And don’t believe him.

You don’t know what Johnna knows about your relationship with Emma, but it isn’t hard to imagine she’s thrilled with the lack of competition. Emma all to herself.

Is Emma with her now? Is Johnna holding her while she cries, soothing her upset with kisses? Kisses that should have been yours. Or maybe Emma’s not upset at all. Maybe she’s perfectly happy, fucking Johnna the way she used to fuck you.

You imagine them entwined, Emma kissing her so softly.

You sink back into the sofa, a wave of sickness flooding through you.

Georgie cuts into your internal crisis with a squeeze of your shoulder.

“Jenna told me she called you yesterday,” Georgie says, voice quiet, “She said you weren’t doing good.”

“So you decided to break my door?” You ask, gesturing madly to the wreck on the floor.

“It’ll teach you to answer your phone,” Georgie says with a shrug, “So how are you doing? Really?”

“Peachy.” You mumble.

Georgie raises an eyebrow.

“You know you’re shooting Friday, right?” He asks, “I checked. And we’ll all be there.”

You’d forgotten about that. The thought of walking on set with everybody knowing exactly what’s happened makes you want to sink into the sofa and never come out.

Georgie rubs your back.

“Everyone’s worried,” He repeats, “And we’re all here for you. You don’t have anything to be nervous about.”

But you are nervous.

You’re nervous when you go to sleep that night.

You’re nervous the next day, and the day after.

And when Friday rolls around, you’re so anxious you’re considering quitting the production all together.

Being sued for breach of contract sounds a lot better than having to look Emma in the eye and pretend to be her love interest for eight hours.

Emma isn’t there when you finally muster the strength to show up.

You’re early - it’s all crew members and extras. And Joy - who you forgot has the habit of showing up thirty minutes early for everything.

She hasn’t really spoken much to you, since the entire blow-out with Jenna and Emma went down.

It’s understandable - you hate you too, why wouldn’t everyone else?

But she doesn’t look like she hates you when she approaches.

Her look is softer. Reserved. Pitying.

You’d prefer the hatred.

“Emma told us about everything,” She says. She rubs your arm, “I hope you’re doing okay. Everyone’s been worried about you.”

“So I keep hearing,” You mumble.

She pauses. Surveys you.

“I know you don’t care what I think,” She says, voice a little hesitant, “And you shouldn’t. It’s none of my business. But your heart wasn’t in it. We could all tell.”

You’re right, it’s not your business, you want to snap back.

You refrain. This day is going to be hard enough and the last thing you need is more enemies on this set.

“Sure,” You offer, a little lame. Joy squeezes your arm.

The rest of the cast filter in one by one.

Hunter hugs you. Georgie brings you a coffee and sits with you while the crew set up.

He mumbles something, standing up to excuse himself after a while. You’re confused - until you see Jenna approaching.

Damn you, Georgie, you curse internally.

He hovers by the craft services table, peering back at you over his shoulder.

You’d pull the finger at him if Jenna wasn’t staring down at you, body language tight. Hesitant. Like she’s not sure if she should be talking to you.

You look up at her, watch the way she plays with her fingers.

“How are you?” She asks. She’s worried. You can tell by the way her eyes are flitting between yours.

“Fine.” You say, “Ready to shoot.”

Jenna stares for a moment. Then lowers her voice.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Jenna says, voice soft, “I care about you, still. If you’re not doing well-”

“What did you say to Emma?” You ask, unable to keep it in any longer, “On the balcony? I know you said you didn’t ask her to break up with me but you must have said something for her to do it.”

She blinks. Her shoulders tense.

“I didn’t say anything bad,” Is all she offers, “I didn’t ask her to break up with you, I already told you-“

“But what did you say?” You ask, voice a little desperate. You need to know. It’s eating you alive. Emma had been fine. Happy, even. Soft, almost romantic with you.

And then one conversation and she’d frozen over.

“Nothing bad.” She repeats, her voice soft.

She isn’t going to tell you, that much is clear. It pisses you off in a way that is maybe a little unfair. She doesn’t owe you anything, sure. Their conversation was private.

But it was clearly about you.

You look down at your phone, put your headphones back in.

“I’m fine, you don’t have to keep checking,” You say. There’s a bite in your voice that makes her flinch, “Let’s not make this any more awkward than it already is.”

Emma arrives a little later.

You’re able to avoid her for most of the morning. Ducking out to the bathroom when it’s not your time to shoot. Clinging to Georgie like a shield whenever she gets a little too close.

This afternoon, you’ll have to shoot with her. You’ve been dreading it all day.

Your scenes with her are supposed to be romantic. But you can’t even look at her without your chest seizing and your palms getting sweaty.

Like the world is playing some sort of sick joke on you. Karma, perhaps.

“Just talk to her and get it over with.” Georgie tells you all day, but you don’t listen.

You let it fester. This awkward, uncomfortable feeling that rots in you.

In the end, it’s her who approaches first.

You’re sitting out on the lawn by yourself, earphones in. Trying to drown your sorrows in angsty 80s music with your eyes closed.

The world shut off.

And then you feel her squeeze in next to you.

You open your eyes, heartbeat quickening. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches as you tug out your earphones, mouth dry.

“Hey,” She says, settling into the spot beside you, “How are you?”

The audacity of the question almost makes you laugh.

“How do you think I am?” You say. It comes out grouchier than you intended. You curl your arms around your knees, “I’m sad.”

She hums.

Leans back into her hands. She looks out into the distance, to where a crew member is wheeling a tub of fake blood onto set. Another person lifts a giant gargoyle onto a crane. An extra with a fake axe through their head passes by.

Set is bizarre, and somehow it fits your depressive mood.

“You’re not sad because I broke up with you,” Emma says, peering over at you. She lifts a hand to her eye to block out the sun.

You stare.

“Yes, I am.”

She shakes her head.

“You’ve been sad for a while. And it doesn’t have much to do with me.”

It’s coming, you can feel it. The “J” word. You hug your knees, hoping if you look too distraught, she’ll fly past it.

It doesn’t work.

“You’re sad because you’re not with Jenna.”

You let out a sharp intake of breath. You can’t even think about Jenna right now. You don’t want to think about her. About what could have been.

“We would have been so in love,” She’d murmured, ghost of a smile on her lips.

It makes you ache.

You'd given it all away to someone who didn't even want you anymore.

Karma, sings out that little voice in your head, again.

You swallow.

“We don’t have to talk about her.” You say, sitting up properly. You fiddle with the cord of your earphones. You want this conversation to be over.

“It’s fine, YN.” Emma says, “I’m not mad anymore. Or upset. Or jealous.”

She nudges your arm, glint of a smile on her lips.

“Not like before.”

“Because you don’t want me anymore?” You say, eyebrows furrowed.

She looks away.

“I did want you, you know that.”

“But not anymore?” You press.

She’s quiet for a moment.

“I want someone who wants me back,” She says, simply, “Someone who isn’t confused. Someone who doesn’t like someone else.”

“-Someone like Johnna.” You say, voice flat.

She shoots you a pained smile.

“Don’t be jealous.” She says, “You don’t want me, not really. You liked being liked, that’s all.”

It makes you stare.

“That’s not true,” You say, sitting up, “I did like you, Emma. I do like you. I just-“

“Liked her more.” Emma says, after a moment. Her gaze is pensive, “It’s okay, you can say it.”

You drop down onto your back. Stare up at the sky.

“You should tell her.”

“I should tell her?” You ask, a little dubious.

“How much you like her.” Emma says.

The words are strange, coming from her lips. You wait a bit for the punchline. But it never comes. She’s calm. At peace. Not a hint of jealousy in her tone.

“Too much has happened,” Is what you say after a careful moment, “If it was meant to be- it wouldn’t have been so messy.”

Emma purses her lips.

“It’s messy because I made it messy,” She says, quietly.

“I made it messy.” You correct her, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Except I pursued you knowing Jenna liked you.” Emma says, biting her lip, “Knowing you liked her back. I got involved because - I don’t know. I liked you so much and I thought- I don’t know what I thought.”

You lean back. Try to gauge her face. She doesn’t look sad, not like you. She’s pensieve. Reflective.

“Jenna’s useless at this kind of thing. I knew she’d never tell you and I used that to take you for myself.” Emma admits, “I thought she’d get over you. I thought it was a crush. If I had known-“

She trails off. Sits back on her hands.

“If you had known what?”

“You should talk to Jenna,” Emma just says, staring down at her fingers, “You should tell her how you feel about her.”

“She knows.” Is all you say.

Emma leans back.

“Does she?”

Her gaze is so piercing you have to look away.

“Why are you trying to set us up anyway?” You ask, “Aren’t you supposed to hate us or something?”

Emma hums.

“I don’t hate you,” She says, “And I don’t hate her. I was angry at her for so long. But maybe she should be angry with me too. Maybe you both should.”

You don’t know what to say so you don’t say anything.

It’s too much. You want to go back to your hermit cave-apartment and drink yourself to sleep. These emotions you’re having, you don’t want them anymore.

Emma curls her fingers around a strand of grass. Plucks it out of the ground, absent-mindedly. She lets out a long sigh.

“I thought I could get between you,” She says voice heavy, “I thought I could redirect you to me. But that isn’t how it works, I know that now. When two stars collide everything around it turns to dust.”

She has a penchant for the dramatic. But you don’t bother to correct her. There’s something else on your mind.

“What did Jenna say to you on the balcony?” You ask, eyes flitting between hers.

She’s being so open. So candid. An Emma you almost forgot existed. If there is ever a time to get it out of her, it’s right now.

She purses her lips and looks away.

Your heart sinks as you realize she’s not going to give you the answers you so desperately need.

“You should ask her.”

“I already did.” You say, aggravated, “She won’t tell me.”

“I’m sure she’ll tell you when she’s ready,” Emma says, simply. She brushes the grass off her jeans as she sits up. She holds out a hand for you.

“Come on. I think shooting is about to start.”

You stare at her open palm. Look up at her.

She isn’t angry, not sad or hurt. She’s your Emma again, sweet, kind, loyal. She’s the Emma you could have had, before you ruined it all.

“I’m really sorry, Emma,” You say, voice quiet, “For everything.”

She smiles at you, curls her hand around yours.

“Me too.”

Next part

#three's a crowd #jenna ortega #emma myers #fanfic #mine #jenna ortega x yn #emma myers x yn #jenna ortega x reader #emma myers x reader #wednesday

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tanoraqui · 1 month

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the thing is... JK Rowling did write the books. She certainly did write the books, which was the pivotal first step.

However, here is an incomplete list of people who meant more to my experience of reading and enjoying the Harry Potter books than JKR ever did:

My grandmother, who read them because she loved to read and because she wanted to understand what the hell her granddaughter - whom she'd recently moved 3,000 in part to live near - spent 90% of her time talking about; who passed away this past fall.

My other grandmother, who read them for more or less the same reason except without the cross-country move; who passed away in 2014. It was in her honor that I bought the current set of books I own.

The uncle-shaped family friend who always listened to me expound on my latest theories for the next book, and told me his own like an equal in intellectual debate

That one writer on Mugglenet's fanfiction archive who wrote a crack soap opera fic in which Professor McGonagall got pregnant from Crookshanks, and the children were cat-human hybrids whom they called "kiddens." That haunts me to this day.

Honestly, collectively every single person who wrote content, be it recordkeeping, fic, or analysis, for MuggleNet circa 2005-2008. Some people spent their internet-childhoods on Neopets or Club Penguin; I read every single page on MuggleNet.com.

The summer camp counselor who'd read HBP when I hadn't yet, and who responded to my positively tsundere attitude toward spoilers by telling me straight-faced that Harry started dating Luna [not Ginny]. A) The fucking audacity! she lied right to my annoying 10yo face! B) I got to experience the giddiness of finding out what happened twice, once then and again later when I read the book! Thank you, Natalie(?) from Y-Camp!

The two friends with whom I went to the DH midnight release party at my local secondhand bookstore, in closet cosplay. We were all in the first 5 people to get our books, and we promptly started reading them while standing outside the bookstore, in the light coming through the front window. 1 of them was parentally required to go to bed but the other and I stayed up all night reading, until we finished the books sometime mid-morning.

My dad, specifically when he (still) tells the story of having to make a "walk of shame" (his words) back to the bookstore the next afternoon, to ask if they had the broom we'd accidentally left behind.

The tourists from America, England, France and China who were all waiting in line at the Platform 9 3/4 overpriced photo op in King's Cross Station the same time I was, in the summer of 2013, which unironically made me feel more spiritually connected with humanity as a whole than possibly any other experience in my life. Like, this is embarrassing. It's a pure tourist trap. Yet people from LITERALLY all around the world had all made the same journey I had to be there, just because we all loved the same books. and that's...really special.

...you know? So, JKR is doing real harm to the trans community now, and will continue to do more and maybe even worse in the future; and I am so, so sympathetic and angry about that. I have no intention of giving her money or any other support ever again, nor of encouraging anyone else to do so.

But all her present vitriol is only drops in the lake of my warm memories. I don't let them give me a falsely rosy view of her, but nor will I let her poison them. And I encourage others to let themselves find the same balance, if they can.

#hp #i am...not going to tag this beyond that #it'll travel in the right circles if it's meant to #this is me

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victimsofyaoipoll · 7 months

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Round 4

Joan Watson

How were BBC Sherlock shippers so rancid about a WOMAN who wasnt even in the SAME SHOW?????

Martin Freeman of BBC Sherlock insulted Elementary and specifically Lucy Liu in the press. He straight up called Lucy Liu a "dog" in an interview APPARENTLY as a joke, because calling female actors ugly is hilarious. Benedict Cumberbatch was more measured about it, but he still said he was cynical about Elementary because it would lose the "male friendship" dynamic, which of course Johnlock shippers used against Joan Watson fans. Even the lead BBC Sherlock actors got in on the yaoi victimization of Joan Watson... 😔

she wasn't even in the same SHOW as the yaoi I've been convinced she deserves to win the entire poll. I was a Johnlocker but I did watch the first season of Elementary and it was fine????? It was totally okay????? Especially in hindsight given how hard Sherlock season four flopped. Also Lucy Liu is a queen and deserved zero vitriol for *checks notes* playing a character???? A fucking fictional character???????? Oh my god we were all SO mean to this show and we (or at least I) thought it was like The Good Fight™️, like we were defending BBC Sherlock against copyright infringement and straightwashing and Jonny Lee Miller's bizarre scarf, (it wasn't a good scarf I do stand by that) but then Elementary didn't make Holmes and Watson a couple either???? And also it didn't insult its audience constantly etc etc we've all seen the Hbomberguy Sherlock is Garbage video. This is really long sorry hashtag justice for Joan Watson.

Misa Amane

she gets treated in-canon the way fandoms treat female characters that Threaten an m/m ship. it's like, "oh why don't you go sit in the corner and be pretty, misa, while the Men have intelligent conversation and pretend they aren't ten seconds from fucking each other, doesn't that sound nice?" it's infuriating. and MAYBE it's better now but i remember her getting treated the same way in fanfiction too, like we all need to do just as badly by our female secondary characters as fucking tsugumi ohba, but with the added insult of making her be alternately oblivious of the relationship between light and L or actively trying to sabotage it—incompetently, of course, because god forbid misa be allowed dignity or moments of cleverness.

she's one of the first characters I think of when I consider old school fandom misogyny. The annoying bitch and clingy crazy gf allegations were AFTER HER ASS. She's also a lot more intelligent than people gave her credit for, but most seem inclined to take the Very Biased word of our unreliable, narcissistic narrator and his homoerotic arch nemesis and claim that just because she's bubbly and into romance that she's also a complete moron. Which is blatantly untrue. Everyone was afraid of Misa girlbossing too hard. Killing people and devoting yourself to the deranged twink of your dreams even though you know he'll never love you back??? Having a hardcore goth aesthetic and being so Hot even literal Death Gods are into you?? God forbid women do ANYTHING!

Not only is she the victim of yaoi culture, she is the victim of early 2000s misogyny by an author that wanted to introduce a girl character because he knew his male rivals were getting too homoerotic. She is a goth bimbo icon who portrays what I think is one of the few callouts for stan culture and what parasocial relationships can do to both the stan and the idol. The fact that she is a toxic fan of Kira and also hot, funny, sociable is tragic in its own way, which I think the author did try to touch on but was too misogynistic too really get through. Of course, she was reduced to villain status by the fandom and anime alike because she got in the way of the supposed romance in their psychological horror anime.

#round 4 #poll #joan watson #cbs elementary #elementary #misa amane #misa misa #death note

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rollinouttahere-writes · 5 months

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You Know I feel like Rob Lucci snatched up Lizard in Water 7 by simply waiting for her to be alone and then taking her. Like before Robin boarded the train but after the reveal (that they were apart of CP9)

Like here's the thing she's not officially apart of the Straw hats (at the time) she's still considered to be apart of Baroque Works by proxy of her being the daughter of Crocodile. And so when Robin tries to argue for Lizard's freedom. Rob Lucci simply says "You said that the Strawhats were to be left alone. You never said anything about Crocodile's daughter. By the way until they reach Enies Lobby he only calls Lizard Crocodile's daughter after the reveal or little girl before the reveal. He doesn't refer to her as Lizard until she gets his respect when she throws her restrained self at Sandam and has to be physically dragged away from Spam face kicking and screaming demanding Spam's skull to beat him to death with his skull. Then he calls her Lizard and starts to become a platonic yandere for her and offers to pay for plastic surgery for her, so she can start fresh. Rob Lucci views Lizard as His cub that he must raise, nurture and mold into becoming the ideal assassin because as you said Lizard is cute which means that people won't see it coming

I got inspired and decided to write out the moment where Lucci officially becomes attached to her

Warning for acts of violence and a lot of blood mention. Also Spandam is here which is a warning in and of itself.

Lucci could not wait for Spandam to stop talking and dismiss them so he could leave and be doing literally anything else. Unfortunately, Spandam loved the sound of his own voice too much to ever be brief with his speeches, especially when he feels like he’s “accomplished” something. Not that he had any hand in the apprehending of the three individuals brought to Enies Lobby today.

Cutty Flam, or Franky as he called himself, had given them the most trouble, but even that was minimal. Nico Robin was easily coerced into cooperation with her newfound weakness with the Straw Hat Pirates. (Y/N), a former warlord’s daughter, had been the easiest. Not only did she not put up a fight, she boarded the train on her own once Kalifa confirmed that Nico Robin would also be there. The complete absence of fear had been intriguing. Lucci wasn’t sure if the child was truly fearless, or if she was simply intensely naive.

He’s sure that the answer will reveal itself soon enough.

While Nico Robin and Franky were actively arguing with Spandam, (Y/N) was just standing there and glowering at him. Her disdain for him was palpable as well as amusing. Understandable, too.

It appeared that Spandam had finally had enough of Robin’s protests, and decided to make it abundantly clear by punching her. The woman hit the floor hard and struggled to get back onto her feet. Lucci just rolled his eyes, he knew for a fact that the only reason Spandam was able to do this was because of the weakening effects of the sea prism stone handcuffs. If they were absent, she likely wouldn’t have even stumbled.

A flash of movement caught his eye. The once passive (Y/N) charged straight at Spandam. Since his back was to her, he didn’t get a chance to see her coming and only became aware of her when she rammed into him.

Spandam tripped over Robin and toppled onto the ground, slightly dazed. Before he could react, (Y/N) was on him. The teenager raised her foot and brought it down directly onto his face with a resounding crack. The impact most certainly broke his nose.

She didn’t stop there, however, she kept going. (Y/N) was repeatedly stomping on his head with precise and consistent blows. These weren’t the random, desperate kicks of someone acting out of fear. No, this was nothing but concentrated fury. Her once neutral expression was contorted with rage as she cursed out the chief of CP9 with vitriol dripping from each word.

Everyone was watching this in a stunned silence. Robin had entirely stopped trying to get up and was staring at (Y/N) in horror, Franky was in a similar state. The rest of CP9 was gawking at the display, none of them had anticipated the abrupt turn in her behavior.

While this was all extremely entertaining, it did have to come to an end before Spandam did. Jabra sprung out of his chair and rushed over to the girl. His hands clamped onto her upper arms and lifted her up and away from her victim. This was not enough to deter her. (Y/N) flailed and tried her damnedest to kick Jabra, albeit unsuccessfully.

“Quit! You’re just making this worse for yourself, kid,” Jabra tossed the teenager away from him. She rolled across the ground, but quickly got up and sprinted towards Spandam again. Jabra blocked her path, but that didn’t stop her from screaming at the crumpled form of the chief, “If you ever fucking touch Robin again I’ll fucking kill you, you piece of shit!”

Kumadori had abandoned his own chair to check on Spandam, who had now shifted onto his side and was violently coughing and hacking. Blood was gushing out of not only his broken nose but also his mouth. He spat onto the floor and one, two… Four teeth fell out. Oh wow, impressive.

“Lucci! Keep that monster away from me!” Spandam clung onto Kumadori’s hair as he attempted to get to his feet, “I knew you were involved with your father’s business! You were probably his best assassin, you little psychopath!”

Lucci snorted at the thought. Nothing about her actions indicated that she was experienced. Though he would admit that he could see some potential. Lucci grabbed the chain that connected her handcuffs and pulled her back a few steps, she shot him a venomous glare over her shoulder, but otherwise cooperated. Her shoulders were heaving from how hard she was breathing, moreso out of anger rather than exercise if he had to guess.

Spandam had managed to get himself upright with help and was trying to wipe the blood from his face with a handkerchief. He slapped away Kumadori’s helping hand and stomped towards Lucci and (Y/N).

He leered at the girl, “You have no idea what you’ve done! In case you forgot, I’M IN CHARGE OF YOU NOW!” Flecks of blood sprayed out of his mouth and got on her face. Shockingly, she doesn’t flinch from it and keeps her face neutral. “I’m going to make whatever is left of your miserable little life absolute hell and kill you the second you’re no longer worth keeping alive!”

Lucci saw Spandam becoming increasingly aggravated from her giving him no reactions to feed off of. His scowl shifts into a smirk and he gets right in her face, “Or maybe I’ll take this out on Robin and make you watch as you’re powerless to do anything.”

There was a pause. And then she spat in his face.

A couple of the CP9 agents snickered. This was honestly the most entertaining thing they’ve been subjected to in their time under Spandam. Even Lucci felt a grin tug at his lips, this girl was proving herself to be more and more interesting by the second.

Spandam recoiled and aggressively wiped at his face, only to yelp in pain when he brushed against his broken nose like an idiot. His eyes zeroed back in on (Y/N) and he reeled his arm back, “You little bitch!”

His hand swung towards her to slap her across the face, but that’s not what happened. With an honestly impressive speed, her head snapped forward and her teeth sank into his hand. Spandam screamed and tried to shake the girl off, but she only bit down harder and snarled.

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, GET HER OFF ME!” The screech was so loud that it made Lucci’s ears hurt, but he obliged. An order is an order after all.

Lucci yanked her back by the handcuffs while Kumadori was pulling on Spandam. This girl was holding onto that hand for dear life, and it took some genuine effort to separate them, but with one final tug they were pulled apart.

This was accompanied by a snapping sound and even louder screaming from Spandam who was holding the bitten hand to his chest and doubled over. Kaku could be heard muttering out a ‘good lord’, and before Lucci could investigate to see what prompted such a reaction from a trained assassin, (Y/N) spit something out onto the floor.

A couple of quiet thuds were heard, and when he looked down, two fingers were rolling across the floor with blood spurting out of them. The pinky and ring fingers to be exact.

“I TOLD YOU TO KEEP HER AWAY FROM ME!” Never one to take accountability for his own stupid actions, Spandam was quick to direct his rage at Lucci.

“I did. But then you chose to approach her again,” it took everything Lucci had to keep from openly mocking him to his face.

“Boss, maybe we should get you some medical attention!” Kumadori was lightly pulling him towards the door, desperate to leave the situation before their moronic chief could possibly make it any worse.

Spandam was pulled out the main door and could be heard hurling obscenities from down the hall.

The room was dead silent and all of the eyes were on (Y/N). Robin and Franky were slack jawed, while the CP9 members appeared to be surprised but also mildly impressed. Not that she was paying them any mind. She was more focused on spitting out the blood in her mouth and trying to wipe off what remained using her shoulder.

Jabra strolled over and lightly nudged the disembodied fingers, “Damn, and you did all of that with your hands behind your back. I almost want to see what would happen if the cuffs came off.”

“Then do it.” She leveled him with a hard stare. Blood that wasn’t her own was smeared across the lower half of her face, “Uncuff me and see what happens.”

“No can do, kiddo. As much as everyone here might love to see that, we’ve got jobs to do.” Jabra flicked her forehead playfully and laughed when she tried to bite him, too. Lucky for him, she wasn’t quite fast enough to get him.

His eyes briefly flickered up to see Lucci’s face, and he cringed at the sight, “Hey kid, you might want to tone it down a bit.”

“Why?” Her response was snappy and sharp.

“Because I really don’t like the look on Lucci’s face right now and I’m pretty sure you’re the cause of it.”

She looked over her shoulder with an annoyed huff, but froze up once she made eye contact with the man holding her. A wide, malicious grin was plastered across his face as he leered down at the girl.

It was in that moment that Lucci knew he wanted this girl to live to see another day and not rot in prison. Letting someone with such a natural propensity for violence die now would be a horrendous waste. He knows that under the right supervision, this girl could be shaped into a damn good assassin, and he knows just the person that could train her.

#strays au #crocodad series #crocodad3 #rob lucci #i had the doc for this titled rip spandam lol #spandam #franky the cyborg #cyborg franky #nico robin #kaku one piece #jabra one piece

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