#they just!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! their relationship and the joint manipulation and taking advantage of each other !!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kangaroo-sniper-imagine · 3 years

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Scout, Demo, and Sniper with inexperienced reader

- i combined these two cuz they both had the Aussie on them. NS/FW stufff ahead so caution -

Scout

Jeremy may act like he’s God’s gift to women, but let’s be honest, aside from some trysts and a girlfriend he had for three weeks in the tenth grade, homeboy ain’t got no experience either

He wants so badly to be a good boyfriend! He tries so hard to be nice and to be a gentleman to you, often times putting on such a fake persona that you have to remind him that you like Jeremy because he’s a loud, fast-talking jack ass from south Boston. Not those words exactly, but you get the idea

Tries the classic dates like fancy restaurants and romantic movies, but chances are if you liked Jeremy enough to date him, you probably hate that stuff too. Good dates are outing to parks, watching action movies, going to bars, etc. fun, not stuffy dates.

NS/FW

Jeremy has SOME idea of what he’s doing, but its more so getting himself off than trying to get his partner off. It takes some re-learning on his part to figure out that sex is supposed to be mutually fun. If he suck at it, tell him! Boy needs to learn!

He gets that you have almost no experience, and that just adds to the pressure for him; he’s already so insecure and this is just another are he has the potential to disappoint you in. First time together is gonna be real awkward and slow, as neither of you wanna fuck up

After the two of you get more experienced with each other, oooooooooh boy, Jeremy is insatiable. Partially because he’s never had a steady s/o who lived in the same building as him. He is always dtf; like, come in while he’s regaining one of his (dramatized) wins, give him a “look” and he’ll stop talking mid-sentence and follows you to wherever for a quickie

Jeremy’s favorite position is probably doggy style. He gets to give all his love and also gets to hide his face of he starts to feel embarrassed; its easier to have the macho sex god persona if his partner can’t see his face all flushed and pinched in concentration

Demo

Tavish has had plenty of date mates, but when he starts his relationship with you and learns that he is your first ever boyfriend? Fuck, it might as well be his first relationship too (the Scotsman is soft lbr). He knows that each relationship is different from another, even minusculy, but since you have no reference point, he’s gonna start from square one and work your way up to normal relationship things

By that I mean this man has, like, an itinerary. Week one: holding hands, Week two: eating meals together, etc. Tav is THOROUGH! He wants you doing lame couple things and wants you to be comfortable with them asap. He’s like one of those high school girls who are like “we need to be dating for six months before we can kiss.” It’s not that he isn’t ready, he just wants to make sure you are

Dates with him are weird and varied. One night he takes you to a nice bar, the next date is helping him set off about to expire explosives. A very lovely evening of him playing piano with you, then it’s Loch Ness Monster hunting. Suffice to say that your dates are never boring.

NS/FW

Tavish sets the relationship at a slow pace so that you’ll feel comfortable; introducing sex into the relationship is no different. He’ll let you know when he’s comfortable with it and is fine waiting until you are ready for it and won’t do jack shit without your permission.

When you are ready, be prepared for the cheesiest seduction ever. You’ll walk into Tavish’s room one day and there’s a trail of rose petals leading to the bed where the Scotsman lays, naked, with a rose between his teeth and a heart shaped pillow covering his junk; candles EVERYWHERE. It takes every ounce of willpower not to laugh (plz laugh, Tavish is trying so hard to make you relax before doing the do)

Despite the fact that the man likes his drink, Tavish refuses to fuck drunk. Sleeping with you is an honor, and he 1. Doesn’t wanna not remember it, 2. Doesn’t want to do something dumb while he’s drunk and hurt you, 3. Doesn’t wanna do something embarrassing in front of the gang while trying to seduce you. He’s a good boy who knows better

Sniper

Mick has had plenty of short term date mates, considering his job keeps him moving around. Before Teufort, he never bothered trying to keep a serious relationship because he would be gone by the end of the month. Then our favorite Aussie meets YOU and the whole game plan changed. He couldn’t be a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” man anymore, and he didn’t want to be with you. You’re special

Mick’s not 100% sure exactly what dating him would entail. You two go out to the local bar to drink, you spend your meals and down time together, you haven’t moved into the truck camper yet but you sure do spend a ton of nights there. Mick doesn’t have domestic experience so he tries to do what his parents do and what they told him to do, so it’s a lot of laundry together, movie nights at the local drive-in, reading the same book and talking about it, etc. Mick skipped right into the “old married life” kind of relationship

The Aussie is happy to take things slow with you, considering THIS kind of relationship is new to him too. You’re a special person the Mick wants to keep in his life

NS/FW

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAABES, I KNOW everyone’s like “oh, Sniper is an awkward loner with social issues” but listen darlings; Mick is a businessman, he used to have to talk to tins of people to get jobs; had to have connections, had to be charismatic, he to be willing to hang out in seedy bars and joints to eat gigs. What I’m saying is, aside from Spy, Sniper is probably the one who can manipulate the room to his advantage best, cuz he’s been doing it since he started. The point of this rant is to say SNIPER CAN GET IT! Homeboy’s got tail game! You cannot change my mind! He’s probably had more quickies than a rabbit hutch; he’s attractive as hell and knows how to talk to people to get what he wants and how to clock people at the bar who wants to get laid too! He came, he saw, he didn’t call he next morning. Okay end of rant and back to the original purpose of this point

So! Mick has plenty of sexual experience, and rather than see you as some sort of delicate flower, he sees it more as an opportunity to let you experiment ON him. Whatever you wanna try, he’s done it like 9 times. You wanna do some nasty shit? Okie dokie than, he’ll get the “Camper’s a-rocking, don’t come a-knocking” sign up and clear his schedule. Aussie knows what he’s doing

Plz bring up riding to this man, he’ll fucking propose to you. He thinks riding is the best position because he has all the access to your fun areas, he’s able to bury his face into your chest or neck, and its minimal movement for him

#tf scout x reader #tf2 demoman x reader #tf2 sniper x reader #team fortress 2 x reader #tf2 x reader #tf2 scout #tf2 demoman #tf2 sniper #tea fortress 2 #tf2

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 3 years

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Hokan’yc

A RESOL’NARE FLASHBACK ONE SHOT

A/N: This is long overdue and something I started working on WEEKS ago when @darkmist111 asked a question regarding Din and Navina’s former relationships. I mentioned a girl named Aashi that Din fell for when he was still a teenaged mando learning how to become a warrior and decided that I needed to tell their story so we know what happened and why he’s flying solo now. This is CHOCK-FULL of my personal thoughts on what training in the covert would be like so forgive me if my HCs contradict canon and please enjoy some young mandos in love.

*this story will regularly be using words in Mando’a. for a good list of references click here.*

Warning: violence, death, injury- they are Mandalorians you guys, This is the Way and all that jazz.

Word Count: 6k

-- -- -- --

He noticed right away.

The others did, too. They always did. It was an increasingly rare occurrence as they got older. The youngest in the covert were far more used to the sudden appearance of a new student among their numbers. Whether they’d been born a member of The Tribe or taken in as a foundling like he had, all children began combat training after their 8th birthday, so the addition of a new face- or more accurately an unfamiliar helmet- in class was anticipated, expected. But by the time they’d advanced through mid level and into the final years of their required training, newcomers were few and far between.

And they stood out. Hushed whispers of buyca circulated through the room, heads tilting in the direction of the only helmet not decorated with dings and dents.

The Instructor’s gloved hands came together in two thunderous claps to signal the start of the day’s training, the chatter in the dimly lit sparring hall dissipating as the upper level class fell in line for drills. There were no assigned rankings, the students simply using height order to determine who stood where, the tallest in the last of four rows. Third row had been his designation for years, never quite the largest or most formidable in the room. But the new addition had crowded the second row by one, the overflow meaning that he would need to step back.

Fourth row, finally, thanks to the shiny buyca.

He was welcomed to the ranks of the teenaged giants with a rough elbow from Hast, the blunt jab to the ribs serving both as a kind of jovial congratulations for moving up in the world as well as a reminder that he was still the smallest of the giants. Before he could return the gesture with a thump or smack of his own though, the Instructor's booming voice silenced both of the boys’ grunts and laughter.

“Hast! Djarin!” He flinched behind his visor and knew the broad shouldered hulk beside him did, too. Though he didn’t need to, both of them already aware of what they were in for, the Instructor pointed at the front of the room, indicating that they should join him there. “Looks like you’ve volunteered to be my demonstration assistants for today’s technique.” Dank farrik.

As he and his friend reached the front of the hall, feeling the stares of the rest of the class and knowing that under their helmets they were all biting the insides of their cheeks to keep from laughing at the misfortune the two had found themselves in, he prepared himself for a rough three hours. They’d worked on a single combat series that started with a sweep from the standing position and progressed to the ground, working on maintaining control during a fight before ending in a leg attack that when applied at full force was developed to disable the knee joint completely. Both volunteers had taken fall after fall, their limbs manipulated over and over as the Instructor demonstrated and the students got their practice in. While they were only applying light pressure as they torqued and twisted and pulled on the two volunteers’ legs, the two were left sore and aching from the repetition of the series.

If the reps and demonstrations weren’t enough, the half hour of sparring rounds afterwards certainly was.

Despite the over-torqued joints, fatigued muscles and sore spots from tight grips and unexpectedly harsh contact with the ground, he held his own for the first four rounds grappling almost as he did at full capacity. Vizsla was twice his size and always got the best of him, though still no more than usual. Hast had it just as rough as he did that day, so neither of them completed a submission during their round. He managed to sweep and submit Gralin, which was actually an improvement on their last match up, and he and Kevaz had each pulled off a submission within the allotted time of the round. Trying to control his breathing in the quick respite allowed between friendly simulated warfare, he hoped that there was still some herbal salve left in the jar back in his quarters. I’m going to need it.

His final round turned out to be the one that did him in. And it was against her- the buyca.

He, like all Mandalorians, knew that it didn’t matter if a warrior was male or female, large or small. It didn’t matter if they were quick or strong. What mattered was how well they could use the attributes and skills that they did have to defeat their opponent. He, like all Mandalorians, knew that underestimating your enemy before the fight begins is the first step in losing that fight. That’s not what he did with her, though the outcome was still the same.

The last thing he noticed as he squared off facing the newcomer, was the fact that even though she had also just finished three hours of drills and four rounds prior to that one, her helmet was still completely undented. It wasn’t even smudged. Has she even hit the ground? Mere seconds into the round he was on his back and he didn’t know how he’d gotten there, but she hadn’t let up, taking full advantage of his disorientation and finishing a very basic but extremely efficient shoulder attack. The rest of the round had been more of the same, though he was able to at least fend off any more completed submissions. By the time the Instructor called for the end of the day’s training, he was spent. But she seemed only mildly inconvenienced from the hours of physical exertion they had all just endured.

He decided right away that he had to learn what she knew.

Able to walk with far more ease than he could at the moment though, she was out of the sparring hall and heading towards the system of tunnels leading to the living quarters. Sighing, he waved off Hast and Vizsla’s attempts to get his attention, and gritting his teeth, hobbled as quickly as he could after her. “Hey,” he huffed, raising one hand in her direction even though she was facing the other way.

She slowed her pace to allow him to gain some ground, though she didn’t turn or stop. “Hey,” she responded almost questioningly, tone a mixture of uncertainty and amusement.

“I… you fight well.” He clenched his eyes shut and dropped his chin. You fight well? Di'kut.

That did make her stop, but only until he was immediately to her left, starting up again once he had a fair chance at keeping stride with her. Releasing a breath that sounded like a laugh, she nodded. “I know I do, but thanks.”

“I meant… your technique. It’s-” He tried to recall how she’d upended him so quickly, where she’d made her grips, the placement of her weight, but it was a blur. He shook his head. “I’ve never seen it. Not even in class.” So how do you know it? That was what he wanted to ask. How does a foundling know how to fight like that?

As though in answer to his unasked questions, she turned her head to face him. “We learned differently on Concordia.”

He blinked, the mention of Mandalore’s moon stopping him in his tracks. What? Of course it made sense now that she wasn’t new to Mandalorian culture. On the contrary, she’d been more heavily steeped in it than any of them. But I thought… Oh. It clicked then, that the buyca wasn’t that at all, not if she was raised on Concordia.

“When things… when we had to leave, my family came here.” She gestured at the walls of the tunnel they were walking through. “Dantooine is the only Mandalorian covert they knew of, so we joined our brothers and sisters here.” Turning back in the direction that they were walking, she nodded. “This is the Way.”

There was pain and heaviness in those words as she spoke them, but he knew that was true no matter who they came from. “This is the Way,” he responded.

She cleared her throat. “Right. So now that you know I’m no foundling, you don’t have to feel so bad for what happened back there.” She jabbed a thumb backwards towards the sparring hall.

He tried to shake his head but a sudden pinching sensation shot down his neck in protest so he aborted the motion. “No, that’s not what I-”

“No?” She stopped near the split of the tunnel where one branch led to the mess hall and the healing wing and the other to the collection of carved out spaces each occupied by Mandalorian families. He stopped as well, thankful for the chance to rest. She crossed her arms over her chest and stuck one hip out. “Then what did you chase me down for exactly?”

“I told you.” He was slightly confused by her question. “The technique that you used against me. I’ve never seen it before.”

She regarded him silently for a beat. “No, you haven’t.” She began walking again. “That was pretty clear from how quickly I had you down.” The smirk, or what he imagined might be one, was back in her voice.

He followed, trying and failing to hide the slight limp the day’s training had left him with. “Well can you-“ He stopped short to avoid crashing into her as she spun around again , the unexpected shift in his weight causing him to wince behind his visor.

Hands on her hips, she tilted her head, the dim light from one of the torches hitting the still undented, unmarred surface of her helmet at an angle that threw light around the dark hall. “Can I what?”

“Can you teach it to me?”

A small snort of laughter came from her, shoulders bouncing as she shook her head. “Didn’t you take enough of a beating for one day?”

He shrugged. “The Instructor says we don’t learn if we don’t lose. This is the Way.”

Mandalorians were taught not to fear or resent loss. Not in life and not on the battlefield. Though victory was the goal of every Mando’ade who engaged in combat, in sparring, losing was viewed as an equally valued outcome. Every loss came with the opportunity to learn. To adapt. Each opponent is a teacher and the true winner is the one who leaves the training hall with more knowledge and sharper skills than those they came in with. He was only trying to adhere to what he’d been taught, only trying to become the best warrior that he could be.

She nodded slowly, the motion giving over to a head shake instead as she let out a burst of air. “This is the Way.” She agreed, taking a step towards him. “But,” she placed her hand on his shoulder and he was glad she couldn’t see the slight wince the light contact forced across his face. “No.”

He cocked his head to the side, taken aback, the jerky motion sending a sharp pang of soreness through his neck and down his left flank. Damn that- but he ignored the twinge and focused on her refusal. “Why not?”

He knew that she was new to their covert, but the unspoken rule in the training hall was that all trainees had something to teach each other. It had to have been like that on Concordia, too. It was more than a rule, it was a responsibility, a duty to ensure that every member of the fighting corps was as well prepared as they could be. It was important to learn not only to trust but to depend on each other in battle, in the field. They were training to join the ranks of the elite within the corps, which meant that being anything shy of lethal would be considered unprepared. I know she’s new but she-

“Because,” she laughed, the lilting sound making him snap his attention to her hidden face. “It’s Djarin, right?” He confirmed with a nod. “Well, Djarin, I can’t teach it to you now, because you’re already in rough shape and I don’t want to explain to the Instructor next class why his best training dummy is all torn to shreds.” She was teasing, he could tell, her hand still on his shoulder as she gave it a light squeeze, and despite only having known her for a few hours during which she and the rest of the trainees had taken turns trying to rip him and Hast limb from limb under the Instructor’s tutelage, he thought she might be smiling. “But,” she went on. “I’ll give you a few days to heal up and then,” she nodded and dropped her hand from his body. “Then I’ll teach it to you.”

-- -- -- -- --

A few days later, the two of them agreed to meet in the sparring hall on a rare day off from drills, the sound of his body hitting the ground echoing in the nearly empty space each time she swept him. His grunts, every time she planted her foot on his hip filled the room, the clatter of his helmet scraping against the stone beneath him as she dragged him down and extended the leg she had planted to flip him over her head, the sound of their gloved palms smacking together as she offered him a hand back to his feet after a particularly harsh sweep. But each time she sent him off his balance, he picked up another detail of the technique, piecing them all together to understand the motion.

He could feel the bruises forming each time he hit the ground, and he knew that later that night when he got undressed to wash up, just like the day he’d met her, his hip and the side of his thigh would be covered in purple-blue splotches. Planting his hand firmly behind him, he let out a breath and pushed himself back to his feet. “One more.” His eyebrows came together in concentration beneath his helmet. “I think I have it now.”

She tilted her head, arms crossed over her chest. “You don’t quit, I’ll give you that.”

“No,” he shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

On the next try, he got the jump on her, accurately making his grips and bracing the sole of his boot in the crease of her hip. Dropping his weight in a sacrifice style throw, he extended his leg like she’d shown him, finally getting the timing right to send her flipping over his head and onto her back. Following her momentum and keeping his grips, he rolled backwards over his shoulder to come up in a mounted controlled position. That was it. I- She coughed out a wheeze, the air clearly knocked from her lungs. Oh, dank farrik I-

But before he could concern himself with whether or not he’d inadvertently hurt her, she grabbed his ankle, trapped one of his arms and with a bump of her hips, rolled them both over to reverse the position so she had the upper hand once more. “Nice work, Djarin.” She released his arm and ankle and stood. “But don’t forget to maintain control once you have it.”

She was right. He knew that. The Instructor had been drilling it into his and all of their heads since they were eight years old. If he caught me losing control that fast he’d make me regret it. He sighed. “Right.”

“That was,” he looked up at her as he got to his feet. “That was really good, though. Do it again.”

-- -- -- -- --

By the end of the month he was hitting the move against Kevaz and Gralin during live rounds. He’d also learned the buyca’s clan name was Zurn, and that she was an excellent training partner for him. In two on two drills, they teamed up against Hast and Vizsla, their individual attributes complementing each other’s well. Their extra time spent drilling together had allowed them to develop good non-verbal communication skills, and they learned to read each other well.

By the end of the year even the Instructor had noticed, and he recommended that the pair complete their final stage of the elite training program together. It was customary for recruits to team up for the last tests of their abilities as the missions that would determine whether or not Mandalorians were worthy and capable of the duties that they would be expected to perform. Protecting the Tribe. Striking first against known enemies. Reconnaissance. Responding immediately to threats. They were responsibilities that the man who raised him had taken upon his shoulders- a deeper level of the Creed that was sworn by all Mandalorians. This is the Way.

His buir had given his life in that line of duty only a few years prior, when the young Mandalorian was thirteen and had just finished his mandatory training. He had mourned in the moment, as was appropriate, but he, like all in his Tribe knew that his father was not gone. He had joined the Manda and would always be a part of the collective soul that each Mando’ade shared. His choice to follow those footsteps was a choice he made to honor the man. Had he not been a member of the elite fighting corp, he would not have been there to rescue the scared boy in the bunker, and that scared boy in the bunker might not have made it out.

That boy was no longer a boy nor was he scared. He and Zurn accepted the recommendation, and one year and two months to the day that they had first met, the two of them were sent out on their first overnight mission: staking out a rebel base on the planet that had been attracting a lot of traffic to Dantooine. The covert’s main goal was staying safe, secret and hidden from the Empire. But the increase of rebel activity wouldn’t go unnoticed for long, and the Tribe needed a clearer picture as to what they were facing, and if they needed to consider relocating the covert. He’d heard whispers that Nevarro, another planet in the Outer Rim, was the selected backup, but he, like everyone who heard those rumors, hoped that that’s all they would stay.

They were camped out behind a large outcropping of rock, completely concealed from view of the base in the dark of the night. They had spent the day charting a lay of the area and choosing a position that would keep them hidden until the morning, when they could hopefully get an idea of the goings on at the rebel encampment. He leaned against the cool rock, chin tilted upwards. The fire had burned down to just the embers, still providing enough warmth to get them to sunrise, but dim enough now to see the night sky and everything in it with no interference from the flames. Once he finished his training and had a real helmet, he would be able to change the filter on the visor to block out any amount of light he wanted. But for now he had to wait.

And he had been waiting. The last time I saw the sky at night I was-

He froze, a sudden weight falling into his right hand where it lay open on the dry ground. That’s… His eyes widened as he registered what it was, her fingers curling into his palm. She isn’t...

He was still wearing his gloves, but she had taken hers off to warm her hands by the fire. She hadn’t put them back on. He could feel the difference even through the worn leather, and it caught him completely off guard.

“Six,” he blurted, immediately cursing himself the second the syllable was out.

But instead of laughing or teasing him, the way she always had in sparring, he felt her grip tighten as she moved closer. “Six what?”

I… what do I say? Should I- He tilted his head down, watching his fingers close around hers as though they were acting of their own volition. Dank farrik, why did I just-

“Djarin?” He snapped his attention back up to see that she had turned, resting the side of her helmet against the boulder so she could look at him as she spoke. “You said six.” He sighed and nodded. I did. “Six what?”

He wasn’t sure if anyone aside from his buir knew this fact about him, the man gone and this fact with him. Why would anyone care? It doesn’t matter. But instead of ignoring the non contextual number slipping out, she had asked him what it meant. Which meant that it mattered to her. He realized in that moment that there was no one else he felt comfortable enough around to let his guard down and enjoy the stars or think about how long it’s been since he’d seen them. It was only because he trusted her that he had allowed his mind to wander into memories, that he was relaxed enough to even make the slip and say something he hadn’t meant to. He realized that he actually wanted to tell her. It shouldn’t matter but it… it does.

His right hand was still occupied with hers, so he pointed with his left at the endless, swirling silver pricks of light poking through the thick velvety blue black sky. “Ca'tra.” She followed his direction and trained her gaze upwards. “I haven’t seen the stars since I was six.”

Dropping his arm back into his lap, he felt her thumb swipe across the top of his glove. She was still touching only fabric, her thumbnail snagging on a loose stitch near the opening. But she was so close to making skin to skin contact that if he so much as sneezed she would leave her thumbprint on his pulse point. If that happened she’d feel it racing.

“Me’ven?” She whispered her disbelief, swiveling her head over to look at him. Yes, really.

None of the children ever left the covert at night. It was dangerous, they were told, because outside the halls of their underground home, there were people who would capture them, hunt them simply for being what they are- Mandalorians. That was one of the many reasons that their education revolved so heavily around weapons and combat; so they would be ready to defend themselves and others when, not if, they needed to. She and her family had come to the covert later on in her training, and things had been different where she was from, so she had no real frame of reference for what it was like to give up the stars, grow up without them. For the ones born here, they don’t… they don’t even know what they’re missing.

He took a breath, readying himself to explain. Before he could, the fire cracked as the flames found a pocket of moisture or an unlucky beetle in the wood, spitting a few red hot embers towards the pair of trainees. Without thinking, he pulled her out of the way and nearly on top of himself, one of her legs falling between his knees. He heard her surprised gasp as she caught herself, reaching for his shoulder to prevent their foreheads from colliding. His left arm curved awkwardly around her shoulders as he moved them both further from the fire and out of range of any more stray embers.

As he shifted, her fingers did too, sliding from his shoulder to his neck- to the narrow sliver of his throat that was visible between his collar and his helmet. To the place where his blood ran quick and hot beneath his skin at how close they were. He swallowed, knowing she would feel the movement of his muscles beneath her touch, unable to help the way he had reacted.

He still had her hand in his, was still holding her closer than he’d ever held anyone. Say something. “Sorry, I… the fire was-“

“Djarin?” She hadn’t taken her hand away, her fingers curling around to the back of his neck.

“Y-Yeah?” He cursed himself for the waver in his voice. Another reason to look forward to the helmet he’d receive upon the completion of his training was the modulator in the speaker component. It served multiple purposes. To further disguise a Mandalorian’s identity by modifying their voice, yes, but also to cover any vocal slips of emotion or signs of weakness. Though if he was being honest with himself he wasn’t even sure if the device would be enough to hide the effect she was having on him.

It didn’t matter though. Nothing did as she slipped her fingers into the wavy curls that stuck out from beneath his helmet at the base of his skull and he thought that every last star in the galaxy could burst, the entire sky exploding at once, and it wouldn’t take his attention from that feeling.

She… she’s… His mind was working as hard to form a thought as his lungs were to keep his breathing even. Both were failing.

“I’m glad you got to see the sky tonight.” She made no move to get off of him, and he tried to stay as still as the stone they’d been leaning against, unwilling to allow his own anxious movement to be the thing that chased her away yet unsure of what to do next.

He gave a small nod, keeping space between them so he wouldn’t knock her helmet with his own. “Yeah,” he let out a careful breath, trying not to let it shake as her light touch continued to ignite his skin. “Me too.”

Her fingers spread wide against the back of his neck, pinky dipping daringly under his collar, and suddenly he felt himself tighten the arm he had around her, his hand curving over her shoulder. This… if she doesn’t want this she’ll- He focused on the horizontal slit of her visor, his heart beating behind his eyes as he found himself wondering what color hers were, and what they would look like if he could see her now, what she’d look like, wanting this.

Wanting me.

She tilted her head down, a tiny motion that he might not have even noticed if not for the way the firelight flickered in the reflection of her helmet. “And I’m,” she paused and he felt her shoulders and back expanded under his arm as she took a breath. “I’m glad I got to see it with you, Djarin.”

“Din.” Like the number six, his name leapt from his tongue before he could pull it back, and its release into the world left him feeling almost dizzy. That’s- I just...I shouldn’t have- He felt her freeze and stiffen, heard her shocked gasp, and knew he’d made a mistake. I shouldn’t have told her. She doesn’t...we’re- we aren’t-

“You...did you just-” She brought the hand that was still twined with his up between their bodies, resting them both against his chestplate. Something in the weight of them and the way they looked covering the carved ironheart symbol in the center, made him wonder if maybe it wasn’t a mistake. She’s still… she hasn’t moved. She didn’t get up or… The fingers of her other hand curled around the back of his neck, gripping him more tightly. “Djarin, is that your-”

“Yes.” He watched their hands rise on his chest as he took a deep breath, then glanced up at the place where he wished he could meet her eyes, finding only the smoky lens of her training visor. “My name.” Wished he had followed her lead and shed his gloves too, he ran his thumb along hers, pressing down. “It’s-”

“Din.” She whispered it back to him. Though the times he had heard his given name since swearing the Creed had been few, he knew that it had never sounded like that. Before he could fully appreciate the charged, electrified way that it made him feel, she was sending another jolt through his chest as she spoke again, lowering her forehead even closer to his. “Aashi.”

That’s her...She told me her n- He moved the hand he had on her shoulder to her back, flattening his palm over her spine as the charge ran through his bloodstream. Gulping down another breath, all attempts at keeping his reaction from her discarded, he pressed her closer. “Aashi.”

Until that moment he’d only known her by her house name, Zurn, and the clan signet that she’d painted on the dented steel plate that covered her left thigh. Two daggers. He never thought that the symbol fit her. It was perfect for her Buir, the woman more than proficient with blades. But she- Aashi, his heart flipped in place just thinking it- was just as skilled and dangerous without knives or vibroblades, maybe even more so without them. He’d known that from the very first day he’d met her, when he first referred to her only as buyca. And now I know her.

She closed the remaining space to let the curve of her helmet meet his with a soft but audible, tangible clink. “Kar'taylir, Din Djarin.”

He sighed out her name again as her fingers slid higher up beneath his helmet in his hair. And to think I was impressed with the stars.

That night, for the first time since coming to live among the Mandalorians, Din Djarin felt the press of lips to his bare skin as she sat behind him and lifted her own helmet just enough to kiss the back of his neck.

Kar’taylir, Aashi Zurn.

-- -- -- -- --

He noticed right away.

As he looked back over his shoulder, the tilt of her helmet was off. She was moving too slowly. A sudden chill gripped his chest making it hard to take a breath as he shoved his way back through the fray to get to her. No! Cyare! Another blast hit the wall of a nearby home that came crumbling down, and he knew that at her current pace she wouldn’t get out of the way in time. Launching himself at her, he caught her in his arms and rolled them both safely out of line of the debris, shielding her battered body with his own. He was extremely grateful that they had both just received their beskar helmets, knowing that the metal placeholders they trained in would do nothing to protect them in this situation.

But as he dragged her into an alley to safely assess her injuries, he saw that having the beskar wouldn’t matter. Not for her, not this time. No… No, Aashi… His hands shook as he placed them over the growing red bloom at her shoulder.

Aashi’s helmet, one pauldron and both thigh plates were pure Mandalorian beskar. The rest was just durasteel. Since the Great Purge beskar had been extremely hard to come by. The Armorer had to be discerning in her distribution of new pieces, oftentimes awarding warriors with beskar for achievements or special services for the Tribe. It was how he had also come to possess select pieces made of the precious material. Her wound though, was on the shoulder not encased in impenetrable armor. And he knew what that meant. She did, too.

Another year had passed since the night by the fire- a year that had kept them and the rest of their squadron busy in protecting their covert from the encroachment of Imperial violence. A year that had been spent deepening their bond not only as warriors but as partners. A year that made him certain that he was bound to her in all but ceremony.

“You h-have to go, Din.” Her voice was hoarse and thin, the modulator in her helmet doing little to hide the obvious agony she was in. He felt her weak grasp on his wrist as she tried to pull his attention from her bloodied shoulder to her face. “Din…” Hearing her speak his name in that tone broke him, and he dropped his head, letting her take his hand, letting her bleed slowly into oblivion.

“I won’t leave you.” He could hear how stubborn he sounded and he hated it. Hated that he couldn’t detach like he’d been trained to, hated that he would have to leave her, hated that he hadn’t been there to take the hit that she’d taken.

Using what little strength she still had, she brought her hand up behind his neck, fingers sliding slowly into his sweat slicked hair. He let out a shaky breath and realized his eyes were damp. “You could n-never leave me, cyare. You are a p-part of me, always.” She bent her fingers gently to nudge his helmet down to meet hers, and he placed both of his hands on the sides of her head. “B-but you have to...to warn the others. You n-need to… the covert. They need to…”

“Shh,” he silenced her, moving one hand down to mirror her touch, placing it on the back of her neck. “I know. I… I will.” He knew that she was right. He had to get back to the covert to help as many of the Tribe escape off planet to Nevarro as possible. He hadn’t gone through additional training, sworn additional oaths just to forsake it all to die in this ally with her and let the rest of the Tribe suffer the same fate. “I will.”

“Kar’taylir, Din Djarin…” She managed once more to tell him what he’d felt for so long, and then he felt her go limp, felt his heart stop, felt the world dim.

She was gone.

No. He shook his head, banishing the heartache that threatened to claim him. No. Not gone. She could never be gone. Like she told him, he was a part of her. And she was a part of him. She would be, always.

Leaving her there was the hardest trial he’d ever undergone, but there was nothing more he could do for her, and he refused to let her death be for nothing. He pushed himself back up and ran back to the covert, alerting who he could and helping as many to safety as possible.

It wasn’t until night fell three days later on Dantooine that he allowed himself to finally feel the cuts, the breaks in his heart. He had stayed behind with the rest of the elite squadron until all of the Tribe’s members were accounted for, either fallen or fled to Nevarro. Only he, Hast, Vizsla and a handful of others remained on the planet, and would be leaving in the morning never to return.

He’d spent that day solemnly traveling to the place of their first mission together, to the outcropping of rock where they’d hidden from the rebels and bared their souls to one another. When he arrived there, he felt her, as though some part of her presence had stayed there that night. He thought a part of himself must have, too. Silently, he knelt down and took the blade from its sheath on his boot. Kaysh meg miit'gaana, oyacyi. The act of writing, even something that was unlikely to be read, even something that only he knew existed, was an act of commitment. Though Mandalorians were not known for making monuments to the dead, remembrance was of personal importance to all who swore the Creed. Placing his other hand on the cool stone, he brought the sharp edge to the rock face and began carving into it. One symbol, then the next, etching the lines until all five were legible. He didn’t know how long it took, but when it was done he knew how long it would last.

“Kar’taylir, Aashi Zurn. Darasuum.”

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to let me know if you would like to be added to or removed from the tags! :)

tags: @something-tofightfor @alraedesigns @pheedraws @valkblue @malionnes @gollyderek @fific7 @becs-bunker @commanderlola @greatcircle79 @cannedsoupsucks

#din djarin #mando #the mandalorian #young din djarin #pedrostories #the mandalorian fanfic #resol’nare #resol'nare one shot #din's first girlfriend #aw #this is the way #mando'a #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #mando fanfic #mando fanfiction #din djarin x oc #pedro pascal characters

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mist-chance · 3 years

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JJK Chapter 137

This is going up a bit late, but I wanted to post my thoughts on Chapter 137 before I get around to reading Chapter 138.

This chapter, which reads as Part 1 of the Shibuya Incident Aftermath, is really interesting because it shows what the state of the jujutsu world – and the non-jujutsu world of Japan – is outside of Shibuya. When there’s a lot of action going on, like the kind that’s been happening for the past year or so worth of chapters, it’s easy to get tunnel vision and focus only on the main cast. So it’s nice that we get some context as to what’s happening outside of Shibuya.

1) Dystopia abound.

We already got a hint of how the non-jujutsu world is affected by an influx of cursed spirits during the action part of the Shibuya Incident, within the contained space of the curtain surrounding Shibuya. Now we learn that other locations in Japan are being affected as well: the state of the government is unknown, there are concerns of how Japan’s political and commercial infrastructure will hold up to this massive shift in reality (and how other countries will view and react to these changes), people are evacuating affected cities, and an important question has arisen as a result of the Shibuya Incident – should the non-jujutsu world, the normal world, become aware of the existence of curses?

This question is important, because it seems Fake-Geto (I know the curse user possessing Geto’s body is Kamo Noritoshi the ancestor, but Fake-Geto is easier to use) is dead set on bringing back a world where powerful cursed spirits held the most influence in the world. It’ll be interesting to see whether or not cursed spirits and the jujutsu world at large become common knowledge to non-jujutsu sorcerers, and how the world will change as a result of either one of these decisions.

2) Yuta appears!

This is his first appearance since Volume 0 (the prequel volume). He pretty much looks the same to me, though his face looks a bit more mature and his hair is longer. He’s still awkward around others – even children – though he looks pretty confident when dealing with the elders at Jujutsu Headquarters.

Here, Yuta seems to be gearing up for a rampage/epic beatdown similar to the one in Volume 0, after Geto took down his friends. Yuta’s pretty similar to Gojo in that he has the capability to pull of a deus ex machina during a time of crisis; he can evolve at an extraordinary rate and pull off impossible feats. (Gojo himself has mentioned that Yuta has the potential to become just as strong as him.)

So in JJK there are two god-like characters: Gojo Satoru, the self-proclaimed but probably-really-is the strongest sorcerer in the world, and Okkotsu Yuta, who’s on his way to being as strong as Gojo. The reason the Shibuya Incident had such devastating consequences is because Gojo was sealed away early on, and Yuta was supposedly still out of the country. Making these two god-like characters unavailable allowed for the struggles and losses in this arc to happen, and gave characters like our main trio the opportunity to grow.

What’s interesting in the aftermath of the Shibuya Incident is that we’re still down Gojo, but we’ve gained Yuta. And Yuta seems to be currently under the influence of the elders at Jujutsu Headquarters – or rather, they’re taking advantage of his need for vengeance and Yuta’s letting them manipulate him – whereas Gojo has always opposed their authority. (When Gojo killed Geto, I doubt he did it because the elders issued a kill-order on Geto. He most likely did it because Geto was dangerous, and Gojo knew the only way to stop him was to kill him.)

As of this chapter, the elders seem reluctant to trust Yuta. But for now, they have a Special Grade Sorcerer to do their bidding.

3) The elders at Jujutsu Headquarters and their plan of action.

This chapter again shows how black and white the current authority of the jujutsu world – the elders at Jujutsu Headquarters (I believe they’re all unidentified except for Gakuganji Yoshinobu) – are, and how desperate they are to maintain their conservative, straightforward vision of how the jujutsu world and the non-jujutsu worlds should be.

It’s hard to tell how much information Jujutsu Headquarters is operating on, based on the orders they’ve issues.

Order 1: We know the elders know that Geto is “alive.” However, it’s unclear whether or not they know that Geto isn’t the real Geto, but a curse user possessing his body. In any case, they want him killed again.

Order 2: We know the elders know Gojo is sealed, since originally, during the Shibuya Incident, the order was to free Gojo Satoru. (This may not have been an official Headquarters order; both the College and Kyoto group may’ve only been acting on Mechamaru’s info.)

This new order calls for Gojo’s continued imprisonment. It’s reasonable for the elders to be suspicious of Gojo (someone who’s always opposing their authority) to be Geto’s accomplice – especially since they were best friends – so this order is understandable.

But there’s a fine line between the elders wanting to keep Gojo sealed because they believe he’s a traitor, and wanting to keep him sealed away because it keeps him from interfering with their agenda.

Order 3: This order is absolutely ridiculous, on par with the idea of Absolute Justice in One Piece – the idea or reasoning that, because Geto and Gojo were his students, Yaga is responsible for the decisions they made and continue to make as adults.

The elders didn’t hold this against Yaga when Geto (real Geto) defected and became a curse user. The difference between then and now is that Gojo is being treated as an accomplice to a curse user. So the goal of this order might be to punish Yaga for producing two traitorous students, or his execution is a way to justify Gojo’s continued imprisonment. The reasoning for the latter option, if we consider the dark, manipulative elders route instead of the ignorant, misinformed one, could be that, to justify that Gojo’s crime is bad enough to warrant being sealed for eternity, his former teacher is also culpable, and the only punishment worthy of his crime is death.

Order 4: Reinstating Yuji’s execution order is expected, given Gakuganji’s previous manipulations during the Kyoto Exchange Arc.

Order 5: This order, for Yuta to be Yuji’s executioner, is also expected. Yuta is currently the only Special Grade (who hasn’t gone rogue) to not have a relationship or any interaction with Yuji; and, given Yuta’s desire to keep his friends safe, Yuji already has a point against him for what he did to Inumaki – even if it was technically Sukuna’s fault.

What might happen next?

There are two ways of thinking the elders could be operating under. One, they’re operating on incomplete information (mainly, not knowing Kamo Noritoshi the ancestor is possessing Geto’s body, which could potentially make Orders 2 and 3 void); or two, the elders do have all the information, and they’re trying to keep Gojo sealed away for their own benefit. With Gojo out of the way, the elders have no one (powerful enough, anyways) to oppose their authority, and they can shape both the jujutsu world and the non-jujutsu world as they please.

[Their order of keeping Gojo sealed is probably the one they’ll regret the earliest. It’s stated in one of the earlier chapters that curses grew in strength because a being of Gojo Satoru’s strength was born into the world. Cursed spirits grew stronger simply as a matter of evolution, the prey evolving to better counter the predator that would hunt them down.

And while there are several talented sorcerers still active to fight the sudden influx of powerful cursed spirits, and several sorcerers-in-training who can step up to joint the fight, the Shibuya Incident also took talented sorcerers like Nanami. Gojo was very much a large-scale, heavy-hitter fighter, capable of taking down several curses at once with little effort. Without him around, it’ll be harder for sorcerers to operate. It’ll definitely give Fake-Geto all the time he needs to enact his plans, since the sorcerers will be too busy fighting curses to figure out his endgame.]

Then there’s the question of how much Yuta knows about each order. Like the elders, Yuta is either ignorant of one or more of the orders (as in, he doesn’t know that Gojo is supposed to stay sealed, or that unsealing him is a criminal act; or that Yaga, Panda’s creator/guardian, is slated for execution), or he knows all of the orders and is choosing to ignore the ones that don’t give him permission to take out Yuji. Either mindset could lead to interesting future conflicts, but I think it’s more likely that Yuta doesn’t know all of the orders. Based on my read of him from Volume 0, he isn’t the type to go for extreme measures unless his friends are hurt.

It also looks like Yuta’s goal of executing Yuji can go two ways. Either he tries killing Yuji and ends up fighting Sukuna, or he tries killing Yuji and his friends (mainly Maki and Panda, if Inumaki’s still out of commission) stop him and beat some sense into him. It’s possible, of course, that the feelings of Yuji’s previous allies/friends may have changed over the course of the Shibuya Incident, because of the damage Sukuna caused while fighting Jogo (e.g. Kusakabe. The difference with Kusakabe, though, is that he was indifferent to Yuji’s existence as Sukuna’s host until the mass destruction in Shibuya. He also, to my knowledge, has never met Yuji.)

But that seems doubtful for the second years, since Panda still seems fine with Yuji, and I can’t see Inumaki and Maki disagreeing with him. And even if they aren’t, Yaga’s technically in the same boat as Yuji, and it’s unlikely Panda, Inumaki, and Maki would act against him. If Yaga continues to stick up for Yuji, they would most likely follow his lead. Megumi I’m sure will still be on Yuji’s side, as will Nobara (please, please let her be okay.).

As for Yuji and Yaga... I can’t imagine Yaga trying to run off to avoid execution. He’s more of the type to make a stand. I could see him encouraging Yuji to escape though, and serving as a distraction until Yuji’s escaped far enough.

I’m really excited to see where Chapter 138 will take us!

[Source of all screenshots: VIZ Media]

#Jujutsu Kaisen #JJK #Chapter 137 #Okkotsu Yuta #Manga #Chapter 137 Breakdown #Speculations #My Thoughts

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collaborationandresearchproposal · 3 years

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Thursday 29th April, Research Report: Lycanthropy and the hays code

Notable points * lycanthropy seems to be synonymous with homosexuality- parallels between Teen Wolf and Buffy The Vampire Slayer's respective coming out scenes. * The Queer-ness of the character Remus Lupin from the Harry Potter books and film series. Many fans head cannon and write slash fics about Remus and Sirius' romance and relationship, reading the characters as queer. The ship, named 'Wolf Star' is quite popular and well known within the fandom. Many fans feel there is enough evidence to build this relationship on; Remus and Sirius' ghosts stood next to each other in the resurrection stone, mirroring Harry's parents, a canonically married couple. They also bought Harry a joint present for his birthday and know the intricacies of each others personalities. Dumbledore also infamously told Sirius to 'lie low at Lupins.' But the problem here, as the article points out, is that Rowling doesn't acknowledge Lupin as queer, despite the homoerotic cues in the writings, and instead gives him a female love interest and admits that Lupins Lycantrhopy is a metaphor for AIDS/HIV. She has further dismissed any alternative readings of the character, disappointing fans' hopes of there being a shred of representation in a queer monster who is actually queer. This sort of behaviour from authors and creators is what turns Queer-coding into the more harmful and frustrating Queer-baiting. A large majority of queer representation comes from connotations and interpretations. the clues are there and queer audiences do pick them up. However this grey area allows allows straight culture to use queerness for pleasure and profit in mass culture without admitting to it. Modern examples of this are CW's Supernatural and BBC's Sherlock. I can't personally speak for Supernatural but having watched Sherlock with the advantage of a queer eye, I can say with confidence that it is a prime example of queer-baiting. there is clear homoerotic subtext between Sherlock and John and even Sherlock and Moriarty. I Personally think it's entirely romantic as I head cannon Sherlock to be Asexual or at least on that spectrum but the point is, it is not just wishful thinking or pushing of a narrative. It's manipulation. Queer-baiting takes advantage of an already vulnerable group of people by preying on their desire for representation in the media.

In modern media werewolf's are often portrayed as having chiselled bodies and looming over each other. The 1985 Teen Wolf received a television reboot and it's fair to say it got reasonably more progressive. It seemed interested in queering the werewolf narrative and in a sly moment of gender-bending the traditional Little Red Riding Hood narrative, protagonist Scott receives the Bite from a male werewolf while wearing a Little Red Hoodie (‘Wolf Moon’). Additionally, the show features LGBTQ characters while Scott’s human best friend Stiles visits a gay bar and makes friends with a group of drag queens in startling contrast to the gay panic of the 1985 film’s version of Stiles. By midway through the show’s second season, the slash pairing that had proved dominant in the fandom was Stiles and wannabe-Alpha Derek Hale. The two characters, who operate in the narrative as belligerent and begrudging allies, rapidly became a slash phenomenon, due, in part, to the chemistry and comic timing between actors Tyler Hoechlin and Dylan O’Brien. The narrative is further subverted when Derek is raped by an adult human woman.

The pair 'Sterek' gained so much traction that it caught the attention of MTV and the cast and crew behind the show. So much so that they released a video of Hoechlin and O'Brien cuddling on a boat, asking fans to vote for Teen Wolf for this years Choice Summer TV Show at the Teen Choice Awards. This was big as it acknowledged fans and slash flics and the pairing itself as a possibility and many queer voices who watched the show felt heard and validated. However this didn't last long. MTV released a video on the official Teen Wolf Facebook, this time featuring O’Brien asking fans to vote for Teen Wolf in a TV Guide Poll. O’Brien joked that if fans did not vote, then the show would kill off its sole remaining gay character and one of the few remaining non-white characters on the show, Danny. The Teen Wolf Facebook released the video with the following caption: ‘Keep #TeenWolf in first place! Heed Dylan and Linden’s advice or we might have to. #KillDanny’ (Teen Wolf). The show’s social media team then attempted to make the #KillDanny tag go viral on Facebook and twitter, but fans, understandably, were not amused, primarily using the tag for outraged tweets to MTV (Baker-Whitelaw).Such blatant disregard for fans’ concerns about queer representation on the show alienated a large number of fans, especially when coupled with Jeff Davis’ more frequently dismissive and condescending comments about the Sterek pairing where he had been enthusiastic and even encouraging of the ship. As seasons wore on without any indication that Sterek would indeed become canon, it became clear that MTV and Jeff Davis had been queer-baiting Sterek fans as a marketing technique and that the unique interplay that fans had enjoyed with Davis, which offered a new kind of truly interactive fandom had, in fact, been something of an illusion. ' serial killer Hannibal Lecter and his love interest Will Graham in Hannibal, and reanimated gay corpses Kieren, Simon, and Rick in In the Flesh. Notably, both series have received an overwhelmingly positive response from fans and critics who have applauded the series for taking their queer monsters beyond mere coding and into explicit text. The warm reception of Hannibal and In the Flesh’s handling of queer representation by fans, and the continuing frustration with Teen Wolf’s queer-baiting and the appropriative nature of Remus Lupin’s narrative in Harry Potter, belie a desire not only for better queer representation, but also for more complex re-articulations of queer monstrosity' the symbolic and narrative trappings of monsters are often used as metaphors for queerness without actually acknowledging the positive behind that queer identity or even confirming the queer identity at all. Another positive example is the miniseries Good Omens. Based on the book of the same name, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Pretty much the whole fandom believe That the two leads, Crowley and Aziraphale are in a romantic relationship. They've known each other for centuries and perhaps what was the main fuel to this ships fire was the episode 3 cold open. Even fans who have only read the book seem to support these two as a couple and what's perhaps even more amazing is Gaiman’s response on twitter. "I wrote it as a love story. They acted it as a love story. You saw it as a love story. How much more proof do you need?" and "I wouldn't exclude the ideas that they are ace, or aromantic, or trans. They are an angel and a demon, not as make humans, per the book. Occult/Ethereal beings don't have sexes, something we tried to reflect in the casting. Whatever Crowley and Aziraphale are, it's a love story." It's beautiful because not only does it confirm that they are in love but it also leaves room for interpretations of what kind of relationship they have together.

https://dialogues.rutgers.edu/images/Journals_PDF/2017-18-dialogues-web_e6db3.pdf#page=164

In the year 1922, when cinema was gaining traction and popularity, The Motion Picture Producers and Distributors Association (MPPDA) hired a devout Presbyterian, Will H. Hays as its head. Eight years later, in 1930, the MPPDA ratified the Motion Picture Production Code. Also known as the Hays Code, these guidelines were set up as “a list of rules that studios could follow to avoid the censors’ wrath” one specific line read “sexual perversion or any inference to it is forbidden” This era in censorship set the stage for a culture in which the stereotypical behaviour of homosexuals, or any behaviour deviating from the traditional gender roles, is seen as dangerous, evil, and even fatal. By representing coded homosexual characters as depressed, perverse, and succumbing to punishing ends, it shifted social subconscious beliefs of LGBT individuals in real life to those represented on screen. Media often teaches us how to feel about others and ourselves – e.g., it promotes specific body types and clothing styles. In the same way, by promoting gendered behaviour and banning homosexuality, it spread a message that homosexuality was not fit to be viewed openly. Although themes of homosexuality were banned they were definitely alluded to and that continues today.

#researchproposal

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burtlederp · 4 years

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My OCs (A Masterpost)

So, you wanna get to know my OCs, eh? Great! That’d make my day! I appreciate your interest more than you know! :) I have a lot of OCs, I will admit, many more than will ever show up here on tumblr. I will only include, in this post, those that have had drabbles written about them and/or people have expressed interest in. The current number of OCs featured on my tumblr is 12; Milo, Anton, Jackson, Valerie, Elias, Risa, Samson, Cindy, Moe, Damien, and Marcelo.

Character bios are below the read more, because, trust me, there is a LOT more to read!

Milo’s Story: A Complete and Utter Mess

Milo O’Malley He’s lean, he’s definitely not mean, and he’s nearly exactly five feet of skin and bone and little else. Beaten down repeatedly through his life, this kid (who doesn’t even look like a kid anymore) resigned himself to a life of harsh, relentless work until his body inevitably gives out on him when he turns 26. Oh, except, it seems a very powerful tiger sprite is trying to possess his body, and he actually doesn’t want to die. And he’s been “adopted” by a giant pick-axe wielding dad-friend named Jackson, who also insists he lives on. Milo isn’t much of a looker, not anymore, with a gaunt, ghoul-like face, dull green eyes, and a shaved head (easier to keep clean when you don’t really have a place to get clean). He is, as I mentioned earlier, five feet tall, thanks to malnutrition through his early years, and dangerously thin. He’s of Irish descent, though his pale skin has long become a sickly gray. After living with Jackson for a while though, his red hair’ll grow out a bit and he’ll get back some of that snow-white European paper skin. As far as he knows, Milo is straight, but he’s never really been in a relationship before. Milo’s Playlist

Jackson Pitolua Jackson is the ideal dad-friend. He’s kind, he’s caring, protective, intelligent, and has a witty sense of humor. He’s been through some very rough times in his life, has had his fair share of terrifying, nightmare-inducing experiences, but this refining fire has left him who he is, and he doesn’t soon forget it. Not all his emotional wounds have completely healed, though, but at least his coping mechanism is seeking to help others as much as possible. As much as he’s grown, he’s still young, and he still hungers for adventure, doing so regularly as both a hobby and a profession. This has led him to meeting and literally adopting Anton, and figuratively adopting Milo. In terms of physical descriptions, Jackson is 6-feet-10-inches and over 200 lbs of pure muscle, with short black hair, a large nose, warm brown eyes, and wide smile missing at least one tooth. His Polynesian descent grants him darker skin, and he’s gotten his fair share of tribal tattoos, with one climbing up his arm to just under his left ear, and another adorning his right leg. His adventuring has led him to be in need of a patron, and so he has chosen one, his allegiance to his Samoan goddess of choice emblazoned all over his back. If he were to be put into any Dungeons & Dragons class, it would be barbarian, because he favors little armor and wields a pickaxe that weighs twice or perhaps even thrice that of Milo. Jackson is straight. Jackson’s Playlist

Anton (Pitolua) Anton is a bit different from others, in that he is not human. He’s from a race of humanoids known as the Night People, carnivorous humans with a very base, tribalistic society. Anton left it in a heartbeat to go with Jackson when he was around the age of 17, after hearing all the wonderful, magical things the modern world had. Anton had his first taste of indoor life and decided he would never go outside ever again. Jackson didn’t allow for this, but Anton has remained rather partial to his static, sustained environments. Anton is a strange one in terms of personality, having lived in a competitive survival situation his whole life and suddenly plopped into one where everyone’s on fair ground. He’s picked up the english language quickly, but he’s still working on his mannerisms, so he can often come off rather cold or harsh, but he means well. He’s protective of his new family, and would give his life for them in a second. Appearance-wise, I am still undecided. I’ve sketched multiple designs, but I haven’t found one that I really enjoy yet. Some features I have decided on though are sharp claws instead of nails, sharp teeth, clawed, long-toed feet with rotating ankle joints and opposable thumbs. Distinguishing features for Anton specifically are his long, black hair and the long scar down his left arm from a nasty fall he took in his youth. Anton, sexually-speaking, is very young and not sure about anything and, for now, forbidden from the act of it by Jackson, who’s nervous he might take after the rather… animalistic sexual habits of his people. Luckily, Anton plays Fortnite and doesn’t get out a lot, so Jackson doesn’t need to worry too much (yet).

Valerie Floraison A wood elf in a modern world, Valerie was raised mostly in Detroit with her nine sisters. Their family made trips back and forth between home and their parents’ home in another realm throughout her childhood so she could still retain her culture. Her family struggled financially all her life, a combination of poor decisions and bad luck, when left Valerie hungry for a life outside of the projects. She moved to D.C. after graduating top of her class at a college in the other realm, and joined the newly-publicized Magic Affairs Agency, becoming head of resource management in no time. She’s got a fiery, stubborn spirit about her, and it’s easy to see her as shallow and materialistic, but she really does care about people. Well, except maybe Jackson. Her sister was engaged to Jackson, and died fighting with him against a manticore. Valerie blames Jackson for her sister’s death. She’s not quite over it yet. As courtesy of her job and career, she’s quite good at wearing a pleasant face, even when she may or may not desire to strangle you. She has a habit of getting a bit physical when angry, never anything beyond a slap, and she does tend to feel bad about it afterwards. Valerie is almost exactly 6 feet tall, with a thin and willowy figure. She has those long elf-ears, which bear a moderate number of piercings each. She has darker skin with long, wavy black hair that’s usually down, falling over her shoulders, and purple eyes. She favors the finer things in life, so it’s rare that you’ll ever see her out of a dress or not wearing heels. On her left hand is a small rune she had tattooed there that grants a permanent illusion perfectly-applied make-up on her face (no, this did not come cheap). Valerie, in college, double-majored in finances and illusion magic, with a minor in magical cloth manipulation. If she’s not wearing Gucchi, she’s wearing her own couture.

Elias and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Life

Elias Benson Native to the lands of Utah, Elias has never really had an outstanding good time in his life. His family never liked him and kicked him out of the house before he was a legal adult, which resulted in him moving across the country on his own before he was really ready. He’s had relationships before too, and none of them were healthy. He’s a gentle soul, but the world hasn’t really given him a chance to prove it, so he’s turned out to be a bit of a punk, and a lot of an idiot. Even so, he’s a truly good person, even if his language (and observable intelligence) belies it. Elias, before he meets the bounty hunter Risa, is about 5”9, and is pretty gaunt. He’s not quite Milo-levels of emaciation, but he’s not exactly looking great either at around 130 lbs. He’s got short, curly brown hair and big, green eyes, and a little nose stud on the left side. Bruises around his neck were pretty much perpetual from his girlfriend. He also was never terribly clean, so he was usually kinda grungy. After meeting Risa, things more or less took a sharp 180–he got and stayed clean, and bumped his weight up to almost 200 lbs through healthy diet and strict workout regimen. If he gave thought to it and knew it was a thing, he’d identify as asexual or straight.

Elias’ Playlist

Risa Literally out of this world, I like to describe her as a psychopath who accidentally gave herself a soul–because she kinda did. She’s from another planet in the future in a different universe, and was originally a complete sociopath. Not the “mwahaha I like murder because it’s fun” kinda thing, but she just didn’t feel things the same way or at all as other people, literally incapable of most emotions. She was wicked smart though, and after many years of learning about machines and how to be a witch, she complete switched her weak, fleshy body for a metal one and a computer chip brain. Due to an error on her part, however, this robot brain opened up neural pathways for her to experience and use emotions other than want and annoyance. Not that that slowed down her bounty hunting career in the slightest. She’s a planeswalker of sorts, meaning that she’s particularly good at finding her way around the multiverse, and takes advantage of it and the many job opportunities presented because of it. She’s a grade-A badass, also a bit op, and she’s lets people know it. She (kidnapped? Adopted? Enslaved? Took in? There is no good word for how she got Elias) got Elias as her henchman because she was bored and accidentally got attached. Risa is cold, calculating, greedy, and apathetic unless there’s money in it for her. She also has a sense of humor and sarcasm that usually smacks harder than a bullwhip. When she’s not on a job or in a rush, she can also be incredibly, horribly, awfully petty, and takes advantage of her often-if-not-always superior resources to smack down her enemies like flies. She’s a very practical person, and will always choose the most logical pathway in any situation. Risa is lesbian, but the only people she’s ever been attracted to in any way at all is her computer wife Carol, and a giant, sentient, anti-orbital gun she met once on a distant world. Risa is the most difficult to describe in words for me. She’s designed her body to be lightweight but incredibly strong, with minor force manipulation. Thanks to a very expensive coat of paint and arrangement of parts inside her, if she goes ten minutes without direct observation, she becomes completely invisible and partially intangible. She’s not powered by fusion or fission, but rather, a captured god that resides in an enchanted jar in her chest cavity. Her body lacks a lot of humanistic features, being mostly a very smooth, rounded head with antennae on either side that resemble ears, and often move like them too. It wasn’t until she got Elias that she finally installed a proper mouth on herself as well. Risa’s Playlist

Samson Callidan Samson is a very gentle soul who speaks softly, and tends to not speak for long either. He’s wise and observant and a very good listener, because likely, no matter who you are, he cares, at least a little. He had a harsh mother who taught him whats-what, growing up in deep Texas. He has the ability to force people to do as he says, as long as he’s commanding them, like a built in command spell from D&D. Luckily, his mother knew him better than he realized and she was always able to stuff something in his mouth and taught him that his power wasn’t to be misused. Samson is not a young man anymore, but is old, and his parents would say he’s been old since he was about twelve. He’s a religious man, a devout member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, though he didn’t join until well into his twenties, after mission age. He still has done his fair share of traveling, and some of it he even enjoyed. One trip into another realm left him handicapped, with only one functioning eye, and he’d say in a heartbeat that that was the worst time in his life. Luckily, his second wife, Cindy, thinks eyepatches look cool. He and Cindy live alone, way up in the mountains of Utah in a tiny little cabin he and she built together. They have had no kids together, but he plays grandfather to Cindy’s children from a previous marriage of hers. Samson is a gentle giant, roughly 6’’5 and of various European descent. He has tan, leathery skin, with a kind, gray eye, and his hair has long-since grayed, though once it had been a lovely gold. He’s built thick, with a strong figure that Cindy keeps filled out, and despite his age, he’s retained a generous portion of strength from his youth. He’s got a large scar that stretches across his face, going over his left eye, nose, and just barely missing his mouth. His nose, once handsome, is disfigured at the tip, and his eye is a badly-healed, still-freshly scarred pit in his eye socket, though one does not usually see it beneath his eyepatch.

It’s Too Damn Cold To Be A Superhero Today

Damien Lowry Yet another upcycled character, I’m still kinda pulling off the cobwebs and dusting him off, so his backstory may be subject to change. But, as a person, Damien is stubborn as a mountain, and the kind of person whose idea of ‘relaxation’ is more work, but work he wants to do. He’s pretty easy to get along with, but he won’t tell you if he doesn’t like you, he’ll just avoid you. He bounced between homes as a child, traded constantly between his sweet-yet-frail grandparents, his constantly sick or injured mother, or his perpetually drunk father. He’s pretty quiet, a result of too much time spent alone, or too many voices in his head. The voices, fortunately, give him a handful of powers to use as he pleases, and he does so, wielding them under the guise of the superhero, the Alchemist, so named for his ability to summon substances at will. Unfortunately, the power is very specific, and Damien never graduated highschool, so chemistry is a bit foreign to him. But he manages. Damien is mostly only interested in women, a couple men catching his eye throughout his life, but nothing ever really progressed further than crushes, and he’s never had a steady relationship. Damien stands at roughly 5’‘10, and while he’s not starving or emaciated, he’s still on the skinny side, but is deceivingly strong. He has some Native American in him, giving him darker features, including brown eyes and shaggy, usually un-kept black hair. His teeth are noticeably crooked and slightly yellowed, so he usually doesn’t smile with his teeth. He’s built sturdy, and hey, maybe someday he’ll fill it out.

Marcelo Blackwood Marcelo is, honestly, not that different from most super villains. He’s disgustingly rich, wicked smart, and seeks power. He does take the path less traveled from here though, because Marcelo is not mean nor conniving nor evil. He’s a rather nice mayor of a small town in Alaska that’s best well known for having the only superhero in upper North America. The superhero’s name is the Alchemist, and he has but one main foe: the Roman. Who is the Roman? Marcelo is the Roman. By day, he plays the role of the town mayor, a kind, courteous fellow with more money than he knows what to do with, and by night, he is a super villain, blowing things up and robbing banks. What is his motivation? Well, it’s his hobby. Keeps things interesting. His wife is his greatest supporter and literally his partner in crime. Marcelo is, despite all this, a very kind person. He’s very smart, he’s patient, and tries to do his best by the citizens of his town. Even when he’s playing the role of the Roman, he avoids true wanton destruction or harming innocents, bystanders, and law enforcement. Mayor Blackwood is 6’‘10, with pale skin, piercing blue eyes, and always well-styled black hair. He has a perfect nose, a nice jawline, and is all around a strikingly handsome fellow. He may be in his late thirties, but it’s hard to tell. The mayor is always dressed well, rarely dressed down any lower than business casual, and all his clothes are custom-tailored. As the Roman, he wears boots with thick soles so that he is 7 feet tall, and wears a expertly-made and expertly-applied fake beard under his Roman centurion helmet. The helmet also has a visor to further hide his identity.

A Menagerie of Disasters (Everyone Else)

Moe Moe is an older character of mine, and for the writing blurb I used him in, I was really recycling him just for the specific scene in mind. As of now, there isn’t much to say about him. He’s a pained, mentally-distressed individual with a very rowdy demon trapped in his mind.

---

That’s all, folks!

#my ocs #my ocs (a masterpost)#masterpost #oc masterpost #burtlederp writes #burtlederp's characters #burtlederp's kids #a menagerie of disasters #all of them #burtlederp #burtlederp posts

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thegizka · 5 years

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Swift as Wind, Soft as Shadow

Chapter 1 Part II: Promise

With planning for the chunin exam well underway, the joint proctors try to work out exactly what their goals are.

Written for ShikaTema Week 2019 Day 1: Chunin Exam.

Note: I do not own any aspects of Naruto.

Read it on Ao3.

Two weeks after they signed the contract, Temari arrived alone in the Leaf. They had decided the first step to planning was touring each location to determine how much work would need to be done to prepare for the exams. In a few weeks, it would be Shikamaru’s turn to make the journey to the Sand. It would mean several days of travel. He was not looking forward to it.

He met Temari at the front gate so he could escort her to meet the Hokage and show her to the ambassadors’ lodgings. Normally whoever was on gate duty would take care of it, but Lady Tsunade and his father had stressed the importance of building a good relationship with the Sand, stopping just short of ordering him be her personal escort while she was in the village. It was a drag.

He was a little surprised when she arrived alone. It wasn’t uncommon for foreign messengers to travel by themselves, but he had noticed at their last meeting how on edge and mistrustful she had been. The situation in the Sand was likely more unstable than those in the Hokage’s office thought.

“Hi,” he greeted simply.

“What a warm reception,” she smirked. He just shrugged.

“The Hokage figured you might like some company on the way to her office.”

“And she picked you?” Temari snorted. “Was everyone else busy?”

He just rolled his eyes, already turning toward the big building tucked beneath the cliff from which the faces of the past Hokage watched over the Land of Fire. Temari fell into step beside him.

“I trust your trip wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

He glanced at her, trying to tell whether she had run into any trouble, but her features were carefully set. He did note that there were extra snarls in her pigtails, and her shoes were dustier than usual, but he didn’t know her well enough to determine whether these were indicators of trouble or simply the wear of travel. Either way, she was carefully scanning every face and building they passed as though looking for hidden enemies. He wondered if there was a tactful way to tell her that she could relax.

“How’s your friend doing?” she asked suddenly. “I never asked.”

“Which friend?”

“The one who was in the operating room all night after that mess of a mission the last time I was here.”

“That was years ago.”

And years later, the memory still smarted. Fresh after the invasion of the village and his promotion to chunin, Shikamaru’s first mission had ended in disaster. Tasked with tracking down his classmate Sasuke and bringing him back to the village, he had made some poor judgments and nearly gotten his friends killed. If Temari and her brothers hadn’t arrived to help, they probably would have died. Sasuke disappeared, Chouji nearly didn’t make it, and he had cried in front of his father. Every memory associated with the event made him ashamed.

Temari, of course, was unaware of this. Or maybe she had known that bringing up the past would bother him a bit. He couldn’t read her very well.

“Chouji’s doing fine. Everyone is.”

“And did you ever find Sasuke?”

He glanced at her sharply. Did she know something about Sasuke? For a topic of small talk, this one was awfully loaded. Villages didn’t like discussing their rogue ninja unless they posed a serious threat. Sasuke so far had simply disappeared, though he was likely with Orochimaru, the rogue sanin who had manipulated the Sand into invading the Leaf during the last chunin exam. Shikamaru suspected whatever news they eventually got about Sasuke wouldn’t be good.

“No,” he answered bluntly. She looked at him for a moment, trying to gauge the meaning of what he wasn’t saying.

“Hm,” she concluded. She didn’t ask any more questions.

Their check-in with the Hokage was courteous but brief. The piles of papers on Tsunade’s desk were higher than normal, and she seemed a bit preoccupied. Shikamaru wondered if this was all a show for Temari’s benefit or there was actually something brewing in the village.

After leaving the Hokage’s office, he showed his guest to her room so she could drop off her pack and freshen up. The ambassadors’ lodging was a small building off of the Hokage’s office shielded on one side by the cliff and on the other by a low wall. Temari’s room was on the ground floor, and Shikamaru had taken a room down the hall so he could be on hand if she needed anything. Staying in the ambassadors’ lodging for a few days was a drag, but his parents had insisted he stay close to the Sand kunoichi.

While Temari took some time to get settled, Shikamaru ordered lunch and looked over some paperwork of his own. He was proofreading Chouji’s report from a recent mission--his friend always left a few grammatical errors and never included enough detail--when Temari joined him in the common room.

“So what now?” she asked, standing over him with a hand on her hip.

“Now we eat,” he announced, sliding the report into a folder away from prying eyes. He’d drop it off at the Akimichis’ later.

Rather than sit down at the table, he led her back outside and around the building to an outside door which granted access to the roof via a set of stairs.

“Is this really necessary?” she huffed as they climbed.

“It’s quieter up here,” he replied, stepping carefully onto the slightly sloped roof. “It’s easier to talk.”

“We have things to talk about?”

“Uh, yeah. Last I checked we’re proctoring the next chunin exam.”

“You’re proactively focusing on work? I thought you were allergic to any sort of exertion.”

“Ha ha,” he laughed sarcastically as he settled onto the roof. Temari took a moment to scan their surroundings before sitting beside him. She was still guarded, though he noted that she had left her battle fan in her room. “Here.”

She wrinkled her nose slightly when he handed her a takeout box, but she didn’t complain. His mother would give him a lecture if she found out he gave the representative from the Sand takeout as her first meal in the Leaf, but he was much too lazy to cook anything and didn’t care to waste time at a crowded restaurant. Plus he highly doubted diplomatic relations between their villages would fall apart over a simple meal. Temari didn’t strike him as that trivial.

Shikamaru let his thoughts drift as they ate, free and lazy like the clouds floating above them. He loved meal times because they usually signified a break from having to think about work. He wasn’t expected to do anything or go anywhere. He could be carefree for an hour or so.

Unless, of course, the company he was keeping was troublesome.

“So talk,” Temari said, disrupting the relaxed flow of his thoughts. He had hoped she’d wait at least until they had finished their food. He should have known better.

“About what?” he stalled. She let out a frustrated snort.

“About the chunin exam! That’s why we’re up here on the roof and not somewhere more comfortable, right?”

He sighed. He’d really been hoping for a few moments to relax.

“So?” she prompted.

“The written exam’s first, right?”

“Yeah,” she growled. He was almost amused by how frustrated he was making her.

“I figured we’d hold it at the school, same as last time.”

“I hope you’re not planning on making it the exact same as last time. Several candidates will be repeating the exam.”

“I know,” he sighed, rubbing his neck. “We have to create a whole new test. It’s such a drag.”

“Have you come up with anything yet?”

“I have a few ideas.” He picked through his food for a chunk of chicken, chewing slowly.

“Care to share?” Temari prompted when he didn’t continue. With a sigh, he set aside his food container and laid back on the roof tiles.

“I want to divide up the members of each team and test how they work together when they have limited communication. I just don’t know how yet.”

“You want to split up the teams but still expect them to communicate. Doesn’t that make it impossible?”

“Not necessarily. I just want to limit the advantage of certain jutsus. Like with our test, visual and intelligence-oriented jutsus had an advantage.”

“But wouldn’t that be unavoidable even if we split up teams? They can just copy from some of their competitors.”

“Not if the entire focus of the exam is to test teamwork within each three-person squad.”

“I don’t really see the point of that. We don’t pass teams in the chunin exams; we pass individual shinobi.”

“But a lot of shinobi work involves cooperating in a team,” Shikamaru explained. “You have to know who to trust and how to work together to complete a mission.”

“Those are largely circumstantial decisions,” she countered. “Shinobi get reassigned to different squads all the time. It doesn’t matter who the other members on the team are as long as each does her job. That’s how we complete missions.”

“Somewhere along the line you have to decide to trust the other people on your team to do their jobs, and if something goes wrong, you need to depend on each other to adapt and fix it. No shinobi is totally independent.”

He watched as she mulled over his words, eyebrows pulled down over her teal eyes. He wondered if she was arguing because she honestly believed teamwork wasn’t that important to a shinobi, or perhaps it was a reaction from not being able to trust people in the Sand. He wondered if there was really a difference between the two.

“Even our own exam started with a whole team pass or fail on that last question,” he reminded her.

“That was just to thin the field more quickly,” she declared dismissively.

“But you had to know what your teammates would do.”

She turned her sharp eyes on him. They were cruel and intelligent. Her look made him realize how little he actually knew her.

“Knowing what someone will do and trusting them have nothing to do with each other.”

-----

Shikamaru was miserable, and Temari would be lying if she didn’t acknowledge that it amused her. He tried to hide it to prevent any offence to his hosts, but it was a common enough reaction from emissaries to the Sand that she saw right through him.

She had found the rest of her trip to the Leaf boring. The school was exactly as she remembered it from her own exam. Shikamaru talked about sealing off the classrooms to make the test more difficult, but she didn’t really care about those details. She didn’t understand why he was so preoccupied with the candidates’ relationships with their teammates, but if that’s how he wanted to run the written exam, then so be it. In her eyes, the important part of the exam would start with the second round in the Land of Wind.

Originally she had been opposed to Gaara’s plan to use the exams as a way to lure out and take down his enemies. It was risky not only because it meant using the Kazekage as bait, but it could also endanger relations with the other nations if their genin got caught in the conflict. But Temari was also really tired of sleeping with one eye open, and Gaara was limited by his opposition and couldn’t effectively guide the Sand toward his dream of a better future. They were stuck unless they could eliminate his enemies.

The real problem with the plan had been inviting the Leaf to co-host the exam. They couldn’t have obtained the council’s approval without a partnership from another village, and it threw off any suspicions that they were using the exam to target their internal opposition. Temari could only hope their plans wouldn’t backfire and make things worse.

She was nervous about having Shikamaru in the Sand. She’d seen how he observed everything and knew he was drawing conclusions which he would no doubt communicate to the Hokage. It would be tricky keeping the plan secret from him, especially as he was more talkative now than he had been in the Leaf. He seemed eager to know the details of every part of the second round.

“The Demon Desert, huh?” He was leaning over a map spread across a table, scratching his hair where some sand was irritating his scalp. “Isn’t the entire desert demonic?”

“For whiny crybabies like you,” she teased, trying to keep the mood light to mask the heaviness of her thoughts. “The Demon Desert is more unpredictable than the rest. There are hidden quarries, fields of quicksand, and sandstorms that appear out of nowhere. With limited natural resources, it’ll definitely challenge the genins’ endurance.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“No more dangerous than the Forest of Death.”

“What safety measures will you have in place?”

“Safety measures?” She shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on any.”

“But what if someone gets hurt or trapped somewhere? Will there be medical-nin on standby?”

“As I recall, there weren’t any adults waiting to swoop in and help us during our exam.”

“And look how that turned out,” he responded, eyes narrowed.

She didn’t like the implication. She and her brothers had a lot of blood on their hands, including some from those exams. She was pretty sure adult intervention wouldn’t have stood much chance against Gaara.

“They won’t have anyone keeping an eye on them when they’re off on missions. If we really want to test who has what it takes to be a chunin, we can’t hold their hands.”

“It’s not holding their hands if we’re keeping them alive so they have the chance to try again next time,” he argued. “The purpose of these exams is to build up our villages’ next generation of shinobi, not lose half of them.”

“Death is part of a shinobi’s life. Better to get them used to it sooner rather than later.” She said it with more emotion than she intended, the words getting caught in her tightening throat. Unpleasant memories were resurfacing. That made her angry. She wasn’t supposed to lose control and get emotional. Emotions revealed too much, and she didn’t want Shikamaru to know the details of her past.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said firmly. She was sure he had noticed her control slip momentarily, but it seemed he wasn’t going to mention it. She wasn’t sure whether that was a relief or not.

“We don’t have to run the exams like they have in the past,” he continued. “Nothing changes if we keep doing everything the same way.”

She couldn’t tell him it was precisely because she wanted things to change that they couldn’t increase supervision of the exam. Gaara’s enemies needed the chance to slip in and try something in order to get caught. The chaos of the second round had always been an opportunity to pursue secondary intentions, like the Sand and Sound’s maneuvers to invade the Leaf during the last exams. They might be risking the lives of their genin, but doing so would allow Gaara’s dreams for the future to start coming true. It was a necessary risk.

“If they can’t survive by themselves, they shouldn’t take the exam,” she declared. “If you have other questions, they can wait until tomorrow. I have some meetings to get to.”

“Temari, wait,” he called, clearly dissatisfied with her answer, but she said nothing and walked away.

-----

Shikamaru awoke to the sound of someone knocking on his door. That is, his reflexes awoke, pulling his body out of bed and reaching for his ninja tools. His mind took a few moments longer to shake off the sleep.

“Shikamaru,” Temari hissed from the other side of the door. That nearly made him relax, but the way she had refused to finish their argument earlier that day told him she was hiding something big. It was also the middle of the night. The desert darkness pressed heavily against his window. Nothing good ever happened in the middle of the night. Warily he cracked open his door and found Temari’s sharp, teal eyes in the dark hallway.

“Grab your things,” she ordered. “We need to go. Now.”

“What’s happening?” he demanded.

“Don’t waste time with questions. Move!”

She looked earnest. Her clothes seemed to have been thrown on in a rush, and her hair was unbound. A sliver of worry sliced her expression. He decided to trust her.

A minute later they were gliding down the hallway to meet up with Gaara and two Sand shinobi waiting for them. The Kazekage was fully dressed and had his gourd slung across his back. Shikamaru wondered if he had slept at all tonight.

“Do you need me to stay?” Temari asked, but her little brother shook his head.

“Kankuro will take care of things here. Let’s go.”

Shikamaru wanted to ask where and why, but they were already moving, and the sense of urgency was so great he thought it prudent to simply follow. They raced down stairs and along hallways, taking so many turns he didn’t bother trying to keep track of their path. Then suddenly they were out in the open, far away from the Kazekage’s residence and the ambassadors’ quarters. There must be secret tunnels under the city.

They stole through the empty streets, the eternal wind swirling dust around their feet. They seemed to be heading for the massive wall that protected the village, but their route curved away from the narrow opening through which he had entered the Sand. Instead, they ducked into a house and down into more tunnels. After more twists, turns, and stairs, they emerged into a large room. White ceiling lights illuminated a few tables and chairs. A long, narrow window revealed they had climbed partway up the hulking wall into a network of secret rooms.

He waited with Gaara while Temari and the others checked the rooms further in. After giving the all clear, the two Sand shinobi disappeared back into the tunnels to guard the way to the Kazekage. With their departure, Gaara and Temari relaxed slightly. They chose a table towards the center of the room, leaning their weapons nearby and settling down to wait.

Shikamaru hesitated to join them, studying them for a moment. Gaara had his elbows propped up on the table, lips pressed against his clasped hands as he contemplated his sister. Temari was holding her hair back from her forehead and returning her brother’s earnest gaze. They seemed to be communicating together, but Shikamaru couldn’t read all of their thoughts.

“It was an assassination attempt, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Gaara confirmed, not bothering to dance around the subject for the sake of saving face. He turned to meet Shikamaru’s eyes.

“This isn’t the first time,” the Leaf shinobi surmised. His thoughts raced back to all recent interactions with the Sand, reworking interpretations under this new revelation. He had suspected assassination threats existed, but repeated attempts were something else entirely. No wonder Temari was always watching her back.

She had closed her eyes and was taking deep breaths. He felt sorry for her. All of the work she’d gone through to hide the true state of the Sand’s internal affairs was unravelling in this room.

“The chunin exams,” Shikamaru said, his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes as he thought. “You’re using them to draw out your opposition to stop them.”

He saw Temari deflate further and knew he was correct before Gaara nodded.

“I apologize for keeping you in the dark,” the Kazekage said. “The fewer people who know, the less likely our plans are to be ruined. It was a risk I thought worth taking.”

On one level, it made sense, but such deception could destroy the alliance between their villages. It not only endangered the participating genin, but proctors were also at risk. Based on the fact that they’d taken him with them as they evaded the assassins, Shikamaru was a potential target. An ambassador dying in another village would definitely strain relations between allies and undermine a leader’s authority.

“I understand that you’ll have to report this to the Hokage,” Gaara acknowledged. “I won’t ask you to withhold anything, but I would appreciate your discretion. And if possible, I would like to continue with the exams, if only to allow our genin the chance to prove themselves.”

“Understood,” Shikamaru replied, but he couldn’t make any promises before speaking with Lady Tsunade.

“Thank you,” Gaara said, closing his eyes and returning to his waiting position.

With a sigh, Shikamaru slid into a chair. He let his head hang back so he was looking at the rough rock ceiling. It was too late to have to sort through this mess. How would he tell Lady Tsunade their allies were willingly endangering shinobi from other villages because they themselves were threatened? He believed Gaara meant well, but did that excuse the lies? He didn’t think the Hokage would destroy their alliance over this, but the elders might not react as favorably.

“Shikamaru.”

He sat up. Temari had slid into the seat across from him. He noticed the slight shadows under her teal eyes.

“Gaara’s the Kazekage. He won’t ask the ambassador from another village for help. Nor does he think he needs to. He has too much faith in people.”

“But you don’t.” He finished the thought for her. They sat there for a moment looking at each other. The slight desperation in her eyes made him a little uncomfortable, but he was also somewhat relieved. It was the most honest look she had given him.

Maybe he was too tired and not thinking straight. Maybe his brain was trying to process too many things right now. Maybe he was too shocked by how vulnerable she looked. It unnerved him.

“I won’t tell the Hokage unless I give you a head’s up first,” he promised. “I’d rather give the Kazekage a chance to talk with her himself first.”

He wondered if this might count as betraying the village. He had promised to report to Lady Tsunade. Withholding information that might endanger Leaf shinobi was a punishable offense. But he hadn’t promised not to tell. If the situation worsened, he would reveal everything to the Hokage. That meant he’d have to keep a close eye on the situation, which was going to be a real drag.

The look of relief on Temari’s face, though, probably made it worth it.

“Thank you,” she whispered, reaching across the table to squeeze his arm briefly. Then she left to join Gaara and Kankuro, who had just arrived looking disheveled and angry. Shikamaru’s eyes lingered on Temari for a moment before he returned to staring at the ceiling.

What a troublesome woman .

#shikatemaweek2019 #shikatema #gizka #my words #naruto #nara shikamaru #temari #kaze queen #gaara #kankuro #sand siblings #chunin exams #sorry it's late fam

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felixcuz · 5 years

Text

Our Place (Chan x Reader)

✧ 2.2k words

✧ angst with a fluffy ending; non-idol!au / gender neutral reader

✧ warnings: cursing, arguing, slight mentions of panic attack

✧ Your place was always there for you, just like Chris

Snow fell around you as you sat on the frozen ground of your hill. First it had been yours when you found it exploring your neighbourhood as child, then you shared it with your best friend since young, Chris. It was your place, somewhere the two of you could escape your lives and be yourselves with no one to bother you. Many seasons spent playing in the tall grass, watching the stars, talking about your dreams, and growing up together. That hill saw many ups and downs, your greatest triumphs and heartbreaks. Your place was always there for you, just like Chris.

That’s why you were here on this cold winter night, bones freezing with the dirt below you as you gazed out to the stars that always shone brighter this time of year. Just as you shared this spot with Chris, you had wanted to share it with someone else who meant so much to you. Someone who you now know couldn’t have cared less for you.

You still remember when you first brought your significant other to this spot, having been so excited to share something so meaningful and personal with them. They weren’t impressed, to say the least, and that should have been your first warning sign. They knew how much it meant to you as you would often spend your free time there reading or enjoying the fresh air.

“So this is where you run off to with Chris,” they said, tone full of bite. At first you looked at it as a little healthy jealousy and only laughed it off. How naive you were.

“Come on, Chris has been my best friend since diapers, you know that!”

“Well what am I to think, not like there’s anything else to do here.”

You were shocked. In hindsight, you should have known better than to ignore it the way you did. You cursed the peacemaker inside of you. Maybe if you didn’t let everything go you wouldn’t be in your predicament today.

It was currently two days before Christmas, your favourite holiday. You had made plans with your significant other to visit their family on Christmas, which was about a three hour drive away. You knew and loved their family and it had been over a year since you’d last seen them so you easily agreed. It would have been your first holiday without Chris in your life. That was your second red flag, which of course you ignored.

When talking to Chris about it, whilst eating junk food on your hill no less, he told you that you should go and enjoy it. “There's always next Christmas!” he said with a bit too much enthusiasm. Was your best friend that okay with you leaving on your shared favourite holiday, or was he simply putting on a face so you wouldn’t try to stay?

That was a week ago and it had been eating at you since. The more you isolated yourself in thought the more you realized you didn’t want to be apart from your best friend, but you also didn’t want to disappoint your significant other. You wondered about trying to split yourself in two or trying to do both before you ultimately came to an idea.

This idea brought you to just a few hours ago. Or perhaps, it wasn’t your idea itself but the inevitable consequence of your internal ignorance.

“You want what?!” your significant other nearly shouted. You had thought it over and considered that it may be a lot to ask, but you were perfectly okay with the answer being no. Besides, it’s not like they weren’t friends.

“I was wondering if Chris could come? It’s been a while since he’s seen your family, too, and that way we could all be together...” your resolve broke along with your voice by the end of your sentence, seeing the anger manifest in the veins of their forehead.

“So you want to bring your boyfriend on our trip, is that it?” you winced at their harsh tone. “No... I just thought-”

“You just thought! You’re always thinking. Always thinking about him. Of course, I shouldn’t have expected so much from you.”

You stood in front of them sputtering, absolutely speechless. “I’m sor-”

“Don’t even. You think I don’t know what you’re up to? Isn’t it enough that I let you spend all your time with him doing God knows what on that stupid hill of yours?”

The feeling of panic started through your fingers and you only shook your head, as if that would convince them they have it wrong.

“You can’t even deny it. That’s just great, ___. You know what? Stay here with him, I don’t need you fucking him in my own home.”

With that, they left you and your already packed suitcase in your apartment, trembling and fighting the cold, numb sensation that was surely spreading through your limbs. After a few seconds of shaky breathing, you searched for your phone. Of course, go running to Chris. Maybe they weren’t totally wrong.

Shoving your phone in your pocket you grabbed a coat and your keys, running out into the snowy night that couldn’t match how cold you felt.

You tried. You truly tried to keep yourself from calling Chris. At one point you were in a full sprint to your hill, trying to escape the city that felt like it was watching you, mocking the pain you felt. When you reached the empty field covered in white you kneeled, coughing and retching as you cried with no breath. There were many things building up to this breaking point. In fact, it wasn’t even their words you were really upset about. It was how all this time you denied reality, denied the truth, denied yourself. After a few minutes, you gave in and texted Chris.

You: could you please meet me at the hill when you can

Not two minutes passed before he answered back.

Chris: are u okay??

Chris: i’ll be there in 10

You sent him an okay and put your phone away, trying to bring warmth to your hands in your pockets. Having since calmed down, you were now sitting on a patch of grass untouched by snow, looking down on the lights of the city. Christmas decorations seemed to taunt you instead of bringing you joy like they once had. You sighed once again as you reflected on all your poor choices.

“___!!” you heard Chris’s voice yell. You tried to turn but your movement was limited from the cold that settled in your joints.

He ran until he was in front of you, kneeling and checking your face, your arms, your hands for any kind of damage. He looked into your eyes and your heart swelled at the worry etched into his soft features. “What happened?” You opened your mouth to respond and the sadness washed over you like a wave, only letting out weak sobs instead.

Chris pulled you into him, shocked at how cold your body was but more concerned for you. He brushed back your hair from your face and wiped away the hot tears from your red cheeks. His mind started imagining the worst of scenarios that even he knew were ridiculous, but all lead back to the same source. It was them. Though Chris knew it, he wanted you to tell him what happened on your own terms. So he waited patiently and held you in his arms, each time you stopped crying only to break into sobs once more.

Finally you regained your composure, unable to lift your head to face Chris.

“Whenever you’re ready to talk, love.” You shivered.

It wasn’t the first time he’d called you that by any means, but this time it hit your heart differently. Taking in a few deep breaths, you lifted your head and looked out to the lights of city as you explained what just happened and pausing when it came to the last thing they said. Chris wasn’t having any of it. It wasn’t that you couldn’t talk about things like that. Being such close friends for years you both heard a lot of what people thought your relationship was. Though it never phased you, this time it made your whole face heat up even in the freezing air.

Chris noticed your embarrassment and only held you tighter. “Well fuck them. Uh, not like fuck them like they don’t matter because they never deserved you anyway.” He moved you off of him to face you, hands on your arms as he spoke.

“Don’t listen to a word they said, ___. It’s bullshit and you know that. They were always horrible to you and they didn’t even need to be mean. They never cared about what you liked or wanted, if they were doing something that made you upset, or that you had your own life with your own family and friends. They took advantage of your kindness and how you’d never call them out for anything they did wrong. I always saw the shit they did and I knew they would only ever hurt you and it killed me. It killed me to have to watch them manipulate you and and still get to be with you when I should have been. I just watched and I never wanted to say anything because I didn’t want you to be upset with me and I thought you would realize it yourself because you’re so strong and smart and I lo-”

You gathered all your energy to lean forward and press your lips against his, silencing him and causing warmth to spread throughout your body. Chris tightened his grip on your waist as your hands pulled him closer by his coat, your lips melting together in a deep kiss. It felt as though everything lead up to this moment; like this was the reality you had denied for so long. Chris wrapped his arms around you and held you so close you felt like you had never known the cold. His lips moved against yours slowly, only telling how dearly he cared for you.

Chris pulled away first, resting his forehead against your cheek as he caught his breath, his brain feeling like he had just stepped off of a roller coaster.

“Not right now,” your vague words interjecting his own scrambled thoughts.

You saw the confusion on his face and continued, “I don’t want to say it right now. Not yet, it wouldn’t be right.”

He smiled at your consideration, though he knew how the both of you felt.

“How about we get out of the snow and grab something to eat?” He reached for your hands and interlaced your fingers, a goofy smile creeping up over his handsome face. The smiled you loved more than any other. “Pancakes? Bacon?” He was practically begging at this point.

“You know me so well,” you gushed and he stood up, hopping around trying to warm his aching body.

“One thing; I can’t stand up.” At that, Chris turned to you with wild eyes, making grabby hands at your curled up form on the ground.

“Never mind! I’m good!” You tried to stand but he swept you up before you got on your feet, throwing you over his shoulder and running off out of the frozen field. Laughter broke out from the both of you as he booked it to his car, dropping you onto the passenger seat and starting it up.

The two of you sat shivering as you waited for the engine to heat up, glancing at one another occasionally with red cheeks. How could this man still make you shy after so many years? He turned to you and cupped your face in his hand, brushing his thumb over your cheek softly. “I want to see you smile like that always,” he whispered into the silent air.

Your body shivered again and your face twisted in disgust, slapping his hand away. “Ew, cheesy.” He let out an airy chuckle and put it in reverse. “Fine, I guess you can pay for your own pancakes.”

“I intended to,” you scoffed, no malice in your words whatsoever.

Chris found himself staring at you the whole night, in awe of how beautiful you could be doing even the most mundane things. He laughed as you stuffed your cheeks with food from the four plates in front of you.

“Chew your food, you’re an animal.”

You continued to shovel eggs into your mouth without a care, giving him the finger from behind your cup. He reached out and grabbed your hand, holding it in both of his and watching as you finished your big bite.

“You know I love you, right?” he spoke more as a statement than a question.

A blush crawled up your neck and you grabbed your glass of water, mumbling into the rim.

“What was that?” he asked, the corner of his mouth curving up in amusement.

You mumbled again from behind your toast.

Chris raised an eyebrow at you and squeezed your hand.

“I love you, too, jackass!” you half-shouted, earning a look from the older couple at the table beside you and a hearty laugh from Chris.

“Your jackass,” he corrected.

“Yes. I love you, too, my jackass.”

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octaviainthewasteland · 6 years

Text

Wonder Woman: on female characters in comics PART 2

part 1, 2, 3

Please bear in mind that English is not my first language!

Part 2: Useless pretty, sexy bad and second-hand skirts

Summary: A classification of female characters in comics.

Before we get going, an important note: this is not character bashing. I may sound extremely critical and snide at times, but it doesn’t mean that I hate these comics or these characters or even these authors! Batman, for instance, is my absolute favorite fictional character. I also have the biggest soft spot for Harley Quinn and Lois Lane. However, it doesn’t mean that it gives them a free pass. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Text under the cut.

In the previous chapter, we’ve touched on ‘fridging’ and why it’s not cool (ha-ha see what I did here). Due to particular conditions, women were pretty much absent from the picture and therefore, could not influence how women were portrayed for a while. Male visualization of women turned out to be quite… limited. Reading comics, I have noted that female characters in the comic books can generally be divided into four categories. There are, of course, some exceptions, but the percentage is far too small. As I thought about these categories, I’ve realized that three out of four are constructed though the sexism of the superhero narratives, while the last one is in a constant struggle against it. There are damsels in distress, femme fatale, gendered spin-offs and the female superheroes. Some characters fluctuate from one category to another, or fit into more than one. Let’s talk a bit more about the first three, so it’ll become clearer, why the female superheroes are so important for representation of women.

The first category is the damsel in distress: the mother or the aunt, the girlfriend, most often powerless.

It includes such characters as Lois Lane, Vicky Vale and Iris West. Interestingly, all three of them are journalists, which arguably justifies their rash behaviour, which often lands them in trouble. They are nice, generally understanding, but quite often annoying, as they manage to land themselves in trouble yet again. It’s like they don’t understand that they should just sit down, because they either land in villain’s hands or they pressure the hero to quit heroing. With time, they have become snarky and easy-going, and obviously able to take care of themselves (until they aren’t) but the truth is, they are indistinguishable. They are cut out from the same piece of cardboard, as precious time for character development cannot be wasted on them, and they serve as conscience, motivation and ‘someone to come home to’. They are the classic ‘women in the refrigerators’ (Simone, 1999) and their interests and plot arcs rarely transcend the love interest, or in case of Iris and Aunt May, the relative of a superhero.

Probably the most notable example will be the Injustice franchise, where Superman becomes a tyrannical dictator, stricken with grief after the death of Lois, who has also been pregnant with his child at the time (Injustice: Gods Among US [I] #1, 2013)*. The comic series depicts the extent of Superman’s psychological trauma, as he is deceived by the villain into killing Lois with his own hands, thus, focusing not on the tragedy itself, but solely on Superman’s reaction to it. By the end of the series, the reader still has no idea, what kind of person was Lois. She is not important, what is important is that now the superheroes have an excuse to fight each other. Nobody in the comics really mentions her. The only time someone does, it is to reprimand Superman for his actions, all while Superman plans kidnapping Lois from another dimension because she’s just replaceable. Of course, this isn’t a story about Lois, but if a main heroine of Superman family cannot get a decent dealing, what’s there to hope for, for a lesser female character? We do not see her family or friends. She doesn’t really have a life outside her husband and it is precisely her connection to Superman that gets her in trouble. I might be picky, but having a joint surname (Lane-Kent, West-Allen, Watson-Parker) isn’t enough of a feminist statement for me.

The second category is the femme fatale or a seductive villainess, such as Talia al Ghul, Poison Ivy and Catwoman.

Most often, she is attracted to the superhero and tries to sway him of his righteous pass with her female charm, while he treats her as a lesser threat than male villains, because he believes she can be ‘good’ again. If she rejects the ‘good side’, she gets further from humanity and, thus, loses her chance for sympathy, absolution and happiness. Seductive villainesses often find themselves in a situation where they have to resort to their sexuality to distract their opponents or to persuade men to work with them. They are reduced to sexual objects for the male characters and by extension for the spectator, meaning the reader of the comics (Mulvey, 1975: 62).

They perform the role of the seductresses, trying to lure the hero from the path of righteousness and virtue. While being positioned as the erotic object, they are at the same time completely dehumanized. Talia turns from a villainess in love, who cannot decide on her loyalties, into a full-fledged assassin, and she is portrayed as a cold-blooded maniac, who drugs and rapes Batman, brainwashes him, clones their son and kills him (Robin: Son of Batman, 2015). In Harley’s absence, Poison Ivy does not value a human life at all, manipulates people and is more plant-like than human (Austin, 2015: 294).

The relationship between female empowerment and male disempowerment can be described as dichotomous. There is a prevailing narrative that a woman with power is a threat (Austin, 2015: 286). She defies male dominance and dares to enforce her own rules and focus on her own desires. The man tries to regain control over the dangerous woman. (Mulvey, 1975: 67) Notice how generally these women have a good cause at heart: Talia’s aim is to preserve the planet from disastrous actions of human kind; similar to Poison Ivy, who is concerned with flora; Catwoman protects felines and girls and women of lower classes and is essentially a version of Robin Hood. Harley Quinn has a mental illness, and copes with it by adopting animals and looking after them. Killer Frost is a heat-vampire and when she finds a cure (Firestorm) she pretty much stops attacking people, because she was doing it only to survive. Another interesting observation: it is their connection to men that pushed them to extremism. Talia is manipulated by her dad (who assures her of his love for her to save him on numerous occasions, but in the end kills her and uses her body to store his consciousness (BTAS)). Pamela Isley is nearly murdered by her male colleague. Selina is sexually abused by men. Killer Frost is locked up in a working reactor. I would assume everyone knows what’s the deal with Harley. Most often it contrasts with the actions of the hero: he tries to help her, make her normal again, fix her. This perpetuates a stereotype of how women are wrong about their prejudice against men, because ‘not all men are like this’. What is also inevitably and unknowingly created is that these women do not need fixing, it would change them at core. They aren’t even evil, as much as they would only help a cause if they believed in it. Even if they try to change for a man, they relapse: but through relationships with women, they are healed and they are able to embrace their power and be good, be evil, be something in the middle – and being true to themselves at the same time.

Obviously, I am going to talk more about Harley Quinn. In the case of Harley Quinn, Joker physically and psychologically abuses her, manipulates her, makes her lose her job and her degree, drives her mad and so on. When she exercises her agency and comes close to killing Batman, successfully trapping him – something Joker himself had not succeed in – he angrily sets the boundaries between himself and Batman, their relationship, and Harley, who must only follow orders (Mad Love #8-72, 2009). Man games are one thing, and woman must never intrude! Harley learns it the hard way – it costs her almost every bone in her body. Joker ‘owns’ Harley and when she leaves him, he is livid and immediately sets to return her into his possession (Gotham City Sirens #10-26, 2011), exemplifying how Joker is unable to accept Harley’s existence beyond him (Austin, 2015: 285). On the other hand, Batman tries to establish his authority over her by bringing her to justice and rehabilitating her. He perceives her as a victim and someone, who despite being as dangerous and cunning as Joker (Mad Love #8, 2009), still needs saving. Harley is caught between two men, and while Batman is genuine in his desire to get her away from Joker (plus he doesn’t have romantic feelings towards her), it’s a no-win situation for Harley, because she can’t break away from her dependence issues. Enter Poison Ivy. By making Harley immune to all toxins, she both makes Harley stronger and cancels her main advantage over her. Poison Ivy doesn’t see Harley as a sidekick or a child who doesn’t know any better – she makes it possible for Harley to keep up with her. It also transforms Poison Ivy’s character. From then on, writers have abandoned the trope of Poison Ivy’s occasional boring crush on Batman.

The third category is the ‘spin-off franchise baggage’ (Scott, 2013). It is quite easy to spot this type of characters, as their names are literally the derivative of their male (the original) counterpart: Batgirl, Supergirl and She-Hulk.

She does not have a sound or at least unique backstory, she is essentially the female version of the character, but secondary to him: weaker, less interesting, less popular and less developed (Fretheim, 2017: 32-33). Supergirl is another survivor of Krypton; She-Hulk was created literally by blood transfusion from Bruce Banner to his cousin, Jennifer Walters (they wanted to give her his rib, but it sounded vaguely familiar for some reason).

Sometimes such a character can break out of the limited space, provided by the legacy of the common root of the aliases (Bat-family, Super-family), for example, Barbara changes her line of activity after injury and Batgirl becomes Oracle, a character in her own right, giving voice to a readership with disabilities. It is also an example of how ‘fridging’ can be turned into a positive character development. In the Killing Joke, Barbara is harmed only because of her association with Jim Gordon, and the thematic purpose of her injuries is to provide emotional stakes for Batman. Nevertheless, she doesn’t stop being a hero and doesn’t become a liability. She is unique and interesting to read about. However, while it is possible, it is also reversible, as in 2011 Barbara puts on the Batgirl suit once again (Cocca, 2016: 78). Rarely, she can become more popular than the original hero, like Hawkgirl.

In terms of visual representation, it is quite easy to retrace sexual discrimination in the way that the male and female counterparts are portrayed. Although men with super powers do not need muscles to lift cars, they look jacked, a bit too much really. Hulk is positively ugly. Women, on the other hand, cannot let themselves be caught looking a tad less than ready for a Playboy photo-shoot.

Where male superheroes are embodying the ideal of masculinity, they are fit, muscled, and attractive – they are essentially the asexual subjects, while even their own gender-bent versions are put into suggestive poses and are given revealing outfits and heels (Batman: The Drowned #1, 2017).

Last but not least, the category of the female superhero. She is created as a distinct character, with her individual backstory and a set of powers. She is Wonder Woman, Starfire, Black Canary.

The female superhero has her own backstory and her own set of powers. This doesn’t mean that they’re saved from the male gaze, unfortunately. The image above is one of the most modest costumes of Starfire I have found. This is particularly Starfire’s curse:

The female superheroes stand seemingly separate from the male superheroes, but men are still the part of the equation. Damsels, seductresses and knockoffs are directly linked to the male superheroes in forms of extensions of the mythos. The female superheroes exist in a state of eternal struggle against the male superheroes, male villains and male readers. According to O’Reilly, the female superheroes are restricted not only by the authorities, but even by their own sex (O’Reilly, 2012).

To understand the mechanism of gender politics within the comics, let’s examine Wonder Woman against the male superheroes, namely Superman and Batman. While deconstructing their dualistic natures, we encounter a paradox of Otherness (Fretheim, 2017: 10-11). Every superhero has a secret identity. This duality attracts the reader, by making him or her identify through resemblance with the superhero’s disguise as the everyman or everywoman. The comic book promotes the idea of inclusivity, participation. It indulges the fantasy, providing the impression of the activist participation. (Pitkethly, 2012: 216) Superhero defeats the villain and saves America, and the reader feels like he or she has contributed to the victory of ‘truth, justice and the American Way’. It is no coincidence that the popularity of superhero comics correlates to the periods of the high and low threat (Peterson, Gerstein, 2005: 887). In times of the high threat, such as the Second World War, there is a significant increase in interest for ‘powerful’ and ‘tough’ fictional protagonists (889).

Superman is also a meek reporter Clark Kent. Bruce Wayne is also a caped crusader Batman. As a superhero, Wonder Woman, too, exists as a heroic person and an alter ego of an ordinary woman, Diana Prince. Her otherness is expressed through being an Amazon, a super-powered being and a half-goddess. However, as a woman, she is also forced into position of the Other to Superman and Batman (De Beauvoir, 1949). If you’re unfamiliar with De Beauvoir, she referred to the socially constructed concepts of women and femininity in her Second Sex, written a year after women got the right to vote in France. The standards of the so-called femininity were established by patriarchal society and every woman was obliged to live up to these standards. De Beauvoir described the cultural symbols and social pressures put on girls from the very young age. Girls were taught to be passive and submissive, she did not have a choice as she was defined by the male dominated world to be a mother, a grandmother, a housewife. Men were the one, the neutral, the common, while women were the Other. While a man was the creator and the subject, a woman was an object in his power and always secondary to him. She also talked about the social taboos such as menstruation, criticizing pseudo-science that invented the idea of the biological inferiority of women. Menstruation was not the topic to talk about in public, since the very ancient times girls and women were locked in their houses during the periods. The female body is regarded as the Strange, Different, the Other. There is a cult of appearance; the women learn how to manipulate people with their looks. There are certain norms of how a real woman should look. The praises of female virginity and restrictions of the expose of the female sexuality were listed among the other ways in which the male society discriminated the female accumulation. Wonder Woman is, therefore, pitted as the Other to the male superheroes, while being alienated from other women.

So we can see that no category of the female characters in comics are any better than another or have it any easier than another. Nonetheless, the figure of the female superhero is important, because it is a definite step away and open resistance to being background or second-hand. Girls couldn’t relate much to Lois, because, honestly, they were not supposed to – she was not their fantasy, she was male fantasy. There were some female superheroes prior to Wonder Woman, but yet again, they were created by men for men, and girls didn’t want anything to do with them. Industry naturally assumed that the reason is girls being generally uninterested in comics. As Dr. Marston noted, ‘not even girls want to be girls’ (Lepore, 2016: 187). He set to change that, and hence Wonder Woman was born.

*it needs another note: Injustice series is actually one of my favourite comic runs ever, and it has great female characters and great character development and is simply amazing. But it’s based of a game, and they had to work with the game premise, and they did a fantastic job doing it. Still, as I love it dearly, I’m allowed to critique it and so I will.

**despite the name, Superman’s Girlfriend Lois Lane is a wild and fun comic.

Bibliography

Simone, G. (1999). Women in Refrigerators, available at: http://www.lby3.com/wir/

Austin, S. (2015). Batman's female foes: The gender war in Gotham City. Journal of Popular Culture, 48(2), 285-295.

Mulvey, L. 1999. ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.’ In Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings, edited by Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen, 833–44. New York: Oxford University Press.

Scott, S. (2013). Fangirls in refrigerators: The politics of (in)visibility in comic book culture. Transformative Works and Cultures, vol. 13

Fretheim, I. M. (2017) Fantastic Feminism: Female Characters in Superhero Comic Books. Trykk: Reprosentralen, Universitetet i Oslo

Cocca, C. (2014). Negotiating the Third Wave of Feminism in "Wonder Woman". PS: Political Science and Politics, 47(1), 98-103.

Cocca, C. (2016). Superwomen: gender, power, and representation.

O’Reilly, J. D. (2005). The Wonder Woman Precedent: Female (Super)Heroism On

Trial. Journal of American Culture 28.3: 273–83.

De Beauvoir, S. (1949). The Second Sex. New York: Vintage Books

Pitkethly, C. (2011). The pursuit of identity in the face of paradox: Indeterminacy, structure and repetition in Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman. Journal of Graphic Novels and Comics, 1-7.

Peterson, B., & Gerstein, E. (2005). Fighting and Flying: Archival Analysis of Threat, Authoritarianism, and the North American Comic Book. Political Psychology, 26(6), 887-904.

Lepore, Jill. (2015). The Secret History of Wonder Woman. New York: Knopf.

#Wonder Woman #catwoman #Harley Quinn #poison ivy #supergirl #dc comics #marvel #she-hulk

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septic-dr-schneep · 6 years

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MP Fanfiction - Patience Is Bitter

Summary: Because the Host's visions completely distort his sense of time, Dark serves as the Host's timekeeper. The Host is past due for an important medical procedure and his condition is quickly getting worse. One can imagine that Dark's patience wears thin under pressure...What will he do when his request for another Ego's help is refused?

A/N: Here’s the science story I promised you! Enjoy!

If he hadn’t been feeling the effects, the Host might have convinced himself that he was perfectly fine. For him, time and space were completely haphazard, twisted back and forth and inside out, and he would have given up on it completely if it hadn’t been for his condition.

For the most part, he could accept the blood as a natural part of his everyday life. Dr. Iplier would change his bandages, give him an injection of coagulants to keep the hemophilia under control, remind him to stop by if he started getting headaches and then send him on his way. In and out the days went by this way, but there was a countdown hidden in it all.

He kept track of each twenty-four hours that passed. Every hour on the hour, Dark would remind him of the time, to help him gauge how he was feeling at that time and whether or not it was acceptable in medical terms. It was a gesture that the Host appreciated immensely. He didn’t track the days meticulously but he always kept the number in the back of his mind: two days…a week…two weeks…three.

With all of this timekeeping in mind, he was keenly aware of the deadline that had passed just a few days ago. It wasn’t that he was unconcerned about it, but he knew exactly what the reactions would be if he asked his symptoms to be treated. Dr. Iplier would have to take specific time out of his schedule to dig through his equipment, get in contact with the others and pull them away from their busy schedules, and the Host would have to sit and wait with nothing but the ticking clock and his own pain to keep him company. Everything about it was an inconvenience and he didn’t want to put that pressure on them; he’d much rather bear it on his own.

Today, however, he could sense that the situation had changed. His fingers tingled and quivered violently. He felt a deep, hot ache burning in his wrist and elbow as he tried to grip the pen and the blood trailing down his face was thicker, heavier…His head fell lower in an instinctive attempt to let the blood fall.

The bedroom door creaked open behind him, rousing him out of his thoughts. Thanks to the familiar ring in the air, he already knew who had entered, but the aura that encroached on the back of his chair was more oppressive than usual. Dark was already on alert for anything amiss, which was why the Host did his best to lift his head and maintain his usual decorum.

“The Host lays down his pen—” The utensil fell with a clunk. “—and turns to greet Darkiplier. He surmises that Dark is here because he intends to remind the Host of the lunch they had planned…”

Within seconds, Dark had crossed the room to meet him and before the Host could continue, the older Ego’s hands were gripping his arms just above the elbows, drawing a shrill gasp from him. Once he registered the shaky noise, Dark loosened his hold only slightly, tracing the angle of the Host’s bones and then the tissue around them.

“Your joints are swollen,” he stated curtly, already sliding his hands to the Host’s forearms and tugging on the edge of his sleeves. “Your wrists are bruised…” The right hand rose, taking ahold of the Host’s chin and tilting his face up for Dark’s inspection. “You’re bleeding from the nose.” He must have seen the Host’s surprise at that last fact, as he promptly swept his thumb over the Host’s upper lip to show him the proof. “You’ve waited too long for a transfusion, Host; you’re going to receive one today.”

Hearing his symptoms said aloud only seemed to make the sensations stronger; the Host folded his arms closer against his chest, protecting the tender areas in case Dark made another grab for him, and then swiped his tongue over his lips, tasting the blood. “The Host knows that Dark would transfuse with him if he could,” he murmured, “but he doesn’t need to regulate the others. The Host is willing to wait until the others who are viable have an opening in their schedules…”

“Their schedules?” Dark sneered, tendrils of his aura hissing and spitting. “I allow them to have schedules. That doesn’t mean that I will allow you to suffer for the sake of them. The transfusion lasts only four hours. Incompatibility is the only excuse for withholding blood from you.”

The Host chuckled lightly at that, glancing up with a wry smile. “And because Dark is O-positive and therefore incompatible, the Host isn’t sure he has the authority to say that.” Dark stilled at that, tension fairly vibrating through the air around him, and the Host’s smile fell away. “The Host meant no offense—”

“No,” Dark cut him off shortly, his tone cool enough that it only hinted at the ice underneath. “I believe you’re right. We can’t expect any of our resident donors to make time out of their day on a whim. I understand. You don’t want to inconvenience them.”

“The Host nods slowly, certain that Dark intends to make a point with his words…”

“Yes. Visit the doctor; he can tend to your blood and bruises. Meanwhile, I will make your needs known to your donors on your behalf.” Dark smiled then, a thin, dangerous thing that didn’t manage to be as serene as his tone. “I’m certain at least one of them can find some time off if I ask it of them.” With that he turned on his heel, striding briskly out of the room with the Host staring blankly after him, shoulders slowly slumping.

“The Host doubts they would dare to refuse,” he commented lowly to the empty room.

It took less than a minute for Dark to cross the hall to his own room, slipping in and slamming the door shut with a resounding thud. The door itself didn’t hold much weight, but the sheer pressure in the air behind it was enough to let everyone in the house know that Dark was leaving the outer world and shouldn’t be disturbed.

The sleek black desk on the far end of the room was stacked with files; they hadn’t been touched in months, but the cobwebs they gathered were inky blacks and reds, smearing Dark’s fingertips as he brushed at them and then gradually dissolved into a sickly union with his aura.

After a few minutes, he found and cleaned the file he was looking for, resting his hip against the desktop as he scanned the list. He couldn’t help the small smirk that drifted across his face as he saw Dr. Iplier’s faded writing at the top. He and Wilford currently had a bet on how long it would take the doctor to notice that his file of blood types was missing; it had been almost a year and a half now, so Dark didn’t expect him to come looking for it any time soon.

Because nothing could be simple when it came to the Host’s health, he was in the one percent with the rarest blood type, AB-negative. Would that he were AB-positive…If that were the case, Dark could have transfused with him and this would all be over.

Google and Bing, advanced as they were, weren’t able to synthesize blood yet; it was one of the lower objectives on Google’s list and Bing didn’t give it a second thought.

Wilford was the only B-positive among them, incompatible, and even if his type were different…Dark briefly thought back to the last time he’d seen Wilford bleed, when he’d seen the stark pink contrasting with his pale yellow shirt. Whatever changes Will had made to his blood by warping its makeup again and again, Dark was certain that a transfusion from it would do more harm than good.

Silver Shepherd and Dr. Iplier were both A-positive, also incompatible, though Dark had a feeling they would donate if they were able, just as he would. Dr. Iplier was dedicated to making sure that the Host’s bleeding was stabilized, at the very least; he would have been more than happy to give. Silver Shepherd likely would too; though Dark wasn’t sure why, the hero occasionally gave an indication that he wanted to know the Host better. Dark kept an eye on him for that.

The Jim twins and Edgar were O-positive, just as Dark was, which left an O-negative and two A-negatives—the King of the Squirrels, Bim and Yandere.

Dark knew about the King’s crushing hemophobia; he’d been aware of it for years now. He was also aware that if Dark were to ask it of him, the King would go. He was just as frightened of Dark as he was of blood and even that aside, he felt a sense of obligation to the Host because of his past with the Author. It would be easy to convince him to give blood, but the King had a habit of taking long walks in the woods. Dark would have to track him down and drag him back here and the Host didn’t have the time to spare for that.

Yandere could likely be found in his room, slaving through homework or admiring the shrine to his would-be lover. It would also be exceedingly easy for Dark to get his agreement; in fact, Yandere may be so eager that he would slice open his arm for Dark to be sure his blood was suitable. Still…Yandere wanted to earn favor with the Host, in the hopes that he would write a happier ending for him. He wanted nothing out of it except to manipulate the Host and Dark did not like that. His relationship with the Host may have started with the same thoughts, but it had changed far too much for Dark to let a lovesick child take advantage.

It came down to Bim, then. Sliding the file back into its stack, Dark made his way out of his room and across Egos Incorporated, targeting the pocket of reality that held the soundstage. He didn’t often visit this place—only when Wilford begged him to watch the rehearsal for his next gameshow. He and Dark would inevitably end up spending most of their time disposing of the bodies, but Dark indulged him.

Just as he’d suspected, he could hear Bim’s obnoxious tones all the way down the hall, calling out his opening lines and cues for the workers running the lights. As soon as Dark entered the auditorium, the workers stopped up short, staring at him with nothing less than shock and awe. Dark cracked his neck, indifferent to their wide eyes.

“Dark, come on, I’m trying to direct them here!” Bim complained, recapturing his crew’s attention. “It’s not easy being the director, producer, lead technician and the host!”

“The Host is exactly what I need to discuss with you,” Dark answered, casting a narrowed glance at the crew which told them that now might be the prime time for a lunch. Bim groaned as he watched the nervous crewmen scurry out the side doors and then he threw up one hand, flapping the pages of his script.

“You just don’t get it,” he announced. “I’ve got priorities! I can’t have you coming in here at random, scaring off my assistants…I won’t be able to get any work done!” When he saw that Dark’s unfazed expression didn’t change, he huffed, checking his watch briefly. “Okay, what do you want?”

“The Host needs a blood transfusion and you’re one of the three who are compatible,” Dark stated simply. It was succinct, to the point, perfectly clear. Bim should be putting down his script and nodding at any moment.

He laughed—an incredulous, high-pitched bark that grated on Dark’s ears as he waved the script a second time. “Well, the problem with that is I’m slammed today. I’ve got to get this new show down perfect; they’ve bought me more minutes and I have to squeeze all of the ideas I’ve had into every single one I’ve been blessed with! It’s one of the biggest shows of my career tonight!”

“Is that so?” Dark questioned lightly, an edge hissing through the last word as he tracked Bim’s wide, sweeping gestures like a hawk. The showman, caught up in his own thoughts, didn’t notice.

“So you see, big guy, I don’t think I’ll have the time today. How long has it been since the Host had a transfusion? A month? He can wait one more day, can’t he? And besides, you just said there are three of us! Why don’t you get one of the others to do it?”

“The others aren’t readily available.”

“Now I find that hard to believe! Yan is always cooped up in his room, isn’t he? I would know; he’s either there or he’s with me, cheering me on,” Bim chuckled, pausing for a moment of thought. “Actually, he would probably love to get a sneak-peek for tonight’s edition! I should go ask him if he wants to watch!”

“Mr. Trimmer…” Dark cut him off in a low growl, sapping all of the energy out of him to pin him where he was with his gaze. “I don’t believe you’re understanding me. This is an important matter. The Host requires blood and you need to give it. You’ve done it before and I intend to see that you do it again. Not tomorrow. Now.”

Bim met his gaze for several seconds before letting his shoulders slump, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head simultaneously. “Dark…ugh, I’m just going to be honest with you. I like the Host, I really do, but just because I gave once doesn’t mean I want to make a habit of it! It wasn’t even my choice; it was just after we’d been discontinued…I got my blood taken when I was unconscious and it saved the Host’s life. Go, me! But I’m not his blood bank; he and I both know that.” Running a hand through his hair, he added, “I’ll just go and explain it to him! I’m sure he’ll agree! He’s a pretty patient guy when he has to be.” With that, he shifted to move past, pressing the pages of his script against Dark’s chest. “Here, hold th—”

He didn’t manage to take another step. Dark tore the papers away with one hand and brought the other up in the same motion, seizing the younger Ego around the throat and wrenching him back. As scattered scraps of paper fluttered gently to the floor around them, Dark bared his teeth in what was only vaguely reminiscent of a smile, synching Bim’s tie tight enough to steal his breath. For five cloying seconds they stayed completely motionless, with Bim’s choked-off gasps amplified by Dark’s aura, and then Dark spoke.

“The Host is a patient man,” he purred, tilting his head just enough that his hair gracefully obscured his eyes. “I am not. You say that giving him your blood wasn’t your choice? You think I’m giving you a choice now? Is that what you want? Then let me give you this choice…” Bim’s lungs hitched almost soundlessly as Dark drew him closer, tendrils of his aura curling over the joints in his shoulders and squeezing. “You come to the doctor. You roll up your sleeve. You bare your arm and you give the Host the offering of your substandard blood…or I bleed you here and now, ounce by ounce. I’ll have the doctor bring the Host here, and he can receive the blood while you’re dying. All he requires is that your blood be warm.”

Bim made a shallow squeak at that, his pale lips mouthing words, and Dark’s snarl eased into a genuine smile—almost sympathetic.

“Why? Because I like the Host,” he mocked, releasing Bim’s tie and allowing his aura to drag the showman in his wake without any effort. “I really do.”

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12-99-30 · 3 years

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October

For so long, I was told by my parents that my body wasn’t built to run. It sounds comical to think someone’s parents would discourage their kid to be active, but when you’re painted as the “unathletic daughter” who grew up with asthma and somehow always got injured in sports, it makes sense. For so long, I believed them. I liked the idea of running and being active, but I never thought my body could mechanically handle it. It was a mental block that told me I physically wasn’t capable; a belief slowly built for years.

In February, I signed up for a half-marathon in March, which got postponed to October, which eventually got cancelled and turned into a virtual race by August. I made the goal to complete my first half-marathon at the start of 2020, when the year was still full of hope and I was high off the adrenaline of being fresh in my 20s. I was determined to keep this goal, whether the race was in-person or not. With the emotional weight of the events that happened in Jan-Feb., I wanted to prove to myself that my mind was stronger than my body. If I could convince my mind to run 13.1 miles without stopping, then I knew I would be able to pull myself away from the situation and the people that made me feel stuck.

The “Beginner Half-Marathon Training Schedule” I promised myself to follow became futile after I realized I was 3 weeks away from the day I was expected to run, and I had barely ran more than 6 miles. My procrastination led me to commit myself to 21 days of clean eating and consistent running in order to be at my prime on race day; minimizing injury and maximizing performance. Weeks building up, I was excited for the day I knew I would be able to complete something off my bucket list. But 1 week out, I began to have a tingling sensation in my foot that traveled up to my calf. It forced my body composition to compensate, causing my joints and ankle to swell up after each run. Then, my running partner got sick. He wasn’t able to recover in time to run with me, or leave the house to watch me cross the invisible finish line. By the day before, plans had come up that prevented my friends from showing up. I wasn’t upset in the slightest, but rather extremely discouraged and doubtful of myself to finish the race. My bubble of thrill was instantly popped, and I was more scared at the idea of running 13 miles alone with no one to meet at the end of the finish line. I was scared that that my body was going to give out, and I would be forced to walk back to the starting position. I was just scared I would be a failure.

Nonetheless, I woke up at 6:30AM, and J-- said he was going to pick me up to drive me to D.C.. Though I assured him that I would be okay going solo, he insisted, saying, “Bro, stop. I’m going to be there.” He refused to let me be alone. He ended up driving me to Dunkin Donuts for pre-race bagels, parked at the starting point at Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, and RAN THE WHOLE DAMN RACE WITH ME (mind you, he has never ran more than 2 miles in his entire life). Every time I looked back, he was there. 6.5 miles in, we cheered together that we were halfway done. Well, until he lost his keys and had to retrace his steps.

I can only praise God for pushing me through that race. I didn’t care about the time. My only goal was to not stop. I prayed to God during my run, asking him to subside any tingles, joint pain, or muscle tears just until the race is over. I asked him to help me get through one mile at a time. I thanked Him for the body that was told it wasn’t built to run. It was through His faithfulness I was able to get through 13.1 miles with minimum pain. At the times I felt like there were no air in my lungs and my hips began to strain, I told myself I would not stop. I refused. My body will always obey my mind -- and it did.

In that last quarter mile, I kept pushing. I pushed and defied every muscle in my body that begged me to quit. And within 2 hours, 12 minutes, and 45 seconds -- I completed my first half marathon. I finished alone, staring at the river who kept me company through it all. I stared at the passing bikers and fellow runners who had no idea what I just accomplished. No posters or ceremonial cheers. I completed something I thought I could never do. I finished with God by my side (and eventually Jake who came 5 minutes after me). In times like these, I realize you don’t need much. Just a few good people who will show up and support you. People who will run the race with you. A God who will push you through. You don’t need anything more or anything less.

---

In the last days of October, I was able to experience more fun days. More days that make me grateful for life here.

- A much needed mental break led my cousin, sister, and I exploring the National Gallery of Art, the Capital, and the streets of Georgetown. Eating tacos under a tree by the Potomac, I remembered what it was like to just enjoy being present with people you care about. Talking to the family I’ve known all my life but somehow just finally getting to know them.

- A day of painting with E-- and N--. Note to self: stop trying to paint trees. It never works out right

- Sitting at UMall, eating Halal Guys with E-- and S--, because I can’t remember exactly what we did or talked about, but I just remember feeling comfortable with good friends.

Servants Retreat pushed me forward to embrace the present. Pastor D.L. said that we are called to remember. We remember in order to move forward, but sometimes we forget the most important things. We forget the fundamentals. We forget that love is the thing that pushes us to take steps in the right direction. To love God with all your heart, soul, and mind is to love God with every ounce of your being. And if you are capable of doing that, then you’ll be able to love your neighbor, even the worst kinds. In the days of nursing school that leave me feeling drowned, I’m reminded He gives me enough every day. Nothing more. Nothing less. I’m learning to try to maximize each day, but understanding each day I’m provided enough.

---

I’m reflecting on the relationships I have with some people. The ones that lie vacant, the ones that are hyperactive, the ones that lie in the in-between. All of these kind of friendships exist in my life. I’ve always struggled to feel important to people, especially people who are important to me. I’d rather be loved by few than liked by many. I’ve questioned my role in people’s lives, and feel some form of embarrassment to think I’ve held someone so highly only to know I am nothing but a trophy in their assortment of token friends (LOL, hi J.C.). The concept of outgrowing relationships is a Tumblr cliche that I’ve tried manipulating to make it less angsty, but I don’t think theres any other way around it. I justify their shitty lack-of action by trying to think of what they’ve done before or wondering if this is what “good friends” do. I hold onto the past to keep fueling potential in the future. Guilt sweeps over me when I take steps to separate myself from people who make me question myself. I hold onto their loyal moments, the funny moments, the conversations. I think of what we were before, hoping maybe it could be like that again. But the more we try to recreate feelings and memories, the more likely we are to tarnish them. I’m accepting things change and some things are better left said as, “It is what it is.” That was then, this is now.

Sometimes you have to force yourself to say “No”. Not necessarily to that friend, but to yourself. Force yourself to stop sacrificing your time for those who take advantage of it.

“If you want to be a really good friend, you don't have to say yes to everything they ask you, you just have to be there when it matters.”

Be a good friend to others by being a good friend to yourself. Loyalty does not need to be compromised by taking a break from friendships that make you feel like a choice. We’re all growing into different things and some of us are called to watch from a distance. If you’re lucky, a friendship is dynamic and active. Two separate beings navigating life side-by-side. Sometimes friendships lie dormant, and there should be no guilt for choosing to keep to yourself. You should never force to claim importance in someone’s life who does not deem you as important. I’m relieving myself of the pressure to be there all the time. To invite people to come into my space if they need me or want to hear from me. To be present when it matters, but trusting that the friendships that matter will uphold.

#posts

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