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himbodjarin · 3 years

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LUNAR; CH11

18+ Explicit Content: Graphic descriptions of gore, violence, and smut; oral sex (male recieving), vaginal sex. Din Djarin/Third Person POV. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. Chapter Word Count: 12,951 holy fuck Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no use of y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate.

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN: STORM BOY

Tense. That’s the only word to describe the atmosphere—maybe a little suffocating, too—in Peli’s hangar; she’s been highly adaptable in regards to the Mandalorian’s extended stay, though he suspects she doesn’t mind one bit when the Child is in her arms. Speaking of which, he had eventually reawakened in the earlier hours of the morning when the twin suns were making their reappearance over the town. He hadn’t been acting like his usual self—hadn’t demanded attention nor nutrients all day and the Mandalorian doesn’t know how to restore his regular demeanour.

Mando isn’t a caretaker—he’s uneducated and inexperienced in regards to performing as someone’s guardian. It’s discouraging not being informed on what to do and there’s not a soul alive that can provide their insight into this situation. There isn’t exactly a whole lot of people in the galaxy who might understand the Child’s abilities, much less the side effects that come with it such as his recent behaviour changes.

Not to forget the Girl.

The Girl—the source of the leaps in his heart, twitching in his fingertips, and the harassing ache in his head. She’s impeccable in contrast to him, beautiful and soft and sweet but dank farrik if she doesn’t know how to invade his thoughts as if they were her own; splayed out in the midst of his consciousness serving as a constant reminder of everything he desires.

Between needing to prioritise the Child and wanting to surrender himself to the Girl, he’s going stir-crazy being confined in such small spaces surrounded by them, which brings him straight back here—pinned down by blaster fire and frantic screams in Huttese. It’s as though he likes it; enjoys the adrenaline coursing through his veins at every laser shot his way. It gives him an edge and provides a distraction from his thoughts, or it used to but since he took in the foundling his mind hasn’t had a chance to take a break—the arrival of the Girl only made matters harder for him. How’s he supposed to focus when all he can envision is her laying bare underneath him or wearing his shirt, only his shirt. It sends him numb from the waist down.

A twinkle of red flies overhead Mando as he army crawls along the metre-high wall to alternate positions, allowing him to gain an upper hand against the cluster of enemies defending their post. There’s a lot of them, fifteen at the least, all equipped with weapons ranging from vibroblades to flame projectors—he hadn’t prepared himself adequately for such a hefty job only armed with his handheld blaster alongside his amban rifle, though he’s running short on cartridges and decides to save them for when he’s in a pinch. Amongst his blasters he’s low on fuel for the flames in his vambrace, having used a vast majority of it on a heavy-duty lurker mere minutes prior to this shootout.

Putting it simply, Mando was in a dilemma—forced between a rock and a hard place—a real catch-22. He’s reliant on his blasters and that alone as he hadn’t communicated to the Girl about his commission received nor his departure from the hangar. There’s nobody coming to aid him—nobody here to watch as he takes one too many blaster bolts—but he doesn’t mind; actually, he prefers it. It’s as though he’s returned to his earlier years of being a Mandalorian, dependent on himself and his tools and unafraid of death; equipped with nothing but the beskar on his back and the decades-worth of abilities fine-tuned to suit his combat style perfectly.

Mando won’t go down easy, it’s not in his blood; not the blood of his relatives, but his manufactured Mandalorian blood. He’s been taught to fight - survive and to die here from lousy Klatoonian troopers wouldn’t be warriorlike—especially not with his head wracked with stubbornness regarding his crewmates. Nevertheless, there’s a heaviness in his chest - deep and thick and pleading with him to turn around; to return to the Crest with the Girl and the kid. It’s warning him—the increased beating in his ribs suggesting things aren’t in his favour, but he can’t just leave, not without figuring out what he’s to do for the Child.

And if he was to die here on this scummy rock of a planet, surrounded by nothing but sand, heat, and blasters, it wouldn’t necessarily be all that bad—it’d salvage the Girl and the kid from having to see him die, see him take his last breath.

They’ll be okay in the long run. They’ll care for each other and the Crest will protect them; be their support anchor.

They don’t need to be there when his heart stops beating.

They don’t need to see that.

It’s a macabre series of thoughts. He sighs groggily and hoists himself up to peer over the barricade, observing two Klatoonian soldiers communing at the top of their post, neither of their eyes on the Mandalorian stealthily underneath—it’s a good opportunity, one with a short duration to act. Mando scans the area for any others on the lookout and climbs the wooden rungs carefully, ensuring he’s making minimal sound to not drag their attention to him.

At the peak of the tower, Mando fires a bolt at the back of the head to the one on the right and it drops stiffly, the left’s turning around sharply and thrusting a spear in his direction. Mando’s leathers wrap around the shaft and yank it from his clasp, turning it around and penetrating the Klatoonian in the chest above his heart plate. His body plummets to the surface with the spear lodged inside of his torso and Mando steps up towards the edge of the watchtower, counting the visible heads aimed at the barricade he’d been behind a few moments ago. There’s eight to his left, five with rifles and three with melee weapons, and six to his left, all equipped with short-ranged blasters, and another couple secured in the structure below him.

It’s way out of his comfort zone—there’s far too many for him to take down without receiving some new scars to paint his flesh; he’d already obtained one today. It’s small, not something to fret over, but the gash on his side pulses each time he raises his arm to fire a laser. He’d been distracted while in the midst of combat, his thoughts preoccupied with large green batwing ears, and one of the Klatoonian’s managed a nasty slash to his waist. The assailant was taken care of, of course, but the damage was done and now his movements had been slowed by a hairline fracture—not a lot, but every second counted when on the battlefield.

Mando unclasps the strap of his amban rifle and rests it on the trim of the watchtower’s partition, gazing through the scope as he assesses the situation. There are only three canisters left. Three opportunities to disintegrate and put an end to an overabundance of hostiles. He needs to play it smart; needs to ensure he doesn’t exhaust his ammunition needlessly.

His eyes lock on to an unscathed, ominous-looking canister perched upon a table beside one of their campfires where six of them have gathered around, devouring what looked to be a scorched womp rat. They’re confident in their abilities, not concerning themselves with patrolling the borders for the Mandalorian’s reappearance—a mistake they won’t live to regret. Mando twists the mid-section of the rifle’s scope, scaling in to focus on the canisters’ hazardous symbol painted into the sides.

Surely they’re not that foolish.

It’s worth a shot—Mando aims for the weakest point in the canister and squeezes the trigger, leather crunching underneath his force and he traces the bolt of red as it nestles a burning hole through the capsule and explodes abruptly upon impact, producing a very loud bang that echoes through the valley for klicks. So they are that stupid to leave out combustible materials, right beside an open flame no less. Four of the six instantly plummet to the ground from the explosion, while the other two attempt to fight off the suffocating flames engulfing their bodies. It’s no use and they, too, fall to a charred heap among the grit; it sticks to their melting flesh with vengeance.

The remainder of the adversaries stand in stunned silence as their heads frantically spin and twist, searching for any sign of the direction the bolt had originated. Mando pops out the empty cartridge from his rifle, listening to the satisfying tink as it bounces along the wooden surface beneath his boots and rolls to a stop beside a corpse. Heaving his leg upwards, he slips another cylinder out of his boot and slides it into the chamber. The nest of Klatoonians have scattered throughout the campgrounds, shielding behind walls of sandstone and supply crates where they blend into a mass of dark greens and browns—Mando activates his thermal vision in order to distinguish the bodies as they peer curious heads out from behind their positions.

His sight is isolated to stone-blue over the landscape except for a blush of orange-red jutting out from the top of a crate, the unsuspecting Klatoonian’s head twisting and turning wildly. Mando shouldn’t fire—shouldn’t waste a shell on a singular soldier, not when there’s still plenty left—but, perhaps, if he eliminates one that’s hiding, they might fall into hysteria and rush out of their concealments. There’s not a whole lot of options from this position—if the watchtower was on the opposing side then he’d be set; easily pick them off one by one with his blaster pistol, but that’s not a course of action now.

Mando flexes his finger against the small of his trigger but doesn’t get the chance to squeeze before there’s a weight on his pauldron—faint, but enough for him to blindly thrust his arm against the figure and knock them against the railings, his hand retrieving his blaster from the holster on his thigh and directing it at the orange heat. Its hands raise swiftly, empty, and the familiar soft, sweet voice he’s grown accustomed to fills his ears, “Hey, hey, it’s me!”

“What’re-”

“Peli told me you went out. Something about a kidnapped girl? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffs, returns his blaster to its sleeve and disengages his thermal; returning the colour and the Girl’s features to his vision. She’s eyeing at his side, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but decides not to ask. “It was a ploy. There’s no girl.”

She sighs in relief but notes down his dismissal to her questioning. “Okay, let’s go then. I took out three on my way here and there’s more coming. We’re sitting mynocks up here.”

“No.”

The Girl cocks an eyebrow at Mando and he returns to his scope to avoid her attention. “Let’s go,” she whispers through clenched teeth, digging her fingers into the soft of his shoulder where his pauldron couldn’t shield. She drops the appendage when he shrugs underneath her clutch, obviously peeved at something she couldn’t read on him. “Mando, come on. There’s no girl, there’s nothing to prove to these guys.”

His throat grumbles as he attempts to stifle the thoughts in his head, not wanting to implode at the Girl and potentially startle her, but it’s difficult keeping everything caged up all the time—from his miserable thoughts regarding himself to the domineering cravings deep within his core. It’s too fucking much. If there was a key to it all he’d surely have tossed on a desolate planet by now, somewhere nobody, not even himself, will discover it.

He snaps.

“I have something to prove—I need to know I’m still useful.” Mando involuntarily groans at his childish outburst. It’s on par with the Child’s when he doesn’t get his way.

He’s not someone to express his emotions and especially not to direct it at another; not the Girl.

“Of course you’re useful, Mando. What’re you talking about?”

Caf-coloured eyes flicker behind the visor and he squeezes them shut, discarding the threats below as he tries to focus on not derailing all of his insecurities at the Girl. He doesn’t want to confess all of the little nitpickings he’s accumulated throughout his life—he’s learned to keep them buried underneath the rubble of trauma that is his daily life—and he especially doesn’t want her to see him so….sensitive; it’s not an attractive feature on him.

Mando’s mouth moves on it’s own accord, suppressed beliefs regarding himself misdirecting at the Girl in surges of angry jeering, “I used to be feared, used to wear this armour with pride; represented the Creed with the beskar the artisans forged for me. Ever since you waltzed in my life, I’ve…” He sighs, his shoulders visibly sagging as he exhales. “My competence has crumbled to dust that resolves from a gentle wind. I’m getting hit, shot, stabbed because I can’t get you off my fucking mind.”

He unknowingly strokes a finger down the barrel of his rifle, as if to imply he’d been shot with one of the pellets—nothing more than mere particles left of him.

He doesn’t need to look at her to acknowledge he’s gone too far—gone and pushed her away—and the lack of noise she produces is mockingly deafening.

But then there’s that faint, gentle weight on his pauldron again, dragging him from his dissecting and to her eyes filled with reassurance and tenacity. Mando finds himself like an icy dessert underneath the twin suns; liquefying beneath her gaze.

There’s a lot on his plate right now with the Child’s current situation and the Guild still coming after them—she knows this, and he knows that she knows; she’s accommodating to the unavoidable bursts that may escape him occasionally. She doesn’t need to, but she’s willing to; volunteers as his subject until it’s all out in open air and they can proceed. Mando simultaneously respects that—that he’s allowed to vent even if it means she gets a little bit of venom splattered at her—and despises himself for his misguided resentment.

Mando doesn’t genuinely blame the Girl for his lacking; he’s well aware it’s his own negligence. It’s his responsibility to maintain the upkeep of his abilities, his responsibility to protect himself and his companions as a Mandalorian. It’s just easier to push the blame on another; to pretend it’s out of his reach—out of his control.

“Let’s go,” she repeats, slower. “Please, Mando.”.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. I don’t mean it.

He’s never been good with words.

Hands more experienced than his vocals, he draws a line with his thumb across the curve of her jaw and settles it on the tip of her chin to crane her head back just enough that enables his eyes to swallow the stretched skin of her neck. “Okay,” he murmurs and releases her, withdrawing the rifle from its perch.

She sighs when his leather retires from her face and stumbles over one of the corpses in her daze. She takes the lead down the ladder while he keeps watch from the top, ensuring no Klatoonian’s sneak up on her while vulnerable, and she reciprocates the favour when she’s at the bottom.

“There’s a speeder bike just beyond the walls,” the Girl says once his boots are on firm ground, the sand crunching underneath his weight.

“We won’t both fit on it.”

“Sure we will,” she chuckles. “It’ll be snug, is all.”

Mando scoffs to himself and peers around a sandstone corner, squinting as the suns disorient his vision, but he gets a quick glance at a stroke of red about a metre ahead of him—and then a familiar symbol: hazardous product.

“Get down!” he yells, but it’s not fast enough - not fucking fast enough - and he’s flung into the parallelled wall. There’s pressure in his neck and spine, his helmet reverberates against the sandstone, and he slips onto his shoulder in the grit; his lesion collecting the sand molecules and painting them red. Pain stretches from the heels of his feet to the back of his head but he hasn’t got the opportunity to examine himself over—the Girl, where is the Girl?

Mando hisses as his head flexes, searching through the cloud of dust and rubble for his companion; heart hurdling over the gaps of beating and his fists balling against the land to keep him off his side.

“Mesh’la,” he croaks. “Where-oh, are-”

She’s hastily beside him, unscathed besides a few grazes across her forehead and hands—hands that are trembling against his beskar, investigating his condition with manic eyes. “Shit, shit, sh-”

There’s an attempt to calm her nerves on his part, placing a stocky leather weight on top of her hand to indicate he’ll be okay, but she doesn’t believe him—he’s still on the ground, apprehensive of moving in fear of what he may discover.

He moans at a twinge in his neck and carefully scrambles to his feet with her aid, her hands submerging into the flight suit for leverage, but it’s a mistake; his legs are numb and can’t support his weight and he has to rely on the wall to remain perpendicular and not tumble on top of her small frame.

She navigates a hand to his throbbing lesion, covering it with her palm to protect it from further invasion of particles, and the other rests against the back of his neck for reinforcement.

It’s exhausting standing like he’s made of beskar and not just wearing it - anchoring him to the ground, and it’s even worse attempting to move, his legs hot and heavy as his soles drag through the terrain.

“I got you,” she mumbles to herself, tucking into his side.

There’s a warmth at the back of his neck, his head, underneath her hand; hot, scalding and threatening. It fucking hurts—this isn’t a concussion, he quickly realises, he’s had plenty of them to discern easily; this is different, worse, concerning. The adrenaline is doing very little to conceal the pain and he emits half-groans-half-exhales in protest to his body’s tensing. It’s something he hadn’t experienced before, something that he can’t prepare himself to face the facts.

His leather tugs at the hand on his neck and the Girl hesitantly complies with his request, removing it from the cowl and bringing it ahead of his visor for examination. “What’s the mat- Shit, is that from your head?” she asks, hand trembling. ”

Mando confirms his suspicions; a dark thick coating of the finest Mandalorian blood staining the Girl’s delicate fingers. It’s not good, not ideal, but he wasn’t dead yet and they couldn’t stay pinned down here. “It’s not that bad,” he professes.

“Not that b- your fucking head is bleeding! Fuck, okay, okay. Sit down, here.” She aids him to sink onto an underturned crate against the stone wall and removes a small satchel that rests among her hip. “There’s a medpac in there. Fix yourself up while I go take care of these assholes. Don’t go anywhere.”

“No, wait-” Mando slips his blaster out of his holster and into her free hand, his leathers discreetly caressing the backs of bruising skin before letting her retreat. She glances at him one last time, doing her best to convince herself he won’t bleed out before she makes it back. “You better return,” he whispers as she disappears behind the corner, dual blasters aimed high in her sights.

You better return to me.

Mando turns his attention to the pounding at the back of his neck, the blood pooling inside his helmet, seeping into the thick of his cowl, running beneath the material of his back. What good was a helmet if not to protect your head?

Tatooine’s desert is no match for his throat, it’s suns mere wisps of flames—he’s starting to go into shock and he strives to fight it, his fists clenching and relaxing rhythmically but he can only hold on for so long before it overcomes him. Fuck, he’s so exhausted, his legs numb and throbbing with short bursts of tension beneath the muscles.

The satchel is heavy like a bantha offspring in his lap - taunting and restricting - but he raids its contents in the hope it’ll distract him; it doesn’t. Mando can’t—won’t—dress the wound, not here, not when there’s Klatoonian’s running around with murder on their mind and the Girl in their sights. It can wait—he can wait.

But he’s no help in this condition and he’ll only be a nuisance if he were to go against the Girl’s orders—he’s not that foolish.

He groans, deep and scratchy that tickles his dry throat, and tosses his head back against the wall—prompting a red reservoir to leak from his wound, his vision fuzzy with black and piercing white spots. Fuck. Stupid. So stupid.

“Mando. Mando?”

There’s a tapping against his visor that triggers his ears to ring and his head to throb. His eyes open to see the Girl before him, her face contorted into unpleasant angles of concern; he misses her smile, how her eyes squinted when she laughs.

“Come on, there’s a gap. We need to go.”

“Can’t move,” he whines.

“Use me then.”

He’s apprehensive; she’s small and dainty compared to all the beskar and with his worsening condition his weight will only multiply each step they take.

“Mando!”

She’ll only continue to persist and, to avoid her casualty along with his, he fists the fabric of her shirt and drags himself to his feet, utilising her as a crutch as she navigates him through the narrow alleys of the encampment. They follow a trail of corpses, blood, and blaster holes that he hadn’t even heard ring throughout the desert, his senses so colourless. His boots are alike durasteel; heavy and tight around his feet, constricting and dragging through the sand behind him. He yearns to kick them off, stretch his toes.

“Left here,” she instructs, twisting his body to a breach in their wall that’ll serve as their escape route perfectly; out of sight, in the far back that’ll provide them enough time to head for the dunes before they’re on their tail—or not. A bolt tinks against Mando’s vambrace grappled around her shoulders, but she’s not messing around - not letting a foolhardy Klatoonian interrupt their evasion. She bends her body just enough to point her blaster at the soldier without disturbing Mando’s positioning and crushes the trigger against the hilt, a vibrant red shooting out of the barrel, skimming through the air and whistling as it burrows a burning hole into his chest—all without looking.

Mando groans, impressed, “Where - where’d you learn that?”

She scoffs in amusement and continues trudging to the hole in the wall. “Well, you’re always so quick to point blasters you never let me show off. Could’ve aided you if you weren’t so metalheaded all the time.”

“Is that so?” Mando huffs a breath as a laugh. “Might have to upgrade your blaster then.”

“I think you need more upgrading than me right now.”

“Not - not a droid.”

She chuckles and assists him in ducking through the hole. “No, but you do need some repairs.”

The speeder bike sits only a few metres away from them; small, dainty, not suitable for a passenger. “Won’t-” he gasps, “-fit.”

She pats his chest for reassurance. “Well, you’re gonna have to. Get on.”

Mando slings a leg over either side of the speeder and lowers onto the back of it, uncomfortable and awkwardly positioned but it’ll have to do. “I can’t drive.”

She teases, “Oh, I know, I’ve seen you pilot.” She seats herself between the handlebars and Mando’s hunched body, patting the side of his thigh to indicate him to scooch closer. “Come on, you’ll fall off back there.”

Mando obeys her commands, his inner thighs pressing against the outside of her frame and beskar squeezed between both of their bodies, an arm gingerly curves around her midsection for greater support and it permits him an opportunity to be close to her - to hold her even if it’s not exactly how he imagines it.

“Go,” he instructs, visor tilted at the influx of Klatoonians emerging from the exit way.

Speeder hums to life, repulsorlift engine vibrates underneath their bodies and sags the vehicle towards the ground at the additional weight of him. She flexes her fingers around the throttle and zips off in the opposite direction of the gathering army, zigging and zagging to dodge the incoming bolts that kick up the dust ahead of them, one of them just barely managing to skid against Mando’s pauldron from this distance. She’s a good driver—avoiding missable dunes and anything else that might jolt him off, but the constant sharp turns don’t assist with his increasing headache and he tucks the peak of his helmet between her shoulder blades, concentrating on the rise and fall of her lungs.

In, out, in, out; fast and shaky like a collapsing tree in a brutish storm.

“Passed by an abandoned cantina on my way here,” the Girl says, mostly to ensure he doesn’t fall unconscious. “We can set up there. Take care of you. Be back before nightfall. Sound good?”

“Nnngh,” he groans. “Out of fucking action, again.”

“There was no way to know they had explosives. Don’t blame yourself.”

“That’s not true - used it against them. Should’ve - should’ve figured they’d do the same.”

The Girl’s back flexes as she twists the handlebars and sharply turns behind a cluster of boulders, casting them in a thick shadow and providing a break in blaster fire. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mando. I’ll fix you up and we’ll go see the kid, yeah? He’ll be waiting for ya.” It falls on deaf ears, Mando too preoccupied with not passing out and sliding off the speeder—there’s so traction, nothing to support his weight, and he maneuvers his chin to rest against her shoulder questing for the cushioning of flesh to soothe the throbbing in his head.

Normally, the heat of Tatooine suns posed as a nuisance with all of the layers he donned, but now it’s comforting and Mando welcomes it with open arms—the heat equalising with that of his neck—like a temperate bath drawn just for him and he sinks his toes in the waters, moaning at the buoyancy and how light he feels - how unrestricted he is without the beskar.

The Girl slaps his thigh, though it does very little to draw him out of his daydreaming; perceptions desensitising as his weight gradually distributes to her, forcing her shoulders down so she’s almost laying on the speeder with him atop of her.

“Mando, fuck, come on. Get up, you’re heavy - we’re gonna crash.”

“Can’t.”

It’s all he can manage to slip out of the drought of his mouth, his lips catching on his teeth. He’s so heavy, blood converted into uncured duracrete that sags through his veins, thick and clumpy and asphyxiating.

“Just hang in there, all right? We’re almost there. Stay awake.”

She sounds so far away, so out of his reach, and his fingers subconsciously dig into the shirt—struggling to latch onto her as though she’ll disappear if he doesn’t—but it feels like he’s grasping at mist; the particles just floating through his digits as he clenches around nothing. He’s breathing it in, dense and cloudy with a taste like smoke and rotten flesh, coagulating in his lungs until he’s spluttering inside the helm at the assault.

Mando doesn’t feel the speeder come to an abrupt stop, doesn’t register he’s been relocated inside the cantina she spoke of until he’s on the floor propped up against a wall; beskar scraping against the stone as he fights off not collapsing to his side and welcome the duracrete as his eternal resting spot. She blocks the door with a bystanding chair, just in case, and returns to his side on her knees, hands frantic and gliding all over his heaving body; it’s oddly comforting - her touches crafted with the healing properties of bacta and his eyes slip closed to envision them slow and grazing along his skin, along his chest and neck, dainty fingers wiping away the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“You didn’t dress the wound?” she questions, dipping her fingers into his cowl and amassing metallic crimson at the tips. “Stubborn son of a-”

“I won’t make it,” he interjects, helm twisting to admire her—memorising her beauty in hopes it’ll remain with him in the afterlife. Her lips raw from the onslaught of pearly whites, her eyebrows taut with concern, eyes shifty as she investigates his bodily injuries; it’s an unfortunate circumstance, yet her beauty knows no bounds—she’s in fear and shock of letting him slip through her fingers but she’s still so fucking breathtaking.

“You’re getting out of this.”

She files through the medpac stocked with minimal medical supplies, having used a vast sum of it on her the night prior. There’s not enough for both of them, her lashes still needing tending to, and Mando tries to stop her; tries to explain there’s a good chance the bacta won’t even make it to his system before he shuts down, but nothing but a soft groan flutters past his lips - his subconscious taking control over his obscurity. ”

The Girl’s scared, terrified, more than he’s ever seen her before, more than back on the spacecraft; more than when she speculated he would kill her. It shoves needles into his heart looking at her like this, looking at her be so fucking concerned for his health more than her own—she should leave, she needs to leave. They’ll be coming for him. This is why he came alone—why he didn’t want anybody around when his heart stops beating—why he’s been sidestepping around her.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so detached she’d be back safe in the Crest and he wouldn’t be slowly hemorrhaging to death.

She’s been around him too long; her brain picking up the most minute details he lets slip past his beskar walls. “I’m not leaving you,” she reassures, reading his mind.

“Need to.”

“I won’t.”

Mando whispers her name in short puffs, uttering the beautiful title that is solely her into the sand-buried cantina and strokes a delicate line across her cheekbone to her jaw where he rests his hand. It clenches underneath the leather - Mando swipes his thumb over the front of her chin sweetly, tenderly, just feeling her contours and arches. “Go.”

“Mando,” she forcibly smiles, “you’re an idiot if you think you’re dying here.”

She’s as stubborn as a Bluurg - he smiles.

He’s beginning to understand now—why the Girl hadn’t notified him of her past—or, then again, maybe he already figured it out and chose to ignore it, to replace desires with rationality. Perhaps that’s why, despite all of the suppressed emotions expanding against the confines of a metaphorical transparisteel bottle, he subconsciously found ways to distance himself from her. Utilising the Child’s priority, feigning resentment, straight-up leaving her in the dark—why he was still isolating himself even after their cin vhetin.

After all, it’s easier to care for a skeleton in the closet than the very alive passion in his chest. But it’s easier to neglect the corpse—forget the closet entirely—than the mania; that never stops, never allows him a brief moment to recuperate his thought process.

“I forgive you,” he mumbles with a smile, a smile she won’t get to see. “I forgive you, ner mesh’la.”

It’s only when you’ve forgiven her that you’ll truly move forward.

That’s what he wants; to move forward.

If he doesn’t make it out alive, she deserves to know—she should know how he feels towards her, even if it’s not reciprocated.

She freezes, hands hovering over him with a tremble that matches his heart’s; her eyes sliding close—it’s for his benefit, he realises, she doesn’t want her pathetic sobbing to be the last thing he sees.

It’s not pathetic in the slightest; how could somebody so intangible ever be considered pathetic?

With quivering muscles, Mando presses his leather flat against her cheek to collect a stray tear. It rolls along the curve of his thumb and soaks into the wrist of his flight suit, the moisture felt against his skin and he moans in a blend of delight and pain; a drops worth of Her converging against his flesh, staining it with salt.

“I forgive you,” Mando repeats to himself.

Grief is etched into her eyes when she finally peels the thin lids back, her pupils flickering across the visor desperate to discover the eyes behind the cold blackness. There’s a pang in her heart that pulsates each time his chest collapses underneath her hands, counting down the rise and falls until it inevitably discontinues. “You’re not dying here.” Her lips are pulled taut against her teeth, cheeks wet with tears. “I won’t allow it. The kid needs you. I need you. End of discussion, all right?”

Mando’s head tilts, an overly enthusiastic tug in the corner of his mouth.

“All right,” he permits.

“Good.” The Girl wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of the shirt; his shirt. “Sit forward, let me fix that head of yours.”

“Helmet,” he groans.

Oh, how his creed screws with him, obstructs him from the most basic aspects of life.

“It doesn’t need to come off.” She drives him forwards off the wall and wraps an arm across the front of his shoulders, a leg clipping behind him and another in front over his lap, snuggly positioning him between her legs so he doesn’t collapse either side. She’s tepid, pillowy, and he allows himself to lean into her, his pauldron squishing into her chest. “It’ll just be hard to tell if it’s sealed,” she narrates to herself as she digs through his cowl where it obscures the underneath of his helmet. “Is this okay?”

He nods, fingers itching in his gloves.

Delicate, smooth fingers trail beneath the rim of his helmet—his breath hitches—and slip through the gap. Mando swallows the moans and twitches she produces when she brushes around the wound, charting out its size, location, and severity. She’s so close to him, so fucking close; her hand is inside the helmet, inside his personal space, inside his Creed—fingers tangling with his overgrown locks, curls knotting around creeping digits dragging them in and holding them against his skull while blood cakes onto her skin.

Bacta spray expels from the flacon in her clutch and adheres to the wound, the properties immediately getting to work reconstructing the fractured cells. It’s sticky, burns against the sensitivity, the groaning is unavoidable but he centres on his breathing and slacking his muscles.

“That’s it,” she coos, patting his far-end pauldron, “relax.”

The consoling reminds him of the nights he’d spent staying up with the kid, murmuring reassuring words he’d plucked from the depths of his memories as a child and he hums at the bittersweet remembrances—they’re faded now with his age, as though he watched it through the eyes of a passerby in a dense crowd, too difficult to focus on the exact detailing but everything that mattered remained; the scratchiness of his father’s beard against his forehead each night, his mother’s subdued tone lulling him to sleep, both of their warmth encasing him on chilly nights surrounded by the village’s campfire.

Mando didn’t have the luxury of a rewarding life - the privilege - the right. There’s not much he remembers from his youth, much less than the average with the trauma he’s endured. He doesn’t want that for the kid, doesn’t want him to forget Mando; he means too much to him and it’d tear his heart beyond death if those memories were buried by the same trauma that keeps Mando awake—the same trauma that draws him right back to a battlefield as a coping mechanism.

Mando’s been living the way of Resol’nare for decades now—ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor - An vencuyan mhi, he recites the rhyme, obey the commands of Mandalore—his soul intact and a designated spot in Manda reserved just for him; it’s a great honour, one any dar’manda would be envious of, yet he’s uncertain - tentative of the afterlife. He’ll be alone again. Just like before the Child was placed into his care. Just like before he met the Girl. Nobody will be there to welcome him—no parents, no relatives, no friends, no-one.

Twitches coursing along his spine and the back of his neck does little to soothe his nerves regarding his mortality, his body tense and rigid as though he was already proceeding with rigour mortis. He mustn’t be concealing it well as the Girl draws him closer into her chest, his helmet resting against the side of her head as she continues administering the spray, a hand smoothing along the curve of his neck to rest there.

He’s positioned just like he had that night the Mandalorians rescued him, the same fear and panic pulling at his tendons and compressing his lungs, seeking comfort from his saviour—like a scared little boy.

It’s both humiliating and heartening; the Girl being so delicate with him despite being dipped in a coating of sharp, cold beskar head-to-toe. It’s committed to protecting him, to aid him when all else fails, and yet she’s the one he wants to surround himself with. She’s elastic-y and pliable—versatile for any situation he throws her way—made of exotic materials from the most desolate planets in the Outer Rim.

Mando wonders what her hands would feel like elsewhere; tending to the wounds he accumulates among his torso, rubbing at the aging lines of his face—always taking care of him. Mando forages underneath the stockiness that is his heart plate and cowl, leathers wrap around the small beskar pendant amidst his chest and rips the lace from around his neck. It’s shiny, rarely exposed to elements and harsh sunlight, but still worn with age and he runs a padded thumb along a steel tusk protruding from the skull.

The Girl pats him on the curvature of neck and shoulder one last time before retracting her hand from his helmet and returning him against the wall; he nearly mopes at the lack of her. “That’s that. I applied a thick coat so you should be okay, give it a moment to settle in.” She wipes her bloody hand against the thigh of her pants and clips the bottom of his helmet between a thumb and forefinger, twisting it to look at her. “How are you feeling?”

Mando considers. The majority of the pain had vanished, or numbed, and his senses are making a steady comeback but the whole ordeal has left him drained, too exhausted to even think about manipulating his muscles to utter a sentence in reply. He does, though, he doesn’t want her worrying more than she already is. “It’s an improvement. Thank you.”

“Let me take a look at this.” She lightly taps around the gash on his side to test his reactivity. It’s not a deep wound—no cauterising today—and he sighs with relief when she fingers through the medpac to recover a bacta patch. He’ll need proper care eventually but it’s all they possess way out here.

Mando flinches when she inches the flight suit out of the way, hissing.

She searches the satchel and retrieves an all-too-familiar pouch, his eyes hardening. “Why do you have that?”

“It can be used as medicine,” she mumbles, suddenly uncertain. “It helped me, it can numb the pain.”

Mando glares at the narcotics, shaking his head obstinately. “No -- no, it’s addictive. You shouldn’t have that. I don’t want you using it.” His muscles tense at his plea, hoping she doesn’t read into it and discover its underlying reasonings—how concerned he is. “It should - should be disposed of. It’ll only entice-”

“I’m not addicted to it, Mando. It was a one-time thing.”

“It’s-”

She cuts him off with a gentle sigh and shoves the pouch back into the satchel. “Was just trying to lessen the pain, ya know, guess you’ll have to endure it. Might teach you some manners.”

His eyes soften, his chest lax; he’s starting to make a habit of blowing things out of proportion—it’ll only drive the Girl away if he persists. His thumb assaults the surface of the pendant in his clutch, rubbing it raw, and folds his adjacent hand over hers poignantly. She understands his sentiment, offering him a small smile that puts his concerns at ease.

She’s too benevolent for her own good—too compliant to his immaturity.

She changes the subject. “This is all getting old real fast, you know. All this patching up we keep doing for each other. We oughta take a break somewhere. Could be good for the kid.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t take breaks, not when he’d been injured and definitely not when he’s a fugitive but hearing the Girl suggest one makes his thoughts run wild creating phony scenarios where the three of them could spend time somewhere secluded other than the Crest. Somewhere far away from all the fucking sand.

It could be good for the kid, could help him return to himself being out in free lands without the worry of a lurking Guild member aimed to either kill or capture him.

Mando parts his lips but he’s cut off before he’s even constructed a sentence in his mind; the rhythmic strums of speeder bikes nearing their quarters. He activates his sonic detectors and isolates the audio, concentrating on the alternating warbling while the Girl fists the hilt of her blaster instinctively in preparation. “There’s two,” he claims.

“Okay, wait here.”

“Wait, wait.” Mando catches her wrist as she stands to arrest her raring thoughts. He unclasps the strap across his chest and maneuvers the rifle around from his back and shoulders, gingerly pressing the wintry steel barrel into her palm. “There’s one cartridge loaded.” His hand snakes to his boot and retrieves the final cylinder, relinquishing his paramount foundation to survival.

She stares at him with wide eyes filled with wonder and questions he can’t pinpoint, hands examining the Amban-phase pulse rifle loosely clutched in her palms. A soft, genuine smile sketches into the curve of her lips and she gratefully accepts his offer, perching herself against a window to observe the vastness outside.

Mando can’t manage to see past her, the window too high from his angle, so he entitles himself to travel her frame; monitoring—recording—her posture, alternating foot and knee flat against the duracrete and her shoulders pulled taut where the stock rests in the crevice. The posture of a Sharpshooter.

She sucks in a shallow breath and slowly exhales, her lips curling into a smile as her eyes lock onto an unguarded Klatoonian through the lens.

Mando quietly chuckles underneath his beskar and subconsciously runs his thumb along the beskar pendant once more, his eyes never tearing away from the Girl—she’s like the Child when he’s given the knob of his control throttle; devilishly grinning with a mischievous glimmer in their eye.

He recounts how curious she had been regarding his rifle, how she used to pester him just to get a glimpse of the silver barrel. I’ll get my hands on it one day and I won’t be giving it back, she had said once and seeing that excitement in her eyes now only insisted on the claim.

A micro pellet shoots out the fork-tipped tubing, the sound reverberating inside the structure for a moment before it settles to silence. Assessing the expression on her face, she hits her mark. A surge of pride runs underneath Mando’s muscles—the Girl utilising his sniper as if it belongs in her arms, fashioned just for her hands and fingers—followed by an unrelenting tide of arousal through his veins and to his crotch; maybe she can keep the rifle.

The Mandalorian has only ever had material possessions, so seeing her exercise his tools of survival like her own—squeezing the trigger, hugging the stock, peering through the lens—pressing her body up against the exact rifle he’d press against - fuck, if it doesn’t stimulate dark, inappropriate, disturbing thoughts and a tingling sensation at the base of his stiffening cock.

Embarrassed from his condition—wounded and bloody and fucking horny—he droops his eyes to the opened bacta gel. It’s laughable. It seems each time he’s injured and she’s touching him, taking care of him, his arousal decides it’s time to awaken. She must think he gets off on it; that’s enough to make him cringe under his helm.

Another blast echoes the spacious room and this time he hears the pop of the second Klatoonian, followed by a soft exhale from the Girl at her accomplishments. “That’s taken care of,” she sighs. “Sorry, Mando, I don’t think you can have this back.”

Mando rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“How do you suppose you’ll use it without any more ammunition?”

She huffs and props the rifle against the wall beside him. “Oh, I’m sure you have plenty hidden away. I mean, why not gimme yours? I’m a better shot than you--”

“We don’t know that.”

“--and you did destroy mine, remember?”

Actually—he’d almost forgotten. It’s the entire circumstance that scripted their journey through the Outer Rim together, but with everything that’s happened within the past few days, he wasn’t exactly in the right mindset to be thinking about their agreed-upon reimbursement.

The Girl continues, “We should make a contest for it. Whoever's the better shot, gets to keep it. Sounds fair to me.”

Mando scoffs and reminds, “There’s no ammunition, mesh’la.”

“Come on, just admit you’re scared of losing.” She pauses to allow him to pipe up. He doesn’t. “Okay then. I’m getting you fixed up and then we’re going to the Crest to get ammunition and then I’m gonna kick your ass in this challenge.”

“I never agreed--”

“You’re not getting out of this that easily, Mando.”

He hums in feigned thought; she seems satisfied with herself and lowers to her knees beside him once more, hands uncorking a canister of water to flush the lesion of grit and administer a clump of soothing gel. She’s astonishingly fast and precise; she’s not joking about this competition—he’ll be in trouble if she proceeds. Nevertheless, having her hands so close to—fuck—he jolts abruptly and repositions himself so he’s concealing the bulge in his lap, extracting a concerned yet confused glare from her.

“It’s sensitive,” he lies through his teeth, but she nods her head with the allegation.

Her hands smooth over a bacta patch underneath his flight suit—another ripped garment alongside his cloak—and he moans as the patch pulses a soothing burst that numbs the slash and lessens the tenderness.

“Okay, you’re all set. How’s that head of yours feeling?”

Always taking care of him; always so concerned.

Beskar is weighted in his palm and he returns his attention to the pendant, shimmering in the sunlight cascading through the windows and reflecting onto the ceiling above them. Mando’s head angles to the side as he slips the torn threads through his fingers and pries them apart, the beskar dangling in the middle of the lace, to slide his knuckles along the sides of the Girl’s neck until he’s at the rear. She gazes down at the pendant stowed against her sternum as he secures a taut knot, mindful of the strands of hair as to not entangle them together.

Pulling away, he hooks a forefinger along the thread and collects the beskar at the bottom where he rubs a thumb along the face of the skull.

His vocoder whirrs a humming sound, “Better, mesh’la, much better. Thank you.”

“What’s this for?” she questions, examining the necklace incredulously.

“You.” It’s simple - sweet - truthful; it’s all hers. She doesn’t seem entirely content with his answer, her eyebrows stitching together as she mulls the symbolic gesture. He takes mercy on her rationalising, albeit awkwardly, “I can’t return a mutual connection. Can’t give you me - wholly. I received this necklace as part of my initiation to the Creed denoting my trust, my devotion, and it’s been with me since I was a boy.”

She lifts her eyes to the visor as he shares, her hands resting atop his still playing with the pendant.

“It’s a part of my Creed—a part of me. I want you to have it.”

“Mando,” she gasps. “You’re sure?”

He simply nods.

She leans into his personal space until her warmth invades the confines of his undershirt that puts Tatooine’s twin suns to shame. Mando’s throat bobs when a hand tunnels through his cowl to splay across the side of his neck and her face looms near the side of his helmet. He doesn’t twist to look at her—doesn’t want to unnerve her with the leering tint—but his shoulders sag at the vague tremor through the beskar; her lips weakly compressed against the curvature on his helmet.

He’s not one for words, but it seems he succeeded on that front.

It makes his heart flatten and swell in succession as though she was kneading the organ with her hands, the contact so placid and gradual - just taking her time tenderising the muscle.

Not to mention the boost of blood that flows through his abdomen and finalises below his waist, causing a twitch in his pants and she hadn’t even touched him except for a delicate hand on his cowl.

Mando really was like a boy—a pining, desperate, hormonal boy.

The Girl withdraws somewhat and trails the hand from his neck over the bump of his heart plate and seats it in the cushioning covering his stomach, her eyes bounce from his visor to his reviving arousal with her bottom lip clamped between rows of teeth. She softly snickers, “You don’t need to get shot at for me to touch you, Mando.”

He swallows, his helmet twisting on its axis to watch her expression—eyes darkening and tonguing crawling through her parted lips to apply a coating of saliva on them.

“Is that what you want?” she croons. “For me to touch you?”

He’s speechless—choking on his own spit—and she doesn’t help matters when she glides the hand lower, her fingers catching on the hem of his waistband and her palm enveloping the curve of his bulge.

Mando recollects all the instances he’d thought of the Girl like this—touching him so sweetly, pulling moans from his mouth—all the times he’s wanted more, needed more. Even with her hands down his pants he craved more, required her warmth—wanted to be buried in that warmth.

“Yes,” he musters up, his words coming out staticy through the modulator.

It’s all she needs to continue, r hand snaking beneath the hem and she wraps slender fingers around his length, sluggishly pumping twice that has his back arching off the wall and she smiles smugly in her endeavours.

His heart is in his throat, his stomach, his crotch—everywhere.

The Girl tightens her grip some, her fingers catching on his skin without any form of lubricant but it reminds him of being back on the Crest in the pilot's chair and he has no criticism of that. She drags her hand to the top and gradually slides back down, her thumb following a pulsating vein back to the base. It has his muscles tensing, constricting underneath his layers, but his fingers dig into the cloak underneath him.

He greedily whines, “Need more.”

She seems to understand his request and reaches for the hem with her other hand, scrambling to yank his trousers down and he assists by lifting his weight off the ground with his forearm until the hem rests at his mid-thigh; the beskar cuisse preventing the fabric from lowering any further but he couldn’t give a shit. It’s enough.

She hums at the sight of his cock—large, hard, and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. Digits contract at the base, eliciting a groan from deep within his throat, and the Girl tosses a flirty smile at him as she gradually dips her head down for her lips to meet the tip.

“Fu-ck,” he moans, his eyes widening as she flicks her tongue to collect the drop of white and it just melts into her tastebuds; brands them with his cum. She teases him, just barely making contact with a modest brush of her tongue against the head and he’s forced to restrain himself from bucking each time she spawns a coating of saliva that the hot air wipes dry in a matter of seconds.

Mando scrunches his fists against the duracrete and listens to the tinking his helmet produces each time he twitches his head against the sandstone, if it wasn’t made of beskar it'll surely be scraped to hell. He’s fortunate the bacta spray was so efficient—there’s no doubt in his mind he wouldn’t be able to enjoy this as much as he is without it working wonders on his wound. One of his hands occupies the back of her head and he unintentionally drives her downwards until her lips seal around the head of his cock and he’s gasping for air—the filters of his helmet breathing violently to supply the oxygen he’s lacking.

It’s exhilarating being inside of her mouth—albeit very little of him—and he lifts his hips to delve deeper, exploring the uncharted territory of her tongue and throat; so fucking soft, like her gums are fabricated out of clouds and her tongue a bed prepared just for him to rest on. “Gods,” he chokes. “Such a — pretty little mouth, mesh’la.”

She half-moans around his length, sending pulsations that makes his knees weak and toes curl. She bobs her head up and down rhythmically, her hand stroking what she can’t fit inside, and his gloved fingers twirl around a cluster of strands at the nape of her neck just to hold her - to feel the muscles stretch and loosen each movement she makes.

Mando is gluttonous for her—so fucking desperate to quicken the pace or attain new limits—and he experimentally sinks her head lower onto his shaft, slowly but with some level of authority that makes the Girl moan and comply with his proposal.

The curve of her nose brushes against the flock of unkempt bristles at the base—it’d been a while since he last tamed them, though he suspects the Girl doesn’t mind—and her sharp hot exhales through her nose can be felt dancing along the soft flesh of his groin, the head of his cock nudging against the back of her mouth before it slips past and eases down her throat an inch. Along with the newfound pressure around his length, the Girl flattens her tongue on his underside and sucks—generously hard, might he add.

There’s an ache in his abdomen, a crack in his knee as it jerks, and he’s forced to gnaw on his lips to refrain from spewing out shameful noises from deep within his throat. His sonic detectors pick up the faintest of audio; the squelching of his cock slipping in and out of her throat, her short puffs of exhales, and her cut-off gagging noises she makes each time he explores a little more than she can withstand. It’s unrighteous how turned on he’s getting from the noises alone, but she makes her presence well known when her lips glue around at the base just sits there taking in his entire length in her throat; tears brew in the corners of her eyes and she swallows a heap of saliva—consuming all of his rationality as her throat tightens around his width.

“Oh, f-fuck, shit. St-sto-op.”

He reflexively yanks her head up until only the head of his cock is situated in her mouth, twitching, leaving the remainder of his length sodden with stringy pools of her saliva that streak to the brown curls.

Mando observes the mess she’s made, mouth drowning with lust. As much as he could sit there and fuck her mouth like this, he aches for more contact—requires it like the oxygen he breathes.

“I want more, pretty girl, need you.”

His hand travels from the base of her neck along the curve of her spine and rests on the soft of her rear, indicating his proposition. She reluctantly pries her lips from his tip and glances up at him with filthy eyes to murmur, “Need me?” she swallows. “Need me to take care of you?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Need me to ride you -- to fuck you?”

“Yes, mesh’la.” His fingers bite into the flesh of her ass and dip in the waistband at her tailbone, lazily tugging at the material but it fails to budge against the defence of her belt.

“Fucking so needy,” she sings.

Mando is needy—dehydrated and starving for her—utterly insatiable.

She unclasps her belt and unbuttons the two little dimes at her groin, but he beats her to the belt loops and slips either thumb on the farsides and tugs. His eyes soak in the exposed flesh; how cushiony her thighs look, how they must feel squeezing the sides of his head. There’s a rumble in his chest and it finds its exit through his filters, shooting straight to the Girl’s core.

The Girl guides a leg out from beneath her and he continues undressing her from the waist down until she’s only left in her undergarments, the length of her legs being explored by crunchy leather. She doesn’t allow him the opportunity to take initiative and remove his gloves—he wouldn’t be able to control where his hands led if he had—and tosses a leg on either side of his thighs, the underside of his cock rubbing against her clothed pelvis to evoke a muffled moan from his throat.

One of her hands rests on his side atop of the bacta patch and she gazes into his helmet, silently inquiring her concerns.

“I’m okay.” She continues eyeing him, her pupils flickering to the bottom side of the helmet his lesion laid in slumber. “Mesh’la, I’m good.” He proves it with a minor thrust of his hips that has her scooting against his lap, distributing her weight among his thighs.

She seems pleased with his condition, tearing her hands from his wound to bunch up the overhanging fabric. Mando stops her, clinging to the hem of the shirt. “No, keep - keep it on. Looks good on you.”

An imposing heat rises to her cheeks and paints them hues of reds and pinks at the implication Mando gets off on her wearing his clothing. He’s watching her, she feels the leer of his visor, and she bows her head and strokes his length in an attempt to hide away, to distract him from the mortifying blush gracing her cheeks and nose. Mando’s insistent, stubborn, refuses to look away from her ‘pretty little face’—his words, not hers—and just scouts as her features contort shyly.

He won’t look away.

Especially not when she lifts her thighs and hovers over his readying cock, the head nudging against her clothed sex; warm and damp from her secreting through the fabric. She wants this, he acknowledges, just as much as himself.

She dips her hips enough, just barely, so he’s firmly pressed against her; his twitches travelling through to her, sparking her fingers to dig into the pads of his shoulders in shock. Mando groans, powerless underneath her, and bucks his hips plenty to maintain a pleasant caress against the tip of his cock.

“You’re taunting, pretty girl.”

She smirks. “Why not do something about it?”

Oh, he will—he’ll make her applaud the ground he walks on if he has to.

With one foul swoop, Mando plunges his hand between her legs and eases the garment aside, positioning himself between her folds and collecting the slick with his head. It makes something erupt inside of him, in his abdomen, and he freezes like that; his cock scarcely pressing against her entrance - she flutters against him.

The throbbing at the back of his head pulls him out of his relishing but he’s not willing to interrupt—not when he’s waited so fucking long to feel her like this. “Sit down,” he breathes, lightly pushing on her thighs. “S-slowly.”

She abides by his commands and gradually sinks on his length—so fucking slowly. He asked for it, but she’s just torturing him at this point. His eyes tear from what lays between them back to her face, her eyes squeezed closed and her teeth latching onto the flesh of her poor hand. His muscles lack, his hands caressing her legs. “Sweet girl,” he coos, “you can do it.”

“Gods, what else are you hiding under all that beskar?” she moans and continues, stretching herself around his impressive size; Mando’s not small in the slightest.

His helmet inclines with a soft chuckle, clashing against the wall behind them—the wall he was ready to die on and now he’s fucking her against it - he hadn’t even cleaned himself of the blood soaked into his cowl and caking his hair - it’s fucking dirty.

He hums her name in reassurance. “Should’ve - should’ve prepared you with m-y fingers first.”

“Yes,” she winces. “You should’ve.”

“Doing so well, so good. That’s it. Nice and slow-ly.”

There’s a silence that fills the air once he’s completely sheathed inside her, the both of them tardily comprehending the reality of the situation—they won’t be able to return to normal after this, won’t be able to look at each other without thinking of the other naked. This is their new normal, at least for today, and they carefully descend back to the scene with clarity.

Her - his shirt’s hem rubs against his garbed stomach, loose and large on her, and he slithers his hands up the back of it to clamp down on her shoulders; holding her firmly against his pelvis so she’s restricted and refuses her the opportunity to move—he wants to savour the feeling of her stretched around him, the feeling of her warmth welcoming him. She hisses at the cold steel of his vambrace along the muscles of her back and arches on him.

Mando basks in her warmth, shifting his hips side-to-side to rub against the inside of her canals, and resting the peak of his helmet against her sternum above the pendant’s residence to breathe in her scent. It’s faint with the helm’s filters stripping the air of her but there’s a hint of sweetness that he jostles around among his tongue and a speck of her musk, alongside a whiff of his personal scents from his shirt—gun oil, leather, his own musk fusing together with hers.

“Mando, I got-ta move.”

The grip on her shoulders loosens, enabling her to move slightly but doesn’t allow her to take initiative this time; his ass flexes against the ground as he thrusts up into her, pulling soft gasps from her tongue. It’s so hot, so enticing, a sound he’s dreamt of hearing but actually triggering the noises from her is intoxicating. He could bury his face between her legs and listen to her all night if she’d allow it; if his Creed allowed it.

“Pretty girl.” His hips slam into hers. “Always - always taking care of me.”

“Fu--fuck, Mand-o,” she chokes, her breathing staggering each time his groin rolls into her pelvis. A delicate hand runs along the front to the back of his cowl and sweeps underneath the steely brim, never breaching his comfort zone until he imparts his consent with a faint nod. She inches her digits up till they disappear inside his helmet—there was a time he wouldn’t let anybody get within arm’s length of his helm and now the Girl was freely raiding the unexplored depths of his skull for the second time that day.

There’s a slight pang around his lesion when she tugs on the curls and it only roams upwards when she shoves her palm up as far it’ll reach in the cramped space, her fingers working out the tight knot. He jerks at the sensations, all so foreign, so new and exciting he’s struggling to withhold himself from doing something stupid.

“Been thinking about this for so lo-ng,” he whispers, quickening his pace to drive up and nudge against her cervix that has her flinging her head back. “Thought about fucking——fucking you over the control panel ea-ch night.”

“Maker,” she purrs. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move. Nearly crawled in your fuck-ing bunk with you.”

Mando groans. “Yeah? I’ll fuck you in my bunk whenever you want, mesh’la. Name the time.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Mando.”

“Din,” he slips, freezes, muscles stretched and tight—he went and did something stupid. The Girl notices his wavering, his thrusts having abruptly stopped, and joins his absence of movement. A layer of nervous sweat breaks out across his forehead, his heart paced faster than a Kaadu. Everything is distanced, the Girl seemingly klicks away, thoughts clouded with analysing his psyche’s outburst; a foolish slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment.

He hasn’t heard that name since he was a boy—hadn’t uttered it aloud since he became a foundling—so it’s a huge fucking shock when he hears the syllable trip past his lips.

And it’s an even bigger shock when the Girl repeats it back to him, “Din?”

It does sound nice coming from her, though. He can’t deny that. Like his name is made of nectar, sweet and thick that dribbles from her tongue and down her chin—he could just lick it up from her, catch the remnants before it plummets the duracrete.

She grinds herself against him to pull him back to reality, twirling a curl around her finger curiously; cloyingly.

“Din,” he repeats, firmer, with authority, “Say it, mesh’la, say it for me. Please.”

She tugs on his locks, forcing his helmet to tilt up to look at her and his heart misses a beat when she parts her lips and moans into his visor, “Din.”

Dank Farrik—she always knows just what to do to get his blood pumping. She doesn’t even know the significance of the word, just acknowledges how his cock quivers inside her from speaking it and then she’s a mewling mess muttering along a never-ending string of Din, Din, Din’s.

“Hold still,” he warns, a sturdy vambrace wrapping around her coccyx and propelling himself upwards and unto his knees with her below him, a gloved hand at the back of her head to protect it from slamming against the hard duracrete.

She’s even more sublime from this angle; spread out underneath him, the backs of her thighs pressed against his hip joints—purely on display for him and only him.

Din can’t stand not being inside her, not feeling her slick walls hugging him so fucking tightly it drags pleasure through the core of his shaft, and he sheathes himself back into her quickly. Propping up his weight with a forearm beside her head, and pounding his hips into hers vigorously - the clap of their skin snapping through the air.

She grinds her hips upwards into his lap to massage the swollen nub of her clit against him, jerking at the sensitivity - though she’s so restricted between solid flooring and a just as solid beskar figure that she more-or-less humps into Din’s body - her fingers slither behind the beskar margins of his cuisse’s to stabilise herself.

The abandoned cantina air is hot, sweltering, thick with sweat and sex—versus the dry, dusty stench prior that left his lungs ticklish. They’re fucking each other so desperately they’re emitting a skyrocketing heat, it’s dumbfounding.

Her lips are pulled invertedly to force back the whiny incoherent moans. Beads of sweat along her forehead. Eyes glued close.

What a beautiful sight. All for him. It’s contrasting to the last time they were in a similar scenario—her hands on him, him sitting there licking every crumb off the plate of food she served him—but their positions had changed and now he’s the one working those noises out of her. A flurry of youthful pride rushes through him and he slips two fingers to touch where they connect, feeling the ridges and veins of his cock through the leather as he pulls out and slides back in - feeling what she’s feeling - memorising what she’ll memorise.

“I - I can’t…shit...Din,” she croons.

She’s close to her apex—her walls tighten around his cock even further. If she gets any tighter Din will come right here and now. He’s still not done - still needs more of her - thirsts for it.

“I know, mesh’la, I know. A - a little longer. Just a little longer.”

The digits between her thighs compile a coating of her slick seeping down the sides of her leg, applying it to her clit and drawing fast circles. She doesn’t complain about the scratchy leather on the sensitive bud, doesn’t gripe that he’s not allowing her the touch of his bare flesh—she thinks it’s fucking hot; he can’t take his hands off her for a fucking second to rid himself of the confines, can’t keep her waiting to inch his pants down past his thighs. He’s still completely clothed, permitting only his cock and thighs to spring free of his flight suit enough to fuck her into the ground—into the ground. It’s unadulterated filth through and through.

Din’s tattered and slashed cloak droops to the side of him and the Girl wads a horde of the scratchy fabric in her hand, tugging on it that brings him to meet with her hips like she’s coordinating his movements. “Oh, fu-ck. Right there, Mando, right there.”

“Din,” he growls a reminder all-while maintaining the pace and posture she’s arching into, her moaning of his name an addicting motivator, “my - my name is Din.”

If he wasn’t hitting something so unreachable—something so itchy she never knew existed—she might’ve wrapped her arm around his neck, pulled his helmet in for a kiss, and whisper sweet nothings in response to his confession. She can’t though - he doesn’t give her a second's worth of breaks. Unable to demonstrate her appreciation, she wrenches her head to the forearm beside her and administers a laden press of her lips to his leathered wrist; a small but incredibly sweet gesture that has his lungs tugging on his heartstrings.

She whispers his name as if testing it out on her tongue, this time with more sentiment. It’s a soft, short, and rounded-sounding name—everything he’s not—such a breathy syllable it doesn’t require much mouth manipulation and the Girl takes advantage of that; chorusing the word in sync with her pleasured writhing.

Din extracts his cock from her gradually and sharply slams back into her, shoving her spine across the ground that she jumps from her position an inch, the grip on his cloak tightening. “Fuck, Din!” Pearly whites sink into the leather surrounding his wrist and he grunts at the stimulation, his thrusts beginning to stagger as he reaches his climax. He won’t allow it - he’ll postpone his relief until she’s had hers if he has to; she deserves it.

“Come for me, pretty girl. You take care of me so-so well, let me feel you relax; come.”

She does relax, becomes nothing more than a boneless pool of flesh and blood beneath him that yelps at each smack of his hips, tingles at the squelching of his cock slipping through her lubricant and coating the base of his groin in a wet sheen of her.

Din’s fingers continue on her nub only periodically stopping to delve deeper and amass her juices. He hits a sweet spot and she writhes into his chest, ripping her teeth from the leather to sink them in the thick padding of his shoulder where she freely moans into the fabric—deliberately putting on a show for Din that makes the head of his cock twitch.

Din increases his pace, maintaining a speed that compensates for his lack of back with the explosion—delivering a steady tempo fit for a week's worth of workouts.

She’s so close to his ear, if the beskar wasn’t there she’d be pressed right up against the cartilage, her risque whining intruding the tunnels of his eardrums. It’s too much to consider, too fucking much.

She clamps down on his cock, tight and vice-like that he struggles to move inside of her. Her body rocks and jolts as she cums on his cock—he can feel the warmth dripping over the head and running along the sides like syrup sliding down his throat. “That’s it, pretty, do-ing so good.” She transmits a low drone from his words of praise, her bite deepening enough to leave a groove of her teeth in his muscle.

Din pinches her nub once, twice, savouring the impact of her chest against his with each jerk he pulls out of her. He aids her descent back to Tatooine, luring out the remainder of her orgasm with slow lazy circles until she politely relieves his hand from her clit—too sensitive and sore to continue.

The Girl shakes and trembles below him, feuding with the hot air that won’t stay in her lungs. She’s glazed in a gloss of sweat from her forehead all the way to her thighs; drained and overstimulated, but she extends a helping hand to the base of his cock and pumps the few inches not inside her.

“Can’t - can’t stay there all day, Din,” she teases.

It’s on the verge of abusive how she engages him, every inch of her knowing exactly what to touch and how to touch it as if he’s just constructed of mere text on a holorecord.

He disagrees; he could stay here for eternity.

Although, he takes her laboured breathing into consideration and rewards her with his sympathy; dragging out his own climax. Din experimentally rocks his pelvis, his cock pulling on the tightness of her channel—feeling all the grooves so distinctly, the gentle flow of warm cum trickling past his length—he’s managed his own undoing, his fingernails digging into the leather of his palm, cock rigid and violently palpitating.

She observes his shoulders tightening, his breathing shake, his thighs flexing as he anxiously pulls out of her sex—buries it somewhere safe in her memory for later—it’s a glorious experiencing watching a Mandalorian—The Mandalorian share something so vulnerable with her; like the after-effects of a meanspirited storm, all tranquil sounds and apprehensive touches. She seizes a hand and presses the leader against her cheek, mildly gnawing on the thumb that impishly slips past her lips, her remaining picking up the pace on his cock drawing out his high.

It’s so cordial watching her tear at his thumb, pull on his length, stare into the visor knowingly; too personal, too spellbinding. He takes the bait. “Fuck, fu-ck,” he moans, staggering on his knees and firing out a sticky white that pains the insides of her thighs—trademarking her.

She’s unrelenting, milking every drop out of him until he’s lagging and softening in her palm. When she’s finally conducted his orgasm, she presses a quick peck to his thumb and retreats her skull to the duracrete, officially out of stamina for anything more than a breathy: Shit, Din. That was-fuck.

Her thighs are wet with their combined juices—a shiny translucent mixing with the softening white. He gathers it up on the tips of his fingertips and lifts it to the Girl’s mouth, wiping the sex on her tongue she’s poked out in compliance. “So good to me. So pretty,” he strums. “How’s it taste? Did we do good?”

She nods, humming and rolling her tongue around inside her mouth to blend the liquids with her saliva.

“Sweet,” she exhales. “Salty.”

Din can only imagine the flavour they spawned together; a mouthwatering syrup that leaves a savoury aftertaste from the sweat laminating her thighs. He longs for a taste, salivating with need, but resolves.

The Girl’s slick coating his softening cock sticks to the insides of his pants as he fixes the hem back to his hips—rubbing the remnants on his thighs and gluing the short hairs to his flesh. Din reaches behind him to detach his cloak and uses the edge to wipe away the accumulated mess he’d created between her thighs, mindful of keeping the bloody end far away from her, taking his sweet time to cherish how the flesh judders in the direction of his digits and the muscles tense when he delves closer to her sex.

She props herself up with her elbows and observes him still firmly planted between her legs, a pink blush encroaching her cheekbones at the sight of her nakedness compared to the Mandalorian.

He notices her shyness and decides not to comment, simply places a hand on either of her knees and trails them up to her torso and across her arms where he interlocks his fingers with hers - bending down atop of her to tuck his helmet in the curve of her neck, shielding her from the prying eyes of the twin spheres peeking through the window.

She rests her cheek against the side of his helmet, murmuring soft praises. Fucked me so good, she whines, gonna leave me sore all night.

Din groans into the helm and settles his weight on her, too exhausted to move, but she welcomes his physique—invites the dense muscles to recuperate on her for as long as he requires—and she wraps an arm around the back of his helmet, cradling him into her sweat-slicked neck.

“So about that break…”

_____________

“ner” - my/mine “mesh’la” - beautiful “cin vhetin” - fresh start/clean slate “Resol’nare” - Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life “Ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor- An vencuyan mhi” - Education and armour, self-defense, our tribe, our language and our leader, All help us to survive” “dar’manda” - one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity

taglist: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

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bigskydreaming · 3 years

Text

Also if people instinctively reaching for their “its just my interpretation” arguments as a rebuttal to that post about issue #416 could just not, I’d super appreciate it, thaaaaaanks.

See, the problem I have with that is like....no its not. Its really really not. If your fic or your meta is otherwise DIRECTLY referencing specific story beats of that specific ISSUE, like Dick not having talked to Bruce in over a year, or Dick not knowing Jason even existed until he saw it on the news, or Dick leaving Jason his phone number, or anything of the like.....it is not at all unreasonable for me to expect you to acknowledge the story beats of that very same issue that all of those things are written IN RESPONSE TO.

You can yell at me about how the firing is just a retcon til the cows come home, but y’know what? It was a retcon that was reiterated IN THAT VERY SAME ISSUE. In it, Dick reiterated what the firing looked like from his perspective, how he waited around for two weeks for Bruce to change his mind before packing up and leaving with opportunities for Bruce to say something every step of the way....THAT is the SPECIFIC sequence of events that Dick’s anger about all of this comes from.

So its extremely disingenuous to try and pair that anger with the pre-Crisis ‘better version’ of events where Dick gives up being Robin all on his own and becomes Nightwing while still on good terms with Bruce...because that version of events has its OWN corresponding aftermath that was written in direct response to THOSE character choices. Like the aftermath where right after becoming Nightwing, Dick turns around and offers Robin to Jason himself, as he of course is already well acquainted with Jason by then. See, that’s kinda part of why Dick and Bruce are on such better terms in that version of events. It has a lot to do with Bruce not adopting a whole other son without so much as a phone call to let Dick know his family had expanded.

Now you can mix and match to your heart’s content, that has NEVER been in question. Especially since as so often said, its a fandom past time to take a match to canon and watch it burn. You don’t have to adhere to aaaaaanything you don’t want to.

BUT.

If you want to talk about INTERPRETING the canon? That is subject to a different set of standards. Because you’re acknowledging that the source material exists as a point of RELEVANCE to you.....and the fact is....the source material is the SAME for everyone discussing it. Now, people can and do have different interpretations of that same material, this is obviously true. But ACTUAL. GENUINE. DISCUSSION of it.....requires that all parties at least discuss those interpretations in good faith, and make an honest attempt to address the material as it is.

And that is not what happens in this fandom. Because you damn well KNOW that for all your talk of the firing just being a retcon......its still the specific version of events the “Dick being mad about Bruce giving Robin to Jason” thing is directly meant to reference and BUILD off of. Retcon or not, it is indisputably the FOUNDATION upon which the other character choices of that very same issue are built atop of.

Because there is another version of events, yes. The pre-Crisis version where Dick gives up Robin. But as I said, that version DOES NOT HAVE Dick angry or resentful....because a key component of it is that all three of them, Bruce, Dick and Jason, are already a family in spirit. There’s a true succession of Robin from Dick passing it down to Jason.

And a lot of you guys know this too. Especially the ones most likely to reach for that “let us have our interpretation!” arguments. Because the Dick Grayson corner of fandom has posted about it a LOT. In fact, we kinda churn out a crap ton of content for this fandom. Headcanons, ficlets, informative posts, etc. And there’s a very curious phenomenon that exists.....

Literally anything I or certain other DG fans post that is inclusive of the whole family, or does not reference any specific event that’s infamous within fandom for pitting Dick against another Batfam member in a ‘who was right, discuss” kinda way.....that tends to circulate WIDELY in fandom. We’re talking upwards of a thousand notes, regularly.

In comparison.....the informative posts that are chock full of panels pointing out how canon actually goes in these specific instances.....tend to top out at a couple hundred max. Its pretty much just fellow DG stans who reblog them. Everyone else, despite them going through the same initial routes of circulation....are very good at pretending they don’t see them.

Because see, misinformation - and make no mistake, that is what we’re talking about here - RELIES on a lack of like.....actual information provided to the contrary to thrive.

For instance, if it were as common knowledge that in the pre-Crisis version of Dick becoming Nightwing, he makes Jason Robin himself, as it is say.....that the firing Dick as Robin story is ‘just a shitty retcon’......people might start to ask in greater numbers, like, okay, so why DON’T more people write Dick making Jason into Robin after giving it up himself? Why have Dick so bitter at Bruce and/or Jason, if in the only version where Dick gives up Robin, Dick passes it on himself? If you’re gonna go with the one, why not the other?

Because we all know damn well that’s not a difference in interpretation. That’s a conscious CHOICE to TRANSFORM the source material by stitching together two different sides of a cause and effect chasm. The events transpiring after Dick finds out Bruce made Jason Robin himself ARE NOT MEANT to reference the inciting event of Dick giving up Robin himself. You can make that happen, sure. But you have to MAKE it happen. There is no point in the comics where you can honestly, genuinely point to the comics and say this right here shows Dick being mad about this, where ‘this’ is Bruce giving Robin to Jason SPECIFICALLY after Dick gave Robin up, rather than being fired.

A choice has to be made there, for that to happen, if one has the ACTUAL information about how that really played out in the comics rather than just misinformation. And not everyone in fandom trusts everyone else to make the choices they would like them to make with the source material, do they?

After all, isn’t that the REAL root of all this?

See.....its no secret to any of us that nobody’s been all that happy with the actual comics aka source material in years. Meaning most of fandom, myself included, is here for meta and fics based on previously written comics, or our own adaptations of the material.

And fandom, being interactive, unlike canon.....is something that CAN be influenced by other fans.

So why don’t we all just stop fucking pretending that we’re not all trying to influence what the overarching fandom narratives are, shall we?

Oh, you can say this is just me projecting, but I’ve got plenty of instances of hypocrisy to point to that say otherwise. And THAT is the true source of my hostility in so many posts in this fandom.

Because its the very same people who loudly cry “let people have their headcanons” and “let people have their interpretations” and “stop trying to tell people there’s only one true version of canon to go off of” who NEVER. EVER. fail to show up on posts like that last one, the SECOND they start to circulate ‘too widely’ throughout fandom. There is ALWAYS someone waiting in the wings the minute a post like that starts to top a couple hundred notes, ready and raring to shoot it down with some kind of derailment or condescending reminders to everyone who might see it that ‘that’s just a bad retcon for people obsessed with misery porn’ or something like that.

And what exactly should we be calling that? When people show up every single time I make a post about the importance of Robin as a name to Dick, in order to make a big stink about how it being his mother’s name for him is just a retcon? Even though....did I say it wasn’t? Does it being a retcon mean it doesn’t exist? Am I not allowed MY interpretation of a story that very much does exist in canon, am I not allowed to reference other stories where that specific retcon is specifically linked to?

Or how about if I say, post a headcanon about Alfred getting snippy with Bruce about not reaching out to Dick after he leaves home, where within the headcanon itself I specifically reference a clear version of the story where Dick is fired and its eighteen months before he and Bruce speak again? Does this story not exist in canon? Am I not allowed to base stuff of it? It would seem not, given the way people jumped to derail that one by adding in additions about Dick being upset with Bruce about college, which is an entirely different continuity that in no way intersects with the specific events I reference, where they’re estranged for a clear reason that is directly raised within the headcanon itself. People even acknowledge “OP is entitled to any version of continuity they want” in that one, but are like....this one is wrong though, and true fans prefer the one that isn’t just misery porn meant to validate Dick’s teenage angst. With people all too happy to reblog that one while gleefully pointing out the tags that completely derail the post about a clear point in canon by making it entirely about another unrelated point in a different continuity in order to invalidate the initial headcanon or whatever.

Don’t even get me started on when we dare reference stories where Bruce is actually physically abusive to Dick, or when we link Dick’s actions in stories that acknowledge the emotional abuse or neglect of certain key moments in his life TO those inciting moments directly and say “hey its kinda shitty to act like Dick was just being a standoffish brat here when Dick’s attitude is actually directly based on the last time he and Bruce interacted being when Bruce told him to get out and leave his keys.” LOLOL nooooo, that’s not allowed to stand, because see, the ONLY possible reason we could have for even CONSIDERING those stories in character or in continuity, is because of the aforementioned addiction to misery porn or else because we’re just trying to smear Bruce to make our own fave look better.

Never mind that another popular refrain for a lot of the people I’m talking about here is “you don’t know what people are thinking or why they like the things that they like” so, y’know. It is a tad irritating to see that double standard applied, like I mean. Just speaking personally, I’m a survivor of childhood physical and sexual abuse with a lifetime’s worth of C-PTSD and permanent estrangement from my abusive family, so like....those stories where Dick is abused by a figure he never thought would hurt him and now has to reconcile that with still loving and admiring that very same person and still wanting to be family.....like, hey guess what, those themes are part of why his character resonates for me in particular and so they’re kiiiiiinda key for me to explore for a lot of reasons. And given that this fandom looooooves to talk about some people writing dark shit to cope, I find it veeeeeery curious that people are so willing to shut the fuck up and say nothing about incest, rape and pedophilia fics even if they don’t like them themselves......but will still come out of the woodwork to condescend about there being absolutely no valid reason for anyone to ever engage with content where Bruce is abusive even just in one singular instance.....nah. Its literally just cuz of the misery porn addiction.

But see.....the thing at the heart of all this is the simple fact that this hypocrisy doesn’t exist just for the sake of hypocrisy. It exists because we actually all DO know how much power and influence fans can have in an interactive environment like fandom.

After all, the entire reason that Dick Grayson fans are so often posting informative panel-filled posts about what ACTUALLY happens in canon stories that are DIRECTLY cited in many meta, fanfics and headcanons, just.....in a totally backwards way that just so happens to fail to mention that its not intended to be an accurate depiction of the canon its definitely mentioning its in reference to....

The entire reason for this is because of how thoroughly fandom has crafted a specific narrative for Dick Grayson’s character that is based PURELY on their own characterization wants and needs and has very little to do with the actual canon of the character.

Its not a coincidence that so many fans just so happen to genuinely, truly believe that Dick was a grade A asshole to Jason while he was Robin, and there’s a wealth of canon out there somewhere to back it up. No, this happened because of fanFIC narratives where this is the case, and these catching on, and being encouraged by the initial writers of this trope and its fans and so on and so forth until it became the overarching fandom narrative and not only didn’t require any canon basis to be so....it barely ALLOWED for any talk of the contrary. Dick Grayson stans had to yell and churn out posts like that last one for YEARS to make a DENT in this fanon conviction, and do NOT even approach me about it being an issue of tone and ‘if we’d only asked politely’ because lol. No. We did. You can find the clear shift in the tone of my posts from when I first re-entered the fandom years ago to when I just got frustrated with the willful avoidance of WHY so many fans like myself are so annoyed by certain fandom convictions......and even then, it was about the hypocrisy. It was about how loudly other people crow about letting them have their headcanons while literally shouting down ANY post we made about wanting space to just have our CANON-canon.

Pro-tip: that thing where if you just ignore someone long enough on a certain point, they’ll inevitably start to get frustrated and then you can point to their tone as being the problem and claim that was the issue all along? Yeah. Its not slick. This fandom didn’t invent it. Its always very transparent, and very obnoxious.

But the point is.....fandom absolutely has the ability to override canon narratives with their own version that’s then formative for new entrants to the fandom who never even BOTHER with the source material and just are here for the fic. And so its dishonest as FUCK for people to not only MAKE no distinction between what’s genuinely their interpretation of the canon and what’s their transformation of it, with INTENT......but to weaponize fandom’s aversion to content-criticism to shout down even ATTEMPTS to introduce discussion of the actual source material by claiming oh you’re just trying force your preferred narrative on everyone else. Aka that thing THEY’RE actually doing themselves by once attaining a fandom wide narrative they like, maintaining a stranglehold on it and doing their best to dissuade any narratives to the contrary staking a claim alongside that.

Because again, it all comes back to the fic. See, as a Dick Grayson fan, I’ve made no secret of the fact that I turn to fic for what I can’t get from canon...and its frustrating as hell to see writers that loudly talk of being BETTER than canon and “RIP to canon but my Batfam loves each other” in a lot of cases DELIBERATELY make Dick in particular look WORSE.....and then act like they have no idea what we’re talking about when we try and tell fans who take these narratives at face value that uh, they’re lacking some extremely relevant context and nuance. Or in some cases, outright facts.

And I will happily laugh loudly in the face of anyone who tries to claim that they don’t feel similarly about fics that characterize their own faves in ways they don’t like.

Yeah, try telling me that after years of some of you writing fics that specifically exclude all reference to the events of Nightwing #30 when talking about Dick’s death or Spyral.....while still including every in canon instance of people bagging on Dick for what he only did in canon because of Bruce’s abusive writing. There’s kinda a vested interest in keeping fandom relatively free of talk of Nightwing #30 then.....because weirdly, people who write about a DIFFERENT take that’s not hostile to Dick seem to end up putting the blame on Bruce for that situation. Bizarre, I know. People attributing blame to the character who was actually abusive in the canon and being cranky that the victim of said abuse is held up as the sacrificial lamb in everyone else’s fics? Whodathunkit.

(Also a point of irritation - it never had to be just one or the other. This is where the whole ‘maybe its YOU guys who were projecting all along when you said the only reason we could have for talking about Bruce’s abuse was an intent to smear the character’ bit is a thing. See, fun fact: if you were going to ignore an issue or two in order to completely flip the narrative of what really happened with Spyral and dominate the fandom landscape for a couple of years....it never had to be Nightwing #30 that was the ONLY issue you could leave out in order to not make Bruce look like an abusive asshat. Like, there was always another option right there in front of you. You could have instead chosen to also leave out Grayson #12, aka the one where Dick informs everyone else he’s alive.....then you could very easily just sliiiiiide in reference to Bruce and Dick quietly informing the whole family of his status and his mission while insisting on keeping it quiet for his safety. Voila. NOBODY has to be an asshole then, and the whole family gets to be in the know. But see, most people didn’t actually have a problem with someone being an asshole in that story. They just didn’t want it to be Bruce, and didn’t mind it being his actual victim.

Even though, lol, just another FYI.....abuse victims having things flipped on them so it looks like they’re the true problem and their abusers are completely innocent is a HUGE thing that happens a lot in real life, so FYI about that FYI.....anyone who does say, gravitate towards Dick Grayson specifically because of how he’s impacted or might be impacted by abuse from his father, like.....is proooooobably not going to have a super fun time with diehard commitment to making this particular fictional character the true mastermind of his family’s misery and abusive instead of the abused. Weird huh.)

And round and round it goes. Where it ends, nobody knows.....because it doesn’t. fucking. stop. The number of ways in which fandom has willfully flipped the narrative so that Dick is the aggressor instead of the aggrieved is just absolutely ridiculous. This guy has been punched by every member of his family except Duke and Alfred, and somehow he’s the one characterized as uncomfy to be around because of how volatile he is. This guy is the only one who has actually been KICKED OUT of the manor, and somehow that gets glossed over and considered out of character while he apparently definitely did very much do this exact specific thing to Tim, I hear.

And like broken records, people squawk ‘let us have our interpretations/headcanons/etc’ any time we try and make a stink about how no, actually, that’s NOT HOW IT WENT....and at the EXACT SAME TIME....most of these exact same people show up on every post that uses ACTUAL information to make Bruce or Jason or Tim or whomever look like the actual problem in a story where they were actually problematic, like, the SECOND a post gets popular enough....to derail, to condescend, to shout it down with how its just a retcon or its out of character or its just a bad take or how fans with taste know better than to take it seriously.

And why do you care? Like, if we’re all supposed to just live and let live and everyone’s allowed their own interpretations, why this everpresent need to show up all the time with a superior, patronizing ‘oof, this is just not good’ the second one of YOUR faves is in the hotseat, while condescendingly boxing out any posts informing people of how no, actually, Dick and Kory’s breakup WAS linked to Mirage and Dick and Donna’s infamous fight WASN’T the way its commonly talked about and oh yeah there was brainwashing there too and etc, etc....see, when WE do that, we’re just overacting stans who can’t stand others not liking our fave. Instead of just....trying to correct misinformation so more fans can at least engage with the character from a starting point of zero instead of a negative integer.

So why this hypocrisy? Oh yeah, because you don’t WANT the misinformation corrected. Because see, when the misinformation IS corrected, fic writers en masse....make different choices. And that’s why ever since more people started picking up the refrain of “well no actually Dick DIDN’T hate Jason, here’s the proof”.....there’s a lot more stories out there where...shockingly....Dick doesn’t hate Jason. Which bizarrely, does not really work well for the people who WANTED Dick to hate Jason and made a point to SHAPE the narrative to make him hate Jason.....because it wasn’t about that just being their interpretation, and it never was. Because the CHOICE to cut out Dick’s ‘justification for feeling slighted’ by being fired as Robin and pair that specifically WITH Dick resenting Jason for Bruce still making him Robin instead of Dick doing it....that has a narrative cause and effect within a lot of the fics that go with this. It gives Jason eternal underdog status that makes it easy to root for him while positioning someone specifically to blame for that underdog status and unfair playing field, and it also keeps focus off Bruce as the cause of any issues between his sons due to choices HE made, thus one singular figure is positioned as the obstacle to family unity....and that figure isn’t Bruce.

And no canon to the contrary will be acknowledged as legitimate.

Convenient huh?

Especially paired with the ‘thou shalt not con crit on another’s fic’ fandom commandment. Because when you can’t complain about any fanfic depictions whatsoever without immediately and inherently being cast as the rabble-rouser by default.....the ability to shape and dominate a specific fandom narrative becomes veeeeery key. After all, another popular fandom phrase is ‘we’re not the DC writers, complain to them about canon.’ But when there’s no canon complaint to be made to DC specifically, because its not canon we’re actually upset about, and we’re not ‘allowed’ to criticize fandom depictions because people are allowed to have their interpretations......all you have to do is stand your ground and insist that the fandom depictions of Dick are nothing BUT ‘interpretations’ and not acknowledge aaaaaaany of the places where you consciously make the decision to transform canon choices and behavior around him.....and voila. You’ve wrapped everything up in a neat little logic trap. Quite the fait accompli. There’s really no way for anyone to say or do anything ABOUT this little situation here without being ‘disruptive,’ ‘divisive’ and ‘having a negative impact on fandom harmony.’

Its just always gonna be a little weird to me, how much your positivity culture looks a lot like plausible deniability culture instead.

But whatever. That’s just a me problem I guess. Definitely not something anyone else in fandom has anything to do with. Just like they have nothing to do with derailments or condescension or counter arguments to so many of the canon-based Dick Grayson posts I make, and this is also all my doing...wait...hang on. I think I got mixed up again somewhere. Dang it.

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rallamajoop · 3 years

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The Witcher: The Games vs The Books

Coming to the fandom this late, I can only assume the relationship between the Witcher games and the original novels has been long since talked to death by others. But I'm far too fascinated by the whole glorious mess that is this canon not to want to get down some of my own thoughts about how it all fits together.

See, on the one hand, the games (Witcher 3 especially) are arguably only too dependent on the novels to stand alone. They do a wonderful job of picking up a number of unresolved plot points the books left hanging, and a woeful job of explaining so much a player coming in cold would really like to know – Ciri's history with Geralt, Yennefer, her powers and the Wild Hunt itself just to begin with. This is an issue that only increases as the games go along: cliche as Geralt's amnesia may be, it's used to good effect to introduce the world to the player in the first game. By the third, Geralt has all his old memories back and two extra games worth of new experience, and good lord is it all alienating to the newcomer.

On the other hand, so much about the games (again, the third especially) contradicts the novels in painfully irreconcilable ways. That wouldn't necessarily bother me – adaptations are allowed to rework and reinvent, stories can and should evolve in the retelling – except, well, see point one above. So you're bound to come out of the games with a lot of unanswered questions if you haven't read the books, and just as many if you have.

Spoilers to follow, of course, for both the books and the games.

Here's one of the big ones: just how did the world – Ciri included – discover that one of her long-presumed-dead parents was actually alive and well and now ruling the entire empire of Nilfgaard? Fucked if I know. Neither the games or the novels have any explanation. In the novels, in fact, the world at large believes Ciri is married to the emperor of Nilfgaard. Naturally, this 'Cirilla' is a fake, but the scandal were the full truth ever revealed would redefine Emhyr's reign. Yet somehow, in the games, everyone seems to know he's Ciri's father, and that whole awkward incest angle is never mentioned. Continuity has been tweaked pretty significantly, and it's left to the player to guess how. If that wasn’t bad enough, the games apparently still included a Gwent card of the fake!Cirilla (artwork above) just to ensure maximum confusion.

Before I get too sidetracked with all that stuff that doesn’t add up though, there really is a lot to be said for what does work about how the games expand on the plot of the novels. The Wild Hunt itself is the big one. The spectral cavalcade appears several times through the novels and hunts Ciri across multiple worlds in the final book before apparently losing her trail and vanishing to make way for the 'real' big bad, never to be mentioned again. While TW3 left me pretty underwhelmed by the revelation that the spectral Wild Hunt were just a bunch of dark elves in skull armor, the books had introduced the Hunt and let us spend some time on the dark elves' world before we get the reveal that the two may be one and the same. So for all the ranting I could do about missed opportunities regarding the Wild Hunt, they're the natural candidate for the games to pick up on as their new big-bads.

To my surprise, Geralt and Yennefer's "deaths" and subsequent recovery in pseudo-Avalon also comes straight from the novels. That everyone thinks Geralt dead at the start of the first game isn't, as I'd first assumed, a convenient excuse to have him reappear with amnesia, but simply how the novels end. Why Ciri leaves them and goes world-hopping isn't clear, but "because the Wild Hunt was after her again" is as good a theory as any. So, another point to the games there.

And there's so much more. The Catriona plague has only just appeared at the end of the novels, but we know it's posed for a major outbreak – one that’s in progress by the time of the games. The second game in particular does a terrific job of taking the ambitions of the expansionist Nilfgaardian Empire and the still-relatively-new Lodge of Sorceresses and building an entirely new conflict around them – even taking two of the least developed members of the Lodge (Sabrina Glevissig and Síle de Tansarville) and expanding them into major players. Dijkstra similarly ends the novels on the run from those in power, and having already taken the same assumed name 'Sigi Reuven' he's using in the games – while the books assure us that prince Radovid will grow up to pay back his father's assassins (ie. Phillipa) and become Radovid the Stern.

The twisted fairy tale origins of the novels are something the games actually seem to have gotten better at as they went on: the 'trail of treats' to the Crones is the great example, the monster-frog-prince and the land-of-a-thousand-fables of the expansions are two more, and many more are hidden in sidequests. And I'd be remiss not to mention that in again asking Geralt to pick a side in the conflict with the Scoia'tael, the first two games not only recreate a scenario Geralt repeatedly deals with in the books, but a major theme. It's interesting too how much the broad structure of the third game feels like an homage to the books, with Geralt searching for Ciri, interspersed with sections from her POV. You can nitpick the detail of any of these examples, but the intent is unmistakable, and a lot of credit is due for it in the execution too.

Some of the detail that's gone into translating the world of the Witcher books into the games is just insane – not just in the geography and history of the place, but right down to the names of the wine you can pick up. There's the fact the Cat potion makes Geralt see in black-and-white, or the fact the basilisk and cockatrice monsters are clearly based on the same model, but the basilisk is reptilian where as the cockatrice is more avian – which is exactly how Geralt describes the difference between them in The Lady of the Lake. There's a point where Book!Regis recounts a detailed list of all the lesser vampiric species, ending with the only two violent enough to tear apart their victims: almost all can be encountered in the games, and the last two (Fleders and Ekimma) are indeed the most animalistic. This kind of thing is everywhere.

My favourite examples tend to be those that blend into the background if you haven't read the books, but will get a grin from those who have, such as a peasant in Velen who will call out to Geralt (paraphrased from memory, alas) "Sir, sir! We be up to our ears in mamunes, imps, kobolds, hags, flying drakes... oh, and bats!" – which is a lovely little reference to a couple of conversations from Edge of the World wherein Geralt explains that most of the monsters the locals want him to take care of don't actually exist. Or all those soldiers chanting "Long live King Radovid!" – natural enough, but it takes on a whole new life if you've read the passage in Lady of the Lake where the young prince Radovid grumbles internally about having to sit and listen to the city chanting 'long live...' to every other notable figure present except him.

Really, it would be faster to list the things the games introduced that don't come from the original source material in any obvious form, because it's a struggle to come up with very many. The villainous Crones of Crookback Bog and Master Mirror of the Hearts of Stone expansion are the biggest ones that come to mind, along with a great deal of the vampire mythology from Blood and Wine. To the witchers themselves, they’ve added mostly game mechanics: the use of bombs and blade oils, the names of most of the potions, and three new witcher schools (all with their own specialised gear). There are a number of new creatures and monsters – Godlings, noon-and-night-wraiths, botchlings, shaelmaars and so on – and though trolls are mentioned in the books, the games take credit for giving them so much character. Obviously, there are new characters, like Thaller and Roche – but not technically Iorveth, because a Scoia'tael commander of that name is mentioned in the books, if only in passing. And already, short of just listing off every new character the games introduced, I’m running out of ideas. Credit where credit’s due on that front: most of the new characters and locations they’ve created feel authentic enough that Kalkstein or Thaller would be right at home in the novels’ world.

But for all their dedication to the detail, it's hard to feel like the games have really managed to capture the spirit of the books in their storytelling: the mundanely corrupt bureaucracy that does so much to bring the world to life, or their cheerfully cynical sense of humour, or the flamboyant wonder that is book!Dandelion, or their enthusiasm for putting women in positions of power, or the bigger themes about the differences between the story that gets sung by the bards and what really happened – or so much else from the novels that came as such a surprise to me when I started getting really sucked in.

And if we’re going to talk about all the little things they got right, it’s only fair to point out there are just as many little things they got wrong, and sometimes pretty glaringly at that. "I thought you bowed to no-one" says Emhyr to Geralt – almost as if book!Geralt doesn’t happily bow in most every situation where it would be polite or diplomatic to do so. "This would never have happened if the council was still around!" says Geralt upon finding a sorcerer's lab full of human experiments – as if none of his experiences with Vilgefortz or the wizards of Rissberg ever happened, back when the council was very much still around. In TW2, he mocks the idea of a woman like Saskia leading a rebellion – almost as if women like Falka and Aelirenn haven't led some of the most storied rebellions in history (and we can't even blame the amnesia, because Geralt himself mentions Aelirenn later – oh yeah, this one annoyed me particularly).

Book!verse 'Lady of the Lake' is basically just Ciri being surprised while bathing

Yennefer's studious aethiesm and willingness to desecrate Freya's temple is entirely in character – but only if we forget that she had her own personal religious experience with the goddess Freya herself in Tower of the Swallow. And then there’s the fact the Lady of the Lake is now a literal lake nymph who distributes swords to the worthy, as if no-one writing for the games ever got past the title of that particular Witcher novel (let alone got the joke). And the list goes on. It's easy to get overly caught up in contradictions like this – it's hardly as if Sapkowski's novels don't contradict themselves in places, as almost any long-running series eventually will – but it's going to stick out to those who’ve read the novels nonetheless.

While we're talking about how the games pick up where the books left off though, the big contradiction that has to be touched on comes in bringing Geralt back at all, at least in any public capacity. There's plenty to suggest that Geralt survives the novels' end and even goes on to have further adventures, but it's also pretty explicit that the history books record his death in the Pogrom of Rivia as final. The last two novels by order of publication (Season of Storms and Lady of the Lake) go so far as to feature characters far in the future with an interest in Geralt's legacy, and they discuss the matter in some depth. As far as the world knows, Geralt is dead.

Book!Geralt fanart by Diana Novich

But it's hard to blame the games for ignoring this – true, thanks to Geralt's longevity, they could have set their conflict many more years after those future scenes – maybe even used Ciri's established time-travel powers to let you pop quietly in and out of the past (and, okay, now I've thought through all that, I'm kind of sad they didn't). But there comes a point where that kind of slavish devotion to preserving the source material really doesn't do a story any favours, and I'm not sure I could name any other successful adaptation that's bothered.

Besides bringing Geralt back at all, most of the bigger changes pertain to Ciri. In fact, as much as I'm about to get deep into the nitpicks below, you can make a surprisingly good case that the games have made only one really big change, and that's in simplifying the prophesies surrounding her. See, in the novels, all those world-saving prophesies aren't technically about Ciri, they're about her as-yet-unborn child. Who gets to impregnate her is the big driving force behind most of the villains of the books – one that all the main contenders seem to see as more of an awkward necessity rather than the inspiration for violent lust, but even so. To Emhyr, having to marry his own daughter is a bug, not a feature – but he's willing to do it to become the father of the savior of the world. But if Ciri is capable of fulfilling those prophesies herself, then Emhyr is already the father of the savoir of the world, and the revisions to his relationship with Ciri start to make a lot more sense.

Ciri's history with the Aen Elle elves seems to have been similarly revised – if not quite so cleanly. Avallac’h and Eredin are, naturally, both book characters – in fact, a lot of personality has been left behind in the books, since Avallac’h originally had a rather camp flair, and Eredin is less the power-hungry kingslayer you might imagine. When Geralt meets Avallac’h in the books – which happens briefly in Toussaint, for one of those "everything you're doing is going to make everything worse because prophesy" conversations – he's busy decorating a cave with fake prehistoric paintings in the hope of confusing future explorers. (Surprisingly, there does seem to be official art of this moment on one of the gwent cards – see above – though the Avallac’h who jokes about adding erect phalluses to the picture and admits his vanity won’t allow him to resist signing it hasn’t entirely survived the transition to the new medium).

We also meet the former Alder King, Auberon, whose death we see in flashback in the game. (Fun fact: Auberon is actually blowing bubbles through a straw in a bowl of soapy water when we first meet him in the books, hence the straw in the illustration below. The books just have more whimsy than any of the games would know what to do with.)

Ciri spends some time in the final book as a prisoner on the world of the elves, who are as keen as everyone else for their king to father her unborn child. Avallac’h eventually convinces her that this is all for the greater good: her child will be able to open gates to allow the people of her world to escape when the apocalyptic White Frost arrives. But their king, like most older elves, is impotent, leading to multiple nights where Ciri allows him to take her to bed (in some of the frankly more disturbing scenes of the series) to no result. Eredin, moreover, doesn't appear to have intended to poison the king: the vial that kills him was supposed to contain some sort of fantasy viagra, and even Eredin seems genuinely shocked to learn its actual effects.

Regardless, Ciri eventually discovers that Avallac’h and the Aen Elle have deceived her, and intend to user her child's powers to invade her world, not save it. Neither world is threatened by the White Frost for at least several millennia, it's just a pretext to make her cooperate. And so she flees, and Eredin (already leading his Red Riders aka The Wild Hunt long before he was crowned king) pursues her.

With the books as context, why Ciri would ever trust Avallac’h is very hard to understand. It's a little easier if that whole awful episode with her and the former king is subtracted out – Ciri's child is no longer necessary for Eredin's goals. So it's odd that the game still references the deadly vial Eredin gave to the king. Are we to suppose the vial genuinely contained poison in this version of continuity? I'd rather it didn't – Avallach's ruse is far more interesting if he underwhelms Eredin's support by revealing a half-truth – but the games aren't telling us.

And then we have to factor in that one last detail I'd forgotten when I originally started playing with this theory: TW3 does contain one last, dangling reference to the time the old king spent trying to impregnate Ciri, when Ge'els very reasonably asks why on earth Ciri would ever trust Avallac’h now. It's a damn good question, and the game offers no real answers. So in Avallac’h, we're left with a character who is vital to the final chapters of the games, who comes out of nowhere without the books as context, but whose role makes no sense with that backstory in mind. Frankly, the writers would have been much better off avoiding the whole mess altogether and inventing some new character to take Avallac’h's place.

The treatment of the White Frost is even more confusing. The books are ultimately fairly explicit about just what the White Frost is: a ice age, most likely caused by the same mundane climactic factors that produced the real ice ages of our history. The only escape is intergalactic emigration, as Ciri (or her children) might some day enable.

In the games, the White Frost has instead become some sort of nebulous, free-floating apocalypse which will eventually reach all worlds, which is basically fine – up to a point. We briefly visit a dead world that the Frost has decimated, and even the Aen Elle are now supposedly planning to invade Ciri's world because it threatens theirs as well (I mean, apparently – their motivations are so underdeveloped you could miss them by accidently skipping just one or two lines of dialogue). When the Wild Hunt appears, it's always in a haze of cold. Their mages can invoke its power still more dramatically through portals which can freeze you in your tracks. So obviously, the Frost has already reached their world, and time is running out, right?

Well, no – you visit their world too (again, briefly – to meet a character who has never been mentioned before and won't be again, for reasons which have also never been mentioned before if you haven't read the books) – and there's no Frost in sight, apocalyptic or otherwise.

So why does the White Frost follow the Hunt around? No idea. It's never explained.

At the very end of the game, a second "Conjunction of the Spheres" occurs (possibly because of the Wild Hunt's appearance?), and the Frost begins to invade (or possibly Avallac’h summons it, so Ciri can go into it and destroy it?) It's all painfully unclear. The game is too busy pulling a bait-and-switch over whether Avallac’h's betrayed you to tell you what's actually going on instead.

But if Ciri could destroy the Frost completely (at great personal risk, but still) why is this not more clearly set up? Why did the Aen Elle think that escaping to another world (which will ALSO eventually be destroyed by the Frost) was a better solution than sending Ciri to face the Frost directly? For which matter, why do the Aen Elle need Ciri at all if sending enough ships to carry an army is no problem? Why does Ciri spend so much of the game questioning Avallac’h's true intentions, if they were ultimately so noble? When did he tell her the truth? If Avallac’h did summon the Frost, why did he pick that particular moment? And if he didn't, and it all just happened spontaneously, we're back to questioning why invading that world ever seemed like a good solution to Eredin – it all collapses in on itself.

None of these questions couldn't have been answered with a little creativity, but then the game would've had to dedicate some real time to explaining its backstory and developing its core conflict – something it's bizarrely reluctant to do. And if you think I may be drifting from the point a bit in the name of getting all my gripes about the ending down in one place, you're not wrong, but I feel Avallac’h and everything surrounding him is pretty much the ur-example of what doesn't work about the way The Witcher 3 depends on the novels: the backstory the writers are building on doesn't actually exist in any format available to the rest of us.

There are plenty of ways TW3 could have incorporated its backstory into its own narrative (yes, even excluding the method "by expecting people to read many many more pages of text from in-game documents", because that's bullshit and always will be). There are times it does this brilliantly, such as in the quest ‘The Last Wish’: everything you really need to know is covered in Yennefer and Geralt's conversation in the boat, and without ever making the dialogue sound unnatural. In fact, TW3 has even more options here than many works with the same problem, because Geralt is famous and people already think they know his story. You could have bards singing Dandelion's ballads, you could have characters confronting him with misunderstandings about his past to force him to correct them. You could also have Geralt visiting people and places he knows Ciri remembers fondly because of the time they spent there together, or include playable flashbacks similar to the time you spend playing as Ciri. You could stick chunks of backstory in optional sidequests or scenes old-school fans can skip through quickly. So many of my questions (how did Ciri get so close to Yennefer if they were never at Kaer Morhen together? Why has no-one tried training Ciri in her powers before? What does the Wild Hunt even do while it's not hunting Ciri? Why is Ciri princess of Cintra if her father is Emperor of another country altogether?) could have been answered so easily.

Seriously, summarising the Witcher books is not that hard. Lots of things happen, but only a fraction of it is really relevant in retrospect, and you could hit all the major plot beats in a handful of paragraphs. (Heck, I’d do it here if this post wasn’t already ridiculously over long.)

But then, TW3 has a bizarre problem with leaving so much of its best material off screen, even from its own story. It's criminal that we never get to see any of Geralt's time (or Yennefer's) with the Wild Hunt, even in flashback or dream sequence. This is material that directly sets up the relationship between the main hero and the main villain, and the most we ever hear about it is a few vague allusions to it being like a strange nightmare. Really? That's it? What was it like? Was Geralt in a trance, unable to control his own actions – was he brainwashed into believing he belonged there, or was he merely unable to escape? What atrocities might Eredin have forced him to commit? Did he visit other worlds? Was he paraded among the Aen Elle as a captive? There is no way this isn’t a part of the story worth talking about!

We never see the moment Ciri rescues Geralt from the Wild Hunt. We never see how Avallac’h convinces her to trust him, we never see the moment he was cursed, or any of her efforts to save him – all these big, story-defining moments are left off-screen, to be vaguely recounted to you later in dialogue. Then there's the entire political situation in Nilfgaard – you hear about it second-hand, and it's all resolved off screen. And the list goes on. Yet you and Ciri still have time to run around Novigrad so she can thank a bunch of throwaway characters you've never even heard of before, nor will again. The priorities on display here are baffling.

The Witcher 3 was such a wildly successful game that it’s obvious these sorts of issues didn’t seriously hold it back, and it’s such a big game that I could have sat down and written just as many words focusing only on the parts that do work without much difficulty. It boasts stunning visuals, addictive gameplay and some truly wonderful characters, and so many parts of the story work brilliantly in isolation that it’s strange to come out of it feeling that it ultimately adds up to so much less than the sum of its parts.

I’m glad TW3 exists – if it hadn’t been such a runaway success I doubt I’d ever have discovered Sapkowski’s universe at all, but for myself, TW3 will probably always be remembered as a somewhat-overlong introduction to the really good stuff, in the expansions and the original novels it came from. I looked up the novels after finishing TW3 in large part because I’d been left with so many unanswered questions – and I’m glad I did, but I’m honestly surprised more people weren’t turned off by TW3′s scattershot approach to its own narrative. You’re allowed to change and rework in moving to a new medium, but I can’t imagine it would’ve hurt games’ success to tell a complete story in the process.

#The Witcher #Witcher Novels #The Wild Hunt #Geralt #Ciri #Emyhr #Avallac'h #Eredin #meta #long post is long

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nodangnameisavailable · 3 years

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Thoughts on Shaman King 2021 as an OG Shaman King fan

I posted this as a comment on a youtube video recently... So

!!Long post warning!!

First I just wanted to say that I completely agree with everyone saying that the pacing is very fast, and that it's harder, if someone was a new viewer coming into Shaman King, to be convinced that in two episodes a deep bond has formed between Yoh and Amidamaru and Yoh and Manta. But I think people (especially some of the fans of the OG Shaman King) are being too hard on this adaptation. I think there are a few things we have to take into consideration when viewing this adaptation right now:

1. There are 300 chapters of the source material to be adapted in 52 episodes (that's obviously going to cut a lot out, and they've already cut so many chapters out that I personally enjoyed, but the meat of the story is still there and there's so much to the story that I can't wait to see animated and WILL be animated because that's what Hiroyuki Takei wants)

2. It shouldn't be the norm to compare this adaptation to the 2001 adaptation because what it should be compared to first is the source material which is the manga. While I do think it's inevitable that people will compare the current adaptation to the old one, the old one takes a lot of creative liberties (because the manga wasn't done yet when that adaptation was being made). Therefore, first and foremost we should compare it to the pacing and order of events in the manga, which the current adaptation is doing very well (despite some chapters being cut), rest assured we WILL get more of Ryu and his journey, but it's going to be ordered slightly differently from the 2001 anime. If we look at the list of chapters of the manga on wikipedia (if the manga isn't on hand), they do kinda leave the Ryu storyline untouched until the third volume. And in the manga, by the time they explore Ryu's storyline they've already introduced Ren, Jun and Anna (slightly different from the 2001 anime's pacing and order of events). The current anime's depiction of how Yoh and Ren meet and subsequently fight, is almost panel by panel exactly how they met in the manga and subsequently how Yoh learns from Ren what 100% gattai is and how he can do it in his own way.

3. The voice actors are largely the original cast of voice actors from the 2001 Japanese series. If someone grew up watching the anime in another language (like me I grew up watching Shaman King in English and in Tagalog dub), the difference in voice acting and their stylistic choices of how to bring these characters to life can be a bit jarring. Especially since, if you experienced it in another language first, you might have associated those characters already with the voices that those dubs provided. But the dubs are dubs, and the decision to keep a lot of the original voice actors was a choice made by the creator of Shaman King. In fact, the reason why it took so damn long for this reboot to be even made was because back in 2017, Hiroyuki Takei refused to let it happen if the original voice actors can't come back. So what does that tell us? The voices of the characters we hear right now are largely the voices that the creator has acknowledged to be worthy to bring his characters to life in anime form. A lot of people might not like it, like how a lot of people HATE Goku's voice in the Japanese version of Dragon Ball. And these are things we as fans are allowed to comment on. But I've seen someone on twitter say that they refuse to continue watching the current adaptation because the voice acting was not what they expected. And as a fan of the manga, that really hurts me. A lot of people have been waiting FOREVER for this to happen, and we should be thankful that the creator is so invested in his work that he would go to great lengths to ensure that this time around, he gets to control the anime being released to us fans.

4. There's only been 2 episodes. We get a taste from the first episode exactly how good the animation can get (with the opening segment of Hao and Yoh's birth), and I'm willing to bet they're saving the more fancy animation for the juicier fights we're going to see in the future. I believe what they're doing right now is laying down the groundwork: Introducing most of the main cast of characters, and giving a little exposition so that we can either be refreshed if we haven't touched the series in a while, or giving a simple and brief introduction that isn't boring or dragging (which the 2001 anime was, at least in the beginning for me) for a completely new viewer.

5. People are always going to find something bad to say about everything, it's impossible to please every single fan of the series. But I just wish that people, especially OG fans of Shaman King, won't be so quick to judge or be disappointed. The rate it's going now, it's going to cover a lot of ground and the story later on is where it gets REALLY good anyway. And judging from this episode, this adaptation of the anime likely isn't going to censor out things like blood and just exactly how ruthless Ren and the Tao family can be. So, while I appreciate all the talk and buzz going on about Shaman King in social media, maybe we should just sit back, enjoy the ride.

Anyway, I hope that for everyone that is quick to judge or to refuse watching this adaptation of the series, I wish we can all just relax a bit and trust that the creator of Shaman King will not screw us fans over, because he really does care about this series. And because in the end, just like how Yoh always says, everything will work out.

#shaman king #thoughts #shaman king 2021 #mini rant

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mcmactictac · 3 years

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Some of my favourite quotes from random media I enjoy! (I wasn’t super specific with my sourcing, but if you want to check out any of the source material I find them all really interesting!)

“ ‘You can’t unsee this’

he told himself.

‘This is not allowed in the life you’re living’

he told himself.

I want so much more”

(Call Down the Hawk by Maggie Stievfater)

I absolutely adore Maggie’s writing style. The use of italics and spacing on the page to convey emotion is something I see so rarely, and yet find so refreshing. Something about that moment of Declan finally breaking free and going no, I want more than this is so refreshing. Especially for someone who constantly puts the needs of other people above himself, him making a clear choice to finally put what he wants first was something really interesting to me.

“In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself. That is the meaning of strength.”

(Avatar the Last Airbender, the good animated show, not the movie)

There are so many amazing quotes in this show, but this one really stuck with me. I think when it comes to dealing with our problems, everyone just wishes other people could fix them so they wouldn’t have to deal with it (a totally understandable and valid feeling). Although having a good support system is great, not everyone is always able to have that. Sometimes you have to rely on yourself to provide that motivation, that hope to push yourself through it. Giving hope to yourself when you are struggling is something that is incredibly difficult for most people, which is why I liked how the show acknowledged how challenging it was. It recognizes the strength it takes to be your own source of light, which was really nice to see (especially from a kids show)

“The thing about leaving something for the last time is that you rarely realize you’re doing it”

(The Candymakers by Wendy Mass)

This book has been a personal favourite of mine for a long time. This line really struck a chord with me, and I don’t think I really understood it exactly the first time I read it. But after COVID, and losing so much, I feel like this is something that can be relatable to many people. So much was lost so quickly, and we really had no idea any of it was coming. Especially for the high school seniors in 2020, they left school for the last time not realizing they would never go back. I find this quote has more of an impact once you’ve experienced that feeling of loss, and wishing you had appreciated things more since you didn’t realize it would be the last time you would get to experience it.

“I’ll make mistakes, but my own and it frees me”

(The Lightning Thief, but the Broadway musical not the book)

Something about this line was really special to me. Acknowledging that making mistakes is a part of growing up, it’s a part of life and it isn’t bad. It also acknowledges that the mistakes you make are because of you, not anyone else. You have the freedom to choose whatever you want and take whichever path you desire. Knowing that you’ll still make those mistakes, but it can finally be for something you deem worthy and important and not something trivial. This line should be stressful, but it just feels filled with hope instead. It doesn’t fill you with dread of your regrets, but instead fills you with hope and excitement instead.

“It was this. This moment, and no other moment, and for the first time that Gansey could remember, he knew what it felt like to be present in his own life”

(The Raven King by Maggie Stiefvater)

This is one of my favourite scenes of a book I’ve ever read. This whole chapter was absolutely magical, and filled with so much life and happiness. I always love a Gansey POV, but it was so nice to watch himself relax and have a “normal life” for a night. I loved the use of “present in his own life”, I think it’s a wonderful way to convey a feeling that’s so hard to express. It’s even hard to capture how the quote makes me feel, there’s just so much genuine happiness and peace within it.

“If nothing ever changed, there would be no such thing as butterflies”

(The Candymakers by Wendy Mass)

I really do love this book. It takes such a positive outlook on so many difficult things. Change can be scary, but it can also be beautiful and create incredible things. Change is how we get good things in our life and I think so many people are terrified of it. I love the simplistic way it puts a positive spin on such a complicated topic. I think it’s important for people to see that change doesn’t always have to be bad and can make things better than before.

“When they’re gone, it will hurt. But that hurt will remind you of how much you loved them.”

(Supernatural, season 15)?

OUCH. I love how this looks at pain and loss in a different direction. So often pain associated with loss is seen as the absence of something and it was cool to see it portrayed more positively. Instead of looking at something and seeing all you’ve lost, it’s being reminded how much you cared about it and the experiences that developed that deep care. It’s seeing all you had, instead of thinking about how much you lost.

“To be human is to move forward, to adapt, to believe in your ability to make things better. That is the only way to make the pain and sacrifice mean something.”

(Supernatural, season 15)?

This one hits hard. We all suffer so much, and keep pushing forward, doing the best we can to make it all worth it. If you get trapped in that loop of negativity, It will be really hard to move forward with that mindset. Hope is one of those characteristics that makes us human and without hope for something it’s hard to find satisfaction. Even if it’s something small, like hoping a store has the item you came looking for, or something larger like hoping we can fight harder against climate change. These things add value to our lives, and although they can provide disappointment, they can also bring joy.

“ ‘What am I without you?’ ‘Yourself.’ “

(Dream SMP, the disc finale)

Wow. Especially for all of the people out here who have always been part of a duo, where it’s the two of you together so often, people start to treat you the same. You link your sense of identity in with that person, and it becomes a large part of who you are. But I love the way that Tubbo responded to this, simply going “yourself”. It’s such a foreign concept to people who are super close with another person, to be seen as separate from them. Ultimately if you take it all away, Tubbo is right. You are your own person, separate of the people around you and you have the freedom to be whatever you want to be. I just think it’s a good thing for people to hear, and be reminded that although the people they surround themselves with can be major parts of their lives, underneath all of that they are still their own person.

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thefloatingstone · 4 years

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Where do you reccomend to pirate sailor moon? You've made me wanna watch ^^

Oh my oh my! This is a very no-no question!

Honestly, I am obligated to say that all 5 seasons have been released on DVD and Blu Ray and are easy to find on Amazon etc etc and that doesn’t help people like me where amazon doesn’t deliver!

You can also IN THEORY watch them on the VIZ website? But again that’s not something I can access from my country!!!

https://www.viz.com/sailor-moon

There’s probably also an official youtube channel where you can legally watch the episodes or something I don’t fukken know because apparently I’m not allowed to do things legally.

SO! Other places you can watch Sailor Moon if you live in an ass-crack country like me and literally cannot access it legally despite being willing to u_u

For the 90s anime!

This is the most iconic of the Sailor Moon media! And the one most people know and are familiar with. It’s usually the first thing people think of when they think of “Sailor Moon”. There’s 200 episodes spread across 5 seasons (the first season, R,S, Super S, and Sailor Stars)

This site has all episodes both dubbed and if you scroll down a little you get the subbed versions as well.

DO NOT WATCH THE DUB!!! This is the original 90s dub and it’s.... not good....

https://sailormoonepisodes.com/

as well as

https://gogoanime.so//search.html?keyword=Sailor%20Moon

You can also find torrents of the show. I haven’t updated my files in a long time but there’s probably been a Blu Ray version uploaded somewhere. I recommend checking Nyaatorrent

For the movies!

If you want to starts with the 3 movies instead just to see if you’d like the show, none of them are as good as the show but it’s how I first got into the whole thing so they can’t be THAT bad! The first one is the most iconic but the second movie (S) is probably acknowledged as the best of the three. They’re kind of disconnected from the show so you need to know very little going in and it doesn’t spoil anything in the show itself nor do you need to watch the movies to watch the show.

You can find the movies subbed here

https://gogoanime.so//search.html?keyword=Sailor%20Moon%20movie

For the manga!

The source material that most adaptations are based on (although most modern versions tend to rely a little more on the 90s anime as... let’s be honest... the anime had much better ideas in a lot of places) There are several places where you can find the manga, however, unlike a mass manga website, I recommend a Sailor Moon specific site which will have given much more care to the translation of the material.

The best place I’ve found is the ever reliable Miss Dream

https://missdream.org/sailor-moon-scanlations/sailor-moon-manga-scanlations/

For the Live action series! (PGSM)

I was a fool for ever thinking the live action series would be bad just because the effects are terrible and the CG is laughable and they made Luna a plushie. It’s turning out to be a GREAT version of the story! I wouldn’t start with this one at all, but I really do HIGHLY recommend checking it out because it’s writing and characters are far better than they have any right to be in all honesty.

PGSM has never seen an official translation.

You can find fan subbed episodes at both Miss Dream as well as Sea of Serenity. They have different translated versions of the show so you can pick which one you like. (I’m watching the Miss Dream subs but I’m following a blog whose watching the Sea of Serenity subs and both are good)

https://seaofserenity.net/drama/downloads/

https://missdream.org/fansubs/pretty-guardian-sailor-moon/

For the Crystal Reboot!

I actually don’t recommend this one, but I’m gonna mention it anyway because it DOES have its fans. (but again... I... I don’t recommend this one at all X’D)

It’s only done the first 3 seasons of the story and honestly only season 3 is considered passable to me. Season 4 is gonna be released next year as a movie (or 2 movies? It’s unclear).

The reboot was supposed to be a manga-accurate adaptation rather than the 90s show which did a lot of its own thing (for better and worse). However, poor animation quality, weird changes to the story, and making the girls lose a lot of their personality and turning Usagi into someone who is more a damsel in distress than anything, it’s not a great version of the story. I’m only mentioning it out of obligation tbh.

Although apparently Season 3 isn’t so bad. But still :/

You can watch the official release on Crunchyroll

https://www.crunchyroll.com/sailor-moon-crystal

You can also find subbed episodes at the bottom of

https://sailormoonepisodes.com/

as well as

https://gogoanime.so//search.html?keyword=Sailor%20Moon

For the Stage Musicals! (Sera Myu)

The Stage Musicals are a funny thing, being not canon to any of the other versions. Sometimes they tell stories from specific arcs in the manga, sometimes they tell story that don’t feature anywhere else, sometimes they’re about the Sailor Senshi fighting Dracula and Adam’s first wife Lilith who want to turn the world into vampires. Dude I don’t even know XD

I wouldn’t recommend starting here either, as these are more like fun bonus content than anything else.

HOWEVER, the Musicals have something that none of the other versions had, which is “La Soldier” which all Sailor Moon fans are required by law to lose their shit over.

(La Soldier is BRIEFLY in the anime but it was not used to its full potential)

youtube

I don’t know if they newer musicals still use La Soldier tho.

You can find fansubbed versions of the Sera Myu shows at Miss Dream

https://missdream.org/fansubs/sera-myu-fansubs/

And Sea of Serentiy

https://seaofserenity.net/

Sea of Serentiy has the more detailed break down of the musicals by year, distributor, and theater/idol group.

I am the least knowledgeable about Sera Myu so I’ll have to leave that over to them. Little to no Sera Myu shows have been released with official subs.

There is also the ice show but that’s been delayed to next year because of the... troubles.

And there’s a bunch of other stuff too like the SNES game and drama CDs and stuff but I think that starts getting off topic.

I know this is a super long explanation to a simple question but I wanted to be thorough because although the 90s anime is generally the go-to, there are people who prefer other versions more.

#Sailor Moon #masterpost #links #video #image heavy #gif heavy #gif warning #long post #the read more function is so broken you're just gonna have to cope with a long pot #Anonymous

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twistedtummies2 · 1 year

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Barnaby - The Three Best of the Worst

“Babes in Toyland” is a very strange case when it comes to Christmastime staples. Most people haven’t even seen or heard the original operetta created by Victor Herbert (who was inspired by the works of L. Frank Baum), and the actual story changes depending on which of the many televised adaptations (and even a few newer stage interpretations) you look at. Certain things do stay the same throughout them all, but virtually none of them have any real faithfulness to the source material, instead mixing and matching different elements to create their own unique version.

The one thing that practically every version of “Babes in Toyland” keeps, however, is its central antagonist: Barnaby, the Crooked Man of Mother Goose fame. Barnaby is a classic melodrama villain; a pure evil nasty of the highest order, who is entertaining in how unrepentantly and enthusiastically wicked he is. While elements of his character do change throughout different versions, he is an archetypal baddy in every rendition, and while other things in “Toyland” change from version to version - the names of the protagonists, the plots of the stories, and even the songs featured - Barnaby is a presence in every single one. Toyland just isn’t Toyland without its resident nasty ol’ Crooked Man. Out of the numerous takes on “Babes in Toyland,” and numerous takes on Barnaby in turn, everybody has a personal favorite of their own. Today, I just wanted to present my three favorite versions of the character. By extension, you can basically call this my three favorite versions of “Babes in Toyland” as well. Again, there are others out there - a cult classic 80s version starring Keanu Reeves, an episode of the Shirley Temple Show which featured Jonathan Winters as Barnaby, etc. - but these are the three nearest and dearest to my heart. So, without further ado, allow me to present my picks for My Top 3 Favorite Portrayals of Barnaby!

3. Ray Bolger, from the 1961 Disney Film.

The Disney version is probably the best-known take on “Babes in Toyland” nowadays (most likely because it IS the Disney version, so to speak). While the film is a bit clumsy in places, it’s still a lot of fun. Most people agree that the two best parts of the film come in the form of two actors/characters. One is Ed Wynn as the bumbling Toymaker…mostly because it’s Ed Wynn. The other, of course, is Barnaby, played by Ray Bolger. If that name or face seems familiar, Bolger - almost two decades prior to the film - was one of the main characters in a little film from the late 30s I’m sure none of you have heard of called “The Wizard of Oz.” Yes, boys and girls: that’s the Scarecrow! And ironically, I think he and the Wicked Witch would get along splendidly in this outing. Bolger’s charisma is a big part of what makes his Barnaby such a joy; the performance, writing, and direction all REALLY ham the character up to the Nth degree, take this already melodramatic archetype and making him a pure pantomime villain. He breaks the fourth wall, he dances, he gets into a swordfight, he makes all of the crazy faces you’d expect, he even speaks in rhyme! He wears the cape, he twirls the moustache, he’s everything you’d want out of a bad guy like this in spades. Bolger is clearly having the time of his life with this over-the-top slimeball, and it’s just a joy to watch him work. My only problem with this Barnaby, and the reason he’s the lowest in the ranks, is that while Barnaby has always been a hammy character with a humorous side to his personality, I think I prefer it when there’s a bit more balance between the humor and the menace. There are one or two moments where Bolger’s Barnaby is actually pretty threatening (the aforementioned swordfight is a good example), but for the most part he’s just a riot. That’s not a bad thing, because he truly is a ton of fun to watch, I guess I just like it when the character is a LITTLE more menacing.

2. Christopher Plummer, from the 1997 Animated Film.

This TV film adaptation of the story (or is it direct-to-video? There seem to be conflicting accounts there.) is not highly regarded, and admittedly for good reason. Of the three versions listed here, it’s probably the least well-made of the bunch. It’s not God-Awful, but it’s very…“generic 90s animated kids movie,” if that phrase gives you any idea. However, I have a soft spot for this film, largely because it’s actually the first version of “Babes in Toyland” I ever saw. And even as a kid, my favorite character was always the villain of the story: Christopher Plummer as Barnaby Crookedman. (Yes, that is literally his full name in this version, as if his identity needed to be spelled out.) Plummer brings that extra little touch of menace to the part that I felt largely lacking in Bolger’s interpretation; he’s still overall a melodrama villain, but here there’s a bit more balance. In a weird way, Barnaby here feels more like a Disney Villain than…well…the ACTUAL Disney Villain version of Barnaby is! Something else I admire is that they actually give a small amount of empathy to the character in this version: it’s strongly indicated that the reason Barnaby is so cruel and nasty is because, as a child, he was never shown love. He’s never had any friends, never had any toys to play with, and that’s left him crooked both inside and out. However, don’t go thinking that means there’s much reason to sympathize with or feel sorry for Barnaby: this version does some of the absolute worst things of any take on the character, and shows no sign of remorse for any of his actions. There’s no redemption for Barnaby, no matter what his origins; he’s too far gone. Plummer gives a solid performance in the role, and this remains among my Top 12 of his characters just for the sheer nostalgia of it all. Again, the movie overall isn’t too great, but this is one of the first versions I still think of when I think of Barnaby.

1. Henry Brandon, from the 1934 Laurel & Hardy Film.

Laurel & Hardy’s “Babes in Toyland” was first released in 1934 in black-and-white; later the film was re-released in a colorized format (as you can see via the pictorial reference) and retitled “March of the Wooden Soldiers.” (I have no idea why.) What I love most about this film is that, despite being a Laurel & Hardy venture, this actually isn’t a parody piece: unlike some later films of a similar nature, such as “Snow White and the Three Stooges” or the Abbott & Costello Meet the Monsters series, which are basically comedic satires of the characters or stories involved, “Babes in Toyland” is treated more like a straightforward fantasy/fairy-tale film. It definitely DOES have a comedic side to it, of course, but rather than mocking the universe in question or contrasting it sharply with the silliness of the comedians involved, it just treats Laurel & Hardy as if they are just characters in the story, so to speak. The film isn’t afraid to get a bit dark and intense at times, and this is most evident with Barnaby. Played by Henry Brandon (nee Kleinbach), Silas Barnaby, as he’s called in this version, definitely has some humorous scenes. There’s absolutely no subtlety to the role at all. But unlike Bolger, Brandon brings an edge of danger and something bordering on the edge of insanity with the character, which makes his Barnaby feel far more intimidating. He gets involved in some slapstick, but the shrieking laugh he lets out as he tries to summon man-eating monsters, the almost animalistic ferocity he shows in his duel with Tom-Tom Piper, and near-demonic expression he has on his face as he leads his forces to invade Toyland at the climax, all give him a definite darkness that no other version of Barnaby has really been able to match. On top of that, there’s a sort of unintentional empathy to this Barnaby, as well: it’s a long story, but contemporary audiences have noted there are elements of Brandon’s performance and the script that hint there might be a soft side to Barnaby under his devilish demeanor. While likely not intended by the actor, nor the writers, they’re still interesting to note. In other words, this Barnaby has everything both of the previous Barnabys I’ve spoken of have in spades, and he’s in a generally better (albeit older) movie! This is the version I now think of first and foremost when I think of Barnaby, or even when I think of the Crooked Man from Mother Goose. That, above all else, earns him the meaningless title of My Favorite Portrayal of Barnaby from “Babes in Toyland.” Happy Christmas Eve, everybody!

#christmas #list #countdown #best #favorites #actors #acting #babes in toyland #march of the wooden soldiers #disney #mgm #laurel & hardy #barnaby #crooked man #barnaby crookedman #silas barnaby #top 3

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yurileclercseyeliner · 3 years

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A Dumb Rant About A Webtoon

Okay so I’m actually super into reading webcomics (I read them on both Webtoon and Tapas), and although this has nothing to do with my blog (I AM considering making a side blog for webcomic content/reviews tho) I sort of feel like ranting about one that I saw. I’m sorry, but if you like Athena Complex this is probably going to piss you off. Admittedly, I couldn’t get far into the comic without being upset about this so I stopped reading a few chapters in, so that may affect my opinion here. This is mainly my opinion though, and if you disagree with me it’s fine.

So I did mention in my Fire Emblem kelpie beast unit post my opinion on mythological adaptation. Essentially, I believe that when you adapt any sort of mythological being into your story you need to keep these two things in mind:

The recognizable features/symbols/abilities: by this I mean what physical features is this being known to have, what are their physical/magical abilities, what objects are they most associated with, etc. You don’t need to have every single thing that is mentioned in the source material, just a decent combination of them that can allow the reader to easily connect the adaptation to the source material.

This factor mainly applies to individual characters as opposed to a full species or classification of creatures (I have read a decent number of mythological adaptations and have seen a mythical species depicted as evil in one adaptation and benevolent or neutral in another and enjoyed both, it all depends on if it makes sense in the context). What are the character’s main personal views, goals, and motivations? By this I mean how do they think and what are their views on the world around them, and what is the context surrounding that? Essentially, what can their main personalities and motivations be boiled down to and why?

After those two factors, I think that you can then go buck wild with any other characterization as long as it isn’t contradictory and makes sense in your story.

Now that I have set that down here’s my deal with Athena Complex. Athena Complex is a Webtoon based on Greek mythology that follows Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom and strategy. She falls in love with Poseidon, the god of the sea, and is rejected by him. Fueled by vengeance and a desire to win his heart she takes the form of a high school boy in order to take revenge on his reincarnation. Basically, this entire Webtoon is practically a public execution of a large part of what makes Athena, well, Athena.

First off, I will give credit to Athena Complex for at least getting the symbolism correct, Athena is a goddess of wisdom and war and when in the form of a goddess her design reflects that with her armor, among other things such as her association with owls, so the first aspect that I mentioned is fine.

Additionally there is the fact that they also did heavily tap into the prideful aspect of Athena’s nature. Essentially in the source material Athena is a VERY prideful goddess and will take any opportunity to prove her worth if someone attempt to upstage her, and gets very angry when she fails or is insulted in the process (ie the story of Arachne, the story behind the double flute). This aspect could also be seen slightly in Athena Complex’s Athena’s behavior, which I can also give them credit for.

But that’s where a lot of the similarities end. Tbh a large majority of these issues surround the second aspect, the basics of the figure’s personality and motivations.

First, Athena’s stance on romance. Original Athena...literally wanted nothing to do with any sort of romantic relationship. Seriously it’s one of her main things one of her epithets is literally “Parenthos”, which means virgin. No lovers, no sex, no marriage, no intentionally created children (I say intentionally bc she and Hepheastus accidentally created a child when his snot got onto a torn piece of her cloak, but that’s a different weird story), nothing. She solely focused on the expansion of knowledge and learning. She had no time for any sort of relationship. Making Athena in Athena Complex heavily motivated by an unrequited romantic attraction literally rips one of her main core values to shreds.

And this in my opinion one of the worst offenses, MAKING THE SUBJECT OF THAT ROMANTIC ATTRACTION POSEIDON. Literally one MAJOR thing for the original Athena and Poseidon is that they HATE each other. (Also Athena is literally Poseidon’s niece, but tbh that’s a less heinous crime bc Greek mythology was weird about that shit, multiple gods married their siblings/cousins/uncles/aunts/nieces/nephews/etc., it’s weird. Also in Athena Complex Poseidon acted the main person raising Athena, which is ALSO really fucking weird and concerning, anyway back to why they hate each other).

The Contest for Athens: Basically before the Greek city of Athens was called Athens the people were looking for a patron deity, and both Athena and Poseidon tried to lay their claim. In order to determine who the city would go to, they decided to have a contest of who could give the city the best gift. Poseidon gave the city some horses (for transportation and farmwork) and a small spring in the middle of the city (note: the water in the spring was salt water and therefore undrinkable). Athena gave them olive trees (for food, making oil, wood, etc.). The peoplr decided that Athena’s gift was better and thus named the city “Athens” after her, leaving Poseidon incredibly salty.

The Medusa Incident (TW: possible rape/non-con): So Poseidon was having a nice little affair with a mortal woman named Medusa (you notice how this name is familiar, right? that’s important). It’s a little iffy on whether or not this affair was fully consensual on Medusa’s end due to the sort of victim blame-y aspects to this story, hence the trigger warning. So Poseidon his having his fun and decides to find a nice little place they can go to do the nasty. Where does he think would be a great idea? One of Athena’s temples of course! You know, a literal place of worship dedicated to his rival who is known to dislike involvement in romantic/sexual relationships? Nothing could go wrong at all! They of course get caught, and Athena, being pissed, decides to curse Medusa with snakes for hair and the ability to turn people into stone just by looking at them (see why the name was familiar?) For good measure she also curses Medusa’s two sisters with the snake hair. The sisters are then dubbed the Gorgons and then go live in isolation on a island until they are killed by Perseus (a hero that Athena was helping).

So this Webtoon completely ignores the context behind this hatred and decides to make it into an enemies to lovers story based on unrequited feelings (the feelings of a person for their childhood caretaker too...still weird). I guess they wanted to do enemies to lovers and such based on a rivalry dynamic, but in doing so they erased most of the actual substance behind that rivalry by making it romantic and destroying the characterization of one of the main characters.

I can understand taking creative liberties, but before you do so you NEED to have a full understanding of the characters that you are adapting. If a mythological character is known for a certain practice (refraining from romance) or for having an extreme distaste for another figure (Athena hating Poseidon), INCLUDE IT. You NEED to have all of the bare bones basics before you start taking liberties.

For example, the original Athena:

Goddess of wisdom and strategy

Association with owls, olives, carries a shield known as Aegis

Highly values learning and knowledge

Prideful to a fault

Virgin goddess with no interest in romantic or sexual relationships

Extreme hatred for Poseidon as a result of repeated negative encounters

Those are the bare bones basics, after that you can do what you want.

Honestly I don’t think that this Webtoon is necessarily BAD, but it is VERY annoying when you have the context behind these characters (hence my frustration and inability to make it past 10 chapters). In my opinion, if the author wanted to write this storyline, they should have made their own OCs as opposed to butchering a pre-existing figure’s characterization.

(Also I’m so sorry I know that this isn’t relevant to my argument BUT THE POSEIDON REINCARNATION LOOKS SO BORING HE LOOKS LIKE A BACKGROUND CHARACTER WHERE IS THE FLAVOR????)

#athena complex #athena complex webtoon #webtoon #rant #again this is just my opinion #i don’t expect anyone to fully agree with me #tw mention of rape/noncon

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raptorific · 3 years

Note

Hey I have a question since you seem like a big DC fan! My favorite moment in Shazam was when Superman showed up to hang out with the kids at the end of the movie, it just seemed so cool and very “Superman.” Why do you think a lot of superhero movies cut that out and go for a much dark tone now? I feel like that might be why people think cool characters like Superman are boring?

So, I do have a lot of thoughts on this, but I have to try and boil them down to avoid going off on several tangents. There’s a lot I agree with and a lot I disagree with in your question.

First and foremost, I disagree with the idea that a lot of superhero movies go for a dark tone these days. It’s so rare that I see people claim a superhero movie is “dark” and it turns out to actually be dark. People cite Man of Steel and Batman v. Superman as “dark” but they’re actually some of the most hopeful and uplifting movies I’ve ever seen. They have a more subdued, serious tone, and they explore more concept themes, but they’re not cynical, and some of the most bleak, cynical superhero movies I’ve ever seen masquerade as being lighthearted.

Second, I really liked that moment in “Shazam” too! I actually really liked all of “Shazam!” It was an incredibly funny movie, which makes sense, as it’s a comedy. I also feel like I wouldn’t enjoy a Superman movie that attempted to take on the tone of “Shazam,” or, for that movie, a Shazam movie that attempted to take on the tone of “Man of Steel.” Superman can be adapted as a lighthearted franchise, but I also think a certain sense of somber duty and responsibility has to be involved.

I think that the superhero properties that actually DO go for “Dark,” rare as they might be, are usually trying to seem like they have something to say even though the people behind then have next to no insight on the genre (”The Boys”) or they’re trying to mark their thing as different even though the tone they’ve chosen is completely incongruous with the source material (”Brightburn”).

That’s part of the DC Movies’ general mission statement, in their current iteration: all of their movies, even the weaker ones like Suicide Squad, generally reflect the tone of their source material. If you watch Man of Steel and then go pick up one of the definitive Superman comics like “All-Star Superman” or “Birthright” or “Last Son of Krypton,” you’re going to find the tone pretty familiar. If you walked out of “Shazam” and went directly to your LCBS and said “subscribe me to the current run of Shazam comics right this second,” you’ll find something very similar. The tone of the source material is faithfully adapted, but a lot of people unfortunately don’t want that. With Superman in particular, what they want is a movie that already came out in the 70s, that no one is stopping them from watching again.

I also think there’s something to be said about one specific superhero studio that tries very hard to be tonally homogeneous, pushing their creative talent to adapt all heroes with exactly the same tone regardless of the tone of the source material. With a few notable exceptions, pretty much all of the MCU movies share a unified tone and aesthetic because as far as the MCU is concerned, all of their movies are part of a unified franchise. It’s why they mostly dropped the numbering of sequels after the Iron Man movies: "Spider-Man: Far From Home” isn’t actually Spider-Man 3, it’s MCU 27, and they don’t really want you to think of it that way. While this tonal flattening allows them to have any character show up in any movie without any sort of Tone Clashing, it also means the creative talent is stuck in a box, unable to make anything that’s actually something, because the studio is absolutely terrified to make a movie that some people like and others hate.

People tend to say the MCU has a more lighthearted tone, but I honestly don’t think that’s true. I think the MCU has a no-hearted tone. With a few specific exceptions where a truly gifted filmmaker has managed to color outside the lines and make something great, the MCU movies aren’t actually designed for the audience to feel something about them. They’re designed for the audience to object to nothing about them. They hit emotional beats, they tell you when to clap and when to laugh and when to cry, but at the end of the movie, they’ve taken every opportunity to play it safe and avoid the risk of any Bad Buzz at all.

So, going back to your original question, the only recent superhero movie I can actually think of that’s been dark, bleak, and cynical is “Deadpool.” I know, it hides behind a veneer of nonstop dick jokes and meta commentary, but it’s also the only Superhero movie I’ve ever seen that outright states that the idea of trying to be a better person than the people you fight is naive and sanctimonious, and that “kill the villain” shouldn’t be a difficult choice that you only make as a last resort when forced, it should be the first thing you try, with a smile on your face.

Beyond that, the movies I always hear derided as Dark and Gritty (MoS, BvS, Logan, etc) are actually fairly uplifting and hopeful and focus on why the ideals of heroism are worth striving towards and even sacrificing for, even when they’re not easy.

Anyway, hope this helps!

#Anonymous

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irandomblogfulb · 3 years

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FATE: What happens when you get a bunch of middle aged white guys to adapt a cartoon for girls

Well, I just went through 6 hours of fate and I have a lot of opinions on it. Yeah, this is going to be long (slightly under 3k words) so putting it under read more and obvious spoilers.

PSA before delving right in:

1) Yes, I will be comparing to the original. Any comparisons are not through rose-tinted nostalgia glasses. There are parts here and there that I genuinely think were done better in the cartoon on a writing standpoint.

2) This is purely my opinion and overall negative. Don't like it? Don't read. I'm all up for discussion but I don't want another person crying to me about how I “ruined” their experience of the show.

3) If you like Fate then good for you. This isn’t me bashing people who like it.

I've spit it up into sub sections just for my own convince.

1. The problem with the 'I'm not like other girls' trope

This pertains to the entire Bloom-Sky-Stella love triangle. I wasn't as pressed about it compared to other winxers (and I loved Stella's and Brandon's relationship on my rewatch). In fact, I was okay with it. But then I sat down and watched the show and there's a lot of underlying problems with the love triangle. Particularly pitting Bloom and Stella against each other for Sky's affection.

Now this part of the love triangle I already didn't like. Correct me if I'm wrong, since I dropped the OG Winx after season 5 but the Winx while they did have their conflicts and arguments, never fought over a boy. I really appreciated that from the cartoon so seeing that live action would fall into that trap – I was mildly annoyed at that. Then it hit me. It's Bloom and Stella.

The seemingly ordinary girl vs the pristine princess of Solaria. If the title didn't give it away, you should get the point by now. Others have already called it by now but the "I'm not like other girl's" trope in itself, while seemingly feminist is actually misogynist. Saying the more masculine type of girl is better than the feminine is inherently misogynist. Stella, the prime princess, girly and feminine, is villainized by the love triangle. Sky's and Stella's relationship is toxic and Stella's overt co-dependence and jealousy are already big fat red signs - but Sky's and Bloom's relationship is built on how she's "different". Bloom isn't like Stella, she's "real".

2. Am I supposed to like Riven?

As the title puts it, wtf am I supposed to feel about Riven. Is he supposed to be a good guy? Do I root for him? Is he morally ambiguous? Because holy shit compared to OG!Riven, this guy is diabolical and much much worse! OG!Riven is an asshole and he teams up with the trix but his arc was very simple and easy to understand. He joins the bad guys, distances himself from the good guys, the trix betray his ass, he self-reflects in the dungeon - escapes and redeems himself. Net!Riven is so bad to the point where you can't redeem him and the writers don't even try. Freddie Thorp is good in his role. (however, he definitely doesn't pass for a 17-year-old. He's 26 and it shows) and he actually makes the cringe dialogue work. But he's way too diabolical and downright predatory. The scene where he forces Dane to gulp down his spiked drink - it’s worse seeing it than reading it. That grossed me out more than the gore.

What makes it worse, nobody properly calls him out. Beatrix kinda does on his homophobia – “Homophobic bashing by GIF” - and Sky does chastise him, but they still tolerate him. It is kinda funny in a way Sky has a whole ass arc about how he's enabling Stella's problematic behaviour by still dating her after she blinded her friend but doesn't realize he's doing the same for Riven.

The only person that really puts her foot down with Riven is Terra and nobody takes her seriously about anything she says.

Everyone is very laissez-faire around him and that's not how you respond to your friend being problematic. (Hey, kinda like the other girls sans Aisha are with Bloom!) Everyone surrounding Riven is so disgusting and the notion of him supposedly being a good guy is very hard to buy into. His whole relationship with Dane has a section of it’s own because there’s just a lot to unpack.

3. Stella I am so sorry

I'm also in the majority hating how they've tarnished Stella. Basically, they turned her into the stereotypical rich bully with mommy issues.

I get that Stella has an abusive mom but that’s no excuse to be a total bitch to her roommates. And no, her roommates shouldn't accept her back with open arms. And she doesn't even redeem herself - the girls just accept her back after her mom pulls her from Alfea.

And this is also another issue with the writing were the characters suddenly just change their opinions on a whim. Suddenly Stella likes the winx, suddenly Terra misses Stella even though having that girl literally gives her anxiety. Suddenly Aisha's on Bloom's side in the end.

This isn't me simping for the cartoon out of nostalgia. I was mostly okay with the idea of Stella and Sky hooking up. But Looking at it from a creative standpoint - looking at the source material, and the many paths you can take this character, the best thing Brian Young and co. can think of for her was turning her into the stereotypical rich bully that we've seen time and time again? No deconstruction no meta take, it's played out exactly how you’d expect it.

Again, this isn't me simping for the show. Purely from a creative standpoint Stella was such a major let down. There's so much to the character and Brian Young took the easiest, saturated path.

4. That one scene with Bloom's parents

You know the one. Mike unhinges Bloom's bedroom doors and Vanessa cusses out and insults her child like a petty teen bully. Forgetting how utterly cringey that scene was, you can't have her mom go batshit insane on her child, then act like she's this loving parent that cares so deeply about her daughter. Screw that! Vanessa deserved those 3rd degree burns! She invaded her daughter's privacy. Bloom didn't even do anything wrong!

I can't buy into this narrative of Vanessa and Mike being loving parents when they do something like that. Seriously who thought that was okay?

5. Pity Parties for everyone.

I already discussed this in Stella’s section but I don’t like the “it’s okay for me be a shitty person because my life sucks :)” narrative Fate tries to pull. They did it with Stella, Bloom, Riven.

What I liked about the first season of Winx Club is Bloom’s arc and her character as a whole. Because while she went through shit, from the Trix, to finding out she was adopted, her existential crisis, not feeling like she belonged, losing the dragon flame, she went through a lot. She didn’t throw a pity party. She didn’t whine, bitch and complain. She allowed herself to feel upset, took it as it is and tried to make lemonade out of lemons. And I respect that.

Net!Bloom is agrevating. She does some dumb, reckless stuff but it’s excused because she’s the protagonist? She let the war criminal out, the school gets taken over by the bad guys because of Bloom. Faragonda fucking dies because she let the war criminal out! The burned ones attacked the school because she let the war criminal out!!! But no, Aisha’s villainized for calling Bloom out because Bloom’s existential crisis is more important then anything else.

Getting to Sky, he isn’t as bad as the others. He doesn’t become a shitty person because of his problems. (Though lowkey flirting with Bloom while he hooks up with Stella is uh not good.) But he does come across incredibly whiny. Because of the cringey dialogue and the unnecessary swearing I can’t take his speech on opening up to Bloom seriously. I laughed throughout the whole thing and Bloom leaving his unconscious body there was the icing on the cake.

One of the few characters that deserved a pity party is Terra. She’s very much like OG!Bloom in a way. She is bullied by Dane and Riven, has body insecurities, anxiety, nobody listens to her and at most only tolerates her. Despite all the crap that is thrown her way she still reminds humble, kind, and respectful. And she is one of the few characters that deserves more support than what she got out of the season.

5. Bloom, Aisha, Tokenism and their awful relationship

I’m going to be upfront, their relationship sucks. The core of their dynamic is what Aisha can do for Bloom. It’s very one-sided. Bloom only goes to Aisha to help solve her problems, which Aisha gladly does – but when Aisha disagrees with Bloom or says something Bloom doesn’t like, Bloom suddenly goes off and Aisha’s made to be the bad guy. Even though she’s right? And Aisha has her own problems as well, shown to also struggle with her powers. But nope, that’s pushed to the back burner because Bloom needs help.

I am all for creative freedom. I can stomach Stella x actual Sky. I can stomach turning Stella into a rich mean girl. I can stomach the dark academia aesthetic but what Brian Young and co. did to Aisha is just plain racist. Screw the “it’s an adaptation” excuse. Turning this character who had a rich storyline and was a princess into a white girl’s magical negro who fixes all her problems is racist and by definition tokenism. And by whitewashing the other two characters of color, making Aisha the only poc in the group – that’s the worst thing you can do to her.

And frankly we need more black princesses on screen.

6. Dane and the homophobia of the show

Towards the show’s climax it’s revealed Dane is helping Beatrix because she accepts he’s “different”. Not only does this go back to my pity party rant but like bruh,

1) Beatrix never really did anything for Dane? She hung out and smoked with him a bit, but that’s all. You’re telling me Terra wouldn’t accept Dane? Beatrix never helped him and he never really opened up to her about his struggles.

2) Nobody else, not even background characters bully or harass Dane for being “different”. It’s only Riven, the guy he’s crushing on. The whole falling in love with the bad boy/abuser trope is bad in a hetero relationship and that still stands for a gay one. And I know damn well if Dane was a woman half of the shit Riven did to Dane wouldn’t slide.

It makes no sense for Dane to side with the bad guys when Riven’s the one bullying him and Beatrix is complacent in the bullying. Oh, and having your second black* character who’s also lgbt+/potentially questioning be a villain? Not good.

I’m all for gay and poly rep, but not like this. If Stella and Sky’s toxic relationship is going to be called out for what it is, why not Dane’s?

*Idk if Theo Graham is light-skinned black or biracial so I’ll just refer to him as black.

7. The plot

It’s very predictable. Personally, wasn’t fond of the ‘twist of a twist of a twist’ style of writing. The story tries to be nuanced and deep but it’s not. Common sense is treated like a big revelation. Not trusting the war criminal you barely know isn’t as big of a take that the writers try to make it out to be.

8. Everything else

· Beatrix is fine. No Icy but did like the gothic bookworm aesthetic.

· Sam is just there to be Musa’s love interest and provide some dumb drama between Musa and Terra. I thought they’d go the Edward/Bella root – Musa’s drawn to Sam because she can’t sense his emotions for some reason. Nope, they just get together for the obligatory make out sessions. Don’t care much for the relationship or the character.

· Since the powers are all elemental shouldn’t there be classes purely for an elemental? Classes purely for fire fairies, etc?

· Musa’s powers are confusing. If she has no control over them and they are “always on”, shouldn’t her eyes constantly be glowing purple? Very wishy washy. Sometimes they overwhelm her and other times she has complete control. Her character is just there for plot stuff.

· Terra is one of the better characters but can’t enjoy her knowing about the whitewashing. Why can’t we have a plus sized character just exist and not have body issues?

· Sky doesn’t feel like a prince. Characters treat him like his dad is a war hero and not the King of Eraklyon. There was a point where I thought I misheard and thought his dad was just a war hero and not a king.

· Why try to justify Rosalind’s war crime if she’s going to be the big bad anyways?

· The way the characters treat death/act around death is very weird. Musa and Terra see a pile of dead bodies and they’re unreasonable calm. Especially Bloom an “ordinary teenage girl from earth”, reacts very nonchalant when death and war crimes are brought up. Doesn’t help the show tries to push this “they’re kids fighting a war” narrative.

· Can’t buy into the girls’ friendship. The Aisha/Bloom dynamic is centred on what Aisha can do for Bloom. Bloom only cares about herself and only goes to her friends to help with her problems. Most of Musa’s and Terra’s interaction centre around Sam. Stella didn’t care for the girls until her mom showed up and pulled a 180. The girls were quick to turn on Aisha when she sided with the adults.

· I have no problem with technology existing but why do they have Instagram, Tiktok and Tumblr? The otherworld is a completely separated from Earth, why do they have the same technology?

9. Brian Young, what do you mean by mature?

I grew up on the 4kids dub before transitioning to the Nick dub for season 4 and 5 then dropping the cartoon for good. So naturally on my rewatch of the cartoon I decided to go watch the RAI dub since I heard it’s more accurate and 4Kids are infamous for their horrid localisations straying too much to the source material. Upon finishing season 1 and currently watching season 2, a few things took me by surprise. For one, the cartoon is surprisingly dark. The schools are at war with the Trix and their army of Darkness, Sky almost dies in Season 2, Riven almost dies and the Trix thinks he suicided, it’s heavily implied in Season 2 Darkar murdered some of the pixies, the paedophilic undertones of Bloom and Avalon’s relationship, the list goes on.

When the interview with Brian Young came out, he said Fate would be a mature take on the cartoon. And I wondered, what did he meant by mature? Was he going to delve deeper into the darker aspects of the show, or did he mean he was going to have the girls swear and have sex? Watching Fate, I found my answer.

If you take out the gore, swearing, drug and alcohol usage from the live action, the maturity is on par with the RAI dub. The difference is in the presentation. This is what sucks about the mentality surrounding live action remakes. Because the OG!Winx was colourful with glittery transformations , was super girly and overall had a positive upbeat tone (not forgetting 2D animated) - it can’t be taken seriously. You have to strip all that, the colour, the kindness, the femininity in order to be deemed mature.

10. Wrapping up

I went into Fate expecting the worst and honestly, it wasn’t that bad. There were things I liked about it. The show looks pretty, and I did like what they were trying to do with Sky’s arc. The actors did what they could with the material. Freddie Thorp made the cringe dialogue work and Abigail Cowen proves she can carry a show as the lead.

Fate is your generic, YA, dark academia show. It follows all the tropes of the YA genre to a T. If that’s your niche, then you’ll love Fate and I’m not bashing anyone who liked it.

For me, as a creative, it doesn’t capitalise on the strengths of the source material. I’m not asking for Winx Club again, as I’ve reiterated, I’m all for creative freedom. But Brian Young, Iginio Straffi, whoever worked on this – they could’ve created something new, innovative, something that stood out from the hordes of other YA shows. They had good material in their hands! But what I got - I’ve seen before, and I’ve seen it done better. That’s a major disappointment.

As a winx club fan, don’t bother watching this. It’s a very diluted version of the Winx. In trying to capture the interest of the adult fans who grew up with the franchise – Iginio showed how out of touch he is if he thinks this is what they wanted.

#fate the winx saga #netwinx #back on my winx club bs #long post #this took me like 4 days to write

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