𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Name: Bea

Cinefile/film enthusiast (Letterboxd: snz_i)

1. AHSOKA demolishes everyone when it comes to spice. Shes not like Anakin- who just eats everything in sight (she has standards) but spice has never been an issue. She lives for that shit

2. FIVES has managed to build up a tolerance over time and rigorous training purely for the satisfaction of being the best at handling it. And when he has the opportunity to show it off, he REALLY doesn’t shut up.

3. ANAKIN just eats anything. And we all know that tattooine has some spicy ass food. He never really complains about anything he eats, and tries not to boast about his spice tolerance, but can’t help smirking when obi-wan is nearing tears over chilli peppers.

4. JESSE has a pretty good tolerance. Maybe slightly above average, but always pushes himself WAYY too far in the spirit of competition and ends up with a stomach ache.

5. DOGMA refuses to participate in any sort of competition, but secretly laughs at Rex for how poor his tolerance is.

6. HARDCASE once didnt wash his hands after eating something spicy, rubbed it in his eye, and hasn’t forgotten. He still swears he was blind for a good 12 hours.

7. OBI-WAN has pretty atrocious spice tolerance. There have been many an occasion on diplomatic missions where out of respect he has been forced to eat something dangerously spicy and almost died. He gets really red in the face.

_____________________________

When Neytiri falls deep into slumber, unconsciousness taking her battered and wethered body into rest, she dreams of fire.

She dreams of the Witch’s den, the loud percussive music thrumming rhythmically before you even see the camp.

It was an omen to the pain to come, to flames that towered, the screeching, the bone and the ash and the metal that splintered like glass with the light, sending shards of amber-yellow dancing on the ash below.

The circle of warriors moves as one catastrophic being, swaying and yipping and ululating as a concordance, shadowed faces revealed by the sprays of light.

The fire exposed everything.

And in the centre of the great mass of raw violence, was the witch- holding two twirling buugengs of stone. She orchestrated the fire, and in route, the warriors. She sprayed dust from her palms into the centre of the flames, erupting in a great column of heat, spitting embers from its gaping maws.

And the witch laughed, a horrifically beautiful sound, like a silver bell. It was not innocent, but pure to the point of truth, and expression of true enjoyment and pleasure in the display of power as she undulated with the horde.

And in her dreams, Neytiri strides towards her unafraid. She is strong-hearted. She does not fear witches as little girls do, she does not fear false prophets. She does not fear Medusa despite her many snakes, if she does not turn her enemies to stone.

The time slows as the witch takes notice, crimson body paint still twisting and rippling with every flick of her body as she moves with the flames. And Neytiri is filled with hate. It dug into her forehead like an arrowhead, and spread through her brain in a river of anguish, dripping hot and heavy in his limbs and igniting her ribs like lightning. It wriggled into her spine like a maggot, twisting and turning and writhing like it had touched a hot pan. And it settled into her gut, weighted and warm (hate should not feel like this. Hate should not feel good)

And in her dream, she lunges and tears as her throat, wanting to rip and seethe, to drag her nails through her shoulders like soft, overripe fruit, to burn the feathers that adorned her, to bare her, and shame her, and hiss and spit and tear open and drink whatever liquid poured out. To pull apart whatever made up the witch made from ash and fire and stolen lives and consumes with sickening hunger.

And in her dream, the witch of fire softens. She becomes pliant, and pliable, and flashes of white smiles and softer touches.

And in her dream, the witch holds her tight and rocks her slowly, and pressed ash marked fingers to her forehead and whispers sweet nothings.

And Neytiri wakes up in the home of her broken family, torn apart by hate and anguish, and held together by devotion to the strange thing that is family.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/82273316/chapters/216533991

The colonel had always been impulsive. Quick to shoot, quick to fuck- but this had been a new low.

(Cross posted to ao3- @https_b3a)

Water was a rare thing on bridgehead. Atleast, the running kind. There was no issue with obtaining the artificially manufactured, bottled kind that tasted faintly of rubber and hot plastic. Taps werent really available, and hand washing was mainly hand-sanitizer.

So, standing where he was on the sand, in ankle deep water- he was in awe.

The water, though ice cold and sending Icicles through his veins, was pleasant as it moved with the tide. He didn’t have many memories from before, not of the beach, not of the water, or the sand or the forest. Not of the sullies (the traitors, the villains, the bad guys, the killers, the killers, the killers) and not, really, of himself.

Here is what Spider knows:

-he was killed by the sullies because they didn’t care for him

-his dad loves him, and brought him back

-he is miles “spider” soccoro and always will be

-he is not miles “spider” soccoro, and never will be because he’s a fraud

-he likes the beach

-he has lots of family and uncle lyle is his favourite

-he doesn’t have a real mama because his daddy made him in a test tube

-he likes to fly

“Spider! Stay where I can see ya’ boy!” His father yelled, hand cupped to his cheek from a few meters away, kicking a foot out to send a spray of water in Spider’s direction, eliciting a high pitched laugh from him.

He waded a little deeper into the water, until his waist was shrouded in frigid water, waves lapping up at his bared chest. He didn’t particularly like the cold, bridgehead was cold in some areas. His least favourite was the “learning facility” where he was given an IPad of sorts and told to match shapes, and remember cards even when his brain was slow and his hands shook and he yelled. And, he had to have his search history checked daily by his father. One time he looked up “where is a forest?” And quaritch went ballistic, spittle flying as he told him how “curiousty killed the cat” (he wasnt sure what a cat was. Z-dog said it was like a nantang but with fur and humans kept them as pets. It made Spider uncomfortable to hear about)

But he didn’t mind the ocean kind of cold.

He was pulled from his train of thought when he heard the sloshing of his fathers thick legs plowing through the water, parting the sea like Moses did in the stories Lopez told him sometimes about a man who came to earth to save everyone, but also made the earth. Didnt make much sense to him personally.

His fathers hands placed firmly on his traps, squeezing and kneading his shoulders like he sometimes got spider to do after a lomg mission because he was getting old and “my muscles ain’t how they used to be, spi”

He gazed out onto the horizon, lifting his hand up to rest on spider’s cropped, coiled hair. (Apparently when he was human it was curly too, and blonde. Just like his dads was when he was a human. Except his dad didnt have curly hair, it was short and pin straight, and rule following, whilst spider’s hair kinked and coiled, and curled, and was wild and untamed. Until, the time had been pulling his hair too much and the majority of it was sheared off by Quaritch over the bathroom sink one night)

“Y’enjoying the beach, huh kid?” He chuckled lowly, and Spider nodded, humming in agreement.

“S’nice. Less quiet.” Spider didnt like the quiet. It was quiet in the learning facility, it was quiet when his father left for briefings and missions where he couldn’t come, and it was quiet at night when he was alone.

Quaritch made a noise halfway between a huff and a laugh.

“You never did like the quiet. When you was just a baby, you screamed your little lungs out. Weared your poor mama out, so when she had t’ sleep I’d try and get you down. Only slept if you were wedged between us, made sleeping arrangements mighty difficult”

Spider liked hearing stories about when he was a baby. A lot of the stories told by his father and the squad were less enjoyable. Stories of knights and dames, and snakes, and wild children (Z-dog had once called him Mowgly at the mess hall, and Quaritch had raged at her. He didn’t know what it meant, but he was sure it wasn’t nice. Prager patted him on the back and told him she was just joking around, which she did a lot of, except they werent funny)

Many of the stories had meanings to them. Like the story of the boy who had wings made of wax and soared too high and came to a sat, splattered end. This story shows that boys must listen to their fathers, or they will meet bruised, sticky ends. Especially boys with melted brains, who had died and been brought back into newer, bluer bodies. (This has been a message Spider knew even before the story)

Spider opened his mouth and paused for a second, quaritch leaning down to listen as he spoke.

“…can we go fly now, dad?”

“Course, kid. Go pull your boots on, we’ll head off in a few.” He winked, patting Spider on the back a little too hard, so much so that he nearly toppled over, as he jogged back through the water, rolled up tactical pants dampening at the cuffs as he yelled to Lyle to start harnessing up the banshees’.

Spider hurriedly rushed onto the shore, sloppily wiping the sand off his feet as he pulled his boots on, his second boot only half on as he hopped towards his father.

“Y’got your laces done?” He called, not unkindly.

“Yup” he lied without a second thought.

Without saying a word, Quaritch squatted down with a grunt and began to tie his laces, mumbling “jus’ lemme…there you go..”

Spider stood, impatiently stiff. He hated that his dad still had to tie his shoes. He wasn’t a baby- he just couldnt do it, his movement hesitating, and shaking until he got frustrated and threw his boots across the floor and went barefoot. (His father seemed to find this funny, claiming that wearing a working man’s boots’ll “put hairs on your chest”. He didn’t really want that)

Office job Star Wars AU with obi wan constantly working overtime, and Ahsoka bringing him tea on breaks in a “best boss ever” mug