[look, he's no stranger to threats. when you spend the better part of twenty-plus years being periodically threatened to be eaten, among other, you know, occupational/life/whatever hazards, you kinda just start learning to let a lot of them roll off of you. sure, there are some you should definitely take seriously, but most people never really follow through, so. yeah.
and, well, in short, this is the story of how (1) peter quill ended up getting himself a whole barrel-full of freezing cold water on a freezing cold morning, and how he ended up learning the hard way that these are part of that percentage of threats you should actually take seriously.
anyway, teeth chattering, like, every two seconds, he eventually ends up down at the training field with everyone else, where he's got — a sword? which, like, you can't spar with guns, he gets that, but this is not his thing, definitely not his thing, it's him - guns, gamora - swords, that's what the things are. and he thinks, for a second, about how if she were here, right now, watching him trying to fumble his way around a freakin' sword while standing here sopping freakin' wet, she'd have that little smile that he knows means she thinks something's hilarious — and, honestly, he wouldn't even be mad. and —
that's when he feels something (someone?) hit him.
he looks up, indignant, with a frown, and says, equally indignant:]
Seriously? We didn't even start the freakin' fight yet!
hit and run
[here's the thing: for better or worse, and hey, he can admit that, a lot of the time, it's mostly worse, he just can't leave stuff like this alone — not when it'd involved helpless frogs and schoolyard assholes in missouri a whole lifetime ago, and definitely not when it's ever involved actual people, especially people who can't really defend themselves in much of any way it matters. it's not cool and it never has been, and it never will be.
he's there in literally about two seconds, rushing straight into the fray without so much as thinking twice about it, putting himself between the kid and the guys after him for some reason.]
Hey, hey, hey, whoa, whoa. [his hands are up, in what he hopes is a universal symbol of "don't kick my ass."] Dude, I really don't think this is the best way to go about this. Like, I'm just saying, super bad look all around. [he looks around, swallows a little.] At least put down the clubs, because I can guarantee you no one's listening to you when you've got them, because they're just looking at you, and they're thinking "that's a freakin' club", and there's just nothing getting through. Absolutely nothing.
[anyone around can, you know, feel free to chime in/help. that'd be great, because he's kinda outnumbered here. kinda.]
peter quill | mcu
[look, he's no stranger to threats. when you spend the better part of twenty-plus years being periodically threatened to be eaten, among other, you know, occupational/life/whatever hazards, you kinda just start learning to let a lot of them roll off of you. sure, there are some you should definitely take seriously, but most people never really follow through, so. yeah.
and, well, in short, this is the story of how (1) peter quill ended up getting himself a whole barrel-full of freezing cold water on a freezing cold morning, and how he ended up learning the hard way that these are part of that percentage of threats you should actually take seriously.
anyway, teeth chattering, like, every two seconds, he eventually ends up down at the training field with everyone else, where he's got — a sword? which, like, you can't spar with guns, he gets that, but this is not his thing, definitely not his thing, it's him - guns, gamora - swords, that's what the things are. and he thinks, for a second, about how if she were here, right now, watching him trying to fumble his way around a freakin' sword while standing here sopping freakin' wet, she'd have that little smile that he knows means she thinks something's hilarious — and, honestly, he wouldn't even be mad. and —
that's when he feels something (someone?) hit him.
he looks up, indignant, with a frown, and says, equally indignant:]
Seriously? We didn't even start the freakin' fight yet!
hit and run
[here's the thing: for better or worse, and hey, he can admit that, a lot of the time, it's mostly worse, he just can't leave stuff like this alone — not when it'd involved helpless frogs and schoolyard assholes in missouri a whole lifetime ago, and definitely not when it's ever involved actual people, especially people who can't really defend themselves in much of any way it matters. it's not cool and it never has been, and it never will be.
he's there in literally about two seconds, rushing straight into the fray without so much as thinking twice about it, putting himself between the kid and the guys after him for some reason.]
Hey, hey, hey, whoa, whoa. [his hands are up, in what he hopes is a universal symbol of "don't kick my ass."] Dude, I really don't think this is the best way to go about this. Like, I'm just saying, super bad look all around. [he looks around, swallows a little.] At least put down the clubs, because I can guarantee you no one's listening to you when you've got them, because they're just looking at you, and they're thinking "that's a freakin' club", and there's just nothing getting through. Absolutely nothing.
[anyone around can, you know, feel free to chime in/help. that'd be great, because he's kinda outnumbered here. kinda.]
wildcard
[want another scenario? feel free to hit me up!]