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peachdues · 1 year

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Your Beauty Never, Ever Scared Me

A/N: oh boy, I just couldn't leave this storyline alone, could I?

Inspired by a post from @aagod who pointed out how amazing the trope is of touching/kissing/caressing one's scars, and I was a WHORE for it. This is inspired by that one line from this song.

But because I have never been brief about anything in my entire life (that's why I'm about to be an attorney), I had to write out a full-length fic set in the Wind & Moon universe.

I also had fun with expanding upon the concept of the Lunar Hashira, including a new breathing form, as well as a special weapon for Y/N! See the end for a link to a visual of a naginata (pole) blade.

Word count: 6.3k

CW: angst, fluff, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, fucking in a hot spring. Pining Sanemi, soft Sanemi; shoulder injury, improper setting of a dislocated joint; scar worship (?).

Bon appetite!

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

It was supposed to have been a one-time thing.

Even though he had asked her to return to his estate for nightly training sessions, she had told him “no.”

It isn’t that Y/N doesn’t want him — she does very much so, to the point it pains her — but agreeing to continue this thing that had grown between them was a door she would not open.

She couldn’t.

Not when a career with the Demon Slayer Corps was akin to putting one foot across the line to the afterlife. Not when opening her heart up meant losing everything again.

And Y/N knows she already cares for the Wind Pillar far too much.

It pained her to establish distance between them over the last two weeks, even more so whenever she saw Sanemi Shinazugawa’s eyes linger on her for a second too long at their Pillar meetings, the hurt and longing in his eyes undeniable. He does not act any differently towards her, but she casn see the question torturing him every time she met that lilac gaze.

Why?

Because she wanted to. Because he had kissed her first, so really, it was his fault. Because she had melted the second his lips crashed against hers, and she had been so tired of wanting but never being allowed to have, and she wanted for once to be selfish.

But she had been selfish, and every day since she has been the direct cause of Sanemi Shinazugawa’s pain, and the thought is slowly wearing down the remains of her tattered heart into nothing.

But she loves him too much to want to lose him, so she does nothing.

——————————————-

They are sent on a mission together the next day.

The target is a suspected Lower Moon, located in some dense forest on the other side of the mountainous range surrounding the Demon Slayer Corp’s safe haven.

Rationally, Y/N knows why they’ve been paired together. She knows that his offensive Wind Breathing coupled with her more defensive style of Lunar breathing complement each other well in battle, each breathing style able to make up for the pitfalls of the other.

Still, Y/N thinks the universe is playing a damn cruel joke in making their fighting styles so compatible. It almost feels like a taunt.

They make small talk as they travel towards the demon’s location, every step fraying what’s left of Y/N’s delicate nerves. Her hand closes and releases the smooth shaft of her niichirin naginata blade — a specially forged weapon uniquely suited to her command over Lunar Breathing — as they near their target, her anxiety palpable.

She is not necessarily anxious over the fight — she is more anxious about whom she is fighting beside.

Nervous, because she told Shinazugawa that they could only ever be friends, yet she knows the second she thinks he might be in danger, she won’t hesitate to pitch herself in front of him. A hypocrite.

As she mulls over the thought, Y/N sourly thinks that the Master was probably right about relationships amongst the Hashira. She could not be trusted because she wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice the world to keep her Wind Pillar safe, even though he wasn’t hers at all.

The pair come upon the ruins of a small village, most of the buildings in great disrepair and in various stages of decay. Both slayers, however, pick up on the foul odor emanating from one of the more stable buildings to their left.

Y/N looks to Shinazugawa, who nods in confirmation. That is where their target is most likely lurking.

“I’ll go through the front. Can you find your way in from the back or from above?” Shinazugawa asks, drawing his blade.

Y/N nods. “I’ll cover you.” She brings her naginata to her front, swiping the blade in a long, graceful arc up as she summons her first form, Night of the New Moon, to act as a temporary cloak for the Wind Pillar.

“See ya inside,” Shinazugawa takes off into the crescent-shaped void, not wanting to lose the temporary advantage her technique provides them.

Y/N darts around the side of the crumbling hut and finds a hole large enough to slip through in its rotting roof, joining the battle already raging within.

———————-

The fight against the Lower Moon had been relatively easy — it had almost seemed a waste to send two Hashira to complete the job, given how quickly they had managed to incapacitate the demon. But the tricky part had been in the demon’s blood art, with it capable of creating full, flesh and blood clones of itself that were just as strong as its main body. Though Sanemi ultimately manages to lob off the head of the main body while Y/N held off four — four — of the accursed demon’s equally powered clones at once, the Lower Moon is able to hurtle one last attack towards the Wind Pillar, who is still airborne as he comes down from wielding the final blow.

Sanemi is just barely able to brace himself for impact as the flash of red light sluices towards him, and he feels a slight twinge of dread because he knows he is unable to twist out of the way as he falls through the air. But just before the posthumous attack can land on its target, a flurry of silver and black materializes before him, naginata spinning rapidly in her hand as she summons her eighth form to shield him for the second time since they had started fighting together.

Y/N’s Lunar Eclipse technique absorbs the full force of the demon’s attack, but because she launched herself from the upper balcony of the rotting house where she had been battling the demon’s clones to guard him mid-air, she is unable to get into the requisite defensive stance Sanemi knows she needs for the proper execution of the technique.

So he is helpless to watch as the recoil from the clash of the demon’s attack with Y/N’s defensive maneuver sends her flying backward through a crumbling wood wall, helpless to do anything but yell her name, his free hand grasping uselessly at the air as she sails away from him.

Sanemi feels a sick sense of deja vu as he tears through the rubble into the adjacent room where she has been thrown, thinking back to the first time she had used that breathing form to save him, when she had nearly lost all of her internal organs. Hot panic roils in his stomach as he clamps down the roar building in his chest, moving to yank a large, broken piece of wood out of his way, uncovering the scowling Lunar Pillar.

Sanemi wastes no time grabbing Y/N by the waist and hauling her up to inspect her, eyes wild and frantic as he looked over her for injury.

Y/N groans, sending a fresh wave of anxiety sludging through him as he waits for the coppery tang of blood to hit his nose, to confirm his worst fears that she is seriously wounded, too much so to be able to wait for the Kakushi, and-.

“Shinazugawa,” Y/N’s voice breaks through the roaring in his head. “Shinazugawa. Sanemi.” She grits out, left hand rising to grasp his forearm, nails digging into his skin to command his attention. “I am unharmed.” Sanemi finally meets her eyes, breath still coming fast and hard in his panic, though his erratic heart begins to slow at her words.

Y/N winces, the hand around him flying to the shoulder of her sword arm as she hisses through clenched teeth.

Sanemi sees then the odd slump of her shoulder, as though the joint were sitting lower, an odd gap forming in the fabric of her haori.

Sanemi recognizes the injury, his jaw clenching as anger chases away the panic that had been bubbling within him. “Your shoulder. You dislocated it.”

Y/N shimmies from his grasp, head falling forward slightly to avoid his gaze. And for some reason, her refusal to meet his eyes makes him furious. Furious because how could she look him in the eyes and tell him that what happened during their sparring session could not happen again, because they couldn’t afford to have emotional attachments as demon slayers, yet not two weeks later, she risks her own neck for him again?

Sanemi opens his mouth, ready to rip into her, to curse her for her stupidity and her hypocrisy, because how dare she tell him not to care for her but rush to give her life for his.

Before the words can form, however, Y/N looks up at him, her eyes so soft and yet so full of an emotion he instantly recognizes as self-loathing that the words died on his tongue.

At that moment, Sanemi knows only one thing: there is no insult, no mockery, no barb he can throw at her that she isn’t already screaming at herself.

No point in beating a dead horse, really.

Sanemi doesn’t want to think about why she looks so guilty because to think about the why meant giving himself hope that she was hurting just as much as he was, even though he knows why she rejected him; understands it with every fiber of his being.

So, he says nothing as she stands, makes no sound as she stomps past him and out through the decaying wood doorway, towards a dying tree in the middle of the courtyard. He watches dumbly as she lines her arm up on one side of the dry bark, inhaling once, twice through her nose before she jerks herself with all her might in the opposite direction, a pained shriek tearing from her lips.

Sanemi has spent many years with the Demon Slayer Corp. He has seen countless injuries, far worse than a dislocated shoulder, and heard far worse screams from the dying as they succumbed to demons.

Yet, as he listens to Y/N’s scream of pain, his blood runs cold.

No, Sanemi thinks, he never wants to hear that sound ever again. Thinks it would drive him mad if he were ever forced to.

But he doesn’t tell her this, because she made it abundantly fucking clear that they cannot be more than mere colleagues, so he tucks the knowledge away that his limit is apparently her pain deep into the recesses of his mind.

Sanemi tries not to think about what that means for his heart.

————————-

They arrive at the Wisteria House just after the stars in the sky had winked out, dawn not too far away. The mistress of the house promises that there is a large hot spring just behind the small estate, up a winding path and that they are both welcome to use it. Y/N was so enthralled at the promise of hot water on her aching muscles that she hadn’t thought to ask the Wind Hashira if he too planned to bathe.

Which was how she found herself in her current predicament.

It was stupid.

It was so stupid.

They had seen each other naked for crying out loud, had shared their bodies with each other. But now, here they were, stuck in opposite corners of the hot spring, resolutely turned away from one another as though neither of them had anything to hide from the other at all.

As though he hadn’t spent an entire evening inside of her, making her call out his name until her voice went hoarse.

His first name, at that.

Y/N hopes to conceal her flushed face from the Wind Pillar for as long as possible, so she hugs her good arm across her chest tighter, wincing slightly as her poorly re-set shoulder throbbed. Y/N predicts a visit to the Insect Pillar’s infirmary was in her near future, and the thought of her aching shoulder having to be poked and prodded anymore made her want to vomit.

If Y/N had been alone, she would have groaned, loudly, until she felt the weight slowly crushing her begin to lighten. But she is not alone, because she so stupidly failed to ask Shinazugawa who should bathe first, and now he is here and so is she, and they are both naked.

Still, the Lunar Hashira cannot deny the pang of longing in her heart as she furtively glances over to where the Wind Pillar stands, magnificently muscled back facing her, as he cups water between his hands to bring over his head, dampening it from white to a darker silver color.

His hair is shorter than it had been two weeks ago, she realizes, and she bites down on her lip as she realizes she likes it – a lot. Her eyes then fixate on the silvery jagged lines of the scars which crisscross his back, tracing her gaze down to where the top of his hips disappears into the glowing turquoise of the spring water. He has more scars on his back than he has on his front, she notes, evidence of his years of brutal training.

Evidence of his loss; great, unimaginable loss.

Because even the most skilled soldiers cannot save everyone, a truism she knew tore Sanemi apart. As memories of their past conversations came flooding back to her, memories of Sanemi telling her exactly what had happened to his family, his partner in the Corps, Y/N feels the oily slick of guilt seep into her gut.

It is ironic, that Sanemi Shinazugawa of all people, had felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable with her, — both physically and emotionally — but she had run at the first opportunity for her to return that vulnerability.

She, who had prided herself on being someone that others could depend on, could turn to in moments of need.

But she had run.

Because she is a coward.

He is beautiful and good and selfless and she is a damn coward.

Y/N’s shoulder throbs so violently it feels as if it has its own heartbeat, but Y/N doesn’t pay it any mind. She does not sink deeper into the beckoning warmth of the spring water to try and relieve the ache that is so deep it makes tears sting her eyes.

Such comfort is the least she deserves for the pain she has caused him.

——————————

He hadn’t meant to look. He swears he hadn’t.

But Sanemi accidentally turns when he hears her hiss, an instinctive urge to respond to a threat, to protect her forcing his head around, only to see no threat existed at all. Rather, the sound seemed to have been made in response to her shoulder wound.

She is not turned away from him completely — he has a perfect view of her side profile, the side of her injured shoulder facing him directly. Though her body is mostly concealed by the thick curtain of dark hair that spills down to her waist, he can see that Y/N still has her good arm locked snugly around her chest, in some futile attempt to conceal her ample breasts from sight.

Sanemi bites his lip to keep from snorting. Did it seem stupid, considering he had seen her in a far more intimate setting just a couple of weeks prior? Obviously. But Y/N’s discomfort with the situation had been obvious the moment she had stumbled across him in the hot springs, and Sanemi isn’t about to push her any further.

Especially after the stunt she just pulled on their mission.

He means to turn around once he confirmed that she was safe, that there was no threat looming in the woods surrounding the rocky hot spring. But his eyes snag on her face, on the grimace that twists at her mouth and the furrow of her eyebrows as she massages the tender skin around her swollen shoulder joint.

He hates to see her in pain. Hates it so much, it makes him want to rip the world apart with his bare hands.

And maybe it was because it tore at him to see her in such pain that he feels compelled to speak up, even though he knew he was opening himself up for more rejection, even rejection as her friend.

“You need heat,” Sanemi says, turning fully towards her.

Y/N startles slightly at the sound of Sanemi’s voice cleaving through the silent tension that had been steadily building between them. She turns her head slightly to face him, good arm tightening its hold over her chest.

He is standing in the water, body turned fully towards her. The blue-green spring water laps gently at the toned muscles of his lower abdominals, but Y/N can still make out the start of the impressive “v” of his hips. Her cheeks warm at the sight of the small trail of silvery hair that began just beneath his navel winding down and disappearing beneath the surface of the water to the crop of neatly trimmed hair that she knows frames his thick, proud length.

Y/N’s mouth runs dry as the memory of what Sanemi did to her with that length on the training grounds of his estate flashes through her mind.

So lost in thought is she that she almost forgets to respond to what Sanemi has said, flushing a deeper shade of crimson when she realizes that he had been talking about her wound.

“O-oh, I know. It’s just hard to do when I’m — well, you know.” Y/N laughs shakily, wiggling her good shoulder and the position of her arm across her chest.

Sanemi stares at her for a moment, eyebrows raised incredulously, though Y/N drops her gaze from him before she can see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I can help — if you’re comfortable with it, that is.” Sanemi offers.

Y/N feels her heart lurch at the silver-haired man’s proposition, guilt sliding back into her veins. She does not deserve his kindness, does not deserve his help after how she has treated him, and yet he offered nonetheless.

Y/N cannot deny him again, not when he seems so earnest in wanting to help ease her pain, so she nods. Something like relief flits across Sanemi’s face as he begins to make his way through the water towards her, keeping his eyes fixed behind her out of respect.

When Sanemi is close enough to reach out and touch her, he stops, the water having risen slightly up his waist now that he is in a deeper portion of the spring.

“You can — you can turn away. Put your back to me.” Sanemi says, awkwardly shifting his weight between his legs.

Y/N nods and turns to face away from him. Sanemi’s proximity sends chills across her skin, and Y/N’s belly dips in anticipation as she waits. The thick, damp air of the spring combines with the hot water licking at her upper waist makes her feel dizzy. Wordlessly, Sanemi cups a handful of hot water and brings it up over Y/N’s bruising shoulder, opening his palms to let it pour over her skin.

Though her arm remains firmly placed over her cleavage, for the first time in a long while, the Lunar Pillar feels her body begin to relax under the exquisite heat of the spring water Sanemi delicately pours over her tender shoulder.

So relaxed is she that she does not realize she is drifting backwards, not until her head thuds lightly against something hard and warm. Jolted by the sudden contact, the Lunar Hashira’s silvery eyes fly open and collide with the lilac irises above her, the surprise in his gaze a mirror of her own.

He is now much closer to her than he had been, and it is with no small amount of embarrassment that the Lunar Pillar realizes that in her haze, she has sunken back against the taut, warm body of Sanemi Shinazugawa.

There is a hint of red that begins to spread across the girl’s cheeks as she looks up at him that makes Sanemi’s ears burn, and he quickly moves his own gaze to somewhere — anywhere — that isn’t the ethereal creature now peering up at him with those haunting eyes.

He wills his other head to not react to the feeling of the girl’s head against his sternum; to not react to the silkiness of her hair or the thick haze of jasmine and honeysuckle soap which now enveloped him.

God, has she always smelt this good?

There is no making sense of what happened next. the Lunar Pillar lifts her head from Sanemi’s chest and turns to face him completely, her left arm still failing to totally obscure the luscious swell of her breasts from view. She peers up at him, as he continues to try and glare at a nearby rock in a futile attempt to not show that he has been watching her every bit as much as she is watching him.

Slowly, the Lunar Hashira lifts her free hand to lightly graze a thick scar that slants Sanemi’s left pectoral. She marvels at how it is both jagged and thick but surprisingly smooth and soft beneath the gentle press of her fingers.

Her touch is feather-light but Sanemi feels the skin beneath her soft caress erupt into flames, his cock beginning to stir at the slight contact.

She begins to trace her fingers to the start of another scar lacing his chest — slightly lower than the first — when Sanemi’s hand snatches up to grab her own, stilling its movements.

“Don’t-“he hisses through clenched teeth, his eyes screwed shut as though in pain. His grip on her is firm, but not harsh. “Don’t touch me like that.”

The Lunar Pillar feels the guilt and shame, hot and relentless, course through her blood. Of course he doesn’t want her to touch him — she rejected him after all. Though she had realized there was no point in trying to run from the blossoming warmth she felt her in her chest every time she looked at the stone-faced Hashira, that did not mean he wanted her, too.

Swallowing the lump that was forming in her throat, she moves to quickly pull her hand away, an apology already falling from her lips at her complete lack of professionalism, at her idiocy—

Sanemi’s grip on her hand tightens before she can remove it, pressing her hand harder against his chest. “Don’t touch me like that,” he repeats, opening his eyes to look down at her startled, red face, “because I won’t-.” He winces, trying but failing to cut himself off before he could make the admission that would surely damn them both.

“Because I won’t be able to stop myself if you do.”

Y/N’s eyes fly up to meet Sanemi’s burning stare, her breath catching in her throat. She curls her fingers against his chest, her arm falling from its position across her breasts so that she is fully exposed to him, and Sanemi thinks his heart might fly out of his chest. She steps closer to him until the soft plush of her chest lays flush against his upper abdomen, the heavenly feeling causing Sanemi’s cock to throb as she leans in close.

Sanemi’s free hand itches to touch her, to rise to rest on the dip of her waist and tug her close, but he holds back, insistent that he gives her an out, a window to walk away if that was what she still wanted.

Instead, Y/N stares up at him through a thick cluster of dark lashes, her gaze setting his skin on fire as she further presses herself against him.

“Then don’t.” She whispers.

Sanemi’s heart skips several beats, and his fingers tentatively rise to brush the skin of her waist, Y/N’s eyes fluttering softly at the contact. He lifts his hand, however, to cup her jaw, forcing her to look back at him, needing to see her eyes to confirm that she truly wanted this — wanted him.

“If we keep going, that’s it. No more running from one another.” He warns, voice hoarse with desire and emotion. “There will be no one else.”

Y/N leans her face into his touch, and Sanemi thinks his knees might buckle right then. “There never was anyone else,” she says earnestly, raising her good arm to parrot the hold he has on her face. “It’s only you, Sanemi. It has only ever been you.”

Whatever resolve Sanemi had kept tethered within himself snaps, as he crashes his mouth down against Y/N’s, her mouth opening easily to allow his tongue entrance. He crushes her face against his, desperate to give everything he has and to take whatever it is she can offer him.

Y/N moans deeply into his mouth, her fingers threading themselves through his damp hair. Sanemi’s kiss is so deep that she feels as though he will consume her whole, but she cannot find it in herself to care because, for him, she would let herself burn.

His lips are still locked on hers as he drops his hands from her face, reaching down to grip under her thighs and lifting her up, Y/N’s legs locking around his waist with ease. Sanemi makes his way towards a small, rocky island that separated the hot spring into two, connected pools, wading seamlessly through the water.

Y/N breaks from the impassioned kiss with a gasp as the cold, rough edge of the rocky bank scrapes against her back. Sanemi uses the opportunity to readjust his hold on her, lifting her slightly up to press her against the island so that he has better access to her neck and below, though he does not drop the iron grip he holds on her hips.

Sanemi dances his lips down the elegant length of Y/N’s neck, pausing to suck on her sensitive pulse point and eliciting a high, keening moan from her. He moves one hand from its bruising grip from its position on one of her thighs, wrapped tightly around his waist, trailing it teasingly under her to knead the soft flesh of her backside. Y/N moans again, grinding her hips against him, desperate for the tiniest bit of friction against her core which was now aching with her need.

Sanemi growls as Y/N’s core brushes against his throbbing length, his teeth sinking into the juncture between her good shoulder and neck as he nipped her in warning. As much as he wants to bury himself in her intoxicating heat, he will not do so until he knows she is good and ready to receive him.

He pulls away from her neck to look at her, his eyes dark with need and with something deeper, something tender that Y/N won’t name right now, even though she cannot deny that she feels it, too. His cheeks are dusted pink, and his lips are reddened by her kiss. His hair, though still damp, is perfectly tousled from her fingers, and his chest heaves as he tries to control his breathing.

Sanemi is beautiful and Y/N knows in her heart that she is doomed. Doomed because there will never be anything as good as this — as good as him.

He doesn’t hesitate to pounce back on her, hand dragging down the front of her torso to fondle her breast, his lips following down the same path. Before Y/N can draw another breath, her breast is sucked into Sanemi’s deliciously hot mouth just as a rough, callused finger runs over the slit at her core, dipping below slightly to brush against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. Y/N cries out then, her fingers moving to clutch onto Sanemi’s shoulders, and she finds that it is easy to ignore the throb in her injured shoulder when he is working to relieve the pulsing ache between her legs.

Sanemi begins murmuring against Y/N’s breast as he slides one thick finger into her, causing Y/N’s hands to fly up to grip his hair, pulling harshly at the strands as she is overwhelmed by the sensation. He tells her she is beautiful, how perfect she feels clenching around him, and how he cannot wait to be inside her and make her sing. He slips in another finger, his thumb pressing against her clit as his teeth graze her nipple, and Y/N shatters in his arms.

“Mnnnh, Sanemi,” she pants, thighs tightening around his waist as she grinds herself relentlessly against his hand. “Oh!”

Y/N comes with the prettiest moan Sanemi has ever heard, and it takes everything in him not to follow suit just by the look of blissful pleasure on her face. Sanemi cuts off her cries with another kiss, fingers curling inside her as he brushes against the sensitive spongy patch on her inner wall, causing Y/N to fall apart all over again, a gush of fluid coating his hand for a second before the water washes it away.

Y/N feels delirious from pleasure, but a cold sting rushes through her, cutting through the hazy fog in her mind as Sanemi removes his fingers from her needy core, her walls still clenching in the aftershock of her successive orgasms. The sting does not last, however, as Sanemi readjusts her thighs around his hips, unhooking one of her legs to bring it up to her side against the rock island, bending it at the knee. He hikes her other leg higher up his waist so that her core is now pressed flush against his demanding length, its weight heavy and hot as it rests against her sensitive flesh.

He rubs his cock against her dripping folds, the friction causing Y/N’s head to fall back against the rocky bank with a thud, uncaring as a wanton moan rips from her throat. Sanemi has one hand supporting the leg pinned against the rock at her thigh, and the other grips her waist tightly, using the rest of his body weight to keep her slightly upright and pressed against the stone.

The grip on her waist tightens as he calls her attention back to him. Through half-lidded eyes, she sees him staring intently at her, eyebrows raised in question, and she realizes that he is waiting for her signal.

The thought that he would still wait for her consent, that he is still offering her an out if she wanted it, is enough to make her want to cry. But she can’t stop now, can’t stop ever, because Sanemi makes her blood sing and she is so tired of denying herself the happiness she feels whenever he is near.

“Oh Sanemi, please. Please.” She begs, rolling her hips towards him, desperate for him to claim her all over again, to make her his and his alone.

Sanemi does not waste any more time as he carefully sinks into her, a strangled groan falling from his lips as he no doubt was overly sensitive from having waited so long. Y/N’s head falls back against the stone embankment and she cries out, finally feeling whole as he seats himself fully inside her.

Sanemi does not wait long to start moving and for that, Y/N is grateful. But unlike their first pairing at his estate, Sanemi takes his time, rocking his hips into hers, cock hitting her so deep that she cannot tell where she ends and he begins. Their first time had been the product of repressed sexual tension that had been steadily building between them, hard and fast and needy, but this?

This was different.

This was passion. This was both the end and the beginning, a sacred covenant between them that bound their hearts together, entwined their souls for infinity.

As Sanemi’s hips pick up the pace against her, the water stirring and sloshing and breaking around them with the force of his thrusts, Y/N realizes that until now, she has been on fire.

She had been from the moment their lips had met during training at his estate. She had been engulfed in an inferno that had only grown hotter, had only consumed her more, when she had tried to run, tried to deny the love that had bloomed in her heart well before she had ever offered herself to him for pleasure. For the last two weeks, she has burned and burned because she had known deep in her soul that she loved Sanemi Shinazugawa and had put herself in hell trying to deny it — to deny him.

Yet he had come and saved her, again, had pulled her out of that pit of fire and brimstone and smothered the flames with his tender heart and tender kiss, and now she was no longer burning; she was just warm.

Warm and safe and in love.

“Y/N,” Sanemi rasps, his forehead pressed against hers as his eyes bore into her, his mouth falling open. His hands clutch her tighter against him, the possessive drag of his cock making Y/N see stars as she clings to him, moaning and whimpering as she feels her release building inside her belly.

And though she is unable to stop the words that fall from her lips, she means them with every ounce of her heart.

“I love you,” she whimpers, fingers digging into Sanemi’s back as his hips stutter slightly against her at her words, the movement resulting in a delicious spike of pleasure against her clit. “I love you, Sanemi.”

Sanemi’s forehead pulls away from her own, his eyes wide and so full of hope it breaks her heart. He does not say anything, but the way he then kisses her makes her taste his response.

I love you, too.

Y/N breaks the kiss, her moans growing louder as her end nears, and from the way Sanemi’s movements quicken, becoming slightly uneven, she knows he is near as well. So Y/N presses her hands against the sides of his face, thumb running over the jagged scar cutting across his cheek as she tilts his head up to look at her.

Lavender eyes meet hers and Sanemi tumbles headfirst over the edge.

He comes with a shout, the tendons in his neck straining as his hips press hard against her. Y/N feels the warm rush his seed start to fill her and she follows after him, clenching so hard on his cock that Sanemi moans again, his release prolonged by Y/N’s pulsating walls around him.

They are both finally spent but Sanemi cannot yet bring himself to pull out, instead burying his face in Y/N’s neck as he tries to catch his breath.

“Did you mean it?” He pants against her sweaty skin, his breath causing goosebumps to ripple across her. “Did you mean what you said?”

Y/N moves to cup his face, pulling him away from her neck so he can meet her eyes. Though he is inside her, he blushes as she peers up at him, her expression serious.

“I love you, Sanemi. I have for a while,” She pauses, considering. “Longer than I was willing to admit two weeks ago.”

And her words are so honest, spoken with such conviction, that Sanemi cannot stop the grin that spreads across his face, and Y/N thinks she has never seen a more beautiful sight than a smiling Sanemi Shinazugawa, as he leans to kiss her slowly and languid.

————————

It’s hours later, and the two have not left the hot spring, even though they’ve long stopped feeling the heat of the water.

They had not stopped themselves from having one another again and again. Sanemi had still been buried inside of her when she had felt him harden as she professed her love for him again, and so she had had no choice but to move him under her and ride him until he shouted her name, filling her back up with his essence.

Y/N now rests her head on Sanemi’s chest, fingers tracing the outline of the scars dancing across his pectorals.

God, he was beautiful.

His scars told a story — a story of a warrior who gave every part of himself to the dream they shared of ridding the world of demons.

A story of strength; of survival. A warning that he had won every encounter with every demon who crossed his path.

It was a beautiful story. He was a beautiful story.

“Ugly, aren’t they?”

Sanemi’s derisive tone startles Y/N from where she lay, and she looks up at him in alarm. Though the expression on his face was soft — contented, even — there is an unmistakable hardness in his eyes as he glances down to where her fingers rested.

“What on earth do you mean?” Y/N demands, fanning her hand out protectively across his chest.

Sanemi does not respond, merely choosing to smile ruefully at her.

But Y/N shakes her head. “No. No, they’re not ugly; not in the slightest.” She moves so she’s sitting on his lap and bends over him, brushing her lips along the outline of each scar that crosses his skin.

“You’re beautiful.” Y/N insists between the press of her lips to him.

Sanemi reddens but shakes his head at her. “They scare kids, ya know. And girls. And most people, for that matter.”

Y/N looks up from the scar she is currently lavishing and sees Sanemi watching her intently. She sits up, reaching a hand to cup under his chin so that he won’t try and hide from her, won’t try to avoid what she is about to say.

“Your beauty has never scared me, Sanemi. Ever.” She swears, voice firm and steady.

Sanemi’s heart feels like it is going to punch through his chest and dance across Y/N’s lap. At that moment, Sanemi realizes that nothing else matters to him, nothing at all, except for the woman with the kindest heart he’s ever known and the moon in her eyes.

So he sits up, and cradles her face while he kisses her softly, breaking away from her only to respond to her earlier declaration.

“I love you, too.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

I hope you all enjoyed it!

Here is the reference for the Lunar Pillar's naginata blade -- fun fact, naginatas were historically used by Japanese noblewomen for protection!

Tag-list:

@stuckinthewrongworld @ladytamayolover @sweetblueworm @kazehayaaa @horror4themasses @catzpawn @lollypoporabullet @fuckimgenderfluid @sobbing-bunny @otaku-reblogs @umekohiganbana @mydreamissleeping @finnydraws

#sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi x reader #kny x reader #sanemi drabble #kny fanfic #demon slayer hcs #kimestu no yaiba #kny #kny smut #sanemi shinazugawa x reader #demon slayer

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demonic0angel · 6 months

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More Jazz Forms (click for clarity)

TW: disturbing content, body horror

1) Head only Jazz

+ She is a head that walks on a bunch of mysterious tentacles. She’s inspired by a CN novel called “Let the Villain Go” in a chapter where a demon pops up and is described as a head that walks on tentacles (I may be delulu and remembered it wrong).

+ Around 900 feet tall. Most of the height is her tentacles, but her head is still around 100 feet tall.

+ Jason is a little obsessed with how huge she is. When he is away, she stays standing over his apartment like a creepy water storage tank. Nobody can see her except liminals and ghosts, so she remains undetected by Jason’s side.

+ She is generally peaceful and doesn’t move much. She is a relatively quiet being with no explicit ability to defend herself or attack. I imagine her to be very dreamy, despite her piercing stare.

2) Celestial Object Jazz

+ She is a quasi-stellar radio source, AKA a quasar :)

+ Impossibly large and infinite. She is so big that her gravitational pull is pulling apart a piece of the universe. Jason thinks that she’s beautiful, and he looks for her every night. He uses special technology to see her on Earth and when he can, he sneaks onto the Watchtower to look at her.

+ The mass of the black hole that she is made of is around 150 billion solar masses. She is located extremely far from the Milky Way within the largest galaxy of the universe. Since she is technically both the black hole and the gas that surrounds it, she won’t be fading for awhile.

+ Her origin is unknown in this idea (but is related to her siblings, who have all become celestial objects themselves). Her existence is extremely old and that is partially Clockwork’s fault.

3) Corrupted Jazz

+ She has become corrupted from years of ectoplasm, death, and generally instability. The tentacles that come from her stomach is actually just pieces of her soul that are trying to reach for others. She calls for help, but no one but Jason has been reaching out.

+ She cannot be around people for too long, or she causes insanity, violent mood swings, headaches, auditory and visual hallucinations, paranoia, nosebleeds, and general weakness, even if they cannot see her. Jason is somewhat resistant to her, but she heavily restrains herself so the effects of her existence won’t hurt him.

+ She tries to stay away from Jason, but bc she’s so clingy, she watches him from a distance. Her presence brings shadows and darkness, so he’s also been getting a reputation of scaring criminals to pissing themselves whenever he comes by.

+ Her body is covered in shadows, but she glows a little from the ectoplasm, so her silhouette can be vaguely seen.

4) Monochrome Jazz

+ Inspired by Lady Dimitrescu and Hachishakusama

+ She dresses in all black and her skin is pale as well. A hat and face mask cover all available skin on her face. Any skin below the neck is also covered.

+ She is around 9 feet tall. She stalks Jason whenever she can and always follows him around. She is extremely hostile and dangerous and does not hesitate to attack when she feels even the slightest bit threatened. She is also completely mute.

+ She is both a ghost and an urban legend, hence why she looks like that. Underneath her mask is a mouth of razor sharp teeth like a moray eel.

5) Wolf Jazz

+ Inspired by Jason’s Red Hood motif that is similar to Little Red Riding Hood. That’s also why I associate Jazz with so many canine themes :)

+ Black fur, several pairs of eyes, and two sets of deformed ears. I am debating whether or not she also has 3 pairs of legs.

+ She follows Jason around like a dog, but does not behave like a pet. As such, he can’t order her around unless she wants to listen to him. Thankfully, she likes cooperating with him and the two of them terrorize the criminals of Crime Alley.

+ She is around 5 feet tall when standing on all fours, but when she stands up on her hind legs, she is around 9 feet tall. She is very fluffy.

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iwanthermidnightz · 11 months

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Ahhh did you see the new rolling stone gaylor article ?? I'm so impressed.

When Taylor Swift released the long-awaited rerecording of her genre-leaping album 1989, fans eagerly pored over vault tracks, theories of double albums, and limited edition vinyl releases that could predict Swift’s next re-record. But for Gaylors, a dedicated Swift fanbase that’s existed for over a decade, Swift’s prologue and a mention of her feelings surrounding speculation about her love life have dampened what should have been an exciting release.

Thinking about the 24-year-old she was when 1989 was released, Swift writes, “I swore off dating and decided to only focus on myself, my music, my growth, and my female friendships. If I only hung out with my female friends, people couldn’t sensationalize or sexualize that — right? I would learn later on that people could and people would.” Many users online interpreted that line as a subtle callout to Gaylors, supporters of the niche theory that Swift is queer or leaves queer messaging in her songs. But several members of the Gaylor community tell Rolling Stone they’re actually not convinced the callout is about them — and are receiving targeted and homophobic harassment in the process.

For those not extremely online, Gaylor is an unproven theory that Swift is queer and leaves messages alluding to past relationships in her work, a fan theory that originated on the blogging site Tumblr in the mid-2010s. It is also the fan name for groups of people who believe there are queer interpretations of Swift’s songs. (While Swift has been a vocal ally and advocate for LGBTQ+ rights and representation, she has never publicly commented on Gaylor and has only been in public relationships with men.) Gabriela, a 27-year-old Gaylor, tells Rolling Stone she doesn’t believe Swift’s prologue is about the Gaylor fandom specifically, but she’s frustrated at the use of the word ‘sexualize,” which she says has long been co-opted by fans who think Gaylor is harmful or inherently rude.

“I think it’s a call-out yes, but more to the media at large, rather than just about the Gaylor subset of her fandom, which is only a small piece of her complaint. [Swift] doesn’t want to be assumed to be in a sexual, romantic relationship with anyone she is seen next to,” Gabriela says. “Hetlors [those who object to the Gaylor discourse] are cherry-picking to make it about her ‘shutting down gay rumors.’”

As an internationally beloved artist — one capable of selling more movie tickets than Martin Scorcese and convincing an entire fandom to rebuy her music her way — Swift professes an unusually close relationship with her followers. The lyricist often hides clues in her work and visuals, encouraging fans to decipher what coded messages and hints she’s leaving behind. But Swift has also verbalized how upset slut-shaming and assumptions about her love life make her. Anna, a 23-year-old Gaylor who uses they/them pronouns, agrees that the prologue wasn’t about Gaylor specifically but says they do think all Swift fans online could operate with more boundaries.

“Of course, I’m a little annoyed that people are pulling one or two lines of the prologue out of context and using it as a justification to be homophobic and send death threats to my friends, but I don’t think Taylor is at fault for people misconstruing her words and I think she has every right to call out things that make her uncomfortable,” Anna tells Rolling Stone. “’Shipping’ culture across the fandom seems to have gotten really ugly recently on all accounts. I’ve seen people speculate on her sex life, openly and graphically, track her location, insinuate that she wants/has children and just overall cross a lot of boundaries. It may be unpopular for me to say it, but I do think members on all sides needed to be put in their place a little bit.”

All of the Gaylor fans who spoke to Rolling Stone expressed that beyond the prologue, much of the reaction to them as a group has stemmed from a lack of understanding about why the fandom exists and has lasted for almost a decade. Liv, 26, says that the Gaylor community has been a large part of her life — it’s even how she met her current boyfriend. And she tells Rolling Stone the identity has allowed her to have a deeper understanding of Swift’s lyrics.

“It’s always fun for me to think about what inspired a song. So even if it’s not what happened in Taylor’s life, it’s interesting for me to think about a song through a queer lens, because I feel like it adds a lot of layers that a song about a guy might not have,” Liv says. “And I don’t really know any straight people who are that deeply obsessed with Emily Dickinson.”

The X account @gaylornews has over 12,000 followers. The admin behind the account declined to include her name but tells Rolling Stone Gaylor isn’t just a fun internet conspiracy theory, but means a lot to the community.

“Analyzing her lyrics through a queer perspective is more about defying heteronormative narratives and finding representation and not about invading Taylor’s privacy or sensationalizing her personal life,” the account owner says. “Gaylor is about queer people finding a safe space which straight people not only find but already have everywhere, is about all the things you never learned about yourself, is about feeling seen and genuinely understood.”

Regardless of what people think the prologue is about, Gaylors are worried about one thing: targeted harassment from more mainstream fans of Swift. In an April 2023 report from social media tracking firm Graphika, researchers found that Gaylors made up nine percent of active Swift fans on social media, but are often exiled and isolated from neutral fan spaces. The study also found that anti-Gaylor accounts, also referred to as Hetlors, “play a key role” in how the theory is presented to mainstream audiences and often misrepresent commonly held Gaylor beliefs, which can lead to the harassment and doxxing of neutral Gaylor accounts. Each of the Gaylors who spoke to Rolling Stone detailed targeted harassment, hate speech, and homophobia they’ve received online, something they all believe Swift would stand against.

“I think that people who are against Gaylors think we’re way more serious about it than we are. A lot of the things we say are jokes or ideas or possible theories,” Liv says. “And at the end of the day, none of us know what the truth is about her personal relationships. And we shouldn’t want to because [Taylor Swift] is entitled to her privacy.”

(link)

#wow well done!

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ebisul · 1 month

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Sterile Mandalore and my issues with the New Mandalore we see

I want to preface this by saying a lot of what’s wrong with Mandalore and the Mandalorians is fully Filoni’s fault (among a variety of other people involved) for being a bad storyteller. Also between brain fog, ADHD, and a severe anxiety disorder, I’m brute forcing my way to coherency.

This is in no way a defense of Death Watch or the history of imperialism. I won’t tolerate anyone comparing me to a terrorist organization for not liking the depiction of Mandalore under New Mandalorian rule or any particular Mandalorian Character, yes that has happened before.

As an overview, I will be going over the setting of Mandalore we see visually, a few of the characters and what those characters say about Mandalorian culture visually, as well as briefly touching on the Clones, and finally how each of these contribute to the Mandalore we see in The Clone Wars.

Now I wanted to write this because I actually deeply enjoy the Mandalorians as a culture, I think everything from the language to the armor to the Resol’nare, uncertain if thats canon, is absolutely fascinating. However, what we see in The Clone Wars has next to none of that outside of Death Watch, the terrorist organization.

The Setting of Mandalore

Mandalore the planet is primarily composed of harsh, seemingly uninhabitable deserts created from centuries upon centuries of war. What we do see of the civilization on Mandalore is primarily within the domed capital city of Sundari. Now there are a few things I wanna touch on here, primarily certain locations, such as the schools, the palace, and the overall visuals of the city, and the people, as a whole as well as individuals.

Beginning with the Schools,

We see schools on Mandalore at least twice in TCW, once during the poisonings when we see a cafeteria and once during our stint with Korkie where we see classrooms and dorms, and i have always hated the way they look. I will say that you could very well interpret the Royal Academy of Government to be a sort of military school, though given the New Mandalorians are all about peace and pacifism it would be an odd choice to send your nephew there.

Visually speaking, the schools are beyond dull. In the classroom we see Ahsoka teaching in, the entire room is gray, with nothing but the desks and a projector. Look at the kid in the front row! Thats how I feel looking at this room!! These are presumably either teenagers or young adults at a boarding school. Im not expecting much for a classroom but a dull dark gray, empty room is not conducive to learning.

I also want to note that they wear uniforms. Its totally normal for a boarding school to require uniforms, that makes sense, however, these uniforms have one singular interesting component and thats the iron heart. I can’t find an exact meaning behind the symbol outside of reddit so im hesitant to define it here, however what we do know is that the symbol is absolutely ancient. A significant part of Mandalorian history.

The rest of the uniform is similarly a dull cool gray, or perhaps a dull blue. And there doesn’t seem to be much individuality in the uniforms, that is outside of hair and whatever gambit-style headwear those kids are wearing at least, but even then they’re mostly all very similar hairstyles.

Im also electing to ignore that there are seemingly two separate sets of triplets here. I know it’s an animation shortcut. Still, they are still there and I can’t ignore them now.

Now, on to what I’m presuming is either a dorm or some sort of recreation or break room, I don’t remember much of the context and frankly you can’t tell from looks alone. I’m leaning toward a dorm because that was my first interpretation.

Regardless of what this room serves as, be it dorm or break room, its still void of character. If this were a dorm, we would have no indication of whose it could possibly be.

It looks like the light behind Korkie is a map of some sort, or something similar its unclear, but that and the neon lights above Soniee are the only sources of color. The red and blue can mean a lot of things but I genuinely don’t think there is a major purpose behind it. We already saw the two sets of triplets.

However, lighting is meant to mean something. In particular, red can mean many things, but given the visual context it reads as stress inducing, as danger. Particularly surrounding Korkie as it does.

Now blue lighting needed a quick google search, but my results for the meaning of blue lighting where a little unexpected. Blue is a typical calming color, similar to green, though can also be interpreted as depressing and cold like grays, and blue lighting can be representative of isolation and passivity. Ironically, this scene is anything but passive. Again, im not putting much weight into it but I feel its worth noting.

Ultimately, its entirely impersonal, slightly stress-inducing, and only marginally better than the classroom only because it had color. Now onto my most egregious example from the schools we see and my most despised, the cafeteria.

Do you see this shit? Where do i even start? My best guess is that these are approximately middle schoolers. If i went to this school I would willingly drink the poison. Their lunch looks like three tomatoes, three mystery cubes, and debatably either a cracker or a slice of cheese. Horrendous lunch. How is this acceptable to feed to children for a whole meal? Enough complaining about their lunches, though.

The cafeteria itself is offputting to say the least. Pure white. The children, pale and blonde, all wearing the exact same gray uniforms with only variation for the girls, because girl = skirts. It’s the picture of uniformity. Its horrific. The only color outside of the pitiful lunch is the monstrous poison drink nearly all children have. Probably bc theyre lunches are terrible.

This scene has two interpretations in my mind. The first is that its meant to be creepy as all hell, which is unlikely because we’re supposed to support New Mandalore. The second interpretation is that it was meant to look like the epitome of peace and serenity and utterly fails because it takes more than an overuse of the color white to represent innocence, purity, and peace.

How do you manage to make an entire school look like a cloning facility? In fact, I’m certain the cloning facility has more diversity than all of mandalore.

Now the issue with all of these areas of the schools on Mandalore is that they look like no place to teach a child. There are certain things that are conducive to learning and color is one of them! So is fostering individuality! There are specific things that make an environment suitable for learning and these schools have very few of them.

Now onto the Palace,

This will be a shorter segment than the previous. Although I will be lightly critical of Satine here. So to begin, we primarily see the throne room. In fact, im not even sure we see much else in the Palace of Sundari. We do see Satine’s rooms or office but I can’t find a picture of it so i won’t use the example.

Both of these images share a few things in common. First is the dramatic lighting, the otherwise empty throne room save for the chairs that seem to have been brought in, and the only color present outside of gray is Satine and/or her throne. Even Padme, notable fashion icon, is or appears to be wearing gray in these scenes.

The dramatic lighting in the first image is an obvious “Hey! These are the good guys!” and I can’t piece out a relevent meaning behind the second image so Im choosing to move forward because I think it is just that, lighting.

Now the throne room being utterly void will be clearer in the next image I attach. The issue with it being so empty is that it feels almost lifeless, cold. It doesn’t feel like a throne room visually speaking. This ties into the last thing these images have in common. Satine and her throne.

Within the gray permeating what seems to be most of Mandalore at this rate, Satine is the only source of actual color. Her clothes are these vibrant, beautiful blues and greens and purples. Her throne is a glowing beacon above everyone.

What does that say, when every one of her people is dressed in grays, beiges, and pale blues? Or when they all dress the same?

This is a better view of just how empty the throne room is. Theres more of the iron heart design, though still no real idea of the meaning further than it is significant, as well as the portrait of Satine. The only things in this image with color other than gray or biege are indications of Satine. But the throne room itself is almost entirely barren.

Whether or not you think this is any indication of her character one way or another thats up to you. My read on what this shows of her is that she is blinded by her own ideals, she doesnt truly see her people as they are, be that through ignorance or arrogance, and that allows the corruption to seep.

I wanted to show the hospital because I think thats a Good environment design for mandalore but i lost the picture. It is ironic that my example of good design is the one thats meant to be clinical.

Therefore, I’m moving on to the city at large

The city itself is incredibly industrial. I’m torn because I know it has to be like that to a degree but it also doesnt have to be like that. That’s a choice the designers made. The city of Sundari exists within a dome due to the uninhabitable deserts from years of war, that doesnt mean it must look so cold.

It just feels so lifeless. Colorless even. Ive noticed by now, and you probably have too, that my main issue seems to be coloring. Well, I wouldn’t say its my main issue but it’s definitely up there.

We’re supposed to think that Satine’s New Mandalore is Good. That it’s this vision of peace and prosperity. But where do we see that visually? Through industrialization? Thats not good!

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that Satine’s peace is a clear facade for all of the shady bullshit going on behind her back, but we should be able to see that in the enviroment.

We should be able to see the idyllic peacefulness and people’s enjoyment of their city. We should see that face and the shady underside. We shouldn’t just see drab gray with a splash of corruption. It just makes Satine look like a bad ruler.

Characters and What They’re Telling Us

I’m actually not starting this with a particular character. I’m going to begin with the Mandalorian people as a whole.

What a surprise! Theyre all blond white people! See I have a huge issue with the lack of diversity among humans on Mandalore for a few reasons. The first reason is the obvious, it’s fucking WEIRD. The second reason is that we know there are people of color who are mandalorian.

And on the one hand this really demonstrates my point. Everyone looks the same, everything is dull and empty. This isn’t prosperity.

The first example they look like theyre dressed in uniform. Every single one of them is wearing the exact same color. Thats not normal. In the second image, while they aren’t dressed uniformly, they are all dressed in grays and beiges. These people are Satine’s governing council. They’re supposed to high standing officials.

And that brings us back to The Duchess herself

I’m choosing to use her main outfit design for this. There will be no more images from here onwards because there is no space but I’m trusting you all to know what these characters look like.

Satine’s Dress can only truly be described as opulent. She dresses in shades of blue, purple, and green and elaborate headwear and accessories. Her hair is styled in a way characteristic of Kalevala, similarly to Korkie’s friend Lagos but more extravagant. The colors she wears are chosen to appear soothing and to honor the history of Mandalore’s forests and lakes.

But this isn’t something you might pick up on naturally. Remember this is a show for children. You would have to do the research to learn that. Without that information you could interpret her appearance any number of ways.

Between her headress and the color scheme, I would have confidently said she was peacock-like, had I not known the nuances. Character design needs to be something people can infer from. Something that lines up with the environment to tell a story.

That being said what her design is meant to tell us is that she greatly values the less violent aspects of Mandalore’s past. That she is trying to preserve and honor their history and Mandalore’s beauty.

The issue is that (from memory at least) the honoring forests and lakes never really is relevant? We see Peace Park but we’re never shown much about any restoration or preservation efforts of the planet itself. Did they just give up because its a “wasteland”? Were there no other alternatives? We were never given enough context, explicitly or implicitly.

And without the knowledge of what her design is supposed to mean, what is stopping anyone from misinterpreting it. What is stopping anyone from thinking she is just this haughty, holier than thou politician? Especially when you put her next to civilians or even her own council when she is already sat above them on her throne?

Satine’s design is essentially meant to show us her value to peace and progression but we arent really shown much progressing. We’re meant to just believe what we’re told rather than showing us the progress in, yknow, progress.

Now, Bo Katan

I chose specifically to include the sisters in this because I wanted to compare them, also bc obviously they are the most relevant. Bo’s design also demonstrates her values, admittedly way clearer than Satine’s.

She’s a traditionalist, someone who values the warrior ways, and yes also a terrorist. Thats not super relevant. Because she’s a traditionalist, it makes sense that her character design is rather simple in comparison to her sister, but they both honor the history of Mandalore all the same.

Mandalorian armor is equally as historical and significant as the iron heart itself, even so far as to have the two intrinsically intertwined, having the Iron Heart as part of the armor. I think most Mandalorian fans know this already.

Now, I want to take the armor paint color meanings with a grain of salt. Im not certain how canon any of it actually is even if the meanings do seem to hold up withon canon. However, the thing about the armor paint is that it sets the mandalorians apart as individuals while simultaneously tying them together as Mandalorians.

Bo’s armor is painted primarily blue and gray with white detailing and owl imagery to signify her Nite-Owls. Now in the EU the colors have meaning. Blue and gray mean reliabilty and mourning respectively. I think it would be in the Mandalorian culture’s best interests to keep this canon and even expand upon this.

This is because these unique paint schemes allow for individuality, community, and notable artistic expression. I mean, just look at Sabine. This contrasts with the uniformity of New Mandalore which just makes New Mandalore look really bad. Like really, really bad.

Next I want to look at Almec

So, Almec has two designs I want to look at. First is his usual outfit as Satine’s right hand and the second is his own armor.

Pre-betrayal, Almec wears an almost solidly white outfit, with gray, beige, and a dash of gold detailing. This design actually has two iron heart designs, one in his clothes and one in his hair. Outside of the iron heart, the design is very plain. The overuse of white is likely meant to give an illusion of purity and peace again. It doesn’t really work when he looks so clinical, though.

In his armor, Almec’s design is a stark contrast to the previous. He wears a light green, maybe gray, flight suit with black and gold armor. The reason I wanted to include this design for a number of reasons but specifically, the shoulder cord.

The gold shoulder cord gives Almec a more militaristic appearance, even in comparison to other armored mandalorians. This is actually a design detail I really enjoy because the gold shoulder cord essentially means “service to another” in the US military.

The colors black and gold in mandalorian armor represent justice and vengeance. Again, take that with a grain of salt, but I think more importantly this change actually makes Almec a more recognizable character. The armor is more personal than his prior outfit working under Satine as a New Mandalorian. It tells us more about who he is as a person.

On to Jango

Yes he is Mandalorian. I will not debate this I dont give a shit what George Lucas intended with him. I don’t even care what was said in TCW. Jango was canonically a mandalorian foundling. And yes I know they never show up really in relation to Mandalore, but Its important I mention them, I think.

So, we know in TCW, Jango isn’t considered a mandalorian by the New Mandalorians. They insist that he must have stolen the armor, that there’s no conceivable way he could be mandalorian. Except that we now have canonical confirmation that he was in fact a foundling.

See, here’s the issue with this, because in retrospect they’re basically denying a dead man his own identity and creed.

Jangos armor isnt really what I wanted to talk about in relation to Jango himself. Mostly I wanted to talk about what his character means for the New Mandalorians. Jango amd Boba are quite literally The Blueprint for Mandalorians. Except now we get more Mandalorians and they fully deny Jango his Mando-ness.

What, because he doesn’t align with their ideology? Jango wasn’t a great person by any means but being Mandalorian isn’t just a nationality. It’s something you’re taught.

Again this isn’t about the armor, it’s about the fact that he’s played by a Maori man. The first Mandalorian face we see is a brown man and that gives a real bad impression when you have a planet of White People claiming he isn’t even Mandalorian, why? Because he’s adopted? Because he was a bounty hunter?

The Clones

This section isn’t totally relevant so feel free to skip to the next, but i can only go so long without talking about them.

The clones themselves don’t have a strong tie to Mandalore, narratively speaking. However, they do have ties built into their appearances. More than just being clones of Jango.

They don’t speak Mando’a in canon and we aren’t totally sure who exactly trained them before Jango died, but we do have little hints from their character designs that indicate some connection to Mandalore or the Mandalorian culture.

Rex specifically is one of the few with jaig eyes. Jaig eyes are a Mandalorian honor symbol. And he’s not the only clone with this symbol, Blackout also has Jaig eyes on his helmet. Which leads me to believe this symbol is fairly common for troopers since its not terribly common we see clones sharing symbols without a personal connection to eachother.

Further than just that, clone trooper armor, phase 1 at least and presumably onward, is also based on Mandalorian armor. This is primarily because of the armor jango wears, naturally his clones would be fitted with similar. But the clones have also picked up the armor painting. Could this simply be a coincidence? Sure if you wanna believe that. I don’t think I do though because its so significant to both cultures as a means of individuality.

What does all of this say about Mandalore?

And I mean that as what is this telling us visually. What conclusions can you draw from this with just images. Because it doesn’t look great for New Mandalore. And maybe that was the intent. I know my first impression of Satine was just how unprofessional she was acting.

Except we’re supposed to see New Mandalore as the good guys, essentially, right? Riddled with corruption but still Good. That doesn’t translate when the setting is dystopian-esque at best. Its cold and empty and clinical.

When you see an entire planet of people who all look almost exactly the same, wearing the same clothes, the same hair, the same face, the same color skin, it gets unsettling. Its a weird design choice because it’s an American cartoon and America is characteristically individualistic.

The Bad Guy, the literal terrorist organization, caters more towards that visual individuality than the peaceful, progressive Good Guys. It visually reads as a Safety vs Freedom story but thats not the story that they need to be telling. You can’t go telling people freedom is evil.

It makes it incredibly easy to misconstrue what New Mandalore is trying to do because the visuals aren’t supporting them. There’s a reason so many people genuinely think Satine has comitted some sort of cultural genocide against her people because we aren’t seeing any of the culture and when we do see it, its not supported by the narrative. They may have Mandalorian writing but they never speak Mando’a on screen outside of Death Watch. We dont really know what the iron heart means and its everywhere. They may talk about prosperity and progress but they aren’t showing us that.

What I Would Do To Improve

This is the last segment, I promise.

I want to start with what could improve the background. Because a lot of the issue stem from it being dull and lifeless, I think giving it some sort of life would really fix a lot of the issues. Namely, I would say to put more trees, real, lush trees not the tiny ones you’d find in a city. It would help give context to Satine’s homage to the forests of mandalore if we had a visual clue from Mandalore itself. This would also bring in some more color and take away from the industrial appearance. This is more of a personal thing because I grew up around farms, but I think we should have seen a farm or some sort of clue as to how Mandalore is feeding itself. How is it sustaining itself, if not for import?

Another thing I would change would be the overall coloring. Generally, I would push for more color but I’m mostly referring to the color of the buildings. I would replace the cold gray and blues with more of a bronze and maybe a warm orange or even just changed the undertone of the blue could add so much. I would also give the lighting more warmth. Overall I would just add more warmth.

Adding onto this, I would also bring in more color by adding more public art. More murals and statues and the like. We know they have murals and paintings in the Palace at least. We should see them in the city, too. Having more art around the city would also connect it to the same cultural roots that have the mandalorians painting their armor.

In the schools, the main issue is that there’s no color. That these spaces dont have anything that would bring a sense of comfort to a kid. The stark white of the cafeteria is more stress inducing than calming and it would be good to replace some of that with a splash of color to break it up, as well as with some background decorations. Slap a poster on them there walls.

The classroom we see could also use just more decoration, make it look like a classroom. Have posters of diagrams and models. The room is dark so I won’t say much of the coloring except just make it look less cold. The back of the room has a wide, empty space and I think if that space were filled with something it would change a lot of the energy it gives off.

As for the dorm, if that is a dorm, give is an idea of whose room it is. Make it look like someone lives there. If it’s not a dorm, why are these kids sitting in a dark room? The room itself shouldn’t exude this uncomfortable feeling, that should be the undertone.

Overall, I think the Palace is generally fine if only it werent so empty, and again, if there were more color. The detailing and the lighting both look nice but it just needs to feel more like a throne room.

As for the people of Mandalore, for fuck’s sake, diversity is not going to kill you. Again its insane that all of the mandalorians of color we see are either A.) terrorists B.) deemed not mandalorian or C.) future cultists. We should see more black, brown, and Asian mandalorians. Hell, we should see alien mandalorians too.

Furthermore, they should have more variety in their clothes. What society wears all of three colors when they definitely have access to others? On top of that we should see Mandalorians who still wear pieces of armor. Armor is defensive, it’s not inherently violent to protect yourself and it honors the history of Mandalore while still moving forward with progress.

This is of course just my personal vision. These visuals can be interpreted in a number of ways, if you want to think the designs are good and exhibit peacefulness more power to you, I simply can’t see it. I tried my best to keep it to the Clone Wars series with a strict focus on the appearance, though that was a difficult challenge for me.

Anyways, I hope this was somewhat coherent and enjoyable. I’ve likely missed some details but this took me multiple days to organize my thoughts properly so im not pressed about it. Let me know your thoughts! Just be kind and don’t call me a terrorist :)

#sw #star wars #tcw #the clone wars #star wars meta #i guess???#im tagging it anyway #mandalore #mandalorians

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schrijverr · 8 months

Text

You Don’t Know Me, But I Know You 5

Chapter 5 out of 6

5 times Tim showed he stalked Robin + 1 time Jason did

Inspired by this post of thecrazyleader.

On AO3.

Ships none

Warnings: none

~~~~

5. A Familiar Blackmail Moment

It’s during a chase through Gotham that it happens. Most of them are focused on locating the robber of multiple dangerous weapons when there are suddenly two yells over the coms, before a storm of cursing starts up.

“Nightwing, Red Hood, report,” Bruce demands anxiously.

“We’re fine, Dickface just fucking entangled us on the grapplers, like a fucking Dickhead idiot, stupid asshole,” Jason curses.

Dick immediately defends himself: “This was so not my fault, Little Wing. You’re rusty with yours and being mean about it.”

“Don’t you fucking dare put this on me. You bumped into me,” Jason hisses.

“You didn’t check your six properly,” Dick protests.

“I swear you need to shut the fuck up, right now. I have knives and I’m near all your sensitive parts,” Jason threatens.

“Oh my god, are you two tied to each other with your own grapplers?” Steph asks, sounding delighted at the idea. “O, please say you have a visual on that.”

Barbara chuckles: “Oh, I definitely have a visual on that. They’re properly tangled and stuck. I’m getting a video of them dangling there to use later.”

“You have to show me that,” Steph says.

“Of course.”

“It’s not fucking funny,” Jason complains. “I don’t wanna get blackmailed for shit Dickface did. I refuse.”

“For the last time, it’s your fault we’re in this mess,” Dick shoots back. “I’ve been grappling all over non-stop, you haven’t. It’s okay to be rusty, but don’t start pushing this on me.”

Before Jason can give what would have probably been a scathing reply to that, they’re interrupted by a snort. Tim says: “I find it hard to believe Hood caused that when you got B tangled even in your later Robin years.”

It’s quiet for a second, then there’s chaos on the coms.

“Oh, yeah, I remember that,” Barbara comments, as Steph says: “Wait, you’re saying that Bats and Nightwing as Robin did a fish on a hook impersonation? Please tell me you captured that, stalker boy.”

Dick is whining: “Shut up,” as Damian says: “Yes, I refuse to believe this sort of slander.”

“Slander. Slander?” Jason shrieks. “Golden boy here is pinning his shit on me, that’s fucking slander. I can’t believe you, you know. How fucking dare you.”

“No chatter on the coms,” Bruce tiredly reminds them, something he often forgoes, because they have never listened once in their lives. He has already decided to make a strategic withdrawal when they turn against him, happy to have at least diverted the conversation again.

“Oh, now you’re picking his side, huh? When it’s your dignity on the line as well, I see how it is,” Jason bitches. “Creepy McCreeperson, make sure you find those stalker pics you took so I can defend my honor when this asshole tries pinning it on me again.”

“Not really inclined to help you when you’re calling me a creeper,” Tim deadpans.

“I’ll make you a coffee cake next time they put you on a caffeine ban,” Jason offers, obviously trying to sound enticing.

Dick admonishes: “Don’t bribe Red Robin with coffee. You know it’s for his own good and you know that we’re all above bri-”

“Deal,” Tim cuts him off.

“Hell yeah, you’re my favorite paparazzi stalker,” Jason cheers. “Now shut up, Dickface, and tell me how to get loose without plummeting, since you’ve obviously done this before.”

“I hate you both,” Dick complains, before he starts to explain.

#rr writing #batman #bruce wayne #jason todd #red hood #dick grayson #nightwing #tim drake #stalker tim drake #red robin #damian wayne #robin #oracle #stephanie brown #barbara gordon #dc #dc comics #batfamily #batfam

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linnamonrolls0 · 8 months

Note

Hi I’m not sure if you write headcanon requests but I’ve one if you do, please? - Wearing Lin’s hoodies and solid white t-shirts (or any of his t-shirts (and clothes) for that matter of fact).

If you don’t write headcanons then that’s okay! Maybe this could be an imagine errr… one-shot??

*me realising how many of my Lin fics involve my main character somehow ending up in his clothes bc I definitely have a thing about this 💀🫠🥵* oops you just fuelled something here…

so, fuck yeah, let’s do this

the first time, it’s innocent. just Lin being his ever so sweet self on a sunset walk around his park, and lending you his hoodie when you feel a sudden shiver in the early evening cold.

smooth as anything, he pulls it over his head (and you try not to look as his t-shirt rides up a little, but hell, that teasing glimpse of smooth tan skin at his hip will feed into your fantasies for a while yet) and he offers you the hoodie, no questions asked.

when you slip into it, it’s far from a perfect fit - but it feels perfect only because it’s his.

the soft fleece envelopes you in his warmth and his clean, delicate scent still clings to the fabric - and suddenly the temperature outside no longer matters.

“better?” he teases, admiring how cute it is on you.

“better,” you affirm, glancing coyly up at him.

he catches you blushing and all he can do is smile, as he wraps his arm around your shoulders and drops a tender kiss to your forehead.

you never did return that hoodie to him. but Lin gets this cute, smug little smirk on his face when he sees you wearing it again, and he never asks for it back.

but later in your relationship, you end up crashing at his apartment more often than not, the two of you build a routine of falling asleep in a tangle of bare limbs and bedsheets - and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

at some point you’d best save yourself the walk of shame and leave some spare clothes in his wardrobe instead of stealing all of his, but for now…

you locate your jeans on the floor of his bedroom and pair them with one of his white t-shirts, a supple cotton v-neck that he’d looked downright delicious in last night… before you’d gotten him out of it.

now there’s a memory…

his familiar scent and that enticing new cologne still linger on it and you never really knew it was possible to be so turned on just from wearing his clothes, but there’s something inherently sexy about it and perhaps that’s moreso his fault.

and apparently, it works both ways.

Lin glances up from his coffee as you emerge from his bedroom, and his pretty brown eyes darken when he notices.

they’re intense. lusting. hungry.

“is that mine?”

“sure is. you like?”

he doesn’t answer.

slowly sets his cup down on the table, bites his lip and rises to his feet.

he strides across the room to you, your gaze fixed on him all the way.

once he’s close enough, he slowly places a hand on your hip

he’s delicate, careful, and you feel the heat of his palm through the thin cotton…

until he roughly grabs the fabric in a fist, hooks a finger into the belt loop on your jeans to pull you another step towards him, and you place your palms flat against his bare chest as he gazes down at you, lips parted, pure heat and desire.

“keep it on,” he whispers, dipping his head to meet your waiting lips.

and so you do.

(this might’ve turned into a mini fic tho I’m so sorry 😅)

visual refs for his super soft hoodie & the white v-neck tee:

#lin manuel miranda #lin manuel miranda x reader #lin manuel miranda fanfic #lmm headcanons #asks #i’m honestly terrible w these lmao #boy you got me helpless #isn’t he gorgeous tho #my fic

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moralesmilesanhour · 6 months

Text

another dimension.

summary: Miles pays Margo a visit. wc: 970-ish a/n: this mad short but I got rlly busy !! You'll definitely get long3er flowerbyte stuff in the future tho

Margo’s room was so cluttered she couldn’t think.

She’d been letting clothes and unfinished gadgets pile up on the floor and around her desk until you couldn’t even open the door all the way. The realization hit her when she lost a piece of the old vintage radio that Gwen had gifted her to tinker with, and it took her an hour to finally locate it by the foot of her bed.

Margo sat at its edge, re-organizing her gadgets into boxes by size. It made more sense to her than by type or function; when she was restoring an old iPod or laptop, she wouldn’t think, “Where’s the box for tools dedicated to x, y, and z,” she’d be thinking, “Where the fuck is that tiny thing that you need to turn on this other thing?”

At the bottom of one of her hot pink organizers, beneath a tangle of extension cords, Margo felt a round piece of metal. Her fingers brushed over what felt like buttons, and they closed around the mystery device to free it.

It was…oh.

Margo could’ve sworn she had put all of her polaroids and souvenirs in the ‘memories’ box. The memory in question was only a few months old, sure, but it was a memory nonetheless. After Spider Society dissolved, there was no reason for her to use it. At any rate, she had cyber-crimes to stop right here, at her own computer.

Still, she did miss Gwen bringing her old smartphones and wired headphones.

And him.

Margo didn’t like to think about him. Not by any fault of his, but because if she visualized the look he gave her as she tried to send him home, then suddenly those owlish eyes would appear in places they were not supposed to. Then, she would begin to imagine that she saw someone with the same afro pass her on the street, or swear that she heard his voice and wonder if he took his watch with him and kept it.

Margo’s watch was off, but it remained largely intact after The Spot. She stared at it for a moment, before gingerly snapping it around her wrist. She turned it this way and that, letting it catch the dim light of her desk lamp.

E-1610.

Margo had the right dimension this time, all she had to do was just–

She shook her head, hastily taking it off and tossing it back into the box. Now she remembered why the watch had been left there in the first place.

But it was too late, and the image of him grinning at her returned. As she knelt on the floor and resumed her organizing, her mind had begun to weave together a conversation.

Miles would greet her with a “hey”, and she’d “hey” back. Ask him how his parents took the news after everything went back to normal. He’d say he’s grounded, and it’d sound like the funniest thing in the world coming from him. She’d ask him about his hobbies (Miles looked like a gamer), and he would ask about hers. She’d lie and say she didn’t have time for any, and he’d laugh.

“I hear that,” he’d say.

She wondered if her imagination had conjured him up when that familiar flash of blinding light appeared where her closet was and became a spinning portal.

Margo almost didn’t recognize him when he pulled back his hoodie and took the mask off. The high-top fade was gone, replaced by a head of shoulder-length locs that coiled at the ends. But she’d recognize those eyes anywhere.

Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to locate her words, which made Miles stifle a laugh.

“Miles?”

“Don’t know who else I’d be. Got a minute?”

Slowly reaching back into that same box, Margo breathed,

“Yeah, I…I got a minute.”

“So you’re only Spider-Man when you got the VR thing on?”

Miles called out as he shot another web and catapulted himself off of the roof of a moving truck, and Margo did the same. They landed right on top of Lenny’s Deli, from which they could see a bit of the horizon dotted with skyscrapers in the distance, right where the setting sun started to roll back some of its orange and give way to a wash of coral.

“Pretty much,” Margo answered, catching her breath. “You smell that?”

“Beef patties.”

“I haven’t had one of those in months.”

Miles’ mask squinted mischievously at the eyes. “You want me to get you one, huh?”

“Oh, it’s fine, you don’t have to–”

“I insist!”

Miles was already in the process of swinging down to street level. She shook her head and smiled, sitting with her legs crossed in the meantime.

He was back in a matter of minutes, mask rolled up halfway so that he could carry the brown paper bag from the deli between his teeth as he hauled himself over the ledge where Margo sat.

He opened it and removed his portion before handing the bag to her, but stopped short.

“Hol’ on, can you even eat?”

She threw her head back and laughed.

“You didn’t think about that before you spent your money there?”

“Well, you can take it back with you, probably,” he said as he let her take the bag from him.

“Thanks.”

They sat in silence as only Miles ate his food, watching the world below. Nobody appeared to be committing a robbery at the moment, so Margo eventually broke the silence first.

“So why’d you bring me over here, new guy?”

Miles snorted, “You know I’ve been doing this for almost two years now, right?”

“Well, you’re new to me.”

He leaned back on his elbows and hummed thoughtfully.

“Maybe I’d like to not be so new to you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

#miles morales #miles morales fic #margo kess #atsv fic #flowerbyte #cybershock #cyberflower #moralesanhour

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unsanitarystation · 1 month

Note

AM I TOO LATE FOR MINIMUS FUCKING RODIMUS' PEE HOLE

Look like minimus in his true irreducible state is so small. A lot of minibots tend to at least be chunky, mims is just Small all round. I'm sure he could stick his tiny little turbofox spike into roddy's pee hole

In fact this is probably what Rodimus tells him in the first place. He goes to Magnus with one of his Amazing Awesome Ideas and today that is the idea that Minimus out of all his armour would have a spike small enough to frag his lil waste port.

Magnus literally doesn't even deign him with a Weird or Grossed Out look. He simply reacts as plainly as possible and says "No."

Cue Roddy dropping to knees and just going PLEASEPLEASEPLEASPLEASEPLEASPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASPLEASE Look look he'll even do the MATH if Magnus wants!! Please!!! He'll stick a finger into his pee hole right now look-

Magnus' jaw falls open and he literally does not have the time to stop roddy before his captain's panels have already snapped open and roddy's digit start prodding at his waste port. Maybe his vocaliser fails because he's been stunned to silence. He watches Rodimus swirl a single digit around his vavle, collecting his slick, and then starting to tease at his waste port. There is absolutely nothing in Magnus' processor that can help him receive and process these audio and visual inputs of his captain wiggling his finger around his waste port, and- and then- and pushing it in

Magnus' first instinct is to wince because that must hurt. And yet, Roddy groans in contentment and then immediately looks back up at Magnus. "See? It's fine. It's good!" He pistons his finger in and out of the tight and straining shaft as he adds, "Perfectly good for a good fragging!"

Magnus doesnt want to believe it, but Rodimus does make it look like he is enjoying it, if the moans and stuttering of his hips are anything to go by. But him? Even in his smallest form? He's not sure his spike would be narrower than Rodimus' singular digit.

But Roddy can be persuasive when he wants to be. He teases and begs for daaaaaaaaays until, one day, it's Minimus who visits his captain after hours instead of the full magnus armour. Roddy is overall just excited to see Minimus in that form, but then gets even more excited when he's told that Mims has decided to give Roddy's stupid pee hole fucking a go.

He also wants to make a disclaimer that it was never his fault, and that the MOMENT anything goes wrong he is hauling Rodimus to the medbay immediately. Still stuck on his spike or not. Pee hole still gaping and leaking or not.

When they finally lay down on Rodimus' berth, Roddy lays back but props himself up on his elbows, knees also drawn up and legs spread. Since this would involve some sense of 'aiming' Roddy wants to give Minimus the best view possible ;3

To Roddy's surprise, once Minimus settles between Roddy's legs, he actually spreads Roddy even further. Small servos splay around Roddys' valve and pull the folds aside, giving him a clear view of the usual valve channel and the much smaller waste port.

He's methodical about it. Minimus pinpoints the location of the port, then pokes and prods at it until he is satisfied. All the while, Roddy is whining and wriggling from the touches.

The next step is to thoroughly coat Minimus' spike in lubricant. And he means Thoroughly. He applies some lubricant to the waste port as well for good measure.

Then finally. FINALLY. Minimus leans over Roddy and positions his spike right at Roddy's waste port. Rodimus whines and pleas for Mims to fragging get on with it already

And so he does.

Minimus pushes in very very slowly. He pushes just the head against the tight port, slowly increasing the pressure until the seal parts and allows his spike to begin to push in. He lets out a shaky exvent already.

It's a long arduous task to slowly sink into Rodimus, Minimus panting and shaking from the tight wet heat around his spike and the physical restraint to keep at his face. Rodimus is, meanwhile, also panting and blabbering "yes yes yes oh Mims yes c'mon I can take it it will feel so good push push yes" whilst trying to keep his hips as still as possible to let Minimus do as he pleases

Once Minimus is fully sheathed, once Roddy begs him to fuck him now please please please, Minimus finally relents and begins to move. The whole channel is so tight. Even just a slow thrust in and out lights up all his sensor nodes. Clearly Roddy feels the same as he immediately starts keening and rolling his hips into the slow thrusts.

The control doesnt last long. Soon, Minimus is slamming his hips against Rodimus', forcing his spike into Roddy until he cries and arches his back.

As their overloads approach, Minimus tries to warn Roddy, but the captain just blurts out "No! Nonnononono i want you inside me- primus- Mims i need you inside me do it do it in me" and thats enough to throw Minimus over the edge as he slams into his captain one last time, spike twitching and shooting ropes of transfluid directly into Rodimus' waste tank.

Roddy's overload follows soon after, the bot all but screaming as he arches his back and clenches his empty valve around nothing, pushing out even more globs of lubricant that now collect beneath his aft.

After a few moments to come down, Minimus lets out a shaky exvent and slowly pulls out, leaving a loose and gaping port dribbling out a mix of waste fluid and slightly thicker transfluid. It's...disgusting. But it also makes his engine rev at the sight.

Roddy is currently just strutless and blissed out and laying on his back dont worry about him

Minimus fucking pee holes!!! YES!! He's so tiny in his true form, he could do it. If Roddy's finger fits, so will Minimus' spike.

He would never admit it, not even to himself, but Rodimus' peehole feels so fucking good. It's not often Minimus gets to fuck a hole that tight. It's perfectly snug, squeezing him for all the transfluid he has to give. The mess Rodimus made was disgusting, but Minimus can't stop his spent spike from pressurizing again at the sight of a fucked out Roddy pissing uncontrollably all over the berth... Pity he's too exhausted to fuck Rodimus' piss back into him.

#omo #valveplug #wasteplay #unsanitary

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sunmafiber · 1 year

Text

The Benefits and Limitations of Machine Learning in Business

For personnel working with fiber optic lines, fiber id is a crucial piece of equipment. Without interfering with the signal flow, they enable specialists to identify the type of fiber, ascertain the fiber's orientation, and detect the existence of signals on a fiber.

A fiber identifier is a portable tool that enables technicians to recognize the kind of fiber, determine its orientation, and find signals on a fiber without halting the signal flow. Fiber identifiers function by detecting the light signal that is traveling through the fiber and reporting data on the signal's wavelength and intensity.

How Do Fiber Identifiers Function?

Fiber identifiers operate by detecting the light signal traveling through the fiber using a non-destructive method. Throughout the identification procedure, the fiber is not harmed, and neither is the signal. The fiber identifier's main working concept is clamping the fiber under test between two jaws so that it may identify the presence of a signal without cutting the fiber.

Some of the light that travels through a fiber is lost due to absorption or scattering. The kind of fiber, its length, and any other attenuation elements in the system all affect how much light is lost. The technician can ascertain the existence and strength of a signal thanks to the fiber identifier's and Visual Fault Locator detection of light signals and measurement of light intensity.

Fiber Identifiers' Value

While dealing with fiber optic connections, technicians need fiber IDs as a basic tool. These can aid in determining the type of fiber included in a cable, enabling personnel to choose the proper tools for installation or maintenance. Also, they enable technicians to establish the fiber's orientation, which is crucial for splicing or terminating fibers.

Very helpful for debugging fiber optic networks are fiber IDs. They enable technicians to pinpoint the site of a malfunction or signal loss since they can detect the existence of signals on a fiber without obstructing the signal flow. This is crucial for long-haul fiber optic networks since it might be difficult and time-consuming to locate defects there.

Fiber identifiers and Fiber Interferometer can also assist in avoiding damage to the fiber during setup or maintenance. Technicians can prevent mistakenly cutting or injuring fibers, which might cause downtime or expensive repairs, by detecting the presence of signals on the fiber.

#Optical Light Source #Visual Fault Locator #Fiber Identifier #Fiber Interferometer

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themiracleofteddybearmanifestos · 3 months

Text

I know I'm late to the party but I just watched Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe and I have a LOT of thoughts.

I think this was a terrible adaptation.

I think it was a beautifully produced and well acted movie, and maybe without having read the book it would have been fine, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't separate it from its source material because some of the changes were just horrible.

I know you can't keep everything in, that's fine. You cut some things, you rearrange some stuff, you fit within your runtime. But why change some of the most crucial/beautiful moments? I have a long, long list of quotes that were either removed or just horribly altered/misplaced and it's so disappointing.

Getting rid of Mrs. Quintana grasping Ari's face and saying, "Aristotle Mendoza, I will love you forever" is so sad. Changing what Gina said, that Ari says is the "nicest thing you ever said to me" to be something totally mundane (essentially changed "you got hunkier" to "you look different") is just an odd choice. But changing the way Ari reacts to kissing Dante? That's horrible.

Ari was done horribly in this movie, I'm sorry. The actor did great and he was lovely in certain moments, but they took out what made him shine. I have a friend who said they didn't like the book because Dante deserved so much better, and I disagreed. Book Ari has moments where he's an asshole, but at his core he is a kind and loving boy who is grateful and appreciative. Film Ari is a sometimes sweet boy who is more often than not just rude.

I can understand some changes have to be made when adapting a first person POV novel, that's fair, but you can absolutely use body language and other visual cues to give insight. This is especially clear with Ari's dad, who in the book is understandably difficult for Ari to get along with. He's distant and intimidating and doesn't want to be open. But in the movie he just seems like a sad dad trying his best to talk to his teenage son, and Ari is completely rude and cold to him for no apparent reason! Film Ari does not thank or hug his parents when they give him a car. Film Ari does not say goodnight to his father or listen when his father wants to show him a painting. Idk exactly how that all plays out in the book since I forget a lot, but the important thing is that all we are shown is his father trying and Ari being rude in response. His motivation is unclear and his behavior is selfish.

Now, one of the biggest crimes is what happens in the truck after Dante and Ari kiss. First off, change of location from Dante's room to the truck ... Okay sure. But I have no idea how you can first off, totally alter this scene and omit a very important quote:

"I don’t kiss boys.” “Okay, so the first rule is: No trying to kiss Ari.”

"You have the harder rule? Buffalo shit... I, on the other hand, have to refrain from kissing the greatest guy in the universe—which is like walking barefoot on hot coals." (Pgs 256-257)

And then completely and entirely warp this scene:

So I closed my eyes.

And he kissed me. And I kissed him back.

And then he started really kissing me. And I pulled away.

"Well?" he said.

"Didn't work for me," I said.

"Nothing?"

"Nope."

"Okay. It sure worked for me."

"Yeah. I think I get that, Dante."

"So, well, that's over with then, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Are you mad at me?"

"A little."

He sat back down on his bed. He looked sad. I didn't like seeing him that way. "I'm more mad at myself," I said. "I always let you talk me into things. It's not your fault."

"Yeah," he whispered.

"Don't cry, okay?"

"Okay," he said.

"You're crying."

"I'm not."

"Okay."

"Okay." (Pgs. 263-264)

HOW do you turn that into Ari calling Dante disgusting and screaming at him to get the fuck out of his car??? That's the fucking breaking point for me, because Ari is a lot of things, but an outright aggressive homophobe is not one of them. Maybe I'm forgetting, and maybe something similar happens later and they just rearranged it. But I know for a FACT that Ari NEVER calls Dante disgusting. Never. Because the word disgusting appears once in this book and Gina says it to Ari. That's it, not a single other usage.

That's what broke it for me, even though I had a lot of issues with other parts (Ari not saying thank you about the truck, removing the shoe-throwing game, getting rid of so much important dialogue, etc.) THIS is the thing that was unacceptable because even when Ari was mad at Dante, he didn't hurt him. He didn't immediately go back on his loyalty he'd just sworn, to stay by Dante even though he's gay. He didn't scream at him or curse him.

But I also just couldn't stand how much of the beautiful writing was completely removed. I love that book because it's poetic and full of quips and oddities. Dante in the movie is cute and sweet, but the oddest thing shown about him is that he wears silly sunglasses. We're told he's weird, and get little glimpse of it, but the heart of Dante is not there. In the book he feels a little mystified and hard to fully grasp, but in the movie he's just... There. A shell, almost. He's still lovable, but he's not wholly Dante. It's like an afterimage of Dante, which is impressive because he was very personable in the movie, but that just shows how enchanting Dante is in the book. He's hard to pin down, but he's not hollow. I think a big issue was that a lot of the time, Dante seemed hurt by Ari. Genuinely disheartened, rather than laughing it off until he couldn't anymore, he was kind of just sad? I don't know. We had the bones of something beautiful with this movie, really, but they just didn't do it right.

Again, the loss of the poeticism and the changes to Ari are what hurt it the most. Movie Ari has very sweet moments where the book character shines through, but he takes himself too seriously in a way where it feels like we're supposed to as well. Ari is lame! He's an awkward teenager with a lot of angst because he's figuring things out and struggling to find his place in the universe, but movie Ari isn't that at all. He's just brooding and downright mean at times. His reactions to the things around him were so hollow and uncaring, and maybe that's how he looked from the outside, but again, this story was not told from the outside and completely loses it's effect when you can't tell what he's feeling or thinking because he just seems mad or disinterested. Not all the time, there were some incredible scenes. I loved him talking with his parents after he beat up Julian. I loved the final scene with the kiss. I think his reaction worked well when hearing about his aunt's girlfriend. But damnit that was lost to me the moment he called the most brilliant boy he'd ever met "disgusting."

Overall, I don't regret watching the movie and I loved some of the scenes and think the music and atmosphere were great. But I'm heartbroken over the fact that so much of the nuance was completely lost. Even if there was some nuance present in the movie, it was far, far less than in the book.

(Less structured bonus points because this rant was messy enough but I have more to say): Dante told him not to open the sketchbook until he was gone. In the movie Ari opened it right up and made a kind of rude comment. Next: so many important bonding moments were removed. Dante giving Ari a sponge bath and them visiting with each other every day Ari was in the hospital. The shoes were significantly played down to the point where the sentimentality of the little shoes was almost lost. Also: The letters were so entirely diminished. And: Ari's brother killed two people, not just the trans woman but also someone in jail. Bro I haven't read this book in multiple years and I'm able to recount this much, I don't even want to think about how glaringly off it all is when I've read the whole book to compare. (If any of my points were wrong, I blame this. But I'm pretty sure most of them are right.)

I loved the end of the movie tho lol I'm always a sucker for a sweet scene and Dante's actor killed it with the eye acting in that scene, the emotions were palpable.

#aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe #aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe movie #aaddtsotu #aristotle and dante #book vs movie #movie rant #gay #lgbt books #gay movies #gay books #lgbt movie

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holy-puckslibrary · 9 months

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━ 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑

˗ˏˋ main masterlist ˎˊ˗

pairing(s) — foreman!JOSH ANDERSON x reader word count — 3.5k

note — this little number was day one of my patreon kinktober this year, and it was too beloved (by patrons and myself) to be gatekept forever!

recommended viewing — TI WEST'S X (2022) + PEARL (2022)

bingo squares and additional content warnings below the cut.

bingo squares — backdoor play, costumes/roleplay (kinda sorta), + risky location/exhibitionism additional content warnings — implied age gap, outdated patriarchal beliefs, innocence kink, corruption kink, slight humilation kink, spit as lube, dacryphilia, slight overstim, unprotected p in v, possessive!josh x virgin!reader (outdated definition and beliefs here, too) and just general filth

JOSH ANDERSON HATES TO WASTE A SWEET GESTURE, but, even in the scorching mid-day heat, ice-cold lemonade just couldn't compare where it would never compete.

While fresh squeezed is good, drinking the sugary nectar straight from the tap is better.

Still, it hurt Josh's heart a bit to watch the fruit of your afternoon's labor get soaked up by the dirt. He reckons he's the only one who minds the undue waste.

Though, that shouldn't be much of a surprise; it's hard to mind much of anything when you've long since lost yours.

He supposes you have him to blame for that particular loss, too.

How did a harmless compliment devolve into this?

His hips flush to the skin of his boss' daughter, bent over the tailgate, cotton twisted at the knees, and in full view of the main road...

The afternoon began normal enough; the old man sputtered down the long drive towards town around noon, as usual, and the screen door slammed shut not a minute after the rusty ford dipped around the bend, as usual.

And, as if on cue, the delicate twinkle of glassware on a tray pulled his attention from the task at hand—barrels of hay that now lay abandoned at his boots—and Josh was treated to the eyeful that never failed to make his jeans feel two-sizes too tight and burn his neck faster than the looming sun.

Josh enjoyed the back and forth, however one-sided it often was. Though, not for a lack of trying, however girlishly awkward those efforts might be. It wasn't your fault you were sheltered beyond belief, and it made the mental reprieve all the more addicting, too.

You were easily frazzled in a way many weren't and it—a bashful purse of your lips, the gentle tremble of nervous fingers just behind you back, the way you can't meet his eye for more than a minute at a time—stirred up a sick, juvenile satisfaction Josh thought he long outgrew.

The game was relatively harmless because you were exactly that—harmless. A girl too sweet for her own good, recklessly trusting, and shouldering the heavy predisposition to assume the best in people.

Which is why he hadn't thought much about praising your equestrian skill, having been subjected to the visual torture that was the lessons you gave to local children each weekend.

Josh loved how you couldn't take a compliment without coaxing and, even then, you still squirmed like a newborn kitten.

Blinded by a halo of purity and the lure of a timid smile, your inquiry into his own riding prowess appeared just as unassuming. Another opportunity to get his fix, naively offered up on a serving tray, and he was powerless to resist the temptation.

Josh recalls chuckling to himself, prematurely reveling in the delicious reaction, as he threw a bushel out of the truck bed.

"Not as well as you, darlin', but I know my way around."

He expected you to shrivel. If not at his thinly veiled undertone, at the crass wink he tacked on between innuendos, sandwiched beside the candied term of endearment that made your thighs rub together every time he put it to use.

"I could...teach you a few tricks? Maybe show you my skills one-on-one? Something tells me you're a hands-on learner."

Josh nearly jumped out of his skin. He couldn't tell if you were being serious or not; you've never given back an ounce of what you've gotten from him, but it felt too bold to be a first foray.

Sayin' something as lamely disguised as that? It'd be like jumping into a swimming hole without testing the depth beforehand.

Surely, you were brighter than that. Or, at least, puritanical by proxy.

"You're playin' with fire, darlin'."

Your resolve proved resistant to his polite warning. The grin on your face could've only been categorized as wicked.

"I'm not playing with anything—yet."

"Your daddy know you talk like that?"

"You gonna tell on me?"

You were lent against the truck by then, wide doe-eyes blinking up at him through a fan of lashes. They casted a shadow onto your cheeks that created the illusion of sob-streaked makeup; he groaned out loud.

You've set things hurtling toward mutually assured destruction. Josh had to rein you and your girlish whims in before it was too late for common sense to win out against the ache in his jeans.

That dog won't hunt.

"No, because you ain't serious. I wouldn't wanna get you in trouble for a fib."

"S'not a fib."

Your face pinched in irritation then, understandably annoyed at not being taken seriously.

He hadn't been around too long, but Josh'd seen enough to know hardly anyone did 'round these parts. Probably why you were fixed on him like junebug pursuing light to its own detriment.

For that reason alone, he should've stopped there. It was an easy place to lay the interaction to rest. You'd gotten too big for your britches and it was his responsibility—morally and professionally—to bring your head out of the clouds and put those faded pink boots back on dirt.

Josh should've left it a bluff and sent you on your way, but he had the forethought of a bull straight out of the chute. His impulse control was on par, too, come to think of it.

So, Josh did what any red-blooded man with a death wish would; he hopped down from the truck-bed.

Stalked forward until you were pinned between his bare chest and the hot metal of the truck, his gloves shed and discarded elsewhere sometime between now and when reason got caught in the wind.

"No?"

You bit your lip and shook your head, body shrunken away from his.

Josh would have thought himself safe if not for the mischievous glint in your eyes, sparkling bright and strong in the heavy sunshine. He took that glimmer as a plea for more and caged you between his arms, palms burned by the surface.

It hurt no less than the punishment for his indiscretion would if, God forbid, someone caught him takin' advantage like this.

"I'm not soft and gentle like the boys i've seen droppin' you off."

Half a mile down the road, lights off, and in the middle of the night—Josh had half a mind to steal the ladder right out from under your window in order to facilitate some natural consequences.

"You spyin' on me, Mr. Anderson?"

You weren't too much younger than him, but you treated him with the same respect and reverence as your daddy's business partners or any other senior member of your small community in next-to-nowhere Tennessee. It was endearing, how dedicated you were to respecting your elders, no matter the gap's size.

And nothing in Josh's twenty-nine years has sounded better on his sunburnt ears—or to his throbbing cock—than 'Mr. Anderson' falling from your sweet, glossy lips.

"Got to," Josh shrugged.

He feigned nonchalance about as well as you wore a poker face.

He considered you for a moment then, considered the skin exposed by your top. The way your chest rose and fell; delicious little quakes. Josh liked the way you watched him with bated breath. Perhaps, a little too much.

You were so hungry for attention and approval, so fucking eager for anything he might dish out next—he'd test the bounds of your devotion eventually if luck and time were on his side.

"It's my job to keep all your daddy's property safe and in line, sweetheart... but, i'm also a man, so I can't say I ain't dyin' t'see you ride somethin' else."

Caution bled from his mind hearin' you moan so lewdly at words alone. Any bystander would've been at a loss imagining what he could've done to coax out a sound so broken and overtly impatient from such a pious, pretty thing such as yourself. All he did was utter a quip that would've made a teenager scoff and roll their eyes, and you practically melted in his palms.

You wore your neon innocence on your chest.

"Darlin, it ain't too late to pretend this never happened. We haven't done anythin' wrong, but you're toeing a dangerous line. You're a good girl. Y'wouldn't wanna get us both into any trouble, would'ya?"

"'m not gonna to tell."

You're persistent, he'd give you that.

Bold, too, he came to learn; your warm hand palmed his considerable bulge with enough enthusiasm to negate your palpable inexperience.

"You keep movin' those hands and i'll have to, sweetheart."

"You won't."

You said it with as much conviction as you say grace every night. Josh can almost feel your palm in his.

"How can you be so sure? You hardly know me, sugar. I've been here all summer and this is the most you've said to me in one go."

"Because you wanna touch me as much as i wanna touch you."

"That right, sweet girl?"

"Yessir."

Josh would have you if the creek don't rise.

And even if it did, he would find a way.

You squeak out a garble of protest as you wriggle in his arms. The struggle only worsens the dig of his wide tip prodding the mint hole, his length slick and sliding between your sticky folds with absolutely no resistance—a fact josh goaded you with, one that only made you gush out even more.

"N-not inside, Mr. Anderson," you hiccup.

All your sobbing and moaning has rubbed your vocal cords raw. And thank God for it, because you're louder than a rooster in a hen house and he hasn't even been inside anywhere.

You wouldn't even kiss him with tongue.

"Why's that, sugar? You savin' this sweet cherry for your future husband?"

A pathetic, bashful nod is all he gets from you. Josh chuckles into the musky skin of your soft neck. The patronizing sound makes you mewl and rut back into his lap in spite of your earnest vow of chastity.

"Well, aren't you precious, sweetheart? But that don't mean I can't fuck you, though. You've got another perfectly good hole back here for me to stick my cock in."

You don't hate the filthy suggestion, even though you know you should; you curled into yourself as if you did. The escaped whimper and roll of your body scream the truth when your mouth insists on lying. You might love his idea more than whatever you originally sought out.

In fact, if Josh was a betting man, he'd feel good putting his savings on that.

"Aw, don't get all shy on me now, darlin'. Where'd my little cocktease go, huh? Thought she'd be over the moon at the thought of me stretching out one of her little holes—no matter which one—but I guess I was mistaken."

Josh makes a show of separating your bodies. He leaves you bent over the truck bed, fingers threaded through crumpled hay, as his belt rattles dismissively in his hand.

"Go on, sugar. Run along now. I got work to do and you ain't gonna waste any more of my time."

"No!" you burst, spinning on a bare heel to latch onto his forearm. The tears of a blossoming fit well in your already glassy eyes. "I-I want to, I've just never...nothin's ever been...y'know."

"Never?" Josh blinks incredulously. He wretches off your iron grip to take your hand in his. "Not even these cute little fingers?"

Your head wags.

He smirks. "What about that hairbrush of yours?"

You wear embarrassment just as pretty as you do lust. Josh thinks you might cry for real this time.

He can't wait to lick your cheeks dry.

Josh does his best not to laugh, but your pained, guilt-ridden expression is too amusing. You try to look away but he's quicker—and stronger—than you. Josh grabs your cheeks with his free hand and squeezes until you whimper in obvious submission.

Like a tomcat with a belly full of yellow feathers, Josh bares his teeth. "Shouldn't leave your curtains open if you ain't inviting me to a free show, sugar. Not that I'm complaining—the hours go by much quicker when y'got somethin' nice to look at."

He smells the shame rolling off of you in uneven waves, can just about taste it, too. Fuck, one taste of you'll never be enough to satiate him. Of that, the foreman is certain.

Josh drops your wrist and cups your face with warm, calloused hands. His thumbs rub the teardrops into your cheeks as he coos, "I promise I'll take real good care of you, sweetheart. Nice and slow...get you so ready you'll be beggin' me to split you open. Y'can trust me, I know what I'm doin'—y'ain't the first i've had the pleasure of breakin' in."

You scowl, jaw set and eyes narrowed; rearing to charge. Invisible steam plumes from your rabbit-twitch nose. You are so dang cute, he could hardly stand it.

"Put that pout away before I spank it off of ya, y'hear?"

He nearly busts with how quickly you fall in line at the mere implication of corporal punishment.

Josh'll remember that for later.

"Didn't even give me a chance to say ain't none of them could hold a candle to you, sugar."

Taking you on your back proved to be too much of a temptation, what with your virginal hole mouthing around nothing like a siren song, and your demure face crinkled into disrepair at the hand of your own perverse wants. Your limp thighs splayed open as Josh fucked your ass bare with no assistance, save from his spit and your dribble.

"Look how ripe you are, sugar. Your little pussyhole is cryin' for me and you won't even let me touch her...not even a little bit."

He gave you your first peak in that position, his teeth ground into the side of his cheek as he fought to keep his own at bay; Josh was far from done playing with your supple, sensitive body. With his thumb pressed to your puffy button, he stroked you halfway to your second and then abruptly pulled out.

The hiss of pain and surprise is swallowed by a mound of hay as you're flipped over and he hikes your hips up high into the muggy air. Your hands curl into fists on either side of your head.

Josh's face lowers until his nose slots in the valley between the rounded muscles. His deep inhale and subsequent hum of approval exacerbates the battle waging behind your glazed, lust-blown eyes. His thick tongue slips past the love-loosened ring and he fucks you with it like he can hear the conflict monopolizing your mind.

Josh laps and laps, kneading the tender flesh of your rear like he's got something to prove, until your back aches and you scream into the earth.

The obscene smacking of his lips as he parts from your tender hole is nothing short of profane, but it's no match for the fresh, hot glob of spit that lands on the sore pucker with a loud splat!

And Josh can't help but throw salt in the wound, "'wanna be able to smell your wrecked little asshole for hours, sugar, wanna be able to taste you on my lips all fucking day."

Tears race down your cheeks. This is everything you've been taught is immoral. A one-way ticket to the fiery domain down below. This is a sin, desecration of the worst kind.

This is the most pleasure you've felt in your entire life.

The sun is far too close to the adjacent range of mountains for his liking; the old man will be home a little before it dips behind them for the night with your mama in tow.

Josh is going to cum before then. At least once. Propriety be damned.

He maneuvers you up and off of the ground, taking the time to brush the dirt and smushed fodder from your tear-stained cheeks and clammy palms.

Your heart jumps to your throat when he finishes positioning you—split open on his girth, straddling his broad hips, turned away from his kind eyes, and facing the dirt road. You grip his rippling, jean-clad thighs.

Josh can feel your freshly-painted claws through the sturdy fabric.

"I d-don't know how, sir."

His hips involuntarily buck at the honorific; it'll never get old.

"Yes, you do, darlin'. I know y'do. Seen it with my own two eyes." Josh taps the fleshy bit of your hip. He's growing impatient. "Go on, pretty girl. Ride me like you ride your ponies."

"Not ponies."

He doesn't need to see your face to know you're glowering. Probably singeing holes into the poor, weathered barn ahead, your kind features scrunched tightly into a frown. If you do it any harder, you'll get stuck that way.

And Josh can't have that. Can't have his sweet, good girl permanently pouting. He'd never get a lick of work done again; he'd be to busy fucking that absent-minded smile back where it belongs.

Admittedly, the open-palm hit is harder than the situation warrants but he's waited too long to watch it jiggle at his hand to control himself.

"What was that?" he growls.

You grind down, swiveling your hips as you grasp onto the lifeline, "Nothin', sir."

"God, even with a cock in your ass you still mind your manners. Your daddy would be so proud of ya, wouldn't he, sugar? Raised ya so good, got ya so obedient."

Josh's vision clouds as you find your stride. The feel of you rocking over his cock is unreal. Entirely unmatched by anything he's ever experienced, in practice or in theory. You feel divine.

You're just as dedicated and passionate in riding him as you are that gentle Tennessee Walker of yours. But there's an intense undercurrent he's never seen before—a fervid need that he could only hope would surface and possess you someday.

Today is that day, and it is glorious.

"Spread yourself f'me, honey."

You do so without lip or hesitation. You just reach back and grab yourself with both hands, hips never wavering.

Heaven-sent, he muses. His very own fallen angel.

A she-devil in disguise; a dirty whore with a greedy, greedy hole.

Josh's never seen anything hotter than your tight little ass fighting to accommodate another of his blessings.

It ain't like you're going easy on yourself either, forcing that sweet hole to take a beating because slow and steady ain't enough anymore. The floodgates have been opened, you're now subservient to the mounting heat low in your tummy and the pulse of your neglected, untouched pussy. You're fucking yourself hard enough for both holes, and you've graciously awarded Josh a front-row seat.

"Sweet Jesus, you're prettier than a peach—juicer, too. I reckon you got the nicest set of holes this side of the Mississippi, sugar."

You preen, back arching. In response, you hold yourself open even wider for his perverted gaze.

"That's it—show me where my cock is. Show me what you've let me take, what you've let me claim—what I'll always call my own. Even when you're good and hitched, it'll be mine. And whenever your empty ass aches, you'll think of this—think of me.

You'll always remember the time you let your daddy's foreman soil you in the middle of his pasture."

The moan that tumbles from your gaping mouth is as uncouth as the visual feast you're treating him to. Even in your struggle to balance on chaffed knees.

Taking mercy on your poor skin, Josh sits up, tugging you back so that your back is pressed tight to his sweat-drenched chest. His grip on your hips matches the ferocity of your hole pulsing around the base of his member, his heavy sack jumping up to repeatedly slap your sensitive clit.

"Y'gonna let me fill this little hole, sugar?" His voice is low in your ear, his breath humid and encouraging.

Your head bobs, your body in a frenzy.

Josh hums his satisfaction, "m'gonna stuff you full and send you back inside—have you make supper right next to your mama with me leakin' down these pretty thighs...M'gonna make you sit in your sin across the table from your daddy."

It's that thought—and your enthusiasm for it—that kicks him over the edge, and, without warning, Josh is unloading warm ropes into your ruined body while you spill for a third time, painting his generous sack in your cream—and it's the crumpled white cotton sticking out of his back pocket that lays the foundation for it to become a reality.

As you limp back to the main house like a freshly dropped foul, Josh knows there won't be any more boys parked at the edge of the property line. No need for the ladder tucked behind the bushes.

Your daddy's gonna be so pleased with him. For weeks, he's been asking Josh for his two cents on how to exterminate the vermin in his field. They're gone now, and Josh'll make sure they stay gone.

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