#at least until he can find a way to get those who are exploiting others taken care of

[beetlethebug]

Me in chap 4 of my chilaios angst fic giving chilchuck a surrogate daughter for like 3 paragraphs: ah yes, a little treat for our local girldad

[pancake-breakfast]

Of all the characters to appear thus far in Jujutsu Kaisen, I think Nanami has a particular way of appealing to viewers who are about mid-20 and up. To an audience that's spent time in the work field, that's tried to put in effort for a job that's ultimately a fabrication to make the rich richer and, at best, to not benefit the poor at all, and at worst, actively exploits them and holds them down. To those who have deep questions about the moral fabric of the societal systems they find themselves trapped in, and have questioned their own morality as someone who willingly (if grudgingly) participates in that system.

It's not really a surprise to discover he reflexively protects his soul with cursed energy. Learning to protect your soul is how you weather working under corrupt bosses for nebulous gain. If you can't (and sometimes even when you can), the job will slowly eat away at you, shaping you with its teeth to the perfect cog that it can keep turning until it breaks and is cast aside.

Jujutsu Society might not be much better than the corporate world when it comes to the corruption of those on the top, those who would willingly and too often happily feed the very people they're supposed to protect to a machine they know will destroy them. But at least there, Nanami can embrace a part of him that he tries to keep hidden.

Nanami is, at his core, a protector. Not just physically. When he notices that he and Itadori are fighting humans and not curses, he takes it on himself to do the killing so Itadori doesn't have to get blood on his hands. In Shibuya, his main focus with all the younger and less powerful sorcerers seems to be to get them out of there, even if they could be of help. This isn't because he's underestimating them, but because he doesn't want them hurt. Or hurt more than they've already been hurt.

Jujutsu Society may be just as shit as normal work, but at least there, he can protect others, so he goes back to it knowing full well he's probably signing his own death warrant in doing so.

We can't all find jobs that will allow us to retire young in Malaysia. In fact, most of us won't, and even those who might may find it's not actually worth the cost. But I hope we can at least find a job that's our Jujutsu Society, where maybe it's still shit, but it feeds our soul in a way we need to be fed.

It's what Nanami would want for us.

[denileisariver]

pairing: batman aka bruce wayne x f!reader

summary: you move into wayne manor, but not everything is as it seems.

warnings: dark!bruce, established relationships, male and female masturbation, descriptions of male and female genitalia, voyeurism, another age gap fic cuz i love dilf!bruce, reader is described as a vigilante and being dicks friend, some non-consensual touching kinda, no piv unfortunately :(, reader is also described as having hair long enough to pull, one tiny use of the word 'baby', size kink if you squint, some overall darkish batfam? not rlly but I'll tag them as yandere anyway.

a/n: tbh i jus pulled this outta nowhere and have no idea where this might lead but fuck it we ball.

you had no idea what you'd gotten yourself into.

your new life at wayne manor was fast-paced and quite absurd. the transition from living in a cramped dorm with one girl to an ancient mansion with a bunch of other heroes whose lives you could barely keep up with hit you like a ton of bricks, it gave you whiplash.

you'd been friends with dick grayson ever since the two of you were teenagers. he was always someone you could easily bond with. whether it was about school, relationships, or being a vigilante the majority of the short time the both of you had been on this earth, he was always there for you. he was your best friend.

you never really had anyone you would consider family. orphaned at such a young age, you grew up to be cautious of other people, always wary that they would abandon you or find ways to exploit you.

at the beginning of your friendship with dick, you had honestly been quite jealous of the older male. you knew it was a bit selfish, but you couldn't help it. there was always a small part of you that despised him for being taken in by a wealthy man who could support him at his every whim, his newfound family that seemed to only grow bigger and bigger each time you saw him. how despite all the terrible things he had been through, he managed to find happiness, or at least content in his life.

and you wanted that, too.

but you always buried those feelings deep down. it wasn't his fault, and you couldn't blame him for it either, so you pretended it was never there in the first place. instead, you put on a brave face. it wasn't too difficult, and for some short moments, you did truly believe that you were happy, regardless of how out of place you felt sometimes around dick and his brothers and sisters.

brothers and sisters. those words were so foreign to you, that when you looked over the relationships you had with dick and his family, you almost had a sort of epiphany. none of them were blood related at all, but they went through thick and thin together no matter what. and a small part of you hoped, wished, that maybe you could be apart of that too.

maybe it was all just irrational.

dick and you had spent a lot of time together. at school, at the justice league headquarters, fighting side by side at unholy hours of the night, or just casual hangouts. you knew him well enough to catch that subtle look in his eyes whenever he looked at you. pity. it was there whenever he brought up what parties bruce was throwing for one of the kids' birthdays, or how tim and jason got into another petty fight that he had to resolve, damian getting awards at school that the family had to attend.

all experiences and problems that you never had, and probably never would. at least, that's what you thought, up until now.

"why don't you come stay wayne manor?"

at first, the question caught you off guard. sure, you spent countless of sleepovers at the place, and you'd known a decent amount about it to get around by yourself with ease, but still. you never considered the possibility of actually staying there. and by the look on dick's face, he seems to notice that too. "i meant- if you want. i just know how lonely it can be for you sometimes, and it would just be easier for us, y'know with our nighttime activities and-"

your eyes roll at his quick rambling, internally cringing a bit at the prospect of him mentioning you being fucking lonely. you flash him a weak smile, your tone dripping with sarcasm.

"sheesh, dick, thanks." you don't mean to sound so harsh, but it's difficult when all of this is so personal to you.

"i didn't mean it like that. and it's no big deal, really. we have plenty of space, and im sure bruce won't mind. maybe alfred, since he has to pick up after your ass but-" dick continues, shrugging it off like it really didn't mean anything. like he wasn't asking you to pack up your shit and move in with him and his family. "you're always welcome there."

and at that, your heart softens a bit. of course, you knew that, but even when you stayed over for a weekend or two, you never wanted to feel like you were overstaying. "i'll think about it, dick."

and you did. you thought about it quite a lot actually, even before dick had asked you that ludicrous question. and he was right. it would make things easier. you'd have a stable roof over your head, instead of the cracked ones that leaked like your dormatory back in gotham. you'd be able to spend more time with the people you cared about. you'd have people that cared about you too, look after you, and defend you if needed. it couldn't be that bad, right?

that's how you ended up here.

in a room that was bigger than all the shitty squats you lived since you were a kid combined. there was so much space you didn't know what to do with it. but the rowdiness of the boys and girls outside your door brought a smile to your face. life at wayne manor would call for some serious adjustment, but you felt like you could power through it. plus, it was only a bonus that you'd always thought jason was cute, much to dick's disgust.

the first couple of weeks staying here were honestly going great, much to your surprise. the family had welcomed you with open arms, some of them not even batting an eye when you regularly attended dinner with them, or walked around in your pajamas, or were quick to be in the cave once it was time for patrol. like you were supposed to be there all along.

your friendship with dick was more of the same, only now you lived with him. jason and you had gotten closer, but you didn't trust calling whatever feelings you had for him enough to call it a crush. you didn't always understand whatever nerd stuff tim would ramble about, but you listened to him anways. you appreciated how much stephanie and cass involved you into their movie nights and gossiping. well more you and stephanie gossiping than cass, but it still felt like you had the girl best friends you had always craved for. damian took some time to warm up to you, but you could still bond with him over his art and love for animals. alfred loved you already, so there wasn't much there to add. and then there was bruce.

you couldn't quite place your finger on bruce. even when you were younger, his stoicism and broodiness was something you couldn't get past, only in rare moments. there was always something about him that you found off-putting. granted that he was always kind, if that's even the right word for it, he never made you feel unwelcome, but you always felt uneasy around the man.

maybe it was how he seemed to be able to read you like an open book, how he could disappear in a room full of people, how he never quite matched the energy in the room, his incessant staring. god, you hated how much he stared at you. bruce's gaze made you feel small, when you usually were confident and assured of yourself. you could feel his eyes burning into you across the room, and you didn't know how to say anything about it or do much for that matter besides distract yourself.

you thought that by now you'd be able to get over whatever it was about him, that you'd known bruce long enough that you could just play it off as him being strange in his own way, but those feelings had only intensified ever since you moved into the mansion.

chills would run down your spine whenever he'd place a heavy hand on your waist, seemingly as casual touch, but it always lingered too long. held on too tight. this look in his eyes, but you couldn't tell what it was. you had brought it up briefly to dick, but he didn't think much of it, laughing it off, saying something along the lines that's just bruce, you'll get used to it.

but you didn't. you couldn't.

especially now that bruce was inviting you to spar with him. to make sure you're prepared, he said. prepared for what exactly, you're not so sure. but you reluctantly agreed, trying to see it as something useful and educational that you could actually use while fighting against whatever villain of the day thought about creating mayhem in gotham.

bruce was strong and brutish compared to you. every time you tried to throw your best at him, he always managed to get the upper hand, and you'd be flat on the sparring mat in a matter of seconds. it had almost seemed like childsplay to him, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think that maybe deep down a part of him enjoyed it.

he'd roughly grab and contort your body in uncomfortable positions, to test your flexibility, as he so called it. your hair would be pulled unforgivingly, and he'd place his weight on top of you, telling you to try and escape from him, much to your avail. you felt like he was taunting you, "you think those criminals in gotham are gonna be easy on you like i am?"

it didn't fucking feel like he was going easy. bruce would place his hand on your neck and choke you out till you were clawing at his skin, only letting go if you tried to beg or actually managed to use your own skill to get him to stop, but that had only happened once and never again. and when you writhed and struggled in his bruising hold, you'd notice that damn look in his eyes again.

no, this wasn't normal sparring.

you'd seen him spar with the other boys and girls, and it had never been like this. and although he was still ruthless, he'd given them actual advice. advice that you'd seen them use out in the field on multiple occasions.

you'd been wandering around gotham long enough to know when someone had it out for you. whether it was sex, crime, or something else, you knew that distinct look in a persons eyes.

a predator hunting down prey.

☆☆☆☆☆

you tried to wash off whatever the hell that was with bruce down the drain. everytime the eery thought of him having less than good intentions for you came up, you pushed it away. whether it was out of guilt for even thinking of him in that way, cause he saved so many people each night without expecting anything in return, or because he was your best friends father, and no he'd never hurt you. that's just unreasonable.

the whole situation just made your head hurt. maybe it's just an overreaction. dick said that whatever this behavior was is normal of bruce. and so you foolishly continue to believe it.

you search your drawers for a fresh pair of panties, too tired to realize that some of your favorite pairs had gone missing. the room, which you personalized after your couple of weeks here, feels suddenly strange to sleep by yourself in.

when you first moved in, you slept like a baby. you felt safe, like this was a normal thing because you'd slept well in these walls ever since your sleepovers with dick. now, it just felt like something was watching you. a feeling that sometimes left goosebumps on your skin, and you couldn't understand what it was.

there's bruises on your skin from how tightly bruce held onto you. some as big as the shape of his hands on your wrists, and as small as the tips of his fingers on your neck. you're completely oblivious to the camera that's watching you closely, placed strategically so you'd never find it. you're oblivious to the man whose behind them.

even if you had just taken a shower, you decide to get yourself dirty again, in other ways. your favorite thing to relieve stress. playtime. so you trace your fingertips down your body with a feather-light touch, gently tweaking and rolling your fingers between your nipples to get yourself excited. you allow your mind to go blank for a while.

you have no idea that bruce's breathing only gets heavier when he realizes what you're about to do. don't know how his cock is hardening beneath his joggers when you push your panties to the side, gathering up your slick and finding your clit to pleasure yourself. don't know that he's stroking himself too, between the layers of his pants and boxers, with your panties in his hand.

how he wishes there was better light in the darkness of your room, so he could get a better look at your glistening pussy, and swearing to himself that he'll get a good look at it upclose one day. he matches your pace, making sure he only gets to cum at the same time you do.

you seem frustrated. he thinks that maybe he can fix that for you. you lick at your middle and index finger, using your own saliva as lubricant, teasing yourself by slowly rubbing along your wet folds. torturing him. the soft pads of your fingers find your clit, setting a medium-slow pace. and bruce tries his best to mimick your actions. pulling himself out of the constraints of his clothes, teasing the fat mushroom head of his cock, gliding a thumb over the tiny slit where his pre-cum dripped out of him, then moving it down his shaft to gently pump it with his hand.

and when your fingers pick up the pace, so do his hands. his eyes intently watch the screen before him, admiring the way your body arches up off the bed, head pushing into the pillows. your chest heaves a bit, and by the way you're biting on your bottom lip, he can tell you're struggling to be quiet. he doesn't want you be, but he'll take what he can get, for now.

your hips writhe a bit, almost like you wanted to fuck back at your fingers, desperately needing something thicker than your petite hands. you move both hands down to your cunt, so you can play with your clit and finger fuck yourself at the same time, and the action makes your pussy cry at the attention.

bruces muscles flex with each jerk of his hand, his free hand going down to gently cup his balls. his eyes hone in on your tiny digits, moving in and out of your cunt with one sole purpose, your juices creating a filthy sound that's like heaven to bruce's ears. he wants to be there so he could get a taste of that sweet pussy, but he suffices with your panties in his mouth, biting down on the fabric.

he could see the markings he left on your delicate skin in the moonlight that peeks into your room, possessiveness coursing through him. he feels pathetic for even doing this, but he can't help himself. bruce's cock twitches in his hand at the sight, knowing your orgasm was coming quickly by how sloppy and rushed your movements were becoming.

it's been so long since you've touched yourself. too long in fact, that your cunt spasms and gushes, completely soaking your hands and the sheets beneath you in the process. and bruce allows himself to cum too, his cock jumping a bit with every rope of the sticky substance, covering his happy trail and abs.

you seem too tired to care that you're laying in your own pussy juice, darkening the fabric below. bruce's eyes are soft, watching you roll over on your side, not even bothering to clean up afterwards. that was a tomorrow's problem.

bruce makes sure to save the precious evidence that the camera caught, knowing it'll be hidden away for his eyes only. he watches you fall asleep in your own mess till his cock begins to soften, placing himself back into his boxers.

he knows you pretty well, he'd like to think. knows you well enough that if you knew what he'd just done, you'd probably slap him across the face. another part of him hopes it turns you on just as much as it turns him on, but maybe that's just him feeding into his delusion. he trails his eyes over your sleeping form just one more time, a small goodnight baby whispered from his lips, even if you can't hear him.

he shuts off the computer for the night, hoping that he'll soon be lucky enough to watch you touch yourself again tomorrow. or maybe even get to fuck you. soon. really fucking soon.

he'll have to remind himself to be a bit grateful for dick inviting you to stay here, in his home. bruce hadn't been too proud when he suggested it to dick, bringing up that you'd easily accept to their request of moving into wayne manor. and he was right.

if dick or anyone else was suspicious about what bruce was doing, or planned on doing, he wasn't too worried of it. he also knew his adopted children well enough that they wouldn't tell on him, and loved you too much to allow you to leave, and for that, he was also grateful.

he had you right where he wanted you, and he'd give you a really hard time if you even thought about leaving now.

[strang3lov3]

Midnight Snack

Roman’s the only one who can get you off. (3.2k)

Tags - stepdad!roman, dom!roman, stepcest, dubcon/noncon, manhandling (i can't believe he has it in him either), manipulation, coercion, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unsafe piv, creampie, dom/sub, roman's icky as usual. sorry. Also daddy kink. Sorry. Fic help - @noxturnalpascal, @beefrobeefcal, and @endlessthxxghts tysm for all that you do! ♡ A/N - he’s baaaaaaack!! It’s gonna get worse before it gets better. Hope you’re all sluts for ickiness like me. I have so many plans for daddy romey, I might have another fic coming out this week. Peer pressure works on me jsyk. Also might do a new sleazy gynecologist Roman au. We’ll see ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ at least a one shot. Thots? Feelings?

Follows Boundaries but can be read as a standalone 🩷

Stepdad!Roman Masterlist

You don’t know it, but Roman can hear you. Roman’s been listening to the ceiling above him - your floor - creak for hours. Sometimes vigorously, sometimes gently. On and off, all night. Your bed creaks too. Soft springs groaning and squeaking as you hump your pillow, the pillow Roman laid his head on as you rode his cock. Can you smell him in your blankets? Have you washed his stains off your sheets yet? And through the air vents, he can hear your frustrated whimpers, your strangled, broken moans. Poor thing. You can’t come, can you?

The bed creaks loudly, louder than those rhythmic noises it made before. And then there’s muffled footsteps, the sound becoming clear as you open your door and walk down the hall, down the stairs. Shifting a bit on the couch, Roman looks over his shoulder and watches as you open a cabinet and grab yourself a glass. You fill it with crushed ice and water from the fridge, then drink it all over the sink. The TV’s on in the living room, volume barely audible, bluish-white light flickers like lightning. 

Roman’s footsteps startle you as he stands up from the couch, you whip around to see him stretching his back and his shoulders as he yawns. “You’re up way past your bedtime, young lady. It’s…” Roman squints and checks the time on the oven, “Late.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

“Yeah, I could tell,” Roman says, walking into the kitchen as he scratches the back of his neck. “You’d be surprised at what you could hear through the walls. Very thin, very, very thin.” He brushes against you as he opens a cabinet. His soft, white t-shirt rides up and exposes his soft tummy and the dark hairs spattered down it as he pulls out a ceramic bowl. You step to the side, uncomfortable with his touch but Roman continues to invade your space; he puts his cold hand on your hip to nudge you out of the way so he can open the silverware drawer. He paces around the kitchen some more, opening other cabinets until he finds his Tupperware container of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, then opens the fridge for his carton of almond milk. He makes himself a large bowl of cereal. “Want some?”

“No.” You bring your glass to your lips and chew on the leftover ice, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 

Roman watches you, eyes scrolling up and down your body slowly. You’re fidgeting, you’re uncomfortable. It’s written all over your face, evident in your body language. Shoulders curled inward, arms crossed over your chest, you’re keeping your distance from him. So defensive. You have to be, of course. Roman will exploit any and all vulnerability in you that he can find. He smirks as he eats a spoonful of the sugary cereal, a bit of milk dribbling down his bottom lip. 

It wasn’t really news to him, your feelings. He found it unsurprising when he read your diary and learned the ins and outs of your feelings for him. Sickly-sweet fantasies about him making love to you, detailed and romantic descriptions of his handsomeness. Puppy love. It seems that’s all gone now, and it’s funny how quickly it happened, replaced with nothing but disgust. Disgust at Roman himself, maybe. He thinks that more than likely, you’re disgusted by yourself. Being confronted with your feelings in such an intimate, vulnerable, shameful way did a number on you, huh? It almost makes Roman sad, and he wonders if that puppy love is still inside you somewhere, buried deep beneath the guilt and humiliation.

“You toss and turn a lot, you know that? You’re a restless sleeper, just like your mother.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Jesus. I can’t make conversation with you? You’ve had such an attitude with me recently, and I don’t - I don’t appreciate it. I thought that maybe we could chill and watch TV like we used to, but sure - I’ll just fuck off, thanks.”

Roman kind of misses those nights with you. He wasn’t lying or making another comparison of you to your mother just to get under your skin, though he knows how well that works on you. He has a hard time sleeping in the same bed with your mother, can’t quite drown out the snoring or tolerate the tossing and turning. He spends a lot of nights on the couch in the living room. You used to join him there when you couldn’t sleep either, when your sheets and your pillows felt too hot and suffocating. You and Roman would watch shitty horror movies and Saturday Night Live together until you fell asleep, and then you’d share quiet, dark mornings alone together until your mom woke up. Your head on Roman’s lap, him gently stroking your hair. You used to feel safe around him. 

You need to remove yourself from this situation. You dump the ice out in the sink, then place your glass on the countertop. It all sounds so loud in the quiet kitchen. You shove past Roman, causing him to spill some of his cereal onto the floor. He lets out a breathless laugh, irritated. He slams the bowl of cereal down on the dining room table then follows you, you’re already three steps up the stairs. Roman grabs your arm and yanks you down the steps, causing you to stumble and yelp. He catches you, clutches you against his chest. You’re reminded that he’s stronger than he looks.

“You, sweetheart-” Roman drags you by the arm back into the dining room, his nails digging into your skin,  “-Need to remember who’s in authority here. Who’s living in whose home, huh? You don’t get to fucking walk away from me when I’m talking to you.” Roman backs you against a wall, his hot breath fanning over your neck. Your jaw is clenched, your body so rigid and hard like glass, on the verge of breaking into a million pieces. You’re just defensive, that’s all this is and good for you for having that fight in you. Roman knows you’re delicate underneath it all. He’s seen it, seen how small he can make you.

All it takes is a knee between your thighs, Roman pressing himself against your center, and then you gasp, melt a little. All of your fire snuffed out with a simple, dull touch. He knows you. You’re his stepdaughter for fuck’s sake, and so easy to read he could find you in a book. All bark, no bite, and easier than you think you are. Roman’s eyes dart across your face as he breathes heavily, a smile curling on his lips. 

“You know what I think?”

“Shut up, Rom–”

“No, you shut up. I think you’re in a mood because you can’t make yourself come. And you’re taking it out on your stepfather. Kinda fucked up, don’t you think?” It makes Roman’s cock swell when your pupils widen and your jaw goes slack at his words, your bottom lip wobbling slightly. He’s vulgar on purpose; intentionally lacking any nuance or subtlety when he speaks. He needs to get under your skin, make you squirm for him. “Ohhh. There it is. You’re busted, young lady.” 

You twist your arm in an attempt to wriggle yourself out of Roman’s grip, but he holds you tighter, pressing his knee harder against your cunt. You’re beginning to soak through your shorts, through his plaid pajama pants. You’d thank god he can’t feel it yet, but does it matter? One way or another, he’s gonna find you soaked for him. Your tummy flutters when Roman’s long, deft fingers push your hoodie up your body so he can find the drawstring of your pajama shorts, tugging the knot undone. 

“I heard you, you know,” Roman growls against your ear. “You sounded so frustrated, kiddo. Your fingers just aren’t - aren’t quite doing the trick anymore, huh?”

“Please,” you whimper. 

“Please what? Be specific, sweetheart. Please make you come? Do you need daddy to make you come? You miss how daddy fucked you?” Roman smiles at how he taunts you, how uncomfortable his words make you as you writhe under him, wriggling your hips away from his knee. “Is that it? Do you miss me, is that what this is?” 

You use the hand that’s not gripping Roman’s wrist to shove his chest, knocking him away from you only slightly. Kudos to you, getting a shot in, making your daddy proud. The fight only serves to excite him. 

Roman pouts with feigned displeasure. “Ouch,” he says, “I’m hurt, sweetheart, so hurt. Maybe I miss you. Not miss you, miss you. But…you know.” Roman tilts his head to the side, cautiously letting go of your arm to bring his palm to your face. You flinch as you await his touch, a gentle caress across your jaw. He uses his thumb to tug on your bottom lip, then releases it. 

“Look at us, here like this. I know you’re hot, too.” 

You shake your head, No, but your body betrays you. Deep, trembling breaths, pupils widened with lust. Roman knows when he dips his slender fingers into your cunt, you’ll soak him, slick running down his digits and into his palm. Maybe he’ll make you lick it up.

“I could make you come. I could do that easily, actually. You know that. Remember?”

He shoves his hand down the front of your shorts, and it feels cold and unwelcome, but familiar all the same. He glides his fingertips through your folds, relishing in the mess he caused you to make. It makes you feel sick, giving him this satisfaction. You tug and tug on his forearm, trying to force him away from you. This can’t happen again. “Roman,” you beg.

“Shh - just quit…fuckin’...” You’re scratching him, leaving little marks on his skin that’ll burn when he showers later. You’re making things much more difficult for him, more difficult for yourself. Don’t you know how much better you’ll feel when he makes you come? You poor, stupid thing. All out of sorts until daddy calms you down. “Rela - hey, relax. Don’t fight it. Quit fighting me.” 

Roman drops his knee to allow himself space to touch you the way he wants to. He circles your clit with just one finger, patiently rounding the sensitive bud. You’re still all tense, full of combativeness, of aggression. While massaging your clit, Roman waits patiently for you to soften. “This is what you want,” he whispers. His eyes are glazed and lidded, silky strands of hair cascading over his face. “I know you need this.”

You fall apart for him. It’s palpable, your reaction. Guard lowered, you tilt your head back, your shoulders drop slightly, you unclench your jaw. “Roman,” you sigh softly, the relief evident in your voice. He’s successfully molded you into compliance. 

 “Yeah, that’s it. Over here, come over here.” Roman pulls his fingers from your core and you whine in frustration, he shushes you with an I know, I know. Roman spins you around and backs you against the dining room table, then sets you down. He pushes chairs out of the way and cringes at the loud sound of the legs scraping against the hardwood floor, then drops to his knees. He wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you closer to his face, causing the bowl of cereal on the table to slosh slightly. He hooks his thumb under the fabric of your Halloween print pajama shorts, utterly soaked with your arousal, and pulls them to the side. You’re glad he doesn’t say anything about it.

Before Roman tastes you, he looks up and gazes upon your body - your soft tummy heaves up and down with heavy, anticipatory breaths, your thighs are twitching and spread wide, your fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard you could make the wood splinter. And your face, desperation painting your features as you stare down at your stepfather. Oh, how he likes you like this.

Roman spits on your cunt before he licks it, causing you to gasp. He watches the bead of saliva roll down your folds as you grip his hair, fingers tingling as you tug those sleek, graying strands of his impatiently. You shouldn’t be pulling him closer. It’s wrong, it’s all so wrong. Roman’s on his knees for you and really, he should feel vulnerable right now. It’s a submissive position in and of itself, being on one’s knees for another. Theoretically, if you found the strength within yourself, you could snap his neck. Easily. But you won’t do so much as push him away right now, and Roman knows this. Not while he’s using his mouth to part you open and explore your cunt, tongue drawing up and down your soft, slick folds. “You fucking need this, don’t you?” he murmurs, slowly slipping two fingers inside your wet heat. “Tell me you need me.”  

“I need you, Roman,” you whimper, pushing his head closer to your center. Roman rewards the admission by curling his fingers, stroking that sensitive space inside of you. All you can do is hold yourself up and take it. 

Roman’s tongue is hot as it laps against your clit. You’re still tugging on his hair, holding him close to you, whimpering his name in broken syllables. As Roman finds a rhythm with his tongue, you rub your thumb along his forehead, his temples. You’re soaking his face completely as he eats you, his tongue pumping in and out of your tight, dripping hole as he noses your clit. He digs his fingertips harshly into the flesh of your thighs, bruising your sensitive skin. You can take the pain, you little slut. 

There’s a gnawing thought in Roman’s mind to pull away and leave you like this, teach you a lesson for that fucking shoulder check and the shove. But he finds himself addicted to the taste of your pleasure and needs to know the feeling of you coming on his tongue. 

But not tonight. Roman pulls away and wipes his face against the soft skin of your inner thighs, causing you to whine in frustration. Good. Roman groans as he stands up, knees cracking. Fuck, he’ll be sore tomorrow. He already is. 

Roman pushes the elastic waistband of his pajamas down his hips, freeing his cock from the confines. Even under the lack of light, you can see how red and angry Roman’s cock is. He’s throbbing, aching to be inside you once more. 

Roman spits in his fist and grips his aching member, a low groan escapes his throat. He smears that pearly bead of precome at his slit right over your sensitive clit and you moan at the contact, watching as he drags the head through your folds, just barely notching it inside of you. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whimper urgently, reaching for his cock. You try to stop him from going further, but god - how you missed the warmth and the weight of his shaft in your hand. 

Roman pulls your hand away and continues to tease you, dragging the tip up and down, pushing himself in and out of you. “You’re right,” he says. “It’s wrong.”

“It’s wrong,” you nod, panting while tilting your hips as he runs the thick head of his cock back and forth over your clit. 

“That’s why we like it.”

With that, Roman fills you with a slow, steady slide inside your cunt that has him moaning. He holds the back of your neck, pointer finger at your skull to tilt your head down and make you watch as it happens, his cock disappearing into your body.  “Ohh, fuck,” he groans, pulling out of you about halfway before pushing in again. 

You wrap your hands around his shoulders and clutch the worn fabric of his white t-shirt as he draws in and out of you, his scruffy cheek right against yours. He rolls his hips at a punishing pace and looks at you, wrapping your legs tighter around him. You’re so pathetic. 

“Rome - fuck - Roman,” you whisper, then bite into his neck to quiet your cries.

 You’re drooling, spit dripping down onto his collarbones. It makes Roman smile. “Listen to you,” he murmurs. “Trying so hard to be quiet, aren’t you?”

You nod against him as he fucks you, the mahogany wood table groaning and creaking with each of his thrusts. Roman pulls back, a string of saliva that connects from your lips to his throat breaks. He shoves the two fingers that were inside your pussy into your mouth, “Suck,” he commands. 

You suck his fingers, humming at the tanginess of your own arousal. From this position, you can see his face clearly. His hazel eyes are black with lust, hooded and glazed over. There’s something both human and robotic about the way he looks at you as he pumps his cock in and out of you, like he’s a slave to his own biological needs. He moves into a deep and hard rhythm, now wriggling his free hand between your writhing bodies. He paints those same steady circles against your clit with his thumb, just like he did before. “You gonna come for me? You gonna - fuck - you gonna come on daddy’s cock?”

You nod, Roman’s fingers still jammed down your throat so that tears are beginning to spring up in the corners of your eyes. He watches your face contort as the pleasure begins to build, almost exponentially. Your eyes squeeze shut and your brows knit tightly together, you’re biting on Roman’s fingers and there it is - your orgasm washes over you like the tide, waves of warmth and electricity flowing over your body with each roll of Roman’s hips. “Yeah, you fuckin’ needed that,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ needed me.”

Your own climax coaxes Roman’s along, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth. Your pulsing cunt, the slick noises you make together - it all goes straight to his stomach, directly to his balls. His cock is throbbing as he empties himself into you with a deep and guttural groan, filling you with his come. He fucks you through his high until his his thrusts slow to a standstill, then pulls his softening member out of your body. 

Roman takes satisfaction in the fact he has to ease your trembling legs onto the floor, your hips too sore to move on your own. He rubs his thumbs soothingly over your hip bones, and it makes him feel needed in a more gratifying way than by getting you off. 

Roman reaches for his bowl of cereal, little white splashes of milk decorate the table around it. Oops. He wipes that up with a paper towel, along with his spend that leaked from your body. He then takes a bite of his cereal. “That actually worked out perfectly,” he mumbles, mouth full. “My Cinnamon Toast Crunch is nice and soggy, so yeah - thanks for the uh…I don’t know. You know.”

Roman walks back into the living room with his cereal, and you’re still by the table, standing awkwardly. The floor under your bare feet is still warm with Roman’s body heat. You pick at your fingernails anxiously. 

“What are you doing in there, kiddo?” Roman calls from the couch. 

“I don’t know. I’m not tired.”

Roman loudly pats the couch cushion next to him, inviting you to join him. You’re not sure what compels you to do it but you do, sitting on the sectional with your knees tucked under your chin. Roman watches you, tense all over again. Your thighs are covered in goosebumps. He takes the edge of his plush, oversized blanket and tosses it over your legs, then turns up the volume of the TV. 

If you enjoyed, please let me know 💜 your kind words keep me motivated to write. Comment, send an ask, and/or reblog with your thoughts 💭 💖

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[sugar-grigri]

Do you feel Asa's been underutilized these last chapters? I trust in Fuji but he kinda skipped over a lot of interest developments for her (her fame, her arm, Denji's identity, even the alley to some extent)

Has Fujimoto really forgotten Asa? 

That's an interesting question, and I think you're not the only one who thinks so. It's a pretty legitimate criticism and I'm not here to deny those concerns. No one can predict whether Asa's character development and treatment will be up to scratch. Since it's an answer that's answered at the end of a work. 

I think so too, just in the realization of the feelings, I would have liked it to be a little more tortured and focused on that. You could say that since Fujimoto seems to be trying to set up a fairly dense scenario, that too much concentration on the sentimental and internal debates between the characters would break the rhythm. What I'd like to say is that, if this is Fujimoto's intention...

CSM has already suffered from a loss of rhythm.

Worse, this loss of pace was achieved by focusing on Denji's character.

Worse still, Fujimoto preferred to concentrate on Denji's malaise, putting Asa aside. 

I think it's important that Asa regains her role as protagonist. I know this may come as a shock, but despite my analysis, I sometimes get fed up with the focus on Denji. Even when I thought she'd be back in the light, when she was ready to save Denji, the focus was irrevocably on him when he woke up. I find that Denji's character takes up an enormous amount of space in relation to the treatment of the others, and that wasn't the case at all in Part 1. 

As much as Yoshida is written as a mystery, Asa is less so: she's a character built on the need to question her every action.

Does it really make sense for her to want to help Chainsaw Man? It's not at all, but it's treated as a logical consequence of CSM saving her. You're right, we don't exploit at all the fact that she has to mentally and emotionally unite her feelings for CSM and Denji when she learns who she is. It would have been super interesting to exploit the fact that it's a difficult exercise because she doesn't feel the same way about one as the other. 

As for the masturbation scene, I agree and disagree with the two opposing sides that analyze this scene. For me, given the narrative coherence of Asa's character and the way it's written, it should have been a tsunami. For me it's a sexual assault on Denji and Asa committed by Yoru, but it's also a destruction of the way Asa tries to protect her. Again, it could have been exciting to exploit that just as Asa influences Yoru with her feelings, Yoru influences Asa by putting her in danger and having an influence on her fear, not realizing the wounds that can be inflicted on her, whether physical (lost hand), or mental (this assault). But no, it's hidden. And that's where I agree with those who argue that it's """"consented"""". Not by saying it is. But for the fact that Fujimoto does treat this scene as it is, and decides to euphemize it so as not to dwell on it too much. It was the worst possible way to go, and I'm really disappointed. Not for deciding to make this scene. But for not exploiting it. 

I'm sorry, but it's really in the treatment of Asa's character that I don't have much hope and that I'm disappointed. At times, I even get the impression that Fujimoto wanted to exploit Denji's final love interest a little, developing her until she wanted to save him. And then it's good! We've got our saviour. 

I want Asa to be exploited just as much as I want Yoru to be exploited. Fami is separate, and so is death. They themselves are sources of mystery. But if Asa is a protagonist, so is Yoru. Or at least a deuteragonist. It might have been interesting to exploit the pov of a knight of the apocalypse. Exploiting and developing this hatred for CSM, the affectation of feelings that can make this hatred more passionate. But again, nothing. 

I'm not saying that Denji's arc didn't add anything. All my analyses are here to explain how it differs from what has been said. Did it have to be done by focusing massively on Denji? Without any variation in points of view? Seriously, I know Fujimoto can do it. He just decided not to.

So the result is that I'm raging for Asa. And I'll eat my fist if I see that Yoshida isn't coming back and is still underused. 

Worse, Denji's character is getting on my nerves. 

There, that was salty grigri. 

[random-and-average]

Yandere Miguel O'Hara with Shadow Wizard!S/O

Author's Note: I spent hours pondering how to make this work, but I came up with nothing that would make sense in terms of the movie. Thus, my rationale is that, if the multiverse details every single possibility and change, then magic has to exist in one of them, right? (Please just let me have this :']) Also, this headcanon is most likely the darkest one I've made so far. With great power comes great suffering, it seems.

Content Warning(s): kidnapping, confinement, mentioned drugging, exploitation, stalking, Google translate Spanish, extremely bad writing

At first, Miguel would try to find a way to use your magic to benefit him while determining your specialties and limits

Of course, those a part of the Shadow Wizard Money Gang Secret Society (SWSS) have to be exceptionally good at magic, so you're no exception

(Although, the society exclusively practices conjuration, transmutation, and necromancy magic because I don't see a Shadow Wizard society practicing things like divination or abjuration)

At the very least, if you refuse to use your magic to serve someone who is lesser than you, you'll just have to conjure random items that Spider-People need, such as a screwdriver or stepping stool

At most, if you're willing to be under Miguel's orders, you will be a semi-member of the Spider-Society, so you'll be brought on missions to aid in maintaining the order of the multiverse

On the off chance that Miguel has free time, he'll demand you see him so that he can witness you utilize your magic

Your universe's Spider-Man, if he is a part of Miguel's society, is internally cursing the entirety of the SWSS for causing him trouble outside of his universe

"Do you guys have to cause chaos in every location you're in?" Spider-Mage complained as he followed you around. As your universe's original Spider-Man, he was tasked to monitor you while you get comfortable at headquarters, though the two of you hated the idea of being in the other's presence.

"And do you have to be a wet carpet in every location you're in?" You quipped. "Spirits forbid you cast a minor transmutation spell! You might just upset the very order of magic with that one."

"I fail to see how using a shrinking spell to make Webslinger think his horse went missing is a 'minor transmutation spell,' but please enlighten me."

"I can't enlighten a fool who thinks size reduction is anything more than a minor spell. Inherent ineptitude isn't something that can be fixed immediately."

"Why you..."

»»-———¯\_(ツ)_/¯———-««

The moment he grasps the full scope of your abilities, including your necromancy ones, he'll start taking up more of your time until all of your days are spent with him

Granted, at this point it's not out of love, but so you can bring the family that he lost and was never able to get back no matter how hard he tried back

And he will force you to truly resurrect them, no matter the price

Diamonds? A body? Something holy? Something cursed? Anything you need, he'll provide it for you

You'll be confined to a solitary room until you get the spell right, unable to see anyone but Miguel when he provides you the materials to resurrect them

He can't afford you being distracted when the possibility of getting his family back is within reach

Unfortunately, the main component of true resurrection is that the soul of the person is willing to be brought back to life

Main problem? Only Gabriella is willing to come back, both of his wives meanwhile...

You can't even plead with them to come back, as Miguel doesn't have either wife's corpse

And he refuses to not have both his wife and child

So you're forced to stay in that cramped room and sleep on an uncomfortable mattress for longer, draining your energy repeatedly casting the same spell

With nothing grounding you to the present except for the buzzing of fluorescent lights, you started wondering how long it had been since Miguel quite literally dragged you to this small room in order to fulfill his deranged fantasies.

'Bring back my family,' he demanded from you as if you could just perfectly resurrect people at the press of a button, and even then, with his distasteful personality, you doubted the reunion would be all sunshine and rainbows.

However, you were starting to get desperate.

You didn't care how he was going to insane lengths to bring back his dead wife and daughter. You didn't care that the former individual didn't want to come back. You didn't care that he somehow was able to not only supply but continuously provide the materials you needed to cast the spell.

You just wanted to get out of this prison.

You couldn't stand the buzzing lights; the stiff spring mattress that reeked of body odor due to you not being able to shower; the putrid stench and humiliating sight of the toilet bucket, stripping you of your pride as a Shadow Wizard; the monochrome color scheme of this spirit forsaken cell that was exacerbated by the grey concrete walls all around you; the lack of being able to interact with anyone, save for the madman that brought you here; and the fact that you were only here to be exploited, to be treated like a tool that can be used whenever and however its owner pleases.

The screeching noise of metal against concrete stole your attention and forced you to look at the only person who would enter this miserable room.

"I have the needed materials."

You couldn't help but sneer at Miguel's statement. His straight-forwardness was refreshing at times, but in this situation, it infuriated you. He didn't even politely request that you cast a difficult spell or ensured that you were comfortable to do so. If only he knew that, back in your dimension, people would get on their hands and knees to beg you to cast a simple spell.

"What makes you think that your wife will allow herself to be brought back? She hasn't done it in the past, so what would make her change now? You might as well give up or settle for only Gabriella being resurrected," you reasoned. Hopefully, he still had enough sanity to know that what he wanted was a pipe dream. If he did, it would mean you would be able to be freed sooner.

"She might have finally come around to the idea that it's better to come back to her husband."

Rage almost compelled you to lash out at him. How easy it was for him to talk as if he was minorly inconvenienced by his wife's refusal when you were the one suffering because of it. Though, you reigned your anger in since you wanted to reduce the amount of time you had to spend in this place.

Miguel would eventually understand that achieving his dream was futile, and some vengeful part of you wished to see him break down in despair when he does.

»»-———¯\_(ツ)_/¯———-««

His feelings for you only start to change once he realizes that, regardless of how many times you cast True Resurrection, neither of his wives will be willing to come back

Miguel is obviously devastated by these turn of events

Suddenly, he is much more aware of how lonely he was this entire time, and it's too much for him to bear alone

So he finds comfort in someone that has no choice but to provide him solace, you

Slowly, with each visit (or counselling sessions, basically), he grows fond of you

You are the only one who stood next to him when he was at his lowest (even if it was unwillingly)

In gratitude, you are let out of your room, but you're limited to the entirety of headquarters, nothing outside of it

He can't let you leave after you saw him when he was the most vulnerable he'd ever been since the loss of his second family; you were special

Eventually, the longer you stay by his side, his fondness for you grows into something else as he takes note of your interests, quirks, and minute features

"Miguel? Miguelllllllll. Are you even listening to me?"

Lyla appeared in front of the footage of you laughing with the other Spider-People as you demonstrated that you, too, were capable of shooting webs like them, forcing Miguel's attention to focus on her rather than you.

"Por el amos de Dios (for fuck's sake), what do you want, Lyla? I'm busy."

The woman gave him a stare that indicated that she didn't believe him. "Yeahhh, busy doing what exactly? Busy being a creep?"

"I'm busy monitoring the anomaly to ensure they don't interfere with the multiverse."

She scoffed, "You and I both know that they have no intention of doing so. If they did, they would've done it already, seeing as they have plenty of magic at their disposal. Obviously, you're stalking them out of your own self-interests."

Miguel glared at the hologram as he turned off the footage with a frustrated huff.

"I don't care what you think about me, but any word about this to anyone else, especially them, and I will erase you. Understand?"

All of Lyla's sass vanished faced with the man's glowing red stare that pierced through her being. Although she wished he was just bluffing, his tone clearly showed otherwise.

"...I understand." And with that, she disappeared.

»»-———¯\_(ツ)_/¯———-««

You'll know when Miguel is completely besotted with you

He will start taking up more of your time, just like he did when he understood your necromancy magic

This time, however, it's not to resurrect his dead family; it's to just spend time with him

It starts out as being forced to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner with him

Then it turns into full-fledged "dates" where he allows you to explore various dimensions under his supervision

Finally, you are forced to choose to have a microchip implanted in your body so that Miguel knows where you are 24/7; be magically bound to Miguel through a sacred ritual, courtesy of an intimidated Spider-Mage following orders; or stay by Miguel 24/7

Of course, the man does feel guilty for keeping you in the equivalent of solitary confinement

As a result, he is willing to bend the knee to you at times, giving into your demands as long as they aren't too "unreasonable"

He will spend the rest of his life atoning for what he did to you

Dedicates a space for you in his home where you can cast and experiment with as many spells as you desire

(It has cameras hidden in every nook and cranny in case you start dabbling in magic that'll take you away from him)

Absolutely melts inside when you start becoming less hostile/defensive towards him

(However, if your hostility doesn't stop, he'll simply remedy the issue by sneaking a love potion—once again, courtesy of Spider-Mage—into your drink)

Without fail, he takes a week-long break on your "honeymoon" every year, which usually involves visiting your home dimension

Speaking of your home dimension, the Shadow Wizard Secret Society (SWSS) initially doesn't take too kindly to one of their own being romantically involved with a magic-less person

But as the saying goes: if there's a will, there's a way

After a few choice threats and an offer to provide them with any needed materials, they're perfectly fine with Miguel

Though your colleagues pity you for being bound to such a lowly lifeform

Miguel loves seeing you cast magic and will even set aside some time for you to show him your power if you desire it

Secretly looks forward to watching you teach your future children magic

Gave you access to his desk, so you can also watch the Spider-People

Even allows you to be there while he discusses plans, mainly because Lyla likes having you there

(She sometimes begs you to demonstrate your magical prowess by having you animate objects into recreating the plan)

Will keep you in the dark about plans concerning individuals that could negatively influence you, specifically Miles and Hobie

Jealous of any creature you summon/conjure, even if it's to do a task; though, his jealousy intensifies if it's a humanoid

Goes through the effort of learning wizard customs (courtesy of Spider-Mage, like always)

All things considered, it was a normal day for you. You just spent hours watching movies that Miguel bought for you in his massive luxury apartment, and there weren't alarms about a rogue anomaly. The entire day so far was peaceful and uneventful, really.

And that made the alarms in your head go off.

Your thoughts were interrupted when your homunculus dropped right beside you on the couch with an excited chirp. With a smile, you pet your servant.

"So, is Miguel hiding something from me again?"

It tapped the cushion twice. Yes.

"I knew it," you sighed. "I wonder if it has something to do with Hobie again."

You got up from the sofa with a groan as you stretch, and your homunculus jumped down to join you. However, you picked it up and placed it back where it was.

"You'll have to stay here for now, Empanada. Wouldn't want the mean spider to know who gave away his plans."

The homunculus, Empanada (You honestly thought that it deserved a better name, but Jess jokingly suggested that Miguel would like it more if you named after something he liked), whined, but it ultimately laid down on a pillow, indicating that it wouldn't follow you.

With your homunculus out of the way, you closed your eyes and pictured the meeting area that you were familiar with as well as the empty chair that was reserved for you.

"Teleport."

Rather than feeling the soft cushions of your chair, you felt the sensation of falling from the sky, and when you opened your eyes, that was indeed the case since you teleported a good amount of feet above the ground. "Are you kidding me right now?"

Expectedly, the people in the room didn't anticipate your arrival.

"I didn't know that they could teleport!"

"Gwen, you didn't tell me that there was a Spider-Person that could come out of thin air!"

"Oh ho, that person is the last person Miguel would want to be here."

"Querido/Querida!"

Before you could cast another spell, you find yourself in Miguel's arms while he chided you.

"What are you doing here? You should be back at home!"

"Don't think I'm stupid, Mig. I know something's up when there's nothing going on."

"That doesn't mean you should cast such a dangerous spell!"

"Any wizard worth their salt knows how to cast a teleportation spell. Besides, it's only 'dangerous' if you're not skilled enough."

"...Mi vida, we're having a talk after this."

Miguel set you gently onto the ground, and you steadied yourself before you saw that there was a seemingly new addition to the Spider-Society, a Spider-Man who looked to be bleeding out of his armpits.

"You didn't tell me that you recruited a new Spider-Man, Miguel."

"That's because I didn't. I had Jess bring him here because he disrupted a canon event in Earth-50101."

"Lemme guess, someone was supposed to die, and he saved them, right?"

"It would be for the sake of the multiverse-"

"So you say. Anyways," you turn to the new Spider-Man, "what's your name?"

"Miles. Miles Morales."

There was something about him that made him stand out from the millions of people you've seen across your life so far. Even though you've never touched divination magic, you could tell that Miles was destined for great things.

And you wanted to be there to experience those things.

"Something tells me that you and I are going to get along real well, Miles."

[kaibutsushidousha]

Any piece of media you’ve changed your mind on significantly? Bonus points if the only thing that caused the change was passing of time and not other material.

I really rewatch, so I judge things mostly according to what my mindset was back when I experienced them. The closest I have to a proper answer here is how Katekyo Hitman Reborn and Fairy Tail were my least favorite manga around high school and years later I had a sudden "Oh, I understand this part now" realization about a few things a decade later.

Reborn's example is, unsurprisingly, about the final chapter. It made the extremely controversial decision of ending on Reborn musing about how Tsuna learned nothing and is still the same person he was in chapter 1, except with friends now. Everyone hated that because the overarching narrative provided plenty of evidence to the contrary and because if the statement was true, the manga would be calling itself a waste of the reader's time. That was a sentiment I shared immensely.

My random epiphany on this one was that the "Tsuna learned nothing" quote comes from the perspective of Reborn, the character who wanted to teach him to be a mob boss and a killer, so it's celebrating that Tsuna remained a good boy through and through. It's thematically consistent despite the poor communication. In hindsight, Reborn couldn't have ended any other way.

And Fairy Tail's case came from looking back at the series through the lens of its core theme of mourning. Zeref was the one character I always considered good despite the rest of the series, and his deal was ultimately that he got cursed because he failed to cope with his brother's death and the curse causes him to autokill everything around him until he learns to get over it. Throughout his long life, Zeref created many tools that were exploited by half of the villains that came before him, and looking in hindsight, all of those were tools meant to cheat and control death.

And these ideas delivered in one of the main villains are obviously reflected in the main characters as well. Gray kills and mourns his dad 3 times in addition to carrying the guilt of indirectly killing Ur because he had mourned his dad properly the first time. There's a timeskip that sorta only exists kill off Lucy's dad and make her deal with that. And most importantly to make FT feel thematically consistent, Natsu's initial goal to find his dragon dad is ultimately revealed to be a quest to finally accept he died.

Grief is a constant theme in the series, but its importance only becomes evident in the final arc. Which is not something I can complain about because the only reason I stuck with Fairy Tail until the end is because I liked Rave that much to trust it to have at least a great ending, and Rave is another manga whose main theme is prevalent but only gets super evident with the final arc. Maybe the great difference in enjoyment came down to simply reading Rave as a finished story and reading Fairy Tail as an ongoing story. Who knows?

Does that mean I like those two now? No. I never reread them, so my first experience is still what counts. But at least now I believe I have a more fair and good-faith perspective of their flaws. And maybe an interest in checking Eden's Zero after it finishes (I'm not checking if it already finished because I think this post is funnier if it already finished 3 years ago and I don't know about it).

[obeetlebeetle]

when is honor not honorable? when it is prescribed by a system of nobility that perpetuates itself through the destruction of its subjects. 

rue watched hob sit there bleeding, arrows in his back, waiting until they nearly pierced his lung to remove them -- all for the honor of the goblin court. for the courts. for the system that stole rue as a child and twisted them into a pleasing shape, a desired doll. for the system that has used hob’s body on the field of battle and rue’s body in the field of politics to the benefit of the system, not the bodies being used.

rue spent every interaction with hob this episode saying, Are you okay? Are you hurt? Does anything about your life of service actually make you happy? Are you ever happy? Will you ever let yourself be happy? I hope you will. I hope you find happiness. I wish it was with me.

and then at the very end hob goes, I was miserable until you held me.

hes finally able to say it but the issue is, rue never needed to be told that hob loves them. they clocked it. they know he wants them. so finally learning how hob feels, that doesn’t change anything. what they were really saying is, Can you admit that service makes you unhappy? Are you capable of prioritizing desire? I am offering you devotion.

as long as hob pursues honor as prescribed by the court system, as long as he plays the political game, he can never love anyone. least of all rue; rue who has been so damaged by their obligation to the court of wonder for so long. rue who has chosen to use all their power to dissolve political bonds and facilitate emotional ones, at the hope of destabilizing the system. rue who has finally revealed themselves as both a monster and a dissident, prompted by their love for hob, in a show of force -- they are finally rebelling, openly, against the court and the system that tried to cannibalize them. and they’re watching as hob commits himself more deeply to the goblin court, putting his body in their hands for both battle and marriage.

rue tries tirelessly to get hob to answer this question. You are unhappy; what is it for? Tell me so I can understand. and hob’s response is, I choose to be unhappy because otherwise I would be wrong. 

his defense of the court system is that it tells him what to do. he believes himself to be so fundamentally incorrect that his wants, desires, and instincts cannot guide him -- the only way to be a good man is to serve something greater than himself. this belief, as we can see in his conversations with boil and blemish, has been reinforced through scorn and humiliation. 

hob says, I choose this unhappy life because it is right to serve. I know that it is right to serve because those in power tell me what is right. I know I am wrong because they tell me I am wrong.

upon learning that rue dissolved the marriage between apollo and grabalba, the thing that hurts him the most is the feeling of being used by rue. of being taken for a fool and manipulated in a political game, of falling in love with someone that doesn’t care about him. but even as this misinterpretation wounds him, he tries to defend his service to the goblin court.

and all rue ever wanted was to show him that his life of service is just a matter of being used, being taken, loving those who do not love you but only what you do for them. they wanted him to see that the pain he feels at the perception of  being manipulated by rue is a pain he has felt at the hands of the court system for far longer than they have known each other. 

hob’s real answer can be found in both what he has said and what he’s unwilling to say. For what? Nothing. Not even love. so rue offers hob what the court system has always denied him.

honor, service, obligation, duty -- everything hob has hinged his identity on and everything he ever believed to be good, to make him good -- are tools, not ideals. the court system designed fealty so that it would be easier to exploit people like hob and rue, people that feel like monsters, people who are empty and need to be filled. rue sees that hob believes himself to be a monster, and they aren’t asking him to change that. they know that monsters will always know themselves to be monsters. instead, they are trying to convince hob that being good is not what he thinks it is, when it’s being defined by the court system.

when is a monster not a monster? when you love it. when what is monstrous is worth loving. in their last attempt to wrest hob from the court system, rue tells him they love him, and in the same breath they tell him that love and honor are not the same. rue tells him that they are a monster. that in seeing him, they finally realized that being monstrous isn't being damaged; the damage comes from elsewhere. so they ask him to see them outside the moral structure that has been imposed on him and that he imposes on all others. they ask him to see the ways in which that structure and the system that created it have wounded them for being monstrous.

in doing so, hob would have to acknowledge his own wounds. he would have to acknowledge that he has been wounded for a very long time. that is what he has been resisting; if at any point he had acknowledged his wounds, he would have needed to care for them, and hob is not equipped to care for himself. care is not something afforded via lines of support in the court system; care was never part of the conversation. but when rue speaks of love, and divests it of honor, they offer, instead, care.

this is a love story.

[shitpunsforshitnuns]

OBSESSED with the fact that the infamous “gross American food” poll is fully just poor people food that people still make/buy either because it was passed through their family or because they’re still poor. Allow me to elaborate. Here’s the poll if you’ve managed to avoid the discourse:

American Chocolate tastes different because of two factors: the majority of our cacao comes from South America unlike Europe which generally imports from Africa (moving product farther costs more money). Also, American chocolate is only required to have 10% cacao as opposed to Europe’s 20% (using less cacao and supplementing with readily available sweeteners like corn syrup costs less money). In fact, the very first American Chocolate company (Baker Chocolate Company) was so aware of how much less wealthy the early US was than Europe’s established market for chocolate, that their bars came with a money back guarantee for anyone who was disappointed with the sweets. The current financial situation in the US is well known to the rest of the world- of course we still make and eat cheap chocolate, the bones of our country are exploitation. Also, the dairy content is lower in American chocolates which makes them more shelf stable. Shelf stable foods are important for communities living paycheck to paycheck who have money for a chocolate bar right now but won’t for their kid’s birthday in a week.

Bologna feels self explanatory to me. It’s made of literal scraps from the meat production industry that are then turned into a “sausage” and cured to give the product more longevity. I like fried bologna because it was cheaper for my dad’s parents when he was a kid. My dad likes bologna for the same reason.

Watergate Salad is made of shelf stable ingredients. Many desserts require eggs or dairy that can be expensive and expire quickly. Those desserts then get stale if they aren’t eaten immediately. Canned fruits, pistachio pudding mix, and cool whip (which is hydrogenated oil and very little dairy) will all keep for a while. You can buy them in bulk and put them in your cabinets or freezer until you want to use them and then the salad itself will keep in the fridge. See again the importance of shelf stable foods to impoverished communities.

Twinkies are cheap and go stale slowly. See again the importance of shelf stable foods in impoverished communities.

Grits, Boiled Peanuts, and Biscuits and Gravy are all southern comfort food staples. I was born and raised in north Georgia, it’s very important to me to note that almost all southern food was co-opted from freed slaves by poor rural white folk in the south. Plain grits can be deeply unappetizing but they are cheap and self stable. You can add butter and salt or even seasoned meat and veggies. Grits are rarely a whole meal all to themselves and when they are you add some cheese or salt at the very least. George Washington Carver (a black man many people outside of Georgia should acquaint themselves with at least a little better) turned peanuts into a massive cash crop in Georgia because they are nitrogen fixing! They replace the nitrogen other cash crops (like cotton and tobacco) take out of the soil. In order for your fields to stay viable, you have to plant something like this every once in a while, so most farmers had peanuts themselves or had a neighbor growing peanuts. Boiling them is a quick, easy way to get salt on the nuts themselves. The water soaks through the shells and seasons and softens the nuts. Water is free and peanuts will keep until the fats start to go south, no wonder they picked up popularity among rural folk and travelers alike. Biscuits and gravy are another scrap food. A good sausage gravy is made of leftover sausage and southern biscuits are a savory, buttery carb that is filling and gives you energy you need somewhere like a farm. The negative stereotypes of the south are pervasive and often rooted in racism. Find someone whose grandma has been making these foods her whole life before you form an opinion.

Meatloaf is seasoned more often than not. Like. Sorry you ate meatloaf that wasn’t salted. Anyway, meatloaf is another scrap food! Meat scraps are ground up and then formed into a loaf. Most people put tomato sauce or ketchup on it. Canned tomato products are, you guessed it, shelf stable, and can also be canned at home fairly safely.

The United States at large is not ignorant of the world around it. We are aware that other foods exist. Either we are choosing to eat these or our financial situations are backing us into corners. This is all without even touching upon the prevalence of food deserts in low-income, minority communities in the US. If you’re aware of all this and you really just want to critique the wealth disparity in the US, punch up. Go after the guys with money, not the food that the rest of us find joy in making out of the scraps. Also, making fun of the British is always punching up. Maybe if you had caused fewer wealth disparities that directly impacted the food eaten in other countries, we would be nicer about yours.

[demonogeny]

This is a way too long response to a very nice response to a way too long answer to a very nice ask, but I brought up some more blorbo images and things I'd like to share... so I made it a different post to not bury it and because I make things too long, sorry.

THIS IS A RESPONSE TO THIS POST AND ITS ANSWER (by @oddclan-askblog)

I will be honest, I just drew a random hand smudge but I do like your idea, I think that he would have or at least has had other different few host species, and given the Mudokon's status as slaves I would imagine they are on the market for Oktigis, maybe he could have had a Mudokon host before. I do think that in general Oktigis, at least male ones do prefer bigger, more broad, manly and imposing hosts because of course they would overcompensate their small, weak and squishy bodies like that, Glukkons do the same, but I also think that some Oktigis may like having lean or smaller hosts, perhaps at first they can only find or afford those, or maybe they like having a bit of variety sometimes.

I just feel that he'd do something fucked up like that, he seems to be more than just an unethical asshole, he seems consciously and willingly cruel to me once looking at some more details, and he is so in a bit of a more personal manner than most of the other antagonists we see.

He did lose a whole lot, his company, his wealth, his possessions, his host, and as a whole a big part of his life. We do have that Grubb proverb at the end cutscene talking about getting his life washed away for being an greedy asshole and exploiting the water basically, which I love, I love when a blorbo gets the consecuences of his actions to bite him back.

I do find his reaction somewhat too calm perhaps? I would be crying and seething and wanting to die and lashing out if that happened to me honestly but I guess he's built different, or maybe he already had sometime to do that and then get it together before he appears on-screen, or maybe it just doesn't hit yet.

(Look at his little arm tip and his tiny suckers, very cute)

Maybe he still has a lot more wealth stored, but will he get to it? He is left literally in the middle of nowhere swimming down a long cold river and I mean he is a little parasitic creature that looks kind of good at just suddenly jumping at any being and taking control of their mind but also he's like, just an actual person and businessman who I don't think he needs to act like a wild animal in his daily life, I don't hold hopes that just some guy with this type of wealth and lifestyle can suddenly survive outdoors that easily. I would LOVE to know what happened to him. Maybe he died soon after eaten by an animal, maybe he died some time later after going through a lot, maybe he went from wildlife host to wildlife host until he got to an unlucky sapient one at last. Maybe he was able to go back to a bigger city and then to wherever else he's from and get some of his life back together, maybe he could not and he was now stuck in a less than nice life in some random isolated place entirely unfit to his lifestyle. Maybe he went through a whole lot of horrible stuff, maybe some Grubbs found him and I don't think that would have ended well for him at all. Who knows, I love thinking about that. You could imagine the best or worst scenarios for him as you wish, it's very fun :)

I love him so I like to imagine that he's moderately fine after going through a lot of horrible stuff :) but you may choose your own favorite fate for him and the consequences to his actions, make him suffer if you want >:)

[childlikegoblinqueen]

SCOM Last Chapter Writing Notes: Affluence, Politics, Power.

Ahhhhhhh! I keep saying this but we're really getting close to end game! I hope everyone is still enjoying the story. I know the fandom's quieted down to a few of us on the couch, but I like it here.

Anyway, thank you all for your continued support. Your encouragement/comments etc are a huge help.

Hunter was "born" into an unkind world altogether. He had one "family" member who trained him to believe that his worth was contingent on how useful and obedient he was -- when in reality he was seen as disposable.

Willow had a loving family, but dealt with bullying. She was born into a world where the ruler seemed benevolent, but was really authoritative and planned on killing her and everyone around her.

They chose to bring a child into a world they thought would be kinder.

Aside from the parenting fears and Willow and Hunter struggling through health concerns for both Willow and their child, a lot of SCOM is about how easily trauma is exploited and how some folks just seem to say and do whatever they want with few consequences.

The New Isles Government was formed to contrast Belos' rule, but it struggles with those who actually AGREED with some of his ideals and those who seem to have no guilt over the aforementioned exploitation if it benefits them.

While Belos had the delusion of being the "savior of humanity", Osran is just the latest in a long of wealthy heirs that believes he is entitled to continuing the empire his ancestors built on exploitation.

There will be a little more on this in the next chapter. Hunter is going to come face to face with his granddaughter, Langwidere (who married Boscha...) and there will be a few surprises there.

But in general, the last chapter features a flashback to the Inner Circle Trials where Hunter overhears Eda lament that a rich guy will always get away with crimes.

Maybe this is a little TOO on the nose, but it's something I feel deeply.

After Hunter is able to fight off his kidnappers in Nommeking he finds himself (and his family) in a strange place where there seems to be Grimwalker History. And not just Golden Guard Grimwalkers.

But of course, Osran shows up before this and flexes his powers in a way that neither Hunter nor the others have ever seen from an oracle.

Of course we know that within disciplines there are different special abilities that can be developed. Darius' Abomination form for instance, which Dana suggested was acquired using unethical magic practices. Perhaps to get revenge for his Mentor's "mysterious" death?

Osran also has power granted to him by his species of demon. He uses a similar magic to Kikimora's sealing spell (they are related, after all) but his version is more brutal. He also is able to remove the life forces of his opponents leaving their bodies husks until he can rejoin the two ... or at least he says he will.

Nommeking is a micro government within the Boiling Isles that rules by affluence. Of course everything eventually has to go to the New Isles Government, but first, crimes committed in Nommeking must go through the Magistrate who chosen from a pool of suggested candidates chosen from a group of Electors made up from the Houses that bring in the most Snails per year to the city. From these candidates, the Magistrate is appointed by the High Oracle.

Osran himself. And before him it was his mother, and her grandfather, and so on and so forth.

Osran doesn't particularly give away the hand he's playing though... but he certainly doesn't believe he will lose. After all, he's an aristocrat.

He also believes he's entitled to something that he was denied a long time ago.

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

Team RWBY as also "bad protagonists" because they apparently don't affect the main plot or at least aren't constantly driving the main storyline forth at a nonstop pace. Yeah that also baffles me because "team RWBY don't affect the main plot" How? They are the main plot!

I think it's partly motivated by a mentality that they "don't do enough" or "don't do it correctly".

The kinds of things that Team RWBY tends to do are more about the value of small and partial victories, the resilience and healing needed to keep going in the face of relentless evil or failures by forming strong bonds with each other, and the willingness to lean on others and trust others to continue the fight when you've fallen down.

A running theme of most views like the original point was making seems to operate on the notion that the only valuable thing a protagonist should do is big, grandiose absolute victories that fix everything perfectly and put them as the big saviors whom all should respect and defer to.

In other words, a lot like how a lot of people seemed to think Adam and Ironwood would be.

But the series actively skewered and dissects this mentality, with those two being highlighted more and more overtime as being intensely self-righteous at best and downright monstrous because all they really care about is their own grandiose fantasies at the expense of others.

Hell, Ozpin, even if his own goals were better-intended, suffered from this issue for millennia, since his belief that he was the only one who could oppose Salem and fixation on the bigger picture meant that he constantly overlooked how his "perfect world order" was cracking and falling apart at the seams because of the numerous small failings and societal issues he considered to be less important than defeating Salem (whom was smart enough to recognize his bad habits and exploited it ruthlessly), and arguably to the point of overlooking the possibility that his entire quest set to him by his God was likely never intended to succeed in the first place, because his goal was fundamentally impossible.

RWBY is a story about the small victories, how they can inspire others to try their best, even if only a little bit, and how the little things can build and improve to truly enacting change, in ways that grandiose gestures and fixation on bigger glories can overlook, or outright actively harm. How much the small things we do to help others can snowball into bigger and more profound impacts because we as people remember to actually care about others, instead of seeing them as a stepping stone for "the main characters".

And more than anything, that justice and a better world is a living and breathing organism that needs to be cultivated and nurtured with care and compassion, acknowledging and addressing the warts and all of society and that the fight never ends no matter how much people might want a guaranteed "happily ever after". Not forced at gunpoint or by "purging the problems until they go away" by those who think everything should be solved by the egomaniacs with the biggest god complexes.

That's exactly it. This isn't a story where we find a giant superweapon or where we have a series of battles where some win and some lose. Salem is immortal, infinitely patient, and the game is rigged against them. The only way to win is to change the fundamental narrative of Remnant itself. It's a story about broadening your understanding, learning to get back up, accepting yourself. Which often leads to cool battles, yes, because the demons of human nature here occasionally have the form of literal demons you can shoot in the face.

[daybreakrising]

HEADCANONS - THE TWO SIDES OF T.HOMA

so everyone knows the nice side of our favourite housekeeper, the t.homa who knits sweaters for stray dogs and cats, who never turns down a request for aid, who fixes things for people and who knows everyone and everything going on in i.nazuma. the t.homa who enjoys the housework and will do anything, absolutely anything, for the k.amisato family-

-and that's the point. he'll do anything.

there are lines, of course, things he won't do (at least, not without justified cause), but he won't shy away from doing what is... necessary.

and the best thing about being t.homa is... well, people trust him. why wouldn't they? he's a sweet guy, he helps people, he enjoys cooking and cleaning and plays with the children. what's not to trust about a man who worries for the wellbeing of the local strays, who laughs at himself without fear, who takes the time to learn everybody's name, to listen to their troubles?

and he uses that. oh, does he use that.

AN EXPERT MANIPULATOR

his smiles and his charm aren't false - most of the time. but he weaponises both to lure people into a false sense of security, to put them at ease while he methodically breaks down their barriers and finds their weak points, even if he never intends to exploit them. he's made himself into the kind of person someone will happily tell their secrets to, who will look to him for aid or advice, who will unload their problems onto him because he is a fixer and he'll fix it for them.

and all the while, t.homa is keeping track of everything said, of every detail that might one day be important. because t.homa knows things; lots of things.

he has a keen eye for body language; for microexpressions and posture. most closed books are splayed open before him, unable to conceal their true emotions, their intentions, from his discerning gaze. there are those who escape him, of course, but they are few and far between.

because he knows the people around him, because he can read most of them so easily, he is like a puppet master guiding them along the paths he needs them to take. a quiet word here, a suggestion there, an innocent retelling of "idle gossip", and he manipulates people into doing what he needs them to do - and they do it, because it's t.homa. they can trust him, can't they?

part of being a fixer means sometimes getting others to do the dirty work, when you need to be seen with clean hands.

RUTHLESS; RESOLUTE

once given a task, there is little t.homa will not do to see it to completion. he prides himself on being reliable, on having that reputation as someone who can get things done. if the task can be completed in above-board ways, wonderful. but if he needs to utilise some more underhanded methods, he won't hesitate. he does what needs to be done - no more, no less.

and this is not a man who stands down easily. if the job requires it of him, he will be merciless in his pursuit of success. he won't hesitate to step on people to achieve the desired result. and, of course, if the job requires him to... rough someone up, for example, he won't even blink an eye at the violence necessary to send a message - or to remove a problem entirely.

that's not to say he takes delight in causing harm to another person - he doesn't. if something can be done without violence, he will always take the peaceful option first. but he will bloody his hands without hesitation if he has to.

LOYALTY LIKE NO OTHER

once you have t.homa in your corner, you have an ally for life (or until you break his trust, or wrong those he cares for). he will not only throw down his own life to come to your defense, but he will do whatever he feels is necessary to protect you, to avenge you, to help you. this is a man who threw a polearm at a literal god without hesitation, without flinching, without fear (and he'll do it again - he's watching you, ei.)

and his loyalty to the k.amisato estate is the strongest of all. they gave him a home, a family, when he had neither. his loyalty extends beyond a.yato and a.yaka, to everyone who lives and works within those walls, for anyone with close ties to his lord and his lady.

how aware a.yaka is of his darker responsibilities is unclear (this can be discussed with muns if required for interactions), but the majority of his jobs are ordered - no, requested - by a.yato. a quiet word, sometimes only a meaningful glance, and t.homa slips quietly from the estate to see it done. whether it's blackmail, threats, or worse - he won't fail him.

a.yato never asks for the details, and t.homa never gives them. the commissioner doesn't need to know where the bodies are buried to know they won't be found.

[pazodetrasalba]

Vae Victis

Dear Caroline:

Just finished reading yesterday this recommendation of yours. It wasn't bad, but if I am to be sincere, it is up to now the least interesting of your 5 star choices. I imagine this comes as a result of my absence from the world it depicts: what might have been personally relevant for an (ex)finance bro like you is mostly irrelevant for me.

Yes, the book is a bit slow and rambling, and yes, it does accelerate and get more thriller-like once the bids are out (title gives away the resolution, though, if for some reason you had never heard of the RJR Nabisco leveraged buyout in the first place). The cast is too big - I actually benefited from watching the movie adaptation before finishing the book so that I could at least make a clear mental picture of the, say, 10 or so main characters.

One way of reading this book (and the popular narrative at the time of the events) is as a story of greed, with stereotyped and villainous figures (the film is much less nuanced than the book, and really goes full-hog in this direction: Ross Johnson is a a snake charmer wallowing in luxury who'd sell his mother for the right price, and Henry Kravis is literally Count Dracula - nobody does 'slightly creepy old dude' better than Jonathan Pryce), the worst of which are Wall Street bankers and lawyers who are out to make a catch with complete disregard for the well-being of businesses, shareholders, workers and public. This is how I would have read it many years ago, in my Marxist years. Now that I have become attuned to the fact that capitalism and markets are (mostly) good and the financial sector is necessary for keeping our social machine well oiled and running, I'd be inclined to make other readings as well.

On a side note -actually, it's not that much in the sidelines-, schools do a very poor job at pushing forward what is an extremely anti-intuitive but truthful view, first espoused by Adam Smith in The Wealth of Nations, and expressed in your own review as "You think about market participants each trying to maximize their profits, and everyone acting in their own interest ends up maximizing total welfare, and that makes sense in a zoomed-out way, and as far as I can tell is not a crazy model of the behavior of companies". But this really beggars belief until you actually see it: it feels no less stupid and false to a smart teenager than religious dogma. On the contrary, the same teenager who reads The Communist Manifesto will find a very believable narrative of the moral and economic progress of History through class conflict, and if he further pursues some basic readings (and remains, as we mostly do, economically illiterate), will also find the theory of surplus value scientific-sounding and a good basis for accusing all capitalists of being exploiters and thieves.

It is, indeed, nothing short of miraculous that individual egoisms actually end up creating a quasi-optimal arrangement for the most part, but I feel Barbarians at the Gate is mostly showing you the scenario when this doesn't actually happen. That is to say, for RJR Nabisco under Johnson's leadership, and through the LBO, it does indeed appear that (quoting you again):

- there is a CEO, who is a guy - there is a board, consisting of a bunch of guys who are friends with the CEO - they all have fiduciary duties and if they fail to meet them they will get yelled at by a judge in Delaware - ??? - shareholder value gets maximized

Love the ???. Actually, if one goes back to those dull, first chapters at the beginning of the book, we do get a glimpse of how companies manage to turn individual egoisms into positive enterprises. The book dwells a lot on the first years of Nabisco and Reynolds tobacco, on how founders made all the right choices of wise investment and expansion, use of local knowledge, ethics, hard work and know-how, treating workers and shareholders well, taking advantage of rising opportunities... It really reads like a guide on what to do, as contrasted with the relative vacuity of what Ross Johnson actually ends up doing. Does he actually create any positive value? Perhaps his best contribution is his rejection of stability and routine, a chaotic undermining of conformity which might help against the inevitable stagnation of consolidated companies, but that appears to be all he does. Yes, he charms board members and presidents, parties hard and lavishes wealth on executives and board members (including himself). on the face of it, all this doesn't seem at all better than its opposite.

I am not economically savvy enough, but moving to LBOs, I imagine one could make the case for them in that they judge company value more efficiently than markets (as seemed to be the case with the stagnantly low value of RJR Nabisco shares), and in that the debt and diet they impose on their companies trim out the fat, the redundant, the inefficient and (once the debt is paid), end with a more economically efficient company that can survive and thrive in the market better. Like all tools, though, they can be misused, making some people very rich (CEOs, their cronies and the lenders) and a lot of people quite miserable (workers and shareholders) through financial trickery and assaults orchestrated through 'phoney money'. It is all a matter of trade-offs, I guess. Still, I like some of the anti-LBO voices: even though the book has no heroes (Johnson might be an anti-hero of sorts), Ted Forstmann comes pretty close (and btw, he become a signatory of the Giving Pledge in 2011). It's a pity the way he's massacred in the movie. And crypto doesn't feel that far away from junk bonds...

The book did have some lovely snippets of humor (loved the private jet piloting Mr. G. Shepherd to safety). As for your belief that "it is reassuring that the whole system seems to kinda work anyway", I fear it seems to be the wrong lesson to learn from all of this; in fact, the book seems peppered with quotes that are the absolutely worst possible lessons one could take, most of them from the lips of Ross Johnson, about disregarding protocols, logic, reason and checks and balances. Your final quote about rows of figures with millions of dollars that no one knows the proper meaning of is actually quite an ominous note to end the review with, a precursor to the apparently very lax and chaotic management of vastly superior sums of money in FTX and Alameda.

Quote:

"It all started with a small lemonade stand in Manitoba,” read one Johnson parody. “The next thing I knew I had sold my mother. The rest was easy.”

P.S.: Among the things you mention that motivate you, "making guys think I am attractive" seems particularly ill-phrased. You are incredibly attractive, Caroline (both as a person and as a woman), so there should be little need of persuasion, except we usually find that these truths and feelings are seldom commutative.

[emi-writings]

Burning Iron and Honey Sweet Promises: Chapter Six

Some music. Some dancing. Oh, and a brutal battle.

“I didn’t know you could find a musical instrument in a mile of a hunter’s village.”

Wilbur side-eyed the tone that the Unseelie King used but didn’t comment. He had brought his guitar – an instrument he only owned because his brother had managed to sneak one into their home one day for their birthday – as a bargaining chip. He had some things he wanted to interrogate the fae on, and while Q had been pretty open with him in the past, if the fae had decided to betray him, it would be useful to have something to use against him. And music tended to be something the fae enjoyed exchanging for gifts.

Maybe he was being too paranoid, especially after everything he had already trusted the fae with. His name was a far worse thing to exploit compared to his songs, after all. But after that dream, he wasn’t so certain. At least, not until he’s certain that there hadn't been any tampering of his dreams on the fae’s part.

Wilbur placed his guitar down, “I figured I could play us a little tune after a meal. If you wouldn’t mind answering some questions.”

“You can ask me anything you want, cariño,” the fae purred, “You don’t need to bribe me.”

“Cariño?”

Q smirked, “It means honey. And not the food kind.”

“Such a charmer,” he rolled his eyes, which was undercut by the warmth he felt creep up his face.

“You know it, pretty boy,” the other replied.

Wilbur shoved a bowl into the fae’s face, “Just eat your food.”

The Unseelie King laughed a little at that, before he accepted the food easily. It was an odd sight, the Unseelie King seated on a thin, winter blanket – the only thing that Wilbur could easily swipe without anyone noticing during the day – and easily accepted his meal without any bars or chains in the way. The cage remained behind him, with the door wide open.

Wilbur looked away as the King ate, he focused on his own guitar instead. Far, far too embarrassed and shy to watch the fae. He had been unable to procure any fae specific food, at least not without potentially tipping off his family and the rest of the village as to what he got up to late at night. So, instead, he had to get just a little bit creative. But if he had learned anything since meeting the Unseelie King, it was that he was willing to do stupid things for those that he cared about.

“You… are playing a dangerous game, Wilbur.”

The witch looked the fae straight in the eyes, “What do you mean?”

Q’s eyes glowed a bright red as he took another mouthful of the meat stew. Wilbur tried to fight the blush he felt stain his face at the look the fae gave him.

“Sneaking your own blood into a stew?” the Unseelie Fae hummed with a smirk, “Are you trying to test me?”

Wilbur looked away, “You need more strength, and I didn’t have anything better.”

“Oh? Is that so?” The fae’s hand cupped the witch’s cheek and tilted his head towards him, “Is that the only reason though?”

Wilbur felt the way his face burned hotter, “Yes.”

There was a laugh, Q stroked his check before he pulled away, “Sometimes I think you’re intelligent beyond measure, and sometimes I think you’re the most stupid person I have ever met.”

“And you’re as annoying as you are charming” Wilbur retorted.

The fae laughed once more but settled down and returned to his meal. Wilbur hadn’t expected that slipping his blood into the stew would go completely unnoticed, but he did think all he’d get would have been a flirty remark before the fae moved on. No, instead he got thoroughly teased by the Unseelie King who is far too amused by his medical treatment. Wilbur tried to distract himself by tuning his guitar, refusing to make eye contact with the other.

“So, your questions…?”

Wilbur was startled out of his thoughts, “Hm?”

“Your questions, mi amor,” Q smiled with a hint of a laugh, “It would probably be better to ask the question before you try to pay me for it. Then we can see if a song is a fitting payment. How does that sound?”

The witch was once again reminded at how inaccurate the information the hunters had on the fae were. Here, an easy opportunity for the Unseelie King – the ruler of the cruelest of the fae courts – was unwilling to take advantage of him. The fae was sweet to him, regardless of how easy it would be to take advantage of him. It made Wilbur feel even worse for suspecting a fae of being behind his dreams. But he also needed to know if he was being affected.

After a beat of silence, the fae sighed, “I might not be able to answer the question, so it also prevents me from scamming you out of a song… though perhaps I should be the one worried about getting scammed.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

The Unseelie King tilted his head, “If I remember correctly, I told you not too long ago not to offer your blood to any more fae. I believe I am still part of that.”

“I never agreed to anything,” Wilbur countered, and then continued before the fae could argue, “Can the fae influence dreams?”

It was a distraction, and an obvious one at that, but if the truly cared about him he’d go along with it.

“Dreams?” Q frowned slightly, “Yes, some of us can. But it’s not the most efficient way to get what we want, so there is hardly any reason to do so. A fae would have to be desperate to mess with your dreams.”

“Oh…”

“What were you dreaming about? If I might ask?” Q asked.

Wilbur felt his face burn, “Nothing important!”

Wilbur could only imagine how the King of the Unseelie Court would react to him dreaming about himself as a fae. How he would react to dreaming about the Unseelie King in such a way. There is no way he wouldn’t be teased by the flirty little fae. Oh, he would be relentless.

The fae sighed, “Though I’m sure I would be very amused by the contents of your dream, I am actually concerned for you. Would you be alright if I checked for any influence from a fae?”

Right, that meant letting the fae past Wilbur’s personal wards.

The only thing protecting him after he let the Unseelie King past all the wards on the cage.

“Sure” Wilbur shifted a little in an attempt to hide his nervousness.

The fae smiled, “I need a little more than that to be allowed past your wards.”

“Right,” Wilbur blushed and held out his hand, “You have permission, so you’re all good.”

Wards were an interesting thing, in Wilbur’s opinion. A powerful form of protection magic that could defend the user personally or defend their home from many types of danger. However, there was one surefire way to completely bypass wards – invite that which they would usually ward against. So long as Wilbur invited the Unseelie King to pass his wards, those wards would no longer work against him until Wilbur reset them. Of course, at full strength, Wilbur doesn’t doubt that the Unseelie King could easily shatter them. In fact, he would be pretty certain Q could have broken the witch’s wards as he is, Wilbur had been needing to reapply his wards.

But Wilbur had placed trust in the fae, and the fae seemed genuinely concerned when Wilbur started asking about dreams. So, Wilbur offered his hand with little reluctance and waited. The second the Unseelie King brushed his hands against Wilbur, the witch shivered at the warmth that rushed through him at the mere contact.

And then there was fire.

A burning inferno hummed in his bloodstream, boiling his blood and overwhelming his senses. It didn’t hurt, but it was powerful, primordial, and Wilbur nearly knocked himself out when suddenly couldn’t support his own body anymore.

The witch hadn’t fallen back onto the harsh stone of the floor beneath him though. He found himself cradled by Q, dazed as he looked up at the fae that hovered above him. The King of the Unseelie Court looked so amused and fond in that moment, but as the fire burned hotter and hotter, spreading more throughout his body, Wilbur found it harder and harder to think. He couldn’t even get his tongue to move enough to speak to the other.

“You are far too trusting. If another fae was here instead of me…” the Unseelie King sighed, “Well, let’s take a look, shall we?”

The fire – the Unseelie King’s magic – shifted as it weaved its way through Wilbur with more purpose, like it was intentionally seeking something out. The witch stopped focusing on that, however, when he noticed the changes in the small room, they were in. Almost, as if there was steam? But how would that even be possible?

Oh.

Oh.

For fucks sake.

Q only smirked when he noticed Wilbur’s face darkening, “You’re a pretty strong witch, it shouldn’t surprise you that even when you’re cooperating your magic is still playing defensive against an intruder.”

Wilbur tried to convey his annoyance with a look.

Only the King of the Unseelie Court could turn his internal magic reacting with his into something flirtatious.

“I’m only teasing you a bit, pretty boy,” the fae laughed, “If it helps at all, I’m not finding anything unexpected. So, I think we can rule out an outside influence messing with your dreams.”

Wilbur had no idea if that was better or worse than the only other alternative.

The Devil card flashed in his mind, and he tried to ignore those thoughts.

Unfortunately for him, the fae had yet to pull his magic out, “Oh? That’s an interesting combination of emotions at that news. What was this dream about to incite that reaction?”

Wilbur made an attempt to look away, despite how he felt with the fae’s magic still actively burning through his system. It appeared that Q had mercy on him though, and with a small laugh, he just slowly pulled his magic out. Carefully. Like he was trying to ease Wilbur out of the fire he had inflicted on the witch. When the fae finally pulled his hand away, Wilbur found that he needed a moment to collect himself after the intense rush of power and fire that had disappeared from his system.

“Are you alright, cariño?”

Wilbur groaned, “I feel like I was hit by a horse carriage. And also like I could take on an army and win.”

“I’m sorry” and Wilbur could hear the remorse in his tone.

“I’m fine, just whining” Wilbur forced a reassuring smile, though he doubted it came across that way, “So, I’m all cleared of fae high jinks?”

The fae returned the smile, though with very little confidence, “From any outside influences, yes. I was checking for more than fae mischief. If there is anything influencing your dreams, it is coming from you.”

Wilbur wondered what that meant for him. Perhaps he needed to do a tarot reading to better understand his dreams, but he was reluctant to do so. Because a part of him had a hunch. A part of him knew the answer. But he didn’t want to admit it, not to the Unseelie King, and certainly not to himself. It would be a betrayal of everything he stood for, everything he had ever known, everything he was.

“Well, I believe I was promised compensation?”

The witch was dragged out of his thoughts at that. Q wore a teasing smile, though his eyes held a glint of concern. But Wilbur would be a fool not to take advantage of the offer of distraction, and so he grasped it eagerly with his own cocky smirk. Two could play at that game.

 “Oh? Compensation?” Wilbur cocked his head to the side, his own playful smirk not hidden.

The fae leaned forward at that, lips so, so close to brushing against Wilbur’s own, “I’m willing to accept multiple forms of payment from you. Don’t tell anyone though, don’t need them knowing about my favoritism.”

“Well, I’m starting to think you’re not playing fair,” the witch answered, “You know my name, yet I don’t know yours…”

Before Wilbur could even blink, that teasing little brushing of lips disappeared. The fae had pulled back, eyes wide as he stared at Wilbur. It confused the witch, and he worried that he had somehow upset the Unseelie King. That Q didn’t trust him enough to share something that important, that personal with him. But then a flirty smile appeared on his face, and his eyes darkened with an emotion Wilbur couldn’t name – didn’t want to name.

“Wilbur, are you proposing to me?” The King of the Unseelie Court asked.

It was funny how six simple words could completely shatter everything in an instant.

Wilbur found himself feeling faint at the mere mention of marriage. The idea of his hand being bound by cord or ribbon to the Unseelie King. They’d probably be dressed in reds and purples, and they wouldn’t have to worry about the phase of the moon for the wedding. There would be music and celebration without a need for secrecy. There would be food without any limit. And from what Q had told Wilbur about the Unseelie Court, there would probably be an after party that lasted the next couple of months after the wedding concluded. It sounded chaotic and wild. It sounded wonderful.

Wilbur didn’t even realize he was crying until the fae reached out so he could brush away the tears.

“I wasn’t trying to upset you, mi cielo. I was flirting, you don’t have to do anything right now, alright?” the fae whispered so softly.

Wilbur laughed, “I’m not upset.”

“Oh?” Q looked confused.

“This is the first time I’ve been happy thinking about getting married,” Wilbur said.

“Oh…”

Throughout his life, his engagement to Sally had been a burden he had been forced to deal with. He knew what his parents had planned down to the detail. The clothes and charms they had chosen to increase fertility so that Wilbur could have multiple children who would suffer the same fate as he had. The ribbons chosen specifically for what they had hoped would bloom into a loving relationship full of passion and desire. Instead, the only passion that would be in their bedroom would be any woman Sally decided to sneak into it when Wilbur wasn’t around.

And Wilbur had been fine with that. That had been the best he could have hoped for in his life, that he would be in his and Sally’s house casting spells and ignoring his father. That had been enough for him for so many years, the light at the end of the tunnel.

It didn’t feel like enough anymore.

But something else caught Wilbur’s attention the more he thought about it.

“What did you mean? About me proposing?” Wilbur asked.

Q leaned back comfortably, “For fae, exchanging names tends to form a bond between them. It’s a complete surrender, trusting someone to not abuse that power over you. As a result, many fae consider the act of exchanging names the same thing as a wedding. And asking to share names is the same as a proposal.”

Wilbur looked away as those words sunk in, “So the fact that I told you my name, and then asked you for your name…”

“Was an incredibly forward proposal on your part,” the fae teased with a wink.

The witch felt his face burn. Wilbur hadn’t fully grasped the concept back when he had made that teasing remark, but now that it had sunk in, he couldn’t help but get embarrassed by his actions. No wonder the fae had been so taken aback. From his perspective, Wilbur had just done a complete turnaround on his stance on flirting. Still, Wilbur couldn’t say that he was fully against the idea of a marriage between them.

“Do you… not want to be married to me?” Wilbur hadn’t meant to ask that question out loud, but now that he had he desperately wanted the answer.

Within a blink, the Unseelie King was back in his personal space. A taloned hand gently caressed his cheek, as the fae’s eyes glowed a deep red. There was something in those eyes that drew Wilbur in, though he couldn’t name what it was. But it drew him in like nothing else.

“I want nothing more than to steal you away from this village and take you to my court. To see you free to dress as eye-catching as you want without danger. For you to choose to be by my side, but have the freedom to go wherever you wanted,” the fae smiled at him, “And as for marrying you? I would want much more… fanfare than a simple, private exchange of names. I would rather a display that lets the world know exactly how important you are to me. A display that would make it clear that you were mine.”

Wilbur felt a little breathless at that declaration from the Unseelie King. No one had ever spoken about him with such passion and dedication before. No one proudly stated they wanted him. His own fiancée talked about marrying him with reluctant acceptance, but Q… he talked about it like nothing came close to joy he’d feel from the experience.

“Now, I believe I am owed at least a few questions of my own,” Q looked over at Wilbur’s guitar, “First of which, how did you even manage to get your hands on any instrument, let alone a guitar?”

“A gift from my brother,” Wilbur smiled at the memory, “I don’t know how he got it. But one night he woke me up while holding the damn thing, and I’ve had it hidden in my room ever since.”

The fae hummed, his expression unreadable, “Kind of him.”

“Gave me something to do when everyone was out on a major hunt,” Wilbur shrugged.

“And you wouldn’t mind playing me a little something?” Q asked, “Because I would love to hear you play.”

The witch could stop the smile form at that, so he just shook his head and reached for his guitar. Though he had very few options for what to play, most of his songs were depressing at their core. He had only written a few that could be considered happy in any sense of the word. Still, he found himself strumming a tune and singing lyrics that revealed far too many uncomfortable truths about his life.

 “If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you were a siren,” Q gave an impressed whistle.

Wilbur blushed once again, “You are a menace.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you hate the compliments, songbird,” the fae smirked, “I could be so much worse, and you know it.”

“Songbird?”

Q grinned wicked and lovely, “You like that one? I thought it suited you nicely, songbird.”

“What am I going to do with you?” Wilbur sighed and shook his head, a weak attempt to hide his amusement.

“Well, I do have one suggestion, if you’re up for it?” Q said as he rose to his feet.

Wilbur looked up curiously at him, as the fae snapped his fingers. With little flourish, the guitar left Wilbur’s fingers and started to strum itself. It was a lively tempo, one that called to Wilbur, one that made him almost want to give in and move to the melody. He had danced before; it was part of every new moon ritual. But Wilbur had never gotten to dance to real music, never got to enjoy the passion as he moved to the beat. It was a desire the witch thought he’d never get to indulge.

The Unseelie King didn’t leave the witch’s personal space for too long though, he reached out and offered his hand to the witch. Wilbur accepted the offer and got tugged to his feet, into the other’s arms. They were close, Wilbur looked down at the fae, but that hadn’t stopped the other from placing a hand on Wilbur’s waist.

“Dance with me, songbird,” Q whispered, “Just this once.”

And something primal within Wilbur screamed an answer, “Alright.”

The fae grinned once more at that, and a ripple of magic pulsed through the air. Suddenly, Wilbur found himself in a clearing that was surrounded by nature. Trees decorated with fall leaves and flowers like nerines, camellias, chrysanthemums, and pansies all decorated the outside of a simple ring bordered by colorful mushrooms. A ring that Wilbur and Q currently stood in the center of.

“What?” Wilbur tried to look around but was tugged back to Q by the taloned hand on his waist.

“It’s just some glamor, don’t worry,” the fae chuckled, “The giant cage in the room kind of ruined the mood.”

“That’s understandable…” Wilbur said.

The fae’s eyes gained a mischievous glint, “Want to see something else I can do?”

Magic ran over Wilbur’s skin, but not in a way that triggered his wards. Wilbur found himself dressed in a deep, rich purple fabric that draped and flowed around him. He was also decked out in a crown with dangling crystals, in bracelets, necklaces, anklets and armbands that only added to the look. It was even more extravagant than his new moon ritual outfit. The Unseelie King had used glamor to make himself look similar, though in a vibrant blood red color.

“How’s that for some glamor?” the Unseelie King grinned.

“Q…” Wilbur blushed, “You…”

“Are a menace?”

“Are wonderful, actually.”

The fae gently whacked his shoulder, “Don’t start flirting with me, songbird. I won’t know what to do with you.”

Something fluttered tenderly in his chest. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, and perhaps it was a number of different things. All Wilbur knew was that he didn’t want this moment to end, that he wanted the fae to smile, that he wanted to know what it would be like to dance with the Unseelie Fae. He wanted to know if dancing with the fae would be different from every time he had danced alone for rituals and spells.

“Just dance with me,” Wilbur smiled warmly.

With that, the Unseelie King led the witch through a gentle but lively foxtrot. And something inside Wilbur soared at the feeling of them dancing together, a part of Wilbur that he had never felt before. Something animalistic and instinctive grew inside him, demanded that Wilbur put in a bit more effort, showed off just a little bit more.

So, Wilbur gave into those desires and tried to show off. Which might not have been a good idea, as the fae seemed to only take that as a challenge to ramp up the pace. Every spin and step felt frenzied and wild. It enchanted the witch, enticed him, called to him.

The glamor only added to the experience. For a moment, Wilbur could smell the scent of pumpkin, cinnamon, pomegranate, and ginger on a cool fall breeze. He could see the way the scarlet, amber and gold leaves glowed in the light of the full moon. He could hear animals shifting and singing in the distance. Yet at the same time, it all almost faded away as Wilbur focused on the man that danced with him.

But there was something in the way the Unseelie King held him, the way he looked at Wilbur that made Wilbur want to pause. Something that Wilbur couldn’t put his finger on but made him uncertain. A sense of the fae being guarded and reserved.

“Is something wrong?” Wilbur asked in a whisper, not wanting to ruin the moment.

Q smiled, “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just trying to not accidentally dance you to unconsciousness.”

“What do you mean?” Wilbur felt himself frown at that.

“Surely you have a rule against that? No dancing with fae?” Q laughed as he spun Wilbur again, “We can dance and dance for days on end. There are myths and legends of the fae doing so to innocent humans just for their own amusement.”

“I’ve heard them. But not everything I’ve heard about fae has been accurate” Wilbur replied, a little breathless.

The fae gave a teasing smile, “Well, it’s not nearly that simple, but it has happened. However there is another reason why it’s a risk.”

“And that is?” Wilbur whispered.

“In the Unseelie Court we have a lot of celebrations and festivals. Fuck, we’ll take any excuse to party we can. As a result, we have a few traditions,” the fae leaned forward, his lips against Wilbur’s ear, “For lovers? There’s a fun little challenge they can take part in. They can dance with each other, until one of them passes out in the other’s arms. It’s considered the height of romance for Unseelie Fae.”

Wilbur made a breathless noise.

Q continued “It’s so tempting, you know? That desire and passion is there, and my own instincts aren’t helping. It’s natural for Unseelie Fae to give into those feelings without a second thought. Could you imagine it, songbird? Imagine what it would be like? To dance with me until you can't anymore.”

“I… Q…” Wilbur’s face burned.

“Don’t worry songbird,” Q chuckled, “I have no intention of doing anything like that tonight. But I think you would love the festivals of the Unseelie Court. The music, the lights, the passion. You’d be able to charm everyone with your voice.”

The fae sighed wistfully, “You would be stunning if you danced though. I still remember how you danced on the night of the new moon. Do you practice often? You have more skill and grace than someone who only dances once a month.”

“I do…” Wilbur admitted, “Privately, in my room. I’m not really supposed to dance just for the sake of it.”

“The fae are different. Both courts value dance and music as a way of life,” Q seemed almost lost in thought, “The Seelie Fae are insane, in my opinion. Went to a Seelie wedding once, found out that apparently they spend years, sometimes decades, choreographing and practicing the perfect dance for their weddings. And you have to sit there and watch the entire thing. That’s Seelie Court for you, they see art as the end result of hard work.”

“We’re different. There’s no choreography. There’s no decade of practice. We see the process of creation as true art, and dancing is the same. It’s pure passion and excitement,” the fae continued, “Challenging your partner to see who can last longer, dancing until one of you passes out? That’s a display of trust, vulnerability and passion.”

With that, the Unseelie King twirled them once more, and Wilbur lost himself in the smooth, gentle movement between them. The music was a beautiful, romantic tune that made the world almost fade away between them. And all Wilbur could think about was whether or not he should lean in closer and press his lips to the fae’s own.

Trust. Vulnerability. Passion. Wilbur could see where the other was coming from.

“I would dance with you every night if I could, songbird” the fae’s smile turned almost yearning.

Wilbur hummed thoughtfully, “Well, maybe you should stop holding back so much right now?”

“Wilbur…” Q’s face became unreadable, “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I trust you,” Wilbur smiled.

“You shouldn’t… not with this… I don’t even trust myself with this.”

Wilbur leaned in, almost brushing his lips against that fae’s own, “Please. For me.”

Q sighed, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, songbird.”

With that, the King of the Unseelie Court adjusted his grip and pulled Wilbur in close. Then the pace of the dance completely changed. The difference was present immediately, the fae moved with passion, grace and speed that was almost inhumane. It was dizzying, intoxicating, and Wilbur felt a familiar warmth run through his veins. It filled his head with warmth and honey, made it harder and harder to keep up with the fae.

Everything felt so strange and wonderful.

The Unseelie King’s laugh echoed through Wilbur’s head as the fae twirled him. The background became a psychedelic mess of red and orange and yellow blurs. He felt like there were patterns being traced into his skin by invisible talons, patterns that made him shiver in delight.

“Having fun?” Q teased, his voice layering over itself like an ethereal chorus.

Wilbur tried to reply, but all that came out was an incoherent mess of sounds.

The fae laughed, “I did warn you, songbird. At least you haven’t passed out yet.”

Little orbs of lights danced around them, in the red, black, and purple of the Unseelie Court. The sounds of birds chirping, tweeting, singing in a chilling chorus. Mist coiled around Wilbur’s feet, and the plants twisted and warped into strange and fascinating flora the witch couldn’t recognize. Flowers that glowed like lit torches and blue and purple flowers that looked big enough for Wilbur to fit inside.

The fae purred in wicked delight, making the honey warmth in the witch’s body boil in pleasure. Every point of contact between the two of them felt more intense, yet also strangely distant, like Wilbur wasn’t fully in his own body. He felt like a marionette, being tugged by invisible strings to tango along to the music that echoed around him.

Wilbur didn’t remember closing his eyes.

Wilbur woke up in his bedroom. Which usually wouldn’t have been strange, but with the memories of the previous night lingering in the back of Wilbur’s mind it just leaves the witch in a state of panic. He had passed out while dancing in the Unseelie King’s arms. The fae he had left out of the cage, not even tied up. The fae who clearly was able to get past the other wards if he was the one who returned Wilbur back to his bed.

That was the worst wakeup call he could have gotten.

The witch immediately dragged himself out of bed and rushed through his usual morning routine. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary except for his guitar, tucked away under his bed rather than his usual hiding place under a pile of clothes in his closet. And the fact that his personal wards for his bedroom had been completely shattered. Which only further pointed to it being the Unseelie King who tucked him into bed the previous night.

There was only one concern on Wilbur’s mind: did Q take advantage of the opportunity to escape?

A part of Wilbur argued that he couldn’t feel so hurt or betrayed by that. It was the logical decision, and the safest one as well. The fae was being tortured by his own family. But a part of Wilbur still held out hope that Q had decided to stick around, despite how horrible and foolish it would have been. A part of him hoped that the fae considered Wilbur important enough to risk sticking around so that they could spend more time together, despite the danger.

How selfish could he be? To demand someone risk a painful death just because of Wilbur’s own romantic feelings?

How stupid and naïve is Wilbur to expect the King of the Unseelie Court to be someone willing to do that?

“Lapis? I’m coming in.”

Wilbur turned around and tugged his mask over his face as Technoblade walked through his door, “Gold, what are you doing here?”

Technoblade closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, “Are you alright? You woke up late this morning.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just had trouble sleeping last night, I guess,” Wilbur replied.

“Bad dreams? Or is it something else?” Techno asked.

Wilbur laughed awkwardly, “It’s nothing, honestly. It’s getting colder is all, I just need more blankets. Did you need anything? Is something wrong that I don’t know about?”

“I’ve just had a feeling…” Techno trailed off and then shook his head, “Don’t worry about it. Do you want to read my tarot cards?”

That wasn’t a sentence Wilbur had heard from his brother in a long, long time. In fact, Wilbur couldn’t remember when the last time Technoblade had asked for ready was. When his twin wasn’t hunting down fae, he was training. And when he wasn’t training, his nose was buried in one of the many, many hunter journals, studying up on better methods of dealing with fae, if not inventing his own methods of dealing with them. He just never had time to sit still for a simple card reading anymore.

Which was fine, of course.

Wilbur understood the importance of what Technoblade and the hunters were doing.

He was fine.

“Sure… What brought this on?” Wilbur said as he gathered his tarot cards.

Technoblade sighed, “I’m not sure yet. I just know something is up, but I don’t want to make a big deal out of it if it’s all in my head.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Wilbur replied as he gestured to a small table kept in his room specifically for this purpose, “Take a seat, let's see what the cards have to say.”

“Right. I don’t really have a specific question, so I’m not sure what spread would work” Technoblade said as he sat down.

Wilbur shrugged and sat across from him, “I was thinking a simple five-card general reading. We can go from there if your questions aren’t answered.”

Wilbur shuffled the tarot cards, well-practiced at this point, before he laid out the cards in a simple five card spread. A five-card spread was adaptable, it could be for anything one wanted it to be. For this one, Wilbur didn’t have a meaning in mind for the card positions. It was simply just to get the feel for whatever it was that had been troubling his brother, to see if the cards had any general insight.

When Wilbur finally felt he had shuffled the cards enough, he placed the five cards face down on the table and looked up at his brother, “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I am,” Technoblade answered resolutely.

The witch flipped over the first card, “Ten of Wands. A card that symbolizes the carrying of a huge burden, potentially one that you might not need to. It can also serve as a gentle reminder to put yourself first, and to not take on the responsibility of helping others. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, or to set down this burden. On the positive side, it also lets you know that soon that burden won’t be bothering you anymore, and you can set down that load.”

“I get the feeling that it’s not just the card trying to say that,” the hunter muttered.

“The truth hurts,” Wilbur countered before he flipped over the second card, “The Moon. This can imply that you’re in a period of time where nothing is as it seems. A time of illusions and uncertainty. Be careful when making decisions, you might not have all the information you need. It can also represent a time of heightened fears and emotional distress.”

Technoblade nodded, his face kept unreadable, “And the next card?”

“The Tower. An inevitable, unexpected upheaval. Destruction and chaos you have no choice but to surrender to,” Wilbur frowned, “I’ve been pulling this card a lot lately…”

“Oh, well that’s reassuring,” the hunter rolled his eyes.

Wilbur gave a half-hearted glare, “It’s not guaranteed to be the same thing! When mother read my cards, it didn’t appear at all! And technically The Tower could be pointing to a good thing. It’s in the middle of the spread, maybe it’s signifying a turning point.”

“Want to bet?” Technoblade asked, a hint of smug amusement in his tone and a slight smirk tugging at his lip.

“Absolutely not!” Wilbur turned over the next card, “The… Ten of Swords…”

“I’m no expert, but the picture of a man with ten swords stabbed into him makes me think this card might not be a happy card,” Technoblade continued.

“Technically it is good! It makes a painful, yet inevitable ending. A painful ordeal that will no longer affect you. You know, the night is darkest before dawn kind of thing. It’s also a card of betrayal, loss and crisis, but not all of those necessarily apply” Wilbur said.

“Well, when you put it like that I must be mistaken!”

Wilbur rolled his eyes, “I could use a little less attitude.”

“Sorry. Please continue this amazing reading,” Technoblade gestured to the cards.

The witch flipped over the final card, “The Hanged Man. A card all about surrender and letting go. Whatever it is you’re holding onto, whatever it is that is worrying you, this card is telling you that the best thing for you to do is let it go.”

“And if I can’t do that?” Technoblade asked.

Wilbur gestured to the spread, “I don’t think you’re really getting a choice here. These cards seem to be pointing out that it’s all out of your hands.”

Technoblade glared at the cards, before he sighed, “Wilbur—”

And though Wilbur could tell his brother was about to say something serious, that he might never get the same moment of vulnerability from Technoblade again, something else caught Wilbur’s attention. The outer wards, the wards that surrounded the furthest border of the hunter village, completely shattered and Wilbur couldn’t help but stand and look over in the direction he felt them shattered.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” Technoblade asked as he rose to his feet.

“Something is coming,” Wilbur said as he felt the next ward, one much closer to the village, shatter, “Something powerful.”

As if the universe wanted to prove him right at that moment, Wilbur heard multiple roars in the distance rapidly approaching. It was followed by multiple shouts around the village, and the witch had barely had time to turn around before Technoblade had run out of the room to join the other hunters.

There was no shortage of hunter weapons lying around his family home. So when Wilbur chased after Technoblade, he made sure he wasn’t unarmed before he ran into the fray. He might not have been taught at the same level as his twin, but he was confident with the iron short sword he had picked up.

It was clear the second that he reached the doorframe what had made that loud roar as an Unseelie Chimera tore its way through not only the protective wall, but the wards casted on it. The icy blue dragon head bellowed before releasing cold breath that froze anyone unfortunate enough to be in its path, as the head of a white bear and a snow leopard growled and roared in fury. There was no time to focus on that, not when it was followed by an army of Unseelie Fae after it.

Almost immediately Wilbur found himself distracted when two enfields tried to swoop at him, one that looked like a snowy fox with snowy owl wings and talons, and another that looked like a red fox with barn owl wings and talons.

“Air, come to me!” Wilbur called, and a gust of wind swirled around him, battering the creatures out of the way as he ran.

It was hard to grasp the full scope of the Unseelie Court’s forces in the village, the maze of houses, forges and other buildings made it hard to get a proper view. And since the fae had clearly targeted the lookout towers first, judging from the absence, Wilbur supposed that no one had an understanding of the fae forces.

The few hunters that were around him were dealing with the lesser fae easily, having been trained to deal with much more powerful threats, so Wilbur ignored them for the most part. He wanted to get further into the village, though the maze of alleyways and buildings, to where he suspected the more dangerous fae were. He didn’t want to fight the Unseelie Court, but if he could limit casualties, he intended to do so.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel remorse for the simple fae beasts, they really stood no chance against the hunters that fought them.

But there wasn’t anything Wilbur could do for them without getting himself killed for treason.  

“Lapis!”

Wilbur turned and saw a group of three hunters had run after him, “We need to get you to a bunker!”

“A bunker?!” Wilbur pulled away when they tried to grab him, “Are you kidding me? You want me to wait in an iron box?!”

“Your father gave us strict orders to get you there by any means necessary,” one of them answered as he managed to get a grip on Wilbur’s arm and tug him away from the danger.

Or, at least, that was what Wilbur had thought until they rounded one of the buildings and stood face to face with a fae.

The fae looked like an ordinary man for the most part, except for the moss green hair, and occasional patches of moss on his skin. And his black eyes that bore into their souls. His armor looked like thorns carved from obsidian, and in one of his four hands was a wicked trident, paired with an imposing dark sword.

Faster than his eyes could track, the fae threw his trident and impaled two of the hunters that had tried to escort Wilbur, with his sword expertly blocking the attempted attack from the remaining hunter. And though maybe Wilbur should have tried to save him, should have warned him of the axe the fae pulled from his back, only one thing came to the witch’s mind.

“Earth, come to me!” Wilbur called as the fae decapitated the man in front of him, “Bind him!”

“What the fuck?!” was all the fae could manage as within seconds trees burst from the ground and wrapped around the fae, which left him restrained and unable to move.

A few months ago, Wilbur would have taken the opportunity to get a free shot and slay a fae. Now, all Wilbur could think about was the Unseelie King. So he ran instead. He ducked under a few more attempted swoops of some more enfields and ran through the fae and hunters locked in combat.

Wilbur rounded another corner in between buildings and saw a large, almost giant, golden man that had lightning crackling around his arms, which he threw at hunters, rendering them into nothing but piles of ash. When the fae noticed him, he grinned.

“Oh, it’s not your lucky day!” the fae giggled of all things.

But before either of them could do anything a torrent of water burst from behind Wilbur and into the fae. Wilbur was equal parts shocked and confused, but the fae was no longer anywhere in sight. He looked around, but there was no way a fae would have helped him out. Could that have been him? There was no way, right? Witch magic worked on intention, and he hadn’t even thought about summoning water to himself, let alone using water offensively like that.

A loud laugh dragged him out of his thoughts, “Deserved! Oh, that was perfect!”

The witch looked up as a fae in a cloak with inky black skin and white glowing eyes looked down at him from a rooftop, “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Straight to the point I see,” the fae sighed, before he dropped down to Wilbur’s level… Did he shrink?

The fae’s tail flicked casually behind him, “Look, we’re here for our king. If you want this to end, you just got to tell me where he is. You don’t even have to be there! I can go get him, and we’ll all leave like none of this ever happened.”

“He didn’t escape?” Wilbur didn’t know how to take that news, but something warmed bloomed in his chest at the thought of Q choosing to stay with him.

“Why would you think he escaped?” the fae asked as he tilted his head curiously.

“Lapis, run!”

Wilbur looked over as he saw another hunter rush towards them. The Unseelie Fae groaned before he changed. Suddenly he was taller, and his hands warped into the shape of claws, his tail longer and sharper and accompanied by large bat-like wings on his back.

“It’s incredibly rude to interrupt a conversation!” The fae hissed as he backhanded the hunter through one of the walls.

And as more hunters noticed the fae’s presence, Wilbur took that as his cue to get out of there.

The witch dashed past the fae, who sputtered out some kind of weak protest, and weaved through the buildings. He made the decision to completely pass the alleyway covered in a mysterious, slimy green substance that seemed to dissolve everything it had made contact with, and instead found himself on the outskirts of the village.

It was quiet. Too quiet, given the circumstances. Not a single fae was in sight, Wilbur couldn’t hear the usual sounds of nature. It unsettled him. He felt the warmth of magic well up inside him, his hand rested on the hilt of his short sword, prepared in case he needed to face off against something dangerous and powerful all by himself.

“What are you?”

Wilbur turned around and saw a short female fae. She had hair that began as a vibrant pink before it faded into a rich violet. Two draconic horns decorated with amethyst rings peaked through her hair. Her skin was covered in patches of black and violet scales, and her fingers tipped with large black claws. She wore a simple black dress, accompanied by amethyst jewelry. The most interesting thing about the fae, however, was the shadows that coiled around her. So similar to the shadows that Wilbur had seen on the Unseelie King briefly.

“What do you mean?” Wilbur countered as he slowly tried to inch away.

“You’re not a hunter, you have magic,” the fae said, “What are you?”

Wilbur frowned, “I’m a witch. Surely that’s obvious enough.”

The fae tilted her head, “But you’re no ordinary witch. How are you so strong?”

Wilbur didn’t know how he was supposed to answer that, his only guess that the time had had spent with Q the night before had provided him with extra magical strength. But he was reluctant to admit that to the other fae. Instead he wondered how he could get away with using his magic on the observant fae. He didn’t get the chance to, however, as the shadows that had been coiled around the fae suddenly swelled up to twice their size, pulsating almost before they leapt directly for him. 

The witch cried out in panic as the darkness swirled around him. Frantically, he tried to find his way out from the vortex of shadows and void. He felt it freezing against his skin, wispy and smoke-like, yet also colder than mid-winter’s snow. His vision was blocked out by the dark magic. Or, at least, what he thought was dark magic. Unseelie Magic? He’s not certain. 

It was so overwhelming it almost knocked him down to the ground. 

Who are you? 

Multiple voices chorus in his head like a symphony of the damned. Some laughed wildly, some whispered eerily. Some voices sounded young, some of them were old, some of them didn’t even sound human. It all echoed in his mind with no way for him to escape from it. 

There was nowhere to run. 

What are you? Who are you? Magic, magic, power. Aren’t you unique? Aren’t you rare? Interesting magical alignments. Water. Winter. But not one of ours? Interesting. Fascinating. Human. Human? Certainly human. But magic. A witch? Oh we do adore those. 

Instinctively the witch wanted to cover his ears, even though he knew it would be a feeble attempt to try and block out all of the voices and the noise that came with them. It was too much, far too much. But his arms wouldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t move. Nothing would move, could move, he was completely frozen as pitch-black darkness curled around his arms and slithered up to his shoulders. 

You’ve seen our king. You know our king. Intriguing. Thrilling even. How exciting! Exciting! Exciting! Exciting!

An image flashed in his mind, the Unseelie King smiling his charming smile.

…Q? 

Yes! You do know him! Might be more than just knowing… Oh he likes you! I can see why, powerful little witch. Courting? A courtship? Maybe. Potentially. Perhaps. How do you know our king, little witch? 

Wilbur was overwhelmed. Terrified of the unknown darkness that completely swarmed him. 

“Air, come to me!”

Wilbur felt the wind blow the shadows away. Warmth returned to his skin and a weight he hadn’t previously noticed lifted. They didn’t dissipate, and instead returned to the draconic fae who stared at him with a look of complete shock. Wilbur couldn’t help but feel as if he had returned the look himself, the aftereffects of what just happened still in his system.

He couldn’t even begin to comprehend what had just happened, the lingering cold bringing an involuntary shudder to the witch. 

For a moment, it was silent. Neither of them moved, neither of them spoke. 

It was like even the air had gone completely still.

“What the fuck was that?”

Previous Chapter |

[auntie-venom]

Will of Fate

Chapter Ten

Fandom: Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Story Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Mature

Characters: Din Djarin x Original Female Character

Summary: There hasn’t been an unidentified spacecraft in the stratosphere of Arkadia in over two decades, let alone three in one day. Those skilled or mad enough to venture into the Chaos unguided were few and far between. That means no one has ever made it to Arkadia who wasn’t intending to be here.

Until today.

or

Din Djarin finds an unmapped planet filled with beings who have the same powers as the Child, but know nothing of the force or the Jedi.

Chapter Summary: Din and Grogu have an oddly domestic day while exploring Helix and having a playdate.

Word Count - 4,115

Chapter Warnings: None

Will of Fate Masterlist

Read on Ao3

A/N: Hey y’all. I have struggled to shift back into the Mandalorian fandom to be inspired to write while having a hyper-fixation elsewhere, but I am trying to at least edit and get the already-written chapters out. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, any feedback is welcome!

Chapter Ten

It was an unusual day. Well, unusual for Din Djarin and his little green ward.

After a breakfast spread that was left by Eziriel, made by the yet-to-be-met Chef Malka, Din and the child spent the early afternoon scouting the local area of Helix on foot. Slowly circling out from The Pinnacle they stumbled upon businesses, shops, markets, and parks with child-friendly obstacles to play with. The latter of which caused the child to pout and point at it when Din insisted on just walking through it.

He took this opportunity to get some supplies from the market they came across. Some snacks he knows the child prefers; oil and polish for his weapons and armor since his stash is on the Crest; and a weird-looking fruit that both he and the kid were intrigued by. He made sure to use his own supply of credits after making a point of leaving the credit chip Eziriel gave him untouched on the table. He might be under her wing of protection due to her oath, but he will not exploit her generosity. He is a Mandalorian, not some gluttonous Coruscanti spouse of royalty.

There were two incidents in their time downtown that Din made note of people acting in the ways that Eziriel warned about. There was a younger man tailing him through the parks doing minor tricks on a skimboard just out of range of what a normal person would be suspicious of. The young skim surfer faded away once Din entered the marketplace that was crowded with beings doing their shopping under the sweeping colorful canopy of decorative fabric. After shopping for a bit an older woman with arms laden with her own purchases asked Din a few prying questions. He became suspicious when she only smiled and spoke to the child once and didn’t overly dote on him like other women similar in age.

He didn’t like that he had to answer these questions. He doesn’t like small talk or strangers nosing into his own business, but between Eziriel’s warning and his remembering that some Arkadian people can supposedly read minds kept him compliant. It didn’t stop him from giving the simplest of truths for answers and not elaborating beyond what was asked.

Eziriel messaged him on his loaned comm randomly throughout the day, even giving him more recommendations that she forgot to give him the previous night. She claims she was just checking in, but after observing her far-off looks of deep contemplation last night he wonders if she is trying to avoid something.

Din and the child stopped at one of Eziriel’s recommended lunch spots. It had a menu that used lots of peppers and spices and it reminded him of his childhood meals on Aq Vetina. The food looked so good that he even made sure to grab a meal to go so he could eat it safely inside the apartment.

While the kid ate his food Din scrolled through the datapad of Jedi information that Eziriel and he combed through last night. He scans through it again hoping to see something he missed last night. While the information had been helpful to an extent, it seemed with the censorship of the Empire most of the leads were dead ends. That means he had two options left in finding the Jedi.

The first option is to go to the space station Sanctuary that Amarian had mentioned. He said there was another being like the child there at one point. Maybe someone remembers something and he can find a trail there.

The second is to find Mandalorians. The Armorer did say to find other Mandalorians since some have had dealings with the Jedi, but his ego wanted to find the Jedi on his own. And look where that got him.

A safe planet and warm meals, says a voice overpowering the usual cynical observation brewing.

After lunch, they walk back to the apartments where the kid takes a nap and Din eats the deliciously seasoned meal. He doesn’t know if he wants to praise Eziriel for the restaurant recommendation or stubbornly curse her for being right in her observation that he would enjoy it. Either way, she will probably find happiness over his enjoyment of it.

Overall, it was a relaxing domestic day filled with simple normal errands and it was something Din had never had in his life as a Mandalorian. So, it was unusual.

It is late afternoon and Din is relaxing, definitely not dozing, on the sofa after his late lunch when he is startled awake by the bodiless droid that is Eziriel’s AI.

“Good afternoon Mandalorian, Queen Nora would like to inquire about your schedule for the rest of the day, in hopes of arranging a playdate for the younglings,” CHI’s proper voice quietly projects only around the sunken conversation pit of the living space. It makes him uneasy with how the thing knows where he is at.

It takes him a second with his groggy brain to make the connections on who Nora is. This is Amarian’s wife, the Queen of Arkadia. Din is not too sure what those responsibilities entail with how casual Amarian is, but he will err on the side of caution and treat her with as much respect as he gave Amarian.

They were supposed to have a playdate yesterday between the child and Eziriel’s niece, but by the time they got home it was already time for dinner and everyone was too tired from their respective journeys. He did not expect to be invited personally without Eziriel to accompany him and he is not sure what to do. He doesn’t really want to interact with another member of royalty without Eziriel there to be some sort of buffer, but he also doesn’t want to snub someone important to his stay here.

“The child is napping, but when he wakes we can arrange something,” Din says, feeling weird about talking to an empty space.

“Very good. I’ll let her know. I’ll let you get back to your rest,” the AI states before silence falls over the apartment.

Din stretches from his spot on the couch and takes a moment to check the chronometer to calculate how much time he needs to buy before Eziriel gets home so he doesn’t have to attend the playdate alone. He would rather deal in gunfights than have to partake in polite small talk with political figureheads. Eziriel said she would be home in the late afternoon before dinner, which isn’t too far away but—

The pneumatic sound of the guest bedroom door opening interrupts Din’s thoughts as the child stands there looking up at him with a bright expression and a curious head tilt. Din sighs and quietly curses at his luck before begrudgingly trying to command the attention of the AI.

“Uhhh… CHI-CHI?” Din asks.

“How may I help you, Mandalorian?” it responds.

“The child is awake now,” Din states dryly as the child makes his way over to him through the field of scattered toys that Eziriel left him.

There is a moment of silence where the child picks up a random humanoid toy and brings it over to Din with an inquisitive noise. Din takes the toy and bounces it side to side to the child’s delight. After a few more minutes Din thinks maybe the Queen made other plans and he won’t have to endure the awkwardness of first-time meetings.

“Queen Nora invites you to join her, Lady Vanya, and Lord Taron in the gardens around the royal suite. I shall guide you,” the voice of the AI cut through whatever hope Din had at avoiding a social obligation. He hears the door to the foyer open and he turns to see a slight pulse of green light surrounding the door frame.

Din makes an unseen pinched face at the ability of the AI to monitor his whereabouts in the building enough to shepherd him through the apartments. It’s a weird type of over-surveillance that truly unnerves him.

He follows the pulsing lights all the way to the turbolift where the AI raises them to the next floor. The door opens and he is greeted by two royal guards wearing the half-robe half-armor uniform of a blushing gold and plum that Din is becoming familiar with seeing in The Pinnacle. One guard invites him to wait in the entrance hall while the other leaves the room with a heavy look at Din’s blaster.

Dub takes a moment to look at the portraits in the hall that he had not taken the time to last time he was here. Most of the painted portraits are older and formal with little plaques indicating what ruler the viewer was looking at. He glances towards the end of the hall which seemed to be a featured space with lights but was empty. After noticing the portraits were in chronological order he assumes that they must be waiting for a newer portrait to fill that featured space. He casually makes his way among ordered portraits, not totally absorbing what he is looking at, he is stopped by a portrait at the end of the hall featuring a familiar mane of copper curls.

It was a family portrait featuring a young Eziriel, the adolescent lankiness of her body and rounded cheeks clueing Din in an approximation of her age. She wears a powder blue dress and a delicate golden diadem that drapes across her forehead and weaves into her hair. The painter gave her a more regal look than he had ever seen on her, but he notices there is a tiny lift in the corner of her mouth. The mischievous still peeks through the nobility.

She sits on a footstool lounging towards a seated man with her pale arms resting upon his lap with her skirts draped to the side. The man is older, with a salt and pepper beard leading up to matching hair that brushed his shoulders. His slightly wrinkled skin is a dusky brown and his kohl-lined eyes are a warm brown. He smiles regally in a deep purple set of robes, a golden circlet of his own, and a lovingly placed hand upon one of Eziriel’s hands.

A deep reddish-brown hand is placed on the man’s right shoulder and a regal-looking woman in a draping lavender dress stands slightly behind him. Her smiling wrinkled face had thick brows and wavy brown hair with streaks of gray well on its way of taking over the original color. Sparkling hazel eyes look up from underneath a similar, but more intricate diadem than Eziriel.

Finally, behind the man in the space between him and Eziriel is Amarian as a young adult. His entire head is styled in neat short dreadlocks and it doesn’t have any of the gold beads Din has seen him wear. His dark skin contrasts nicely against the deep navy robes he wears and a similar matching circlet to the seated man adorns his head. Amarian’s hand rests on the seated man’s left shoulder showing off a hand filled with gold rings, a fashion the present Amarian seems to have grown away from.

The small plaque in the center of the frame reads:

Queen Yasmin Kaita, King Nikau Kaita, Prince Amarian Kaita, and Princess Eziriel Kaita Elected Monarchy of Arkadia 7929 - 7975

This is Eziriel’s family, Din thinks to himself. And while doesn’t know the first thing in genetics, the lack of shared features among the family leads him to believe that Amarian and Eziriel are both foundlings.

Like him.

A warmth of familiarity spreads across his chest against his will at the thought. The value Mandalorians put in raising a family regardless of blood is a pillar in his culture and Din can’t help but feel a bond with those who have similar values. Eziriel obviously had a much different childhood than he did, but knowing how strong her familial bonds are even though there is no shared blood itches something primal in Din from being raised a Mandalorian foundling.

He isn’t my blood.

Doesn’t make him any less yours.

Their conversation about the child on the first day of their journey echoes in his head as he tempers the sudden spark of emotion he has toward Eziriel. His internal conflict is interrupted when the child makes an inquisitive noise from where Din is holding him in his arms. He looks down and Din sees the child point towards the portrait and smile up at him.

“Yeah, that’s Eziriel,” he confirms to the child, and before the child can answer the guard who left comes back to escort him to the Queen.

They are led past the dining room where they had dinner two nights ago and into a living space that seems more lived in than Eziriel’s apartment. It had worn pillows, knick-knacks on shelves, and toys strewn across the floor. The guard gestures to the open door at one end of the living room and gives Din a firm nod.

Stepping out into the outdoor space Din sees descending stairs that lead to a high-rise garden similar to Eziriel’s apartment below, but far larger and more extravagant. He sees within the colorful foliage a variety of toys and obstacles that any child would be thrilled about.

A figure at the top of the stairs turns and he is greeted by a short stout woman with angular hooded black eyes and a kind smile. Her light brown skin was smooth except for some aging lines around her eyes. Her straight black hair was loosely pushed back with a thick woven headband showing off her unadorned Arkadian ears. She wore a yellow patterned wrap dress over soft green leggings and the only jewelry she wore was an intricate gold cuff around her left wrist that housed an unpolished amber gem. She balanced a baby on her hip that had a tuft of black fluffy hair. The baby had the woman’s black eyes, but the darker skin of Amarian.

“Welcome Mandalorian,” she says.

“Thank you for the invite, Your Majesty,” he responds with a slow nod of his head. She arches her brow with a smirk.

“Now, I know my husband has told you we don’t use those titles outside of official business. Please call me Nora,” she clarifies. “I also heard Eziriel pulled one over on you by getting you to bow to Amar. I would say not to take it personally, but she usually only goes after people she likes.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is,” he states blandly, causing her to chuckle. She adjusts the baby on her hip and gestures over to a sitting area that is placed to the side of the descending stairs that overviews the entire garden from under a colorful canopy. An ideal lookout for parents to watch their children playing in the late afternoon sun.

A little girl sat kneeling at the low table in the area coloring on some paper in front of her while munching on something from the platter of snacks that sat in the middle. She looks up at their arrival and Din is met with a cherubic face with Amarian’s honey brown eyes. Her hair was pulled into two curly puffs on either side of her head and her dark skin was covered by a lightweight lilac tunic that had crumbs all over it. As soon as her eyes glance at the child her eyes light up and she jumps up to run straight to Din.

“Hello! My name is Vanya Osyri-Kaita. What’s yours?” she asks the child. The child tilts his head and burbles in response and she giggles. “It’s okay, we can still play even if you don’t talk. Do you want to share my snacks?”

The child screeches with delight and starts wiggling in Din’s arms until he is placed down on the ground and they both run to the table to continue their afternoon feast. Nora sighs and clears her throat to catch Vanya’s attention.

“We greet everyone, Vanya,” she reminds the young child.

“Su cuy'gar, mister!” she exclaims with a wave of her hand, pronouncing the Mando’a with childlike crudity. Din is taken aback at the greeting. Arkadia must care very much about educating royalty if she, Amarian, and Eziriel learned something as obscure as Mando’a.

He waits while Nora and the baby take a seat on a cushioned corner settee before setting himself down on the smaller loveseat opposite of her. There is a beat of awkward silence that reminds Din why he was so desperate for Eziriel to make it home before he had to do this. The silence is quickly chased away by Vanya telling the child about what she was coloring and if he’d like to join her. She then puts a hand up to float the tray of crayons closer to them and it causes the child to clap on happiness.

“I can feel your anxiety from here, Mandalorian. Don’t fret, Eziriel will be on her way here shortly and I promise I am not too unpleasant,” Nora says while she levitates a scone from the snack platter to herself. He catches himself before he mentally spirals about how Arkadians can feel the emotions of others.

“To be honest, I’m not used to playdates,” Din admits after he reminds himself to be honest since these people can read intentions.

“Bounty hunter life doesn’t lead you to many, I imagine,” she says as she gives a teething toy to the fussy baby in her lap.

“Hard to find welcoming beings when you’re searching the scummiest places in the galaxy for a target,” he replies.

“Understandable. I’m sure you're not exactly looking at child get-togethers when you land on a planet for a job,” she says and Din feels a guilty tightening in his chest at the idea that he might not be fulfilling a need the child has. “No, wait. I didn’t mean to come across as judgmental or make you feel bad.”

“It’s fine.”

“No it’s not,” she argues. “Maker knows how difficult it is to just keep a child alive, and you have a child who is alive, healthy, and happy. You are doing a great job, Papa.”

Din feels his neck heat up at the compliment and thanks her quietly. They sit and listen to Vanya have a one-sided conversation with the child about something she saw visiting her grandparents. The child seemed enamored by her and would make noises and pass her snacks and crayons which she would accept with gracious thanks.

“We haven’t had many opportunities for him to play with other children since I found him,” Din admits to Nora when Vanya has taken the child’s hand and was leading him to the playground down the steps. “It’s… nice to see him just be a kid.”

“When you have a well-behaved child, you almost forget that they are a child at all,” Nora comments, almost lost in thought. “You place these adult expectations on them that they shouldn’t have to meet. Vanya is so smart and so kind that we constantly have to catch ourselves from getting frustrated when she does something that every other four-year-old does every day.”

Din nods in understanding at the struggles she faces as an excited squeal releases as the child comes down a small slide followed by a giggling Vanya. He often catches himself frustrated that the child cannot adhere to certain unrealistic expectations Din places on him. The life Din leads is not necessarily the most child-friendly. While the toddler is intuitive and does the best he can in dire situations, there are moments of fussiness or meltdowns that Din has to breathe in as much patience as he can muster.

“She doesn’t have a lot of friends her own age,” Nora admits while watching the children repeat the same course of running, climbing, and then sliding. “It has nothing to do with her heritage, but her Will is so strong that her intuition is unnerving to other younglings. We think she might be unintentionally dipping into other’s minds without realizing it.”

“A child having that power is so unimaginable to me,” Din says and Nora hums in acknowledgment.

“I am sure you’ll get used to it very soon,” she says with a knowing look. Before he has a chance to respond that familiar melodic voice rings out.

“Are those Malka’s scones?” Eziriel excitedly asks and Din turns around just in time to see the large body of Amarian lunge in front of Eziriel with a shove, reaching out to intercept the last scone that was zipping through the air originally to Eziriel, and turning to lick the entire scone while making eye contact with her. A pouting look of disgust comes across her face. “You are a raging ass, Amar.”

“Should’ve been quicker, Ziri,” Amarain comments while eating the scone with exaggerated moans of enjoyment. Din notices Nora roll her eyes at the siblings, but sees the small smirk.

“You know you are the one who ends up hurt when you wind her up,” Nora chastises Amarian.

“Only because I overestimate her ability to act like an adult and she lashes out like a wild beast,” Amarian teases while Eziriel plops onto the other end of the loveseat Din occupied.

“Says the bloke who just licked a scone out of spite,” Eziriel grumbles.

Amarian crawls across the settee in a very unkingly fashion, flips over, and slumps into it in a relaxed sprawl with his head in Nora’s lap. Having moved the baby from her lap to make room for the incoming Amarian, she then places the baby onto Amarian’s stomach where he takes the boy and holds him steady while he sits atop of him. Amarian lets out a sigh of relief as he comes to a complete rest and Nora starts massaging his scalp when something catches Din’s eye.

When Nora’s hand came close enough to Amarian’s face the gem on the bracelet on her wrist started to glow a soft orange and the teardrop gem hanging from Amarian’s ear began to glow a deep blue. The minerals were reacting to the nearness of each other. Din didn’t know the meaning of it, but he watched the glow fade in and out with each movement of Nora’s hand massaging away.

There is a moment of domestic peace. The spouses just enjoy each other's company as their baby chews on a toy while the late summer breeze begins to cool in the setting sun. Eziriel kicks off her shoes and tilts her head back to catch the last rays of the day on her face. The older kids giggling and playing on the garden toys. It was a moment of intimate familial tranquility that Din did not feel he should be privy to.

“How good of a bounty hunter are you?” Amarian asks, breaking the peaceful silence.

“The best in the guild,” Din admits honestly.

“You think you could track down the missing Imp from the TIE fighter crash?” Amarian turns his head to look at him and he sees Eziriel whip her head towards him.

“Amar, no,” Eziriel states firmly.

“I do like hunting Imps,” Din comments nonchalantly to Amarian.

“Amar, I’m sworn to their protection. You cannot just ask him to go into a potentially dangerous situation!” she stresses.

“You think I’m bad at my job?” Din turns his head to direct the question to her. She seems oddly wound up today and he doesn’t know why. She isn’t teasing or flirting or any of the normal banter he has grown accustomed to,

“That is not what I mean,” she says with a frustrated tone.

“The TIE fighter has been brought in and is going through a thorough inspection to see if they can find any leads. I can get you a small skyship able to land in the Forest of Ga’ladora and pinpoint where the trail went cold for the Enforcers,” Amarian informs him, completely ignoring Eziriel’s protests. “It was a single pilot, so there should only be one.”

“I can take the boy to Vanya’s preschool tomorrow if you’d like. It is very secure and I’m sure Vanya would love that,” Nora offers kindly. Din almost declines but after a moment he decides to accept the offer.

“Great, I’ll send you the contract later. Let me know if you need anything else,” Amarian says with a nod of finality.

“I’ll leave in the morning, just tell me where I need to go,” Din says.

“Maker’s tits,” Eziriel moans before burying her face into her hands as Amarain smirks.

A/N: I’m using the Coruscant reckoning calendar since it’s technically the in universe calendar. 7929 - 7975 is 48bby-2bby for those who are timeline nerds as well.

Translations: 

Su cuy'gar = Hello/You're still alive

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