#dangling mules

[hifumi-gigolo]

girl I am so sorry but why do the 3d models for the new game look the same amount of crunchy as glory or dust 3 years ago can we get high quality

[icecream4starscream]

Spoiler Warning for Transformers One. Please go see the film, it's great.

Something occurred to me when rewatching Elita-1's firing scene:

Right off the bat, she's presented as an absolute unit in the mines. We see her being a very by-the-book character. She's incredibly competent, strong, serious, focused, and an effective leader.

Maybe a little too effective.

We learn that Sentinel goes out of his way to personally take care of any "anomalies" in his system and does so in a way where the blame always gets shifted away from him.

It's why he personally went to see Pax and D-16 after the Iacon 5000 race. He makes himself out to be the open-minded, compassionate leader he's been parading as.

When Darkwing throws Orion and D-16 into sub-level 50, neither bot suspects Sentinel for their demotion. In fact, they beg Darkwing to talk to Sentinel so he can sort out the "misunderstanding".

It's later confirmed that Sentinel never had any intention of talking with Orion or D-16 after their first meeting. When Orion reunites with his fellow miners later in the film, they mention that Sentinel put out a statement saying that they both died from "racing injuries".

Sentinel might've not even openly ordered Darkwing to dispose of them. Darkwing might've been manipulated into thinking everyone was mocking him for losing the race (thanks to lowly miners) making him want to get rid of them.

Subconsciously manipulating someone like Darkwing would've been easy for Sentinel.

Sentinel clearly does not tolerate anyone rising above the station he imposes on them.

So what does this have to do with Elita-1 being fired?

We see her rigidly following the rules, meeting all quotas, running a tight and efficient crew. She's doing her job as a miner, a role unknowingly forced upon her by Sentinel, perfectly.

Shouldn't Sentinel be happy about that?

Well sure...

If Elita wasn't actively trying to get promoted.

We don't get a lot of information about how promotion works in TFOne's mining system, but we do know that in other iterations of pre-war Cybertron, one of the only ways miners could rise out of the mines was by participating in ridiculously difficult gladiatorial fights in Kaon's pits.

In other iterations, this was how D-16/Megatron was able to escape his station and how he grew to be so strong.

So basically, whatever version you look at, the miners are told "if you work really, reeeeally hard, and do your job perfectly, and don't die in the process (which, odds are, you will) you might, MIGHT get a chance to get out of the caste you were born into."

It's BS.

It's an impossible feat. No one is actually supposed to be able to achieve that goal, but it's the metaphorical carrot dangling in front of the work mules so they don't notice the ever-tightening rope around their necks.

But every so often there's someone extraordinary, like Elita, who actually manages to meet this impossible standard and with whom it becomes increasingly difficult to deny this coveted promotion.

So what can Sentinel do about bots like Elita-1?

Simple.

Wait for a screw-up.

It must happen eventually.

A member of Elita's team, Orion Pax, in clear violation of evacuation protocol, goes back into the mines to save Jazz from getting crushed to death.

Despite managing to escape, the closing mine causes a tunnel support to be flung into nearby machinery (which doesn't look critical and could probably be easily fixed).

Then, right the heck outta nowhere, Darkwing drops in, SECONDS AFTER THE INCIDENT JUST HAPPENED, and immediately fires Elita.

No "What happened?" or "Who's responsible?" or "The supervisor wants to see you", he just pops into the scene and demotes Elita, arguably one of the best workers in the mine, to a bottom-tier waste management position.

As if he'd been on standby, actively waiting for a reason to fire her.

"But Elita herself wasn't the one who screwed up!"

Doesn't matter.

"But she told them to follow protocol!"

Doesn't matter.

"But Orion admitted he was the one at fault!"

Doesn't matter.

"But a bot was saved! Jazz would've died!"

Does. Not. MATTER.

Her firing is presented as the typical "one character says thing won't happen then thing immediately happens" joke, but given how so much thought went into so much of TFOne's background details, I can't help but wonder if this was a hint to how broken the system was and how it was always rigged in a way that ensures the miners will never get out.

Not to mention, once Orion, D-16, and Jazz safely escape, she chews Orion out by saying, "If I get fired for this..." meaning this abrupt, out-of-nowhere, baseless firing is absolutely typical.

That's what makes Elita's "I'm better than you" speech to Orion that much more meaningful, because in many ways, she is better than him.

She's a better worker, better fighter, better at completing the task at hand, better at making sure things run smoothly. She is, ironically enough, an efficient and perfectly-running machine.

But had Orion not dragged Elita to the surface, she probably would've spent her whole life obediently following the rules, never questioning why things were the way they were. She was so focused on rising up within the system that she could never look beyond it.

Elita might be the cog by which other cogs turn.

But Orion is the spark that shows them a better way.

That's why he was given the Matrix.

[shoeplaysolelover]

Very sexy !!!! 🥰😛😛😛😝

[mariasont]

mermaids and mule-drunk jealousy

fueled by a mild buzz and subtle possessiveness, spencer interrupts an unwanted flirtation at the beach bar

pairing: spencer reid x bimbo!reader warnings: fem!reader, bimbo!reader, jealous spence, fluff, established relationships, idiots in love prompt: here wc: 0.5k

Spencer had been quietly simmering from his spot at the bar, citing intricate justifications in his head about respecting your autonomy and not acting like some archaic stereotype of masculinity.

And that had been working, it really had… until halfway through his second mule, when his logic got drowned out by a louder, far less civilized impulse.

Now he’s walking toward you, spurred by the strangely compelling urge to place himself squarely between you and that grinning idiot currently monopolizing your attention.

He evaluates the stranger’s stance as he approaches. Arrogant tilt of the shoulders. Casual lean. Spencer neatly adds him to the mental category — faces he wouldn’t mind seeing collide with the bar counter.

In a gesture that’s equal parts calculated and deceptively casual, Spencer reaches for your wrist, turning it to inspect the bracelet you’re wearing. One he’d given you, conveniently enough.

He readjusts it, thumb absently brushing the pulse point there. “Looks like it was about to fall,” he notes quietly, almost apologetically.

He doesn’t so much as spare the intruder a glance, perfectly content to leave him awkwardly dangling at the periphery. Let him stew, Spencer reasons. It builds character.

The flash of delight on your face blooms instantly, faster than should be possible given the gentle intoxication clouding your eyes. But it takes barely a second for you to lean into his touch, melting into his side, arms threading around his waist.

“Hi,” you sigh dreamily, voice muffled by his shirt.

You glance back over your shoulder with adorably misplaced politeness, clearly feeling some misguided need to complete social niceties.

“Oh, Spence, meet —” The introduction promptly dissolves into confusion, brows knitting as you peer at the spot where your would-be suitor had previously stood. “Um… he was literally right here a second ago.”

There’s an undeniably petty, but completely satisfying, rush of triumph. Apparently, the overly familiar stranger had wisely found his presence as a deterrent. It’s hardly sophisticated behavior, he knows, but Spencer’s willing to grant himself an occasional pass.

“Hmm. Strange.”

You begin to frown, the tiniest hint of a pout forming, prompting Spencer’s thumb to move on its own accord — pressing against your lower lip in a familiar attempt to halt your slide into melodrama. Predictably, your expression melts into a cascade of bubbly laughter.

“Have I mentioned how beachy you look tonight?” 

You tip your head back, fingers bunching the front of his shirt. “Only like twice already.”

“Then let’s officially make it three,” Spencer declares, dipping his head to press feather-light kisses onto each of your cheeks. He leans back just enough to look down at you fondly, thumb grazing your jaw. “My beautiful beachy girl,” he teases, “you keep this up, and soon enough they’ll be mistaking you for a mermaid.”

You nudge yourself closer to him, hands fussing with his shirt collar. “Mmm, does that mean you’re my sailor?”

“I’ll happily take that role,” Spence replies. “Though I must warn you, my nautical skills are severely lacking.”

“Then as my sailor, it’s your duty to stay very, very close. All night. No exceptions.”

Spencer leans in, smiling softly as he brushes his lips against your temple. "Never let it be said I’m insubordinate."

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 5 extras

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

[osamucide]

crush

good men die too, so i’d rather be with you

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 3.5k

cw: gn!afab!reader, bathing/washing, alcohol, mild hurt/comfort, fluff, implied/referenced self harm, implied/referenced substance abuse, post-dark era, intimacy, explicit sexual content, spitting, soft (ooc?) dazai

reid: this has been sitting a bit and i finally got around to fixing it up :,) sorry again for my absence i am unwell but surviving and i hope to keep sharing with you guys what i can. thank you for all your patience

. . .

He’s never admitted how much he delights in crawling back to your apartment after he’s been gone for too long — long enough to make you worry a little. It’s cruel of him, really, to keep you waiting around so much. But you’re going to be here waiting anyway! So, he figures, why not? It’s a few miles off Port Mafia turf, and you always have hot food and plenty of sake. Not to mention that your hands were the first to ever hold him so gently — to hold him like a lover — and that’s plenty to keep him coming, even if he sometimes takes weeks at a time to find his way back.

It’s always worth it to have Osamu half undressed in your bathroom. A decent meal and the humidity fogging up the tile walls usually melts his resolve just enough so you can work his crumpled white tee off without him sending you any sort of eyes; tonight though, the human spirit is unbreakable. You brush the small of his back as you lift his shirt and it has him hitching his hips toward yours.

He’s truly a sight.

His brown mop is greasy. Accumulated sweat is beginning to force the dramatic lengths of bandages to curl away from his skin. He looks little more than empty and tired, but there’s a shadow of contentedness in his sharp features — you’ve just fed him seafood boil and a couple of Tokyo Mules (heavy on the American vodka), after all.

You reach down and dip your fingers in the filling basin; scalding, how he likes it.

“Drawers off, please.” You poke his chest with a damp finger pad and disappear into the hallway in pursuit of linens.

Dazai sits naked (save for bandages) and curled in on himself on the edge of the bathtub when you return. You stack a change of clean clothes on the sink, and his ankles knock together as he waits for your attention to fall back on him. Your towels sling over the door before you turn to him with your hands tucked together. He looks uncharacteristically meek, not unlike a fawn before it first walks -– the way he only ever does before what happens next.

He holds his arms out, wrists up, and smiles like the sunshine.

You smile back uneasily, appearing much less enthused than he; you know that sunshine smile well enough to know it only ever comes out as a shield. You know no matter how many times you unwrap his dressings, he's always going to hate it.

So, you start with the butterfly clip secured at the crook of his elbow, and you talk.

"I have a slice of tiramisu in the fridge for after."

"From that place I like?" His eyes get wide.

"From that place you like," you sigh, grinning.

"You must've had a feeling I was dropping by."

You usually encourage him to reuse the strips of fabric when possible, sometimes going so far as to let him hide from the city while you take them to the laundromat with your own clothes, but these ones are far past help —barely white, significantly bloody in spots and dirtied in others, so you just ball them up and toss them in the trash. You're stocked anyway, and you reassure him of this by retrieving a few fresh rolls from under the sink.

"Maybe I did."

You finish one arm and move to the other. Osamu lets his marred, bare skin dangle in the air. The sunshine is gone. He’s zoned out. You know he’s protecting himself.

You push his hand down to rest in his lap and your mind selfishly drifts to later, where you hope he'll sleep without his bandages, too — he had traipsed into your apartment lined up to his fingers, and all you had wished for was that you could’ve felt his palms, his knuckles, his nails when he hugged you back. You take as much of him in as you can in these kinds of moments; it’s just the kind of person you are. Damaged or not, his skin is your favorite place to be. You’ve told him this, but it seems to come across much clearer when you look into his sad brown eyes like they’re the only ones in the world while your fingers trace the tracks across his thighs like they’re no one’s in particular.

“So pretty,” you mumble.

It’s so well received this time around that Osamu sinks into the water with barely a shred of apprehension. Granted, he’s still a bit glazed over.

He really snaps to once his shoulders are beneath the water and you’re lathering shampoo — the coconutty one — between your hands.

He speaks your name with an earnest that’s almost mocking. “What are you doing?” But he knows what you’re doing, or what you’re not doing, rather, and he’s not going to let you get away with it.

“What?” Your hands are sudsy and he has the audacity to be yanking at your shirt now. You bat him away as well as you can, flinging some bubbles at him in the process. “What?”

His bottom lip pokes out as his wet hands find purchase around your wrists. Dazai has manipulated a lot of people with nothing but the look in his eye, but it’s never this one; this specific look is reserved for you, and he figures it’s hardly manipulation if he knows you’d enjoy it too. “Get in with me,” he whines, drawing out his ‘e.’

You grumble something about your soapy hands, something about not wasting a perfectly fine handful of your good shampoo, but it just allows him to insist even more on helping you out of your clothes. You sigh, but really, it’s these silly idiosyncrasies about him that make you cry when he’s gone. So, you indulge him. You commence an awkward and wiggly dance in which his fingers stretch your sleeves over your hands with care. You kick your pants off and shimmy out of your undergarments, feigning annoyance as you give into his whims so easily.

The bath is still nearly boiling. You make peace with it by hissing hot, hot, hot, hot, hot (he chuckles at you) until either of your knees are nestled underwater on either side of him. You rub your shampoo hands together and — now that Osamu’s gotten his way for one of many times tonight, for the millionth time ever, never for the last time — he graciously lets you wash his hair.

You inhale all the little hums and sighs he gives you. He tastes like every emotion you’ve ever felt. Heaven is a bathtub in a crummy apartment.

“You smell much better. Let’s rinse.” You go to push yourself up after you’re finished with him, but Osamu grips you unceremoniously and by both of your ass cheeks, so you look sternly into his face.

“Wait, wait, wait, just—” he pleads.

You flick water at his eyes. “We’re wading in your filth, thank you. Get up.”

“Just a second, damn it.” He clutches you closer, hands clasped behind your back, and you settle with shattered resistance against his chest. He mumbles something about who you think you are, telling me what to do.

Not that you try all that hard with him anymore; you both know well he’ll get what he wants, and right now he’s intent on holding you in the cooling water, so you loop your arms around his neck, unable to help the kiss you press to the side of his jaw or the stifled roll of your hips against his.

He’s silent for a moment as he traces the expanse of your back. You hope his eyes are closed. You know they’re probably not.

“Thank you.”

It’s something Osamu says quite a bit. He doesn’t get terribly sentimental often, but it’s usually after you’ve rid him of those wrappings that he comes close. Although, he never says exactly what for. For bathing him. For feeding him. For loving him. You understand well enough.

He’s still a little shit. He squeezes your ass and bites the shell of your ear.

“That’s it,” you yelp. “We’re rinsing.”

His laugh is whole as you pull the drain and start the shower, dodging your (mostly) dry hair.

The promise of dessert lets you get him into a pair of shorts at the very least. Once again you return to him — you wait on him like he’s a prince, and he looks like one on your bed with the blankets pooled around him as he towel dries his hair.

It’s so unfair, you think, how angelic he gets to be no matter what he’s doing. It’s something so mundane; his scars are on display, he’s tipsy and damp and has your plush cat-printed blanket acting somewhat like a cape, yet he steals your breath as you enter your bedroom. To top it all off, he pretends not to notice your presence right away.

You fold your legs beneath yourself, unfinished bottle of sake in one hand, delicate plate of tiramisu in the other, and Osamu finally acknowledges you with owlish eyes, raised brows, and a grin that reprograms the pattern of your heartbeat. He tosses the towel aside, eager, and reaches out.

“This—” his mouth is full, “this shit is…God. Heavenly.”

“Share.”

“Should’ve brought two forks.” He makes a show of lifting the plate out of your reach. You grasp at it lazily, uselessly, and he laughs, taunting you. You’re tired so you hoard the sake in response, which he’s fine with only until the tiramisu is gone — you only got two bites in — and he goes for that as well.

“Greedy!” you accuse, but you can’t help your laugh. You’re warm — the few swigs from the bottle are doing their job, and you let Osamu know this by giving in; you steady his head with one hand, and with your other you press the bottle to his lips and tilt it up. He drinks like it’s cider, and comes up for air with a soft curse.

The way he licks it off his lips wants to draw a gasp out of you, but you’re trained like a skilled gunman when he gives you targets like these — you’ve built up trigger discipline, and there are some things, you suppose, that you don’t let him have so easily after all.

Nonetheless, it’s like Osamu reads this mechanism working in your mind and takes it as a challenge. The bottle is transferred from your hands to his somewhere in the searing kiss he gives you; you fully register a hunger buzzing between you both that has nothing to do with tiramisu as you reach out for him, fumble toward him until you’re in his lap — you almost overwhelm his lithe frame with your tenacity, but he catches you, bottle tapping your back as you engulf each other.

Osamu is sneaky, he is; he never executes even the smallest action without meticulous thought. The way you end up under him might’ve been planned out from the bath, or maybe even before he was on your doorstep — either way, you give way to his weight; the bottle’s in one hand, somehow your wrists are in the other, and his waist connects with yours.

If nothing else predicts what you say next, it’s his restless hand clutching your hip, pulling at your shirt, clawing up your side.

“Missed you,” you slip into his mouth. You’ve already said this over dinner, but it’s different, heavier, when you’re breathing him in. Osamu lifts away from you for a kiss from the bottle. In brief control again, you wring your hands.

He’s statuesque above you. You wish you could snapshot the seconds in which he tilts the bottle back, where his drying hair falls in those loose waves around his angled jaw and his eyelids flicker. You reach out to trace him. His severe collarbone to his lean shoulder, down the thin valley between his bicep and tricep. You ghost around the fingers suspended in midair and bridge the gap to end on his pretty waist.

The bottle disappears onto your nightstand. Your eyes are wide as he grips your chin. He holds his breath, plants an elbow by your head, thumbs your bottom lip — all a means to waterfall the sake into your open, waiting mouth.

Liquor drips off him, into you; how are you supposed to keep from the way your legs demand his hips toward yours? The way you grind into him from below? You’re a live wire and he’s fraying the hell out of everywhere you end and begin.

You swallow what he gives you before he pulls back. You’re breathless, and he’s laughing. He’s laughing. This is what he does — he gets you under him and he laughs, so beautifully that you can hardly be mad, and sultrily enough that you flush pink.

“You should see your face!” he exclaims. Osamu is truthfully at his most joyous when he’s catching you off guard. “Little too filthy for ‘ya?”

“Please,” you scoff, willing him toward you again as you recover, more from the sting in the back of your throat than anything, pressing all your love into each of his mangled wrists with your palms and fingers. “As if that’s the filthiest thing we’ve done.”

“Jog my memory,” he suggests as he puts his smile back to yours, and so you work him out of the shorts you just got him in less than ten minutes ago.

As for yourself, well — you’re only naked from the waist down before you’re working your own slick up and down on him, biting your lip with anticipation, all but pulling him into you. You don’t even care if it hurts, and you almost say it, but you don’t — everything you’re doing is saying it for you — you just want him in you right now, right now, and he touches you between the gasps you draw from him; he watches the way he slides into you like you’re meant for him, like he’s meant for you, and you dig your heels into him as you whisper his name.

“Baby,” he whispers back. Those sad brown eyes flicker, shut, open, find you. “Oh.”

He rocks into you softly, such a contrast from the urgency with which he was kissing you mere moments before. Osamu’s a natural at giving you whiplash, sometimes in ways you didn’t know him to be capable of. He’s concentrated; you watch him, the slightest bit confused as his lips purse shut. You want to hear him, he knows, but it’s all welling up within him, he can feel it on his lash line, so he tucks his face into your neck and hopes you won’t say anything. You don’t, not for bit. You just circle your arms around his neck and groan at the way he grips you, feels you all over; you clench around him and pretend you don’t feel the tears beading along your shoulder.

“Too filthy for you?” you finally tease, but gently; you cup his face in your hands, push his hair from his forehead, and kiss the wetness away. He half-laughs, half-sobs. He obviously wasn’t expecting this. “Oh, ‘samu. Honey.”

“Don’t know what the fuck’s going on.” It’s his way of apologizing. He sniffles and follows it with an explanation. “You feel so good.”

You know they’re not tears of pleasure, but you let him write it off as he fucks into you. “You- uhn- you feel so good,” you echo.

It’s not unusual for him to be vocal — he moans, he gasps, he gives you delicious noises to make up for the words he can’t ever find, but tonight is so different; you don’t know what it is, but he talks. He’s talking, and it’s not the lewd musings you expect from Osamu Dazai, much less while he curls his hands into your hair and begins to pound into you. Yes, it’s much different tonight.

“Missed you too,” he finally gives you. “Missed you. So fucking much- fuck- I’m- oh, fuck…”

“Stop leaving,” you say breathlessly. “Stop leaving me. Just move in.”

“Shit, I might.” His hair is your lifeline. You knot your fingers in it like you hope you become part of it. “Might just have to come home to this every day. Y’take such good care of me. Don’t know wh- hah- what I did to deserve this pussy.”

“Please, please, Osamu.” You’re begging for more than one thing. “Fucking stay.”

So he keeps his pace, staying in one way or another — at least he can say he’s done that much. Whether or not you’ll wake up next to him tomorrow morning doesn’t matter right now; right now he’s fucking you, right now he’s yours, right now he’s ripping himself open a little further to let you see his rotten soul and you’re giving him everything he could never ask for, everything he doesn’t think he deserves — it’ll be enough, you’re sure, even though it’ll hurt when he disappears again; at least you’ll know you opened up in return, reflected his rottenness in the way that you know how. You’ve made a place for him in your home. You’ve made a place for him in your heart. He knows you want him to take it. Take it.

“So pretty, my baby, takin’ it so good.” He looks at you with those wet eyes between pressing bruising kisses to your lips, chin, neck. “Y’feel like fucking heaven. God, fuck. Don’t know if I- don’t know if I deserve it. So fucking good. So good. So good.”

“You d- you don’t have to do anything to deserve it- just fucking stay, please,” you plead with him. You’ll plead with him until he understands. “Oh- Osamu- ah!”

Your hands flail for a resting place — his head is restless with his kisses, his calloused hands and ridged arms are moving too fast for you to keep up with, the expanse of his back isn’t nearly close enough amid his wild pace, so you claw into the peaks of his shoulders and give all your sound and breath back to him while he rains praise upon you. He’s almost frantic in his task, like he needs you to know.

“Need you to know how much I love comin’ back here.” Osamu grabs one of your hands and guides you to your clit. “Touch yourself, please- please- want you cummin’ on me, baby, give it to me. Please.”

He pleads with you until you do.

You’re well aware that everything you can give him might not be enough to convince him. Convince him he’s not rotten. Convince him he does deserve it. Convince him he’s worthy of love. You know the best thing you can do for him right now is rub yourself quick and hard in time with his heavy thrusts. You keep giving him what he needs — you give him all your moans, grunts, curses, and he reflects them right back — you match each other, sobbing, twitching, biting, heaving until the wave rolls over you and you’re collecting him, throbbing around him and telling him it’s all for him, he’s so perfect, don’t stop, it feels so good while he spills into you, fills you up in that familiar way you don’t think you want to live without for weeks at a time anymore. Osamu’s tense as he drags both of your climaxes out for as long as he can; you’re crooning out his name and Osamu’s panting out yours and he’s so beautiful as he cums, he’s so beautiful while he cries, he’s so beautiful when he’s raw and selfish and fucked out of his brain, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful.

“So afraid to hurt you, baby,” he mumbles into your cheek minutes later, half-asleep and tipsy and still pulsing inside you. “You don’t deserve my shit. Get caught up in my shit.”

You don’t care about his shit, is what you tell him in return. You want him. You want to show him all the wonderful things he does in fact deserve.

Like the picturesque breakfast you cook him after you do wake up next to him in the morning. Like the tender way you rewrap his dressings as the afternoon sun gleams in white columns through your window. Like the first day he spends completely sober and well-fed in a long time.

“I don’t know if I deserve it.” All this, he means. You, and how wonderful you are. He says it again and again.

“I don’t care if you don’t deserve it.” You secure the butterfly clip in the crook of his elbow and meet his eyes. Far off. Waning sunshine. “Wanna give it to you anyway.”

For a moment the sunshine returns, and for the first time in a long time, if not ever, you see it reach his eyes. They don’t look so sad. Big, brown, maybe hopeful. Maybe sweet with preemptive regret. You hug Osamu in the still air of your apartment.

“Stay,” you whisper.

He hugs you back, limply, like he’s scared to break you. He trembles out, “I will.”

[darkenedroses-world]

Shopping Trophy — Droid x Reader

f!reader, shopping trip fluff, playful banter, overprotective reader, confident Droid, light PDA, group teasing, request🦋

The day started as a simple shopping trip. At least, that’s how it had been pitched. Droid agreed without hesitation—partly because he loved spending time with you, and partly because he knew the inevitable teasing he’d get from his friends was worth the smug satisfaction of knowing he was your guy. You strolled into the mall, looking absolutely stunning in your carefully chosen outfit, radiating effortless confidence. Droid, on the other hand, was in his usual laid-back attire, though even that couldn’t diminish how attractive he looked. The way his hoodie hugged his broad shoulders and his confident swagger turned more than a few heads as the two of you walked by. “Are you sure you want to carry all my stuff?” you teased, holding up the first of what you knew would be many bags. “I’d be offended if you didn’t let me,” he shot back, flashing you a grin. “Besides, I have to keep my trophy boyfriend status intact.” The hours flew by in a whirlwind of boutique stops and fitting rooms, Droid faithfully trailing behind you with an increasing number of bags dangling from his arms. Each time you stepped out to model an outfit, his eyes lit up like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said at one point, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in close. “How am I supposed to survive this?” “You’re doing just fine,” you replied with a wink, brushing a kiss against his cheek. The faint lipstick mark you left behind was intentional, but you didn’t expect him to notice—or care. What you hadn’t anticipated was Droid’s unwavering determination to keep it there. “Wait—” you started, reaching for his face, but he pulled back, shaking his head. “Nope. Not happening,” he said, his tone light but firm. “This is a trophy, and I’m wearing it with pride.” You rolled your eyes, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.” “And you love me for it,” he said, grinning as he picked up yet another bag. The plan had been to meet up with the guys after finishing your shopping spree, and it didn’t take long to spot them in the food court. Grizzy was mid-sip of his drink when he caught sight of Droid, his jaw dropping. “Yo, Droid,” he said, motioning toward him, “did you get mugged by Sephora, or what?” The others turned to look, and Puffer immediately doubled over laughing. “No way, man. Did she kiss you and just leave you like that?” Droid didn’t miss a beat, striding over with all the confidence in the world.

“Damn right she did,” he said, turning his face slightly to show off the mark like it was an actual badge of honor. “Jealous?” “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, hiding your laughter behind your hand. Smii7y squinted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Man, she’s got you wrapped around her finger, huh?” “And you wouldn’t do the same if you had her?” Droid shot back, grinning. The group erupted into laughter, Grizzy shaking his head. “Alright, fair. But seriously, Droid, you’ve got the rest of the mall thinking you’re a walking Valentine’s card.” “Good,” Droid said, turning to you. “Means they know who I belong to.” Later, as the two of you sat on a bench, the bags piled around Droid’s feet, he leaned back, stretching his arms. “You know,” he said, tilting his head toward you, “I don’t mind being your pack mule if it means I get moments like this.” “Moments like what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. He gestured to his cheek, where your lipstick mark still stood out proudly. “Moments where everyone knows I’m yours.” Your heart melted, and you leaned over, pressing another kiss to his other cheek. “You’re such a sap, you know that?” “Only for you, baby,” he replied, smirking. “Now let’s head home before these guys post a photo of me in the group chat.”

[hero-israel]

#4 sounds like white people at the end of slavery… “we didn’t want to end it because what if there’s retaliation? There have already been slave riots. Imagine what would happen if we gave them freedom or if we became the minority?” It’s not speculative it actually happened the fears had basis. That’s what number four sounds like. It also feels like you only care about one view point like you expect me to believe y’all are perfect victims that did one thing in retaliation?

#4 sounds like that to you because you are an American who thinks the whole world is America and all history must be the same as yours. So you should start by asking yourself what it is in your cultural upbringing, and what in the media you consume, that has you automatically believing the worst possible claims against Jews, to the point of seeing it as understandable for us to be mass murdered.

Jews did not - and do not - want to live in an Arab or Muslim majority society not because of any issues related to "slave uprisings" you are teleporting into this discussion, but rather because Jews had already been brutally oppressed, persecuted, and genocided by Arabs and Muslims for 1,000+ years before Israel or political Zionism were ever invented. Mohammed himself got his hands dirty with this, wiping out the Jews of Yathrib and renaming the gore-drenched rubble into something called "Medina." No less a source than Maimonides wrote in 1172 "God has entangled us with this people, the nation of Ishmael, who treat us so prejudicially and who legislate our harm and hatred…. No nation has ever arisen more harmful than they, nor has anyone done more to humiliate us, degrade us, and consolidate hatred against us... We bear the inhumane burden of their humiliation, lies and absurdities, being as the prophet said, ‘like a deaf man who does not hear or a dumb man who does not open his mouth’.... Our sages disciplined us to bear Ishmael’s lies and absurdities, listening in silence, and we have trained ourselves, old and young, to endure their humiliation, as Isaiah said, ‘I have given my back to the smiters, and my cheek to the beard pullers.’”

Because there is a long history of this, there is much you can read about it, if you care.

Some very random examples:

The "badge of shame" was invented in medieval Baghdad, only later migrating to Europe

Life for Jews in Yemen: The Jews of Yemen were treated as pariah, third-class citizens who needed to be perennially reminded of their submission to the ruling faith…The Jews were considered to be impure, and therefore forbidden to touch a Muslim or a Muslim’s food. They were obliged to humble themselves before a Muslim, to walk on his left side, and to greet him first. They were forbidden to raise their voices in front of a Muslim. They could not build their houses higher than the Muslims’ or ride a camel or horse, and when riding on a mule or donkey, they had to sit sideways. Upon entering a Muslim quarter, a Jew had to take off his footgear and walk barefoot. No Jewish man was permitted to wear a turban or carry the Jambiyyah (dagger), which was worn universally by the free tribesmen of Yemen. If attacked with stones or fist by Islamic youth, a Jew was not allowed to defend himself. Further, the Jews were forced to wear sidelocks or peots. The wearing of such long and dangling peots “was originally a source of great shame for the Yemenites. It was decreed by the imams to distinguish the Jews from the Muslims”. More degrading and insulting decrees to the Jews were the Atarot (Headgear) and Latrine Decrees. The former was a seventeenth-century decree forbidding the Jews to wear a headcovering or turbans. The Latrine Decree was a nineteenth-century edict in which the Jews were forced to clean out public toilets and remove animal dung and carcasses from the streets. Another discriminatory edict was the Orphan Decree which gave the Zaydis the right to convert to Islam any child under the age of thirteen whose father is dead. Further, evidence by a Jew against a Muslim was invalid and a “Jew was forbidden to pass a Muslim to his right, and whoever did so, even unwittingly, could be beaten without trial; the Jews were forbidden to make their purchases before the Muslims had completed theirs; a Jew entering the house of an Arab or the office of an official was only allowed to sit down in the place where the shoes were removed” . Tudor Parfitt summarizes some of these laws in the following: [the Jews] were required not to insult Islam, never strike a Muslim, or to impede him in his path. They were not to assist each other in any activity against a Muslim…They were not to build new places of worship or repair existing one…They were not to pray too noisily or hold public religious processions. They were not to wink. They were not to proselytize. They were not to bear arms. They were required to dress in a distinctive fashion in order not to be mistaken for a member of the Muslim occupying forces. In other words dhimmis had all the times to behave themselves in an unostentatious and unthreatening manner, one appropriate to a defeated and humbled subject people. They were to avoid the slightest show of triumphalism and they were forbidden any activity that could lead to proselytization. Yemenite Jews were “excluded as it almost always…from affairs of state, and from the great institutions of the country”

1941 Farhud pogrom (Iraq)

1929 Hebron Massacre ("They cut off hands, they cut off fingers, they held heads over a stove, they gouged out eyes. A rabbi stood immobile, commending the souls of his Jews to God – they scalped him. They made off with his brains. On Mrs. Sokolov’s lap, one after the other, they sat six students from the yeshiva and, with her still alive, slit their throats. They mutilated the men. They shoved thirteen-year-old girls, mothers, and grandmothers into the blood and raped them in unison....")

1921 Jaffa Riots

1920 Nebi Musa Riots

1910 Shiraz Blood Libel (Iran) ("In the middle of the 19th century, J. J. Benjamin wrote about the life of Persian Jews: "…they are obliged to live in a separate part of town…; for they are considered as unclean creatures… Under the pretext of their being unclean, they are treated with the greatest severity and should they enter a street, inhabited by Mussulmans, they are pelted by the boys and mobs with stones and dirt… For the same reason, they are prohibited to go out when it rains; for it is said the rain would wash dirt off them, which would sully the feet of the Mussulmans… If a Jew is recognized as such in the streets, he is subjected to the greatest insults. The passers-by spit in his face, and sometimes beat him… unmercifully… If a Jew enters a shop for anything, he is forbidden to inspect the goods… Should his hand incautiously touch the goods, he must take them at any price the seller chooses to ask for them... Sometimes the Iranians intrude into the dwellings of the Jews and take possession of whatever please them. Should the owner make the least opposition in defense of his property, he incurs the danger of atoning for it with his life... If... a Jew shows himself in the street during the three days of the Katel (the start of Muharram)…, he is sure to be murdered")

1905-12 Jerusalem: repeated Arab mob attacks against Jews who dared to try to sit in chairs near the Western Wall (it was intolerable for Jews to be seen in comfort at a holy site)

1840 Damascus Blood Libel (Syria)

1839 Allahdad Pogrom (Iran)

1834 Hebron Massacre

1834 Looting of Safed

1800s Morocco - Jews were forbidden to wear shoes

1700 Jerusalem oppression / apartheid: ("Muslims are very hostile to Jews and inflict upon them vexations in the streets of the city… the common folk persecute the Jews, for we are forbidden to defend ourselves against the Turks or the Arabs. If an Arab strikes a Jew, he (the Jew) must appease him but dare not rebuke him, for fear that he may be struck even harder, which they (the Arabs) do without the slightest scruple...")

1679 Mawza Exile (Yemen)

1660 Destruction of Safed

1500s Iran: ("After the ascension of Shah ‘Abbas II the Jews of Isfahan faced a lot of persecution. Most communities were forced to convert to Islam. Furthermore those who refused to convert would have most of their inheritance taken away as the inheritance laws at the time allowed for those who converted to Shia Islam to inherit the property of non-Muslim family members. Some communities did not convert and were thus forced to wear a special badge to show that they were Jewish. The maltreatment of the Jews weakened their community ties and influence throughout the region. By 1889 there were only around four hundred Jewish families left in Isfahan and most very poor.... by the middle 20th century 80% of the Jews of Isfahan lived on the verge of poverty.")

There's so much more I really don't know where to start or where to end. Afghanistan revoked all Jewish citizenship in 1933. Turkey banned all Jewish names and held massive antisemitic pogroms in 1934. Iraq banned Hebrew schools and Hebrew names in 1936, pogroms throughout Libya 1945, Syria fired all Jewish government employees 1946. Tripoli pogrom 1785. Algiers 1805. Cairo 1844. Istanbul 1870. Safed 1517 and 1799. Jerusalem 1665 and 1720. Granada Massacre 1066. Fez Massacre 1033. How many Wiki links do you want, how many textbooks?

This is an old, old conflict, and the Americanized "colonizer / slave plantation" frame is off-topic.

[myshunko]

hi! your hachi sim is absolutely stunning! i was wondering if you could provide some of the ccs you used for her outfits? thank you so much~!

<3 thank you :)

cold weather

fluffy pink scarf (hat) - LIN-DIAN

black turtleneck (accessory) - saurus

ruffle top - SUNBERRY

tutu skirt - SUNBERRY

leg warmers - SIMSTEFANI

ribbon heels - SUNBERRY

2. formal

black hair flower (hat) - LAMZ

heart dangle earrings - LINDIAN

white dress shirt (accessory) - trillyke

pearl necklace - polygoncouture

tweed halter dress - RIMINGS

ribbon mules - sentate

3. everyday 1

head scarf - phoenixsims

pink neck scarf - SUNBERRY

white shirt - clumsytraitt

plaid skirt - simstefani

lace tights - guemarasims

leg warmers - CHARONLEE

white bowknot pumps - jius

4. everyday 2

bow belt one piece - LIN-DIAN

black calf socks - CHARONLEE

white pearl handbag - milasmith

white pearl bow kitten heels - SUNBERRY

little hairbow (hat) - LIN-DIAN

vivienne westwood 2d orb earrings - murphy

black lace ribbon choker - kaguya

5. everyday 3

turtleneck (accessory) - listed above

pearl dangly earrings - ASHwwa

black heart headband (hat) - gorillax3

white rose choker - SUNBERRY

gold vivienne westwood 2d orb bracelet - murphy

white corset dress - LIN-DIAN

white and black fishnet thigh highs - SUNBERRY

ballerina heels - CHARONLEE

[kpiuniverse]

How to seduce your hot and shady neighbor in 10 steps, while solving your friend family drama on the way: a guide by Roy Harper

Step 4: find common interests (1/4) Masterpost here

The One Where Roy empathizes because he’s nice like that 

Peter is still frozen in place, eyes huge and going back and forth between Roy’s face and Lian’s adorable thumb sucking.  “Oh. Okay. I really did not figure you for the parental type,” he says, voice distant.  It might be the situation – Roy is tired, laden like a pack mule and their last interaction was less than stellar – but Roy does not feel merciful right now. The man has a problem with him being a father? The man can deal with it on his own. 

Prev

Roy is coming back from his weekly grocery shopping when he bumps into someone in his decidedly too small hallway.  

To his defense, he has Lian in one arm, the baby-carrier she decided half an hour ago she hated hanging from his mouth, and his shopping bags are dangling from his remaining appendages. He has his hands full – pun intended. 

It’s Peter, who stops dead in his tracks and stays in the middle of the very narrow passage. Peter, who just stares at him without saying anything. 

“Glad to see you’re better, man.” Roy greets him, still juggling. Lian will get back in her baby-carrier if it’s the last thing he ever does.  

“Sorry about that”, Peter answers sheepishly. “You kind of caught me at a bad time.” 

Roy only hums as a reply, because Lian has decided to be an absolute terror this morning. He lets out a groan and decides to keep Lian on his hip rather than fighting that clearly is a lost battle.  

Then he looks back to his neighbor. Who is still staring. At Lian. 

“I. Did not know. You, hum…” Peter’s level of inarticulation is reaching concerning levels. Stroke levels. 

Oh, that’s right. They did not stumble on that topic during their coffee date, Roy finally remembers. 

“Yes, that’s my daughter, Lian,” Roy introduces her with a soft smile, because she is the most precious thing in the world, and he wants to share that. Even on the days where she behaves like an absolute terror. That’s his story and he’s sticking to it. 

Peter is still frozen in place, eyes huge and going back and forth between Roy’s face and Lian’s adorable thumb sucking. 

“Oh. Okay. I really did not figure you for the parental type,” he says, voice distant. 

It might be the situation – Roy is tired, laden like a pack mule and their last interaction was less than stellar – but Roy does not feel merciful right now. The man has a problem with him being a father? The man can deal with it on his own. 

Roy is gathering enough breath to haughtily bid him goodbye and go take care of his crushed feelings in the privacy of his own apartment, when Peter shakes out whatever spell he was under. 

“That’s so cool.” He exhales softly and adds. “She’s beautiful.” He searches Roy gaze with timidity, as if Roy is going to jump at his throat for appreciating Roy’s child. 

Which, fair.  

The man is probably a criminal and treated Roy like crap the last time they saw each other. However, Roy is perfectly aware of the overpowering allure that his eighteen-month-old can have on the person shaped marshmallows that pass for grown men in her life, her uncle Dick as exhibit A. 

There is no way Roy is going to stay mad at somebody that can recognize the superiority of his daughter. And that’s the only reason he agrees to let Peter discharge him of his shopping bags.  

As they make their way to Roy and Lian’s apartment, Roy is in charge of 95% of the small talk. Somehow, Lian seems to have mesmerized Peter. He does not take his eyes from her the whole journey up the stairs, not tripping once, and thus displaying an interesting amount of awareness of both his surroundings and body. 

Roy reminds himself to behave and keeps his thoughts PG-13 by sheer amount of will. 

They collectively reach the door, and Roy makes an executive decision. In for a penny… He unlocks it and enters the apartment, gesturing his free hand toward Peter to come in. The man does carry their next meal, after all. 

His neighbor hesitates on the doorstep, his big shoulders comically taking almost all the width of the doorstep – or is it Roy’s traitorous mind?  

Peter finally comes in and immediately starts unloading Roy’s shopping on the kitchen counter. The man moves fast, not that Roy is complaining. He invited him in, after all. Granted, his mind was more settled on offering him coffee for his trouble than using him as a personal assistant, but beggars can’t be choosers, right? 

Roy uses the welcome reprieve to go change Lian’s diaper and confirm that her behavior was indeed an expression of her discomfort – B+ parenting skills, Harper. A level would have been to have her diaper bag with him but progress all the same! A couple of months back, it would have taken him ages to even think about checking Lian’s diaper. 

Spirit lifted by his latest parental victory, he takes Lian back to the living room where Peter is currently organizing his fridge. Roy adds tidying freak to the growing list of things he knows about Peter– right next to partial to kids - and prevents a sarcastic comment from leaving his mouth.  

See, Roy’s life is a fragile balance of gain versus loss. And right now?  

Right now, Peter moves to restock his cupboards, putting the products with the closest expiration date at the front. Any ‘marry me’ comments Roy has in mind might damper his enthusiasm. Judging by the amount of products that Peter is frowning at and setting on the counter – already expired ones if Roy has to guess - that would be a shame. 

Smiling to himself, Roy puts Lian on the floor and lets her explore their living room to her heart’s content. He makes his way toward the open kitchen.  

Caught red-handed, Peter pauses in his frenzied cleaning spree. “I thought I might make myself useful, as an apology of sorts.” He says and quickly redirects. “You have a lot of stuff that is due to be thrown out.”  

Roy shrugs in answer. “I was not planning to let it go to waste. I can’t really afford it. There is nothing here what would have made me sick.” Peter’s frown judges him so bad; he feels compelled to add, “I’m always careful with Lian’s food! Mine… blah.” 

Peter looks affronted on his behalf, which is both rude and endearing. Roy expertly leads the conversation toward lighter topics while his daughter rediscovers the joy of putting cubes into round holes and his hot neighbor starts cleaning his kitchen. 

Next

[barleyo]

Hii, if you’re still in the fandom can you write dadMiguel o hara x daughterfemreader incest and maybe a piss kink🤭

Secret Shame.

Real Dad! Miguel X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: Sorry this is so short!! I wanted to get it out on Father's Day for obvious reasons haha!! I'm super into piss, so I just did what I personally enjoy, so I hope you like it :3

Tags: incest (daddy-daughter), legal age gap (18-late 40s), piss kink, piss drinking, watersports, oral (m receiving), poorly translated Spanish

Wordcount: 1k

It was natural to be curious, it was what your dad loved most about you! 

You had never seen a piss kink in action, so the random porn site you scrolled through having that video on their homepage was like dangling a carrot in front of a hungry mule. 

You thought it would gross you out and you would end up clicking off of the video. You thought it would just be another case of you giving into morbid curiosity, only to be disgusted.

It wasn't, though. It was strange at first. You felt like a weirdo for watching it. Piss. Gross, right? Wasn't natural. It was supposed to be nasty and taboo. Getting peed on was supposed to be something humiliating and icky, drinking it was supposed to be worse, but the farther you got into the video, the more you opened up to the idea.

Fuck. You needed to touch yourself so bad. You had to give in. Dad would probably still be at work, so if you just ran to get the batteries for your vibrator real quick then— then maybe you could get off and forget about it. Just wipe the shame out of your mind.

You went to grab the batteries out of the kitchen drawers and ran back upstairs as fast as you could. The slick in your panties was starting to get uncomfortable.

When you got back to your room, you unfortunately saw you dad sitting on the edge of your bed, your laptop pierced on his lap. The sounds of the video played loudly, full volume.  

The look he gave you when he finally looked up was enough to make you want to keel over and die. You let the batteries slip out of your hand and hit the floor.

"¿Qué estás viendo? Eso es asqueroso, cariño." 

"Dad, it's not what it looks like," you said, trying to take the laptop back from him. His hands were firmly holding onto it. "Please, turn it off. Don't look."

"You like this dirty stuff now, huh? I didn't raise you to be a nasty girl, mija." Miguel's voice was stern, but something was laced under his tone, something that screamed horniness.

He placed his hand under your chin, forcing you to look down at your computer screen. He tried to stop himself from biting his lip. He was getting way too excited by the embarrassment on your face.

"Don't get shy now. You had no problem watching it alone, now you wanna act like you're ashamed?"

You tried to shake your head out of his hand's grasp. You kept your eyes averted from the screen, knowing your tears would spill over if you had to face your shame head on.

"Bien, puedes hacerte el tímido." He let go of your chin, instead pushing you down to your knees. "You aren't fooling me. You are not embarrassed, you want to act innocent since you got caught. Am I right?" 

He shut the lid of your laptop. The silence of the room put a lot of pressure on your shoulders.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I just wanted to see!" You leaned your head on his lap, letting your tears prick onto his slacks. "Promise, daddy. Swear, 'm just curious." 

Miguel let out a sigh, unbuckling his belt. "Yeah? Okay, why don't you try the real thing then? See if you like it any."

He let his cock spring free from his boxers. The little dribbles of pre from his tip made you feel a little better, or rather, it replaced the shame with the familiar tingle you felt before you were interrupted by him earlier. 

You got to work immediately, wrapping your swollen lips around him. Sinking down on his length, you let him hit the back of your throat with little resistance. 

He pulled out just before you started to gag. Smearing the head of his cock on your cheek, he let out a groan.

"So pretty for such a nasty girl. Not fair that bad girls look so good," he joked, eyes crinkling while he watched you try to edge his dick back into your mouth. 

He gave in briefly, tapping it on your desperate tongue a few times. You tried to lick a stripe over it, but he kept moving it back before you could.  

"Why are you moving? Why won't you let me touch you?" 

Your dad felt the slightest bit of amusement at your whining. No matter how mean he liked to act, or how much he liked to embarrass you, he liked giving you what you wanted more.

"Hey, stop that. Hold still for me, okay? Gonna try what that flick you were watching did."

You mewled softly, face heating up again at him bringing up the porno. 

His lazily stroked himself for a moment, pushing himself off of the bed to stand. His hand pulled your head back to look up at him, fingers latching into your hair. 

"Close your eyes, cariño."

A grunt left his mouth and a hot stream followed. It felt weird for a second, but once his piss hit your face you tried to catch it in your mouth. 

He soaked your face, watching closely while you kept your mouth wide open, aimlessly angling it to get whatever you could into it. 

When he finished, he shook the last few beads off of his tip and used his thumb to wipe your eyes off for you.

"C'mon, look at me now."

You did, his warm piss still in your mouth. You didn't know whether or not to swallow it, so you kept still, letting the taste simmer in your mouth. 

"You look like you're enjoying yourself, mija." He saw you nod your head. "You wanna swallow it? Let me see you drink it down." He leaned down to your face level, wiping stray drops from your cheek.

You let the saltiness of it but the back of your throat, leaning your head back to gargle it before swallowing it all. 

"Oh, aren't you dirty?" His hand held your face, letting you muzzle into it, piss soaked and all. "The slut in the video didn't do all that." 

You cracked a sheepish smile, fluttering your wet lashes open to look at your dad again. "Maybe we should watch another one then?"

Taglist: @twinkfinder62

(ask to join my taglist :3)

[silentsamlikesham]

I was surprised there wasn't more fics like this for the fandom. Macho boys need to be soft sometimes....

Zoro x Sanji

..................................

Sanji’s shoes click rhythmically off the cobblestone pavement as he stalks towards the ship. His eyes watch the cracks in the ground and the uneven bumps in the stones until they fall away to crooked lines etched into the wood of the dock.

He doesn’t lift his head as seagulls circle him, their sharp eyes catching the few bags Sanji has dangling from his wrists. He doesn’t take in the sight of sailors throwing barrels onto ships or jostling past him in a hurry to grab more rope, and food and booze from the carts that sit on the edge of the ships. 

He doesn’t flinch when the seaside breeze cuts through his hair, plastering it across the wrong side of his face as he climbs onto the Merry. Not even the splash of sea water from below, that soils the cuffs of his pants, can rip him from the haze of his foul mood.

The first time Sanji glances up from the floor, is to watch behind him as Zoro reaches the bottom of the rope ladder. He takes a brief hiatus from his gloom to watch smugly as Zoro struggles to use only his legs to get aboard.

One of his arms is coiled around a barrel of beer, the other is weighed down by as many shopping bags as Sanji could throw at him, topped with a box he’s balancing between his bicep and shoulder that contains large heavy pieces of meat. 

The swordman seems to sense he’s being watched because he peaks a look up at Sanji, his eye’s just visible under his bandana.

“You going to help me, Curly?”

Sanji tsks loudly, his brief smile at the other’s struggling twisting into a frown again as he remembers just how pissed off he is.

“Screw you, Mosshead.” 

The clack of Sanji’s dress shoes echo across the deck of the ship as he storms off towards the pantry, the door to the kitchen banging loudly behind him as it slams shut.

Zoro blinks slowly, shaking his head as he convinces himself not to think too hard about what has set the cook off. Knowing how temperamental he could be, it could be as simple as an eyelash grazed his eye, or maybe he had to buy a bruised fruit or something.

Zoro decides to ignore the temper tantrum and instead focuses on getting over the side of the ship and safely onto the deck. He kicks the door to the kitchen open, not feeling bad when it slams loudly against the cracking wooden wall. It’s not his fault someone had shut it when they knew his hands were full, and Zoro was not dropping any of stuff in his arms until he knew he’d never have to pick them up again.

“Oi, watch it moss for brains.” Sanji snarls, already halfway through unpacking one of the half full bags he’d decided not to throw at Zoro.

Zoro noisily drops everything from his left arm, the sacks opening and almost spilling their contents, while the box dents on one side. With both arms Zoro carefully drops his booze barrel onto the floor, the only thing he cared about getting safely back to the ship.

“What the hell, idiot. You better not have bruised anything.” Sanji seethes, storming forwards, his eyes not even on the products.

It was clear the cook wasn’t upset about the door, or the dropped goods. No, Zoro knew by now his rival was itching for a fight. Well, if that is the case,  he’d give him one. 

“What’s your problem, Ero-Cook? You don’t like how I handle them, then you carry them.”

Like expected, his blonde crewmate sucks in a breath before he easily spins his hips and launches a kick at the side of Zoro’s head. The hilt of a sword catches the edge of his ankle, stopping the impact by mere centimetres.

“Isn’t your job on this ship to be the pack mule?” Sanji hisses, leaning forward enough that Zoro can feel a flick of spit hit his chin. “Can you do anything right?”

The next few clashes between the pair are nasty. A pinch of hurt mixes with a wave of fury and frustration as Zoro matches the tempo of the other’s hits. They block, dodge and slam into one another, a litter of bruises and bumps being left in the wake of their moves as they throw insults back and forth.

It’s nothing new, nothing unusual between them, but it feels strange to Zoro. Sanji doesn’t feel like he’s letting off steam, not when one shoving kick almost breaks a rib, or when the next kick almost comes crashing down on his skull at practically full force, hard enough to crack bone. The cook clearly seems upset with him.

“What-” Zoro slams the hilt of his second blade into the side of Sanji’s knee, unbalancing him, “is your-” He steps further shoving into the cook and knocking him back onto his ass, the tip of Yubashiri pointing down at him “fucking problem?”

Sanji’s glare trails from the tip of the blade up to Zoro’s face before he growls back “You. You ruin everything.” 

With that, Sanji uses a kick to knock the blade away before he pushes forward, barely lifting off the ground as he tackles Zoro at his knees, knocking him onto his back and briefly winding him.

He probably could have taken the hit, but he’s so surprised that he doesn’t even realise what the cook is doing until he feels two sharp knees digging into the inside of his elbows. His arms are pinned, stretched outwards with his swords as far from his opponent as possible, as Sanji sits heavily on his chest.

Zoro’s so startled by the approach that he goes to swing his head, to whip the sword in his mouth at the hot head, but before he can, Sanji has taken the sword away. For a moment, Zoro thinks he’ll join Sanji in feeling murderous, but some of his anger is quenched when he realises the cook doesn’t toss the blade away, but instead places it carefully above Zoro’s head, just out of reach of his mouth. 

“You couldn’t just keep your mouth shut at the market, could you?” Sanji pants, pushing as much weight into his knees so he can, watching Zoro flinch as they push through muscle and pinch at nerves.

“What are you talking about, shit-cook?” Zoro tries to move his arms, he knows he’s strong enough to lift Sanji’s scrawny legs off him, but for some reason, nothing happens.

“You just had to butt in about booze right as I was getting somewhere with that beautiful blonde-haired beauty. You had to open your stupid mouth and ruin it.” 

Sanji thinks back to the lady, all curves and soft lines and a small timid smile. The brief laugh she paid him for a weak joke was enough to make Sanji float. He’s sure he could have charmed an evening with her while they were stuck on this island, but big mean and green had to ruin it all, as usual.

“That’s what this is about? You striking out with yet another clueless chick?” Zoro continues to struggle, becoming perplexed that his strength seemed to have left him.

“Don’t call women demeaning shit like that.” Sanji snarls, only refraining from hitting the green bafoon when he notices the other looking worried at his arms twitching uselessly beneath Sanji’s hold.

“It’s not going to work, Mosshead. I’m leaning on a weak point in your arms.” 

Zoro’s attention turns back to Sanji, his brows furrowed in thought as though he wasn’t sure to believe the blonde or not.

“Apologise, and I’ll move.” Sanji bargains, his temper subsiding as a feeling of victory settles in his chest. 

“Eat shit.” 

Sanji grins at the discomfort on Zoro’s face, the sweat breaking out across his forehead as he struggles to get himself back in a position of power. The blonde decides to lean his upper body back, a show of how long he is willing to wait for Zoro to cave. His hands fall lazily behind him as he goes to rest one of them on Zoro’s stomach. 

The movement surprises the swordsman, the hand going unnoticed until he felt gentle fingertips dragging across his ribs, pushing at the taut skin. The lack of sight, mixed with an unusual place for Sanji to touch him is enough to cause Zoro to flinch, to let the smallest involuntary gasp through his lips as his breath hitches and his eyes widen in genuine surprise. 

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. 

Maybe he didn’t notice?

“Oho, what was that Marimo?” Sanji, having literally felt the hitch in breath beneath him, stares curiously at his hand, then looks back at Zoro’s face, the faintest dusting of a blush growing on his cheeks as he suddenly refuses to meet Sanji’s face.

The cook might have just taken the reaction as having hit a bruise, but the discomfort on Zoro’s face makes Sanji curious. So, he does it again.

This time his fingers brush relentlessly over the spot, the touch getting softer as he realises it elicits more of a reaction from the man beneath him. Sanji can’t help the grin that spreads out across his face as the pieces start to click together.

“Oi, Marimo.” Zoro glares a hole through Sanji as he meet’s his gaze, his blood boiling at the sight of the smug expression on the assholes face. “I didn’t know moss could be ticklish.”

Zoro tries to keep his face neutral as he opens his mouth to deny it, to tell Sanji he’s an idiot and to get the fuck off him before he skewers him, but before he can…Sanji squeezes his hip bone, his long fingers coiling into the exposed hollow of his hip.

He thought with all his hard work and training over the years that he could have held back his reaction, hardened his mind until he felt nothing. It doesn’t work. Not with Sanji’s weight holding him down, his arms and swords useless for once, his rival’s touch soft against his skin. This was new, this was terrifying, and this was something Zoro had never prepared for.

He lets out a bark of laughter, his face whipping to the side in embarrassment and panic as he tries to will the flush climbing up his neck away. 

Sanji forgets to be angry, forgets he was ever upset, forgets completely about the blonde that started this whole scene. He can feel the echo of the laugh through Zoro’s chest, can feel the panicked breaths that follow against his thighs. His eyes are locked on Zoro’s watery smile, not used to seeing such a shy grin on the swordman’s face. 

He squeezes again, Zoro’s eyes twisting shut as though not being able to see what was happening would be enough to make it go away. He loosens his grip slightly, scratching the area instead, his nails bluntly dragging across the cotton of Zoro’s shirt as a groan from his mouth turns to soft giggles.

Sanji is pretty sure he’s forgotten how to breath. It’s like he’s afraid to. That he’ll make too much noise and miss a single sound coming from Zoro’s lips.

“Didn’t think a brute like you could giggle.” Sanji teases eventually, pausing his assault long enough to see if Zoro will answer him, if he is capable of speech.

Zoro is pretty sure he’s going to die. His chest is tight after less than a minute of this. He can’t think, he can’t breathe, his hip feels like it’s been electrocuted and now Sanji’s words are burning him. He can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension in his limbs will surely snap at any moment. When it does, it’s likely he’ll melt into the wood of the floor.

“What, no quip back?” Sanji is laughing now, joyfully too, not his usual cruel cackle that he uses to taunt Zoro mid-fight. 

“Shu-huh-ut up!” Zoro gasps, trying to regain his composure. 

He can’t remember the last time someone had pinned him like this, and certainly can’t remember a time when someone ever tickled him like this. He hadn’t even considered he was ticklish, not since he’d grown up.

“Aw Marimo, that’s not very nice.” Sanji’s eyes are practically shining as he leans back with both hands now on Zoro’s stomach, all ten fingers curling into the soft dip just below Zoro’s abs. 

Zoro’s eye’s practically bug out of his head at the sensation. Any thought of shutting down his nervous system disappears as he lets out a stream of loud laughter, his legs curling and kicking out behind Sanji, his back arching off the ground, nearly hard enough to push Sanji off him. But the blonde was able to stay on top, his laughter joining Zoro’s.

“Oh, mosshead. I think I’ve found a way to indefinitely win our little fights now. Let’s hope no one outside the crew finds out about this, eh?”

Sanji’s words are too much, too condescending, and sweet and frustrating. 

“I-Ihh- I’m go-ahah-gonna cut yo-oho-you’re fucking tongue ou-ouaha-out.” Zoro warns, deadly serious for once. His threat sounding ridiculous though as his voice cracks at the end, his laughter hitting a shriek as Sanji traces a spot just above his pant’s line. 

Sanji hums, unimpressed. His hands disappear from Zoro’s stomach and for some reason that’s worse. Zoro’s gaze snaps from the door to the kitchen back to Sanji as he desperately tries to anticipate whatever the fuck the cook is going to do next. 

He’s too slow though because he doesn’t feel the hands shoving under his exposed armpit’s until it’s too late. Not being able to drag his elbows into his sides is torture and his shrieking continues as his nerves tingle from his chest all the way to his fingertips.

“I don’t think the world’s greatest swordsman is the only title you’ll ever earn; clearly most ticklish swordsman is already yours.”

It’s the worst comment so far. Mainly because the cook has just fucking admitted he think’s Zoro can achieve his dream. The compliment is weird and warm enough to have butterflies fluttering in his gut while his lungs seize in his chest. His face is beetroot red at this point as Zoro starts to feel like he’ll never escape.

But just as he thinks this, Zoro registers his legs, which have been twisting and convulsing this whole time…Sanji is settled on his chest. Zoro’s legs are completely free. He mightn’t have trained his kicks like the cook, but he can still swing them as well as any other competent fighter.

As Sanji opens his mouth to tease him further, Zoro moves. He brings his knees up with as much force as he can in his position, and they hit Sanji square in his lower back. He knocks the cook forward just enough that one of his knee’s shifts from where they were pinching the nerve in Zoro’s arm and in a blink of an eye he goes from a laughing mess to grappling Sanji’s waist, rolling the pair over until Zoro finds himself nestled in between the blonde’s legs, his hips pining the other’s down.

Sanji is blinking owlishly up at the ceiling, disorientated, and confused at how he ended up in this position. 

Zoro wastes no time in hopping up and falling back down on the other’s thighs, preventing any kicks or twists that might come his way. He gives Sanji a second, relishing in the horrified expression on his rivals faces before he digs both his large hands into every inch of skin he could on the blonde’s stomach and is rewarded by a loud wheeze followed by a stream of curses and laughter as Sanji loses it beneath him. His whole being wiggling and convulsing and suddenly Zoro doesn’t feel as embarrassed or weak.

He was going to kill the blonde, tickle him to an inch of his final breath and make him promise to never try this shit again, to beg and cry for Zoro to stop...

But the heated feeling dies in his mind as soon as he thinks it, because Sanji laughs like it means nothing. Like he doesn’t care that he’s being lit on fire by Zoro’s touch. He meets Zoro’s eye like they’re sharing a joke over a drink, like they’ve just surprised yet another unsuspecting crew, he looks at Zoro as if they’re friends…and it kills Zoro. Destroys him in a way he’s not expecting.

So, he stops, his fingers stilling when Sanji’s eyes gather tears and his face is as red as Zoro’s own.

He doesn’t tease him, doesn’t trust himself to say a single word when his mouth has dried, when it feels like cotton in sitting in the centre of his tongue. 

“Tr-ucahaha-truce. Plea-ahah-se Marimo.” 

Zoro stares at him until Sanji squirms uncomfortably at the silence. He watches the emotions swirling in Zoro’s eyes, his face it’s usual mask of secrecy. The idiot looks lost, like he’s stuck on something particularly complex.

Sanji hasn’t a clue what could be happening in the green idiot’s brain, so he doesn’t push him. Not when he’s still menacingly looming over him, ready to pounce. 

Sanji handles him the way he always does when he needs Zoro to comply without needing him to actually agree with him.

“I’ll let you drink a bottle of the good booze if you let me up?”

Zoro grins then, the tension washing away as Sanji offer him something familiar, something safe. 

He grunts as he stands, surprising them both when he offers Sanji a hand up. 

He takes the hand, letting Zoro pull him to his feet, surprised when the other pulls him close, his breath tickling Sanji’s ear as he hisses “You tell anyone about this, and not even the world’s best sake will save you.”

Zoro pulls back then to glare as threateningly as he can at the cook. Sanji looks stricken, maybe a bit intimidated for a second before he bursts into laughter. Zoro pouts at the response, forgetting none of his intimating tricks work on the pervert.

Sanji gooses his side as he dances out of Zoro’s reach and towards the drinks stash, laughing as he replies over his shoulder. 

“Next time I won’t forget to pin you properly, moss for brains.”

The threat sounds more like a promise, like Sanji is already planning his next attack. It makes Zoro uncomfortable, afraid, and slightly excited. The same mesh of emotions he always gets from fighting with Sanji.

Maybe, this would be another form of release for them. Another way to pass the time on the ship and let off some steam.

He tries not to dwell on the fact that a tickle fight was far less acceptable for a pair of terrifying warriors than genuine bruise inducing sparring.

Who could judge them out at sea? Who would learn of what they did on the grand line behind a closed kitchen door.

Zoro wanted to hear that laughter again, wanted to see that grin across the cook’s face…and maybe, he admits quietly in his brain as he takes the first gulp of his drink, he was looking forward to having the cook tease him like that again.

To beat him with a soft touch, rather than a short blunt one.

Zoro needed to drink the entire bottle placed in front of him before he lets his thoughts continue, before he reaches a conclusion, he’s been avoiding for months now.

He holds out his empty cup and receives a scoff in return as Sanji fills it again, the two of them clinking their next glasses together in a silent ‘cheers’.

They’ll figure it out, whatever this is.

They’re nakama after all. 

[cannedpickledpeaches]

Insert Your Name (8)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to series masterlist!

Notes and TW: Whether or not this is a story, does it really matter if characters are living fleshed out lives in their own perception of the world? This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

Tags: @guava-writes @itszzmoon @twstsandturns @myteacupisempty @rou-luxe @chikitasmol @night-shadowblood-writes2

You walk next to Jade along the beach, feet sinking into the sand. Your shoes dangle from their tied laces in your hand. The feeling of the grains shifting around your feet, the sound of waves lapping on the shore, they feel soothing in a way. Even though the winds are stronger today and there are dangers you can’t see lurking beneath the waves, you don’t worry because you have Jade beside you. Reliable, constant, safe. You can’t even be sure how long you’ve been thinking of him this way anymore.

An hour earlier, you were in a meeting with Walrus about the dead assassin’s body. Apparently, there are multiple layers of magic shrouding it that require some time to break. Nothing conclusive yet, but at least there’s a glimmer of hope. You wonder if Walrus is dragging out the process on purpose so that she can ensure the cooperation of the Leech Mafia lasts throughout her coup.

“In a way,” you say, “Walrus reminds me of you.”

“How so?” Jade is so very fond of playing dumb. It takes one to know one, and he knows. You can tell from his perfectly unreadable smile throughout that meeting that his guard is always up around her.

“She’s a gluttonous schemer who pretends to be kind and harmless, but secretly plots to gain the most out of anyone.”

He chuckles. “Thank you.”

Of course. It is just like him to take it as a compliment. Jade takes your shoes from you and you let him carry them for you as though he’s just your pack mule instead of the temporary head of the Leech Mafia. The setting sun casts an orange glow over the beach, turning the frothy tips of the waters into flames and Jade’s irises into molten gold. You catch his gaze and you smile into the eye contact.

“I like that about you.”

His eyes soften, molten gold shining with slightly mismatched hues and matching depth. You can’t look away. Not when he returns your smile with eyes like that.

“What part of it do you like? The scheming? The gluttony?”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

“But of course. I need to know what you like best about me.”

“Why?”

Jade chuckles. “The more information I have on any topic, the better prepared I will be for any situation, don’t you agree? In my position, ignorance is a sin.”

You certainly agree. The more you know, the better. But in this case, what is he even preparing for? He could probably cook up some sort of blackmail against you with the most innocuous tidbit of information.

You shake those thoughts away. You made him a promise. What was it that he said? At least promise me this. Even if I turn on the entire world, promise you will trust that I will not betray you.

He made you a promise, too. The promise that he would never lie to you again echoes in your heart. Even if those words were a lie and he said all that to lower your guard, you’ve decided to cross that bridge when you come to it. No point in fretting about something that may not come to pass. You have a thousand other things to worry about, and you’ve decided to trust Jade enough that this will not be on the list. If you end up in a sticky situation, you will sit and think of a solution, just as you have always done.

“Honestly,” you say, gazing out at the white-tipped waves, “I like it all. Your cunning, your lies and half-truths. It’s admirable. These intangible things have been forged into your weapons and armour. I only complain when it inconveniences me.”

It’s the truth. As much as you suspect and are wary of him, Jade is someone you admire and respect. Besides, if you truly disliked him, you would not be walking along the beach alone with him at sunset. You would not have stuck with him for fifteen years. You would not have kept on bringing pebbles and plants and fungi and bugs and any other number of curious things to the shore in your preteen years no matter how much money he offered.

“I would listen to all your complaints,” he says with nothing but sincerity in his voice.

“No promises not to inconvenience me, huh.”

“I promised not to lie to you. It is a bit of creative omission on my part.”

You chuckle. Silence settles on your shoulders like a blanket, comfortable and familiar. It’s nice to have a moment like this where you aren’t thinking too hard about everything. A reprieve filled with the ambience of waves washing up on shore and Jade’s presence.

“Do you,” he breaks the silence with a softly uttered question, “really believe that manuscript is a reflection of things that will certainly come to pass?”

This is the third time he’s asked you this. It must really be a sore spot for him. Jade isn’t the type to repeat himself. If he doesn’t get his way with one method, he’ll find twenty other ways. You don’t understand why he keeps asking with the same words and phrasing.

“I still can’t be sure. But you know, the Leech Mafia gaining influence because another syndicate fell is actually mentioned in the manuscript. I’d say things are still going according to the story.”

“No details appear as to how that was achieved. Perhaps this is not how things went behind the scenes in the original story.” He stops walking and faces you fully. “Your caution and your persistence in tying loose ends led to the investigation of mages within the Carpenter Mafia, which in turn led to Walrus revealing herself. I have yet to thank you for that.”

“You don’t need to. She would’ve revealed herself sooner or later to make her deal with you.”

Jade hums thoughtfully. “I doubt it. She likely planned on staying as the head of security in my home as long as possible. There are many benefits to being undercover in a place so close to me. She would have concealed her appearance or prepared a proxy to meet and make a deal with me. That is what I gathered from her personality.”

“It takes one to know one.”

“As the saying goes.” He admits it, his lips lifting in a smile to reveal his sharp teeth. “That aside, there is another piece of evidence that shows discrepancy between real life and the story. Floyd.”

Of course, out of everyone, Floyd would be the one who tears the plot points of the original story into shreds and stomps on their remains. He hates being constrained, arguably even more than Jade. He would never follow that story to the letter, and you know this, so you compromised by letting him do the bare minimum to fulfill the requirements of the story.

“What has he done?” You can’t be there to watch any of his interactions with (Y/N), so you don’t know the specifics.

“Don’t worry, he’s been following the dialogue and actions from the manuscript for the most part. The discrepancy arises where the story says (Y/N) becomes something of a mood stabilizer for him, keeping him in a constant state of happiness.” Jade places a hand on his chest, a fond gleam in his eye. “There are a few times I had to intervene so that his mood did not noticeably sour.”

You’re actually surprised that there were no major incidents. Floyd’s mood changes like the wind, ranging from a hair-trigger, volatile temper to a cheerful disposition that rivals the sun. That is not something a person can fix just because he likes them. In the first place, Floyd is not a project that needs to be fixed.

“I like Floyd the way he is,” you say, thinking about the times his flipping mood has caused your sense of schadenfreude to take center stage in your mind. “It’s not easy to schedule around, but it’s refreshing in a way when things don’t go exactly to plan.”

“I agree.” Jade places a hand over his chest. “He has made my life boundlessly interesting.”

“Right? It’s best to like Floyd in his entirety. But I’m sure (Y/N) would like him even if he isn’t sunshine and rainbows all the time.”

“You have great praise for her character.”

“She’s wonderful.” You smile fondly. At the same time, something still nags at you. It should be the result you want, right? But you’re hesitant to ask. “Are you sure you haven’t fallen for her after spending so much time with her?”

“I’m certain.” There is no hesitation in his response. “She is a decent person, but I do not think she deserves the compliments you rain upon her.”

A strange sense of relief washes over you. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s literally perfect.”

“I would disagree. She is hardly a saint.” Jade’s expression settles into something more serious. “Don’t you think it’s strange that she has not contacted you after all this time?”

That’s still a mystery. “She doesn’t remember me, allegedly. You’re the one who told me that.”

“Yes, but surely you have left traces of yourself in her life. Have you ever given her anything? Taken pictures with her?”

He raises a good point. You’ve given her many things that she wanted but didn’t have enough money to buy. Usually trivial things like mugs with cat designs or pretty hair clips. Now that you think about it, there are polaroids of the two of you on her nightstand. Has that not raised any questions? Does she not wonder about the person in those photos that she allegedly cannot remember?

Furthermore, what Jade said strikes you as strange. “Wait, you didn’t see my pictures in her room? You stayed overnight, right? Did you see the pictures on her nightstand?”

He looks out at the sea in thought. “I would have noticed something like that immediately, but I do not recall it.”

You stiffen. Where did the photos go? Surely, the story hasn’t written them away. Even though your pictures aren’t mentioned in the manuscript, they can’t have been omitted in real life. After all, you’re still here.

Did she dispose of them? But why? If she saw pictures of herself with someone she doesn’t remember framed on her nightstand, why would she put them away or toss them in the trash? Wouldn’t she logically keep it and try to remember who the mystery person is? Unless she’s only pretending not to remember. Unless she hates you. Unless she’s using this as an opportunity to cut you out of her life. Is that the truth? Was she ever such a two-faced person?

You refuse to believe it. There were many opportunities to cut you out of her life, especially when you got busy. In those times, she was the one who reached out first. You can’t accept that she suddenly came to hate you without a reason.

“Let’s not dwell on it.” Jade steps in front of you. “May I ask you a different question?”

“Go for it.”

“Do you really believe that manuscript is a reflection of fate?”

You furrow your brows. “Isn’t that the same thing you’ve been asking me the whole time?”

“It depends on how you interpret it.” He pulls his gloves off and starts to reach for you. As though struck by a thought, he hesitates. His hand returns to his side. “What I am really trying to ask is, if you think that is fate, do you also believe fate can be changed?”

He asks the second question as though he is sure of your answer to the first one. You study his expression in the dying light. Placid. Pleasant. This is the face he uses when he’s holding his cards so tightly to his chest that he may as well bury them inside his heart.

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of fate? The point is that fate is how the future is meant to happen. If fate can be changed, then it isn’t fate to begin with.” You gently take his hand and hold it between both of yours. “So, to answer all your questions in one go—I don’t think that manuscript is fate.”

A grin full of jagged teeth breaks through his pleasant mien.

“Finally,” he breathes out, stepping closer to you and bringing your hands up to his chest. “I was hoping to hear you say that.”

“You know, I was half convinced for a while that (Y/N) is just a character made by that manuscript. And in extension, we’re all characters made to play out the plot it’s outlined. Right now, though, I think you’ve convinced me that the manuscript isn’t as set in stone as I thought.”

He chuckles. You expect to feel a steady heartbeat in his chest, but the tempo quickens at your touch, the allegro drumming a sharp contrast to the adante you thought you’d find.

“I was not aware you entertained such notions in your mind. Indeed, anything is possible in this world.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

Jade rubs his thumb against the back of your hands. “Of course not. I simply thought it was amusing. At the very least, you and I are not characters. We have thoughts and feelings that go beyond ink on paper. Such is the complexity that sentience yields, and it is what keeps me endlessly interested in observing others such as yourself.”

“I’d have to work hard if I really wanted to keep your interest. Sounds like a lot of effort,” you tease.

“I do not think it is possible to grow tired of you. You are endlessly fascinating to me in every way.” He leans close to you, his vibrant eyes filling your vision. “Does that answer your worries?”

“Worries?” You laugh it off. Were you worried about that sort of thing? He isn’t wrong. Since when were you so scared of losing him? “I guess I wouldn’t be thrilled if you got bored of me.”

A wave of emotion that borders on triumph washes over his features, exhilaration and happiness flickering on the edges. He brings your hands up to his lips and keeps them there, his breaths fluttering over your knuckles.

And he whispers your name. Not Friend A, not Red Handfish, not (Y/N). There is no name to insert here because it is yours, the one you always had, the one that represents all of you and who you are. Your name.

[noosayog]

[IT'S ALWAYS BEEN YOU] - ft. knight! iwaizumi hajime

warnings/content: princess! reader x knight/personal guard! iwa. fluff mostly, minimal angst in this chapter. unlike my other series, this will consist of longer parts, but less total parts. she's finally here and I'm excited to share! let me know what y'all think and thoughts on perhaps a taglist?

wc: 1.1k

part 1. directory here.

--

In the kingdom of Aoba Johsai, you live a relatively peaceful life with your brother, the crown prince, and his closest brigade of knights who all attended the Academy together. With Toru being the heir to the crown, your parents have always been lax in their supervision of you. That gave you free reign to spend your days lazing off with your brother’s goofy friends, Sir Matsukawa and Sir Hanamaki. Any time spent with them inevitably leads to trouble and while your parents are lenient, they are equally quick to remind you to exercise the prudence a princess would. To keep the mischief in your daily activities in check, they assigned their most trusted knight and Toru’s best friend, Sir Iwaizumi Hajime as your personal knight.

Hajime’s job almost entirely consisted of tagging along on your excursions with Mattsun and Makki to ensure that you were kept out of trouble, at least reasonably so. You parents seem to think he does a good job because this has been his job since your debut more than a decade ago. 

When you were little, you minded Hajime’s presence a lot. You only knew the same couple of phrases that would come out of his mouth. “Princess, you cannot,” “Princess, exercise prudence,” or even more often, a simple “no.” He was a terrible nag and forced you to eat your vegetables. 

It was a couple of months into his new role as your glorified babysitter, when you were just 12 years of age, that you had found yourself dangling off the ledge of your balcony with only your 10 stubby, underdeveloped fingers gripping the iron fencing keeping you from cracking your head open on the pavement below. Too embarrassed to call for help, you silently kept your grip on the fencing, desperately looking around for a decent exit path. Ironically, it had been this moment of danger that Hajime, who never leaves your side, was nowhere to be found. With a mule-headedness becoming of a 12 year old rebellious princess, you were actually grateful that your nagging, austere, and unsmiling guard was not here to scold you. 

But there was a limit to how long your little fingers could hold your weight so as they began to slip, your panic had set in. That was when Hajime had bursted out to the balcony above to find your entire body dangling from the ledge. 

Cursing, he had sprung into action, throwing his entire body off the balcony and plunging down to the ground below. You had yelped in surprise when the wind from his falling body swooshed past you, unable to twist your head enough to see if he had landed safely. 

But you had heard him. 

“Let go, princess.” 

You had shook your head frantically. 

You still remember the reassuring, gentle timbre of his low voice when he had reassured you he would be there. “I’ll catch you, princess. You have nothing to worry about.” 

With no other options, you had let go as he had commanded. Midair, you had braced for impact but when you landed gracefully into Hajime’s sturdy arms, eyes wide, Hajime’s existence inside your heart had morphed into something completely different than it was before. 

After allowing yourself a moment to catch your breath, you had scrambled to get out of his arms to brace yourself for the lecture that was sure to come. But Hajime had kept you in his arms, tightening his hold and walking you all the way back up to your room without a word. 

You remember him gently laying you in your bed and patiently leaning over you as your arms had refused to unwind around his neck, not even realizing when you had begun to cry into his shoulder. When you had finally calmed down, he gently pried your arms from the back of his neck and softly rubbed an icepack on your skinned palms and red fingers. As you fell asleep to his ministrations, you remember knowing that you wanted to marry this man. It was at the wee age of eleven that you had fallen in love with your personal knight. 

~•~ 

Now, at the respectable age of twenty-two and having completed your etiquette and political studies, you were still very much in love with Hajime. And while he has never explicitly expressed his feelings, you were quite sure that your feelings were reciprocated. Though he is the perfect picture of a dutiful knight within the walls of the castle, outside, he is kind, easy-going and relaxed. With the years, Hajime had begun to mellow, his once strict and short leash on you gradually melting away to keeping you just within his field of vision when outside the castle walls. When on your day trips with Mattsun and Makki, he would goodnaturedly tag along, being very subtle in the fact that he was obligated to follow you and instead being more deliberate in showing that he enjoyed spending time with you. 

His expressions would soften more easily, more often. He was unabashed about smiling, teasing, and even outright belly laughing outside of the confines of the castle. His tenderness when touching you, when you cut yourself along the bushes or bruised a knee from running in the underbrush of the forest, was bright and unapologetic. Even the jeers of Mattsun and Makki would not faze him. Outside the castle, he was not only your knight and guard, he was your friend and a-little-less-than-lover. 

With this, despite the occasional obligations to attend balls, greet foreign emissaries, and routine paperwork that comes with leading a kingdom, your days are spent in mundane bliss. With a very capable brother dutifully learning his role at the helm of the country and your parents very much occupied teaching him, you were allowed respite in frolicking with the knights when they were off-duty. Even Hajime would sporadically partake in pranking the old, greedy nobles when they visited the castle and dip in the rivers in the forest behind the estate. 

You have never questioned whether or not it was customary for someone of your royal bloodline and age to not be pushed for political marriage. Your parents had never even discussed the topic, not even for Toru as far as you are aware. Thus, while you were grateful, you took that for granted. 

That is why when your parents summon you, on the eve before your 23rd birthday ball, you waltz into the throne room, merry and bright from your day’s escapades with Hajime, blissfully ignorant of their intentions. You are caught by dreadful surprise of the announcement of your future engagement.

[codename-adler]

hi queen what is the aftg x tlou 🧎 my two obsessions <3

this was the fricking hardest to answer bc it goes so deep and my love for tlou runs even deeper, and it's still in the works and very much not written, but at last! i have summoned enough brain power to give you this!

it all started here because of thanks to my love @cielalune and her beautiful beautiful turn out the lights ♥️♥️♥️

now in no particular order nor sense

the final starting lineup:

Wymack as Joel

Kevin as Sarah

Rhemann as Tommy

Abby as Tess

Neil as Ellie

the goal is a Wymack-centric fic. i want him love him need him so bad, i'm gonna dedicate a fic to him and ruin his life. ain't no other love language baby. all of the fic, except specific episode-chapters like Bill & Frank, or Ellie & Riley, will be from Wymack's pov. no unreliable narrator Neil i'm afraid beloved. i fucking challenged myself and i'm beginning to regret it.

Andreil?

perhaps a smidge, that sweet sweet baby carrot dangling before the mule, but it is in no way an Andreil-centric fic. sorries.

what about other ships and characters?

hehe. i am having FUN. i'm breaking glass ceilings, tearing down walls, pushing through barriers. some unique flavors one might say. don't worry you'll have your fill of lengthy cameos. mouth zipped shut for now tho. unless i'm persuaded...

Exy?

i hardly know her... eh tbh i have no idea yet what kind of world pre-Cordyceps i'm going to play with.

game or show?

both. HBO TLoU + game pt. 1 + pt. 2... ouchies. the fic will not be a series however. it's going to be long af, but one fic only. i know the end.

the itinerary?

canon tlou, to the south. 10 locations for now. same route shape. aftg canon relevant. figure it out.

the soundtrack?

BANGER. OMNIPRESENT. you know it. the HBO show soundtrack is my reason to breathe. they get it. they sooooo get it. - teaser 1: the code is 70s for "nothing new" / 80s for "new message" / 90s for "trouble" because that's when all the youngsters of our beloved aftg cast were born ;) (subject to change tho, but as of now the songs and plotlines involving this code work well) - teaser 2: the main/theme song i'm feeling for the fic is

trying to come up with a title around that, so far no luck. the wip title remains "aftg x tlou", sadly... yikes.

coming to ao3 when?

not soon at all. 3 chapters are outlined so far, and they cover three fourths of episode one. each chapter works as an episode. one episode of the HBO show equals to several chapters/episodes of the fic. i'm combining game 1 & 2 into one biiiiiiiig stretch like i said so. i'm screwed.

[alexa-yukiyu]

Rayleigh letting child dokusha brain his hair (ofc shaky is encouraging)

Shanks picking up the beads from ace's necklace during the paramount war. To give to luffy one day

Marco being a huge animal lover and owning a pet on the Moby Dick

Luffy being a platonic icon, bro is always hugging and cuddling at night with the crew I just know it

Can you imagine the crew going to izo like "...izou...I damaged my outfit during the fight" :( and izou just sewing then up for the crew. OMG DO YOU THINK IZOU DESIGNED WHITEBEARDS COAT

I can imagine izou being the main reason the crew isn't rotten and dirty like he set up a shower and bath schedule and is very strict on it.

Thatch working everyone's dislikes and allergies to provide them all food the enjoy.

Shanks constantly annoying the whitebeard pirates.. like all the time just using the den den mushi to call and say "we should have a drinking contest shirohege-" (they hang up)

The nurses recruiting marco to force treatment on whitebeard.

Whitebeard knowing he doesn't have all that long left so he goes out of his way to actually do fun things with his sons

You standing on point, not only would rayleigh showoff his hairdo with pride but with reason because he would be rocking it. Wether It’s young Rayleigh or older rayleigh they both have enough hair to be braided and they would look great, though his pride definetly helps it look better.

Again this if Ace had died, I think Shanks would have picked the beads but I can see two scenarios happening. Either like you said he would keep them so he can give them to Luffy on their long awaited meeting or he would give them to Marco before they parted ways. Or he can do both by splitting the beads and keeping half and then passing the other half to Marco.

Marco takes care of Stefan more than anyone else, you can always see the pupper falling after the first mate.

Omg yes, and even Zoro who would act annoyed either really is annoyed with it but lets it happen or he secretly enjoys it, depends on his mood. Chopper of course is the best option since the reindeer is the same way, always seeking that contact with people.

He designed Whitebeards coat, after he ‘forgave’ him for what he did to Oden, and making his master dangle on a rope for three days, I reckon he would take one look at whitebeard and be like ‘if i’m going to be here you got to atleast look presentable’ (same for the rest of the crew) plus this is also his way of apologizing for the way he had acted before. After that he has unoficially become the tailor of the ship, a lot of the crew is quite fond of their wardrobe and would not like to part with it hence why Izou’s abilities are so appreciated. Call it a trade of sorts, he does this for them but they must look presentable before they ask for his help or they will be rejected so you know if someone is clean it’s because they tore some clothing and need Izou to fix it.

Oh for sure, this is canon im pretty sure. We know he catered to Whitebeard and cooked special meals for him to help his condition. ( I think this was cannon, correct me if I ‘m wrong). So it’s not far fetched to say that this extends to the rest of the crew as well

I can see shanks calling Marco for drinking competitions to try to recruit him further, he never gives up on trying to get him to join his crew. When the nurses and Marco withold all alcohol from Whitebeard, he answers the phone and agrees just to have acess to alcohol aagain.

While on that topic, we know whitebeard is stubborn as a mule, sulking when he loses something or thing’s don’t go his way (like when Oden went with Roger) sometimes that stubborness is too much for the nurses to handle and they need to bring in an expert. Just the son scolding the father, whitebeard ends up sulking by the end of the conversation

Even before he got his diagnosis I think he would go this route. I mean all his life he had dreamed of having his own family and for a long while he was alone or surrounded by a crew with basically opposing views to his own where everyone was on their own so when he finally got just that he tried to be as involved as he could.

[rayewixx]

Bro Stella had so much potential I’m fucking clawing the walls rn.

As a character, Stella always intrigued me. Her obsession with Jesse and Petra, her snake oil salesman like personality, and how Champion City was almost like this dystopian cult city where everyone is forced to be Stella’s servants in hopes they’ll get their treasure back.

To me, Stella always seemed like she was good at talking her way out of trouble and manipulating others but pretty mediocre at everything else.

Stella knows that she’s shit at fighting, that she’s nothing more than a pathetic LARPer that craves the attention of her ‘rival’ Jesse to bolster her already fragile ego.

Jesse and Petra, they were everything Stella wanted to be. Strong, witty, legendary heroes who conquered any beast that came their way. Stella was nothing but a slimy snake oil salesman compared to them, a thief that relied on the labor of her citizens to keep her city afloat.

So when Petra came along and asked to stay in Champion City, it was an ego boost for Stella. Petra, a member of the Order of the Stone, was coming to STELLA for a place to stay in exchange for her precious Mrs. Butters.

Now that. THAT was a massive ego trip for Stella. She saw the opportunity to control Petra and took it, making her do meaningless and dangerous tasks and chores while dangling Mrs. Butters like keys tied to a string. Treating the poor girl like a mule so she can indulge in her fantasies as a powerful and wise leader.

And when Romeo came along and saw how fragile and power hungry Stella was, he wasted no time in manipulating her. Seeing all the power and influence he held, Stella immediately flocked to his side and was rewarded with a high rank in the Sunshine Institute and sweet talked into being Romeo’s right hand man.

And working alongside Jesse and Petra, she got to witness first hand of Romeo’s ‘training’ with Petra and Jesse. Being in a higher position than the two, she got to exercise her authority on them and the other prisoners, going so far as to sabotage Jesse’s plans and take her frustration out on Petra out of sheer pettiness.

But Stella’s admiration for Romeo came to a screeching halt when a prisoner outed as being the ringleader of a prison riot. Stella expected Romeo to make Petra just punish him, poke out an eye, beat him black and blue, pull some teeth out, the typical stuff.

Instead, Stella alongside the rest of the prisoners watched in horror as Petra beats him to death, the Champion’s pained sobs echoing the room as everyone is too stunned to speak.

And Stella saw the absolute malice in Romeo’s eyes, his smug smile seeing his own prodigy, his Champion, broken, traumatized, and covered in blood.

Blood of the prisoner he forced her to murder in cold blood.

But it was necessary, right?

No it fucking wasn’t.

That crook was endangering everyone with his riot! He should be punished for his crimes!

That crook was a man who was held against his will by a egotistical monster who plays God. An egotistical monster you sided with and stood by as he committed atrocity after atrocity in his little corrupt playground and went as far as to force his ‘Champion’ to murder an innocent man. Even if the man endangered everyone around him, beating him to death is absolutely egregious and barbaric.

When the main gang escapes the prison, Romeo decides to pretend to be Jesse and forced Stella to injure him to make it look like he escaped Romeo’s wrath. Made her take part in his lie that Petra, Jack, Nurm, Lluna, and Radar died and that Stella saved Jesse’s life.

He ties a leash around Stella’s neck by allying Beacon Town with Champion City and giving what she wants: Fame and Recognition. But all at a cost.

Behind closed doors, Romeo treats Stella like he did with Petra. Threats, gaslighting, violence, Stella feels like a slave to Romeo’s demands. Her lust for power and fame leading her to a path of darkness and destruction, everything she loves hanging by a thread seeking mercy from a sociopathic man child.

Just like Petra

Only Petra didn’t make the mistake of pissing of Romeo when her home is at stake. Cuz when Stella pushed Romeo’s buttons too hard, she had a front row seat to what The Romeo was capable of.

As she saw her city, her empire, being blown up and reduced to nothing but rubble; she learned one fact from Romeo.

Stella is nothing but a pathetic worm compared to Romeo, she was always a disgrace throughout her life and no high rank or some big shiny city built off of slave labor is going to change that.

The only use she has is by being Romeo’s little servant who tends to his needs 24/7 without question.

Stella was trapped.

And there’s nothing she can do about it.