#idk if you can even call it a relationship

[dilf-docs]

Darlin', Can I Be Your Favorite?

dbf!boxer pedro pascal x younger fem!reader

summary: it should be simple. helping your dad's best friend to train for his upcoming match in his hometown, chile. but turns out, world-renowned boxer the viper isn't just a menace in the ring.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (girthy), smut, p. in v., oral (m. receiving), rough sex, public sex, praise kink, humilliation kink, daddy kink (she's got daddy issues; idc if this is mischaracterizing you, you'll live), dom!pedro, use of pet names (doll/baby), some angst because that's my staple, idk shit about boxing my bad (i'm more of a ufc girlie kinda) so let's focus on the filth!!

word count: 5,874 words

side note: this very different albeit genius request got me a small hit tweet. song of choice for this piece i sped up because of my ovulation is favorite, by isabel larosa. there are several paragraphs in this that could be used against me and are proof i'm loosing my mind during this midterm/fertile week had to use a clint gif because freaky tales clint is so sexy might watch the movie on theatres with my legs open

You weren't new to this.

The small walls, dim light, the sweat, the blood... you were shoved into it. By your father, since you were a baby. Long before you could even walk, grabby hands trying to reach for a ring that seemed so far, the violence and the rage contained inside the quadrilateral.

So you grew up wanting it. The desire. The ichor. Rough and brutal.

You'd never step in, but always stood by your father's side. Until the age of boys, over-coated glossy lips and blooming girlhood arrived. Long gone where the days were you'd be next to your dad inside the dim-light place, now filled with car rides and girly laughter about all and nothing. You changed the sweat scent of the place for vainilla, and the oversized t-shirts for skirts that showed your laced panties if you bent.

The fights started then, but the ring became your home. Slut, he'd call you, saying this wasn't the girl he raised. Your mother would cry, tired of trying to stop the fighting that extended sometimes until late at dawn, when you'd show up on the doorstep, skirt torn apart and panties wet despite the dry summer.

The beast laid dormant inside you. That primal raw hunger; it never ceased to exist.

Now it was on your roaring voice, refusing to shut up and take the harsh language spoken by your own blood. It was on the defiance, cutting your clothes even smaller, pushing the wearable limit. On the way your makeup and manners got more scandalous, and how you'd throw your door louder each time another confrontation took place, the once lively home now a wrestle between two forces refusing to back down. But when you weren't with a bottle in your mouth or a guy in between your legs, you'd think of his hands grabbing yours as he showed you the gym around, introducing you to regulars. My little girl, he'd said proudly, and you would smile like he did. You'd grab the broken frame you once threw against the wall in a fit of rage, crimson imprinted over the photograph below the broken shards you tried to miserably put together again. Fucking failure. But it's impossible to piece what's already broken back together.

But you were still a believer, despite it all: the same girl who saw the magic in the beasts trapped within the cage, thunderous brutality in the place you once called your second home.

Maybe that's why you agreed to help your dad on this. To see a bit of that smile that had faded in time like the colors of the rust painted lockers. To hear a good girl praise. Not slut. To see a glimpse of the man who said he'd pass this place to you, useless now on his mouth as the gym crumbled just like your relationship. In the end, you were his daughter, begging to be seen.

And you were seen. Not by him. But by him.

The Viper. Pronounced in a whisper, because out loud sounded like a curse, bound to risk too much.

He had been a casual before, remembering his days when no facial hair adorned his face and he'd talk with your dad while laughing in a boasting sound, like he knew he'd break out in the scene. He did. And then he stopped coming, because he was too busy winning and living life than to return to a place that was falling apart.

But then your dad came rushing home, like he was to bear bad news. And boy, wasn't he? The leather, the greys now starting to take over his hair like the bad choices in the form of women and alcohol, ones that had once carried a bad boy charm which now had ripen into a sour taste, a lifestyle that belonged to the golden years left in a past long left behind. He didn't belong anymore, but refused to quit. The violence was a vice, and despite loosing everything, he had never lost a match.

"He wants to train" your dad panted out to your worried mother, who thought worst. "For a match, in Chile, his hometown. He talks about coming back"

Your dad may have been the first to know such, but not the last. No, because what started with a call late at night on your dad's old office (He had said Remember me, old friend? oscilating between nostalgia and teasing, and when your dad called his name, a soft incredulous Pedro? he had let out one of his victorious golden laughs, like coins falling down, as to let him know it was still him, despite it all), ended up on the news.

He's coming. He's coming. He's coming. Like a warning before the big bad wolf struck again.

In a way, you think, as he stands before you, he is one: the sharp eyes and bearing teeth. A fighter never backs down, and he seemed to be always in guard.

Hadn't recognized you at first, blinking a few times before a lazy and easy sleazy smile appeared on his face.

"This the same girl that asked me to carry her on my shoulders?" and a chuckle. "I think I still could"

A low, dangerous rich rumble. A dare. Challenging. Pedro didn't know you too had changed in many ways, and he certainly didn't know either you had touched yourself at night to the sound of his velvety voice, wrapping you up like the sweat that set your skin ablaze, a fist in your mouth to stop his name from slithering past your lips, image set on the way his eyes roamed over your woman body like an all too well trap he always falls in like a vice, trying to think if it was real or just another one of the troubles you loved to cause yourself.

But once you're deep, you can only go deeper.

Your dad left for Chile a day earlier, to set preparations you could care less, which is why you're here.

You promised not to fuck it up, seeing a peek of that man who swore to protect you from the cruel world outside. You needed this. Wanted this. When his lips parted but closed, many words hanging on the air coated with burnt cigars and sweat (I'm sorry. I'm proud of you. Don't dissapoint me. Don't break my heart. Don't fuck this up. I love you), you decided you'd do everything in your power to get your dad back.

The task was rather easy: help The Viper train before his big match in Chile.

Easy, if said man wasn't your dad's best friend, Pedro Pascal.

You feel like a voyeuristic freak watching from a corner as he pounds into the boxing bag repeatedly. Drops of salty sweat begin to run through his back, the white cloth now near transparent with how it sticks to his tan skin.

Pedro is big. All boxers were, seeing them coming and going from your dad's gym. But he was beefy. Not the slender and compact, but the huge thick type. The one were just his hands alone looked like he could snap your neck in two if he wanted.

You're supposed to be out there, helping him, but after your dirty little session two nights ago, and yesterday's dinner at your home, you're just not capable to meet him in the eye, despite promises to your dad and the fire to get his affection back.

(He had come over for dinner. Your mom made lasagna, your favorite dish of hers, but the plate went cold as you took in his words like an oil, spreading the grave tone that coated your panties like a second skin. You pressed your legs together, a shaky breath escaping past your treacherous lips when he said how much you'd grown, blaming the sauce when he licked his lips. Your parents stood up to collect the dishes, and then he leaned down and whispered: Ain't you become a doll?)

(It was nothing. It was just a man who knew your father and no better. But you didn't, either)

Last night, to erase the spell he seemed to have cast upon you, you went to one of your old friends while he beat himself up on the gym, where you were supposed to be. But when your orgasm washed over, you said his name instead; no cold shower could scrub away the humilliation.

(And the house still smelled like him. Bitter coffee, leather and sweat. It was salty and citric, up in your nostrils with an invasion that was, if not, fitting. You were obssesed, with the champion and the legend, and he was an old man looking for a fresh doe-eyed girl who could take it)

You gawk like a man would, but, how not? Dude too appeared to be hung. What is it they say about men with big noses, big hands and big thighs? Big. Big. Big. Fucking hell, you needed to be locked up.

"I know you're in there, baby" his voice cuts through the silence. It's night, and you should be locking up already, scarce customers long gone. "Was never good at hiding"

You emerge from the shadows, sporting only a small black short and a white tank top. He chuckles. With you, nothing is a coincidence.

"Some things never change"

He snickers, "but glad some do"

You breath in, getting closer to him. Again, his scent intrudes your senses, making you dizzy like a drug. Your circuits are busy, and his high.

"You were supposed to help me 'round here" he motions the place. But you're stuck on his hands, wrapped in tape. Those hands, brief peek of his tattoo hidden between the white. "What would your dad say, huh?"

His tone is devoid of malice and full of teasing, but your stomach churns.

"He'd say what he always says" he shots up an eyebrow, as if daring you to speak. "That I'm a fucking failure"

Pedro seems taken back by the sudden change in the atmosphere, nonetheless, still charged with unspoken uncertainty.

"Your dad?" like he couldn't connect the man he knew to the one he is now.

"How would you know?" comes out harsher than you intended, a shameful bitter taste in your mouth. "A lot has changed since you left"

A quiet rage settles in his eyes, the beast caged behind the enclosure begging to be let out.

"Why you throwing it on my face? I ain't your daddy"

It shouldn't hurt. This is ridiculous. But, hell, it does; you're nobody's daughter.

"Good you aren't my fucking daddy"

The silence washes over you at the same time the embarrassment does. You realize too late the words that left your mouth, and if you're quick to try to run, he's faster, your back pressed to the material of the hanging punching bag.

"Say it" he demands, "again"

Your face grows hotter by the minute. "I have no idea what you're talking about"

"First a terrible discreet and now a bad liar" his spit spurts in your face, each word with punctuation and a seethe. "Anything else?"

Yes. So much. You're drowning at this point, still not deciding if it's because of the smell his body is emanating or your heavy heart's fault. But he's the last person you'll tell all of this to.

"Not that it matters to you, anyway"

Yet, to an extent, it seems like he knows. As if he's able to see past the forced sweetness, the sarcasm and the layers of makeup and numbingly intoxicating vainilla. Pedro thinks at least he does.

So if you're on fire, he'll let you keep burning.

"I could be him, you know?" your ears start ringing at some point, and you're sure your heart stops. "I could be your daddy"

There's no going deeper than this.

"Thank God you aren't"

And it's like a slap to his face. The oh-mighty undisputed champion steps back. There is always a first, and maybe this is what loss feels like.

"Baby-"

Your ears keep on ringing as you move far from him, your heart dangerously close to leaping from your throat to the cold hard ground. Who does he think he is? He hasn't even been back for a day and has already found a way to break you from inside. To ruin you. As if he never left and has known every secret hidden between your ribs, his memory nestled since forever. But he's too picked apart your bones, in just a matter of seconds, biting down on the marrow of your deepest insecurities.

You hate him. You hate Pedro. You hope he looses, and you accept you've already lost your dad.

But then, as you realize your sat at the end of the gym, the worn out lockers on display, you have an idea.

With you, it was always about revenge, wasn't it?

The beast is awake, howling upon you. Ichor. Rage. This rotten girlhood that started with Malibu dreams and has ended on beds that reek of cheap whiskey and a quick fix in the name of forgetting.

"Pedro"

His head almost snaps looking in your direction. Not like he wanted to search for you to ask for your forgiveness. A match to mark his comeback and change his life will happen in just a couple of hours; he's got bigger problems than a girl who can't see things the way they are. He isn't an apostle of acceptance, but his wicked selfish nature finds pleasure in punishing you for his same sins.

But to play a game, you need two.

"In here" he answers, as if he hasn't moved since your little altercation.

"You need to shower" he catches in time the towel you throw at him. He chuckles dryly at your childish behavior. "You stink"

"You sure? 'Cause just a minute ago, it seemed you were into it" he's quick to quip, matching your energy.

That cocky motherfucker. So full of himself. You hate the sleazy smile of a winner. Does he think you're going down as easy as that?

Of course, you aren't blind. He's attractive, but is this worth it? You see his damp shirt and sweat drenched thighs. No. You look away, flustered.

"I think you need a break, old man. You're not who you used to be" you turn your back to him, so he doesn't see your red hot face, "seeing things that aren't real"

You start to walk to the changing room, and even if not spoken, there's an implication to follow you. So Pedro does, because it's night and Friday and he's got nowhere else to go.

He follows you into the locker room, but this isn't you.

Not the little girl who looked up to him like he could beat the whole world, hand in hand. Not the broken woman, who tried so hard to keep up a mask he could easily see through, maybe because it was akin to his own.

No. This is a fucking temptress. A siren call to drown.

"Sit"

He decided to be a boxer the day he knew he wasn't meant to be bent. The day he realized he hated being weak and wanted to always lead his own path. If it was through violence and punches, so be it.

But he's obeying your command, like a lap dog. If the change isn't noticeable enough, your wicked grin gives it away. He takes his place on the bench, sitting down with aching joints.

"What were you thinking?" you whisper.

A vein on his neck pops out aggressively at the remark.

"I can still handle it"

The way his voice drops to a lower octave, the scowl on his face prominent, like he's both offended and peaked in interest by your remark.

"Is that a challenge?" you tease, playfully. "I'm not your opponent, Pascal. Save it for tomorrow night"

Your fingers itch, and before you think about it twice, they're digging across the soft flesh of his broad back.

"What-"

You hush him almost instantly. "Let me"

You trace patters across the expanse of his hard planes, arousal pooling at the rough of his edges, the dry and scarred of his skin. It's also the sturdy built, what makes it harder to not... appreciate. You happen to be into appreciating the small things, that's all.

(But small, he definitely isn't)

"You're tired" you trace his worn muscles, lost in the way he seems to equally tense and relax under your fluttering touch. "Let me help you"

"What's this?" equally soft. A tattoo. But not the one's you've seen; you wonder if it is for your bad memory or because it's new. "Vae victis"

"Woe to the defeated" he's quick to answer. Taking your silence as a signal to continue, he adds. "It's a way to remember the ones I fight are people, not numbers"

If his voice carries a tinge of vulnerability, you must've imagined it.

"Never took you as the empath type" and your fingers leave his skin, as if it burns.

He lets out a soft humorless laugh.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, baby"

You don't let him have the last word, and to punctuate your final blow, you press a short kiss to the tattoo. He didn't see it coming-- your mint breath ghosting over his shoulder onto his face. Pedro forgets how to breath.

"I've always loved a good mystery"

Knockout.

He looks up from the bench, breathing still panting as he sees your retreating figure, until all that's left in the room is him and his worn-out body. Then, the soft pit-pat of the water hitting the tiles jolts him awake.

"It's ready" your voice says, but you're still there, and not back to the lockers.

Why were you preparing him a shower? It's not like he couldn't turn on the switch.

Pedro removes the towel from his neck and walks over to the showers, only to find you still there, white blouse as damp as his.

"What-"

"Get in"

He's about to repeat it, this time harsher and louder (Have you gone insane, woman?), but then your sweet persistent voice digs on his mulish character like a knife to a wound, and his reasoning has flown out of the window.

"You're gonna wet yourself" is all Pedro can manage to say.

The (possible) double meaning makes his belly rumble.

"I know" you repeat, answering for both. And then get inside.

The water starts to make your clothes hug your body, and he's lost in the curves of your ass and tits. Your muscles, while albeit not worked out, are both soft and strong, plush skin inviting for a bite. You've got both the firm and the soft that comes with age and womanhood, and his cock is itching to have his invite to your warm walls.

"What are you waiting for? Are you going to bath with clothes on?"

He rolls his eyes. "Look who's talking"

The cold water hits him when you too have taken off your clothes.

Couldn't get challenged because your too stubborn ass fell right into the bait.

His breath gets caught in his throat as your soapy hands explore his body. His adam's apple bobs as he gulps, enthralled by your firm yet gentle scrubbing, washing away remnants of sweat and dirt. All words are lost at the devotion, worship and reverance that seems to pour from your digits as you sweep his body.

"How?" your voice drowns out with the drops of water.

"Bad move" he whispers, seeing it across his arm. It's runs across almost all of his inner bicep, big. It didn't heal as good as he'd liked, but chicks seemed to dig it. "Had to go to the hospital"

You, however, seem more into the... understanding side of it. Not on the thrill and the danger, but on the damage that's healed in time but never left. More on the pain, and not the punch.

"And this?"

"Gloves"

"What?"

"Gloves" he repeats, still not that loud, as if he's ashamed. "They can create cuts when the skin is pulled during a strike"

"I don't get it"

And instead of mocking you, Pedro finds himself trying to explain it.

"It's because of the friction of the gloves against the skin" he sighs. "Was too dumb and too full of myself to understand it. Then it happened and I got this"

"What has changed?" you tease him, but it's as tender as a lingering touch. "Don't worry, Pedro. Everyone makes mistakes, even the greats"

It's a rather sweet moment, only broken by your teeth sinking into the scarred tissue, yet you're quick to soothe it with a wet kiss.

He groans, head falling back as your greedy little hands now slide through the hard of his chest, his nipples perked under the cold of the water and the warm of your touch; body electric.

"Fuck, baby. You're going to be the death of me" he groans, shivering at your insistence on making him break. "Keep tryin', but you won't make me beg, muñeca" (doll)

Still hellbent on denying you of himself, the hotheaded stubborn prideful bastard. Not even with your tits in the air, bare cunt aching.

"No?" you feign innocence, batting those wet eyelashes of yours. Then your lips find his scars, licking and pressing sweet warm kisses across the expanse of his chest and body, ending on the one across his face. For a moment, he falters at the intensity of your gaze, almost slipping on the tiles. "Still no?"

You fucking minx. "Fighters don't beg" he says, but every contact of your lips and tongue against his wet body send bolts of electricity to his aching semi-hard cock.

"But real men do"

Without further ado, you descend until your knees hit the tiles, water running through your legs like a river. You don't wait for an answer, all you need to know in his parted lips and his deep stare at you through dark hooded eyes.

A low, guttural moan tears from Pedro's throat as your tongue flicks a quick lick at his sensitive head. He's grabbing your hair with rough hands, tangling into your damp curls, his hips jerking involuntarily as your lips wrap around the tip, tongue swirling and teasing the most sensitive parts.

"Fuck" he groans, "aren't you trouble, doll? Really gonna make me beg for that release, ain't you? With that tongue of yours"

You give another proud lick at his throbbing angry red flesh, head already leaking with precum.

"What'd your daddy think about his daughter sucking his best friend's cock in the showers?"

You ignore him, too busy lost in the way his cock throbs and pulses in your mouth, his balls tightening with a pressure that built more each passing second.

"Not a talker, huh? Were that loud mouth of yours go?" he teases, his grip not faltering on your hair. "That's what y'r daddy said. Or maybe he was talking of another daughter. Not this little obedient slut who devours my cock like she's starved" his voice is strained. "Such a good girl, though, taking care of an old man like this. You like how it tastes?"

You pull out, making him groan.

"Why'd stop?" his voice is strained, rough with desire. His pupils are blown wide, circling with desbelief and something more primal. But he'll never say that, will he?

Too bad for him, you don't know when to shut up. Or quit.

"I want to hear you say it"

He chuckles darkly, his grip on your hair tighter now. "What'd say?"

"Me? Nothing" your lips part, words slurring before you think better. "You is I wanna hear"

"Fucking cunt" his eyes darken, "think you can tease me and get away with it? No, you'll be a good little cocksleeve and take it all"

You moan at his lewd words, thighs clasping together in search for some relief for the pressure building on your bare cunt.

"That's right, you dirty cocksucker. Look at you, thinking you can bend a fucking champion like me"

He knew his power over you. Frankly, he had to thank your old man for fucking you up so bad. Pedro loved how all your resolute seemed to vanish in the air, looking so eager and willing, desperate to please him. Be it for praise or for how much you wanted this like him, but it is this what makes him feel like a true winner.

"Don't you wanna suck this dick so bad?" his thumb tugs down your lip, "Be a good girl and I might give it to you"

Just like that, you're done.

"Please, I want to be a good girl. Use me, fuck me with your mouth"

He lets out a growl, voice low and rough. "Oh, t's alright, muñeca. I'll use this dirty little mouth of yours, all right" he fists your hair again, pulling you closer. "Gonna fuck you so good, you'll be feeling me all week: every time you taste, swallow and speak. Fill your dirty mouth so good with so much cum, you'll be tasting it for hours, for days, 'n for the rest of your fucking life"

Pedro thrusts his hips forward, pushing more and more of his thick, hard cock past your lips. He sets a steady pace, eyes locked on your face as he fucks your mouth with deep strokes.

"Just like that" he praises, breaths sharp as he looses himself in how his girth is nestled in your mouth. "Take it all, like a good little girl. So show me, baby, show me how much you love the taste of my cock. How much you need it-- crave it"

Your moan gets lost in your constricted throat, struggling to take him deeper, breathing and swallowing almost impossible with his girth taking up all of the space inside of your mouth. If Pedro felt like a king before, now he feels like a god.

"Such a perfect little cock sleeve for me to use, to fill, to fuck" he groans, his hips picking up speed, thrusts growing harder and more urgent.

His orgasm starts building, and he knows it by the way his balls tighten and his cock pulses inside the heat of your throat. Pedro knows he's close to coming, that he's seconds away from it.

Even if he's lost completely in the act, he's foremost a gentleman, but when he's about to pull out, your hands grip tightly to this thighs, and hold him in place as he tries to move. A rush of lust washes him over the cold water, a dark desire coursing through him at your pathetic display of eagerness and desperation.

"Fuck, baby" Pedro's voice reduced to a low, guttural rumble as he gazes down at you. You swear you can see a brief glint of admiration on his eyes. "You want my cum that badly, muñeca? Do you want to swallow it all down like a good little slut?"

He's rocking his hips forward, burying himself balls-deep in your warm throat, his swollen cock pulsing and throbbing against your tonsils as his orgasm crashes over him. Pedro throws his head back as so do his eyes, body shuddering and convulsing as thick ropes of hot cum shoot from his cock.

"You're doin' great, baby" he pants, his grip on your hair tight as he grounds his hips against your face, pushing himself deep into your mouth as he physically could. "Show me what a good little cumslut you are and don't waste a fuckin' drop. Swallow it all"

Aren't you perfect? Gulping and swallowing, trying your best good girl shtick as you take everything he has to give you, his musky sweat filled scent up your nostrils, despite the soap still covering some of his body.

"Fuck, y/n" he groans, body going limp. He falls back against one of the shower's walls, chest up and down with uneven breaths. "Greedy little girl with a greedy little throat"

He slowly pulls out of your mouth, his softening cock slipping from your lips.

"Get up, baby. Your father's bill will be brutal if we don't hurry up" he hauls you up and into his arms. "But truth is, I'ont give a fuck. I'm still thinking 'bout your lips 'round my cock"

Before you say anything, he's dragging your body again like you weight nothing, but this time, it's to crush his hot desperate mouth into yours with a rough kiss. Pedro can taste himself mixed with your sweet and drool. He groans at that, the sound painfully animal.

"Hey" he gently tugs you, a mannerism you would never associate with him. "Where you think you're going?"

You blink once. Twice. Then again, slower.

"What are you talking about?"

Your back meets the wall, Pedro brutally slamming your body until the tiles dig into your skin.

"Ow- wait" you hiss, "the fuck's gotten into you?"

"Think I'll let you go after this?" he growls. Then, chuckles, darkly so. "No, baby. I gotta try first" his fingers grab the supple skin of your ass until you feel them melt into it. He then spanks it, creating a weird sound with the combined water droplets. "Need to see if the pussy is as sweet as your mouth. So be a good girl and let me handle this, alright? As I said, I still can"

And for a reason, that feels like a threat.

His calloused digits venture dangerously close to your entrance, fingers going in. He coats it with your slick, making him laugh that laugh uniquely his.

"Fuck, muñeca. You're as wet as this shower head" Pedro presses himself into you, his cock touching your stomach. "Don't ever try to lie to me again, I ain't no fool"

Traitorous body. But his seething voice, the way his dominance slithers into jolts through your slick folds. You whine, pressing your tighs together. Pedro's quick to see this, and before you get to say anything else, he parts them roughly.

"I said I ain't no fool" he grunts while rubbing the tip of his cock over your folds, applying pressure on your clit. "Bad girl"

No warning, just his cock slipping past your wet dripping folds. Your hands fly to reach his neck for support.

"S'fucking grabby" he teases, slipping his pulsating dick between your folds once more, pressing and then pushing in slowly.

He swallows your whimper in a kiss, your poor pussy stretching to accommodate his thick girth. His big hands pull your body closer to his.

"But I'm the grabby one"

He growls. "Quit talking"

With one brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, balls pressed against the flesh of your ass. You grip his hair, chocolate curls tangled between your fingers. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. The pain carries waves of pleasure laced within, despite his aggressive thrusting and quick pace. You roll your hips upwards, eliciting a faint whimper out of your lips.

"No, doll" his fingers dig in your waist, a purple soon to follow. "You do what I say, clear?"

His cock grinds forward, stretching you out.

"Fuck-!" you choke out, "Pedro!"

He growls when he hears his name on your lips, an all consuming desire to make you his washing over him.

He then grabs you by your legs, hooking them around his waist.

You mewl out his name in a cry.

"See?" Pedro blurts out. "Told ya' I still had it on me, baby"

Your hands scramble to grab him by his shoulders, the pain and pleasure making your head spin. He can feel your tits jump with each bounce provoked by his thrusts, the rosy skin pressed against his chest.

"Gonna fill you up so bad, you won't ever doubt me again"

Pedro pulls back and uses his arms to push himself up and hover over you. He began to drive his hips faster, loud clapping noises mixing with the falling water.

"I'm- I'm gonna"

"Ask, baby. Remember what I told you?"

"Yes. Sorry, daddy" you whimper. "Please, let me-"

"Let you what?" Pedro chuckles.

"Cum. Let me cum. Please, daddy, please" the words slurred as you feel yourself on edge.

"Very well" grinning satisfied, "but don't you dare keep any of those pretty noises just for yourself"

A high-pitched wails falls past your lips as you throw your head and eyes back, your legs shaking.

"Pedro-!"

He grunts at the sensation of your juices on his cock, coating it. In the way your walls flutter around his length, pussy tight making him groan against your neck, where he has now buried his face.

"Stay there, baby. It's my turn" his hips snap and his thrusts turn sloppy. "Gonna paint all of your tight folds with my cum"

His grip tightens as he fucks himself silly into you, chasing his high.

"S'fucking tight" he groans loudly. "Such a good girl for me"

He comes undone, salty hot ropes of thick white cum spurting inside of you, his cock deeply nestled inside of your welcoming warm walls.

"Fuck. Need to fill you up, doll. Until you're so stuffed you can't move without making a mess"

The water keeps falling, as you whimper softly, burying your face in his neck. Pedro keeps rocking into you while riding his orgasm out, soft breathless groans leaving him. He places you down, some of his cum on your thighs. He uses his finger to push it all inside.

"We have been to wasteful to keep on being, right?" Pedro jokes before closing the valve.

"Be honest. You don't give a damn about the planet"

He lets out a hearty laugh.

"Guilty as charged"

There's some silence before he's helping you get back on your shorts.

(He smacks your ass, saying you did it on purpose. You agree. After all, he's quick to know when you lie)

"Good girl" he praises with a small kiss. "Did so well for me"

You kiss him back, fiercely, your mouth practically sucking his lips.

"For good luck, daddy"

Pedro chuckles at your antics. "You fucking minx"

He leaves you after that, going for his stuff. But you stand still in the middle, lost like a little deer. Your ragged breaths fill the room, and he feels a little guilty about having fucked his best friend's daughter on his gym before leaving first thing in the morning to his home country.

"C'mere" you turn your head. "What? C'mon, don't leave me hanging"

You carefully make way to where he is, back in the same bench.

"Sit" he orders.

Oh, the irony of it all.

Once you take place next to him, he makes sure to remove a strand of wet hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

"When I win, which I will" you chuckle at his ego, "I'll be sure to remember you, doll"

So when your dad sends you a video of Pedro's match in Chile a day later and The Viper winks to the camera, you like to think it's for you.

[quarterlifekitty]

I HAVE AN IDEA‼️‼️

Okay, the reader breaks up with obsessive! 141, and they try to manipulate them by getting them a puppy or kitty 😭😭😭

PLEASE,,, IMAGINE THEY NAME IT AND IT ALREADY HAS A LITTLE COLLAR😭😭😭

ALSO IDK IF YOU WRITE FOR GRAVES BUT I THINK HED BRING A BABY GOAT OR SOMETHING 🐐

Absolutely I will write for Graves and I think this idea is soooo perfect for him. I made it a little softer than intended tho lol

Maybe it’s bc I’m stereotyping southern white guys but I think he definitely owns a ranch. Doesn’t really tend any of it himself, no time, but he takes pride in it. He’s close with the ranch hands. Trusts them enough to keep you safe while you wait for him at home.

One day, you’ll tell him you’ve been thinking. That you’re not sure you can keep coping with his career, his absence, the secrecy of it all. He kisses your forehead, tells you that you’re probably just feeling restless because it’s winter on the edge of spring— that you feel cooped up. It’ll all seem better in the spring, y’know? (Absolute king of the brush-off. He’s a “let’s sunrise it” mfer).

When spring comes, and he’s not home— with an operation so secret that he can’t even begin to say when he’ll be home, you reach your limit. You pack up and leave behind a note. Headed back to your apartment— the one you kept so you could visit your friends in the city. Ignore his calls when he’s landed. Ignore the texts of sugar, please pick up.

You get peace, for a week or so. Until he shows up at your door with a baby goat under his arm, mouthing at his leather jacket.

“Said you were lookin’ forward to namin’ the kids once they were born.”

Kids. He’s aware of the double meaning. You make the mistake of letting him in. He brought a fucking bottle with him for the thing— how are you supposed to remember that you can’t do this relationship anymore when there’s a teensy tail wagging in front of your face while the little furry baby sucks up milk like a fiend.

“Piglets should be due next week.”

You sigh and go to pack your bags.

[anchorandrope]

Hiya! Do you think 28 is a Larry number or just a Louis number? I feel like cuz Louis is the one who has it tattooed and a brand named after it then maybe it’s a Louis number but idk. Harry has made subtle references to it through the timing of his music but it’s definitely more associated with Louis nowadays. Just curious on your thoughts!

hey!!

i think it's a larry number, but i also think louis made it very much his own over time because if that number symbolizes something related to harry (like whatever it symbolizes for them and also personally for louis - i.e his relationship, sexuality, etc; stuff that he's proud of but a lot of people told him otherwise yk "wonder what they'd think if they could see us now") it's something i think he took from 2015 onwards with everything that happened as a symbol of resistance/love/self-identity at a certain point.

what i mean is that the 28 was consolidated as a "louis' thing" in 2015 because until that year it was something, i'd say... quite fully larry (especially after 28/09/2013 - which is debunked) but it was something that even many antis said was "ours" (larries) and had nothing to do with louis. but when he got it tattooed in 2015, exactly 3 years after getting the ship and compass tattoo with harry, that started to became his own thing.

i think the 28 must mean something about them to each other but that must be a couple of things, and im also quite inclined to think that the "section 28" (01/02/1991-18/11/2003) plays a part in the significance as well. for me 28 clothing is further evidence of it. louis has always been known in the fandom for communicating through his clothing - to give clear messages on many topics not just sexuality, and that he has named his clothing brand designed by him "28" is very symbolic. not only because of the trajectory of that number in the fandom and his life - but also because its a unisex clothing brand whose isologotype is a "white rose of york" (symbol of yorkshire... his home... again "home" and "28" hand in hand). besides... "official programme" really? seems to be a mockery of "clause in official governmental act". and while we're at it, pride is a 28.

the posts and tags show why we think 28 is a larry number. i think it's a harry thing too because come on...why else would he put 28 boops in sunflower vol6, por example? 😅

what i mean is that i understand why people are inclined to think in recent years that it's a "louis only" thing, as he was much more obvious than harry in terms of his references (ahem... a tattoo is no small thing hahshs) but i see his winks quite present. also i think the number started out as something they both created, so if it's something they wear proudly to this day - surely it must still be meaningful to both as a couple in some respect. maybe not necessarily a romantic-couple-thing, but as gay-men-going-through-a-situation-where-they-suffer-from-homophobia-together, you know?

i think louis as he had and has a very tough closeting situation (i mean he is the one who usually goes out to deny it, he has the bbg and had the beards for a long time, etc) he took it as something very much his own because he just knew it was something obvious. he knew that we fans were going to relate it easily with something larry/lgbt because from the first moment it meant that. i always believed (and i believe) that he uses it so much because it is one of those little things that he can use without anyone "noticing"... no one except us. that's why he uses it so much and for so many things. he links so many things with that number, it helps him to explain stuff because that's what it's for. his old playlist, for example, we started to analyse it strongly because it was called "28 songs". place where that number is, place where we fans put our eye very carefully and with a lgbt lens.

i think at this point i would go as far as to say that is his own pride symbol, because that's what i see when i hear him using it that much and talking about it. it's very him and i love that!

[tanadrin]

I see the points people are making that “addiction” is maybe not the ideal model to discuss this, but I also am very sympathetic to the idea that some people have problems with compulsive porn/masturbation to the point that it’s detrimental for them. I’d never claim there’s a chemical dependency as in, eg, smoking or cocaine use or something.

We need a simple word for “habit that has negative effects on my life, but which I don’t seem to have the self-control to eliminate”. Calling it addiction was/is supposed to encourage efforts to help people stop, but all it’s seemed to do is spawn the growth of weird evangelical 12-step programs for being horny.

I want to be horny, if anything, I’d like to be much *more* horny, that’s why I’m trying to quit watching porn.

for reference (and why this is on anon) I’ve probably jerked off 1-3 times a day, every day, for like 10 years, this isn’t a case of catholic guilt over mild sexual behavior. I have a very hard time staying aroused, I have a hard time even getting aroused, and I have a hard time finishing without fairly intense stimulation. If I take 1-2 weeks off of porn (challenge level, nearly impossible) I see improvements in these areas.

Several years ago, I made it almost 6 weeks, and by the end of it, I was firing on all cylinders like I was 19 again. Sadly, it apparently wasn’t the sole issue. I went to the club, picked up a woman, I got hard when we were dancing, I got hard when we were making out outside the bar, but when we were in my car and she put her hand on me, my guy was nowhere to be found. She went home by herself, I went home and was so horny I was able to get 110% hard and jerk off purely from my mind. Idk where that energy was when it counted, sadly.

Weirdly, taking a break from orgasming but continuing to watch porn often actually makes it worse. I tried edging for 8-10 days once, and by the end of it, I could barely get hard for my favorite types of video.

I’m in my late 20s now, and I know some things slow down, but I thought I was still a bit young for this type of thing. The problem is that I just can’t stop scrolling porn on twitreddit. When I’m bored, porn, when I’m lonely, porn, when I’m anxious, porn (and I’m anxious a lot).

A few months ago, I made it a week, and I was buzzing and confident, but then I backslid and went back to my old habits. It was nice while it lasted, I’d deeply missed feeling that little twitch of arousal from a random thought or from flirting with a pretty stranger. I feel neutered these days, there’s no hunger anymore.

I don’t think I’m anti-sex, really. I’ve only felt guilt from casual or relationship sex a couple of times, and my guilt from masturbation has more to do with frustration that I know it’s bad for me than with some idea of moral inferiority.

sorry if this is insane.

I really just want to stop watching porn so I can try to start dating or sleeping with people again, not much point when I’m 97% afraid my cock won’t work. It might not medically be an addiction, but for me it’s definitely a self-destructive habit.

sounds like a bunch of different things going on here. for one habituating yourself to a very specific kind of stimulus can make it hard to get off in other ways--one approach that seems to work for some people who are in a similar boat (especially men who are used to jerking off with a firm grip) is to vary how you masturbate, use different kinds of stimulus, and learn to come in other ways. masturbation provides a very close feedback loop between stimulus and response, in a way that is always going to be very different from partnered sex--most people who masturbate regularly can make them come much more quickly that way, even if they find, in absolute terms, sex with a partner to be much more pleasurable.

(an important component in re-habituating yourself like that is not to fall back on the technique that works when you get frustrated and can't come, which is why it can be difficult for some people to manage)

separately from this, having trouble maintaining an erection with a new partner is also a thing lots of men report, regardless of how much porn they look at--sometimes you get nervous! it's easy to get nervous with a new partner! this is why god invented oral sex and fingering. that kind of picking-up-a-stranger-at-a-club casual sex works well for some people, but it sure doesn't work for everybody. and because arousal and erections are heavily dependent on state of mind, being nervous about being able to get an erection can, unfortunately, make it harder to get and maintain an erection. so there's a feedback loop there that can be pretty hard to break.

thirdly, if the only filler in your life is porn--if you spend a lot of time bored or anxious with nothing to fill those gaps other than porn--it sounds like a big problem here might just be boredom or anxiety, fundamentally. i don't know you, so i'm speculating, but maybe you need hobbies, or more of a social life, or are having issues with low-grade depression that getting out of the house more would help with. and if you're fixated on porn as the cause of these issues rather than just a symptom, you're also going to be struggling with the self-esteem hit of falling back into the habit of looking at porn, which is happening because, well, you're bored and anxious and you have nothing else that helps you deal with that feeling.

[randomnameless]

^^^^

This!

Some part of the fandom either see Cyril as a token Almyran and project a lot of, uh, their own thoughts about racial inequality on Fodlan, usually ending up with "Cyril must love Almyra and Almyrans because he is Almyran himself" which is, imo, pretty racist in itself, or is used again in projected takes about the Church somehow it apparently hating foreigners and non-believers, even if the Pope who is secretly Jesus and her brother second spell out the inverse :/

"But Claude said-"

Claude is the one who says this :

Don't change the subject, Claude. To the people of the Alliance, the Almyrans are— It's true that there's a history of hostility, but why should that mean we're doomed to remain hostile forever?

When Hilda's paralogue could have been played a chapter ago, where we basically have Almyrans attacking the locket and creating casualties like :

That's you, Professor. Please help us save our allies and protect Fódlan's Locket. We must defend here, or else... Our house... The Alliance... All our allied troops were wiped out. We won't be able to defend this place.

But sure Claude, that's just "history of hostility" and not, something that happens everyday because it's some sort of glorified dick measuring contest, that somehow involves people dying on both sides but at least they have fun.

So who cares about Cyril when he can be tokenised as an Almyran who can validate Claude's point of view about the world and his own ideals ?

Canon!Cyril is the one who tells Claude that maybe if the people in charge in Almyra would look after orphans like him - in that sense, he is his kryptonite : Cyril is an Almyra who doesn't like Almyra not because he's been raised as a Fodlanese, but because to him, Almyra sucks on its own.

And... bar platitudes "sure I'll tell dad about it later", there's nothing Claude can say because he is still the person who would rather blame the Church rather than self-reflect, like Cyril forces him to in their support, and realise that, maybe, maybe, almyrans attacking the border every monday to measure the size of their dicks might be part of the reason why the Alliance doesn't really like people from Almyra.

So for Claude to be "right" and Rhea to be BaD (so he's doubly right!!), Cyril's canon character is thrown away, and swapped, for some fans, by a random almyran boy who's somehow manipulated and groomed and idk what else because "Churches are BaD irl" and "Claude fights against racism, so Rhea must be racist".

For what it's worth, IS through FEH and KT through Nopes really cemented Cyril, despite outcries from some fans who wanted him to join the deers or even the eagles because what is even characterisation, as a member of the Church of Seiros faction, and even more than that, Cyril is always by Rhea's side.

It first started in FEH's Gatekeeper animation : basically several people from Garreg Mach are summoned on screen, Cyril is summoned with Rhea, Flayn and Seteth.

FEH's 4 koma gag has Cyril hang out with Flayn, Cyril's unit - despite being from the post TS - mentions Shamir as his archery instructor, and obviously, Rhea.

Hell, Archbishop!Rhea's title refering to her being a mother/matriarch is, imo, a call back to Cyril saying she's like a mom to the believers.

As for Hopes... even with Cyril's demote to being non-playable (not even in the post game!) there have some interactions, with, basically Rhea being worried about his safety (even during her various final stands), or taking him along in what was intended as a familial outing (aka an outing with her, Seteth and Flayn only), culminating with Cyril explaining that he cannot join the war effort because Rhea told him she'd be "mighty upset" if he was killed.

(@themoomoornCyril talks to her every day which would have made their relationship more obvious in FE16 if Rhea wasn't locked behind a "alone b4 u" shit of a player pandering support thus cannot meaningfully interact with the people she is clearly close to!)

Tl ; Dr : this take was born out of some people not really liking canon!Cyril and instead wanting to have an almyran character who would check all of their biases about the church (but ultimately Rhea) being BaD and/or validate Claude's character and goals.

So about Rhea and Cyril’s relationship

Is there a scene I just didn’t find where Rhea is abusing Cyril or is that just a fandom headcanon? I’m being genuine btw I wanna know where Rhea hating minorities came from, (if she dislikes one race and that’s the human race y’all 😭)

[blondiesdomain]

He's a 10, but you have to initiate EVERYTHING

[noelledeltarune]

EVERY SINGLE DAY there are MILLIONS of characters in their late 20s who get falsely accused of being father figures to teenagers when in reality the description of "weird older cousin" or "step-sibling that moved out before you were born" is 1000000x more apt

[redhoodinternaldialectical]

It really is fascinating that SO MUCH of what's spread about Jason via word of mouth apparently came from opposite world

The other Bats keep trying to reach out and connect with Jason and he keeps pushing them away? He grumbles and pretends to hate every bit of affection they try to show him? Absolutely not! Jason is constantly trying to reach out to them and is so down to receive/give a hug that Damian successfully used it against him in combat. Like, yes, half of Jason's bonding attempts were saw traps, but being bad at connecting with people does not mean he isn't consistently the one trying and the one reaching out and the one getting rejected.

Jason loves joking about his death? The other Bats walk on eggshells around the topic for fear of upsetting each other or him? Haha nope! Not unless we're talking exclusively about the Gotham Knights video game! Jason avoids talking about it at all, because it upsets him. Meanwhile the other bats are perfectly comfortable joking about his death to his face at his expense. Like some of those jokes have been cruel. It was only before he came back that they hesitated to say anything about Jason for fear that it would upset Bruce.

Dick and the others call him nicknames like 'Little Wing' that he finds embarrassing? Nuh uh! Jason is the one who loves giving the other Bats little affectionate nicknames. Jason is cheerfully calling him Dickie-Bird and it's making Dick's eye twitch.

Jason used to hate Tim? False! Jason has basically always liked Tim, meanwhile Tim used to loathe Jason so much that I've seen serious Tim analysis say it feels out of character.

Jason holds grudges forever and ever and ever? No. Jason forgives extremely easily. Like. Unhealthy easily. Here's a small sample of some things he forgave immediately without even being given an apology: being lured to his death, being drugged and implanted with a torture brain chip, being arrested and thrown in prison, being beaten bloody and thrown out of his home and city, having his throat slit and left to die. Not being avenged is kinda it in terms of grudges, and after UtRH, I'm not even sure if he still holds that one!

Idk, like sometimes one of the bats will be sympathetic to him? (Tim in Night Terrors and RHatO and one or two other things. Stephanie and Babs in Man Who Stopped Laughing, the alternate universes of Gotham Knights and Three Jokers) But pre-flashpoint and even most of the time now, the rest of the Bats are downright nasty to him.

It's so jarring too, because you'll be in Jason's head and he's going "yeah, this is Tim, The Best of Us, and my favorite :3" and then you swap to Tim who thinks of him and he's like "yeah, that's Jason, he's an asshole but at least his brute strength is useful on the rare occasions you can get his crazy, stupid, reckless, incompetent ass to listen to reason", and it's like that with almost every character! Even Duke, who has the least screen time so far and the fewest reasons to conflict with Jason, has apparently already racked up a compilation post worth of insulting him!

I think if you ignored everything pre-flashpoint and worked very hard at cherry picking and pretended that they were laughing with him and not at him, then maaaaayyyyyybe you could come up with a selection of comics to support Opposite World Jason being real? But on the whole I think there's far more weight on the side of the rest of the Bats just really not liking the guy, and treating him more akin to a Supervillain they have a temporary alliance with than someone who they actually enjoy being around.

All the haters have done is conclude that the other characters' attitude towards him is justified. *shrug*

(also a personal buggaboo of mine that isn't a relationship thing at all: people keep claiming that Morrison wrote Jason at his most violent and that is patently false! Morrison wrote Jason way less violent than Winnick who came back in like "Hey! Stop ignoring his crimes, we worked very hard on those!! >:P" and promptly had Jason slaughter nearly a hundred people at once)

The thing is that Jason haters get his relationships with the other bats much better than people who like Jason but are generally Batfam fans.

Those characters do not like Jason, they will always throw him under the bus when needed. He's the convenient scapegoat and it's easy to just put him aside because they don't need to inconvenience themselves with his presence there.

Also, whether or not you see them as a nuclear family, they do not support the member of the family that is just a bit harder to deal with - and no one is obligated to, but the thing is that, at the end of the day, the other bats will be there for each other, but they won't for Jason, because that would be just a bit harder.

(also, before anyone says "but they tried to reach out" - no, they didn't, not in any way that would be understood as such).

[instantpansies]

life is hard for us oz fans who are only meh about wicked. have half a meme.

[kuijoon]

As much as I love romantic sampo ships like sampard, platonic ones mean sooooooooooo much to me.

Like- Hook and Sampo. I LOVE THEM. THEY’RE MY EVERYTHING AND THEY NEED MORE CONTENT. Hook saying Sampo’s the only cool grown-up and the only one to always play with her and the moles 😭. Sampo always looking out for her and stuf… I’m actually going to kill myself

Serval and Sampo being friends in the past too… he probably thought of her as a real friend but then Gepard told Serval to stay away from Sampo and now they don’t talk anymore

Natasha and Sampo seemingly completely trusting each other. Her knowing Sampo is extremely shady but she still asks him to deliver the letter to her parents (and he actually fulfills her request!!!!!!!!!)

Also his relationship with Sparkle is so interesting to me. Like Sampo can’t stand Sparkle but still sucks up to her if money’s involved. Sparkle liking Sampo to an extent even though she says he has too much restraint (I even heard someone theorize that she seeks some sort of acknowledgment/ attention from him as an older fool since Black Swan mentioned her wanting to be noticed and stuff) She also backs down when the joke about visiting Belobog seems to displease Sampo and actually abides by some sort of rules while working with Sampo despite having stated to despise them (possibly because she sees Sampo as a potential threat and doesn’t want to piss him off too much). Other than that we have their conversation at the end of Sparkles companions quest. Here Sampo talks rather lightheartedly with her and even compliments her to some extent (“I love that line you said”). Now because of him sucking up to her because of money idk if it’s him being genuine, being nice to her so he gets his mask back or just playing it up to the audience (especially since they’re both aware of said audience and are probably omitting imporatant info on the catastrophe on jarilo-vi because of that)

Also I genuinely love the idea of Sampo knowing random people across the galaxy. Like him and Argenti? Friends. Him and Boothill? Went on several heists together. Him and Jing Yuan? Aren’t in direct contact but when the astral express was off to visit the Luofu Sampo told the trailblazer to say hi to Jing Yuan for him.

[oceanwithouthermoon]

maybe its just me but i cant stand when people are like "it just doesn't sit right with me how teruhashi thought about aiura 🥺" like yes... its not supposed to ??? because her thinking badly of other girls and prioritizing male validation over everything is one of her main flaws ??? can we talk about that WITHOUT making it seem like shes not allowed to have a single actual flaw without suddenly becoming an awful person? nobody can handle complex female characters at all and its so fucking annoying

[pinprickedroses]

homoromantic is the better option because erotic is a suffix that derives from sex.

i’m also extremely aware about how homoerotic is used, i’m a trans gay man, trust me i know. i’ve used it for myself multiple times. maybe we should change that too because imo that’s also fuckin weird to denote gay relationships down to sex and it’s feeding into the stereotype that gay relationships are strictly sexual. language is harmful.

the post was meant to be educational because i don’t think people really research words (despite erotic having a very obvious meaning imo) but considering we’re dealing with people who are probably over 15 years old calling 12 year olds a homoerotic friendship, that’s fucking weird! i get language can change but at the end of the day those are kids and you need to know what you’re saying when you refer to them. even fuckin muh luh muh or wuh luh wuh is NEW SLANG that you can use so being insistent that homoerotic is “harmless” after knowing what it truly means is a huge siren that’s going off and excuses people’s freak ass behavior

whether it’s typical or not, it’s weird. yeah it may be the norm, but usually when i see that being the norm it’s referring to characters who are idk, not actual kids. i have no issues with the characters being gay but i do have issues once people fixate on that and refuse to change their vernacular after realizing they fucked up and are unintentionally making sexual references about a 12 year old

i’m going to assume people just throw words around without knowing their meaning but i’ve seen this word used multiple times now to describe relationships of the lotf characters. jalph, ralmon, etc. you guys do know it is a word that inherently refers to a sexual based relationship, right? don’t use it for 12 year old boys maybe. ur fucking weird if you continue to do so after knowing the meaning anyway google words before throwing them around

sources:

[bumblingbabooshka]

I hate when Chakotay is watered down to be Janeway's yes man because their disagreements are actually very interesting. [A lot of rambling analysis of this debate in particular below]

Chakotay in Parallax is very interesting in that he has to navigate a lot of different dynamics. Balance a lot of plates while being watched keenly by everyone around him. Immediately preceding this scene we see him ask B'Elanna for her opinion on the bridge - both as a chance to show her knowledge in his bid to make her chief engineer (because she wouldn't get a chance to otherwise as Janeway has clearly indicated that at this point she views B'Elanna as a troublemaker who won't be considered for the position) and because he just thinks she's a better engineer than Carey and wants the best possible chance of them succeeding. Janeway sees this as unacceptable. Carey is the chief engineer and so he should be called and Chakotay NOT asking for his opinion is an insult to Carey, Janeway, and might make the crew doubt Chakotay (and by extension the Maquis') loyalty to the Starfleet crew.

At this point it seems that to Janeway integration ["They're not your people"] means the path of least resistance, specifically tailored towards the Starfleet crew. She wants Chakotay by her side to keep the Maquis crew calm but also seems unwilling to consider them for important positions aboard the ship. Though she says that the Maquis are not Chakotay's people, not his crew, she certainly doesn't seem to consider them hers [Compare this to later instances where she stresses 'our' crew, here she simply says they aren't Chakotay's: Whose crew are they? Are they crew at all?]. This less leaves the impression of "We need to be a cohesive team" and more "You're not in charge here." She essentially accuses Chakotay of playing favorites. In her mind Chakotay's actions are not conducive to integrating the crews which would (again, in her mind) mean the Maquis being docile and accepting, obedient and content - not making trouble for the Starfleet crew. Chakotay counters Janeway's accusation with one of his own: That he IS trying to integrate them into the crew but her not allowing the Maquis any opportunity to prove themselves or succeed, not showing any trust in any of them (except, implicitly at this point, him) is making things difficult. At this point the Maquis crew are ready to mutiny on his word at any time. He knows this for a fact. Aside from that looming threat (the threat being that tensions are high and if nothing changes and they remain high there might be a mutiny even without his word) - Chakotay knows these people and trusts them. Though Starfleet and Janeway think of the Maquis as a violent bunch of criminal terrorists, Chakotay and a good number of the Maquis joined because they believed in the cause they were fighting for. These are people Chakotay knows WILL fight fiercely for what they believe in and conversely, AGAINST what they perceive as injustice. Even if they're not in the majority - they're used to picking fights which seem impossible to win. At this point Janeway admits that she ISN'T making it easy for Chakotay to integrate the Maquis - specifically talking about practical concerns; how she doesn't feel she can let Maquis crew have roles of importance on the ship because they lack the ability to hold them. "They don't have the discipline, they don't have the training," - asserting that they just aren't prepared for any such roles and it doesn't have to do with them being Maquis specifically. Ostensibly, she's treating them as she might treat anyone unqualified for the job.

Chakotay maintains that some of them, like B'Elanna, have the ability to be trained - challenging her point by saying that IF they're trained there's no reason for any Maquis member NOT to be given a more prominent role on the ship. He isn't suggesting they just unqualified people important jobs. If the problem is that they aren't trained, let's train them. These people have the ability to succeed if you give them the tools they need and a fair chance, he insists. Janeway then switches gears and her argument becomes not "The Maquis are untrained so they can't be given those jobs" but "The Maquis crew are unworthy of those jobs when compared to Starfleet personnel" saying that it'll cause insult and upset among the Starfleet crew if any member of the Maquis were to be promoted above them. Again, her idea of integration is based more on Maquis subservience to the Starfleet crew than it is the two crews working together. (Not that I believe she looks at it that way, it's just where her 'path of least resistance' leads) - though she accuses Chakotay of being too focused on "his" crew, she is admitting here that she believes her real crew are the Starfleet officers aboard, not the Maquis. She also admits here that the system she wishes to maintain (and is asking Chakotay to enforce) is one where there will ostensibly never be any chance of a Maquis crew member being promoted because no Maquis crew member will ever be more qualified, more worthy, than a member of Starfleet. We can see how it'd be difficult for Chakotay to convince his crew to remain calm under these circumstances. There's also Tuvok's behavior toward him at the beginning of the episode where the Vulcan nearly goes over Chakotay's head and when he doesn't do so (as Chakotay reminds him that HE'S the superior officer, the First Officer in fact,) Tuvok acts as if him backing down (partially) and conceding (partially) to Chakotay's authority is a favor to Chakotay.

Tuvok in this conversation is downright insubordinate to Chakotay. Despite Chakotay being the first officer, he doesn't take what he says seriously, argues that his own opinion on what should be done should be followed rather than Chakotay's, lectures the first officer about his conduct, and then almost seems to threaten him with a report. In Starfleet's rigidly hierarchical rules, acting like this to a superior officer (ESPECIALLY the first officer) wouldn't be tolerated and Tuvok knows this perfectly well. He isn't a rebellious character and clearly in other episodes adheres to these Starfleet hierarchies and codes of conduct very strictly. He values them highly. But Chakotay, a Maquis, shouldn't be First Officer. Why should he be given respect for a title he didn't earn? [Affirming Janeway's argument about how Starfleet officers won't be eager to follow a Maquis senior officer] Even though Chakotay tells Tuvok off for it ["I don't have to explain myself to you"] he doesn't threaten to put Tuvok on report or explicitly mention his insubordination. It's unclear if this is Chakotay's personality or if he just doesn't feel he CAN do that. Tuvok is one of the three most senior officers aboard and very close to Janeway. Chakotay has to think of the optics of any situation at all times - we see seconds after this conversation that rumors have already started swirling around B'Elanna being relegated to quarters that've fanned the flames of mutiny. Though we know Tuvok has personal reasons for behaving the way he does toward Chakotay (which he later admits), I really don't think it'd be out of the ordinary for this to be how most Starfleet personnel would treat the Maquis if they weren't outright hostile: Like they're only pretend crewmen. To a lesser extent we even see this with Janeway: In the following staff meeting, she clearly doesn't consider B'Elanna a viable option when Chakotay brings her up and almost ignores the suggestion entirely.

It also, again, leaves Chakotay in an impossible position. If he doesn't protect and fight for the Maquis crew, they won't ever be considered a true part of the crew and dissatisfaction will likely spread among them. Dissatisfaction which the Starfleet crew will then use to further label the Maquis as insubordinate, uncontrollable, unfit. Not to mention that if he doesn't advocate for them, he might lose their trust. However, if he DOES try to help the Maquis crew advance the Starfleet crew will view this as 'favoritism' and will further distrust him, won't respect the people he puts forth as worthy. Janeway seems to be intent on not advocating for any of the Maquis crew and also seems unwilling to ask that the Starfleet crew grant leniency. She implies that the Maquis crew need to learn to get in line and keep quiet and it seems almost like [we must remember the optics] she has Chakotay as the only Maquis in a position of power to facilitate that. Chakotay recognizes and pushes against that, saying that he won't just be her token Maquis - there only so she can point to him and say "See? We don't discriminate against the Maquis here." effectively a tool used to shut down any arguments of unfair treatment and a tool to quell the Maquis if any talk of mutiny DOES arise. In this model, Janeway can just tell Chakotay to calm them down and they'll listen because they trust him. She also doesn't have to really listen to anything he says: A token First Officer has no authority; his words don't hold weight. [Chakotay isn't Maquis anymore, they aren't his crew anymore - ok. What is he then? What are they? Nothing, without respect.] This plan seems untenable, as much as Janeway frames it as sensible: "I can't make it easy, Commander. Surely you can understand that," and alternatives as impossible "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" - in the long run, how would this be sustainable? In any power structure, you cannot expect a group of people you're unwilling to grant trust or agency to obediently follow you forever. This proposed form of 'integration' in which the Maquis are kept on the bottom rung and told intermittently to stay there quietly by the only one of them granted permission to stand at the top would never be sustainable - especially with a group like the Maquis who again, were founded on the belief that its members should fight against inequity and are already on the verge of mutiny.

I specifically find the statement "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" to be interesting because personally I'd say that being forced together for the rest of almost everyone's natural life is a pretty good reason to ask people to adapt and Janeway does understand this but only applies it to the Maquis - the Maquis are the ones who have to adapt, not Starfleet. The only thing the Starfleet crew have to do is tolerate their presence on board.

At this point Janeway again claims that if Chakotay can show her a 'qualified' Maquis candidate she'll consider them. I believe this is true but we already know that Janeway's standards for qualification will likely not fit the vast majority of the Maquis and Chakotay ignores the claim in favor of putting forth B'Elanna again, firmly. Janeway predictably dismisses her as unqualified and Chakotay disagrees, arguing that he knows her. He's worked with her. He KNOWS that B'Elanna can excel at the job even if she doesn't meet Starfleet/Janeway's qualifications. He doesn't value those qualifications over what he's observed about her - just as he didn't value Carey's title over what he knew about the gap between his and B'Elanna's abilities. Then, Chakotay switches gears. He admits that Janeway's right - he does view the Maquis as his crew but that's because Janeway (almost self admittingly) doesn't and if he doesn't, who will they have? [What kind of captain, kind of man, would he be?] "You're going to have to give them more authority if you want their loyalty." "Theirs or yours, Commander?" Janeway frames Chakotay's words pointing out the flaws in this plan which I outlined earlier, as almost a threat (if she doesn't have Chakotay's loyalty it'll most definitely mean mutiny). Chakotay asserts that it wasn't a threat, he's only trying to help by telling her how the Maquis crew will react to what she's telling him. "I'm sorry you can't see that" - not an apology for what he said but that she isn't willing to budge, not willing to listen to him and acknowledge that she might be as biased towards her crew as he is towards his. Chakotay is trying his best to acclimate his crew but if Janeway isn't willing to do the same, to talk to her people as he's talking to his, then this will not end well and that isn't a threat. It's just the reality of the situation. He then asks permission to leave, showing he is willing to observe Starfleet protocol (just as when he asked permission to speak freely), and Janeway lets him go, exhaling at the intensity of their debate when alone in her ready room.

[pleasedontcareaboutme]

It's missing my father hours rn so imma just dump a bunch of pictures here and cry

( sorry i don't know the source of anything I just had them on my phone)

(also dont read the tags i just need to let it out lol)

[mugentakeda]

the tapping of his fathers pacing on the tile is almost enough to drive him mad.

“don’t let your brother’s incessant whining cause you to falter. this is merely a short visit to discuss the matter at hand, and then you’re on your way right back to ba sing se. he will try and whisper doubt in your ear.” the firelord stops to shake a finger at him. “do not listen to him for anything! i will help you in the best of my ability to have this taken care of.”

“i’m not,” iroh snaps impatiently, digging his palms into his eyes. “i’m not listening to him, father. he doesn’t care for lu ten and he doesn’t have to. he has his house and i have mine. empty words have little meaning to me at the moment.”

his father purses his lips. the sting of his stare digs down to the core.

“you say that,” azulon snaps, “but i believe this to be a family affair. its possible lu ten was taken advantage of because he was too busy protecting ozai’s wife and ozai’s children to protect himself. if that’s true, then ozai owes him. i don’t give a damn if he cares about him as his nephew or not. lu ten honored his house, so he shall honor lu ten in return by shutting his trap for once.”

iroh doesn’t have the strength to respond. he’d left ba sing se in a rush after receiving the news, and ordered the shipmen to get him back home on the double. he’s sick, he’s tired, he’s terrified and angry, and he misses his son something awful. the last thing iroh cares about right now is what ozai does or has to say.

there’s a heavy, sad sigh from above him. azulon slowly makes himself comfortable on the sitting cushion next to him, grunting as his bones creak. he sets the knocked over teacup straight again and refills it. the familiar heat and fragrance does nothing to soothe iroh, however.

“there is nothing i can say to make you feel better as of right now,” his old man mutters, sitting the teapot back down with uncharacteristic gentleness, “nor can i say anything sure about ursa or the children. but lu ten, he…. he is a remarkable young man. thick skinned and ornery. lightning generation at only 21, can you believe that? he beat you by a whole year. you must have faith in him.”

“it’s not about having faith in my son, father, of course i have faith in my son. but i have no faith in whoever has- has stolen him from me!” iroh suddenly exclaims, gesturing wildly. azulon flinches as his hands come dangerously close to knocking over the tea again.

your boy flagrantly disrespected you and stayed home to laze around, ozai had hissed, his narrow eyes locked straight up at the throne. both were kneeling before their father’s throne, side by side. i don’t know why you even bother. if he thinks he’s so grown up then he can save his own skin.

iroh didn’t bother to respond. he has nothing to say to his brother even on the best of days. all his life, he’s been nothing but a background character to iroh. always insisting on holing up in his room or office, never joining family dinners or celebration banquets. never one to offer his congratulations, but expects his older brother to offer his. yet, he always liked to think his word was of any significance to iroh. that he was always to be heeded. respect to his elders only means something to his little brother if there’s something to be gained.

flagrant disrespect. lu ten did not disrespect him if iroh never directly asked or ordered anything of him in the first place. he implied it, and lu ten pushed back. it hurt, but it would’ve also been the boys first true venture outside the fire nation. so iroh understood the hesitancy.

iroh would’ve just had lu ten by his side in his war council anyway. he would’ve never seen the battlefield or the city until iroh leveled it. not a spot of green would be spared by his men.

he had envisioned himself shooting a hole right through the flimsy palace wall with his lightning, and his son by his side. winning.

nothing has gone the way you made it out to be, great spirit. i don’t feel very lucky, as of late. the evening sun peaking through the tall windows of the corridor offer his thoughts no response. the general sighs heavily, and continues on his way.

the royal procession had gone through the beach house, along with the rest of the island. not a trace left behind. no sign of a struggle, either.

the procession claims it’s like they vanished out of thin air, sir, jee had whispered.

delicate situations such as this one call for holding the ones you trust most closer than ever. thus, iroh took only his personal guards from ba sing se back with him. jee is a rugged and introverted man, one that iroh knows can keep a secret, so he has been acting as his messenger man and valet for the time being.

another member of his most trusted circle is one of his longest working servants, one that belongs to iroh’s house personally. her name is su, and she is a stout woman around his father’s age. stern and silent, but trustworthy. she was the one that kept a close eye on lu ten from a distance during the periods of time iroh wasn’t around in his youth. she had been the midwife at his birth, she had been the one to pick the wet nurse.

and she had slipped iroh a journal outside of lu ten’s room. leather bound and stained in a deep red, with delicate embroidery of lotus flowers decorating its cover. it looked like something the lady ursa would gift him.

i came across this left behind in lady ursa’s garden, your highness, she had murmured fiercely. i snatched it right up and held it for you upon your return, lest it fall into the wrong hands.

the dark, warm silence of iroh’s own chambers is a small comfort, but the cold leather of the journal in his hands chains him to the cruel reality.

one of the vows iroh made for himself when lu ten came into puberty was that he would never violate his son’s privacy. he’d like to think that his son’s life possibly being in danger is a good enough reason to break it, but it still feels… wrong. especially now that he’s an adult himself.

it’ll be like eating a dollop of wasabi, he tells himself. spicy and painful one moment, then fading tingling the next.

with a sigh, he cracks it open to the back page. a few lines of familiar scrawl.

and the reason i torture myself trying to ignore all these things about him that bother me is because….

he looks away, shame crawling up his back. the candle sitting at the corner of his desk flicker along with his irregular, fear ridden heart.

a dollop of wasabi, he reminds himself. he opens his eyes again with a long breath and looks back down at the journal once more.

…well, that’s the crux of it. i just don’t know how to finish that sentence anymore.

that tells him a whole lot of nothing.

iroh flips the page back again, and is immediately overwhelmed by completely filled pages. then startled, by the sheer amount of times his own name pops up to his searching eyes among walls of scrawled text.

unease curls in his gut, like a dragon slowly rising from a slumber.

the ink doesn’t look too old. and su had said she found it in the lady ursa’s garden. and then jee said the royal procession claimed the fours’ trip to ember island was only to last three days, tops.

and as far as iroh knew, lu ten had been keeping quietly busy after iroh’s departure to ba sing se. lu ten willingly buried himself in paper work, always hunting for things he had the power to make into his business. training with lightning generation was grueling, and took hours, on top of the meditation necessary. and it takes a clear mind to even work with lightning, so…

had he done something recently to upset lu ten, and didn’t realize it? what things about iroh did lu ten torture himself trying to ignore? dramatic wording like that is difficult to overlook.

the general thinks back to how well his son can hide his emotions. lu ten’s court face beats even ozai’s, so it made him a gnarly pai sho opponent, but… he never did the backhanded comments. he can lie, but he’s a man of action before a plotting one. so you’ll never see the storm coming until it hits you directly in the face.

the letters he got back from him in ba sing se were… neutral. unbothered. he hadn’t seemed very troubled at the palace gates during his departure, either. tired and a bit wary, maybe.

but now that he thinks about it, the way lu ten looked at him had been… strange. his eyes had an emotion swirling in them that the general couldn’t read.

he rapidly rolls over the most recent letters in his head, the days right before leaving, trying to think of what he might have done to set lu ten off-

…the tiff they had on the evening before iroh’s departure.

he had forgotten about it completely.

spirits, he’d forgotten about it by the time he stepped foot on the shore. the elation of finally arriving at ba sing se, the first big step toward fulfilling the biggest thing he’s wanted to accomplish his entire life, the ultimate win, decades of planning and dreaming, inspired by agni herself…

he’d been caught up in the heat of the moment.

it didn’t even turn into an actual argument, that’s how small the tiff had been- a few things thrown back and forth during their private dinner, and the rest of it had been spent in awkward silence. iroh had let his hurt get the better of him, and he got testy.

the only thing that spoiled his ongoing luck, his relief of finally being able to go and crush his country’s most stubborn opponent, to make the second biggest win since sozin- was his own son not joining in, or showing any interest.

and that wasn’t even it. the closer iroh and his advisors got to bringing their planning to a conclusion, the more withdrawn lu ten became. whenever iroh brought it up, his son would close like a firelily in the night.

i assumed you were above teenage rebellion, iroh had muttered. i understand you want accomplishments of your own, but-

teenage rebellion? you’re joking, right? why do you always insist on- on patronizing me whenever we don’t agree on something? if you think you’re gonna guilt trip me into changing my mind, you’ve got it all wrong.

the disbelieving, ever so slightly shriller tone lu ten’s voice took on reminded iroh of his mother. she always had the habit of raising her voice a few pitches when she got upset. it reminded iroh of a coyote-eagle, once upon a time. the older lu ten got, the taller and leaner his face and physique became, the more time they spent apart, it’s like a vivid repeat of his mother. he even became a hand talker when iroh hadn’t been looking, just like fuhua.

(are habits hereditary, or had fuhua died after running away, and came back to haunt him?)

it’s probably best to start a bit further back in the journal. it might provide the context this father needs. he flips the pages for a few moments, and stops at random.

i spoke with a gentleman from the earth kingdom today during my observational trip through the colonies closest to the homeland. if you didn’t look close enough, you would’ve thought him to be any old fire nation fisherman, but i know green eyes when i see them.

his wife was a sailor that hails from caldera city. they met across the seas, in a neutral port town. they have two young twins, just barely older than zuko and azula. isn’t that something?

now, that is something iroh never bothered doing when he was a young man- it’s only now that his joints won’t let him run around chasing skirts anymore that he’s become a people person. but he’s proud of his boy for taking that initiative and having such a sense of responsibility, to go and mingle with the common man. an empathetic ruler that’s popular with his people will have the surest and furthest reaching authority, after all. iroh couldn’t name a single councilman off the top of his head that would be willing to even breathe the same air as a commoner, much less a colonial mutt.

however… this isn’t a colonial. he’s too keen on the idea of his family members’ abductors being petty, revenge seeking crooks from the earth kingdom to be okay with the idea of his son even conversing with one. for all they claim to be true and steadfast, them sneaking in and attacking an unarmed woman and her young children in their beach house just to get back at iroh is all too realistic of an idea.

but lu ten wasn’t unarmed. lu ten is one of the strongest men in the fire nation, and iroh isn’t even being biased about that. it takes prodigy to conjure lightning, and mastery to control it. and lu ten was very protective of ursa and the children- almost too protective. back in the day, during celebration parties at the palace, lu ten would damn near prowl around a pregnant ursa to fend off the careless crowd, lest they bump into her and jostle her. and he’d only been just a young teenager himself, so it was like watching a polar bear puppy that thought itself a snarly guard dog.

then a few years ago, there had been an incident where lu ten claimed zuko’s instructors were smacking him around. he’d grabbed both of the men by the collar and dragged them both viciously through the palace and right out the door- only after the sharpest scolding iroh’s ever heard since his mother was still alive. he’d never seen his son so angry. he’d chuckled at the way those old instructors had babbled apologies and fell to lu ten’s feet, while patting ursa’s back gently as she floundered.

no, it’s doubtful that an old fisherman had anything to do with it. earth kingdom or not. this is just something he needs to talk to his son about once he’s found. it would take a group of very strong benders to take lu ten down, at the very least.

he was wisecracking and friendly. we talked about his business, the officials that take care of the town and the surrounding environment, how he met his wife. he even shared his lunch during our time together- grilled fish, fragrant with sumac and citrus, and a chilled earth kingdom style mint tea. it was refreshing and unique, and i want to do it again. you’d think the fire nation would pick up these little things as it expands, but it just drowns it all out. i’m not sure if that’s a good thing. what made the food good was its earth kingdom style and seasoning, after all. what made the man interesting was his earth kingdom raised manner.

…what made lu ten think it was a good idea to write such things in a journal, and then be so careless to just forget it in ursa’s garden? he’ll have to thank su for her keen eye. if someone lacking critical thinking happened to pick this up and turn it in to his father, he’d have to deal with his son having allegations of sedition on top of everything else.

iroh, personally, is more than happy to let all traces of chilled tea get drowned out. it’s a frequent and light hearted debate between a father and son, the do’s and don’ts of tea. iroh is a stickler for tradition and enjoying the natural flavors. the fire nation boasted only the most fragrant flowers to enhance only the most delicate flavors of only the finest tea blends, after all.

his son claimed it all tasted like dinky dirt water, and stubbornly stuck with his cold hibiscus teas with herbs, and his heavily spiced and creamed saffron teas. it had been a big joke back then, but now… not so much.

a whole lifetime of a father making his son tea, sharing one of his passions. conversations over tea, tea for soothing a sore throat after screaming matches with councilmen, tea to wash down sea water accidentally swallowed at the beach. traditional methods, ceremonies, porcelain pots precious enough to buy a whole town- but it’s dirt water. yet an old fisherman from their greatest enemy shares ice water with a few mint leaves in a tin cup, and its unique.

and he wants to do it again.

the personal betrayal somehow hurts more than the blatant treachery written out plainly on the paper.

to be honest, i think that it’s a great shame that a good man like that has to be careful on his own property-property he paid for with his own money and built with his own hands- due to being from the earth kingdom, even if he has a strong marriage to a fire nation citizen. i thought about it for a long time, and realized that even if he wasn’t loyal to the crown, i didn’t mind. i don’t get angry at the idea, and i don’t think i ever have. i didn’t even think about it until i left. he made good company, offered to share his food with me, and introduced me to his beautiful children as if i was his new neighbor. i think community like that is something the fire nation needs. especially the nobility, who you’d think all have iron sticks shoved up their asses.

interactions like that are the most important ones to me, because they challenge me the most. i hate to cheapen that by thinking i just enjoy being challenged to spite my traditions and elders, or to be contrarian. that’s what coming of age means to me- looking inward, and asking the big questions.

…this can’t be why lu ten has been so distant lately.

the general slowly shuts the journal in dull horror. how long has this sickness had time to fester his son’s soul?

he swallows hard, and gingerly slides the journal in the folds of his robes. under no circumstance can anyone get their hands on it.

and later, when his gut quits churning and the candles around him quit threatening to set his room on fire, he’ll read this whole journal, front to back. brand every sentence, every symbol into his eyes. then he’s gonna burn it, bring his son home, and ask him what the hell he’s thinking.

the next morning, after letting the foul scent of burnt leather fade from his chambers, iroh finds jee.

“what can i do you for, your highness?”

“i need you to bring me the finest bounty hunter money can buy,” iroh murmurs. there’s a madness in his eyes and in his grip now that he’s had time to ponder the contents of his son’s journal, and what they entail. “and no matter what, it stays between us. i do not care what measures you must take to keep it that way.”

jee swallows hard and salutes with purpose. the poor man must be able to his see stress all over his face, but he’s barely containing himself the way it is.

this was no kidnapping. the blasted earth kingdom has everything to do with it, naturally, but it was no kidnapping.

jee returns to him that evening, followed by a lovely young woman, head to toe in black leather. her gait oozes confidence, and her narrow eyes scream danger.

this is definitely not the kind of finest iroh meant by finest bounty hunter money can buy, but he’ll take it.

“…i’ve, uh. fulfilled your request, your highness,” jee says. he looks flustered, and is clearly refusing to even glance at the woman.

“with a few breaks in between, i’m guessing. your collar is uneven, soldier,” iroh deadpans. he’d call it a shame if he wasn’t curbing an episode at the moment.

jee makes a faint noise of distress and fumbles with his uniform, blushing a deep red. iroh realizes that was the wrong thing to say at how the fair lady scowls at the crude jab.

she shoves past jee with an aggressive shoulder clip and crosses her arms before the general.

“i was promised a shitload of coin in exchange for some missing royals,” she says, voice clipped. “i don’t like to work with your kind, but good money is good money. and i can promise better and quicker results than any phony bounty hunter in the world- my companion is a shirshu. she can sniff out a rat from a whole continent away.”

a shirshu, eh? it would seem my luck has made its return after long last.

“impressive,” iroh praises truthfully. he’s a weak man for crass and foul-mouthed women. “i’d like to take a look at this beast, and then we can discuss the details and prices. i also hope you’re alright with keeping this transaction under wraps, my dear.”

she sneers. “you can call me june. and i’d highly suggest keeping a few steps away from my nyla, for your own good.”

jee clears his throat. “i’d listen to that one, sir. her creature is something else.”

iroh hums pleasantly, and keeps a few paces behind june as they go. a strange calm has washed over him now that the universe finally makes sense to him again; he has a few more people he’d like to question, and he’ll be all set. then sooner, if he’s lucky, rather than later, his sister-in-law, his nephew, and his niece will all be found and returned home, safe and sound. his son will be in his arms, whole and unharmed. ba sing se will simply have to wait.

and if they’re lucky, the dragon of the west won’t have thought up a better solution to finally grinding their sorry ashes into their own dirt by the time he gets back. but regardless, he will win.

[ultrakillingmyself]

I read the shit I wrote yesterday and like. Dude this is Weird