#they are not in any way shape or form on equal footing which doesn’t make this a ‘war’

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

I’m sorry but you can’t cry “human rights violation!!!!” when you are actively carrying out a campaign of genocide.

[the-great-fusilli]

I’m pro-delulu and I too believe in shipping characters that don’t canonically end up together BUT… I will never get behind Zutara (my mind changes often, but rn no🙅🏽‍♀️.)

Maybe it’s because I don’t take colonization and eithnic clensing lightly, or maybe it’s because I disagree with the “Katara is like Aang’s mom” statement. Either way they should not be end game. People often bring up how Zuko helped Katara release a lot of pent up emotions concerning her mother’s death and who killed her, but the Fire Nation (his people) were responsible for that death. And up until that specific arc Zuko was upholding the beliefs of those people.

“Zuko doesn’t need Katara to be his mother like Aang and the rest of the group do, they’re on equal footing.” Except Aang and the rest of the group don’t need Katara to be mother either. People just view Katara as a maternal character because of her personality and that’s the only role they’ll acknowledge her having in the group. Katara’s mother showed her a love so deep and protective that she died so Katara could live. Of course the trauma of losing her mother in that way at such a young age would cause her to take on the role her mother had. Whether it be because of obligation, or simply because that’s all she knew.

Aang and all the other characters have experienced a lot of trauma, but Aang was raised by monks. He doesn’t need a mother figure because he’s never experienced gender roles in the way the other characters have. His idea of a family is being shaped as the show progresses because aside form Monk Gyatso, they are the first real family he’s had. He’s curious, fun-loving and light hearted because that’s how Monk Gyatso raised him to be, not because he’s an irresponsible little 12 yr old without a mother. His people were eradicated, so Katara doesn’t raise Aang she guides him through grieving the loss of his people. A loss she knows all too well.

Toph is blind and her family is overly protective. They don’t give her the space or freedom to be her own person or earth bend. Another experience that Katara knows all too well. Her grandmother never let her leave the southern water tribe or water bend so she gives Toph the same thing she gives Aang. Sokka is Katara’s brother… he also experienced the loss of their mother except Sokka is a boy. He’s been made painfully aware of gender roles because he watched their father leave to fight in the war instead of staying to help him and Katara. He wanted to be more like his Father because be believed that was his role in the family (to fight). So the responsibility of taking care of the both of them fell on Katara.

Katara and Zuko are not on “equal footing” especially not before he leaves the Fire Nation. He’s a prince from the Nation that has been opressing her family, her people and the world for 100 years…(he literally calls my good sis “water tribe peasant” meaning at some point he believed she was inferior because he had royal blood.) He has changed now of course and I love both Zuko and Katara, but them being end game makes no sense to me. Even in terms of chemistry… I don’t think they have any at all. Majority of their screen time together is just them fighting with each other (verbally and physically.)

People also like to use the episode where Zuko takes Katara to find the man who killed her mother as proof that Zuko was the only one who truly helped her grieve and get closure. Which honestly I don’t understand. I think he definitely aided in helping her move past what happened, but it could’ve went painfully wrong & I think it was a bit misplaced. For one, Zuko’s whole reason for doing that was to get on Katara’s good side. He said himself that everyone else had forgiven him already except Katara. He understood that his role in the group was teaching Aang to fire bend, and helping the gaang defeat his father. Which is why he couldn’t grasp why she wouldn’t put her personal feelings aside for the sake of the team. He needed to gain Katara’s trust for the sake of better team work when they fight. Katara was also extremely hypocritical that episode, and spoke from a place of anger and hurt. Aang wasn’t invalidating her feelings, he only did for her what she’d done for him. He reminded Katara that her rage and anger needed to be fueled into defeating the Fire Nation, NOT revenge. Because revenge doesn’t help you grieve & it wouldn’t help them achieve the REAL goal. {Not to mention she was so disappointed and upset with Jet for wanting revenge (a character who truly reflects her), but because the man she was going to kill wasn’t innocent somehow her revenge was different and therefore justified?…No.}

Katara would tell Aang all the time how much seeing him so enraged in the Avatar state genuinely hurt her. Yet for some reason she couldn’t fathom that he’d feel the same way seeing her blood bend in the same emotional state? No…I think in that moment she just didn’t care & wasn’t thinking about it. Zuko was counting on that, and he used Katara’s pain to get her to trust him (it was smart and it worked but still not cool.) Zuko understands Katara’s pain to an extent, but it’s not the same at all. Zuko’s mother was banished, but Katara’s mother was killed… and by Zuko’s nation at that. The only people in the group who TRULY understand Katara and that pain… are Sokka and Aang.

Aang and Katara to me are like 2 halves that make a whole. Their characters are tailor made for each other and I love it. I’ve believed they were soulmates since the moment she broke him out of that Iceberg. Katara felt a higher calling, not only to be a water bender fighting for her people, but also to be apart of something bigger than herself, fighting for everyone. Her first time experiencing freedom is when she was took on a mission to give that same freedom to others around the world as well. Its not a coincidence that in the first episode where she feels her biggest emotions, she showcase her strongest bending yet at that time in her life, AND she broke THE Avatar out of an iceberg he had been in for 100 years. It was FATE. Katara helps Aang grieve, gives him a family after losing the one he had, teaches him water bending, teaches him that the world may be counting on him, but the amount of death and pain he sees is not his fault and most importantly teaches him how to use his power to stand up for and fight for the people who can’t fight for themselves. She shows up when he needs her the most. Aang also helps Katara finally step into her own power. His arrival gives her the things necessary for her development… freedom, fun, opportunity to master water bending, a new addition to the family after the loss of her mother, and a partner in justice. The way Katara is capable of truly seeing and understanding Aang, speaking to his soul when they had just met… reflects how meeting him helped her heal. They connect so much because despite their differences they understand each other. Some of Aang’s own words were “Why would i choose cosmic energy over Katara?” He had an opportunity to master the avatar state land directly in his lap, but instead he chose her.

IM TEAM KAANG TIL I DIE

Also I think personality wise Zuko and Katara are too much alike for it to work romantically imo. They’re both sassy as hell, sarcastic, stubborn momma’s babies, who resent their fathers a lil and went through hell for a couple years because of their siblings (+ losing their moms.) In some ways they ARE opposites (especially their bending & colors,) and i agree they have character development arcs that fit together like puzzle pieces…BUT they are more alike than they are opposite. I absolutely LOVE both characters, but I fear people look at Zuko with rose colored glasses on alot of the time. Especially when it comes to Katara. Zuko did what needed to be done for the world’s sake, but he’s no super hero when it cones to Katara and she has a deep wound related to getting revenge on people people who harm her family. The main reason Zuko broke her trust in the first place was because he helped Azula kill Aang after letting Katara believe he was on their side… Aang is her family It was never about her mother when it came to Zuko’s forgiveness. She even said she would kill him if he even thought about hurting Aang when he first joined the gaang.

With that being said… I don’t have a problem with people who just like to see them together, but pls stop with the justifications because… It genuinely makes no sense to me at all.

[sleepingdeath-light]

blue diamond smut hcs ; 18+

requested by ; anonymous (01/05/23)

fandom(s) ; steven universe

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; blue diamond

outline ; “blue diamond smut hcs? i'm 19 years old!”

warning(s) ; sexually explicit content, soft dominant!blue diamond, pet name kink, lingerie kink, consensual use of blue’s powers as foreplay, oral sex, size kink, implied shape shifting to accommodate sex acts

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

blue diamond isn’t strict in the bedroom by any means, but that doesn’t mean that she isn’t dominant — she’s a member of the diamond authority, power and control come as naturally to her as swimming comes to a fish, and though she may generally fall into the category of ‘soft’ domme, make no mistake, she’s still very much so able to put her foot down and put you in your place if she really needs to do so

she uses a lot of pet names for you in the bedroom and will very rarely ever use your name or title unless you ask her to do so — things like ‘dear’, ‘love’ or ‘little one’ (or ‘little gem’ if you are one) are her defaults but she’s open to introducing new terms of endearment for you so long as they aren’t degrading in nature for either of you

she definitely enjoys a more romantic approach to sex as it’s much more about emotions than the act itself for her — so both of you dressing up (you more than her due to the nature of her form being more permanent) in sheer lingerie (in her colours, of course) and wooing each other before making love is much more common than spontaneous sex

if you asked, and are affected by it, she’d be up for using her powers on you to a point — it’s obviously much more diluted and weaker than what she’d use on a servant or any other gem, but it’s enough to just barely impact your emotional state one way or another (usually it’s just her way of letting you know that she’s currently aroused without having to come out and say it, which she hates doing as she gets much too flustered to get her words out properly)

she’s someone who equally enjoys giving and receiving oral sex but she gets terribly flustered either way (both before and after altering her form to properly accommodate the act)

when receiving, she can barely look you in the eye and doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands (usually settling upon resting them on your head/running her hands through your hair whilst you go down on her) — it also usually happens when she’s either in her palanquin or when she’s sat on her throne, with you knelt between her legs licking her to climax

when giving, she’s much more focused and generally keeps her eyes closed as she massages your thighs and waist and hips — but if she opens her eyes and sees you looking at her, then all of her confidence disappears and she freezes in place, completely forgetting what she’s supposed to do for a few moments before she tentatively goes back to what she was doing

that being said, later on in your relationship when sex is something she’s much more comfortable with, these moments of freezing and becoming intensely flustered become much less frequent — only popping up on rare occasions and leading to a brief light moment of laughter before you go back to whatever you were doing

though she’s not as overt about it as yellow or white, she does have a bit of a size kink and enjoys being able to use her larger size to manipulate your form in the bedroom (or, conversely, having you pleasure yourself using parts of her usual form that would otherwise be much too large to fit inside of your body) — she particularly enjoys having you ride and grind on her fingers to get off when she’s doing some menial work for the empire, and will offer up plenty of gentle encouragement and praise while you entertain yourself with her (bonus points if you beg for her attention and call her ‘my diamond’ when you’re doing this to emphasise her role as your dominant and superior, but she won’t be offended or put off if you don’t do either of those things — again, she’s not as authoritarian as the two other remaining diamonds)

[ketsumyo]

They’re so strongly 🌻 already and can easily see ☀️ between her and Kota!

Though I’m not averse to 💘 happening over a 💙 either… 👀

relationship meme | accepting

1.0 friends like siblings / best friends

absolutely ! this one earns a bit of context. :’)c

ketsumyō’s ability to bind to and manipulate blood at the molecular level grants tsubaki an unparalleled aptitude for precision and targeted, medical intervention—especially in trauma care and the treatment of bleeding, haematological disorders, and inflammatory syndromes. while I could write a thesis on the specifics, the relevant takeaway here is that her shikai would make her uniquely suited to handling ukitake jūshirō’s recurring episodes of severe hemoptysis.

one headcanon i’ve for tsubaki which was used as the bridge between her and kotarō’s friendship is thus: during her tenure with the fourth division, tsubaki would have been a regular presence in the thirteenth division barracks, offering medical care to their captain during one of the most formative—yet tumultuous—periods of her life. struggling with the moral implications of her shikai and the distance she put between herself and her peers in the fourth, tsubaki would have been at her most vulnerable, making this a time when significant, enduring relationships could naturally emerge.

in this context, ukitake’s boundless kindness and wisdom would have served as a grounding influence for tsubaki, but their bond would always remain marked by formal barriers of rank and respect. kotarō, on the other hand, could meet her on equal footing. his affable, easygoing nature would have softened the sharp edges of tsubaki’s meticulous decorum ( made worse in this period of distance and uncertainty ) coaxing out her sharp wit and sly humour. their friendship would have come as an anchor during this challenging period, and friendships forged under these circumstances have lifelong foundations.

2.0 slow burn -> friends to lovers

given the foundation of their friendship and how easily they get along, yes, I could see this dynamic naturally evolving ! tsubaki, shaped by her upbringing, deeply values loyalty and commitment in the spirit of bushidō. any significant relationship in her life would require time—slowly and deliberately building on trust, shared experiences, and a mutual, empathetic understanding of the other’s depths.

vbbbbbbbbnnnn ( shoutout to my cat for their contribution to the meta. it stays. )

tsubaki has an easy sense of humour and is more than capable of relaxing, but kotarō's affable nature would bring it out in ways that feel effortless and natural. his authenticity would create a space where tsubaki could let her guard down, revealing her true self—the vulnerable, charming, fierce woman behind the trained, beautiful decorum.

for someone like tsubaki, this level of comfort—paired with a deeply emotional understanding of the hardships we endure to protect the fleeting beauty of the world—is non-negotiable in a romantic relationship. she doesn’t need grand gestures or empty promises. she needs a man who makes her laugh, who anchors her in the joy of the moment, but also shares in her reverence for what is worth fighting for. (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)

[cagemasterfantasy]

Circle of Stars Ranking

Guide:

1=useless

2=often useful

3=sometimes useful

4=perfect

Star Map 4 4 there are a total of 4 benefits buried in this feature and they’re all fantastic

Star Map Focus ??? while it’s not mechanically impactful this is a great bit of flavor. I’ve hoped for more unique spellcasting focuses for years and this is the first time we’ve gotten one the common magic item focuses in Xanathar’s Guide to Everything barely count since they’re still generic focuses with added stuff. I also love the idea of a Druid running around with a big heavy stone slab or a delicate collection of glass disks especially since even a tiny amount of damage to either would jeopardize years of delicate work

Guidance 4 the best support cantrip and you get it for free so you can enjoy other cantrips without feeling like Guidance is a cantrip tax because it’s too good to skip

Guiding Bolt 4 very solid at low levels both as a support option and for damage output and Radiant damage is a rarity for Druid

Free Guiding Bolts 4 not only can you cast Guiding Bolt using your spell slots you get to cast it for free a number of times per day equal to your Proficiency Bonus. This is done as a 1st level spell but 4d6 damage and Advantage on the next attack against that creature is better than any damage cantrip even at 17th level. Eldritch Blast+ Invocations don’t count. You won’t get enough free uses of Guiding Bolt to totally replace attack cantrips unfortunately.

Starry Form 4 turning Wild Shape into a buff rather than a utility option was first done in Circle of Spores and it’s just as cool on Circle of Stars. Starry Form is arguably even cooler because instead of locking you into a combat mode Starry Form has an attack mode a healing mode and a utility and casting mode. Much like Circle of the Moon and Circle of Spores expect to use Starry Form in any noteworthy combat but remember that you only get 2 uses per short rest so you’ll still need to be functional without it sometimes. Choosing which constellation to use is one of the most important tactical decisions that you can make in an encounter. If you’re in close quarters and need to keep your spells going go for Dragon. If your party is short on hit points going into the encounter or if there’s some kind of hit point attrition issue (enemy has big AOE damage, or you’re fighting in a burning building) go for Chalice. Otherwise go for Archer and pump out damage as fast as you can. This tactical decision goes away at level 10 when you get Twinkling Constellations in a way. Keep reading. But until then this will be among the hardest and most impactful choices that you make in a fight

Archer 4 1d8+Wisdom Radiant damage as a Bonus Action. It’s a spell attack so the attack uses your Wisdom modifier and doesn’t benefit from things like the Sharpshooter feat. This is a great offensive option and the fact that it doesn’t stop you from casting a leveled spell on the same turn is just spectacular. This is likely your go-to option in combat because it’s going to be useful in every combat on every turn at any level. The damage improves at level 10 but honestly if it didn’t this would still be great

Chalice 3 more than doubles the total amount healed by Healing Word and you can target a creature not targeted by your spell so you can heal 2 creatures at once. However this also encourages healing in combat which you should try very hard to avoid doing. The best use case for this is to use it right before a Short Rest if you have a Wild Shape usage left over. The healing improves at level 10

Dragon 3 Druids have a lot of Concentration spells so guaranteeing a minimum roll of 10 on those checks is really helpful. Guaranteeing a minimum roll of 10 on Intelligence and Wisdom checks allows you to use this outside of combat which is a great utility option if you have knowledge skills like Arcana or Nature. At level 10 this adds a 20-foot fly speed allowing you to fly while keeping your Concentration on a spell

Cosmic Omen 4 tactically similar to the Bard’s Bardic Inspiration and Cuttings Words. You won’t be able to use this as often as a Bard can use Bardic Inspiration but 3 to 6 times per day is still extremely impactful, especially since you can use this as a Reaction. The Weal and Woe options are roughly equivalent so when you roll to see which one you get you’re essentially deciding if you get to use this offensively (weal) or defensively (woe) that day

Twinkling Constellation 4 more damage from Archer more healing from Chalice and flight from Dragon even at just 20 feet speed are all big improvements. The ability to change your constellation each turn WITHOUT SPENDING AN ACTION means that the difficult tactical decision which you normally make when you activate Starry Form goes away making your life much easier. Now you get to make that decision every turn instead. Do you suffer from Analysis Paralysis? This will either make it way better or way worse. Do you have an ally down at 0 hit points? Switch to Chalice and heal them. Need to maintain a Concentration spell? Turn on Dragon fly out of reach and do your thing. The rest of the time? Archer

Full of Stars 4 a bit late and strange on a subclass that’s so clearly intended to fill a back line role but consider that Druid has notoriously poor AC and just d8 hit points this is a fantastic improvement to your durability

[urlkssknt]

nanami kento x fem!reader (2.9k)

nsfw!! mdi!!

warnings; unprotected sex, it’s just very soft and vanilla

a/n; this is a scene from a series i might write, i’m not sure if i want to commit to it, please let me know your thoughts, feedback is much appreciated!

The marriage announcement caught you off guard, it felt like someone had thrown you into the deep end of a pool and you didn't know how to swim, drowning slowly in the snarky whispers from the attendants of the party that reached your ear - wasn't he married to Y/n? Poor girl, I wouldn't be able to show my face if I was her. Many eyes around the room turned towards you in anticipation, waiting for some display of anger or a rage-induced outburst. Much to their disappointment, you stood your ground. You wouldn’t let the perfectly crafted mask fall from your face, especially not now, you couldn’t let the woman, who held a leash over your ex, know she caused an effect on you.

From a distance over, Satoru watched you closely through the peripheral of his sharp vision, you leaned further into the dark long haired man standing beside you to whisper something into his ear. Suguru handed you a small rectangular box discreetly. He was equally as shocked as you. Satoru expected Toji to pull a stunt like this, maybe another pregnancy announcement or a business merger. He never expected it to be announced publicly, in a Gojou family setting. Whilst claps of congratulations sounded around the hall, Gojou's cold gaze threw daggers towards your ex-husband, standing beside your parents with a hand on the waist of his fiancée. The sight of gleaming smiles across your parent’s faces made Satoru feel sick to his stomach. The white haired man also took a mental note of the people who seemed genuinely happy for the wretched couple. Those people didn't realise that they had gotten onto Gojou Satoru's bad side and ruined any promising positive relationship with the businessman.

There was a chill in the evening air as you stood on the balcony, you were grateful no one else was outside to witness the devastation on your face, only the night sky being witness to the single teardrop that fell along the expanse of your cheek. The cold air nipped at the bare skin of your arms and neck, raising the fine hairs which run all along your skin. As a thought of regret for not bringing a jacket along with you popped into your mind, you opened the cigarette packet that Suguru handed to you, bringing one up to your lips to rest as you fish for a lighter in your purse, praying that you had one despite having quit the disgusting habit years ago.

The temperature of the chilling air around you rises as a warming presence pressed against your back, you only relax when the familiar scent of rich cologne mixed with cinnamon infiltrates your senses, allowing yourself to melt into the heated hands that run along your naked arms.

"Do you even have a lighter?" Kento questions as you continue to search through your bag, which was so small, the blond was sceptical about it being big enough to fit any necessities.

Peering up through your lashes, your azure eyes narrowed at him as your lips formed into a deep scowl. Kento was right, you didn’t have a lighter, specifically for scenarios like this, where your fingers are itching to grab at the first intoxicant to cloud your mind. Smoking would help calm the stress that scratches the walls of your brain as the tobacco fills your bloodstream.

“Suguru probably has one-“ you mutter under your breath, speaking with the white stick sitting comfortably between your lips before a hand quickly reaches for it and throws the small object off the balcony, out of sight and out of reach. “What the hell-“ there was little time to process the sudden action as your words are cut short with kento’s palms encasing your face to tilt your head slightly and allow him to lower his lips onto yours in a short kiss. The anger that rushed through your veins quickly dissolved, leaving as fast as it was produced.

A small smile creeped along your lips, “maybe I should take up smoking again.”

Kento couldn’t help the chuckle that let up his throat, his eyes crinkling in the same way that the twin’s did. His hands dropped from your face to hold your hips over the silk material, pulling you closer towards him, your breasts pressing against his chest.

“Let's get out of here.”

Earlier, before he followed your footsteps to check on you, Kento felt a strong grip latch on his arm to prevent him from moving further. The culprit was your brother. Satoru held an intimidating aura, his sapphire eyes bearing a look cold enough to pierce skin. The older man whispered short words to Nanami, advising him to take you away from the party, in order to protect you.

As Kento was texting the babysitter he had hired for the night, making sure his kids were safely sleeping in their beds, you were checking in with the two Zen’in girls that were looking after Megumi for the night. Maki and Mai loved spending time with you, when you announced the divorce with their cousin, they were undeniably upset, not because Toji’s heart was broken but it meant they wouldn’t be able to see you as often.

It wasn't as difficult as you thought it might be to locate the hotel room. Thankfully, both of you were in a conscious state of mind, avoiding the sparkling alcoholic beverages being served in crystal flutes. The hand on the curve of your waist held you close to Kento’s embrace. Just from a short glance, any onlooker would be able to know you were his, there was a loving atmosphere surrounding you two which was hard to miss, from the pearly smile painting your glossy lips to the radiant sparkling of gold among the hues of brown. The booked room was found quickly. Anticipation began to bubble in your stomach, you felt excited to spend the night with such a handsome man, again.

All of your hair was pushed to one side on your shoulder, exposing the tender flesh of your neck. A beautiful and plain canvas just waiting to be painted with deep and dark shades of pinks and purples. The plain sight caused a stir in Kento’s mind, he desired to mark you, in a way he knew no one ever would. Acting on impulse, the father of two kissed a spot where your neck met your shoulder so lightly it felt like petals brushing against your skin. A smirk found its home along Kento’s lips when you craned your head to the side, offering more of yourself to him. The innocent kisses progressed into deep bites, a sudden sharp nip against your pulse point causing a gasp to slip into the air. You couldn’t care less if a horrible bruise formed from Kento's lustful ministrations, his scent clouded your mind like a drug, your thoughts swirling into nothing. Your attention was fixated on the hands wandering from their place on your hips to groping your breasts through the silken material of your dress, sending arsoul to pool in your panties.

A deep timbre tone filled your ears, you turned to face the man speaking. “Would you like to know my new favourite colour?” Kento doesn’t wait for your answer, his hands squeeze at your chest again with more pressure, sadly eliciting another gasp from your lips. The corners of Kento's lips turn downwards ever so slightly, he had hoped that his ears would have been graced with a moan. “Sage green.”

The blond guides you to the queen-sized bed, lined with the finest material he had ever seen, Kento didn’t expect anything less from your brother, who handed him the key card. The hotel room was grand, almost as big as his own apartment, which was quite large.

Kento sits himself against the headboard with his suit jacket and tie discarded somewhere on the floor, falling victim to your travelling hands, eager to undress him. The clothing was no longer his concern as you situated yourself in his lap, thick thighs straddling his waist the best you could in the confinement of your dress. “Tonight,” Kento's eyes move from the swells of your breasts, your cleavage in his direct eye line, to meet your gleaming eyes. He was surprised to find his own reflection in them. “I'm yours.” The words felt heavy on his tongue and heart, it felt like he was confessing to you again, proving to himself that it was you that his heart yearns for.

Slowly, you clamber off of the blond man’s lap without voicing your intentions, not missing how his hands reach out to hold onto you for a moment longer, you giggle lightly at the display of clinginess, never expecting such a stoic man to behave like that. It was refreshing. It reassured the persistent whispers in the back of your mind that Kento wanted you like you wanted him. as you stood at the foot of the bed, you kicked off your nude heels, dropping your height by a few inches. A laugh fell upon your ears, Kento was amused, his smile hidden from your eyes behind his palm. However, the light atmosphere shifted when the sound of a zipper filled the room. Swiftly, the dress dropped to the floor from the pull of gravity, leaving you exposed except for the black lace thong, which barely hid anything from his eyes. Kento wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

Finally, it was your turn to smirk when your sharp eyes caught the growing tent of Kento's trousers.

Slowly, you crawled along the bedsheets at an agonising pace, it felt like hours before you finally reached your destination. Within an instant, you felt two large palms squeeze at the pudgy skin of your hips. You couldn’t help but press your hands against Kento's chest, fingers running aimlessly as you met his lips, kissing him with such desire, as if you had planned to devour him.

“Do you know what good boys get, Mister Nanami?” you say in a sultry tone, the touches of the small pads of your fingertips tracing unrecognisable shapes along his chest becoming distractive.

The words registered into the blond’s mind, you had previously asked the same question to the three toddlers, in hopes of containing their erratic behaviour in the kitchen. This should have been degrading, yet, despite using the childish question, a rational voice in Kento’s mind screamed at him to just give in for once.

“Rewards,” it was the same answer Sukuna gave you, it was the correct answer. However, Kento's voice only managed to speak just above a breath, finding himself unable to trust his own voice.

“Well done daddy,” you praised him with a sweet kiss, a shiver running up his neck, before making an effort to unbutton the shirt, “treat me nicely and I’ll reward you.”

All the remaining pieces of clothing were thrown off hurriedly, desperate to feel the pure heat of Kento's unbelievably hot body. It stunned you how he was constantly warm, maybe you could make him your personal heater.

Kento couldn’t help but groan loudly as your hips grinded against his dick, coating him with your wetness, he felt himself throbbing against your folds, ever so desperate to fill you to the brim. As if reading his mind, the teasing touches paused as you lined your entrance up with his cock, only after giving the hard member a few pumps with your hand. The broad shoulders of the businessman were used as an anchor, you cling onto him desperately as you sink onto his dick. In the span of a few hours, you had completely forgotten the thickness of kento’s sex, surprising yourself as you struggle to relax yourself to take him in. Wanton moans fell from both parties as you stayed still for a few seconds to get used to the burn from his fat cock stretching you. The hands on your waist squeeze tightly to help Kento ground himself from rutting up into you. Being enveloped with your warm cunt felt too good, especially when the gummy walls clamped around him, you were all he could think about.

Just from the position alone, the soft tissue of nerves which caused you to see stars were grazed upon, you couldn’t stop the moan escaping from your lips. “I could cum like this,” you relish in the feeling of the palms coaxing the movement of your hips and the mouth that latches onto your mound. A sharp nip against your peak leads to you arching into Kento's mouth, desperate for more of his touches. Despite spending the night before together, the pair of you couldn’t get enough of each other. Not when your tits would bounce as you raised your hips and begin a steady rhythm of grinding against Kento’s lap, each slam against his hips hitting a spot that causes your head to spin. The vision of you on top of him, riding his cock like your life depended on it, spurred the coil tightening in the pit of his stomach. The wetness that pooled between your thighs now began to drip down onto the pelvis of the man below you. A mixture of juices squelching and low moans sounded throughout the room. You had no time to feel embarrassed by the pornographic noises as you desperately chased your high.

“You’re making me feel so good angel,” a sense of pride blooms in Kento's chest as he feels you clenching around him from his praise. His hands stretched lower to graze his fingers over your ass, they latched onto you, his nails creating deep crevices in the area that would still be there in the morning.

You could no longer think straight, completely drunk off of Kento's cock, filling you up so well you wished he’d never leave. A numbness started to form in your thighs, creating a painful burn as you continued to move up and down, pushing through the pain and reaching for your high. From the hand gripping his hair and the way your walls were spasming, Kento knew you were so close to cumming, you just needed a little push. The brush of his thumb circling your clit leans you over the edge and causes your orgasm to hit you like a wave. Kento groaned loudly as you creamed his cock and gripped onto him like a vice. The man felt kind enough to let you catch your breath, he was still painfully hard and so close to his own high.

“As much as I’d like to be rewarded,” a cheeky smile spread through Kento’s lips, chocolate eyes sparkling at you with excitement. His playful and cheery expression leaves as quick as it comes, you almost whine in protest as he uses his strength to pull you off of his lap, and gently lays you down against the bed. The giddy look in Kento's eyes darkens to a lustful stare as your blown out eyes meet his. “Daddy wants to cum, so be a good girl and help daddy out.”

It hadn’t been longer than a few moments since your climax, you had barely calmed down. Without a second thought, Kento thrusts into your sopping entrance, your cum still coating his dick which makes it easier for him to slide back into your cavernous walls. A cry emmits from you due to the overstimulation. The feeling of being filled up again overtook the discomfort you experienced, it felt so good that you could cry from it, it was as if kento was made to fit inside your cunt so deliciously. The hands on your hips migrate to your thighs, pushing them up so that your knees are almost next to your head. Somehow, the angle of the position allows Kento to hit deeper into you.

“Fu- fuck,” your mind is lost for words as it completely blanks, no longer have the ability to form a coherent sentence.

A layer of sweat covers the blond’s body. The slapping sound returns as Kento's heavy balls hit against you with every rut. It was astonishing that the bed frame didn’t move with his frantic movements. Each thrust of his hips were more calculated than the next, earning a cry from you each time as his cockhead continuously came into contact with your g-spot. Kento knew he’d only be able to last through a few more thrusts. From the way your thighs quivered, your second orgasm was closer than he thought.

“Cum with me angel,” Kento's lips found yours in a haste of teeth clashing against each other, desperate to feel closer to you. As soon as the coaxing words fall on your ear, your walls clench around him as another climax ripples through you, this one hitting you much harder. The tension finally snapped, a growl ripped through his throat, no longer being able to hold back, as ropes of his cum shot inside your pussy, hips faltering slightly.

Your eyes flutter shut from exhaustion, trying your best to catch your breath and calm your erratic heart. Gentle hands help drop your legs so they could wrap around Kento’s waist instead of being folded in the air. Kento noticed the drowsy haze you were in. He took it upon himself to find a towel in the bathroom to clean up the mess between your thighs. Exerting his strength, the stoic man helps you to move into the sheets, the cold air no longer able to nip at your naked body.

“We need to buy plan b,” you shifted yourself close to Kento.

A kiss is pressed to the crown of your head. “We can worry about that in the morning.”

[swanlake1998]

Article: The Unbearable Whiteness of Ballet

Date: April 22, 2021

By: Chloe Angyal

In an exclusive excerpt from her new book Turning Pointe, contributing editor Chloe Angyal lays out the ways that white supremacy is embedded in ballet's most basic foundations.

Wilmara Manuel and her 11-year-old daughter, Sasha, were at the world finals of a ballet competition, the Youth America Grand Prix, in 2015 when it happened. Shortly before the competition began, the young dancers were on the performance stage with their parents, warming up and preparing to dance the solos they’d been rehearsing for months.

As Wilmara, who is Black and originally from Haiti, and Sasha, who is biracial, stood there, a young white dancer looked around the stage, checking out the competition. “And her eyes land on Sasha,” Wilmara remembers, “and I saw her look [Sasha] up and down, and then look at her mom.

“And her mom said, ‘Don’t worry. They’re never really good anyway.’ ”

Wilmara did her best to contain her shock. Sasha didn’t hear what the white mom had said, and Wilmara wasn’t about to tell her, because “that’s not the thing I want to discuss 10 minutes before she takes the stage.” But Sasha could sense that something was amiss. “Just the look on my face, she was like, ‘What? What happened? What did she say?’ ” Wilmara brushed her daughter off.

Don’t worry. They’re never really good anyway. An entire worldview of white resentment of Black progress and excellence passed quietly from mother to child in just seven words.

That white mother could not fathom that Sasha, a biracial child with a Black mother, might be really good—as in very good, or truly good—at a traditionally white art form at which her child was presumably also quite proficient. She could not imagine that Sasha might deserve to be at that competition, might have qualified on her merit—her talent and skill and persistence—rather than because of what she might consider a misguided or even unjust attempt to diversify ballet by lowering standards. They’re not really good, but they are allowed to be here. In this space that is rightfully yours, in this art form that is rightfully yours. They’re never as good as the white girls, a sweeping generalization that grants no individuality, no humanity, to any nonwhite dancer. They’re all the same, and they never deserve to be here. But don’t worry. Your excellence is a given. You belong here, while their presence is conditional or even ill-gotten.

A few minutes later, Sasha took the stage and performed her solo. She ended up placing ahead of that white dancer.

From then on, Wilmara traveled with Sasha to every competition, paying the additional travel costs to make sure that, if something like that ever happened again, she’d be there to support her daughter.

“That has stuck with me,” she says. “And it’s one of the reasons I make the sacrifice and I go with her everywhere. Even if there are others going, I feel like I need to be around should comments like that pop up. I just don’t feel like I can take that chance, you know? And what cracks me up is that . . . she doesn’t even look as dark as I do, which makes me feel like, ‘Oh my God, if you were darker, like, what else?’ ”

Sasha grew up in a suburb of Indianapolis and is now 16. She trains at the Royal Ballet School in London, an exclusive training ground that serves as a feeder school for the Royal Ballet. It’s widely acknowledged to be one of the best ballet schools in the world.

Wilmara says that people often express their surprise at the quality of Sasha’s training and technique. “Oh wow, you’re really good,” Wilmara says by way of example. “Where do you train? Have you been dancing for a long time?” She says that while she tries to give these white people the benefit of the doubt, she knows what they usually mean, and she’d prefer they just come out and say it: “I’m surprised you’re that good. You’re Black and you’re dancing and you’re good.”

Now that Sasha is a little older, Wilmara talks to her about the racist assumptions embedded in those surprised comments. “You know she’s asking because she doesn’t think a person of your color can do this,” she’s told Sasha, who now “gets it when she hears that tone of voice.”

And, she says, she’s been frank with her daughter about the kind of resistance she should expect from the overwhelmingly white ballet establishment if she keeps excelling—which she shows every sign of doing.

It’s moms who do the bulk of the work of ballet parenting: the sewing of costumes, the schedule keeping for rehearsals and recitals. And when you’re a ballet mom to a dancer of color, there’s an even higher price to pay.

“Not everybody’s gonna be thrilled,” Wilmara says, paraphrasing her conversations with Sasha. “Even if you’re not a dancer of color, it’s cutthroat. And on top of that, you are a dancer of color, and so that poses another threat in some ways. So you have to be mindful of your things and what you are doing, and know what things are okay, and [pay attention to] when you are uncomfortable.”

This emotional labor, the work of helping young dancers understand what “that tone of voice” means and why it’s being used—or the work of deciding whether to tell your child about the racist remark you just overheard or absorb it yourself and shield them from it—is a part of parenting not demanded of mothers of white dancers.

Then there’s the payment in time and money required of Wilmara to make sure that Sasha’s ballet experience is as fair and worry-free as possible. Once, at a competition, Wilmara forgot to color in the “nude” pale pink straps on one of Sasha’s competition costumes. Wilmara scrambled to find brown foundation because none of the vendors at the competition had a leotard in Sasha’s skin color.

“Come on, people, you are here,” Wilmara remembers thinking. “There may not be that many [dancers of color], but they are all here and you should be able to bring various shades of nude leos.”

Succeeding in ballet, or even just surviving, requires extra talent, extra work, extra resilience, and extra sacrifices from dancers of color, especially Black and brown dancers, and their parents. White ballet moms might have to talk to their white daughters about how cutthroat ballet is. But they don’t need to issue additional warnings about how a white girl’s success will be received by that cutthroat culture, because almost all the successful girls and women in ballet are white.

“They’ve had to grow up a lot faster,” Wilmara says of Black and brown ballet dancers. “I think the ballet world makes you grow up a lot faster, but on top of that,” there are the “extra hurdles that other dancers don’t have to think about.” There are the overtly racist comments backstage before a performance and the subtly racist “compliments” after. There is time spent frantically searching for the right leotard or adapting the default pink leotard. There is the knowledge, internalized first by parents and then by their kids, that if you make it over all those hurdles your success will be viewed with suspicion and resentment—that ballet does not have a “diversity” problem; it has a white supremacy problem.

“Our kids,” Wilmara says, “are thinking about this and thinking about it early on.”

The organizing principle of ballet—of training, of performance, of making a ballet body—is control. Control of your rigid torso while your foot shoots upward from the hip in a battement. Control of a silent and compliant class of otherwise giggly 9-year-old girls. “The traditional and classical Europeanist aesthetic for the dancing body is dominated and ruled by the erect spine,” wrote dance scholar Brenda Dixon Gottschild in her landmark book The Black Dancing Body. “Verticality is a prime value, with the torso held erect, knees straight, body in vertical alignment. . . . The torso is held still.”

It all demands control. Control of your smiling face as your feet scream in your pointe shoes at the end of a long pas de deux. Control of your weight, of your turnout, of your stretched and strengthened feet that now arch into a shape no ordinary foot can make. “The ballet audience, attuned and habituated to view control as a prime value, applaud its display and are embarrassed when it isn’t fulfilled,” Gottschild wrote.

Discipline, order, adherence to strict and unquestioned rules. That’s what ballet is. When Gottschild asked Seán Curran, a white dancer and choreographer who performed with the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Company, what he pictured when he thought of white dance or white dancing bodies, he said, “Upright. . . . For some reason, ‘proper’ stuck in the head a bit, something that is built and made and constructed rather than is free or flows.” A body that is rigid, obedient, and disciplined, remade from something natural and unruly into something refined and well behaved. Proper. “Whiteness,” Curran said, “values precision and unison.”

Curran’s assessment identifies a central underlying prejudice of white supremacy: the belief that people of color, and their bodies, are wild. Uncivilized, animalistic, subhuman. That white people—who, by contrast, are assumed to be organized and civilized—have both a right and a responsibility to tame that which is untamed and impose order, precision, and unison on it. To suppress and control that which is savage; to press it into something that approaches whiteness but will never be truly white and thus never truly equal.

This is the logic that underpinned white colonization and American slavery. It is also the logic that makes racial segregation possible: that which is pure and organized must be kept separate from that which is profane and undisciplined. And central to this worldview is the idea that the work of white supremacy is unending, not because white supremacy is flawed, but because the very people it seeks to suppress are inherently inferior, naturally incapable of complying. Because of some inborn lack—of will, of understanding, of discipline—people of color will never fully obey, never properly assimilate, never be redeemed by whiteness. In this way, white supremacy perpetuates itself, justifying both its worldview and the permanent need for its existence.

It’s little wonder, then, that ballet—with its fixation on control, discipline, and uprightness—wraps itself so neatly around whiteness. It makes sense that white Americans, reared on the belief that whiteness is synonymous with order and refinement, also believe that people of color have no place, or a limited place, or a conditional place, in classical ballet.

Furthermore, it is easy to see how the ideal ballet body—so controlled, so upright—is everything that white supremacy imagines a Black body is not. And because of deeply ingrained American cultural associations with musculature, loose movement, brute force, and untamed sexuality, the Black body is believed to be everything a ballet body is not permitted to be.

“When we talk about the ballerina,” says Theresa Ruth Howard, a former dancer and a teacher, diversity strategist, and the founder and curator of the digital ballet history archive Memoirs of Blacks in Ballet (MoBBallet), “we’re talking about the ideal, our stereotype of the desirable woman, and that is reserved for white women.”

Howard has made a career of helping the people who run ballet companies and schools to examine their ideas about what makes for a “good” ballet body, asking them to question their biases about the inherent fitness of white bodies and unfitness of other bodies, especially Black bodies. She says that long-standing racist tropes about Black women’s bodies make Blackness and ballerinas seem antithetical.

“You have the trope of either the jezebel, the mammy, or the workhorse of the Black woman,” which are incompatible with desirability, fragility, and sexual purity, the ideal of white womanhood at the heart of the ballerina’s appeal.

“She’s desired. It’s the epitome of beauty, of grace, of elegance, and these are not adjectives that are assigned to Black women,” Howard says. “Especially not darker-skinned Black women. This is why the closer you look to the white European aesthetic as a Black woman, the better chance you have at occupying that role. Especially at a higher level.”

Despite the long tradition of Latin American dancers carving out successful professional careers in the U.S. and the enormous success of Misty Copeland—a light-skinned Black dancer whose ascent to the pinnacle of American ballet was a watershed moment for Black dancers and audiences alike—the archetypal ballerina is still a pale-skinned white woman with slender limbs, negligible breasts and hips, and long, sleek hair. In the American cultural imagination, the ballerina is still white.

George Balanchine famously said that “ballet is woman,” but that’s not the whole truth. Ballet is white woman, or, perhaps more precisely, white womanhood. Ballet is a stronghold of white womanhood, a place where whiteness is the default and white femininity reigns supreme.

Excerpted from Turning Pointe: How a New Generation of Dancers Is Saving Ballet from Itself by Chloe Angyal. Copyright © 2021. Available from Bold Type Books, an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

[1engele]

daybreak | sal fisher x fem!reader - 9. hearts

Previous | Next

[warnings: mention of meth, swimming without pants on??, large body of water, momentary angst]

"why was it so easy for you to make it so hard for me?" —

You weren't drunk, but you were definitely not sober enough to comprehend how horrible the idea of being even relatively close to a large body of water whilst intoxicated was.

Ashley was not as much a lightweight as you'd proved to be, so she was virtually sober. the time you'd known her (just over a week) you'd come to know her as the most carefree of the group. She did things when she felt like it, and she did what she enjoyed.

Larry could be called carefree, as well—but he gave off more "I truly do not give one ounce of a fuck, and I will go along with any activity you want to do if I can smoke" vibes.

You hadn't figured Sal out yet. You tried not to think about it, but there were so many things you wondered about him. You'd seen his face. That had been your fault, and you were beginning to feel immense guilt for what you'd done.

You weren't going to inwardly speculate about what had happened to him—but you'd seen the look in his foggy blue gaze when he'd laid eyes on that dog at the party.

The car came to an abrupt halt, knocking you from your thoughts and lurching your body forward. Your eyes widened, and you look around frantically to figure out where you were or if you'd just had an accident—but turns out, you'd made it to Wendigo Lake.

"Well, you said you wanted to go to the lake," Ashley grinned, locking eyes with you.

You blink repeatedly, your pupils dilating to focus on the sight of the large body of water in front of you, glistening beneath the moonlight. A smile slowly etched into your face, and you reached to your right to open the passenger-side door.

It wasn't long before you'd reached the point where the slope began into a downward incline, your feet planted in the grass as you gazed down at the lake you knew had to be freezing—but the road-like reflection of moonlight on the water continued to call your name.

The breeze blew into your face.

You hadn't even heard the approaching footsteps and the crunching of grass when Larry, Ashley, and Sal walked up and joined you.

There was something melancholic about knowing that you were living in a moment you knew you'd miss.

"We should swim," you say, nonsensically.

Sal looks away from the lake and to you from his place on your right side. You turn your head to lock eyes with him.

"Y/N, someone's gonna get sick. I don't think you understand how cold this water gets-"

"Okay then," you mumble. "I should swim," you correct, "and if anyone wants to join me, they are more than welcome."

Larry and Ashley's laughter echoes into the dead air as you ambled down the slope, Sal standing there, watching—before following your lead.

"Let's think this over," he tries, matching your pace with ease. "You're going to regret it when you're shivering all the way home."

"Ashley can blast the heat."

"What if you drown?"

"I won't," you respond, "because you're getting in with me."

You're both stood on the shore of the lake now, locking eyes and regarding each other with your own equally stubborn determination.

"Hey!" You hear Larry's voice call from up the hill. The tension that's formed within the eye contact breaks once you've looked away from each other and peered up at the height of the slope.

"We're gonna go check out that forest over there," Ashley shouts, pointing towards the cluster of trees that were a measurable distance away. "Heard there's some gnarly satanic shit in there. Call if you need anything."

You exchange a glance with Sal.

"Alright," he yells back. "Don't get lost!"

"Can't promise that!" Larry sends both of you a grin before he and Ashley both head towards their destination, the sound of grass crunching steadily quieting as the distance between you grows.

When they're far enough away, you let out a quick sigh of relief. "Finally," you reach down to your shoes and began pulling them off, including socks.

You then reached down to the button of your jeans.

Sal yelps. "What're you doing?!"

You look up with raised eyebrows. "You think I'm swimming in these? I'll sink." You return your focus downward, pulling the zipper down and hook your thumbs around the waistband of your pants. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

It was almost excruciating to hide your sly smile as you bent at the waist to slide the denim down your legs. You stepped out of your jeans, pulled your phone from the pocket, and tossed the shed article of clothing farther up the hill, tossing your phone on top of it.

The device landed with a thud, resulting in an inward cringe on your part.

You didn't allow yourself to regard the fact that you were now standing in front of Sal with no pants on, so you just turned, stepped forward, and tested the water with a toe.

"Liar," you submerge a foot in, your body instinctively shivering against your will. "It's not that cold."

He scoffs, reaching down to rip his sneakers and socks off in your peripheral vision. "You're saying that now, but I'd like to hear the same thing when your bare legs are in there."

Sal tosses his shoes off near where you'd thrown yours along with his phone. He watches you submerge your other foot in, before following your lead.

Sal seems to handle it with a lot more ease than you, both feet now immersed in lake water. He doesn't seem to react physically, only standing with slack shoulders and his head tilted slightly upward. You watch the side profile of the prosthetic, and the way he lifts a hand and passes ringed fingers through vividly blue hair.

Moonlight illuminates the white face of the mask.

You can't see his real face, but you can picture him now. The tranquility of his expression, the curve of his dark eyelashes, his tongue passing over his lips...

The water is up to your calves now.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, angling your chin towards him. It's rushed, and sudden, and you momentarily doubt he even heard it beneath the rippling of water as he moves a bit closer.

"For what?" He asks, turning his head away from the moon and to look you in the eyes.

"I shouldn't have taken the prosthetic off without your permission. The guilt has been churning inside of me and I felt I needed to apologize for it eventually. I'm sorry."

Sal looks down, his eyes following the shape of your thighs before he locks gazes with you again. "You make me feel normal, Y/N. You'd never even asked about it before—and that means the world to me. I won't hold what you did against you."

"But..." you try, but he stops you.

"Y/N," he laughs sweetly. "Don't try and villainize yourself—you did nothing wrong. If anything... it was almost nice to know you weren't scared of seeing what was underneath."

You intake breath for the first time since the conversation began. You felt almost stupid, tears forming in your eyes as you stood within a freezing lake in just a crop top and your underwear.

"You should stop apologizing so much, too. You don't have anything to say sorry for."

"I'm sorry," you repeat, nonetheless.

He chuckles, fixing his gaze onto yours, an almost otherworldly perceptiveness burning in his striking eyes. "I understand how it feels to constantly find fault in yourself for something," he murmurs. "To live with it, to experience that guilt..."

You watch his Adam's apple bob. "It's hard."

A wave of despair washes over your body, and you don't even understand the context of Sal's statement.  You're close to him now, and you can tell he's searching for an excuse to put an end to the topic—so you take his hand and divert attention elsewhere.

"Your rings," you utter, holding his hand delicately, looking over the silver and black rings that adorn his digits. "Where are they all from?"

He lifts his other hand for you so you have full access to every band that he's wearing on his fingers. Once he's shown you his right hand, two rings that seem to share the same theme catch your eye.

"I have a few more in my room," he replies, watching you trace a fingertip over the matching heart rings. "I don't know, I guess I collect them—some are gifted, some I've bought myself..."

"With whose money?" You tease, peering up at him through your lashes. The water swishes a little as Sal adjusts his weight.

His eyes squint a little, so you assume he grins. "I'm not dead broke if that's what you're insinuating."

"No, no," you trail off, looking back down at the rings with admiration. "I love these."

"Got them at the thrift store—something told me I would regret not buying them." He looks back up, stares into your downcast eyes for a long moment, and speaks again, "Why don't you have one?"

Your heart flutters. "You want to give me a ring?"

"Sure. Which one do you want?"

"Sal..." you can't help but smile, tracing his pale knuckle with the pad of your thumb. The swift breeze blows over your bare shoulders and conjures a shiver from your body. "You paid money for these. I don't want to take one from you."

"Don't you want a ring?"

You grin shyly. "Of course I do."

"Okay, pick."

You bite your lip nervously, sliding your finger over the silver ring with multiple black hearts engraved into the entire loop of the band. It didn't take much consideration—you'd fallen in love with the ring as soon as you'd laid eyes on it.

"This one," you audibly decide, meeting Sal's eyes anxiously.

Without another word, he eases the ring off of his middle finger and slides it onto yours. His hands are bigger than yours, and you fear it may not be small enough—but it does. It's a perfect fit.

"It was always kinda small on me," he began. "It's better for you."

You hold your hand out up and toward the moon, twisting it in different angles to examine the way the ring hugs your finger snugly.

You lower your hand back down to his, giggling. "We match now," you say softly, referring to the silver ring with the singular black heart that remained on his hand—the one that corresponded to the one now on yours.

As you absentmindedly turn his hand over, passing your eyes over his rings and the lines of his palms, you notice a faint bruising on his fingertips. Your eyebrows raise in alarm, and you meet his eyes and open your mouth to voice your concerns—but he beats you to the punch.

"It's from guitar strings," he murmurs. "Happens when I press too hard."

"Isn't that supposed to go away once you've played for a while? I've heard you mention once that playing the guitar isn't something new to you."

"Yeah, you're right. It is supposed to," Sal replies, intrigue on his tongue. "I don't know. I guess I'm weird."

You grin, stepping forward and submerged yourself further into the water—just enough so you were immersed up to your knees. You turned to face him. "I don't think you're weird. If you were weird, I wouldn't have gotten into a lake with you. At night... with no one else around. Oh, and with no pants on. That too."

Sal gestures his thumb over his shoulder. "Ash and Larry aren't far. If I were to murder you, they'd hear."

You shrug light-heartedly, bending just a bit to immerse your fingers into the water and flicking some towards him. "You could always cover my mouth and drown me. Effective and easy."

He raises his hands in poor defense, but the light splash still lands, lightly speckling his dark, long-sleeved shirt.

Sal bends just as you had (albeit a bit less, his arms were longer than yours) and splashes you gently. "After I've gifted you one of my prized possessions? Why would I do that?"

"That was only means to gain my trust!" You exclaim playfully, now using two hands to splash him.

"Splash me all you want, but I won't confess to something I'm not guilty of."

You stick your tongue out. "That's what they all say. You're only making yourself look stupid."

"I look stupid?" He laughs, pointing at himself before lowering his hand to splash you with a flick of the wrist. "You're the one with no pants on—in a lake, at night. If you die of hypothermia, it won't be anyone's fault but yours."

"All the more reason for you to murder me in cold blood."

"You're making no sense. Are you still drunk?"

"Ugh!" You groan dramatically, splashing him with much more vigor than the previous few times. He genuinely recoils this time, holding his hands out in defense before dropping them. A light shower rains down over his head, just barely dampening his hair and casting a wet sheen on the prosthetic.

"I'm not intoxicated! How dare you!"

Sal genuinely laughs from his chest, the ridiculousness of the situation hitting him. "I can't believe this," he says, running his hands through his hair.

You roll your eyes and move to immerse yourself in the lake water further, the questionable liquid sloshing around your thighs. That's when you hear a familiar two voices, laughing and yelling, and growing closer.

You and Sal turn to each other—Sal being a lot less concerned than you.

"Oh no," you murmur, looking down at yourself. "I have no pants on!"

Sal laughs (his laughter is normally a sound you genuinely enjoy hearing, but now it's obnoxious because it's not what you need to hear right now) and flits his eyes over you amusedly. "I can see that."

"Larry's a guy! He can't see me in my underwear!"

You look out at the open land, looking for your friends' approaching figures worriedly, but you see no one. You hear splashing as Sal continuously closes the distance between you both. "Yeah, I am too."

You roll your eyes, mutter something about boys never understanding anything, and start trudging through the water, back towards the shore.

Sal follows you through your efforts until you've stepped onto land, remaining perfectly patient even though the coldness of the water slowed your movements the entire journey.

He walks forward and tosses your jeans at you, along with your shoes, then sliding your phone in his pocket along with his device for safekeeping.

"I don't have a towel," you mumble. "My legs are too wet. I'll never get these on in time."

Sal blinks at you after somehow already getting his socks on. "Roll in the grass," he quips tightly like he's holding in a laugh. "That'll dry you off."

You scrunch your nose up and throw your shoe at him. It lands, bouncing off of his head with an audible thump, and then lands in the grass.

"Ow," he deadpans, placing a palm on the place the sneaker had just bounced from. "Geez, how hard can you throw?"

"Hard," you snark, wrestling your pants up your wet legs. Eventually, by the grace of whatever existential forces may exist, you managed to pull the denim up and over your hips.

You're zipping up your fly when Ashley and Larry finally appear.

"Dude," Larry gasps like he's been sprinting, bending to place his hands on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. "Dude."

You and Sal stare at him curiously.

"There was a-a homeless guy!"

Ashley's laughing hysterically, and Larry doesn't evaluate, so Sal asks for context. "You're gonna have to evaluate, Larry. What do you mean there was a homeless guy?"

"Some dude was living in the woods! Had a whole fuckin' setup! I'm pretty sure he was cooking meth?!"

Sal just blinks repeatedly, like he was astounded, and couldn't believe that this was happening right now. "Did you guys bother him?"

"No," Ashley wheezes. "As soon as we saw him we bounced."

You're slipping on your shoes when Sal speaks again. "Yeah, maybe we should go..."

Larry finally stands up straight and starts up the slope, running his hands through his brown hair that's been messed while running. "Then in the name of the Lord, let's fucking get out of here."

You keep the seating arrangement you'd had on the way to the lake—girls in the front, boys in the back.

As soon as every door of the Ford Fiesta is shut, and the car becomes alive once again, the heat is immediately turned up. You breathe out a sigh of relief, leaning your head back against the headrest and allowing the hot air to blow against the cold flesh of your neck and shoulders. Your thoughts wandered as total relief washed over your body.

"Your jeans are dry," Ashley comments idly, startling you out of your reverie.

You hear what sounds like a laugh quickly concealed by a faux cough emanate from the backseat.

"Yeah," you reply dumbly. Ash stares at you, probably expecting you to say something else, but your mind goes blank, so she doesn't ask any further questions.

"Did I say he had no pants on?!" Larry suddenly blurts, clearly still mildly traumatized. "Everything was- it was just hanging out!"

Ashley cringes. "Don't put that image back into my mind, Larry."

"It wouldn't be the first person half-naked at Wendigo," Sal quips, locking eyes with you in the rearview mirror. No one questions his statement, most likely taking it as a reference to the infamous chaotic nature of that whole area—but you understand, sending him a contemptuous squint.

Ashley loops the car around to the exit path and it isn't very long before the vehicle is back on the road.

As heat sinks into your skin, reaches your cold bones, and the excitement slows down—your thought process de-thaws. You stare out of the window, watching the streetlights as they pass and listening to the sound of an acoustic guitar on the radio.

The music grows louder and drones in your ears. It's not even an electric guitar, but you still think of Sal, and his bruised fingertips. You twist his ring on your finger, running your opposite thumb over the heart-shaped indentations of the band.

Your mind wanders again. You think of that day in the storage room at the school, and that night in his father's car.

Eventually, you'd return the favor. You wanted him to feel as good as he'd made you feel. You owed it to him—and twice over.

But you'd have to wait. Patience was key—and all locked doors needed them.

[tennessoui]

FeralObi anon here. How do you come up with these so fast?? Are you an infinite number of ideas and worlds in human-shaped form? I love both of those ideas. The first one kills me tho, Obi gets his first kind touch in years from lil Anakin. Also you can have lil Anakin coming home one day with a skulking, snarling nonverbal murder puppy and saying brightly, "He followed me home, can I keep him?" Schmi thinks this is definitely worse than the time he brought a krayt dragon home.

ah! hello! yes this is the first idea of a feral obi-wan who meets anakin when he's still on tatooine. i will also still do the second idea because like. i liked them equally as much rip me

but i told myself these were going to both be very short snippets and instead this one is uh 2k so i'll post the second one tomorrow instead of tonight!

(ficlet where obi-wan is captured by pirates/unspecified forces at a young age and then tortured for a decade before he escapes to tatooine when anakin is like 6. obi-wan, after a decade of torture is....not alright in this fic though he's only here at the end) (2k)

Shmi had known that when she sent her little Anakin away to follow after the stern-faced, warm-eyed Jedi Master, that this would not be the last time she ever saw her boy. She couldn’t explain how she knew, just as she had not been able to explain how she became pregnant, but she knew beyond a doubt that one day, she would see her little boy back in her arms.

She just hadn’t known it would be so soon.

“He died, Master Jinn died,” Anakin mumbles into the front of her dress, unwilling to move his head far back enough from her hug that he could talk clearly. “On Naboo. And the stupid Jedi council refused to train me even after I was so amazing in the air. Mom, I destroyed a blockade! Entirely! And they wouldn’t--they didn’t--” his little face scrunches up and then he’s bawling into his hands.

A slave, a born slave, knows intrinsically the injustice of the galaxy. It is not often they know hope.

“Oh my boy,” she whispers, smoothing a hand over the top of his head. She has questions. She has so many questions about everything he’s just said and what those strangers have put her son through, but the most important thing is a question she cannot wait until he has cried himself out to ask. “Is your chip gone, Ani? Did they remove your transmitter?”

Because she had sent him away from her so that he could be free. And that had been her own twisted version of hope, that her son could know a life she never would again. If the Jedi masters had proven to be just like every other master in the world, she would find herself sobbing into her own hands.

“Yeah,” Anakin sniffles and wipes at his ruddy cheeks, pulling back a few steps. “They removed it and everything. And--”

He pauses and drops his satchel to the ground in front of her. “They gave me credits. To buy you. For my trouble.”

He spits out the last three words like they’re the most disgusting thing in the entire world. As if Shmi’s freedom isn’t laying at their feet, mere centimeters away.

“Republic credits are no good here,” she hears herself say faintly.

“Padme, the handmaiden you met, she talked to the queen about me I guess,” Anakin mumbles, kicking his feet. “And when the queen learned that the Jedi didn’t want me even after all that, Padme says the queen says I’ll always have a place on Naboo. Me and my family. And then she took the Jedi credits and gave me these instead. It should be enough, Mom.”

Shmi sits down on the floor. With shaking hands, she opens the bag and looks inside. Yes. Yes.

There’s more than enough.

There’s enough to buy her freedom and take her boy away from Mos Espa. There’s enough to take her boy away from Tatooine completely.

“I…” she says. “Ani, I…”

“Padme said she’d send a ship for us,” Ani reports as if their lives are not changing right in front of their eyes. “In two days ‘cause I told her it might take a little bit of time to get Ben to come with us. But we can’t leave without him.”

This is said fiercely and with his arms crossed tightly over his little chest.

Shmi stares at him.

“I’ve already left him once!” Anakin says, stomping his foot. “But that was okay, because I knew you would bring him food and water and stuff. But if we’re both gone, no one’s going to be there for him.”

Shmi bites at her lip. There’s a lot of things happening very quickly right now, and she doesn’t know how to process half of them.

Her son has come back, after only being gone for a week and a half.

He has apparently either endeared himself so much to the queen of Naboo that she was willing to give him the money necessary to buy his mother from slavery and also promise him sanctuary on her planet. He says he’s done this by single-handedly ending a blockade, which is something she just cannot even think about right now.

He has told this queen--queen--that he will gladly live on Naboo with his family. Yes. Alright.

His family seems to include his imaginary friend, Ben.

Anakin has been talking about Ben for years now, ever since he was six and a half years old and sent by Watto to retrieve any scraps he could from what looked to be a crashed pod in the Wastelands. She’d let him ramble on about the ghost of a friend, because she’d known it to be something all children go through and experience. She hadn’t thought Anakin a lonely child, not with the friends he made in Mos Espa, but she’d always known that Anakin had a wandering spirit, ill-suited for Tatooine. If he liked to imagine an older man from a strange world hiding in the caves of the Wastes, then she wasn’t going to say anything.

“You have been leaving him food, haven’t you, Mom?” Anakin asks, almost accusatory. “I told him to expect you and everything.”

No. Shmi has not been traveling to the edge of the Wastelands every day during her precious few hours of free time in order to leave food to be picked apart by womp rats and desert critters and not her boy’s imaginary friend.

“Ani,” she says cautiously, quietly, “we cannot...we won’t be able to bring Ben with us when we go.”

Anakin, predictably, does not react well. “Why not!” he yells, backing away from her even further and looking as if she is the enemy. “Padme’s fine with it!”

“Aren’t you a little old for imaginary friends?” Shmi asks desperately, feeling cold suddenly even though the heat of the mid-morning sun has not abated at all.

If anything, her son looks more offended. “He’s not imaginary! Saying...saying that he’s not coming with us...is...is a bunch of poodoo!”

“Anakin!” Shmi gasps.

“Come on,” her boy says forcefully, grabbing at her hand and tugging her towards the door. She gets on her feet reluctantly and has half a mind to pull back just because he needs to learn that this sort of behavior is not okay, war hero or not. “We’re going to buy you from Watto. And then we’re going to go visit Ben!”

---

Buying her freedom takes less time than Shmi Skywalker ever thought it would. It feels distant as well, as if it’s happening to someone else.

It doesn’t help that her Ani is impatient and surly by turn, spilling the coin out onto Watto’s counter and barely waiting for him to finish counting it before he’s looking at the price of renting a four-person speeder parked outside.

“You won’t survive out there on your own,” Watto sneers, even as he’s passing her the kill-switch of her own slave chip. “Days. It’ll be days until the Hutts find out there’s a newly freed slave with no connections out there in the open. Ripe for the pickin’.”

Watto doesn’t have to tell her any of this. She knows. Gods, does she know.

But Anakin seems so sure about possessing the favor of the Queen of Naboo, or at least her handmaiden, which might be close enough to the same thing. She thanks Watto--she thanks him and then doesn’t even know why--and meets Anakin outside.

He’s bouncing around the speeder, little hands clutching his satchel to his chest. “Good!” he says when he sees her, hopping onto the machine and putting the parcel between his feet. “I got Ben something called a fig on Naboo, but I don’t know how long it’ll take for it to go bad. Apparently they’re sweet.”

Shmi goes along with it. Shmi doesn’t know why she goes along with it, but she does. She can see this is important to her boy, and though she’d rather spend the afternoon and early evening saying goodbye to her friends, she will allow Ani to say goodbye to his imaginary friend. Maybe she’ll even talk to it. “Hi, hello, I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed the imaginary blue milk and delicacies I’ve left out for you this past week and half. Oh no, it was no bother. My son insisted.”

The ride is quick--Anakin has always been a driver to push the limits of any engine he comes across--and before she knows it, he’s dismounting on a piece of desert and rock that look exactly the same as the last four pieces of rocky terrain they’ve past.

“Ben!” Ani calls, satchel clutched firmly in his hands as he makes his way deeper into the crevices of the landscape. “Ben, it’s Ani! I’m really sorry that I left! Ben? Ben! I’m back now! Ani’s back!”

It’s actually...quite pathetic, to watch her boy speak so pleadingly to the cold stone faces of the rocks around them, but if this is what he needs to do to say goodbye to his life on Tatooine, Shmi won’t say a word.

“Ben--” Anakin draws in a breath to call again, but then there’s movement out of the corner of Shmi’s eyes, and something jumps from the rock down to land on her boy.

She screams and darts forward, but the thing on top of her son snarls at her in guttural warning.

“No, Ben,” Ani coos, stroking at the face that yes, is human, now that it’s not in unnaturally fast motion. “That’s my mom, Ben.”

Ben--Ben??--growls anyway, pinning the boy--her boy--beneath him with his legs and arms.

“She’s fine,” Ani murmurs gently, one hand reaching up to stoke over the beginnings of a beard on Obi-Wan’s face “Oh Ben, I’m sorry.”

The man on top of Shmi’s child finally looks away from her and at her boy, which is both better and worse.

“Ani,” Ben drawls out, as if the word--or perhaps forming the word--hurts him.

Anakin is happy. Shmi can tell he’s happy without even being able to see much of him. It’s like the very air vibrates with his joy. “Yes!” her son says. “Ani. Ben.” He taps the man’s chest. “Ben. Ani.”

The man buries his head into Anakin’s hair, hands rubbing up and down his sides and his arms and his face.

Shmi needs to say something, wants to say something about this strange man touching boy like he owns him, but the memory of his growl and the flash of his golden eyes stops her from stepping forward.

“Anakin, get away from him,” she hisses instead of stepping forward and tearing the stranger off of her son. She has the distinct feeling Anakin wouldn’t let Ben go anywhere, not with the way his little hands are holding so tight to the man’s shoulders. The man’s shoulders that are covered with one of her old tunics that Anakin had told her became unsalvageable after its last wash.

“No,” Anakin says, tightening his hold on his...friend. “He says you didn’t give him food the entire time I was gone! He’s hungry.”

Shmi thinks there’s a very good possibility that this Ben is going to eat her, but she knows not to say anything of the sort. Not when it’s two against one.

“He hasn’t said anything!” She cries instead.

Anakin huffs at this and pats at the feral’s head. “Maybe not to you, but he talks to me.”

Shmi stares at him and wonders if there’s something she’s supposed to be doing or saying here. The man won’t allow her to tear him off her child, she knows that automatically. But she can’t--she doesn’t know--

“Anakin,” she tries, desperately.

But Anakin doesn’t even look at her, too busy petting over the man, who has at least allowed him to sit up. “Hey, I’m sorry, I thought she would,” he tells him in an undertone. “I really thought she would, but I’m back now. I’m not going anywhere without you again--”

He extends his hand and Ben presses his cheek against it with enough force that it pushes him back slightly.

“You’re coming to Naboo with us, Ben,” Anakin promises, clutching at the ends of the man’s long hair. “Or I’m not going at all.”

To Shmi, it sounds like a threat.

The way her son’s eyes flash an unfamiliar golden color makes her feel cold as a Tatooine night. She shivers, but no one notices.

[ibrahimnerde]

What do you think of Ebussud efendi?

Umm so I generally never cared about male characters unless they were prominent like SS or Ibrahim. However, I gotta say Ebussud portrayal is kinda interesting. I won’t talk about the real person ofc.

Something that becomes pretty much obvious within the show is that Ebussud efendi trades with religion, he enforces justice system on everyone except his son. His son being alcoholic sleeping in bars is to show us that Ebussud is not the religious person he portrays himself to be , cause if he was the first people he’d enforce Islam in justice on are his family. He just uses religion for his own personal gain as SS trusts him and his philosophy so much. But then you kinda question yourself how someone who could be this hypocritical be in such high regard? Respected by other scholars? Should he be to blame for his sons actions? The thing about his whole son story is that it shows him hiding the story is because not because of fatherly instincts , but because it will hurt his prestige as Mufti efendi of the Dynasty and he’ll be blamed and questioned for these actions.

The scenes where we see Ebussud efendi practicing the Islamic judicial system are the scenes where the sultan is present. Of course it makes sense because why else would they show it but it also gives the possibility that Efendi is being just is because he knows the sultan is there. Yeah SS doesn’t show himself, but Ebussud knows him and he might’ve caught glimpse of him. It is explicitly shown in EP71. The other instant where we were shown his court was in Ibrahim pasha suit, whether or nor he saw SS present , he knew SS would know about what happened either ways.

it is very clear her hates Ibrahim and that hate comes from their different beliefs and how Ebussud is thinking Ibrahim is arrogant. Ebussed efendi clearly believes the narrative that Ibrahim isn’t faithful and is still connected to his roots. In EP72 it is very clear why they aren’t fond of each other. Then Ibrahim humiliating Ebussud efendi and reminding him of his son problems every chance he got increased the mutual animosity between them. When SS went to Ebussud efendi for fetva about killing Ibrahim and while he doesn’t explicitly say it is about Ibrahim, Ebussud clearly knew. So was Ebussud efendi verdict about Ibrahim solely based on the Sharia? No. Yes we are shown that Ebussud efendi did do his research. Ebussud didn’t really answer wether or not Ibrahim should be killed, his answer was “in order to kill him you gotta sleep because people aren’t alive while they are sleeping” while this is certainly true that in Quran about the sleeping part, killing someone because they think they are on an equal foot with your almighty is not part of Quran. Specially when you can dismiss all his positions and wealth. Additionally Ebussud efendi followed his words with

“this way you can punish his disobedience and you won’t be breaking your oath”

First off all you can’t trick god, they Muslim people should be knowing this so well. Sleeping or not SS gave his order while he is awake and the moment he gives his order the oath is broken. Second of all…they can’t trick god, yeah again this wasn’t a solution. Which leads me to say I believe Ebussud efendi was searching for a convincing way to make SS kill Ibrahim and brought Quran with him as well as cited Prophet Muhammed SAW to be more convincing because that’s what religion traders do, they say weirdest shit ever then bring a Quran verse that isn’t related in any shape or form so people wouldn’t dare to argue with them. In Islam it is said sleeping is the closet form of death, but it is not death. The weirdest thing about the whole scene at the end of EP81 is that Mufti efendi doesn’t ask why he wants to kill such a close person, yeah he knows who is SS is talking about but as a judge you shall get the full picture if you gonna decide someone’s fate. But no, he completely ignores the killing part and focus on how he will give SS convenient evidence to assure him it will be okay.

This is my opinion honestly, I might be over analyzing but I generally believe Ebussud efendi verdict was very based on his personal bias against Ibrahim.

[tadpole-san]

in the aftermath ; dabi/t. todoroki   pairing: dabi x reader, touya todoroki x reader, established relationship  warning: spoilers for bnha chapter 301 (mild canon divergence from that one scene of dabi in chpt 301), inferences to an unhealthy relationship  a/n: horikoshi chose violence and heartbreak by releasing dabi’s backstory on valentine’s day weekend and i have a lot of feelings about it 

The couch is falling apart. 

It’s the first thing you notice when you finally step into the room, and then you take in the peeling wallpaper, almost rotting vanity, and finally, the man laid out on said couch. The fabric of it is peeling away in some places, revealing the plain white beneath - the sight of it makes you think of patches, and scars, and marred, magenta skin held together by madness and medical staples. Dabi’s eyes are closed, you realize, and you could almost fool yourself into believing that he’d finally decided to grant himself some peace, albeit in the form of a turbulent slumber. And then they slide open again, stark turquoise burning bright against the dullness of his stare. 

“Really roasted myself there.” His voice is hoarse, even jarring and harsh to your ears. There’s a crease between your brows as you take a few steps closer, reaching into your pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. Silently, you hold one out to Dabi. His gaze slides over it, and then over you. Somehow, it unsettles you - like somehow, he’s not registering that you’re there, or that he can even see you at all. 

You’re not sure which of those options terrifies you more. 

“Yeah,” you say, moving to pull it back. There’s a lighter, heavy in your other pocket, and if the absence of a blue flame at the end of your cigarette means that you won’t have to risk the experience of seeing the body and couch in front of you go up in a garden of blue flames, you’ll gladly use it. “You look like the fucking couch,” you add. There’s two ways his response to that could go; Dabi could find the humor in that and maybe laugh at your comment, or he could dismiss it (and maybe you) in a display towards not giving a shit about anything. Most days it’s like walking a tightrope between his mania and his complete and utter apathy. Most days it’s like choosing between two poisons, and you know you wouldn't be able to make a choice that doesn’t kill you. Because there isn’t one. 

This time, he doesn’t laugh. But a smile does tug at the corner of his lips - and god, it looks painful, because the miniscule action is enough for the staples to pull at his skin, nearly tearing into it even more as it flirts with the possibility of drawing blood. “C’mere,” he rasps, motioning to the stick in your hand. You pass it over. He takes it in his fingers, rolling it in between the digits. “Can’t feel anything.” 

“Does it hurt?” The question slips out, but you wouldn’t be able to hold it back anyways. Dabi hums, long and contemplative, and when he offers you the cigarette, the end of it is glowing a dull shade of blue. You accept it, and take in a long drag, tilting your head back to watch the smoke rise to the ceiling. 

You’d seen him smoke, a couple of times. Mostly on slow nights, when all the two of you would do was hide out in whatever shitty abandoned building served as camouflage from pro-heroes and cops. Or, later on, when he had joined up with the League and dragged you in with them, it would be nights where he could steal minutes to himself outside of the bar, and you’d pretend you didn’t notice because you were too busy nursing a drink at the bar. The part that always fascinated you the most would be when the smoke spilled out between the seams of his staples, and you could forget about the way his blood trickled out in the same way, and stained your hands when you had to help him force everything back into one piece. 

“That’s not what it fucking means to not feel anything,” he bites out, and you can see his jaw tense. So it’s a yes, and he won’t say it. “Don’t be stupid.” Your lips press in a thin line, and you sink to the floor next to the couch, leaning against its side to let your arm hang over your propped up knee. He’s not the only one to walk out, more than the worse for wear; you can’t move without a brief stab of white-hot pain, even if you know that it diminishes in comparison to the man still laying on the couch. It’s enough that you want to spare yourself the experience of biting back at him with equal venom. 

“And that doesn’t answer the question, either.” When he doesn’t say anything, again, you keep talking. “Those injuries.” Another exhale. “They could kill Endeavor.” A moment passes, and there’s a hand at your shoulder, squeezing it in a way that threatens to literally burn through your layers. 

“I wouldn’t allow it.” 

“I could’ve killed him.” There’s a calm behind your admission, the same calm of a deadly ocean masked by tranquility. Once - and sometimes, when you try, you can remember her - there was a version of yourself that wouldn’t have been able to say the words without falter, wouldn’t have been able to hold onto the idea of a murder quite like that. The grip on your shoulder goes slack. 

“I know,” Something in Dabi’s voice makes you tilt your head to look up at him, and you lock eyes with a man already staring at you. This close, you can make out the still-healing wounds on what remains of his unmarred skin, and there’s a patchiness to his hair where the black dye hadn’t fully washed off. Seeing it bothers you, just a bit, and you want to do something about it. 

“Get up.” The eyebrow he raises is equal parts disinterested and curious. Maybe even wary, but you’re not here to explore the nuances of what a single eyebrow can mean. 

“Doll, I can’t move.” 

“I’m being serious.” 

“So am I.” 

“Sometimes, I can’t really tell with you.” Half-lidded eyes open slightly as he comes close to grinning again, a thumb brushing over your cheek for the fraction of a second. It’s enough that you sigh, and you squash the cigarette against a white tile to extinguish it, leaving behind a spot of darkened ash. He watches you push yourself to your feet, offering a hand to him that’s pushed aside so that he can force his body to get up from the couch himself. The display is one that is already painful to an outsider - each movement is a Herculean effort, skin pulled taut and threatening to split open until he’s looming over you once more, overshadowing your presence in the room. 

Until wordlessly, you take an arm in yours and pull it over your shoulder.  His weight comes crashing into you like a wave, and if you weren’t so used to it - to needing to pull this body out of death - and if you were anyone lesser, you probably would’ve collapsed, too. 

For a second, you wish that you weren’t able to handle him like this. Because it would mean that you’d never been forced to carry him through moments like these. 

“Where you takin’ me, princess?” he drawls, the words sliding off his tongue as he sags against you. The light elbow to his ribs makes him tut in disapproval, but there aren’t any words said against the action. 

“Bathroom,” you mutter, because being used to him against you like this doesn’t make it any easier, and if you waste breath or lose focus, the both of you could end up on the floor together. And Dabi would really, truly reduce you to ash for the humiliation he’d suffer from it. 

“Bathroom,” he repeats, and you can hear the suggestion in the smirk he’s likely to be wearing proudly. So you choose not to humor him with an answer towards or against the insinuation behind his intonation. 

Using a foot to nudge at the bathroom door is - fortunately - enough to prompt it to swing open, and you maneuver him into the too-small space. Dabi hisses as you end up jostling him against the counter, and a few more muted swears escape his clenched teeth before you’re able to get him to sit against the tub. 

“Fucking shit.” You step into the tub as he lets the words out, kneeling in it and reaching for the shower head. 

“It’s your hair,” And as you explain, you take the risk of having him tilt his head back slightly. “You - I don’t know what shit you used to get most of the dye out in five seconds-” and that was really one of the only parts of his plans that you didn’t understand, but it was a detail small enough that you wouldn’t push. 

“Somethin’ wrong with my hair or some shit?” The tone’s abrasive, but he’s still sitting still, and he doesn’t move to lash out in a way that’ll end the conversation in its entirety. Tonight is - despite everything - shaping out to be a calm one for him, a rare in-between of the polarity and calm he lives his life with. Or maybe it’s because of everything that happened, because his scheming and plans that once felt like little more than paper towers finally burned to cripple the Japan’s now-former Number One. 

Dabi isn’t smiling. Instead, he allows his head to be further tilted back as he stares up at the ceiling, a pensive expression making it feel as though the body you’re sitting with isn’t really here with you at all. And it shouldn’t reassure you, but it does. 

Because that smile - that effortless, unfazed, half-thought out gesture on him - is synonymous to his lies. 

You still haven’t answered his question. You reach out, like someone blinded, to card your fingers through the mostly snowy white locks. You let yourself imagine that he leans into the touch because the gesture is a sweet one. If you were to pull yourself back to your reality, you knew it would be likely that he simply lay there and let you do as you wish. 

You turn the shower on, and lukewarm water replaces your fingers in his hair. His lips move and he murmurs something you can’t quite grasp, but it’s gone before you can think to ask. The moment suddenly feels just as fragile, as though a misspoken word, one wrong move, or anything that could be regarded as a mistake coming from you could shatter it. 

The tips of your fingers are becoming laden with black as the remains of dye works itself out from his hair, and its stark contrast against the porcelain of the tub makes the white look ghastly. It’s as you begin to press your thumb to the darkness to try and swipe it off that Dabi speaks again, and if your head weren’t angled down towards him, you wouldn’t have heard it. 

“This is what being evil is.” 

It should’ve been simple enough to take a hold of the meaning behind his words, and pull them in to understand it. But your movements falter, causing your already damp jeans to receive a wayward spray of water. 

This could be lying here, with him, carrying out mortal attempts to wash away traces of atrocities committed. 

This could mean living with the badge of honor labelling this society’s villains. You wonder if there would ever be a world where he didn’t wear it so proudly, flaunt it in the faces of any and all who cross paths with him. 

“I don’t think we’re evil,” is what you settle on finally saying, shutting the water off and placing the shower head back in its slot. You end up resting your head in your arms, turned to him as you balance precariously on the edge of the tub. When you close your eyes, you can see him at the forefront of your mind - spinning, deranged, falling into hell in a tango of death. 

“Yeah?” His breath ghosts the shell of your ear in the single syllable, and you realize he shifted closer under the blanket cover of your shut eyes. “Then what the hell are we?” His forehead presses against yours, skin and piercings ice cold. As if it was the touch of death. 

“I think,” you start, letting out a breath before you open your eyes again, “I think we’re just people.” Sitting like this, with him, is an intimacy rarely granted. This close, and you can make out water dripping from strands of white hair, white lashes, the bridge of his nose. It’s all drowning in a sea of turquoise. He hums, and a hand presses against the back of your neck, keeping a grip there. Blunt nails dig into your skin, and they probably leave crescent indents. “Heroes are the ones like gods, and we’re just the ones trying to challenge them.” 

Dabi stares at you. You feel it under your skin, like fire ants biting at you and injecting enough poison to kill you. 

And then he laughs. The laughter belongs to a maniac, to someone so deranged there might not be a way of going back, and it grates on the years you’ve spent with him. With his madness. A madness that could be infectious, but you’re too afraid to peel back the layers of yourself to see if the infection has found roots in you. The sound of his laughter suffocates the pocket of space you occupy together, and you’re no longer lost in a sea of blue fire, but you think that maybe you’re drowning in something worse. 

Eventually, he stops. There’s an ache in your neck by then, but you still can’t move it. Dabi has to take a few more rasping breaths before he can think to speak again, and there’s rivulets of thick blood running down his face from his eyes and mouth. 

He cries tears of blood. 

You hate the sight of blood. 

“Heroes are gods,” he repeats, the traces of a chuckle leaving his lips. “You really fucking got me whit that shit, you know that?” An incredulous wheeze escapes his throats. “So then this is blasphemy? So then we’re sinners? Sounds pretty evil to me.”

“Only if sinning is evil.” His lips turn in a sneer, and you’re released. It’s like a breath of fresh air from the smoke and fire clogging your lungs, so you move to stand back up. “But sinning is just doing the things gods don’t like, isn’t it?” 

You smile, then, and you step back onto tile. Your hands go to your pockets, and fingers find the now-damp cigarette pack. 

“Hold it.” A lazy finger beckons towards you. It might be all he can do at the moment. You shouldn’t. 

You crouch down next to him anyways. 

When Dabi finally kisses you, it’s hard, and painful, teeth clashing and more blood drawn. You pull back with a line of it running down your mouth, and he brusquely wipes it away with his thumb. 

This will be the closest you come to a thank you from him. Somehow, you know that the day he finally says the sentiment to you out loud, it would very well be the last time he says anything to you at all. 

The final day feels as though it’s come too close to you. 

[spockandawe]

I’m so unbelievably weak against characters who make terrible choices because they’re hurting and upset. I love the subtler resentful decisions that quietly build up ill will, and I love the big dramatic choices that end with everyone going down in flames. But more than anything, I love love love hurting myself with the emotional flavor of a character struggling with the tension of simultaneously realizing that people hate/mistrust them (or how much people hate/mistrust them, or which people hate/mistrust them), while also realizing that those people just have... no idea where they’re coming from.

I was thinking about this first because of Mu Qing, who is honestly a very low-key version of this scenario (and it’s also quieter since he’s not a lead character and rarely takes the spotlight himself). But the first big tgcf flashback honestly made my heart ache, seeing him trying to walk a line between maintaining his own independence/pride and not belonging to someone he wants to be peers with, but when he tries to be tactful, people decide he’s being shady.  He was picking cherries, to bring a treat to his poor mother (and the poor children around his home), but then got accused of stealing, and then didn’t want to say that it was because his only remaining parent was living in poverty. And it continues through the present day! He knocks out Feng Xin so he can save him from a burning city, because Feng Xin refuses to leave, and people are like ‘>:OOO MU QING ATTACKED FENG XIN??’ In some ways, this character hurts me more than the others, because he rarely does anything wrong, he has a bad attitude, but his most significant “missteps” tend to be like ‘you could have been a little more kind, tbh.’

But also too, I’ve been working my way through the svsss extras again, and... Shen Jiu. God, Shen Jiu. This character is agonizing, and I love him so much. He makes terrible choices! He does terrible things! He tries to set up an actual literal child to die horribly, because he resents that this child had a parent who loved him, and that he found his way to Cang Qiong young enough to reach his full potential! It’s absolutely unforgivable! But nobody except Yue Qingyuan has any clue how much Shen Jiu has been through and how to possibly help him grow or heal or how to support him into better decision making. And Shen Jiu is so hurt by the way Yue Qingyuan left him that he refuses to let Yue Qingyuan help him now. Like! This child was a slave, begging for food on the streets, then was sold to a rich boy who abused him in sexually-flavored ways and planned to marry him to his sister so he could keep him forever, and then his “rescuer” was a scumbag adult who taught him to steal and murder. 

And while Shen Jiu was suffering, he thinks Yue Qingyuan, who came from the same beginning and who promised to come back for him, was living in careless pampered luxury in a prestigious cultivation sect. Shen Jiu’s own self-evaluations are incredibly harsh, from the moment he’s reunited with Yue Qingyuan. He calls himself terrible, he calls himself a thing, and once it’s clear that he’s going to pay the price for his bad decisions, he tries hard to shove away the one person who cares about him and find some way to protect him. Yue Qingyuan never stopped loving him and defending him, but literally nobody else in the world has any sympathy for him whatsoever. How am I not supposed to be heartbroken? Shang Qinghua sighs over how his readers used to hate on Shen Qingqiu for having no motivations, which, sure, that’s understandable from what’s on the “Proud Immortal Demon Way” pages, but seeing the trauma driving his choices in svsss and seeing his own self-awareness and self-loathing and knowing that one (1) person in-universe has any inkling of his internal world (and that person died trying to help him), I’m! In pain!!!

Plus, in svsss proper, I saw a post in passing once that was something like... ‘readers are hard on luo binghe, because he’s the only mxtx protagonist where we see the worst decisions of his life and aren’t in his head to understand why he’s making those decisions.’ Which I still find fascinating, and think about often. It makes sense to me. And as far as my terrible-decision-making children go, he’s very interesting to me because he doesn’t really deal with the widespread distaste/mistrust that mu qing and shen jiu experience, it’s very much targeted on one person. I live for the parts of svsss where all Luo Binghe has to do is breathe, and Shen Qingqiu flinches and bolts. And Luo Binghe is not acting in kind or well-considered ways, a lot of the time! But he was seventeen, and his beloved teacher had told him that ‘humans can be good or evil, demons can be good or evil,’ but the moment Luo Binghe turned out to be half demon, even though he’d just been fighting desperately trying to protect Shen Qingqiu, that teacher he trusted more than anything immediately turned on him, stabbed him in the chest, and threw him into hell.

That’s agonizing!!!! Even without the aftermath, that’s agonizing to read! And when Luo Binghe comes back, years later, he’s upset, he’s hurt, he’s lonely, he’s still stinging from that betrayal, of course he’s not making good decisions. I follow good blogs, because I haven’t seen any terrible Luo Binghe takes on my dash, but I’m kind of :c that these takes apparently exist. Again, it’s not that I think he makes good decisions, but I can see why he makes bad decisions, and I can see other characters missing that context, and I am rolling in terrible, glorious pain. Luo Binghe shows up secretly in Huan Hua Palace and starts taking it over and generally acts shady as heck? Well, Shizun wouldn’t let him beg for forgiveness when he was a disciple, and he’s afraid to face Shen Qingqiu until he can meet him on a semi-equal footing. Luo Binghe gets angry and spiteful when Shen Qingqiu asks if he’s responsible for the sowers? Yes he does! He’d always, always tried to do right by Shen Qingqiu, and trusted Shen Qingqiu when he said demons could be decent people, but the moment he turned out to be half-demon, Shen Qingqiu immediately started expecting the worst from him at every turn. It hurts! I don’t blame him for acting on that hurt! And I am so endlessly compelled by the way that Shen Qingqiu completely fails to recognize the context for where Binghe is coming from.

And like... I cannot leave out Xue Yang and Jin Guangyao. Xue Yang is fascinating in his own way, because the steps are... a lot more explicit and clear-cut than some of these other characters. Shen Jiu’s downward spiral is very internal and he curls up tight to hide his weak spots even with the person who values him most in the whole world, but Xue Yang very plainly tries to lay out his reasoning for his most important person. His whole world is crumbling by the time things reach that point, and it was probably beyond salvaging, but god! He tries so hard to explain the position the world placed him in, from childhood onward, helpless and vulnerable, and that nobody was going to defend him except himself. 

But when Xiao Xingchen doesn’t understand what he’s trying to communicate, when he realizes that the person he values most isn’t willing to hear what he’s trying to say, he starts lashing out again and trying to hurt. It’s the same lesson he learned when he was young, in some ways. ‘If I’m stupid enough to trust you, you’re going to use that to hurt me.’ And then the logical next step, ‘If you’re going to hurt me, all I can do is try to hurt you worse.’ You can see the trauma playing out right there on the page, and it’s agonizing. I can understand some people not enjoying reading things that make them hurt that way, but I have trouble Getting it when people don’t at least find that kind of dynamic compelling as hell. I’ll sometimes avoid media that I know is going to make me sad, but if I’m in the mood to Experience Sadness, I know a dynamic like this is going to grab me by the heart and shake me like a ragdoll.

And... Jin Guangyao. He was on my mind too, partly because I’ve seen a few takes on his motivations lately that honestly kind of baffle me? Like, to each their own, especially since mdzs never takes us inside his head. But I see posts that like... he was bullying Nie Mingjue, or what if Lan Xichen could Tell he was never genuine and mistrusted him on some level, and how to put this. It’s not that I agree with the choices he made, though I really don’t want to play fandom purity police in any way, shape, or form (murder is good, actually), but I understand the choices he made enough that those sort of interpretations that skew towards the cruelty-for-the-sake-of-cruelty territory honestly kind of upset me.

There’s some interesting comparisons to be made with Mu Qing, in some ways. They both grew up poor, without a father, in “shameful” single-parent situations (a sex worker mother vs. a father being executed for being a criminal). They were poor boys with ambition, but no matter how they tried to carry themselves with dignity, those poor beginnings were rubbed in their faces, years after the fact. I think it does make a real difference that Mu Qing’s shame is mostly based in his own history (sweeping floors) while Jin Guangyao’s is more external (son of a whore), and that Jin Guangyao’s also insulted a parent who he loved dearly, and that Mu Qing was seeking the respect outside of famiial structures while Jin Guangyao was desperate to be accepted by his father.

There’s so much of Jin Guangyao’s early life that’s like ‘I’m Just Trying To Live My Life, My Dude,’ and it hurts me to watch. He really didn’t have goals that were all that excessive! If his goals were excessive in some way, it’s only by virtue of how highly ranked his father was, which isn’t his fault. His goal: ‘I want my father to accept me into the family.’ What the world saw: “oh my god, this son of a whore SERIOUSLY wants to be brought into this noble family, lmaooooo.’ There are characters who are more compassionate than that, and a lot of that reaction is down to the nature of the setting, but LORD, man! It’s honestly a pretty restrained goal for a kid to have! Especially when his father totally promised to come back for him someday, and he waited patiently for years before setting out on his own.

And even once he gets kicked down the steps of Koi Tower and dials back his ambitions, he gets so little space to breathe. He’s learning cultivation late, he takes a position as a nobody in a different cultivation sect, he’s just trying to live. But no matter how he rolls with the punches, no matter how he smiles and bears it, he’s being constantly, constantly prodded in that old, painful bruise. I’ve been finally working my way through The Untamed, and it was painful to watch, in Gusu, when he’s trying to present the Nie Sect’s gift to Lan QIren, and people just start focking gossiping about him, right there, perfectly audibly. And when we see him back in Qinghe, he’s perfectly polite and deferential, and that one disciple is still like ‘fuck you, ur mom was a whore.’

He makes bad decisions, but even when he makes good decisions, he can’t win. I don’t get anything from him at all that suggests he had Hugely Lofty Ambitions from a young age, he just wanted some kind of decent life, but almost nobody would cut him a break. Nie Mingjue did cut him a break, and Lan Xichen was gentle and kind to him, and that made such an impact on him. But I also think it made it that much worse, when he made later questionable decisions, and Nie Mingjue refused to let him explain himself. Nie Mingjue’s rigidity breaks my heart in lots of ways, but especially when it comes to Jin Guangyao. I don’t want to make this all about personal attachment, but it’s kind of inescapable in this situation. Nie Mingjue sends him a loud, violent message that if he’s not perfectly morally upright, he’s Done. But by now, Jin Guangyao has years of history of people being cruel to him based on a history he never was able to control. Nie Mingjue protected him, but hes made it clear that protection was... conditional. There could be arguments about how conditional, and what the non-murdery limits would have been, but the murder has been done, and it was already clear that Nie Mingjue never had the power to protect him from everything.

I can’t read Jin Guangyao’s later actions without also reading that fear and insecurity into his decisions. He even tries to say it outright, that he’s afraid of everyone and everything, and Nie Mingjue misses the point. Jin Guangyao hurts me a lottle, because he suffers both in terms of the general public’s judgment of him, but also in the judgment of someone he cared deeply about. I can see the reasoning and trauma, but so many other people in the story can’t. Jin Guangyao gets pushed to the edge by how his father holds him at arm’s length from the family, the atrocities he tells Jin Guangyao to commit on his behalf (and then maybe I’ll treat you like my actual son, maybe), but when he tries to express that, Nie Mingjue is like ‘can’t you just endure more, though??’ He builds a temple with a statue with the face of his dead beloved mother, and the public is like ‘omg, he made that statue with his OWN FACE, can you believe it??’

In some ways, the way Lan Xichen determinedly loves and trusts him makes it all hurt even worse. I absolutely believe Jin Guangyao when he says that he never once wanted to act against Lan Xichen. So many of the terrible decisions Jin Guangyao makes tie so directly to him seeking either safety or security. But he works hard in social gatherings to keep the peace and people think he’s two-faced. He endures years of mistreatment before hitting back and people judge him for hitting back at all and say that well, what else could we have respected from someone with that background. Nie Mingjue threatens to kill him multiple times, and he was a very straightforward, honest man, of course Jin Guangyao was frightened of him and decided it was safer to see him dead. I live for the pain of seeing a character I love make decisions I strongly disagree with, understanding why they’re making those decisions, and seeing other characters not understand, and simply hate them for the decisions.

This isn’t exactly new, this is why I’ll never be able to shake my love for Starscream, even if his quality of motivation... varies by continuity. And Pharma and Prowl are two of my favorite characters in all of idw1 for exactly this reason. I’ve got  at least three fics brushing up against Pharma’s resentment over ‘yes, i got ordered to run a hospital on a garbage planet I was sharing the most violent, sadistic decepticons in existence, I SURE WONDER WHY I WAS DRIVEN TO THIS DESPERATE POINT, BUT THE LOVE OF MY LIFE THINKS I’M JUST A TERRIBLE PERSON, SO I GUESS THAT’S THAT.’ 

And in the murderbot books, I genuinely get reduced to tears when murderbot has to deal with people compassionately interpreting its behavior instead of giving it no credit, the way its used to. I find the raksura books intensely, intensely satisfying in how Moon struggles to fit into a highly social, close-knit society after growing up so traumatized and alone, and how his colony gradually adapts to him and gets used to his quirks, instead of driving him out, the way he’s experienced so many times. No real conclusion here, I was just spacing out during a work training call, and got overtaken by how much I love characters who experience this particular flavor of emotional isolation.

[whenimaunicorn]

Training Exercise

The Mandalorian x female Reader

Summary: The Mandalorian is testing you. Again. This time you hit him with a strategy he doesn’t expect, and he comes back with an equally unexpected response.

Content Tags: Explicit, roleplay, dom/sub vibes, dirty talk, bondage, armor kink (I didn’t think I meant to do that but damn if it isn’t all over this fic), slight gunplay, slight breathplay, rough sex

Cold metal cuffs slam around your wrists, the sound of the locking mechanism a loud, ominous snick.

“What the fuck, Mando?” you sputter, dropping your spoon into the bowl in front of you.

“How would you get out of this?”

Stars. Another test. You push down your rising irritation with a deep inhale, sitting up straight and letting your imprisoned forearms rest on the edge of the table down in the hold of the Razor Crest. “So I’ve been captured?” you ask, probing for the parameters of the exercise he has in mind.

“Yes.” He stands a few feet away from you, leaning against the bulkhead, settling in to observe. “Now you’re in a holding cell. One guard.”

You smirk at him. “You’re the guard?”

His helmet inclines a few inches. “What’s your play?”

The question is delivered evenly, soft and simple, with only the tiniest note of challenge. He still doesn’t believe you can handle yourself as well as you say you can. The reminder gets your hackles up. “I’m not really in the mood for this.”

“You think I care if you’re in the mood?” The modulator does little to smooth the harshness with which he barks the statement.

You try not to flinch. Getting into his role already; at least, you try to tell yourself that’s all his change in tone means. Plus, it’s kind of hot when he yells at you. Not that you’d let him know that.

You sigh, and prop your elbows up on the table, examining the cuffs. They are a solid piece, two inches thick in a figure eight shape with a seam in the clasp so flush that it’s almost invisible. There’s an interface on it above your wrists, placed where your own fingers couldn’t possibly reach but would be convenient to your captors. You know enough about this model to know there’s a way to hack the lock, but not enough to actually be able to do it.

You look over at the Mandalorian. He’s facing you squarely now, thumbs resting in his utility belt, the helmet’s eye slit angled like he’s watching you closely. He doesn’t move a muscle, just waiting to see what you’ll do.

You do your best to ignore the tingling feeling his intimidation sends washing through your body. You feel the weight of his gaze like the heat of a sun against the cheek and shoulder that are angled toward him as you look back down at the cuff around your wrists.

What’s your play? he had asked. You arch your back a little more, giving the Mandalorian a better view of your body. You’ve got tricks he can’t teach you, and your irritation has turned into an overwhelming urge to rub that in, now. You sit poised like a pin-up girl as you pick up the spoon from your abandoned meal and stick it backwards into your mouth, then use the chisel-shaped back end of it to probe clumsily at the locking mechanism.

Mando shifts in the corner of your vision, moving just a little bit closer. “You know I can see you, right?” The edge of derision in his voice only spurs you on.

You look up at him, shifting the spoon in your mouth so he has to watch your pink tongue lick out along the edge of it. His upper body pulls back with a start. “I know.” You smile lasciviously around the stick of metal. “If I was alone with one guard, I’d convince him to step closer to me.”

The lower edge of his helmet drops in acknowledgement, and then his blaster clears its holster, in his hand and pointed straight at you faster than you can blink. “Cut that out. Drop the spoon.”

You turn in your chair, knees spread just a little immodestly, so the bottom edge of your tunic creates an intriguing little darkness between your legs for your “guard” to ponder. It’s hard to decide if the man behind the helmet is taking the bait, but you’re going to carry on your demonstration as best you can. You hold the spoon between your teeth and then relax your jaw, turning your lips into a pouty little ‘o’ as the spoon falls straight down into your lap. You suck in a big breath that makes your breasts swell as you look down at it, nestled between your thighs. “Come and get it.”

The Mandalorian seems to hesitate. “Is this really your best strategy?”

“You’d be surprised how often it works.”

His visor is angled just a little too low for you to think he’s looking at your face. He could, of course, take the exercise in any direction that he wants. He could play a guard that’s smarter than his libido right now, or one that doesn’t find you attractive at all. So maybe it means something when he chooses to relax his grip on the blaster, and steps closer, playing along. “It’s no use trying to escape,” he intones, resuming the game as he looms over you, blaster still pointed at your head, though at a lazier angle.

It shouldn’t be as hot is it, to stare up at the enigmatic Mandalorian warrior from your helpless position like this. Though the warm, prickling feeling that spreads through your lower body only makes the game easier. You form your lips into a little pout. “I’ve got to do something to pass the time.” You extend one foot, ankle making contact with the inside of his knee, then slide it up between his legs, past the defense of the metal plates on his thighs. You stare at his eye slit the whole time, tongue peeking out to play at the bottom of your teeth. “You want to put something else in my mouth?”

You feel him flinch. But to his credit, he leans into his discomfort, and into your personal space. “You’d like that.” His words come out in that flat, measured way he has, but the underlying tone is somewhere between brusque and incredulous.

You’re not sure if you’re freaking him out or turning him on, but a heady rush of excitement propels you forward. You give him a slow, sultry shrug as you stare up at him. “Maybe I’ve got a thing for being tied up.” You rock your ankle back and forth against his inner thigh.

The Mandalorian stares down at you, maddeningly still. His body language only shifts when he finally speaks. “Did I mention the guard is a Gamorrean? A particularly ugly one.”

He’s teasing you. You can just imagine a shit-eating grin extending behind his beskar mask. You reach your cuffed arms up, refusing to back down. “Then I’d be sure to stroke a finger down his tusk.” His helmet is cold under your fingertip as you dare to mime the action, sliding your touch down the groove of his iron cheek.

The blaster pointed vaguely at your temple never wavers. You’re close enough now to see that it’s not currently armed, though that information does little to dampen the chill of having a weapon aimed at your head, in a hand that has never hesitated to kill. Mando leans in and presses his other hand between your legs, retrieving the spoon. He takes his time about it, just as a big ugly half-seduced guard would do, digging his fingers unnecessarily into your soft thighs and dragging his knuckles against the sensitive spot between.

Your breath catches. You had been bluffing; you wouldn’t actually enjoy this if he had been a real guard of any species, but when Mando is the one groping between your legs you can’t help but spread them a little wider.

His head is only inches from yours. You stare into the eye slit of his helmet, knowing that somewhere behind there he’s staring right back at you. The shape of the beskar knows only one emotion: menace. You have no fucking idea what expression lies behind the mask.

His knuckle rolls again, right over your clit, making hot arousal bloom so hard and fast that your muscles turn to jelly.

His helmet tilts, and he speaks in his quiet voice again. “You’re not making your move now?”

It takes a second for your brain to catch up. Mando assumed you were luring the guard inside your reach so you could whip out some kind of flashy combat skills and disable him. Of course he did. That’s what he would do.

Evidently, you take too long to respond. He removes your opportunity to act. “Get up!” The Mandalorian grabs at the cuff around your wrists, yanking you to your feet. He holsters the blaster as he crowds your body, backing you up into the wall. Cold beskar presses between your thighs, making sure your legs stay open as you slam back against the bulkhead.

You resist a little on instinct, your mind now torn between winning the game and just enjoying the feeling of his body against yours. He overpowers you easily, forcing your hands up over your head. There’s a clicking sound, and then both of Mando’s gloved palms are running down your arms, though they’re still locked in place. He’s magnetized the wrist cuff to the bulkhead. Fuck. You didn’t know it could do that.

His beskar face looms just inches above your own. His grip doesn’t flinch as his hands run down from your arms to your flanks, feeling along your ribs in a touch that’s more sexually charged than you’d thought him capable of. “You’ve chosen a strategy that can get you in over your head, fast.” His voice sounds a little tight behind the modulator. His hands slide down to grip your waist. “Would you really let it get this far?” You can hear him breathing now, fast and hard. His fingers knead at the tops of your hips. “Dirty yourself, letting a filthy guard touch you this way?” There’s a hint of a whine under his accusatory tone, and you start to think the Mandalorian might be even more turned on by this game than you are.

You don’t answer, not sure what to say that wouldn’t ruin whatever’s starting to happen. Mando’s hands travel up your body, thumbs daring to skim underneath your breasts.

“No play yet?” he challenges, voice sounding a little lower, a little rougher. “Still not ready to make your move? This is only going to get worse for you.” His palms skim over your tits, but he seems to be holding himself back, barely making contact. “Better do something before he starts taking off your clothes.”

Absolutely you want him to start taking off your clothes. But this is just a training exercise, isn’t it? You’ll probably just make things awkward if you delay any longer, sitting here enjoying an excuse to get groped by the Mandalorian. Time to make your next play. “Okay big boy,” you purr, barely keeping a straight face as you try to imagine seducing a giant pig-man, “let me make you feel really good.” You slide your cheek against Mando’s helmet, dropping your voice into a throaty half-whisper above where his ear would be. “Give me one of my hands free, and I promise you won’t regret it.”

He pulls the pressure of his body off yours, just a little. Considering. You writhe against him, whispering ‘please’ and dragging your knee up the inside of his leg to show him where your hand would want to go. Before you can make contact with your target, Mando reaches up and presses a button on the cuff. “That… that would probably work on a big, dumb guard. I’ll give you that.” His voice sounds a little breathy, but he’s rallying himself. “Let’s see what you can accomplish with only one hand.”

The steel around one of your wrists retreats. The other one remains locked to the wall. “Oh, I can do plenty,” you say, bringing your palm down to the cloth-covered opening between his helmet and pauldron. It’s hard to grope a man wearing full body armor; all you can do is massage at that firm muscle that connects his shoulder and neck, hoping that the pressure feels nice through the canvas-like fabric that covers his skin here.

His fingers flex where they span your waist, a sudden dig that seems involuntary. He can’t be used to even such a blunted touch as this one, you suppose. He turns his gesture into a more obscene caress, sliding down your hips, grinding your pelvis tighter against the beskar thigh thrust between your legs. You don’t have to fake the moan that falls from your throat.

“Definitely a dirty girl,” he says, and squeezes your ass with both hands. Now you’re really not sure if he’s speaking as the guard or himself. His voice has dropped low and the modulator can’t smooth out the pleasure that’s thickening it. “Offering yourself up like this…” His cold helmet presses against your temple as the Mandalorian brings his whole body closer, nestling his head between your cheek and your upraised arm, the one that’s still locked to wall of the ship above your head. He grunts as he digs his fingers into the widest part of your bottom, and you groan. “You like it rough?”

“Yeah,” you moan, not sure if you’re playing your character anymore either, afraid to say anything that might make him stop. You abandon his neck to slide your free hand down past the beskar chestplate, seeking warmth in the space at his flank where something approaching soft and human is accessible to your touch. You can feel him breathing here, fast and deep. His hips writhe, pressing that solid flesh above his lower ribs more firmly into your palm.

“So pliant. So soft.” His tone has gone softer, appreciative. One hand stays on your ass while the other travels up your back, scooping you closer to him, until your chest is flattened by solid metal as he all but dry humps you against the wall.

Your fingers tease at his belt line, searching for entrance. A splash of nerves cools your belly at this point; you’ve never seen the Mandalorian undressed in any way, and you worry how he might react to you trying to get under his clothes. There’s always the chance you’re mis-reading this situation horribly. He’ll stop you if you cross a line, you’re certain, but you want to go slowly enough to make sure the sin is not too egregious.

Mando seems to sense your hesitation, slowing down too. “If you’re thinking about going for my gun,” he says, “you’re telegraphing.”

Apparently, he still thinks you’re thinking about the training exercise. He hasn’t lifted his head from where it’s nestled into your shoulder, however. His hands have slowed but they’re still cupping you.

“Not going for your gun.” Your fingers skim along his lower belly, finding the buckle of his belt.

“No?” Mando breathes.

You squeeze the clasp, releasing it with a click that seems way louder than it should be in the empty galley of the ship. His exhale carries just enough vocalization for the modulator to pick it up, sounding akin to and yet wholly different from the heavy sighs that escape him when you or the child are being frustrating. He gives you no other reaction but that.

You dare to stick one finger down inside his waistband. His heavy shirt is tucked in and so you still haven’t contacted any skin. You can’t even pretend to try to read his face, with the front of his helmet still pressed into the crook of your neck. Your finger tugs at his clothes and his body shifts against you but you can’t tell if he’s pulling away or shifting to give you better access.

You lose your nerve. “And then I would,” you narrate, stopping yourself, “you know…” Your finger points down toward his cock, trying not to think about what it would feel like to scoop your hand over it, wondering if you would find it hard or soft���

He lifts his head, only far enough to stare into your face through that shielded slit in his helmet. After a short, measured silence, he speaks. “Go ahead.”

Somehow you can’t wrap your head around the statement. “Um, what?” You feel your hand curling up, starting to withdraw in an awkward defensive reflex, though one finger is still stuck inside his waistband.

He cocks his head, and you can just feel him taking your measure. His open hands caress up and down your back, and your body responds, curling into the touch. You realize your mouth is hanging open as you continue to meet his impenetrable beskar gaze.

“Don’t you want to see if your plan is going to work? I know I do.”

Well, fuck. You rotate your wrist and press your whole palm into his lower belly, fingers pointing down. You can actually feel his warmth here, and the way his breathing speeds up as you slide your hand lower against him. When your fingertips reach bare skin he moans. It sounds like he tried to keep it in but it just slipped out anyway. He clutches you closer to him again as you skim down along course hairs and hot skin.

What is happening here? Does he really want you to wrap your fingers around his cock, like you’re so close to doing right now? His whole body is tense, you realize, and his fingers are digging into your skin almost painfully.

You slow your approach, not wanting him to snap under that tension. Or for him to snap you. You scratch your fingertips softly into the trail of hairs you feel leading you toward your prize.

“Fuck,” he groans, and pushes his whole body against you, all but crushing you against the bulkhead.

Now you can’t move your hand. But in the midst of all the hard edges of his armor, you can feel one thing poking into you that definitely isn’t beskar.

So the Mandalorian does want you. His helmet presses into the crook of your neck; you just know that if it weren’t in the way he’d be mouthing open kisses all over your throat. He keeps your hand trapped between the press of your bodies, the other still cuffed up to the wall, while his roam freely all over you. This time when he reaches your breasts he lets himself feel, scooping over your pillowy flesh and trapping a nipple between his thumb and the side of his hand.

The pressure is just short of pain and you mewl at the pleasure and desire it sends blooming up through your core. Your reaction encourages him and he tears at the opening in the front of your tunic, struggling to get at your bare flesh.

The savagery pulls a gasp from your throat, and that sound makes him pause. “I said this strategy was a dangerous game.” His helmet shifts so he can get a better look at your face. “Do you want to keep going?”

You nod. “I like this game.”

His real voice, not the aggressive character, slides out soft and even from the modulator. “I like it too.”

You press your hand harder, down where it’s trapped between your bellies, tickling your fingers toward his root. “Then let’s keep playing.”

The groan that reaches your ears through his modulator might be the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard, as he changes the angle of his hips and gives you room to reach him. Well, it was the most delicious sound, until you hear the next one to come out of his mouth, even deeper, even longer, as you find his thick shaft and curl your fingers eagerly around it.

His length had been stuck a little down one pant leg. He gives a pleasured hiss as you free him from the confinement, scooping him in your palm to point straight up between your bodies. One of his hands leaves your waist just so he can hold himself up against the wall; you must have made him go a little weak in the knees. You purr a little “mmm” in the back of your throat in satisfaction, to see the Mandalorian in such a state. His cock is thick and velvety smooth and already twitching in your palm as you give him a few slow, steady pumps.

His noise of pleasure is almost a wail, and without warning he slams a palm into the center of your chest, pushing you back into the bulkhead again. His fingers slide up to bridge your throat, exerting just enough pressure to set warning bells off in your head, and to slow your hand.

“Fu-uck,” is all he says by way of explaining himself. Then he uses both hands to pull your tunic up your body, exposing everything above your leggings to the cool air jetting from the ship’s recyclers all at once. “Off,” he growls as he tugs the fabric against your armpits, forcing you to let go of his glorious cock and let him pull the tunic off over your arm and head.

With your left arm still cuffed to the wall, the shirt has to just kind of hang there on one shoulder, but Mando has succeeded in freeing the soft flesh of your neck, your chest, and your belly. He gazes down at you for an endless moment, then begins to assault everything he has exposed with hands covered in gloves and arms coated in steel.

You know that his gloves are augmented with some kind of sensors that transmit more information than the leather look of them would imply. You wonder what your pebbled nipples and rarely-bared skin feel like to him. He certainly has the touch of someone with perfect sensitivity as he sculpts and squeezes you; he plays with your nipples and adores the rest of your flesh until you’re panting for him.

You shove your hand back into his pants. You have to make him feel how he’s making you feel, to return this sweet torture. He moans again, and thrusts himself into your hand.

You strain against the wrist that’s cuffed to the wall. If only—of course. The plan hits you all at once. While you’re dying to explore these unexpected sexytimes with Mando, your pride is still itching at you to try and win the game.

“I-I want you, babe,” you say, making the sound of the words bottom out in your throat. “Want you in my mouth.” You squeeze him from root to tip and try to drop down in front of him, dangling off the cuff like you’ve lost all control. “Please let me—let me get on my knees for you.”

Mando curses through his teeth and presses the button to release your wrist without even hesitating. As your arm falls you lean into him, feigning like you’re going to do just as you said. Then you square your stance and twist, shoving him toward the wall, using your grip on his cock like a handle. In a real fight you would have hurt him bad right there, but this is just practice, just training. Just an exercise. You don’t squeeze him hard enough to do any damage.

And as soon as you’ve twisted his momentum to the side, you’re pushing off the wall, sprinting for the hatch out of the hold, and sweet, sweet victory.

A hand like iron clamps onto your shoulder; something catches your leg, and then you’re falling, with a heavy body riding you down. You twist into the fall so it’s not ugly, absorbing the impact with thigh and forearms. Then the Mandalorian is pressing your bare chest into the decking.

“Don’t think you got away with anything, there,” he says as he climbs more firmly on top of you. You turn your head to see his beskar face looming near your cheek. “I knew what you were up to.”

“Then why did it work?”

“I just wanted to feel you run.” He presses his body over yours, armor plates grinding into your thighs and back, shoving your hips flat against the deck too so you have no leverage to try and escape. “Now. What were you saying about your mouth?” His hand leaves your shoulder to grab up a section of your hair, tugging tight at the back of your head, forcing your face up toward him. “Ready to make good on that promise?”

You nod, frantically, but as much as you’d love to suck him down, the feeling of his whole body grinding you into the deck is driving you crazy. You curl your ass up against him, with the tiny amount of movement his pressure will allow. You want more than anything else for him to just fuck you through the floor right here.

Mando’s hand runs down your naked side, pushing at the waistband of your leggings when he reaches them. “Or maybe I’ll just—”

“Yes!” you cry, “oh please,” arching your back, scrambling to help him get your clothes out of the way.

His answering growl roars wild and alien through the modulator right beside your ear. You take more of his weight as his chest presses against your upper body so he can use both hands to clear all the barriers  below your waists. You can choose to help him with your hands too, or you can hold yourself up with your forearms so you have room to actually breathe under his crushing weight.

You choose to sacrifice your breath. Your bare chest crushes into the cold decking as you shove your leggings down past your ass, and spit into your fingers so you can lubricate his path. That thick cock of his might have a hard time getting in, in a position like this, but it’s going to be so worth it.

Cool beskar gauntlets slide against your lower back and ass as Mando’s hands work at his own trousers in the small space between your bodies. His panting breath crackles through the modulator above your ear, sounding even louder since you can barely suck a breath in yourself under his weight. He moans when he notices you stroking your own slit, readying the way for him. You’ve worked your hand under one hip so you can reach yourself even as he’s crushing you. You’re already wetter than you expected, but you make sure to drag that moisture all over your sensitive folds.

As soon as he’s gotten himself free you feel his fat head probing at you. Some of the pressure comes off your chest as he slams his other hand against the deck near your face, holding himself up so he has a little more control. You think at first that he’s lining himself up, as Mando swirls himself around your entrance, and so you arch your back, present your hips as much as you can for him. As he keeps moving you realize he’s playing; savoring, scooping that moisture all over his tip before finally deciding to press inside.

The stretch is intense, and it just keeps coming. Now you have another reason not to be able to breathe. The pleasure in that invasion is white-hot and overwhelming, and he feels impossibly long, impossibly deep as he flattens you into the floor like this. You relax everything and focus on just taking it, on taking him.

Finally, finally, the timeless plunge reaches its end, as his hips come to rest against your bottom. He stays there, arms scooping around your shoulders, helmet pressed against your cheek, and lets out a long, shuddering exhale. Then he starts pumping. Long, measured, relentless thrusts drill into you, each one as deep and overwhelming as the first. The pleasure rips through you like a wildfire, melting and invigorating your limbs both at once.

And in this position you don’t have to do anything. Just lay there and take it, let Mando claim you, press further and further until you feel like your entire being is nothing but the cunt he’s hammering into, a vessel for pleasure as he grunts and curses above you, losing himself just the same in the meeting of your bodies.

Your pleasure builds, clamoring for release. You realize one of your hands is still trapped under your body, and with the small movement your current state will allow you to make, you get your finger onto your clit.

It doesn’t take much, just the slightest targeted pressure, to harness the wild ecstasy that’s been building in your core. Your muscles lock, your body clamps, and all that needy pleasure spirals so intense that you hear a rushing in your ears.

“Oh, fuck, are you coming?” Mando groans, his modulated voice so close and yet a million miles away. He presses deeper, more eagerly at the very idea, and that pushes you right over the edge. You wail like an animal and curl up under him, except you can’t, the floor’s too solid, he’s too solid, and you cum with every muscle in your body straining against a steel prison that keeps you flat and helpless.

He rides you through it all, pumping faster, harder, grunting with the effort and making your orgasm feel like it’s never going to end under the relentless way he fucks you. Even when the crest passes and your body goes limp, he keeps going, driving himself like your lives depend on it, as relentless as you’ve seen him in battle. Tears form in your eyes as his cock won’t let your body come down. You feel everything inside you tensing up for another orgasm by the time his breathing goes ragged and you know he’s close too.

When the Mandalorian comes he finally lets it all go, burying himself in you to the hilt and wailing with a sound so raw it makes your heart crack and your body clench around him. Your second orgasm makes the tears fall from your eyes; all your limbs collapse together as your cunt milks every last drop of his release out of him.

The first one to move after the rush fades is him; his helmet comes into view from where you lay with your cheek pressed against the deck. His leather-tipped finger soaks up the tear that was threatening to fall over the bridge of your nose. “Was—” his voice is thick and he has to clear his throat before he can continue, “—was I too rough?”

You make a reassuring sound, the closest you can get to words for a moment. You shake your head, just a little. “Fuck. No. Loved that.”

You wonder if that makes him smile behind the mask. Your voice came out raspy, made you both conscious of the fact that most of the weight of a seasoned warrior, plus a hell of a lot of solid beskar, still lies squarely on top of you. While the sensation was a turn-on, you still make a little sound of relief when he rolls off you, laying on his back by your side.

His helmeted head rolls to face you. You’re sure you look like a hot mess, laying there mostly naked, ass up, with your face in the deck, but you feel amazing. Mando reaches up one gloved hand and presses two fingertips lightly to your lips. It feels like a kiss, so you purse your lips and kiss back, keeping your eyes locked on his eye slit. He lifts his hand to your temple, brushing his fingers through your mussed hair.

“I guess you showed me.”

It takes you a second to realize he’s referring to the training exercise. “I thought you said it didn’t work on you.”

His helmet inclines. “It worked.”

You smile. Maybe you preen, just a little. “Satisfied, then, that I can handle myself?”

“Definitely not.”

He just lays there while you pout at him, waiting for him to elaborate. He lifts his arm, beckoning you to peel yourself off the floor and come cuddle against him. You pull your tunic back on before you comply; bare skin against beskar doesn’t sound quite as appealing now that the heat of passion has fled.

You cuddle into the crook of his arm, finding a decent enough pillow on the inside of his bicep. Only once he’s got you curled against him to his liking, does he explain himself. “You are not going to be fucking your way out of trouble while you’re with me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I forbid it.”

You try not to let him feel you shiver at what his tone does to you. “Is that so.”

“It is.”

“If you don’t respect my skills—”

“I do,” he cuts you off. “But they’re only for me, now.” His body shifts where you’re curled against him, his hand clutching against your back. “We can play this game again, as often as you like, but..” he reaches over and slaps your ass hard enough to sting, “now I’ve also got to start teaching you how to actually fight.”

My Mando Smut Masterlist

Taglist is open, and I’m taking requests: @equalstrashflavoredtrash @laketaj24 @themaskismyface @pascallorian @shadowfoxey​ @pinstripeninja13​ @thatkidofwarandpeace​ @no-droids

[shimmeringclouds]

Chapter 3

A cold beer can was pressed against your cheek, the cool water droplets smearing across your skin as you sighed blissfully. Ozo released his hold on you as you settled down onto the back seats of his taxi, leaning against the door frame as he brushed away the hair from his eyes.

"The AC doesn't work in here, so this is all I can do for you." You nodded, quietly thanking him before he shut the door, moving towards the driver's seat and strapping in. "You were headed for Iriabi, right?"

You paused, glancing at the back of his head.

"Iriabi...?"

"Yeah. That's where this road leads to. Want me to drop you off?"

"Uh.. N-No, I live in Akatsuka, so..." You were too embarrassed to say out loud that you had never heard of Iriabi before, and you shrunk down a little into your seat to try and avoid his gaze in the rear view mirror. Ozo raised a brow at your reaction but shrugged nonetheless, starting up the car and getting it into gear as it began rolling slowly down the uneven road, gradually picking up speed.

"Akatsuka, huh?" he continued, not wasting the opportunity to start some small talk with a pretty girl, "I've never seen you around before! And I never forget cute faces like yours once I've seen 'em." He winked back at you through the mirror, chuckling at how your mouth feel agape at his obvious flirting.

"Maybe a name for your face might help me remember?"

The sensible side of your brain was already screaming at the man for being so shameless with those dumb and cringe-worthy pickup lines, as if he had the audacity to think that they were good. But after being alone for so long, after having virtually no one to talk to like this for months on end, and especially after being complimented so nicely for the first time in who knows how long, as sad as it may sound, your heart jumped for joy and craved for more.

"It's [L/N] [Y/N]."

"[Y/N]..." he murmured, as if tasting the word in his tongue curiously, his lips twisting into a cheeky grin, "Suits you! Pretty name for a pretty girl!"

You stammered out another word of thanks, pinching the skin of your arm as a reminder to not to get ahead of yourself. You pushed away the hopeful thoughts from your mind, knowing that he wasn't serious. No one had ever been serious before, and this wasn't any different. Right?

The car ride back to Akatsuka village was a lot shorter then the walk would have been, and you found yourself re-entering the town after around ten minutes. Ozo had filled that small silence with gentle hums of a song you didn't recognise and tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, his demeanour a lot more relaxed and slack compared to your tense form.

"What's your address? I'll drop you off!" His sudden question startled you out of your quiet stupor, and you quickly gave him the street name.

"Do you need directions?"

"Nah! I know this town like the back of my hand," he bragged, making a quick right turn as he rubbed his index finger under the bridge of his noise. True to his word, he managed to navigate his way through the wide and empty streets until he finally pulled the car to a halt outside your front door.

"Here's your stop!" He chuckled to himself, watching as you began to clamber out of the car, beer can still in your grasp. You came up to his window, too busy taking out your purse to notice him eye the meter momentarily before turning to you with the same curved smile.

"Did I forget to tell you? First timers get a free ride!"

You paused, staring at him wide eyed. Surely that wasn't a real thing?

"A-Are you sure? I have money--"

"Don't worry about it! You don't need to pay me a single yen."

"I... Well, thank you," was all you could say. You barely had enough energy to continue interacting anymore. You just wanted to go inside and lie down in front of your fan for the rest of the day. The air was stifling.

"It's nothing..!" Ozo's mind flew to his boss, knowing he wouldn't approve of him doing this, but then again there were many things his boss didn't approve of. This one would just have to be swept under the rug.

"Have a nice day," you bowed hastily, turning on your heel and heading to your front door, keys already grasped tightly between your fingers. Ozo flailed for words, not wanting to let you go just yet, but you were already halfway through the door, your face obscured by your strands of hair.

"You too, sweetheart! Maybe I'll see you again sometime!"

»»-----　♔　-----««

He never got a verbal response, only the sound of your door shutting behind you, the noise bouncing off the walls of nearby buildings and echoing around him. He sat back in his seat, rubbing his finger once again under his nose, grinning to himself.

"Nailed it."

Ozo began manoeuvring his car away from your home, sending one final glance back to your house through the side mirror before it disappeared from view.

Now that he was alone again, the quietness in his car and the town was really starting to bore him. It hadn't even been that long since he finished his break over at Iriabi with his youngest brother, but he felt as if he deserved another. It wasn't like there were going to be many people who needed a lift around here, anyway.

With a soft hum, Ozo diverted his car from the main road and set off down a smooth stone pathway instead, the grass on the edges of the road now becoming more clean cut and less wild and untamed.

Over the line of trees that were bunched together in the distance, he could make out two large and familiar houses, the sun glinting off of their grey tiled roofs. His eyes drifted over to the one on the right, with the roof being slightly lower and flatter compared to the other.

A smirk spread across his face as a thought drifted through his mind, and he pressed his foot down further onto the gas.

Rolling up in front of white stone fencing with the entrance carefully carved into a large circular shape, Ozo wasted no time in driving the car through the entrance and parking it in front of the wooden sliding doors at the front of the house. He left the car to sit in the gravelled driveway, whistling as he swung his keys around his index finger before allowing it to slip into his pocket.

He knocked loudly on the door, rocking back and forth on his heels as his brown orbs wandered around his surroundings, noticing the same coloured flowers and neatly cut hedges that were there the last time he was there, which seemed like such a long time ago. The sign with the words 'Midorito Estate' carved into it looked as if it had just been freshly polished, the wood surface shining smoothly under the sun.

The heat was starting to really irritate him by the time the door was slid open, revealing a man dressed in a grey yukata, whose eyes were narrowed and lips pulled into a scowl at the sight of Ozo on the other side of the door.

"Chorosuke! Long time no see!" Ozo cheerily greeted with a lazy wave of his hand.

"You were literally here just last night, Ozo," Chorosuke growled, his words turning into a strained yelp as Ozo simply walked past him.

"Well, it's been a long day for me." Kicking his shoes off with little grace or care for where they landed, Ozo swiftly evaded the angered hands of Chorosuke as they attempted to throttle him, easily navigating his way to the main sitting room and flopping himself down onto the tatami flooring in front of a large fan.

"Who said you could come in here?!" Ozo grumbled lowly, ignoring the man as he shut his eyes and relished in the cold wind as it breezed across his face, sifting through his hair and traversing down his neck. The collar of his shirt flapped noisily under the fan's wind, the whirring of its many hands almost enough to drown out Chorosuke's berating.

Almost.

"You're lucky I don't call the police on you! Do you have any idea what that would do to my family name?!"

"Yeah yeah, I heard ya' the last time you told me. Just relax.... We're brothers, anyway, aren't we?" Ozo's voice was already groggy with sleepiness, the whole ambiance of the room very close to lulling him to sleep.

Chorosuke stood by the door, a tense look in his eyes as he registered Ozo's words.

The word 'brother' was still foreign to him. It left an odd taste on his tongue whenever he spoke the word, and an equally odd ring in his ear when he heard it. All his life he had been brought up with his one and only younger sister, but now over the past two years, a handful of men show up with the same face as him, and one of them claiming them all to be long lost brothers.

It might not be far from the truth, especially with the fair bits of evidence he had seen, but even so...

"Hey, you got any beer? My stash ran out."

...Even so, how could he be related to such an idiot?

"Is that all you ever come here for?" Chorosuke grumbled, reluctantly moving over to a door on the far left wall which lead to the kitchen and grabbing a beer can from the fridge. He shut the fridge door, only to open it a moment later to grab a can for himself. He was going to need it if he was now forced to deal with that in his living room.

"If it's free, I'll take it," Ozo chuckled as the other returned, gladly taking the beverage and briefly pressing it to his warm neck before cracking it open.

"Then I'll charge you next time."

"You're already rich enough!"

Chorosuke hid the small smile threatening to break onto his lips behind his drink, turning his head away to peer outside of the opened doors revealing his vast and beautifully decorated back garden. It was the same blue sky, he noted, and it looked just as serene as it did when he saw it last.

"I'm surprised Toshio isn't with you today. Actually, that's probably a good thing..." Chorosuke began. He was more used to the two menaces storming his house at the same time instead of on separate occasions.

Ozo shrugged, "I haven't seen him all day. Who knows what he's doing..." A stretch of silence passed before Ozo suddenly snapped his fingers, his eyes lighting up. "Oh yeah! Did you make the call yet?"

"I managed to reach them this morning," Chorosuke nodded. "They'll be here by tomorrow night, if they're not swamped with work."

"That quick? I thought they'd be here by the end of the week!"

"Well, Hajime is unemployed, so he has plenty of time on his hands, and Karatsugu is barely paid attention to in his office. I'm not too surprised."

Ozo made a small noise of agreement. A soft smile stretched across his lips as he gazed at the fully grown maple tree sat in the centre of Chorosuke's garden. It had been a while since he and his brothers had gotten together, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't excited. The memories of the last time they gathered together under the same roof made him giddy with anticipation as to what havoc they would wreak this time around.

His thoughts swirled back and forth through his mind for a while before one particular thought lingered in front of his mind, allowing his smile to morph into an impish grin. He elbowed Chorosuke beside him to garner his attention, who only stared at him with an unimpressed grimace.

"Guess what, guess what?" He was already snickering. Chorosuke knew he didn't want to hear whatever this story was going to be, but he had no other choice, unfortunately.

"....What?" He sighed.

"I'm pretty sure I picked up a hitch hiker off the road today," Ozo began, "and she was super pretty. Like, gorgeous."

"And why are you telling me this?"

"Because! Don't you wanna hear about how big her boo-"

"Shut up!" Chorosuke hissed, grabbing a newspaper from nearby and smacking the roll over his target's head. Ozo only chuckled, barely moving away from his attacker. "What if Dayoko was to hear you?! You have no manners whatsoever, you dolt!"

"You say that, but your face is so red!" Ozo began to cackle with laughter, his free hand smacking his knee. Chorosuke stammered, a sweat now breaking out on his temple as he attempted to right himself.

"I-It is not! Just stop talking about it!"

"Aww, but I'm serious! It's been so long since I've seen a new face as cute as hers," Ozo sighed dreamily, his gaze now distant as he remembered your features, your voice, the little ticks of nervousness throughout the whole taxi ride... "And I know where she lives, too! So I can visit her whenever!"

"Please don't. That's just creepy. Borderline stalking," Chorosuke shook his head. He went to take another sip of his beer, only to find the can already empty. Ozo shook his, also finding it devoid of his favourite alcoholic drink. He gave Chorosuke a pointed look, eliciting a groan from him.

He stood up to fetch another beer. Maybe something stronger this time.

[siorca]

Autobots set up cameras to spy on the Decepticons but they instead witness Momma Soundwave (any verse)

Anon I have no idea why you send me this prompt because I literally have not written in years, but I felt inspired. Didn’t edit, might fuck around and put a proper version on my AO3:

“What are you doing?”

Ratchet was tired, and the throb of a processor ache buzzed between his optics. His voice echoed his state, dull and unperturbed where he might have shown a level of concern on a good day. Meetings with Prowl tended to do that. Primus, did he have respect for that mech, but how frustrating it was to sway his stubborn nature on issues of medicine.

Sideswipe spared him a passing glance, returning to his task with added fever, as if completing it quickly could keep Ratchet from spoiling his fun. Ratchet had pulled rank on him for more minor infractions before. In a rare case of fortune, Ratchet had no interest in the resulting paperwork today.

Laid before him was one of the few drones that the Ark still had left, between the crash, Decepticon interference, and drunken Autobot hassling. Its simple processor was split open neatly, and Sideswipe moved between its internals with precision. In another life, Ratchet would have gladly mentored him as a junior surgeon for such a display, but knowing what he knew of him after millions of years, he could only muster a vague sort of impressed detachment.

Sunstreaker was only a few feet away, not contributing much, aside from a cool atmosphere, leaned against the wall like he was the last line of defense before a sudden collapse. While Sunstreaker rarely participated in Sideswipe’s more mischievous endeavors, he was never far behind to witness the fallout, like a specter of misfortune. A classic form of sibling bonding, in Ratchet’s experience.

He locked optics with Ratchet, raising an expectant optic ridge, the edges of a smug smile pulling at his lips. Ratchet waved at him in polite greeting.

Sideswipe let out a loud huff, hovering over his pet project protectively when he realized Ratchet wasn’t moving - mostly because a majority of the hallway had been turned into a makeshift workshop and Ratchet ached in too many places to try maneuvering around the little space left for travel.

“I’m winning a bet,” he said, oozing the brand of determined confidence that only Sideswipe was foolish enough to exude. Ratchet rubbed his optics, unimpressed, trying to keep his processor ache from spreading. Deflated, Sideswipe fiddled with his screwdriver a moment more, ducking back into his task, neatly and swiftly installing a small camera in the midst of the fissures he had created in the cranial unit.

“And what bet involves you vandalizing Autobot property?”

“He thinks the Decepticons have a pet sea monster,” Sunstreaker supplied, helpfully. “He got hooked on one of Hound’s stories about Earth creatures.”

“What?” said Sideswipe, incensed. “Just because the humans haven’t been able to get much scientific proof, doesn’t mean the Decepticons haven’t discovered something they missed. They live down there, for Primus’ sake!”

“Don’t you think they would have managed to outfit it with some sort of Cyber-tech to make our lives more difficult by now? Megatron would have at least called to brag the first deca-cycle they captured it.”

“Maybe they’re saving it for a secret mission? You never know!”

Ratchet’s shushed them, waving his hands frantically to avoid a brawl. Sunstreaker still looked unperturbed, but Sideswipe’s hackles were raised enough to hint at an inevitable pounce. Sideswipe pouted, welding the suffering drone back together with far more force than was necessary. The camera poked out of its head inelegantly, though blinking steady enough to prove that it worked.

Ratchet held onto only enough processing power to put the pieces together.“Are you...planning on breaking into the Decepticon base with that? To see if they have a sea monster?”

Ratchet was impressed, truth be told. This sort of ingenuity was something that Jazz would be interested in. It was almost a shame that Sideswipe was not cut out for Special Ops. Still, he could appreciate the craftsmanship, not to mention the sheer absurdity of going to these levels for the sake of pride. It reminded him of something Wheeljack would do, and it was only the fond thought of his conjunx that fueled his further investment.

“Yeah. Good to make sure the ‘cons aren’t planning anything.” Sunstreaker scoffed behind him. Sideswipe shot a glare over his shoulder.

“Huh,” said Ratchet. “If only you could muster this much effort on any of your assigned projects.”

Sideswipe sputtered in indignation, standing from his crouched position. He naturally towered over Ratchet, but knew better than to use his bulk for intimidation where Ratchet was involved. Sunstreaker snickered behind him. The drone, which had finished powering up, chirped, hovering around Sideswipe’s knees like an eager youngling.

Sideswipe gathered himself, brushing past

Ratchet brusquely. “Excuse me, I have a point to make,” he shot over his shoulder. The drone chirped again, matching his pace quickly. Sunstreaker peeled himself away from the wall, trailing behind him, sighing dramatically.

Ratchet looked down the empty expanse of hallway, his quarters tantalizingly close. The processor ache was starting to fade, replaced with a dangerous curiosity. “You doing this now?”

“No time better.”

“Curfew is soon.”

“So?” said Sideswipe, crossing his arms in a defensive manner.

Ratchet sighed, cursing every weak process in his body that caused him to make equally as foolish decisions as those around him. “So, it’s best to have an officer escort you. After all, said officer might be able to cover for you if you happen to be late.”

Sideswipe grinned. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m more so interested in seeing if your monstrosity can get the job done.” Said monstrosity beeped irritatedly, as if its neglect was a personal affront to something that held no personality.

Sunstreaker groaned. “Don’t encourage him. This is only going to end badly.”

“Most likely, but what else do we have to do right now?” said Ratchet, trailing after the strange trio and out of the base.

—

The sun was just beginning to set by the time they made it to the shore, the pinks and oranges of the sky reflecting on the ocean in a dazzling kaleidoscope. In the distance, the one moon was beginning to peek through the clouds, struggling to outshine the fiery final performance of the sun. Humans found something romantic in such periods of transition. Ratchet, of a species who built their existence out of transformations, remained nonplussed.

“Mirage mentioned a security loophole near the back hull of the Nemesis a while back. Fancy words for ‘there’s a hole in it.’ Salt water makes it difficult for repairs to take, I guess.” Sideswipe placed the drone near the edge of the water, facing the general direction of where the Nemesis lay dormant. The drone did not move, ever eagerly awaiting orders.

Ratchet made a humming noise. On the other side of the beach, Sunstreaker was hassling a tiny crab that didn’t make it back to the water before low tide. It couldn’t harm him, yet it’s posturing begged to differ. If force of will could kill a mech, Sunstreaker would be in critical condition right now. Sunstreaker smiled crookedly at the creature, taking care not to accidentally step on it.

Sideswipe reached into his subspace for a datapad, tapping at it with his stylus in a rhythmic manner while he waited for it to fully boot up.

“Rigged this up.” Sideswipe waved the awakened pad, the crisp image of the sunset on full view.

“Clever,” said Ratchet. “You even sure the drone’s going to survive the water?” Most Cybertronian tech did not play well with salt water. One of the drawbacks of being born on a planet that was not intimate with the substance.

“It’s survived this long. Seems to be made of sturdier stuff than the average drone.” Sideswipe patted it good-naturedly on the shoulder.

“If you say so. Let’s get started before a ‘con patrol shows up.” Ratchet waved Sunstreaker over. He grumbled something too low to hear, moving down the beach. Once reunited, he folded his arms, cocking one hip to the side in his usual aloof stance, shooting his brother a challenging glare. Sideswipe stuck his glossa out at him in retaliation.

Sideswipe turned his attention to the datapad. He nudged the drone with his foot. It beeped, inching its way forward slowly. He nudged it again, the drone making a more affronted noise, quickening its pace.

There was a palpable tension as the drone immersed itself, the watery image of the Pacific melting into itself as the camera adjusted to its new temporary home. The image crisped the deeper it went, the shapes of small fish, scampering away from their newest visitor, becoming clearer. Sideswipe let out a whoop of excitement, the drone dutifully fulfilling its task and Sunstreaker huffed in annoyance.

“Well I’ll be slagged,” said Ratchet, placing his hands on his hips in astonishment. Autobot ingenuity was truly only at its best when petty pride was involved.

The drone traveled deeper, the pressure of the depths squeezing around the hydraulics in its lower half, slowing its momentum only slightly. The remains of the Nemesis were laid deep, near to the point where light had difficulty penetrating to the sea floor. Just enough sunlight peeked through to illuminate the remains of coral and the clinging vines of seaweed crisscrossing the outer hull. It looked monstrous in the semi-dark. If any sea monsters were lurking here, the Nemesis could certainly qualify as one with the right argument.

A large hole, poorly obscured by a large wad of algae, pocketed the side, toward the back. Small creatures hovered near it, mistaking it for a haven from the larger predators. The drone made its way through the throng, scampering up the remaining shrapnel that passed for a crude ramp into the interior. Inside, the Decepticons had managed to use some feat of engineering to stave off the water after a few feet. The result was a lagoon in the middle of what Ratchet would assume was the remains of part of the cargo bay.

Emergency lights flickered overhead, bathing the otherwise empty space in an eerie, energon-pink glow. The bay was smaller than expected, only made more obvious by the tall wall of concrete, sectioning off one side, no doubt to protect their precious mechanical stores on the other side. The drone gave a quick sweep of the area.

Sunstreaker tapped his foot impatiently. “Nothing here.”

“Yeah, yeah, we just got here,” shushed Sideswipe.

A convenient ventilation shaft lay across the room, wide enough to pass through. The drone meandered its way there, clambering inside with little effort. The tunnel was dark, but the basic night vision on the drone could make out the forward path.

“They probably have it stored somewhere where they can keep an eye on it,” said Sideswipe, matter-of-factly.

Ratchet kept a close optic on the screen, his sharp senses picking up the tell tale notes of conversation. Up ahead, a vent peaked out into a hallway, somewhere near the living quarters. Ratchet hushed them, pointing at the screen firmly. Valuable reconnaissance was important, regardless if sea monsters were involved or not.

Sideswipe commandeered the drone toward the vent, tilting the datapad to encourage the drone to look through the grates. It pressed up against them firmly. Even distorted, the distinct, blocky shape of Soundwave was hard to mistake, two smaller bodies with him that could only be his own pair of twins.

One brother was cradled in his arms with a painful looking dent in his right cheek. A sour frown marred his face while his body sagged in an overdramatic sprawl over Soundwave’s arm. The other had his arms crossed over his chest, his visible forearm sporting a nasty scratch, petulant scowl twisting his features.

“You must mind your strength, Rumble. You nearly cracked Frenzy’s optic,” chastised Soundwave, gentle and firm in only the way a creator could manage. There weren’t many of those left, between the two armies, and it only made it extra bizarre to hear such a rare tone from Soundwave, of all mechs.

It was obvious that the drone had stumbled upon some sort of familiar conflict. Perhaps not imperative to the war effort, but tantalizing all the same.

“Should they be doing this out in the hallway?” said Sideswipe, absentmindedly.

Sunstreaker shrugged. “Maybe it’s a Decepticon thing.”

On the feed, a loud huff came from Rumble. “Well, he started it!”

“And yet I have told both of you multiple times to stop rough-housing.”

“Soundwave, I’m fine,” piped up Frenzy, drooping further down Soundwave’s hip. He seemed to be trying to turn himself into pure liquid in order to escape his creator’s arms. Soundwave only tightened his hold.

“That is not the point. You will seriously hurt each other one day. Last week, you nearly blew out Rumble’s audials. What will it be next time?” Soundwave’s words must have struck a nerve. Frenzy had the decency to look bashful, pausing in his squirming. Rumble simply pursed his lips.

“Both of you must be more careful until you have better control of your sigma abilities.” Soundwave finally freed Frenzy from his makeshift prison, who promptly scampered to his brother’s side.

Soundwave’s concern was familiar to Ratchet, echoing a time long ago when creators used to bring their Outlier sparklings to his Dead End clinic. Those whose abilities were extreme enough to affect their health or those around them and the rarer cases of those that thought he might be able to help control their abilities.

He empathized with him. Soundwave himself was an infamously powerful telepath, and it was only logical that his creations would inherit some sort of power. The proof was in their terror on the battlefield, the few times that they had participated in the more small scale scuffles. He had nearly forgotten how this would reflect in what would pass for home these days.

Soundwave sighed, for the moment deflated. “Go to Hook. He owes me a favor. Make sure to behave yourselves.” The twins nodded, for now behaving themselves as they made their way down the opposite side of the hallway. Soundwave, himself walked a few doors down, assuredly to his own quarters.

Sideswipe pulled the drone away from the grate. “Give them a few days, they’ll be right back to trying to kill each other.”

Sunstreaker grinned. “Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a round 2 before they hit the medbay.”

Ratchet barked a laugh. “Probably.”

“Now to find that sea monster.”

[jasmehraj]

We are just friends

A song fic where Adrien is an honorary brother and Gabriel is an honorary uncle. Yes you read it right. Friends by Anne Marie and Marshmallow

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Ohhh Oh ohhh woh,

oh ohhh ohh woh,

Marinette was happily singing while doing embroidery of beautiful tulips 🌷on her newest commission. The trap door opened to reveal Adrien but she didn't notice. He came from behind her and covered her eyes,"Adrien let go, this commission is very important."

"Don't you like to see your romantic soulmate M'lady." Her eye twitched. She sighed and covered her face with her hands.

Ooohhh oohh oohh woh,

Oooo oooo Oooo ohh Woh.

Damian had just landed in Paris to see his beloved. She of course didn't know. He made his way towards Le Grande Hotel of Paris. He was standing tapping his foot on the floor impatiently while Dick was checking in.

"Damikins." A voice exclaimed. He growled in frustration and dodged as yellow blur tried to hug him. Chloe Bourgeois was kissing the ground as she got up and groaned with pain.

"This is not a way to greet me damikins."

You say you love me,

I say you crazy,

We're noting more than friends.

"Adrien stop that." She said clearly frustrated as Adrien confessed for a hundredth time this week. "Did you not like the flowers M'lady? Or do you want a real kiss instead of a chocolate kisses?" Adrien had a cheeky smile on his face. They had revealed each other's identity in the last battle. Who happened to be her honorary uncle Gabriel. Adrien is still stuck on the soulmate thing. She sighed a bone crushing sigh.

"Bourgeois, we were over this. I do not love you and you do not love me." His patience was wearing thin. "Oh come on damikins, who else will be good enough for you?" Dick was trying to control his laughter but he was miserably failing. The traitor Damian thought.

You're not my lover,

More like a brother.

I know you since we were like 10.

Marinette had first met Adrien when she was 10. Her mother came with him to get some pastries from the most famous bakery of Paris. They became friends quickly. She often went to play with him to his eyes where she met Gabriel. She gushed about how she wanted to be a fashion designer like him someday. Both Emilie and Gabriel had smiled at her. They both winner each other's families heart very easily. "Adrien you are like a brother to me I am like a sister to you and as a matter of fact I have a boyfriend." He was getting difficult to handle. "Keep telling yourself that M'lady." He winked and grinned. She sighed, today was going to be a very long day.

Damian met Chloe at a gala. No matter how many times he tried to lose her, she somehow came back he is surprised that he didn't kill her as he was fresh out of the league. "I have a girlfriend bourgeois and she is much more worthy than you." This was getting ridiculous. Normally he wouldn't insult her but he was just so done. "I am much more worthy than anyone else on the planet ditch her." She said flipping her hair. "No." He plainly replied and walked towards his room.

YEAH,

Lila was getting annoying with time and her classmates also showed their level of stupidity. So, she pulled out the big guns. She recorded her lies, her threats and the amount of evidence on ladyblog was laughable if not sad. She called her clients who happened to be the people that she lied about. She and all her clients threw restraining orders and law suits on her face. She was confirmed to be working with hawkmoth. If Marinette used kwamis help to record her conversation with hawkmoth, well, no one needs to know that. Lila spilled the beans that hawky was actually uncle Gabriel.

They were made aware of the situation of Paris by Ladybug. One day when they were casually sitting in the cave when an emergency alert came from the computer. "It's the watchtower." They all went through the Zeta, only to see a girl in bright red suit handing green lantern his ass. That's how he met her.

Don't mess it up,talking that shit,

Only gonna push me away,

That's it.

She was getting anxious with every growing second. It took everything in her yo not punch him right there, in his pretty little face. She took deep breaths to calm down. Sure she loved him. He is her best friend but this was getting ridiculous. "Adrien get out. I need to finish this commission today."

Damian glared at Chloe once more as she tried to kiss him again. "Stop that Bourgeoise." "Stop what Damikins?" "I have been blessed with a name, use it." He went inside his room and locked it. "Having problems, Little D?" The idiot dick had the audacity to laugh. "Tt. I am going to take Habibiti to a date tomorrow. It's our 3 year anniversary." He plainly said ignoring the starry look in his brother's eyes. "But I need you to make sure that Bourgeois doesn't crash my date....." He added reluctantly. "The magic words." Dick said not looking up from his phone, trying to look serious but the smirk on his face gave it away. "Tt. Please Grayson. Happy now." He growled out. "Yes." He said, still grinning like an idiot. Damian huffed and started his preparation for his date.

When you say you love me,

That makes me CRAZY.

Here we go again.....

Marinette was sewing when there was a knock on the trap-door. "M'lady, here you go." Marinette whipped her head to face him. He was standing there, covered in flour with odd shaped macaroons in his hands. She decided not to comment. She got back to work. He looked at her clearly not happy, "Purrrrincess, I made macaroons for you." Still nothing. He frowned,"Purrincess." "I'mmabusy. Getlost." He didn't understand her word vomit."Repeat it again bugaboo." She started the music and sang:

Damian was reserving everything for his anniversary when Chloe came in. No, he didn't give her permission. He simply said,"Get out." She looked like she was going to argue, but he threw a bat-glare her way which made her recoil a bit. Key word A BIT. He stood up and used his finger to point at her as he sang:

Don't go look at me

With that look in your eye.

"But M'lady."

"Damikins, I-"

They continued, shutting them:

You're really ain't going

away without a fight!

"Marinette you want me to sing with you?" She ran a hand through her hair.

"Oh Damikins stop it." He growled.

And they continued singing.

You can't be reasoned with,

I'm done being polite.

"Marinette your voice is beautiful. You wrote it yourself?" His comment fell on deaf years.

"Damikins. Where did you get this stupid song from?"

They continued singing as they pulled out their phones.

I've told you

1,2,3,4,5,6 thousand times!

She made gestures with her hands. Her phone tinged. It was message from Damian,"Be at the Eiffel tower at 7 tomorrow morning." She smiled.

Damian's phone tinged with a message from his malak. "Ok , but why?"

Chloe chose the moment to interrupt but before she could say anything, his face formed a scowl. He started singing again.

Haven't I made it obvious?

Marinette sang:

Haven't I made it clear?

They both sang with the music. Equally furious. They pushed the respective intruders towards the door.

Want me to spell it out for you?

F-R-I-E-NDS

Adrien took her advice and leaved her alone but she knew that's not the case, he's sitting on the balcony, listening to her. Alya entered her room for girl's night along with Rose, Alex and Juleka. She sang loudly. Her friends humming.

Chloe did leave but Damian sang to himself as the music continued to play. Dick also humming.

Haven't I made it obvious?(Oooh oooh ooh woh)

Haven't I made it clear?(Oooh ooh ooh woh)

Want me to spell it out for you?(Oooh ooh ooh woh)

F-R-I-EN-D-S(Oooh ooh ooh woh)

F-R-I-EN-D-S

Adrien left at that and she sighed in relief. She told her friends about her latest commission and they chatted, played games and soon it was 1 am. Marinette shot,"Guys! we need to sleep. I have to go to Eiffel Tower at 7 tomorrow." "Why girl?" Alya questioned. "No why's or but's sleep now." They all obeyed. No one had enough strength to deal with Mari's wrath as they put it.

Damian was panicking. She is not going to get mad. Will she? He sighed. "Baby bird. Go to sleep. You are going to miss your own date." Dick warned. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Then he went to bed.

Have you got no shame?

You looking insane,

Turning up at my door.

They were sleeping when there was a knock on the trap-door. Marinette was a heavy sleeper, so she didn't wake up by it but Alix did. "Who there?" She sleepily mumbled. "I'm Adrien." The voice, no, Adrien said. "Everyone is sleeping. It's a girls night. Go away sunshine." Alya mumbled from her seat. "But-" Rose woke up and sat at her spot,"You should go Adrien you can hang out with Marinette later." She said in her usual squeaky voice. "We don't want to here." Juleka added.

Damian was peacefully sleeping but it was interrupted by a knock on the door. Both Damian and Dick woke up immediately and assessed the surroundings for any threats. There was another knock on the door followed by a loud,"Damikins..." Both of them sighed.

It's 2 in the morning,

The rain is pouring,

Haven't we been here before?

Marinette woke up to many voices, likely arguing over something. She rubbed her eyes,"What's wrong." She sleepily said between a yawn. "It was Adrien." Alya said. Marinette's eyes shot open as she carefully listened to a light thud on the balcony. It was probably raining outside. She sighed as she went to the balcony, her friends following,"Chat Noir. Last. Warning." She deadpanned. "Ummm... purrincess. I wanted to ask if we could play UM-" He never finished the sentence. Marinette threw a pot on his head. He groaned as he stood up, only to see Marinette standing there, eyes closed WITH ANOTHER POT IN HAND. He ran with his tail between his legs. "Let's go back to sleep." She said yawning and they went back to bed.

Damian didn't open the door,"What do you want?" Chloe's shrill voice came from the other side,"I had a nightmare." "Do you think I care?" He replied, venom lacing his voice. "I am scared of the lightning." She was trying to be intimidating but she was failing. MISERABLY. "We both know that is not true." He deadpanned. "Open please." Damian ignored her and went to his bed. "I have important places to be tomorrow." He said as he pulled out his headphones and played soft music. Dick doing the same with an equally grumpy face. She left eventually and they both dumped the headphones to get some peaceful sleep.

Don't mess it up,

Talkin' that shit,

Only gonna push me away,

That's it!

Damian woke up at about 5 am. He then told Dick his plan and left for Eiffel tower at 5:30 am to set his date.

Marinette was sleeping peacefully. A package arrived her home. Sabine came upstairs and called her,"Marinette there's a package from your boyfriend." Tikki nuzzled her chosen's cheek. She then said in her ear,"Marinette you're late." She immediately shot up. She glared at Tikki but the voice of her mother came again,"Marinette, sweety. There's a package from Damian. Now, fully awake she went downstairs.

Have you got no shame?

You looking insane,

She was greeted by Adrian as she reached her mother. She groaned.

She cut whatever he was going to say,"Have you got no shame you lookin insane. Here we go again." She didn't even look up. Adrien closed his mouth and went back through the way he came from.

Here we go again.

She wrote a note for her friends about where she is going. She opened a package to see a beautiful dress with a note.

7 AM Angel ;)🗼

She hurried to try the dress. She came out,"You are looking beautiful my baby."

Her mother kissed her cheek,"Thank you Mamman."

Her mother did her hair. She was looking like some Chinese princess.

So don't go,

Look at me,

with that look in your eye....

She started her walk towards Eiffel tower. Adrien came just in time for all the girls to come down.

"Sabine, Where is Marinette?"Sabine smiled at them and she said,"She left a note for you."

They nodded and picked the note from the table.

It read:

I am going to the Eiffel Tower. Dami has planned something for me. I don't know what but don't follow me. I can tell he wants to do something special for our 3 year anniversary.

Rose said,"We should go to our home then. We shouldn't disturb them."

Alya nodded,"Let's get change."

Adrien heard everything (well, the fact that she was at the Eiffel Tower) and decided to go after his princess.

You really ain't going away

Without a fight......

You can't be reasoned with, I'm done being polite.....

I've told you, 1,2,3,4,5,6 thousand times!

In the way Adrien was met with Chloe. She was also looking for someone.

"Hey Chloe." Adrien greeted her.

"Hey Adrikins. Where are you going this early?" Chloe asked, eyebrow raised.

"I am going to find Marinette. To the Eiffel Tower." He grinned.

Chloe smiled,"Of course the Eiffel Tower. Let's go together. I am loong forn Damikins. He must have gone there."

They both started their walk to the Eiffel tower together.

Haven't I made it obvious?

Haven't I made it clear?

Want me to spell it out for you,

F-R-I-E-N-D-S

Marinette was about to reach Eiffel tower when someone covered her eyes. She giggled, "Dami."

And threw herself into his arms.

"You came here, for me?" She looked at him with stars in her eyes. "Of course Angel. Happy 3 year anniversary." He kissed her forehead.

"You are looking stunning, angel." He said and felt his cheeks burning hot. "Not so bad yourself handsome." She winked, cheeks dusted pink. She did a twirl."The dress is beautiful Demon."

He chuckled ,"I had to find something that could get approved by MDC. I am honoured that you like it.Bbbbbut you can't go further without this." He pulled out his handkerchief and tied it on her eyes. "No peeking, angel." He said making her giggle.

He led her to the elevator. They reached the top of the tower neither noticing that Chloe and Adrien had seen them. He led her to the special place. He untied the handkerchief. She gasped.

Haven't I made it obvious,

Haven't I made it clear

Adrien and Chloe followed them up,"Why is Maribug with Damikins?" Adrien tried to remember the note but couldn't for some reason. He only paid attention to the fact that she was at the Eiffel Tower. He frowned,"I just heard that she is going to Eiffel Tower and ran to catch up with her before she gets away." "She always denies the fact that you are dating and you are the opposite. What type of relationship do you have?" Chloe huffed at the antics of her two best friends.

They reached the top. Marinette and Damian were standing there. Marinette had covered her mouth with her hands. Damian was smirking. Their was a blanket set up with a pot with beautiful flowers in the middle and a picnic basket. The sun was rising giving a magical effect to such simple thing."It's beautiful dove. Thank you."

       They were very close for both of their tastes. Adrien shouted, "You are looking beautiful M'lady."

Chloe took this as an invitation to speak,"Damikins what are you doing with Mari? What are you doin' with Damikins Maribug?"

Both their expressions became dangerous. Damian started,"Haven't I made it obvious?"

Marinette said,"Haven't I made it clear?"

Then they started singing.

Damian, Want me to spell it out for you?

Marinette, (to spell it out for you?)

Damian, F-R-I-E-N-D-S

Marinette, F-R-I-E-N-D-S

Damian nd Marinette, F-R-I-E-N-D-S

Damian, That's how you fuc*ing spell friends,

Damian nd Marinette, F-R-I-E-N-D-S

Marinette, Get that shit inside your head.

Chloe, No.....

Adrien, no.....

Damian, Yeah...

Marinette, ah...

Damian nd Marinette, F-R-I-E-N-D-S

Damian nd Marinette, We're just friends.

Daminette, So don't go look at me with that look in your eye!

Daminette, You really ain't,

Daminette, going away,

Daminette,without a fight.....

Daminette, You can't be reasoned with,

Daminette, I'm done being polite.....

Daminette, I've told you,

Daminette, 1,2,3,4,5,6 thousand times!

Marinette, Haven't I made it obvious?

Damian, (hasn't she made it obvious?)

Marinette, Haven't I made it clear?

Damian, (She made it very clear?)

Marinette, Want me to spell out for you? Damian, (yeah)

Marinette, F-R-I-E-N-D-S

Damian, (I said F-R-I-E-N-D-S)

Damian, Haven't I made it obvious?

Marinette, (He made it obvious.)

Damian, Haven't I made it clear?

Marinette, (He made it very clear.)

Damian, Want me to spell it out for you?

Damian, F-R-I-E-N-D-S

Marinette, F-R-I-EN-D-S

Daminette, Ohhh oh ohhh oh ohhh oh oh ah

Ah ooh ah, ahhh oh ahh oh

"We are just friends." They finished. Realization came on their faces,"You are dating." They said at the same time. "Sorry Maribug. I didn't know that. A little someone told me that he was dating with you."Chloe said, glaring at Adrien. He coiled into himself. She grabbed his arm and went towards the elevator,"And Damian. I approve. I am going to give you a shovel talk when you come back, treat my BFF right." When they went away. Damian and Marinette burst into laughing."Shall we continue?"She said.

"Of course,"He replied. They leaned closer to kiss. They were kissing unaware of the rest of the world when they heard the click of a camera.

They turned towards the noise to see Red Robin taking photos along with Nightwing, Red Hood, Black Bat, Spoiler, Batman heck even Oracle was there. "I am not going to be surprised if Alfred is here too." Marinette said. They both glared at them. But they didn't even flinch. "No matter how much we try they are not going away." Damian said sighing."I bet they recorded everything. Plus point is we will get adequate photos because Drake is a good photographer."

Marinette also sighed,"Let's eat and hope they will not come nearer." They didn't. Marinette and Damian clinked their glasses together,"Happy anniversary malak." "Joyeux anniversaire mon démon"

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Joyeux anniversaire mon démon: Happy anniversary my demon Malak: angel Habibiti: beloved.

Phew! This is hella long. It's my first song-fic I hope you like it. I will make outtakes or AU versions of this if I get time which I don't have. I did my best, well the best I could make in 2 days. I am very exhausted. Love Maribat. Love, Jasmehraj.