#they get steamy

[devotedthing]

thinking about right before stanford, when things were tense and heated. john and sam butting heads like never before, all of that teen angst boiling over and coming out in fits of anger and frustration. dean had watched them go at it, over and over, only stepped in when he was sure sam was toeing the line of throwing a punch.

he carded him back down the hall to their room, a heavy hand on his shoulder, a string of muttered i know, i know between them, and sam’s body rigid and tight under his palm. and dean would push him to sit on the bed, listening to his little brother ramble on and on about how much of an ass their dad is, how unfair he is. and dean, with hands on his hips, brow furrowed and teeth biting into his cheek, would hold his tongue when the urge to tell sammy to shut your mouth surfaced. because something deep in his gut was stirring, morbid and weighted, a feeling like grief—like this would be a moment he wished he would’ve just let sammy go on complaining, like maybe there wouldn’t be another time like this for a long while.

and after sam’s been gone for a couple years, dean decides he needs to bother him, to call him up, to drive down there, something. because it’s been too long and dean misses his little brother.

and maybe after dean makes his way into sam’s dorm, sweet talking his way into the halls, right through the front doors, sam would come home to dean sat on his messy twin bed. it would feel like a slap in the face, like a tackle to the floor, like a tug into his brother’s arms, head buried in the crook of his neck, melting into dean’s chest like he would always belong there.

sometime later sam’s clothes are in a jumbled mess on the floor, only his socks still on and boxers hanging from his ankle, too caught up in the moment to give a shit about kicking them off all the way. dean’s still got his shirt on, flannel and all, jeans straining and tight, button popped open and zipper unzipped. sam’s sat in his lap, dean’s cock deep inside him, and he’s grinding, rolling, bouncing, up and down, back and forth, head still buried in the crook of dean’s neck. all sweaty and hot, labored breaths and gasping moans. dean’s whispering sweet and soft into his ear, good, sammy, that’s my boy, keep goin’ kiddo—good, sammy, that’s good

and for all he’s worth, for all the stubbornness and the fights he’d pitched, sam can’t help but whine and whimper, can’t help the tears that burn and fall, can’t help but sob into dean’s shoulder, rolling his hips and begging for more more more, dean, please, feels so good, please

this moment right now feels like forgiveness, sam cradled in his big brother’s embrace, dean’s fingers digging deep and hard into his hips, guiding him up and down, back and forth, telling him he’s good

sam’s still crying and dean’s still holding him tight, and sam cant help what comes out of his mouth, scared he might ruin this for them both but, god, he can’t control it anymore, and he’s whimpering out a daddy all soft and wet, lips trembling and eyes screwed shut. he feels dean’s hips stutter, still for a moment, then rut up into him hard and deep, and all the sudden dean’s babbling like a fool, god, baby you feel so so good, daddy’s got you, sammy, daddy’s takin’ care of you, that’s it, that’s my boy—that’s daddy’s good boy

barely a minute goes by before they’re both cumming hard and long, dean’s head thrown back and sam’s fists gripping tight into dean’s flannel. they’re tired and spent and heaving, but they don’t move. sam’s still crying and dean just wraps him up in his arms fully, holding his sammy and rocking them side to side, running gentle fingers through sweaty hair, whispering into sammy’s ear, i’m here, kiddo, daddy’s here, i’ve got you, sammy

and in the morning dean’s gone, but sam’s still naked in the sheets, tired and sore. they might pretend this never happened but sam’s body wont ever forget—will never move past the feeling of having dean inside him, being held and cared for, will never forget the way it felt to call dean daddy, the way it passed over his tongue, slipped past his lips, the way dean’s hips had urged for more.

they won’t be the same again, but maybe it was worth it.

[shouyuus]

vi who sleeps in nothing but a pair of boxers/plaid pants (coz she runs super hot)...good luck trying to get any sleeping done next to allat ( . 人 . )

right. we are so back (i say, as if i've fucking gone anywhere except or being chronically online here writing vi fics) but pls put ur hands together for the original shirtless sleeper vi anon; our one tru savior who spawned all those topless vi hcs

18+, nip mention, college roommate!vi cinematic universe

vi, who runs super fucking hot all the time, sleeps in nothing but boxers or boy shorts, always kicks the blankets off the bed. before you got together, you'd sometimes find her passed out on the couch in the living room, snoring, her shirt rucked all the way up, her abs out on full display, on hand thrown over her head, the other dangling off the edge of the couch.

you've had to wake her up more than once, tug her over your shoulders, and half-drag, half-walk her to her own bedroom, dumping her on the bed, coaxing her into a semi-normal sleeping position before tucking her in.

but the next morning, when you'd wake up to check on her, you'd always find her somehow with all the sheets thrown off her (even in the dead of winter), and her shirt magically discarded somewhere on her floor, her torso bare, her nipple rings glinting in the morning light seeping in from the cracks between her eternally closed blinds.

sometimes, you'd linger over the sleeping shape of her, a stupid little indulgent smile on your lips as you sigh and walk back out of the room.

now that you're together though, it's even worse (and by that i mean better) bc she's a cuddler, you know she is. and she loves wrapping herself around you when she sleeps, digging her nose into the nape of your neck if she's big spoon, or just curling herself over your body, her leg thrown over both of yours, one of her arms looped around your middle --

except she's a human furnace, and in the summers, you've already got the ac blasting, but somehow its still not enough, and you always wake up in the middle of the night, skin sticky with a thin layer of sweat, trying to get some air. but when you try to roll away from her, she'd always whine and chase you, pull you back tighter into her arms, nuzzle against your cheek and mumble something about not leaving her.

"vi -- i'm not going anywhere, i'm just sweating --"

"mm... turn the ac up more..."

"okay, but you have to let me go first."

"mmm.... don't wanna..."

but the fact that her tits are rubbing up against your arm, her nipple rings cool along your skin -- you shiver, and she chuckles.

"can't be that hot if you're shivering like that."

you groan; she sounds way more awake now than a second ago. fuck.

"j-just -- lemme go turn down the ac --"

"don't -- i'm comfy." she locks you into her chest, her nose pressing into your cheek as she ghosts her lips over your skin. you can't help the tiny whimper that squeezes out of your throat.

you've got a quiz tomorrow (technically, later on today since it's like 4am in the morning) in fluid mechanics and you really can't be losing sleep like this but --

vi's already shifting, twisting you towards her, cupping your cheek to turn your face. your lips meet and you know it's a lost cause to try and resist.

"c'mon pretty girl -- spread those legs for me -- gotta work up a sweat first if you wanna cool down after, right?" she says as she tugs your legs open with one of her ankles hooked over yours, keeping your leg pinned beneath hers as her free hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties.

needless to say, you don't get much sleep for the rest of the night. you still manage to make it to your fluid mechanics class the next day, and the quiz goes... okay. but your ac bill is really really way too high that month.

[potato-lord-but-not]

Ourthur doodles yay yippee my favorite guys 🫶🫶

also…. caved and made a pillowfort account…… to put all the embarrassing doodles that definitely can’t be posted on this hellsite… so uh here’s the uncropped version of the last pic and some extra Oscar centric doodles, because i definitely don’t pick favorites… children avert your eyes

[mosoderbergh]

Emmrich and the good old fashioned body heat trope

Ok, there’a a thing about Rook and Emmrich pre-romance and the “caught in the cold” trope that is just beautiful to me. Because it would go a lot more innocently than with other pairings. Emmrich is far too much of a gentleman. But that’s what makes this so cute. Like… hear me out.

Emmrich knows the importance of keeping warm and the advantages of sharing body heat. He’s the sort of man who would read up on survival procedures before venturing out into extreme weather.

But surely, a shirt is thin enough to not significantly hinder the transmission of warmth. Surely he couldn’t be expected to strip entirely. He gets rid of some layers, but stays buttoned up to his neck. (Rook is shirtless the moment the words “it might be advisable to, well, huddle up” exit Emmrich’s mouth. They notice Emmrich spends the rest of the night holding intently focussed eye contact.) They cocoon themselves in blankets, sitting by the fire, shoulder to shoulder, backs leaning against insert obligatory cave/cliffside/tree trunk here. Emmrich has read just enough bodice rippers that an image comes, unbidden, to his mind. Of a broad-chested hero gallantly drawing the object of his desire into his muscled arms as they shiver and swoon. He is shocked at himself when he feels a blush creep up his neck. To even allow such a thought! This is nothing like that. A dashing hero may be present, yes, but they are caught in the cold with a colleague several decades their senior. There is nothing swoonworthy about it.

Emmrich files the thought away, and despite the awkward situation, the evening goes on… really rather pleasantly. They end up talking for a good long while. Rook opens up about their own upbringing and Emmrich elaborates on his. They share nostalgic memories. Emmrich recounts some shenanigans from his student days, and Rook can’t believe there’s a mischievous side to him (the mischievous side in question was called Johanna, but Emmrich doesn’t speak her name).

At some point, the comfortable silences stretch out longer and longer. Rook’s head rests on Emmrich’s shoulder. They aren’t quite asleep yet - when he reacts to the contact with an intake of breath, they draw back for a moment. But then, Emmrich leans in, just slightly. Just enough to let them know the touch is not unwelcome. The way Rook curls up at his side then makes Emmrich ache a little. As someone who is an authority figure to so many people (in a way that isolates him sometimes) this simple act of intimacy is precious to him. A show of trust on such a personal level. It takes him more courage than he’d like to admit to rest his cheek against Rook’s hair. The way Rook sighs contentedly gives him goosebumps. It’s been quite a while since Emmrich has shared a bed with anyone. And this is an unusual situation, but still… he can’t help but think how he has missed it. The companionship. The warmth. Sinking into sleep with the comfort of a friendly presence. The intoxicating closeness of someone who has found their way into his heart - this is another thought he tucks away neatly.

And because I can’t resist another trope, of COURSE they shift in their sleep. Emmrich wakes to find himself spooning Rook, with one hand resting on their stomach. They are soft there, and radiating heat. Emmrich thanks every deity he can recount that he tends to wake up early, because if he hadn’t been hard upon waking, the sensation of their body against his, their skin underneath his fingertips would have done the trick. He retreats discreetly to lie on his back. Only for Rook to shift and settle with their head on his chest, one leg draping over him, grazing his erection in the movement. Emmrich forgets to breathe.

He does wake them up, after he’s gotten a hold of himself somewhat. They untangle from him with a sleepy apology. And Emmrich, for a moment, wants nothing more than to stop them, or pull them back into an embrace, or…

He chastises himself for being a touch-starved old fool. Making so much out of nothing. But then Rook slides a hand up to squeeze his shoulder, and they smile at him brightly, beautifully, and ask him if he slept well. And it’s all he can do to swallow a rather wordy confession of his growing infatuation.

(The beauty of Emmrich, to me, is that he’s both a “I could out-sex any man in this room” kind of guy AND an “omg I can’t believe our hands touched” kind of guy. I love him.)

[kyonkyon69]

Recently I've been way too obsessed with Fairytail

SHE IS IN BETWEEN HIS THIGHS!! WDYM THE MANGAKA DRAW THIS 😭😭

[the-pixel-lover-extravagant]

The lack of clone troopers pin ups is a full blown epidemic

[dapper-lil-arts]

Celebrating writing a second chapter of my dumbass sex fic

[gojosoups]

Who wants tutor gojo x bimbo student reader? (🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️) Giving myself butterflies and goosebumps just thinking about it

Edit: inspiration struck… gojo fingering reader fic coming out instead 😭

[bleedingoptimism]

𝑜𝑚𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠

Steve loves his roommate. He’s funny and witty and knows so much about everything. And he’s kind of an asshole, but in a good way. Like, he doesn't take shit from anyone way. He would never hurt someone on purpose and he apologizes immediately if he does, kind of way.

When Steve first moved in with him, Eddie was kind of quiet and reserved, but once they started talking, getting to know each other, he showed just how wonderful he was. So, Steve really liked Eddie. The problem was… Steve kind of liked-liked Eddie. But he had no idea if Eddie liked him back. 

Until… he noticed Eddie’s nightly pauses outside his bedroom. 

The thing is, Steve has always had trouble sleeping. He’s never managed to just fall asleep when he hits the bed, it always takes a while and he sleeps very lightly. Usually waking up at least once in the middle of the night. But it’s fine, he’s used to it and he doesn't need much sleep to function properly, so he’s managed. 

The problem is, sometimes, when he’s stressed or anxious about something, he doesn't sleep at all. It's awful and it stresses him out even more. 

When he was in high school, he was in the middle of a really bad episode when he finally decided to talk to his father about it to see if there was something he could do to help. Silly Steve, thought maybe his dad would take him to a doctor but he just told him to lay down and pretend to be asleep until he actually was, so that his body would get the rest anyway and not shut down. Not exactly helpful.

Steve worked through his anxiety for having sleeping problems by doing yoga a couple of years after that. But, for some reason, when he can’t sleep, he still does what his dad told him. And pretends to be asleep.

So that's why he noticed Eddie stopping by his door every night. He didn't catch it right away. The first time he’d heard Eddie come home, drop his keys on the kitchen counter, and stroll down the hall to his room, it wasn't until he started moving again that Steve noticed he had stopped outside his door. 

He figured there had to be an explanation and put the thought aside but the next night, he did it again. And the next. And the next.

And Steve… Steve started looking forward to it. Playing with it a bit. Trying to figure out what underwear made Eddie stay the longest, laying in the bed in positions that he knew made him look good. He started wondering if Eddie would ever… come inside his room. If he could make him do it. Tempt him enough.

He realized too, that he was sleeping well again. That he always fell asleep right after Eddie looked at him and left for his room. And wasn't that something?

During the day, they both acted the same and nothing seemed weird. But during the night. Steve waited for Eddie, and Eddie looked.

And then, a couple of weeks into it, Steve is lying on his bed, waiting for Eddie to come home and his mind starts wandering, and he fantasies about Eddie, walking inside his room, looking at him from up close, waking him up with a soft touch of his knuckles on Steve’s cheek only for Steve to be already awake, waiting for him. He imagines Eddie touching him everywhere. Telling Steve what parts are the ones he stares at the most. What are the parts he wants to lick. To bite. 

Steve doesn't realize he’s hard until he hears the door open and he freezes, he can’t run to his door and shut it, there’s no time, the apartment it’s too small! Eddie will be here in no time. And he can't turn around and face the wall because he’ll make noise, Eddie will hear. So he just pretends to be asleep, as usual. Except he’s hard and he knows it's evident because he’s wearing his tight white boxers Eddie seems to like the most and they leave nothing to the imagination. He hopes Eddie will just think Steve is dreaming or something.

And he trains his ear, nervously trying to hear every step as Eddie walks down the hall. And stops in front of his door.

And he hears the softest ‘fuck’ like it was punched out of him. And then nothing. Eddie is just standing there, and Steve knows he’s looking at him. And he stays a while, the longer he’s ever stayed and Steve, he’s getting more and more turned on and he keeps hoping he’ll hear the footsteps come closer and not away. His dick twitches at the thought and he hears Eddie gasp and then the footsteps… Away from him, toward Eddie’s room. 

Steve turns to lie on his back and huffs. He needs to make a decision. To either stop this before it gets worse or... Do something about it. And then he hears it. A couple of minutes after Eddie shut his door. A muffled moan. Jesus Fucking Christ. Steve is lying on his bed, hard and thinking about Eddie, and Eddie is touching himself, thinking about him. This is ridiculous. 

He comes to a decision. Tomorrow. He’s doing something about it.

𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑒𝑑

a coffee? while we wait... ☕🥐💕

(first part) 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠

(you are here!) 𝑜𝑚𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠

(last past) 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛

[ellie-shy]

I get it. I understand Lucanis now. I understand him. So. Much.

I just finished his quest Inner Demons and locked into his romance. And I cried. I legit cried while doing his personal quest. Because I felt it. It felt so personal, to Lucanis, and to myself.

I'm gonna pour my heart out under the cut because Lucanis has just ranked up so high into one of my favourite fictional characters ever. And that means a lot to me.

When I played my first playthrough (and of course avoiding spoilers) I saved Minrathous. And I was devasted to see how Treviso looked in the aftermath. Then, Lucanis was hardened. I know that there will be consequences with Luc's arc but I was not sure what it will be. So, after finishing the other companions' personal quest and getting the Hero of Veilguard for everyone... except Lucanis. I really thought after defeating Illario I would get the Hero status with him, but nooooo. Only after finishing the main quest, I got it. But, I felt something was... missing. Something was missing with Luc's arc, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Thus, I finished my first playthrough.

Understandable, I did hardened Lucanis. But it got me so curious... what was it that's missing in Lucanis's personal questline?

Then I made my dear dwarven Grey Warden warrior Rook : Juliet Thorne, to romance him.

And I finally got to the Inner Demons quest, a quest that I never done before (and also tried so hard to avoid spoilers before doing it 😂).

Hold my hand while I confess this. I cried. I really cried when doing Inner Demons. This is what I was missing in my first playthrough?? Helping Lucanis escaped from his inner prison???

Inner Demons felt so personal. Like deeply personal. My Rook is actively involving herself into Lucanis's deep and personal thoughts. And you know what made me cry even more? This quest felt personal to me too.

I also understand Spite now!!! Why he wants OUT!! He didn't just want to go out in the world through Lucanis, he can't even go out of the Ossuary that Lucanis has made for himself, his own turmoil and guilt 😭😭😭😭😭😭

I get it now 😭 Oh God do I get it now (still crying btw).

Spite wanted to go out and it knows that they aren't in the Ossuary anymore, but why does Spite keep seeing the Ossuary? That is what made Spite so frustrated! Until Spite was desperate enough to ask for Rook's help because Spite knows, Rook "opens doors, never closing them" 😭 Spite knows the only way to get through Lucanis, is through Rook.

Lucanis, has made a giant wall to protect himself from everyone. Including Spite. He self-isolates, to the point of pushing Rook away. But he didn't mean it. Lucanis has a heart of gold. He is kind, he remembers my Rook's chocolate drink, he cooks for everyone, he considers Emmrich's vegetarian preferences, he buys things for the team, he isolates himself in the pantry because he doesn't want to cause trouble to anyone. He is a selfless bastard that's willing to sacrifice his happiness and comfort for everyone around him. Why? Because he thinks he doesn't deserve it. 😭 This mindset has developed after years of trauma. Years of training and torture... so he can be perfect. If he can't be perfect (which is the very high standard and expectation that he has set for himself), then he can never have happiness. At least that's what he thought. And I get it, because I have this trauma too.

This is why he punished himself so much. He was rescued by Rook and lived, but has a demon inside him. His city is saved, but at the cost of Neve's city. He made a god bleed, but didn't kill the god as per the contract. He killed Zara, his abuser, but he was devastated that Illario, his family, was involved. Every single time, everytime Lucanis thought he had a moment of victory/happiness, it will be at the cost of another he cared for. And he punished himself again, and again. Trying so hard to solve his own problems without involving anyone, and never asking for help. And that's why he pushed Rook away, he can't lose another person he cared for. Because he is such a selfless man!

I felt this, his trauma, fear and anxiety, I can relate with Lucanis. This feeling will eat you from the inside. It will make you develop a sense of self-hate, low self-esteem, not being satisfied with everything you have done and etc etc. It will drown you, literally, within your own spiral of self-hate. I cried while playing the Inner Demons quest, because it felt so personal to me too, as if I'm drowning again. But visualizing it with Lucanis this time. And hey, the Ossuary is an underwater prison. Lucanis is drowning.

And it's hard, you know. Because you will feel like no one is gonna help you other than yourself. Yet, you can't even save yourself. Lucanis couldn't save himself.

Until Rook.

The way that Lucanis just kept pushing her away, but my Rook just kept breaking down every single wall he built. Reassuring him, acknowledging him, supporting him, validating him, every step of the way. Rook didn't give up on him. Rook cares for him, so deeply. And nothing can stop her from reaching to Lucanis. Lucanis was so scared to lose Rook, or something would happen -- but Rook knows, it's gonna be okay.

I cried again because... to have someone like Rook, who willingly bring down every wall you make, carefully guiding you out of the place that's drowning you... that's special. That's very special. Rook is so special to Lucanis. Whether he was romanced or not, Rook is special. I was so happy for Lucanis, he has found someone, that will bring down his walls, that rescued him from drowning, that reassures him that he is enough. Because he is enough. And he will be okay.

This quest is so personal to me. Lucanis is a fictional character that resonates with me, so deeply. I understand him better now, because I see myself in Lucanis, and the experience he has been through are so similar with mine irl (minus being possessed ofc haha). It felt so validating, knowing that I am not alone. But don't worry about me, I'm in my own healing journey too <3 The moment I bawled my eyes out was when reading his thoughts fragments. My actual thoughts that time was "why does these thoughts sound so much like mine?".

Now I finally understand what was missing in my 1st playthrough. Knowing Lucanis, he built a wall to Rook, because he just lost his city. He has to put his guard up to Rook because he knows, no one will save him. Eventhough, in the end, he does trusts Rook, but not enough to bring his walls down. And that's valid, because I would do the same.

This is what makes his romance so meaningful and deep. He is vulnerable to a romanced Rook. He trusts Rook wholeheartedly. Literally, placing his heart on his hands and presenting it to them. Rook freed him from his inner demon (which was actually, himself), and guess what happens next? Lucanis would literally worship the ground Rook walks on. Let me tell you something, to achieve this level of trust in a relationship with someone like Lucanis, is otherworldly. I can't explain how meaningful Rook is to Lucanis. Perhaps even Rook wouldn't know how important they are to Lucanis. Only Lucanis knows how much Rook means to him. And me, the player.

Lucanis is a man that's going to treat you right. He would cook for you, he would take care of you, he would waste his time with you, he would do anything you ask. He would live for you, he would die for you, he would kill any gods you ask to keep you safe. His words and actions carry weight. Lucanis is indeed a passionate man, but his passion is only for the person that deserves it... a romanced Rook.

This is such an emotional post, but I just want to express how this short 'outing' quest means a lot to me. I won't go into detail on how much similarities I have with him. Just let me say this, I see myself in Lucanis Dellamorte, and I'm happy that I'm not alone going through the journey of healing my inner self.

Let me be hopeful, that one day, I will find my own Rook <3

[mikeymadisonsvibrator]

Marks

Tara Carpenter x Amber Freeman

Word count: 1277

Summary: What Amber and Tara were actually up to when "grabbing Tara's inhaler from Amber's room".

Warning: lesbian situationship!

Mild smut under the cut 🕺✂️

(repost cause something odd happened to the original post 🧟‍♀️)

As the last party-goers stumbled out of her house, Amber guided Tara upstairs, tugging at her hand, leaving their friends downstairs. Tara struggled, barely keeping up, with both her crutches clutched under one arm. "Don't worry, I'm pretty sure it's on top of my desk," Amber said, trying to remember the exact location of the inhaler Tara came here for.

Tara looked back at Sam, who was frowning at the sight of them. She tapped her watch while sternly looking Tara in the eye, signaling her to hurry. She had a bad feeling in her gut, like shit was about to go down, so she wanted to get out of here and back on the road as soon as possible.

Sam sighed, knowing they were gonna take their time anyway. She wasn't blind. She saw they had something going on. The lingering touches, the charged stares, and... Her mind traveled back to a few days prior, when she had visited Tara in the hospital. Maybe she had been better off blind.

---

As the elevator door to Tara's private floor opened, she heard whiny grunts coming from her sister's hospital room. Sam's heart dropped. She rushed to open the door, mind obviously jumping to the worst-case scenario. With wide, adrenaline-filled eyes, her gaze fell on Tara. Her eyes went impossibly wider as she saw Amber, pulling her hand from under Tara's hospital gown, fingers sticky. Tara was red as can be, surely a mix of embarrassment and the previous actions she was enduring. Amber, of course, just had that signature smirk on her face, shamelessly, no, challengingly staring at Sam. The older sister had mumbled something about them being unbelievable as she closed the door again, waiting in the hallway for Amber to leave. Tara had sworn they weren't dating, but that fact only made Sam more disturbed.

---

As the duo reached the top of the stairs, Tara simply shot Sam a soft smile and a thumbs up, though, she didn't look worry-free, either. See, deep down, Tara knows Amber's secret. But everytime she tries to gather her thoughts and actually try to confirm it, she feels ridiculous. Honestly, her head cannot wrap around any of her friends having the ability to murder people in cold blood.

Though, on those addictive nights, when the both of them are alone, with Amber knuckle deep inside Tara, she sees it. Even through hooded, pleasure-blurred eyes, she still sees it. The teeth-shattering clenching of her jaw. The horrifyingly psychotic grin on her lips. The narrowing of her cold eyes, as she studies every muscle in Tara's face, taking in the sight of her edging on the border of pleasure and pain. Amber is psychotic. Yet Tara can't help coming back for more. Amber's got her wrapped around her finger. Around multiple, on a lucky night.

Tara snaps out of her thoughts at the sound of the bedroom door closing. Amber's hand slips out of hers. "So," she starts, walking towards her desk, fetching the inhaler. She holds the device between her pointer finger and thumb, toying with it, wiggling it from side to side. "Were you really in need of this?" She steps closer to Tara, who is still standing in front of the closed door. "Or did you just need an excuse to... see me once more?" She smirked as she stood right in front of the smaller girl, looking down at her.

Tara felt the squeeze of her lungs, begging to be pried open again. She also felt the increasing dampness of her underwear, clinging to her skin. "Both," she muttered out, looking up at Amber's piercing eyes with her own, desperate, doe-like ones.

Amber hummed at the pretty sight, leaning in closer, hovering over Tara's lips after she licked her own. "Open up, baby," she spoke suggestively. Fully aware of Amber's habit of spitting in her mouth, Tara complied almost immediately, sticking out her tongue slightly. It was one of those more lewd things Amber introduced her to, and she eventually grew to love, now even more than Amber did, arguably so.

Amber scoffed and shook her head softly, smirking down at the younger girl. She looked down at her hand holding the inhaler as she brought it up to Tara's lips. She sighed, teasingly. "Always such an eager slut."

Tara blushed furiously at her slip-up and rolled her eyes at Amber's misleading games, but finding the humor in it nonetheless. She quickly wrapped her lips around her inhaler, looking back in Amber's eyes. The medication filled her lungs, and she let out a satisfied sigh. She felt the heat slowly move away from her cheeks. It traveled down to her core instead when Amber muttered out a soft, yet possessive praise, tucking the inhaler in the latina's back pocket, not missing the chance of giving her ass a good squeeze.

Tara couldn't stop the little whine that escaped her lips. Her body was extra sensitive, still on-edge from the brutal attack she endured a few days ago. She wasn't sure if it was pleasure or pain she felt. Then again, with Amber, she never really knew.

Amber's hand traced the line of Tara’s jaw, fingers cold and firm, forcing Tara out of her own head again. The smaller girl's big, brown eyes looked up at Amber, who's smirk deepened, as she leaned in, her breath ghosting over Tara's mouth before she closed the distance. Their kiss was slow, almost teasing. Amber’s lips were soft, a stark contrast to the sharp edge of her demeanor, but her kiss held that same power, her dominance. It made Tara's knees buckle, her crutches dropping to the floor as she vulnerably steadied herself in Amber's arms, reaching up to hold her face.

Amber bent through her knees slightly, gripping at Tara's thighs, picking her up. Tara whimpered, feeling her body's injuries burn and ache as Amber's grip pulled at her skin. The pain slightly ebbed away when Amber's back met with her mattress and Tara now straddled one of her thighs. She immediately ground down, rutting her hips eagerly, sitting upright. She had one hand grabbing Amber's shirt, and the other against her mouth, biting at her nail. Finally, she had an opportunity to release some of the ever-growing tension for Amber between her thighs.

Amber loved the sight of the girl on top of her. She looked desperate and sensitive and vulnerable with her eyes rolling back into her skull. Her little, whiny, pained huffs were the cherry on top. Amber could feel the yearning between Tara's legs radiate through the multiple layers of clothing between them. It only riled her up more, angling her thigh perfectly for Tara to grind against. Her ears feasted on the pitchy, broken moans rolling off her lips. They reminded her of the ones Tara released a few nights prior, after Amber had slid the knife into her stomach for the first time, and she desperately tried to crawl away on her kitchen floor.

At that memory, Amber lifted up Tara's shirt, biting her lip at the sight of the stitches on her stomach, and the soft abs rippling underneath them as the latina continuously rutted her hips against Amber's thigh. She traced the forming scar tissue with her fingertip, admiring her work.

Tara frowned at the feeling, snapping out of her blissful state. Suddenly, the gut-wrenching reality of the situation dawned on her again. Killer on the loose. Friends dying. Organs ripping. Blood pooling. Stitches pulling. Grinding on her number one suspect's thigh.

She halted her movements, her eyes opening, immediately darting to that familiar, psychotic smirk aimed at her.

"You've always looked pretty, covered in my marks."

[shouyuus]

18+, pitfighter!vi brainrot, bc its girl-dinner time tw: sorta smut, sorta obsessive!vi, codependent relationship, not quite yandere but the vibes r kinda there, but still fluffy bc im me duh

pitfighter!vi who fucks you like she's trying to leave a part of herself inside you, who holds you so hard that the next morning, you wake up to the blue-tinted ghosts of her fingers along your hips and thighs, the dull blossoming bruises littering your neck and shoulders, rings in the shape of her teeth like strange, demented flowers (or perhaps like footprints) the way they trail along your skin, inked there for all to see.

pitfighter!vi who fights like she's trying to break everyone else in the same way she wishes she were broken herself, all fevered, focused rage, and none of the restraint. no patience, only the blunted sting of a punch well-aimed, an elbow to the ribs, a knee to the groin, spit trailing out the edge of her mouth, a grin crooked and bloody hinged between her lips bc she knows when she looks up and scans the crowd, she'll inevitably find you there, watching her with your wide, alluring eyes.

pitfighter!vi who thinks she knows the depths and widths of hunger, has seen and felt it all, growing up in the lanes, and there are so many different kinds, aren't there? the kind that aches dull and deep in the stomach, the kind that claws and roars open in her chest, the kind that tingles like spider-poison all along the length of her spine. still, she's never quite felt a hunger like this -- the kind that threatens to consume her from the inside out the first time she sees you, and at first, it might've been a wholly vindictive thing -- perhaps its because there'd been something in the shadow of your smile that reminds her of -- well, it doesn't matter.

but the first time she kisses you (in the crush of bodies on a crowded dance floor, the music too loud, the bottom of her boots tacky with spilled drinks and blood and whatever else), you'd run your thumb along the line of her jaw so gently, traced the lines of her face with a touch so soft it ran a fissure through her car-alarm heart, and when she'd pulled away, you'd smiled as if she'd given you something other than just the jagged, broken bits of herself.

later, you'd told her that you still appreciated it then. bc it looked like that was all she could afford to give; and she gave it to you anyway.

pitfighter!vi who does not think she will ever get enough of you, and still, the more she gets, the more you give, the deeper the hunger grows. it yawns open inside her, huge and dark and cavernous, carving into her the more that it's fed, and by the gods do you feed it -- the way your head tilts back to allow her access to the smooth expanses of your throat, the darling, moon-lit landscape of your bare chest and shoulders, the way you're so pliant beneath her, your trust pouring from you like drink. and she drinks. and drinks. and drinks.

drinks till she's head-dizzy and heart-full. drinks till her vision blurs but for the sight of you, the shape of you so familiar to her waking moments it does not shock her in the least the first time she wakes up in the morning to the after-images of you in her dreams.

pitfighter!vi who, for the first time in her life thought she had lost all direction, but now -- she feels like at least there's still someone worth protecting, worth fighting for. and she knows, she knows it's not entirely healthy, how much and how hard she falls for you, knows that perhaps it is not the best thing for a woman like her to make someone like you the still-point of her turning universe, you, who manages to shine despite the grime that collects in the city around you. you, who is softness made into an act of defiance, who, one night, curled against her side, told her that there's a certain vindication to smiling in the face of a world who would love nothing more than to rip the joy, bleeding and raw from your throat.

"it's not always easy... actually," you laugh, the sound sweet as spring water as it trickles over her skin, "it's really fucking hard but... why not do it anyway?"

"what, be happy?" her own voice is low and cracked from the fight earlier that night. but you'd kissed a line down her throat and told her that you loved it when she moaned.

"yeah. if the whole world wants us sad and angry... what bigger fuck you is there than to be... happy?"

pitfighter!vi who lets you draw the dark lines down her cheeks, but they're neater than she'd done them herself, who kisses your fingertips when they're stained with the black of her hair-dye, who laughs fully for the first time in... she doesn't even remember how long, when you lean forward and trace a tiny mustache with the leftover ink on your fingers right over her mouth. who sinks into the sound of your laughter like a warm bath, letting it soak into her sore muscles, unspool the tension coiled in her shoulders, the rictus threatening to settle in the set of her knuckles.

she lets you sooth over the harms and hurts that had followed behind her, nipping at her heels like disobedient dogs her whole life, lets you kiss her brows and pull her behind you as you point at the new graffiti art that wasn't there the week before.

pitfighter!vi who has always had a fierce love for zaun because it's her home, but has never stopped to consider just how beautiful of a place it is until she meets you -- and it is beautiful, an angry, pulsing, rebellious beauty, raw and dripping with shimmer-soaked ichor. a beauty carved of disparate limbs and desperate parts, one that is hard-earned and well-fought, the same beauty found in the darkest hours of night, right before the morning dawns, the same beauty she finds reflected back at her when she sees her blurred reflection in a pool of spilt blood on the fighting pit's arena floor.

zaun hums to the tune of debauchery, and for the first time, she's with someone who allows her to be greedy, allows her the breadth and width of wanting so freely. and she thinks it might be spiraling into a full-blown obsession, the way she can't go three seconds without thinking about you, wondering where you are, what you're doing, what you're up to. and you always tell her, tell her about the flowers you saw growing from a crack in the sidewalk, the shaft of sunlight hitting a shard of broken glass in just the right way, how sometimes if you close your eyes and listen, the ticking and clicking noises that run like a baseline thrum through the entire city almost sounds like birdsong.

pitfighter!vi who can't say she's ever fallen properly in love (she thinks that perhaps, once, she got real close), but wonders if this is what it feels like, to feel the void of your physical absence like the itch of a phantom limb, so she does everything she can to keep you close, glares at people if their eyes linger too long on you as the pair of you walk down the street, doubles down on her training regime so that she can fend of anyone who even breathes wrong in your direction.

who can't help pouting every time you pull away to do anything -- to grab another bag of snacks, to ask the bartender for another drink, to listen to something loris is saying -- she has to tamp down the urge to pull you back, to meld you to her side and never let go.

pitfighter!vi who starts to get more strategic with her fights, who saves up money now bc she wants to take you out to dinner, or just buy you nice things once in a while. who spends way too many hexes and cogs on a bouquet of fresh flowers, ones that aren't tainted or bred with the faint, sickly shine of shimmer, and she thinks its all worth it to watch the smile break across your face like dawn over a brand new day -- brilliant, blinding.

she blinks, watching with a fond smile as you fuss over the flowers in your tiny apartment, the space small but cozy, everything neat and in its place. you put the flowers into a tall, slightly chipped glass mug and set them by the window, admiring them from this angle, then that.

"y'like them, angel?"

you nod, grinning as you throw your arms around her, "i love them, vi! i love them so much!"

"good. i'm glad you like 'em. just..." her voice trails off; you cock your head.

"just, what?"

she shrugs, "ah -- just, i always thought it was sad getting flowers cause... they'll wilt someday, right?"

but when she looks back at you, still caught up in her arms, you're still smiling. and there's a fox-fire glint in your eyes that makes something in her stomach twist hot.

"well, there's one kind of flower that won't wilt that i wouldn't mind having here all the time..."

vi blinks, a dry heat creeping up the back of her throat, her heart a wild, fluttering thing caught beneath her cage of ribs.

"yeah?" her voice is hoarse as she swallows around the hope pooling on her tongue like blood. "and what kinda flower is that?"

you lean in, your breath a whisper along her parted lips.

"violets."

pitfighter!vi who moves in three days later, with nothing but some old clothes and her punching bag, which you'd already made room for (somehow) hung up from one of the high rafters in the kitchen, next to the tiny dining table tucked into the corner. who spends the next three days fucking you on every available surface (and some unavailable ones, like against the fridge for instance), telling you that it's only right to christen things now that you're officially living together.

who doesn't bother to wonder if things are moving too fast, and dives in head first because that's the only ways she's ever known to how to do things. who thinks, blithely to herself one night, the warm shape of you curled next to her, sleeping so soundly it almost breaks her heart, that you're probably the first good thing she's ever gotten stuck on -- and she's gotten stuck on a lot of things (fighting, boxing, the guilt, the shame, the anger, the world-ending sorrow of losing it all). its one of the things vander had always warned her about.

"you get into things too hard, kiddo -- gotta learn to pace yourself."

but she doesn't care, because hard's what she was raised on, and it's how she plans on loving you, god, if it's the last thing she does, right or wrong, so be it.

pitfighter!vi who still has her bad nights, still drinks a bit too much sometimes, but at least you're always there to keep her from going too far. and you're the only one who can pull her back, the only one she'll listen to when you tug the drink away from her hands and slide it down the bar towards loris, who'll eye it for a second before downing it and settling up the tab, nodding towards you even as you sling an arm around vi's middle to lead her out of the bar.

who still wakes up screaming some nights, her eyes wide and unseeing, scrabbling at you, tugging you into her if only to bury her face in your shoulder, her whole body wracked with dry-heaving sobs.

"my sister used to think there were monsters under the bed, and make me check down there every night before going to bed," she murmurs, her face inches from yours, her words soft and ever so slightly slurred.

you brush your fingers against her cheek, a comforting, repetative motion -- back and forth, back and forth, till her lashes flutter shut.

"guess she was right... but the monsters never wanna stay under the bed, do they? it's like they always... wanna come out and play..."

you let out a breathy laugh, "or maybe," you offer, your voice low and soothing, "they're just as scared as you are. and they're just looking for someone to scare their own monsters away."

pitfighter!vi who is still not good at slow, but sometimes, when she kisses you, she wishes that had the power to hit pause on time, just so she could stretch out the moment and kiss you forever. she thinks that she'll never be good at patience, but sometimes, when you tell her just gimme a sec! when she's waiting for you to get ready before going out to dinner at jericho's or just for a round of drinks at the bar round the corner, her leaning against the doorway watching as you put the finishing touches of your makeup on yourself in the kitchen mirror -- she thinks she'd give you every last second of the rest of her life if you ever asked her to.

pitfighter!vi who, recently, has really, really started hoping that someday soon, you'll actually ask her to.

taglist: @traiitorjoe @rizzscary @wetcat020 @alex-thegiraffeboyy @nanasemo @saturnhas82moons @unear7hly @drsnowrose @grantaires-waistcoat @isab3lita @ally-all-around @starrysetup22 @lipsent - join the taglist

[potato-lord-but-not]

How big are your doodles usually?

Normal sized I’d say, although I do use a 6 x 8.5 inch sketchbook so maybe they run a little small

pen for comparison

also. I can’t emphasize this enough, the jarthur buttsex image is literally 1 x 1 inches. it’s so. so tiny. yet has such a big and evil impact

[choc-ice-on-wheels]

DUCK IN THE CORNISH MYSTERY

[draculasfavoritewife]

Touch Me Please

Summary: Aftereffects can be painful to work through by yourself, and a little help from your partner can be a godsend.

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Warnings: Unwanted touch from a gross man, initial lack of communication, suggestions of a panic attack. Extended sequence of getting handsy in the shower. Possessive! Din.

I will never tire of writing shower scenes ❤️‍🔥. I love the thought of Mando's partner sometimes going undercover to flush out particularly oily bounties. And I really don't know what came over me for this one's ending...I have to blame my senselessness on the utter chokehold this man has on me hehe.

*Translations of less common words/phrases in Mando'a at the end

"I had it handled."

Din gives no response to your annoyed statement, simply lowers himself on one knee to yank his vibroblade from deep in the throat of the male Twi'lek on the floor, whose body has just barely ceased twitching.

You angrily stalk towards him, wrenching your chain along in one hand, your own knife still humming loudly in the other. "Don't you tune me out, Mando," you warn, using his professional alias as much out of displeasure as necessity. "I. Had it. Handled. But no, you just HAD to have things done your way. And now he's dead and we have to make a run for it."

"Warm or cold, makes no difference," he says gruffly, still not looking at you. He's a little too focused on the prone body of the asset, and you briefly wonder what's bothering him.

He doesn't usually act so impulsively when you're undercover.

With an exasperated snort, you shake your head and turn your attention to your modified slave collar, pressing the hidden release so it falls away, leaving you unchained once more. "This was a waste."

"We got what we came for." He rises and hefts the dead man across his wide shoulders with breathtaking ease, indicating the doorway with a sharp jerk of his head. "Let's get out of here before too many of his lackeys come looking for him."

You sheathe your knife and pull his pulse rifle from its holster on his back. He doesn't object.

He can tell you might need to disintegrate a few lowlifes before it's safe to hold a conversation with you again.

Your escape goes smoothly, more so than the actual mission, ironically, and soon the two of you are standing in the ship's hold, watching the carbonite seal over your latest asset. Din is acutely aware of how close you are to him, all his senses on high alert as his religiously conditioned mind struggles to process how you can just STAND THERE so exposed. Your slave dancer disguise is perfect, as far as it can be called a disguise.

As much as the pair of you shares under cover of darkness, he's never really seen so much of your skin before, bared between little more than straps of leather and the drape of filmy netting. He has to remind himself repeatedly that you consider yourself dar'manda.

He wonders too, if you'd done jobs like this before your partnership. Not once did he see anything in your stride that betrayed your discomfort. Images flash through his head unbidden, of the way you moved before your new "master", of how you remained still and silent even as that crime lord TOUCHED you....

Din Djarin is a controlled man. So his admittedly violent and perhaps unnecessary reaction to seeing that filth's hands straying -- too close to areas of you that belong only to him -- has him slightly shaken, though he'd never say so.

Does he regret having buried his blade in that scum's neck for his sins, for trying to take what's his?

No.

He doesn't.

He finally emerges from his brooding at the sound of your voice beside him. "I'm not angry at you, Din." Everything from this mission has finally caught up with you, drowning the adrenaline in exhaustion. "I just wish you trusted me more. I know I don't look dangerous like this --" you gesture down your mostly unclad form, not seeing the Mandalorian's gaze subtly follow, "-- but I can take care of myself. I had to, for a long time. I was in control, not him."

"I know." His voice comes out cold; he's struggling to keep himself from unloading all his confusion and dismay on you at once. "I do trust you, Cyar'ika. I just...."

You wait, but it's like waiting for a stone wall to open up for you.

Nothing gives.

Normally you would gently cajole that stone wall into eventually breaking down, but you just don't have the capacity to do so at the moment.

"I'll be in the 'fresher if you need me," you sigh, turning away. "I need a shower and a change of clothes."

He says nothing, and you don't invite him along.

For the first time in a while, the silence that falls between you two is taut, barely stretched over spiking emotions that are too rampant to reach the air.

The feeling of hot water pounding into your skin clears your head as it always does, letting your patience recharge and your frustrations bleed away down the drain. Sense slowly begins to reclaim your thoughts, and you let your mind drift as you wash away the scent of smoke and spice, your fingertips trailing absently across your body as new questions rise of their own accord.

You can't understand why you feel disappointed.

The job went well. It doesn't matter in the wider scheme of things whether you were the one to acquire the asset or Din, not really. You both get paid the same.

Were you simply hoping for more of a reaction to your dancer outfit from your laconic partner?

Your hand slips in the water, brushes over your ribcage. It's one of your favorite places to find Din's hands lingering when the two of you are half-awake in bed, your skin sensitive enough there that the calluses on his fingertips still raise shivers from you every time.

But to your disgust, this time it isn't his hand you feel on your body, but the memory of a much different hand, one with overlong nails searching for something that isn't meant for it. A hand that's been dead for over an hour now, but the sensation is still there, and not only there, but trailing down your neck, slithering around your waist, loitering a moment too long atop your thigh, and you can't keep back the sound of horror that forces its way up your throat.

You feel disgusting and helpless with the mere idea of those hands crawling your body.

And all you know is you need it gone now.

Desperately.

So as the sensations continue to heighten unpleasantly, you do the only thing you can think of.

"...Din?"

His footsteps are swift, and he's in the 'fresher before you even need to call for him a second time. You can see his hulking dark form outlined through the frosted door panel.

"What's wrong?" He sounds concerned.

"I...." You pause and take a deep breath. "I need you, Din. Please."

He doesn't protest, doesn't question you. The lights go out and you hear the clack of the beskar as he strips and sets it aside. Scant moments later, he's under the water with you, solid and familiar and radiating heat, and you're suddenly so needy for his touch it's all you can do to keep from throwing yourself at him.

"What do you want from me?" he breathes, water dripping from his hair down to your face.

"You." Most times you're a playful flirt, but this time you have no room left for games. You just want him to remind you who you really belong to. There will be time for other things later. "I want to feel your hands on me, Din. I need to get the feeling of that miserable scum off of me. Touch me, please."

He pulls you into him, a tad more roughly than usual. "Where, Cyar'ika?"

You melt into the welcome haven of his chest, your hands immediately finding their way to some of the more distinctive scars that ridge his skin. "Anywhere you want, my Love."

He's ravenous in his compliance, all but devouring you with his touch, lips joining his hands as he focuses first on your throat and shoulders.

It's as if he's as desperate for the contact as you are, and suddenly his strange actions become clear to you, as his hands flawlessly overrun all of the places where the other man had been.

He took note of every single unwelcome caress, each one still burning in his mind's eye, each movement of foreign hands a wrong against you and him that cries out to be righted.

And so he follows that path diligently, his heated touch obliterating any claim that vermin tried to make on his sacred space, reconquering everything you offer him like the Mandalorians of old.

You're surrounded by him, blind in the dark and the steadily falling water, held flush against his body, your senses reduced to purely touch and hearing as he growls broken phrases in Mando'a into your skin.

"I've never seen you so territorial," you huff out in a laugh.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs against your lips, as his pause in their journey across the landscape of you.

"Why?" you ask the well-loved chamber of his mouth.

"For my actions. I let my jealousy rule me in the moment and I offended you." He lifts you in his arms, your back resting against the 'fresher wall and your arms wrapping around his neck. You settle into the new position with a happy hum, letting your hips kiss his and feeling his hands slide down the backs of your thighs in reply.

"But seeing that son of a Hutt with his hands all over you like that --" his forehead comes to rest against yours. "That did something to me I can't explain."

One of your hands finds its way into his hair as the other gently scratches across his muscular back, making him sigh.

"Thank you, Din."

You can FEEL the curious eyebrow raise.

"For caring so much. For coming to my rescue when I need you -- every time. Next time," you add, mischief creeping back into your tone, "we can reverse the roles, if you'd rather. I can think of a lot of people who'd pay an exorbitant amount for a dancing Mandalorian. Think of that -- you, dressed in that get-up, but with the helmet still on, of course -- that would intrigue any crime lord, all right."

"You sound like you've imagined that more times than you should have," he chides teasingly.

Your only response is a soft laugh, though you do press yourself more insistently against him and give his hair a suggestive tug.

"Hmm. Someone's still not satisfied." He lets you slide from his embrace back to the floor, and you whine with disappointment, though to your relief all echoes of unwanted hands have dissipated.

Now you're just left hungry for more of HIM.

"Hush, Mesh'la, I'm not refusing you." The extra grit in his lowered voice suggests he wants more as well. His thumb brushes across your lips, rough and sensual. "I just think it would be more...pleasant to finish this in my quarters, don't you? Cold water and romance don't always go so well together if the heat runs out."

You nip at his thumb and smirk. "Thinking as always, Djarin."

"About you, at any rate." He falls quiet abruptly as he pulls away, as if abashed that such a flippant admission actually left his lips.

You laugh and duck back under the water. "Go. Get your hair dry and whatever else you need so I don't see your face. I'll get out when I hear you leave."

He starts to open the door, then suddenly thinks twice and is upon you once again, his fingers digging into the softness of your hips and his lips grazing your collarbone.

"You're beautiful," he grates out in a rush. "And I can't stop thinking about you in that costume. I just thought you should know that."

You sigh into his firm hold, a sinful idea taking delightful shape in your mind.

"How about I dance for you then, Din Djarin? Would you like to see that, ner'alor?"

The breath leaves his lungs all at once in a sharp exhale. "Yes, Mesh'la. Dance for me."

When he finally goes, you're left to finish your shower with an overwhelming ache for him and some very tempting plans turning over in your head.

Dar'manda = Not Mandalorian; separated from one's heritage

Ner'alor = My leader/boss

[delineate-creates]

At Tom’s touch, Harry had melted all the ice in the bath.

•

From chapter 26 of @ambivalens999’s Of Kings, Of Pawns, and Of Men