#Read the House rules...[rules]

[kermdoeswriting]

Just Like You

It was supposed to be a normal vacation.

Just a road trip around the east coast with his best friends and his older sister before the 3 of them all separated to their respective universities.

No dangerous ghosts to fight or trap in the Ghost Zone. No GIW to hide from. And best of all, no needing to show off his ghost side for any danger.

For once Danny got to just relax and let the heroes handle everything! And he has got to say, it was definitely something he wishes he could do more often.

There was no way anything could happen, right?

WRONG

Danny honestly should have known the calm wouldn't have lasted very long. Being a halfa tends to bring unwanted attention from the dead no matter where he ends up going. And it wasn't like he could just go and turn this ability off.

They had originally combatted that by avoiding the more ghost infested cities. Places like Gotham, Bludhaven, Ivy Town, etc. And while it did suck to take those places off of their schedule it was genuinely for the betterment of their No Ghosts Allowed (Except Danny) Trip.

But even that didn't really stop the dead from approaching, unfortunately.

He had died and the dead tended to be interested in how he managed to shake that death title off to still be alive. At least half way, anyways.

Danny didn't mind the curiosity but it was kind of irritating to deal with as the vacation continued on. That was why he had no real regrets for glaring down a girl, who was very obviously a ghost in her solid form, as she scanned him over from the other side of the street.

Despite this, the girl didn't seem to care. She continued to try peering into his core from across the street, trying to see what exactly was off about him and it was pissing Danny off to no end. Her friends, a dark haired teenage boy wearing Superman merch and a blonde girl with pigtails, tugged on her shoulder and arm to try and snap her out of it but it didn't do much.

With no real warning for his friends and sister, he took off straight to the girl and her friends table and stared back at her even more. He knew they'd be following behind him anyways, they always did.

"Can I help you?" He glowered, eyes pinched together as she seemed to finally come to a conclusion to whatever she was thinking about now that he was at the table with them.

The girl breezed through the table before Danny could even blink, floating above him for a second before she started to circle him excitedly.

"You're just like me!" The girl brightened at the sight of him, before turning to look at her group of friends and gesturing to him again. "Birdie he's like me!"

Danny could only stiffen as all eyes around the table turned to look over him and a different black haired teen eyed him suspiciously, presumably Birdie, as he nodded.

"Yeah Suz," Danny heard the boy agree alongside the approaching footsteps of his own family getting close behind him.

"Just like you"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Or Basically

Danny is on vacation in Rhode Island with his family and the Young Justice team are out eating lunch as civilians for once when Secret (the teams resident ghost girl) realizes she isn't the only kinda dead person able to walk between life and death nearby.

[blamemma]

"Maybe Daniel could wear my worn underwear after a race" emma i can't beliebe what i'm seeing. i can't believe max verstappen is beating us at this (writing daniel ricciardo fic)

okay. but what if we combined max saying that wild quote and this post i tagged as daniel the other day and created....fic...

cw: feminisation of both, kinda dubious consent <3

Daniel opens Max's drivers room door quickly, no secrets between them in their second year as team mates, PR bags slung in each others rooms, and mix ups of laundry scattered throughout their now shared-spaces. Max was used to these interruptions from Daniel, fond of them mainly. But it was that one fateful day, during the briefest of moments, Daniel's eyes wandered upon a soul-altering sight. Before him, the edge of lacy pure white knickers were peeking above the waist of Max's cream fireproofs. As he stares further, and his jaw opens wider, he begins to make out the imprint of them through Max's fireproofs, the way they curved around the cheek of Max's arse.

"Yes, Daniel," Max says, averting Daniel's attention quickly back to his face, blinking hard, trying to feign innocence over what he had just seen. It is only Max's upper body that has swivelled to address Daniel, his arms still suspended in his backpack, something Daniel is grateful for because he doesn't think he'd be strong enough to not look any lower. "Is it your socks you are looking for this time? Or maybe your Magnum condoms? Your stupid trainer tells you it is better if you do not have sex until after the races, doesn't he, so maybe I should keep ahold of them for safe keeping so you are not tempted."

Daniel feels ruffled, no quick quip back for Max on his tongue. His mind is running over the image of Max's lacy white underwear. Thoughts of his dick tucked up neatly at the front. Daniel's speeding towards the tyre barrier, hands gripping the steering wheel tight, Rolex sponsorship banners replaced by the image of Max in lingerie as he approaches at full throttle.

"Yeah, probably, yeah, keep them Max." Daniel retorts, the words stumbling out of his mouth as he exits out of the room, floundering backwards fast. He catches the smallest of glimpses of Max's face once more, a quizzical look raised in his eyebrows, and allows himself one last look lower, as he pulls the door towards him, closed.

---

They win. He wins, and Max stands below him on the podium, and they win. Red Bull and Daniel and Max. He watches as Max holds his trophy aloft, feels the burn through his arms as he lifts his own higher and prouder. Slams his champagne onto the ground and soaks Max, soaks himself, feels the cold wetness down his back, feels it seep into his underwear. Drinks from the bottle. Undresses his foot. Takes the shoe into his hand and pours. Lifts it high above his head, higher than the trophy, and then lets it pour from above him. Into his mouth, across his face, down his racesuit. Looks across at Max, his mouth wide open, agape, tongue barely contained. Raises his shoe slightly, a question, silent but deadly, and Max nods. Daniel slows down. Steadies his hand. Pours and pours, fills the shoe up once more, then hands it across to Max. The slightest graze of soft wet fingertips against his own, and the shoe is out of his hand. He stares, longer than he should, and Max looks back, gaze never breaking until the dark blue of Daniel's shoe forces itself between them. Max drinks, neck held back, bare, every last drop seeping from the shoe, into his mouth, down his chin, through his race suit. Daniel thinks about a singular droplet running all the way down to Max's underwear. Soaking him where it matters.

---

"Maybe Daniel could wear my worn underwear after a race." Max says to the reporters, his eyes scrunching up in glee as he waits for the man in front of him to laugh at his joke. He never does. Daniel wants to punch him.

Daniel had finished media first, perks of being the winner, cutting the queue and demanding everyone's attention when you enter the room. He leans against the door, as Max sits at the head of the table now, cameras and microphones and dictaphones all pointed in his direction. He didn't hear the question, only the answer. Maybe Daniel could wear my worn underwear after a race. Daniel swallows the thoughts consuming him, rubs his crotch hard as he stalks down the corridors of Red Bull hospitality, and storms into his drivers room, waiting until he hears the similar click of a door closing from Max's room next door. He doesn't will his boner away, sits with it, sits with his thoughts. He won. He gets to indulge today. He gets to drink copious amounts of champagne, take back shots of questionable liquids shoved into his hands in the club, eat greasy pizza afterwards to settle his stomach, make out with whoever he wants, take one or two of them back home to his hotel room. He gets to indulge.

The muted click next door is like Pavlov's Dog, Daniel immediately up and onto his feet, ignoring the dizzying feeling in his head at the imbalance of blood in his body, storming into Max's room, and quickly locking it behind him. Max's champagne bottle is still gripped in his hand.

"Take your race suit off." Daniel demands. He won. He gets this. Max stares at him for a beat too long, his face unreadable to Daniel, until he slowly places the champagne bottle down on the table, breaking his velcro and slowly undoing his zip, before carefully stepping out of his suit, never once breaking eye contact with Daniel, challenging. Daniel won the race. He's more than happy to lose in here. He breaks eye contact and flickers his gaze downwards. The shirt of Max's fireproof has ridden up slightly, and peeking above the waist line of his trousers is petalled lace, a baby blue bow sitting in the middle.

"Your fireproofs. Take them off as well." Daniel says, his tone softer this time, giving Max the option to deny him. Max peels his shirt off first, revealing his pale sculpted chest, red puffy nipples, wet with sweat and soaked through champagne. Daniel grabs the champagne bottle away from Max, raising it to his own lips and swallowing. Liquid courage. When he lowers the bottle, Max is bent over, pulling the tight fabric over his feet. He stands straight once more, and stretching his arm forward, grabbing the champagne bottle back from Daniel, taking his own sip.

Daniel takes him in slowly, the curve of his tits, the hard shape of his stomach, the dip of his hips. He feels his mouth salivate when he reaches Max's dick. Neatly packed away, underneath tight baby blue lace.

"Being on the podium doesn't make you hard?" Daniel asks, cocky but disappointed Max is soft when Daniel is trying his hardest not to rip off his own race suit and relieve himself all over Max.

"Yes. I already dealt with it." Max responds, stoic.

"When?"

"During your interviews, in here. Quickly."

"In those?" Daniel quizzes, quirking an eyebrow towards Max's lingerie.

"Yes, Daniel." Max responds. Daniel's breath stops in his throat, and he chokes slightly, coughing to cover up his surprise. He moves quick then, doesn't let himself think any longer, gives into everything he wants. Everything he deserves. He removes the layers of his own clothing, nearly ripping the Nomex off his body into pieces so he can get to what he wants quicker. He stands there before Max, panting, lets him look for a bit, rake his eyes over Daniel's body. He knows he looks good. He knows Max likes to stare and indulge. He's caught him doing so before.

"Now what?" Max asks, breaking the silence sat between them.

Daniel begins to remove his patterned boxers, off his body, his dick hard, swinging upwards when its released, scarlet red, balls drawn tight. He watches as Max licks his lips. He strokes it once, his head falling back as a gasp leaves his lips, too much but not enough, twice, and then leaves it, removes his hand, locking his gaze with Max once more.

"Your turn." He demands, and holds his hand out waiting. Max tentatively steps out of the lingerie and Daniel watches as his soft dick drops, tiny pieces of dried cum stuck to his dick. Max deposits the underwear into Daniel's hand and Daniel climbs into them straight away, doesn't think, just does, hurtling into the tyre barrier.

"Daniel," Max whines, as he watches on, palming his own dick now. "Please."

Daniel hitches the underwear onto his hips and looks down at himself, at the obscene way the head of his dick sits above the waistband, pre-cum glistening over the top of it, dripping down over the bow, hopefully, eventually mixing with Max's own that has gathered and dried.

"Daniel." Max says again, his voice desperate, the only sound now in the room Max's dry hand jerking off his dick.

The tension is the room is suffocating, every vein of Daniel's on fire, rocketing him towards Max's body. But Daniel knows what he wants. Filth, want, regret. He likes the game. He likes the tease. He likes to win. He pulls his own race suit back onto his body, gathering the fireproofs off the floor, leaving his own boxers on the floor of Max's drivers room.

"Come and find me in the club later." Daniel says, exiting Max's room. "Bring the condoms. Don't shower."

"As long as you also don't," Daniel hears as the door clicks shut once more.

[aroaessidhe]

faves of 2024: novellas

Walking Practice

The Dead Cat Tail Assassins

The Salt Grows Heavy

Dehiscent

As Born to Rule The Storm

The Butcher of the Forest

Graveyard Shift

Pluralities

Rose/House

The Brides of High Hill

Small Gods of Calamity

The Labyrinth Beckons

Party of Fools

The Fireborne Blade

The River Has Roots

[vagabond-art]

"How's that for an answer?"

apology tour but interview with the vampire AU + bonus with @ughhhhhhh-cringe-side-blog

[burningcheese-merchant]

The relationship between Burning spice and Pepper Jack reminds me terribly of the relationship between CrowFeather and Breezepelt

of warrior cats

you just inspired by them?

Oh my God... Jesus, Mary and Joseph... Warrior Cats........ Got sent back in time like 15 years with this ask. I feel so old right now.... Live footage here

No actually, I wasn't thinking of Crowfeather and Breezepelt 😅😅😅 in all honesty I've been taking a lot of inspiration for Burning Spice and Pepper Jack's relationship from Kratos and Atreus from God of War (4 and 5). The sort of redemption arc/change of heart and post-redemption attitude/behavior I gave Spice in my canon bears a bit of resemblance to how Kratos behaves in GoW, and while I was imagining his relationship with Jack I remembered what Kratos goes through with his own son and realized I could maybe learn from that and see how I could make my version work with these two characters instead. Former mass-murdering, vengeful lunatic who's calmed down and realized the error of his ways and is just trying to carve out a decent life with his new family, having some issues connecting with his son because they're so different from each other in so many ways, and also because the father is hiding the truth of his dark past out of shame and fear of what the son will say and think. (Obviously I don't want to just straight up rip off GoW, just take inspiration haha. I think I've made my own take unique enough that I don't have to worry about it much)

I do want to draw Spice and Jack dressed up as Kratos and Atreus one of these days though :P maybe for Halloween or something. Gonna title it "God of Destruction" instead of God of War. It'll be cool I promise

... Chat, should I try to depict the family as cats from Warrior Cats now? I'm getting hit with nostalgia so fucking hard rn

[tgd-sideblog]

The way Eddie handles his family unit is such an interesting reflection of his upbringing and the fact from what we hear about his childhood Helena was the lone parent in charge of the day to day of the household while Ramon was away working.

Eddie was raised with one present parent/authority figure, he and Shannon spent very little time sharing a household and when they did they repeatedly clashed over the fact Eddie made unilateral decisions for their whole family unit, and then Eddie has officially been a single parent for years.

So I think when he is so uncommunicative with Buck about his decision making about the Chris crisis and what Eddie is going to do about it, I don't think Eddie percieves it as drawing a line around his relationship with Chris that Buck is shut out of, nor any contradiction in not involving Buck but still expecting his full support. His model for parenting has always been Helena as the active decision maker and Ramon as her support, and in their case it's because Helena was the one available whereas Ramon wasn't involved enough to be making day to day decisions, but it means that Eddie didn't grow up seeing his parents discussing plans together or compromising.

To Eddie co-parenting is making a decision about your child and the other parent will support you because they trust you are a good parent. Except Buck hasn't been told that his role in this situation and isn't absent and uninvolved in Chris and Eddie's lives so does expect to be at least aware of the decisions process and he feels slighted by Eddie not even telling Buck about those decisions and wrongfooted that Eddie would want support with the same decisions he's left him out of, meanwhile Eddie feels let down when Buck doesn't just back his decisions because he's expecting Buck to trust and understand him.

[skitskatdacat63]

"What do I do, scale the wall and enter her window?" rhaenicent Romeo and Juliet AU when??????

[hawnks]

Iida trapping you into a quirk marriage with him because he’s truly in love with you but you don’t even want to look at him……

[banefort]

Not to sound like a broken record talking about nomadic v settled lifestyles in HOTD, but an interesting dynamic that has come of the Daemon-Harrenhal sideplot is between him, the castle, and Alys and Ser Simon Strong, is what they represent as manifestations of the Neolithic agrarian revolution.

Daemon’s time at Harrenhal is spent oscillating between the two factions. Simon represents the foundations of a settled society. He dictates Daemon’s waking hours and daily schedule (against his will), keeps him tied to his political duties, and goes so far as to impel Daemon to guarantee the longevity of Harrenhal by commencing its reconstruction - affirming a settled and regulated lifestyle.

On the flip side Alys represents nomadic life, occupying the halls of the castle much like a ‘ghost’, only affecting circumstance through cerebral happenstances, whilst also showing a marked affection for the natural world and ancient natural structures (Wierwoods), and repeatedly identifies with the natural world via totemism (calling herself a barn owl). She is the history of Westeros and the First Men made manifest, and personifies a nomadic lifestyle which has been lost to to the regions south of the Wall.

By having Daemon constantly tossed between Ser Simon and Alys - settled and nomadic, polytheism versus paganism, agriculture versus shepherding, he occupies a liminal space and is caught between the refractions of history, and through his tumultuous residence, is implicitly drawn to question the true strength of monarchy, settled lifestyles, and all forms of contemporary power structures; for Alys, and her associated phantasmagorical neolithic ways, are clearly established to have had a far more substantial and cerebral impact on Daemon’s psyche than Ser Simon, who, while Daemon does entertain, he visibly holds no regard for, as opposed to Alys, who he is both wary and keen for. This is substantiated by his being shown to feel conflict and guilt over his perpetuation of Targaryen ethnocentric incest, his failure to fulfill his duties to his faction (be it the Blacks or his children/wife), amongst others, following his arrival at Harrenhal, suggesting that through her presence as an all-encompassing totem of nomadic conducts, his deep-rooted pride in Targaryen legacy, “the establishment” and all things modern, rapidly unwind. The paths of his - and all other citizens’, ancestors calls to him from an intangible, psychosomatic place. His contemporary comforts are all but stripped bare in some primal, unbidden rush to follow in their footsteps.

[corellianhounds]

Bad Reputation

Media: Return of the Jedi, The Book of Boba Fett

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Canon-typical slavery, allusions to involuntary prostitution, brief non-graphic reference to sexual assault.

Art Credit: Ralph McQuarrie

Summary: The less outsiders know about a culture, the more they seem to speculate. (A brief prologue to an eventual series titled “Back In Business,” but can be read standalone, leading up to TBoBF.)

Every Mandalorian has a reputation. They as a culture had a number of them. One that had been exaggerated to falsehood and beyond was of their lust for flesh in one form or another; some of the ancient Mandalorians, the Taungs of legend and history, were said to tear into adversaries and victims with their teeth and eat their fill once a battle subsided (though whether those rumors were substantiated or not was still a debate among scholars), and Mandalorians as a whole were renown for being a warrior culture. Death was met with surety, honor found in battle. In whatever form they took, Mandalorians were nearly always a fighting people.

The rumors did not stop there.

With a guarded culture such as theirs, their anonymity afforded outsiders little insight into their practices, beliefs, customs or ideals. What was known was the emphasis put on family bonds, guardianship and acquisition of younglings and fellow fighters, and raising children no matter the species with the ability to fight and defend themselves. It came to be that outsiders believed them to be hellbent on creating more and more Mandalorians with the desire to convert or destroy every other race and people they made contact with on their nomadic spread across the galaxy, a twisted extrapolation so far removed from the source it painted them as rough, lustful, insatiable, and barbaric.

Some found the myths appalling; others were enamored and intrigued. Mandalorians were the topic of speculation everywhere from cat-houses to palaces, rumors of their sexual appetites proliferating and taking on a life of their own. With such a violent race, people said, It’s no wonder they take what they want, when they want it.

The rumors were baseless speculations and accusations drawn from so little knowledge that they could scarcely be considered more than schoolyard gossip, but people for eons have always told stories, and stories revolve around some kind of conflict. Sex, desire, and fertility have always been topics of interest, and the more salacious you can spin those tales the bigger the audience you have.

The truth was, Mandalorians took said topics as seriously as they did every other aspect of life, and as an overwhelming majority they were knowledgeable, honorable people bound by a common creed; the myths of insatiable savages were unfounded. It isn’t to say there have never been dishonorable Mandalorians, but they more often than not are swiftly handled with the kind of justice they deserve, justice nearly always served by other Mandalorians.

Every once in a while, though, one slips through the cracks.

Una trembled in what little she had that passed for clothing. Her chains clinked together as she waited to be bought by whoever paid the demanded price for transfer of ownership. She was the only female Twi’lek in the slaver’s haul, something the auctioneer emphasized in every language he advertised in, saying she was the only one amongst the backwards natives.

The actual truth was that the men of her home had bought their families and loved ones time to escape as they fought back the slavers that descended on Ryloth— She just wasn’t fast enough. Now she and dozens of her countrymen stood at the back of a raised platform, waiting to be dragged out and sold to the highest bidder.

There were faces of every kind in the crowd: Foremen looking for laborers. Nobles looking for exotic servants and entertainers. Dons, madames, pirates, and pimps, all looking for workers.

Una wished there was some way she could revolt them, something she could to turn them away and keep them from considering her, but her countrymen had already tried to fight back on her behalf and received punishment for it. Nothing that left a mark, but enough to cause an enduring, inescapable pain nonetheless. She’d already thrown up before they arrived on-planet, and even the mud and clay that had covered her legs and arms had been scrubbed off before they were transported to the auction block.

She was last, of course, the prize of the evening. She watched as her cousins and friends and townsfolk were sold off to despicable people of every kind, the crowd thinning until only the most wealthy remained: a courtly woman with cranial horns, flanked by two looming Dathomirian guards; several dons of varying stripes, some accompanied by enforcers, some alone; a madame and a droid with several of the male Twi’leks already with them; spectators and other sentients in nondescript clothing, their attire masking their purpose or reason for being there. There was a Mandalorian with a flock of five women surrounding him, all of them different species and all of them resigned, their eyes turned to the ground.

Something about the man— he had to have been a man— was familiar. Something in his stance or his armor, she wasn’t sure. None of the women moved from where they stood, no chains or guards keeping them in place, and somehow their implicit obedience sickened her more.

Una approached the front of the platform, the lingering threat of the shock collar around her throat compelling her to obey. She couldn’t hear the auctioneer’s voice, her head swimming with fear and trepidation. Though her eyes were filled with unshed tears, she bit her cheek and willed them away. They’d made it very clear that she was not to cry.

Finally the chain tugged on her wrists and she exited the stage down the steps below. With horror she finally gasped, realizing now out of the stage lights that it was that Mandalorian with the retinue exchanging the credit transfer to the seller. Her legs shook even more than before, and her shoulders tensed when she felt hands on the back of her neck, unlocking the collar.

The Mandalorian, she realized. He was a collector, a sleazy lowlife with a harem of women at his beck and call. No one knew how he could afford to acquire and keep them, seeing as no one knew of his place of business and he’d never advertised that he was interested in renting out rooms by the hour. It was rumored he took them and polished them up to be resold to buyers with much deeper pockets, keeping the ones he liked best for himself. An unrelenting hunter, bringing his spoils back to the den.

His distinct paint and armor etchings proved he could be no other, and as the other women guided her along she felt the dizziness and despair return from before. She stumbled along the streets of the foreign planet, traded from one set of hands to another.

There were several twists and turns through alleys, passageways, and districts, so many she couldn’t keep track of where the starport was behind her. One by one three of the women split off alone and bid her farewell, and once the rest of them arrived at a boarded up and seemingly abandoned theater in the entertainment district, several passersby looking at them curiously.

Una was guided inside and the back door closed behind her. The boarded up theater looked abandoned and partially destroyed. There were lights strung between passageways, but it didn’t appear to be populated even by employees, the grand thrust stage in the open air unused even as a niche performing platform for the seating surrounding it.

One of the women’s wrist comms pinged as they traversed the stairwell. They paused on a landing, the woman and the caller speaking in a language Una didn’t recognize. For the first time she heard the Mandalorian’s voice as he interjected.

They will come to you, he said. I will take care of the Twi’lek.

“It’s going to be okay,” the human woman told her when he stepped away, both her and the Mikkian looking apologetic despite what might have been warm smiles. Una couldn’t have believed them less.

Both women split off onto the next level, and when the Mandalorian turned he gestured for her to take the stairs. When they reached the upper levels where none of the windows let light into the building, he gently guided her by the arm and said “Bear with me. I’ll explain everything once we are out of range of the street level security and recording tech.”

Una wanted to run, but she had no idea where she could escape from or where she would go where they wouldn’t find her. She thought she would pass out when they got to a set of double doors, and as he keyed in a code she held her breath and tried to steel herself for what was to come.

Inside she found she was a bit… underwhelmed by the simple furnishings. The room had been converted into what one might call bedchambers, but it didn’t match the Mandalorian’s alleged opulent taste. He closed and locked the door behind her, and Una heard him sigh beneath the helmet before he made a sweep around the room as if looking for hidden cams.

“Please forgive the theatrics,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s the only way to ensure our operation remains undetected.”

He came back to the center of the room with what looked like a set of clothes folded over one arm. “This isn’t how I like to handle things. Ideally you would still be with the other women and they’d be able to explain what we do, and ideally you’d never have to talk to me again. You’re more likely to believe this coming from them.”

The Mandalorian set the clothes aside. In his hand she could see a handheld scanner similar to the ones the slavers had.

“This is only to check you for any chips or trackers. It won’t hurt.”

Una remained silent. The Mandalorian briefly hovered the scanner over the back of her neck, each of her limbs and her torso.

“Did they put anything in your teeth?”

Una’s eyes widened. “They can do that?”

“Yes, unfortunately, though I assume by that response the answer is no.”

She nodded.

He stepped back and dragged a chair to a distant wall, facing the boarded up bay windows away from her. “There’s a dressing screen to the right,” he said. “You’ll be able to see me through it but I cannot see you, and I won’t turn around.”

Una tentatively pulled the screen out, and the corrugated plasticlear screen proved to do exactly what the Mandalorian said it would. Still she hastily changed from the rags into simple, comfortable clothes, her eyes on the Mandalorian the whole time. He too did exactly what he said he would and remained turned away from her. She surveyed the room.

“I’ll keep this short and simple,” he said. “I have a reputation for buying people from the invis market and I let the rumors that I run a private brothel or bathhouse or whatever abound because the less people know the truth, the more they’ll fill in the blanks for themselves. In truth, I help people escape. The women you saw with me— All five are employees by choice, paid and provided for with the ability and skills to leave any time they want. They’ll meet us shortly to explain more over dinner, but they were called away, like you saw. I try not to appear in public more than I have to, and anything they do when they’re with me is to reinforce that reputation, nothing beyond what they’re willing. I won’t get into why or how that reputation got started right now, but I do assure you it’s entirely false. I’ve just found a way to leverage it to my and others’ advantage.”

Una slowly lowered the wine bottle back down, rethinking her escape plan.

“Are you dressed?”

She set the wine bottle aside. “… Yes.”

He stood and turned again, keeping his hands visible and keeping the distance between them.

“I don’t expect you to believe me. I don’t expect you to believe them. I’m still going to give you the resources you’ll need to get off this planet and go wherever you want or need to go and hope you understand that your silence about what we do will ensure we can continue to do it. Do we have an accord?”

“… I’d like to eat.”

The Mandalorian nodded. “Follow me.”

Over the following hour Una heard the Mandalorian’s story corroborated by everybody she met. The dogged rumors of insatiable lust and a habit of “going through” slave girls were baseless accusations thrown at him by rivals intent on discrediting him as a bounty hunter, and as the rumors followed him his employers became more and more scarce until the only ones who would hire him were the ones buying slaves themselves.

Disgusted by the invis market but unable to escape the sordid reputation, he realized there was a way he could leverage it to his advantage.

Outwardly he appeared to buy women from the auction blocks and haul them off to “refine” and resell to high buyers, others remaining behind as his obedient prisoners. His public appearances were accompanied by the women he hired making a show of fawning over him and following his every command, but with their help in the hidden headquarters of the abandoned theater, he used his bureaucratic skills, connections, and network of contacts to help others escape.

What he really made his money in was commissions: most of those who chose to stay in his employment were trained to be bounty hunters themselves, and once they’d been initiated into the Guild, he acted as their broker under a pseudonym, collecting a percentage of the Guild payout on their successes, which in turn kept his operation up and running. In just under five years he’d amassed over fifty loyal hunters bought or traded from the slave market and trained under his expertise, and over two hundred others he’d helped secure the freedom of.

By the time she’d healed and been fitted with some resources to keep her on the move, Una found herself beneath the theater with several others heading out the secret passageways under the city. She hadn’t spoken to the Mandalorian since the first day— Didn’t even know his name— but when she looked back to him conferring with the women who had helped her, he nodded and she nodded back.

After Q’rad, Una found that every Mandalorian she crossed, even those with the most fearsome reputations, was an honorable person who largely kept to themselves and didn’t start trouble (though she found they very easily ended any that came their way). Once, she’d seen a rather boisterous and uncouth fellow with the telltale armor be thrown out of a casino on Canto Bight, only for two Mandalorian bounty hunters to summarily beat him within an inch of his life when he tried to clumsily fight back. It turned out the loud one was not, in fact, a Mandalorian at all, just a pretender who’d found or stolen the armor of the two hunters’ brethren. Time and again she found that she could tell which Mandalorians truly shared the culture and code by which so many of them lived, opposed to the people who’d simply claimed the armor for themselves.

As the years went on, Una saw fewer and fewer Mandalorians in her travels. Eventually she wound up again in chains, this time as a dancer to the syndicate slug on the planet with two suns. It was an unfortunate commonality she had with several girls, including three other Twi’lek women. They had all been betrayed by the Hutt’s majordomo, a selfish, pasty former noble of their species by the name of Fortuna, a male Twi’lek who had gifted them to Jabba and who they all knew had also captured the Secura heir during the fires set to their homeworld.

The last woman, Oola, was the one Una formed the fastest friendship with. The lot of them, alongside a Rodian, a Theelin, an Aruzan, and an Askajian, made up Jabba’s then-current menu of performers. Max Rebo’s band, Barqin D’an and the other musicians at least had the luxury of wearing clothes if they wished, but for the dancing girls they were back in the thinnest scraps of clothing available, compelled to sing and dance and… entertain Jabba the Hutt.

When she heard of a Mandalorian hunter under Jabba’s employ her hopes were lifted, until she saw the green-armored warrior herself. Even if he had painted his armor, she could tell he wasn’t the one who’d helped her all those years ago. He didn’t make an effort to free the slaves, but with numbers against him and slave chips keeping those like her tethered on pain of death, Una knew there wouldn’t have been a way he even could have, not unless he or someone else managed to kill Jabba and his entire entourage. Though his reputation as a cold-blooded killer was well-known it was only partially true; sometimes employers like Jabba paid more for live capture. Beyond that though his fearsome reputation was bolstered by his ruthless efficiency, which it was said could be found in every job he took, from acquisitions to executions. Not only was it rumored he’d taken work from Vader himself, it was said that he’d even turned down permanent employment from the Emperor's enforcer.

The near-silent Mandalorian proved to be one of the few in Jabba’s hire who was an exception to some of the usual constraints: free to come and go as he pleased, not indebted to Jabba in any way, and formidable enough to hold his own without question. The bounty hunter stopped by Jabba’s palace from time to time to refuel; nobody could really say that the Mandalorian rested, per se, and for as slimy as the slug pit was there were well-paying clients and connections to be found in spades, and he liked to keep busy.

The times he lingered, Una found him to be enough of a conversationalist that he’d exchange some surface-level stories, provided nobody tried to dig any deeper, and if it appeared to others like he was just enjoying the rest of what Jabba had to offer there in his personal den of iniquity, she could find respite herself for a time appearing to entertain him. She could count on her hands the number of times it happened, but just seeing his armor there in the court gave her a sense of relief. His reputation and the usual rumors preceded him, but Una and the others never found themselves on the receiving end of more than his company within the throne room of the palace.

And then the sail barge came under assault and the Mandalorian met his demise in the maw of the Sarlacc, pulled down into the acidic depths even as he clawed at the sand in an effort to stave off a grisly and agonizing death. He had fought his way out of every other obstacle in his life; Una had hoped for his sake it would work again.

It was a fruitless hope though, and when the lights were shot out and the chaos continued she barely managed to yank her bindings free and jump for the scorching sand like the rest of the rats on Jabba’s sinking ship. How many survived the explosion, she wouldn’t know until much later when she tried to scrape a living together in the streets of Mos Espa, but the Mandalorian was not among them.

After that it was several more years of much of the same, eaking out a meager living and resorting to desperate measures just to survive. The Tatooine suns kept her from braving the wilderness, and in the city she had to be fast to escape the hands of those much stronger and more wicked than her.

Having blue skin and lekku makes you stand out on Tatooine though, and it wasn’t long before she was caught by Bib Fortuna’s agents and hauled back to Jabba’s palace in chains, a slave again.

When Una saw the assassin in black descend to Bib Fortuna’s throne room, killing the daimyo’s attendants and guards, she jerked against her chains on instinct, bare feet slipping on loose sand, trying to get away. When the assassin stopped, seeing her left, Una squeezed her eyes shut and prepared to meet her end.

A shot rang out. The chains jolted in her hands. Una fell to the coarse sand floor, her irons severed, and she looked around wildly until her eyes met the assassin again.

The woman jerked her head to indicate that she should leave, and Una didn’t have to think twice.

At the farthest end of the throne room near the stone staircase that would take her to the tunnels however, Una paused, looking back at the sound of spurs.

And when she saw the green Mandalorian descend into the throne room, she hesitated.

… Is that…?

Bib Fortuna, vile thing that he was, entreated the silent figure that now stood before him. Una flinched when another shot echoed through the room, a flash of red ending in the Twi’lek traitor’s demise. The Mandalorian stepped up onto the dais, effortlessly heaving the corpulent daimyo’s body aside. The assassin took up a flask and the Mandalorian eased onto the throne as comfortably as if he’d always belonged there.

And as Una silently ducked out of sight and raced on sandstone stairs to one of the hidden exits, she found she was unafraid.

Boba Fett was back.

[romanticiseadarkcity]

a lot of the reason I got into urban design is because of two human rights: food and shelter. after my environmental science degree I became hellbent on decolonising our land use, and one of the first things to go was whatever is going on with housing—but also, along with it, bringing back the intrinsic value of natural areas rather than the exponential increase of land value due closer to the cities.

what this has told me is that we as humans love connection. we need land to grow our food (less now with the advent of vertical farming and hydroponics) but we love all coming together in clumps. we also love access to green space, nature, and we want as much of both as possible. for our mental health, it’s ideal we have good amounts of both, the balance will differ from person to person, the need for both will differ from person to person, and quality impacts our mental health and access to necessary services more than quantity. this is something we can work with as urban designers: creating value, forms of capital with the goal to meet humanity’s needs. it’s possible, if we stop thinking of value purely in terms of money.

I’m obsessed with slums: imagine moving to the city and taking the shittiest accommodation possible just to be near the resources and opportunities. after spending my high school and undergrad years lonely on the peri-urban outskirts of a big city, I’ve done the equivalent of it—spending 3/4 of your income on rent isn’t sustainable, especially if you plan on going back to study, but I’ve done it. I’m also obsessed with development and charity and the reason behind it: most property developers are fundamentally selfish and I have longed for half my life now to prove to the world that we can do it another way; sustain ourselves by providing homes with a sense of place to people who need it the most, upgrading living conditions for a community in line with their longings, and be fueled by the social and relational and community capital it produces rather than money. the way my brain works, this has a direct link to my productivity.

the relational positive feedback cycles of my brain aside, the more I’ve studied the more I see the scientific principles behind things like economic formulas that can predict all things supply and demand, which is basically what the housing industry is. stuck in the private sector for too long while the government is slow, I’ve spent my life making structures out of wood with my handy impact driver from trees I grew myself, thinking, if I can make this place out of nothing but photosynthesis and a nickel metal hydride battery just because I had some energy to burn off, surely it’s not that difficult to provide for people just through creating?

still, economics is a mathematical art that we have to learn like professionals in the soul-sucking industry in order to break creatively and artistically in ways that actually work. practically, my first exposure to doing this as an adult beyond the hypotheticals of the classroom was a presentation by max chandler mather, and as he steps down from his position as a member of parliament here in Australia I want all of you to google him and see the policies he has—inspired by Vienna, which I’ve been too broke from paying my rent to go visit yet, and something to do with breaking the cycle of negative gearing in taxes that I still don’t quite understand. but I understand the rest.

i was 21 and this was the first time I realised the environment and human housing don’t have to be conflicting needs. i raised my hand and asked, how do you make it environmentally friendly in line with your party’s policies? isn’t housing development one of the biggest contributors to land clearing? and he said being built according to government plans and regulations actually ensures that the highest environmental standards can be achieved as actual experts will be involved, something developers so rarely do (and every architect you meet will rant about) to cut costs. from there I looked into sarah bekessey’s coined term biodiversity sensitive urban design and the research she’s done into this mid rise paragon of human and environmental health at the royal melbourne institute of technology. I got myself qualified (well mostly) to design this stuff but I think what’s gonna do it for me is working with a group of people who share the same ideals, rather than just because of a job opening. I might reach out to some of these contacts.

[bastardofharrenhal]

sorry but if u hate the idea of bran becoming king consider urself an opp

[deadbandsong]

Oh yes? And when was the last time we were listening to Namor ramble, Pietro? Really, we’re all ears.

Scarlet Witch & Quicksilver. Steve Orlando. 2024.

[meimi-haneoka]

༻✦༺ Welcome! ༻✦༺

Last update January 1st, 2025

Hello and welcome to my main blog, my little home where I share my love for Cardcaptor Sakura and CLAMP works to the world! ✨

I'm Cinzia, she/her, Italian. Aged in a barrel of hyperfixations and daydreams. You might wonder, why this blog url if this is mainly a CCS blog? Well, when I opened this blog more than 10 years ago I was heavily focused on Kaitou Saint Tail, but when I started posting more and more about CCS, at some point I realized it was too late to change url or all the links to the posts I had shared around would become broken.

Regardless! I have closely followed the serialization of Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card ever since it began and my monthly commentary became something more when I realized the official English translation wasn't doing justice (to use an euphemism) to the original Japanese version. My friends and other fans in general were left confused and misguided by the countless translation mistakes (some to the point of changing the plot), so I started pointing them out in my monthly posts.

I also post other kind of stuff, like reports of CLAMP Spaces when they talk about CCS, or long time ago I posted summaries of interviews with the staff of the Clear Card anime. I plan to eventually translate those fully, considering my skills with Japanese language improved since then. But please remember that "English is not my first language" etc etc., so if some sentences sound weird, you already know why. Now that the manga is over, I post with irregular schedule some in-depth analysis and trivia about the story, examining one topic at a time. Despite being a CLAMP fan and loving other stories as well, I chose to focus on and dedicate myself to CCS in particular, due to time and limited mental resources. Thinking about following me? That's great, thank you! ✨ But if there's an idiom I love, it's "good fences make good neighbours", so please make sure to understand what kind of blog you're about to follow. I consider this my fandom home so additionally to those posts I mentioned above, I also unapologetically post about the ships I love. I love to analyze, I like to theorize. I don't disguise, I don't tiptoe.

I am a CCS fan born in SyaoSaku, and reborn with YunaAki, with currently a preference for the latter ones. If you're curious to know what my POV on this pairing is, you can get a very clear idea looking at my #yunaaki and #cosmos & crystals hashtags . If for any reason that's not ok with you, you're absolutely free to unfollow or even block me. In fact, I encourage you to do so. I'm here on this site to enjoy what I like, not to make anyone miserable. Unkind asks will be ignored; attempts to "lecture me" about what is acceptable and what not, what I can like and what not will probably be laughed at (I'm old for this stuff, it doesn't work with me). On the contrary, if you like YunaAki too, you'll be more than welcome here! Send me a message to share our headcanons! ✨

Now that we've cleared that up, here you can find the real reason why I wanted to make this new introductory pinned post: a convenient list with links to all my relevant posts, organized by category! I will update this list as I add new posts, so always check the date at the top for new additions! 👍

Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card: commentary + translation differences

(started at chapter 41 because that's when I got access to ENG scans) Collected under the hashtag #translation differences . The first posts might be a bit overzealous, as I was getting the hang of it. TBA: I have a bigger project for this in the works, an easier way to browse through all the relevant translation differences, divided by chapters and volumes, starting by chapter 1 (even marked by severity).

41 || 42 || 43 || 44 || 45 || 46 || 47 || 48 || 49 || 50 || 51 || 52 || 53 || 54 || 55 || 56 || 57 || 58 || 59 || 60 || 61 || 62 || 63 || 64 || 65 || 66 || 67 || 68 || 69 || 70 || 71 || 72 || 73 || 74 || 75 || 76 || 77 || 78 || 79 || 80 || Epilogue || Short stories 01 || 02 || 03 || 04 || 05 ||

Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card Trivia series

All about Clear Card, from the most mundane trivia to the deepest thematics presented in it. Collected under the hashtag #clear card trivia .

Clear Card Trivia 1 ~ Literary and musical references/mentions in Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card

Clear Card Trivia 2 ~ Alice in Clockland and its meaning in Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card

Clear Card Trivia 3 ~ Sakura's journey of growth and self-understanding throughout Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card

Clear Card Trivia 4 ~ The most ancient Magicians of Europe, the Magic Association and their role in Clear Card

Clear Card Trivia 5 ~ Real life models of buildings featured in Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card

Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card Timeline

An easy-to-read timeline of the events and facts depicted in Clear Card, placed correctly in chronological order inside the bigger Cardcaptor Sakura story.

Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card Timeline

English translations of short stories and Drama CDs

Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card BD vol. 8 one shot

Card Captor Sakura Clear Card Arc - Drama CD part 1

Card Captor Sakura Clear Card Arc - Drama CD part 2

Clear Card manga volume 10 Special Edition bonus - Mini Book

Sakura & Syaoran parallels in CCS and TRC

Discontinued, even though I know there are more. Who knows, maybe one day I'll continue it! Collected under the hashtag #syaosaku parallels .

1 ~Hands~ || 2 ~Pinky Promises~ || 3 ~Hugs~ || 4 ~”Tell me”~ || 5 ~Desperate hug~ || 6 ~Scream and shout~

CLAMP Space & Kanbukai reports

Reports and in some cases translation of entire chunks of conversation from CLAMP Spaces on Twitter and from their official podcast ("CLAMP's Board of Directors"). These are all the bits relative to CCS/Clear Card and there's lots of insights/production process tidbits on Clear Card.

July 30th, 2021 || September 5th, 2021 || March 27th, 2022 || April 4th, 2022 || August 7th, 2022 || October 24th, 2022 || November 8th, 2022 || December 28th, 2022 || January 4th, 2023 || May 5th, 2023 || January 8th, 2024 || January 30th, 2024 || April 1st, 2024 || December 31st, 2024 🆕||

Interviews with the Clear Card anime staff and cast

Highlights and recaps of the interviews released during the period of broadcasting of the Clear Card anime. If you want to know what kind of feelings and ideas Clear Card was made with, as well as the origin of the 25th anniversary project (which turned into Clear Card), check these out. I plan to translate these entirely, so this list is only temporary, waiting for the complete interviews.

Interview with CCS Clear Card producer Chiyo Kawazoe in Animage 12/2017

Morio Asaka x Sakura Tange interview in Newtype 05/2018

Highlights of Morio Asaka’s interview in the Starter Book

Interview with Yukana (Meiling’s VA) in Animage 06/2018

Interview with Sakura Tange and Motoko Kumai in Animage 07/2018

Interview with Sho Saito (Nakayoshi editor) and Nozomi Matsuura (CCS copyrights manager) in Animedia 07/2023 (full interview)

Other random stuff collected under hashtags:

My fanarts

My fics for YunaAki (on my new blog)

Enjoy your stay! ✨

[sparklecryptid]

I had no patience for people policing other peoples ships before i went to library tech school and library tech school has make me a little bit pissy about the entire thing actually.

[housenp]

rabbit and skunk by carla stevens