#its a relief to see it in canon and be able to talk about this because as an introvert. this makes so much sense

[dangaer]

i am so sorry about the long post, but ... oh my gOD. shin really is the sweetest character in amne.sia im sorry

[mt-oe]

𝙎𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙖 𝙃𝙤𝙩—bandmate mizu

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Hey dears!

I'm so so sorry for not being able to keep up with requests that well. My program is taking a lot of my time and beating the shit out of me (esp. u immunology and serology >:c).

Anyways, here's a sort of prequel for my headcanons because band au Mizu is so yummy.

Enjoy! Mwa mwa:*

warning: not proofread, she/her for mizu, will refer to her as a boy (bc she canonically appears like a man), implied afab reader

"But you're so good at playing the guitar, and you have the charisma too. You should definitely join our band. Even our manager is amazing. She—"

"For the last time, Ringo. I don't want to join your stupid band."

Mizu and Ringo were already getting ready to go home after finishing their term-end project for their elective, which just so happened to be music. She didn't really think it through when she enlisted and just picked whichever she thought was the easiest. Ringo, however, just picked the same elective as Mizu.

She carefully placed her electric guitar in its case, zipping it up and securing the locks before slinging it over her shoulder. "I have better things to do and joining a band is a waste of time," she added as she walked up to the door.

Ringo followed after her, a smile still on his face despite the rejection. "You never know. This might even be your calling," he chimed as they exited the room, making her groan out of annoyance. They headed into the parking lot where Mizu's bike was parked. "We have an audition in a week if you want," he said, waiting for his friend to put on her helmet.

Once Mizu was finished putting on her helmet, she hopped on and leaned forward, pushing her weight to retract the center stand. "Not interested," she groaned out, slightly muffled behind her helmet. Her foot kickstarted the bike on before she revved the engine up a bit.

"Well if you decide to change your mind, just send me a message." Ringo stepped back a bit to give Mizu some space to move. She grunted in response and drove forward, leaving her friend waving and shout goodbyes at her.

What's so great about joining a stupid band anyway?

It's probably just filled with pretentious kids pretending to be as good as their idols but can't even memorize which strings their hammer ons should be.

Another groan escaped her lips the more she thought about the offer. It was annoying. Yet, a somehow, a small part of her wanted to play even more. The desire ringing at the back of her head like an itch she couldn't scratch off.

What if she did join?

What if it was as much fun as Ringo always said it was?

A sigh escaped her lips at how bothered she was by her thoughts. Why was she even thinking about this? She can always play her instruments at home. A crowd wouldn't make a difference, she thought as the wind whizzed past.

Her thoughts continued to race as she drove home. This band thing was stupid. Maybe she shouldn't attend the audition after a—

"Hey goofy boy!" a voice called out.

'What? Me?' she thought, lifting her visor to look around for the source of the voice. Across the stoplight, she saw another woman waving at her enthusiastically. It was almost ridiculous to look at. She raised an eyebrow, looking at her sides and behind her to see if you were talking to someone else before pointing to herself inquisitively.

"Yes you! Across the stoplight! C'mere!" you yelled, signaling her to stop in front of the cafe you were standing in front of, not really caring if other people were looking at you with how silly you were being.

Her blue eyes narrowed at you, clearly suspicious of your intentions. And yet, the way you were smiling and calling her over made her feel...something. Once the light turned green, she drove over to you, pulling up at the lot in front of the cafe.

You walked over to her, letting out a sigh of relief as she kicked the side stands on. "What do you want?" she asked in a low voice that clearly indicated that she didn't trust you even one bit.

"That.." You pointed to the guitar case on her back, making her raise an eyebrow cautiously. What did you want with her baby huh? She was so ready to throw hands.

"What model? And how long have you been playing?" you asked, still pointing to her guitar. Mizu looked over her shoulder being sighing. This was a waste of time. "I'm not inclined to tell you that," she replied, getting ready to kick her side stands off.

You snorted at her cold reply before leaning closer until she was face-to-face with you no matter how much she pulled away. The proximity allowing her to take in your features better and you were quite...pretty?

No. Wait.

Let's focus on how much of nuisance you were being.

Before she could even kick off her side stands, you already blocked her foot with yours. "Join our band," you said in a serious tone, showing her a business card before placing it in her jacket, smile still on your face.

Mizu groaned and rolled her eyes. "No. Now get your foot off before I kick it off," she replied. Yet, you kept your foot in the way of her stands, making her eyebrows knit together. "You look really goofy riding that bike of yours with a huge ass guitar case on your back," you said, eyes glancing at her guitar case before staring into her eyes intently. "You have talent, don't you?"

The smile on your face despite how serious and forward you were being was unnerving. "So what? I'm not going to join your band," she said in a low voice. Indeed, she was quite stubborn, but nowhere near your level. This motorist was the diamond in the rough you were looking for. "Goofy boy, join me in the café. It's my treat."

There was no way she's going into that café just for you to give her your sales talk and convince her to join your stupid unknown band. Not in a million years

—was what she thought.

Yet here she was, helmet off and sitting in front of you with a cup of matcha latte, watching you take a bite out of the cake you bought for yourself. After taking a slow sip, she sighed and narrowed her eyes at you. "I thought we were here talk about your band," she scoffed.

You smiled at her yet again, fork still in between your lips. "You're not going to talk right away, right? So let's take our time." A small 'tch' escaped her lips as she leaned back against the chair.

"Fine. I'll talk," she replied, staring at you up and down. Now that she was able to sit down and relax the tiniest bit, she was finally taking her time to look at you. And you weren't an eyesore at all. In fact, you were really fucking cute.

She's still not joining your band though.

A small giggle escaped your lips as you placed the fork down, resting your elbows on the table and intertwining your fingers together. "What model?" you asked, eyes darting to the guitar case beside your table.

Mizu glanced at it as her hands wrapped around the handle of her cup. "A les paul," she replied before taking a sip. Your smile widened before you took a sip from your cup as well, setting it down when she set hers down. "How long have you been playing?"

"Long enough," she replied, glancing at you, rolling her eyes at how you stared at her with curiosity, as if coercing her to tell more. "Fine, fine...before I started high school. I think. Maybe even longer."

You hummed in satisfaction and took another bite out of your cake. "Any other instruments?" you asked, raising an eyebrow at her. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow back at you. "A bass. A mustang."

Silence washed over both of you as you continued to eat your cake, making her feel a bit nervous. A small clink was heard as you put your fork down after taking your final bite. "What's your name, goofy boy?"

"Mizu," she replied before taking her drink into her hands. She downed it in one go, placing the cup down and picking her guitar case up. "This is pointless. I'm leaving," she said in a low husky voice, getting ready to stand up.

It was clear to her that she shouldn't have given so much time to you. She wasn't even interested in joining. Maybe if you weren't so cute, she wouldn't have tried to hear you out.

Before she can even stand up, you beat her to it, pushing her back down on the chair gently. Her eyes widened ever so slightly as you leaned forward again.

"I'll make you a star."

Huh?

Her clear surprise and confusion made you giggle. What the hell were you talking about? You pulled away and placed your hands on your hips, giving her a confident smile.

"Talent recognizes talent, Mizu. It may not be now, but I'll make you a star," you beamed.

Mizu blinked before scoffing. "That's ridiculous," she sneered before standing up and putting her helmet on. "For the last time, I'm not fucking joining your stupid audition."

Was what she said.

But here she was, a week later, sitting down inside the studio hallway. Her eyes watched as the auditionees chatted amongst themselves. Those who were done with the audition complaining about how strict the judge was, who she learned was just one person.

Her nerves were sending jitters to the tips of fingers, her throat tightening up slightly in anticipation. She closed her eyes and took a deep inhale before exhaling slowly. Just as she opened her eyes, she jumped slightly at the sight of a familiar pair of feet in front of her.

"I knew you were going to change your mind," her friend's voice chimed.

Looking up, she made eye contact with Ringo who was beaming at her, drumsticks tied to his stubby hands. "But how did you know where our studio is?"

This was the band Ringo was talking about? Oh boy.

She grunted and handed him the business card you snuck into her jacket. "The address is written there," she said with a sigh. He let out a small "oh" before his eyes widened even more. "So you've met her before," he replied cheerfully, handing the business card back.

"Who?" she asked, a serious yet curious look on her face. He looked confused for a moment before he replied, "Our manager. The one who handed you that card?" She wanted to ask more questions, but then a voice suddenly called for the drummer. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I gotta go. Bye!"

Upon Ringo leaving, Mizu sat back down and closed her eyes again, resting her elbows on her knees.

Some time later, all the auditionees had finished and yet, it seems that all of them had been rejected. "This is a waste of time. I should have left earlier," she muttered to herself.

Just as she was about to leave the studio, her name was called, leaving her with no choice. Slowly, she entered the room only to be greeted with—

"You came!" your voice beamed.

Her eyes scanned around the room to see you sitting down on a chair, holding some papers, as well as the other band members presumably. "And you're the manager apparently," she said plainly. A chuckle escaping your lips as you nodded. "You can get ready whenever you want to."

Once her guitar was plugged in and ready to go, she looked up at you again, waiting for any further instructions. Despite her mind telling her that there was nothing to be nervous about, her gut was squeezing and churning from anticipation.

Should she do her best? Or should she fuck this up?

Your eyes watched her carefully, observing how she handled her guitar. "Play any song you'd like," you said, leaning forward in your seat as you set the papers down on a chair beside you.

No. She didn't want to be in this stupid band. She's not going to do her best.

Why the fuck would she do that?

This wasn't even worth it.

Nononononononono—

She looked down on her guitar before beginning to strum the familiar intro of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Despite her bobbing her head slightly, it was clear through her body language that she wasn't even trying at all.

The smile on your face slowly disappeared until all that was left was an unreadably neutral expression. Once she was done, she looked at you with a bored expression. "Well?"

You sighed at her, giving her the same bored expression back, making her smirk a bit. "Guess I'm not in, am I?" She unplugged her guitar, getting ready to put it back in the case before your hands stopped her.

"Sit back down. We're not done," you said in a serious tone, facial expression neutral yet your eyes told her that you were daaaaaaaamn annoyed with how little of an effort she put in. The look in your eyes, they way you were gripping the neck of her guitar, did something to her. "I don't owe you a performance," she replied.

You glared at her lightly before snatching her guitar from her hands, causing her to glare at you. She tried to grab her guitar back but you kept evading her as you plugged it back in. Once it was plugged back on, you pushed towards her, making her stumble back a bit from how harsh you did it.

"Now sit down and play. Talent recognizes talent, Mizu," you growled at her. The scene causing everyone in the room to go quiet. It was clear to them that you were pissed. "If not, then sell that guitar. You're wasting it."

After all, the only thing you hated more than the equipment suddenly breaking was wasted potential. And Mizu was wasting a LOT of potential.

Your words struck a nerve in her causing her. With a loud screech, she pulled the chair towards her and sat down. "Fine. If it gets you to shut the fuck up."

She looked at you with one final glare as she leaned back, hands beginning to move against her guitar.

She began playing Hotel California, immediately skipping to the guitar rift at the end of the song.

By the normal person's ear, it wasn't anything special. There were more impressive sounding songs out there. But to you, you knew how difficult it was to get the tone of the song right with how slow it was compared to other rifts. If she made a mistake here, a wrong pluck, a wrong drag, a wrong vibrato, the mistake would be so painfully obvious.

And yet, here Mizu was, playing it perfectly with the same angry look on her face. She was damn mad at you for touching her guitar, for pushing her towards your stupid fucking band. And yet, she couldn't help but want to impress you.

Did she really not want to be in the band?

Why was she trying so fucking hard then?

Like her body was moving on its own.

Like her hands were itching to play more.

As she ended the song, she looked down at the ground. Suddenly, the sound of clapping caused her to perk up and look at you. The sight causing her breath to hitch a blush to dust over her cheeks. That was when she knew the answer to her question.

It was you and your proud little smile.

That cute fucking smile.

All the annoyance and anger you held at her melted off during her little performance. You knew you saw talent. The moment you saw that goofy looking motorist with the awkwardly large hard guitar case at the stoplight, talent already hit you like a damn truck.

Although she knew you were satisfied with her performance, she couldn't help but want to try more. She'll try. She'll damn try for the hottest fucking manager she has ever seen. Her earlier hesitations of whether she wanted to join the band or not disappearing.

Call it a gay agenda but she was going to secure this fucking spot. She'll be best fucking guitarist you have ever heard or seen.

Just as you were about to congratulate her, she raised a hand up to cut you off. "Wait—fuck—that was too easy. I... goddamnit. Wait, I'll try doing something harder," she said in a panicked slur.

Her hands immediately went back to her guitar, eyes narrowing in thought. If an impressive guitar rift was what she needed...

Suddenly, she began playing the guitar rift for Free Bird. Eyes glued to her guitar, palms sweating a bit as she hit every chord, every pluck, every fucking bend.

You couldn't place your finger on what it was, but somehow, it felt like she was playing more passionately. Like she was putting her all into this one song. Was it the way she was bobbing her head? Or the way she moved her guitar during every vibrato? Maybe the way her body moved with the music?

Once the song ended, she closed her eyes and let out a breath she didn't even know she was holding. You couldn't help but giggle at how flustered she looked, making her blush again.

"Am I in?" she asked, looking at you with hidden desperation in her eyes, making you giggle even more. Her eyebrows furrowed as you continued to laugh, not really answering her question. "Well?"

A gulp went down her throat as you stood up from your chair and picking up the papers you previously held. "Mizu," you giggled out, "You were already in from the moment you tried again."

...

oh

Well that was embarrassing.

You handed her the contract and a pen, humming as she read the content before signing. Looking at her signature, your smile widened. This flustered looking guitarist was exactly what you were looking for and you just hit jackpot.

"You won't regret this, Mizu. I swear." She glanced at you, scanning the big smile you had on your face before looking down at her guitar and unplugging it. "I better not."

Suddenly, you lunged forward at her. Her eyes widened when you suddenly took her hand in yours, intertwining your fingers together. "Talent recognizes talent," you repeated, leaning closer to her, grip tightening with every word.

"I'll make you a star."

She'll be your star.

[thebellearchives]

I wish you would write a fic where Inumaki watches non sorcerer!reader from a distance since the Shibuya incident. He’s always there, making sure they’re safe and healing, and reader swears they see his face in passing crowds, passing it off as a coincidence. Until a chance encounter…

𝐂𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐍

~ inumaki toge ; jujutsu kaisen

✧˚ · . S Y N O P S I S : you long for the comfort of the arms of your saviour, until you realize that he might need comfort in your arms instead

‧₊˚ c o n t e n t s : gn!reader, non-sorcerer reader, mutual pining, comfort, mentions of blood, suggested trauma, a little emotional ?, probably inconsistent with the canon shibuya incident-itadori’s extermination transition

‧₊˚ a / n : i started writing and it just kept getting longer and longer and i couldn’t stOP, this one qualifies as hurt-comfort i think? so ill tag it as both fluff and angst oop, hope you like it anon 🫶🏻

Ever since Shibuya nothing has been the same. Debris, cough, grey days, lavender eyes. Fear, panic, emptiness, white hair flowing in the wind. Silence, visions, dark purple fabric. You tell yourself you must be going insane, seeing him around the corners of dark alleys, standing at at the other side of the road outside the store, in the reflections of broken glass on the floor. But you wake up from your bed every night gasping for air, wishing he’d come to your rescue once again, thinking he’d come through your door. Longing to feel in the air that sweet scent of lilies that came from his clothes when he picked you up and took you to safety. To hear once again the hypnotic sound of his voice that saved your life that fateful day.

And as you make your way back to your apartment you hold your things close to your chest. There were many things about the incident that didn’t make sense, the whole situation was just ininteligible to you. The rumbling of the floor and the loud noises, the way things would just hit on the walls or the asphalt around you and not being able to tell where they were coming from. The huge, insect-like monster that stood on its hind legs as it took impulse to lunge forwards and take your life. Until you heard his voice and the monster exploded, fading into thin air just as quickly as it had appeared in front of you. But if none of that had happened, then how did his hands on your shoulders feel so real and warm? The worry in his lovely lilac eyes as he checked that you were in perfect conditions, or the way you could almost swear you could smell the copperish scent of the blood on his lips?

As you walked, you held in your hand the small bottle of cough syrup that he had accidentally left behind that night, the only proof you had that he existed. Your brows furrowed as you stared at the bottle, your steps coming to an end. If you could only see him once more and thank him for saving you, just hold onto him and feel like everything would be okay again…

A sudden movement caught your attention from your peripheral vision. Startled, your eyes drove to a narrow alley to your left, fear almost freezing you in place. But you caught it: a little glimpse of a familiar figure. So the fear turned into anxiety, maybe you were going crazy, or maybe not, but there was only one way to figure it out. Your feet moved almost automatically, sprinting towards the alley.

“Wait!” you voiced, wishing with all your might you were talking to him and not to a panic induced vision.

The figure continued to quickly try and escape by turning into different directions to lose you but it didn’t fade away, so your heartbeat quickened. It was him, it had to be.

“Wait, please! I just wanna talk!” you tried to pick up the pace, but your rushing only made you trip. You hitched a breath and tried not lose balance, looking down by pure instinct, but when you glanced back up he was nowhere to be seen.

Frowning, you started running now. You couldn’t let him go, not when he was so close to you, not when your chance to feel that relief again was escaping like water through your fingers. You turned to your left, right, left… until you were no longer sure where you were at all. The alleys seemed to had turned into a maze at some point with nothing more than trash cans and plastic bags everywhere.

A knot formed in your throat and you could feel tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes. Why did he leave? Didn’t he hear you? Had you really imagined him after all?

A pile of trash fell down somewhere behind you, making you turn around instantly. Your heartbeat quickened in a glint of hope.

“Hello? Are you there?” taking a hesitant step forwards, your eyes tried to scrutinise the scene, trying to catch a glimpse of his figure, maybe his hair, anything.

“Listen, I just want to thank you… I thought…” you stopped yourself for a second, taking another step forwards and a deep breath “i thought i could just have a word with you?”

No response, a pained frown slowly appearing in your face, you bit your lower lip in doubt. Fine, one last try.

“Okay, you don’t have to talk, you don’t have to say anything, I’ll do the talking. But please… just come out, I want to see you.”

Something else fell down behind you, startling you once again and making you turn around in panic. A bad premonition grew in your chest, something wasn’t right. You could now feel it in your bones: you should not be there. And if there was something around it surely wasn’t who you were hoping for.

“What- ? Who’s there? Don’t come close!” you tried to flee, turning towards the direction you had come from.

But you ended up running into something that wasn’t there before, falling down onto the cold hard floor. You looked up just to find a horrid creature. Your eyes widened, panic weakening your legs and a scream getting stuck in your vocal cords. It was so similar to the one monster that had tried to hurt you the night of Shibuya, with dark green skin, multiple arms and eyes. The monster showed a creepy smile, widening its mouth, ready to attack.

You felt your stomach turn, your body trembling and the panic traveling through your body until your survival instinct kicked in. Somehow you managed to stand up and tried to run away, only this time you ran into something else. Or rather someone.

The white haired boy quickly grabbed you by your waist and moved you behind him, shielding you and defiantly glaring at the creature. You felt all your air freeze inside your lungs. He was there, he was real. His white hair was slightly disheveled, his purple jacket had one of the sleeves ripped off and you noticed he was now missing one of his arms. You wanted to speak to him, say anything, but you didn’t even know his name.

The creature laughed, sending a wave of disgust down your spine. Lunging forwards, it extended its arms wide and ready to attack. The boy didn’t hesitate, his powerful voice filling the alley loud and clear.

“Explode!”

The sound waves of his command hit the creature head on, causing a spark of fire to ignite in its skin and suddenly causing an explosion that sent it flying backwards, ripping its skin into shreds and filling the air with ashes and a strange smell of sulfure. You stood there behind him, eyes widened and your jaw dropped, until he suddenly started coughing.

“Are you okay?!” you tried turning him around, but he stopped you and nodded immediately, frowning a little and clearing his throat.

He glanced back at you with concern written all over his eyes. You remembered the last time had saved you and how he had stared at you just like that before holding your face in his hands and your shoulders in search of wounds. And he did just that again. He reached with his hand to cup your cheek, lifting your chin a little to make sure you didn’t have any scrapes or blood, before checking your neck and your arms.

“I’m fine, I’m-” he coughs again, your brows furrow in concern when you catch a glimpse of blood dripping from the corner of his lips “but you’re not, let me help you”

You reach to brush his hair out of his face and clean the blood, but he pulls back slightly. You freeze, and so does he, blinking a little before his eyes go back to yours cautiously.

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to cross a line” you reply as gently as possible, pulling your hand away before hesitantly taking out the small bottle from your pocket “I have this… will it help?”

His eyes widen a little when he sees the small bottle of cough syrup in your hand and he can’t help but smile slightly. Nodding, he takes it from your hand and drinks it as if it were juice, sighing in relief right after and cleaning the little droplets of blood from his lips with the back of his hand. You take your time to carefully study him, trying to engrave every single detail of his into your brain. The messy rebellious hair strands that refused to go back to their place, the way his long white lashes moved along with his gorgeous lavender eyes and the lines and circles that framed his thin but rosy lips. He looked tired, like he had been fighting for longer than he should have, like he could use some comfort. The comfort that you had found in his arms last time. So when he looks back at you you can’t stop the words from leaving your mouth.

“Would you be okay with a hug?”

He blinked a little in surprise before his tense muscles relaxed slowly and a little smile lifted the corners of his lips. He nods gently again, you smile back in tender concern. Not waiting for anything else you crashed onto him, hugging him tightly. Closing your eyes, you let the warmth of his solid body calm down the still agitated beating of your heart, the worn down scent of lilies you remembered filling your senses once again.

“Thank you” you whispered “for taking care of me all this time”

Sighing, he hugged back, his arm wrapping around your waist and resting his head on yours. Now you knew it: he was real, and you weren’t going to let him go now. Not when both of you were in this dire need from the solace that your closeness brought.

“Always.”

[mal3vol3nt]

the reason people get mad and upset over aang not killing ozai is because they can’t or are unwilling to understand what it really meant for him to be the last airbender

a lot of people don’t truly acknowledge what aang went through when they talk about him. it was a genocide. an ethnic cleansing. a GENOCIDE. and i think that’s because so many people are just incapable or unwilling to wrap their heads around how tragic and isolating and unchangeable something like that is.

i’ve seen countless people say they wish aang had found other airbenders hiding away somewhere. and while i totally get wanting that to happen for the happiness of the character (hell, even i have thought about how heart wrenching that utter relief would feel for him), i’ve also seen those takes associated with people saying they just find it hard to believe that none of the airbenders survived. that none of them were able to escape.

and that’s the thing that annoys me because genocide is a real fucking thing that has happened and IS currently happening in the world (just look at palestine, congo, sudan). it shouldn’t be so hard for people to suspend their belief into thinking it could happen in a fictional piece of media. this disbelief that a genocide can be real results in people being unable to fully sympathize with a character who is stated several times to be the definite, unchangeable sole survivor of his people’s genocide. and i’m not saying it’s wrong to want there to be airbenders who lived, but in canon it’s clear that none of them did. and the ones who did canonically escape were hunted and lured by the fire nation to their demise. and if we’re going to discuss characters and the intents behind their actions, aang’s character development is heavily, heavily heavily guided by his guilt and grief over his lost culture and people. but a lot of people still can’t wrap their heads around the canonical genocide he survived, meaning they can’t fully comprehend why aang would choose peace over a violent end. and considering atla is a western show with a largely western audience, its even more evident that this gap in people’s ability to understand and sympathize with aang is emphasized by their western intrigue toward violence. people don’t just misunderstand aang’s dilemma—they wanted him to kill ozai because seeing him do that would have been cool and interesting and satisfying.

but aang’s decision to spare ozai’s life was made due to his status as the last airbender. prior to meeting the lion turtle, i think it’s safe to say that he had resigned to what he had to do. that is to say, he was likely going to kill ozai despite the pain that was going to cause him. he was going to give up a part of himself, his humanity and the last remainings of his culture, to be the avatar the world needed. but he was then gifted the ability to energy bend, offering him, but not cementing, another option. aang still had the choice, and we saw in the fight that aang was so very close to killing ozai even with this new ability. but he couldn’t. because although killing ozai would have been a pretty justifiable thing to do, it would have fully finished off the air nomads. aang was the only living human who held onto their beliefs. if he were to push those values aside to end the war, the war would have ended the same way it started: with the death of the air nomads. and it may sound “cheesy” or overly dramatic or whatever to some people, but aang’s entire story arc has, arguably, been him trying to fit in a world that seemingly has no more room for the air nomads. not only is he 100 years in the future, but this future has none of his people around and war is everywhere. violence is basically required to survive. death is everywhere. greed has corrupted nations. everything the air nomads stood against made up this world, and aang, as the avatar, had no choice but to save it. for him to have given in to what everyone expected of him—violence—he would have ultimately eliminated air nomad values from the world. and the world would have not cared. aang’s victory would have been celebrated, but aang would have felt even more grief than before. he would have let himself and his people down. and balance would have never been achieved because the air nomads mattered. they were part of what kept the world going round. no matter how much the current world he was fighting for called for violence and death to achieve an end, the air nomads still had a voice through aang. they were still around because of aang. aang’s existence and dedication and love for his culture kept the genocide from being official.

and in my opinion, air nomadic values coming out victorious in a war that nearly wiped them clean (except for aang) is much more of a meaningful and satisfying ending than violence ending with violence.

and if you wanna call aang’s decision selfish, then fine. but i personally think it’s more selfish to expect a survivor of genocide to keep giving and giving and giving for a war that took his people from him until he has nothing left of himself to give. i think that is far more selfish. aang may be the avatar but he is also human. just as much human as his people were, and the leaders he was fighting against, and the millions of people he ended up saving, and just as deserving of having some sort of agency in the decisions he makes. call me crazy ig

[profounddefendorcrusade-blog]

Let's talk about genocide Starlo

... because on one hand, I understand where the devs were coming from. They wanted to highlight that Star was not the cool, badass sheriff he'd love to be. Some pointed out how, realistically, he couldn't have defeated Clover and especially delivered the final blow (he does it in pacifist/neutral bc hes in the worst possible headspace). Star is a big softie and a "naive fool," lets be real. But still, there is one more thing that he is: caring.

He cares about the town, toursits, especially his friends. It's been shown over and over and OVER again. And i'm sure as hell disappointed he didn't bring a real gun. Yeah, he was always aware this was all play pretend, but just for a few minutes, this man should have tried to be the sheriff he never got the chance to be before.

For the sake of everyone. For the sake of justice.

I'm not even asking for an epic battle. I'm asking for a battle that wouldn't even be close to Undyne's in UT's geno. But it would be Starlo's battle. A battle he was robbed of for the sake of Ceroba getting the spotlight.. for the 2nd time. Because this dude is clearly seen as a joke by the devs. I'll ask:

Why ceroba AGAIN? she shone in pacifist, while Star was always more of a comic relief and its depressing. Especially since the genocide route ties too well with a twisted image of justice. Star values it as much as Clover, but here he could have been the hero of justice. I just have to say....

STARLO IS THE ONLY ONE OF THE MAIN CHARACTERS WHO DOESN'T EVEN HAVE BATTLE MODE IN GENOCIDE WE WERE ROBBED HES LITERALLY THE EQUIVALENT TO MONSTER KID OR METTATON NEO i'm not sure BUT EVEN MK GOT A BATTLE MODE. METTATON NEO ALSO GOT A BATTLE MODE. EVERYONE GOT A BATTLE MODE EXCEPT STARLO

He should have said... "I may not be a real sheriff by title, but my soul will deliver justice!" Or smth Then just like during the Asgore fight, he'd almost be dead, ceroba arrives, tries to protect star, gets shot by Clover, they say goodbye to each other, then, before he is about to get shot too starlo says smth like genocide undyne and that's how he goes out.

Even better, he, without thinking, throws his hat on the ground (bc he metaphorically no longer wants to admire or associate himself with humans, ever again), seeing his bff die in front of him and goes either: "I don't care if you make fun. This isn't about being cool anymore. This is about my town, my friends. This is about JUSTICE." or "No... I won't fight you/deliver justice as North Star." *pause* "I'll do it as Starlo." and the dork then just stares at clover (There'd be a "laugh" option if Clover decides to act because, well, they see him for the nerd he is) but he's DETERMINED and at this point it doesn't even matter if he's not skilled, he'd do something he hadn't done in years just for the sake of saving his remaining friends, family, and other potential victims: Starlo would fight AS HIMSELF.

But maybe he wouldn't even fight after he takes his hat off. maybe he'd try to explain to Clover violence isn't the answer like Martlet, because that's something the real him would do. He'd drop the hat, drop the gun, drop the belief that he's a badass, and instead accept that he was, and always will be, a big ol' softie. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Point is, would he actually kill clover? hell no. That would be ooc (now that I think about it, why wouldn't he, when he is able to do it in other 2 routes? And he COULD have done it in flawed pacifist? His whole world and identity crashing down and losing all his friends is terrible, losing his bff to a human he trusted and to whom he gave a gun is also terrible, but so is letting a genocidal maniac continue killing)

But he'd die knowing two things:

1)he had tried to be a real, dignified sheriff, and failed (bc he died, not bc he didn't try. In canon, he doesn't even try and THAT'S SO UNLIKE HIM especially considering the situation)

2)in his final moments, he finally became himself again

and that.. that would have been so much more satisfying than what we got.

[batsandgore]

Hi i really love your page 🥰

Could you write headconons about how would reiji would treat his brothers if they turned into kids again like 8 years ago or something.

Thank you!! I feel as though this situation would really trigger Reiji's protective instincts. Especially seeing as it's canon that he enjoys taking care of his brothers. His reaction to Shu was interesting to write for this one, for obvious reasons. Also, apologies in regards to my recent inactivity, I've been overrun with personal errands. But with that being said, do enjoy...

How Reiji would react to his siblings turning into child versions of themselves...

So Ayato decided to tamper with Reiji's alchemy room? Not only that, but he stole away one of his many formulas he had worked tirelessly on in order to bring his mother back? He should've known to keep his most important potions locked away tightly. That one in particular was extremely unstable, and he wouldn't know what results it would yield. But he would soon find out... with Ayato generously making everyone some food, spiked with the mysterious tonic. I mean, it was April Fools! Yours Truly had to pull the best prank in the household... even if he didn't know what the results of the prank would be. Not only that, but Ayato got carried away and ate one himself, completely forgetting about the liquid he poured into it throughout its preparation.

Reiji entered the dining area, only to be met with a half eaten plate of spiked appetisers as well as five screaming children... ah. So that's what that potion did...

Reiji's eyes first laid upon Ayato - the culprit of it all. It seemed they had all reverted to their former personalities they had while being children; having no memory of what had just happened. Reiji could've argued that this made Ayato more tolerable, but a part of him felt empathy for the boy. Cordelia was a vile woman, and given they had all regained their former personalities and had no memory of their lives past their currentage theyve reverted to, it was easy to tell Ayato was on edge; expecting his mother to enter the room at any moment and scold him harshly for not studying.

The next he spotted was a weeping Kanato, clutching a hold of Teddy. All Reiji could understand between his babbles was the message that he was hungry, but he was too short to reach the platter of appetisers. Reiji quickly rushed over and grabbed the platter off of the table and out of reach from his brothers, placing it cautiously on a high shelf. Kanato whined even more at this, but to Reiji, Kanato was no threat in his current state. He was beyond the point of being comforted fully, but nevertheless Reiji quickly made a dash to the kitchen, coming back with a small cupcake labelled with Kanato's name, which Kanato had placed in the fridge the night before. He quietened at this for the most part, bringing much relief to Reiji.

Next was Laito, running laps around the table with a knife and fork, clashing them together like they were fighter jets engaged in battle. Nobody liked to talk about Laito's past with his mother in the household. It was like an unspoken rule. But at this age, Laito didn't know whether it was right or wrong - it didn't register to him as abhorrent or indefensible. He still had retained some amount of childlike innocence at that point in life, and so it showed. He ran around with cutlery in his hands, letting imagination take over. Apart of Reiji wanted the young Laito to indulge in this further. However, Reiji knew that if any accidents happened before he could concoct an antidote, it would be all the more taxing to fix. He paused Laito in his tracks, taking the cutlery off of him before handing him two rolled up napkins of different sizes as a compromise. Usually, Reiji wouldn't be able to tolerate such unruly behaviour, but he felt it necessary to indulge all of this.

Reiji then looked across the table... spotting a young Shu trying to talk to Subaru in an attempt to gain help in diffusing the chaos. Reiji felt... mixed feelings about seeing a young Shu. Subaru, for one, was the sibling he always pitied, with both parents being unavailable to him, leaving him nothing except empty and yearning as a child. But Shu... Shu had everything Reiji wanted as a child: love, validation, care, attention, and gratitude. Apart of himself burned with malice when his eyes gazed upon the younger Shu, but... before anything, he had to get a hold of this mess. He could loathe Shu as much as possible, do what he wanted upon him, but as a defenceless child... well, he didn't find it as appealing.

Reiji called upon order within the room, explaining the situation in a way that was easy to digest for all the children. Muttering immediately began amongst them all, blaming Ayato, who, in his protest and defence, said he couldn't remember doing such a thing. Despite the fact he was indeed the culprit, in this state, he was innocent of it all. He asked of them all to follow him into the lounge room and told them to wait patiently while he whipped up an antidote. As Reiji hesitantly closed the door to the room as he left, he could hear the chatter of his brothers, the excited babbles and cheers. It made his heart sink, knowing that his family had devolved into such a disconnected and unorganised unit over the many, hundreds of years they had been alive. But, nonetheless, he had a situation to fix. His brothers antics weren't going to stop when he feeds them the antidote, clearly. But, I suppose a small part of Reiji was at peace with that fact.

[givemewallywestorgivemedeath]

I'm currently suffering from my own hubris so what better time to delve deep into horror concepts I want to see the Flash series explore???

1. The Speedforce

Yeah, so this thing is insane. It isn't really talked about much in canon but when it 'bonds' to a person it permanently changes their body. This isn't always readily apparent and sometimes it doesn't even happen. But it's a necessity. Because if the person's body doesn't change they will die. The power will be too much for them and they will literally burn up and keel over.

Now, the actual change itself isn't much better than that. The speedster experiences a tremendous amount of pain and their entire body explodes into energy. If their bond is strong enough then the speedforce will replenish and replace each cell in their body as they explode. (As seen with Wally West, Bart Allen, Barry Allen, Irey West... Oof, you get the point) Bit of a 'Ship of Theseus' moment there. If your entire body is replaced by speedforce are you really the same person you started out as? Who knows! Anyway, after that they are permanently bonded to the speedforce and their bodies, essentially, belong to it.

What does that mean? Well, for starters? They can't die. Their bodies are no longer mortal. If they die then the speedforce just reclaims its material. If the speedster is strong enough then they can gather up enough speedforce energy from within the speedforce to create a new body. If the speedster is especially skilled they might even be able to escape the speedforce with said new body.

But their minds? That's a different matter. Their soul, their essence, everything that is 'them' resides within their minds. Its the only thing that separates 'their' speedforce energy bodies from the rest of the speedforce. If they lose that... then they become nothing but energy, permanently. It's what happened to Johnny Quick and you can see it start to happen almost immediately whenever they enter the speedforce. They start forgetting everything. Their names, their loved ones, their personalities, everything. They can't escape unless they know who they are, unless they can separate their sense of self from the energy around them. (As seen in any Flash story ever)

Because that energy? It's all just processed speedsters. The entire speedforce is made up of speedsters who lost that fight and forgot who they were. Every iota of energy the speedsters draw from the speedforce is just recycled speedsters from across the multiverse. And they know that.

So, yeah, there's definitely a horror element there. There will be no relief of death for them. Their souls have been sold off and all they have is borrowed time until they eventually give in and become semi-living fuel for the next generation. (As seen in DC Rebirth) Not a very comforting thought but they can't exactly do anything about it.

Their speedster states cannot be undone. You can put an inhibitor collar on them but that only stops their bodies from using the speedforce. It doesn't sever their connection. It just pools in their bodies, unused and agitated. (as seen with Wally West in Flash Forward) You can attempt to drain all the speedforce out of them but even that has proved to be impossible. You can drain them enough that they don't have the energy to run but their cells can never be completely drained of speedforce. (As seen with Barry Allen in Williamson's run)

Really the only way to sever the bond is to do so before it changes their body. (As seen with Jai West in Flash Rebirth)

Which leads me to my next point!

2. Body horror!

Yo, they don't have fucking bodies.

I'm serious, do you know how often they turn into pure energy? It's all the time. You know how they can just snap their fingers and create clothes? Or how they can create energy clones? Or how they don't age? Or how they can regrow severed limbs? Or how they don't really need to eat, breath or sleep after their body changes???

They don't have bodies.

Not really. They think they do but what they have is energy that they have shaped into a body form. Because their brains can't really handle the fact that they no longer possess human bodies.

But you know what a human body can't do? It can't be crammed into a metal wand like a genie, Bart. And it can't run through space without oxygen, Barry. And it certainly can't be stabbed through the heart without dying or bleeding and then start leaking energy, Wally.

These guys are literally just energy in human wrapping paper because they live in a state of denial. And it'd be really fucking wild to actually explore that as a concept.

3. Timelines!

Time is weird and nobody knows that better than the speedsters. Why not have fun with it? Do some cool existential horror stuff with the timeline. Some moral quandaries and ethical dilemmas. Jazz it up a bit. Idk there is a lot that could be done with this one.

[newtthetranswriter]

Grade 1 Curse?

Word count: 1983

Summary: After finding out about your friendship with the special grade Cursed womb, the higher ups send you alone on a mission claiming that it is only a first grade curse. And of course those old bats can’t tell the truth ever and you end up facing a special grade. Choso comes to the rescue but was he quick enough.

Warnings: Spoilers for Choso’s techniques, mentions of blood, canon typical violence, mentions of the higher ups being dicks, Gojo is kind of a dick, all i can think of let me know if i missed any.

A/n: Part 2 to this request, I will likely do a part 3 at some point. Anyway, enjoy and requests are still open. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

   Over the past month or so I’ve grown rather close with Choso. He may not fully understand normal life, having been a cursed object for the last century and a half, but he’s really sweet and easy to talk to. It’s gotten to the point where if we are both off missions you won’t see one without the other, and if one of us is away we are texting each other almost constantly. We just work so well together, and it seems the higher ups have noticed as they keep sending us on separate missions, so I can’t protect him and he can’t protect me.

   We all know how they reacted to Yuji being Sukana’s vessel, so you can imagine how unhappy they are about having a special grade cursed womb working with us sorcerers. They also don’t like that I’ve formed a bond with said curse. Any chance they get they send us on separate missions they think will be too risky for us to take alone, hoping one of us will die in the process. 

   Though on this last mission they sent me on, they messed up big time. It was supposed to be an upper first grade curse spirit, because I’m a first grade sorcerer. They sent me to exercise the curse because I mostly use long range attacks with a bow and arrow and prefer to provide support for close range fighters. This curse is far too quick and agile for me to land a killing blow from a distance, not to mention the attacks it’s delivering are far stronger than normal first grade.

    I know it’s going to be a difficult fight but I should be able to lure it into a small space and get a hit in to finish it off. Unfortunately I mis-calculated the power of the spirit, and when I rounded the corner into a smaller section of the abandoned warehouse it smashed into one of the beams holding the roof up. As I realized the roof was collapsing I tried to get around the curse grabbed the back of my shirt holding me in place as the building fell on top of us.

    My head was slammed into the ground as the curse collapsed on top of me. I could tell I was bleeding from the back of my head but that was the least of my worries.This curse was still alive and I was pinned. I couldn’t reach my bow and even if I could there is no way for me to position it for an attack. As I layed under this beast, trying to come up with a plan on how to beat it before it got back up, I felt it shift above me.

     Letting out a grown it moved its claw-like hand from my shirt to my neck. The curse pressed down, cutting off air flow as it moved to be crouching over me. Fear overtook my face as I realized I was trapped under rubble with no way of killing this curse that at this point I would guess is closer to a special grade than first.

     Not wanting to give up I fumbled around trying to find anything in reach to help me escape with one hand while the other worked on prying the curses claw off my neck. The only thing I could feel was my phone, I thought for a second before finally pulling the curse off me and scrambling as far away as I could in the tight space. I opened my phone and called the first person I could think of.

     It didn’t take long for a voice to come through on the other line. “Y/n why are you calling? Did you finish the mission early?” I sighed in relief as I heard Choso speak through the phone.

     After a brief wave of relief, I heard the curse grumble before moving towards me again, snapping back to the situation at hand I rushed to tell Choso what was happening. “I need help, they miscalculated the curse’s power, I’m trapped and I can’t get to my bow.” I said panicked. I could hear ruffeling as it sounded like Choso was making his way out of somewhere. As I was about to tell him my location the curse swiped my phone out of my hand cracking the screen. The motion also caused its claws to rip across my wrist leaving two deep gashes. 

     “Y/n what was that? Are you Okay? Where are you?” I could hear the panic in his voice. I tried to respond but the curse had stepped on the phone crushing it and effectively cutting off the call. 

     Fuck what am I going to do now? He has no way of finding me and it’s not like the higher ups would tell him where I am. I thought to myself holding my bleeding wrist with my opposite hand, well at least the old geysers will get their wish one of us dying. It was dark to think but I was losing blood fast from my wrist and there’s also the head wound that’s starting to make me dizzy. If a miracle doesn’t happen fast I’m dead, I just hope that it’s not Choso who finds me. That would crush him. That was the last thought to enter my mind as a combination of blood loss and the curse throwing me into a wall knocked me out.

  P.o.V to Choso at Jujutsu tech

     “Y/n what was that? Are you Okay? Where are you?” The half curse yelled into the phone. The last thing he heard before the line went dead was a gasp and then a crunch. He went from being worried for his friend to terrified in seconds. Rushing out of his room trying to find the only person who might know where Y/n is and actually tell him.

     Running down the hall he ignored questions from Yuji and his friends as he searched for White haired idiot who had a knack for going behind the backs of the higher ups. Rounding a corner he felt like he hit a wall stumbling back slightly he realized said wall was actually the cursed technique of the man he was looking for.

     Pausing for only a second, Choso began explaining what was happening. “Look Gojo, I know you aren’t a fan of me but Y/n needs help. The Higher ups sent them on a mission to take out a first grade curse and turns out it’s actually a special grade. They lost their bow and from the sound of it they’re hurt. I can’t ask the higher ups where they sent them because they want us dead, but you like to piss them off so I thought you might know.” The curse womb rambled out, hoping his fellow special grade would put aside his disdain for Choso and help save his best friend.     The strongest looked at Choso for a second trying to process what was being said. Yes he didn’t particularly like the cursed object turned person, who tried to kill one of his students, but if helping him meant pissing off the old geysers there was no way he wasn’t going to help. Not to mention one of his friends was in danger so he would help anyways upsetting old people was just a bonus. “I’ll help you, Y/n is a good friend and i can’t very well say no to pissing off those old koots.” He said, placing his hand on Choso’s shoulder. “I heard about the mission before Y/n left and felt it was kinda fishy so I might have already gotten the location. I’ll send you there to help them, but you have to promise to bring them back alive, if you don’t I won’t hesitate to kill you.” Gojo knew that Choso would do anything in his power to save Y/n. It was obvious to everyone around them how they felt about each other, he just needed to give the half curse a push in the right direction.

     Choso nodded at the blue-eyed sorcerer before responding. “If I don't manage to save them, you can do whatever you wish to me, as long as I can kill those wrinkly old bats first.” He accepted the terms Gojo had set and motioned for him to send him to save his friend. Gojo on the other hand looked shocked at the direct expression of emotions on the normally closed off man's face. He took a step back before finally sending the curse on his rescue mission.

     After arriving at the collapsed warehouse Choso began searching for any signs of Y/n. He carefully climbed over different pieces of ceiling and wall, trying to stay as quiet as possible. He was listening for either his friends breathing or the curse spirit that put them in this situation.

     As he climbed on a particular piece of what used to be the building roof, he heard scratching coming from below him. Figuring that the sound is probably the curse trying to get out. Thinking fast he used the cursed technique Blood Meteorite, which hardens his blood, making a small stone of condensed blood launching it through the metal of the ceiling, silencing the curse below him for a second. Even with the small hole made by his technique he was able to further break the roof and slip through to face the curse head on.

     Being face to face with the curse, Choso quickly began using Convergence to condense his blood before releasing Piercing Blood. Landing a direct hit to the head of the curse effectively exercising it in only a few short moments. Watching the curse disintegrate for only a moment he began to look around the small room hoping to spot his friend. 

     The first thing he saw was their phone crushed on the ground next to a small splatter of blood. Walking towards the phone he noticed a trail of blood splatter and followed it with his eyes. To his horror at the end of the trail was Y/n, leaning against the wall unconscious. It was clear they had been thrown into the wall by the dent behind them. He rushed over to his friend hoping that he wasn’t too late. 

     Crouching down beside the unconscious Y/n, Choso rested his hand on the side of their neck feeling for a pulse. It took a moment but he was able to feel a rather weak pulse. Letting out a sigh of relief that they were at least hanging on to life he began to evaluate the wounds. Looking at their wrists and seeing deep cuts along them, acting quickly he activated his curse technique, converting some of his cursed energy into blood, moving it through the air and infusing it into his friend’s arm hoping to combat the amount of blood they had lost. After performing a makeshift blood transfusion, he continued using the varying aspects of his technique to seal the wounds with a layer of hardened blood.

      Feeling confident that Y/n’s wounds are closed enough to move them, he wrapped his arms behind their back and below their legs, he carefully picked them up slowly making his way through the rubble. As he got them out of the collapsed building, he realized he had no clue where they were or how to get back to school. Before he could panic too much a certain 6’3 sorcerer appeared out of nowhere.

      “They’re alive right?” Gojo was greeted with a cold stare and a quick nod. “Ok, good now let’s get them back to Shoko, I don’t think that patch job is going to cut it.” He finished staying placing his hand on Choso’s shoulder teleporting the three of them back to the safety of Jujutsu tech.

[runnning-outof-time]

Redemption | Tommy Shelby x Reader

Request: no - for @madame-wilsonn ‘s Grand Ball

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader

Summary: When a woman comes to the Shelby brothers seeking help, Tommy first finds intrigue in her story. Then he finds himself needing to make sure that she stays safe.

Warnings: language, smoking, threats of violence, weapons, violence (typical to series), death

Word Count: 5914

A/N: this fic had a mind of its own. I had already started a different fic for this celebration, but then lost interest in it, so I came up with this idea. I couldn’t stop writing once I started it. Although this doesn’t really follow canon of season 5, I could really see this happening within the show/season.

A/N 2: congrats on your amazing milestone, Anna! I hope everyone enjoys the story! :)

I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! - YOUR THOUGHTS & COMMENTS HELP ME WRITE!

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future stories similar to this one!

The line of people waiting to get into the small room tucked into the corner of the Garrison seemed endless, but (Y/N) still made the choice to wait in it. She had something dire to ask of the man who presided over Small Heath and represented the city in Parliament.

"Next!" the youngest of the Shelby brothers called, and (Y/N) stepped forward. She smiled at the man as he opened the door and let her inside.

Immediately to her left, she was able to see the two eldest Shelby brothers and to her right was an empty chair that she guessed she'd be sitting in. Arthur and Tommy were quiet as the latter motioned for her to sit down in the chair. She nodded and took the seat, setting her purse in her lap and holding onto it tightly. "Good afternoon," she felt the need to greet them, a small smile forming on her face in an attempt to alleviate the nervousness she was feeling. She watched as they nodded their heads in a silent greeting before she took a deep breath: "Mr. Shelby, I have a problem," she started, ringing her hands together as she waited for a response.

"And what may that problem be?" the younger of the two Shelbys, Tommy, asked, his hands clasped over his abdomen as he leaned back in his seat.

"There are men who are coming for me...for my family, and..."

"We don't deal with those problems here anymore, love," the other brother, Arthur, cut her off, about ready to dismiss her for the next person.

Tommy held his hand up towards his brother, a silent gesture for him to stop talking. "Continue, please," he then said to the woman as he leaned forward in his seat.

(Y/N) took another deep breath before continuing. Half of her nerves had been washed away when Mr. Thomas Shelby O.B.E, M.P decided to listen to what her problem was. Now all she had to do was explain it. "There are men that are coming for me. They had business with my brother but now they're coming after me since he’s died."

"Do you know who these men are?" Tommy asked her, his eyebrows raised in intrigue.

"I...I don't know, and I'm sorry for that. I just know that they're dealers, and that my brother was going to them for drugs to help manage the pain he was feeling. He had this pain from his injuries sustained in a factory accident, and he recently passed away from those injuries. I've found out that he owes them money, and now those men are coming for me," she explained, feeling bad that she couldn't provide specifics. At least she had some background information though.

She watched on baited breath for the brothers' responses. After what felt like hours, Tommy nodded his head. "We'll look into it," he assured her.

"Oh thank you, Mr. Shelby," she breathed a sigh of relief, almost wanting to reach forward and grab his hands to physically show her praise, but she restrained herself.

"What is your name, ma'am?" he asked her then.

"It's (Y/N) (Y/L/N)," she happily gave him the information he was looking for.

Tommy nodded again. "Ok, Ms. (Y/L/N), I will send someone to your house soon," he informed her.

"Thank you," she expressed her gratitude again as she stood from the chair to go to the door. Tommy only nodded, his way of accepting her kind words.

(Y/N) sent both men a smile before she opened the door and exited the small room. She walked out of the pub and began the trek back to her home. There was a sense of relief that washed over her as she entered the dwelling.

Later that evening, there was a knock on (Y/N)'s door. She hurried to open it, and gasped when she saw who was waiting for her. "Mr. Shelby," she greeted in a surprised manner.

"I wanted to come speak to you about the men," he told her, clearing his throat after speaking.

"Of course," she nodded her head before stepping aside so that he could enter, "I didn't think that you yourself would be showing up," she commented as she led him into the sitting room.

"Your problem is important to me," Tommy responded as they sat down in chairs across from each other, "and this is my city."

He then asked her to tell him everything she knew about these men, and why she thought that they would be coming after her now. She was able to recount what she'd told him back at the Garrison, along with adding the encounter that she had with the men just a week ago. Two men had stopped her outside the seamstress shop where she was employed and told her that she had now inherited her brother's debts to them. She knew about her brother's drug use; he'd been using because of the accident that ultimately took him from this world, but she didn't know that he owed these people so much money. The men used intimidation and told her that she'd also meet a violent end if their debt was not paid.

Tommy listened intently to everything she told him, and when she was finished speaking, he took a deep breath and leaned forward in his seat. "If you see these men again, please let me know, ok? If they come to you either at work, or here, or anywhere else, you need to tell me right away. I will have men on your street, but they could still find a way to..."

"Mummy?" a child's voice cut into Tommy's statement.

Both (Y/N) and Tommy's heads turned to the girl who was standing in the archway of the sitting room. Tommy watched on as (Y/N) stood up and walked over to the child. "Yes, Mia?" she asked in a soft voice.

"I woke up and now I can't go back to sleep," the girl explained the reason behind her presence.

"Would you like a warm glass of milk?" (Y/N) asked her, knowing that it always did the trick in getting her back to sleep. The child nodded, a sleepy smile on her face. "Ok, go back to your room and I'll bring it up to you," she instructed her, then watching as the girl peered around her side, her eyes falling onto Tommy. "It's ok," (Y/N) assured her, noticing that her eyes had widened slightly at the sight of the unknown man.

She watched as the child made her way back up the steps before turning to face Tommy once more. "I'm going to warm up some milk for her. I should only be a few minutes," she told Tommy, who nodded. She then hurried into the kitchen and made quick work of putting the milk-filled kettle on the stove. She didn't want to have him sitting by himself for so long while she did this. The milk was soon finished, and (Y/N) transferred it to a cup so that she could quickly take it to her daughter.

Once she'd done so, she joined Tommy in the living room. "May I smoke?" Tommy asked her once she was sitting on the chair she'd been occupying earlier.

(Y/N) only nodded her head, watching as he fished a tin out of his suit jacket's pocket and took a cigarette out of it. He offered it to her and she accepted it, leaning forward so that he could light it. She then sat back, took a drag, and watched as he went through the motions of lighting one for himself.

"She's your daughter?" Tommy questioned then, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

"Yes. Her name's Amelia. She's six," (Y/N) explained as she exhaled some smoke. She then watched as Tommy's eyes dropped to analyze the hand that was sitting on her lap. "Her father was a traveller," she began to explain, knowing he was searching for her wedding ring, "he promised me love, pulled me in and then left. You must think I'm a fool," she finished her statement by dropping her head slightly in embarrassment.

"Not a fool, no," Tommy shook his head, making her look back up at him, "everything happens for a reason," he continued, taking a drag from his cigarette then.

"She's the reason why I came to ask for help. It wouldn't matter if it was just me...but I can't have her get hurt or end up alone," (Y/N) admitted, exhaling a deep breath, "you must understand…surely you have family, Mr. Shelby," she then looked to him, waiting to see what his answer would be.

"Not anymore no," he shook his head while fiddling with the cigarette between his fingers, "My wife left me and my two kids decided to follow her," he gave her some background into his life. It was only fair in his eyes...she'd been so transparent with him that he felt like he could be with her.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, I..."

"No," he stopped her, shaking his head slightly, "everything happens for a reason," he repeated the mantra he'd uttered earlier. (Y/N) didn't know what to say to his statement, and thankfully she didn't have to fill the void with words, because Tommy had leaned forward to stub the cigarette out in the ashtray sitting on the coffee table. "I will find these men, (Y/N). I'll keep you and your daughter safe," he told her with sincerity in his voice as his eyes found hers.

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby," she expressed her gratitude as they both stood up to walk to the door.

"Like I said before...let me know if you see or hear from them again," he reminded her as he stepped onto the home's stoop. (Y/N) nodded her head and took his business card, making a mental note to put it in a safe place for if she ever needed it.

A week later, another knock sounded on (Y/N)'s door. She glanced out the front window to see a familiar man with a peaked cap on, so she moved to the door and opened it.

"Good morning, Mr. Shelby," she greeted him with a smile, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"May I come in?" Tommy asked, gesturing to her home. (Y/N) nodded and allowed him to step inside, the two then walking into the sitting room.

"Pardon the mess...Amelia's working on an art project for school," she commented on the papers and crayons that were scattered around the coffee table and surrounding floor.

"It's not a bother," Tommy waved it off as he sat on the same chair he used last visit. (Y/N) sat across from him and waited expectantly for him to share news with her. "We believe that we've found the men who are targeting you," he started off, and (Y/N) almost wanted to let out a sigh of relief just in hearing that, but she let him continue: "they used to work with your brother. They're on the same factory's payroll...names are Wes and Henry," he paused for a moment, "we have not made contact with them yet, but we have insight into the factory and know their jobs, schedules, and whereabouts. Using that, we will be able to keep eyes on them from a distance first, and move in if necessary," he finished his explanation of what they'd learned and where they were with everything so far by leaning back in the chair and lighting a cigarette.

(Y/N) was about to answer, but the door to the home opened just as her mouth did. "Mummy! I'm home from playing with Sidney!" it was her daughter. She let out a breath of relief in knowing that.

"Oh, that's good, sweetie," (Y/N) nodded while still trying to calm her breathing. Tommy noticed this and turned his head to watch as the young girl entered the room.

"Who's this, mum?" she asked, her eyes on the man who was unfamiliar to her.

"This is Mr. Shelby, Amelia. He's our MP, and he's here to talk about the city," (Y/N) explained the reason behind Tommy's presence without delving much into the real details.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Shelby," Amelia smiled over at him, "I would like to let you know that this city has a great number of stray dogs and cats that I believe you, as our MP, are responsible for. You need to find them homes, Mr. Shelby," she then laid out a grievance with him.

Tommy cracked a smile at the child's request. "I will certainly look into that, Miss (Y/L/N). Thanks for bringing the issue to light," he nodded his head at her, "and please feel free to call me Tommy. Mr. Shelby's too formal for this type of meeting."

(Y/N)'s cheeks heated up at the fact that her daughter had addressed this powerful man like it was nothing. She also couldn't ignore the swelling of her heart at how kindly and attentively Tommy had responded to her. "Why don't you take your art things up to your room and continue working so that Mr. Shelby and I can continue our conversation, Mia?" she suggested.

"Ok," Amelia nodded her head before she grabbed her tools, "it was nice meeting you, Tommy," she sent him a smile before she exited the room.

(Y/N) let out a breath once they were alone again. "I'm sorry about that, Mr. Shelby. She always needs to speak her mind," she immediately apologized to him.

Tommy waved her off. "It's not a problem. She's got important things on her mind," he said with a slight smile. "You could also call me Tommy...as this meeting really shouldn't be formal," he added, and (Y/N) nodded as she tried to keep her blush from being noticed.

"Back to what we were speaking about earlier...thank you for finding those things out for me. It relieves me to know that you know who these men are, and that you have eyes on them," she called back to their earlier conversation.

Tommy nodded his head, "we'll work to the best of our ability to keep tabs on them, but I need you to know that they can still contact you. If that happens, please let me know. They might want to escalate things, and if they do, we will be there to protect you," he told her, stressing his final words to ensure her that he'd keep her family safe.

"I still have your card. You will be the first that I call," she agreed with his plan. "Would you like some tea?" she offered him then. She felt like she needed to offer him something for him coming to address the problem himself.

Tommy thought about it for a moment before nodding his head, "please," he agreed to her offer and she smiled before standing to go and put a pot on.

She brewed up enough for two cups and then brought them back to the sitting room; handing one to Tommy before she sat across from him again. What ensued was a good hour of the two of them talking about what Tommy saw as his plans within the Labor Party. (Y/N) knew a lot about factory life (being that her brother worked, and got injured, in one), and she had some strong views on how to improve workplace safety. Tommy agreed with her points, and ensured her that he would find a way to bring them up to his party members. Then the conversation steered in the direction of (Y/N). They spoke about her past, to which she found some comfort in knowing that his upbringing was much like hers.

She didn't know much about Tommy before they'd had this conversation, and it felt good to get to learn about him organically rather than through the grapevine. Tommy also liked to know that his influences and past actions hadn't quite reached her. It was nice for him to be able to speak to her like an ordinary person would.

Time passed by quickly as they talked, and at some point, (Y/N) had noticed that it'd gotten dark out. "I've kept you here far past your desired time, I'm sure," she said as she reached forward to grab the empty cups so that she could take them to the kitchen.

"That's not a problem," Tommy waved her concern off for the second time that day, "I quite liked spending the time with you."

"That's very nice of you to say, Mr. Shelby," (Y/N) couldn't help but feel flattered by his words. She returned to the entry hall and smiled at the look he was giving her. "Tommy, sorry," she corrected herself, a soft giggle escaping her lips. Tommy nodded at her change, a smile on his face also.

"Please let me know if anything happens," he reminded her, bringing their conversation back to a more serious topic.

"I will, Mr. Shelby," she assured her, laughing now as he pulled the face again, "it's gonna take some getting used to, I'm sorry," she said between her giggles, holding her hands up in defense.

Tommy just shook his head at her statement as he stepped onto the stoop. "Have a nice night, (Y/N)," he bid his goodbye to her.

"Good night, Tommy," she smiled at him before he placed his peaked cap back atop his head and began walking down the sidewalk.

(Y/N) tried to keep her breathing steady as she rushed through the marble corridors of the House of Commons. She clutched a paper in her hand as she began walking even faster, knowing that her destination wasn't far.

"I need to speak with Mr. Shelby, please," she quickly announced to the man sitting in the receptionist's desk as soon as she entered the atrium. She'd almost called him 'Tommy', but caught herself when she remembered that this indeed was a formal environment, unlike the times they've met in her sitting room over the past few weeks.

"Do you have an appointment with him?" the man asked, his eyebrow quirked.

"I don't, but I've called him, and I..."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I cannot let you back to see Mr. Shelby without an appointment," the man cut her off, his statement almost making her jaw drop.

"But I...I need to see him and get this into his hands. It's important," she stammered, trying to keep her voice steady.

"You need to have an appointment, ma'am," the man held his stance, "I can take the..."

"Let her back, Percy," Tommy's voice cut in from the door to his office, making (Y/N)'s eyes snap over to him. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him, knowing that she may just be saved.

The newly named 'Percy' turned to look at Tommy with wide eyes. "But sir, you have..."

"Let her back," Tommy stopped him again, his voice sounding more demanding now. It was all that was needed for Percy to nod and then wave (Y/N) on to walk past his desk and to where Tommy was standing. (Y/N) thanked Tommy, and he nodded as he allowed her to walk past him into his grand office. "You said you have something?" he wasted no time in asking.

"I do," (Y/N) nodded as she raised her hand. "They came to my house," she told him, her shoulders shuddering as she took a deep breath and got ready to recount her encounter with them. "They brought this. It's the record of my brother's debts. They...they told me that I had a week to collect everything, and that if I sought out any legal assistance, it would only get worse for me and my daughter," her voice broke at the mention of Amelia. "They know about my daughter, Tommy," she said, tears running down her cheeks as she spoke in a whisper.

Tommy felt his heart leap into his throat at the display of emotion in front of him. The fact that these men were bringing in her daughter did not sit right with him at all. It made him want to hunt the men down and finish them off himself, but he knew that he couldn't do that. He had a reputation to uphold. His men were trying hard to track them down, but these two were smarter than he thought. So, for now, he needed to find a way to calm her down.

"I'm willing to bet that they're bluffing, (Y/N)," he told her, his words making (Y/N) look up.

"Bluffing?" she repeated the word, hoping that he'd elaborate.

"They've brought this on all of a sudden. My men have been watching them. They don't work with any haste. Odds are, they're just trying to scare you into bringing them the money so that they could put it into more products," he explained his logic to her.

"And if they're not?" (Y/N) couldn't get the possibility out of her mind.

"I'll have men sitting on your house as well as watching them," Tommy assured her, hoping that his plan would make her feel more safe.

(Y/N) nodded her head as she listened to what he had to say. There was something about him and how he spoke that made her worries dissipate. She didn't know what she'd do without his steady hand on her shoulder. "Thank you, Tommy, that means a lot," she said, sniffling back her tears.

"You are not going to be harmed by them," he assured her, his eyes boring into hers. (Y/N) nodded along with his statement before she found herself collapsing into his chest and wrapping her arms around his body. This caught Tommy by surprise, but he returned the embrace, his one hand finding her back while the other settled against the back of her head, keeping her tight against his chest. "You're not going to be harmed by them," he assured her, his voice soft as he held their embrace.

(Y/N) nodded against his chest, allowing his steady heartbeat and strong arms to calm her down significantly. She took a deep breath before pulling away from him. "I'm sorry for that, Mr. Shelby," she said as she wiped the remaining tears from her eyes.

"Don't be," he shook his head, "and call me Tommy, eh?" he reminded her, a hint of a smile on his lips as she laughed at his statement.

"I should let you get back to work...to more important things."

"Your problems are important," he stressed to her, allowing her to go to the door.

"Thanks again, Tommy," she sent a smile in his direction as she reached for the doorknob.

"You're welcome," he nodded his head, the corner of his lips curving upwards as she then opened the door and left his office.

Tommy exhaled a deep breath as he walked through the halls of the Shelby Company Ltd.'s main offices. He opened the door to the office he was looking for and entered it without asking permission.

"Do you need something, Thomas?" the woman behind the desk asked without even looking up from the ledger she'd been studying. Only one person would ever walk into her office without knocking.

"I have a problem, Pol," he stated as he fished out his cigarettes and stuck one between his lips before striking it.

"And you've decided to come to me with your problems again?" Polly was now looking up at Tommy, her one eyebrow raised.

Tommy exhaled and stared at the ceiling, as if he was taking a moment to compose himself before speaking: "with this matter, yes," he huffed, not needing a lecture from her.

"Let me hear it then," she said as she leaned back against her chair.

"I have this woman, (Y/N), and she's in a bad spot. Some men are after her because her brother owed them money, and since he's now passed, that debt has fallen onto her. They've recently made contact with her, and they're threatening her with consequences if the debt isn't paid back within a week," he laid his dilemma out.

"And what have you told her?" Polly asked.

"I've told her that they're bluffing; that they're just wanting the money," Tommy paused and sighed before taking a drag from his cigarette, "but I don't know that for sure, and I can't have her get hurt because of this...because I told her that I'd keep her safe," he then outlined his worries.

Polly pursed her lips for a moment before speaking: "you're seeking redemption."

"What?" Tommy was confused by her words, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Redemption," Polly repeated.

"From what?"

"From Grace," she was quick in telling him.

"No, Pol..." Tommy trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut as he shook his head.

Polly was able to see that she'd struck a chord in him, but she kept going, "you couldn't control those circumstances when she died, but now you can...and you're doing to make sure that this woman stays safe. You're going to do that because you care about her."

"How can you be so sure?" Tommy questioned, now feeling like he was in defense mode.

"Because I'm never wrong in affairs of the heart..." Polly trailed off, gauging her nephew's reaction before continuing, "and I can see that you've let this woman get into your heart...whether you've expressed it to her or not, she's there, and you're going to do whatever you can to keep her safe."

Tommy took a pause and let her words sink in for a few moments. Maybe she had seen what he hadn't. "So what do I do?" he asked.

"Be there for her. Follow through on your promises of keeping her safe," she laid the groundwork for him before continuing, "and then let her know. Let her know your heart...because you wouldn't be beating yourself up like this if she wasn't any other ordinary woman."

Tommy nodded as she spoke. It was time for him to come to grips with what he'd been pushing away. Each time he visited (Y/N), he started to care more and more about who she was as a person, rather than just the situation that she was in.

"Thank you, Pol," he finally said after a few silent moments. Polly just smiled at him, one of those knowing smiles that graced her face whenever it was clear that she'd gotten through to him.

Tommy walked through the rain to get to (Y/N)'s door. He had other obligations that he needed to attend to, but he had just gotten some important information that (Y/N) had to be told as soon as possible. He knocked on her door multiple times before she opened it, clad in just a nightgown.

"Tommy?" she spoke in shock, clearly not expecting him. She stepped aside and let him in anyway. "What's the matter?" she asked him then as they stood in the entryway.

"I've gotten information that Henry has been killed. My men were able to move in on him and take him out earlier today," he relayed the information he'd received only several minutes ago.

(Y/N)'s jaw dropped slightly as she heard what he had to say. "He's dead?"

"Yes," Tommy nodded, then taking the soaked peaked cap off of his head as he noticed the water dripping from it.

"That's good news, right?" she still wasn't sure how to react to it.

"Yes. I have men out now looking for Wes. He wasn't with Henry at the time, but I believe he's close," he assured her, nodding his head again. His breathing still hadn't slowed, and it felt like his nerves were frazzled. "I have to go now," he said as he began to walk to the door.

"Wait, Tommy, I..."

"What?" he spun to face her, his question coming out a bit more harsh than he wanted it to. "I can't stay today. I've got obligations to get to. I'm sorry that I'm leaving so soon,” he softened his voice as he continued speaking.

(Y/N) was a bit taken back by his mood shift. She'd never seen him this on edge before. "Why did you come here then if you had other obligations?" she dared to ask him.

"Because I care about you, (Y/N)," he didn't yell his declaration, but his voice was certainly raised.

"Mum?!" Amelia called from upstairs, surely because she heard Tommy's voice.

"Don't worry, Mia!" (Y/N) called back, her wide eyes not leaving Tommy's.

"I care about you, (Y/N). I wanted you to know about Henry because it may have given you some comfort. I want you to feel safe, and I keep coming here because I feel like only I can provide that safety for you," Tommy explained the reasons behind his previous declaration, his eyes not leaving hers.

Much like last time, (Y/N) couldn't stop herself from stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Tommy. She didn't care if he was soaking wet, she needed him to know that she was touched by his words and that he hadn't scared her off.

Tommy accepted the embrace, his arms wrapping around her securely. "You've found a way into my heart, (Y/N). I can't let anything happen to you now," he told her, his voice soft as he came right next to her ear.

(Y/N) pulled back to look at him. She searched his eyes for a few moments before reaching up to take his face into her hands. She then stood on her toes and closed the gap between them. Tommy met her in the middle, their lips finding each others' for a kiss that held all of their emotions, said and unsaid, wrapped up into it.

They pulled away seconds later with breathless smiles on their faces. "Go on and do your important work, Mr. Shelby," (Y/N) said, her smile widening as she looked up at Tommy, "but please make sure you find your way back here," she added, her words making Tommy's smile grow.

"I will," he promised her, unable to stop himself from leaning down for another kiss before he broke their embrace to go to the door. "I will keep you safe," he told her one more time before opening the door and exiting the house.

(Y/N) tried to keep down her giddiness as she walked into the sitting room and continued reading her book. She didn't think that her interest in Tommy would be reciprocated, and that it would instead stay a companionship. That's why she wasted no time in making a move when she learned his feelings.

Only a few minutes passed before another knock sounded off of her door. (Y/N) jumped from the couch and hastily went to open it, thinking it was Tommy again. Her smile dropped when she opened the door, as the person on the other side was the last she was expecting it to be.

"You thought that I wouldn't find out, huh?" Wes questioned with a wicked smirk as he forced his way into her home, "you thought that you could have Henry killed, and that this would go away...that I would turn tail and run?" he continued as he backed her up further into the house. "Well it doesn't work like that, sweetheart."

"Wes, please, no," (Y/N) stammered out, fear in her eyes as she thought the worst.

“You better have that fucking money, or it’s your life now,” he continued, pulling a gun from the back of his waistband. (Y/N)’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, and immediately she began thinking of ways out of the situation. Wes was one step ahead of her though. “You scream and you’re dead,” he told her, waving the revolver around in a taunting manner. “So where’s the money?”

“I...I don’t have all of it yet,” she managed to say as she looked around the room for an escape. After finding nothing promising, she realized that the door was still wide open. Her only hope now was that Wes was just bluffing and that he wouldn’t shoot her the second that she screamed out. She just hoped that Amelia would stay in her place if anything did happen instead of coming down to investigate. “Help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs before squeezing her eyes shut tight.

“You stupid bitch...you’ve signed your death note now,” she heard Wes say before a gunshot rang out throughout the house.

“(Y/N)?!” she heard a frantic voice call out, making her realize that she was still breathing and very much alive. “(Y/N), are you ok?!” the voice asked again, and upon opening her eyes, (Y/N) saw Tommy rushing over to where she was laying on the ground.

“I...I’m fine,” she struggled to get out as she watched him drop down to the floor and scramble to take her into his arms.

“Are you shot, love?” he asked her, his hands and eyes roaming around her body in hopes that he’d be able to see any apparent injuries.

“I don’t think I am...I think his bullet hit the wall,” she answered before she saw Wes’ lifeless body out of the corner of her eye. “How did you...?” she trailed off, unsure of what to even say.

“Everything happens for a reason,” Tommy told her instead of giving any details. He didn’t want to tell her of how he was still in earshot when she screamed out, or of how he ran like a bat out of hell to her house to manage to shoot and kill Wes before he shot her. He was just happy that he had her in his arms.

“You’ve saved me,” she said then, a smile forming on her face.

“I told you that I’d keep you safe,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead before (Y/N) reached up and matched her lips with his.

They shared a kiss that was cut short by her daughter’s worried voice coming from the stairway. “Mummy’s alright, Mia,” she told her before coaxing the little girl over to where she was in Tommy’s arms. “Tommy’s here. He’s made sure we’re safe,” she assured her.

Amelia glanced between her mother and the man whom she had perceived as someone who’d protect her family from the first moment she saw him. “Thank you, Tommy,” she said quietly, but Tommy heard her.

Her gentle nature instantly brought a smile to his face. “You’re welcome, darling,” he responded to her before the little girl dropped into (Y/N)’s open arms. (Y/N) effectively hid her daughter’s eyes from the body that was still in the entryway as she held her tight against her body.

Tommy couldn’t help but wrap his arms around the two figures he had resting against him. Polly was right. He’d now found his redemption in (Y/N) and her daughter. He had them in his arms now, and he wasn’t planning on letting go for as long as he lived.

Tagged: @alreadybroken-ts @magicalxdaydream @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @golden-hoax @elenavampire21 @peaky-cillian @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @lilyrachelcassidy @notyour-valentine @easilyobessedbutflighty @shelbydelrey @december16-1991 @onlydeadcells @peakyswritings

MASTERLIST

[mortyvongola2-0]

Day 5: Aphrodisiacs

Venom

Pairing: Shino Aburame x Readee

Genre: Gift, smut, kinktober prompt

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: afab!reader, vaginal sex, aphrodisiacs, no refractory period, dirty talk, lots of sweat, Shino canonically has one of the biggest dicks in Naruto and that's a fact, missionary, doggy, venom as aphrodisiac, unprotected sex, marathon sex, multiple creampies, Aburame's have golden eyes change my mind

A/N: This is dedicated to the wonderful @justmyownreality. She's awesome and so is Shino and he deserves more fanfictions and she deserves all the love~ This was fun, I hope I was able to do Shino justice and I hope you all enjoy!

Read it on AO3

You huffed as you pushed another oversized leaf out of your face. It was hot, you were sticky with sweat and growing more uncomfortable by the second—it didn’t help that your mission partner was not only completely oblivious, but he seemed relatively unbothered by the environment despite wearing a long sleeved, black shirt and bright orange pants. Not to mention the two of you had yet to even see the criminal you were sent out there to get in the first place. A cold shower, your AC unit, and your handsome boyfriend were all you wanted to think about.

“Oi, Naruto, slow down. We won’t be able to find him if we’re speeding through here.”

“Its fine, its fine, ya know. If we go faster, we’ll find him faster.”

“No, I don’t think that’s how—”

“There he is! Hey, you! Stop right there!”

“Ah, Naruto wait a minute!”

The chase didn’t take very long, despite Naruto doing his own thing, as he always did. You stood beside the unconscious, and tied up, man as you waited for the rest of the team that Naruto went to notify. “Damn mosquitos,” you muttered as your hand shooed another away from your skin before it could land. “Uhg, I hate this place.”

Another couple of bugs tried to get to you and you swatted them away, trying your best not to kill them. “Why don’t you go after the unconscious guy instead?”

“Oi,” Naruto called your name as he approached. “Let’s go, we’re gathering over there.”

“I’m more than ready.” As you turned to start heading toward the meeting area, you felt that telltale pinch of a bug bite and sighed in exasperation as you turned to swat the mosquito away. When you saw it, you paused. It didn’t look like a mosquito. It was large and long, brown with red stripes along its carapace, and you stared at it in shock as it continued to bite you.

“Ah!” Naruto yelled and squashed the bug against your skin. Bug guts and blood splattered on your flesh as the blonde looked at you incredulously. “What the hell was that, are you okay?”

“I think so?” You wiped away the guts and squashed carcass to check on the bug bite. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, it seemed like a typical mosquito bite, so you shrugged and nodded. “Let’s just go meet up with everyone.”

A few days later found you laying underneath your home fan, still sweltering despite having arrived back the day before. The Sixth had given your team a few days off to rest, and you gladly accepted hoping to relax and unwind while you could, but how were you supposed to do that when you were still so hot? You felt warm all over, sweating and flushed from head to toe. You’d never before felt so gross in your life.

You styled your hair to be as far from your neck as possible, you felt less nauseated when cold air brushed against your nape. Along with the intense heat was an incredible thirst that no amount of water, milk, soda, or juice could quench. Never before had you felt so miserable. All you could think to do before was soak yourself in as cold of a bath as you possible could, but as you laid there having only experienced a small amount of temporary relief, you noticed how inflamed your most recent bug bite had gotten. “Maybe I should go to the hospital after all,” you muttered to yourself.

Redressing was taxing, the clothes felt sweltering, despite their shortness in nature, and clung to your skin from the sweat. After you clipped your hair out of the way, opting for flipflops over your normal sandals, you grabbed your essentials and headed out the door. You began to make your way to the hospital, the hot sun not helping you as it beat against your exposed skin. But how could you not expose so much skin? If you wore even more, or thicker clothes, you were sure you would’ve died of heat stroke.

Before you could enter the large white building, you caught sight of a certain dark-haired, sun-glassed shinobi and paused. Your heart beat against your chest, and it wasn’t due to the sweltering heat that time. In fact, you almost thought it made the heat worse. The Aburame would surely know about bug bites, right? Surely, they had all sorts of antivenom; there was no need to go to the hospital when you could just ask the heir to one of the most knowledgeable clans in Konoha, right? It definitely didn’t have anything to do with him being your boyfriend or anything, definitely not.

The two of you had begun your relationship about six months ago. It had been going well, but recently a tension had grown that the two of you had yet to approach. Whenever you both were alone together it was palpable, you hadn’t even been able to give him a light peck on the lips without feeling tingly from your head to your toes. You really wanted to take things to the next level, but were unsure about how to bring it up, or even initiate it.

With a shiver and a large amount of determination you began to follow after your tall boyfriend. Man, he was so tall, and so attractive. That spiked long hair, you liked it better long like that and really wanted to run your hands through it again, to tug on it as you rode those full, plush, lips and— “Shino!”

He paused his stride and looked down at you as you approached. Gosh, he was so handsome. “Oh,” he started in that deep baritone that made the base of your neck tingle and brought goosebumps to your flesh. Your name left his lips and you practically melted into goo. “Is everything alright? The reason for my question being, you look flushed and—” he cut himself off, you watched as his adam’s apple bobbed with his swallow. “And uncomfortable.”

“Actually, that’s part of why I’m here. I need your help.”

“My help?” His defined brows furrowed.

“Yeah, I think this bug bite is making me sick.” You showed him the inflamed bump on your arm.

“I see, do you know what type of insect it was?”

“Well, no not really.” You fidgeted as you began to grow more and more uncomfortable. That thirst became your greatest enemy, your throat felt dry and it made you swallow continuously. There was that familiar tingling that had started in your lower belly, and you wanted nothing more than to get out of the sun’s rays.

“Come with me, the reason being I can better assess the situation with information at home.”

“Okay.” It was a struggle not to openly pant as you looked at him, your eyes glazing over as your thoughts drifted to imagine what he looked underneath all of those clothing layers. “Let’s do that then.”

The walk to the Aburame estate felt incredibly long. Though Shino was excellent company, his proximity only seemed to increase your dilemma. Every few steps or so, your arms would brush against each other and you almost groaned every time. It was almost like too much stimulation. And all of that coupled with the heat, the thirst, and tingling in your gut made for an excruciating experience. All you wanted was some relief, and at that point you didn’t really care what you had to do to get it. You needed. Needed it more than anything else.

Shino didn’t seem all too comfortable either and you couldn’t blame him. It would be a bit awkward to walk beside your significant other who was so obviously overheated, uncomfortable, and kept looking you up and down like you were a glass of water in a desert. You didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable, or to eat him alive with your eyes. When you were in the right headspace, you’d be sure to apologize profusely for your actions, probably even buy him some melon to make up for it.

The two of you entered the estate quietly and it seemed no one else was home. You could’ve been wrong, your senses as haywire as they were, but when Shino didn’t give any greetings or go anywhere but to his area of the home you figured you were, in fact, the only two in the house. “Would you like some tea?”

You stared at him for a bit before your brain finally registered what he asked. “Oh, sure, thank you.”

He told you to make yourself comfortable—you were in a drawing room of sorts it seemed—and you sat on the seat cushion provided as you waited for his return. You hated how you couldn’t stop squirming, you were a ninja, you’d survived the Fourth Great Ninja War, had succeeded on many missions, some were even solo missions, and here you were being brought down by a single bug bite.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you, Shino.” You took the tea and set it to the side for a moment, it was far too hot for you to attempt to drink in your current state.

“So, how did the insect that bit you appear?”

You began to tell him about the bug, how big it was, where it bit you, and where your mission was to give him a better idea of the insect population there. “And your symptoms?”

If you could be any more flushed, you would have been. It was a bit embarrassing to tell the object of your affections how overheated you were, how thirsty you were, and how wet you were. You decided it’d be better to tell him the first two and leave the last bit out of your explanation. “I’ve been overheated since I got back, and so thirsty but no matter how much I drink I don’t feel better.”

“Is that all?” He leaned in closer to you from across the table, you looked away from his shaded gaze but not before catching a glimpse of those golden orbs. The intensity took your breath away. “The reason being, the Diptera you have described, their venom, causes more symptoms.”

You finally took a sip of the tea he had offered; it was refreshing. Mint probably. It suited him well. You looked anywhere but at him as you placed the cup back down and shook your head, feigning nonchalance as best as you could in your current state. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Heightened arousal,” he stood and walked around the small table toward you. The man towered over your sitting form, and then even as he bent to kneel over you, he remained quite a bit above you. You shivered and leaned back while looking away. “I don’t believe you. The reasons being, your dilated pupils,” his hand pressed against the floor behind you beside your head. Shino had you practically pinned to the floor. He was so close you could feel his body heat against your already overly warm flesh, you almost whimpered. “The hitching of your breath, the distinctive squirming, and the hungry way your eyes devour me. You desire me.”

Even if you hadn’t before you certainly did then. You shivered, keeping your eyes away from his as you continued the same squirming he’d called you out on. You almost gave in to the need to breathe through your mouth, to pant like an animal in heat, but you didn’t and tried your best to keep your wits about you. “The insect you encountered, has a distinctive venom that worsens as it continues to circulate in your blood stream.”

He removed his glasses, and you took a peek at his honeyed eyes and bit your bottom lip. They were heated, like liquid gold as they stared you down. The Aburame inched closer, his breath fanning over your ear as he began to whisper directly to it. The low rumble of his voice broke you, and you let out a gasp as he whispered to you. “Its venom acts like an aphrodisiac in humans, with only one way to satisfy it.”

“W-What way is that?”

The young heir remained silent for a moment, his hot breath made you feel dizzy. As you squeezed your thighs together for friction, you felt just how wet you were and how badly you wanted the insect specialist. “It has to be worked out. Thoroughly.”

He may not have said it, but the implications made your insides clench. Shino seemed to hesitate for a moment, backing up only a bit so he could look you in the eyes. “Are you willing to—” again he paused, it seemed like he may have some nerves of his own despite the confident bravado. “Are you willing to allow me to treat you?”

“Yes,” you squeaked, your tongue slipping out to lick your dry lips and try to clear your throat. The sound of your voice was raspy, desperate, “Please, please, yes.”

Shino visibly shivered.

The next few seconds were a messy blur of lips, tongue, and teeth. He tasted like mint, like the tea. His large hands shook as they roamed over your sweat soaked skin and pushed your flimsy shirt up toward your neck and exposed your breasts to his greedy fingers and lips. Both of Shino’s hands, warm and calloused from years of training, enveloped and kneaded your chest in a rough manner. After breaking the kiss his tongue licked a stripe down your neck and if you had the mental capacity, you would have been embarrassed by the sweat; but you didn’t, you were too far gone.

He licked his way down, avoiding the crumpled material of your shirt, and lapped at the flesh of your breasts, he took a softened peak between his lips and sucked hard. You moaned, your hands reaching out and tugging at his outer jacket. The Aburame heir shrugged out of the coat, his lips still focusing on your pebbled bud, and he threw the material somewhere off to the side. His teeth scrapped against your nipple before he roughly bit into the underside of your breast, and you cried out. When you started to tug at his vest he pulled back from your skin and began to speak once again.

“Your skin tastes so sweet.” He took his vest off and began to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants. His voice was deeper, much deeper, his own skin flushed, and his eyes were drowning in lust, he seemed close to panting. “The reason being the venom turns your own body fluids into a similar aphrodisiac.”

With that he licked another stripe over your breast, his deft fingers pushed his pants past his hips, and with a matched eagerness you pulled your own shorts and underwear off. You lifted your hips to aide in the removal of your clothing and as they came up, they came in contact with an absurdly large, hard, and throbbing piece of flesh. “Shino you—” you cut yourself off as you looked down to his member and you felt like your eyes were about to pop out of your head. “Huge,” you muttered.

The insect user looked to the side, somehow still embarrassed despite the situation, before his lust won out and he pressed that monstrous erection between your slicked folds. You immediately moaned, both in relief and pleasure, and you laid your head back to keep your hips up and moving against his. “So wet,” he panted, his heavy tip bumping against your clit as he rubbed against you. He kept rubbing, and groaning in that delicious tone of his, and you kept shifting your hips and begging for him to put it in.

“Shino, please I can’t—” your breathing hitched and your thighs began to tremble as you struggled not to climax from the pressure of his member rubbing against your throbbing clit. “Please, please, put it in. I need you so bad.”

You felt his erection throb against you, and again he shivered. He pressed his face between your breasts as he nodded and brought a hand down to guide himself inside. His fingers poked at your entrance to make sure he was positioned correctly before pressing the head inside. It was a burning stretch, the lack of preparation adding to the discomfort as he spread you impossibly wide. A hiss left your throat and you had to shift your hips to adjust, and he sunk in deeper. “Nnnh,” you closed your eyes.

It hurt, but it felt so good all the same. His face was tense with concentration, his jaw locked and teeth grinding as he did his best to not push in all at once. The Aburame pushed in deeper, and you whined in both impatience and pleasure. You panted and wrapped your legs around his waist and pushed him further in. As he bottomed out, both of your mouths fell open with a sharp gasp.

His hands shook as they held your hips, and you clawed at his back with your nails, trying to find your bearings and get him to scratch the itch that was driving you insane. Shino seemed to be struggling just the same, his body wracked with shivers and fingers twitching against your flesh, his golden irises were shut off from the world, tightly, as he breathed shaky breaths. You squirmed a bit to try and relieve the pressure and heard his breath hitch. Unconsciously, or at least you assumed unconsciously, his hips began to buck against you.

It felt instinctual, the way his hips moved against yours and the way yours moved back. Your throat felt scratchy, your lower belly felt tight as the pleasure built. The friction from his thrusts scratched the itch you had been so desperate to relieve since the damned bug bite. “S-Shino,” you moaned, your nails blazed a trail down his back and your toes curled as you reached your first peak, the Aburame heir followed you to your heaven shortly. But it still wasn’t enough.

The two of you kept going, only pausing for a brief moment to confirm the mutual need to continue. He felt so good, the perfect angle, the perfect size; when you both changed positions, you were on your hands and knees as he took you from behind, and he reached parts of you that you hadn’t realized could be reached. Shino’s voice spurred you on and he knew it. He made sure to lean down and moan, grunt, groan, and gasp right into your ear. He came before you the second time, but even then, neither of you wanted to stop.

It was incredible, it was exhausting, it continued until late into the evening. You estimated that you’d both stopped somewhere around the sixth time. The both of you collapsed, the overwhelming thirst and heat finally satiated, and you felt completely spent. There was a giddiness that began to spread through your chest and you couldn’t help but smile at the tired look on your boyfriend’s normally passive face. He was covered in sweat, as were you, but his soft ambers didn’t leave your form. “We should clean up,” he began, his own voice gruff with overuse and an increasing amount of sleepiness. “The reason being—"

“We’re gross,” you interrupted, voice nothing more than a hoarse rasp.

“Yes.” Shino pushed some hair back from your face. “Are you feeling better?"

“I don’t know,” you teased. “We may have to go one more round for me to know for sure.” “Anything for your treatment.”

tagged list: @therantingfangirl @justmyownreality @hashira-mal

Previous Day || Next Day

|| Kinktober 2022 Masterlist ||

[weird-writes]

Easy Mark (The Mandalorian, E)

Title: Easy Mark (10k)

Series: Part two of Creed, a non-linear series about Din Djarin and his favorite... distraction. 

Description: The Mandalorian comes home drunk, desperate, and absolutely unwilling to admit anything to himself. So you do it for him.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Real, unbroken sleep on a planet with diurnal cycles will be nice, he thinks resolutely, even if he'd had other plans for that luxurious bed. And there are advantages to privacy. He unlatches his helmet with a hiss that sounds like a sigh, strips off his gloves, and then begins to unstrap his beskar, fingers taking him through the motions automatically. When he's done, and with his blaster in easy reach on the table beside the bed, he lays back into the enveloping softness and dims the already low lights. He wants to sleep but he knows it won't be possible yet. His body has started its own cycle, as inexorable as the spin of a galaxy, and he won't be able to rest until he completes it.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, sex work, masturbation (mutual if you squint), ruined orgasm but on accident, dry humping, dirty talk, hand kink kinda sort, oral sex, fingering, a pinch of D/s, alcohol use, hangover, canon what canon, no betas we die like men

Tropes: you know that thing where you're talking with someone and it turns out you're having two totally separate conversations, yeah like that but with sex, idiots with feelings, angst, the helmet stays on, boy HOWDY does that helmet stay on

Author's note: Writing the first one was an out-of-body experience and then it turned out Din and his distraction weren't done with me yet. A couple days later I woke up in the middle of the night and said to myself: "listen bitch i have two words for you - helmet riding." So here we are. Set before Distractions, in the bad but fun times before our idiots sorted out their feelings. Please note that this one does involve Mando visiting a sex worker while lusting for the main character, so if that's not your cup of tea no worries. Personally I like 'em hot, confused, and suffering.

***

This was probably a mistake.

The woman on her knees in front of him is beautiful in a generic sort of way. What Din can see of her face in this position is smooth and symmetrical, and she's groomed her brows into the fine expressive lines that are fashionable in the Core, or at least were fashionable several years ago when he was last there. She has high cheekbones and dark eyes and the rest of her is probably equally well-tended but he can't tell since she's got her mouth around him and is doing something with her teeth that is both precise and masterful. It feels like heaven, the clutch of her throat around the head of his cock a welcome respite after so many months of artificial substitute. She's been working him with lips and tongue for quite a while now, and though he's hard enough that she'd at first had trouble getting her jaw around his not-inconsiderable thickness, the sensation has not yet ticked beyond pleasant relief.

Okay, this was definitely a mistake.

It's not that Din's body isn't willing. He can tell from the dull throbbing in his balls that the purely mechanical parts of him would love nothing more than to empty quite a lot of pent-up frustration into this girl's talented mouth. No, the problem lies elsewhere, and not with anything as obvious as his mind either. He's not thinking about anything in particular, and when he closes his eyes no troublesome images burn themselves on the backs of his eyelids. It's a feeling in his chest instead, a nagging tightness when he breathes in, a sort of perpetually suspended flinch that reminds him of nothing so much as the infinitesimal time between watching someone pull a trigger and hearing the blaster bolt. He's keyed-up, jittery, waiting for an explosion that isn't coming, and he has no idea why.

It had all seemed like such a good idea at the time. He's no stranger to brothels. He has needs, and his mind is calmer and his work better if he attends to them. Not frequently, not enough to be an indulgence. Just enough to remind himself that the same physical facility that lets him shoot straight and fight hard has more demands than only food and rest. He's been distracted lately and the tidiest solution is to find someone who makes it their business to solve problems like his. It's really no different than bounty hunting, and unlike fellow hunters, none of them have ever objected to him keeping the helmet on.

He's learned the wisdom of seeking out professionals the hard way. There are plenty of beings of all species who'd jump at the chance to fuck a Mandalorian. In his youth, he'd sometimes indulged them. It had never gone as poorly as it might have, but eventually he'd understood the motivations every entanglement distilled to in the end - sex was just a clever way to keep him on a leash. Whether it was through intimidation or seduction, everyone was after the same thing: control. And if it worked they'd forever feel they'd won, that they'd somehow put one over on an untouchable Mandalorian. That smug surety had been a source of trouble more than once.

Damaging his public image will not be an issue here. Everything from the decor in the foyer of the tasteful building in the corporate district to how the woman currently servicing him is touching him with her slim fingers screams of discretion and professionalism. She's as practiced with him as he is with his weapons, although to her credit it comes off as attentive rather than perfunctory. When he'd first arrived and made his very specific wishes known she'd acquiesced without fuss, happy to provide what he needs within such clear boundaries. Then she'd used her mouth to release the buckle on his belt, one hand holding it steady while the other slid up his thigh. She'd even smiled up at him once she'd gotten him as undressed as the occasion called for. He suspects her enthusiasm isn't entirely feigned - if the reputation of his people sometimes comes with a cost, it also has benefits.

So now here they both are: her with one hand cupping his sack and the other curled around the base of his cock as she parts her tinted lips, him watching her slide her tongue along his slit with an appreciation that refuses to rise past tepid despite his best efforts to convince himself otherwise. He feels bad that he is not enjoying this more, ashamed of himself in the most absurd way. It seems horribly impolite, as though he is choosing to refuse to respond to her talent, one professional snubbing another. And the problem with someone like her, who makes her living by being perceptive about others' pleasure, is that of course she can tell.

His guilt is amplified when his companion lifts herself off his cock and gives the tip what feels like a genuinely sympathetic kiss. "You like this, but you don't love it," she says gently, and it's very much not a question. She stands and one hand tips his helmet up to meet her kohl-rimmed eyes. "I think you need something else. Something a little more... engaging." She feels him flinch, and her hand dips to smooth his cowl as she comes closer, the soft edges of her robe tickling his knees. "I'm not asking you to undress. There are all sorts of possibilities open to us." The word open is lightly emphasized, lingering on her tongue like a sweet, and oh she is good. There's a world of promise in that one sound. Perversely, it makes him feel worse.

"No," he says, and clears his throat. "I mean, no thank you. I don't think so. I appreciate... your work. I think it's better if we stop here."

"Are you sure?" she asks. Her fingers are skimming along his shoulder now, a touch that's both flirtatious and reassuring. "It doesn't cost more, you know. You have me booked for the whole night. It's my pleasure." This close to him, she smells wonderful even through the helmet, like refrigerated flowers and expensive cloth.

"Thank you," Din says again, because he doesn't know what else to say. "That– won't be necessary. I intend to pay in full, but I don’t think… I don't think I want company."

She hums a little in acknowledgement as she steps away. "Well, it's certainly up to you. If you need anything just touch the button by the door, that's the comm. And really--" she leans forward again, just enough to show the tempting swell of her breasts under the thin fabric, "-- if you get lonely, Mandalorian, don't hesitate." There's a warmth in her tone that sounds like she means it. She blows him a breezy kiss on her way out the door, the privacy panel sliding shut behind her.

Kriff. Kriff. She's gorgeous and she knows it and he likes that in a woman. She knows what she's doing, too, and he likes that as well. And even if he is paying her she clearly doesn't object to him, and he likes that best of all. And he'd just sent her away like an idiot. Leaving him with nothing but an uneasy feeling he can't name and a tight ache in his balls that promises real pain if he doesn't attend to them sooner rather than later.

Din toys with the idea of calling her back, telling her he'd changed his mind, but there's no reason to expect the outcome to be any different the second time around. It's late, and at least he'll be able to sleep as long as he wants. Real, unbroken sleep on a planet with diurnal cycles will be nice, he thinks resolutely, even if he'd had other plans for that luxurious bed. And there are advantages to privacy. He unlatches his helmet with a hiss that sounds like a sigh, strips off his gloves, and then begins to unstrap his beskar, fingers taking him through the motions automatically. When he's done, and with his blaster in easy reach on the table beside the bed, he lays back into the enveloping softness and dims the already low lights. He wants to sleep but he knows it won't be possible yet. His body has started its own cycle, as inexorable as the spin of a galaxy, and he won't be able to rest until he completes it.

It's nothing like the serene attentions he'd been receiving before he'd asked to be alone. He's flat on his back and completely undressed now as he would never be with another person in the room, and his callused hand is a poor substitute for her soft touch. He wraps his fist around his cock and brings himself back to fully erect with a few short strokes, uninterested in prolonging this experience beyond the necessary. At least he no longer feels the pressure to applaud an artist at work; he knows himself and knows exactly how to get this over with while still wringing out the pleasure he seems to periodically require. His hand speeds up as he replays the night in his mind: her fingers on his shoulder, her mouth on his cock. He's imagining her still and that's an appreciation of its own, assuaging the sting of guilt.

His eyes drift closed and his grip tightens, stroking over his length, rushing him toward the conclusion of this little farce. It's not what he wants, not really, but at least he'll feel better. He feels the pressure rising in his gut, the knot in his groin tightening, and there's a brief instant where he thinks about his hand - about his fingers - about a few nights ago and where his fingers have been and the slick wet heat he'd wanted to suck off them -

And that feeling of waiting for the blaster bolt crashes in again, knocking the building tension of his orgasm askew and ripping his touch away from himself to seize convulsively at the cool sheets.

Din opens his eyes and sits up so fast his helmet clatters to the floor. His chest is heaving and his palms are damp and there's a piercing pain around his temples that presages an exceptionally memorable headache. The moment of climax is gone as surely as the woman he'd sent away, and he knows himself well enough to know it's not coming back tonight. "Fucking-- kriffing-- fucking-- hell," he mutters and then descends into the most offensive Mando'a he knows, trailing off only when he runs out of rude words. He collapses back into the blankets, wrenching a pillow over his face. He needs to clear his head. He needs to sleep. He needs to come. One isn't happening without the other two, and at least one of the other two apparently isn't happening at all.

Well. If he already can't sleep, and his cock is not going to cooperate, he can at least do something else equally unwise. He'd paid for the room for the night and he intends to use it. He touches the built-in comm by the door and it clicks into life instantly, the concierge's smooth tones rendered only a little tinny by the size of the speaker. "Can we do something for you, sir?"

"Yes, I hope you can. Do you have a cantina on the premises?"

***

Something is wrong.

It's Mando's walk that gives him away. It's not that it's sloppy or loose; it's that it's tight. Normally the cadence of his boots sounds - relaxed. Ready, confident, easy in himself and his capabilities. You've become familiar with his long stride coming up the gangway, the slight hitch in his gait born from years of maneuvering in layers of armor and weapons. Right now it's too precise, too measured, as though he is concentrating entirely too much. You don't know what the problem is but you can hear that something is different, and by the time he's in the cargo bay that difference is blaring in your consciousness like a proximity alarm.

You wouldn't have noticed with anyone else. You've never attended to the messages of another's body as closely as you do his. You're not sure precisely why you feel the need to catalogue every variation of his mood through the tip of his helmet and the semaphore of his hands. Maybe it's to do with the fact you don't know his face, so you cling to every other detail. Nevertheless, your careful scrutiny reaps a reward: you can't see him, tucked into your own bunk folded down from the wall, but you can tell something has changed just from the sound of his steps.

Your first assumption is the obvious one. He'd left you last night, saying something about meeting a contact, and the life of a bounty hunter is risky even when not chasing quarry. Old marks hold grudges and old friends can turn into old enemies. A blaster graze or a stab wound, neither of them catastrophic, could easily be the cause. But he's back, clearly well enough to return to the ship under his own power, and he hadn't commed you to ask for entry which means he retained his vambrace and his ability to remotely disarm the ground protocols. It can't be anything too serious. He knows where the medkit is. He can patch himself. There's no need for you to get out of bed.

You've drawn the curtain to your bunk closed behind you and your bare feet are touching the floor before you have time to invoke your better instincts. Despite how your - whatever this is - has evolved recently, the Mandalorian often remains closed off to you, withdrawn behind the remote shine of his armor. Finding out exactly what's going on is at least a way to participate, to gain some level of understanding about his person and the kind of life he leads when you're not trapped together in the forced proximity of hyperspace. And if he refuses you - well, it's morning, and the thought of caf is enough of a consolation.

It's early still and the breeze through the open gangway brings with it pale dawn and the smell of growing things. The heat is already oppressive, promising another stifling equatorial day. Mando is leaning against a bulkhead, hip hitched casually on a crate, visor tilted to the floor. One pauldron is in the square of sunshine from the hatch and the tiny imperfections on its surface bounce pinpoints of light through the hold as his chestplate rises and falls with his breathing. It's the only movement you can see, and your stomach flips uneasily. You can tell he's holding himself back somehow, every line of him composed. You've seen him go still like this when he's angry with you. Maybe his meeting went sideways after all, but there's no blood or any of the other telltale signs of violence.

You're already regretting your curiosity. Whatever this is, it doesn't look as simple as a wound.

Mando must know you're there, his instincts too sharp for anything else, but he doesn't greet you. So you don't bother with the niceties either, saying "Are you all right?" in a voice still thick with sleep as you move towards the small galley and the plasma heater and the battered pot that serves as a makeshift kettle.

"What?" His head comes up too fast, as if he's only now remembering your existence, that the public areas of his ship are no longer places for himself alone. "Oh. Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

He doesn't offer more than that, and you resist the urge to pry further. Your - your what, exactly? Your traveling companion? Your erstwhile employer? Your occasional fuck? Better to stick with the obvious, you suppose - the Mandalorian - is hardly expressive at the best of times, but standing silent in the cargo bay this early in the morning with a stillness that implies nothing so much as intense concentration, as he would focus his attention on a difficult target or a mark in a crowded street, is unusual even for him. He's not blocking your path to the galley though, so you occupy yourself with the business of hotplate and kettle instead. You'd found your favorite brand of instant caf at the last trading post and somewhere in a drawer there are still a few packets of dehydrated milk.

You're distracted by the familiar routine, which is probably why you ask. "Would you like some caf?"

A stupid question, and one that makes you cringe as soon as it's out of your mouth. Of course Mando doesn't want caf. And even if he did, he couldn't drink it anyway - not with you there, your presence restricting him as surely as a pair of magcuffs. You've managed to avoid offering him anything that would require the removal of his helmet so far in your time together, but it's so early, and just for a minute you... forgot. Forgot he's Mandalorian, offered him something you would literally any other sentient creature who was awake with you at such an atrocious hour of the day.

His response surprises you. "That seems like a good idea," he says, which is a weird as hell way to put it but whatever. And what about the helmet? Maybe he'll take it to his rack and drink it there. Not your business. You open two pouches and rummage in the cabinet that holds the cheap tin cups. You chase the caf with hot water from the pot, watching the brown grains bleed into something that nearly passes for drinkable, then add milk in one cup and hesitate over the other. You don't know how he likes it and it seems strangely invasive to ask about his eating habits again. After a second’s indecision you tip two of the milk packets in and stir, same as yours. If he doesn't like it he can make his own.

When you're done you take both cups in hand and turn. At some point he must have changed positions, although you hadn't heard him. How he moves so quietly in all that metal is a mystery that continues to elude you even though you see it happen regularly. Now he's sitting down, leaning back against the wall, folded in on himself in a way you haven't seen before and that immediately makes you question whether or not he is, in fact, all right. Maybe you were wrong, and the injury just doesn't show under all his layers of cloth and steel. His posture mutes the inertia you'd sensed and he looks... if you're being honest he looks just a little pathetic, or as pathetic as a man wearing so many weapons can look, which is not very. It's oddly affecting. You don't know him well enough to judge with any level of precision but if it were you against the wall  looking like that, you'd say you'd just lost a fight.

Impossible. Mandalorians don't lose fights. At least, this Mandalorian doesn't.

"Would you like some company?" you ask before you can stop yourself. It's apparently a day for firsts. You've never inquired if he wants your presence before, except as a matter of expediency on a hunt or going into a settlement. It's something in this morning's particular tableau that pulls it out of you, memories of your own bad nights echoing in sympathy with the set of his shoulders. It's easier when he's sitting down, too, the level of his helmet well below your eyeline. You wouldn't have dared if you were facing the wall of beskar that comprises a Mando upright.

His response is direct as he is always direct, and polite, as he is nearly always polite with you. "That would be... acceptable. Thank you."

So you slide down the wall next to him, probably graceless and noisy in comparison, still holding both cups. As you do the wind outside shifts, stirring the heat and bringing with it the inevitable warm damp of impending summer rain. It brushes past your strangely moody Mandalorian, pushing steam from the caf before it and tapping your hair against your cheek, and as it does you're hit by a wave of the familiar. A scent everyone who's ever worked a bar or relaxed after a long day in any town in the galaxy knows.

It takes you no time at all to recognize it, and only a beat longer to locate the source. Mando smells - and not subtly - like alcohol. The sting is unmistakable, announcing itself in the air between you. You can't even contemplate how much worse it would be without the intermediary of his helmet. A sequence of events clicks into place, as tidy as a relay switching shut. That's why he's so still, why his walk up the gangway was so careful. He's hungover. Or maybe still drunk. The Mandalorian is drunk.

You don't even know how he got drunk, considering the constraints of his helmet. You can't imagine him sitting in a cantina all night shoving a hydration tube under the faceplate and sucking in spotchka. The thought is so undignified that you almost laugh out loud. You choke down the impulse but it must show on your face somewhere because Mando says, in a tone that even through the modulator veers close to petulant, "What?"

Now you are laughing, the image of the feared warrior staggering - well, as close as he'll ever get to staggering, which is basically the exact opposite - into his own ship and half-collapsing, felled by something as mundane as alcohol, too ridiculous to ignore. "Oh, I see. Leaving late, coming in early, needing caf. What did you get up to last night, Mando?"

It's a sing-song question, meant as a tease, but that glacial quiet comes over him again and you swear the temperature between you drops several degrees. He's silent for a long while, contemplating an answer that seems weighty for him in a way you didn't intend. Did you upset him? Was intoxication forbidden to Mandalorians? Are you witnessing something as simple as a temporary lapse in judgment - and Maker knows you've had plenty of those yourself - or as serious as a violation of his Creed?

"I made some bad decisions," he says finally. "I thought it would... make things a little easier. It didn't."

And you have no idea how to interpret that, if he's talking about the job that went sideways that brought you to this planet in the first place or the drinking or something else. Or if you could be classified as a bad decision, one that he might need the escape of alcohol to make a little easier. Your brief moment of levity twists in your mouth, turning sour, and you shove the second cup toward him across the bay floor with unnecessary force, sloshing milky caf over the rim to puddle on the metal.

Mando doesn't comment on your lack of tact. He doesn't say anything at all, picking up the cup and contemplating it as though it holds the secrets of the universe. You'd slumped back against the crate after your little outburst but you're still watching him in your periphery. Not a single atom of you believes that he's going to remove his helmet. Not for something as banal as this, not with the hatch open for anyone to see, certainly not in front of you. But he might have some trick you haven't seen yet. A port somewhere, some way of getting sustenance in public when necessary. Maybe that's how he'd made last night's bad decisions.

He doesn't quite bring the caf to where his mouth would be but it's close. You don't see anything about the faceplate change, but the Mandalorian next to you inhales deeply and makes a quiet, satisfied noise. Then he does it again and you realize what's happening - if the visor weren't in the way he'd be burying his nose in the cup to breathe the bitter, scented steam. It's a mundane thing to do, nothing you haven't seen a thousand times before, and you want to be irritated by it. He makes another sound, the modulator obscuring its finer details. You hear it anyway, casually warm and appreciative, and your own mouth goes dry instead.

You are suddenly extremely aware of your body in proximity to his: your shoulders a few long inches from each other, your crossed knees so close to his strong thighs. You didn't mean to but you've turned your head to face him now, lips parting, and you can feel the rush of blood rising up your neck and creeping along your collarbones. You've caught his attention too, your reaction to his enjoyment nowhere near as subtle as you'd like. He doesn't put down the cup, doesn't do anything as predictable as reaching for you. Instead he slides across the floor and presses one long leg against yours, hip to knee, not touching you with intent but just... letting you feel him, solid as granite and twice as unmoving. Then he raises the cup again, slower this time, draws the steam toward himself, and makes the same noise again, deliberately.

Sweat springs up on your skin, the warmth of his nearness combining with your flush and the hot breeze still fluttering through the gangway. The helmet is pointed straight ahead but you can feel him considering you, the stalemate of shared desire spreading between you like ink in water. He seems to be waiting for something but you'll be damned if you're going to start coming out of your clothes just because you like the way he drinks - no, not even drinks - his caf. So you wait too, expecting him to call your bluff, or at least wordlessly take charge as he has taken charge of things between you before.

Nothing happens. You drop your gaze, fixing it on the way he cradles the cup, the tips of his gloves flaring orange against the dull alloy. It's precisely because you have expended so much attention on his hands as a substitute for his face that you notice it: a tiny motion on the surface of the liquid, a gentle waver like the very beginnings of a boil. It's not that the cup is trembling, not really, it's just... not entirely steady. You've already seen his grip around a blaster more times than you can count and you've sure it's always been reliable as a sun. This is new. Is he really that far gone?

"Would you do me a favor?" Mando's voice is carefully neutral, as if he's noticed your scrutiny.

"Sure," you say, not really listening. You could tell him no, discourage whatever drunken whim this is, but you're still watching the minute quiver of his hands, visible only through the ripples in his caf.

"Take off my gloves."

***

It's an insane request, and most of Din is having trouble believing he just said it. The words came out of his mouth unbidden with no direction from anything as capable of higher functioning as his brain. The rest of him - the part he’s forced to admit is housed mostly in his cock and in the bottom of a bottle discarded several hours ago - can't believe he's waited this long to ask. He saw the way you looked at him, the tip of your tongue suspended over your bottom lip. He's painfully aware of the soft skin of your thigh pressing against his, even if he can't feel it through his armor as more than a light pressure, a ghostly kiss of heat. He wants your touch somewhere, anywhere, ideally on the rock-hard erection that's straining against the buckles of his belt, but even as he thinks it he holds back, knowing it would be too much. The gloves instead then. The feeling he thought he'd drowned in revnog is back, the tightness in his chest ratcheting to life, making him shake with anticipation for something he doesn't even know the shape of.

Suddenly he's worried that he's overplayed his hand. You've allowed him to take liberties for your benefit before, but this feels different. This is you touching him for no reason other than he's asked you to and that's dangerously close to crossing the line he's drawn for himself. He sets down the caf and is about to say something sensible like "Never mind," but you're already reaching toward him.

***

Mando doesn't raise his arms for you, doesn't do anything at all to make his demand easier to meet except for putting down the cup. The hand closest retreats to rest on his hip and you chase it without thinking, picking it up like you would any other piece of equipment he’d tasked you to maintain. You can feel a faint tremor all through the capable muscles of palm and wrist. You yourself are sober as a Jedi but that doesn't stop you from fumbling at first, trying to understand how to get around the knuckle guard and loosen the magnetic tab cinching it tight just over the point of his pulse. You pull the glove over his fingers as efficiently as you can.

It's the closest you've ever come to the Mandalorian, which is an absurd thing to say considering what you've been doing, or rather what he's been doing to you, intermittently these past weeks. It's also true, and you feel your breath fraying as you reach for his other side. Undressing him even just this inconsequential amount seems unbearably domestic, an intimacy you haven't earned and probably never will. You remove this glove the same way, running your fingertips over the leather to find the catch, working the fingers loose in a movement that can't help but feel obscene as your smaller hand encloses his bigger one. Then you draw it off, still holding him, and stop. Because you have no idea what to do next.

There's a halting moment where you think he's looking at you and you're definitely looking at him and the tension is enough that you snag your lower lip between your teeth -

"Let go," Mando says softly. You drop his wrist like a thief caught in the act. You expect him to stand up, escaping from your proximity as he often does. You unwisely hope this might be one of those occasions where he turns you around instead, pushing your sleeping shorts down and plunging his fingers between your thighs where a needy hum has just hopefully kicked to life. An even more unwise part of you, a part you try very hard to ignore, wants him to pull you closer, face-to-face.

No such luck. The only sound is your own breathing buzzing in your ears. At this angle you can see the cowl around his neck has shifted, revealing a glimpse of his throat. His pulse shows through the thin skin, tripping steadily but fast. You can't drag your eyes away from it, a warm and traitorous bit of humanity amidst hard metal. There's only been one other time you've seen him like this and on that occasion his reserve, when it finally broke, heralded a storm you’d swear parts of you were still recovering from.

You're kneeling beside him, frozen in the same position you'd used to remove his gloves, and it's easy to notice how much lower and richer his tone is, even through the modulator, when he speaks again. "I'm sorry, mesh'la. I'm not trying to be rude. I just-- I can't."

"Can't what?" you probe, bewildered by the combination of his denial and the unmistakable heat threading through his voice.

"Can't... this." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses himself, you, and the narrow space between you.

"Okay," you say. "Okay. You can't." Fuck whatever this is anyway, you're tired of him being the one to decide all the rules of engagement, where and when and how and if you are even in a position to look at him during. You start to move away but his bare hand briefly finds your knee, pinning you in place with no effort on his part. Even with that feather-light touch you can feel the rough texture of his palm. It raises the fine hairs on your neck with how much you want more of him.

"I can't," Mando says again, as though you'd asked him something, and you realize what he's telling you. He can't.

You can.

Something ignites in your blood, racing down your spine to pool between your legs. He's not refusing you, he's making you an offer, a chance to decide for yourself how this encounter will go. You wonder why now. Is this a misguided attempt at chivalry, a way of making sure that he doesn't push past your limits while he’s under the influence? More importantly - are you going to take him up on it?

You feel your heartbeat accelerating as you reel through the possibilities. You could touch him like he's been touching you. Would he let you? Could you remove more of the layers between you, finally chase your pleasure on his cock like you've spent so many furtive hours thinking about? Or you could deny him, get up and take your leftover caf and leave him to face his biochemical consequences alone. He wouldn't stop you, would accept your choice without protest, and somehow that feels most powerful of all.

The helmet is still watching you. Mando's gloveless hands are quiet in his lap, his chest under the armor rising and falling evenly as though he hadn't just implied you might want to use him like a toy. You meet the eyeless gaze of the visor, seeing only stark lines and your own warped, unrecognizable reflection. Just for an instant you let yourself pretend, wishing he had a face you could read anything in at all. Then you lean forward and grasp his hands in yours and stand up, putting one bare foot on either side of him, taking his hands with you. You hook his fingers into the drawstring at your waist, your meaning clear. Take them off.

You know exactly what you want. And you're almost sure Mando will give it to you.

Your shorts slide easily over the curve of your ass, puddling to the floor as you step out of them. You're wearing nothing underneath and his skin against yours is excruciating as he traces the hard bones of your shins, the backs of your knees - and stops, making it wordlessly clear that he's leaving you to dictate what happens next. You shrug out of your shirt and trail up your body to cup your tits, tossing your hair over your shoulder. Then you look at the Mandalorian under you and give your first order: "Touch me."

Your meaning is obvious even though technically, he's already touching you - hasn't stopped since you began your little show. His hands resume their wandering course, running up the dip of your waist and chastely smoothing sweat across your spine. You use the warmth of his touch as fuel for your own fire, pinching your nipples to greedy points and letting your back arch. It's beyond bizarre to expose yourself like this, presenting to the impenetrable wall of his armor in nothing but your own unassailable nakedness. Mando might deaf and blind for all the reaction the blank faceplate gives you. It's as dislocating as losing one of your own senses, giving everything a surreal, hallucinatory quality. 

It's also indescribably arousing.

Mando is getting bolder, touching you with more purpose. One big hand ghosts up your thigh but you stop it before it reaches its goal. You've had his talented fingers in you plenty and you have other plans. "Hold my hips," you say, and though you meant it as a command it comes out more like a plea. He obliges you instantly, thumbs settling against the swell of your pelvic bones. You want him to participate in this, even if he won't take the initiative, and you want him to feel the same sting of desire you do, even if you can't see the results.

Your excitement is growing more acute now. You drop one hand from your breast and part your folds easily, slipping your fingertips up to tease your clit before dipping them just inside yourself. You moan a little at the feeling of it, so much better than when you do the same alone in the 'fresher, and when you pull out and move back to circle your clit again, spreading your slick over your lips, you feel his grip on you convulse. You follow that theme for a while, aimlessly chasing sensation for no reason other than you want to and it makes him wait. It isn't until you slide two fingers into your aching sex, pressing up and in to fuck yourself slowly in front of him, that you hear Mando make a noise.

It's nothing at all like how he sounded over the caf. It's rough and urgent even through the modulator, and it lights a shameless fuse in the cradle of your thighs. Time to find out exactly how far he wants you to go.

"Hold still." You advance on him, still straddling his lap, tilting his head to where you need it. He doesn't let go of your hips, and if he has any idea what you're about to do, he doesn't show it. He's perfectly capable of stopping you, you remind yourself, could probably throw you across the cargo bay if he wanted. He’d invited you to be the one in control. The knowledge gives you courage to come closer still, close enough to cant your hips forward...

And push your wet cunt directly into his helmet, right against where his mouth would be.

The sounds you both make as your warm flesh hits the beskar mirror each other in their desperation. You can't help but keen as the softest parts of you feel metal, cool even in the hot morning air. The Mandalorian under you jolts at the contact, letting out a broken, bitten-off growl. He's still holding you, could easily push you away, but he does just the opposite, adjusting the angle to bring more of his helmet flush against you. Even that small action makes some deep part of you seize with empty frustration, desire roaring through your veins. It's exactly the way a lover would part your legs to give themselves better access, but all you can feel is the smooth plane of the visor and you need more.

You close your eyes, put your hands on the crest of his helmet, and give an experimental thrust. Your thighs slot easily into the curves of his faceplate and what the beskar lacks in texture is made up for by the knowledge that you are a scant inch away from riding his face. You squirm a little, opening space to shove two fingers crudely back into yourself, already past the point of trying to provoke with anything more subtle. The movement brings your clit into contact with the low ridge over his faceplate and you hiss out a word that sounds very much like yes. You squirm again, fucking yourself down onto your hand at the same time the ridge pushes into your folds.

Mando understood your purpose as soon as your cunt touched metal, the eerie ability for reading others you've seen in combat brought to bear on you. His callused hands are working your hips in earnest now, grinding you against him. It's half fuck and half shared fantasy, the helmet providing only the meanest friction against your clit while the idea of Mando's mouth - his mouth, even in the privacy of your bunk you've never dared to imagine the details of his mouth - on you stimulates you far more. The thought of all his skill and focus narrowing to pleasing you has already gotten you wetter than you imagined possible, but it's more than that. If you just could feel him that way, close the loop on the circuit between you, know he's there with you, as desperate as you are - you aren't sure you'd ever be able to stop.

The tide between your legs is rising, orgasm kindling in the nerves of your sex. His bare skin against yours, your own fingers nudging something humming and electric inside you, the hard press of the helmet: it all adds up to an obvious conclusion, your body racing to finish the equation. The closer you get the more noise you make, until you finally realize you're talking, words spilling out of you with no intention from your brain. Words like Mando and more and please. Words like feel so good and I want you, which makes your heart stop for a moment with fear, but his only response is to your hips as he holds you tighter, grip pressing hard enough to bruise.

You're teetering on the edge when you tell him what you really mean, reveal the thing you've wanted since he told you he couldn't and then tempted you with the merest brush of his hand over your skin. You would never have said it otherwise, but it's there now, the truth pushing insistently behind your teeth. You wait until the last possible moment; until you feel your climax catch and flare, pulling you into a whirlpool of mindless pleasure.

"Fuck, I-- I wish I could see you like this. I've thought about it-- about you," you confess. It feels like you're baring the filthiest, worst part of your soul, admitting that you've imagined what it would be like with his naked face buried in your cunt. The concession is equal parts humiliating and exhilarating, a glimpse into something so private that you've barely examined it yourself, a breach of your painstaking respect for his way of life. "I want to feel your mouth on me."

You can feel the shudder that runs through him when you say it and there's an indescribable sound from under the helmet, something like a groan but hungry, full of desire and frustration - the noise of a man who sees a feast in his dreams after years of famine. It goes right to your core, a bolt of lust beyond what you knew was possible sparking from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, and your eyes fly open. You look down. It's his face, the face of his helmet, the only face you know him by, framed by your thighs as you rub your slick against the transparisteel that tips you past the point of no return, your cunt clenching and your knees buckling as you come.

***

He’d been doing so well holding himself in check. He’d even managed to tell you that he couldn’t provide what you were looking for, the service he’s done for you with great regularity lately. Din is mostly sober, or thinks he is, but he doesn’t trust himself after yesterday. His interrupted lust is still seething just under the habitual discipline. He’s not afraid that he wouldn’t stop if you asked him - there’s no world in which he’d ever be inebriated enough for that - but he’s afraid of what you might say yes to. What you might eagerly permit him. He’s clinging to his Creed like a lifeline but that’s the problem with the Way: it rarely tells him what to do, only that he must do it honorably and with intention. He doesn’t feel especially honorable right now. It would be so much easier if he were outright forbidden this, your rapid breathing and your erratic heartbeat and the convincing wetness of your cunt.

What’s happening right now couldn't be more different than the practiced passion of last night. Unlike last night, however, the chaotic tangle between you occupies all his senses. His already-interested cock has swollen to impossible hardness, somehow more sensitive to the uncomfortable bite of his own clothing than it was to any of the clever tricks that had been used to coax his enthusiasm twelve hours ago. He can't see you, but he can smell you, your musk and the scent of the regulation soap he always buys mixed with sweat. The perfume of your sex, warm and more than willing for him, is one of the things fueling his nearly painful hard-on but for some reason it's the soap that gets to him, replacing every coherent thought with wild, driving need. It's a smell he associates with himself, with his ship, it's the same soap that he's bought for years at every surplus depot in the galaxy and he's never thought about it for even a second but suddenly it’s all over you. It's him, he can smell himself when you push into him, and it makes him feel like he's going insane, like he'll never be able to get inside you deep enough or make you come hard enough to stop himself wanting more of you.

Now you're talking to him and he can hear that just fine, your breathless admission that you want this too, that you've thought about him beyond those times where he's behind you and you're begging for release, imploring him with a name that isn't even a name, just a category. He can hear when you urge more, more, and short on sleep and still half-drunk he can pretend you mean more than more pressure, more than right now, more than Mando.

And then you say the thing that ruins him, making his cock jump and his throat dry and his heart a triphammer in his chest. You tell him you want him - not the armor, not the Mandalorian, but him; his naked face, his naked self - his hips buck, driving upward against nothing, every bit of his carefully won control in pieces around him -

And the explosion he’s been waiting for rips through him, the suspended moment between trigger and blast slamming shut at last. He makes a noise he can’t even try to stop, loud and feral and animal, and comes, his orgasm taking him as hard as a fist to the gut.

***

You’re still partially on top of Mando when your breathing begins to normalize. Once the aftershocks had faded and your knees were no longer shaking quite so hard, you’d stepped off him and gently collapsed, your back against the crates and your legs draped across his cuisses. You know how debauched you must look, still naked and covered in sweat. Absurdly, it makes you feel shy, girlish in your need to conceal your soft and affectionate smile from the helmet next to you. “Holy shit, Mando,” you say instead, hoping your voice doesn’t give you away. “You should get drunk more often.”

That seems to take him by surprise, what sounds like a genuine laugh huffing through the moderator. He doesn’t respond but a hand moves up to your ankle and rests there, filling your chest with hazy satisfaction. You could probably spend forever like that, bonelessly content, but your post-coital bliss is reminding you what he missed while you were busy using him for your own pleasure. 

"Do you want--" you say, reaching tentatively for his belt, but what you mean is please let me, which makes it worse when he jerks away from your touch like it’s a soldering iron, pushing you off his thighs and letting your legs slide to the floor. You hadn’t meant to offend but clearly you have somehow, breaking the rules of your little game without even knowing what they are. You open your mouth to apologize but Mando is getting to his feet and his silence is already somehow back into place between you, impregnable as a fortress. You watch him walk away from you towards the ‘fresher, sealing the door behind him with a thud that lands heavy in your ears, and all you can do is stare after him.

In a kinder version of your world, you'd get off lightly from this. The man whose armor you'd just ruined would be drunk enough to forget, or at least drunk enough to forget details. He'd wake in eight or ten hours with a pounding head and a helmet that needed polish, but he wouldn't remember exactly why, and you'd be spared the self-inflicted invasion of your privacy. But you knew there was no chance of that, no chance that your Mandalorian's mind, even clouded with alcohol, was any less reflexively capable than the rest of him. He would remember what he'd done, and what you'd done, and what he hadn't even had to ask you for. You could have kept quiet. You could have stayed in your bunk. You could have declined to imagine, or at least to declined to share, what his mouth would feel like on you.

Too late for that now.

***

Din can’t regret his choices, not if they brought him here, with you warm and sated on top of him and his own body still coming down from the stupendous high of climax. Still, he’s forced to admit to himself that he’s struggling, the bill for his past abuses rapidly coming due. A truly monumental hangover is stalking through his synapses and he can't tell if the nauseous twist in his stomach is from the alcohol or all the things he wants to say and can't. He'd thought it would fade with the last haze of orgasm, but the urge to tell you how much he wants you remains overwhelming.

He tamps it down. All social creatures have a psychological urge to reciprocate the sharing of a secret. That's all this is: the reciprocal urge. He's used it himself when tracking bounties, a false confession from him eliciting a true one from his mark. It doesn't seem like you're lying to him, not exactly, but he thinks maybe it's not quite real either. You didn't mean it the way it sounded. You like what he can do for you, that's clear, and that liking is enough to earn your tolerance of his company the rest of the time. There was no way you could be conversant with all the complex overtones that imbue something like telling a Mandalorian you want his face between your thighs. Maker, he has to stop thinking about it.

He's still in control of himself enough to push the subject away for now, bury it for later when he can examine it later with a clearer head. What he doesn't know is how to stop the feeling that flares when you’re close to him like this, the sensation of hurtling towards something he can't stop, dogged as a footrace toward the edge of a cliff. He's dizzy and sweating and suddenly everything feels too hot. You've been on his ship twelve weeks and he's had you a dozen times by now, coming so hard around his fingers so hard he can feel the clench, choking on the pleasure he tells himself only he can give you. Today he can add another entry into that catalogue, your words searing through him as you fucked yourself against his visor, and he already knows it's not going to be enough. He's going to need it again. He might need even more. He might - with the sudden taste of bile rising in his throat - he might need to go be sick in private.

At least you didn't realize how far gone he is for this, the thing that stretches between you as powerful as a riptide. Your offer to accommodate his own needs made it quite clear you had no idea what you'd done to him, even if Din’s treasonous body had made sure he wouldn't be tempted by beating you to the punch. He wants to say something to soothe the hurt he’s inflicted, something that might help the new and giddy warmth between you linger, but he has no idea what - except the truth, which would be catastrophic.

He leaves the cargo bay with no ceremony whatsoever instead, shoving you off his lap and surging to his feet. He makes his way to the 'fresher, shuts the door behind him with more emphasis than he means to, and urgently fumbles his armor off. Then he half-collapses onto the lid of the vac tube, leaning over the tiny sink, and closes his eyes.

It's only when he feels the cool bite of beskar on his lips that he realizes he's resting his face against his helmet.

***

“I’m heading to town. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

It's late, the triune suns of this world long since dipped past the horizon. The heat is still suffocating. The landing site is bathed in purple shadows, the endless violet lightning of distant summer storms flickering across the sky. You've taken your schematics outside to work, sitting cross-legged on one of the antigrav loading lifts as it rests quiescent in the mud. You're dressed in clean clothes, having already done penance in the 'fresher with the temperature dial cranked all the way to a punishing cold and the plain white soap washing away any trace of beskar and leather. You are doing your best to fill your head with wiring diagrams, ignoring the way you can't seem to control your hands as they alternately brace and rub at the back of your datapad.

Mando is clearly back to being his sober, achingly polite self, making sure he doesn't leave without informing you, which for some reason is infuriating. You don't want to ignore him entirely but you can't find anything to say that won't meet his courtesy with childish irritation. You make a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement instead. He must not have heard you, because a gloved finger drops into your line of sight and taps the top of the datapad: once, twice.

Unwillingly, you drag your gaze up, fixing it on his left shoulder. You know you're a coward but even in the semi-dark you can't meet the cool line of his visor. Not yet. You wonder if you'll ever be able to look at him again, and then - a stray thought welling up from somewhere dangerously close to hysteria - you wonder if all Mandalorian helmets are the same. You've never noticed, never had reason to pay that much attention before. What if it's not just him, what if you'll never be able to see a beskar-clad bounty hunter without blushing? Maybe it's time to find a new line of work.

"Hey," the Mandalorian in front of you says, his inflection very neutral. You still won't look at him and you know your cheek is twitching and Maker, you must look insane. "Did you hear me?"

You wave him off. "Yeah, I'm fine. Go get... whatever it is you need."

It's not a double-entente, not really, and you didn't mean it that way anyway, you just hadn't been paying attention when he'd announced where he was headed, but the shoulder you've locked your eyes on flinches and there's a slightly choked noise though the modulator. It should be funny, that your slip of phrasing could have that much effect, when you half-naked and begging for him didn't.

It isn't. It kills any shred of humor you've found in the situation instead, slamming your teetering smile to a halt abruptly as a bounty in carbonite for the second time today. You suddenly feel exhausted, the empty space yawning in your chest a poor exchange for the satisfied purr of the space between your legs. Fuck but you wish it was your turn to get drunk. Anything to get away from this for a while. Whatever this is.

But Mando is solving that problem for you, at least temporarily. He nods, already turning away to collect the speeder and head back to the city, and you wonder if he's as eager to flee the awkward interaction as you are. You wonder if you'll ever have any other kind of interaction with him ever again. Is this it for you now, prolonged silences and painful courtesy and the occasional white-hot orgasm as he spurs you - or you goad him, you aren't even sure - to acts more depraved than you've ever dreamed of?

You're still looking down when he leaves, which means you see his booted feet cross the clearing, noting that his stride is once again relaxed and elastic in all the ways that are now painstakingly familiar. Undeniable evidence that he is back to his aloof, controlled self, as though this morning had never happened, as though you hadn’t used the thought of his mouth to take yourself apart.

Now he is no longer looking directly at you, you can lift your eyes to watch him with less embarrassment. It's dark enough you can't make out more than shaded contours and straight lines as he checks over the speeder, kicking the throttle to life with a roar. Then another flash of the ever-present lightning, light cracking across his armored form, every inch of beskar gleaming as clean and precise as his practiced hands as he slings his rifle slant-wise and releases the brake. A following moment of shadow after and your Mandalorian gone, vanishing in the twilight, but you don't need him there to know what you saw. The ubiquitous helmet, shining as if newly minted, every trace of you wiped and buffed and polished from its surface. 

You turn your head to follow the progress of the speeder bike across the plains into the night and wonder if you ever left a mark at all.

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[yonemurishiroku]

Oh, Nico, my dandelion…

I don’t know if anyone has talked about this before, but I just looked up meanings and symbolism of the dandelion flower and I’m… stunned, to say the least.

There’re reasons why Rick made Persephone turn Nico into a dandelion, of all things, yall, and why am I just now figuring it out? And now I’m screaming into my pillows so yall will suffer with me, too.

- First, let’s just start with how dandelions didn’t get a meaning at first, because they’re so common and they’re everywhere so the Victorian didn’t think of it deserving a symbolism nor simply attention. It’s such a relief that Medieval peasants disagreed and came up with many deep messages anyway.

And this is where I started seeing Nico - because he, too, was constantly looked away or frowned upon at sight. People hardly pay attention to him, and when they do they pretend he isn’t there. It took a two wars for him to finally gain acceptance. It hurts.

- The Dandelion represent resilience - specifically, one’s ability to overcome hardships and challenges. Because it thrives so strong, yall. That little, fragile, flimsy flower can exist practically everywhere with barely a pinch of soil or a crack in between two tiles, drinking rain to grow and clinging to the winds to keep going without any help at all. It flourishes and it blooms all the same no matter how barren that land is.

It’s Nico. Small, young, lonely Nico, who has gone through so much without giving up and loves deeply despite the excruciating pain and thrives in death itself the way nobody else can. He looks at Tartarus’ raw being and survives. The Twins suffocated him for days and he just went no-breathing to keep living. He didn’t stop loving in spite of all that self-loathing. He’s given power over death - one that scares and upsets most - yet Nico takes it like a crown, prideful and unafraid. Persevering. Unrelenting. Resolute.

Nico who is praised by Apollo himself for his resilience, which precedes even Stygian iron. No matter how much he’s twisted, he won’t be broken.

- This is just me over-thinking, but I can’t help but notice how young Nico was like a dandelion seed, too.

A tiny, little seed that was dropped off heartlessly by the winds, young and naive, alone in a new land far, far away from home with no mother and siblings gone, struggling to learn how to survive by its own. That, right there, is ten-year-old Nico for you.

From here on is what I’ve been able to gather from flowermeaning.com. And this is why, although it’s just wistful think, I’m a little skeptical Rick did some researches to come up with Dandelion as the result of Persephone’s curse.

According to the site, the Dandelion mean:

Healing from emotional pain and physical injury alike

Look me in the eye and tell me Nico has never suffered from agonizing emotional traumas and critical physical injuries. I dare you.

And now he’s doing better! He receives therapy, he has a loving sister and an attentive father and a caring boyfriend and other friends! He’s doing better. He’s healing. And as much as I love to throw pains at him over and over again in my fics, Nico is getting happier in canon. Rick didn’t abandon him.

Intelligence, especially in an emotional and spiritual sense

Nico talks to ghosts. And forgotten goddess. And makes friend with an amnesia Titan. He’s sensitive. He reaches out. He knows so much and he cares so much more.

His emotional world is an unlimited dreamscape.

And last but not least: The warmth and power of the rising sun

And who’s the sun, you might ask?

…

…All that time. So many books. And Rick had been hinting at Solangelo. all. that. time.

I can’t believe this. What am I supposed to react to this?

Of course, it could mean that Nico would finally find solace at the end of his painful journey, but I cannot help but focus too much on the fact that Will Solace is akchwkhdsjhs literally a ball of sunshine and they do end up together I don’t make the rule——??!!

Furthermore, the Dandelion does delivers positive message such as long lasting happiness and youthful joy or getting your wish fulfilled. I don’t know whether Rick really did mean it when he came up with the dandelion but, well, it’s nice to think that as a promise he gives to Nico, whom he makes such a great effort to torture.

And if I’d prefer to think that it’s Persephone’s subtle blessing then it’s my business.

In conclusion, it most likely wasn’t a careless choice when Rick went with a dandelion as one of those… physical literature metaphor (?) Nico has been. Maybe I over-analyze some (I always do anyway), but it’s still nice to find out that it’s such a fitting and beautiful thing to associate with my beloved angel.

(And it doesn’t help either when I headcanon Persephone has a sort-of tolerable stepmother-son relationship with Nico. I mean she could have chosen a dandelion as it’s such a trivia plant, yet still holds positive symbolism like Persephone tolerates Nico enough to wish him happiness, after all)

[writingdumpster]

stories of us

pairing: Jonah Heidelbaum x Hunter!reader

warnings: spoilers, canon level violence, guilt, reader has killed Nazis

summary: Jonah tells the reader he wants to have a family but she doesn't think she's worthy of motherhood after all she's done.

word count: 1k

When you joined The Hunt at 18 years old you knew you were sacrificing a lot of life’s simplest pleasures. You were giving up a home and friends. You didn’t expect to ever find love. Meeting Jonah was the best thing that had ever happened to you. You were both constantly moving, never settling in the same place for longer than a few months but you had each other. You returned to Brooklyn every now and then, but mostly you traveled. You hunted. 

Jonah and you found solace in each other despite the violence in your lives. There was so much blood and pain in your lives that the love and joy you gave to each other was the most treasured part of either of your lives. You talked about what you would do when you were done hunting as if it would ever happen–as if either of you would ever be able to give up The Hunt. 

A part of you wanted to give up The Hunt every time you looked into Jonah’s eyes. You saw home in Jonah’s eyes. You saw warmth despite their cool color. You saw love and protection and happiness. When Jonah looked in your eyes he saw relief. He saw forgiveness. He saw someone who didn’t see him the way he saw himself. 

“When we’re done I’m gonna buy you a house with a porch,” Jonah said. His arm was wrapped around you as you laid your head against his bare chest. You were lying in bed on a lazy Saturday morning. You didn’t have anything to do until the evening. 

“We’re going to move somewhere where the air is clear and I’ll eat breakfast with you on our porch every morning,” Jonah mused. He combed your hair through his fingers, his cheek pressed to your forehead as he spoke. One of your fingers was drawing aimless shapes on his chest. The words were sweet. Jonah’s imagined future would’ve been a dream come true for you. But that’s just what it was: a dream. There was no real truth to the words. You would never be done. There would always be more Nazis to find. 

“Hmm,” you hummed up, dismissing the thought. 

“What’s that mean?” Jonah asked, as he leaned away to meet your eye. 

“What’s ‘what’ mean?” You asked. 

“‘Hmm,’” he mimicked you. “You don’t want a home with me anymore?” He asked.

“Of course I want a home with you,” you assured him. 

“Then why the hum?” Jonah asked. You sighed. 

“We’re never going to be done hunting, Jonah,” you said. 

“Do you really think that?” He asked as he sat up.  

“Do you really think there will ever stop being Nazis to hunt?” You asked. “Think about Travis. He was our age. It’s just going to keep happening,” you said. Jonah pursed his lips as he looked down at you. . 

“But I want a family with you,” he confessed quietly. You fell silent. That was never something you discussed. You talked about a future together; about growing old; about sharing a home; but you had never said anything about kids. 

“You do?” You asked, genuinely surprised. 

“Of course, I do,” Jonah said. “You don’t?” He asked, his voice had lost its softness.

“I never really let myself think about it,” you lied. You thought about it often. You thought about how Jonah could tell your daughter the stories his Safta told him before bed. You thought of how nice it would be if you had a son that looked like his father. But you didn’t deserve that. You had killed too many times to be a mother–taken too many lives to be good enough to raise a new one. 

“Why not?” He asked. 

“We’re Hunters, Jonah,” you said simply, avoiding the answer. 

“You don’t ever want to stop hunting?” Jonah asked. 

“Do you?” You deflected. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to stop hunting one day and I want to marry you in the temple my Safta made me go to every week growing up,” Jonah told you. “I want to buy a house with a porch in a good school district and have two kids, one boy and one girl. And then I want to watch our kids grow up and get old and crazy in our house together.”

His story sounded beautiful. It sounded like such a happy and perfect life. But that didn’t change that you didn’t deserve it. It didn’t change the things you had done and the person you saw yourself as. It didn’t change that despite the violence you’d seen and danger you’d been in, the thing you feared the most was yourself. A tear slipped from your eye. Jonah noticed and furrowed his eyebrows. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked immediately. “What’s this about?” More tears began falling and you sniffled. 

“Jonah, I’ve killed so many people,” you said. Jonah’s expression fell soft. 

“Baby, no. You’ve killed Nazis. They’re not people, they’re Nazis,” he said. 

“But I’ve just…I’ve done so much hurting,” you said. “What if I don’t know how to do any helping?” You asked through tears. Jonah pulled you up and into his arms. You cried softly into the crook of his neck as he rubbed your back and stroked your hair softly to soothe you. 

“Everyone you have ever killed has killed more people than you ever could. They tortured my grandfather. Even after the war they killed Murray, and Georges, and my Safta. All you’ve ever done is help,” Jonah assured you. You nodded silently against Jonah’s shoulder. 

“You’re right,” you said softly. “You’re right,” you repeated, making yourself believe it was true. Jonah kissed your forehead. When your sniffles had subsided he spoke again. 

“I was serious, y’know?” He told you. “I want a family with you,” you said. “And I want to stop someday.” 

“I love all the stories you tell me about us,” you said. Jonah smiled warmly at you. 

“They don’t have to be stories,” he said. 

“They’ll still be stories,” you said as you leaned forward you kissed Jonah tenderly. You pulled away, keeping your noses pressed together. “They’ll just be true stories.”

[nitewrighter]

Hi! I'm very new to the overwatch Fandom and am currently obsessing over your fan kids (specifically Seye bc I don't see a lot of doom content and I love him) ANYWAY, doomfist does die, right? If so, who is it that kills him, and how do Seye and his mother react? I did read the post about Seye eventually destroying the doomfist with some help, but am super curious about some of what happens in between and after :>

Wow! Asks that make me dig through my ancient 'Marsey' tag.

To be honest, I used to be SUPER protective and vague when it came to stuff at this stage of the story I wanted to tell with my fankids, and was also being sadly dangled along by Blizzard's breadcrumbs of lore---I was in a dance with Blizzard where, I did have a very strong idea of how I wanted the story to end, but I was also dependent on Blizzard for canon lore so that I could make my ending the most accurate, the most satisfying. But seeing as there's basically only lore drops now because Blizzard no longer gives a shit about continuity or quality, and basically the cast has expanded so much since I initially plotted it out that I'll probably have to reconfigure this ending in some capacity anyway, I can talk about it now.

Basically there were two avenues I could have taken with Doomfist, the first one, that actually had those Marsey fics, where it was basically a 'continuation' of the Doomfist cycle, that is, some guy challenges Doomfist for the gauntlet and is able to kill him and take the gauntlet, which obviously puts Seye into a lurch as Doomfist's son and the previously assumed successor. I literally didn't have a name for this would-be killer, and in a way, it didn't really matter because you as the reader weren't supposed to see Doomfist's killer as the rightful bearer of the mantle and Seye's whole arc would be defeating this guy (with Marti's help) and then basically shutting down the weird Metal Gear-esque war cult that's risen around the Doomfist gauntlet as a symbol.

The other option was that Doomfist would be killed in the Final Battle™ at Nepal by... drumroll... Junkrat and Roadhog. NOW BEFORE YOU YELL AT ME, Junkrat and Roadhog would also die in this fight. Roadhog would die before Junkrat, but Junkrat would basically be talking to a very clearly bled-out-past-the-point-of-no-return-and-unconscious Roadie like, "It's okay, Roadie, you can take a nap. I can wrap this up," Before pulling all of the pins on all the grenades on his little chest harness while clinging onto Doomfist. Okay you can yell at me more now. But mostly I loved the combination of dramatic irony of Doomfist being consumed in these fires of chaos, and of the ~Junkers~ of all people going out in a blaze of glory against one of Overwatch's Final Bosses. I had this in my brain for years before Junkrat even got his "I killed the Doomfist!!" elimination line, btw. Doomfist views conflict as its own sort of order, but ends up getting killed by the wacky Mad Max randos who have kind of been the comic relief this whole time. Basically the fact that the Doomfist gauntlet itself would also be destroyed in this kind of fight would aslo be the thing that ends the cycle. That was also the battle that was vaguely referenced in this fic.

In both potential deaths for Doomfist, Seye becomes disillusioned enough with Talon as an organization to basically split off and form his own splinter mercenary organization (I was going to use my Talon Goon OC's as his starting lineup, haha), and he also attempts to create his own mantle as "Earthshaker" but he's still deeply affected by Doomfist's death because that's so much of his identity and he's had this enormous fear of irrelevance all of his life. Like this isn't just the grief of losing a father, this is the threat of oblivion that he's dreaded his entire life. As for Seye's mother, Tejuka, it's less of a blow to her--she more or less came to terms with the fact that Doomfist really doesn't have the philosophy or lifestyle to "go peacefully in his sleep," and that's one of the reasons why they divorced and she put so much effort into grooming Seye to actually be the successor of Ogundimu Prosthetics. Dying is easy, living's harder, etc, etc.

[gecko-whoria]

among the flowers, love blooms.

w/: donquixote rosinante 

warnings: n/a

notes: my piece for the lovely @missallsundaes​ for @onepiece-reader-exchange​! enjoy! (ps i’m playing fast and loose with canon cause it’s been a while since i watched dressrosa and also i like living in a world where cora was around a lot longer)

word count: 1,108

Meet me in the sunflower field at noon. -Cora 

You yawned and wiped the sleep out of your eyes, reading over Rosinante’s note to you two more times before you fully understood its purposeful vagueness. Your head snapped up to look at the clock beside your bed, only able to breathe half a sigh of relief before you realized you only had an hour to get ready and make it to the other side of Dressrosa. 

“Shit!” You exclaimed, peeling off your pajamas on your way to the bathroom. 

You ran through your morning routine as fast as you could, making sure your transponder snail was always close at hand in case Rosinante found a place to sneak off and call you. In the back of your mind you couldn’t shake the worry that he’d called you out to a secluded place to deliver bad news, but you let your hope lie in it being a date. You couldn’t remember the last time either of you had enough down time to do much more than flop into bed together at the end of the day, much less go on a proper date. 

You could still remember the first day you’d met Rosinante—Doflamingo had found you a few days prior, offering you a place in his family in exchange for a fraction of the fortune you’d amassed on your home island. Your desire for adventure had overtaken any qualms you had about sharing your wealth, and you’d joined him without so much as a look back. He’d taken you back to meet the rest of your new crew, letting you mingle with the members while he attended to his own business. 

You hadn’t noticed Rosinante at first, too wrapped up in trying to make a good impression to see more than the people right in front of you. But eventually you found your eyes trailing over to him, the conversations around you falling away until you heard a “who’s he?” tumbling from your lips. You learned that he was Corazon, Doflamingo’s right hand man who never said much of anything. They were certain no one but Doflamingo had ever heard him speak, yet you suddenly felt determined to prove them wrong. You tried to talk to Rosinante nearly every day after your arrival, but you never even got so much as a note in return. You tried not to get discouraged, but it seemed like he wanted nothing to do with you. 

So you gave up. You abandoned your quest in favor of working your way up the ranks, becoming one of the best associates Doflamingo had in a matter of months. Then suddenly, a note.

Meet me on the edge of Dressrosa. We need to talk. -C

From that moment on, you and Rosinante were inseparable. You spent every moment you could together, sneaking off to places family members would never think to look, all so you could hear the warm sound of his voice. It was months before he told you he had a devil fruit power, using it to create a bubble of silence so he could ask you out.

You smiled to yourself as you walked through the streets of Dressrosa, remembering every tender moment that had led you to the present. You slipped out toward the sunflower fields, nervous excitement buzzing through your body.

Rosinante was easy to spot, his towering form poking up from between the flowers. He was seated beneath a tree, a picnic lunch spread out in front of him. He beamed at you, waving as you sat across from him.

“I hope my note didn’t make you too worried.”

“I just didn’t want to be late.” You laughed softly, looking down at the assortment of foods he laid out. “Did you make all of that?”

“What? Oh no, no way. I tried and nearly burned down half the kitchen.”

“Are you okay?” Your brows furrowed, a hand reaching out to check Rosinante’s for any burns or cuts.

He nodded, turning your hands over to clasp between his. He carefully leaned over the food to kiss you, his makeup smeared when he pulled away. He looked so beautiful to you, his hazel eyes illuminated by the afternoon sun, his large hands holding on so tightly to yours. He gave your hands a little squeeze, letting go so the two of you could start on the food before the inevitable call from Doflamingo.

“I hope you like everything. I tried to get as many of your favorite foods as I could find.”

You smiled and nodded, picking up one of the mini sandwiches and taking a bite. “It’s all perfect, Rosi. Thank you.”

Rosinante blushed at the sound of his name, the name that only you could call him. He’d been so hesitant to reveal his true name and his past to you, though you had a feeling there was still something he was hiding from you. You had decided long ago that you’d never pry, knowing it would just be easier to enjoy the time you had with him rather than worry about what the future might hold.

You passed the time in quiet conversation with Rosinante, catching up on everything you had missed in each other’s lives. You could find yourself getting lost in the lilt of his voice, letting it fill your heart with love and warmth. He spoke so gently, betraying the nature assigned to him by the things he did. This, the man sitting across from you with a tea cake between his hands, was the real Donquixote Rosinante. To everyone else Corazon was merely a code name, but to you it was a representation of the heart that he wore on his sleeve.

“I love you, you know that, right?” You said suddenly, usually not so forward with your words.

Rosinante looked up, slightly startled. “Of course I do, (Name). Is something wrong?”

“No, no, everything’s perfect!” You took his hand in yours, looking tenderly into his eyes. “I just don’t ever want you to think I don’t.”

Rosinante smiled. “No matter what I’ll always know that you love me. And I hope that you know that I love you too. No matter where I go, you’ll always be the one I’ve given my heart to. Don’t ever forget that, okay?”

You leaned forward and kissed him, slipping your hands up the side of his face. You were as happy as you had ever been, full of a love you hoped would never leave. When you pulled away you could see red dusting his cheeks, and love-drunk smile on his face.

“I won’t forget. I promise.”

[everyneji]

Bouncing off this post here, I want to talk a little about Neji and romantic relationships beyond just my shipping preferences. Though I wouldn't call this very exact meta either, as there's nothing to really go off of.

The truth is, Neji died before his love life was relevant. I know a lot of people think that he and Tenten would have ended up together but I'm not so sure. I believe he would have stayed uncoupled like his teammates in canon. Team Gai are Team Comic Relief and have genuinely had the most wholly platonic team-centric content of any of the Konoha 12 and the only crush we see from any of them is Lee's on Sakura, which was never gonna happen. I doubt Kishimoto would leave only Lee uncoupled of the team. At most, I think Neji would end the series with an implied off-screen Hyūga wife and a kid.

To add to this, as far as spin-off/AU/filler content goes, we only see 'Neji is a perv' 'Neji has a sister complex' 'Hinata considers Neji a romantic rival' 'Neji is unaffected by Sexy no Jutsu', none of which are a serious attempt to answer the question of 'What does Neji want?'

I also wonder if Neji could even marry out of the Hyūga clan, not just because of his caste status, but because he's a nobleman. He's not likely to be taking someone else's name. Historically speaking, men tend to be the only ones who can start a new branch clan, but in canon the equivalent of this is Hizashi being sealed. Hyūga seem to keep to themselves; Himawari and Boruto imply that the white eyes are a recessive trait. Hinata marrying out is an exception because she was already effectively disowned and she's marrying the Ninja Saviour.

(Of course, if Kishimoto wanted it to happen it would, the Hyūga entering the modern world and changing, but I'm working within the understanding of what we have.)

Narratively speaking, Neji is also far more intertwined with the destiny of the Hyūga clan than Hinata, whose story has centered her feelings for Naruto from the jump. I have a hard time seeing him leaving his family behind for love. Though he's had some very valid issues with his family, he's also fully embraced their techniques and their name; he just wants the respect and equal treatment he's owed within that.

With no canon evidence of romantic interest to go on, I personally focus on how Neji is like Gaara, that is, such a Naruto fanboy that it becomes its own beast of the headiest affectionate feelings we see displayed from them. Neji smiling so genuinely at what could be his final moments because he's thinking of how Naruto saved him is pretty intense.

'Hope is a thing with feathers, that perches in the soul ...'

I've touched on it in another post, but I also think it's sincerely amusing that when Hinata sacrifices herself in the Pain Invasion Neji goes "Why'd she do that?" His own dad sacrificed himself for love! And he has to know of her feelings for Naruto. He even asks if she wants to see Naruto off at the end of part one and hears of how the mere sight of Naruto gives Hinata the vapours. Yet he just doesn't get it ... until you fast forward a bit and put him on that battlefield with Naruto and Hinata in danger, and suddenly Neji's taking the bullet. As he dies in Naruto's arms, he says, "Naruto, Hinata-sama is willing to die for you. So remember you hold more than one life in your hands. And it seems that my life too may have been one of them." He directly parallels himself to Hinata (who sacrificed herself for love of Naruto) and says Naruto holds his life too. I mean, alright!

I'm not saying Kishimoto deliberately wrote Neji in love with Naruto but I think so long as Neji and Hinata are foils to each other who are both moved by the same man, you can derive interesting interpretations from that.

To return to 'what would Neji want' my personal answer is 'Someone able to offer perspectives he had not considered.' It's not just about being challenged -- the person needs to have a real point to make that they can back up. This suggests the person in question would need a certain strength of character, intuition, and likely the power to influence the world around them. This is generally what I go with when writing, but of course, it remains all headcanon.

I hope people forgive me for this very speculative post, I just ... got carried away writing it so hey. Here ya go! 👋