TW: discussion of something approximating suicidal tendencies but with the usual crack programming of this blog
“Ah, High General Windu”, says Fox, pleasantly. “So we meet again.”
High General Windu raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him, Fox thinks, though it’s getting hard to tell with all the blood rushing to his head. “If I let you go, will you try to throw yourself out of another window?”
Fox makes a vague shrugging motion - or tries to, anyways. It’s hard to tell where any of his limbs are going, hanging upside down in the air as he is. “I am willing to discuss terms.” A bridge will do just fine.
Impossibly, the High General’s eyebrows climb even further up his forehead. “A compromise, then, esteemed Commander.” And so, he righths Fox the head way up in the air, but leaves him floating just above the ground, at which point several painted shells come skidding around the corner followed by billowing robes and screeches.
“WHAT”, says Kote, calmly, “THE BANTHA-KARKED, FORCE-LOVING KRIFF, FOX.”
“You’ll short out your helmet mic”, Fox advises him, sagely. Fondly, he thinks back to decimating his own on only his second time in the newly-christened official Coruscant Guard Scream Closet. He’d just received the comm about the Zillo Beast being transported to 000, and made sure to take his bucket off thereafter to improve the quality of his closet time.
High General Windu’s face does something complicated between sympathy and constipation.
Because the Galaxy doesn’t hate Fox enough already and Cody wasn’t enough on his own, Wolffe elbows his way through their batch to plant himself in front of him, shoulders squared and shaking with repressed rage. “If you try that again, dickhead”, he begins, in a low growl that quite frankly sounds more cringe that intimidating, “I’m going to resurrect you and then kill you again.”
“Ah, Wolffe”, Plo Koon says, in his deep, shivery timbre, “Remember our conversations about effective conflict resolution and communication of needs?”
Wolffe’s eyes narrow at Fox, because all non-Guard are sweet summer children who walk around buckets off on 000 like absolute lunatics. Fox prays they never have to find out why that’s a bad idea. “I feel”, his ori’vod presses out between clenched teeth, “that if you make me watch you throw yourself out of another window, I’m going to jump after you and strangle you on the way down, you little bitch.”
“That’s fair”, says Fox, and watches High General Kenobi bury his face in his hands. Wolffe twitches in place and makes an aborted groaning noise, the hypocrite.
“Excuse me, High Marshall Commander Fox, but I fail to see what’s so dire about this situation that the Jedi High Council and your brothers cannot help you solve”, says Windu, the only sane one left on this Force-forsaken bloated corpse of a planet. Behind the gaggle of Jedi and ori’vode already gathered in front of Fox, the rest of them come veering around the corner in a commotion that’s quite frankly embarrassing. High General Yoda is mounted on Skywalker’s back like he’s a race-Eopie, which is Fox’ only consolation.
He got up this morning at 0300, bleary-eyed and with a pounding headache as always, and all was right in the world. And then Fox got called into the Jedi High Council’s chambers and was ceremoniously informed that in the wake of Chancellor Palpatine’s unfortunate demise (hah), and through the emergency state of the Senate, as well as several invented promotions foisted on Fox to make the delegation of any and all paperwork less shady, he was now next in the chain of command and-
Well, Fox is the acting Chancellor, in short.
Haha, he had said, and been meet with several seconds of silence, until it got both awkward and exceedingly painful. Wait, he’d said. You’re kriffing serious.
Kriffing serious, we are, had said High General Yoda, and thus Fox launched himself out the first best window with a maniacal cackle of, you’ll have to catch me first!
And catch him, High General Windu sure did.
“The will of the Force this is”, Yoda interrupts Fox’ train of thought. He scans him thoughtfully from beneath his wizened brow, and hems to himself. “Shake things up, this will. Determine the fate of the Galaxy, this shall. A feeling, I have, that a good Chancellor you will make. A better one, hmmm.”
“That’d be high praise, if not for the fact that a dead lemming would make for a better Chancellor than the last one”, says Fox, drawing and indignant gasp from Skywalker. He doesn’t bother with either that or the green goblin’s cackle, lost in the deep sense of resignation that settles over his shoulders like a suffocating blanket.
“Alright, then, get me Thorn on the comm. As my first act in office, I’m firing all the Jedi. No offense, but you’re kind of a disaster. Then, someone get me to the Chancellor’s office, I’m calling Dooku to let him know the war’s off. And please get me Judicial, they’ll be up all night working on my datafolders - I’m having the Senate arrested.”
“Who - is - arresting - “, Bly pants, hands on his knees from where he’s just come sprinting around the corner with his Jedi.
Underneath his bucket, Fox smiles a smile that’s all teeth. “The Senate”, he says, sweetly, wondering if he’s just imagined the shiver that’s gone through the room. “I’m suing the Senate, and taking them all into temporary custody for abuse of sentient rights.”
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“Oh, my poor baby,” the words are cooed directly in your ear, making you whine as you try to shake his heavy body weight off of you. “This was all you needed, huh?”
Bakugou’s voice is so teasing, so soft compared to the usual growl he holds for you and you only. You couldn’t fucking stand him and his cocky attitude, how he always seemed to undermine you in the field just because you were still a sidekick. When you tried to show him that you were capable, it only backfired more. The thought makes you grit your teeth, your nails reaching back to claw at his nape.
“Fuck you.” You snap at him, hearing him hiss in pain—or pleasure? You could never tell with this freak of a man. Bakugou only grins against your smooshed cheek, letting the heavy weight of his hips push his cock even deeper inside of you. You cry out, eyes clenching shut, whimpering when his hand trapped between your bodies starts to rub your clit in quick circles.
“Such a filthy mouth on ya,” Bakugou huffs a little laugh, nipping at your cheek, pinching your lips together in a pout as he turns your head to face him. He takes you in—your watery eyes, your puffy cheeks, how you still try to frown at him, your downturned brows that quirk up when he slams his hips against you again.
“You’re one to talk,” you grit out, eyes rolling back when he pinches your clit softly between his thick fingers. Bakugou kisses you, finally, more of a smash of his lips against yours, licking at the crevices in your mouth, your teeth, your tongue. He swallows the cry you emit when he pushes you over the edge, doesn’t want anyone to hear how your pro hero boss fucks the brains out of you on his office couch.
“You fuckin’ love it.” Bakugou grins against you, cocky and proud at the way you tremor and shake around his cock. You can only sigh, body falling under the weight of his own as you pat at the hair on his nape.
“Yeah,” you mutter. Bakugou only laughs at you before rearranging you until you’re sitting up with your back against his chest, thighs spread over his, as your head rests on his shoulders.
“Last round ‘fore I have to send you out into the field, rookie. Let’s see how well you perform with my cum still plugging you up.” Bakugou grins, and you catch his reflection in the glass across the room from over your shoulder. He looks wicked, arrogant and full of himself. Secretly, you kinda love it.
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imagine after Sun Wukong has been revived, he slowly works on rebuilding Mount Huaguo back. As a king, he probably had other monkeys attending to him, including helping him put on the very detailed armour he has.
But after the revival, things are not back to the way it was before, but he needs to wear the armor to go on his kingly duty, probably held some speech how he is back etc.
So picture this, the great Sun Wukong struggling putting on the armor by himself. I like to imagine that the Companion (this is what I'm gonna call reader/OC/self-insert) passing by and seeing him struggling, and offers to help.
His headpiece goes on last, and just imagine the Companion having to get really close to his face to tie the bow under his chin. Sun Wukong is holding the headpiece on his head to make sure it is sitting correctly while they are concentrating very hard on making sure they are not tieing the knot too tight or too loose and Wukong is thinking how "have they always smelt this good???? and damn ok that is a cute face they are making when they are concentrating"
probably then lies about how the headset is not sitting correctly and lets the Companion redo it few times just so they can stay close like this for a bit longer.
The Companion eventually catches up on it and gives his chest and angry smack, which only ended with them hurting their hand because armor
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Batman 'firing' Robin will never sit well with me because having the authority to fire someone implies they applied for a job, and a job includes payment.
So, Batman firing Robin is like saying he's paying Robin for doing his job. Except, is he paying? The simple answer would be no, but then the next logical option is assuming that the payment comes with everything he does for a Robin.
Since Batman provides the equipment he has the right to take it back and that's not the part that bothers me. What bothers me is that there's another crucial thing that Batman does for Robin: provide a home.
And while, yes, Batman's intention isn't to take away the safe space of Robin or to make him believe he's making him leave his house, intentions don't matter in miscommunication.
Firing Robin means not 'paying' him anymore. It means taking away what he's giving him because he isn't doing his job correctly.
For Robin, it means losing his home.
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