#the problem is i cant display them until i get a place that is properly secured

[bananonbinary]

i got these matroyshka dolls for a chrismas eve-eve gift (we're celebrating on christmas eve so tonight is our christmas eve you feel) and i'll probably get better high quality pics of each of them to brag about tomorrow but for tonight i just need you all to see how fucking TINY the littlest ones are. it goes from like a foot and a half to like a centimeter

here is the largest wearing the smallest as a hat.

im going to cry why are you SO SMALL

#the problem is i cant display them until i get a place that is properly secured #VERY worried about losing the last like...5 of them they are so small and loseable #and we have cats #you can SEE one of them in the pic like 'oooh new toys for me' #mom suggested getting a tray with a lip and my sibling suggested like display putty. probably will do both things #ideally id like to put them behind glass but theres so MANY of them i dont have anywhere big enough to show off all of them

[goodnightallwhites]

Globalized Fetish: BNWO By Skiddely

Globalized Fetish: BNWO 

By Skiddely 

Submitted: January 18, 2020 Updated: January 18, 2020 

The story nobody waited for. Stories about the BNWO. If you dont know what that means, dont read it. Seriously. Features a ton of interracial, black supremacy, BLACKED, etc. 

Provided by Hentai Foundry.  

Chapter 0 - Introduction 2 

Chapter 1 - A whitebois life 6 

Chapter 2 - Education in the BNWO 9 

Chapter 3 - Tattoos and their meaning 13 

0 - Introduction 

Thing have changed in the past few years. With the rise of CRISPR/Cas genetic modification of the human race has become commonplace, designer babies, the eye or hair colour, the sizes, Intelligence and even skin colour. Things went normal for a while, single mothers and white couples everywhere would get their perfect aryan children, most of them girls of course. With the rise of estrogen filled products most white males had gone the way of their women, becoming more girly both physical aswell as mentally, which made them more susceptible to their wives or girlfriends wishes. Back in the day, no virile man would ever WANT a daughter, but like I said, things changed. So now there’s a whole bunch of young aryan supergirls making their way into the world, the pussy economy has changed. For every male there’s about 10 girls, each smarter and better looking than the last. Even the parents that decided to go against the grain, that decided not to pursue the aryan standard of beauty, still have beautiful daughters. Red hair, brown hair, black hair, regardless of their race, they’d be the equivalent of supermodels back in the day. 

Things were good for men during those days. Or rather they would have been good, if there were still enough real men to enjoy these pleasures. The effects of soy products really changed the physiology of white men. Further and further they devolved, slowly turning more feminine with every impossible whopper consumed. Erectile disfunction, development of breasts, shifts in voice pitch and more feminine features made them diverge more and more from the beauty standard of the strong, tall intelligent loverboy. Things looked grim for a while as less and less white couples had children, with the women desperate for sexual relief and the men unable to provide it, usually preferring to be penetrated themselves, rather than to engage in sexual intercourse themselves. Already declining birthrates plummeted even further, up to a point where the original white race was heading for extinction quickly. The solution to these would be found in unexpected places. Due to purely socio-economic reasons, the urban population of America and Africa were exempt from the privilege of gene therapy and the damning results of soy products. In the beginning it was still a controversial topic, hushed voices in yoga class talking about their limpdicked white boyfriends while rumors about virile black men with large cocks made their way around. Before too long, the bravest white girls made their way into the ghetto’s of America, trying their best to find the cock they’re really craving. These adventurous few found exactly what they were looking for, well hung black men ready to ravage any hole that was presented to them. Savage and rough gang bang sessions were common for the first few girls, each of them getting fucked by a whole gang of black thugs, confined to their cribs until they were pregnant. This kind of relentless fucking which was akin to those of rabbits quickly gave these women a new nickname. The birth of snowbunnies is still celebrated as a holiday everywhere. 

Eventually most of these pregnant white women would make their way back to civilization, bringing with them news of the incredible mind blowing sex they found in the ghetto. What started slow, quickly turned into a mass exodus of white women. All of them flocking to the darkest parts of the country, leaving their faggy whiteboys alone at home. What came to no surprise to anyone was the fact that even the ghetto’s would be unable to supply enough black dick to these eager snowbunnies, leaving most of them unsatisfied simply because it was logistically not possible TO satisfy them. A solution had to be found. 

It was clear that black cock was the answer to their problems. Black men proved to be stronger, bigger and simply better lovers, their big black cocks being the only thing that would be able to satisfy a modern white woman. But what to do when there’s simply not enough cocks going around? A thinktank was established to find a solution to these problems. With several thousand snowbunnies already pregnant with black children it was clear that the next generation of black cock was already secure, but the bunnies wouldn’t be able to wait this long. The first attempt was atleast a partial success. The sex toy adapted to the new demands of single white girls by establishing the new norm for dildos, vibrators and other toys. Big black dildos became the biggest seller in the adult industry, each of them sporting a minimum length of 9’ making them as close to the real thing as possible. Bigger versions of black dick were also quite popular, with many white women permanently ruining their holes with these large toys, stretching themselves out to the max, limiting their pleasure to only their toys and the largest of black men out there. This shift in the industry served to atleast somewhat satisfy the demands of the snowbunnies out there. It didn’t do the same for the white “men” left out there however, as those few that still retained their ability to achieve and erection would find themselves unable to pleasure even the smallest of white girls out there. These dejected individuals had to cope with the fact that they were not desirable anymore. Many of them eventually found solace in the same toys as their women. Unable to achieve an erection, they usually resorted to anal stimulation in the vain attempt of spurting out their impotent cockjuice. At this point in time, same-race-sex or SRS had become an extreme rarity, most women starting to consider it to be a weird fetish reserved for the outcasts of society. 

While this change proved to be a good start, it wouldn’t be enough for most bunnies out there. They were naturally craving the real thing, which at this point was still considered to be somewhat of a rarity. This gave the porn industry a clever idea. If they cant go out and get the real thing, just give them the real thing back home. The already dwindling genre of SRS would quickly be replaced solely by interracial sex. White women serving black kings in high definition, sucking and fucking on camera for the entire world to see. BLACKED and BLACKEDRAW became names known to every household in the country. Big muscly black men using their fat uncut cocks to breed fertile white pussy would prove to be the most important media of the time, replacing even daytime TV with a ceaseless barrage of professionally made interracial porn. In many ways this new type of entertainment shaped the people, normalizing the worship of black men, creating a new religion of black cock. New shows would air to great acclaim, showing how to best please and keep your black master, displaying how to best rim black assholes, how to maximize the chances of pregnancy and how to properly emasculate your tiny dicked white friends. 

Of course this didn’t just change the life of white women. The minority of white boys would find themselves face to face with unending propaganda displaying their inferiority, aswell as the superiority of the black man. Their minds already closer to those of real women, they quickly accepted this truth for themselves. This however created a new problem, as feminine small dicked white boys would now also be on the hunt for real black cock. A real solution had to be found. And find one they did. All across the country the think tank established new centers for population control. Colloquially only known as “breeding centers”, these places would house thousands of white women interested in getting black bred. Any black man visiting these centers would be provided with as much fertile white pussy as they wanted, aswell as financial compensation for their time. To mark a snowbunny as a member of these high sought after centers, they were provided with a complementary tattoo. A black spade with a centralized Q would mark them as a Queen of Spades, a woman who had dedicated her life to black men. 

These breeding centers proved to be highly effective. More and more white women would find themselves impregnated with a black baby and through the power of gene manipulation, they would find themselves with the highest certainty that their children would be even bigger and stronger than their black fathers. A new generation of big black cock was in the making. Each impregnated woman would receive a spade womb tattoo, signifying to their peers that she did her part. These tattoos would end up being one of the greatest cultural heritages of the times, but we’ll come to that. 

With a new generation of black Kings ready to pop out, the think tank found themselves cornered with a new problem. They would run out of snowbunnies before too long. As it turns out, black seed has such strength and potency, that it was nearly impossible, even with advanced gene therapy, to create more white babies. This was a great problem, seeing as how the few white men still around had become cock sucking sissies worshipping black cock. Once again a solution had to be found. And they did, as ugly as it was, they did find a solution. It was an ugly solution of course, but to get the bunnies, you first have to extract the snow. It was hard to find still find white boys with proper swimmers in those days. Most of them had accepted their inferiority and surrendered to black cock like their women did. Their already reduced sperm count further diminished by their limp dicks, they proved to be useless for anything other than being a cocksleeve for a black master. It took quite some time, but eventually a few whiteboys were found that could still supply the sperm needed to continue the white race. Now it was without question that no snowbunny should ever be forced to actually have sex with their small white weenies, which meant other ways of extraction had to be found. Luckily the experience gained by the breeding centers would prove to be beneficial in solving this problem. 

In these new breeding centers, the white boys were restrained similar to livestock. They were raised, fed and cleaned by their handlers, snowbunnies specifically selected for this task based on their motherly demeaner and simultaneous disdain for their own race. Initially, the whiteboys were milked for their semen by hand, their keepers using their delicate fingers to milk it from their prostate gland. Of course no white woman was ever forced to touch a tiny white dicklet, it would’ve been too insulting, even with properly insulated gloves. However this meant that the slow and methodical milking of the prostate was the only way to gain the whiteboy sperm. With time passed, each milkmaid found their own way to accelerate the process, whether its by stimulating the nipples, stimulating the penis through the urethra with a steel sounding device, or even just by stimulating his insides by inserting her entire arm into his butt, each maid got more efficient by the day. 

All in all it was still a slow process, but the continuous existence of the snowbunnies was guaranteed through the sacrifices of the milkmaids. A special tattoo was created, the spade with a single sperm in the middle signifies their dedication and sacrifice for their black masters. Of course these genuine milkmaids are quite rare nowadays. With the advent of new milking technology the profession lost its necessity for the most part. Of course modern day breeding centers are somewhat different. Restrained whiteboys are now being automatically milked without additional human help. The automatic pistoning prostate stimulator isn’t quite as delicate as a womans fingers, but it does the job and so does the extra small penis suction cup, designed to slurp up all watery semen squirted out by the restrained whiteboys. Anyways, like I said, the problems that were presented had been solved. With snowbunnies supplying an endless supply of superior black men and whiteboys supplying the snowbunnies to serve them, society has changed. 

The balance of power has changed. The time has come for a new world order. A Black New World Order. 

1 - A whitebois life 

The life of a whiteboy is dictated by their black masters and their snowbunny whores. With new laws in place, a whiteboys life has changed considerably. For one, the display of white penises without good reason is considered to be a crime. Furthermore it’s a criminal offense for a white boy to walk around without their tiny cock in chastity and their butthole plugged. The basic role of every whiteboy is to be a servant Afterall. This includes serving their owners during sex, filming it, prepping her black master and cleaning both of them up after they’re done. Lets just take a quick moment to try and immerse ourselves in the life of a whiteboy. As you wake up in the morning, your first thought will be about black cock, the same thing you thought about before going to bed and the same thing you dreamt about as you were sleeping. With your tiny clit locked in a cage, an orgasm is out of the question of course, but you still dream about it. The buttplug stretching your once tight asshole reminds you of a possible black cock as your reward for good work, so you quickly put on your uniform, the miniskirt, kneesocks and shirt that designate you as a sissy whiteboy slave. Your beta of spades tattoo is always visible of course, just as the law dictates. With that done, you make your way to their bedroom just in time, you have to make sure that he begins his day with a good morning blowjob afterall. It took quite some time, but after enough training and painful stretching of your jaw, you finally managed to properly take his whole cockhead into your mouth. Of course that’s still nothing compared to a true snowbunny slut, but it’s a start! 

As you slowly get him hard with your wet, slimy mouth, your mistress begins to wake up, rubbing her pussy to the sight of your head bobbing up and down on his cock. Of course a black king wouldn’t just be satisfied with that, both of you know. With one hand still on her slit, she quickly crawls behind him, ready to give herself an early morning tongue workout. First she plants kisses all around the rim of his asshole, one wet sloppy kiss after the other until she’s circled all round it twice, leaving smears of lipstick all over his ass. It doesn’t take long for him to get even harder with her tongue slowly starting to penetrate his asshole, past the his sphincter, deeper and deeper inside. Round and round her tongue goes, coating the inside of his asshole with her spit. Rubbing herself to her first orgasm of the day, she quickly switches positions with you, forcing your face under his ass as she begins to give his balls a tonguebath. With both his asshole, cock and balls covered in shiny spitlube, she’s ready to properly serve him. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he throws her on her back, spreading her legs apart. His fat black cock looks way too big to ever fit inside of her, but he obviously doesn’t care. As an alpha male, her pussy is his to take. And so he does. In one smooth stroke he forces his entire length and girth into her tight white slit, her eyes rolling in the back of her head as a low guttery moan escapes her throat. As he picks up his speed, you can only try to hold onto him as you slither your tongue as deep as possible into his black ass. With your lips you create an airtight seal around his dark asshole, desperately running your tongue around inside of his rectum, hoping to be a good little whiteboi to your black master. But neither of them really pay any attention to you. You might aswell not exist in their world, neither one of them wasting a single thought on you as they have the raw animalistic sex you’ll never get to experience. All you get is the taste of his ass and the sound of his fat black cock ravaging her tight white pussy. His BBC invading her insides, roughly forcing its way deep inside of her, knocking on her cervix over and over again. With each thrust she gets tighter, gripping his cock with her vaginal walls as it pulls out. 

His big dark hands move from her waist up her body, one gripping the blonde ponytail she always rocks when she goes to sleep, the other gripping tightly around her throat. With her hair as his reins he rides her, pulling her head back, arching her back., each of his thrusts creating a bulge of his fat black cock imprinted on her lithe stomach. Her air begins to run out, hypoxia further amplifying the pleasure of his cock dividing her pussy, ramming it deep inside of her over and over again, claiming her entire being as his own. A powerful orgasm rolls over her, her brain sending electricity through her body, confusing its need for air with the pleasure of his cock. Her entire body tenses, pussy clenching down even harder on his cock, forcing him to use even more force to pull back while her walls are latching onto him. Brain shattering orgasm after orgasm rolls over her until her she goes limp, her body giving out from the lack of blood entering her brain. Another few thrusts into her unconscious body do the trick and his thick nigger seed paints her entire womb, once again proving him to be the master over her body and soul. His hips buck again and again, making it hard to keep latched onto his asshole, but as a veteran sissy of spades you keep a firm hold onto his asshole with your mouth. Having done his duty, he lets go of her throat. As blood rushes back into her brain she regains consciousness, completely cockdrunk from his meaty black member. With her out of order it falls to you to clean his cum and her juices of his BBC. Reluctantly detaching your mouth from his asshole you turn your attention towards his cock again. Finally you get your real reward. You decide to indulge yourself a little and start with his fat salty nuts, still glistening with her spit. You circle both of them with your tongue, before taking each one into your mouth individually, bathing them in the warmth of your mouth and once again giving it a deep tongue cleaning. You take a deep breath through your nose, really taking in the musky smell of his cock and balls. The kind of manly smell that makes snowbunnies wet and little sissy whiteboys drool with their mouth and clitty cocks. 

With his balls properly serviced you run your tongue along the length of his shaft to get the pure taste of their combined juices. You swirls them around in your mouth, your own spit mixed with hers, his cum and her pussy juices, all of them combining to create a divine taste in your mouth any sissy would kill for. Satisfied with the taste you gulp the slimy mix down. Again you take his cock into your mouth, bobing up and down on it to make sure you get it clean as well as you possibly can. With your vacuum like mouth you cheekily suck on his urethra, getting another reward as you suck out the few remains of his semen out of his pisshole. Cleaned good and proper, he leaves for the shower, leaving the both of you behind in bed. Her pussy is now oozing cum and you have to do everything in your power to keep yourself from sucking it out of her used gaping pussy. Sure, cleaning up her creampies is your job, but they’re aiming for another black baby in the moment! You have to make sure that as much semen stays in her pussy as possible, the strongest swimmer has to make it in the end, the strongest obviously being the seed for a strong black male baby and you cant just let a little detail like him pulling out lower the chances of her being bred properly. Quickly you scoop up as much leaking semen and shove it back in her gaping hole. You take another one of those adhesive tapes designed to properly seal her pussy and seal it up completely, leaving no way for the semen to escape. You decide its best to let her sleep out her cockdrunk high. Getting back to your room to change into your slutty maid uniform. Its time for your daily chores after all. Once again you thank your black masters for letting you be a house sissy and not one of those white workslaves they keep locked away, not even getting to see a single white woman get black in their entire lives! 

The thought of such horrifying imagery spurns you on as you clean the house, prepare breakfast, stretch your anus some more so it might one day fit his cock and buy some groceries. 

2 - Education in the BNWO 

Education in the New World is of huge importance. Not only does it teach science, philosophy, music and art to the people, it also teaches them the natural order and responsibility of Black Masters, Snowbunnies and white betas. Early on in life is when the future of every person is decided. Trough the magic of gene therapy, the average IQ has seen a dramatic increase, with each generation already being more intelligent than the one before. Due to this, essentially any person alive today is much too intelligent to actually do unskilled, blue collar work, which raises the question of who exactly is going to be responsible for the work no one wants to do, but still has to be done? Well the answer is fairly simple and didn’t take the thinktank very long to answer. White betas would be required to do the heavy lifting in society. Being the shrimp dick impotent losers they are, they’re required to keep society running, while their black masters are busy breeding fertile, young, white pussy to ensure the survival of humanity. Where limpdick whitebois provide the labour, black kings provide the BBC to keep the country afloat. However there’s still more work to be done. How do you decide which whitebois scrub toilets, clean the streets and your car, which betas go into higher education to make sure snowbunny wombs stay fertile, PAWG pussy stays wet and who pays for the orphanages of white babies? And how do you decide which lucky sissy gets to live the dream life of servicing their black king and white mistress? 

All of these questions are answered in school, through the usage of the new curriculum introduced to enforce the rules of our new society. To make life easier, a caste system was introduced into every school, a system which carries over to the rest of the country. For one, we have the Black men. In school, just like in real life, each black man is a King in his own right. They make up the fewest students, but also make up the highest caste in the system. A Black King gets to essentially do whatever he wants. They’re allowed to come and go as they please, if they wanted to, they wouldn’t have to attend at all, as school is not compulsory for the upper caste. Furthermore they’re allowed to take whatever they want, whenever they want. Members of the lower castes, snowbunnies in training, teachers and at the very bottom of the caste, the beta sissies, are all subject to the BLACK caste. No white cattle is allowed to ever deny the orders of a black king unless it were to interfere with the interest of another member of the highest caste. Aside from that however, anything goes, which means its not unusual to walk into a classroom where a teaching PAWG tries to explain the anatomy and inherent superior of black cock to a class that is mostly busy pleasing their masters, two white bitches sucking black testicles, warming them up, cleaning them with their tongues, while another worships the fat anaconda infront of her face, choking herself on it until her mascara runs down her face and his cum completely coats her, truly enjoying the blessed facial of black semen painting her pale face. Usually at least one other whore, be they sissy or bunny, is busying themselves with an enthusiastic rimjob, tongue slobbering all over his black ass, tongue trying to stimulate his prostate for his amusement. 

With 4-5 black men in one class, this could mean that there’s simply no one left to pay attention to the lesson. This brings us to the next caste, which strictly speaking, cant be counted towards the student caste. The teachers in the new education system are usually the most experienced PAWGs. The ones that have 

taken more black dick than anyone, who have chosen to preach the gospel of BBC to the new generation. These beautiful snowbunnies are quite often pregnant with another black baby, or are simply recovering from another one of countless pregnancies, but already eager for another black bun in the oven. Like I mentioned before, despite being teacherbunnies, they are still subject to the whims of their superiors, which makes a live demonstration of advanced spitroasting a common occurrence in modern schools. In fact, most of the curriculum was taken over by sex education or biology, but that’s something we’ll get into a bit later. The next caste are the future snowbunnies, the snowbunnies in training. All fertile white girls fall into this category. It is the responsibility of every school and every teacher to make sure to instill the values of our new society into these impressionable young minds. All apprentice snowbunnies are taught about the inherent superior of black men and their big black cocks, their superior sperm count and impregnation rates of almost 100%, all the while contrasting these lessons with pictures of small uncaged white weenies. Any snowbunny must come to understand and revile a tiny white cock and that “white masculinity” an oxymoron in truth, was natures mistake. They will eventually come to understand that their tiny clitties aren’t real cocks, that they are simply snowbunnies stuck in the wrong body, destined to serve them and their black gods. School is also where they receive their first tattoos, a black vine without leaves around their throat, running down their arm or down their thigh. As anyone knows, this is an indicator of how many black men they have had sex with, with the receiving of their first leaf indicating their progress into adulthood. To facilitate their position above the white sissies, they are also given a certain degree of freedom in terms of clothing. White a black satin choker with a Queen of Spades pendant is mandatory for all females, they are free to choose from numerous different outfits, ranging from thongs and see-through panties to a fancy garterbelt combination. They are allowed to wear short shorts, boyshorts, miniskirts, revealing dresses and tanktops leaving their belly free to be seen. All this freedom is of course provided to ensure that they are as attractive as possible for their black superiors. 

Last, and most certainly least, are the betas of spades, the sissies, the beta whitebois. These unfortunate creatures are further separated into three castes. Like I said earlier, we have the working class that is further divided into blue and white collar work. These unlucky ones are the worst and best the academy has to offer from a scientific point of view. While the dumbest of them go into menial labor, slaving away with their only reprise being free interracial pornography and access to black dildos, the smartest go into leadership positions, they become scientists and doctors. These are slightly more lucky, being allowed the freedom to watch livestreams of real white women getting BLACKED. Truly the most unfortunate would be the blue collared slaves that have to work around snowbunnies however. Even with their chastity cages on permanently, one can not guarantee the safety of a snowbunny when she is around one of these beta males. Being weak and sissified losers, they’re hardly a threat, but the trauma of being touched by a whiteboi who isn’t their personal creampie cleaning maid? That’s something that no snowbunny should have to experience. Which is why these unfortunates have to be treated differently than the others. Before they are allowed to take up their work for the first time, they’ll be castrated by a qualified nurse or other healthcare provider, all of them being white women who simply want to make the world a better, a safer place. That leaves us with the last third of them. During their entire scholastic career, the whitebois have to take numerous exams, both written aswell as oral. That you can take quite literally, as these exams are atleast partially about how good they are at giving head, eating pussy, rimming black assholes, etc. Only those whitebois that achieve the highest grades at these exams and show the highest affinity for subservience and servitude get to become actual house servants, maids and sissies of spades. Caste wise these would rank below a snowbunny, but above the other whitebois. Truly these are the most 

lucky and usually happiest of whitebois, as they get to experience their white goddess being black bred live and they may even participate in their savage love making by prepping her black master or licking both of them clean of their juices after the act. Now that we got that out of the way, you might ask yourself just what exactly do they actually teach at these schools? 

Well like I said before, there are extensive lessons on biology, especially human sexual physiology. The first lesson any white bitches need to learn is the anatomy of their bull, since only those that understand the anatomy will be able to please them properly. During these early anatomy lessons they go in-depth on why exactly the BBC is able to please tight white pussies, it explains the superiority of the uncut veiny black penis, the intoxicating smell of their fat black nuts and the pheromones excreted, especially when a white nose is nestled deeply in his nutsack between his testicles. Of course they also go in-depth on the superior length and girth of the black monster penis which is able to stretch out any small bitch pussy while reaching all the pleasurable spots in a snowbunnies vagina. Due to these black kings being uncircumcised, they also teach them to properly clean underneath his foreskin with their tongues, an ability which any white whore needs to learn quickly to survive and please in this new world. Once they understood that the BBC is considered the gold standard, they’d of course have to learn what they could compare it to. This lessons is the most uncomfortable for any white girl, as they now have to see pictures of tiny white penises to understand their inherent inferiority. Of course the teachers use this occasion to provide live examples on these comparisons, putting up black students against white betas and comparing their length and girth. In the case of black students, the teachers prep them with their mouth, getting them wet and fully erect, spit glistening on their massive lengths. The whiteboi on the other hand only gets to receive a handjob between thumb and index finger. For this uncomfortable and quite disgusting procedure, the teacher of course resorts to using thick black latex gloves. With both of them erect, the teacher measures their lengths, elaborating on the inferiority of the small white penis and explaining why such a little shrimp would never be able to satisfy any woman. 

The following lessons on anatomy would be about Semen. During these lessons, the teachers would explain what makes black cum so superior, talking about the viscosity, consistency and sheer volume of semen produced by black men, while comparing it to the tiny watery load of impotent swimmers a white boy could still produce. Taste testing during these lessons is of course a mandatory experience for snowbunnies and betas so they better understand the delicious smell, taste and thick consistency of black cum. These lessons usually end with the teacher displaying her amazing ability of swallowing multiple loads of black seed collected on scene from her students. The last set of the early anatomy lessons are of course about black breeding. Of course it is always up to the black man to decide when and where he cums, however these lessons should instill upon these students the importance of getting their white pussies bred by black cum, especially when they’re ovulating. In depth the teacher goes on about the relationship of miss uterus and mister BBC who gets to knock Miss uterus’ cervix over and over until his semen thugs come in, bend her over and rape the fuck out of her precious tiny egg cells until miss uterus is left with a black baby. To drive this point home, these lessons are usually presented by an already heavily pregnant teacher, just so the snowbunnies know what they could look forward to (and the sissies know what they’re missing). 

With the basics of anatomy out of the way, the time comes to put theory into practice. At this point, the class gets split, with the black guys and snowbunnies getting the chance to try black breeding themselves in specially prepared breeding rooms, stocked with everything they would ever need for a 24/7 fuck sessions, while the whitebois are left in the classroom. This time is used to introduce the 

concept of chastity cages to these betas. Using specially made metal instruments, the penis length and girth, aswell as the thickness of the urethra of every bitchboi is measured. Of course the teachers are wearing protective gear during these lessons, so none of them accidentally come into contact with one of these whitebois filthy shrimpdicks. With the measurements completed, the cages are prepared individually for each whiteboys. These are usually the same cages they wear till the day they die. Due to the integrated urethral plugs, these cages are impossible to be removed, unless the person has the proper key. Once each whiteboi is equipped with the proper cage, they are then forced to begin their grueling anal training, each of them having to start stretching their buttholes with progressively sized buttplugs. This training would continue for their entire school time. 

These would be the most important lessons for the students. Of course there are other topics to be talked about, for example the existence of melanin receptors in a snowbunnies vagina, created using gene therapy as a means to keep even the most deviant of women from debasing herself enough to actually think about having sex with a whiteboi. Or tattoo class, where the significance of each different tattoo is elaborated upon. 

But these are topics for another time. 

3 - Tattoos and their meaning 

Back in the day, when interracial relationships were, for the most part, just deep dark fantasies lodged in the heads of every white girl out there. Only few of them ever got to experience the undeniable, raw sexual power of a big black cock, with most white girls being oppressed by their white fathers, brothers and husbands, all of them desperately trying to keep them from finding out the truth. 

BBC is just better. 

But like I said, every story has its heroes. Brave women that stood up against the dictatorship of limp dicked whitebois, unable to please any snowbunny with their inferior shrimpdicks. Naturally these fighters for sexual freedom would find themselves being bred by superior black men. Having experienced the mind blowing, gut rearranging, orgasmic power of black dick, these women would dedicate themselves wholy to the cause of teaching the world the pleasures of nigger cocks. To ensure that black kings could recognize these women with one glance, they created a symbol that acted as an identification for their lovers and a shield from whitebois. The black spade with a centered Q became a symbol of their resistance. In the form of a tattoo they were applied to an easily viewable area, such as the neck, ankle, collar bone or in the most daring and rebellious of them, the face. Some of these newly dubbed “Queens of Spades” opted instead for temporary tattoos, for the times where they were on the prowl for another BBC to suck of black asshole rim. At any other time they could simply remove these tattoos, blending into the white society, ready to stealthily convert many more women and girls to the amazing cause of black superiority. These brave young women paved the way for the tattoo code enacted and elaborated on in the last decade. 

Taking inspiration from these women, our great thinktank invented the standardized tattoo code we all know today. First was of course the classic “Queen of Spades” design which has hardly seen any change in its design in the last few years. This classic is usually the second tattoo a white girl receives, only predated by the black vines, and denotes their coming of age, completely leaving behind any shred of a life not dedicate do servicing black cock. A different variation of this classic is applied to sissy whitebois who have dedicated themselves to pleasuring their black masters. The “sissy” or “beta of spades” tattoo is a declaration of their surrender before superior BBC. But lets get back to the start, not historically speaking, but rather the start of any white girls career as a black cocksleeve. The first tattoo they receive is of course the classic black vine without leaves. This tattoo is usually applied to the upper arm, thigh, throat, over their chest, around their breast or navel, anywhere really. Truly a versatile mark. In the beginning the vine is completely bare, that is until a woman gets penetrated by BBC for the first time. For each black cock taken, anally or vaginally, another leave on the vine is added. Its important to note here, that each leaf means a different partner. Multiple relations with the same partner does not add more leaves to the vine. This of course encourages the spirit of competition, each girl fighting the other to be THE superior snowbunny. Of course for most white women this sort of competitive spirit is dampened when they find the right partner, or partners, however there are plenty women out there adding new leaves each day. In some cases this leads to tattoos so elaborate, that the white skin underneath can hardly be seen anymore, covered by all the fat black cock she has taken in her life. 

Moving on. You probably already wondered what exactly a snowbunny is. Well some people consider it just another word for your average white woman, drunk on black cock, mother to several black children and pregnant with another one. But you’d be mistaken. A snowbunny used to be something a bit more special. What sets a snowbunny apart from any other white woman is their sexual appetite and ferocity. Where a regular woman would be content to be ravaged once or twice a day, a snowbunny needs more. These nymphomaniacs are completely addicted to nigger cock, craving it every second of the day. Their minds are completely focused on getting black bred, constantly thinking of the next gang of black thugs that can rearrange her guts with their massive slabs of dark meat. Essentially, these are the elite version of the average white woman. Or at least they used to be. Nowadays with gene therapy and artificially inflated sexual hunger, its rarer to find a woman that doesn’t qualify to be a real snowbunny. Back in the day the snowbunny tattoo, the regular black spade with a cute bunny in the middle, used to be a sign of respect. Or at least a great lay for black kings. Nowadays most women qualify for this tattoo and quite a few of them do get it, even if it doesn’t have the same societal influence as it once had. 

Now black ownership comes in many different forms. In a sense, all white women in modern society are black owned as designated by the law, but also of their own volition. Because which white bitch could ever resist the temptation of 20 inches of dark chocolate? Semantics aside, black ownership is a definetly a thing as you know. What used to be called “marriage” back in the day is now black ownership. And what better way to celebrate than the beautiful gift of a new black tattoo on pale white skin? Black ownership tattoos come in many different shapes and sizes, they might just be the most versatile of all government mandated tattoos. Some people prefer the clinical nature of the Barcode and spade combination, allowing any law enforcement to instantly trace a snowbunny back to her owner. A little less subtle would be the various forms of writing, varying from block lettered “BLACK MALE PROPERTY” to what essentially amounts to hand drawn scribbles indicating that they are “BLACK OWNED”. 

Another classic would be the queen of spades womb tattoo. They come in all shapes and sizes, some making its way across the whole abdomen, one more intricate in its design than the other, others are small, simple and could be mistaken for a landing strip of pubic hair if one doesn’t take a closer look. Of course you know what these mean. All women that have birthed atleast one black baby are entitled to a womb tattoo, proving their loyalty and dedication to continuing the black race. Another variant of this tattoo is the snowbunny womb tattoo. This one indicates that the woman in possession has graced the world with one or more white daughters, continuing the inevitable cycle of black gods ravaging fertile white pussy. 

As you know, there’s plenty more tattoo designs out there, both official aswell as unofficial. Take the “multiple black masculinity symbols penetrating a single white femininity symbol” tattoo. I know it’s a bit of a mouthful, but as far as I know these don’t actually have an official name. They’re proof of a womans dedication to pleasing multiple black kings at the same time. Two symbols indicating a threesome, three a foursome and so on. Frequent participants in gang bangs tend to have tattoos completely surrounding their fragile femininity with throbbing black arrows. The I <3 blackboys usually go out to snowmilfs or teachers that prefer younger black men, while the “Say No to White Boys” tattoos are basically just fashion statements at this point. Sure they might’ve been relevant at some point in time, back when people actually still debased themselves to letting shrimpdicked beta cucks flop around ontop of them, but thankfully these times are long gone. 

I’m sure there are a few I forgot, but I do believe these should be the origin and meaning of the most important ones. 

#bbc #story #interracial

[roseymoseyberry]

Mirroring (pirate AU fic)

Last year I posted cute friendship fic for v-day. This year? Straight up smut.

This is a commission from @eat-your-spark-out to finish what I started with Whose Flag Do You Fly Under and it’s follow up (also found on tumblr here and here). And so what started as a one-shot becomes a three-shot, haha. I had so much fun with it and hopefully y’all enjoy it!

(and also check out their stuff because they also write v good fics. @piquantpistachio is their writing blog. ;) )

Ship: Deadlock/Hot Rod

Tags: Pirate AU, teasing, edging kinda, thigh humping, interrupted overload, dirty talk, bdsm themes, manhandling, sticky and PNP interfacing, implied kidnapping, anddd yeah. Hot Rod finally gets it good, though he does have to work for it.

Summary: 

“And you’ll like it, won’t you, darling?”

Hot Rod sucked his bottom lip in between his dentae to gnaw on as he tried weakly to shift under Deadlock. He barely managed to budge.

And then he smiled back. It was slow, but it grew and grew, wide and eager.

“Make me.”

Hot Rod made it clear his patience had long run thin. Deadlock wondered if the little Bot had any to start with, but the valve painting his plating with lubricant with each aggressive rut of Hot Rod’s hips suggested no.

“Is this it? Or do you just enjoy shoving me against every wall except the one that will finally get me laid?”

“There is a certain charm in watching you trying so desperately to overload on my thigh.”

Hot Rod’s engine gave its best attempt at a growl, more endearing than threatening.

“Give me a couple seconds and I’m going to succeed, and all without your help,” Hot Rod said. His cooling fans were running high and Deadlock noticed that, along with the lubricant, Hot Rod was now leaving stripes of pre-fluid across Deadlock’s abdomen, making it wholly clear how very close the Bot had managed to get himself.

The guilt he was trying to evoke in Deadlock wasn’t forthcoming though. Truthfully, Deadlock could have enjoyed the show for a while.

But they were, in fact, against the right door.

With a chiding huff, Deadlock finished keying in his code to unlock the door to his quarters.

“Lucky for you we’re finally here, brat.” The door slid open just as Deadlock released his hold on Hot Rod’s waist, leaving the Bot suddenly without any support. Hot Rod flailed gracelessly off his thigh and backward into the room with a yelp, though he managed to keep himself from actually falling on his aft. Once the Bot’s pedes had properly settled on the ground, Deadlock walked through the doorway, shutting and locking the door behind him. “I’m sure you’ll have no problems making yourself at home.”

Deadlock had been prepared for Hot Rod to fume. To yell and curse and complain about his interrupted overload and generally make a scene.

Which, to be fair, Hot Rod did curse – “The frag?!” – as he reached down, grasping his spike and giving it a few soothing strokes to ease his discomfort.

And he did complain – “You’re such an aft.”

But then Hot Rod was stepping towards Deadlock, reaching out to grab his servo as he said, “But I already knew that, so come on already! I’m dying here!”

Deadlock was so surprised by the sheer audacity of being pulled around on his own ship that he found himself following until Hot Rod released him to flop back onto his berth. Hot Rod sunk into the plushness of the various blankets and pillows, looking utterly at home as he spread his knees wide and arched his back. And, in a display of sheer confidence, his arms folded behind his helm to further cushion it as he grinned up at Deadlock. He looked far too casual and decadent, as if he belonged amongst the rich, luxurious fabrics.

Hot Rod was downright delectable.

The berth dipped where Deadlock placed his weight on it as he moved to cover the little Bot’s frame with his own. Hot Rod shivered with anticipation, helm tilting to accept a kiss. Deadlock let his heated ex-vent ghost across plush lips before catching the brat’s bottom lip between his dentae, biting just enough that his fangs pressed harshly into the soft mesh without piercing. Hot Rod moaned.

Then, after giving a little tug, Deadlock released Hot Rod and lifted his helm away.

When Hot Rod tried to follow, Deadlock slammed his palm against the Bot’s chest, pushing him back down into the berth.

“Deadlock--!”

“Captain,” Deadlock corrected, interrupting Hot Rod’s whining complaint. His thumb caressed Hot Rod’s chest plating but his servo did not give the Bot so much as an inch of movement. “On this ship you’ll call me Captain and treat me as such.”

Hot Rod’s spark thrummed faster under Deadlock’s servo despite the dismissive snort the brat gave.

“Hah. Fat chance.” Hot Rod’s hips rolled up against Deadlock, smearing the mess he had already left on the Con’s plating, and his lips were pulled into a scrap-eating grin. “Do you have any idea how long it took Magnus to do that?”

Deadlock shifted his legs further up onto the berth until he could bring his knees down on Hot Rod’s hips, pinning him further into the plush surface.

“Considering where you are now, I’d say he still hasn’t done his job properly,” Deadlock replied as he let his weight sink onto Hot Rod’s frame. The little Bot couldn’t have been comfortable under the bulk of his thick armor.

And yet Hot Rod’s spark was pulsing all the harder.

“But I know something that Ultra Magnus doesn’t.”

“Y-yeah? And what’s that?” Hot Rod asked, as if the way his armor flared and his cooling fans whirred and the growing wet patch on Deadlock’s berth didn’t all give him away.

Deadlock smirked as he leaned down to ex-vent on Hot Rod’s lips again.

“You want to submit to your Captain.”

Hot Rod squirmed as best he could under Deadlock’s hold as his optics flared brighter.

“Gross. I don’t wanna frag Ultra Magnus.”

“���Course not. He’s failed you as a Captain,” Deadlock continued, leaning and tilting his helm so he could drag his mouth along Hot Rod’s cheek, pressing a kiss against the rising heat building under the mesh. “But on my ship” – his free servo trailed down Hot Rod’s abdomen, swirling in the small puddles of pre-fluid – “and in my berth” – and he nuzzled close until his lips caressed Hot Rod’s audial – “I’m your Captain, and you will submit.”

Hot Rod whined for a split second before stopping himself, but not fast enough. Deadlock lifted his helm to grin victoriously down at his prey who stared up with blindingly bright blue optics.

“And you’ll like it, won’t you, darling?”

Hot Rod sucked his bottom lip in between his dentae to gnaw on as he tried weakly to shift under Deadlock. He barely managed to budge.

And then he smiled back. It was slow, but it grew and grew, wide and eager.

“Make me.”

Deadlock couldn’t get his spike inside the brat fast enough.

The berth creaked as Deadlock pushed off of it to get back onto his pedes, towering over Hot Rod as he schooled his expression into something like disinterest. “Get on your hands and knees.”

With a taunting hum, Hot Rod wiggled on the berth, arms up over his helm as he arched, making sure to tip his hips so his dripping valve was on display. He made no move to roll over. “But I’m already comfortable. Just frag me on my back.”

“Hands and knees, cabin boy.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re not getting fragged.”

Hot Rod shrugged and his arms lowered to trace the lines of his frame, starting at his chest and trailing down towards his middle.

“Fine. I have my own servos. I’ll get myself off and leave.”

“And you think you’ll be satisfied with that?” Deadlock asked, unconvinced as he crossed his arms over his chest, simply watching as Hot Rod tried to seduce him with every inch of his frame. His digits drifted over his abdomen, his hips rolled up to make his spike bounce as lubricant was squeezed out of his valve to trickle down his aft, and then his digits had found and skirted the edges of his wet, throbbing array--

Deadlock simply lifted a doubtful brow.

And then let his modesty paneling shift away.

Hot Rod’s optics immediately darted down, flaring with interest. Deadlock let the corner of his lips curl as he canted his hips forward, his spike slowly but surely pressurizing above the dark lips of his valve.

And Deadlock could see plain as day the way Hot Rod’s valve clenched down on nothing once he was fully pressurized.

“Alright, can’t argue with that,” Hot Rod relented. His tone was all humor, but he quickly dropped his seduction to roll onto his belly and push up onto all fours. The Bot, of course, then wiggled it impatiently as he peeked over his shoulder.

Deadlock had to fight the urge to roll his optics as he stepped closer.

“Good,” he said, noting the jittering of Hot Rod’s plating at the small praise. Far too easy to read. Deadlock placed his servos on the sides of Hot Rod’s hips, holding them still as his thumbs caressed the sleek finish of the Bot’s aft. “Head down.”

Hot Rod frowned.

“Really?”

“This will go faster if you don’t question every command,” Deadlock stated. With a quiet grumble, Hot Rod dropped to his elbows. “All the way down.”

Hot Rod’s helm dipped down to touch the berth, though his weight still rested on his elbows.

This time, Deadlock didn’t bother with the Bot’s little game of attrition. He grasped Hot Rod firmly by the spoiler mount and shoved him down, pleased when with a breathy gasp Hot Rod’s chest pressed against the berth, creating a beautiful arch of his back and a full frame shudder.

“That’s better,” Deadlock purred and Hot Rod moaned quietly into the plush berth.

“Just frag me already” Hot Rod said, attempting to sound demanding but in truth was far closer to whining.

Deadlock let his hips move forward so his spike grazed the inside of Hot Rod’s thigh.

“Lower your hips.”

Hot Rod’s thighs slowly slipped apart, and Deadlock shifted to keep his spike pressed to his plating so that the Bot could feel it, would keep spreading wider until Deadlock’s spike finally met the apex to brush against his anterior node. The mesh was hot against Deadlock.

“Perfect.”

Hot Rod’s digits clenched at the berth under him as his hips jerked, trying to drag his node along Deadlock’s spike and dripping lubricant on him.

“Then frag me.”

It would have been easy to sink inside, yes, but Hot Rod wasn’t there just yet. He needed another push, something to finally tame him.

A wicked idea crossed Deadlock’s processor.

“Open your hardwire compartment.”

Hot Rod’s frame vibrated with the loud whine of his engine. Nevertheless, the panel slid aside and Deadlock could see the arcs of charge flitting off the plugs and ports. And already Hot Rod was squirming, trying to push up enough that he could reach his hardwires. Deadlock didn’t give him that room though. In fact he pressed down further to make himself clear.

Instead of fighting, Hot Rod went slack against the berth, though he did grumble into the blanket, “Be quick about it, would ya?”

Deadlock couldn’t help a smirk as he popped his own panel, circling one of his plugs once before unspooling it.

“I suppose. I can be a merciful Captain when I feel like it,” he commented casually as he leaned forward and, in one deft movement, slipped his plug into Hot Rod’s main port. The charge was lightning quick and hot and Deadlock’s helm dipped as he let the pleasure wash over him and the sweet Bot under him.

Hot Rod shivered as the connection program initialized and he accepted it at once.

Whether it was out of progress or desperation didn’t matter. Either was acceptable to Deadlock.

Hot Rod noticed it wasn’t the usual interfacing program quickly, his optics onlining as he peered over his shoulder, stammering, “What--?”

“Have you heard of sensornet mirroring?” Deadlock asked as he shifted his hips to rub his spike along the slit of Hot Rod’s valve. The mesh was soft and inviting against him, charge snapping at his nodes through the slick, tempting him with how good it felt and how much better it would feel surrounded by that supple charge-laden passage.

Hot Rod gasped and his hips thrusted forward.

“Ohhhh fragging frag,” he moaned as Deadlock continued to tease them both with each rub of his spike. Not only would Hot Rod be contending with the sensations of his own sensornet, but now he had access to every sensory node of Deadlock’s array, experiencing the slick slide from both sides. “Y-you’re serious?”

“Very,” Deadlock replied just as he pressed his lips to Hot Rod’s spoiler, kissing it sweetly. “You’ll know how my spike feels in your valve in every sense of the phrase.” He loosened his grip around the spoiler mount so his digits could stroke the sensitive hinges, pulling sweet whimpers from Hot Rod. “If you’re good, I’ll consider letting you feel what it’s like to take your spike later.”

Hot Rod’s servos were tangled with the bedding, one bunching up a blanket while the other was squeezing the life out of a pillow that he buried his face in, though it did nothing to silence his moans. Deadlock reached his free servo out to pull the pillow free from the Bot’s grip. Brilliant blues were nearly white with charge and plush lips were slack as Hot Rod panted.

“Would you like that, darling?”

It took a moment for Hot Rod’s optics to focus enough to meet Deadlock’s.

“Fine, I—fine, fine, you win, just – please.”

Deadlock dragged his glossa across Hot Rod’s spoiler before placing one chaste kiss to the tip, humming as he did.

“And what have I won?”

“Haah, fraggin’—my submission, I guess? Just – oh primus, I submit, whatever, it’s yours.”

Deadlock pressed the tip of his spike against the sopping wet rim of Hot Rod’s valve. The outermost calipers twitched, torn between clenching and relaxing wide open, desperate for satiation.

Hot Rod moaned as Deadlock kissed the back on his neck.

“And who am I?”

Hot Rod quivered from the top of his helm to the tips of his pedes.

“Deadlo—haah!” The grip on Hot Rod’s spoiler mount tightened as Deadlock pressed his weight onto it, his other servo grasping Hot Rod’s chin with unforgiving strength as he leaned in closer, slow and careful in spite of the sheer dominance the rest of his frame claimed.

“I said, who am I, brat?” Deadlock growled.

Hot Rod panted against Deadlock’s mouth as he swallowed, licking his lips, and then finally croaked out, “Captain. You’re my Captain.”

Deadlock pressed a soft kiss to Hot Rod’s lips.

“There’s a good cabin boy.”

And, with one swift thrust, Deadlock filled Hot Rod’s valve.

Deadlock could not hold back his own deep groan. Hot Rod was scalding hot and sopping wet and tight. The Bot was so incredibly aroused but still small enough to that it was a squeeze, his valve lining rippling around the girth forcing it wide and dumping charge across their nodes.

Not that Hot Rod would have noticed as he threw his helm back as far as his frame and the iron-strong grip on his spoiler would allow and convulsed with overload, vocalizer fritzing as loud moans turned to static, and digits digging deep enough into the blanket to tear it. And Deadlock simply let him, settling over the Bot to ride out the waves of charge and watch, humming from the pleasure. With each clench of those calipers, Hot Rod jerked again, feeling his own valve overloading around Deadlock and that, combined with his own frame’s sensations, sending him cascading back into smaller overloads. It was a cycle that prolonged Hot Rod’s ecstasy and was gorgeous to watch.

It was sheer willpower that kept Deadlock from joining. AfterAfter all, what a waste it would be to have the night end so soon.

Finally, Hot Rod’s rolling shudders slowed, though his frame heaved trying to suck cool air through his vents and his servos alternated between gripping and releasing the plush fabric trapped in his hold. When Deadlock caressed the arch of his back, Hot Rod groaned.

“Holy frag.”

“Knew you’d like that,” Deadlock teased as he slowly and carefully withdrew his spike. Hot Rod shivered and his hips pushed back, trying to keep Deadlock inside.

“What I’d like, Captain,” Hot Rod managed, his helm flopped sideways against the berth so he could look up with one pleasure-hazed optic and loopy grin, “is for you to finally frag me.”

“Oh?” Deadlock asked, snickering despite himself. “And what am I doing?”

“So far all you’ve done is stick your spike in me. Which, don’t get me wrong, that was great. But usually there’s, you know. More back and forth action. If you don’t mind my saying, Captain.”

Deadlock laughed as he pressed deep into Hot Rod again and was rewarded with a low groan and fluttering calipers.

“Hhhh, yeah, like that. And you can’t tell me I don’t feel incredible, Captain.”

“You just don’t make anything easy, do you?” Deadlock commented. Hot Rod’s laugh was broken only by another slow thrust.

“Nope,” Hot Rod said as he rolled his hips into the slow pace that Deadlock had set. For all his talk, the Bot was pliant under him, his frame showing no signs of protest against the hold Deadlock kept on his spoiler or the forced arch of his frame. His pretty blue optics flickered with each shift, charge already crackling anew between his plating.

But his grin was spark-stopping.

“But you like that, don’t you, Captain?”

Deadlock’s rhythm faltered, and the surprise must have shown because Hot Rod was laughing again. Snapping his hips to start fragging Hot Rod hard and deep broke it up with hiccupping gasps and moans, but every time he would start again, laughs louder than the last.

Hot Rod had seen straight through him and it made Deadlock’s spark burn not with embarrassment, but desperate possessiveness and, most shockingly, affection.

The pirate Captain simply could not remember the last time he had felt such a simple and genuine affection.

With a shudder and a tank-deep groan, Deadlock truly started to pound into Hot Rod, his spike throbbing in the perfect wet heat of Hot Rod’s valve and needing more of it. The Bot had finally stopped laughing in favor of an endless litany of gorgeous whimpering and gasping and “Captain, Captain, Captain--!”

Deadlock needed Hot Rod.

When overload hit, Deadlock bent his helm down to bite at the back of Hot Rod’s neck, sunk his fangs in, and growled as he released his transfluid with the overwhelming rush of euphoria. The sound of Hot Rod’s crying out as his valve spiraled down on his spike, seeming to milk it as the Bot trembled with his own climax that looped into itself, sending him over again and again, around and beneath Deadlock—

It was perfect.

Hot Rod was perfect.

::Captain?::

::What is it, Misfire?:: Deadlock asked across the commlink as he stepped out of his shower, grabbing a towel to wipe away the excess solution.

::That Autobot from last night is trying to contact ya. Big Blue’s looking for his cabin boy.::

Six hours, on the dot. Deadlock snorted as he moved to stand at the end of his berth.

Hot Rod was tangled up in at least three different blankets and clutched a couple pillows to his chest and face while still more were likely stuck under his recharging frame. There was only the quietest hum of his slumbering systems as he shifted and further buried his face into the luxuriously soft fabric.

Right where he belonged.

::Is there anyone left on shore?::

::Krok’s rounding up the last of ‘em.::

::Good. Tell him to hurry up because we’re shoving off immediately.::

The berth shifted when Deadlock sat on it just enough to cause Hot Rod to stir.

::They’ll be here in a couple minutes. What about the cabin boy though? Blue’s pretty persistent.::

::Ignore him.::

“Don’t wanna leave yet,” Hot Rod grumbled and Deadlock huffed with amusement as he brushed his knuckles along the Bot’s cheek. “The Captain is gonna be so pissed. I can already hear the lecturing from here”

::He’s really persistant.::

“Lucky for you that wasn’t my goal. I have some things to take care of, so don’t make a mess while I’m gone.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Be good, brat,” Deadlock insisted as he leaned down kiss Hot Rod’s helm. However, he quickly found servos grasping the back of his helm and Hot Rod’s lips against his own in a sloppy, sleepy kiss.

::C’mon, Captain! He seriously will not shut up. He keeps talking about policy!::

Hot Rod pulled away with a lazy grin before rolling away from Deadlock to curl up in the bedding. “You’re just lucky that all I want to do is recharge.”

“Then recharge,” Deadlock said as he stood again, appreciating how perfect Hot Rod looked in his berth.

::Then tell him there’s no need to worry. I take good care of what’s mine.::

#fanfiction #valveplug

[mendedwings]

Sunrises & Chivalry

[shows up 5000 years late with a fill for a 7kpp week prompt(or two)]

Technically, she wasn’t supposed to be here. Technically, the delegates were supposed to be in their rooms, not sneaking around before the sun came up. But Adie was determined to catch at least one Vail Isle sunrise from somewhere with a better view than her bedroom window. The gazebo was ideally situated for that goal, but getting there was proving tricky. She’d almost been caught twice, didn’t dare hope for her luck to hold a third time, and so was cautious almost to the point of ridiculousness. (”For once in your life,” she could almost hear Henrietta chuckling in her head.)

There were a couple more close calls, regardless of how careful she was, but Adie did reach the gazebo undiscovered. And just in time: a thin streak of pink cut across the horizon. Adie perched herself on the seat facing east, curled into as small and unobtrusive a posture as she figured would be comfortable for long enough to watch. As the pink began to spread and fade orange and gold at the edges, she idly gathered her hair over one shoulder, fingers moving by instinct to split it in thirds. As golden wings streaked by purplish-pink spread behind the sun’s orange fire, her fingers moved to braiding the strands--a quick and easy process even though she’d yet to brush her hair this morning. She secured the temporary braid by taking part of the longest trailing end and wrapping it several times around the rest. It wouldn’t hold long, but she didn’t need it to. Ria and Sayra would have to take it out to brush the golden waves anyway.

As the last edge of the sun slipped over the horizon, sky still a spectacular display of color, Adie rested her chin on her drawn-up knees, feeling oddly contemplative. Sunrises always reminded her of Father. After Mother died, he’d started watching the sunrise every morning. And when Adie, an early riser even as a child, crept out to join him, he let her. “Life will demand much of us,” he’d said, sitting her on his lap. “We should take joy in simple pleasures like nature’s beauty and those we care about while we can.” It wasn’t until years later, when he took sick, that Father confessed the rest of why he loved sunrises; the warm orange that dominated them in Wellin reminded him of Mother’s hair. After his illness claimed him, Adie stubbornly maintained the tradition. If Mother was the warm orange, Father was the brilliant gold. She watched the sunrise to remember both of them as best she could.

It was easier with Father; Mother had died when Adie was all of two or three. She hadn’t lost Father until her teens. Still-

The soft rustle of footsteps both human and animal interrupted her reverie. Heart pounding, Adie looked around around for somewhere to hide. The gazebo was too open, and finally, in desperation, she scrambled over the railing to hide in the surrounding bushes. Hopefully whoever was approaching would chalk the rustling up to wildlife. Adie pulled her cloak in close and brushed hair out of her eyes as the steps grew closer and she heard the distinctive nicker of a horse. She couldn’t see who was leading it, but servant or delegate really made little difference. She wasn’t supposed to be here and would be in just as much trouble either way.

Her hiding place was far from comfortable. The mildly contorted position was making her back ache, and a trio of branches wouldn’t stop poking her in the arm. She shifted to try and at least get away from those, caught her ankle on a low, snarled branch, and with a thoroughly unladylike squawk, tumbled out of the bush. Right in front of the approaching horse and accompanying individual.

As she lay there, dazed from having the wind knocked out of her, not sure if those bright spots were part of the sunrise or the result of banging her head, there were hurried footsteps, punctuated by, “Are you alright?”

Clarmont. Oh, merciful God in heaven, kill me now. Adie squeezed her eyes shut.

“Ariadne?” The footsteps had stopped, very close, and she could smell his cologne; same as the night they’d had dinner.  The concern in his voice was equally clear.

Adie opened one eye. The last vestiges of the sunrise were still dazzling, fading pink and gold turning Clarmont into an auburn-haired silhouette. “Lord Clarmont.”

He chuckled, crouching down and offering her his hand. “So formal,” he chided with a crooked smile as he helped her sit up. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my dignity,” Adie said gamely, her smile turning to a wince as she rubbed the back of her head. “And that was already a lost cause, so no lasting harm done.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Clarmont straightened and offered her his hand again. “Grievous a loss as one’s dignity can be, coming to real harm would be far worse.”

Adie clambered back to her feet on her own--noting a few twingey spots--and started picking leaf bits out of her rapidly unraveling braid. Quite the wild child I must look... “If my dignity is the worst injury I suffer here, I shall indeed count myself lucky.”

Clarmont’s smile widened at her show of independence. “Since we’ve established that you’re alright, Countess, would you care for an escort back to the manor?”

Yes. She squashed the thought--and the close-on-its-heels dreamy sigh--and flashed him a mischievous grin instead. “Oh, Lord Clarmont, you know how I feel about one-sided acts of chivarly,” she said playfully.

“Ah, but what if I said your company would greatly improve our morning walk?” he returned, twinkle in his dark blue eyes as he nodded toward the bay horse waiting patiently behind him.

“Well then.” Adie’s face warmed and she briefly dropped her gaze as she smoothed out her dress. “That wouldn’t be one-sided, so that would be fine.”

“Excellent.” Clarmont smiled warmly. He gestured toward the path he’d been walking. “Shall we?”

Adie nodded and tucked her hair behind her ear--finding a twig she’d missed in the process. “One condition, you can call me Adie-” She broke off with a hiss. Turning to fall in step with him had shifted her weight, sending pain shooting through her ankle at the increased pressure. “Ow!”

Clarmont grabbed her arm to help her stay upright. “Ariadne-”

“Adie,” she corrected through clenched teeth. She was mildly impressed he didn’t wince when her fingers dug into his arm.

He raised an eyebrow as they waited for the flash of pain to subside. “Do you always invite rumor by allowing potential suitors to call you by so familiar a name?”

As he’d probably intended, the amused question distracted her and earned a chuckle. “No, I just really prefer it to Ariadne. And you’re the one who asked me to walk with you,” she reminded him. “So you invited rumor first.”

“A fair point,” Clarmont conceded easily. “But it was intended as an escort for you, which you appear to actually need now.”

Adie was about to protest, but testing weight on that ankle proved it not up to the task. “I don’t think it’s that bad,” she said all the same. “Otherwise I would have felt it when I stood up.”

“It’s still bad enough to be a problem, Adie,” he replied gently. “Here.” And without giving her time to question or protest, he swept her off her feet and up to sit on the horse’s back. (if she enjoyed the way his hands lingered on her waist a couple heartbeats longer than strictly necessary, well, no reason to bring that up, right? ) “I assume you know how to ride?”

It took a great deal of self-restraint not to swivel and swing one leg over so she could ride astride, as she did at home. Perhaps don’t overwhelm the man with your unladylikeness. He already knows you hide in bushes and are too independent for chivalry. “I do, thank you. But now who’s inviting rumor?”

Clarmont met Adie’s mischievous smile with one of his own. “You’re hurt. Helping you back is simply the chivalrous thing to do,” he said, eyes twinkling.

“Ah, so I’m thwarted into accepting chivalry after all,” Adie sighed dramatically.  “You win this round.”

Clarmont’s smile widened as he nudged the horse into motion. “I shall endeavor to be a gracious victor.” They began the walk back in silence, but it hadn’t even been a full minute before he half-turned to look at her and asked, “So why were you out here, alone, this early?”

She coughed sheepishly and swept hair out of her face with one hand. “It’s... silly.”

“I doubt that,” he cajoled. “But if you truly don’t want to tell me-”

“I wanted a better view of the sunrise,” Adie blurted out. Caution was the watchword for this summit, but she’d never been good at caution, and she was fairly certain she could trust him. “The ones I’ve caught from my room were all gorgeous, so I wanted to properly see one.”

“Oh? And how was the view from the bushes?” Clarmont teased

Adie huffed in exasperation. “I was only in there because I didn’t want to get caught. I watched the sunrise from the gazebo.”

“Was it as pretty as usual today? I was in the stable with Sarel here and missed most of it.”

“It was,” she nodded. “Pink and purple and gold, with brilliant orange... One of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in my life.”

“Well, now I’m sorry I missed it,” Clarmont chuckled wryly. “You sound very passionate about it, sunrises must be important to you?”

“I used to watch them with my father,” Adie said softly, tightening her grip on Sarel’s mane. “Before... before he got sick.”

Clarmont gave a barely perceptible flinch and canted his head to look back at her. “You were close.”

Of course he understood, Adie reflected, looking down at her hands as she thought back to their dinner. “We were, yes. He was my world for the majority of my childhood. Mother died when I was... very young, so he was all I had.” She was babbling and she knew it, but the sunrise had her in a nostalgic mood, and Clarmont seemed willing to listen. “All I remember of Mother is her laugh. And Father used to say I got her eyes, whenever he was feeling wistful. But I have a lot of good memories with him. He’s the one who insisted my childhood be...”

“Less structured?” Clarmont offered when she hesitated over phrasing.

“Oh, I like that,” Adie laughed. “Very polite. Much better than the innumerable wild child or ragamuffin’s I got when I showed up barefoot with mud on my skirts and flowers in my hair.”

Clarmont’s smile was visible even from her vantage point. “That would be a sight to see.”

She smirked, cautiously letting go with one hand to sweep hair out of her face. “I’m not a little girl anyone, so sadly, you get me with sticks in my hair, instead.”

He was full-on grinning when he turned to meet her eye. “And still a pretty picture.”

Adie was flustered into silence for several seconds at that. Pretty was not a word often used to describe her. ‘Quaint’, ‘charming’, ‘not unhandsome’ (like she was a cottage or something) but ‘pretty’ she’d only heard from her father and Henrietta. The people of Holt loved her, however her behavior and upbringing drew more attention than her looks. “Thank you,” she finally managed, her smile more genuine than teasing now. She lapsed back into silence for a minute before asking, “So, um, what are the sunrises like in Revaire?”

She’d caught him off-guard, she could tell by the ticking seconds that passed before he answered. “In a word? Faded. They’re the same colors as in other places, but... softer.” Clarmont shifted his grip on Sarel’s reins, his thumb rubbing the leather. “Pale pink, lavender, soft orange, yellow instead of gold. Generally lighter shades than elsewhere.”

“Sounds beautiful,” Adie said. She meant it. Much as she loved the vibrant colors of sunrises at home, and the richness they had here on Vail Isle, the pastel look Clarmont described was undoubtedly lovely, too. I’d love to see one...

“Perhaps someday you’ll get to see one, Countess,” Clarmont said, meeting her gaze with a knowing smile when she looked up to protest the switch back to her title. They were almost back to the castle, so best behavior was once again required.

Adie fought the urge to groan. She hated best behavior, and wasn’t particularly good at it. But they were already verging on scandal returning together (especially as she’d snuck out, and oh God, was Jasper going to lecture for that), she didn’t want to make it worse. Clarmont still had a decent reputation, even if she didn’t. So she restrained herself to a coy, “Perhaps I will.”

Clarmont’s expression was carefully neutral as he brought Sarel to a halt in the courtyard and circled to help her down, mindful of the attention they’d drawn, but his eyes danced with mischief.

Adie bit back a mischievous smile of her own as he settled his hands on her waist  and helped her slide off the horse. There were so many comments she could make. She wouldn’t, because one of the doormen was approaching, but it was very tempting. So instead she simply braced her hands against his shoulders until her feet touched the ground.

“There we go,” Clarmont murmured, maintaining his gentle grip on her waist until she was steady, weight balanced on her good leg.

Adie let her hands linger against his chest as long as she dared, tilting her chin back to meet his gaze. “Thank you, Lord Clarmont.”

“Think nothing of it, Countess,” he demurred, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “It’s my chivalrous duty to aid a lady in distress.” Schooling his face neutral, he turned to greet the approaching doorman, neatly denying her a retort.

That’s alright, Adie mused, only half-listening as Clarmont filled the doorman in on what happened. We’re going to be here several more weeks Plenty of time to get the best of him.

Once apprised of the situation, the doorman readily offered to help Adie back to her room. Fortuitously enough, he was just the right height for her to lean against without it getting awkward.

“Well, Countess Ariadne, this would be where we part ways and I wish you a speedy recovery,” Clarmont smiled. “I need to get Sarel back to the stables, and you need to let Lionel here help you back to your room so you can get that ankle seen to.”

“Thank you once again, really,” Adie said, leaning heavily against Lionel’s shoulder. “I would have been in real trouble if you weren’t there.”

“You’re very welcome, it was my pleasure.” Clarmont’s smile widened and he sketched a brief bow before turning to lead Sarel down the path back to the stables.

It was tricky to get back to her room simply due to all the stairs, but Adie and Lionel managed it--without further injury to either to them, which Adie considered a minor miracle. Ria and Sayra were, of course, anxiously waiting for her to return. Adie sighed internally and resigned herself to some well-intentioned smothering.

“Oh, my lady, what happened?” Ria asked, eyes wide with concern.

“I... went for a walk to see the sunrise and tripped,” Adie replied, mentally crossing her fingers that her story matched what Clarmont had told Lionel.

If it didn’t, the doorman gave no indication; simply helped her to the bed, nodded respectfully, and took his leave. The maids bustled into action once he was gone. Sayra headed off to find Jasper and a doctor while Ria set about making Adie comfortable. The redhead’s brow furrowed as she eased off Adie’s shoes.

“Your ankle looks awfully swollen, my lady,” she fussed. “Are you sure it’s alright?”

“It only hurts when I try to walk on it,” Adie said reassuringly. She wiggled her toes. “Didn’t hurt, I promise. It’s likely only twisted, maybe sprained at worst.”

Ria nodded, but she still looked nervous until the doctor arrived and confirmed Adie’s guess. She’d only sprained her ankle, and slightly at that. Jasper returned while the doctor was wrapping it and relaying care instructions. Beginning with two days’ bedrest, which made Adie groan. She was going to get very bored very fast. Worse, this meant she was literally a captive audience for Jasper’s disappointed speech on how the delegates were not supposed to be out of the castle so early, she was going to damage her already tenuous reputation, yada yada. 

Adie feigned contrition before requesting some books from the library-- ”Preferably fiction, but history’s good too”--which Sayra headed off to acquire. “Otherwise I’ll be fine alone.” Jasper and Ria took the hint and departed with a bow and a curtsy respectively.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for her books. And try not to let her thoughts linger on a blue-eyed Revairan noble whose chivalry she didn’t entirely mind.

She didn’t have much luck at the latter.

#my fic #adie/clarmont #7kpp #wellin!mc #lord clarmont #ariadne of wellin #goodness gracious they're fun to write together #and i managed to get both dawn and nostalgia in there whoohoo #i've been working on this over weekends for like a month #i'm so glad it's done

[glitchinthesystemspiderbyte]

[49] Glitch in the System - Fight Club

By E.

Dirty fighting happens.

“It is time to go,” Widow said, hands on her hips as she stood in Sombra’s doorway with an impatient look edging her features. She was dressed to kill - literally - in loose sweats and carrying a bag of sparring pads over her shoulder. Somehow she managed to make pre-workout look good. She made everything look good.

It was a trap and Sombra knew it.

“Busy now,” she replied, resolutely not looking back at her. She was sitting at her desk for once viewing something on her screen, its importance questionable, but she’d have read through a binary translation of one of Widow’s old French tomes if it made her look too busy for sparring. “Maybe next time.”

“You cannot continue skipping training,” Widowmaker sighed, dropping the bag at her side. It hit with a louder thump than usual, and Sombra wondered if today was training with weapons or if the woman was just extra vexed at her refusal. “When is the last time you went?”

Sombra shrugged, making a show of thinking about it. Three months ago. “Last month?” she said instead.

“Non, not as I recall. And anyway,” Widow continued, lips pursed in disapproval, “more is better than less. It is important we stay sharp.”

“I’m not an assassin, cielito,” Sombra replied dramatically, swinging around on her chair so she was looking through her hard light screen at the other woman. The light distorted her face, and she wiggled around until Widowmaker’s eyes were side by side and her nose had disappeared in the refraction. She grinned stupidly, her expression wicking away every ounce of professionalism in her words. “I’m an information analyst.”

“An information analyst who carries a gun and has a body count,” was Widow’s unphased, stern response, which Sombra had a hard time taking seriously while the sniper had no nose.

“Part of the job,” Sombra replied offhandedly. “Sometimes you look at computers - doesn’t mean you need to practice hacking them.”

“The instances in which I need to ‘look at computers’ are far fewer than the times in which you need to engage in acts of violence.” Widow wasn’t budging on the topic. Sombra wasn’t surprised. She shifted her screens so Widow’s nose returned, but her left ear vanished and her forehead was inhumanly pointy.

“That’s why I keep you around,” she said, smiling sweetly through the flickering purple screen. “Get you to do my dirty work.”

“Your dirty work,” Widow repeated, the note of incredulity in her voice enhanced by the arch of her left brow. “I have seen you pistol-whip a man and shoot him point blank in the head.”

“Heat of the moment,” Sombra shrugged dismissively. “Besides, that’s hardly hand to hand combat. I’m an opportunist. I make opportunities and exploit them.”

“You cannot define a word using the word itself.”

“Watch me.”

Widowmaker rubbed the bridge of her nose, eyes closed as she outwardly battled a deep vexation. “Regardless, you wouldn’t need to create opportunity if you would go to sparring like you are supposed to.”

“Maybe,” Sombra shrugged, leaning back in a resolute picture of stubbornness. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Widowmaker had no immediate rejoinder, her golden eyes fixed firmly on Sombra’s own. Sombra could almost see the complex machine that was her brain cranking furiously, and watched as she creased her eyebrows thoughtfully. “Does Gabriel know you have been skipping training?” she asked finally, her voice far more flippant than the inherent threat heavy in the words themselves.

Sombra shifted her screens to the side so she could look at her clearly. “Maybe.”

“Sombra.”

“I make sure my time is logged,” she said evasively, quickly trying to calculate her intent.

Widowmaker nodded slowly and looked down at her wrist. “Well, we have lost ten minutes already. Perhaps we can forego training today, and review past training videos,” she said, eyebrow raised threateningly. “Perhaps I can ask Gabriel to recall them so you can study your technique?”

Sombra watched as she punched in the first three numbers of Gabriel’s personal comms number, looking up pointedly as she did. “You wouldn’t,” Sombra said under her breath.

“Ah, but I would, mon coeur.”

“No mames,” Sombra swore, swiping her console away in a shower of angry sparks. “You’re terrible.”

“Oui. It is as they say,” she said, smiling just enough to irritate Sombra further, “‘tough love.’”

Sombra groaned. “Let me get dressed.”

“See you downstairs in ten,” Widow replied sweetly, and Sombra watched her walk away with a sway to her hips that only accented the air of victory she’d left in her wake.

“Oof,” Sombra exhaled as Widow punched her for the fifth time in the stomach. The first two she’d chalked up to being rusty; the rest she had to admit were just because she was terrible at close combat. “Stop that.”

“The pain is your teacher. Block and you will be fine.” Widow sidestepped backwards with the grace of a dancer, her extensive background in ballet showing in her footwork and agility. Sombra was pretty sure there wasn’t punching in ballet, but clearly it was a skill Widowmaker had no problem picking up in more recent years.

“I can’t block if you keep hitting me,” Sombra answered sourly. Even so, she made a good faith effort at protecting herself from Widow’s next blow. Miraculously, it seemed to work, for that and the next, and the next after that. For a moment, Sombra felt the familiar light of success ignite inside her, and she felt good.

At least until Widow’s next blow was a fake to her left that landed square in her jaw.

“Ya valió madres,” she cursed, nearly spinning around from the hit. Their sparring gear helped prevent injuries, but it did little to soften the impact of a well-placed fist. “Can we be done yet?”

Widowmaker stood back, hands behind her back. She hadn’t even broken a sweat yet. “It has been five minutes, Sombra,” she replied, her unnatural patience even more maddening than usual. “It is unlike you to admit defeat.”

“I’m not admitting shit,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “I’m out of my element. It’s not fair.”

“What was it you said?” Widow asked, canting her head in a maddening display of cool superiority. “‘Where’s the fun in playing fair?’”

“Low blow, spider, spitting my own taunts back at me like that.”

“Allow me to aim a bit higher this time.” In a move Sombra only barely saw coming, Widow faked her yet again, hooking an ankle behind Sombra’s and flipping the smaller woman forward over her leg. She grabbed her collar before she hit the ground, saving her from an uncomfortable fall onto the padded floor.

“For fuck’s sake Widow,” she choked, and Widow hauled her back to her feet. “You can’t even let me take my punishment properly.”

“A deviation from the norm,” she replied demurely, and Sombra blushed.

“This is why I forge my attendance records.”

“And perhaps evidence as to why you should not.” Widowmaker placed her hands by her sides and stood tauntingly close to Sombra. “Shall we start with the basics?”

“I know a trap when I see one, araña,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the obvious bait and taking an involuntary step back. Widowmaker fell into a combat stance and hooked with her right, landing a glancing blow on Sombra’s shoulder.

“Did you not get into fights in Dorado?” Widow asked, sounding genuinely curious, but utterly unable to shelve the self-satisfied smirk reaching across her face as she levied another hit towards Sombra’s cheek.

“Plenty of them,” Sobra said, dodging at the last minute.

“And you came away with nothing from this,” Widow asked. She was trying to goad her into attacking, assailing her with a barrage of lazy, easy hits to push Sombra into making a careless move. It was a good tactic, all told; Sombra was certainly eager to smack her after she’d effortlessly wiped the floor with her for the past several.

“Not entirely,” she grumbled. “Just nothing like this weird battle dancing you do.” To be fair, Sombra had ample experience in the art of hand to hand combat. She’d learned in real time, on the streets, as a gut reaction to situations in which her livelihood or her life had been in danger. While Widow’s combat expertise had been born of trained agility and precision, Sombra’s had been the result of survival and getting along by the skin of her teeth.

Now that she thought about it, arms raw from hits she hadn’t been fast enough to counter, she realized she might have an advantage in this skirmish after all.

“Battle dancing,” Widowmaker smiled, moving like liquid as she watched Sombra deep in thought. “A fitting term.”

Sombra smirked in response, and changed her perception from the sparring ring to a cluttered alley, and Widow was no longer a frustrating challenge but a rival gang member with a shiv and a grudge.

Sombra looked around as Widow bobbed and weaved before her, taking pot shots at the sniper with no real intention of hitting her so much as moving her into an advantageous position.

“Apagando las luces,” she whispered, the old phrase bringing back a slew of memories as she used it not to destroy a mechanical neural network but bring her shoulder down as Widow swung for her head that was no longer where it should be. The sniper faltered, a look of shock crossing her face, and Sombra rushed forward to bridge the gap.

Her shoulder hit Widow in the stomach, knocking the wind audibly out of her as she slammed her body into the taller woman’s solar plexus, sending her backwards over a pile of blue mats at the edge of the sparring ring. Widowmaker had no chance to recover, toppling backwards without an ounce of grace in a heap that Sombra couldn’t help but laugh at as she tumbled right along after her.

“Gotcha,” she said, landing gracelessly on top of her. She could almost ignore the throbbing pain in both her arms and stomach in the face of her sudden, unexpected victory.

Widowmaker looked up from where she lay, flopped over the pile of stacked mats, splayed on the floor with the other woman sprawled on top of her. “That was terrible form,” she said, making no move to get up as Sombra rested her elbows alongside Widow’s head.

“Well it wasn’t your fancy fucking jiu-jitsu, but I still won the fight,” Sombra replied.

“Through deception.”

“Through savvy,” she replied, shaking her head and bringing her face closer. “You were right.”

Sombra could feel Widowmaker’s hands creeping up her back. “I was?” she asked, voice shifting from reluctance to a soft purr.

“Yeah,” Sombra said, pressed against the length of her. “I do know how to fight.”

“You certainly know how to brawl,” Widow agreed against her ear, lips brushing along her neck. “With zero finesse.”

“Whatever,” Sombra grinned, pulling back just out of reach, unwilling to give up her victory so soon. “You’re just sour you lost.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.” Sombra laughed and allowed Widow to hold her in place as she pressed her hands to either side of her face and gifted her with a deep kiss.

“This is different than how we sparred in Overwatch,” Gabriel’s voice announced, his voice rough and sudden, but nurturing enough amusement that Sombra didn’t bother standing right away.

“Not what I’ve heard,” she muttered to herself. Widowmaker smirked.

“Excuse me?” Gabriel said, and Sombra didn’t have to look back to see his eyebrow raised.

“Nothing, boss,” she replied, and pushed herself to her feet. “Just teaching Widow how to fight dirty.”

Gabriel grimaced and Widowmaker made a noise of deep discomfort. “I see,” he said, fighting to keep a smile from forming on the black wisps emanating from his lips. “Well perhaps you can continue this particular lesson elsewhere. I need the gym for some recruit drills.”

“Absolutely,” Sombra laughed, hauling Widowmaker up from the ground and pulling her towards the door.

“Oh, and Sombra?” Gabriel added as she trotted across the gym.

“What?” Sombra asked, immediately suspicious.

“You owe me three months of training. I expect to see you here again,” he said, not turning from where he stood, a scarred shadow with its arms held behind its back. Sombra knew without any question that the fucker was grinning like an idiot. “Double time until you catch up.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she sighed, pressing her fingers to her forehead.

“Is this a good time for an I told you so?” Widow asked, affecting innocence.

Sombra turned and walked away, leaving Widowmaker and her shit-eating grin to catch up later.

*Read from the beginning or check out our intro post! All stories tagged under #glitchfic. Table of contents located here.

#spiderbyte #sombramaker #widowsombra #sombra x widowmaker #widowmaker x sombra #sombra #olivia colomar #widowmaker #amélie lacroix #amelie lacroix #gabriel reyes #reaper #overwatch #overwatch fanfic #overwatch fandom #overwatch fic #glitch in the system #glitchfic

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The Most Hilarious Complaints We've Heard About Fat Decimator System

Why does shedding bodyweight have to be so stressful? Why could it be so challenging?

There are many elements. It could be presumptuous to express that shedding pounds was simple. It undoubtedly isnt! A person who has to shed then pounds finds it just a hard and disheartening as the one that has to lose about 100 lbs. Even though the amount of lbs show up as fat decimator reviews a vast distinction between the ten-pound loser as well as hundred-pound loser, the truth is identical frustrations are professional.

I suggest that we understand the two main influences We now have to discover to discern if we want to reach our body weight-loss ambitions.

To me, the two big influences are the outward influences plus the inward influences. An outward impact is anything at all out inside the touchable, 3-dimensional authentic earth like foods, scales, mirrors, men and women, apparel, and so forth. The inward influences are things that go on within your heart, your dreams, your thoughts, and finally your steps. The two outward and inward influences Engage in their particular roles in shedding pounds. The real key is always to find out how to pay for additional interest to The great inward affect that can help you get rid of body weight.

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Down below are some outward influences And just how they influence your weigh-decline progress:

The scale: reinforces your accomplishment or failure each and every time you stage on it. Reduce numbers on the scale suggest youve dropped some excess weight, but under no circumstances plenty of Based on your anticipations. Higher quantities on the size indicate you must have performed a little something Incorrect. It doesnt account for water-weight, bloat/swelling, muscle mass mass, and many others.

The mirror: serves as our critique meter, or something which displays how the world views us, consequently, we must look at ourselves that way as well.

The refrigerator and cupboards: reminders in the NO ZONES within our homes.

People: if they know you will be shedding excess weight, they need a report with your progress.

Physical physique fatigue: dietary alterations, workout, or worrying sets in and also you turn out to be irritable or unfortunate sometimes.

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Meals: new taking in practices and more healthy snack foods interfere with what youve previously called ordinary, and The brand new routines are tough to include.

Calendars: timeframes youve set to achieve your excess weight-decline goals is nearing its end, and you simply are frightened that youll be described as a failure all over again.

Menus: correct foodstuff variety looks like a CHORE, and consuming just isnt pleasurable any more simply because you know the caloric depend, grams of sugar, grams of protein, and grams of Extra fat of every little thing you put into your mouth.

Garments: when you lose the lbs, apparel starts to sag on you a little, which could make you appear even worse. Having to invest income on new garments is usually depressing if its not Component of a existing price range. Specialists: they have all sorts of recommendations on losing body weight, and they cant wait for you to listen to them. This higher than list could go on and on based upon how deeply you required to investigate this problem. But as you'll be able to see from this shortened version, all of the surface influences make us come to feel the stresses of shedding body weight.

The inward influences I want to deal with are All those influences that some would label as self-communicate, or instead self-affirmations that either convey to us were all right or not all right on earth as we realize it. Its that inner voice that all of us have that directs us to thinning, then inevitably directs us to act In keeping with our considering. Actions start with ideas, and ideas begin with dreams. And needs begin with what we would https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7otwaGL8y0&list=PL1C491EjQOiyYh1bLEBcKtC2t-v9ko09w like deep inside of our heart. Seems intricate and poetic, I acknowledge; but it is so worthy of the hassle to just take a while and decide how you can also make your heart talk its desires, which will prompt the thoughts, that will then produce steps.

The inward influences are Functioning very well for yourself Until finally you step on the scale or glimpse within the mirror. Then what happens? Youve permitted the outward influences to watch your development, along with the outward influences need to override all those beneficial inward influences. You start to mock all your labor youre undertaking, uncover disappointments, discover shortcomings, and usually debase any accomplishments you obtained. Youll try this for a person pound lost or for 1 hundred lbs shed. Why? Mainly because youre enabling the outward influences to get over the inward influences.

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How would you make the inward influences rank bigger as opposed to outward influences? This can be the trick Function AT IT and don't forget its TWO To at least one! When you hear the devil on your shoulder (the outward influences) toss all around insults, uncertainties, and damaging remarks, change your head to your angel on your own shoulder (the inward influences) that lets you know that you're accomplishing fabulous, youre generating progress, youve labored so difficult, youre improving upon every day, and youre likely to really make it.

For each and every adverse comment, strike back again with two positive feedback. In case you try this, youll constantly remain one action in advance from the destructive, which just may very well be sufficient to help keep you going ahead toward the prize. The moment you DONT strike back, the outward influences gain one-up on you, then two-up, then shortly develop into 10-up just like a board recreation as well as your recreation piece is slipping behind within the squares. In case you end up as well significantly behind to the squares, you will become extra discouraged and after that quit the game all collectively. Just like a kid who suggests, properly, I certain cant gain now, leaves the sport and pouts on his way household.

The outward influences has to be part of the process, regrettably. This is actually the monitoring, our measuring adhere that proves we're accomplishing the appropriate points.

The human body doesnt fully grasp this in any respect. Your body is a grand equipment that is consistently busy with checks and balances, ensuring that al units are GO, that all functions are performing to their greatest abilities. It doesnt have time for thoughts. It only does its purposeful responsibilities accordingly. So You can't rely on the body to be aware of any inward influences or outward influences which include Ive talked about. It's only worried about entire body capabilities and getting items completed.

So operate Quite difficult at having to pay additional awareness for the inward influences. But bear in mind It's important to set the inward influences in there before you decide to can actually utilize them. Like Placing gas in the car to really make it go, you will need to put The great inward influences in to generate them accessible when you have to get in touch with on them. Here are some wonderful inward influences or angel tones you are able to place into your brain now that will help you accomplish:

I'm accomplishing Very well, thinking of this isnt effortless!

I'm making development!

I havent misplaced still, but I havent received both!

I however want to get rid of XX lbs, but seem what Ive finished so far!

I didnt take in a person terrible snack these days!

I acquired in all of my fluids now!

I even now might get my fluids in these days prior to bedtime!

I received all of my protein in these days!

I am able to squeeze a lot more protein in nowadays if I check out!

I like The point that Its acquiring simpler to wander up the stairs!

I like the fact that I am able to stoop over and choose that up off the ground!

I like The reality that I am able to say NO to that cookie!

This gives you a Start out TODAY to start to set far more inward influences inside of so you can fight the outward influences with additional electric power! Remember that it's essential to do TWO inwards for every 1 outward. Continue to be Forward of the game, so you wont go household a quitter!

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