#(but... here we are)

[tiffanylamps]

purple lavender AND cyan ;)))

OOoohhhhh girl, we're flirting now. You have me blushing and fanning my face ;))))) (Also, thank you for purple and lavender. Snap, right back at ya! Plus, we're mutuals, we've had chats, you're my friend)

Now, here to show my appreciation for you being so tenacious, flirtatious, and brave. Here is a d/milf-

(you've made me weak, I'll now return the favour with his jawline, smile, and adam's apple 😂😂)

[tryingtolivethroughtheday]

for all those ppl saying that rue's episode tricked them into a therapy session... how yall feeling now? 🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡

[curioustime]

y’all... when I tell you I didn’t even consider something could top Red... picture me NOW

[shikkamaru]

do you ever spend all of your free time in a day drawing a fake screencap of your FUCKING NARUTO OC!?!?! i cant believe this is how i choose to spend my time im disappointed.... but it doesn’t look terrible so i needed to post it somewhere

(I used a tenten cap as a ref and was WAY TOO LAZY to draw a background so uh... you know...) 

[sasorikigai]

Kiss the receiver during a heated argument. // from naoto to hanzo!

kissy kissy prompts || @dreams1nc || accepting

😡 Kiss the receiver during a heated argument.

💥|| The words detonate between them like ordnance in close quarters - too sharp, too precise, engineered for maximum damage - and Hanzo Hasashi feels them leave his mouth with the sick satisfaction of a man who has finally stopped holding back, who has let the bone-deep exhaustion carve its way through his legendary restraint and discipline until all that remains is the raw, unfiltered fury of a commander who carries too much weight on shoulders that were never meant to bear it alone.

His voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk, each syllable calibrated for devastation, every consonant sharpened to a killing edge, and he watches Naoto's face shift through emotions too quickly to name - surprise bleeding into anger bleeding into something that looks too much like hurt for Hanzo's tactical mind to process in the split second before consequence arrives wearing the shape of his lover's mouth.

The kiss lands like a counterattack, swift and brutal and completely unanticipated, and Hanzo's entire nervous system short-circuits in the space between one heartbeat and the next. Naoto's hands fist in the fabric of his tactical vest - still worn, still present, the armor he forgot to shed because the mission followed him home the way it always does, the way it bleeds into civilian spaces and personal moments until there is no clean line between commander and man, between duty and desire. The kiss is not gentle. It is not sweet. It is an act of war disguised as intimacy, a strategic maneuver that strips away every carefully constructed defense that Hanzo has built around himself in the aftermath of operations that left bodies in his wake and blood on his conscience and the weight of command pressing against his spine like a boot against his throat.

For a moment - one suspended, crystalline moment that stretches thin as wire - Hanzo remains rigid, caught between the instinct to push away and the overwhelming need to pull closer, to surrender to this thing that Naoto is offering with all the violence and tenderness that defines everything they do to each other, everything they are to each other. His hands hover in the air between them, unsure whether to grip or release, to claim or retreat, while his mind scrambles to regain the tactical advantage, to reassert control over a situation that has spiraled so far beyond his ability to command that he can feel the vertigo of it pulling him under like undertow, like the moment after the explosion when the world goes silent and all that remains is the ringing in your ears and the taste of ash on your tongue.

Then something breaks - some final barrier between the commander who cannot afford weakness and the man who has been running on fumes and adrenaline and the thin, fraying edge of his own humanity for too many days without rest, without reprieve, without the luxury of being anything other than the tactical genius who makes the impossible decisions and lives with the consequences. His hands move without conscious thought, one sliding to cup the back of Naoto's skull with a grip that borders on bruising, the other fisting in the expensive fabric of his shirt with enough force to wrinkle silk that costs more than a month's salary.

He kisses back with all the fury he had been channeling into words, with all the exhaustion that has been eating him alive from the inside out, with all the aggravation and frustration and the sick, twisting guilt of having lashed out at the one person who shouldn't have to bear the weight of his failures, his limitations, his utterly human inability to be the perfect weapon that command expects him to be.

The kiss deepens, transforms, becomes something that tastes of apology and accusation in equal measure, of anger that has nowhere else to go except into this - into the heat and pressure and the desperate collision of mouths that know how to wound each other with words but are learning, slowly, painfully, how to communicate in the language of touch when speech has become too dangerous, too loaded with the potential for permanent damage. Naoto's body is pressed flush against his, and Hanzo can feel every point of contact like a brand, like evidence of presence that anchors him when everything else feels too loose, too unstable, too much like the moment before a building collapses and you have exactly three seconds to decide whether to run or take cover or simply accept that some things cannot be escaped.

When they finally break apart - when oxygen becomes a necessity rather than an option - Hanzo's breathing comes ragged and uneven, his chest heaving beneath the tactical vest that suddenly feels too tight, too constricting, a cage around lungs that have forgotten how to function properly. His forehead drops to rest against Naoto's, skin to skin, and he can feel the heat radiating between them, the evidence of proximity and passion and the kind of volatile chemistry that could destroy them both if they're not careful, if they don't learn to navigate the minefield of their own temperaments and traumas and the ways they've both been shaped by families and duties and legacies that taught them love is weakness and vulnerability is invitation for exploitation.

"That," Hanzo rasps, and his voice is wrecked, scraped raw like he's been screaming commands over gunfire and explosions for hours without water, without rest, without the mercy of silence. His hands remain fisted in Naoto's clothing, holding him close enough that there's no space for retreat, no room for the defensive distance that they both default to when things get too real, too honest, too close to the bone. "That was - " He stops, because there are no words adequate to describe what just happened, no tactical vocabulary that covers the territory of being disarmed by desire in the middle of an argument that he started, that he escalated, that he weaponized with all the precision he usually reserves for operations that require surgical strikes and zero margin for error.

His thumb brushes across Naoto's cheekbone, and the gesture is so at odds with the fury that still simmers in his bloodstream, with the exhaustion that makes his bones feel like they're full of lead, with the professional mask that he's worn for so long he sometimes forgets there's a face beneath it. "I shouldn't have - " Another false start, another attempt to navigate back to stable ground, to the version of himself that maintains control even when everything is falling apart, that keeps his voice level and his hands steady and his emotions locked down so tightly that nothing can escape to compromise the mission, the objective, the greater good that demands sacrifice of the personal for the sake of the collective.

But Naoto's green eyes are fixed on him with an intensity that strips away pretense, that sees past the uniform and the rank and the reputation to the man underneath - exhausted, fallible, human in ways that command cannot afford but that relationships demand. Those eyes that carry the weight of the Zen'in legacy, that know what it means to be held to impossible standards, that understand the particular hell of inheriting expectations that were never meant to be met, only to serve as measurements of inevitable failure.

"You kissed me," Hanzo says finally, and there's something almost like wonder in his voice beneath the roughness, beneath the residual anger that hasn't fully dissipated because fury doesn't evaporate just because desire crashes into it like a tidal wave against breakwater. "In the middle of - I was being - " He struggles for the right words, settles on the unvarnished truth because anything else feels like cowardice, like retreat. "I was being cruel. Unprofessional. I brought the worst of the mission home and aimed it at you like a weapon, and you - " His grip tightens fractionally, pulling Naoto impossibly closer. "You kissed me."

The silence that follows is charged, electric, humming with the same kind of dangerous potential that fills the air before lightning strikes, before storms break, before battles commence and there's no turning back from the violence that's about to unfold. Hanzo's tactical mind is still trying to process the strategic implications, still attempting to categorize and compartmentalize and make sense of the fact that Naoto responded to his venom not with matching poison but with this - this act of intimacy that felt like combat, this kiss that tasted of defiance and demand and something that might be forgiveness if he squints at it from the right angle, if he allows himself to believe that love can coexist with fury, that connection can survive the kind of wounds they inflict on each other when exhaustion strips away their carefully maintained defenses.

"I'm sorry," Hanzo breathes, and the words cost him something, carve their way out of his throat like shrapnel being extracted without anesthetic. He's not a man who apologizes easily - command doesn't reward contrition, doesn't make space for the acknowledgment of error when every decision carries life-or-death weight, when second-guessing yourself in the field gets people killed. But this isn't the field. This is Naoto, his lover, the man who stays when leaving would be easier, who kisses him in the middle of arguments instead of walking away, who somehow knows that the cruelty isn't meant for him even when it's aimed directly at his chest, fired with the precision of a marksman who never misses.

His hand slides from Naoto's skull to cup his jaw, thumb brushing across his lower lip - that mouth that just disarmed him completely, that turned his anger into something else entirely, something that he doesn't have a tactical manual for, no operational procedures to follow. "The mission was - " He stops again, because talking about the mission feels like bringing the poison back into this space, like contaminating the thing they're building together with the blood and ash and moral compromises that define his professional life. But Naoto deserves context, deserves to understand that the lashing out wasn't personal even though it landed personally, that the exhaustion runs so deep it's carved trenches into his bones and left him operating on instinct and adrenaline and the thin, fraying thread of his own humanity.

"There were casualties," Hanzo finally manages, and his voice drops to something barely above a whisper, rough with the weight of command decisions that saved some lives by sacrificing others, that drew lines through populations and designated some as acceptable losses in service of objectives that seemed clear in the moment but feel increasingly murky in retrospect. "Civilians caught in crossfire. Children." The last word comes out broken, jagged, and he can feel Naoto's body tense against his, can sense the shift in attention from argument to something deeper, something that acknowledges the particular horror of that confession. "I made the call. It was the right tactical decision - minimize overall casualties, prevent escalation, complete the objective. But - "

He stops because there is no but, not in the tactical sense, not in the cold calculus of command that weighs lives against lives and chooses the option with the lowest body count. But in the human sense, in the part of him that still flinches at the thought of small bodies and collateral damage and the way that professional necessity sometimes demands monstrous choices, there is nothing but but - an endless series of qualifications and justifications that ring hollow when he's trying to sleep, when he closes his eyes and sees their faces, when he wakes up three hours later with his heart hammering and sweat soaking through his shirt and the sick certainty that he's become exactly the kind of man he swore he'd never be.

"I shouldn't have brought it home," Hanzo says, and his forehead presses harder against Naoto's, seeking the grounding pressure of contact, of proof that he's here, now, in this moment with this man who somehow chose him despite everything, despite the violence encoded in his DNA and the command structure that has shaped him into something that can make those decisions and live with them. "Shouldn't have aimed it at you. You didn't deserve - " He stops because deserve is a dangerous word, implies a transactional understanding of relationship dynamics that he's trying to unlearn, trying to move beyond into something that exists outside the rigid hierarchies of military structure and the Zen'in family dynamics that Naoto carries like his own inherited burden.

His hands frame Naoto's face now, holding him with a gentleness that contradicts everything that came before - the harsh words, the cutting tone, the way he wielded his exhaustion like a blunt instrument against the one person who shouldn't have to bear the weight of his professional failures. "But you kissed me anyway," Hanzo murmurs, and there's something almost like awe in his voice now, wonder at the tactical audacity of it, the strategic brilliance of responding to verbal assault with physical intimacy, of transforming the energy of their argument into something that connects rather than severs, that binds rather than breaks.

He holds Naoto's cheek with infinite care, with the kind of gentleness that feels revolutionary after years of being trained to be brutal, to be efficient, to be the kind of weapon that doesn't question orders or hesitate in the execution of mission objectives. "Thank you," Hanzo murmurs, and the gratitude is sincere, bone-deep, the recognition that Naoto could have responded to his cruelty with cruelty, could have walked away or struck back or used the opening to wound him in all the ways that couples learn to wound each other when they know exactly where the armor is thinnest, where the vulnerabilities lie waiting to be exploited.

"Thank you for kissing me instead." 💥||