#I had to rearrange my deck for the first time in so long and use treasure cards I forgot existed and had to remember which blades stacked

[edwardsparkleblood]

I don't wanna bully Wizard reddit too hard but it's funny to me how they are still complaining about the emotion fights in Wallaru and some are even waiting to continue when a patch drops, like yes they're difficult but Wizard tumblr didn't care, Wizard tumblr fought through blood, sweat, and rain because they were NOT about to let Dasein suffer alone

[ladykailitha]

The Hellfire Exotic Club Part 3

Just a head's up, I'll be moving this story's posting date to Fridays to give time to breathe instead of languishing under the wave of WIP Wednesday asks like it was last week

This week we get a taste of most of the other Sins and a tease at why Steve and Robin needed jobs ASAP. It's going to be sooo juicy guys. I can't wait for you guys to see that for real!

Part 1 Part 2

~

Moloch didn’t bring the numbers as much as the rest of Eddie and his friends did, but his Sloth liked it that way. He like the smaller crowds, the slow music, the hour long tantalizing reveal of one of the dancers who did strip all the way down.

But it was the gradual sensual removal of clothes as he got “lazier” in his dance. By the end, Moloch would draped dramatically over a settee, bumping and grinding first with his hand and then by the end of the last song, weakly thrusting against the air.

It was one of the hottest things Steve had ever seen. It really played up to the sloth aspect of it and he definitely had to rearrange himself more than once.

He knew that he would get over it eventually, seeing it every Monday for weeks, but that first time? Steve was pissed more people didn’t come out.

Even though Steve didn’t work the next day, Eddie suggested he come and watch Mammon, too. So he could see the different styles of strip that they had, to allay his fears a bit about how far the Sins were willing to go when it came to undressing for strangers.

So he showed up about an hour before show time to try out of some of the drinks and get a feel of the vibe.

Steve would say that of the dances he’d seen so far, Lust, Pride, and Sloth, Greed’s more fit the club’s original roots as a 1920s speakeasy. The place was decked out in old timey opulence. And gold. So much fucking gold.

Then the lights went out and he could hear the dancers scurrying to get into position. A single spot light lit up a singular dancer. He was broad shouldered and deep-chested, his curly hair slicked to his head. Which he raised when the music started. He was dressed smartly in a period accurate three-piece black suit with a red button down shirt.

Mammon’s movements were far more graceful than anything Steve had ever seen in any symphony or dance hall. He used his bulk to make his movements work with his body and not against it.

Then all through the night he didn’t get undressed so much as he pulled clothes off others. But without Steve realizing it, his clothes were coming off, but they were being...not replaced exactly, but the clothes he was taking off the other dancers were covering him a la the Dance of the Seven Veils.

Then in the last song, he throws the clothes in the air, leaving him in just his pants and suspenders. As the clothes flutter to the floor you realize that all the other dancers were naked, all around him, laying on the floor. The red pieces of silk landing on them like blood.

Fuck. Social commentary wrapped in the sexiest dance Steve had ever seen. He could see why the club was packed every Tuesday night. Mammon wasn’t a demon, he was a fucking god.

Eddie slid up next to him at the bar. “So what did you think?”

“I think that anytime someone tells me that big people can’t dance,” Steve said breathlessly, “that I will send them here on a Tuesday night.”

“Isn’t he amazing?” Eddie asked giddily. “Him, Jeff, and Gareth are all my mates from high school. We even had a band together before I started dancing for my Uncle Wayne. I brought them on when we first changed over to Hellfire.”

“I know you play guitar,” Steve said with a smile, “I didn’t realize the other guys did, too.”

Eddie licked his upper lip slowly. “Would you be surprised to know that so does Rosier?” he asked, leaning into Steve’s space like he was sharing a secret.

Steve thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “Not really. He seems the type if I’m honest.”

“What about Moloch playing the drums?” Eddie asked, leaning even closer.

“Now that is surprising,” Steve said, “and at the same time makes sense now that you say it.”

Eddie threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, I do too, now that I say it out loud like that.” He rubbed his chin. “Any guesses on what Mammon plays. Especially now that everyone else has been named and shamed.”

Steve laughed too. “What band would be complete without a kickass bassist.” Eddie blinked at him for a moment. “Unless he’s something weird like a keyboard, or violin or some shit like that.”

“Nope!” Eddie said, popping the ‘P’, “you had it right, I was just a little surprised as all. But, yes Mammon was our kickass bassist.”

“Have you guys thought about playing again?” Steve asked, leaning in. “Like here at the club. I know every night is themed, but Chrissy is already working on fairy tale themed night. So why not have a night where you guys play. Maybe even just as the music for whoever’s dancing that night or even just night of you guys rocking out.” He stopped for breath, wide-eyed at what he just said.

“That was certainly something else,” Eddie said a little stunned. He hadn’t really thought about it. Sure, he played the guitar as part of his tease, playing up into the pride aspect of it. Proud he could play and sing, proud of this club, proud of his ability to dance. But to play with his band again? A part of his dream he put back on the shelf when he was made owner? “What would we even play?”

Steve shrugged. He hadn’t thought that far. But he saw how wistful Eddie got when he talked about them being in a band. “What did you guys play before?”

“Mostly metal,” Eddie said, returning Steve’s shrug. “Some hard rock. A little grunge thrown in there for variety.”

“So perfect for the club then,” Steve replied with a smile.

Eddie blushed and shoved his hair in front of his face. “I’ll think about it.”

Steve bumped their shoulders together. They kept talking even after the club closed and the money was counted and divvied out by Rosier. Having decided to let Eddie and Steve continue talking. It wasn’t until the cleaners came in that they even realized that the club was close.

Eddie would harass his friend later about letting have the night off, but in that moment he was grateful for the respite.

He walked Steve to his car and waited for him to pull out of the parking lot before cursing up a blue streak. The guy hadn’t even been hired for a full week yet and already he was making cow eyes at him. Fuck, he was in so much trouble.

~

Steve’s impression of Lilith’s gluttony dance was that it was messy and outrageous, but somehow Chrissy made it work.

She wasn’t so much as dressed as she was covered in whip cream, with two cherries strategically placed over her nipples. She would lick and suck on her fingers covered in the stuff. Then she was dowsed in chocolate syrup as she writhed and slithered across the stage.

It was a sticky, gooey nightmare as far as Steve was concerned, but the way she stroked and touched herself as she was fed by the backup dancers. Then just as there wasn’t any way that she could possibly be fed anymore, a large bucket of water dumped it’s entire contents on Lilith as she moaned as if she had just orgasmed.

He was grateful that other Sins didn’t have to perform with her during her hour, because he didn’t think he could stand the thought of that stuff anywhere near his hair.

She did a great job, Steve wasn’t going to deny that. He could see the appeal, but the thought of getting sticky after all that? He shrugged off a shiver of disgust that ran down his back.

Once Robin and he had picked up their tips from the night, they walked out to the car.

“I take it back,” Robin huffed, yanking open the passenger side door, “We can’t work here, Steve. I thought I was going to combust when I saw the two of dancing like angels, but this was pure torture. I wanted to lick her.”

Steve cackled, sliding into the driver’s side and closing it tightly behind him. “Better you than me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Robin said rolling her eyes as she slid into the car. When she was in and the door was close she said, “Gay!”

Steve snorted, “Lesbian.”

“Bitch.”

“Tease.”

“Slut.”

Steve put his hand over his heart and gasped. “How dare you imply I am anything but virtuous! I am the paragon of respectability! I am a tart!”

Robin cackled as Steve pulled into traffic.

“I’ve noticed you’ve looking disrespectfully, don’t think I haven’t.”

Steve shrugged but didn’t say anything.

“Oh come on there’s got to be someone revving those engines of yours,” Robin pressed. “So are we talking Lust, maybe a little Sloth...ooohhhh! I know, it’s Mammon that gets you going. You were there an awfully long time last night.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Look they’re all professionals who are very good at their jobs, and I while I might lust after all or none of them, I’m not going to fuck any of them because we need this job and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.”

Robin sighed. “I know. You know I was joking about not being able to work there, right?”

Steve nodded, lips pursed together.

“You’re my hero,” she said softly. “I hope you know that.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped. “Of course I do. Let’s go home. I think we both need ice cream tonight.”

“You’ve got it babe.”

~

Steve hadn’t gotten to see Wrath even though he had been hired last Thursday because they had to do all the boring employment shit first and so his first show had been Lust. So he wasn’t sure what to expect. Wrath made sense as woman. After all the saying “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” was famous for a reason.

But for some reason, Steve had still pictured a man.

But Lamia was vengeance personified. Dressed in red silks with black painted scales to look like she was part snake. Her dark piercing eyes and long black braided hair with her dusky skin made for an exotic marvel. She was curvy but still athletic, soft but clearly defined strength. Steve had learned from Choronzon that she was a mix of Indian and Egyptian and it gave her an unearthly aura to her.

She danced with a pair of curved swords and she felt dangerous. Her swords whirled and sliced through the air as the female dancers ripped and tore at her clothes until she was completely naked. But unlike Gluttony, who kept her g-string on, nothing remained but her jewelry.

Then her swords were taken and she was bathed in red ‘blood’. She continued her dance bathed in the blood of her enemies, not stopping until the last song end and she dropped to the ground.

The lights went out and the crowd roared. That was the part Steve found unsettling. The way they seemed to cheer her ‘demise’.

He asked Eddie about it afterward.

“It’s something she started actually,” Eddie explained. “She wanted Wrath to be defeated in the end.”

“Even though none of the other Sins are?”

“Yep!” Eddie said. “I think because of all the Sins Wrath’s effects are most widely seen. War. Abuse. Murder.”

Steve nodded. Greed probably killed more people, but it was in a hidden insidious way.

He wanted to see Lust again, but since it was his day off, he had things he needed to do. Especially with Robin working. So with much regret he was forced to miss it. Not like it mattered, when Robin got home that night, it was all she could talk about.

“Holy shit,” she said flopping on the sofa. “I thought your opening night was busy, but fuck, Steve. There were more people packed into that room then all the previous nights combined.”

Steve nodded. Robin was still in training and her trainer, Joe didn’t want to throw her to the wolves after just two days on the job, so her first day was on Sunday and Joe spent the whole week apologizing to her because he thought it would be slow for her. But it turned out to be the best thing as she learned faster in the hectic fury of Steve’s first night.

“He’s good,” he said, getting food out of their fridge to reheat for her.

“Look I can’t say I see the appeal,” she agreed, “but yeah. The way he makes it all about him and still make you feel like his attention is all on you.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. He brought her a bowl of mac and cheese and a fork.

Robin dived into it with gusto. “So...with the money I made tonight will get us caught up on the rest of our bills.”

He breathed out a sigh of relief. “That’s good news. I thought we’d be eating mac and cheese for the rest of our lives.”

“Well thanks to you getting a job as a lead dancer,” she said around a bite of food, “we were able to catch up in a week.”

“So when can we get our phones turned back on?” he asked, picking at the skin around his nails.

Robin swatted his hands. “Stop that! It’s bad for your nails.” He sat on his hands and stuck his tongue at her. “Anyway, it should be tomorrow. So we can swing by the shop and get them turned back on.”

“That’s good,” Steve replied. “I can finally get rid of this burner phone we got in the mean time.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered poking at her food. “It’s all my fault.”

He dug into her bowl and tossed a bit of mac and cheese at her.

“Hey!” Robin protested, picking noodles out of her hair and tossing it back at him.

“If I can’t pick at my nails,” Steve huffed, “you can’t say that shit.”

She ducked her head and nodded. “I’m still sorry it happened.”

“That’s acceptable,” Steve said after eyeing her suspiciously for a moment. “But you didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He kissed her cheek and turned on the TV. He put on her favorite baking show and settled in for a quiet night in.

~

Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

Tag List: ONE SLOT REMAINING

1-@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @dreamercec @sadisticaltarts @too-much-tma-stuff

[hey-august]

March Madness Event - Winner (NSFW | Buggy X Marine!GN!Reader)

Woah woah woah, this story concludes the March Madness event!

(In case you missed it, throughout the month of March I posted polls pitting kinks against kinks. The ones that lost in the polls received short stories involving a bit of failure. The kink that won at the end of the month was slated to receive a proper story. And that's where we are now!)

I'll be honest, I did not expect this to be the winner. Then again, I should have seen it coming with how it took off in every poll it was in.

Thank you all for participating! Voting, reading, commenting, liking, reblogging - everything!!

I hope you enjoyed this event and that you enjoy this story. 🩷

Description: As a Marine, you're responsible for safely escorting the captured prisoner, Buggy the Clown. Things don't go according to plan and while the prisoner remains captured, not all of him ends up behind bars...

Teeny tiny teaser: "This fucker needed to know the effect his dumbass decision had on others."

Word count: ~3.4k (I don't remember the last time I wrote a one-shot this long 🥴)

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, marine!reader, no use of Y/N, insertion sex, bit of degradation, cockwarming (not solely intimate, but there is some eventually), misuse of devil fruit powers

“I can fuck you harder if you uncuff me,” he said through gritted teeth. “C’mon, tell me you don’t want that.” 

The teasing remark was hissed behind your ear, sending a shiver through your body. Your weak fucking body, nearly wiped of all self-restraint. A thin thread of rationality kept you tethered to a sense of preservation, but the constant pounding threatened to snap that hold.

You were responsible for locking up the prisoner - a duty you’ve fulfilled many times without issue. Over the years, your strength and cleverness helped you climb the ranks of Marines, yet this was the first time you failed to complete this responsibility. Well, you haven’t failed yet, but the more the thread frays, the more your legs shake, the more his heavy grunts fill your ears…

Your shaky hands gripped the seastone cuffed wrists wrapped around your body. Although the pirate couldn’t grip your hips the way either of you wanted, he was able to pull your body towards his as he relentlessly slammed himself in you. 

Of all the captured criminals you ever escorted, it was the goddamn clown that broke you. The pathetic clown with a face of smeared paint. Left behind by his crew. A captain who was visibly crestfallen when none of the Marines appeared impressed by his presence.

Despite his circumstances, the prisoner - Buggy the Clown - lived up to his namesake. Nearly every comment out of his mouth was a joke, often at the expense of anyone around him. The lack of laughter after each quip should add to embarrassment and pity for the clown, but you found yourself enjoying the amusement he was clearly creating for himself. It was…endearing.

As his sole escort below deck, his attention quickly turned towards you and the warm fluttery feeling you had moved lower in your body. Silence only protected you for so long before your face was too red to ignore, giving the clown encouragement to continue. Changing tactics, Buggy started spouting cheesy and overused pickup lines. Each remark said with unabashed enthusiasm added to the heat on your face.

“If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put ‘U’ and ‘I’ together.” “I’d like to report a crime. My breath was stolen.” “That Marine uniform doesn’t look so bad on you. But it would look better on the floor.”

Those comments were so stupid and worked so well. A few hissed retorts and threats of punishment were disarmed with a charming smile. You had no chance of winning whatever this game was. Secretly, you weren’t sure you wanted to win. There was something alluring about this pirate who tried to hide behind jokes and laughter that you wanted more of.

Arousal easily increases in potency when mixed with other feelings. For you, it was unexpected affection and the lure of degeneracy. For Buggy, you assumed it was the fear and anxiety that comes with imprisonment. Each concoction was perfectly portioned and all it took were choice words, overly-familiar touches, and curious glances for the poison to take effect.

Alone in the room, it only took seconds to pull your pants low enough to grant Buggy access. You leaned forwards, steadying yourself against the wall, while he grabbed the lower hem of your top. His thrusts were erratic and sloppy as he tried to find a decent pace. There was barely enough time for this moment of guilty indulgence and you both wanted as much from it as possible.

Bringing his bound hands overhead, Buggy pulled you close to his chest until you were wrapped in his hold. With his hands closer to your hips, he was able to move both of your bodies at a quick tempo. He was rewarded with a whine that escaped your heavy breathing.

“S’that how you like it? Hard and rough? I didn’t expect you to be so fucking filthy. Do all your prisoners get welcomed like this?”

Fuck. Why did his voice sound so good? And why did it sound better saying such degrading shit?

You shook your head and leaned into his touch, wanting to feel more. “Sh-shut up. Don’t you ever stop talking?”

“You d-don’t want that,” Buggy groaned. “I can feel your body squeeze when I talk. You like it.” His teasing was met with a delicious whimper.

Every word from his mouth had your head spinning. You wanted so much more. You wanted to taste his voice, to feel his mouth against yours, to feel his lips on your skin, but he wore that stupid face paint. You wanted his touch everywhere, for his hands to roam your body, for him to hold you tighter, but he needed to keep the cuffs on. Buggy was a Devil Fruit user. He was dangerous. And he was breaking you down.

Almost as if he could read your mind, Buggy started describing all the ways he wanted to screw you. How good you are at taking him. He wants to hear how good he makes you feel. Lost in the haze of lust, you barely remembered pulling out the key you wore on a chain and had tucked under your clothes. Your palm ached from how tightly you gripped the key while fighting against the horny instincts crowding your body.

You were so close, so achingly close. Maybe if you timed it right, it would be okay. You could minimize the danger. That makes sense, right? It could work. The wisp of rational thought faded away so softly that you didn’t miss its absence.

“Please,” was all you could get out as you unlocked the cuffs and let them fall to the floor.

It was like you released a feral animal with that decision. You didn’t realize just how much the seastone had sapped from Buggy until you felt his bruising grip as he brutally slammed his hips into yours. Even his cock seemed to get harder as it was bullied deeper in your body. He struggled to stay quiet, grunting like a wild boar as he rut into you.

You were on the edge of the precipice, ready to throw yourself over the ledge, when a horrible sound yanked you back to solid ground. A piercing siren sound filled the ship, signaling the top of the hour and a change in duties. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You needed to finish your job before anyone found out what you were doing. Who you were doing.

In a panic, you elbowed the pirate and spun around. “They’re gonna catch us,” you said with wide-eyes.

With all his blood below the belt, Buggy was already caught off-guard by the loud noise. Your rapid change from a whimpering needy thing who needed to be railed, to a Marine who wanted to follow the rules was a lot for the pirate to follow after losing the trail of his own orgasm. All he could do was struggle to pull up his pants as you shoved him into the jail cell and locked him in. Thoughts slowly returned to his head and weakness seeped back into his body as he watched you fix up your uniform before freezing.

“What the fuck did you do?” The question started as a shout before you restrained the rest of your temper.

“I wanted to make sure you come back for me,” Buggy responded with a wink. “Besides, we didn’t get to finish. I figured you could keep it warm for me until the encore.” He reached down and grabbed the crotch of his pants, which was baggier than it should be.

“Are you fucking ser-” The rhetoric question was stopped by the throbbing in your body. 

Between your body fully accepting the rough fuck and the whirlwind of anxiety about being caught, you didn’t notice that Buggy left you with a piece of himself. Of all the things he could have done with his Devil Fruit powers in that moment, rather than doing something, anything, that could help him escape, the clown chose to part from his dick. What a fucking joke.

---

It was a sunny day with just enough of a breeze to keep the sails full and to blow away excess heat from the sun. The gentle wind helped dry the perspiration on your skin as you crossed the deck, towards the meeting room. While the air carried away some of the physical evidence, your body still burned and you chose to believe the unrelenting heat was shame. Punctual attendance was critical on the ship and you couldn’t even spare a few minutes to evict the pirate’s privates without risking a penalty.

With each step, you felt the fullness between your legs and the stretch from his girth. You couldn’t remember what it meant to walk normally. Every movement was over thought and analyzed. What felt normal made your core feel too tight against the intrusion. Longer strides had you worry that he might slip out. While it seemed unlikely (all of this was unlikely already), you worried about losing this bit of Buggy. There would be no reasonable way to explain a lone penis anywhere on the ship.

As hard as you tried to be upset with Buggy’s stupid horny decision, your body was still flooded with hormones that drowned logic and only allowed obscene thoughts to float. You were deep in a fucked up situation and you were enjoying it.

You arrived just in time for the meeting to start. It was a daily check-in where attendees would recite numbers and metrics that meant nothing to you. It was important and wholly unnecessary. The returning sheen of sweat and lingering redness on your face could be excused as the hustle needed to arrive on time and not the throbbing you felt inside. 

Settling into one of the open chairs, you couldn’t find a position that was remotely comfortable. There was minimal padding on the wood chairs and the backrests were at an awkward height that provided no support. Leaning too far one way pushed Buggy further inside and you just barely concealed the discovering gasp as a deep breath. 

Crossing your legs was a terrible idea, as it only added to the unforgiving pressure. The sensation attacked you both, as you felt the confined cock flex in its warm prison. You quickly uncrossed your legs, glad no one could see how they shook under the table.

Wicked voices began whispering to you, talking over the droning presentation at the head of the table. You couldn’t find any reprieve from what you were feeling. The only thing that made you feel better was giving in. You could afford to let your mind drift, this meeting was only to make others feel important. You had your own feelings to deal with.

Your mind wandered down to where those feelings radiated from. To the frustrating ache between your legs. Buggy was a good length, on the longer end of average, but his thickness was far more than average. Thankfully he got you so riled up earlier and all you had to suffer through was a burn that he quickly fucked away. Your body had grown accustomed to the wideness, but being held open for so long was different. Even through the uniform, you felt exposed. With each twitch from your hole as it fruitlessly tried to find some give against the occupant, you fell apart a little more. 

You shifted in the chair again, cautiously rolling your hips with the movement. Just once. And then again, under the guise of trying to get comfortable. Fuck, that did feel good. Your body shifted against Buggy’s member just right. You tensed against him, chasing that sensation, and receiving a heavy throb in response.

Your name broke through the fog you willingly got lost in. Your eyes snapped to the man standing at the head of the table.

“Is there something more important than going over these reports?” 

Maybe your movements weren’t as subtle as you thought.

“No, Sir. Just trying to get comfortable. I apologize for the distraction.” You spoke loudly, overriding the quiver hiding in your throat. 

Buggy was reacting to the jolt of tension that ran through our body. Clenched fists pressed into your knees and your toes curled in the little space available in your boots as you rode out his movement. It was incredibly frustrating and absolutely embarrassing. So why did it feel so fucking good?

---

The rest of the meeting ended without further incident. At least, as far as any of the attendees cared. For you, every action and reaction from either of your linked bodies felt like a whole new event to survive. You offered a tight lipped smile to everyone as they left the room, preferring a small audience when you attempted to use your weak legs. Luckily, horniness and adrenaline held you up and supported you out of the room.

The infirmary was a few doors down and it was around the time the doctor took a break. If you were lucky, the room would be empty and you could put an end to this. The luck was debatable when you opened the door to two pale faces. One belonged to the Marine who was on guard duty and the other belonged to the prisoner being guarded. A prisoner who offered you a small smile that matched the one painted on his face.

The guard started babbling when you entered the room. “H-he doesn’t look good, r-right? I brought him h-here, but they’re all on break. I’m wor-worried he’s gonna upch- upchu-ugh, pu- v- vom-”

“Get sick?”

The guard nodded with pursed lips, struggling to hold back the hiccups and sympathetic heaves that wracked their body. “Doesn’t seem ser-serious enough to call the med-ugh medics b-back.”

You looked at Buggy, trying to assess what was going on. Was this a ploy or was he actually ill? Were you going to get sick? 

“It doesn’t look that serious. I can stay with him. Why don’t you go lie down?” Your offer was accepted before you even finished speaking. 

The infirmary door closed, leaving you and Buggy in an awkward silence. He sat in a chair, hunched over, still giving you a weak smile.

“Are you okay? Is it bad?” You asked, concerned that his flashy self seemed to be affected. Crouching down, you brought yourself closer to his level.

“Bad,” he repeated hoarsely, leaning towards you. 

His trajectory would bring his painted forehead to the white shoulder of your uniform, so you intercepted. Pressing your head against his, you waited for Buggy to continue. 

“N-need you. Made a bad decision, need you, please.” One of his cuffed hands pawed at the empty space where his dick should be. 

With his strength and stamina taken away during imprisonment, Buggy’s self-inflicted secondary imprisonment was too much. He could feel everything - how your body continued to struggle around him, how warm you were inside, how you reacted to his involuntary cries and demands for more. It felt so fucking good, so deliriously wonderful, and downright torturous.

There was no end in sight, though. There had to be a reason you kept him inside, so even if Buggy could come, it would be followed with overstimulation that could go for who knows how long. Not to mention how upset you would probably be if you were unexpectedly full of his hot cum. 

Buggy whimpered at the thought. At imagining you full and plugged. Of his jizz dripping out and collecting in your underwear. Of you being an absolute fucking mess under your prim and pristine uniform, because of him.

“Please,” he whined again.

You pulled away and locked the door. “We don’t have a lot of time. Again.”

Buggy bit his lip as you held out your hand to help him up and blubbered what sounded like, “thank you.”

You understood how he felt. So insatiable that nothing mattered more than giving into these desperate needs that aggressively grew out of desire. Giving up on everything but chasing the high, you uncuffed Buggy and undid your pants. 

This fucker needed to know the effect his dumbass decision had on others. You shoved his hand down your pants, letting him feel how wildly aroused you were. How much of a mess he made.

His groan was laced with delight and pain at the knowledge. His touch was everywhere, committing all of the evidence of your lust to memory. As his hand crept further, it came in contact with his base and his body jolted at the touch. This was too much.

Yanking his hand out of your pants, Buggy rushed to unbuckle his and expose where his member belonged. Following his lead, you pulled your pants down and turned around. Wary about wasting precious time, Buggy pressed his hips against yours and shuddered when his cock returned to its rightful place. It felt as if his senses increased a hundredfold now that it was back.

“M’close,” he warned, struggling to set a reliable pace. 

Honestly, he was about to explode when his hand was down your pants. But he needed this. He needed to feel you moving on his cock. To feel your body react against him. To feel you explode.

As if reading his thoughts, you grabbed his hand and pushed it down. You didn’t need much. This entire time, you didn’t need much, apparently. Just his attention on you was enough to pull you off the trail you were on. And that’s what he gave you - his enthusiastic attention. 

His hand moved fervently, following the cues your body gave. The touches that had your breaths teeter on moans, pressure that had your body clench his, sensations that increased the tension in your core.

“Uh-haah, uh-huh, just like that. K-keep going, g-gonna… You’re gonna make me c-” You were cut off as the feeling ripped through your body, sharp and electric. The words in your mouth were wiped away as you fell to the indescribable surge.

Buggy huffed as he struggled to fuck through your orgasm. Your unsaid words rung through his head - he was responsible for this. You were shaking beneath him because of what he did. Your sweet sighs of relief were for him.

“Wh-where-” Buggy could hardly stutter a question he should have asked earlier.

“Finish what you started,” you said, leaning into his touch once again.

Feeling your body melt against his, accepting his thick cock so easily, pulling him deeper - that was more than enough.

“F-fucking shit,” Buggy hissed as he came. 

The climax was nearly painful as he shot stream after stream inside your body. Feeling like the release would never end, the pirate clung to you and whimpered with each pulse. Eventually, he ran out. His hold released with a shaky sigh.

Buggy struggled with words to fill the next moment. Something about how this felt good. Maybe a thanks? But before he could decide, yet another loud sound interrupted the moment. A sound that was accompanied by a lurch that threw the pirate back. An explosion. Then came the alarms. The ship was under attack by pirates. You both rushed to fix yourselves up.

“I-I think that’s for me,” Buggy said.

You looked at him incredulously. Was this all a fucking trick?

“I want you to come with me.”

His request kept you silent. This didn’t make sense.

“I didn’t think they were coming. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. But it was fun - well, I had fun. I think you did too. We can keep having fun, unless you want to keep living this stuffy life.” Buggy spoke quickly. 

His explanation was rushed, but you could see a hint of honesty among the turmoil.

Buggy held his hand out for you to grab.

---

Life on a pirate ship was different, but also similar to life with the Marines. Useless meetings couldn’t be avoided and petty drama existed everywhere. But the spirit and passion that came with piracy was unbelievably vast. Joys flew high, parties raged hard, drinks always flowed, treasure was celebrated.

And on Buggy’s ship, there was always more. More life, more color, more light. Dumb jokes, death defying stunts, fantastic skills, and stupid decisions that managed to work out in the end.

One of your favorite things about life aboard the ship were the quiet afternoons you spent with the captain. Afternoons that were spent laying in the shared bed, your body nestled against his. Afternoons full of stories and musings. Afternoons dedicated to the two of you, which you spent slotted together in warmth and intimacy.

[seeminglydark]

hi! is there are reason that you decided that cassette tapes would be john’s chosen form of physical media? how would john organize his music (i.e., genre, band name, release date) and what would john keep his cassettes in? i can imagine him either having stuff in old shoe boxes or a cassette case that he hand-painted himself!

Yes! It's my personal favorite form of media, I'm really partial to cassettes, i think from growing up in the early 90's when it was the norm, so imprinted on my brain. I love mix tapes, jumping up to smash the record button when my fave tune came on the radio, so id always miss the first 10 seconds haha, my first several cars had tape decks. i love Walkmans, it was such a HUGE thing in my life to be able to put headphones on and take my music with me for the first time. I translate a lot of that nostalgia to john. I always imagine him with his Walkman and headphones, or small portable stereo, in bed with all the lights off except the white christmas lights that criss cross his ceiling, Creaky on his chest, listening to the episodes on repeat.

John organizes his music by How Much he Currently Likes A Band, grouped by band name and then oddly enough by album color. (so if he had several cassettes by say, Social D, they'd be next to each other in rainbow or light to dark.) He does most things by color, he's slower at reading and alphabetizing is a bit of a chore and makes him feel self-conscious and stressed. He doesn't mix music and books on tape, they each have their own shelf. He does rearrange a LOT.

Right again re: shoe box and painting the cases! I actually wrote a little snippet of this a long long time ago that didn't make it into the comic, but you can have it now, under the cut.

'Caro eyes a shoe box on the shelf curiously, its covered in stickers, anti fascism and punk rock bands. 'Can i look at this?' they ask, he nods, his back to them. They pull it down and settle it in their lap, lifting off the top to discover... cassette tapes! Oh wait, John did say Maddie recorded their show for him onto cassettes. There were at least 40, all lined up in the order of episodes. Caro pulled one out, the white paper inside the case was filled in with bright colors and shapes, elaborate images of ghosts and snakes and monsters. They pulled out another. A cartoon portrait of the little blond, violet eyes wide at the barrage of brightly colored spirits hovering behind them. 'Is this me?' they ask out loud. John turns to look and freezes. 'Oh….' embarrassed. 'Uh yeah…' 'Wow the art is so…?' they murmur, pulling out another, this one done in greens and blues with metallics. 'Ive never seen anything like these before?' They saw a lot of fanart, but this was different somehow. It felt more personal. Like the person who made them really put their soul into it, like it wasn't just fanart to the artist, but something really deeply important. 'I…um….' Johns face is bright red now..' um…I mean, you know I dont have social media..' he reminds them softly, rubbing the back of his neck. 'Wait.' Caro looks up, he's so flustered now, shuffling his feet, ears on fire. 'These are YOURS? You did these?' Somehow they've forgotten he used to fill up notebooks with colorful drawings, street art and tagging. Liquid letters and cartoon animals with thick black outlines. 'Sure.' He shrugs and turns away, back to them again, 'I would draw on them while listening, you know. It just felt kinda sad to leave them blank. Maddie showed me some of the fanart online, and the box set of the first season. I can't do the same kind of art, I'm not good like those other people, but…I didn't want to leave them blank, so I made my own I guess.' he pauses. 'I'm sorry…you must think I'm so fucking weird.' 'I don't think its weird…' they murmur looking at the tapes. 'I think its really cool. I didn't know you were such a talented artist.' He laughs, a short bark that sounds like a cough. They put the box gently back on the shelf, and sit on the bed, deciding to spare him. They can see he's smiling though, even if he's trying to hide it with his fist pressed against his lips.'

[smaller-comfort]

It is WIP Wednesday, my dudes!

I need to work on necron stuff, but instead I've been kicking away at actually fluffy SoS things. Palate cleansers, now that Save Scumming is done.

A little bit of Outshine the Sun, Etudes, and Modern AU.

Untitled Aephorul/Resh'an, the extremely silly, porny sequel to Save Scumming.

--

“Let me look at you,” Resh'an said at last.

“Hmph.” He didn't want to. It didn't matter what Resh'an said; there was always that moment when he could see the pity in Resh'an's eyes. And then the disgust. Resh'an was good at hiding it- but he'd always been an open book to Aephorul.

Still. They were trying something new. He let go of Resh'an. “I'll show you mine if you show me yours.”

For a moment Resh'an just stared at him with narrowed eyes, but then he shrugged. “On three?” Resh'an tucked his fingers under the edge of his mask.

“One.” Aephorul rearranged the flesh beneath his hood into something vaguely face-like.

“Two.” Resh'an's eyes glowed a little brighter.

“Three.” In unison, Aephorul pulled back his hood and Resh'an pulled down his mask, and they both dispelled the illusions that hid their faces.

He hissed again, this time in sympathy; when they'd last met, Resh'an hadn't looked good, but he'd at least been relatively whole. Now, half his face was missing, the skin torn away to reveal the skull beneath. The lower mandibular angle was crazed with hairline fractures.

----

Etudes: Beginnings (B'st/Resh'an). I'm still going to finish Glass Harp first, but now this series has over 15k words and at least five separate stories in it and I've clearly lost control of my life. Resh'an is such an unmitigated disaster in this series, but he's trying so hard.

----

He rarely used his bedroom in the tower; on the rare occasions that he actually slept, he usually just put his head down at his desk. The actual bedroom and living quarters had become a secondary storage space for his research notes. The first time B'st had found an entrance to the Archives, Resh'an had thrown him into a time loop in a mild state of panic, and then hucked everything in the bedroom into an extradimensional storage closet. 

He'd gotten so used to solitude- but that was no excuse for poor hospitality. When he released B'st from the time loop (hopefully none the wiser, but he wasn't going to ask) the bedroom was sparsely furnished, but clean. In the end, it didn't matter; they hadn't spent any time there that first visit. He gave B'st the tour of the tower, such as it was- the library and the reading room at the heart of the Archives, the laboratory, the living quarters- and then they'd spent the rest of their time on the observation deck.

It took considerable effort to unmoor his tower from its physical anchorage, but he did it anyway. It let him relocate the observation deck anywhere he liked, so they could look at the stars from new vantages. Resh'an had, quite frankly, been showing off.

And it had been worth it, to see B'st's eyes- already so bright- light up when Resh'an transported them into the center of a meteor shower.

----

Alternative Sleeping Arrangements (working title), Aephorul/Resh'an, college students au. Aephorul goes home with Resh'an over spring break; he meets Resh'an's aunt; a pillow fort gets built. I'm not sure if this one will ever really get finished, but I like fleshing out some of the background for this AU.

This is a non-magical AU; it literally takes place in New Jersey. But Anais and her partner Estelle are still also Guardian Gods, despite that.

--

He was surprised by how much she looked like Resh'an; she was nearly as tall as Aephorul, with the same long-limbed, willowy silhouette. But on her it looked graceful, where Resh'an always looked like he was surprised he had elbows. Her hair was a frizzy cloud of strawberry blonde to Resh'an's dead straight auburn, but they had the same eyes and the same smile. 

She drifted in on a cloud of sandalwood, peasant skirts swirling above her bare feet and silver bracelets jangling down her arms. “Darling boy!”

Resh'an looked slightly pained at his aunt's endearment. “Hi auntie. This is Aephorul.”

She kissed Resh'an on both cheeks despite the way he rolled his eyes, and then she turned to Aephorul.

He understood what Resh'an had meant when he said his aunt was a lot, now. Anais looked at him like he was a bug caught under a glass. For a moment, her face was as still and cold as a marble statue, unsmiling and distant. Then she smiled at him, the same radiantly beautiful smile that Resh'an used when he was genuinely happy. 

It took considerable effort not to flinch when she offered her hand to shake. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “It's nice to finally meet you,” she said warmly. “Resh'an can show you around the place- Essie's out getting groceries, but when she gets back we'll start on dinner.”

Resh'an rescued Aephorul from his aunt's handshake and tugged him away, down the hallway. “Come on, my room's this way.”

[desertdollranch]

My DIY WellieWishers Playhouse

A few weeks ago, I found this Our Generation brand beach house at a secondhand shop. A little doll playhouse has been on my wish list for a long time, specifically because I wanted to renovate it into a customized dream home for my five dear sweet Wellies!  

I love these little kiddos. They’re so cute and charming. I had originally only planned to get Emerson, but then I found Willa at a thrift store and couldn’t resist adding the rest after that. And I love making clothes for them, including these particular outfits. 

Ultimately I would have been thrilled to find the actual WellieWishers playhouse secondhand. 

But I’ve never seen it in any thrift store. And this is retired so it’s as expensive on the secondhand market as it was when it was available new from American Girl. 

I also noticed, when looking at other people’s photos of their dolls using this house, that it’s actually very small. It’s not meant to accomodate all the Wellies. 

So I started looking for an Our Generation brand house, since they make tons of larger-scale doll house playsets. They’re actually made for 18 inch dolls, but they fit 14 inch Wellies a bit better. The Seaside Beach House playset seemed like a good choice. Here’s how it originally looked:

When bought new, it comes with lots of small accessories, mostly food and dishes. The one I found and bought didn’t come with any of the accessories, which was fine. If there were any that I absolutely needed, I could make them. 

Once I acquired it, I got to work with the renovations.

Kendall helped me out, since she’s crafty and likes to make things. 

First I took out the plastic bench. It folds out into a bed that can fit one 18 inch doll or two 14 inch dolls. Then I moved the kitchen around so that the shelves fit under the window and open up the floor, making it all one room instead of two rooms.

This did unfortunately disconnect the power source for the overhead light and all the little kitchen and beach sound buttons. But I plan on replacing them with maybe something better.

Once everything was rearranged, I painted and wallpapered the walls. Then I added all the little accessories. 

With the kitchen moved, the little porthole window is above the sink, which looks nice. I added a roll of paper towels and some hand soap by the sink. 

The Wellies are only six years old and not allowed to have very hot things that can bun, so their stove and oven are for pretend play. 

The fridge is “real” and holds their snacks. To the left of that you can see the oven and underneath that, a second oven that I told the Wellies is actually a dishwasher. I took the handle off until I decide how to make it look like a dishwasher.

With the countertop underneath the row of windows, the plants can get some nice direct sun. To the left of the plants is the girls’ microscope. On the upper shelves are gardening supplies.

Emerson’s job is to water the potted herbs. 

The top shelf is for toys. I had a great time compiling all these mini toys for the girls: two little rabbits, a troll, real metal toy trains, a koosh ball, a slinky, and dinosaurs. The second shelf holds dishes. The bottom shelf has mini American Girl books and magazines, plus some microscope slides, a deck of cards, and a flower press.  

This little bench, and the stuffed lamb, were also recent thrift store finds. My aunt made the two stuffed chickens. I made the felt cactus. 

It’s kind of small and will only sit one Wellie or two smaller dolls, but it’s too cute to not use. 

I made the pom pom rug also. The carpet is a rectangle of soft velour fabric. I’m still undecided whether to use carpet or to make a faux wooden floor. 

The door has a screen in the window, and the window moves up and down to let in a breeze. Attached to the outside screen is a little plastic bug. 

On the right of the door are two seahorse-shaped hooks to hold jackets and hats.

The door locks, too!

There’s still room outside to put up the table and chairs I made for the Wellies last summer. 

And there’s room for younger siblings to come by and play. 

Behind the house is the wooden tree swing, a perfect place to enjoy the evening breeze.

[roseharpermaxwell]

RWRB FirstPrince Single Parent & Parent Recs

My favorite single parent or parent recs below!

I Dissent! by Mel_1999. G, 1.4k. A police officer is coming to give a safety talk at school and, as a lawyer, Alex has a lot of things to say about it. Those things include planning an entire presentation for their son's class about their constitutional rights.

Henry is horrified, but supportive.

The Evening Routine by TuppingLiberty. T, 1.8k. Henry comes home late and joins Alex and their daughter, Isabella, in their night-time routine. Domestic fluff with a fade-to-black sex scene and adult language, so rated T.

(even though you want to) please try to never grow up by @coffeecatsme. T, 1.8k. “You better have a good fucking reason for sending me to voicemail, Hen.” He glares at the phone for one second before he actually sees the screen, and then his face melts into something Henry can only describe as fond. “Oh,” he whispers, dropping his mug of coffee onto the counter so he can lean in closer to the phone. “Look who’s there.”

“Yeah.” Henry keeps his voice so low he isn’t even sure Alex can hear him. He doesn’t seem to mind, eyes taking in the picture in front of him with parted lips, the edge of his finger covering the camera when he undoubtedly reaches to caress his daughter’s head.

Or, Alex misses his daughter when he goes back to work after a long paternity leave.

(We) Loved Her First by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf. G, 2k. When I thought about all of the things I wanted to say to you both today, my initial urge was to write a letter. I could borrow Dad’s fountain pen from his top desk drawer and watch the ink soak slowly into the cardstock paper, to blow it dry and carefully crease it in three places before sliding it into an envelope and sealing it with the wax seal Papa bought a few years back, that he said we could use to send our Christmas cards to Sandringham in a more formal way so that Uncle Pip wouldn’t expect to find us wearing matching Christmas tree onesies inside.

But then I realized, a letter isn’t your style. It isn’t our style. Your story, the same story weaved together countless times throughout my life into a tapestry of your love that blanketed me at night whenever I needed comforting, was told through a series of pixels swirling through the air and crossing the void of space and time within moments. So, I decided it was only fitting to continue that tradition and to follow in your footsteps…an email, it is.

OR

Alex and Henry's daughter sends them an email just before they walk her down the aisle on her wedding day.

Teachable Moments by @everwitch-magiks. T, 2.1k. Alex is a single dad. His daughter, Elena, is as curious as she’s clever and quite a handful. Luckily, Alex has a solid support system—he can always count on Elena’s aunts, as well as on her kindergarten teacher. Her very wonderful, very attractive kindergarten teacher.

But kindergarten doesn't last forever.

even children get older by blueberriesandcream. G, 2.2k. on her grandchildren's first day of school, ellen claremont looks at alex and has some regrets. (alex makes it better for everyone.)

Giving Yourself Grace by TuppingLiberty. T, 2.9k. Isabella is very young, and Alex is home alone with her for the first time while Henry is away for the shelter. He learns some dark truths about himself when he struggles to help Isabella.

fully booked by riversdeep. T, 3.2k. A hand tugs at Henry’s sweater as he’s rearranging the Austen section, and he smiles, abandoning his books and crouching down. “Hello, Sophia.”

Today, Sophia's decked out in a Spiderman costume, complete with a matching tiny backpack and camera.

“Hi, Mister Henry.”

“Yeah, hi, Mister Henry.”

Henry laughs, heart impossibly warm. “Hello to you too, Alex. The books are on the counter, I’ve had them set aside for you.”

A little off the top by @clottedcreamfudge. T, 3.4k. “How old's David? Mine's almost 4 and she's cute but a lot of work.”

“Oh! He's 5 – it was his birthday last week, actually.”

“No kidding? Did you have a party?”

God, this man sees right through him. “With cake and invitations and a themed piñata, for my sins,” he confesses. “Does that make me awfully gauche?”

“Nope,” Alex says, popping the 'p' and winking at Henry's reflection. “But that might mostly be 'cause I have no idea what that means.”

Henry has literally never had such a good time while having his hair cut.

look in the mirror (and show me who you see) by blueberriesandcream. G, 3.5k. henry comes home to find alex in a predicament when their daughter gets bubble gum in his hair

Lost and Found by @sherryvalli. T, 3.9k. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I distinctly remember telling you to stay.”

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding very sorry at all. Henry made a mental note to teach her how to at least pretend to be contrite.

“You’re… she - you can speak English?”

Henry looked up. The man was turned towards him now. His eyes were the first thing Henry noticed. Wide and a deep brown, with impossibly long and dark eyelashes that seemed to touch his cheeks every time he blinked. And his mouth - it was open now in surprise and disbelief, but it was perfectly curved and bitten pink, and Henry had no problem picturing it curled into a smirk. A handsome serial killer, then.

Single dad Henry loses his daughter at the Met and ends up finding more than he bargained for.

kiss me on this cold december night by blackrose1002. M, 4.7k. “Hey, can I get an Americano to go? With double espresso?”

Even though he’s not working the register – because he’s making the bloody gingerbread nightmares – the simple order is enough to catch Henry’s attention and he looks up.

He immediately wishes he didn’t.

Right there, currently paying for his normal, boring coffee, is a man that’s possibly the most beautiful man Henry has ever seen. With his dark curls and beautiful brown eyes, eyelashes so long they don’t seem real and a smile lighting up his entire face, the man is simply stunning.

Henry would make anything for him.

Any coffee, including the goddamn gingerbread latte.

Or his bed, after getting thoroughly fucked into his mattress.

(Or the one where Henry works as a barista and one day the most beautiful man in the world orders the most boring coffee and saves Henry's sanity)

Isn't she lovely, isn't she wonderful by Liloandbitch. M, 5.6k. No one will ever believe him when he tells them Henry said the word DILF.

that's the way love goes by @waterloolovers. M, 6.3k. “Daddy. I want a little sister,” Dani had announced one day. Henry choked on his tea while Alex dropped the spatula straight onto the floor. “Um.” Henry cleared his throat. “Your papi and I will have to talk about that, okay?”

The Eternal Struggle by Celaestis. T, 6.7k. "Love, we can't put 'gender is a social construct, bitches' on an official royal birth announcement."

Five times parenthood beat Henry and Alex, and one time they won parenting.

Secret Ingredient by floatingaway4. T, 8.2k. It’s not unusual for the shelters to call each other when they need temporary space. Henry doesn’t normally take children that young, but he can accommodate them in an emergency. He just has to make sure the staff keeps an eye on this kid. 

What could possibly go wrong?

Oh what a laugh it would have been by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf. E, 11k. When Alex dresses as Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, their five-year-old daughter makes an extra special, last-minute Christmas wish. AND

Alex leaves his Santa suit on for a private evening with Henry while everyone else is snug in their beds.

in paper rings, in picture frames, in latte art series by coffeecatsme. T, 15k. “You little menace,” a voice says from the door, entirely too fond to be anything mean. “I told you to wait by the car, not go inside.” The man steps inside, shaking the rain from his hair, and Henry is treated to the sight of the most beautiful man he’s seen in his entire life, standing in the middle of his shop with clothes dripping to the floor and raincoat bundled up around him. He notices then the umbrella clutched in the little boy’s hand, the innocent wide eyes watching his father, and the picture forms in his head.

Or, five times Henry makes a piece of art for Alex's son on his drinks, and one time he does it for Alex himself.

Confidential Memorandum by sherryvalli.  T, 17k. "Hello, Mr. Fox-Mountchristen's office. How may I help you?"

"Hello, can I speak to Mr. Fox-Mount-krishen, please?"

Alex blinked. After two weeks of hearing nothing but the voices of snooty men and frazzled secretaries calling in, the person on the other line now sounded decidedly neither snooty nor male nor in any way adult.

It was a little girl.

"Mr. Fox-Mountchristen's unfortunately in a meeting right now,” Alex began slowly, “but I could take a message?"

"Oh." The girl paused. "You're not Mr. Hunter."

Alex starts a new job as Henry's new assistant. Henry's daughter keeps calling the office and leaving him messages.

Longer Than Most by @happinessofthepursuit. E, 26k. “Oh,” Alex says. “Sick.”

Henry can’t help but grin. He can’t believe he’s so bloody gone on a man who says sick and dude, who he’s slept with all of one time and proceeded to knock him up. Henry’s a cliche, honestly.

“It is, indeed, sick, as you say.”

Alex rolls his eyes, but his cheeks darken a shade, giving him away a bit. “Listen, the closest I get to poetry is your fucking face. Excuse me if my vocabulary doesn’t quite compare to yours.”

Or, Alex and Henry have a one night stand. That is, until a baby’s involved.

Family Lines series by @cultofsappho. T, 41k. Henry turned his attention back to the girl in front of him, she seemed to be pivoting from star-stuck to actual distress. “Are you okay?”

"I'm gay!" She blurted the words out before slapping a hand over her mouth like she couldn’t believe what she’d just said.

Henry chuckles, his cheeks flushing pink. "Me too."

Henry and Alex had been thinking about fostering for years now, they were just waiting for the right kid to (aparently literally) fall into their life.

True Love Stories Never Have Endings series by @historicallysam. E, 69k. “The beauty of love is that you can fall into it with the most unexpected person at the most unexpected time.” - Ritu Ghatourey

Henry expects the coming school year to be much the same as the previous ones. He couldn't be more wrong.

orion in your fingertips series by acastle. E, 168k. “She truly is your daughter, Alex,” Henry sighs, defeated.

“Fuck off, sweetheart,” he laughs, a soundbite of the sun. Henry forces himself not to physically react, the term of endearment sweet and menacingly familiar coming from Alex’s lips. It’s been years. “You know they’re useful.”

“Ah yes, eyelashes, truly a formidable instrument in managing international relations.”

Alex grins, and Henry is too late to catch the slightest downward lilt on the corner of his mouth, “Worked on you once, didn’t it?”

Oh, did that ache. 

(Much had happened since the time Henry had told Alex to leave. Alex had passed the bar, gotten married, had the most beautiful daughter. And Henry, well. He stayed right where he was.)

*And podfic of a flicker, a spark by the incomparable RattleandHum @thirdeye1234.

I only tag an author once per post, but I'm still figuring out firstprince author handles. If you see one I may not know or find a broken link, please give me a heads up!

Master List of RWRB FirstPrince Recs

Master List of Recommendations

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #18:

Bob Dylan's Dream / Lord Franklin

At some point in 1988 I discovered that there was music in my childhood home.

We'd grew up largely without it. I had an ancient, AM-only, dial radio at the head of my child sized bed, but that was strictly for listening to Vin Scully call Dodger games. At some point around 83 I spun the corroded dial experimentally and heard Borderline followed by Thriller. It was terrifying, and I did not repeat the experiment.

Therefore, as a child, the only song I remember singing along to was this ditty, which always immediately preceded Vinny declaring that it was "time for Dodger Baseball!"

Of course, I heard snatches of music outside our home. When Dolly, Emmylou and Linda put out Trio in 87 my mom bought the tape, shoved it into our red and white Vanagon's deck and kept that thing on repeat for years. And on the fourth of July I'd watch the annual Beach Boys Special at friends' houses while we lay about, sunburnt from head to toe and waiting for rock hard burgers off the grill. And yes, I'd sit in the park every summer and try to figure out how to eat KFC while the US Navy Brass band played. But all that music was around me, not in me.

Then, in 88, my buddy Matt's parents got cable, so MTV happened and we learned all about girls, I guess, from Straight Up Now Tell Me. By that point Buffalo Soldier, Shout, Brass Monkey and Take My Breath Away where spinning at elementary school dances and all the cool kids were bravely listening to Guns and Roses.

But I wasn't cool. I recognize this fact must be a surprise to all of you given the incomparably cool nature of this august blog and the meteoric rise of my Gordon Lightfoot musings among the cognoscenti (I have no doubt that among my legion of 14 followers cheesebot47 is Obama and dannhann is Bruuuuce while bloggin - I see you gentlemen! Thanks for my grand total of two heart emojis!), but I feel that my uninterrupted lifelong run of uncoolness needs to be acknowledged nonetheless. As proof I offer up the following evidence: my initial attempt at getting into music in 88 was buying the cassette single for Chicago's Look Away:

Yeah, definitely not cool. Even my father thought the song spewd chunks and the only song he ever sang to us as kids was Home on the Range. Baby! Look away!

So I did hear music at age 12. But my home had none to offer, and I'd yet to hear anything that really spoke to me, that shouted its way into my soul.

Then, somehow, furniture got rearranged or I opened my eyes a little wider and found a hitherto unknown cabinet in our living room. There weren't fur coats inside, or mothballs; nor did it take me straight to Mr. Tumnus. No, it was better than that. Instead, when I looked inside, I found The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan.

That's right: there was a record player in my home that I'd never noticed before, and records sat underneath it. No one had touched anything in there for a decade or more. But I knelt down and figured out what to do with it somehow and the next thing I knew I was listening to Blowin' in the Wind.

Picture me on my 12 year old knees, all 80 pounds of me watching the record spin, holding my breath. What was this noise? Why did it sound so glorious? And why, oh why, wouldn't it play smoothly?

You see, from the first moment Dylan began slapping at his 6 string and asking how many roads a man must walk down, the filthy, bruised record and the turntable's utterly battered needle refused to meld. I could hear only snatches of Blowing in the Wind before the whole thing popped and bolted and before you knew it there was a broken harmonica blast and Dylan was already telling me that he'd learned the next song somewhere down in the U-nited States. Then everything erupted again and it wasn't long before the needle leapt and dragged into full skid before thudding to a stop.

And yet somehow, one song on my parents' long forgotten and utterly ravaged copy of the Dylan's first masterpiece was largely intact and skip-free: at age 12 I joined Dylan on a train going west; I too dreamed a dream and weathered many a first storm. But Bob Dylan's Dream did not make me sad. Rather, it took my breath away.

And it still does.

I suspect each of us has a specific, elemental melody that insistently tugs at us; like an invisible tether, there's a combination of notes and pacing out there that's ineffably linked with our individual soul. Somehow, wonderfully, the borrowed melody Dylan used for his Dream is that tether for me.

Of course at that point I couldn't put any words together to describe what was happening to me when I listened. I was just fired up. What's more, I found that each time I replayed the record a bit more of it would emerge intact: the tortured needle harvested bits of dirt and debris from the grooves each time it passed through. Sure, I had to bully the record through several skips, but eventually I could track most of the record.

Next, somehow, probably at my friend Eric's, I found a blank tape and a turntable connected to a tape deck and was able to transfer my chopped up record into something I could carry around in my pocket like a talisman. There was a world of music out there, just for me. I had not found it yet, but I had a map.

And so I did what came naturally: I took the world's worst version of the The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan to my next Dungeons and Dragons game. Doing so made total sense to me. I was clearly 12 years old.

I emailed my personal dungeon lord, Jon, this week and asked him to recall what happened next. But Jon remembers nothing, which is surprising, because something definitely happened. The moment I pressed play on my brutalized copy of Freewheelin' in the middle of Jon's personally scripted orcfest he freaked the hell out, unplugged the stereo and carried my character sheet out to his dad's Weber, ranting all the while about how if I ever brought such crazed and unbearable sounds to one of his games again my character (I think he was named Illure...) would get doused in lighter fluid and would serve as a fitting holocaust to every god one could name. And Jon was true to his precociously literate 12 year old word: a few months later, when I brought not Bob Dylan but instead swiped cans of beer to D&D, Illure did indeed taste Jon's threatened flames and I was altogether banned from D&D henceforth. My buddy Jon: always totally awesome.

It's too bad about Illure. But I wouldn't change a thing.

So let's talk about Lord Franklin. Dylan openly acknowledged that he borrowed the tune for his Dream from Martin Carthy's version of the original. Let's drop the needle on the song's gold standard: Pentangle's version from their wrongly maligned Dollar Bin treasure, Cruel Sister.

Listen to John Renbourn, just above a whisper, recall his sighing dream. Bert Jansch's weary concertina trembles and pulses and Jacqui McShee's accompanying voice arches above and beyond until Renbourn finally produces the world's smallest and gnarliest electric guitar. Wow. What a song; what a version. That's my personal pulse friends; that's my tether.

Who knows how far back this melody actually goes; its primary known source, the Irish song Cailín Óg a Stór, is least 400 years old, but surely people were humming this thing under their breath long before any peer of Shakespeare thought about claiming ownership of it in print. Maybe my ever so great grandmother had some hand in its creation; or maybe yours did. I'll bet people all over the world have been warbling this melody in their own tongues for time out of mind.

Take a listen to the Carthy version that first inspired Dylan:

You can hear the song's racing pulse in Carthy's fleet picking beneath the swaying, stately melody. Maybe that tension of paces is part of the song's allure for me. I love slowly sung songs that still contain lurching threats of violence, terror or despair. Think Danger Bird or This Monkey's Gone to Heaven; think Mr. Bojangles.

Sure, Jerry's telling us his story with a smile. But he's not okay. He's grieving deeply as he sings, channeling his old prison mates' terrible loss for his dog.

Cailín Óg a Stór is a root stock that's been grafted beyond Franklin's tale and Dylan's dream. Happily, Stephen Stills' own take, a reworking entitled I Suck, remains unreleased. But check out Fairport Convention's A Sailor's Life. Hear the incomparable Sandy Denny spin that glorious melody in a new direction.

It takes some real guts to completely reconsider a song this elemental, but people are forever doing just that. Check out Renbourn's own masterful and hilarious version from the 90's. Just look at the guy sweat as he giggles then dives deeply in.

All of these examples help make Dylan's Dream particularly audacious. Forget telling timeless tails of terror on the deep; Dylan instead takes us to a scene from his own childhood: there they are, gathered about an old wooden stove, the first few friends he had. They never much thought they could get very old; but they have, they are all aged now, just like me and Jon, and all our long ago friends from 88.

Only art is timeless, Lord Franklin reminds us. Only art can never die.

Rest in Peace Sinead.

[thecurioustale]

Social Media Sucks and I Think I Have Used Up Most of My Lifetime Tolerance for It Over the Years

I "hid" my first Tumblr ad the other day. It was a body horror thing of some lifeguard shaped like a snake with lots of ab muscles, and the first couple times it showed up were whatever but Tumblr pushed it so hard that eventually I had seen it like twenty times and it was starting to make me feel icky, so I decided that it was time to take action!

I may be a Tumblr idiot, and a social media idiot in general, but I did have enough knowledge to know that if you press the Ellipsis on an ad post you might get the option to "hide" it, so I did, and it did, and I did, and it didn't.

That's right: No one-and-done when it comes to making Our Sponsors the slightest bit inconvenienced. First, of course, I was presented with an automated survey asking me why I was hiding the ad. And, of course, the survey was terribly designed.

Let me go on a quick side rant here: IT IS ASTONISHING HOW BADLY DESIGNED MOST SURVEYS ARE. Corporate ones, academic ones, governmental ones...it's like most people never took any kind of instruction, nor applied even the most basic common sense, on the principles of survey design. Well, here, in a nutshell, is the number one tip and trick you can use to life-hack your way to a better survey:

IF YOU ARE MAKING A MULTIPLE-CHOICE SURVEY, EITHER MAKE THE OPTIONS CONCEPTUALLY COMPREHENSIVE OR PROVIDE AN "OTHER / NOT APPLICABLE" OPTION.

Needless to say, my reason for wanting to hide the ad—I'd been fed it so many times that the body horror had gone from off-putting to actively disgusting—wasn't on their damn list. The two closest options were "offensive" and "too frequent." I decided on "offensive," and when I clicked the button the offending ad was instantly snapped away back to Hell where it began, and I went on with my life.

UNTIL THE VERY NEXT IN-FEED AD, where it returned like some #&%%@*$ demon in a dark comedy, grinning as if it had never left. So this time I "hid" the ad and selected "too frequent," and I'm not holding out much hope on the matter.

Social media, even Tumblr, has evolved to make you as powerless, immobile, and docile as you can possibly be made through the long reach of an electronic series of tubes. While some social media networks are better than others, the general rule is that you have very little options to control your own "user experience"—and this is by design, because "UX" is something they optimize for on their end from their perspective of what "optimal" is.

Increasingly gone online are the days when Buttons Do Functions. That is a form of direct control: Click a button, and a pre-knowable thing will happen. Like flipping a light switch. Or pushing Stop on a tape deck. Baring some kind of malfunction, you know what will happen. That's less and less of a thing on the Internet now, especially on social media, where buttons are treated more like data inputs to an algorithm somewhere, and god only knows what output will be spat out at you—if any at all! Sometimes the buttons literally don't do anything.

Oh and by the way they PERIODICALLY REARRANGE EVERYTHING so that you have to find everything all over again, and relearn the whole damn GUI, and some of the functions that actually did work are probably gone now for good measure.

This is so dehumanizing, and it is going to be generationally rebelled against SO HARD someday. And the rebels of that era are going to think themselves sage and wise, and turn up their noses at our "dark ages" of user-alienating barbarism, never knowing that the original Internet didn't do this at all; it was a societal development fueled by the lust for profit and a failure to empathize with users.

But in the meantime, stuff like this has a cumulative exposure for me. Every time I get fed the latest indignity, the latest of infinite variants on some gross thing that won't go away and which can only be temporarily dispelled by lying on a poorly-designed survey that no one will ever read, a little text pops up that says "Josh will remember this."

And one day, I'm just gonna stop. I already don't use most social networks, and, of the ones I do use, I flat-out do not need this kind of bullshit in my life. My 6-week Return-to-Tumblr experiment is nearly over (come the Equinox), and I may or may not write a post about it at that time, but if I do then this is one of the points I intend to make. I can feel my interests and utility both steadily diverging from whatever this weird direction is that social media continues to evolve in. I am both outgrowing it and drifting apart from it.

I just don't like being treated this way, and I think that's not unreasonable of me. I understand they'alls gotta make their money. I understand it's their platforms, their rules. I understand that "most users don't know what they want and Numbers Go Down when we give them more control." I understand all of that. And I am willing, to some extent, to trade a modest of dignity and agency in return for the benefit of being able to use a service with lots of fascinating content and the potential to reach people with my own ideas. But I have my limits.

I know there's no one at any of these social media companies who actually cares if one of their advertisers' ads not only fails as an advertisement for one particular user but also estranges that user from the entire service—not all by itself, of course, but as the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back. And if not an ad, then some other inanity of the functionality of the service. It doesn't even matter what the last straw actually is, really. To the people running the show, we're not even people. Just metrics. And there's always another sucker, so for the most part the people who finally give up on this stuff after a long season of exasperation and small cuts are more than drowned out by the rising tide of new users joining. Until suddenly one day the ratio crosses the inflection point, the tide reverses, and the whole company folds like a house of cards...by which point the original looters have long since cashed in on their fat salaries and benefits packages.

We live in an era of no loyalties and no pride. The notion of caring about the products you make or the level of service you show your customers (or, more to the point, your users) is positively quaint. The people have spoken: We want it cheap; we want it easy; we want it now. That's what gets the clicks.

This is all increasingly dystopian and I am getting tired of it.

[starscribes]

NaNo Update Day 16

Words Written Today: 2211

Words Written Total: 26800

Overall Feeling: Great! I've had a great day at work and then I'm also ahead of schedule for NaNo! Hooray! Lots of discoveries today. I ended up rearranging a lot of my chapters because I realized the timelines didn't match up. Instead of doing one Sebastian chapter and one Jonas/Samantha chapter, I'm lining the chapters up chronologically. This means we now have a big gap between Sebastian's first chapter and his second, which aesthetically does not please me, but I can't stand it out of chronological order so this is better. Also discovered I'm writing an enemies (kind of) to lovers arc which I've never done so that's new!

Song: Interlude: I'm Not Angry Anymore by Paramore is the next song on Samantha's playlist. Samantha used to have anger issues but as she's grown up she's...well she's grown up. She's learned to cope with her impatience and anger in healthier ways - mostly. And a lot of those coping mechanisms revolve around her husband, Jonathan. Now that she's far away from him in a very stressful environment, she's holding on to the more patient and gentle Samantha she's become. But how long will that last?

Snippet: (under the cut)

Why had the fight suddenly gone from him? Where was that frustration and anger that had been there just a moment ago? No, there it was, she thought as she looked closer at his expression, his teeth were gritted and grinding behind that closed line of his mouth. Was he thinking there were too many of them to fight? He was right. If they had been on a regular ship they could have just tried to swim to land, but since they were in the sky there was no point in trying to escape. Where could they go? If they had a flying ship, did they also have flying lifeboats? Samantha wondered as they followed the guards down the hallway to a lower part of the ship. She wished she’d had more time to take in the details of the deck and look for something like that. there had to be some kind of evacuation plan in case something went wrong or those aerovoraxes really did tear through all the rigging and disable the ship. There would be no sinking on this ship, just a nosedive into a crash landing - minus the landing.

[monomaniacmetropolitan]

The following post is a short story I wrote in 11th grade. I look back on it and it seems silly and immature (or amateur? Or both?), but reading this old writing brings me such a sense of nostalgia. It was really my first foray back into fiction after a long dry spell post-sophomore year. This was a completed story, one which drew me in so quickly, which I felt genuinely proud of. It certainly has its moments. I’ll miss that time period. Things felt electric back then; like an artistic storm was brimming on the horizon.

Most importantly this story is actually a fanfiction of sorts based on the game Receiver by Wolfire games, which they made for a game competition. It has a dreamy, ephemeral quality, enhanced by it’s thrown together design. Of course, very few people would know this, but it must be stated.

ECCLESIASTES

A short story by Miles Tiller

Reality painted in shades of black-- such is the phrase. The feeling of smooth metal-on-concrete, and that cold hard utensil in my hand (not one for eating) has become so familiar. How many times has it been? How many floors? Grey plated terraces, synthetic abutments and that ringing, that god-awful ringing.

You see reality painted in shades of black, but your reality is not the true reality. The rules of our world don’t apply to yours.

Prophecies from half-baked prophets contained and compartmentalized in the crimson of a tape deck; the spinning wheels turning in their obstinate revolutions as sound is emitted. Battling years of corruption, pollution. Years of mind-damaging content fed through the conductive wires of an LCD screen. They have been busy feeding the masses of material to us, funnelling it through the pixelated canvas of our favorite pastime. For the act of observing is the easiest of them all. Far easier than the movement of arms, swinging of feet. When static is the norm, even the most instinctual of processes have to take a moment to think, to ponder their true importance.

The tape deck is the only savior, the seventh seal keeping the tides of decadence at bay, or so I’m told. Its messages are true, no matter how hazy they appear through the background fuzz. It’s so hard to think these days. Much easier to lie in a half-slumped stupor, staring out at the neon bands of city streets and low-poly architecture. Yet there is scratching static breaking the mold, the sound of many rats scurrying in a turbulent feedback loop.

We have reached out to you with these tapes. You live, work, and sleep in a lower reality: Reality B.

I found the tape deck in the bathroom, on the second floor of my apartment. It had been expunged out of the smooth metallic toilet, thrust out of the drainage system in amorphous afterbirth and the beckoning of sirens. I had to be careful handling it. There are no cameras, no so-called “telescreens”, nor hidden microphones. Yet they seem to know. Their sentience crosses the physical lines and infects the mind in all its complexity. They have otherworldly inklings, messianic in magnitude.

I remember reaching down to clasp it in my hand, testing to see if it was even real. The smooth shine of the red coating casted refracting rays in the harsh fluorescent light. As I held it in my hands, suddenly there was nothing but the red tape deck. Everything: the dim luminescence of the metallic bathroom, the hazy cacophony in my mind (a product of their programming), the sonic ambience of the never ending apartment block, even the pervasive neon glow, it all ceased for a moment. An imperceptible change had taken place and I was the tragedian fool of it all, unable to place a finger on what exactly had happened. The mind pulsates, surges in cerebral electricity, the neurons rearrange their chemical composition. And then suddenly it stops and there is a hazy wetness in the air and something has taken place; it is much too vague to put one’s finger on.

We cannot reach you in this reality, but our tapes have penetrated their veil. They have been read out by a Receiver with a particular aptitude for hearing our message clearly.

The noise had stopped for once in my much worn existence. I was left with dull thoughts and the rattling of the soul. Down I went from the stairs and spotted the three crazed bedfellows of my convoluted experiment: A firearm, a flashlight, and a set of headphones. The dizzying illumination of the overhead light cast hazy halos on my eyes. I squinted through the fog at the three otherworldly objects. A gift from them. Not the same them as the ones watching over us, feeding us pollution. The other them, the ones from above, with a reality painted in shades of violent and burgundy.

Out I went onto the terrace next to my apartment, tools in hand, casting my eyes to the now dead streets of the ghostly city, a mere after-image of its former brilliance. Everything had gone dark. It had started the long nap. Revelation was at hand. A kind of dull hum settled over the rooftops, competing along with the hazy background static and metropolitan wind. I imagined myself leaping off of the impossibly high deck, engaging in a silent freefall. No compatriots to see my death dive. Only them, and the wind of course. As I fell I was caught in a multiplicitous river of souls, echoing along as the river Styx does in its dull trot. I was floating in a web of my former companions, carried along silently toward deliverance.

You see reality painted in shades of black, but your reality is not the true reality. The rules of our world don't apply to yours. We have reached out to you with these tapes. You live, work, and sleep in a lower reality, one out of our reach. Over the years your mind has been corrupted with an endless stream of corrosive media that they have forwarded. You have become a key cog in the wheel of their sinister agenda. Luckily for you, you are one of the few we can help: A receiver. With the help of these receivings, you may eventually achieve what is known as an “awake state”. But be weary, the enemy is everywhere in the most unconventional forms. Keep your head low. Refer to your firearm instruction manual if needed. And find more tapes; listen to as many tapes as possible, as often as possible, as many times as possible.

That was so long ago, three lifetimes at least. When all the ecstasy and shortsighted aspiration had ended, I was met with the striking isolation of my apartment block. It was situated in the middle of everything, connected on all sides with other rooftop terraces; inter-connecting floors, basements and sub-basements, windows stacked on windows, dangers at every corner (the shadows are alive, I tell you). And yet everything was gone. It had disappeared in the fog of it all. I was left with the cold steel of my flashlight and firearm, the dull thud of metal-on-concrete, and the sound of metropolitan wind once again.

Do I see him yet? Can I glimpse at the pale glint of his cheekbone. Where will his gaunt shoulders move next? The Dreaming; that is what it is called. I had learned after so long. A bridge between their world and ours, the titanic obstacle needing to be crossed as a Receiver. Everything had gone dark, the buzzing of air-conditioning units were still present, yet their sweat-and-grease-filled maintainers were not. It was an interim world. An antiquated trial of faith: conquer and ascend, capitulate and descend. The options were laid bare in front of me. Temptation was rampant, yet so was motivation. Most importantly The Dreaming was lonely: merely myself, my trusty tools, the endless synthetic rooftops, and them.

Not the good them (the ones from above), or the bad them (the polluters), but something else. They’re not the choosers but the doers. They administer justice but don’t decide what exactly that justice is, or when it should be properly gifted. All of that has been chosen for them already. They exist in the shadows, casting chromatic silhouettes on the hard tile. Their judgement is swift and dutifully delivered: typically received in the form of a 7.62mm projectile lodged right in the upper chest. When it hits, the lights fade, the air-conditioning units sputter and die, and it all starts again.

You are back in your apartment, gun in hand, flashlight loosely hanging from the other. A feeling of dripping is coming from your heart. Is there still blood there? My inner-workings had the life bled out of them, yet I’m here again in this labyrinth. Forsaken, perhaps, at the very least tortured.

I remember my final time through The Dreaming with little clarity. The haze hangs over my eyes; I can reach out and touch the wool, sniff it all in and use my tongue to play with it, yet beyond that I am helpless. The retention of memory is an ever-changing battle. First scents go, then colors, then events themselves. Finally one is left pondering an endless stream of wanderings and confusion. The bright lights wash out the dim greys and silvers. The punchy deliverance of 7.62 caliber ammunition fades away into bee-stings and spider bites.

I remember walking out of my apartment's doorless entrance for the final time, eyes weary and crusted with loam and age. I squinted first left then right. Could they see me already? It wouldn’t make a difference whether this time I would beat them, whether this time I had finally heard all the tapes. I knew some of the messages by heart, some I wondered if I had ever even heard once, perhaps I dreamt them all.

I stepped into a small anteroom, beset on all sides by smeared windows. The reds, yellows, and blues of the neon vista just barely crept through the smudged glass. Walkways filled the space above me, slicing the room in segments meant to be bitten at piece by piece. To move was to conquer: the more I cleared the more was mine. The enemy was capricious and all-knowing, but if there was one thing it wasn’t, it was recurring. No path tread once becomes refilled with new danger awaiting.

Like a recurring nightmare, I heard the piercing beep of a sensor. One homing in on my very core, sniffing out the hidden life within me. I sprang back against the doorway, shielding my body from the incoming delivery. There were impacts and ricochets followed by uneasy silence.

That was when I sprang in response. It was just as easy to sit in silence and debate, to lay one’s head against one’s knees, pistol clutched limply and ponder. Lethargy was their favorite food, nourishing in a way that brought one element up and the other down. They fed on passivity; inaction. The ability to swing one’s arms and legs was their downfall.

Out I jumped from behind the partition, metal stiletto in hand, finger resting on its delicate switch. With great reluctance the shoddy firearm dispersed an outpouring of .45 ACP projectiles. Cold-seeking, inanimate-hunting wolves dead set on their target. Off to the holy land.

They have dreamed drones near your location; placed them all around you. They are unforgiving, deadly, and mindless. But they are not all-seeing, all-knowing. You can outsmart them. Your autonomy is your greatest advantage, use it well and with purpose. The enemy, dangerous as they may be, fears action. Be pure of mind, cleansed of evil: supple in soul and modest in being.

I landed, expecting the cold hand of death to clamp around my frail neck. Yet it never came. The whirring of servos died and I was left with the metropolitan wind. I lay on my back, staring at a yellow incandescent light hanging from the walkway above me. Its piercing brightness squinted my eyes for me. How long through this tirade? How long till deliverance?

I imagined I was running through a cave, cramped yet endless; it was ribbed and interspersed with rocky outcroppings, waterfalls, stalactites and stalagmites. I was being followed by a creeping, flowing darkness. An enveloping tar that edges forward, only moving along at a snail’s pace, yet all consuming. It ate and ate, not stopping for onlookers or roadblocks. Its search for me wasn’t active. However, it would find me, add me to its list of consumed. Bullets and steel meant nothing when stagnation took hold. The only way out was forward. Through all the awaiting troubles and tribulations.

If you looked hard enough, you could see the dark swarming with teeth. Not to mention the glaring eyes, reddened and pockmarked. If you dared, a gun might be the best you could muster against it. But most actions were useless, caught up too much in the material plane to conceivably alter something as ethereal as this. Action, futile as it may seem, was the best I could do. The only weapon I had against them: all of them, the good ones, the bad, the unthinking unyielding.

I passed tapes again and again, sweeping them up with the tips of my fingers. The ever-present tinnitus was warded off by the whirring of the tape deck and the smooth voice echoing out of the headphones. Sometimes I hid while listening, sometimes I ran, too caught up in my momentum to look back without tripping over my feet. Most of the geometry of my journey has long been forgotten, faded out with time and carelessness. Stairs have morphed into ramps, walkways into wires, terraces into scaffolding. The Dreaming has become a shadow of its former self. The drones themselves are to me now grey amorphous machinations. Their beeps fade into subsonic whispers, their steel barrels into gaunt pipelines, their servos into whirring spindles. Even I was changed. My frail limbs become frailer, my beady eyes beadier, my dry mouth dryer. I was eaten away at, slowly, in a calculated manner. I was killed and reborn endlessly seemingly without consequence, yet the exertion of my toils were showing themselves in other forms. The depletion of the soul. How much longer could I believe? How much longer could I pursue this intangible goal? I had never seen them. All of my knowledge was born from a red tape deck and its revelations. Were they even there? I was told the messages of the ones above rang true. Surely they were scripture itself contained in a tape deck, warding off slime and false prophethood. Perhaps not. Perhaps false prophet callers rang false themselves.

But I had to believe. To act. Passivity was the enemy’s greatest tool. I didn’t know if the informative buzz of the tapes' impulses were true, yet I knew the act of perceiving, listening, and acting was undoubtedly productive. The flickering of lights as I passed underhead of ribbed corridors warded off the encroaching miasma. The paralysis only took hold of you if you let it.

I gazed on at a conjuring of line and form. A piece of alien art, placed here from above most likely. It was a momentary respite, the calm before the storm. The slatted window behind me cast rectangular divisions of light against the piece of polymer. I eyed it, gun on hip, flashlight pointed at it. There had to be some semblance of meaning in the methodical blob; some kind of message to glean from its smooth surface. I approached it slowly, bending down to rest my hand against its glossy shine. It was so cold, so unlike myself, it was perfect in the most asymmetrical way. A feat of creation. But I couldn’t find a purpose, a reason. It had been placed here from above, much like myself, to wander in the darkness, blink and breathe with no rhyme nor reason. It was not some product of cosmic conspiracy, some message from above, meant to be seen rather than just exist. It was a mere coincidence that our two beings came together in this fashion, For there was no purpose in this metallic organism. It existed--poised and ready--for nothing. I removed my hand.

The end was nearing. I had never consumed this many tapes, I could sense it. Whether salvation or oblivion awaited, I was drawing towards it. My eyes were cast to the vanishing point: that ever evasive singularity which typically flees at full blast, only this time it was nearing rapidly along with the rest of the approaching horizon.

[critrolesideblog]

I posted 1,658 times in 2022

That's 847 more posts than 2021!

53 posts created (3%)

1,605 posts reblogged (97%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@utilitycaster

@secondhandjokess

@maddyscrsideblog

@saturdaysky

@callingvoicemail

I tagged 1,582 of my posts in 2022

Only 5% of my posts had no tags

#cr campaign 3 - 341 posts

#critrole spoilers - 320 posts

#shadowgast - 185 posts

#caleb widogast - 144 posts

#essek thelyss - 136 posts

#mighty nein - 106 posts

#jester lavorre - 80 posts

#mighty nein reunion - 75 posts

#orym - 58 posts

#fjord - 47 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#i was just thinking about how when jester first ends a message with 🎵do do-do do~🎵 liam specifies that caleb is on the floor laughing

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

A little scene inspired by this lovely drawing by @kurosmind

---

The Nein Heroez set sail from Nicodranas at sunset. Essek stood on the deck of the ship, watching the city grow smaller and the first stars of the evening spark into being in the dusky sky, when -- "oof!" -- a pair of strong, blue arms wrapped themselves around his middle.

"Wow, you're super light!" Jester declared gleefully as she stretched upward to hoist him into the air. He dropped his hover charm. With a squeal and a laugh, she swayed a moment under the sudden weight before finding her balance, and he could not help but laugh with her.

She set his feet on the deck, but did not release him from her grasp. She rested her chin on his shoulder, squeezing him tightly. Joy lingered on both their faces. "I'm glad you're here with us."

"As am I." He peered at her sidelong. "I am looking forward to seeing what sort of trouble you'll get me into this time."

"Oh, so much," she replied, grinning at him mischievously. Her tail wrapped around them, first one way and then the other, like a child playing hide and seek. Then, her smile softened, and she turned her head, resting her cheekbone on his shoulder. "But, you know, we'll get you out of it again. Don't worry."

"I have no doubt, Jester." And as the lights of Nicodranas twinkled like stars in the distance, he found that it was true. The warm ocean wind carded her fingers through their hair, and love, joy, and, perhaps, a little bit of chaos bloomed in Essek's heart, tenacious, vining things, squeezing him tight as Jester's arms around him. He leaned back against her. "I have no doubt."

77 notes - Posted November 9, 2022

#4

"Why don't we set up the Tower here?" Caleb asked, as he stepped out onto the streets of Aeor. "It's as good a spot as any." He gave a long stretch of his arms and a barely-suppressed yawn as he ambled over to Essek.

"Certainly," Essek replied, allowing himself a small stretch of his stiff neck and shoulders, as he glanced, again, up and down the avenue, setting his ears in search of any suspicious sound to indicate a creeping abomination. They had spent the last five hours sorting through the personal effects and, more importantly, the papers of one Octavia Metella, an arcane researcher with a habit of taking her work home with her. "I do not believe we will be disturbed."

Essek drifted toward a nearby alley as Caleb began digging around in his Bag of Holding for the Tower components. In the perpetual gloom of Aeor, the shadows of the alley were difficult for even Essek's keen eyes to pierce, sandwiched as it was between two tall residential buildings. With a practiced flex of his fingers, he cast Dancing Lights and was met with a riot of color.

There were layers upon layers of graffiti crammed into every available square inch on the right-hand wall. Some of it appeared hastily scrawled, some painted with skill and planning in bright colors, and some carved into the very stone itself. He brushed his fingertips against the wall and waited, watching as the letters rearranged themselves, reforming, at last, into new words. One etching, small and blocky, read, Julia and Claudia, the very best of friends. Nearby, a message in simple black ink: On this 10th day of Misuthar, 300 Post Ascension, Drusilla passed her entrance exam! Drusilla's announcement encroached on the edges of a brightly-painted piece, its script alternately bubbly and flowing, surrounded by stylized moons and arrows, reading, If you doubt the power of the Moonweaver, gaze upon my girlfriend.

Essek stepped in further still, tracing his hand along a line of bright green that swirled into spiraling, vining patterns as it lead him deeper into the alley and towards much coarser fare.

Icarus must part centaur, if you understand my meaning...

Celadus makes the girls moan! With your awful jokes, perhaps! We know you wrote this yourself, Celadus! You are merely envious...

You scholars and mages, why have your face in a book, when you could have your face in this pussy?

The source of the bright green line was the end of a phallus, etched deeply into the wall, and encircled with the words Handle with Care. Additional instructions were scrawled beneath for the uninitiated: Students -- rub that dick for good luck on your exams!

Well, that certainly explains why this bit of stone is so much more weathered than the rest, Essek thought, bemusedly, surveying the well-loved dick whose anatomical details had been reduced to vague hints by untold years of rubbing.

It was perfect.

With a flick of his hand, he retrieved a notebook and pencil from his Wristpocket and placed one of the blank pages against the engraven image on the wall. It is a shame I do not have an exam upon which to test this assertion, he thought with a snort of wry amusement as he began making a rubbing of the dick and accompanying inscription.

As if summoned by the absurdity of the situation, Jester's voice burst into this mind. "Hey, Essek! Hope you're having a good day and haven't died! Kingsley and Fjord say 'hi!' We're leaving Gwardon tonight... Got... you... gifts! Love you!"

A fond smile spread across Essek's face. "Caleb and I are well. We had a good day. I have some gifts for you also," he said coyly, grinning as he finished the head and moved down the shaft. "Give Fjord and Kingsley my regards. Safe travels."

"What are you doing?"

If Essek's feet had been on the ground, he might have jumped. Instead, he jerked away from the wall, wheeling around to find Caleb at the alley's entrance. He was regarding Essek and the graffiti with equal parts curiosity and amusement.

"Ah." Essek tried to obscure the notebook in the folds of his cloak, even as he knew the measure was useless. He had been caught. "I was speaking with Jester. She and the crew are about to leave Gwardon."

Caleb raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unconvinced by his obfuscation. He walked forward slowly with his own amber Dancing Lights floating around his head, trailing his hand along the wall in much the same way Essek had. He chuckled here and there at the bawdy messages, until he arrived, at last, at the dick and burst out laughing.

"At Soltryce, we had a statue whose ass you were supposed to kiss. You would never catch anyone kissing it, and yet, it was always the most polished part of the statue."

"Ah, there was a similar tradition at the Marble Tomes. There was a statue of the founder, Zoshia Zolaed, and one was supposed to pat the... ass of the statue." His vulgarity earned him a grin from Caleb. "Zolaed herself, in her current incarnation, finds the practice highly amusing and is often seen lovingly patting her own ass anytime she passes the statue. It is considered extra lucky if you are the first to pat the statue after her."

Caleb was smiling as he leaned against the wall next to the dick, amusement causing his Lucidian blue eyes to sparkle in the dim glow of their Dancing Lights.

"So, are you conducting research on the superstitions of Aeor's students, or did you think I might be putting you through your paces later?"

Essek raised his chin haughtily. "I have never required luck in such matters."

"You never patted Zolaed's ass?"

"She's not my type."

Caleb grinned, tilted his head inquisitively, and waited.

"I . . ." It had been some time since Essek had felt such hesitancy sharing an idea with Caleb. It was easy to share things with Caleb, even untested, off-the-cuff ideas and works-in-progress, even when he had been trying his damnedest not to spill all of his secrets over wine and a hot tub full of their friends. But this was no impartial arcane experiment. The hypothesis tested by this project was one he wanted very much to succeed, and so, he had been putting off the test. But it seemed the time had come. "I have been collecting such samples for a few weeks. I thought I would present it to Jester as important art from the lost city of Aeor." He dipped his voice in joking gravitas as he held out the notebook for Caleb's review. "Of course, she would translate it in no time." Caleb began slowly leafing through its contents. "Not all of it is bawdy, some of it I thought she might enjoy on artistic merit, like that mural we came across in the Genesis Ward, but I thought she would appreciate some of the work of her compatriots across time." He made a vague gesture toward the dick on the wall. For lack of a notebook to hold, his hands found each other behind his back, pressing, twisting, wringing, as he examined Caleb's face for any hint of reaction as he took in Essek's findings.

It certainly seemed like the sort of thing Jester would like. There were days when he felt certain of it, days when he felt he knew Jester very well indeed. Certainly having her voice in his mind daily, sometimes multiple times a day, lead to a certain level of familiarity. But there were other days when an offhand reference to her childhood or her adventures with the Nein would remind him, like discovering an anti-magic field by stumbling to his feet, that he had spent less than a month in Jester's presence.

"Do you think she will like it?"

"Did you draw this?"

See the full post

393 notes - Posted February 26, 2022

#3

Essek and Caleb lounge in the bed in the room that was once Caleb's and is now theirs. Their legs tangle beneath the silken sheets as they lean against an excess of pillows, both things Caleb has gotten into the habit of including in the casting of the tower in recent months, should his Kryn colleague arrive. A tray with a charcuterie board overflowing with fruits, cheeses, meats, and other snacks is held aloft between them by the tail a spectral cat as they sip on chilled wine and discuss their recent adventures.

"So anyway," says Caleb. "Once I had shapechanged, I cast Gravity Fissure. Of course, I tried to aim so it would only hit Uk'otoa…" There is a long pause in which Caleb expects a chorus of whispers, but Essek merely raises a curious eyebrow.

"Is something wrong?"

"Ah, no, it is nothing."

"Why did you pause?"

"It is nothing, truly." Caleb waves a mildly chagrinned hand. "It is one of our bits, you know. I don't suppose we've had cause to do it around you much. Usually, when someone says Uk'otoa, everyone else whispers Uk'otoa. I merely paused out of habit."

"Ah, I see," Essek replies, picking among the snacks on the tray. "I missed my cue. Please --" he pops a grape into his mouth -- "back to your story. Say that last part again, and I'll do the bit."

"That isn't necess--"

"No, no, please. I believe you were casting some advanced dunamancy." There is a warm flame of desire kindling behind his lilac eyes as he takes a sip of wine.

"Ah, yes, I cast Gravity Fissure at Uk'otoa--"

"Uk'otoa," Essek chimed in his normal, conversational tone. "… Like that?"

". . . Hm, well, ja, normally we really lean into the stage whisper: Uk'otoa -- like that."

"Ah, I see. Once more, once more." He beckons imperiously as he searches for another snack on the tray.

"I cast the spell at Uk'otoa--"

"Uk'otoa," Essek's voice dips deep in tone, but not volume. The sort of voice he often used as Shadowhand. "Like that?"

Caleb narrows his eyes at him, and practiced as he is now at seeing past the serene masks Essek wears, when Essek glances at him sidelong, he sees plainly the amusement and mischief hiding in the slight quirk of his eyebrow and narrowing of his eyes. Caleb tosses a small wedge of cheese toward his head for his trouble, which sails past its mark, and the spectral cat, Gertie, swats it out of the air. The mischief and amusement come out hiding entirely as Essek lays back on the pillows laughing. Dimples appear on his cheeks as he laughs, and Caleb can't help but reach out run his thumb along Essek's cheekbone as he commits the image to memory. Essek leans into the touch with a small sigh.

"If you are quite done fucking with me," Caleb says, after a moment, tossing a blackberry at him. It slows in its trajectory mid-air and, with a guiding swish of his hand, Essek floats it into his waiting teeth.

"Fucking with you?" Essek's voice is still silky and deep as he rises from the pillows. "Not at present, but that can certainly be arranged." The fire in Essek’s eyes catches in Caleb’s heart.

"Hm, Gertie, I think that will be all for now."

439 notes - Posted December 4, 2022

#2

Caleb was pulled from his warm, hazy doze by whispered curses in Undercommon. Not an uncommon occurrence in and of itself, but the rhythmic frrrpt, frrrpt of stitches being pulled from knitted fabric was a new sound to his ears. He lifted his head from the pillow where he had been resting for seven minutes and sixteen seconds and peered groggily at the elf sitting next to him in bed, who was looking at a lopsided bit of knitted fabric with great consternation. Essek froze momentarily mid-pull on the thread of yarn connecting the fabric to a nearby particolored ball, as he realized Caleb was watching him, and then resumed his task.

"I dropped a stitch." He said without looking away from his work.

"You dropped a stitch?"

"To be expected, as a novice."

"And… how long have you been knitting?"

"The past five minutes."

"Ah… and when did you decide to take up knitting?"

"Earlier this afternoon." Essek paused as he carefully reinserted the knitting needle in the remaining stitches. "I was speaking with Beau this morning," he said, slowly as he resumed his work. "We were discussing that case she's been working on. At one point, I mentioned my numerous sins, and she told me to, ah, 'get a hobby.'" Caleb gave a soft a snort of laughter as he settled back down onto his pillow, which earned him a brief, withering glare, before Essek continued. "Uraya used to knit -- still does, I assume -- when they were working on a particularly troublesome problem. They said it helped clear their mind. I was always intrigued, but I did not have the time to pursue it before."

"The colors are lovely," Caleb yawned, as he brushed his fingers against the soft ball of verigated oranges, reds, and deep purples.

"I'm glad you think so… I thought I would add a scarf to your collection."

Caleb smiled as he closed his eyes. I love you, too.

517 notes - Posted June 27, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

has this been done yet?

2,390 notes - Posted July 27, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[peachy-wolfhard]

He’s an asshole but he’s MY asshole (V)

A/N: ngl i cried writing the beginning of this, rewatching the season for this series has been rlly fun (except for the scene where Fei dies rip my queen), OH MY GOD DONT USE THE SCHEDULE THING BC THEN THE TAGS DONT WORK!!!

Taglist at the bottom, feel free to ask to be tagged in upcoming parts!

Warnings: ANGST, girlie u are going THROUGH it, Reggie’s a douche, more angst, y’all almost break up, reader is said to wear a dress but its only a passing comment, drinking, swearing, eating, five might be ooc bc i havent written for him in so long, smoking, sex implications

Word Count: 4.2k

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4 Part 6  Part 7

     Laying on the pool table yet again in the Hotel Obsidian after your brother and other sister died. Can't seem to fucking escape this place. It's like Hotel California. Great now I’m gonna have that song stuck in my head. Laying on your back, head against the lip of the pool table, you admire the necklace Fei had got you when you were a teenager. Yours had said ‘Best’ while theirs said ‘Friends’. Originally they were black with white lettering but due to time, they had faded to a bronze color with black lettering from the years of filling them in with sharpie. Tearing up you curl into a ball and start to sob. My fucking family is dead, my fucking best friend is dead. Now in the fetal position, you full-body sob, not caring if anyone sees. 

     Ignoring the ongoing argument in the other room, you go to the buffet trying to find something small to snack on, finding an apple. Using your knife you peel and slice the apple, cutting it into little cubes. The thought of cubes breaks you again, dropping your knife on the floor and dropping to your knees. I want my family back, I want my fucking family, I NEED them. I need Alphonso’s shitty jokes, I need Jayme’s daily existential dread talk, I need Chris’ happy disposition, I need Fei. Sobbing you slide down the wall silently munching on the apple cubes. After a cry sesh, your arms fall to your sides, brushing the matted-down carpet. Looking forward all emotions drained out of you, feeling empty. Deciding to see what the other idiots are up to you head back toward the balcony.

     Before walking into the room you hear Ben and Diego arguing. Leaning on the column you watch them argue, numb. “Hey, you guys done? The universe is disappearing outside. So you can keep rearranging the deck chairs of the Titanic if it makes you feel better. But the fact remains that we are too late,” Five says. “Come on, Five,” “It's over Luther, we failed.” “Come on. It cant be over over,” Viktor says. “Yeah, come on, Five. We gotta figure this out, man,” Diego insists. “Okay. How about we take a step back? Look at the big picture here. Most of us have spent the last 28 days trying to stop the world from ending. What exactly have we accomplished?” The room goes silent, the Umbrella’s reflecting on their past 28 days. 28 days ago I wasn't in this shithole and had all my siblings. Walking from your column you stand next to Ben, his arms wrapping instinctively around you. Normally, this would make you smile but not now, not after half of your family died. “Well, we made some friends along the way,” Luther says positively. “Incorrect! You know what we’ve done? Nothing. We made things worse every single time,” Five corrects Luther. Leaning closer to Ben your head leans against his bicep sighing. “Don't save the world.”

     “Well, on that…super happy note, we’ve um--oh, what the hell,” Luther says as both he and Sloane stand. “We’ve got a little announcement to make,” “We’re engaged!” they say in unison. “Kill me, Jesus,” Ben mutters making you smile for the first time. Taking the flask out of his hand you take a long drink before giving it back. “Now?” Allison asks. “Yeah. Look, we realize the timing is less than ideal. But, obviously, it's now or never. Am I right, Five?” “Don’t drag me into this, please,” Five says while looking away. “What…Whatever time we have left, we wanna spend it with all of you. So we’re super pumped if you would join us in the banquet hall at 6:00 p.m. for a celebration of our love, and the official union of what's left of our two great families,” Sloane explains. “Dress code is creative black tie.”

     Sloane goes around handing out their wedding invitations when Reggie and Klaus return after being gone for days. Klaus explains that they were tangled up in a father-son end-of-the-world road trip. Klaus’ long explanation ends with him saying that he’s now immortal. Huh, so that's what Diego was talking about. After accusing Klaus of getting into bath salts, Reginald asks why we’re playing with jars. “They’re invitations. Luther and I are getting married,” Sloane says to Reggie. “If he goes to their wedding I'm gonna be even more pissed off,” Ben whispers to you. Ah, your wedding was a magical time full of arguing and absent fathers. Sloane hands him an invitation before Luther tells him space is limited and taking it back. Ben picks your invitation up and looks at it, “Ours were better,” he jokes. “Well I mean it's not like they have marketable powers like us,” you continue joking. 

     “Dad, have you been taking your pills?” Sloane asks. “As a matter of fact, I haven't. And I can confirm that I’ve never felt better in my life. You thought you could dope me up and slow me down, take control of my affairs and squander my fortune,” Reginald says, looking directly at you. He’s always hated me, accusing me of only being with Ben to get a hold of his money, the feelings mutual. “Well, Klaus here was good enough to wean me off that wretched poison, and now that the fog is lifting I can see all your dastardly designs with a bracing clarity.” “You took him off his meds? What were you thinking?” Sloane asks upset. Reginald is then sent into another spiel about how he's the only one thinking and then calls him an impressive young man, causing Diego to laugh. “As for the rest of you, your training is to resume post-haste,” Thank fuck some normalcy in your last couple of days. Ben and you quickly tell him that you're ready. You can tell he’s been waiting for this, to go on a big grandiose mission since the last huge mission was years ago. 

     Five and Reginald start going back and forth; Five mentions that he talked to Pogo. God, I can't remember the last time I saw him let alone heard his name, I miss him. “Nobody wants you here, Dad,” Luther tells Reginald. “Hey, you don't speak for everyone, big guy,” Ben replies holding your entwined hands up. I don't even wanna be around him, he’s done nothing but make Ben and me feel like shit. I mean he didn't even come to our wedding when it was at his own house! “Feel free to join him.” Before Reggie can continue with another one of his long tirades, Klaus interrupts taking him to ‘have a cup of tea’ in his suite. Diego leaves as Lila quickly follows him; Sloane then leaves presumably to go see what’s up with Reggie, leaving you, Ben, and the Umbrella’s alone.

     Walking past Luther and Viktor, Ben holding your hand and pulling you along with him, he overhears Luther mentioning his bachelor party and how “not everyone is invited.” “What was that?” Ben stops making the three of you look at him. “Nothing man, nothing,” Luther shrugs off with a quiet chuckle and smile. Ben quickly continues with you in tow, walking even faster than before. Getting to what you have claimed as your room Ben flops on the bed and sighs deeply. Flopping down next to him you ask “Is everything alright? You’ve been pouting since we left.” Ignoring you and rolling on his side away from you, staring at the wall. “Well, when you want to tell me I’ll be open, not gonna force it out of you,” you say walking towards the door baiting him to say what’s wrong. “Okay fine you pried it out of me,” he says with his usual dramatic flair, rolling onto his back, and staring at the ceiling. “It’s just…why wasn't I invited to the bachelor party?” he asks, completely serious. “Babe, are you joking?” you ask smiling thinking it’s just another one of his pranks. “No, why would I be joking?” he says turning and looking at you now sitting on the bed. “Well I mean you’ve been an asshole to them the entire time they’ve been here,” you tell him. “Listen, I’m gonna find Sloane and see if she needs anything before we get ready.” 

    Walking to what you remember is Sloane and Luther’s room, you start reflecting on Ben’s actions. Being that you were the only person that truly got to see who Ben was or wanted to be. For everyone (and even sometimes you) he wears a mask of a confident, arrogant leader but in those times when his mask slips you can truly see him. An affection-starved man craving any and all affection and recognition he can get. A man that just wants to be loved and seen by his father. Someone who has played a character so long that he himself doesn't know who he is. Finally, you made it to their room, knocking to the tune of ‘Shave and a Haircut.’ You can hear Sloane yell to come in, walking in you see her sitting in a chair hemming a dress. “Need any help?” you offer secretly hoping that she would say no. “Um, not at the moment but thank you,” she smiles. “You know I can't even believe it,” she confesses. “What the wedding or the end of the world?” “Oh shut up, you know what I meant. I just can’t believe I’m getting married,” she says smiling down at her dress. “I mean I always thought and dreamt of this day and now it’s finally here. Did you feel like this?” Sloane asks looking up at you like a little kid asking for their mom’s advice. “Well truth be told no, but that’s just because Ben and I aren't romantics, unlike you and Luther,” you say playfully rolling your eyes at the last part.

     “So it’s official. My ears are broken and the idiot with knives really can’t sing,” Ben says barging in on you and Sloane’s alone time, the first part making Sloane jump at his sudden appearance. “Diego. You know his name is Diego.” Caught in the middle yet again. “Maybe you should try and be nice to him and the others,” Sloane says running out of patience for Ben. “And why would I do that?” “As much as I’d love to work through your anger issues right now, I have to get back to this. The wedding is in an hour,” she exasperatedly said, patience wearing thinner by the moment. “Fei is dead,” Ben says, reminding you about half of your family being dead and you soon too. “Yeah. I know. And so are the others.” “Oh, so that's it? You’re just gonna turn your back on the Sparrow Academy? I mean you heard Dad. we have training to do. Something big is about to go down.” “Ben, shut up,” you jump in, defending Sloane. “I wish you were talking about my wedding,” Sloane says sadly. “Okay, Sloane listen to me--” “No. You listen to me. I’m sorry they didn't invite you to the bachelor party,” Sloane says ever the nicest person in the room. “I don't…I don't care about that.” “yes, you do,” you and Sloane say in sync. “You care more about being invited to the bachelor party than Fei or the others or even saving the world.” “That's--that's... That's crazy,” Ben says chuckling awkwardly and looking at the ceiling before putting the mask back on and going back to his serious leader act. 

     “Is it? The three of us have never been alone. It's always been the eight of us. Now it’s just you,” Sloane says, Ben scoffing at her. “So congratulations, Ben. you're finally number one of one.” Ben looks at you incredulously, “So you’re not a Sparrow anymore?” “Why would I wanna be one?” you say about to cry for the millionth time today. Ben’s face drops for a second, looking you directly in the eyes, sadness written all over his face. “You don't mean that,” he says quiet enough that Sloane can’t hear. “Maybe I do,” looking at him tears in your eyes. “What’s so damn special about them anyway?” Ben resumes the conversation with Sloane. “They’re a real family. They don't exist to sell action figures and tote bags.” “We were more than that,” Ben tries to defend. “Were we?” No, we weren't. We were only a thing to deter crime (which didnt work) and sell merch. Hell, my own wedding had merch. “Why is it so important to you to be a Sparrow?” that's what pushes Ben to leave, quickly he walks out the door just before trying to grab your hand and pull you along unsuccessfully.

     Time for a wedding! Dressed all fancy in a black gown that you found in one of the abandoned hotel rooms. You haven't spoken to Ben in an hour and a half, only seeing him here for the first time in that hour and a half. “What’s the deal with them?” Klaus leans to Five and asks. “I have no idea, could be because we’re all gonna die,” Five says matter of factly. Standing next to Allison, Ben walks toward you, “You look…so fucking good,” Ben says hoping to make amends. “Thank you. You look good too,” you say smiling while taking a drink of your champagne easing yourself into your night of hard-drinking. Standing next to you Ben grabs your hand and starts playing with your fingers smiling. “Hey. I love you,” he whispers, leaning into your neck causing you to smirk. “Love you too,” you say now giving him a sip of your drink. After that Luther and Viktor arrive, “I don't know. Normally, my tush looks good,” Luther says walking out of the elevator with Viktor. As soon as they walk out Allison and Viktor are already quralling. Luther whispers something to the both of them before raising his voice, saying “Bah, bah, bah! My day! Two hours. Do you think you can manage that?” Viktor replies with a ‘fine.’ 

     The elevator bell rings and everyone faces toward to elevator. The seconds that it takes for the doors to open are painstakingly long, making you anxious and excited to see your sister. This was the day she would meticulously plan out when you two were in your teens, documenting everything she wanted in a large binder down to the lighting, and now it's finally here; albeit at the end of the world and planned over a night and a few hours. Looking at her you smile, “Let’s get this over with before I die of cringe,” Ben interrupts the beautiful scene of Luther seeing Sloane in her dress and the sweet moment the two of you were sharing.

      The marriage was ordained by Klaus who gave a very eventful but meaningful officiant speech. Sitting on the left side next to Ben, you interact whenever Klaus says something that warrants it, such as him yelling “Can I get an amen?” to which everyone except Ben makes noise. Glancing towards him he's pouting again. I’m not his fucking mom, I’m not gonna babysit him the entire night. I actually want to have a good last day. “I pronounce you married as shit! Viva la apocalypse!” Klaus yells as Sloane and Luther kiss, making the tiny crowd cheer. After watching Sloane and Luther have their first dance, you start looking at the food spread; the cookies and brownies catch your eye more than the other foods. After putting the food on your plate (and grabbing a bottle of vodka) you turn around to look where to sit. You could sit with Ben and Allison and have the joy sucked out of you or Diego and Lila and have to deal with their mushy love talk or you could sit with Five, someone who you haven't gotten to know yet. 

     Sitting down across from Five he looks up from his food and nods to acknowledge you. Looking back toward Allison and Ben; the latter staring at you. “So I take it things aren't going so good with Ben and you,” Five comments chowing down on a pastry on the table and taking a looong drink. “Rather not talk about that, right now I just wanna get as fucked up as possible,” you say smirking while sitting the bottle down on the table. “Okay, I have some questions,” you say watching as Five pours himself another drink. “Are you actually like a kid or is it some time-travel fuckery?” you ask the burning question that’s been on your mind since you saw him and Ben fighting. Five goes on to explain the first apocalypse and him being stuck there for 40 years and how he’s actually a 53-year-old man. “Huh. so you’re a little old man,” you say as Viktor sits down next to you.

     Getting up from your seat after talking with your new in-laws, bottle in hand you walk toward Ben’s table and flop down in the seat next to him, setting the bottle between you two. The elevator bell chimes making everyone look over and see Reginald walking in, making the room so silent, even the music. Reginald walks over and gets himself a plate and starts looking for a seat. “What is he doing here?” Ben asks rhetorically.  “But who invited him?” “just sit and suffer with me,” Allison says making you giggle. “I can’t even get invited to a bachelor party and he’s invited to this?” “Wow. you really can't relax,” Allison comments making you giggle again. “Y/n, are you okay?” she asks, making a confused face at you now laying your head on the table. “Oh my god, how are you already drunk?” Ben asks in disbelief. “Well you see, in my grief, I perhaps stumbled upon the open bar and perhaps may have started the celebrating earlier than the rest. I mean come on, we’re on the edge of oblivion and you people expect me not to day drink,” you say smirking “And! I’m not drunk yet.” Leaning on Ben’s shoulder, you watch how awkward the wedding has become, no one making eye contact with Reggie. The awkwardness is semi-broken by Lila and Diego, Lila wanting Diego to introduce them. Watching them was nice, Lila and Reginald actually had things in common and got to talking, impressing Diego.

     After the nice moment between Lila and Reginald, Allison had gotten up leaving you and a now pouting Ben alone. Ben and you had managed to drink almost half the bottle in addition to the numerous glasses of champagne. Now you both were laying your head on the table staring at each other, Ben laying on his plate of shrimp. Klaus soon made his rounds to your table; he had been doing this all night walking from table to table and person to person trying to convince them Reggie is good now. Guess it’s our turn. “Hey, Ben-ihana and lovely little eight,” Klaus starts. “Don't hit me!” he jokes sitting down at your table. “I know we all ain’t been best buds in this timeline or whatever, but man, do I have a mission for you--” Ben interrupts him by belching verrry loudly in his face making you giggle, still laying on the table. “Eleven people,” Ben says ominously making Klaus question. “There are only eleven people left,” “Ten and a half, I’m not all here at the moment,” you say making Klaus chuckle. “Okay. Drunk Ben clearly likes numbers and… shrimp,” Klaus says still trying to recover from Ben’s shrimp burp. 

     “And you couldn't even invite me to your stupid bachelor party.” “Oh. Have we finally flicked off bad Benny’s hard candy shell?” Klaus says rubbing his arm. “Why don't you like me? Or us?” Ben asks making you move next to his shoulder, cheek touching his jacket looking at Klaus. “Because you’re huge puckering assholes.” “Okay, but you like the other Ben and y/n,” Ben says annoyed and clearly sad. “Yeah, we love the other yous,” Klaus says with a hint of sadness. “Why? What’s so special about them?” “Because he was a know-it-all. He was a scold. He was a tiny dark cloud on a perfect sunny day,” Klaus laughs after that. “What about me? What was so special about the other me?” you ask now becoming increasingly curious and intrigued. “Oh my god, they were a pain. An emo with a preference for sulking and being pretentious in a corner. Know-it-all just like Benny,” Klaus explains about you, well the other you. “Those.. those are all bad things about us,” Ben says after looking down at his shrimp. “Yeah, and they looked great on you two.” “Okay, you know what? We are so much better than that other Ben and y/n. I was number one--” “Twice,” you interject. “And-and they ripped people’s throats out.” “Oh yeah, did that all the time in my timeline. Does Dad give a shit?” Klaus says before asking Ben. “No. he was busy hanging out with you” Ben whispers poking Klaus. “Oh, man, methinks you might be trying a little too hard. Look around. Nobody’s polishing their boots or pressing their tights. We’re a complete and total shit show. Ya get it? And our Ben and y/n, my Ben and y/n, were just that kind of disaster and it made them ridiculously easy to love,” Klaus says, sighing at the thought of his deceased siblings, before getting up to leave you two alone. 

     The speeches started after Klaus left and went back to Lila and Diego���s table. Reginald was first, talking about Sloane when she was little, calling Luther adequate, and talking about how he wishes that his shortcomings will be seen only as a rough patch. “I’m proud to call you my children, even those I raised in a revenant version of myself,” Reginald continues, glancing around the room before stopping on you, making you look toward Ben in disbelief. Holy shit, the man that wouldn't even acknowledge that Ben and I are married called me his child! Reggie’s speech continues and finally ends with a poem, Allison leaves making everyone look toward the walking woman. “Makes, no sense,” Ben says still eating his many shrimp as everyone starts applauding at Reginald’s newfound kindness. “All right! All right! Time to turn those frowns upside down. This one is for all my party people in the place,” the concierge turned now wedding D.J says, as everyone gets up and starts dancing on the dancefloor. 

     Dancing around with your new family and husband felt nice, it felt like it was just a normal wedding on a normal day. After all of the fast and upbeat songs played then started the slow songs. Arms wrapped around Ben’s neck while his arms around your waist the both of you sway drunkenly together. Looking up at him, you plant a small kiss on the end of his scar making him smile, and put his face into your neck and start kissing it. “Noooo, stop,” you say smiling and pushing him away jokingly. “No, come back here,” he says pulling you back before snuggling his face back into your neck. Leaving the dancefloor you and Ben go back to your seat. While sitting and drunkenly talking Klaus shows up and the three of you start walking around the hotel property.

     Towards the end of the night Klaus, you, and Ben arrive back at the wedding noticeably more drunk than before. “Oh no no no no no!” someone shouts. “Klaus, why are you bringing Ben here?” Five asks. “Hear me out before--” “Hear him out,” you and Ben shout in sync as you take your shared cigarette away from Ben. “The brother that you all knew as Ben is gone. And not-- I don’t mean our Ben, the nice Ben. I mean this Ben, he’s gone now. The asshole, he’s gone now,” Klaus exclaims. “But that's what I liked about you, my asshole,” you say sadly looking at Ben. “Klaus, what are you talking about?” Luther asks. Klaus ignoring his question continues, “And the man that stands in front of you is new new Ben, and he’s one of us, and he’s a member of the team. And he’s part of the family!” Ben and Klaus shout the last statement in unison. “And as a welcome gift, I suggest we throw him off the roof,” Five says making you laugh. “Ha! They like me more!” you gloat at Ben. “Yeah, I’ll help,” Diego agrees with Five. “You know what. You know what. He can stay. He can stay,” Luther says. “And baby eight?” Klaus says holding your shoulders and giving puppy eyes. “They’ve been welcome to stay,” Diego says making you smile as you walk over with Klaus and Ben.

    Almost as soon as you sit down everyone starts heading to bed. Standing up you pull Ben along with you, “I’m ‘sleepy’ if you get my meaning,” you say to Ben too loudly. Taking a moment to understand what you meant, Ben then realizes it, “huh? Sleepy? But-- Oh!” he says before speed walking with you toward to elevator.

Taglist highlighted means unable to tag: @0x1lovesonq @bryannabarradas @onmyumbrellaacademyfanera @4okkotsu @gloriousstudentoperamug @j-panic @salted-fis @siriusly-rem-writes @gamingdevil101 @sanguinelabyrinth @muzanslander12 @mihhggvggh @choichaeyiul @mitsuri-darling @birbtweettweet @choclate32 @ddeonubaby @nao-cchi @i-bitch-you-bitch @mylesofasgard @darlingsuna @blogname197 @mivzai @emmeowo @yanelly1085 @mukbee @aceofspades190 @jui36oxx @iamasimpsstuff @hawkinsbylers @fanficwritersworld @natsgaygf @divergentnewt23 @fantasyfiction-net @electronicvoidcat @benarino @papaskazoo @cole-silas @strawberryheartsstuff 

[luminousnotmatter]

This Close

a little j.h.s. something

pairing: My favorite Texan Naval aviator, Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Female...Reader? OC? She’s kind of both? I’ll explain more in the Author’s Note. 😜 warnings: Mutual pining. Yearny. Friends with feelings they’re not acknowledging. PG-level swears. Takes place in a bar that’s not The Hard Deck. There’s a Dean Martin song used.😜  word count: a little over 1k. author’s note: This is my first bit of writing shared in a good long while, and also my first bit of writing for Top Gun Maverick since that movie happened to me this year. Be gentle please I’m nervous???? 😨😱 This story is actually part of a moment I have in mind for a whole, longer, multi-parted story that’s currently simmering on the stovetop of my brain until I can figure it out more/work up the nerve to plot it out and start writing and sharing it involving Jake and a Lady OC who I’m also still developing. Hence she, ‘Birdy’ a nickname she’s referred to as once here ☺, is sort of straddling the Reader/OC line at the moment. I honestly prefer writing this way than in the second person; it’s easier for me and I find I like the way things flow and feel better, so hopefully y’all don’t mind it. Okay. I’ve officially rambled w a y too much so I’m shutting my cakehole now. 🤐 I sincerely hope it pleases you! 💕❤ bonus material: This is the song that’s playing in the bar in case you want to listen in on Jake and Birdy’s dance.  It’s not a love song really, but I love it and find there is a certain sweet, romance to it. But then again, I’m a known Sap, so form your own opinion. 😉 tagging: My Sweet B.💗 ‘cause she’s a dear, inspiring, and encouraging gem of a lady, whom I love. @bradshawsbaby​

"The sun is sinking in the west the cattle go down to the stream the redwing settles in her nest it's time for a cowboy to dream..."

With the first few lines of the song and Dean Martin's signature croon, the energy and volume in the crowded bar immediately shifts, lowering from it's previous loud, buzzing intensity to a quieter, pleasant hum. A few of the dancing couples rearrange themselves into new pairs, but most stay with their current partners.

  Jake's green eyes glow warm. His lips are still upturned in a gentler, one-sided version of his familiar wide and sunshiney smile, as his gaze sweeps around the space casually, before meeting hers.

"Shall we?" he quirks an eyebrow up. Speaks only loudly enough for her to hear. His left hand remains loosely entwined with her right, leftover from the previous, faster dance, but he's inviting her to join him for this one, not assuming she wants to. A gentleman's gesture.

And some might argue against it: but she knows, believes, has seen, that Jacob Seresin is a gentleman, in the truest sense of the word. He just....buries that part of himself, walls it up, far too often.

She tightens her grip on his hand. Let's herself notice, secretly relish, the roughness of his calloused fingers and palm. And the skipping jolt it sends to her heart. "Let's." and a smiling nod is her only response.

“Purple lights in the canyons That's where I long to be With my three good companions Just my rifle, my pony, and me...”

They step in close to one another once more, less than a foot of space between them. It's not really different than what they had been doing a minute or so ago, albiet slower, but the feeling, the energy between them has changed, just as it has for the place as a whole.

  It's not necessarily an unpleasant change.

Jake's right hand holds her waist with a sort of tentative firmness, the heat of his palm bleeds through the material of her dress to her skin. His left hand has raised her right while they sway and take small steps in time with the music.

At first she looks everywhere but at her partner's face. Gaze sweeping around the room at the other couples, the lights above the bar, patrons' abandoned drinks....

She's exposed, raw, hyper-aware of the pounding of her heart against her ribs, of how hot her cheeks are, of the inherent intimacy there is in this slow closeness, and somehow it seems that if she looks in Jake's eyes it will be a tacit acknowledgement of the Truth she's currently refusing to actively acknowledge: that she likes this. Likes him. This man is her friend (becoming one of her favorite, best ones), so of course she likes him, and she is comfortable with him, as a woman and as his friend, but that Truth? What it actually means deep down? It's a damn frightening thing to look at head-on.

All these sensations and thoughts scramble through her heart and brain in milliseconds.

“Gonna hang my sombrero, On the limb of a tree Comin' home, sweetheart darlin' Just my rifle, my pony, and me...”

The sound of the Naval Lieutenant humming the tune of the song near her ear draws her eyes back to him, almost against her will, but not actually. He's looking around too at first, but quickly meets her eyeline with a gentle widening of his smile.

  "You know this song?" she asks with a smile of her own; she knows this tune well but wouldn't have guessed he did. It brings an ache of fondness to her chest that he does.

"Mm-hm." he nods and grins fully with his mouth closed. His nose scrunches up once, barely perceptible but she catches it. The skin around his eyes crinkles and her chest is hurting again.

  She drops her gaze for just a moment, trying to think of something to say. The silence isn't uncomfortable, it's just that she likes the sound of his voice. Likes the way he talks to her. But when her eyes catch the sheen of sweat on his skin over the hollow of his throat, they fly back up. Immediately.

  Jake is still looking at her. His look is so very unguarded (her heart whispers the word: tender) it sends any thought of words out of her mind. His pink mouth is still smiling, but it too is a smaller, softer, a more intentional, meaningful thing.

“Whippoorwill in the willow Sings a sweet melody Ridin' to Amarillo Just my rifle, my pony, and me...”

He breathes out the quietest, whispered, "Hey, Birdy."

Her throat is tight with some unexpressed, still-ignored emotion but she's able to whisper back, "Hey, Jay."

Jake gives her hand two squeezes in quick succession.

“No more cows to be ropin’ No more strays will I see Round the bend, she'll be waitin' For my rifle, my pony, and me My rifle, my pony, and me...”

Someone in the crowd calls for the song to please be played again, just once more. Their request is granted.

She swallows hard. Jake's lashes are long and his eyes are so green and the unguarded, tender look in them is still there. He is no longer smiling, just looking; his expression still soft, open.  He's not only looking at her but seeing her. The rosy, ruddy glow to his cheeks and the firmness of him beneath her hand that cups his back, all shout of the health, vitality, alive-ness of him.

It's a fight to think of other things besides her desire to lean all the way into his chest.

I wanna give up that fight.  For right now: I can give up. I give up. she thinks to herself. With a finality and resolve to which she grasps tightly.

Before anxiety and self-doubt and outright fear can question and crumble that resolve she does it.

She takes the half-step in, tucking her left hand between their two bodies up by her face and rests her cheek to his t-shirt covered chest, right below his left clavicle. She allows any tension to bleed from her shoulders, her neck, her arms, and lets him hold her.

Just for the rest of the song, she tells herself.

As he curls his right arm all the way round her back, Jake holds his next inhale at its peak for a quick extra second or two, then lets it out evenly, once she relaxes fully against him. She can't see his face of course, but he feels like even his blinking is slow, and careful. She's never been quite this close to him before now.  And he's never....he's not sure he has ever allowed himself to consider that he's wanted her to be...but his deep-down self is realizing: he has. Damn.

He shakes that realization and its implications off for the moment. It doesn't have to be dealt with right now.

  Just enjoy the rest of the song, Seresin, he tells himself. Rests his cheek gently against her head. Holds her.

They sway and take small steps, to and fro, to and fro, until the song does...eventually...unfortunately....end.

[cyborg-franky]

Can I have something fluffy with gn reader x Law please? <3

I WENT ABIT MAD ON THIS. Law is like my best boy. I even have Law tats haha. so writing him after so long I was very nervous. I hope you like.

Law x GN reader SFW Fluff/Angst Words: 1,558 Not proof read oops

You had always wanted to go to sea, being a pirate wasn’t exactly what you had been thinking when it came to visions of the wide-open sea, beautiful sunsets and amazing adventures. But adventures you got regardless of the unforeseen career option. Your only real complaint apart from the dangers of the job was the fact that you felt lonely, being a Straw Hat pirate was great, you loved your crew but there was no one you felt a deep connection with, not the type you’d always longed for, someone to hold your hand, share a bed with.

That was until you’d met the surgeon of death, you didn’t think someone as harsh as him would have been your type. The way he always seemed pissed off and irritated at even being around your crew, the fact he just needed your captains help and had formed a hasty alliance that every moment of every day you thought he deeply regretted the choice, that much was always clear on his face.

You were shocked he didn’t have wrinkles with how much his brows were permanently furrowed, even when the man ate at dinner with you all, the way his stern expression never left his face. Whenever you’d glance at him you always thought he would be so much more handsome if he smiled.

Just like everyone that you’d come across during this new life of yours, Law was no exception, scars of a tragic past remained on his soul. You couldn’t blame him for that and at least he wasn’t ever nasty or ill willed towards anyone. He seemed to even get along with some of the crew. The less intense members.

Thinking back to the first night you really made progress with the heart pirate you recalled how it changed the way you thought about him. It had been late into the evening, everyone settling down to their own devices.

You knocked on Chopper’s office door, opening it before you got an answer, often the small medic had issues rushing from his chair and to the door to open it so you always just stepped in. “Chopper can you look at this for me?” you asked closing the door.

“The Doctor went to bed an hour ago.”

You gripped the doorknob, that deep voice certainly didn’t belong to the sweet fluffy reindeer, you took a breath, why didn’t you just wait for a response like a nice normal and polite person? You had never been in a room alone with Law until now. Taking a breath and telling yourself that your hand wasn’t going to get any better by just going to bed.

“Oh, sorry” cradling your sore hand close to your chest your eyes darted around everywhere you could to avoid looking at him.

He was sat at the doctor’s desk, a medical textbook open, a pot of coffee at his side. His normal irritated expression however wasn’t present, his brows relaxed, his whole posture in fact looked lazy, his long legs stretched under the table, he looked comfortable in the chair, like he was on his own ship.

“I can look at it.”

“Huh?”

He turned to face you, cocking his head to the side to give you his full attention, his gaze rested on your chest, or rather the aching hand you clutched there, feeling your own beating heart as he nodded for you to come forward.

“Are you sure?” You looked at the comfy stool next to his desk, inching towards it.

Your hesitation made him laugh, actually laugh, it was such a nice sound you decided, deep but smooth, you’d never heard him make any show of amusement, he hadn’t even cracked a smile in all the time you had known him. But here he was, the very person who had the reputation of being a twisted individual, a current warlord for gods sake, the surgeon of DEATH in fact, smirking at you as you nervously sat down where he’d gestured.

“I am still a doctor you know” another chuckle as he straightened up in his seat.

“I know I don’t look like one, but my father was a doctor, I learned a great deal from him, it’s not just my devil fruit that affords me my gifts” Law explained and crossed his arms over his chest waiting for you to go on.

“Sorry, I know you shouldn’t believer every rumor that floats out at sea, if I believed everything the papers or drunks in bars said I’d think my captain was the devil but I’ve seen that man with chopsticks up his nose, I’ve seen him sleeping like a baby, he’s no devil” You knew your nerves had turned into rambling, feeling your palms sweat at being so close with the other captain but his soft chuckle, under his breath, trying to be discreet. But you’d heard it, such a nice sound you mused feeling a little more at ease around him now.

“So?”

“Well, my hand hurts, ever since I climbed down from the crows nest about three hours ago, I think I got it tangled in the ropes as I slipped a little” You explained. Law nodded his head before he held his tattooed hands out.

You held your hand out for him, he gently took it in both of his, long nimble fingers moved over your digits, feeling different parts, he was surprisingly gentle, his hands warm and welcoming. You couldn’t help but stare as he expertly examined your aching hand. You felt your gaze drift from his hands, up his arms and towards his face. His expression was like nothing you’d ever seen on the warlord. Soft. The way his tired eyes looked over your hand, he seemed happy to help, in his true element.

If not for whatever plagued him in his past, would he have been happy just being a village doctor? He seemed at peace right now. You allowed yourself to smile, your heart beating faster for an entirely different reason then when you’d set foot into the doctor’s office.

His grey eyes met yours when he pressed a certain painful part of your hand and you yelped. He clicked his tongue pressed a little harder, flexing your hand in his grasp. You bit your lip and focused on where your hands met.

“Sprain”

“H-huh?”

“You sprained your hand” He pulled his hands away and you hated how your heart dropped at the loss of contact.

“Oh..”

Law pushed his chair out and stood up, walking around the doctor’s office and looking for things, opening a few draws. You did your best to stifle any laughter from watching the very tall man try navigating his way around storage designed for a very small reindeer. It was comical.

“Avoid using it wherever you can for starters” he explained pulling out a small box and returning to the desk. “Ice will help it; you should have come to me sooner about it but” yeah, he was a doctor alright you mused as he took your hand once more. “Ice for twenty minutes every two to three hours will help with the swelling, I’m going to bandage it up right now, a compression will help support your hand while it heals, I suggest elevating it as much as possible.”

You nodded along while watching him work on your hand, he did so much damage to people, you’d seen some of the things he was capable of, he was terrifyingly powerful. But the way he held your hand still, being firm but gentle was a side you didn’t think someone who’d swapped out people’s body parts and rearranged souls for what seemed like fun could ever be capable of.

“Come to me tomorrow morning and I can re-do it if needs be” you wished he’d hold your hand longer, but he moved to get something else, a little cup which held two pills.

“For the pain”

“Thank you” You watched him pour you a glass of water and handed it you, aiming for your good hand. You gulped the medication he’d given you and drinking the water to chase it down you let out a sigh.

Law simply nodded in response to your gratitude, saying nothing more as he got comfortable in his seat once more, taking a swig of his black coffee, no wounder the man never slept, you stood from your seat and excused yourself with a small ‘goodnight’ closing the door.

Walking along the deck, just the sound of waves lapping against the ship to keep you company. You turned the corner and pressed yourself against the wall, your newly bandaged hand laid over your heart as you stared out to sea, watching the moon shimmer across the dark surface of water. You felt your lip tremble.

The feeling you’d wanted all your life, the tight feeling in your chest, the fluttering of butterflies, all-encompassing feeling and desire to be by someone’s side. You were in love. You were in love with Trafalgar Law of all people, and you knew this wouldn’t end well for you.

You bit your lip, slowly sinking to your knees on the wooden deck of the ship. You could feel tears prick your eyes. This was going to hurt, worse then never knowing what it was like to long for someone.

[call-me-aesthetic]

If Twisted Wonderland was an American Public School; Part 2

Part 1 can be found here

School Staff

Dire Crowley:

- The principal with them LOUD footsteps that you can hear through the hallways, especially during a test

- Lowkey got a fatty, that dump truck be bouncing whenever he walks 😳

- Has his walkie-talkie in hand and turned on 24/7 to get ready to report on some kids

- If you hear keys jiggling, you know damn well he’s coming straight towards your ass for not being in class

- Wears a dress shirt and blazer that makes him look like a mess with coffee stained pants

Divus Crewel:

- The teacher that everyone thinks is hot, both students and the staff

- Looks hella young for his age but tells himself out loud that he’s old, which worries a lot of people

- Talks about his weekend during a lesson, the students don’t care enough to listen lmao

- Allows you to turn late work in, one of the many reasons why people love him

- Wears a polo shirt that isn’t buttoned up and them air tight khakis to show off that cake 🥵

Mozus Trein:

- The old ass teacher that hates kids but refuses to quit their job 😤

- Always sus of you no matter what you’re doing, even if it’s homework or a class project

- “Sorry I can’t accept this, you know it was supposed to be due yesterday.”

- Has the coldest room in the entire school since the AC is broken so he’ll remind you to brink a jacket

- Wears white T-shirts and a long ass cardigan with a tiny flip phone as an accessory, Karen looking ass

Ashton Vargas:

- Creepy gym teacher who hits on the popular kids, sorry about that people 🤢

- “You can’t participate because you have asthma? Well I’m gonna have to see your doctor’s note.”

- Would most definitely have a beer belly, like why don’t you run bitch?

- Probably has a crush on the principal, you always see them talk before and after school

- Wears hoodies or tank tops that are soaked in his sweat and baggy joggers

Sam:

- The chill substitute teacher who puts on a movie for y’all to watch 😌

- Doesn’t really give our work unless you start to get all noisy and rowdy with each other

- If he had other jobs like being a lunch lady, the food he serves would be garbage except for the square pizzas and chicken nuggets

- As the janitor tho, he’s either good at cleaning or the complete opposite, it really depends on his mood

- Wears jumpsuits based on which job he’s working, switches outfits pretty fast too

Ramshackle

Yuu:

- Both the school’s nurse and guidance counselor who doesn’t know what they’re doing or why they’re here in the first place

- Whenever you visit the office, they’re always on their lunch break or tells you that they’re busy

- “You have a bloody nose? Let me get you an ice pack for that.”

- Re-evaluates their career choices, literally got a degree to only sit around and do nothing all day 😭

- Wears clothes that make them look professional and a child at the same time

Grim:

- The class clown who tries to be funny 🤡

- Jokes around too much to the point where he doesn’t bother paying attention to class

- Asks for your notes and never giving it back to you unless you threaten to beat him up

- Cheats off of you during a test, doesn’t care if your answers are right or wrong, he just needs to put something down before the time runs out

- I’m not going to even bother writing what he’s gonna wear, he’s a literal cat my dudes

Rival School RSA

Chenya:

- Rich Boy that’s decked in designer’s clothes, makes you wonder if they’re fake or not

- Doesn’t really brag about it, just wears them because they comfy and looks good on him

- Despite him wears designer’s, he wears the “trash” brands for clout ig 🙄🤚

- Mans is out here walking around looking like an off brand version of 6ix9ine, sorry not sorry

- “Gucci flip flops, fuck it, hit your bitch in my socks. This a big watch, diamonds drippin off of the clock.”

Neige LeBlanche:

- Rich Girl, I swear there’s a difference between the other one just hear me out 😩

- The thing is that he actually brags about his expenses, either purposely or unintentionally but it really depends on who he’s talking to

- He probably has enough money to replace anything he broke, you know this since he gets the latest iPhone every year

- Watched movies like Mean Girls, Heathers, or Clueless and ultimately wanted to be like every character, you could definitely tell lol

- Wears “good” designers like Channel with a matching handbag and perfume

Thank you such much for your love and support! Especially @i-exist2spite-god, @leonakingscholarship, and @twstsimp for their funny suggestions I used in this.

I honestly didn’t expect the first one to blow up so quickly but if you want more similar to this, I might just rearrange that, ahaha.