#and it was such a balm to my soul

[songsofbloodandwater]

Witches, I'm going to need you all to learn to discern the type of source you're getting your information from, and what kind of biases are associated with it. Don't just gobble it up because it's a "historical source" or from some sort of anthropological source either.

Historical sources are great. But if the person you're taking as an authority to learn from, is someone originally from a different country and culture to the one you intend to learn, someone that talks about it in third person all the time, practically reading word for word from a christian missionary's manuscript about pre-christian traditions and beliefs, and a translation at that? because they admit that don't even speak the native language of that tradition or culture...?

They may be very well researched, on english sources at least. But I still wouldn't take them as a proper authority on the matter. They're speaking from what they've read from very biased sources. That's practically hearsay. They're not first hand experiences. Not even second-hand, because it's what an outsider to that culture saw, and very likely misinterpreted, because of their own cultural differences as an outsider, and then may even have altered some more because of their goal as a missionary. An here you come, modern reader, to try to interpret these older texts with your modern eyes, maybe even from a completely different culture to the first two involved aswell, making it a double or triple conundrum of time, culture and sociohistorical context, yet again. That is, without taking into account your own individual biases towards the text you're reading and what you expect to find, or do, for your own personal goals. Multiply all that for the amount of people standing between you, and that original first-hand account. You see the problem?

The least the author can do in such cases (because sometimes, that third-hand account really is all we have access to in the present) is 1) acknowledge how the sources they're using are biased, and 2) beware the reader on how those biases may have affected the material you're reading, to somehow be able to infer what the original would've looked like without that effect. You may want to take it a step further and consider your own sociocultural position, and how it could affect your personal interpretation upon reading it. If the author(s) don't even mention biases...? and even try to pass it all off as "certainty"...? 🚩🚩🚩

Take everything from that author with a mountain of salt. Consider it entertainment, maybe inspiration, anything except treating it as "professional" or "expert work"... as I see some people doing.

And always prioritize first-hand sources. Always. Prioritize. First. Hand. Sources. Talk to a native from that area, learn the language of the culture or tradition you're interested in, really immerse yourself in it, and you'll have an easier time spotting bullshit.

[hinamie]

Another blog noticed that Megumis scars are on the same position as Heian!Sukuna. And it's true! By that logic he should have scars under his armpits and on his belly (second arms and second mouth). You drawing it would be interesting

shoutout 2 megumi for making up fr all of yuuji's scars i no longer get to draw

[wildflowercryptid]

happy new years to everyone, but especially these two and their meddling dragons!

and a lil new years message is under the cut!

i wanna say thank you for the all the kindness i've received in the passing year from all of my beloved mutuals and followers. the fact that ya'll have stuck with me through all my fandom hopping and droughts in art uploads means a lot to me. it's been very encouraging to see how much people enjoy my work, along with all the sweet comments people leave in tags, and it really helps motivate me figure out how to do my art full-time. i have a lot i wanna do this year, ( like build my portfolio so i can finally pursue professional work, ) so i hope everyone will continue to support me going forward! 🥳✨

[rhysespuff]

Is this Love?

Hello guys! I’m so motivated to draw more stuff of these beautiful puppets even if I’m very short timed.

I drew a little comic because sometimes ideas of how Eddie or frank fell in love for each-other are buzzing around in my head. So I made one of these Ideas to a little comic!

I kinda like the way I drew frank here. They look so cute >v> want to give them a hug. Also I’m sorry that it isn’t in Color, I just didn’t got the time to Color it because my homework is oppressing me :(

But more Eddie and Frank. >:3 Drawing them helps me to relax and forget the stress a bit. (Still I hate to draw backgrounds especially trees or bushes)

What do you think. How did Eddie and Frank fell in love with each other?

I hope you all enjoy the post! And thank you all for your support! It makes me feel better when I’m insecure about my art so thank you all!!

Have a great day! 💖

[i-wish-i-were-softer]

Ozai can be the most terrible parent in the history of parenting but he didn't ignore azula's powers just because she was a girl.

[crym94]

Ok first of all I suck at making comics and they are hella hard for me to plan but I had this scene in mind since forever and I had to try something so yeah 👉👈

Overall I'm pretty happy and it was so much fun working on this and earned loads of serotonin so it was worth it in the end ✨

[inoreuct]

zosan caretaking fluff feat. hair washing, banter and very soft vibes. dinner is served.

Sanji sighed, sliding down until the back of his head pressed against the lip of the bathtub. The water was toeing the line between too hot and just right and he'd poured in enough lavender emulsion to coat it with dense, heady bubbles; they tickled his chin as he let his eyes slip shut.

It had been such a long day.

He'd been rudely woken up by the sound of a cannonball crashing through their hull, tossed out of his bunk a second later when the enemy ship rammed into their side; having to fight moments after being startled awake had already put him in a horrid mood, and then he'd realised that the galley had taken damage and he would have to restock more than half of everything he'd had in there. The fridge had lost power too so he'd had to cook all the meat that had thawed (which, to be fair, was never a problem with Luffy around) but then his whole crew had scattered during their supply run and he'd lugged a shit-ton of food back to the Sunny himself and now his brain was buzzing and his everything was aching and he was pretty sure he had gunpowder in his hair.

The steam filled his lungs when he breathed in, damp and dense and warm, settling heavy as he trailed his fingers through the milky water. His neck hurt from staring down at goods all day and he could feel the beginning of a tension headache behind his eyeballs. It was a small blessing that he had the bathroom to himself—

The door creaked open.

Goddammit. Sanji sucked down a fortifying breath before he looked up— and relaxed, because thankfully, the one possible person he might be able to tolerate at the moment was sliding inside with one arm behind his back.

Zoro pushed the door shut with his heel, loose pants wrapped low around his hips and hair already darkening from the humidity. "Hi."

"Hello, marimo," Sanji sighed, tilting his head to the side. He watched as Zoro trudged over and stuck his free hand into the water before yanking it back with a muffled hiss.

"That's hot."

"Nearly enough to boil a lobster," the cook agreed mildly, eyebrows flashing up as he turned his head to track Zoro pulling up a stool, lazy and languid. "Now did you need anything, or are you just here to kill off more of my brain cells?"

Zoro gave him a dry look.

A heavy exhale slipped from Sanji's nose before he reached behind him, fingers brushing Zoro's elbow and sliding down to take his hand. He spread the swordsman's fingers out, tracing over hard-earned callouses with featherlight swirls. "I'm sorry, mon chou," he sighed, letting his temple fall against Zoro's knuckles. "Just... tired, is all."

"I know." Zoro flipped his palm, rubbing a thumb over Sanji's cheekbone before pulling away. "Brought you something."

Sanji heard the sound of glass being picked up and nearly turned before he was presented with a dark, stout bottle, the labelling font reminiscent of chalk on a blackboard. "Pirate Blend," he read, huffing a chuckle. Fitting. "No glass?"

"As if you won't finish the whole thing."

He let out a faux-indignant gasp, reaching out to whack the back of his hand against Zoro's bare chest. "Ass."

"That was my tit, cook. Think the steam's getting to your head."

The laugh that peeled its way out of Sanji's throat was sticky with exhaustion, steeped through with lavender suds and underpinned by the ache in his muscles as he popped the cork with his teeth and took a swig. "...Where did you get this?"

"There was a tasting booth in the market. Thought you'd like this one."

"You thought right," Sanji admitted, lifting the bottle to his mouth again and letting the wine coat his tongue; a red by the taste of it, with a nearly savoury spiced vanilla and dark, syrupy cacao, a rich core of sweet berry, an almost silky hint of dry tannin. He held out the bottle, but Zoro shook his head with a soft quirk of his mouth.

"Got it for you, swirly."

The cook smirked. "Suit yourself. So that's where you ran off to while poor little me was stuck doing all the heavy lifting," he lamented, sighing and emphasising it with an exaggerated sip.

"Not just that."

He heard twine sliding across waxed paper, packaging rustling as it was unfolded—

The water sloshed as Sanji set his bottle down and turned around, holding onto the edge of the tub as Zoro pulled the last bit of paper away to reveal the set of soaps in his lap.

The cook's breath caught. Each of the five bars clearly had a different scent, and a design to match; the one with green and cream swirls was matcha, surely, and the translucent one with rose petals was obviously rose. One more was oat and honey, and the one with a herb sprig on top was definitely rosemary mint— But the last one was plain brown, mild enough that his nose couldn't pick out what it was supposed to be. "Marimo."

"Hm?"

"How much did these cost?"

Zoro shot him a smug grin. "Just a couple of logs that needed chopping... And some charm."

"You." The cook blinked, stretching out like a cat to rest his chin on his hands, lips twitching as he tried to hide his awed smile. "Charm."

"Oi! I can be charming when I want to be!" The swordsman scowled at Sanji's fond, disbelieving scoff. "I charmed you, didn't I?"

"Yes, well—" Sanji felt a little breathless, buoyant, like if he let go of the tub he'd float with no effort at all. "Yes, I suppose you did." He held still, heart fluttering in the hollow of his throat as Zoro's face softened, leaning forward to poke at something in his hair.

"You've got gunpowder in your bangs."

"I— Ugh, I know!" he complained, rolling over with a dramatic sigh.

"Well, hurry up and pick one, then!"

"Pick one?" Sanji lurched up again, bubbles sloshing everywhere, eyes flicking between Zoro and the soaps. "I can't just pick one, they all smell so good and they're too pretty to—"

"Oh, for the love of— Curly, can you just pick one and let me wash your hair?" Zoro deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest and completely oblivious to the way he'd just made Sanji's entire system freeze, the inconsiderate moss-headed bastard.

If a cannonball crashed into their ship again, Sanji wouldn't have noticed. If the Sunny was sinking, he wouldn't have cared. He was much too preoccupied with staring at the man sitting in front of him, skin flushed with the warmth, green hair mussed as it always was, soaps that he'd bought for Sanji on a whim in his lap. The cook's fingers dug into the edge of the tub and gripped until ceramic squeaked. Zoro wanted to wash his hair.

Zoro's throat bobbed as he swallowed, clearly fighting the urge to look away. "Look, if you don't want—"

"No!" Sanji yelped, startling himself enough that he nearly clapped his hands over his own mouth. "No, I— This one," he breathed, reaching for the plain brown bar and pressing it into Zoro's palm. "This one." He knew that he probably looked nearly shocked, eyes so wide it must have been unsettling, but his chest ached something fierce when he breathed in deep down all the way to his gut and he couldn't help it. His water must have been getting cold by now but he didn't feel it at all.

Zoro's lashes fluttered as he shifted in his seat, carefully wrapping the rest of the soaps up and placing them aside. "Okay, then. Turn around."

Sanji flipped, sitting still as Zoro gently pulled the tie from his hair and slipped it around his own wrist, holding back a shiver when calloused hands cupped his face to guide him nearer the running tap. The water seemed warm, but not warmer than Zoro himself; the swordsman always seemed to run ridiculously hot and Sanji—

"Relax," Zoro murmured, his hand broad and steady against the back of Sanji's head. "I've got you, cook. Lean back."

And Sanji was slowly coming to realise that he was loathe to deny Zoro anything, so he did. He let his weight sink back against Zoro's hand, trusting the swordsman to hold him up, letting his eyes close as Zoro carefully poured water over his scalp until his curls were soaked. He didn't open them even as he was pushed back up, settling comfortably in the tub as Zoro lathered the soap in his hands. What remaining suds left in the tub lapped at his collarbones; the water was a soothing pressure all around his torso, and he didn't bother hiding his soft sigh when Zoro's fingers slid into his hair.

"S'getting long." Firm fingertips started scrubbing at his scalp, kneading into spots of tension Sanji didn't even know he had. "You gonna cut it?"

"Mm? No," he sighed, shuddering when Zoro dragged his thumbs up from his nape. "Think I w'na grow it out."

Zoro hummed at that, tipping the cook's head to the side. "You'll look pretty."

"I know I will. And you'll tell me every day."

"Oh, will I, now?"

"Mhm."

The swordsman scoffed without any bite, doing something with his fingers that made Sanji melt. "You're so cocky."

"Mhm," Sanji mumbled again, not even bothering to find out what he was agreeing to. He had better things to focus on. "Just... keep doing that."

He heard Zoro chuckle and then pretty much zoned out completely, tension bleeding from his muscles, letting Zoro move his head this way and that. His bathwater was tepid at this point; he didn't care. Zoro's hands were big and warm and as the bubbles drifted down to his shoulders, he finally realised what this bar was scented with.

Sandalwood suffused his senses, a deep creamy sweetness with an undercurrent of leather and earth. With what little wherewithal he had left, Sanji decided that it suited Zoro more than it did him. Maybe he'd try to convince the mosshead to take it for himself. A few kisses should be bribery enough. Fingertips dug beneath the bones just behind his ears, working until the ache dissipated, and Sanji felt his shoulders slump because God, that felt good.

He didn't know how long he sat there, drifting blissfully between sleep and Zoro's fingers scrubbing at his crown, gingerly detangling his hair, but if you had to ask him his answer would be not long enough. His eyes fluttered open when Zoro tapped his cheek, and he squinted at the light. "Wh—"

"Wake up, baby. Gotta rinse."

The pet name made something tucked inside his ribcage pull tight like a gasp, but Sanji just closed his eyes again. "Just a while longer..."

Zoro chuckled as Sanji's head lolled in his palm. "We should get you to bed."

"Noooooo." Was he whining? This was ridiculous. He really didn't care.

"You're a spoiled prince," Zoro said matter-of-factly.

"Your fault." Sanji discreetly cracked one eye open to gauge the swordsman's reaction and immediately closed it when he saw Zoro's expression, sucking in a hitched breath.

That was enough devotion in a glance to kill a man, and it tore through Sanji like a fucking bullet. Right through the ribs, in and out faster than he could stop it, so quick that he didn't even realise until his love was bleeding out of him, all over his hands, filling his mouth, colouring his teeth, honeyed at the back of his throat and finally he'd be able to see how much of it his heart held. He didn't mind. He didn't think he ever would, actually; he'd fill this bathtub with red if it meant that Zoro would see. If it meant that he would understand how every time he looked at Sanji like that it felt like he had Sanji's heart in his fist, his lungs in a vice, his goddamn life under his thumb.

Sanji had come to terms with it long ago. He put his soul in these battle-scarred hands every day and he trusted them to be gentle because he knew that they could, they would be, for him. Even now, Zoro took his weight easily, one palm at his nape and the other stopping suds from getting into his eyes and it meant far too much for something so simple, but that was just how it worked, wasn't it?

The cook swallowed hard, allowing himself one more moment before pushing up so Zoro wouldn't accidentally waterboard him. It would possibly be hilarious but he might also very possibly just die, considering how low his guard was. The thought made him laugh a little, strained with how his head was tipped back; he saw Zoro give him a weird look upside-down and decided that he was either more tired than he'd thought or he'd had more of the wine than he'd realised.

Zoro rinsed his hair quickly, but he was no less meticulous than he had been at the beginning. It was something that Sanji had refused to admit he admired at first, that single-minded intensity regarding the things Zoro cared about, and oh, wasn't that a thought? That he belonged within that distinction now. Sanji pulled his knees to his chest when the swordsman leaned over to grab the towel he had set out, scrunching the cook's hair dry as best he could and then dropping the fluffy white cloth over his head just to make him laugh.

The bottle of wine was relatively full when Sanji picked it up, holding it up to the light as Zoro dried his hair. "Guess I didn't finish it after all."

"Yeah, well." Zoro shrugged as he took it from him to put aside and tugged gently on a stray curl. "Nobody's gonna want it now that it has your spit in it."

Sanji scoffed. "You'd still drink it. You'd drink any booze."

"...Yeah, I would."

Zoro's eyes were a soft grey as he stood up. Sanji had a feeling that he could have left out the second part of that statement and the answer would still be the same.

He let Zoro pull him up out of the tub, wrap him in the towel and hold open the pair of briefs he'd left for him to step into. He held his arms up as Zoro pulled his soft sleep shirt over his head, brazen as if he didn't know full well the shirt was Zoro's to begin with. If it were any other time he might have protested against being helped to dress like a child— but for now he'd just refuse to admit that he enjoyed it, enjoyed being cared for, even in minute ways like this. Plausible deniability and all that.

Sanji didn't resist as the swordsman took his hand, leading him back to the men's quarters and tugging the covers up for him, patting them into place around his shoulders as he settled. The bed dipped by his hip where Zoro sat, and Sanji sighed as his damp bangs were brushed away from his face. Zoro liked seeing both his eyes, he'd noticed. Maybe he'd start wearing his hair back more often.

"Goodnight, cook," Zoro whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Sanji's temple.

Sanji's brain was full of cotton and sandalwood suds. He squeezed over underneath the blankets, cupping Zoro's face in his palms. "Stay."

The swordsman laughed under his breath. "Haven't showered."

Sanji considered letting him in anyway, but yep, nope, guess his brain wasn't that full of cotton. "Make it quick," he ordered, the effect broken by the massive yawn that interrupted his last word. Pulling Zoro down for a proper kiss was easier than breathing, the press of their lips just enough to wrap warmth over his skin like a blanket. "And use the soap from just now."

Zoro huffed at the words murmured against his mouth. "Spoiled."

"Your fault," Sanji yawned again, jabbing a finger into Zoro's chest before waving him away.

He heard his boyfriend's rumble of a laugh, smiled into his pillow as Zoro's acquiescence was brushed over his cheek, before the lamp was turned down and the door opened and shut. He'd been serious about Zoro being quick; they both slept better when they shared a bunk, and today had been more than enough of a shitshow for them to have earned a good night's rest.

Sanji snuggled down, fully intent on waiting.

He was asleep between one breath and the next.

(And if he woke briefly to curl closer when Zoro slid half-asleep into bed behind him, clean and warm and smelling of sandalwood, well. Neither of them would remember it in the morning.)

thank you for reading! part 2 where sanji takes care of zoro is already in the works, so keep your eyes peeled if you're interested :)

[percicosoftcore]

‘I'm on top of you, I don't wanna go

'Cause I really wanna stay at your house

And I hope this works out’

percy’s always up to sharing his clothes with his nico. art made by my dearest @lovermyme 🤍 friends, go check their artwork out! i’m absolutely in love with how this turned out. 🥹

[s-aint-elmo]

today i offer you screenshots of my favourite war veterans from my defunct laptop. tomorrow? who knows

(id in alt text)

[nextstopwonderland]

Brie and Bryan are doing a sauna giveaway and we get blessed with these photos too

[powderblueblood]

I know this has been done a million and one times, but Eddie just vibing at the gas station. Something inevitably goes wrong. Please and thanks dear Powder

jo my love i present to you 1k+ words of eddie munson's no good very bad wednesday night no warnings! just silly. and acab includes hopper

So it's eight thirty on a Wednesday night, the very armpit of the week, and Eddie's standing there under the glare of the gas station fluorescents. Right in the heart of the snack aisle.

"What's become apparent to me, Sam, is-is-is-is that it's fear. It's the iron claw of the bonds of being a scaredy-cat little bitch that has stunted me fundamentally."

Loaded. So stoned he's stalagmite.

"See, I'm a capable guy. Many capes have I, but it's like, I've finally mastered the fuck-you-chip-on-my-shoulder adolescent thing that I'm reluctant to let it go. I'm skirting around putting on my big boy pants. I'm failing my courses. I'm dumbing myself down to stick around high school, seemingly, on purpose. Because I'm afraid!"

Eddie's pouring his heart out to the narcoleptic octogenarian cashier, the guy that likely built this place out of shiplap and bullet casings way back when it was a horseshit stop for Buffalo Bill's Wild West Freak Show or whoever.

"And I know what you're thinking." Sam isn't thinking anything. Sam's sleeping with his eyes wide open. "Why not really, grr, take root with that family tree, huh? Drop out like my old man and my uncle did? Well, I'll tell ya--"

Eddie wonders, in the middle of his own sentence, what it'd be like to hitch his wagon to an operation like that and coast solely on being a moorless weirdo.

He's really stoned, okay?

"--high school is easy to fail in. Real life? Isn't."

And look, before you get all, he's got good reason. It's been a particular drag of a week, a real sandpaper to the balls kind of kick off. Corroded Coffin's Tuesday night engagement at the Hideout was a special kind of bust--not least of all because the slapdash stage finally gave way under all that threatening creaking, and almost took Jeff's neck with it.

The neck of his bass and his human body. Neither of which Jeff's ass is in any position to fix.

So Eddie's got a band that's bruised and barely in the pocket, and a mouth that won't stop running.

“WSQK 94.5, The Squawk!” Eddie echoes the radio, complete with eagle screech, as the opening chords of Renegade by Ted Nugent & the Amboy Dukes pick up. "Hawk-ening right back to a time when Ted Nugent hadn't yet sold all his actual guitaristry to that pissant Wango Tango-ing... You know what, man, this is it!"

His ringed hands come down on the counter all a-clatter, chip crumbs flying out the bag he hasn't quite paid for yet.

"Lock me in a room full of records under a radio tower and throw away the key, I mean, I would be good to fucking go. None of that shock-jock shit, either. I'd play nothing but real music. The Hawkins Midnight Rambler, huh?" But Sam isn't paying sufficient enough attention. "Think I got a face for radio, Sammy?" Because he's asleep.

It takes a couple of molasses-slow moments for Eddie to register this, he himself still working through his own big sluggishness. I mean, damn, even waving a hand in front of the old man's face is an effort.

He's out, though, like a light. Makes Eddie wonder how this place stays open, much less unrobbed.

Well. Careful what you wish for there, buddy.

His hand is slinking toward a Three Musketeers, ready to nab it from the shelf right under old Sam's nose and write him a little IOU for whenever he next has the cash, but Eddie senses a shuffling behind him.

"Put your fuckin' hands in the air!"

Oh? "Dude, what?"

There's this guy behind him, this guy whose corporeal form Eddie can't be a bajillion percent sure isn't, like, a vivid hallucination, with pantyhose tugged over his face. Poking a pistol around under the cover of his camo jacket. The whole bit.

"Put your hands in the air or I put a hole through ya, asshole! You too, old man!"

Eddie tuts, hands still very much hovering near that candy bar.

"What's the fucking hold up, you and your grandpa tryin' to get shot or somethin?!" this very serious masked assailant demands.

"He's asleep, guy," Eddie says. "He can't hear you."

"What?!" our villain splutters, "Well... wake the fuck up! I ain't got all day and I want what's in that reg--"

He goes to point his still-concealed fuckin' sharp shooter or whatever it is he has at Sam's face, and Eddie, with this strange surge of protectiveness and complete buffoonery, nudges his arm away.

"Don't! Number one, dude's a narcoleptic, you could give him a heart attack if you just woke him up like that--number two, I saw him pull a sawed off from under that counter one time and you're in way closer range so the hole he blows through you is gonna be, like, way bigger and... like, he'll kill you and shit. Be cool."

The would-be thief groans. Oh, god, Eddie just knows he thought this hit job would be way easier. In and out, quick and dirty, wham-bam-thank you Sam.

Eddie nearly laughs. He does laugh, actually, because he's still super-mega fucking high and can't exactly control the noises that come out of his mouth, so next thing the dude is rounding on him with the thing in his pocket. Eddie actually puts his hands up this time. Feels a cold shock go through him somewhere that he really hopes isn't piss.

You ever get that? Get so stoned you constantly think you're peeing yourself? Anyway.

"Get the fuck behind the counter! If the old man can't open the register for me, you're gonna do it!"

"But I don't know how." Liar. Lying ass. Eddie knows how to work a goddamn register. It's not like he's tucking that money from the Hideout straight into his garter belt. Though he could. Maybe he should. Maybe he should buy a garter b--

"I'm gonna tell you how, dickhead!"

"What's in it for me?"

"Is that a fucking joke, wise guy?"

Only kinda. Closed mouths never get fed. "Worth a shot."

But Eddie doesn't really love this dude's tone, so he obediently scoots behind the counter, and almost gets distracted by all the copies of Penthouse Sam is keeping back here. He knew the bastard was holding out on him.

"Um..." Eddie gingerly starts, hands just sort of floating in the direction of the register in a way he hopes to Christ won't disturb Sam and wake him into a world of cardiac calamity.

So the guy tells him what buttons to push, clearly a man of the trade, a fellow familiar with wiling countless hours away behind a counter, which makes Eddie be all, why don't you steal from your own job, you shyster and keeps hitting the wrong buttons on purpose.

But dear old Sammy must have this thing rigged to make Eddie look like an asshole, because out pops the fucking drawer anyhow!

This guy, the pantyhose head, the robber, lets out an honest-to-god yippee! as he reaches over to snatch that cash.

And Eddie, working solely on instinct at this point, narrows his lovely red-rimmed eyes and shoves the drawer right in on the unlucky fuck's fingers.

He screams. And Eddie screams. And something falls out of his pocket. And Eddie leans over the counter, expecting to see and hear the shiny clatter of a pistol hit the lino.

But there is no such hardware.

It was a banana in his pocket. He was not happy to see you.

"What the fuck, man!" they chorus in near unison. They could have been brothers in another life, says some disembodied voice in the back of Eddie's head.

But then, something yellow flies towards Eddie's face and the shock of it knocks him right back into the lotto tickets and cigarettes. Thunk! His head knocks far too hard against the fire extinguisher and now there's two unconscious guys behind the counter.

Now, I don't know if you've ever had a banana thrown in your face by a masked assailant before, but I would call that something of an overreaction.

Anyway, he wakes up to police sirens and that Callaghan dweeb hauling him up by the front of his Hellfire shirt.

"Sshsjesus, Officer Handsy, buy a guy dinner first," Eddie slurs, head pounding. Callaghan's dorky Buddy Holly glasses have an aura around them that he unconsciously tries to swat away.

"He's resisting arrest!" Callaghan yells.

"Keep it down, I have a headache!" Eddie blinks once, twice, twenty-million times and is still having a tough time taking stock of his surroundings. Cash drawer's open and empty, and Sam is nowhere to be seen. "Didja catch the guy or what? He had a banana gun. Threw it right at me."

"Pipe down. Edward Munson, you're under arrest for armed robbery--"

"--wait, hold on--"

"--endangering the elderly--"

"--hold the fuck on!"

"--and swearing at a police officer!" Callaghan clicks the cuffs on and Eddie's about to burst, he's so mad and his head is pounding with such a fury. Shuffling him out into the forecourt and into the squad car like some kind of penguin idiot!

"That last thing isn't even real!" he spits, "None of this is real--I was trying t--fuck, did you not hear me about the banana gun?!"

"Reminds me to drug test him when we get back to the station," Callaghan puffs as he slides into the passenger seat.

"No one's drug testing anybody," Chief Hopper grumbles from behind the wheel. "We don't even have those facilities. Plus, kid doesn't even have any of that stolen cash on him."

"Thank you!" Eddie barks from his seat in the back. He can't really seem to sit upright, and he doesn't know whether to contribute that to the lump that's risen on the back of his head or the drugs that are definitely still in his system.

"W--well, why are we arresting him, then?" Callaghan blubs. Which is actually a salient point.

The Chief shrugs. "I'unno. Wednesday night. Somethin' to do."

[eddiespornstache]

i’m just excited for hot priest to get a name tbh

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

This is the best thing I’ve seen all day

Welcome back Aegor Rivers 👏 i love your new look! the blue hair is to die for

Young Griff who? idk who that is but he’s not cool enough to stand with Jon and Dany so this feels right

[ladyofrings]

A Dance in Shadows and Light

What can i say i am just kinda obsessed with Halbrand/Annatar and therefore i shamelessly indulge myself with some writings about him and my OC. ❤️ It is really just this, and nothing more, all neatly aligned here on Tumblr for me to find, whenever I am in need of reading them. Previous one:

-> A glance across the Hall -> A Glimpse of something More

The evening sky over Númenor bled into twilight, streaked with hues of gold and purple, as the sun dipped beneath the edge of the horizon. The city of Armenelos shimmered with life, alive with a hum of music, laughter, and voices that seemed to rise and fall like a tide. The festivities had drawn souls from every corner of the island, and the streets pulsed with energy, the kind that could make one feel both lost and found all at once.

Lothien slipped through the throng with a grace that turned heads, her dark hair flowing down her back, a silken ribbon woven through the strands—a small, elegant touch that marked the occasion. Her gown, a deep, rich green, hugged her form, its intricate embroidery catching the lantern light as she moved. There was a quiet confidence in her step, the sort that had always drawn admiration, but tonight, the admiring glances of the revelers were like whispers against the wind, barely noticed, save for one.

His gaze was different. Halbrand’s dark eyes followed her, heavy and unyielding, as he stood near the edge of a fountain, leaning back with that familiar, lazy smirk. The way he watched her was not like the others, not the casual appreciation of beauty. His stare was a claim, a slow-burning fire that sent a shiver down Lothien’s spine. She could feel it, even without looking at him, as if he had lassoed her heart with an invisible thread, tugging her closer, winding tighter.

It was only a matter of time before he made his way toward her. His steps were unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world, yet there was something deliberate in his approach, a quiet resolve. The festivities continued around them, a whirl of color and sound, but for Lothien, it all faded, becoming nothing more than a hazy backdrop to the man who now stood before her, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice warm and low as he leaned in, close enough for her to catch the scent of the sea on his skin. “You look breathtaking tonight.”

The words brushed against her ear, sending a thrill through her that she tried, and failed, to ignore. She turned her head, meeting his gaze, and the intensity of it made her pulse stutter. Compliments were not new to her; she’d been admired plenty, but Halbrand’s words had a way of sinking deeper, laced with an edge of teasing that made her feel as though he was peeling back her layers, one by one, savoring each discovery.

“I’m not the only one drawing attention,” she said, her voice steadier than her racing heart. “You seem quite at home here.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound, and moved a fraction closer, his fingers ghosting along the back of her arm. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt through her, sharp and undeniable. “Oh, I don’t care about their attention,” he said, lips brushing the shell of her ear, voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s yours that I want.”

Her breath caught, the words winding through her like a coil tightening, and she fought the urge to step back, to look away. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how easily he could unsettle her. Instead, she kept her gaze forward, watching the dancers whirl under the lanterns, but her focus was entirely on him, on the warmth of his breath against her skin, on the way his voice curled around her, dark and smooth as silk.

“You’re impossible,” she said, her tone caught somewhere between amusement and something she wasn’t ready to name.

“Impossible?” He feigned offense, though the mischief in his eyes belied his tone. “I think you mean irresistible.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips despite herself. “What are you trying to do, Halbrand?”

“Just admiring the view,” he replied, his voice a shade lower, a shade darker. His hand found its way to her waist, resting there lightly, but the grip tightened, just enough for her to feel it, enough to send a warm, liquid heat pooling in her belly. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, “You know I love it when you blush.”

The warmth bloomed across her cheeks, immediate and unbidden, and she cursed herself silently for how easily he could draw it out of her. Her pulse quickened, and she knew he could feel it, knew he was reveling in the way she struggled to keep her composure. But there was no hiding it, not with his eyes on her, gleaming with a quiet triumph.

“Halbrand…” she began, trying to find the words to push him back, to regain her footing, but her voice faltered as his fingers traced a slow, languid path along her side, barely there, but enough to send shivers cascading down her spine.

“Yes?” His voice was a velvet murmur, drenched in wicked amusement. He was enjoying this, far too much.

“You shouldn’t—” she tried again, but the words dissolved into a sharp intake of breath as his lips brushed the sensitive skin just below her ear, feather-light and yet enough to make her heart stutter, her thoughts scatter.

“I shouldn’t what?” he said, his lips barely a whisper against her skin. “Tease you? Fluster you?” His mouth moved, a touch softer than a breath, but she could feel every word, every syllable, like a brand searing her skin. “Or make you want something you’re not quite ready to admit?”

Her heart hammered in her chest, the air between them thick and charged, and she could feel the words tangling in her throat, the unspoken desires she had tried so hard to bury rising to the surface. She leaned into him, her fingers curling against the fabric of her gown, holding on to something, anything, to keep from unraveling completely.

“I see it in your eyes, Lothien,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, his lips so close she could feel them without quite touching. “The way you want me to keep going, to push just a little more.”

Her breath hitched, and she could feel the heat spreading across her cheeks, her body betraying her as the cool evening air settled around them. She turned her head, just enough to meet his gaze, to see the dark, sharp glint in his eyes. And in that moment, she knew he could see everything, every flicker of emotion she had tried to keep hidden, laid bare before him.

His smile was slow, almost smug, a knowing curve of his lips that said he had won something, even if she couldn’t quite name what it was. “I knew it.”

“You’re insufferable,” she managed, but the words were breathless, lacking the sharpness she intended.

His chuckle was low, rich, and he pulled back just enough to catch her gaze fully, his eyes dark and gleaming. “But you like it.”

She opened her mouth to argue, to say something, anything, but the words caught, tangled up in the way he was looking at her. There was an intensity there, a focus that made her feel as though the world had shrunk to just this, just him, just them. And it made her knees feel weak, made her want to hate how easily he could unravel her, but she couldn’t. Because she did like it, more than she should, and that terrified her as much as it thrilled her.

Before she could find the words, the music swelled around them, drums beating a rhythm that made the air feel alive, and the crowd began to move, dancers twirling in a blur of color and light.

Halbrand’s hand slipped into hers, his fingers curling around hers with a firm, steady grip, and without a word, he tugged her forward, pulling her into the heart of the celebration. “Come,” he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

She followed, her heart pounding as they moved into the circle of dancers. The music rose around them, the air thrumming with energy, but all she could focus on was Halbrand, the feel of his hand in hers, strong and warm, anchoring her even as everything around them seemed to spin and blur.

They danced, their movements fluid, but the teasing tension never faded. Every step, every brush of their hands, every glance was charged, crackling with an unspoken promise, a desire that simmered beneath the surface. And all the while, his eyes never left hers, dark and intense, filled with a promise that made her breath quicken, her pulse race.

As the music slowed, Lothien found herself breathless, her cheeks flushed, not just from the dance, but from the way Halbrand held her, his hand firm at the small of her back, keeping her close.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear once more, his voice low and teasing. “I think I won this round, don’t you?”

Lothien smiled, despite herself, despite everything. “Perhaps.”

Halbrand’s grin was quick, a flash of white teeth, and his thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand, a touch so gentle it was almost tender. “But I have a feeling you’ll let me win the next one, too.”

[sadlynotthevoid]

Whenever I feel like I need more Og!Cake fluff, I go to Enstars and gaslight myself into believing Og!Cake is actually somewhere there fr. That's why Hiyori reminds me so much of him, because they're pals, duh.

[cloudyfacewithjam]

Eoin McGonigal (Dónal Finn) in SAS: Rogue Heroes Season 1 Episode 1