#hence the dry spell

[eorzeashan]

still having brainrot over Eight and Lana's own commander-and-outlander relationship bc i can't fucking sleep and have to make flop posts, but the day before he leaves is the day they sit down with one another atop his ship, watching the sunrise. (I guess this counts as a WIP whenever but I've slacked so hard this month I don't even remember how or what i've been tagged in...OTL)

they've both been made aware of one another. Lana's incomparably guilty. Eight looks at her and sighs.

"Be proud, Lana Beniko. Yours is the shield that our enemies dashed themselves on, that guaranteed a new future for all those you held dear. If you're at a loss for what to say to me: don't. No other would go so far. That is why we won."

For once in her life, Lana finds no speeches at the tip of her tongue, no ready-made phrasing that does just enough; she merely stares at her friend, (her hand), and stammers.

"I... don't know what to say. Eight, I..."

"I just told you not to." The spy feigns irritation with a roll of his eyes, then cracks a smile at her, faint and fleeting as the breaking dawn. "Neither of us were very good at listening to each other, were we."

An awkward silence descends on them. Lana is visibly discomforted, now made aware of the exact implications of such a statement. Eight had bent over backwards to follow her sense of right and wrong. Eight had devoted everything to heeding her call. She hadn't even known his reasons for doing so until the very end, blinded by her own eagerness to be saved. Her gloved hands grip the edge of their perch, white-knuckling them beneath the leather.

And she'd been none the wiser until she awoke one day to a slightly panicked holocall from base saying Eight was gone.

He'd fled. Deserted. In the traitor Theron's words, as he put it with uncharacteristic gravity to his features, "was it any surprise that he ran away? you used him-- and now he wants nothing to do with you or the Alliance. It's over."

The betrayal had stung almost as much as the revelation. They'd made up by now, but...

"Lana." Eight's voice pulls her out of her morose reverie, clear and lucid as day. His eyes lock with hers, piercing right into her soul. Lana's breath hitches, and his next words punch the air right out of her chest, like a battered hole in a damaged dreadnaught in the vacuum of space.

"Stop it. I know that look. Stop punishing yourself."

He grips her by the shoulders, shockingly earnest for a spy who concealed all emotion. Lana opens her mouth to speak, but instead of words coming forth- something unfathomable flows into her across the bridge of physical and mental contact, whisking her away on the tides of fate.

[emilyelizabethfowl]

its first resistant

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pomaderris_rugosa

it is now an hour and an uncountable amount of plant-related websites since i saw this ask and i have come to the conclusion that there are only four possible options here

you sent an ask to the wrong blog

you just called me a steaming heap of shit

you greatly overestimated my intelligence

you just meant "Frost" which still gives me nothing

more than one option could be correct :3

[erosiism]

GAP MOE | YANDERE DUKE X M!READER

prompt: in which the reader is isekai’d to a novel where he’s supposed to be cannon fodder, but his supposed murderous husband is sweet, doting, and loving. the worst case of gap moe.

character(s): duke (altair), you

warnings(s): none [except the chance that i might have used the term wrongly lol still an enjoyable read, i promise]

note(s): male reader, second person, present tense, not beta read, will probably have a part two

other(s): alternative title: help, i got transmigrated as cannon fodder and now i am the murderous duke’s husband | meaning of gap moe: affection born of inconsistency between different aspects of the character

So, you’ve been isekai’d to a novel. A novel where the Grand Duke is supposed to kill you. He hits every cliche: Altair Ornaria is red eyed, black haired, and he has the smoldering, sharp kind of beauty that you only see in Dukes. The Northern Duke, to be exact.

The situation isn’t looking good. As far as you know, you’ve been isekai’d into a novel called The Villianess’s Revenge, where you are a plot point. Canon fodder. Where you’re the background character who happens to die in an event that the main character will shine. And specifically: you’ll die by your husband’s hands.

You like to think that you could’ve avoided your fate, but it’s bad, because you woke up to wedding preparations—the first time you open your eyes in a foreign world, there’s a burst of chatter and activity in a luxurious room, and you see white everywhere. Memories of your past life whizz past you in a frantic blur and your head is still muddled: oh, right. You got hit by a truck. Memories of the novel follows, and you can only blink as you realize the stupid coincidence that you share the same name as the character you had possessed.

Your fate remains: you’re  getting married.

To the Grand Duke of…the Northern Kingdom.

Admittedly, you don’t know how to feel. There’s the obvious fear that you’ll be walking right to death’s door, but again, you don’t exactly die during the wedding. You only die months after that. So you don’t really need to worry about anything yet right? The Duke will be cold towards you, but it doesn’t matter: he’s a stranger to you, too, and you plan on kissing him for as little as you can.

 And, you think, it certainly didn’t help it that the Grand Duke is devastatingly handsome. You can see his looks working its spell on you—you can see yourself simpering, your eyes going wide eyed. You’re trying to steel yourself. You’re trying to make yourself immune to Altair’s beauty.��

Fast forward: you’re walking down the aisle, aghast at the sight of your weeping mother and your crying father who just look so proud of you. They seem like decent parents, which is…strange. So—

—Oh. The [Name] in the original story did have three lines of description. One, that he was a spoiled brat, pampered by his parents, and two, he has a fucking crush on the Grand Duke. Hence a strategic alliance placed confidently for [Name] to get his wish.

…Asshole, you think. The veil is covering your face and you’re dressed in a white suit adorned with flowers. You can feel your throat dry up, all the moistness leaving your lips and instead churning down your throat. You wrinkle your nose, before you try to swallow down profanities. The music behind you almost seems taunting.

You stop in front of the groom.

Standing there in all his resplendent glory is none other than your soon to be husband, whose face is unreadable. You can’t see him, only smudges and smears. After all, the veil is covering his face—but gloom settles in you.

He’s going to be disappointed, you think glumly. His face seems vaguely familiar, probably because you do know how he looks, tangentially, but your thoughts are a hot mess right now. You can’t find the power within you to place a finger on it: so instead of bothering over it, you stand in front of the Duke in trepidation.

The Duke slowly lifts up the veil — gently and slowly, and you can swear emotion flits across his face as he gazes at you. You blink owlishly at him, at a loss of words. This is their first time meeting, and you two are about to lock lips. Or perhaps lock lips is an exaggeration—it will be nothing but a useless peck. But thankfully, though indiscernible, his face not one of disappointment.

Almost..fond? You think, then there is belated horror: wait, what? 

You ignore that. And then when your thoughts subside, you realize how ridiculously hot he is. 

“[Name],” he whispers, Altair, the cold, heartless, murderer of a Duke whispers, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s not even the expression on his face that knocks the wind out of your chest: it’s the way he calls out your name. Carefully, like he’s savoring the taste of the name on his tongue, like deja vu. But then again, perhaps it helps that you have read this scene. And the scene, though very—different—is unfolding in front of your very eyes.

This is your murderer, you think, don’t look at his face, [Name]!

You start to lower your head meekly, but Altair tips your head back up.

“How,” there is a teasing tone to his voice—teasing, like this is so funny to him—“how, do you expect me to kiss you?”

Your jaw drops. Then it closes. You are well aware of the blush around your cheeks that has betrayed you. 

.

.

What?

.

.

Seriously, is he programmed wrong? Why is Altair OOC? You coined enough fanfiction terms to label everything wrong with this. There’s a proper term for this, but you can’t seem to remember it. You do notice the way that Altair glowers at everyone else, before his expression smoothens when he faces you.

You close your eyes to give out a sigh. You forget this is a marriage. So you forget what happens when you get married.

A kiss.

You startle when you feel lips—firm but soft at the same time, pressing against your own. It’s tender, sweet, loving, and you practically melt against it. When you break away, the taste of Altair’s—your husband’s lips still linger on your own.

This defies all the rumors about the Duke, who supposedly was a cold hearted bastard who killed his advisors for speaking out of turn. No, this man is tender and gentle, and his delicate touch is nothing short of sweet. 

Before you can retort, or before your lagging brain can even comprehend this—the guests burst into cheers. You just feel numb as Altair guides you slowly down the aisle, ready to board the carriage into the manor. Mansion. Whatever. Your new home.

Your…

Altair presses a kiss to your forehead before he whispers in your ear. “I cannot wait for our wedding night, Y/n.”

You freeze.

The term starts to arise in your head.

Gap Moe, you think, this is fucking gap moe.

likes/reblogs would be so appreciated! and so will comments :) don’t mind me haha im tryna figure tumblr’s algorithm out which might explain my varied content || this oneshot will probably have a part two or three because there’s actually a reason behind everything. I’ll see how this does first

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 .

# with eustass kid.

absence makes the heart grow fonder. in kid's case, it all but made his cock grow harder; more famished. rest assured, he’d have his cum spell his name on your insides soon enough.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day fourteen. smut (mdni!). breeding kink. cockwarming. dry humping. nipple sucking. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2k.

eustass kid was a man of restless character, molten fire etched on his soul; an ever-eternal burn that thrummed with every beat of his heart. he was insatiable, starved — for prestige; power; respect. certain loss had led him to a state focused on immediate reward, on the guarantee that his dreams would no longer be laughed upon. a fortitude of a man crafted throughout the decades, whose temper and rage were supported by said strength. height and length a mingled alikeness; muscles themselves capable of cowering a foe. kid was a powerful man, somewhat blessed in terms of figure. bearing such natural vigor, yet with the passage of time, the perspective of not passing those genes ahead was pitiful.

the second he had your walls wrapped around his cock, kid knew it’d be but a matter of time until he stuffed his load into you; until he lost the strings of control and milked your insides without second-thought. many had struggled to take-in his shaft, oftentimes ruining the complete experience or offering a half-assed fuck that left him twice as frustrated; brief orgasm that did nothing to soothe his aching desire. perhaps kid was a god-chosen, for amidst his bitterness, you were found — cunt made to shelter him. of course, by assimilation, that meant your womb, too, was made to be a solage for his children.

with the chaotic lifestyle led, he was forced to suppress the urge to cum inside. those damned condoms who were never a perfect fit. your stomach and ass and breasts, whose sight stained with his load was not as exciting as, he presumed, would be to witness it dripping down your hole. for a man with his absence of patience, it was a miracle for him to have waited that long; perhaps a doubled effort for the sake of your health. regardless, within the instant at hand, the time proved to be far more proper to claim you. and you were not there.

kid grunted for the uptenth time that evening, failing to lose himself amidst tools and pitiful excuses of creations. the crew got separated three days prior for the stupidest reasons, and their return to the docked ship was gradual. were you not paired up with killer for the island’s scavenging, kid would have rioted at your delay and left the ship to drag you back himself, but he doubted that would be fruitful; the territory was enormous and best-case scenario, kid would find you in four to five days. his metal fist met the table’s surface, destroying it with a single punch out of frustration. his cock was twitching; had been for the past seventy-two hours. and though he spent hours fisting his cock with utter violence; gripping the flesh until it grew crimson and abused; his high would not come. his hand was too big; too scarred. it did not hug his shaft the way your cunt did, it was neither warm nor moist. the fact that the images that guided his masturbation were of you, stuffed full, belly round, did not help him whatsoever.

kid needed you, not a half-assed masturbation session. hence why, the second his observation haki wrapped itself around your presence, he tore the door open, out-of-breath at the sight of you — a bit shocked; amused. your eyes observed the state of his workshop, and you hummed with certain delight.

“what has that poor table done to you?” you inquired with certain humor, yelping when he threw you over his shoulder, smacking your ass with his metal hand — if only to make it hurt.

“you made me wait,” he snarled, sitting on a random, overall uncomfortable chair.

“killer and i fell straight into a cave and it was a living hell to crawl out of it, besides—”

“i don’t give a fuck,” he snapped, pressing your ass against his cock. “how wet are you right now?”

you were startled, at last recovering enough to settle yourself better on his lap. kid pushed your front to meet his own, groaning the second your nipples brushed against the bare surface of his chest. the metal hand on your ass constricted your movements, and he pinched it to tether your attention to him.

“not much,” you confessed, to which he scowled. “but i can get there.”

“the hell you waiting for? move,” kid snapped, evermore demanding due to the accumulated desire.

he forced the roll of your hips, glance anchored to the sight of your cunt dragging itself on the fabric of his pants. your hands gripped his shoulders for further equilibrium, ever-growing whimpers falling past your lips once kid strained the muscles of his thigh to tease your clothed intimacy. he clenched his jaw, growing impatient at the lack of contact.

“kid,” you warned, wary upon the realization of his sudden movement.

he ignored your voice altogether, raising his hips to remove his pants. his tip was of a violent pink; leaking essence; the visible twitch of a vein. his fingers toyed with the button of your shorts, the devil-fruit powers claiming it whatsoever. the fabric slipped once the said button met the back of his metallic hand, and his other one did quite a decent job at tearing the jeans off your figure.

“push those aside,” he demanded, eyeing your underwear. “before i rip it, too.”

kid grinned gradually, observing your shrinking figure as you did as you were told. the brief dry-humping had not been enough for a proper lubrication. when one was to consider his length, preliminaries were crucial to a shared pleasurable experience. if kid was a better man, he’d keep that in mind. but he was everything but. he was selfish; demanding. his was the fist that maimed the earth, would it dare not give him what he wanted. and that was a fact he never once hid, showcasing the despicable character to those with eyes to see. you were well-aware of the man with whom you laid, so when kid positioned his tip at your entrance, dragging it through your folds, you all but had your eyes closed, shuddering in anticipation.

kid grunted as he sank you into his cock, the tip sent straight into your unprepared cervix. inches of his base stretched you out — a painful addition; a famished viper. he placed a hand on your thigh, gripping it as though his life depended on it. the sensation of your walls, clenching around his erection; gradually soaking his flesh; had him struggling to contain the tide of his cum. kid threw his head back, maiming the flesh of your ass with the metal of his fingers; leaving perceivable marks. his breathing grew labored, self-restraint leaving him altogether when he caught the sight of his tip on your stomach, lodged so deep into you, prepared to take-in all he had to offer.

you required a set of precious seconds to get used to his size, at last prepared to move. a temptive roll of your hips; the threat of a bounce. kid hissed, gripping your waist to stop you from moving. tear-stained cheeks; confused glance.

“stay still,” he snarled, observing the spot where your intimacies mingled; the entire length of him buried deep within.

he had your g-spot at reach, velvety walls embracing him; a greedy lover, clenching and teasing him to the edge. kid sat upright ever-so-slightly, burying his nose on your neck, reclaiming the scent that had vanished for an insufferable period of time. you mewled at the sudden movement, his cock tearing you in half. he felt his flesh give-in under the pressure of your nails, and had to stop himself from thrusting into you out of instinct. he felt your yearning; the throbbing around his cock. your figure trembled on his lap, his girth shoving itself deeper — and he stuck out his tongue, greedily sucking on a covered nipple, soaking the fabric of your shirt. his teeth all but chewed on said bud, and you arched your back at the touch, unable to move.

kid was an erratic lover. he had neither the time nor the patience for a slower fuck. whenever he felt the urge to have his shaft pushed inside your walls — whether it was your abused pussy or butthole — he’d strive to have you bent and bare on a table. a faster pace meant countless orgasms drew from you, and that was not a thing he was willing to abdicate. yet, as his eyes drowned into the sight of you, kid noticed how much he had been missing due to such ruthless tendencies. tears sticking to your eyelashes; the scrunch of a brow; trembling lips; a light moan born from the briefest movement of his hips.

he could see your strained obedience; how much you held back, despite craving for more. trusting that he’d be the one to handle your desperate figure and tend to the incommensurable desire. it was in the shift of your expression; your heaving breath; the wild fluttering of your heartbeat. when kid’s teeth tore through the shirt to have a closer contact to your swollen nipple, you whimpered and tugged at his hair. he had never seen a prettier sight.

“kid, please,” you pleaded, eyelids fluttering after a harsh bite. “move.”

kid’s cock twitched, and he grasped your ass; forced your hips to move ever-so-slightly as a source of relief. excruciating pace that did nothing but to punish the pair of you, and you tried to grind down despite his obstinate grip. hooded eyes failed to find a focus as your walls squeezed him twice as much as usual, increasing his pleasure and leaving you under the impression that he got bigger. kid felt as though a pathetic virgin, close to his release at the merest act of having himself lodged inside your cunt; perhaps the absence, too, had heightened the need and sensitivity. regardless, you seemed to share such a state, for your toes curled; your throat produced feeble whimpers and pleas.

kid snapped his hips, thrusting himself into you, no longer able to keep himself still. his entire length was felt at each movement, cock parting your walls from the base to the tip. kid dragged his mouth up, latching it on your neck, tasting the increasing sweat. he slammed himself harder, sensual thrusts shifting into wilder, sharper ones; your figure bouncing on his lap from how viciously he was fucking you.

“i’m going to cum inside,” he rasped, kneading your ass. “fill you up—ngh with my load.”

you moaned, nodding your head. your body jolted, the thick shaft making your eyes roll back. kid forced you to bounce deeper on him; to have your pace meet his own halfway. ever-growing ring of white adorned the crown of his tip, pale flesh lighter with the mixture of both of your essences. kid had to contain a moan at the image of you — filled to the brick with his babies; uterus carrying his legacy. he hammered himself deeper; faster; canines digging into your flesh.

“will make you a mommy,” he continued, voice muffled. “you want that.”

it was neither a question nor a proposition, rather a convicted statement. you would be the one to shelter his children, for that was what he wanted — and kid always found a way to get what he wanted.

“and if it doesn’t work, i’ll cum inside again,” kid grunted, shaft abusing your g-spot as your moans increased in height. “again, again, and again. until your goddamn blood turns white from my load.”

“please,” you cried out, holding him tighter. “please, kid, i want to cum.”

“say it,” he snapped, gripping your chin in order to force you to face him.

“i’ll be a mommy,” you sobbed, fucking yourself on his cock. “i want to have your babies, i want—ah!”

all thoughts of taking it slow had vanished from his mind as kid thrusted his girth into you with a strength enough to make you shriek. his balls constricted before he found himself cumming, the sound of your name a poison that dripped from his tongue. kid was lost in the haze of his own orgasm, ruthless pace; unrelenting movements of his hips. he had half-the-mind to caught on the feeling of your own, warm essence drowning his member, mingling itself with his load.

“too much,” you shouted, but his mind was wrapped itself in the thought of his cum, traveling inside; striving towards your — for now — empty womb.

kid pushed your back on the broken table, figure falling forward until he hovered above you, cock still secured inside.

“you’ll take it, brat,” he smirked, his palm applying pressure on your stomach. “you’ll only leave this workshop once i’m sure you’re pregnant — and unable to walk.”

— 🐈‍⬛ : kinktober is super fun (im feeling like the white rabbit looking at his clock and running and screaming while shouting I’M LATE I’M LATE).

[choke-me-joey]

Matching Tattoos

Eddie Munson x reader

Content warning: 18+ content minors DNI, DO NOT GIVE ANYONE OR YOURSELF TATTOOS AT HOME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GO TO A PROFESSIONAL THIS IS FICTION AND A VERY UNHYGIENIC SITUATION FOR NEW TATTOOS, blowjobs, gagging, swallowing, friends to lovers, Eddie is so fucking sweet, porn with some plot followed by fluff.

Part 2

"Isn't she pretty?" Eddie grins, producing the homemade tattoo gun from under his bed. Pretty was a very strong word. More like a clump of sketchy looking metal held together with even sketchier looking screws and rubber bands.

You scoff. "If you think she's pretty I'm seriously starting to question your taste, Munson. Going from Chrissy Cunningham to this? That's quite a decline."

Eddie rolls his eyes.

"You're never going to drop that are you? Chrissy was a 5 minute crush, besides, she's been dating that douchebag Jason Carver for ages now." Eddie waves his hand to signify his distate. "Anyway, nowadays my taste is more...refined, thank you very much. Hence why I am going through the world's longest dry spell at the moment. Now shut up, and get on the bed. We're doing this." He buzzes the tattoo gun for extra effect.

"Yessir." Giving him a cheeky salute, you lie down on Eddie's bed as he messes around with the ink, and something crinkles beneath you. Your brow furrows as you dig underneath you, and you pull out a dog eared magazine. You flick through the pages, your cheeks flushing. "Jesus, Eddie, resorting to porno mags? You really are suffering." You throw the crusty magazine at him, laughing. Eddie quickly kicks it under his bed.

"What? I got needs, Y/N, and its not exactly like there's a line of babes wanting to fuck the town freak."

"Not even with the whole struggling rockstar vibe you've got going on?" You cock your eyebrow, shooting him a smirk.

"Right? I should be drowning in pussy," he grins, and you roll your eyes. "Still want it on your hip, right?"

"As long as it can be covered by a bathing suit so my parents don't murder me, have at it."

Eddie gulps as you unbutton your jeans, shimmying your hips out of them and exposing your simple black panties to him. You then roll your shirt up your stomach and tie it in a knot to prevent it from getting in his way.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen you like this before, he'd seen you in a bathing suit hundreds of times but this....this was different. This was you, half naked, on his bed. You that Eddie had been harbouring a crush on for a good year or so now, hence the dry spell. He didn't want anyone else, he wanted you, his best friend, his partner in crime, his girl. Nobody in this deadbeat town even came close, not anymore.

He was ashamed to even admit that the magazine you'd fished out from his bed was merely a distraction tool. So many nights he'd fucked his fist thinking of you, the way your body glistened in the sun that time when you sunbathed out the back of his trailer in that black bikini, the way your breasts threatened to spill out of the cups and your ass peeked out from the bottoms that left very little to the imagination.

He had to get you out of his head. It was sick, it was wrong, you were his best friend. His beautiful, funny, smart, sexy as hell best friend. If he had to beat off to some random chick in a disgustingly cheap porno magazine just to stop him thinking about you, so be it.

But honestly, when you'd asked him to give you a tattoo on your hip, the magazines just weren't doing it anymore.

Eddie cleared his throat. "You sure about this Y/N?"

"Eddie, shut up and ink me already," you smile, playfully nudging him with your foot. "You drew it up, yeah?"

"One bat comin' at ya," Eddie grins, showing you the little stencil he'd drawn. It was an exact copy of the largest bat out of the swarm on his arm. "You know we can never not be friends after this right? Matching tattoos is a pretty big commitment."

"Until death do us part." You teased.

"I fuckin' do," Eddie kissed your hand, making you snort. Your friendship had always been like this, flirty to the point where people were always wondering if you were together or not. But that's all it ever was, all bark and no bite per say. "Can you move your, uh, your-"

"Panties, Eddie? For someone who used the phrase 'drowning in pussy' earlier I refuse to believe 'panties' gets you all flustered." You tease, pushing down your panties and exposing your skin to him.

Eddie can feel his palms sweating as your panties slip dangerously low, almost exposing that dip between your legs. His mouth is as dry as the fucking desert when he catches a glimpse of your smooth, soft skin. God, he wants to put his mouth there. He wants to put his mouth all over you actually. He coughs once more.

"Right, let's do this, pretty girl." He carefully cleans the area you want tattooed with some antiseptic liquid before laying the stencil down, carefully pulling it away to reveal the outline on your skin. "Looks metal, babe, you ready?"

You nod, clutching his comforter in one hand as he brings the needle to your skin and the buzzing starts. You bite your lip as you feel the needle meet your flesh, a searing burning pain but not too unbearable.

As he drags the needle across your soft skin, Eddie is sweating. He's so close to a part of you he desperately wants to explore, to kiss and lick and make you scream his name until you're sobbing in ecstasy. But he can't. Why would someone like you ever be interested in the town freak? The nerdy metalhead that spends his free time planning extensive D&D campaigns, or playing in shitty dive bars to a crowd of not even 10 people didn't compare to the jocks who went to endless parties, or did something better than spending their spring break in their trailer getting high and watching horror movies.

"Whatcha thinking about, handsome?" Your sweet, sweet voice breaks him out of his thoughts and he looks up at you. God, you look like a fucking angel right now, all draped across his bed with your hair over his pillow. He knows he'll be able to smell the shampoo you use on that later.

Eddie, always one to almost never lose his cool, shoots you a cheeky grin.

"Thinkin' about how I could tattoo my name on you, pretty Make sure everyone knows who's girl you are."

"Everyone already knows, I've only got eyes for you, dungeon master."

Fuck, he wishes you wouldn't call him that. Not like this anyway. Not with this amount clothes on. Or not on.

"Less of the dirty talk, you. I'm trying to concentrate here." He growls, wiping the residual ink off your skin, refilling and continuing his work. You try to ignore the throbbing in your panties and how good his hands feel on your bare skin.

-

35 minutes later, it's Eddie's turn. After cleaning and covering your new artwork, you get yourself dressed (much to Eddie's disappointment) and turn to him with a wicked grin.

"Pants off, Munson."

"Yes, ma'am." Copying your salute from earlier, he unbuckles his handcuff belt and undoes his jeans, shimmying out of them and tossing them somewhere in his room. He also pulls off his Hellfire shirt. You raise an eyebrow. "What? Can't risk anything happening to it, I gotta wait another week before I can get more!"

"Alright, nerd, lie down." You smile, rummaging around in your bag for the little design you'd drawn up for him. You pass the small design of the devil from the Hellfire logo to him and he grins.

"That's metal."

"So metal that nobody is gonna see it unless they're going down on you."

"Yeah, but we'll know it's there. It'll be like our dirty little secret, Y/N."

"Hot," you laugh as Eddie lies down, putting his arms behind his head. He tilts his head down towards his hips.

"Get to work, missy."

You'd been practising on that gross fake skin stuff in preparation for this, but nothing could have prepared you for touching Eddie...here. His skin was so soft and warm, and he smelled so good. A mix of his old cologne he'd gotten from you last Christmas, smoke and a hint of sweat. It was so Eddie, it made your heart flutter and somewhere else flutter too.

You think Eddie takes the needle like a champ, but when you look up at him about 20 minutes later, his eyes are screwed shut.

"Hurt that much?" You grin and he shakes his head, eyes still closed.

"Nah, babe, honestly, I'm...fine." He hesitates. You stop for a second, tilting your head to the side in question. You go to wipe off some of the excess ink and your arm brushes over his boxers accidentally.

Oh.

"Eddie, are you-"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, don't talk about it." Eddie chokes out, his cheeks flushing. His loose plaid boxers had done a good job of hiding his semi, but when you'd brushed against it, it was game over.

Eddie was hard.

"I-is this like a normal reaction to getting tattooed, or...?" You stutter, your mouth feeling dryer than fucking Gandhi's flip flop.

Eddie sighs, throwing an arm over his face.

"No, it's a normal reaction to a very, very pretty girl hovering near my dick, babe." He says in a small voice. Your cheeks flush as you place the tattoo gun down on his bedside table.

"O-oh. Well, do you want me t-to stop? Or I could help with...I could help you with that?"

Eddie groans behind his arm.

"Babe, don't tease me like that, that's just cruel. 'Sides, wouldn't you feel...weird jerking me off?"

Your mind had not gone to jerking him off. In fact, it had gone a step further.

"Oh, I-I wasn't...I was gonna, um-"

"Blow me?!" Eddie throws his arm off of his face and stares at you, and you pretend you don't notice his cock jumping in his boxers. "You, my super hot best friend Y/N, are seriously offering to suck my dick right now?!"

"I-I’m sorry-"

"Sorry?! What the fuck are you sorry for?! Making all my wet dreams come true?!"

You giggle. "Eddie, shut up."

"No, I'm serious, Y/N, you've been in here-" he sits up and taps the side of his head "-doing some nasty shit for so fucking long. Why do you think I'm jacking off to shitty porno mags instead of chasing pussy?"

You're silent, a slow smile spreading across your face as your hand creeps over his crotch, gently palming at his cock which jumps in your hand.

"Well, lucky for you, dungeon master, you've also been the star of my wet dreams."

Eddie falls back onto his pillows with a groan. "Fuck, I can't believe this is actually fucking happening."

"Tell me what you want to do to me, Eds." Your voice is low and sultry as you give him a squeeze. He looks at you, tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips. You tug at his boxers, giving him a questioning look. He grabs your wrist.

"Are you sure about this, Y/N? Cos if it's a choice between getting off, or keeping you as my best friend, I'd rather keep you babe. Blue balls and all."

You smile softly; Eddie was too sweet for his own good. It was one of the things you loved most about him.

"What about if you get to get off and still keep me?" You say, pushing his hand away and slowly pulling his boxers down. His cock springs out, slapping against his lower stomach. He was long and thick, uncut with an upwards curve that the very sighmade your pussy clench. You huff out an exasperated laugh. "Holy shit, Eds."

"Good 'holy shit', or bad 'holy shit'?" Eddie's cheeks are flushed as he smirks.

"You know the answer to that." You wrap your hand around his cock, making him hiss as you stroke the silky skin. You pull the foreskin down to expose his angry looking, reddish purple mushroom head, and a drop of precum blurts out. You continue to stroke him, eyes fixed on his face.

"Fuck, stop looking at me like that," Eddie groans, his cock twitching in your hand. "'S too much."

"Like what?" You smirk, straddling his thighs. He can't answer you, any sort of answer immediately wiped from his brain as you lower your mouth to the head of his cock and lick, tasting him for the first time. His hips buck, forcing more of his cock into your mouth, making you gag out of surprise.

"Shit, sorry, sorry," Eddie gasps. "Fuck, your mouth feels so fucking good, don't be surprised if I come like, super quick, okay? Been thinking about this for so fucking long you have no idea. And you look....God, you looking so fucking beautiful right now."

You shoot him a soft smile, pressing a kiss to his cock before taking him into your mouth properly, swallowing as much of him down as you can.

Eddie's hand comes to your hair, gently stroking it as you bob your head up and down. The flavour of him blooms over your tongue and makes you hum in appreciation.

"Fuck, babe, your mouth...shit, it's so fucking good, taking my cock so well..."

You pull up and suckle the head, flicking your tongue over the slit. "Holy shit, you're gonna kill me, sweetheart."

You smirk, pulling back and pursing your lips, allowing a glob of spit to fall from your mouth onto the head, dribbling down the shaft. Eddie falls back onto the pillows. "That's it, you've killed me, you're blowing a dead man, baby."

"A dead man who's gonna come in my mouth, right?" You mumble, jerking him quickly, your spit allowing your hand to slide over his shaft with ease. Eddie keens, his teeth gritted.

"You can't say shit like that, angel, I'm about ready to blow as it is."

"Do it, I want it." You reply, taking his cock into the warmth of your mouth once more. You allow him to fuck your face, both hands now resting on the back of your head as you swallowed around him.

"Shit, fuck, oh my fucking god, baby, Y/N, I'm gonna come, fuck I'm gonna come so fucking hard in that pretty mouth of yours, yeah? God, you're such a good girl, so good f'me, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuck!"

Eddie comes with a broken moan, his hips thrusting upwards and his hands holding you in place as his cock pumps rope after rope of cum down your throat. You moan, relishing the taste of him, which makes Eddie shudder at the overstimulation. You swallow everything he gives you. "Fuck, sweetheart, can you show me?"

You begrudgingly take your mouth off of his cock and open your mouth, tilting your head back slightly and sticking your tongue out to show him that you had indeed swallowed his cum. "Holy shit. I'm gonna get hard again." He groans, his chest heaving and his cock twitching slightly. You giggle and place a kiss to it, and Eddie grabs you, pulling you on top of him, careful to avoid the new ink. "I can kiss you, right?"

"I think we're past that, Eddie" You smile and squeak in surprise as he pulls your face to his, capturing your lips in a hasty kiss. It's a chaste kiss, experimental and you break away briefly. His eyes lock with yours, as if he was trying to search them to see if this was okay. "It's okay, Eds" you whisper, nodding gently. His eyes dart to your mouth and back up to your eyes.

"Do I get to keep you?" He whispers, his fingers softly stroking your cheek. You brush your nose against his.

"You get to keep me."

[moineauz]

જ⁀ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄

synopsis: you are a travelling artist, transversing the galaxy. Thus, on your curt trip to penacony, you see a man and paint him.

including: aventurine

side comments: my rawest writing piece yet. the piece is meant to be up for interpretation and i wanted to take a more vague standpoint. this is not necessarily an x reader fic, please keep that in mind. thank you @/stellaronhvnters members for giving me tips. sending you all lots of love!

extra: angst, gn reader, boothill makes a short appearance, subtle 2.1 spoilers words count: roughly 963

You saw him on three occasions.

The first was under the incessant flash of Penacony's lights, the ubiquitous glint of inordinate advertisements trailed behind you like children. He stood amongst the dreamers with fashion and flare: the subtle sway of his right earing was charmed you. While his shoes reflected opulence and splendour. The number pressed onto his neck- similarly pressed against the folds of your mind: the place in which the eyes stare onto the shore and cast spells of what if’s.

Yet, despite the nature of his novelties and the soulful satire of his smile, you paused- traffic and light bending into sound.

What was he? You pondered. Perhaps he is perched in towers and rolls dice like candy; pecking it afterwards. Perhaps he sharpens his shoes as he does with his eyes. Perhaps he stands still in showers of salty rain, drying his cheeks with the rim of his velvet hat.

Was he a dreamer too? You would of blinked in affirmation, griped your breath a touch tighter and trace his footsteps. Lifting it on to the palm of your hand, tucked it into the haven of your pocket, cradling it like an infant, raising it like a lush fern. A portable paradise euphonious and maternal.

From there you shifted your weight onto your good side and tapped your feet to the beat of your heart, matching it to the song of his hushed ingenious breath.

He was here before, you noted. Clearly, not for leisure nor for pleasure. His strides were candid, curt, and clever. Yet, from afar, it was as if the tip of his shoes was his only connection between ground and sky. His steps bounced, rebounding off by sheer force alone; leaping mid-air, leaping with vigour and intention, leaping over wide yawning chasms.

He was galloping towards, not bothering to gaze back. His image blended into one of a horse standing amidst fields teeming with immeasurable and verdant grassland. The horse and their lush nature, a loneliness that can't be contended with as they lowered their gaze like swans. Their mane brushed against skin; preparing to consume the earth generously all on their own- unaccompanied by instruction, coddling or order.

You pause and step back from the slender and poised length of his legs, from the cage of his chest in which gold is born and coiled, from the rings of his eyes that pirouette and roulette. Hence, pondering curiously what kind of bone does not break despite its beatings.

The second time you saw him was when the sharp pungency of grapefruit- twirled with the salt which lined the rim of your glass- produced a sweet taste on the stage of your tongue. At the time the drink was fresh, garnished and plainly odd considering the dim, velvet aura which vibrated through the bar. The taste lingered in your mouth: reminiscent of a sultry summer afternoon.

His hair, you then realized, was scintillating in the gleam of bottles and booze. You wavered a bit, eyes blurry, hot and wet like the sea. He twirled and tuned with the light, the brand of his watch blurring with another sip of rum.

You don't recall any music, however, in that liminal moment between one song and the next, between one sip and a single swallow, your mouth split open in a wide glowing grin.

One foot over the other- glass in hand- serenading in dim light, crash after crash, bass strung with tangible words- it echoed deep and slow.

From there he stares forward, kissing the rim of his glass, dissipating with light as he seems to do. For a split second, he is vulnerable in the state of lassitude.

However, not before unfurling, smiling then melting. He was flying close to the sun; grazing his hands over its rims. Bright young man, you noted.

You pause and step back from his supple lips- insoluble when met with torrents, solid when left to eternity, liquid when set alive, gone when used up.

The third and final time was when his back faced you: his body resting, arms sprawled out in surrender, a single finger twitching. The memory is slipping. Like grains of sand trailing down your hand, like silk that won't hold a knot, like how rest is destined for those who truly slumber. Everecent in nature and poise. There, you wonder soundly, what stars have been bruised onto his back, and if you'd be able to draw them together- into one grand constellation that spans from one end of the world into another infinite void of true rapture.

"What a painting- or pain really."

"For someone who can't physically feel pain, your remark is rather funny," you quip back smoothly, your gaze still set towards the man's slackened joints and inner tenderness.

"You've been sitin' here for hours," bantered Boothill, "Four months really... since we left Penacony!"

You gingerly place the paintbrush down, pausing as you gradually step back from the lifesize portrait. A streak of yellow and purple paint stains your right cheek. "Today I am done."

Boothill raises an eyebrow as he watches you lift the painting onto a mantel: unhurried as a tree. Boothill watched you, morph the image of a stranger into blinding brilliance with each fastidious detail. How your subject- him- echoed volumes, his back against the world, facing tomorrow, embracing the amorous fold of limelight before departing, walking away into nothing with a princely smile and a single wave of his hand.

"Why do you paint him?" Boothill questions, his voice oddly dim and mellow, "You know nothin' about him."

Repose is found on your face as to your reply.

Boothill emits a frustrated sigh and reaches into his pockets; retrieving a lighter, you promptly flick it alive. The flame staring at you; wavering and swaying left then right. Your eyes are subtly idyllic and lulled as if drifting soundly in prayer; relishing the final wave of maudlin and soothing nuance.

"That's why I like him."

You set the portrait aflame.

"Because I know nothing about him."

masterlist.

interact with a comment! don’t be a silent reader 🤍

[randomfoggytiger]

So, ehat was your take of the podcast of these two old friends? I thought it was lovely and different than his other podcasts. She gets him to relax.

Now, what about the recreation of the picture they said they would do?:) I think they might have talked about the picture but not when the photoshoot would happen. Xmas is around the corner. Come on guys, give the Fandom a merry David-Gillian gift of all time! It's been a dry spell without your loving craziness. Hike up those stockings on your little legs, G, and hop onto those DD shoulders.

It'd be funny if they did, wouldn't it? It'd also be funny if they recreated it in a way that wouldn't hurt either of their backs, shoulders, or knees, too. XDDD

I had an excellent time with the podcast! It confirmed every single one of my suspicions, theories, and guestimations of their friendship: their personalities, their focuses, their dynamic then, their dynamic now, etc. It was refreshing. It was, for lack of a better word, simple: the facts were the facts were the facts, and there wasn't anything big or grand to be made of their interactions, past or present.

I liked hearing them talk over each other. I liked that both admitted to already butting heads in Season 1. I liked that both admitted they'd never thought to trade childhood stories, or cross their personal lives over.

Most of all, I loved their candor: David admitting he felt dumped in the Revival, and that Gillian didn't know and felt sorry in retrospect. That Gillian didn't feel dumped during the first run. That Gillian thought the Revival's story line reduced her character, especially the ending. That David felt trapped and villainized over the pay gap issue; and only later learned his pay wasn't due to his merit so much as internal favoritism. That Gillian now understands and feels for his pain. That David still feels the sting of Vancouver hating him and being forced out of rehab anonymity, and all the pain he gathered from both incidences. That Gillian admitted she doesn't process shame, just stays too busy to have to face it. That David felt comfortable to say that was unhealthy, and that she felt comfortable enough to hum in agreement. That both know their children have to fail, because they would fail their own children if they stopped those failures. That David tried to drill into his son that he's a miserable person and nothing is as it seems; but that that perspective hadn't worked. That Gillian feels motherhood is the most fulfilling thing for her, yet chooses her work over and over (again, staying too busy to feel shame.) That DD knew as early as Season 1 that Chris intended for Mulder and Scully to be an end goal-- asking CC if he wanted to send GA and himself to couples' counseling as their characters. That GA forgot and laughed over the memory. That Gillian arrived late after he offered her a ride on his private aircraft; then wrote him a beautiful letter, on the plane, instead of saying those words in person. That he marveled she hadn't gone insane from the pressure. That she no longer feels the need to run from Scully's legacy. That both admitted that communication, though important, was non-existent during that time in their lives.

There are so many good bits. But I have two takeaways:

They have the same frenetic drive, the same "crazy" as David calls it; but I can see why it drove a wedge between them (and could, now): they wouldn't be able to tolerate that same freneticism in each other in large doses. (Hence, why they didn't speak for weeks while on set, and were already exchanging "blows" in Season 1.)

Most importantly, they were two old friends who purposefully dug in and rediscovered new things about each other. The camaraderie was different: settled, more "in-character" to how I think they talk when David doesn't feel like he has to perform (though there was a bit of that) and Gillian doesn't feel uneasy, or anxious, or "watched."

In short: they felt wholly the same, but in a new way. :DDDDD

[ember-da-toon]

TWST Headcanon for the Overblot boys,

I recently saw a fanart of Ruggie with some cracks on his features, made by @namneeo that reminded me of a headcanon that I think is rather underrated in the TWST fandom.

We discussed it in the comments of her TikTok and I wanted to share this with all of you as well!

Basically, I'm going to be discussing about scars/marks that I think the OB!Boys got after Overblotting. They may or may not be as fleshed out as you hope since I'm still catching up with the lore, but I try to make it as accurate as possible.

Riddle Roseheart

I think his scars would obviously be Rose-esque. Specifically, it's thorns. His scars would locate around various parts of his body to show how constricting and controlling his mother was back then. Personally, the most prominent one would be around his neck, a homage to his Signature Spell and, again, his mother rarely (likely never, actually) letting him speak his mind without some form of punishment.

Leona Kingscholar

His scars would be what we see happens if a person was on his end of his Signature Spell and not an object. The person would likely become dehydrated with how the water in their body is drying up inside as they slowly turn to sand (what I think would've happened to Ruggie if he wasn't freed from Leona's grasp sooner).

His scars are similar to Ruggie's but prominently around his hands instead of around the neck area. His hands are darkened, and gradients up to his wrist because of the overblot. Now he has a reason to wear his gloves, but they aren't able to hide the golden cracks that span up to his elbows. Kintsugi was my first thought when it came to Leona's scars.

Azul Ashengrotto

His marks would be octopus esque. More specifically, they look like the suction parts of tentacles. They span around his midriff, a way to remind of him back when he used to hate his chubby self. I think that when Azul was younger, he'd wrap his tentacles around himself and try to 'squeeze' the fat out of himself and would leave little suction marks all over himself. But the overblot marks are permanent and impossible to get rid of.

Jamil Viper

His scars would be snake-esque, obviously, but I can't decide whether it be scales, tattoos, or even splotches that resemble venomous snake bites. As of now, I'm sticking to the concept of tattoos of snakes around his wrists and throat, a way to show how he's bound to Kalim and how his family has served the Al-Asims for generations. Hence, generational trauma. He can't outshine Kalim since he is nothing more than his servant.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil's marks would likely be poison apple-esque or wrinkles as most of you all might think. But for me, it would actually be some sort of curse on his vision. He can't look at his reflection without seeing himself all old and wrinkly or too blurry or shattered to see himself clearly.

Everyone else can see his beauty but himself.

Idia Shroud

Idia's is a bit tricky since he's already aflame, but I managed to figure something out.

He would have those digital lines that span from under his eyes down his cheek, almost like tear stains from his grief for his dead brother but also rebuilding him as a robot. Or just a side effect from the mask he had on during his Overblot. You decide.

Malleus Draconia

I unfortunately don't have anything for Malleus just yet. We haven't seen the aftermath of his overblot yet either, but I might come back to it, all I know that is has something to do with sleeping or the spindle wheel, or maybe even the sword that went through Maleficent. So like some sort of scar on his chest.

[factual-fantasy]

Heya Factual! Wanted to give ya a million pats on the back for the new art- obviously it looks great as always- but also I'm always excited for new Grimace lore! The monopoly gag was hilarious- I actually thought it was serious for a moment- and then I was ecstatic to see him finally evolve into a Gengar- now he looks even more like Grimace than ever before!

Seeing him evolve reminded me of an interesting fact that I wanted to tell you and Grimace- it's been recently confirmed that Gengar is actually the favorite Pokemon of Atsushi Nagashima, the game director of the entire Pokemon TCG! He said during a recent tour that that's the reason Gengar gets so many cards every year- is because he just likes him a whole lot! So anytime Grimace is feeling down, he can remember that he and his kin hold a special place in the heart of the man responsible for balancing their very existence- at least on the table top!

As for my usual Mario stuff- thanks again for answering my last batch of Asks- I think your implementation of Snifits especially will work quite well! And as for today- I just wanted to keep it simple, and ask for some clarifications regarding an already existing species in the AU, if that's okay, that being the spooky scary dry bones!

You've mentioned them a couple times I'm the past- I believe as creations of Kamek- but I don't think you've ever drawn them- any ideas what they'd look like in your style? Would they maintain any semblance of their former selves- or be mindless zombies like in the movie? What would be involved in creating one? And would the spell only work on normal koopas- or would it be used to raise other creatures- perhaps even deceased royal Koopas to create dry Bowsers!?

And also as a sort of side Ask- have you seen the Super Mario Bros Movie yet? If you have what did you think? I noticed you mention it in the last post regarding the Snifits- but I couldn't tell if you were talking about the trailer or the film itself...

(Oh, and as always, thanks for taking the time to answer all our Asks- hope you're finally over the hill and feeling a bit better!)

@neo-metalscottic (Monopoly gag post) (Gengar evolve post)

Thank you so much!! :DD I'm glad you had fun with those posts! XDD And that's so interesting! :0 I would have thought his favorite Pokémon was Pikachu XDD

Now for your dry bones questions...

As for the royal koopas thing.. When Kamek beings something to live/back to life. They are basically just a mindless zombie. They hold no memories of their old selves it seems.. so when a royal koopa dies, they just let them rest. Becuase bringing them back to life would just make them this mindless drone.. not only would it be disgusting and depressing, but its also probably seen as rather disrespectful. To bring someone of such high status back to life as a mindless slave is just.. not great. Hence why Bowsers wife was simply buried when she passed. There's nothing Kamek could do to bring the real her back..

As for the dry bones, I have a solid concept. Buuuut I'm not super sure how it fits into the AU quite yet..

I was thinking that however many years ago.. there was some kind of war or battle that the koopa kingdom was involved in. And they were losing. They were losing too many soldiers.. So out of desperation.. The current king and queen ordered Kamek to do the unthinkable. Bring their fallen soldiers back to life..

They won the battle. But at a cost. Now the majority of their army/citizens are these mindless zombies.. its hard to say how much of the original koopa remains in these dry bones.. since they don't seem to have any memories of their past life..

The remaining living koopas would eventually repopulate and grow in in numbers. They would also learn to live along side the dry bones.. But its always really disturbing to be a koopa and seeing your great grandfather's corpse mindlessly wandering the streets.. still wearing the same armor he was wearing when he died during the great war..

As for their appearance, I actually pictured them being rather large skeletons. A lot of them are missing limbs or have broken bones.. they are all wearing old timey armor that they had on during the war. They are rather mindless and unresponsive to most things.. Though I imagine when some kind of danger is spotted, they suddenly jump to life and become really animated. Rushing towards the threat and neutralizing it swiftly and violently. Just like the soldiers did back in the day..

Once the threat is neutralized, they slump their shoulders. And begin to slowly wander again…

There's a lot I would like to do with this. I wanna experiment with the koopas interacting with the dry bones. Perhaps covering them in flowers to pay respects but to also make them seem less scary to children..

Perhaps some koopa families find their relatives and guide them by the hand back home and have them participate in family gatherings. Maybe its their way of coping.. or they're just showing love. "No matter how far gone you seem or how long ago you died, I still love you. And you are still apart of this family." 🥺

Sometime I'd like to draw them on my pc. But as it stands I'm still rather unwell and cant sit at my desk for very long 😭💔

As a last note, I did finally watch the Mario movie! :D... IIIIt was about what I expected. <XD

Other than Mario and Luigi's relationship being spot on? I found myself rolling my eyes the whole movie. Its probably safe to say that I'm not the target audience and that most people had a lot of fun with it.

And hey! If I didn't like the movie, I can just make my own Mario universe. Which is what I did! XDD

[poetryinsilence]

A Wish for Eternity

Astarion x gn!magical!tav

A/n: am I madly in love with this elf? Yes. Do I wish to bring him everything he hoped and dreamed of? Also, yes. Hence, here I am, thinking about what happens after the epilogue, did he search for a way? If you play as a sorcerer or wizard, once you are at a higher level (not in the game), there is a certain spell that could achieve your hopes and dreams. So, what if…? Anyway, happy fluffy valentine's day!

Synopsis: a long journey of travelling through every corner of Faerûn for what seems to be an eternity. Luck sure isn’t on your side in your quest to find a mythical item, a cloak. Rumoured to be special, you are determined to find it, with your nightwalking partner, Astarion. But, fate has other things on its mind.

Word: 2,344

6 months after you reunited heartfelt celebrations with inebriated companions; the night never seems to cease with boundless alcohols and dancing to lively tunes until your feet refuse to leave the ground. Through thick and thin, nonetheless, such an adventure weaved you all together at the stake of Baldur’s gate.

At the right place, at the right time.

In a blink of an eye, another 6 months had gone by. On your quest, you trek through the marsh terrain on your journey and strangle a few swamp things; scorched and burned under the dry heat of the sun and almost meet your fatal death by getting swallowed up inside a giant sandworm; and almost, almost, stepped into the fey realm by no fault of your own. Suppose it wasn’t for a certain trickster. A very lovable trickster, mind you.

The relentless quest to acquire an article of clothing—a rare magical item; enchanted with each woven of threads. A cloak, to be exact, that was once said to have been created by drows of the Underdark. To allow one that’s weak in sunlight to walk freely under the blistering sun.

You first heard about this mystic item from none other than Gale. The wizard was lost in his recent reverie of taking upon the role of teaching, to no surprise. One night, while holed up in his tower, flicking through weathered pages of tomes, when he came across the wonders of this cloak. Intrigued, as he may be, wanting to study the magic behind this unique fabric. After all, a little more knowledge wouldn’t hurt.

But, it seems others require it more than him. Lo and behold, he appears when you think your luck has run out. Seems like Tymora has finally blessed you with a pat on the back, who would say no to divine intervention?

Although this is a solution to your current situation, it all just seems too good to be true. A flimsy piece of garment is your answer? You could swipe a black cloak from the market and enchant it yourself. Though you are well-versed in magic, enchanting items aren’t really your forte. Nor are you of drow descent to know such ways of crafting.

You had your doubts about this cloak, however, you do not doubt the reliability of Gale. If he said such a thing exists, then it must be credible.

Month after month of tracking your journey—based on one rumour that gossamer across Faerûn. With every possible lead, you travelled across the continent of the cityscape to the underworld. This endless journey may be gruesome, but you didn’t do it alone. Your lover, Astarion, walks amongst your shadow. By day, you are his shield protecting him under the blazing sun. At night, he swore as your sword to cut through the lurking dangers of the dark.

The Sun and its Moon.

He is the reason why you’re on this journey in the first place. To bring him the sunlight once more, to breathe in the life of the Pelor over the vast lands that were taken from him when he was still young. But the chances of finding this cloak are getting slimmer by day—like water slipping through the cracks of your hand. 

Astarion’s hope is getting dimmer, too. You tried to reassure him that you were certain the both of you were getting close; maybe you were just not looking at the right places.

Of course, he brushes you off with a smile and jokes that he’s not that interested in it because ‘cloaks cramp his style’. He persuades you not to mind it so much. Or, hoping you’d be the mirror reverberating back to him instead. But you can see right through the facade. Pride. Shame. Disappointment. All too familiar.

The guilt is rubbing off on you. When you talked him out of ascension, you believed that it would be the best decision for him. You were no better than the others.

No. This shouldn’t be the answer. If the cloak’s got you nowhere then you just have to look at this situation from a different perspective. Take matters into your own hands, even if danger is on deck. At the very least, you have to try.

You made camp for the night; a quaint spot overlooking the horizon that joins the sky and the sea, with the moon taking stage in a cloudless canvas. The pale elf took charge of the campfire with a stick in his hand to poke the flame. Next to him, you lie down with your hands weaving through the air, connecting the stars together, making a revelation to your own understanding of your magic. It flows through you like the air that you breathe; like calm waters gliding your hands.

This might be the perfect time to ask, though wyverns gnaw at your stomach, you’ve run through this scenario millions of times in your head. You’re prepared, you think.

The lavender and turquoise hue dissipates from your fingertips, you steal a glance in Astarion’s direction and sit up amid his distraction.

“If you’re getting tired, you should sleep first. I’ll join you in a little while.” He chimes out.

His little ritual, you’ve noticed. Whenever the two of you opted to camp in the arms of nature instead of paying for a tavern’s night and listening to drunk patrons shouting till the break of dawn. He would lay with you in your bedroll until you fell asleep, then as quiet as a mouse, he’d get up an hour or two just before sunrise. You’d caught him once, just as curiosity nips at you, slipping out of the tent and finding him sitting in the open field with the blades of grass swaying to its own rhythm. Just watching, waiting. Waiting to catch a glimpse of the sun, as it slowly casts life back to the lands, before the ray decays him. The light sears his skin and cracks like dry paint, biting down the pain as much as possible until he’s bound back to the shadows. Then you’ll find him in bed again like nothing ever happened.

“Astarion?”

“Yes, darling?” He hummed.

“What if…” you hesitated, “what if we stop looking for this cloak?” Your voice wavered at the end of your sentence.

The stick in his hand stopped. You can see it, the thoughts forming in his mind like a potion. Stunned, confusion and a drop of anger concocted in muddy colour. But like a cork on top, he bottled it up when he soon turned to face you, the warm glow lit up his plastic grin.

“Oh, heavens! I forgot about that until you’ve brought it up.” His voice is in a higher octave. A string of vicious mockery disguising his lie, in all honesty, stings more than you think.

“No, that’s not—let me rephrase this. W-what I’m trying to say is, how about we look for a different method?” You asked, hands fidgeting more than usual.

His crimson gaze pierced in you, they engulfed and tangled like flames, wanting to swallow you whole till you’re nothing but a pile of ashes. “Vampirism isn’t an illness or a wound. If a person dies, they could be resurrected. But I’m too far gone beyond the point of living now, darling. There is no other way.” He snarled, snapping his gaze away before he could say something he truly regrets.

“But..there is another way.” Your voice comes out with nothing short of a whisper. Astarion’s shoulders slumped as he perceived your words, now fire in his eyes had extinguished and reflected with the solemn of moonlight.

Hope.

You spring onto your feet and take his hands into yours, thumb gently caressing his skin.

“Don’t give me any hope. 200 years of hoping for hope has tormented me endlessly that I do not want to be part of it again. Please…I do not have the heart to take this…” Astarion whimpered. You can hear the sob suppressed in his throat for the last 200 years as his hands tremble, emotions so vulnerable and unravelled right in front of you that he so desperately tried to hide. It shouldn’t be like this. It breaks your heart to see the man earning his freedom, yet the illusions of shackles are still tying him down.

It is unfair.

You grip his hands tighter to your heart, biting down the tears threatening to spill. “When there’s a will, there is a way,” You smiled. “Astarion Ancunin, what is it that you wish for?”

“What? But—I don’t understand—“ his brows furrow trying to make sense of your words but failing. Yet, he can feel a tingle at the back of his neck. A sign.

“Please, Astarion. Tell me your wish.”

The warning bells in his mind are telling him to run, to end this conversation right here, right now. But the fluttering feeling in his gut is saying ‘This is it. This is the moment you’ve been desperately trying to find’. Now the sparkle in your eyes is drawing him in, things that he had been longing for, and the love you are showing him. The sign he’d desperately prayed to the gods for all these years.

“I wish…” he trailed off, “I wish to walk in the sun again. I wish to see this world in the light that I was created in; I wish to take back the life that was ripped away from me for all these years, in darkness and torment, to have what is rightfully mine.

I wish to live again.”

The soil beneath your feet vibrates and crackles, the fabric of your clothes softly ripples in the air; a lavender beam emerges through and etches your runes, circling a gateway around both of you.

“Then, your wish is my command.”

Statics channelling in the air as you tune yourself to the weave. You can feel it. You can feel it all—the dark musk of ember, the evergreen blades rustle, the crashing of ocean waves. Magic tying deep into the burrows of the Earth willing to your command, feeding brighter into your rune as you hold on to its reins. But, the power of this spell is not without a cost, like gravity dragging you down. Your face breaks into sweat with the force burning in your gut.

“Stop that! You’re killing yourself!” Astarion struggles to break free from your grasp.

“Don’t—I’m almost there!”

A sinking pressure presses in Astarion’s chest; it’s warm, then burns aflame but it does not hurt; the pressure pushes deeper, searing through his organs and scratches at each porous of his rib cage. And then, gone.

The sound of silence.

Your legs give out as you crumble onto the floor, ready for impact. With a swift motion, Astarion catches you in his arms and carefully lays you in his lap. His mouth opens, ready to protest with his snarky remarks but closes it again, brushing away strands of stray hair from your battered face.

You chuckled breathlessly, reaching your hand, heavy as it may, and cupped his face. “Your wish has been granted.”

The sky begins to transition in lilac as dawn breaks, the ocean glimmers on the horizon and songbirds sing their tunes again. The red flaming ball peeked through the crystal water, bringing out the soft glow of orange. As the first ray of light shines, the warmth of it carries. Hungry, delicate, a sign of life.

“I’m…alive.”

A gentle breeze picks up and brushes against his cheek; hot tears spew from the corner of his eyes. So naturally warm. So, very warm. The silvery strands swayed to the rhythm of the wind, and he inhaled deeply, as much as his frail body could hold, the nostalgic scent of sunshine, like a spring afternoon.

Then, an unfamiliar familiar sense came. A thud. And another. Something rattling endlessly at his ribcage threatening to come out and yet staying in its place, a rhythmic humming coursing through his chest to the tips of his fingers. A sound so loud thumping and yet so quiet as a whisper in his ear. A sense of jamais vu. 

“You'll always be who you are. No matter what you've become—a vampire or not. I will love you as long as life continues to breathe on these vast lands. And till the end of time."

Astarion squeezes you into a tight hug. He’s trembling in your embrace, and catching you off guard, he bursts into a fit of laughter. Maybe even your first time to hear him laughing with such carefree manner but the heat of his tears travels to your shoulder. Your hand finds its way to his soft locks, petting him as you melt deeper into his touch.

He pulls back, eyes frantically searching your face. “I-I don’t—I can’t—“ he clears his throat, “thank you, my love.”

He cups your cheeks and gravitates towards your lips. Sweet and velvety, your lips curl at his kiss. He pulls away just enough to admire your features; cheeks flushed rosy and eyes bright and confident. Everything about you is love-touched, that after centuries, someone could cut through the world to bring him back into the light.

“Now, are you going to stare at me all morning, or are we going to get some breakfast?” You teased.

“Actually, I was thinking,” Astarion eyes you up and down. Whenever he has some brilliant idea, it’s never a good one. “The tent’s been empty all night, and I think we should, um, keep our bedrolls warm, at least.”

His hand slithers its way under the hem of your shirt, running a hand at your soft curves. You sigh in defeat, knowing you could never say no to his lovable face.

���Fine. I guess breakfast can wait.” You smirk.

Hands flew to the collar of his shirt as you yank him down to your lips. You parted them slightly, an invitation for him to deepen his kiss, teeth included. It might be a long morning, but there are plenty of mornings yet to come.

[witchofthesouls]

Can we pretty please hear more about Soundwave and Engineer in G1? I really want to know what kind of horny seeker nonsense they have to put up with.

"If the alphabet could be rearranged, why not 'u' and 'i' together?"

You blink at Skywarp, who refuses to budge from the wall, taking up all the space with his wingspan. Its glossy shine is so new and fresh that it catches prettily even with the dim and damaged lighting.

"Mmm," you pretend to consider the proposal, "How about 'n' and 'o'?"

He frowns back. "But that's spells 'no' and it's already together?"

"Exactly." You reply blandly, dipping your digits into his shoulder to pinch a nervecircuit, and he grunts in response as you shove forward into the elevator. “Rule five of the manuel: Don't fix what's not broken.”

Of course, he follows inside, clenching and unclenching his fist to get the feeling back in his arm and hand.

“Okay, how about this one: Are you a medic because my fuel pump is failing!”

“I’m not that kind of engineer."

"That's alright." He says with a crooked smile of sharp denta. Strangely endearing. "I know I'm in good hands."

You bark out a short laugh. Alright, that's the smoothest from him.

Before the door shuts, a familiar flat arm catches it, and your Soundwave walks inside. With incredible willpower, you don't roll your optics when he purposely stands in the middle, and you definitely don't smile when Skywarp pouts for the entire ride.

_______

One would think being sucked into an alternate reality would be exciting, but right now you're buried under mountains of maintenance reports, repair backlogs, supply requisitions, and hazard warnings.

You will blame the split-spark carriage for the onset of tears and the necessary ten minute private sob in a dipitulated supply closest because fucking Pits! You're standing in knee-high water-logged damages!

It's not the same Constructicons you once taken orders, but you're familiar enough with their quirks as you get settled and start on the more mundane tasks of clearing the hallways and getting the drainage systems up and running.

"Hello, handsome," you hear Zolo pur from above. Large and gravid, you may be, you're still able to shimmy your way into the walls unlike the Vehicon above, nor would she be able to reach the relay.

Hence, why you're in the walls, much to Laserbeak's grave displeasure. Not only did the drone peck your neck, she perched over the opening, balefully glaring down. And the blocking entrance.

You immediately get a spark attack when Skywarp's face and his upper body suddenly appear next to you. The magnets hold when you move to swing. Of course, the slagger vops away and reappears halfway through the bulkhead after a moment. “Fancy meeting you here! Did you fall and need help?”

It's hard to say who screeches the loudest: you, Laserbeak, Zolo, Thrust, or Scrapper at the resulting inner bulk damages.

_______

You're having a moment with Soundwave. Outside with fresh air. Unlike the Nemesis back home, this warship is situated all the way on the seafloor.

You never thought you would miss dirt and rocks, but it's dry and warm, especially with Soundwave next to you as you curl onto your side with a data-cable loosely wrapped around your midsection, connective feelers lazily spread across your plating, nudging into the exposed seams to buzz over the protoform.

The peace is shattered with several consecutive booms overhead.

"Autobots!?" You immediately sit up, and isn't that a surprise? The 'bots in this dimension still had fliers.

Soundwave is unfazed and simply pointed to skyline. On his visor, there are rapid captions of the Coneheads.

You stare at them, watching the maneuvers as they jet into various formations of amazing feats of aerial agility and unity. "Is this a training strip? I thought it was a deserted island?"

Soundwave doesn't respond. Instead, he picks you up and calculates a ground bridge away. It's even sunnier than the last, so you can't really complain.

_______

If you didn't know better, you would think Soundwave is jealous. He isn't as calm as people think he is, but it isn't jealousy that has him hanging in your periphery or leaving tall-telling marks on your frame and your legs shaky from post-facing, carriage-induced bliss.

It's a weird territorial thing between fliers.

Specifically: Seekerkin.

It would have been hilarious if only you weren't the prize between winged, feral cats.

This isn't a mechling's romantic fantasy of multiple suitors vying for their spark. It's honestly exhausting, especially since more than one Seeker enjoys manhandling you away from work, the elevators, the bridge, and anywhere else that isn't near Thundercracker and a blanket pile.

And you allow it because the only serious attempt you tried to ward one of them away with a taser with an output to put down a convoy, it caused a riot.

Or at least that's what Hook said, you have no idea. One moment you had Dirge lunging after you, armor smoking, and talons out; the next moment you wake up in an unknown room inside a criss-cross of data-cables and stuffed full by Soundwave.

(Your jaw ached and you couldn't walk straight for a few days, and sitting was completely out of the question.)

You're trying to free a limb from the mass of blankets, and you immediately have every single pair of Air Force wings flicking towards you. They seem to overtake and/or bully out all the occupants from the nearby tables. You can smell the expensive polish, even from a distance.

“I should get back to work.” Your words are muffled as you finally wriggle out a hand and start pulling and pushing to freedom.

“Oh no,” Thundercracker demurred, calm as always and not helping by placing another cube in front of you. “Starscream approved of you having a longer rest time, especially with your complications.”

You have no idea what kind of blackmail or leverage the blue Seeker has because the rest of the Air Force is in his hands. None of the others dare to approach the table of just you and him.

All of the other mechs were willing to pit themselves between Skywarp and your Soundwave, but if there's Thundercracker in the vicinity? An immediate "no go" zone.

"Have you had a nursery shower yet?" Thundercracker asks as he adds something to your cube. It tastes zangy with the additional cobalt and mercury.

"Nursery shower?" You feel damned because your comms (you had never passed it out, so someone snitched) is immediately flooded.

[shotiv]

sigh

“i’m in love with him” atsumu has finally realized what his feelings were,he came home defeated after a hangout with the orange haired boy from karasuno.”huh” osamu ask osamu was the closest person to atsumu they did share a womb after all atsumu throws himself on the couch not responding he thinks to himself mumbling under his breath and groaning.Osamu pays no attention to this brother as he truly couldn’t understand what atsumu was talking about. shortly after osamu finishes his food and washes his plate he hears faint cry’s from the couch curious he walks over to see a sobbing blonde “am i this ugly when i cry” osamu sighs and cringes”SHUT UP” tsumu screams and throws a pillow at his brother what a nuisance he was never any help. samu catches the pillow and sets it down and sits next to his brother, he doesn’t want to have a conversation about his brothers love life as he doesn’t care but he loevs his brother and would like the wails to stop as well. “who”… atsumu wipes his face with his sleev a string of snot and tears staining, osamu is disgusted. “shoyo” the reply was soft and quite samu could tell he was heart just from the sound of his voice. He knows why he’s hurt hinata is with the setting from karasuno Kageyma Tobio. “i know he’s with tobio” trumu says with a chuckle trying to convince himself he’s fine ,he looks at his twin who staring back with a straight face. osamu is trying to emphasize with his brother but he’s never been in this situation so he try’s to sympathize instead. “what does that have to do with anything,him being in a relationship doesn’t have to stop u from liking him” a dumb response tsumu sighs his brother doesn’t know anything about love what would he know and with that he stands up and goes to there shared bedroom slamming the door. confused and puzzled osamu wonders what he said wrong, truly what did the shrimp being inna relationship have to do with tsumus little crush he sits in silence watching tv “ill go to sunas tonight. in the room tsumu plops onto his bed and stares up at the bottom of his brothers mattress the moment playing in his head over and over he’s thinking about that happend at the hangout the memory playing in slow motion in his head. Hinata picking up his phone the words hey babe rolling out of his mouth so naturally tsumu jumped a little thinking to himself ‘babe?’ what who’s he talking to he stiffens up when shoyo starts making plans throwing in words like presents dinner Anniversary love and what not. the phone call ends and shoyo apologizes for interrupting tsumu ,he didn’t care about what he was talking about before anymore “who was that at on the phone” “hm” shoyo squeaks looking at tsumu confused like he just asked what year it is . atsumu had a feeling he knew who he just didn’t want it to be true “it was kageyama, it’s our 7 month anniversary and where getting dinner tonight” he beams his smile wider than ever his cheeks flushed a rosy red thinking about his boyfriend. tsumus heart breaks a little trying not make the rest of the afternoon awkward he congratulated shoyo and wished him a happy anniversary before leaving t go home quickly making up some sort of excuse to leave. back to the present tsumu is done crying and wallowing in pity . getting up to take a shower washing his hair with the present sho got him a citrus orange shampoo the smell remind him of the boy who’s so dear to him. walking out the shower drying himself off putting on sweats and a white tee ,remembering how fast he left sho he decides to text him and apologize. ‘hey sorry about leaving so fast samu needed me at home’ sent. he didn’t expect a quick response with sho being at dinner with his boyfriend

ouuuuf this has been sitting in my drafts for way to long it was just something for me hence all the damn spelling mistakes but i need to share maybe will make a part 2 i don’t know but i love them

[triscribeaucollection]

New installment of my PJO Trade AU in the works:

So, apparently demigods didn’t get sick very often.

But when they did?

Hoooo boy did they pull out all the stops.

Thalia readjusted the thick cloth tied around her face and tucked into her shirt collar, before hefting up her latest pair of buckets filled with ice water. Almost made her wistful for the invisible spirit servants on Ogygia, honestly.

As best they’d been able to figure, it started in the Hermes cabin. Three separate new arrivals had come in the week before and been shuffled into the catch-all cabin, though only one stayed there as an unclaimed demigod, the other two heading off to Apollo and Demeter’s cabins, respectively. But regardless, at least one of them came in with some kind of nasty bug without showing any symptoms, and the Hermes kids were the first to get taken out.

Luke wasn’t the senior half blood by any means, but when the Head of the cabin went down puking her guts out, he took charge pretty quick. As soon as he realized more kids than not were dealing with the dizzy spells that preceded the sniffling and then vomit, Thalia’s best friend closed up shop, turning the whole cabin into a quarantine zone. Unfortunately, that practically guaranteed any camper inside who hadn’t caught the bug yet was screwed, but they all obeyed Luke’s orders, reluctantly agreeing to it for the greater good.

Then a daughter of Dionysus collapsed in the dining pavilion, and everything went downhill from there.

Twelve cabins housed all of Camp Half Blood’s demigod population. Three stood empty most if not all of the time (Artemis, Zeus, and Hera); that left nine full of teenagers ripe for infection. Five filled up with feverish groans fairly quickly. The Athena kids tried to close up shop before any of their members could get sick, but missed the mark, and within two days more than half of them were bedridden, including Annabeth. Thalia didn’t dare set foot inside, but she’d at least spoken to the younger girl a little through a closed window, and promised something special once Annabeth felt better.

“But if you die, I get to keep it,” she warned, only to laugh when the eleven year old petulantly stuck out her tongue.

The Apollo campers, gods love ‘em, emptied out the Big House infirmary and went mobile. Those who fell ill were banished back to their cabin, but the rest maintained the closest they could get to hospital protective gear and delivered soup, drinks, and other necessities to everyone else. Kids caught in the spiked fever phase were wiped down repeatedly with cold wet washcloths, while those wracked by dry heaving got the same pressed firmly against the backs of their necks.

But that meant a lot of cold wet cloth constantly warming up and drying out, which meant a fresh supply of ice water was badly needed.

Hence Thalia, decked out like a background extra in a post apocalypse film, lugging heavy buckets up to the cabins again and again and again. She wasn’t the only one by any means; the magical beings employed by Chiron as security and cleaning crew and whatnot were all pitching in too, since they couldn’t get sick like demigods. But that meant Thalia needed to dodge around other folks and their buckets on her back-and-forth trips, which felt progressively trickier as the fourth day of Camp versus Plague dragged on and warmed up.

At some point in the early afternoon, as she set down her empty buckets for another refill, an Apollo kid decked out in yellow vinyl gloves and an actual medical facemask came scurrying up to try and shove two wrapped sandwiches into her hands. “I just need one, thanks,” Thalia told him. Her stomach twisted; maybe make that only half of one.

But the kid shook their head. “The other’s for Percy.”

“Yeah, no, that’s gotta wait, I don’t set foot in our cabin until the end of the day, after I’ve scrubbed my skin down to the cellular level.” Like Tartarus was Thalia tracking germs home to infect her little cousin.

Above the line of their mask, the Apollo kid’s eyes scrunched. “But he’s not at the Poseidon cabin?”

“...what.”

“I saw him helping with laundry, just a little while ago. Looked like he was past ready for a break, too. Like you,” the kid added pointedly, before they successfully maneuvered the sandwiches into Thalia’s unresistant grasp. She only blinked as the twerp took off again, before tipping her head back with a groan.

Percy, helping out with laundry. When Thalia specifically ordered him to stay put in their cabin, away from fevers and vomit and all the camp-wide nastiness. For a moment she idly wondered if losing Poseidon’s favor would be worth strangling the self-sacrificing idiot.

...nah. Probably not.

Sighing, Thalia abandoned her buckets and went to find Percy.

If only so she could throw him headfirst into the lake.

[jkrockin]

Hi!! 1, 11, & 17 for the fic writer asks?

Even more answers for the more fic writer asks meme!

1. the last sentence you wrote

Steve has a dry leaf in his hands, which he's methodically shredding into tiny bits; a pile of leaf fragments is starting to gather between his feet.

11. a WIP you’d like to finish someday

Ahahahaha. Hahaha. Ha. Please don't look at my unhinged spreadsheet of WIPs when I say this, lest the others get jealous, but I'd love to find some spare juice to write some more of take the wheel, crack the whip someday soon.

17. talk about your writing and editing process

The suggestion that I have a process is immensely flattering. I fall victim to the dread curse, that ancient hamartia: editing as I write, which makes writing things very slow. Don't do it, folks! When I work out how to write drafts, I will be unstoppable.

Usually it goes something like:

I get an idea

Jot down notes or blabber about the idea in a friend's DMs

Pick a likely spot to start, and start writing down the thoughts I have. When I know where I'm going, I'll write down an outline.

Write the thing, chronologically, start to finish. Dialogue usually comes first, then I poke in prose around the edges. Sometimes I get a good line or a snippet of a key scene first, and I'll plonk that down to come back to, but writing out of order doesn't really work for me. Not only do I love to do a callback or repetition of phrases for effect, which is tough to do when you haven't written the origin of the echo, my great fear is that I'll get to the end, dust my hands off thinking "haha, I have a Finished Thing!" and then discover a whole chunk of story I thought I'd written is actually just some square tags saying something like [scene where they collect the Sacred Plunt from the Temple of Fleem] and I still have work to do. Yuck! Can't be having with that. Hence, writing in order.

Usually I'll do a last editing pass. I don't really use betas. Had some bad experiences, still learning to trust again, etc. Spelling and grammar are very much my wheelhouse, so I don't often seek help for that; my bugbears are (unintentional, non-stylistic) word repetition and character-accurate vocabulary choices, which I'll try to weed out or correct. When I can, I like to have a chum read over a fic before I post it to point out any really glaring errors or omitted scenes (with or without Sacred Plunt) and to confer and consult on tags.

Run that sucker through the AO3 posting script Gdoc, post, and go to bed so I don't spend the next six hours stressing about whether or not people like it.

Each of these steps, of course, happens on each of the seventeen WIPs I'm focusing on at once. I bounce around between stuff.

[eirist]

As It Was

Disclaimer: One Piece (and its characters) belongs to Eiichiro Oda-sensei.

Reminder: I have no beta-reader. Any grammatical and spelling errors are solely mine.

Warning: OOC possible. One shot.

Rating: T (A bit suggestive but tolerable still)

Note: AU. I am currently in love with the song As It Was (Prep’s version) and had it on repeat. You know that certain instance when you’re listening to it and suddenly a random scene for your OTP will just playout from out of nowhere. That’s what happened here.

I know it’s late. But this is a Happy Valentine’s ZoNa piece and my supposed entry to the ZoNami jukebox event in here.

And yes, this is a companion fic to The Cat Burglar one-shot (#30 in the Little Bits and Pieces collection). Enjoy!

Summary: She couldn’t pinpoint when was that exact moment when something between them shifted. All she knows is that it’s not the same as it was.

Nami quietly watched the scene outside from the tinted window of the car as it sped past the crowded street. The weather was a bit cold tonight, yet she was surprised to see a lot of people still loitering about enough to cause a slight traffic.

She chewed at her bottom lip—a bad habit really, whenever she feels edgy—and folded her arms on her chest, creasing the front of her coat at the movement.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes Nami-senpai.” The driver, Bartolomeo, politely informed her. They were on their way to her apartment and he must’ve sense her impatience… or saw it from the car’s rear view mirror.

“It’s alright,” Nami smiled at him. Usopp had told her before that he was in-training to become a low-rank official hence the chauffeuring them around stint. “Don’t worry about it.” She wasn’t that much in a hurry to be honest. She got nowhere to be tonight of all nights.

Her gaze riveted back outside, silently observing the people hurrying to and fro while holding flower bouquets and gifts in heart-decorated wrappers with big red bows around them.

It was Valentine’s night. And here she was, braving the traffic so she could get home after sneaking out of the party at the Mugiwara estate to spend the rest of the night soaking in a nice, warm, bubble bath with lighted candles around her and glass of expensive red wine in one hand.

Normally, she loves attending those parties and spent time there mingling and rubbing elbows with the rich, flirting with handsome, gullible guests and steal a thing or two from them before the party ends… but tonight she was not in the mood.

Maybe because a lot of guests there tonight have dates and she unfortunately and accidentally ran across some pairs cozying it up in some of the vacant rooms like five times already.

The mansion has numerous rooms! Why the hell did she keep stumbling into one that was already occupied by dry humping people?

She decided to just call it a night. Honestly, she can’t take seeing one more pair in a state of undress. She doesn’t want to barge into another quickie session or she’ll start charging them for using the rooms in the first place.

Besides, what’s with all those horny people? She didn’t see any oysters were served for dinner earlier.

Unless their gluttonous boss was able to get his hands on them… or if someone intercepted it on their way out of the kitchen…

Wasn’t Sanji-kun in charge of the food tonight?

Nami rolled her eyes when it clicked into place.

Thank her lucky stars Bartolomeo was around, ready to drive anyone anywhere at a moment’s notice. When Luffy motioned for his top men to go upstairs for a private meeting, she decided to high-tail it out of there.

Speaking of that…

“Hey Bart,” she called out to the Mohawk hair-styled man. “Got any idea how long that meeting’s gonna be?”

“Uh…” Bartolomeo scratched his cheek, looking apologetic as he glanced at Nami from the rear view mirror. “Apologies, Nami-senpai. I’m not sure about that.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“But it looks like it’s gonna take longer than usual,” he continued on. “I heard Luffy-senpai’s brother arrived earlier.”

Nami settled back on the seat, thinking. “If that’s the case, then it’s gonna take some time.” She pondered more for a moment. ���Hey can you swing by Baratie first? I want to get something to go.”

“No problem, Nami-senpai,” Bartolomeo nodded. “You want me to call first so they can get it ready?”

“I’ll do it,” Nami pulled her phone out of her purse and dialled the exclusive number for the restaurant Sanji-kun had given her.

If she’s going to spend tonight of all nights alone, she might as well splurge for herself right?

A haggard-sounding chef answered her call. She reached inside her purse for her lipstick while she was enumerating her requests. Her fingers snagged an unfamiliar object and she pulled it out to look at it.

Nami stared at it for a long time. When the call ended, she already made the decision on how to best enjoy herself tonight.

------------------------

The scenery outside the window changed as the car made a smooth turn to the right and began an uphill climb. They had left Baratie about fifteen minutes ago and was now driving along a rather lonely road with thick trees bordering both of its sides.

There wasn’t any lamp post on the area and only the head lights of the car illuminated what was ahead.

But Nami wasn’t afraid. Not a bit. The road was private that was why no one was allowed to use it. A few minutes passed and a black, large gate loomed before them.

“Nami-senpai,” Bartolomeo called her name to get her attention. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Nami grinned at him. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re off the hook.”

“But…”

“Just trust on this me alright?”

Bartolomeo looked hesitant but Nami only motioned for him to continue ahead.

He nodded weakly, just as the gates opened for them. He drove the car inside and in a few more minutes, he was circling the driveway and pulling to a stop in front of a dark house.  

He stepped out of the car in a flash to open the door for Nami and assist her in getting out.

“Thank you,” she winked at him. “And don’t worry I’ll handle it,” she assured him with a pat on his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay here Nami-senpai?” Bartolomeo asked again in an uncertain tone. He swallowed a lump in his throat. If something happens to her, Luffy-senpai and the others would make sure he wouldn’t die a peaceful death.

“Yup,” Nami nodded as she scanned the house in front of her while Bartolomeo waited nervously beside her with the paper bag from Baratie and the bouquet of flowers the wonderful head chef Zeff had given her.

She slipped out the keys she found in her purse earlier and she could swear Bartolomeo’s eyes widened as looked at her.

“Y-you got the keys to this house?”

She winked at him again and brought her forefinger to her lips, a sign to keep his mouth shut about it. Nami motioned for him to hand her the food and the flowers before heading towards the front door.

“Just try not to rat me out ok?” She reminded him before slipping the key inside the lock. 

------------------------

The temperature outside seemed to drop some more as the night wore on. The tall, thick trees surrounding the vicinity didn’t help with that at all… they only made it colder.

But Nami seemed oblivious to it as she turned the key. Either it was tolerable or she doesn’t mind because of the coat she was wearing. There was a clicking sound as the key unlocked the door and she pushed it open.

What idiot still uses only one lock for their front door when keypad locks are a thing now?

Not that any of those will stop her. She can pick a lock and override a keypad as easy as one, two, three.

She stepped inside the foyer, just as Bartolomeo pulled out of the driveway to head back to the mansion-slash-headquarters in the Mugiwara estate.

Nami flicked a switch to her right and the whole floor was immediately bathed in warm white lights.

“I’m home!” She announced in a sing-song voice to no one in particular. She snickered at that. She knows the house is empty… save for her. With one hand, she was able to shrug off her coat and left it on the couch.

Nami caught sight of her reflection in one of the mirrors lining the wall that was separating the living room and the dining/kitchen area. She had to admit, she looks dazzling tonight in her sparkling gown. Too bad no one will be able appreciate it.

Her high heels made click-clacking sounds against the marbled floor as she made her way to the other part of the house. She set the paper bag and the flowers down on the kitchen counter top and looked around.

It was really a gorgeous house and it was a shame it was not being appreciated enough.

She had seen enough of it to fall in love with it. With high ceilings and glass walls, it had a great view of the outside especially at night time where you can see the city lights.

And you can also see the Mugiwara estate from there. Which is no surprise at all because the area where she is now, belongs to them.

The house was smack in the middle of thick trees, giving it enough privacy. And it didn’t matter if all the lights were on because it can’t be seen from the outside. You won’t even know it is there.

It was a perfect hideaway place.

Nico Robin told her that it was Franky who designed and built it. That’s why everything inside and outside was set to perfection.

She unwrapped the bouquet Zeff has given her so she can replace the almost withering flowers in the vase on the middle of the dining table. She’s going to make the most of her stay here, so that means everything has to look good.

Nami discarded the flowers in the trash and proceeded to set the dining table with the exquisitely made, hand-crafted plates she was sure Sanji-kun was the one who was responsible for.

Come to think of it. This house has something from everyone from Luffy’s core group. She’s sure the flowers from earlier were Robin’s flower garden.

She moved purposely for the next few minutes: setting the table, selecting an expensive red wine from the wine collection, pouring some in her glass before proceeding to arrange scented candles in strategic locations and dimming the lights to give the place a more subdued ambience.

Everything was perfect.

Then she left the kitchen—one hand holding her wine glass while the other clutched the bottle—and she went upstairs. She casually strode towards the empty bedroom and headed straight to her main objective.

Because hands down, this place has the best bathroom, the best bathtub, along with the best view for a relaxing bubble bath. It would honestly put any expensive hotel to shame. 

All thanks to Franky.

She raised her wine glass in salute to her comrade before downing it and proceeding to prepare a luxurious bubble bath for herself.

A few more minutes and a blissfully content Nami was submerged in the large tub, wine in hand, eyes closed while a soft music played from the bath’s hidden speakers as the calming scent of the candles she lighted wafted in the air.

It feels like she was being lulled to sleep. It was so soothing. She could honestly live like this for the rest of her life.

At times like these, she can’t help but think that working for the Mugiwara family was one of the best decisions she ever made.

How long had she been with them? Two years? Two years since that green-haired man walked into her bar and whisked her away in a world more dangerous than before.

She had honestly thought that was the end of the line for her. But surprisingly—and thankfully—it was her excellent skills at thieving and treasure hunting that saved her.

And when they found out that she’s also a genius cartographer. That sealed the deal.

When she was brought in the presence of the Mugiwara family’s head… to say she was shocked was an understatement. He wasn’t what she was expecting. Nor what she heard through the grapevine. Especially when Monkey D. Luffy made an offer to her to join the ranks of those working directly under him.

After all, it was a waste to not to put all of her skills and knowledge to good use.

She made a choice to join him.

And she loved every minute of it.

Though there was a price to pay… she had to let go of her bar, as joining him would definitely place her in a tight spot with the other families who usually frequents the place. It would definitely make her a target and put her in more danger.

It broke her heart to shut it down. The bar was something constant in her life. It was her safe place despite how crude and violent her customers were. But she understood that sacrifices need to be made if it will bring her closer to her dream. And if she played her cards right, she might reopen it again in the future.

“Why are you here?”

Nami’s eyes shot open at that voice. Deep and cold as ice. It send shivers up and down the spine and not in the most pleasant way. She had seen men tremble at the sound of it. Seen enemies almost shit their pants when they hear it.

But…

Nami pouted at the intrusion. She moved her head slightly towards the bathroom doorway and her eyes settled at the tall, green-haired man who seemed to appear out of nowhere. She inwardly cursed at how stealthy Roronoa Zoro can be. She didn’t even hear a car pulling up the driveway.

She just threw him a smirk, batted her eyelashes at him and purred, “Welcome home baby.”

Zoro just scoffed at her attempt to tease him. She grinned as she settled back in her bath and watched him marched inside, removing the cuff links from his shirt and dropping them haphazardly on the sink countertop.

Nami rolled her eyes at his carelessness. She’s pretty sure he’ll be losing them in the next few days. Just like all the cufflinks that came before them.

“Why are you back so soon?” She wondered out loud when he started to pace around the room, shedding articles of his clothing like a snake and leaving them on the tiled floor.

He had the gall to snort at her question. “It’s my house.”

Nami puffed her cheeks at that. “So? Shouldn’t you still be at the meeting?”

One steely eye narrowed at her as he began to pull at his tie. “Shouldn’t you be anywhere but here? This is called intruding you know.”

The orange-haired woman only chuckled at that. She shifted from her relaxed position, resting both of her arms at the tub edge so she can watch him idiotically try to choke himself with his tie.  

“Hmmm… I wouldn’t call that intruding if I have your keys.” She declared in a cheeky tone.

Zoro stopped fumbling with his tie and glared at her. “Why do you have my keys?”

She sighed exasperatedly, leaning her head on one arm. “Because you are an idiot?”

“I’m not an idiot!” He immediately retorted and Nami threw her head back to laugh at his expense.

“Only idiots leave their keys anywhere for others to grab.” She threw a smirk his way and he frowned at her.

“I’m pretty sure you nicked that from me.”

“Oh,” Nami feigned surprise at his accusation. “Me? Steal something from Roronoa Zoro’s person? Hmmm… you flatter me.” She winked at him.

It is fun seeing this usually unrattled man get flustered whenever he’s up against her in a war of the words. Working for Luffy made her realize that Zoro wasn’t all that he seems.

He wasn’t all ruthless, uncaring and cold. That was reserve for their enemies. And also, for the newcomers who still have to gain his trust. Kami knows how long it took for her to acquire it. And it wasn’t that easy. How many times did her life had to be on the line and he had to save her ass before she was finally able to crack his supposedly impenetrable shell?

Too many to count.

But once she did, once he was able to look at her without that distrust in his eye... his company had been nothing but pleasant and rather enjoyable much to her surprise.

Especially when she realize how easy it was to take him down a peg or two.

“Stop fumbling with that, you’ll end up choking yourself to death,” she lost her patience when he still—for the life of her—cannot figure out how untie his tie. “Come here and let me!”

Zoro just glared at her. Again. He’s really unamused at how she’s getting too comfortable with bossing him around.

Nami, likewise, glared back. Oh he doesn’t scare her anymore like when she first met him. He had used up all that privilege in one go.

“Do not make me stand from here and pull you by that tie!”

Grudgingly he obeyed her, moving closer and leaning down so she can help him.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” Nami narrowed her eyes at him as she worked on the knot around his neck. The silver tie looked so sleek on him. Too bad it can also be the cause of his death.

“How can you have difficulties with something as simple as this when you can maim anyone without even looking their way!” She complained when she was done. He muttered something under his breath. She wasn’t sure if it was gratitude or an expletive.

He pulled the tie away from his neck and grumpily threw it on the sink.

Nami eyed the innocent article of clothing that was now officially the bane of Zoro’s existence.

That cool persona of his was just really a front. Away from the frontlines, he was a downright bumbling… idiot.

“Need any help taking off your other garments?” Nami innocently offered. Now she wasn’t really sure if he can unbutton his shirt without turning it into a sort of battle royale.

His face colored and he spat out a really loud ‘no’.

Nami sniggered. “Come on Zoro. We are way past modesty here. See? You’re already undressing yourself right here while I’m taking a bath baby.”

“Stop calling me that!”

She burst out laughing at his outburst.

“You witch!”

“Yeah I know. Can it Zoro.” Her shoulders were still shaking as she tried to dwindle down her laughter. Boy, he was really making her night.

“Why are you still here?” Zoro was practically snarling his question at her. He’s probably had enough embarrassment for the night, care of her.

“Be nice Zoro,” she hummed as she settled back again on tub, lifting a feet up and playing with the bubble foam. She glanced at him and he was now leaning back at the sink, glowering at her. “And here I stopped by Baratie on my way here to get you a steak.”

“A steak?”

“Uh… steaks?” She corrected when he sounded dissatisfied.

He folded his arms over his chest and asked crankily. “Why?”

“Nothing much. I figured I needed to bribe you so I can use your bathtub.”

“You’re already in it.” Zoro pointed out.

“True,” Nami agreed. “Thought the meeting’s gonna take long enough for me to slipped out of here without you knowing and just leave you something as a thank you.”

“Didn’t take that long,” Zoro grunted and he reached beside him to pull open the smartly hidden cabinet which stored liquor bottles. He grabbed a glass and poured himself a drink from a bottle he just randomly grabbed. “Besides, Bartolomeo ratted you out.”

“Tch! I knew he would,” Nami said, playing with the bubbly foam in front of her. “He’s more scared of you than me.”

“Hnnn…”

“Don’t be too hard on him. It’s not his fault you lost your keys.”

Zoro was halfway into bringing his glass to his mouth to drink. “I’m not. And I told him I know you filched it.”

Nami smiled haughtily at him. “Maybe you should stop leaving it carelessly anywhere?”

“Tch.”

“Can I have my me time now Zoro?” She shot him her signature pleading look that never fails to make any man a putty in her hands… well except Zoro. “I promise I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I’m done.”

Zoro scrutinized her from the rim of the glass he’s drinking. Then he sighed.

“Fine. Do whatever you want.”

She blew him a kiss. “Thank you! Feel free to enjoy the steaks I brought. They are inside the paper bag. I already set the table for you in case you want to eat like you’re out on a date tonight.”

“It’s not a date if you’re alone.” Zoro grunted.

“Oh?” Nami intoned as a Cheshire cat grin lit her face. "Want me to call for someone to accompany you?” She offered in sickeningly, sweet tone.

Zoro pinned her with an icy glare.

“Or do you want me to accompany you?”

Zoro was silent for a moment, observing her. Then he set his glass down on the sink countertop and folded his arms over his chest.

“And what will that cost me?"

Nami leaned against the tub again so she can look at him straight in the eye, resting her arms against the tub’s edge. This time her grin is more mischievous than ever. And so is the look in her brown eyes.

"Diamonds from Jozu Island.” She answered without missing a beat.

The green-haired man stared down at her with a serious expression on his face. He looked like he was contemplating. Then he pushed off the sink and moved to approach her.

Nami was absolutely beaming as she gazed up at him.

It was just a joke. She just wanted to see him lose it at her inane request. It just feels sooo good to tease him. She wasn't even sure anyone can when she first met him because he was so... expressionless.

"Consider it done."

She stared at him incredulously. Her jaw dropped open from astonishment at his answer.

"Eeeh?!"

"You want it. You'll get it."

That was all he said before he leaned down and captured her lips with his.

Stunned she maybe at what he said, she was still able to return his kiss eagerly. To be honest, she had been craving for it, for him, all night.

She was searching for him back at the party all night with the intention of pulling him in one of the deserted rooms. But certain responsibilities had prevented her from doing so. She then decided to just head back to her apartment and call it a night.

When she realized she had his house keys… she changed her plans. It was a long shot since Luffy’s meetings are notoriously long. She had little hope that Zoro will come home tonight.

But thank her lucky stars…

She couldn’t pinpoint when was that exact moment when something between them shifted.

All she knows is that it’s not the same as it was.

He only need to ask her and she would gladly join him for a late night dinner downstairs, even without those diamonds. She didn’t fix it just for one after all.

His fingers tangled along her wet hair and she vaguely felt him almost lifting her out of tub with the way he pulled her closer to him as he kissed her deeper. She fervently opened her mouth for him, so she can taste the alcohol he just had—still on his tongue—and him again and again.

When he pulled away, Nami can see familiar heat behind his grey eye as he looked at her intently. She was still pressed against him. The front of his black shirt was now wet.

“Been wanting to do that all night.” He drawled before planting a soft peck on her lips. “Join me downstairs?”

Nami grinned. “Hmm… why don’t you join me here first?” She suggested, licking her lips as she traced his with her thumb. “You can either you take your clothes off or I will step out of this tub and make a mess on the bathroom floor.”

Zoro answered her with a smirk as he started unbuttoning his shirt.

She moved away from him so she can watch him undress and admire every inch of his insanely toned body.

When he joined her in the tub, she was immediately in his arms.

“I still want those diamonds Zoro,” she whispered to remind him.

Zoro stared at her amusedly before giving her that half-smile she immediately fell in love with the very first time she saw it.

“I know.”

Her laugh was cut off by his lips pressing into hers again.

[miseries-mistress]

ᴅᴀʏ 1: ꜰʀɪɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ | ᴀʀᴀɢᴏʀɴ ʰᵒˡⁱᵈᵃʸ ᵉᵛᵉⁿᵗ ²⁰²²

⋆꙳·❅*‧ READING BY THE FIRE WHILE IT SNOWS ‧*❆ ₊⋆

warnings: gender-neutral reader, all fluff. w/c: 815 

event masterlist ❄︎ lotr masterlist

The fireplace crackles, the warmth of the heat embracing you in its tenderness. The slow monotonous fall of snow gathering outside the room draws your attention away for a second, and you take this time to admire the gentle caress of snowflakes against the window pane as they soundlessly drift, carried away by the slightest breeze, to a new destination. 

Your body aches with soreness from the trudging you and Aragorn did through the valleys of snow-packed dirt. It was a simple scouting quest, nothing arduous or eventful, but you seemed to have forgotten how demanding it was to travel in such conditions hence your soreness. When you two returned to the sanctuary you call home, your clothes had been soaked, and you laid them by the fire to dry. Fresh clothes awaited you in your chambers, and upon return to the fire, you spotted Aragorn lying across the sofa with a book in his lap; the black waves of curls damp with melted flakes of snow. It was easy for you to settle beside him as he returned to his book once more, with nothing except the fire light illuminating the worn pages. Only when you found your spot against him did he indulge you in the adventure plastered in finely written letters. 

Your gaze had befallen the window where it was easy to get lost in the book's tale, subtly admiring the grace of elements as you did so. You turn, averting your stare from the window and returning to the moment, nestling your head further into the crook of Aragorn's neck, with the flames licking shadows across the wall, distorting the shade of the holiday decorations scattered across the room. His facial hair deliciously scrapes the side of your face as he presses the faintest of kisses to the crown of your head, and you can't help but slide into his warmth, enjoying the creamy threads of clothing against your bare face. 

His voice picks up once more, his eyes skimming across the worn bindings of the book, the faintest crinkling of the page as he turns it, only adding to the atmosphere you two have created. The couch you are lying on, huddled in blankets, gives way underneath you in just the right amount to be achingly comfortable. 

The soothing riches of his voice never falter or stutter over the old ink beneath his fingertips, and before you know it, his voice has become an incomprehensible lull in the background. Your eyes grow heavy with the weight of sleep, drowsiness attempting to pull you under her spell. Yet, you feel warm, safe, safer than you've ever felt before. There are no demands, no expectations to uphold, or judgments to be thrown your way for your lack of etiquette, just Aragorn. 

His hand that was previously running up and down your swaddled arm has mapped its way to your hair. While worn with the price of war, his fingers are gentle as they lightly scratch your scalp, and you feel yourself falling into the clutches of rest. It's almost impossible to keep your eyes open, but you will them to, will your mind to sear this innocent memory into your brain. These moments are far and few. Just being seems like the closest you can achieve to some semblance of a normal life, one in which people's lives don't fall into your hands. 

It's nice, you think, watching the flames dance in the stone chimney. You blink once, then twice, before your eyes reluctantly flutter closed, and at that moment, sleep has never found you easier. 

Aragorn's stare falters from the text, his eyes finding you practically melted to his side, and an easy expression befallen your delicate features. His hand strays from your hair and slides down your cheek, his knuckles met with the grace of your relaxed muscles and the slow rise and fall of your chest. He smiles unwittingly to himself, selfishly taking a moment longer to admire each line and dimple the fire has cast a moving shadow over. It is such a simple thing, yet he takes pleasure in it, for nowadays, seeing you so freely relaxed is a rarity. 

Aragorn sets the book aside, his movements careful not to disturb your sleeping figure. You stir at his position change before settling back into the natural dip of his body, the blanket sinking from your shoulder. His fingers trail to the blanket, his palms wrapped around the soft fabric before pulling it back up your body. They flatten across your shoulder before he sighs to himself and lets his head fall to the side, the temptation of sleep becoming too strong to stave off, and it's then that he allows himself to succumb to a dreamless state with you securely wrapped in his arms.