#i am so sorry i got carried away

[gcldcnhour]

@vvhimsicals who: zoe & bose where: first red carpet event vma's baby!

he couldn't help the boyish grin the spreads across his lips as he glances over to zoe. his band had just finished their short run on the red carpet - the first official appearance since dropping their album and it was all incredibly overwhelming. and what he hadn't expected was to see zoe there, smiling brightly as the camera's flashed, her own band making their debut. and both were up for at least a few vma's that evening.

maybe he should have picked up on the rivalry sooner, the way milo and iris referred to the others, the competitiveness to release the albums at the same time, to prove that they were better. but in reality all bose wanted was to make music and try his best. it just seemed devastating that he had to watch the girl he was falling for from the sidelines.

by this time the band was going their own ways - iris seeking out a drink, milo up to something on his own, lola following along...so bose decided it was the best time to step aside and wait. it was less crowded the further from the carpet, so he finds a place to wait, looking for her until she's passing by, hand reaching out to pull her into some more privacy. "you look radiant tonight." he smiles, trying to swallow the nerves he always picked up in her presence.

[harringtonswriting]

i feel like Steve is a Little Women or Anne of Green Gables kinda guy idk something about those stories where the protagonist of the story grows in a way where it's still fun and they are passionate about it kinda resonates with him. I saw someone else describing it in a better way but yeah i think Steve would be into those stories (plus they are easy to read).

I also don't know what books were like popular in the 80s but overall i don't necessarily think Steve's big into reading maybe bc of the books he had to read for school. if he's into a book then definitely because his SO or the person he has a crush on recommended it to him.

omg anon i LOVE your way of thinking, thank you so much!! i love both of those books, and that totally makes sense to me! i definitely think he’d lean towards more easy to read stuff too (and not necessarily hardcore sci-fi/fantasy) with all his head trauma, plus he was probably more of a childhood reader (to me, anyway) and those could definitely have been books he really liked as a child (and resonated with the protagonists, bc steve is absolutely full of passion and fire). but that makes sense! tbh ive been trying to google what was popular back then (since i dont think the books i have from that time were popular LOL) but that! is valid! i know that required reading for school can put lots of ppl off!! so it makes sense!! but him reading what his crush or SO recommends to get to know them better 🥺 that’s kinda the idea behind what i’m working on so!!! thank you!!

[semperamans]

Wait because I'm so obsessed with Benny's doll wanting more, deeper kisses and him in her bed but he's determined not to fuck it up! To woo and romance her, treat her like a lady but she's sooo desperate, she's just a girl!

(can I sign off with ✨ so you know it's me sending asks? :3)

oooooh this… this is dangerous… this got me thinking… i am having so many thoughts… i need to lay down :’(

“doll,” benny lets out an almost pained grunt from the back of his throat. “y’gotta stop movin’ like that. won’t-won’t be able to stop,” he’s got his hands on your hips, grip so tight it almost hurts, but you like it, like it so much that you repeat that sinful action, seeking gratification and when your boy drops his head and lets out another noise you’ve never heard before you figure you’re doing a good job.

you see, benny knew from the moment he entered your room that he fucked up. he loves you and there is so much of you around that it’s almost hard to fucking breathe. your nail polishes are displayed on a pretty little tray atop the vanity. old posters from girlhood are pinned into the wallpaper. there’s a long-eared bunny plush thrown haphazardly across your frilly bedding and do you sleep with that? benny doesn’t ask because he knows :( and he finds it so. fucking. cute. :(

but now he’s really fucked. god he’s so very fucked. he should have told you no the second he heard your folks weren’t home and ‘specially when you told him they weren’t coming back til tomorrow. no no no it wasn’t supposed to be like this. he was supposed to go slow with you, with this; to take you on dates and give you his last name and protect you but now you’re beneath him, thighs parted, heel of your foot digging into the dimple at his spine, satin sleep shorts riding dangerously high up your leg. he hadn’t expected you to know how to move like that; caught him by surprise you did, such a sneaky thing but now he wants more and knows he can’t have it. shouldn’t have it. shouldn’t want it the way he does but you’re repeating his name like a prayer and he hasn’t even touched you yet :( so what are you going to be like when he does :( the thought makes him shiver.

“baby,” he says, but he’s a weak man. so weak for you, for his preening little lady, that he has to stop, clear his throat, and try again. “baby-oh fuck-honey, hey, hey, shhh.” “just need you benny.” you’re in tears. “want you to be close. gotta have you so close. please? please more.” he’s dizzy. so dizzy dizzy dizzy that he’s gotta lay his forehead on yours and try to collect himself, his thoughts, but it’s impossible when you sound like that and when you’re asking so nicely? :( his polite girl. “don’t you love me, benny?” you’re playing him. there’s not a doubt in your mind that he loves you. he’d do anything for you and your lust addled conscience weaponizes his unyielding affection. anything to get him closer closer closer. “love me, benny. c’mon. please? please love on me.”

and when you put it like that… how can he turn you down?

[harbingersglory]

Thoughts on transfem Ningguang with a fem!reader whose her bodyguard? Fem!reader whose like a loyal, protective dog out in the world when they're out and about together, but an utter submissive puppy behind closed doors for the Tianquan?

literally shaking like a chihuahua oh what i'd do to be the Tianquan's lap dog..mean femmes are so attractive its like putting my brain in a blender.

It's not surprising the Tianquan has a bodyguard. She's a key political figure in Liyue and anyone aiming to dismantle the carefully curated hierarchy has her at the top of the list. To the public, your just muscle to intimidate the lesser crooks from even thinking about it and deal with those who get too bold.

Behind closed doors, though? Your nothing but the Tianquan's lap dog at her beck and call.

She isn't fond of public displays, but she does like hiding it in public just for the thrill. Knowing you wear your collar under your uniform so you'll always remember who holds your leash is a thrill she can't beat.

She's a bit mean and sadistic, really, but she's the Tianquan. She has the money to spoil you like a good puppy afterwards..so long as you behave and exceed expectations. Whether you lean more dominant or submissive doesn't matter, since you'll probably be subbing whether your top or bottom. It's a different kind of thrill to make you sit on her lap, stuffed full of her cock, while she works. That or she has you under her desk, one hand fisted in your hair while she uses your mouth instead.

She has to be at the top of her game, after all, and her position is a stressful one. What better way to de-stress then to put her little puppy to good use? You're just so pliant when she orders you on your knees.

She keeps it tame if thats more your thing, but if you give her the go ahead she will buy you muzzles. Some just the standard muzzle, others with gags, plenty of collars and leashes for all sorts of occasions..she might even get you faux ears and a tail just for a little finishing touch.

She's just as big on aftercare, though. She puts her money to good use spoiling you, partially because she knows she can get a little rough with you. That and as much as she likes to call you her puppy, she won't have you smelling like a wet dog. Get in the bath.

You won't stay clean for long, especially because she absolutely goes all out on her tub so it's more then big enough for some extra activities, but it's better then nothing.

Sometimes, though, she just needs to be pampered herself. She adores body worship after a particularly stressful day. Just lounging in half tied silk while you worship every inch of her.

And if anyone notices you limping the morning after..they say nothing. They just chalk it up to a fight with some assassin or similar. And if they do know, they know better then to bring it up.

Bonus for being shared with Beidou when she drops by Liyue harbor. Nothing like a rowdy pirate to shake things up and make a mess of you on the Tianquan's bed while she watches.

[deoidesign]

Hi, how did you learn to draw Steve's physique?

Ohh what a complicated thing to answer...

When it comes to how I learned to draw anything, it's hard to say anything too specific since it's always a culmination of many years of assorted study and practice... but I can try to do my best to explain some of the biggest things that helped me learn, some tips I keep in mind, and maybe at least some places to start/delve further.

(just a little disclaimer it's not like my drawings here are going to be 100% medically accurate.. they're just to illustrate concepts!)

The main thing about learning various physiques is understanding anatomy. Which feels obvious, but I don't mean proportions; these are important, but perhaps more important is understanding the skeleton and how it moves and learning where muscles connect to bones and where fat grows on the body. When you understand how these function on a more mechanical level, depicting form and movement in a way that feels natural comes in tow.

For instance, understanding things like the pronation and supination of the radius and ulna, as well as the fact that muscles can ONLY contract or relax, will help you understand a bit better which muscles will be flexed and which will not while someone moves. It's inherent to the positioning based on the structural makeup of the body... It's not like you NEED to memorize all the muscles and bones, of course, but understanding and gaining at least a passive familiarity with the concepts really helps.

In tandem with this concept is the way parts of the body flow into eachother. Muscles ALWAYS come in groups because they can only contract. Whatever muscle is there to lift something, there is a muscle on the other side to pull that bone back down. What this results in is a series of straight edges next to curves, which gives us a lot of really lovely "s curves" and dents and folds and so on and so forth just naturally occurring.

I would suggest at least learning the "bony landmarks", which are bones (usually) visible on the surface of the body. things like the iliac crest, the great trochanter, the 7th vertabrae, the acromion process... These can be used to help you understand the parts of the body as angles and relationships, rather than trying to remember lengths and sizes, which vary immensely... (since you asked about steve, he can be our model... also study these on your own don't just take my word for it haha, these are the ones I personally keep in mind)

I've done the same thing with body hair... learning where it grows and in which directions... It helps me make up variations without needing reference, because I have a set of rules I can follow.

The biggest thing that helped me understand all this on a much deeper level was my ecorche course. I sculpted this guy. We started by sculpting the entire skeleton to understand the bones, and then we added muscles on top. Not every single muscle, of course, but the "artistic muscles" AKA the ones which directly affect the surface of the body. Doing this let us see where muscles connect, because we would make a shape, put it on the bone where it actually goes, and then you get to see how other muscles overlap that.

This helped me, perhaps, more than anything else. But I also didn't just start with this course, I had been drawing for years before I even took it. I had been in school for years before I took it. Not that I think it wouldn't be helpful to someone just starting out, but I do think that the more you know going in, the better an in-depth course like this will help you and stick with you. Classes are also expensive, though so I'm not really like... recommending you pay potentially thousands of dollars to take one... But it did help me a lot, personally.

I also, of course, have done many figure, gesture, and master studies...

These just help you quickly gain a stronger understanding of generalized anatomy, and gives you real life examples of and practice with of how people move and balance.

What all this does when combined, is gives me a very solid ability to depict movement and form in a way that feels relatively natural from my subconscious without the need for reference.

The rest of how I've learned to draw his physique is honestly mostly just stylization. I understand the body, and this is how I am depicting it for his level of musculature.

And as I move into depicting him in other ways, either moving in comics or in animation, realistically rendered, or extra stylized, these concepts inform every step of that process for me! When he keeps the same/similar relationships between parts, he gets to still look like himself.

It ALSO really helps when putting clothes on, because the way cloth falls and bunches and lifts is all directly related to the form it is on... So the more you understand that form, the more you can depict clothing and movement in a way that feels natural.

This is all, of course, true when I draw anyone, you asked about Steve so I'm trying to mostly show with him! But because I'm just drawing from raw information of general anatomy rather than trying to study one body type at a time, it allows a lot more "give," I think!

Like, here's most of the cast from TTA so far... actually, they're not as varied as I thought they were nevermind LMAO ignore this part

But, it also makes monster and alien design much easier! It's a lot easier to come up with non-human anatomy when I understand human anatomy, because I can manipulate the knowledge I have...

There is infinite more to study in the world of anatomy... The complexity of the human body goes extremely deep. For our purposes as artists, we need only depict a fraction of it, but more information rarely hurts the process.

I'm sure there's something in here that's wrong on a technical level, I'm mostly going off of memory. But that's kind of my point - I understand enough generally and conceptually that when I am missing something and need to find reference for it, I understand what I'm looking at. It's much easier than trying to learn AND draw at the same time.

I hope even one thing in here helped you! Sorry it's so long.

[lover-of-mine]

911 Hiatus Rewatch and Characters Saying The Name of The Episode:

5x09- “Past Is Prologue”

[death-by-sc0tland]

i never agreed with the argument that dhawan!master must be pre-missy because “it wouldn’t be consistent with missy’s arc”, because in my opinion the master’s reaction to learning about the timeless child very much goes with their character and with missy’s arc as well

i think the misconception some people make is that missy’s arc was about becoming good, which yes, in a way it was but never just for the sake of being good. missy wanted very badly to become the doctor’s friend again - and she knew she had to try to become good in order to do that. like fundamentally as a person the master doesn’t care about being good and i don’t think they ever would but they were willing to try for the doctor because the doctor matters to them that much.

missy believes that her and the doctor are equals and that only they are worthy of each other’s friendship, as she doesn’t really take the doctor’s friendships with humans seriously (comparing them to pets etc.)(and we know the doctor also sees them as equals when he says to bill that missy is the only person in the world that’s even remotely like him). and i think that’s something the master has believed ever since they first became friends, and why they still keep chasing the doctor.

she goes through so much change and pain just for the doctor. she even dies because of it. after she regenerates into the the master, he eventually goes to gallifrey. maybe trying to look for the doctor, who knows. he looks into the matrix and stumbles upon the whole timeless child thing. he finds out that the person he always believed to be his true equal isn’t like him at all and is actually so much more and that must have fucked with his brain massively. and not only that, also he finds out that his oldest and basically the only friend has been exploited and abused and the time lords hid all of that information away. so the master goes ballistic - he destroys gallifrey and then goes on to find the doctor to take out his rage and grief on her.

now ofc if you want to hc dhawan!master as pre-missy then go ahead cause the canon of this show doesn’t matter anyway but yeah. saying that dhawan being after missy makes no sense is just incorrect in my opinion

[ghost-proofbaby]

Hi Ghost! Mega congrats on 3k!! 🥳can i get a filthy martini with eddie munson? Maybe with some sneaking around fun? Thankyou!!

thank you so much!! ngl, i'm very proud of this one. i definitely got carried away, but i swear the smut is there, somewhere amongst the 3k+ words!!! this is really just one long love letter to eddie munson. hope i did your idea justice! also got heavily inspired by taylor swift's song "cruel summer", but what's new?

come party with me!

summertime and stardust (eddie munson x fem!reader)

warnings: smut, p in v, raw dog heathen prevails (aka unprotected sex). also a lot of references to mythology. my bad. i think i got too much prose all over my smut. oops.

Hawkins was always boring in the summer, and maybe that’s how the two of you ended up in this predicament. It was a sweltering wasteland of quarries that had started drying up long before July even arrived, and twenty four hour diners that were occupied with waitresses that made it very clear that they were sick of seeing yours and Eddie’s faces before even a week of freedom. Half of the usual hangout spots the two of you had considered hidden gems were quickly overrun by the middle-schoolers and freshmen that now had nothing but time on their hands (Eddie had taken the loss of the Arcade badly). So it was no surprise that you two ended up here, at the shore of Lover’s Lake, side by side on a blanket that Eddie had kept in the back of his van. 

“Which one is that one?” you ask, lifting a finger to trace out a constellation winking down at the two of you. 

“Orion,” Eddie immediately answers, hardly having to squint to make out the stars as you were, “Want to hear the story behind that one?”

“Is that even a question?” 

This is how the two of you had spent the last hour. On your backs, gazing at the stars, exchanging stories and theories that did not belong to either of you. Tales of Greek Gods and Goddesses, smartass remarks and make-believe when one of you couldn’t identify the constellation. There’s nothing else but you, Eddie, and the cicadas this far out of town. A buzz of relief and tranquility to bask in. Every so often, you could make out the lake water lapping at the shore not far from where both your feet rest, Eddie’s stretching past the blanket. 

It was nice. Every night you had spent out here had been very nice.

You turn on your side to listen to Eddie ramble about Orion, somehow both eloquent but still unfairly funny in his side comments of his opinion on the tale. He makes it very clear that he finds Orion to be deserving of losing his sight - “Seriously, fuck that dude!” - and you can only watch on, entranced by the boy and his starry eyes. 

“I think the version where Artemis murked his ass is pretty good, but I also like the idea behind Gaia sending a Scorpion to kill him, because then they’re opposing constellations and sh- Are you even listening to me?” Eddie pauses when you bring a hand up to his chest, fingertips dancing over the damp cotton of his t-shirt. 

You can’t hide the small smile tilting your lips as you nod, biting back giggles, “Oh, absolutely.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, arms crooked up to rest behind his head, biceps straining against the worn sleeves of his t-shirt. You resist the urge to just bury yourself into him, curl against his side and press, press, press until the two of you conjoin, never to separate again. 

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he lowly chuckles, eyes looking back up to the sky as your fingers begin to trace patterns higher, now skimming his barely-exposed collarbones. 

This is how it usually goes. He’s watching the sky, you’re watching him. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the change. 

Everyone in town knew that the two of you are friends; it’s not a secret. You’d met in school, partnered for a chemistry lab, and the rest was history. Everyone knew that you were the first person Eddie showed every new Corroded Coffin song to, and everyone knew Eddie was the last person you spoke to at the end of every day. And surely, they had to know to some extent, that you both reserved your summer nights for each other. 

The change is what they didn’t know. 

Steve and Robin would tease you two when you’d come into Family Video, a new thriller or horror movie always in hand at the checkout. Dustin would make gagging noises when Eddie would dramatically bid you farewell before Hellfire Club would commence, making endless jokes about his wife returning from war, how lonesome he would be now as you walked through the door and out of his sights for the next several hours. Even Mike, even Max, even Joyce, had made off-handed comments about your attachment to each other. 

But they were all always joking. They never saw any purchase in their words, their relentless teasing never serious because they couldn’t fathom a world where those jokes were actually correct. 

They could never fathom the nights you and Eddie would end up cuddling each other while studying, pressed together too tightly to leave space for friendly speculation. They could never fathom the way Eddie would drag you into the darkest corners of the arcade, his hands tight on your hips and your breath brushing his cheek as he nuzzled his way against your neck, teeth and lips alike nipping at you in desperation until you caved and gave him a chaste kiss. They could never fathom the way Eddie had been holding you to him by the end of these nights spent by the lake, pressing his body into yours and reveling in every whimper that was only his to hear. 

No, they couldn’t fathom that half of the story. They knew you two were close, but they didn’t know just how intertwined your lifelines had become with the boy lying beside you. And that was fine, you didn’t care for them to know about those sacred moments laden with secrecy. All you really cared about was that the boy before you was all your summer nights and all your starry skies, brimming with clandestine glances and whispers of worship in moments alone. That was enough for you. Here, in your bubble of privacy by the lake sans persistent cicadas and gentle waves, he was yours. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Eddie murmurs, bringing a hand up to yours that continues to explore his body innocently, intertwining your fingers with his before resting them over his heart. 

It was drumming in his chest – you could feel each beat perfectly, breaking through the Iron Maiden logo and against your skin. After a few moments, your own racing heart synced with his, a quiet rhythm coursing through your veins. You hope he could feel it, too. 

“Just thinking about how it’s just us out here,” you whisper back, voice low and careful not to break this moment. All of the paths, all of the dead-end streets you had both endured, just for moments like this, “How it’s always just us.” 

You mean more than the fact that you never invite anyone else out on your endeavors, but Eddie takes it that way anyway, snorting. 

“You wanna start inviting the guys out here?” he jokes through more laughter, making you attempt to break your hand free from his in order to smack at his chest. He doesn’t let you, though, only tightening his fingers’ grip on yours, “Think that Gareth would like the show? Or maybe Jeff?”

“Stop,” you whine, starting to fight him with your whole body now, still trying to get your hand free. You nearly roll on top of him, your giggles now joining his, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” 

He doesn’t reply as the two of you continue to wrestle. At some point, he takes his free hand and begins to tickle you, making your giggles turn into awful screeches, echoing in the warm, stale air around the two of you. You twist and twist and twist, trying to get away from his merciless grip. You’re no longer holding hands, him now utilizing both to attack your sides before moving toward your armpits.

“Don’t!” you gasp out, realizing what he was about to do. He’s on his side now, you flat on your back as he begins to hover over you, “Edward Munson, don’t you dare!” 

But he does dare. And even as you’re slapping at his shoulders, even when he overexaggerated how much your knee knocking against his thigh hurt, even when the weight of him presses you down into the blanket and threatens to bury you into the soft dirty of the small-town beach, you know it in your heart – there is no where else you’d rather be in this moment. 

The compromising position that results from the ridiculous tickling and wrestling is welcome, Eddie’s body heavy between your legs as his torso drapes over yours. Your face-to-face with him, now looking in those dazzling brown eyes for constellations rather than the sky above. 

His grin from the entire interaction has begun to ache, but it doesn’t falter as he bumps his nose to yours gently, “I’m sorry. I get it, I know what you mean. It’s always been just us,” he pauses before scrunching up his face, rearing up to continue to tease you before he playfully mocks, “You and me against the world, baby.”

You smack at his chest with fruition this time, making a soft oomph fall from his lips that pass over yours, “I was just trying to be sentimental, you dick.” 

The grin finally falls away, but the corners of his eyes stay crinkled, “I know.” 

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s like a breath of fresh spring air. You’re no longer in Hawkins’ muggy summer weather, instantly transported somewhere far away where the sun is just warm enough for comfort, where the breeze is just soft enough to wrap around your shoulders like a favorite blanket, where every strawberry is the sweetest and nothing will ever hurt. 

The world can be cruel, both in heat waves and hurting souls, but he never is. He’s a sanctuary – he’s your sanctuary. 

His sickly sweet kisses continue, taking your breath away in a willing way, leaving both your lips shades of summer blooms and spring flowers. His tongue is a welcome prodding, almost as if tending to your garden as he tries to get the two of you even closer. It’s not possible, but it doesn’t stop either of you; chests crush together as foreheads clash, and you yearn for a world where you could just curl up beneath each other’s skin, clamber your way into his chest and nestle right beside his pounding heart.

Only Artemis knows that he’s already made residency in yours, decorating your ribs and lungs with his flowers of adoration. 

Between desperate breaths and needy hands, hips beginning to roll and curse the clothing you two have yet to get rid of, you silently wonder where the two of you will end up in this lifetime. You hope it’s amongst the stars. You hope your constellation can find his across the night sky. 

 “Baby,” he begs. You don’t know what he’s begging for – for closeness, for your legs to fall further open and welcome him home, for you to swallow him whole with all the love pounding just beneath the surface of you – so you can only kiss him back with more urgency. 

The urgency follows through both of your movements. Urgency is what removes his shirt, your hands shaking as his chest is exposed to you in the moonlight. Urgency is what unbuttons your shorts, prickles of thorns when his fingertips make contact with your nude hip. Urgency is the slip of his hand into your panties, fingers curling and swirling in every right pattern to have you preening against him. 

“Off,” you plead with him once he has you down to just your underwear and him just his boxers. Your palms rack down desperately over the waistband before trailing down to his bulge, fevered movements earning more purpose as you press down on him and elicit a moan. 

He recovers his composure, only to shake his head down at you, curls ticking your cheeks, “Ever heard of a thing called patience, sweetheart?” 

“Fuck patience,” you immediately argue, pulling yourself back from his lips fully, eyes meeting and lips slick with each other’s spit, “We have the entire summer to be patient, Eddie. Just… Just fuck me. Please.” 

You awakened something in him with those words, you saw away whatever restraint he was holding onto so tightly. These nights always ended the same way, but they never felt the same. 

Familiarity waits in the shadows as each graze of his skin against yours ignites something new in you. New flowers, new petals, new budding growths that scream that this can’t last for just the summer. Whatever this is, as he removes your panties and his boxers, is not just a coming and going on the seasons. It’s not just a constellation only to be seen in the quiet of the night by two lovesick fools sneaking off to observe it. The heat of the summer that frizzes both your hair and his repeats it, the cooler breeze that rolls off the lake behind you guys encourages it. It may have taken the summer to tend to it, but this is only the beginning of it. Not the end – never the end.

And he fucks you like he knows it, too. He can hear the whispers of it all, telling him to pull you closer, telling him to take his time as he pushes into you and feels your walls stretch around him. It isn’t quite patience, it isn’t quite cruelty. It’s just you, and it’s just him. 

“Fuck,” he moans out once he’s fully sheathed inside you, cock pulsing as your wetness tightens on him. Really, it’s a shame that no deity will ever experience the devotion you feel pouring off of him as his mouth falls open for you, as his head rolls back and his eyes flutter close. He’s devoted to you – he’s yours just as you’re his, “Always so wet for me, baby. Always so good.” 

He finds a familiar rhythm to have you both gasping and groaning, and it still feels brand new. The way you feel him deep in your stomach, the way your thighs quiver and his abdomen tightens. It is all always new and it is all always euphoric. 

If you lift your eyes to find the stars above you almost winking at you, you can feel that he’s not fucking you as you’d requested; he’s making love to you. He is confessing his past sins and he is professing that he’d spend the rest of his days here, inside you, against you, with you. 

The roll of his hips don’t stay slow for long, though. You both know the love is there, and you both know what the two of you need. Eventually, soft confessions and loud professions become slapping of skin on skin, teeth knocking as you try to keep your lips on his. You swallow every moan and he grabs every mewl. You can feel his hands on your waist, your hips, your thighs. He is everywhere all at once, and it still isn’t enough. 

It’s not enough until his movements stutter, until his voice has grown hoarse from calling out your name for only the two of you to hear. Your nails rake down his back at some point, and you know that come tomorrow night, beside the lake, you’ll be tracing fading red lines that spell out a clear message: he belongs to me because he chose me. 

Your walls flutter around him and he knows without you saying a single word other than ramblings of his name that you’re close.

“Cum for me,” he’s begging again, lifting above you and looking down with wide, wet eyes, “Fuck- I- Please cum for me, baby. Need you to cum. Please.” 

You whine out in response, head tilting back into the grass around the edges of the blanket, consumed by him. Your ears ring as your vision blacks, the last image you see being his face contorted in pleasure, and you can’t decipher whether it’s the lake again that you hear or simply your own waves meeting his shore. 

The echoes of his voice surround you. 

“Just like that, sweetheart.”

“Doing so good for me.”

“Always such a good girl.” 

When his own high has its hold on him, his head is falling to your shoulder, his nose buried into your sweet spot behind your ear as you listen to every grunt and moan. He holds you painfully close, like he’s scared that maybe this is the end. You ponder bruises in the shapes of roses forming on your hips as he buries deep in you and he paints your walls with warmth, with devotion, with something unspoken only between the two of you. 

He collapses on top of you in the afterglow. Savors the moment, lets his lips pucker against your salty skin slick with sweat no longer just from summer. His own hair is matted at the knape of his neck, his cheeks, his forehead. 

You can’t help the laughter that bubbles from your chest. It’s overflowing, mingling with the still crying cicadas. He lifts his head and glances up at you, smiling shyly. 

“What?” 

You continue to laugh, unable to answer him, as he pulls out and cleans you up with his t-shirt. If you weren’t so delirious with unbridled delight, you’d scorn him. 

He doesn’t bother with redressing as he rolls to his original side of the blanket, laying on his back and wrapping his arms around you to pull you into him, “What’s so damn funny, my beautiful girl?” 

You think Artemis, maybe even Orion, would smile down at the sight of the two of you. Perhaps Gaia is sending her well wishes to the love-stricken look you two exchange in the form of a breeze that doesn’t bring more heat, only relief, only sanctuary. 

“We are not inviting Gareth or Jeff out here, ever,” you finally explain breathlessly, “This place is for just us, Munson.” 

He joins you in your lingering giggles, his chest shaking with them more than he vocalizes them as your cheek finds his heart and presses into his cheek. 

Whatever this is, label or not, is good. And it is only the beginning, never the end. Whether the others will ever know or not, the two of you always will, and that’s all that matters for the time being. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, holding you just a little bit tighter, “Always just us, you heathen.” 

He brings a finger to your chin, tilting your face up. When he kisses you, it tastes like summertime and stardust, just as it should.

[kinokoshoujoart]

screenshot redraw! ☆☆〜（ゝ。∂）

[askblueandviolet]

Tú, alcalde. ¿Hablas español? Eso sería genial :D

"Yes, I know many languages! Mandarin, cantonese, english, brazilian, french, italian, and of course, spanish!"

MASTER POST

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[junkissed]

THE TUMMMY VEEEEEEINS i just whimpered out loud. need to suck him off so bad feeling vampiric feeling mosquitotic 💤

member — junhui x gn reader genre — smut, it gets very soft n domestic word count — 800 warnings — handjob, oral (m receiving), no physical description of reader notes — MOSQUITOTIC MSHJDNEHDND ur so right tho i need to slurp him up like an insect!! anyway this wasnt supposed to get this long but if you havent noticed i really like jun so. what can i say. tagging @lovelyhan because this is what i meant when i said i love jun the same way you love jeonghan hehe

imagine laying down with jun and just running your hands along his tummy and tracing each and every vein with your fingertip and feeling how soft and smooth his skin is and how firm his abs are.

imagine pressing your hand flat against his stomach and making him shiver with how deliberate your touch is yet how gentle you are with him and it's cold and light but the pressure makes his whole body heat and you can feel how warm his skin is under your palm and he's already getting hard from how dangerously close your hand is.

imagine hearing the little sighs he lets out, seeing him close his eyes and his bare chest moving up and down with each little breath he takes as your fingers follow his veins lower and lower and lower and-

imagine taking his cock in your hand and holding it, your touch still so gentle and light as a feather but he still gasps and pushes his hips up unconsciously, begging for more stimulation, but you loosen your grip and let his cock rest against your palm, tracing the thick vein along the top with your thumb, putting just a little bit of pressure, stroking him slowly and carefully as if you were petting a cat.

imagine watching his abs tense up and his stomach muscles contract when you grip him a little tighter, watching his head roll back against the pillow to expose his neck and his adam's apple that dances and bobs with every ragged breath and choked whimper that leaves his beautiful parted lips as he begs you for more, harder, faster, tighter, more, please, and you ignore his pleas in favor of tracing the ridges of his cock once more, determined to memorize every inch of him so that you could recognize him from the veins on his cock alone, feeling every single bump and groove and vein he has to offer because no one has a cock as good as his, none as perfect as his, none as unique as his and you tell him so, because you have to make sure he knows you appreciate all of him because it's him, whether he's inside you or in your hand or in your mouth, you love all of him and you wouldn't want to know anyone as intimately as you know him.

and once you've thoroughly memorized him with your hands, there's only one logical next step, memorizing him with your tongue. imagine wrapping your lips around him and starting at the tip, working your way down slowly, letting your tongue wander over every part of him, mapping out his body with your mouth just like you did with your fingers, taking your time, not caring about the spit that falls from your lips and pools at the base of his cock and makes a mess everywhere, because by now he's moaning so sweetly and the mess is the last thing on his mind, he's not holding back any sound, he's not filtering the words of praise that spill out of him, he loves you, he loves your hands, he loves your mouth, you're always so good to him and he loves you so so much.

imagine the sheets curled around his fists as he struggles to stay still but he can't because you feel too good, you feel too perfect, how can you even be real because you're so good to him, you must be some sort of dream.

imagine the sweat pouring from his skin, his body shaking and convulsing and you're barely even moving and barely even touching him but it's so much, it's too much, he can't help it and oh fuck please please please he's so close and-

and you don't tease him for cumming so fast, you don't scold him or punish him or overstimulate him like you've done many times before, you just lick the trickle of cum from your lips and sit up to kiss him, holding his face gently, the same gentleness that you held his cock with, the same gentleness that you hold his heart with, because he's so precious to you that you can't imagine why anyone wouldn't want to hold him and touch him and trace every vein like you do.

you can't imagine how anyone could not love him like you do, but that's okay, because he's all yours, so you don't need to imagine anyone else. all you have to imagine is him, right here, laying next to you, his breathing finally beginning to slow as he kisses you again and again, because he couldn't imagine how anyone could not love you, but it doesn't matter because you're all his and he doesn't need to imagine anyone else, either.

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!

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[beanghostprincess]

Okay you're making me obsessed with Sabosan- I'm in need to posts about them

Just an AU where they meet during childhood, like, Sabo and his parents go to Germa bc of some politic shit and he don't want to be there so he just walks around.

And be accident he finds Sanji outside the castle, crying, and he knows he is one of the princes since they were already presented to each other. But the boy is hurt and crying so much that Sabo can't not help him.

In the beggining Sanji is scared, but soon he notices the other blonde don't want to beat him like his brothers. They talk all the day and for the first time in Sanji's life, he feels like he made a friend.

When Sabo's family has to go back to Goa, both kids are sad but hope to meet again soon. After this, everything in Sanji's past happens (Sora's death, he being locked and running away).

Month's later, the nobles from Goa go again to Germa and Sabor receive the terrible news that Sanji is dead. This broke's his heart 'cause the boy was sweet and kind and even just being with each other during one day he was sure the prince was amazing.

Since Sanji were 8 and Sabo 9 during this, ge just meet Luffy one year later and all he can think sometimes is how much the two would love each other. But don't matter now, his friend is dead.

Everything happens, and years later he remember everything and all he can think is how he forget them? How he let other person he loves die? The boy is broke bc he lose another person.

And he is going to meet Luffy's crew, hearing his young brother talk about them when he says about a guy named Sanji and- Sabor freezes, he ask about him and this boy is identical to his dead friend- but can't be him, right...? He can't have hope.

When they arrive in the ship, he's knowing everyone and then he go to the kitchen with Luffy to meet said boy and- it's Sanji, alive. Breathing, older and so much beautiful.

And Sanji is looking at him too and- both are in shock. Luffy is there, confused and looking at the two. "Luffy, can I talk for a moment with your friend?" Sabo asks intenting to not show how he is emotional.

"Uh? You know each other?" Luffy ask but go outside the kitchen anyway, they still are silent during some minutes. Sanji is read to say something when Sabo hugs him.

"I thought you were dead" is all he says and the blackleg hugs him back, feeling bad for making Sabo think this.

Both don't say much, but they are happy they're together again.

Agh, you all know I am extremely weak for childhood AUs!!!!! This is beautiful :(

I can't stop thinking about Sanji obviously getting forced to meet Sabo, but he doesn't really want to because he always hates it when important people come over. Yes, his father is more distracted with them, but that leaves them a free day from training, and sometimes those are even worse than regular days. Because even if his brothers already make fun of him and beat him up when they train, whenever they're not doing anything it's even worse because they take their time and it's a complete nightmare. Besides, introducing himself with the name Vinsmoke has always made him want to throw up, even from a very early age, and there's this uneasy feeling inside of him whenever Judge speaks about him normally instead of saying how much of a disappointment he is. He prefers that rather than him lying to strangers because he knows what he says isn't true. He doesn't consider him his son, and he doesn't see him as his father either. It's nauseating.

When Sabo and Sanji get introduced along with the other Vinsmoke siblings, Sanji doesn't want to look up. He has to, of course, but he doesn't feel like being there at all. But he's even more scared of what might happen if he doesn't do what Judge says. When he looks up, he can tell that the kid in front of him doesn't want to be here either. He's good at pretending, though. He smiles politely and shakes their hands and it's obvious that he's been trained to act that way, but he doesn't look at all like a noble. He has a missing tooth and scratches in his hands and face and it's quite obvious that he tries to cover it (not him, his parents) but it isn't working for Sanji. Besides, there's this rage in his eyes that Sanji can't quite place but he knows something is going on with him. That just scares him even more, because, even if it's not the same rage his brothers have in their eyes, it's still rage. If he was a simple kid like all the others that have come to their kingdom with their families, Sanji would not be that worried, but he isn't. And Sanji fears the worst because he can't figure him out.

On the other hand, Sabo wants to jump off a bridge. He would rather drown than be here. Get the kid out of there!!!!!!!! He didn't want to come at all but his parents wouldn't stop pressuring him and tbh it was easier to end this quickly so he could go home even quicker (home being Gray Terminal and next to Ace, thank you very much). So he's on his best behavior so he can just quickly go back home. He hates them. The kids, he means. Rich, spoiled brats that are modified to be that way. To be selfish. To kill. It's disgusting and he despises how the father talks with so much pride about it. But- But he never, not even once, mentions the blond. He talks praise about all of his kids except him, but he also doesn't even mention him. Sabo can tell his name is Sanji because his brothers won't stop teasing him about stuff Sabo can't understand, but he knows enough to get that something's off. Whatever. Not his fight. Not his siblings. Not his responsibility.

But his sense of responsibility and morals are already strong enough to make him overly sensitive to this stuff, so he watches the behavior of the kids carefully. Their parents tell them to go do whatever because they're talking about "grown-up stuff" and they need to form "royal bonds for future needs" or whatever bullshit they keep making up. And, uh, Sabo fucking hates it. The kids are scary as fuck. Like, creepy. Type of thing he wishes Ace were with him for because this is way worse than the things they've seen happening at Gray Terminal. The way they speak about the staff and human lives is just disgusting. With no emotion in their voices other than plain selfishness and cruelty. They show Sabo around the castle and- And Sanji isn't around anywhere? Apparently? When he asks where he might be, that's when his brothers start trash-talking him. Calling him a coward. A weakling. Worse things Sabo does not want to repeat but- But it's just extremely fucked up. But again, not his fight. He can keep an eye on them but not intervene because he really, really wants to go home soon. And he's pretty sure this is just the way siblings talk about each other. Rich, noble siblings, at least. Even if Sanji seemed different, he's still one of them.

Sabo eventually gets bored of them, and also they're disgusting to be around. So he just disappears and hopes they don't give a fuck about him to look for him. That's when he finds Sanji crying outside of the castle. He really knows he shouldn't intervene. He never does when he goes to these meetings. But Sanji seems different. He's crying. These kids, in theory, should not be able to feel like this, right? There's just something so human about him, from the first second they saw each other, that Sabo can't help but want to protect him. He's not much older than him, but still. Sanji looks way weaker and shorter in comparison, and,, And in need of someone. Like he's always asking for help.

And so they talk. Sabo approaches him and the first thing Sanji does is flinching. He thinks Sabo is going to hit him, apparently? What the fuck. Sabo instantly kneels beside him to tell him that he is definitely not here for this, and why the hell would he even think that?? Sanji doesn't reply, of course, he just hugs his knees closer to his chest and looks away, hoping for Sabo to not ask more questions. But Sabo notices this glint of hope in his eyes that he doesn't want to show. Like begging for him to get him out of there. Sabo just sits beside him in a very nonchalant and very not noble way and starts talking. He tells Sanji how he doesn't want to be here either, and trash-talks his family and nobility and starts saying all of these things he only tells Ace about. He usually doesn't trust people so easily, and Ace would kill him for this, but Sanji needs this. And apparently, it doesn't bother him at all to give him this. Sanji starts opening up little by little, hope in his eyes and excitement starting to come out of his voice when they change subjects. Sanji, apparently, isn't like his siblings. In any way. And he likes cooking and sea creatures too! Sabo has a lot of stories to tell about those! And they keep talking and talking and hours pass and suddenly Sabo doesn't want to go home. It's not only fun to be here, but scary to leave if it means never seeing Sanji again and leaving him here. Especially when he tells him about everything his family does to him (because they end up talking about that) and he has to hold Sabo back from yelling because he has never been angrier in his entire fucking life. What the hell does this family think they are? Sanji doesn't deserve this. He's nice. Cute, too. Smart. Extremely sweet and empathetic. Selfless. Kindness itself.

But time moves quickly and they have to return to their ship. He hates leaving Sanji. He really does. But they promise to see each other again! He even gives Sanji his white handkerchief. The one he likes. The one that's all ripped and worn out. Because it's the one he uses the most. The one he uses when he's with Ace! And it has his initials engraved there, but the S is the only thing that can be seen, so it's okay! Sanji keeps it like a reminder of freedom and the fact that they'll for sure see each other again!

But they don't.

Because the news of Sanji dying reach Sabo and he's devastated. It's so unfair. And it's true. He knows he's dead and he can't do anything about it. But he also knows his family had something to do with it because he's not stupid. He has to move on past the rage, though, even if it's extremely infuriating and frustrating. He has to move on. Sanji, on the other hand, doesn't let go of the handkerchief and Sabo's words, even if he has lost all hope. Yadda, yadda, yadda, you know how the story goes. So Reiju helps Sanji escape and he knows he'll probably never see him again, but he still hopes. Sabo thinks, meanwhile, when he meets Luffy, that he'd love Sanji. With how much he keeps talking about food and dreams! And Sanji would love being here too. Well, not really, because Gray Terminal doesn't seem at all like something Sanji would enjoy, but it for sure would be better than Germa. And Sabo would be able to protect him too. It doesn't matter now, though.

Time-skip moment. Sabo remembers his childhood and his brothers and Sanji. And Ace just died. So great. It seems that the world is always against him. He doesn't have much time to think about Sanji because right now the only thing he has in mind is Ace, his fruit, and finding Luffy. But Sanji's image, for some reason, keeps appearing in his mind. He isn't sure why, but it's still engraved there. He tries to forget him, but now that he truly wants to forget, he doesn't. Fuck it. Well. Dressrosa happens. Yay! He got a brother back and Ace's fruit. Yadda yadda. We know how it goes.

He doesn't actually get to meet Sanji in Dressrosa because I'm trying to be loyal to the timeline, so let's say that this is post-wano and pre-egghead (and Sabo is fine and he isn't in the huge mess he's in right now). Sabo goes "oh, I want to pay an actual visit to my brother's crew. I didn't get to meet everyone properly" and that's when the cool stuff happens.

You know, he tells Robin first about it and she informs the crew and stuff. When Sabo gets there, the only one on deck is Luffy, so of course he gets all excited and jumps to hug him and keeps talking about his crew and how much he's gonna love everyone! Like Nami because she's super smart like him!!! And Usopp because he has the coolest inventions!! And Sanji because he is the best cook-

Wait, Sanji?

And it can't be, because his Sanji is dead. His Sanji can't be Luffy's Sanji, right? Impossible. He guesses it might be just a coincidence and tries to move on from Luffy's words. But then he starts meeting everyone and Sanji gets out of the kitchen to greet him and- Oh. Okay. Yeah. That's definitely him. He has not forgotten those eyebrows and blue eyes and bangs. He could tell it's him from a mile away. Sabo thinks it's his memory playing with him, but then he remembers Sanji's sudden death without any explanation and blames his young self for not realizing sooner what truly happened. What's funny is that Sanji had the same reaction, because when Luffy talks about Sabo for the first time, he freezes at the name. But he guesses it can't really be him, and Luffy doesn't talk enough about him for Sanji to make the correlation.

But no, yeah, it's definitely him.

As you said, they both freeze. And it's actually kind of weird because everybody is looking at them, but they're only focusing on each other so it's also extremely romantic. Sabo tries to act calm and collected when he asks Luffy if he can speak to Sanji in private, and Luffy instantly says:

Luffy: It's to ask for extra food, right?! I am not going to steal yours like when we were kids! I don't do that anymore! Usopp: He still does that. Luffy: But Sabo can have whatever he wants! Sanji will make it! But not more than me. I'm sure you're gonna do it just to piss me of- Sabo: Luffy, you can have all of my food if you want to. Just let me talk to him for a second. Luffy: ?? But why?! It's been so long. I want to be with you! Sabo: Because- Sanji: If you let us talk in private I'll give you two desserts. And more meat. We'll have whatever you want tonight. Luffy: OH! AWESOME! Nami: What is this about again? Franky: Yeah... It looks like you two know each other. Sanji: Who says we don't? Luffy: YOU TWO KNOW EACH OTHER? Sabo: No. Not- Luffy. Give us a moment. *They go into the kitchen together* Zoro: First he's a prince and now he's fucking Luffy's brother. Are we sure Curly doesn't have anything else to tell us? Luffy: He's not- Nami: Shut up!! I can't listen to their conversation through the door if you keep talking!

(She doesn't hear them at all, actually, because the others keep talking and Sabo and Sanji are pretty quiet and she gets bored of trying to spy on them).

They don't really know what to do except to stare at each other. Sanji is about to make some joke or something to make things lighter, but Sabo goes and instantly hugs him tight. Sanji feels he's about to start crying. Especially when Sabo says "I thought you were dead" / "Well, I am not" / "I can see that" / "I- I'm sorry. I truly hoped we could meet but- Things have been a little- Fuck. Just. I'm sorry. Judge- My-" / "Yes. I know. I mean. I don't know, but it's obvious you don't want to talk about it now and I know it's your shitty father's fault. Don't worry about it" / "... Alright" / "Is it weird if I don't want to let go of you?" / "Shut up. You're the one making it weird" / "You grew up. Quite a lot. Remembered you so tiny and cute" / "Oh, fuck you, I am not-" / "Still cute, though" / "You were nicer to me back then" / "You were less sarcastic" / "Touche" / "Hey! So you finally got to be a cook! And for the future king of the pirates! How does that feel?" / "Tiring. Exhausting. Frustrating... A dream come true" / "....... You look happier" / "I am.... Hey? Can you keep like- Holding me for a while? Because-" / "It's okay. Yes. If I let go of you I might start sobbing. This is fine. As long as we don't move, we're fine" / "Great". (Also have in mind that this is post-wano so Sanji is extremely sensitive and wants to kind of sort of die. This is probably the best thing that has happened to him lately. Or ever)

And this is getting reaaaally long already so to end this just say that they definitely end up kissing at some point and dating and then uh, things™ happen. But just think about them having a happy ending. I- I want to write a fanfic now. You can't do that to me. Ughhh. What if I did- What if I did write this fic- Thinking thoughts.

[floydmtalbert]

Tab + “nostalgia” from this prompts list, for @shoshiwrites

It is a hot, still evening in late August. The war has been over for a year.

Floyd steers the pickup onto a dusty side road skirting the edge of a cornfield, driving slowly, heading nowhere in particular. He holds the wheel loosely with one hand; the other hangs out of the open window. The lowering sun is warm on his forearm and on the side of his face, and glaring bright, so that he has to narrow his eyes as he stares through the dirty windshield down the road ahead, stretching away into a heat haze along the horizon.

There are no other cars on the road, no houses or farms in sight. No people. Just the cornfield, flashing yellow-green past the window, and the road ahead, long and straight, rippling in the heat. Everything quiet and lifeless, save for the pickup, the hum of the tyres on the asphalt and the rumble of the engine.

The mail that morning had brought a letter from Bill Guarnere, chatty, containing a photo of Frannie and their baby boy, and full of updates on other Easy men and plans for a reunion. Floyd can’t see the point. A bunch of fellas sitting around talking about the good old days, when they weren’t all that good, and aren’t exactly old, either.

He huffs a long sigh, makes a slight adjustment to the steering wheel. Maybe it’s only him that thinks that way.

Floyd came home nearly a year ago and picked up where he left off. He sleeps in his childhood bedroom, under the old patchwork quilt his great-aunt made, with his high school basketball trophies still on the shelf, dutifully dusted by Nellie Talbert every week, and all the old photographs pinned to the corkboard: himself as a ten-year-old with the family dog, him and his father fishing on Lake Michigan during the one vacation his parents had been able to afford, photobooth snapshots with girlfriends, all married, now, or gone to Indianapolis for work. A few months back he’d even found a bunch of dirty magazines hidden in a box under the bed, a relic of his teenage years. He’d burned them in the backyard, and filled the box instead with his medal ribbons, and his jump wings, all the patches and chevrons, and other bits and pieces, and the bundle of photographs he never looks at but still can’t bear to throw out, and kicked it back under the bed.

He turns onto another road, the pickup bumping over a pothole. The sun is behind him now. He drives past a couple of ramshackle houses, and, further on down the road, a farmhouse, with a barn and a cluster of grain silos. The road is long and straight and level, but he takes it easy. No hurry, nowhere to go.

Major Winters writes now and then—and that’s another thing, Floyd can’t stop thinking of him as Major Winters, even though the man keeps telling him to call him Dick. He’s working in New Jersey, with Captain Nixon, has already been promoted once. Chuck is doing better, working, seeing a nice girl. Joe Liebgott is getting married—or is maybe already married by now. His latest letter sits in Floyd’s bedside drawer, unopened. Smokey calls every couple of weeks, talking about using the GI Bill to go to college.

Floyd got his old job back with Mr Nelson, doing odd jobs on the farm, and in the evenings he takes his dad’s Chevy and heads out for a drive, alone, going nowhere in particular. Sometimes he circles the reservoir, watching the changing colours of the sky reflected in the water. Sometimes he drives through the suburbs on the other side of town, where the houses are tidy and painted fresh white, and have big wraparound porches and garages, and trees on the lawn out front. Other times he heads east, taking one road after another through the acres of farmland, left turn, right turn, zigzagging out and around and back on himself. Just driving, and smoking, sometimes drinking, half a bottle of whisky in a paper bag that he tosses out before he gets home.

In the rearview mirror the sun is a deep orange, flaring along the horizon.

He tries to think of what a reunion would be like. He imagines a big room in some hotel, with a dance floor, and tables set up around it. Maybe there’d be coloured paper garlands strung along the walls and across the ceiling, like they did for his high school prom, or the USO dances in England. He imagines all the fellas there, with their wives in cocktail dresses, and pictures of their kids in their wallets, catching each other up on their jobs, and their houses, and the new car. Or else their college classes, the cute girls on campus, the fraternity parties. And then the talk would turn to the war, d’you remember when and I’ll never forget that time, the jokes and the hijinks and everything else tucked away and the whole thing a big adventure, and done with, in the past.

Floyd slows the pickup and guides it carefully over a culvert. The engine chugs.

He doesn’t want to remember the war, but he can’t seem to move on from it, either. He sleeps in his old room, and works the same job he was doing at eighteen, and after work he drives around aimlessly, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. He’s tired, bored. Mostly he’s angry: at everything, and everyone, and himself most of all.

Maybe it would be good to see the guys again, he thinks as he turns onto another road. Just once. Maybe then he could get it out of his system. Snap out of it, stop holding himself back.

Twilight is falling now, and the air is soft and warm. Floyd switches on the headlights and keeps his eyes on the road ahead, dusty, uneven, patched asphalt revealed in the wobbling beam of light, and glances up now and then to watch the colours fade from the western sky.

He wouldn’t go, he decides. There was nothing to say, nothing worth remembering. He props his elbow up on the sill, and then hangs his hand out of the window again, feeling the air stream through his open fingers.

[peaches2217]

In my own Marioverse, Bowser kidnapping Peach doesn't actually happen very often. Like, at all.

In fact, it only happens twice.

There’s animosity between him and Peach, absolutely, but he usually terrorizes her by way of sending troops to wreak havoc against her citizens. That's not ideal of course, but it’s just part of life; every Toad knows what to do at the first sign of trouble (read: run home screaming), there’s defenses and preventative measures alike in place, it's easy to counter and unsurprising before too long. Unpleasant, but not even particularly disruptful at this point.

And then one night, the princess vanishes, and all that’s left is a letter on her bed in harsh handwriting: Bowser’s bored of his own games and wants control of the Mushroom Kingdom, and until he gets it, Peach will remain his prisoner.

At this point, Mario is a member of her guard (how exactly that happens I haven't decided yet, so for now I default to this brilliant work by the supremely talented @bacidipesca and inspired by the also supremely talented @elitadream), as well as one of her closest friends. He's earned a reputation for his courage, strength, and selflessness, but no one at this point's actually expecting him to drop everything and go charging into Bowser's home territory to save her.

Mario is also a hothead with chronic hero syndrome. It's not just that he's hopelessly smitten close with her. Peach took him and Luigi in after they found themselves stranded in a strange world, giving them kindness, security, a place to call home. She's had Mario's undying loyalty from the moment they first met. Of course he's going to save her.

His actions are a shock to pretty much everyone, especially Bowser. He was expecting either the reluctant but unconditional surrender of her nation or an army, one of the two, not some guy with a funny accent who comes up to the princess' shoulder — who is both significantly faster and somehow almost as strong as him. The surprise works in Mario's favor, and he's able to free Peach and bring her back home not even two full days after her kidnapping, and he's battered and a little singed, but otherwise no worse for the wear.

I wanna go into more depth about the events between Kidnappings 1 and 2 in another post because this is already getting waaaaaay longer than I meant for it to, so to keep it short! Mario gets promoted to Peach's primary bodyguard, and all the extra time together means they go from best friends quietly crushing on each other to best friends in desperate, burning, all-consuming love with one another. So when Bowser kidnaps her once more, it's a hell of a lot more personal.

And Bowser's not underestimating Mario this time around; he's put a shocking amount of effort into ramping up his defenses and keeping Peach's exact location and state of well-being hidden. Mario won't be able to waltz in and carry her out. He makes one wrong move and he's dead. And now Bowser's threatening to outright kill Peach if his demands aren't met, so he's on borrowed time.

It's a very long three months. While Toadsworth spearheads efforts to string Bowser along, walking a fine line between not giving into his threats but also keeping him unsuspicious, Mario trains himself half to death, because he is going to face Bowser, and he is going to kill the bastard, and he is going to bring Peach home safely. He probably would train himself to death if not for Luigi dragging him inside and forcing him to eat and sleep every so often. He doesn't know if Peach is safe or comfortable or even alive, and he won't (willfully) rest until that changes.

The time and resources it takes just reaching Bowser saps most of his energy. The fight nearly kills him. He uses the last of his strength to pry the bars of Peach's cell open and then collapses from a combination of exhaustion, blood loss, and shock. If not for her healing powers, he would've died there on the dungeon floor.

He didn't kill Bowser. He didn't have time. But Bowser received a thrashing pretty damn proportionate to the one he gave Mario. He's oddly quiet from that point on, and no one in the Mushroom Kingdom complains. There's still an ever-lingering fear that he might come back, he might target them once more, he might succeed at what he attempted twice... but the truth is, so long as Mario's alive, he's not getting anywhere NEAR Princess Peach, much less the Mushroom Kingdom.

Bowser may be egotistical and a little dense, but he's not stupid, and he doesn't have a death wish. There's other conquests to be had, conquests against enemies that won't fight back (or at least won't miserably kick his ass).

[mildfevermystery]

Chika SSR #1197 and SR #2242 [Transparent, Edited/Extended] ※ Credit is appreciated but not required.

[angeart]

And 29!

--from ao3 wrapped [writers edition]

29: Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

this is a very interesting question! and also very difficult, given the amount of things i've written in combination with my bad memory. so of course i went and dug through things, overthinking this, even though, really, i know exactly what to answer. still, let me take the long route. (because i'm an idiot and there's no other way.)

so first i'll ramble about things i like.

starting with the phrase that always makes me weak, and i don't think i use it enough, but characters just dissipating into giggles—that exact wording. like. c'mon. that. whenever i get to use it, i'm so happy. it's such a lack of control and overflow of joy. the best thing ever.

but if we move into specific passages... (i go on a bit of a tangent, so the rest is under the line-) (dancing scene at the end there and a bit of a hmtb spoiler/sneakpeek/preview for you guys)

i looked over the cursed forest au fic (even with death haunting your footsteps, your flowers will bloom again), looking for pretty sentences, and the problem is, that fic is full of pretty sentences. (i honestly don't know how i did that, but it does make me happy.) something about words like the warzone of his good intentions, you know? (i had more. i'm trying to be concise.) (i promise.)

but really, there's one phrase in that fic that i do think about sometimes still. so it needs to be mentioned. here:

It still hurts, to be treated so gently, but unlike everything else, it hurts in a way he thinks he might be able to survive.

------

i also want to bring up a sentence from Elegy that lives in my head rent-free (this is from chapter 3, which i'm aware is unreleased as of now, but shh):

The grief is a guillotine, and he’s bending forward, hair falling away from his neck, baring skin and bracing for impact.

there's just something about that that refuses to let me go.

------

but! i also enjoyed writing happy things. (shocking)

especially this passage from these flowers will wither (like you and me), but they're not dead yet was very fun to write:

-

Grian grins at him, something bright and cheeky. “Do you want to try that again?”

There’s a pause when Scar attempts to recalibrate. (He fails.) (He absolutely fails.) 

He tries to grab something rational in him, tries to tell himself that Grian means dancing. But his traitorous heart supplies a wholly different answer to him. 

Scar pushes himself up and, with fingers sliding along Grian’s jaw, he presses his lips to Grian’s.

(They’re warm. They’re chapped. They’re Grian Grian Grian Grian.)

He feels the vibration of Grian’s laughter against him before he really registers the sound.

“That’s not what I meant,” Grian scolds, but there’s no bite in it; he sounds entirely too pleased and amused, even as he piles a handful of sand on top of Scar’s head in playful revenge.

------

and this honestly now brings me to hmtb. which is where we anchor.

believe it or not, there is a happy scene that i can't stop thinking about (just the sheer power of it, across all the pain and messes and saddness—scar making grian laugh like this.)

------ hmtb chapter 49:

Scar looks at him innocently and presents his question: “What is a romp, Impulse?”

Grian bursts out laughing.

A big, toothy grin spreads across Scar’s face at the sound.

Impulse’s eyes briefly flit to Mumbo and he feels his face get hot. “I— What— That’s not fair!” he whines. “That’s not a truth, that’s a, Scar, I’m not a dictionary!”

At that, Grian laughs harder, bending over. His giggles tip over proper cackling, a bit breathless around the edges, and Scar thinks it’s the most wonderful sound in the whole world.

------ and of course this moment from chapter 47:

Neither of them can help it; their lips treacherously stretch into smiles where they’re pressed against each other, before they both helplessly dissipate into giggles, feeling lightheaded and high. 

“What are we doing,” Grian huffs out through his laughter.

“Kissing,” Scar replies cheerfully and demonstratingly places three kisses along Grian’s jaw.

It’s the best thing in the world.

------

bet you didn't expect me to pull out the happy scenes out of this mess of a fic. ha.

but also! one the things i really like and enjoy is throwing anything to do with explosives, tnt, fire, etc, at scar and grian. like this:

Skin tingling and heart feeling like TNT on the verge of explosion, Scar moves to follow him, blindly, willingly, the way he’d follow him anywhere.

and this:

Watching him, Scar laughs quietly. He thinks of the sound the flint and steel makes, of the little click, of the hiss of TNT as it readies itself to cause damage. It sounds like his heart feels. He thinks of sparks that catch on leaves and grass and bark, a tree going up in flames, the catastrophic heat spreading violently to anything it touches, and he wonders if that is how Grian’s heart feels.  

------

now, since i'm already rambly. there is one bit of hmtb i keep thinking back to constantly. and it's a particular conversation from chapter 21 (the talk in the middle of a crisis). this bit in particular:

 “He wasn’t afraid then. He knew you could kill him, but he wasn’t scared. And you know what, Grian? You didn’t kill him,” he finishes softly. 

“I… didn’t kill him?” Grian repeats, dazed and wobbly. 

“He wasn’t scared, and you didn’t kill him”

(you guys should keep this in mind too. it might get a callout sometime, uhhhhh, around chapter 100 or so at this rate—)

(don't worry about that, ofc.)

and now for the real answer. (wow.)

because here's the thing. you're asking what's my favourite passage. and really, i love all those other things too, but there's one particular bit of writing that hits closer than any other.

the dancing bits.

the heartachy, complicated, painful dancing bits.

and yes, this ties to the whole fic i wrote about them dancing in the desert, but listen. the purely-hmtb bits? those? those. okay?

here we go:

------ hmtb chapter 37: call of the desert

Scar sighs a little and says: “I miss it.”

“Scar,” Grian’s voice is absolutely unsteady.

They haven’t really talked about the desert, not since it was over.

Nobody ever talks about life games, if they can avoid it.

But now Grian sits here and he has to forcefully remind himself that the skin over his knuckles isn’t torn raw and that Scar’s blood isn’t coating his hands and he has to accept that Scar misses the desert and Grian also misses it, in a way, and it’s all so dizzying, it makes him lightheaded.

“We used to dance,” Scar says thoughtfully. “Why don’t we do it anymore?”

“I forgot how,” Grian barely manages to get out. He didn’t forget. In fact, he remembers every step Scar taught him. He remembers them stumbling together into a fall, a small giggling heap on top of the warm sand, limbs tangled. He remembers the moment when Scar grinned wildly at him, joy bright in his eyes, as they completed a couple of steps without a hitch for the first time. He remembers how they laughed and danced, giddy and high on life in a world that promised nothing but death.

He doesn’t want to remember. It hurts his heart.

“I can teach you again,” Scar suggests softly.

The pain in Grian’s heart just gets worse.

Scar reaches for Grian’s hand, then. Even if they’re both sitting on Grian’s bed and they can’t dance like this, he still slides his fingers underneath Grian’s palm and brings it up, in exactly the same way he held it when they danced. With curved lips, he hums a melody.

Grian looks at him, absolutely wretched. His hand twitches in Scar’s grasp, but he doesn’t pull it away. “Scar,” he half-whispers, in a miserable tone. He meant to say stop, but he can’t bring himself to. So he just pleads, using Scar’s name itself, hoping the other man will get it.

Scar studies Grian for a second, before he lowers their hands. He huffs out a small laugh. “It’s okay. We can leave it for some other time.”

Grian purses his lips. He doesn’t say there won’t be another time. He doesn’t say he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t say that something in him desperately wants this, actually, please Scar please.

------

but, you know what. it isn't over.

this answer has been long enough. i know. i know. (i appreciate and love everyone who bothered to read this far <3 ) but. but there's more.

there is more, and it's so closely related, these scenes are entwined and live snugly side-by-side in my heart. but. here's the thing.

this next bit is 1,2k long, and it's from a chapter that, as of now, hasn't been released yet. for the curious, greedy, hungry souls (love you all to bits), here it is:

------ hmtb chapter [unspecified]

Scar blinks and recalibrates under the scrutiny. His eyes dart to the jukebox and he lets a smile spread across his lips, as he reaches out a hand to Grian. “Hey, G, you wanna dance?”

Grian’s eyes widen a fraction, thrown off by the abrupt suggestion. “I’m… not sure,” he manages to say, eyes dropping to Scar’s invitingly outstretched hand, palm-up and ready for him. 

His emotions wrangle in him—a need to be close, to give in, to accept everything Scar’s giving him, pushed violently against the sharp memories of sand and desert, something happy tiding over into blood and pain and misery.

He flexes his fingers, pulls them into a fist and then stretches them out, trying to unknot the tension and release the slight tremble that courses through them. His throat feels dry, all of a sudden.

“It’s okay,” Scar says in the softest tone that never fails to tug at Grian’s heart. “I can lead.”

The music turns mildly cacophonic, askew and sick. It buzzes and pitches and tilts, in a way music isn’t supposed to be able to. And Grian realises that he’s told Scar before that he forgot how to dance. 

Scar taught him all the steps, back in the desert. A lot of hours spent in the stifling air upon sun-warmed evening sand, stumbling and laughing and holding onto each other. Their skin was more tanned then. Their eyes were brighter, their souls wilder. They felt unstoppable.

Grian feels anything but right now.

He doesn’t know if he can take it.

But Scar’s reaching out to him and Grian finds that he cannot turn away from it, his body shackled and chained, unable to resist. And so even if everything in him screams no, he still finds himself reaching back, meeting Scar’s hands with his own trembling fingers, trepidation sinking its teeth into him.

Scar’s smile brightens and oh, maybe it’s not trepidation that Grian feels.

He feels Scar’s fingers take hold of his hand, secure and warm; they pull at him, but not in a destabilising way. It’s the opposite: they tell Grian exactly where to be. Scar’s other arm finds Grian torso and seamlessly slides across to his back, sending shivers down Grian’s spine; his wings stretch out and shudder, before they fall back, feathers lightly brushing over Scar’s skin.

Everything about this is electrifying, and it’s driving Grian haywire. 

He thinks maybe he needs to stop thinking. Maybe he needs to give in to the part of him that wants to let Scar have control of the two of them now; the part of him that wants to trust and believe that he’s safe; the part of him that craves affection with ugly, hungry desperation. 

Scar leans closer and with a rumbling baritone wrapped in velvet, he checks: “Ready?”

Running on nothing but instinct, Grian squeezes at Scar’s hand.

With a low chuckle, Scar lets go of Grian’s back and Grian almost gasps at the abrupt loss—but all Scar does is guide Grian’s free hand to his waist. “Like this,” he murmurs, his voice just a step away from purring, and then his hand slots back against Grian’s spine.

A trembling breath leaves Grian’s lips and he dips his head, leaning forwards, inching closer to Scar. He feels the response in the way Scar’s touch on his back turns firm, accepting the new closeness with reverent neediness. He can’t see Scar’s face, but he can tell Scar’s lips are curved in a smile, cheeks slightly dimpling.

He almost wishes to look, but he can’t, he can’t, it’s too much. 

He takes a deep breath though his nose. The air isn’t dry and hot. The ground doesn’t shift underneath his feet.

It hasn’t shifted underneath his feet in ages, but right now in this very moment, a part of Grian distantly thinks that it should. That if they’re going to dance, it should be atop a mountain, feet sinking into sand.

They’re standing on carpeted floor, and the music disc is one they didn’t have in the desert, the sounds of it wrapping around them in a rhythm completely discordant to the fast beating of Grian’s heart. 

With gentle and deliberate move, Scar directs them to sway. Their feet shift, steady on the solid floor, something learned and simple. Scar leads them in careful, basic steps, the ones he used at the very beginning to teach Grian. Back when even that was too much, and Grian kept stepping on his feet, and Scar kept catching him.

Scar doesn’t need to catch Grian now, because Grian knows these steps. They’re imbued in his muscle memory, something sunken and anchored, a part of his soul that’s reserved for things that feel like home.

Testingly, Scar throws in something more complex. He pulls Grian along, turning them in circles, every step confident and filled with joy. The music is the background rhythm, but they’re both locked somewhere else, in a fragment of a memory—something that used to be; something that Scar believes could be again.

With a curve to his lips, Scar hums and remarks: “You said you don’t remember.”

Grian’s breath hitches and it’s only now that he lifts his head to meet Scar’s gaze. Despite that, his feet do not stumble; he doesn’t need to watch where he steps, he knows it all by heart. His gaze anchors in green eyes and something rises within him so tidally and overwhelmingly that he feels hot wetness blur his vision all of a sudden. “How could I forget?” he manages past the lump in his throat.

Scar gently lets go of Grian’s hand and instead reaches to touch Grian’s jaw, brushing his thumb soothingly over Grian’s cheek as he takes in the raw, ravaging emotion in Grian’s eyes. 

Grian moves his suddenly free arm around Scar, fingers finding purchase in the fabric of Scar’s shirt, digging into it until he has a firm grip. His lungs spasm in his chest, his heart stutters, his wings droop then lift and spread. A loose feather drops to the floor and Scar sidesteps it expertly, as if it was somehow too precious to damage. 

“You remember,” Scar murmurs, an odd inflection to his voice. 

Grian’s skin buzzes where Scar touches it; a tingling, warm sensation spreads from Scar’s fingertips and robs Grian of breath. “Of course,” he murmurs, quiet, destabilised. 

Scar’s eyes crinkle in joy, lips spreading into a bright, toothy smile that ends in dimpled skin as he looks at Grian. He makes no attempt to call out Grian’s earlier lie; he seems content in knowing that this is the truth, warm and alive underneath his fingers, guided by his steps. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind teaching you again, but this makes me so happy!” he admits openly, fractionally heightening their tempo as he leads them in spinning circles, everything in him attuned to the music even as it becomes nothing more than a background noise.

Grian isn’t ready for those words. Nor for the way Scar looks at him.

He feels like he’s drowning, and Scar’s both his sea and his oxygen.

Scar starts humming in tune, the happy expression lingering on his face, and it’s only then that the discordant rhythm of the song disentangles and starts making sense to Grian. It’s only the reverb of Scar’s voice that puts coherency into Grian’s existence; into their steps across the carpet that doesn’t give underneath their weight; into the way the room sways around them, full of warm shadows and flickering flames and muted colours not quite matching sand.