#i meant to post this way later...

[this-is-krikkit]

hi!! read you're doing prompts, can you do the 9th? i feel like it's a perfect one for levihan 😂

send me a number and a ship and i'll write a drabble!

thank you for sending this prompt ! it does have undeniable levihan vibes to it 😏

Prompt 9. “You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!”

Zeke (★now edited and posted on ao3 ★)

Characters: Levi, Hange, Zeke

Tags: modern au, levihan, no zekehan or zevi i promise, i just think i'm hilarious sometimes and you guys have to deal with it hehehe, erumike mentioned, tw alcohol mention ig

.

Hange gets out of the shower, puts on the clean shirt Levi had left for them in the bathroom and sneaks into the bedroom quietly. They successfully stop a yelp from escaping and only wince as they bump their toe into their bedside table, and put the miraculously unspilled glass of water they'd brought in with them on it.

They crawl under the duvet quickly, delighted to have made it here just as the hangover headache was starting to make their head throb, and frown as they realize something heavy has taken over most of their side of the bed. They reach back and click their light on, and feel their eyes widening as they take in the sight.

"What the- Levi, what's Zeke doing here?" they ask, way too loud even by their own standards.

"Fuck's sake, four-eyes," Levi moans, voice groggy and dry, "what's it look like? He's sleeping. And so am I, so shut the fuck up and turn the damn light off."

Hange bites their lip to stop themself from commenting on his bed hair or the adorably cranky look on his half asleep face, and obey his order.

Before they swiftly climb over both him and the dog, and stretch their arm far enough to turn on the light on his own bedside instead. They fully laugh when Levi whines again, swearing some more, and the Husky joins his protest with a loud howl.

"And where do I sleep, grumpy-grumps?" Hange asks, fluffing the dog's fur, who quickly calms down at the attention.

"I don't care, just get out of my bed," Levi replies, his voice all muffled from speaking into his pillow as he protects his eyes from the sting of the light.

Hange gasps in faked horror, Zeke looking up at them in concern at the sound.

"You can't banish me! This is my bed too!"

Levi groans again, and blindly feels behind him with his hand.

"Not anymore," he sighs in reflief when he finds his mark and darkness replaces the cruel artificial light. "Now it's mine and Zeke's."

"Right... and since when do you allow this- how'd you put it again- 'overactive drama queen of a hairball', to get on the sheets you love so much and shed all over them?" Hange pushes, genuinely curious.

"Since you leave me for two nights in a row to go on a weekend-long party with your brother and his brainless jock friends. And I was planning on changing the sheets later today anyway," he adds as an afterthought.

"Mike's bachelor party was fun, honey, thank you for asking," Hange replies playfully. "But I still don't understand how that has anything to do with your rules regarding the dog's sleeping-

"For your information, your four legged soulmate here wouldn't stop whining and howling at the front door until I let him come in here," he interrupts in a huff. "I don't know what he was so anxious about, but he had a really hard time sleeping without you around."

Hange's eyes have grown accustomed to the shadows by now, and they don't miss the way Levi stares at Zeke, actively avoiding to look at their own face. They should have known from the minute they came home and Levi was still in bed in the middle of the day that his insomnia had been acting up again, and it twists something in their gut to hear him confess so in his own twisted way, especially when they know he'd been working long hours the week before.

They hum and perch themself back on what little space they've got left on their side of the bed, letting one of their hands land on Levi's pillow to ruffle his hair and massage his scalp as they pet the dog's fur with the other.

"I'm sorry you didn't get to rest properly," they say softly.

Levi sighs, and his fingers link with theirs over the dog's belly.

"From the looks of you right now, I'd say you didn't either," he jokes. "Did you really have fun?"

"So much. I don't see how Erwin's going to beat that next weekend, honestly."

"Well, don't tell him that. He's so competitive he'd do the craziest shit just to try and prove you wrong."

They feel their own grin widening, and Levi chuckles when he spots it.

"Tch, four-eyes..." he warns, shaking his head in faked disapproval.

"Come on, what's the point of being one groom's sibling and the other's best friend if I don't get to mess with them a little?"

They yawn around the end of the sentence, which makes it sound way less villainous than they'd meant.

"Better get some rest while you can, then, evil mastermind," Levi scoffs, failing to hide his own reflex yawn.

Hange vaguely remembers letting out a weak laugh and pinching his nose in retaliation for his mocking tone, before falling into deep slumber.

[blindmagdalena]

The Fall

2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.

Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.

this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn.  ♡

Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from. 

With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it.  However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel. 

What the fuck? 

His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.

With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.

When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.

You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.

"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.

He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed. 

"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."

There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.

It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.

You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?

He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.

As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.

You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust. 

"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.

I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."

"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.

If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?

"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.

Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent. 

He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.

He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.

"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."

Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.

Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up. 

"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.

You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."

"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.

He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.

Even a curtain is better than no door at all.

After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.

“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”

“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”

You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.

That’s just what you’ve told him.

From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.

"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.

"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.

His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.

You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.

Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.

Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.

Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.

Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.

To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.

Just full of surprises, little mouse.

Maybe you aren't so boring after all.

He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.

"What was that?" You ask, dazed.

"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.

You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you. 

"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."

It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips. 

The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them. 

“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows. 

You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.

“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.

He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.

“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”

Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.

“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.

“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.

Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.

He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.

[nyupuun]

Happy Pride to my most gorgeous girls!!!

[inthewychelm]

@steddie-spooktober day 12 - graveyard

[marzipanandminutiae]

Marzi's Old House Supply Kit: A Non-Exhaustive List

So you've moved into an old house! Congratulations! No, no, look at me. Look in my eyes. Congratulations. You don't need smart lighting. You don't need paltry things like "showers that don't make ungodly noises if you set the water outside a very specific temperature range" or "logical staircases." Because those people who say They Built Them Sturdier Back Then is survivorship bias are wrong, lead paint is only a problem if you eat it, and your new home is basically a tank

also it might have stained glass. so basically you win

(no but seriously the Survivorship Bias argument is just like. tell me you don't live in a city with large quantities of remaining working-class 110-year-old buildings without telling me. I do. they're sturdier. end of.)

but you might need some things to make it a bit more comfortable. here's what I've found, over eight years of living in houses built 1920 or earlier

Power strips. Depending on the age of your house, it may or may not have had electricity originally. And even if it did, whoever lived there almost certainly had fewer things to plug in than the average denizen of the 2020s. There also may have been gorgeous wall sconces that some asshole heartlessly ripped out at some point, forcing you to use the hideous hateful Overhead LightTM or plug in a bunch of lamps. Either way, you're going to need to turn that single outlet in the room into several more. Hence, power strips.

(hey, I never said this list was free of my design biases. deal)

A Good Fan. You may live in a place where retrofitting with air conditioning was commonplace in the last several decades. I do not. So a good pedestal fan can make the difference between comfort and just not sleeping at all from late June to mid-September. Weirdly, I did once look at a place that was from the 1850s and had been retrofitted with central A/C, which is vanishingly rare in even urban Massachusetts. But I digress.

A stud-finder. "Marzi, you spent years of your life explaining to tourists that picture rails existed because trying to hammer nails directly into horsehair plaster and then putting weight on them did Bad Things." Yes I did. "What did you attempt to do the second week of living in your first house with horsehair plaster?" ...shut up. I used the Poltergeist Method to find solid wood- I don't know if it's actually studs or the lath or what; I'm not a builder -to hang my Lady and the Unicorn tapestry from, namely knocking on the wall until it doesn't sound hollow. You might want to go a bit quieter and more advanced. Or, if you have a picture rail, embrace the "long visible hanging wires" look. It is in fact there for a reason!

Window screens. You are actually required by Massachusetts state law to provide these to your tenants. Doesn't mean my last landlady did. And if you own your place, live in another state, or have a similarly laissez-faire building owner, you might end up needing to Bring Your Own Insect-Blocking Shield. Just make sure you've got them, one way or the other. Because see above re: fan vs. air conditioning in old houses.

WD-40. When's the last time those hinges were oiled? Potentially before television. And they WILL squeak. UPDATE I HAVE BEEN INFORMED THAT WD-40 IS NOT A GOOD LONGTERM SOLUTION. Find "actual oil." Not sure what the more specific name is. Good to know!

That's just what I've found needful so far, but I'm happy to update the list as required!

And you'd better believe, if I owned my own place, this would include "the name of a preservation contractor to undo all the unnecessary ~*MoDeRnIzInG*~ aesthetic bullshit the past owners did since the End of Mainstream Western House Beauty AKA 1920 (That Brief Rococo Revival In the 1930s Can Maybe Sit With Us)"

[sualne]

wish me luck as i attempt to rewrite the modern au from the ground up for the third time.

[autumnoakes]

since playing twilight princess again i cannot get behind the lu fandom characterization of twilight and wild i'm sorry. like i think twilight would be an overprotective big brother figure towards wild, absolutely. but wild doesn't take that sitting down. he doesn't like being coddled, and it's pretty clear (side note: i do really appreciate the analysis posts about wars and how hard he's been on wild potentially pushing wild closer and closer to a rather big memory. you can sort of see how twilight is not happy with how warriors is acting, but he's not saying anything right now. probably because it's not his place to, and also probably because wild wouldn't want him to right now).

i think that twilight and wild have a very different relationship to what most of the lu fandom thinks. they're close - that much is obvious from how they react when the other is hurt, and how twilight pushed through the rest to get to wild during the memories comic. but i think that a lot of the time, it feels like wild only exists around twilight, or he can't be left without twi otherwise he'll "do something stupid" or whatever. wild doesn't exactly appreciate twi's protectiveness or his advice all of the time, but he still looks up to twilight. despite whatever went down when they first met, wild worked to gain twi's trust in order for them to be so close. they're equals - just like the rest of the chain are equals. and yes, wild does a fair amount of dumb things and he's impulsive about it, but i would like to argue that twilight also does a fair amount of dumb things (in game and in comic)

(i think it also kinda feeds in to how wild is sort of infantilized by the fanbase. he's already not exactly trusted by the rest of the chain (legend especially, for some reason), and i think i'd like to explore that and how his relationship with legend formed. they seem to think he's sort of a loose cannon, especially after the previous arcs. wild hasn't seemed to realize it yet, but i do think something is coming, especially with him and warriors)

[fiona-fififi]

...

[biblically-accurate-dca]

these are all kind of Bad but this was the best of the bunch so i am posting it :p

i've been trying to draw vanessa more... she is so important to me... sun is here too i guess

[mbat]

this was an idea i had last year that i found in my files and decided to revive. woe, angst be upon ye

[wildstar25]

MiqoMarch Day 23 - Midnight

With their intended voyage into the void only a few days out, Arsay thought it the upmost importance that she steal her partner away to Kugane, that they might share one more fond memory together should things not turn out the way they plan in the thirteenth. It was as they crossed the very same bridge the miqo'te had once sat on together two years prior when Arsay gifted Y'shtola with a bracelet matching that of her own. A token of endearment which, Arsay confessed, she would have given to her fellow scion back then, had nerves not gotten the best of her. While their relationship has undoubtedly changed since the initial purchase of the jewellery, the sentiment remained the same. Y'shtola was someone who Arsay loved dearly and she will forever be grateful to have the seeker's life intertwined with her own. No matter where their free spirits took them, they would always hold each other in their hearts. A promise Y'shtola was more than willing to keep. She slipped the the string of beads around her wrist without a second thought. They were never to come off, not even when the two decided to delay their return to Radz-at-Han in favour of a private bath at the dead of night.

[starleska]

hey guys, listen. it means the world that you like my stuff and are eager to see more of it, but i literally posted a wip just two weeks ago and have so many people asking when it's going to be done. the answer is: i don't know. this month has been tremendously difficult for me, and i'm really, really exhausted.

i've been posting art, vids, text posts, writing articles, etc. all for the sake of fandom while trying to keep on top of the huge amount of asks and messages that have come my way. i was supporting a loved one in the hospital, my laptop is broken, and i experienced a really horrifying situation earlier this month that left me sick, that i'm still recovering from. please do remember that i'm not a content factory, and neither are any other fandom artists you like. i know some of you are just reaching out because you are excited, but a lot of the time it's coming across as a demand, and it's making me just want to log off and not work on anything at all. this isn't my job - i'm just a person who gets excited about stuff and likes to write/draw/talk about it, that's all. i recognise some of this response is just burnout from a really terrible month, and i probably wouldn't be reacting this way if i was less at the end of my tether, but this is something i've always been vocal about. as a prolific fandom creator i've had my fair share of 'WHEN'S THE NEXT CHAPTER???' comments on fics, and 'OMG YOU SHOULD DRAW THIS!!!' replies on art that's just been posted. zero acknowledgement of artistic merit, of what they liked about what was made...just an insatiable hunger for more. i don't know if it's because i'm in so many fandoms, or because i make such a wide variety of fan content and make a lot of posts that seem to draw strangers in. but none of my fanworks come with a release date. i make them because they make me happy, and i release them when they're ready, and if i want to. i shouldn't be logging onto Tumblr and feeling dread looking at my askbox, messages and replies because i know there'll be more demand. for real guys...my stuff isn't that good? it's just silly self-indulgent nonsense and autistic overthinking. this is the place where i go to release the fixation energy, not to come to another workplace 😓 my apologies if this seems ridiculous or overblown. it's a feeling i've been sitting on for a few months now, and it's one i've had following strong/frequent/demanding interactions in larger fandoms before. i don't think there's a fix for this, because people are always going to be crossing boundaries and treating fanworks creators this way. but i think i need to stay firm and say that i don't owe anyone a schedule of the art i make for fun. thanks for reading 💖

[camels-pen]

warning: eating disorders/food issues

-

"Something wrong with it?"

Usopp startled and snapped his head to the side. His nose jabbed Sanji's eye and they both hissed. Usopp jerked away to rub the tip of his nose.

"Fuck, I forgot about that," Sanji grumbled. There was a contrasting, fond smile on his face as rubbed his eye. "Anyway, the food?"

"What about it?"

"What's wrong with it?"

Usopp turned his gaze back to his plate. Plenty of pork chops piled high- at Luffy's request for a meat-filled dinner- and mashed potatoes with green beans on the side. His mouth salivated again just staring at it.

"Nothing," he said. "Just taking my time."

He could feel Sanji's unimpressed stare. "You've been 'taking your time' through the whole dinner. Everyone's already finished and left. The moss ball even finished the dishes, and we both know how he likes to dawdle."

Despite himself, Usopp giggled quietly. When it was his turn to do dishes, Zoro always took his time, waiting for Sanji to get frustrated with his speed and leave him to finish it alone. It was the perfect strategy to steal booze when Sanji wasn't looking, but it seemed Usopp had unknowingly thwarted his first sake stealing attempt after their reunion.

As if reading his mind, Sanji said, "I let him steal that alcohol, you know. I'm not that stupid." He huffed, voice sounding like he was pouting as he added, "It's the only damn way I can keep an eye on his shitty drinking habits. He'd constantly drink us dry otherwise, that damn mossheaded bastard."

Usopp giggled again and made the mistake of glancing up at him. Sanji was staring across the room at the kitchen, probably the place he'd put all the good booze. He'd confided in Usopp, once, that he had two hiding places for drinking alcohol: one, more obvious place, by the fridge for the cheap stuff, and another, hidden somewhere he wouldn't say, for all the more expensive and high quality stuff. He'd confidently crowed, on more than one occasion, that despite the cheap stuff always going missing, he'd never lost a drop of anything else. He always looked so smug saying that, and well, Usopp now knew why.

But then his eye- the left one now, and despite looking right at it, the change had still caught him off guard more than once- turned to Usopp and Usopp clammed up. Sanji stared at him, his eyebrow- this one curled on the opposite side, closer to his nose bridge than his ear- raised high on his forehead. "If you're well enough to laugh at Zoro, it can't be that bad."

Usopp gulped. Looked away. "I'm not sick," he said quietly. "The food looks great, Sanji, really. Eating is just..." He trailed off. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, only the sounds of their distant crewmates enjoying the sight of their descent to the ocean's floor filling the galley.

Sanji's arm slowly, hesitantly, laid on the back of his chair- Sanji didn't used to hesitate, but, he supposed, things had changed. He settled himself in the chair next to Usopp, rather than continue to lean over him, and said softly, "Eating is just...?"

Usopp stared at the grain on the table, studying the lines and deviations with an intense and sudden fascination.

"Usopp."

"It's hard," he mumbled.

Another silence, this one less expecting and more confused. Awkward.

"You ate fine at breakfast...?" Sanji said, voice lilting up at the end, almost in question.

Usopp snorted. 'Ate fine' was a kinder way of putting it. Usopp had demolished breakfast, nearly rivaling Luffy with how much and how quickly he ate. The usual sense of desperation had dimmed slightly, now that he was with his crew, but it was still there, dictating his eating habits. He would've felt more ashamed if he hadn't seen Luffy, Franky, and Brook eating in the exact same disgusting manner. Instead, he felt right at home.

He had wondered, privately, if something similar had happened to them. Had tossed around the idea of asking them about it. Then he would think back to how they used to eat, before. How it was exactly the same. How they had all basically cried that they'd so dearly missed Sanji's cooking. He couldn't blame them, he nearly sobbed over Sanji's pancakes- and then did sob over his hashbrowns.

"The island got hungry at dawn," he started. Stopped. Stared at the little vase of daisies at the centre of the table that Robin had gathered from her garden- now shared with Usopp. "It would close up. Then open. After, everything was... safe. For a little while."

He gulped again, cringing at his dry throat. He stared at the glass of water, a little wet stain under it. Luffy had bumped his glass earlier when he stole a few chops off of Usopp's pile.

Usopp didn't reach for it.

"You know, I was expecting grand stories of your heroics when you finally talked about where you were." Usopp shrunk in his seat. "No- no, come on I didn't mean it like that. I was just trying to make a joke."

"You should leave the jokes to the experts." Usopp's lip quirked. "Even Brook's better than you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sanji scowled. "Brook wouldn't know a good joke if it kicked him upside the head."

Usopp giggled again, relaxing. "Admit it, you missed his skull jokes."

Sanji huffed. "...Maybe a little."

In the background, they could hear Zoro talking about taking a swim followed by a familiar thud and Nami yelling at him. They both giggled this time, leaning into each other.

"God, I missed everyone. I missed-" Sanji cut himself off and Usopp turned to look at him. There was a wobble to his lips and his visible eye stared intently at him. Usopp would almost say Sanji looked longing- yearning, even- if he didn't know better.

"I know," he said. "I missed everyone too." Sanji's eyes pinched a little at the corners, but Usopp didn't know why. He didn't linger on it long though, what with Sanji's smile as he pressed his temple to Usopp's for a moment. Usopp's heart would've beat wildly two years ago, but now all he felt was warm and content.

Sanji hummed in agreement and pulled away. Patting his pockets, likely for a cigarette. Usopp pulled the one tucked behind his ear, admiring the feel of soft blond hair a moment too long before handing it to him. Sanji chuckled and accepted it with a quiet thanks.

He lit it and sat back in his chair, relaxing with the first inhale. "Back to the important stuff." Usopp would argue all of that was important stuff. "You only felt safe to eat breakfast?"

Usopp shook his head. Then tilted it side to side. "No- well, sort of. It was never really safe, but..." He rolled the words around his mouth, feeling out the right ones while discarding others. "It was... easier. To eat a lot in the morning. Gather food later in the day. Then sleep when I got hungry closer to sunset."

Sanji blew out a puff of smoke. "You didn't have anyone to watch your back while you were eating?"

"I did." Usopp nodded, a sense of pride filling him as he puffed out his chest. "Heracles'n was a great friend and teacher! We took turns watching out for each other and, well, he's the reason I survived that island in the first place." He flexed one of his biceps. "He also helped me get a whole lot stronger!"

Sanji pursed his lips around his cigarette. "But you didn't eat dinner. Or lunch." Today nor in nearly two years, though Sanji likely meant the latter.

Usopp deflated, arm settling back down in his lap. "We couldn't stop moving until sunset. By then it was better to sleep and eat heap loads in the morning rather than risk dinner and not getting enough rest." He sighed. "Heracles'n was always telling me to eat more berries and fruit throughout the day, but..."

Sanji stared at him. "You had this-island-is-too-scary-so-I-can't-eat-anything-itis?"

Usopp scowled. "I'd like to see you keep up an appetite when you're constantly running and hiding from giant-"

Sanji used his arm to tug Usopp closer, so their sides were pressed together. He pressed his nose to Usopp's hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What for?" Usopp whispered back.

Sanji didn't answer, his breaths warming Usopp's head. The galley had grown silent when he finally spoke, the others having found quieter activities or retired to their rooms.

"If I was stronger then- or quicker-"

"Sanji," Usopp said. "There's no way you would've been able to beat Kuma, back then."

Sanji shook his head. "I know, but maybe we could've been sent somewhere together."

There was a bittersweet, choking feeling in the back of Usopp's throat. A burning in his eyes. "You wouldn't have liked it there," he said, laying his head on Sanji's shoulder. "You would've hated it, actually."

"But I would've been with you."

Usopp laughed, the sound wet and brittle. "I wouldn't wish that island on anyone, Sanji, but least of all you. I'm not worth-"

A hand cupped his face, cutting him off as he was turned to face Sanji. His nose was bent, pressing against Sanji's cheek. "You worth a lot, Usopp. You're worth it to-" Sanji's cheeks dusted pink all of a sudden and he looked away. "You're worth a lot. And it would've been nice if I could have watched your back. Made sure you were eating well."

At a loss for words, Usopp turned back to the table, staring at his plate. The mashed potatoes were surely cold and hard by now and he was fairly certain a thick pork chop wouldn't stay down.

The green beans, maybe. Those could work.

He picked one up. His stomach rumbled. He lifted it to his mouth.

His hands shook.

He gulped again. Stared at his hand intensely.

Sanji's hand covered his own. A sudden, terrible spike of anxiety overwhelmed him and he held his breath, hoping Sanji wasn't going to just force him to eat it. He hated wasting food after all and it was already in Usopp's hand and Usopp himself just needed to quit cowering and just eat it already-

Sanji pulled his hand away from his mouth. The tension left Usopp in a rush. Shame took up where anxiety had left, but he forced himself to meet Sanji's eye. He knew what came next.

Before Sanji could say anything, Usopp blurted, "There was food. On the island. Not just fruits and berries and whatever game we could hunt. Pre-cooked food, I mean." Sanji's brow furrowed, but Usopp continued on. "There were these plants- and rivers- that had cake and burgers and ramen and- well, you get the idea. And the closer you got to the centre of the island, the more tasty the food got." He gulped. Coughed a little. Sanji reached for his glass, but Usopp grabbed his wrist in a tight hold. If he didn't get it all out now, he never would.

"I didn't meet Heracles'n immediately. I was on my own at first and- and I didn't completely trust him at first either." He laughed, the sound as self-deprecating as it felt. "The centre of the island, that's where its mouth is."

Sanji's eyebrow furrowed further. "So when you said the island 'got hungry'..."

Usopp nodded. "It was a trap to lure in prey." Quietly, he added, "Like me."

Sanji gasped, his eyes darting down, and wow, Usopp really should've re-thought the whole 'show off his new muscles by going shirtless' plan. He pulled away from Sanji, and pulled up the waist of his pants. "Staring at my stretch marks isn't going to change anything, y'know."

Sheepishly, Sanji said, "Sorry- sorry, I should know better." He held out his arms, with a sad little pout. "Come back?"

Usopp held out for a few moments, glaring at him, but he sighed and eventually gave in. "I hate you," he mumbled into Sanji's shoulder. Sanji patted his back in response.

The two of them sat there in silence once more. Usopp savoured the contact between them, like he had always dreamed of on Boin.

"You had to train yourself to avoid delicious looking foods, then," Sanji said quietly. Usopp nodded. "That makes sense. But then, breakfast?"

A new wave of shame, far heavier than the last. He dug his forehead into Sanji's shoulder. "I don't want to talk about it."

He didn't know how to explain how he had become some kind of wild animal during meals and he didn't want to explain. Heracles'n was already one person too many and earlier, the entire crew had seen him. His heart beat hard and fast in his chest at the reminder, a belated rush of fear to make up for his single minded focus at breakfast.

"Then I won't ask," Sanji said. "You should tell Chopper though-"

Usopp grimaced. "Eventually, but..."

Sanji sighed, pressing his cheek to Usopp's hair. "Okay, but can I make you something? Just a snack or tea or...?"

Usopp huffed. "Sanji-"

"I know, I know! But letting you go to bed hungry is..."

"Hard," Usopp finished for him, pulling away. "I know."

He wasn't going anywhere before Sanji fed him, of that he was sure, but it made Usopp's stomach queasy just thinking about all the snacks Sanji used to make before they were separated.

Some of it must have shown on his face too, since Sanji was already holding up his hands and starting to look even more concerned. "It doesn't have to be anything special. I could just peel a tangerine for you or slice up some apples or juice some pears- I mean oranges! Why would anyone juice pears- oh, hm, I should check that sometime; remind me to write it down. Oh and maybe I could steep a really bitter tea, so you don't have to worry about drinking too much because I know you hate bitter things-"

And Usopp couldn't help himself. He laughed.

Sanji deflated, his brow furrowed in confusion, or maybe it was concern. Usopp didn't know, he was too busy laughing at the absurdity of Sanji being so anxious and speaking every rambling thought. It was adorable and Usopp couldn't help but reach up and squish Sanji's cheeks.

"I lo-" Sanji's eye widened and suddenly, Usopp didn't feel brave enough. "Lost my notebook. We'll have to use one of yours."

"O-Oh, yeah, sure." Sanji nodded, voice slightly muffled by his squished cheeks. He stared at Usopp, his eye asking another question.

Usopp looked away, his eyes landing on the fruit bowl on the bar counter. There were apples, bananas, and pears. He pulled his hands away. "...Nami will be mad at you." he said quietly, weakly.

Sanji sighed, a shaky, relieved little thing. He wrapped his arms around Usopp's middle, crushing him to his chest. "I think she'll forgive me," he said.

Boldly, Usopp added, "What if you made coffee?" The only coffee in the pantry was a fancy jar brought along from a Revolutionary base near a village that prided themselves on their harvest.

Sanji chuckled. "Robin would forgive me too."

Usopp hummed. "You seem awfully confident."

"I am," he said, pulling away completely, his chair squeaking against the floorboards as he stood. Sanji held out a hand, a smile on his lips. "If you don't believe me, let me show you."

And right here, Usopp could've chosen to laugh it off. Said something about not wanting to face Nami's wrath, much less Robin's. Fled the galley completely with an excuse or three and sleep in his workshop while ignoring any and all feelings of guilt. It would've been easy.

But he'd already accepted it. Acknowledged the inevitable consequences instead of turning down those anxious suggestions. How could he do anything else, in the face of such genuine care and concern? To leave now would just hurt them both and the last thing Usopp wanted to do was hurt Sanji.

And, well, he trusted Sanji, to do what he couldn't. Planned to trust him with his heart, at some point.

Trusting him with his stomach, in comparison, was as easy as breathing.

So, Usopp placed a steady hand in Sanji's own, a small, teasing smile on his face, and said, "Lead the way."

[dj-wayback]

What made you choose the name Slinky for Slinky? Did you just like the vibes?

Just kidding haahaha lol ….. i don’t get those ….. totally ….. She just told me

[skitskatdacat63]

Is it fucked up to have favorite historical deaths? Anyways. Frederick III, Habsburg, was simultaneously the most lucky and unlucky guy at the same time. It's so impressive, honestly, that he made it to age 77(!!!) in the 1400s, like?? But the way he died kills me 😭

The fact that he survived an amputation in the 1400s at age 77 is so shocking honestly???? Yet guess how he died. A couple months later....from eating a fucking unripe melon. BRO YOU SURVIVED GUARANTEED DEATH, HOW ARE YOU GONNA LET A MELON TAKE YOU OUT!?!?

[bugtoast]

guys what the fuck what the fuck a (kinda big??? idk???) youtuber just made a video about that one tumblr myth analysis that i chimed in on awhile ago and the video ended the video on my little analysis part?????? what???? anyways uh??? hi!!!! if you're coming from the Bettina Levy video, hi!!!! if you're looking for more analysis of things like that you're probably not gonna get it, cause I only really post random shit about my hyperfixations on here!!! i mean i might do more things like that if i get hyperfixated on something but like!!! hi!!!

idk im just??? im so surprised that im now in a video with (as of the time of writing this) 8.7k views????