#i’m exposing myself here

[zorosdimples]

WHEREVER YOU ARE

pairing ༄ zoro x gn!reader

warnings ༄ brief descriptions of violence. a little angsty at first but it’s fluff i pinky promise!

word count ༄ 796

notes ༄ i’ve been feeling so deeply about zoro lately—i cried over him a few nights ago. this is embarrassingly soggy; i poured my heart out for him. tagging my dearest ai @gojoest <3

home.

a soft breeze carries the word, a gentle whisper that ruffles zoro’s hair and curls over the shell of his ear, fading once the message rests uncomfortably on his tongue. the sea shimmers under the moon’s loving gaze, the lulling lap of waves the only sound that reaches the starlit deck. he should be chilly in the crisp salt air, but as he glances down at you—wrapped in his protective embrace, head resting against his bare chest and the steady beat of his heart—he realizes that he has never felt warmer.

home is a word that has never meant much to the swordsman.

from an orphanage to the dojo to the furthest reaches of the east blue, zoro was born a wanderer, cursed to roam land and sea with little more than three swords and a fierce dream. hunting humans and exchanging souls for bounties that could barely cover a warm meal, a glass of sake, and a dirty bed—it was a monastic existence, devoid of comfort and pleasure. but that’s the price you pay when you make a deal with the devil. greatness isn’t bestowed upon the righteous; greatness is something you must fight for with steel claws and blood in your maw. may the most vicious creature win.

home is make-believe for a demon. it’s a tale told to frightened children who don’t yet understand the cruelty of the world.

joining luffy did not cure zoro’s restlessness. it did not make him a better man—it only redirected his cruelty. the piles of flesh and bone he left in his wake loomed over him still; he trudged through a sticky stream of ichor in his nightmares. destruction in the name of something is destruction all the same. he could feel the shackles of solitude slipping, but he was (and still is) set in his ways. it’s difficult to unlearn that which you believe yourself to be. a lifetime of isolation bred a bone-deep loneliness that he couldn’t bleed out of his chest or escape when he cracked open his rib cage and welcomed eternal darkness.

home is a luxury a man—a monster—like him does not deserve.

you draw zoro from his thoughts as you shift in his lap to face him, wrapping your legs around his waist, smoothing your palms across the strong planes of his stomach. your delicate caresses dance upwards, an act of reverence as you trace over the story of his life.

puckered scars, rippling striae, dappled moles, smattered freckles; these etchings on his tanned flesh tell of his victories and mistakes and birthrights. when you reach his broad shoulders, one hand darts up to rake through his mint green strands, fingernails grazing his scalp in a way that has him chasing your touch. your other hand tinkles his earrings, the golden chimes playing their hymn as they reflect the glimmering moonlight.

zoro’s lone eye is enraptured with your movements, and when your sweet gaze meets his, you press a featherlight kiss to his unsuspecting lips. “what was that for?” he asks with a rumbling chuckle. his hands—rough, capable of atrocities—unconsciously rub up and down your sides with worshipful tenderness.

“i love you,” you confess airily with a smile, as though those aren’t the most devastating words the swordsman has ever heard.

if zoro wasn’t a selfish man he would weep at your words. he would tell you to find someone better, he would show you the mortal weight of his sins, and he would keep his distance from a soul as radiant and kind as yours. but decades of want have conditioned him to be greedy.

hearing that phrase—though zoro has heard it from your lips hundreds of times—has a grin rivaling the brightness of the moon split his sharp features. cradling his face, you stroke his dimples with your thumbs. his hands settle on your waist and tug you toward him, your bodies pressed together like hands in a prayer. he crooks his head so your mouths are a mere breath apart.

“i love you, too,” he murmurs before claiming your parted lips with his own.

zoro still has little more than three swords and a fierce dream. but he also has three warm meals a day, more glasses of sake than he could ever want, and a clean bed to crawl into at night. he’s no longer an orphan; with the straw hats there is friendship and laughter and adventure. if asked, he will insist that he’s not a good man, that he’s a demon. but he’s fiercely loyal to his family—he will cut down anyone that stands in their way to freedom.

and then there’s you. with you, zoro has a love he has never felt before. as far as he’s concerned?

wherever you are is home.

[wool-string]

I’m ngl to you guys, I saw fan art of Mizuki lactating and another short comic of him getting pregnant and I just… I haven’t been able to think of anything else.. I need more of it 😭

[secretagentsagainstwhatever]

twitter circles and close friends instagram stories with nobody on them…you’re just screaming your insane thoughts to the void >>

[confusedfeelsfangirl]

Id like to be able to say I’m not influenceable, but it takes what ? One week ??? of my algorithm showing me yet another dilf for me to have a crush ? Me ? A bitch who’s like 2s from being a lesbian ??? This is some sort of covert conversion therapy… (/hj)

[randomsufff]

You know what I really need in fanfics? More confession scenes where one person drops the confessions then runs, fast as fuck, in the other direction.

Like, obviously they’ll meet back up eventually and talk about it (which is hilarious in itself that they would have to sprint to catch up while yelling why they’re like this) , BUT THINK ABOUT IT!!! It 1) give the other person a chance to gather their thoughts so the person confessing doesn’t have to sit in anxious silence and 2) allows the confessor to get it over with quick and overcomes that anxiety over confessing. Also it’s just fucking hilarious.

Like imagine your fav paring or whatever, they get to that part where one (or both idk) realizes their feelings for the other but they’re just anxious to be vulnerable like that or they fear rejection, whatever. One of them suddenly goes, fuck it, and they turn to the other. (Maybe they’re on a sidewalk, maybe they’re in a park IDK endless possibilities here) and they go:

“ok I’m about to say something, it’s nothing bad (I hope) and I’m willing to talk about it after I say it. I’m 100% serious, this is really not a joke. But I’m going to say this and run to (relevant location). Ok? Ok…. Don’t freak out… iminlovewithyou” *Cue maniac SPRINTING as fast as humanly possible in the other direction* (Bro I’m cracking up just typing about this)

AND THEN!!! You get to chose how they react after a few stunned seconds. Do they sprint after them? Do they shout to bring their ass back over to them? Do they race like hell to beat the other at the determined location??? I don’t know, but it’s hilarious as fuck and can transition seamlessly into heartfelt feeling talk.

(Thinking about this with specific ships is funny as hell too)

Idk I think of more fics had this trope we could all have a grand ol silly time instead of accidentally speed reading through confession schemes because the stress is too much then having to go back and re-read it to fully process it, as one does. You know?

[housecow]

anyways. me, having a mindblowing orgasm after fantasizing about gaining over 100lbs for a man 5+ years older than me

the 7 ding dong cakes in the corner of my bed that will be eaten by tomorrow: 😟

[queendomcosplay]

The internet isn’t ready for my Trudy Trout cosplay. I’m going high effort and full shitpost with it, it’s going to be truly glorious

[cels-not-so-secret-love-affair]

dead or alive? (sirius & regulus)

a/n: a little black brothers angst! still debating whether or not i like it, but sharing it anyways. heads up for reg not doing too hot.

‘Regulus?’

It is 04:00am and dark. Sirius is sat with his back against the bathroom door in his brother’s flat. His phone lies discarded on the floor, the bright screen of his messages with Barty acting as a torch in the early morning shadows.

‘Regulus?’ he repeats, voice quiet and thin. It sounds less like a name and more like a hope, feebler than he wants it to. He clears his throat abruptly and gives it another shot.

‘Listen,’ he says, attempting to bargain with the nothingness. ‘I’m not asking you to come out here and have a nice little chinwag about your feelings or any of that idiocy. I’m not a therapist, and I’m not going to force you to tell me about any of the shit you’re going through right now, promise. I just need to know that you’re okay.’ Sirius’ eyes flick down to the Whatsapp messages at his feet. He rubs his face roughly with his palm and gazes bitterly at the ceiling.

‘The things Barty’s been telling me are fucking scary, you know that? You’ve got to know that. Just knock or something. Come on.’ The clock down the hall cuts through the silence with a few jarringly loud ticks. It is 04:02am.

‘Fuck’s sake, Reg,’ he swears, exasperated. ‘Open the bloody door.’

‘You can’t hide in there forever. Aren’t you freezing? I’m freezing. Why don’t you ever put the heating on? I know you can afford it.’

‘I swear to God, this is getting ridiculous now. I know you’re there. I can see your damn shadow.’ Sirius’ long pale fingers tie themselves into knots over and over as he fidgets. More agonising silence.

‘Regulus.’ The door remains shut, and the shadow behind it remains unspeaking. It is 04:05am.

‘Should I get someone else here? Is it just me that you don’t want to talk to, is that it? If I got Evan or Remus or, shit, literally anyone else, would you speak to them?’ Desperation is beginning to crawl out of Sirius’ throat, mangling his words into raw, strained sounds that chase after each other quicker than they ought to.

‘Come on. You haven’t got vocal cords for nothing, you are aware of that right? Just say something. Just let me hear your voice, and then I’ll go away and never bother you again, yeah? Just let me know you’re alive. Please, Reg.’

‘You’re my little brother, you know. You’re still my little brother. I know you hate me, a-and I hated you too, for… longer than I should have, and growing up was pretty shite - I think we both understand that now. You know, I’ll always feel guilty for leaving you. I swear, there hasn’t been a single day where the guilt hasn’t eaten me alive, James could tell you. So you’ve every right to hate me. Really, you do. You could hate me for your whole entire life and I’d get it, seriously, I would get it! But you’re my little fucking brother, Reggie. C’mon. Just do this one thing for me, this time. I need to know my little brother’s okay. I need to know he’s here with me and not… not dead on the fucking floor. Give me that much.’

It is 04:12am when the handle turns. Sirius isn’t expecting it at all - he’s aching and exhausted and terrified and too used to silence. He jumps when he hears it, turns wide, shining eyes towards the sound with unsure anticipation. There’s a few moments of clumsy shuffling, and then the door is opening inwards onto a dull gloom that clings to the tiling and old-fashioned sink with unrelenting intensity. It is very quiet. For one terrible moment Sirius thinks, irrationally, that maybe Regulus isn’t there. That he’d been sitting in the hallway for the past twelve minutes begging thin air and the ghost of who used to breathe it. But then the shadows are shifting, taking on form and contour, becoming something more familiar. Regulus crawls out from behind the door with shaky breaths, and lets himself be lit by the phone on the floor in all his wretched vulnerability.

Sirius doesn’t move, at first. He just stares at his brother. Sees his grey eyes reflected back at him in a slightly younger yet equally pained mirror image. Sees those eyes flicker and move and relishes in the aliveness of them. Sees a not dead brother. Then it processes somehow, and he’s pulling that wonderful, infuriating, not dead brother hastily and instinctively towards him with both arms, and holding him, and crying without realising it. Regulus lets it happen. He collapses into the hug.

[iwishiwasloopisatspursedog]

i’m so gay about them. haven’t been down this bad for a fictional character since sans

[anytimebitchess]

Also

Bad bitch = babygirl

Cunty = babygirl

[art-question-mark]

a night at the Opera Epiclese 🤍

[textsfromthetva]

“Hey, me and my platonic life partner saw you from across the bar, and we really dig your vibe. Can we buy you a drink?”

[whump-it-like-its-hot]

It’s spooky month so you know what that means :)

I saw a drawing that had this idea and i thought it was so funny so I had to expand on the idea of jack o’brine

Slightly different version under the cut (eye strain/glitchy effects)

[the-nation-of-today]

Final bleeders weekend count: 122 streams.

ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TWO TIMES. IN THREE DAYS. GET A HOBBY GIRL.

[hplonesomeart]

I’ve plummeted deep into the brainrot and no soul can even fathom being able to pull me out of it don’t even try because it’s a lost cause :))

Enjoy the silly spur of the moment cover I did while seated in the car Thursday (the 8th if I remember dates correctly). Was on the fence about posting it anywhere but hell why not. I tried to make one with cleaner audio quality but hated how my voice inflections sounded so this is the best version we’ve got a hold of currently!

[cursingtoji]

is it too much to ask for a man that is okay with body hair and has a little thing for sweat