#like in the grand scheme of things it /cannot/ be that much work

[ironrose-stylistlegion]

Paper Games Release More Skin Tones For Free challenge

[silverislander]

holy fuck. google docs ate my entire character/planning/worldbuilding document for neri. it's all gone

[blindmagdalena]

All of a Sudden, There You Are

3k. homelander x gn!reader. pining. pure fluff! an older fic that desperately needed cleaning up. rewritten for a consistent perspective and added 600-some words. gif credit. AO3 link.

As Homelander's stylist, it's your job to ensure he looks his best, whether he's saving the world or saving face in front of the cameras. After nearly a year servicing him, things between you change abruptly.

Familiarity and consistency feed a base need in all of us. So much of what is best in us is bound up in the permanence of those around us that it becomes the measure of our stability. For Homelander, there are precious few things in his life that offer him any such quality of solidarity. People come and go. It's the nature of the business that has always been his life.

He's stopped paying attention to the PA's, interns and other worker ants that rotate in and out. Their faces blend together in a bland sea of normality and mediocrity. They're little more than cogs in the machine of his contrastingly extraordinary life.

Funny, then, that you should catch his attention amidst the insectoid buzz of it all.

It happens quite abruptly. He's just sat down before a brightly lit vanity where it's your job to style his hair and makeup, as it has been for the last several months. You greet him good morning, as you do every time, but for whatever reason... He notices you today.

"Remind me, what's your name again?" Homelander asks, watching you draw a comb from your kit.

That visibly catches you off guard. You offer only a dumbfounded stare for a moment before snapping to attention, smiling sheepishly as you introduce yourself. The name doesn't sound familiar to him. Had he never actually asked? Probably not. There’s rarely a point in bothering.

He hums contemplatively. "You've been styling me for a while.”

"Yes, sir. About eight months now," you say, using the comb to begin working product through his hair. He’s fairly certain this is the most he's ever spoken to you in all that time.

That sounds like both a long while and yet no time at all. It's nothing in the grand scheme of his life, but in terms of the people he sees consistently, that puts you in a shockingly small pool of individuals. Inevitably they move on, whether by choice or because they’ve found a way to irritate him enough that he has them dismissed.

He can recall his last stylist not by their name or face, but by the way they’d always manage to spray product in his eyes. They hadn’t lasted two days. The one before that he can’t bring to mind a single detail of.

Typically humans only become exceptional to him for how they grate on his patience. You’ve somehow managed to avoid making yourself noteworthy in that regard. Before today you had served as little more than a properly functioning gear in the well-oiled machine of his life.

Now it's as though you suddenly exist to him. Blood, flesh, laughter and all.

"Gooood morning," he greets you the next day, once again triggering another flare of surprise in you. He’s aware of the strangeness of his initiation, but behaves as though he isn’t. He flashes you one of his trademark Hollywood grins.

"Good morning to you, sir," you say with an answering smile that catches his eye. You sound pleased, which tickles something pleasant in the back of his own mind. He likes how well you’re mirroring his shift in mannerism.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Please, Homelander is fine. You keep it awfully formal."

You're actually quite pretty, he notices. Not exceptionally so, not like the celebrities and figures of social influence that someone like him brushes shoulders with on a daily basis, but... pretty nonetheless. He doesn't remember you being this pretty before, and speculates while you work whether you've changed something about yourself. He cannot put his finger on what exactly that may be, though.

He’s perceptive when it comes to the things that matter. Until yesterday, you hadn’t.

You laugh sweetly, pushing your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut as you do. You’re good with your hands, much better than the last stylist. He’s sure he made note of that at some point, but in the same way someone notices when a door stops squeaking. You take it for granted after the first time.

"I'm a creature of habit. Might take me a couple tries to adjust," you warn, covering his forehead with your palm as you spritz product into his hair. You never let any of that sticky crap get on his face, much less in his eyes. You take measures to ensure his comfort, even though he’s never scolded you. You seem to do it entirely out of reflex simply because you care enough to.

"Well, you've made it this far. You've got time to adjust," he says. Now that he's seen you, he finds that he doesn't care for the thought of you being gone. More than that, he starts actively looking forward to the time he spends in the chair with you. What used to be a monotonous aspect of the celebrity side of his life becomes a comforting ritual. 

The two of you chat with surprising ease, like old friends made new. He tells you about himself, vents to you about work and personal business alike. In turn he learns about you and the life you live beyond the time you share with him. It’s nothing extraordinary–not like his–but it's yours, and for some reason, that’s enough to make it interesting.

The more he grasps that you are an entire person outside of the service you provide him, the more he wants to know. He doesn’t give a fuck about your elderly cat, but he does like the way your voice changes when you talk about it. His mind drifts when you tell him these little anecdotes, and he wonders what you tell the people in your life about him. He wonders if your tone similarly changes when you do. Do you speak fondly of him? Days turn to weeks. Little by little, Homelander discerns small changes in himself. There’s a slight pep in his step these days. The sun feels a little warmer, the thrum of crowded events less irritating. His attitude towards interviews flips; even the ones he used to dread he begins to anticipate. He knows you’ll have him looking and feeling his finest. He knows that regardless of what awaits him, you’ll have something to say about it that will make it easier to smile for the cameras.

Thinking of you is sometimes all it takes.

When he has nothing on his schedule to be styled for, he sulks. On those days, he misses your laugh the most. 

He makes sure the products he keeps at home are the same as the ones you use. The smell of them reminds him of the smell of you, of your knock-off Dior perfume that fades too quickly after you apply it, which makes it just perfect for his keen sense of smell. The humble subtlety of you, your sincerity and gentleness, have become a boon against the unfeeling corporate reality of his life. On the days he does see you, he begins to miss you before he’s even left you. Now, as he walks to his next scheduled appointment with you, he’s painfully aware of the beat of his own heart. His stomach is twisting in on itself, though he isn’t hungry. If anything, he feels a little nauseous. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the cacophony inside of him becomes. Is he sick? That shouldn’t be possible, but he can’t understand what’s happening to him. Pausing just outside the door, he takes in a steadying breath.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Taking a moment to collect himself, he gives his face two quick pats on either side, shaking his head. Get it together, he tells himself, stepping into the dressing room. 

“Gooood morn–” Homelander cuts himself short, looking around the empty room. His brows pinch. He isn’t early. Pursing his lips, he takes a brief stroll about the room, clutching his hands behind his back. He peers down the hallway, cutting through the layers of wall with his vision. No sign of you on the grounds yet. He clicks his tongue. 

You’ve never been late. Unable to settle, he paces for a while. He has the thought to call you, but he realizes he doesn’t have your number. Why doesn’t he have your number? It seems such an obvious thing to have despite the fact he’s never needed it.

He’s just pulled out his cellphone to track it down from Ashley when the door suddenly opens and his head snaps up. The initial relief he feels is cut short, turning cold in his chest when the person who steps through the door is most definitely not you. “Good morning!” the woman greets him, her voice chirpy and grating in his ears. She’s not really happy to see him. She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about him. At most, she’s another sycophantic drone who’s only pleased to breathe his air. In his upset, she looks freakishly distorted, her smile overly wide and fake. His leather gloves creak as he curls his hands into fists. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, voice as measured as he can manage it. His anger hits in an unreasonable surge, hot like lava from a volcano. This woman’s only crime is the fact she’s not you, and yet it’s enough to make him want to rip her head off her shoulders, spine and all. The woman hesitates in the doorway, her chipper demeanor flipping to a fearful one. “Uhm, my name is Lisa, I’m supposed to style you to–” “Where is my stylist?” he interrupts her, prowling towards her like a hungry predator. He says again, louder this time, voice full of anger and anxiety in equal measure, “Where the fuck is my stylist?!” “I– I don’t know!” Lisa yelps, stepping backwards from him. “I was called in as a last minute replacement! They said– they said there was an accident, or–” Homelander pushes her roughly out of the doorway, blowing past her with a frustrated growl. She hits the wall hard before crumpling to the floor like a lifeless sack of potatoes, but he doesn’t even register it. He calls Ashley, stalking down the hallway, his footfalls loud with fury. Why the fuck didn’t anyone think to tell him? “Ashley!” He snarls into his phone the second she answers. “Tell me where the fuck my goddamn stylist is.”

Homelander is at the hospital within minutes. The staff puts up a meager effort to enforce protocols, but he’s The Homelander, and after a lie or two, they eventually let him through. He hates the smell of hospitals. The sickly mix of bleach and illness, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. They never should have brought you here. You should be in Vought’s med ward.

You should be with him. When he finds you, you’re sitting with the hospital bed halfway reclined, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The vibrant reds and blues of his suit paint a sharp contrast to the stark white walls of the hospital room when he steps inside. You have a pudding cup in your hand, though you nearly drop it when you see him in the doorway. His hair is woefully unstyled, splayed loose in every direction from his flight. “H-Homelander,” you sputter, choking on your bite of pudding. You swallow, clearing your throat. He’s walking towards you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart beats in his ears. “What are you doing here?” “Are you okay?” He asks, blowing off your question entirely. He blinks and his vision flickers through your clothes and skin alike. He scans your body for internal damage, for broken or fractured bones. You’re not wearing a cast or anything, but he needs to be sure. You nod, clutching at the blanket, wearing your confusion plainly on your face. “Yeah, I’m okay, it’s probably just mild whiplash, but I’m getting an x-ray to be–” “You’re fine,” he breathes more to himself than to you, his relief palpable. He can hear the flustered patter of your heart clearly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he’s beginning to feel that sickly familiar feeling that he had experienced in the hallway; butterflies rampant in his stomach, battering their wings frantically inside him. His jaw feels tight, his tongue too big for his mouth. Staring at you now, frail and precious as you are in this ugly hospital bed, he realizes what’s the matter–what has always been the matter–he is deeply and incurably in love with you. “Are you okay?” You ask, taking in his tortured expression, his wildly wind-swept hair. The obvious concern in your voice and in your eyes churns his already twisting gut. “No,” he says, the response knee-jerk. Even though the room is still, he feels as though the world is spinning around him. “No, I think I’m in love with you,” he says, expression twisted up, like he’s figuring out each word as he says them. Your heart skips a beat, your breath catches in your lungs. It’s as if the words have paralyzed you. Homelander laughs. It sounds a little hysterical. 

“I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me,” he says, reaching out to cup either side of your face in his gloved hands. “I love you,” he says, voice firmer now, the realization setting in fully. He looks slightly delirious with it. He’s discovered a secret that he should have known all along, that seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course he loves you, because you love him. The gentleness in your hands as you touched his face, the care in your fingers stroking through his hair far longer than both of you knew you needed to. You dedicated yourself like no other to showing him reverence in service of him, and is that not love in its purest form? And yet, you don’t look to share his elation. You look like you’ve been struck by lightning, expression wide and bewildered. You still haven’t taken a breath. Homelander’s smile falters. “What’s the matter?” He asks, tone dropping a touch. “This is good news! Great, even.” For every second that you do not speak, the beat of his heart feels heavier in his chest. Why don’t you look happy? Finally, you suck in a shaky breath. He watches you with all the intensity of a viper poised to strike.

“I…” You hesitate. You lift your hands and grip his wrists, squeezing them through the thick fabric of his gloves as if to convince yourself that he’s really there. Maybe the accident was worse than he thought. Did you hit your head? 

Panic swells in his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him you might not reciprocate. The thought makes him ill.

“I never…” your eyes turn glassy, welling with tears. “Say it!” he wants to shout, his own heart hammering loudly enough to nearly drown out your words.  “I never would have thought–or even dreamed–in a million years that you might love me back.”

love me back.

Like a dying ember roaring back to life, Homelander’s demeanor reignites, his faded smile broadening once more. 

“I realized it when I was worried fucking sick because you didn't show up,” he says, leaning closer to you. He’s brought the scent of ozone from the sky he tore through on his way to you, but all he cares about is the faint smell of pudding lingering on your lips.

He huffs a laugh. “They sent in some idiot to fill in for you. Like they could replace you. I almost tore her head off,” he says, giddy with euphoria. Your expression shifts, brows furrowing. “Wait, what? You almost-” “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he interrupts, his voice a low rumble. He can already taste you in the breaths you’re close enough to share with him, and he’s never been hungrier for anything–or anyone–in his life. You fall silent with a shiver, nodding minutely, eyes falling shut. “Please do.” His lips meet yours in a gentle press. He deserves a medal for not crushing you with the sheer magnitude of his desire. You all but melt against him, settling into his grip as smoothly as you settled into his life, his mind, his heart. When the two of you break apart, you make a breathless noise that shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He feels hyper aware of your every sound and move.

God, how he wants to feel every part of you. 

You move your hands to touch his face and he leans into the softness of your caress. You’ve been close enough to kiss more times than he can count. The fact it’s only now occurred to him to do so seems like lunacy. Your eyes dip to his lips, your thumb brushes the bottom one. He catches it with a quick kiss and you laugh your sweet bell-chime laughter.

Pushing your hand into his hair, the wondrous joy in your expression becomes tinged with amusement. “And people wonder why I use so much gel,” you murmur, smooth the wild splay of his hair down with both hands, cupping the back of his head. Homelander smiles wide and boyishly, which prompts you to kiss him again.

“I’m not having some kind of brain bleed hallucination right now, right?” You ask quietly, the tip of your nose lightly pressed to his. He brushes his lips against yours between words. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he purrs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Despite the ugly fluorescent lights and the dreadful hospital stench all around, you look resplendent in your joy.

He had been right. It was love that you touched him with. It had been subtle, imbued in your every movement, and for months he had soaked it up until, unbeknownst to him, he fell into it as well.

“Trust me when I say you’ll be seeing a lot more of me from now on,” he says, brushing your nose with his.

Maybe instead of tearing them limb from limb, he’ll send flowers to whoever the sorry son of a bitch that rear-ended you this morning was. Who knows how much more time he would have wasted before he realized he was utterly smitten with you.

[hannieehaee]

Idk if you're taking requests but I would give it a short and it would mean so much if you actually wrote smthg bout it.

An angsty fic/drabble where woozi and reader are in a long term established relationship and the reader gets their absolute dream job opportunity but it's far from Korea and she tells it to woozi but they get conflicted since woozi cannot transfer between his work and seventeen and reader does not want to give up this once in a life time opportunity. At the same time they are sceptical about a long distance relationship since reader had already been fed up of how less they get to see and stay with woozi with him travelling and working constantly.

You don't have to write it if it's too complex but I'd love to see cuz I really like the way you write!

content: idol!woozi x nonidol!reader, established relationship, light angst, fluff, long distance relationship, etc.

wc: 716

a/n: thank u so much!! im so sorry for how long i took to get this out!!

masterlist

it'd been a week since you told jihoon about your new work opportunity. a week since the air in your apartment became just a little bit colder and the future slightly more grim.

jihoon had been supportive immediately, congratulating you and insisting on you accepting the position. he'd been as supportive a boyfriend as he'd been in the past two years of your relationship. it filled you with warmth and hope for the future of your relationship.

it wasn't until you'd let him know of the location of said job that things became more sad than hopeful.

although he still maintained his supportiveness, there was now a clear air of worry in his voice any time it'd get brought up.

you'd tried to ignore it, pushing it aside until you found the courage in you to actually accept the position. it was your dream job. a once in a lifetime opportunity. except it was an entire country away from the love of your life. and you only had three more days to accept the offer letter they'd sent to you.

the thought of doing long distance would have been fine had you been anyone else. but you barely got to see your boyfriend as it was. living with him was really the only way for you to spend time together. his busy idol schedule had him going all over the world, and when he was at home he was usually ever at the company or in your shared apartment.

if you left, you'd give up on ever getting to see him.

"babe."

the voice took you away from your train of thought. the same train of thought distracting you for the past week.

you looked away from the tv that had been playing in front of you. you hadn't even been watching it, but the background noise helped.

jihoon was at the entrance of the living room, two mugs in hand as he walked over to you and took his usual seat, silently handing you your mug with a tight smile.

not even a single sip from your drink was taken before the subject filled the room once more.

"you need to take this job."

"jihoon ..."

"no, listen," he turned his body to face you, "you and i, we're a forever thing, okay? i don't care if we have to be away for a while. i'm already living my dream, it's unfair that you don't get to do the same," he argued with conviction in his eyes.

"but, jihoon ... it won't be like when you're touring. we'll never be in the same country at the same time, i-"

his hands went to take your mug, placing it on the coffee table before taking your hands into his own.

"i don't care!", his voice raised without meaning to, "so we'll have a year or two in which we can't be as close as we've always been, so what? it won't matter in the grand scheme of things. we'll be together for forty- no fifty years. a few years of uncertainty won't matter a few years from now. babe, please."

his voice pleaded at you.

he was afraid you'd end it all instead of at least trying.

what made it worse that he refused to consider a possibility in which you didn't go and follow your dream. it was a done deal to him. he loved you that much.

that was all you needed to make a decision.

"i'll take the job," you said decisively.

jihoon released a sigh of relief right away, hand squeezing your own in encouragement.

"i-i'll rent a place big enough for the two of us over there. i'll ask for a week off every six months. i'll have it written into my contract so i can go visit you. and- and we'll keep this place here for any time you have time off. we'll call every night, no matter what. even if it's just for two minutes, we'll- we'll make it work."

all you could do was smile at him.

how could you ever worry about change when he was willing to work so hard to move along with it all?

you kissed him then, shutting him up with no words.

and he understood, kissing you back with just as much unspoken love.

[crownmemes]

Concerned Sentences, Vol. 7

(Concerned sentences from various sources. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Is everything okay? You seem annoyed about something."

"I don't know why you do this to yourself. You know it doesn't help anything."

"You need to stop reading the news. It's bad for you."

"Doing something rash isn't going to bring him back."

"No, you're not doing this! You're going to kill yourself!"

"I can take care of myself just fine, alright?"

"I appreciate this concern, but I'm not like you, alright?"

"Sometimes, I think you might have a penchant for self-pity."

"There are always unintended consequences to everything we do."

"Yearning won't make it happen."

"When exactly was the last time you had a psych evaluation?"

"You can't save everyone, no matter how hard you try!"

"There's only so much that you can do, and you've obviously reached the limit!"

"I just don't understand why you work so hard to be alone."

"To deny who you are is much more painful than confronting what you hate about yourself."

"You don't need to trust them, but you do need to trust me."

"You're desperate and scared, and desperate people make mistakes."

"Battle scars are not always of the body."

"Denial can be a very powerful thing."

"Things like this - all things, in fact - have consequences."

"You're lonely, and sometimes loneliness turns to bitterness."

"Sometimes there are scars than cannot be seen."

"The truth is, despite you're abilities, you're still just one man."

"How are you really in the grand scheme of things?"

"She's using you, just like all the others."

"Listen, I really want to keep this between you and me. Why don't you start by just telling me the truth?"

"You're a bit out of it tonight."

"You can't hide out here forever, you know. You have to go home sometime."

"This must be a lot for you to process."

"I've known you for a decade. I know your behaviour patterns and how you think. You acted very out of character today."

"You seem like you're making up for lost time."

"You've got to learn to be the hero of your own life again."

"Actually, I don't smoke. Neither should you."

"Why should an accident happen? Are you concerned for your safety?"

"This hero stuff is only going to get somebody hurt."

"You like fighting, don't you?"

"I came as soon as I saw the morning paper. I thought you might need a friend."

"There's something not quite right with you today, and I can't quite put my finger on it."

"You need to decide what you want. Stop dwelling on what you can't have."

"Do you need a hug?"

[zoe-oneesama]

I also think the recent ep where Mari is scolded for not improving Chloe's behavior as a class rep, is not fair. A class rep is there to be the voice for the students and act as a form of communication, not mentor or educate another child. Mari also became class rep to stop Chloe's bullying, not reform her or give her therapy. I can't believe they (the class) actually gave the class rep position to Lila, even Marinette has done so much for them, and little Miss Liar is only full of hot air. Side eye

The Class Rep thing in "Revelation" was so dumb in all aspects, like, FIRST of all-

Lila cannot seriously be bringing up that it's "undiplomatic" that they held elections without her when she wasn't even going to Francois Dupont yet, are you trying to look me in the face and tell me "Volpina" happened before FREAKING "Darkblade"?! (And obviously no one brings up this fact when she's talking nonsense)

WHY is Bustier even entertaining this garbage when there's two weeks of school left?! Like, sorry Lila, try again in high school if you can even get in with your attendance record. The only things left for the Class Rep to even do is the Student -Teacher Career Course planning which sounds super important and like a really dumb thing to suddenly hand over to two people who haven't been preparing for it in the slightest!

Marinette is running on the "Actually this is pointless, I've done great as a class president because it's actually not my job to change Chloe for the better, especially when Bustier, her parents, and Ladybug herself couldn't get her to pull her head out of her ass, so I'm going to spend my time on things that actually matter and will have results" and legit why does anyone care about "improving Chloe" when in TWO WEEKS they will be at TOTALLY DIFFERENT SCHOOLS and hopefully NEVER have to see her in person again?! Though realistically she should be running on the "we have two weeks left why are we even here" campaign.

And Lila is running on the "Chloe can change if someone just worked with her instead of spending all their time on their own romance like a selfish jerk" platform and the class eats this up just because Chloe is "willing" to be Lila's deputy. Except Lila has been hanging out with and being friends with Chloe since freaking "Penalteam"! And guess who's still an asshole despite your "influence" Lila?! OH RIGHT, YOUR NEW DEPUTY! Hell, "Adoration" JUST happened 3 episodes ago where Chloe was framing Marinette for theft! Your "influence" isn't worth SHIT to anyone paying attention!

Now, Lila's only going for the President role so she can fuck everyone over in "Confrontation", so obviously this stupid campaign was going to happen and Lila was going to win just to set up the Big Bang where Lila exposes herself. Who cares that it stretches suspension of belief past it's limits, that's just the Gold Standard when it comes to Lila schemes.

Anyway, can't wait for her grand plans as The Villain of the next arc. -_-

[crocodilenjoyer]

op fic recs...2!

g

feed your plants a little sunlight by swordsmans | ambiguous setting, post-timeskip | zolu | 4.2k | complete

Instead of napping, Zoro helps. It is his job, after all.

Trochilus by stealth-black-leg | ambiguous setting, post-wano | gen, robin & crocodile-centric | 2.5k | complete

The trochilus, sometimes called the crocodile bird, is a legendary bird which was supposed to have enjoyed a symbiotic relationship with the Nile crocodile.

how to talk without speaking by swordsmans | post-shells town through pre-baratie | gen straw hats, luffy-centric | 6.9k | complete

In the beginning, Luffy does not know how to read. In the grand scheme of things, this does not matter.

Little Monsters by blue_wonderer | post-wano | gen, straw hats-centric | 7.7k | complete

Vinsmoke breathes out, a smirk on his swollen, bloody face.

“Our captain is here.”

Or

Post-Wano, some lucky (or not-so-lucky) Marines capture the still-injured Sanji and Usopp. Naturally, the rest of the crew casually rips the world apart to get them back. One lone warship never stood a chance.

The Many Marriages of the Straw Hat Pirates by LadyCrimsonAndBlack | across canon, pre- and post-timeskip | gen, straw hats-centric | 2.9k | complete

There are a lot of strange traditions to be found on the Grand Line. Sometimes, the Straw Hats get caught up in them.

(Or: The Straw Hats get married to each other. Repeatedly.)

so much like stars by blue_wonderer | post-dressrosa, pre-zou | zolu, pre-zolawlu | 12.1k | complete

“Why are you the way you are?” Law asks, gesturing to Zoro and Luffy in their entirety. “You look pathetic.”

“Luffy fell in,” Zoro shrugs. Law thinks he may be the only person in the world who can convey both “Luffy fell in, he’s such a fucking idiot” and “Luffy fell in, what else was I supposed to do but follow?” in one line.

“I’m very sorry.” Luffy reaches up and pats Zoro on the chest.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Luffy wheezes a short laugh. “I like swimming with Zoro.”

“Shut up, you little shit.”

“How about you both shut up and let me work,” Law grouses.

OR

Stargazing and snow, festivals and dreams, and the quiet change in the dynamic between Law, Luffy, and Zoro during a few cold nights on the way to Zou.

t

Seabound by AnkhPosts | au; canon timeline n/a | deuceace | 8k | complete

Ace is a selkie, making one of his periodic stops on land to catch a breather and get some ridiculously tasty human food, maybe see some sights if there are any. His pelt is safely hidden, he'll stay a day or two at most and be on his way.

Deuce is a mer, alone on the sea and traveling as he pleases for the first time in his life, and while he might not be terribly interested in actually interacting with humans it's hard not to see them as fascinating.

Ace meets Deuce. Deuce meets Ace. Neither knows the other isn't human.

The Jester whose nickname is Fate by stealth-black-leg | pre-canon | dragodile | 2.5k | complete

Crocodile believes in luck, gambling, coincidence, but not fate. He believes in free will, and that every person can choose any future they’d like for themselves, if they’re strong enough to build it.

He didn’t choose this for himself though, and if there indeed is a fate, then Fate, pardon his French, is a fucking little bitch.

By Any Other Name by ginger_snappin | au with information from wci | sanlu | 10k | complete

Sanji should stop doing this.

He recalls Lucy’s earnest smiles, the insatiable physicality of him. The tugging Sanji can feel in his gut toward his friend, an urge to follow him blindly that Sanji cannot resist.

He thinks of Lucy’s full fat stomach after a meal, sated, the murmured, “thanks for the food,” and the mismatched HUNGRY HUNGRY HUNGRY that Lucy’s soul exclaims whenever those warm brown eyes meet his own blue ones.

Sanji cannot stop.

-

A young king comes to power, and his hungry suitors follow… even the reluctant ones.

You've Got A Friend In Me by Hazel_Athena | post-timeskip, pre-egghead | zosan, perona & zoro | 19.1k | complete

Zoro grunts, likely because she hits him with more force than either of them are expecting, and then returns her surprise with one of his own by wrapping his arms around her and hugging her back.

“They hurt you?” He murmurs, and she shakes her head.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” She insists, although which of them she’s trying to reassure, she isn’t certain.

Interim Arrangements by Hazel_Athena | au, post-wano | zosan | 43k | complete

It’s so quiet in the war room that you could hear a pin drop. Not a single person dares to say a word - not even the favored princes - and all eyes remain fixed on the head of the table, where a large figure sits hunched over in its chair, clutching the latest newsreel between two massive fists.

Having been forewarned of some of the contents of said newsreel, Sanji does his best to keep anything from showing on his face, to maintain his expression in an implacable facade. He thinks he largely succeeds in controlling himself outwardly, but inwardly his gut is churning with emotion.

The newsreel twitches, and the five people not holding the paper sit up a little straighter in their seats, each of them bracing for impact without actually meaning to as slowly, oh so slowly, the paper is lowered down until it’s resting flat on the table.

“Well,” Judge says, his mouth working like he wants to spit. “This is certainly an … unexpected development.”

Stakes by CaptainJojo | post-wano | gen, luffy & zoro | 4.2k | complete

Zoro has a good grasp of what fights are- and are not- worth his time.

Or: Zoro gets lost and gets in one (1) fight about it.

(The real fight begins in chapter 2 but I'm leaving 1 in because I wrote it so it gets posted and that's the rule)

lion-skinned by kurgaya | ambiguous setting, post-timeskip | zolu | 10.6k | complete

If there was ever a reason to eat a Devil Fruit, Zoro supposes it would be in the process of saving his idiotic buffoon of a captain from a certain and most horrible death.

Familiar by NothingSoDivine | pre-canon | smoker/benn beckman | 1k | complete

"You look familiar."

The stranger chuckles. The sound warms Smoker down to his boots. "I get that a lot."

Years before being stationed in Roguetown, Smoker runs into a familiar face in a bar on the Grand Line. Unfortunately, Smoker can't quite place where he's seen the guy before...

A Little Assurance by nocturneequuis | ambiguous setting, post-timeskip | frobin | 1.1k | complete

Robin wonders how much further Franky will take himself. When does the man end and the machine begin?

e

Arctic Birds by LibbyLune | pre-canon with information from water 7 | mihawk/iceburg | 15k | complete

“Oh yeah, you want Water 7,” Shanks declares, kicking the hull of Mihawk’s small sailboat with a careless boot. “Sailing around in this piece of crap doesn’t suit the World’s Greatest Swordsman, Hawksy.”

Mihawk is a man of high standards, but the expert shipbuilding is not the only feature of Water 7 that he ends up impressed by.

The Onigiri Story by leghair | post-alabasta through the end of wano | zosan | 40.1k | complete

It had been bad enough trapped on a boat with Zoro, body and face and voice sending Sanji's imagination racing, bitter-knowing he was straight as his swords and half as sharp. So Sanji had ignored the attraction - maybe allowed himself a greedy little peek now and then, but he’d never let it become a problem. He’d never let it become anything. He'd known that's how things were going to stay and he was fine with it, he had been dealing with it, this wasn't his fault. It's not like he'd ever wanted Zoro to know.

A canonverse getting-together fic with lots of porn, some plot, and plenty of feelings, following the progression of their relationship and the canon events that impact it. A couple of common zosan tropes get flipped, there's a smidge of angst for good measure, but with a very happy ending.

Finally updated post-Wano and WCI!

nr

Chasing Flowers by taizi | probably g or t | ambiguous setting, post-timeskip | gen straw hats | 4.7k | complete

"It's an old tradition in our town; on the second week of the second month of the year, you leave flowers for the one you love, for them to follow back to you. By their house, where they work, nooks and corners that are special secrets between just the two of you."

(Luffy's crew leaves him flowers, and an old innkeeper gets drawn into the chase.)

Clinical Practice by taizi | probably t | ambiguous setting, post time-skip | chopper-centric | 2.4k | complete

"I'm his doctor!" Chopper all but shrieked, closer to hysterical than he'd ever been- because in four days time those people could really have hurt Luffy, and he was so tired of being treated like a kid. "I'm his doctor, and I'm going to find him right now!"

Inanition by taizi | probably g | ambiguous setting, post-timeskip | gen straw hats | 1.9k | complete

in·a·ni·tion, noun; lack of mental or spiritual vigor and enthusiasm; exhaustion caused by lack of nourishment.

(In which Luffy's metabolism is faster than his doctor understands.)

[thebirdsareafterme]

maxiel, galex, scaniel, brocedes!

OOOH OK I am ready.

Maxiel: makes sense, compels the FUCK out of me

I genuinely don’t think there’s been a ship that has compelled me like Maxiel. They make me so insane and I’ve spent the last 8 months of my life going up and down all 200ish AO3 pages in the tag like some kind of deranged possum, searching for more Maxiel content. They just make so much sense in my mind. You have Max, who has been taught his entire life that his only purpose in life is to win races, who is this angry, strung up little kid when he first joins F1…and then he meets Daniel, who is so kind and charismatic and has always been taught to enjoy the moment and the process of it all and just treats him with so much love even when he’s not winning or when he’s getting criticized by the media…and Max finally learns how to enjoy life outside of racing for the first time. Even outside of the general RPF scene of it all, the absolute pivotal Maxiel moments are so important and have so much significance in the grand scheme of the sport. Daniel leaving Red Bull because of Max (to an extent) which then caused a ripple effect on a whole bunch of people’s careers and ultimately led to the Horrors that we are currently living through, but at the end of the day, it’s about “If it can’t be me, I’m glad it’s him” and that fastest lap into “Thank you, Daniel.” Yeah, I could talk about them for DAYS if given the chance.

Galex: makes sense, compels me

They’re everythingggg to me. I love the childhood friends to lovers thing they have going on. The Galex lore is so interesting, like the throat infection incident, the collarbone biking accident, the whole thing about George being Alex’s hype man/personal photographer as a kid… underrated ship fr. They have the best chemistry and their sense of humour actually work so well together, and I NEED more content from them. I also CANNOT ship either of them with anyone else because it just does! Not! Work! In my head. They are each other’s ride or die and I love that for them.

Scaniel: makes sense, does not compel me

I love their friendship a lot and I think they have so much weird gay energy between them, but unfortunately my day one Daniel ship is still Maxiel. I think Scaniel has potential for growth, but unfortunately they do kinda give off besties to me. I will admit they have had some good, shippable moments, but Scotty just feels like a straight man in my mind. I think it’s just the DR effect (every man within a 5 mile radius falls in love with him) that drives this ship forward tbh.

Brocedes: makes sense, compels me A LOT

THIS is THE SHIP of all ships. The lore goes so hard and it’s so devastating to me. I’m a sucker for a good childhood friends to lovers to enemies storyline, so they are right up my alley. It’s just the most insane story that when I tried explaining it to my casual F1 fan friend, they asked me if it was from a movie and I was like NO! This is irl!!! The way that they have a 6 hour, 3 part YouTube docuseries about their relationship is crazy. No other ship has as much angst as them, and no one will ever come close to being them. It’s the way that they fundamentally are a part of each other’s careers and that you cannot mention one without the other, it’s the way that Nico talks about that era of his life and how he could only stomach their childhood favourite cereal on the weekend before cinching the championship, how he ruined his body and soul to beat Lewis and how his retirement changed Lewis’ whole outlook on the sport!!! And through it all, there is an awkward third-wheel in the form of either Daniel Ricciardo or Sebastian Vettel just smiling through the most disgusting vibes a room could ever have, which, in my opinion, adds to the whole drama of the ship. This ship has so much narrative and character and it is so so devastating to think about, I need to see or make a Brocedes movie before I die.

[rosesloveletters]

all is fair in love.

Pairing: 1971 Willy Wonka x Fem. Reader

Word Count: 10,261

Warnings: sexual content / smut.

Summary: The holidays are Wonka's busiest season and his work keeps him away from reader much more than either of them would like. After hours, the two spend a passionate night together as they both make the necessary arrangements to be attentive to each other's needs and empathetic of the complexity of maintaining a healthy romantic relationship that neither reader nor Wonka are accustomed to.

Author's Note: my smut fics are always between 6-10k haha so enjoy. I edited this the best I could, but for some reason I kept switching between first person and second person pov for reader (I don't know why since I always write in second person pov.) I think I fixed most of it, so if there's any parts I missed, I'm sorry. Also, I'd like to mention that Christmas isn't inherently important to the events in this story. It is used as an element only to convey why Wonka is so busy during this time of year, because most people like to buy chocolate and candy as gifts. I know Gene was Jewish, even though I believe he said he wasn't exactly religious. I have no intention of trying to be offensive/belittle/make light of anyone's religion or beliefs and I apologize if it comes across that way because it is without a doubt not my intention. 

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

You’ve always believed that if you truly love someone, then you keep it a secret. 

You would let that feeling freeze me down to the core – to love the way a person is meant to, but it is that same love that, inevitably and irrevocably, suffocates. 

You cannot satisfy that craving the same way one might satisfy a sweet tooth. Once given a taste, it seeps down into your skin, infecting both body and mind, pierces the heart and tears it wide open. 

The thundering beat inside your chest cannot be silenced. The fingertips of fate trace the spider-like, lightning-strike veins that split your heart right down the middle. 

A broken heart takes love like a beating.

It all comes boiling to the surface, bubbling up and out in the breath of a second.

The truth always comes out, one way or another. 

Because if you don’t let the heart have its’ way, then it will tear itself right out of your chest.

***

The days were short, but the hours were long. 

You spent much of your time by yourself, as this season kept Willy preoccupied. Time marched onward and the weeks themselves seemed to drag; it was nearing Christmastime and that meant very little to you in the grand scheme of things, except that you’d be seeing less and less of your lover. 

Traditionally, the holidays were a time of celebration and joy, gifts and laughter shared between friends and families alike. 

However, you lived a nontraditional life now, and Willy had unwittingly shown you that the life of a chocolatier was a solitary one. You knew that the busy holiday season was what pulled him away, but his lack of attentiveness made you wonder…

The only thing that kept these thoughts at bay was the way in which he looked at you when he was around. 

Willy was a difficult man to read. Whether that was intentional or not, were you still trying to determine. The only dead giveaway were his eyes – startlingly intense and piercingly blue – that bore no resemblance to subtlety. 

The vastness of the heavens, it seemed, were contained within those swirling galaxies. On dark nights when the cloud cover was too thick, you traced the constellations in his eyes to guide you into his morning light. 

You could see yourself peeling back the layers of his heart to get to the source of how he truly felt.

Deflect from it all he might – “I’m a trifle deaf in this ear. Speak a little louder next time–” you saw right through him and sometimes that only made him steer clear of you for longer. 

It wasn’t that he did not care for you; it was quite the opposite. Perhaps the extent to which he cared was a bit overwhelming for him at times. He immersed himself in his work during these times, else his mind inevitably carried him to places he would rather not visit. 

Willy Wonka’s mind was not a place any person, sometimes even himself, should ever go without a guide or a distinct way back. 

Though anyone with half a brain could tell that the amazing chocolatier was a troubled man on occasion, his true nature shone through in his creations. Something about this season’s batch of chocolate was a touch sweeter than ones previous. It would go undetected by those who did not have a refined palate, but like the saying goes, a true artist would put their blood, sweat and tears into their work and Willy Wonka was a mastermind. 

He knew exactly what he was doing and what he meant to convey, if only between himself and one other: the world’s most famous chocolatier was in love.

***

You sat on the plush sofa in the personal wing of the factory, a book in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. You were nestled beneath a thick-knit, purple blanket as you read and waited on Willy to return to your den for the night. 

You saw less and less of him the closer it got to the holidays, but such was the nature of his business. Christmastime was one of the busiest seasons and the one in which he made most of his money (the second being Valentine’s Day.) People bought exorbitant amounts of candies and chocolate during the holidays and so Willy was forced to expedite production (though never sacrificing quality) and work long, difficult hours preparing new and exciting treats for the public. In fact, it was no well-kept secret that Willy Wonka unveiled his newest creations around this time of year and that very news was plastered in every newspaper, magazine and bulletin across the world as people anticipated the exciting, brand-new sweets there would be to try. 

You knew the excitement and rush of the season fed into Willy’s own excitement over his work. He was thrilled to be working on new ideas and expressing himself through his creativity and imagination. It meant the world to him and so you did your best to stay out of the way. You did not want to make the situation about you and, after all, he always made it up to you.

 He was aware that his absence bothered you and he tried not to think about the fact that he may or may not be doing irreparable damage to your relationship. 

Not every difficult time or situation was an attack against you. It wasn’t personal, nor was it anyone’s explicit fault. Willy had a factory to run, Oompa-Loompas to manage and ideas to manifest into reality. Sometimes, your relationship would take a backseat and if you were serious about being with him, then you would have to be alright with that and you were, although that did not mean that it didn’t hurt from time to time. 

It would have been nice to relax and enjoy the season with your lover without his work getting in the way. You would have loved to curl up with him, sitting at opposite ends of the couch and enjoying lots of hot chocolate and hours of warm conversation. If you had your pick, you’d gladly have him here with you now, trading the book in your hands for his warm body, his fingers linked perfectly into the spaces between yours. 

You reasoned that this was just how things would have to be for now. No sense in adding more pressure on him by complaining. He was aware of how you felt, but sadly there was nothing to be done about it. You never would have dreamed of asking him to pick between his work and you. That would not have been fair or right. You could handle this, for now, but deep down you missed him terribly. 

Even if you chose to spend time with him inside the factory part of the building, he would be working the whole time. There simply was no time for much of anything else. He did like when you would drop by because you were his faithful little taste-tester. Better to try it out on you before selling it to the masses – that would seem cruel, knowing that his candies have had certain negative effects on people in the past, but rest assured, Willy had never given you anything that might harm you. 

Any candy which made its way to you had been tested and re-tested to perfection before it ever passed between your lips. 

He wanted feedback on his candy before it left the factory and you were more than happy to offer it to him, to which he was enthusiastically grateful. The only problem was, true to inventor fashion, he asked for feedback on everything. He wanted your opinion and was asking for it increasingly often these days. When you didn’t show up to the inventing room on certain days, he’d bring a whole box back to your shared living space and eagerly watch you with anticipation of your positive remarks as you were asked to try every piece. 

He was always so grateful to you for that and, honestly, you didn’t mind. You liked candy and chocolate, so there was no reason you couldn’t afford him this act of kindness.

The only thing you really felt like you were missing was him and it plagued your mind most often while you were alone, which was of course very often. You kept yourself busy and occupied your thoughts with other things as much as you were able, but when you settled in for the night, your loneliness crept in and took up the space beside you that would have otherwise been occupied by your beloved chocolatier.

You didn’t mind your alone time, but too much of it was not ideal. 

Too much of a good thing came with a price and now it seemed you were paying it with interest. 

The sound of a door opening and shutting pulled you from your thoughts. You glanced down at your book to realize you’d just had it propped open against your knees this whole time and hadn’t read a bit. You marked your place and closed it with a huff, setting it down on the end table beside you, your mug of half-drank cocoa with it. 

A quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall – thank God he hadn’t cut that one in half – showed that it was ten minutes after midnight. 

It did not come as a surprise that Willy was so late. It was only your wildest guess as to what he had been working on, but that point was moot. You did not really care what he was working on. 

That thought seemed harsh and you frowned; no, you were adamantly against resenting him for his work. That path was one you would not let yourself go down, a trap of codependence, you told yourself, but why couldn’t he just be a little more present with you? Surely it wasn’t too much to ask. 

Perhaps you would ask. 

It would make the most sense to be upfront with him about how you were feeling and to be as direct as possible. 

You did not move from the couch. You waited on Willy to come and find you, unlike the many days and nights when you might have greeted him at the door. 

Several quiet moments passed between yourself and your thoughts before Willy entered the room. He had shed his purple coat at the door, as well as his hat and cane, “there you are, my dear,” his gentle tone made your stomach clench as warmth pooled in your abdomen. Even troubled with doubts, you were still delighted to see him.

You watched as he approached and dropped himself on the opposite end of the couch. He nudged your knee with his, silently asking for a bit more space which you politely gave, “I would have been back sooner, but I’ve been so busy, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Yes, it is that time of year,” you replied coolly. You didn’t want to jump into the meat of the discussion too soon, otherwise he might take offense where there was none. 

He seemed in a good enough mood that perhaps this would be the perfect time to strike. 

“Yes, my dear, it’s the holiday season which does wonders for my business and I couldn’t be happier.”

His pride in the work he was doing warmed your heart. You listened to him for a while as he recounted what he had been working on that day. 

He cared so much and spoke so passionately, yet your mind began to wander.

“Is everything alright, my dear?”

His tender voice captured your attention and you blinked slowly, “yes, I’m fine. But, there is something I would like to talk to you about.” 

His lips hitched into a faint smile, then flattened into a serious line. It bothered you, not being able to read his face.

“There is? Well, you know that you can always talk to me about anything on your mind.”

You didn’t want to overwhelm him, not when he was already so fully immersed within his work. He needed time and space to focus. He did not need you hindering his creative flow by hanging all over him and demanding more attention. He already gave so much; how could you even dare to think that he owed you more?

“I know you’re busy this time of year, but do you think it would be possible for us to spend a little more time together?” My voice cracked as I added, “I…really miss you, Willy.” 

You hadn’t meant to speak with words that were laced with such pain, but in fairness you did miss him terribly. By the time he made his way to you most nights, you were already in bed or heading there and in the mornings before you’d woken up, he would be gone. It bothered you to not see him and you wanted him to hear it. He needed to know the truth if you meant to be honest with him, you only hoped he’d be able to understand that you didn’t blame him. 

Conversations like this always made you second guess yourself. 

By this point, you realized that he had not responded. He was probably just thinking about what he would say, but usually it didn’t take him this long to reply. 

“Willy?” you gently urged him, reaching out to place your hand on his arm. 

Whenever he felt the gentle graze of your fingertips against the fabric of his shirt, he glanced down, admiring the tender touch with a wistful smile on his face before he looked up at you and the emotion held inside of those ice-blue eyes was almost enough to send you over the edge and into uncontrollable sobs of relief. 

You felt the tension in your shoulders beginning to dissipate. Good, he felt the same way. 

He was still staring at you like there was something more on his mind. That was the way things were with Wonka and you’d be lying to yourself if you hadn’t thought on more than one occasion that it’s a good thing you weren’t a mind reader because there were things that went on inside his head that should stay there. It was better that you didn’t try to trace his Machiavellian ways or make sense of the enigmatic man who so frequently surprised you with small glimpses into how he really thought and viewed the world. It was fun getting to know who he was, but the true wonderment was in not knowing him at all. 

He tested your mind and all your senses, but never pushed your boundaries. He could knock you off your stride in seconds, then act as if nothing had happened. You were playing his little chess game and he was already three or more moves ahead. It had only been a matter of time before you had fallen into his hands like this. 

Things were as they were because Wonka wanted them to be. His quips and wisecracks often went over people’s heads, especially because of how well-versed he was in literature and culture. He could make the whole world fall in love with him at once, then forget him as soon as they were no longer in his presence, but you believed the world adored him much more than he liked to think it did. 

“I didn’t say anything sooner because I didn’t want it to seem like I was being insensitive, since I know you’re not intentionally ignoring me.” 

This statement made him smile for some reason, “where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; where little fears grow great, great love grows there.” (William Shakespeare, Hamlet.)

At first, you didn’t know what to say. You had a bit of trouble discerning what he meant sometimes, missing the larger picture for deciding why he chose a specific quote at a specific time. 

Seeming to read your thoughts, he let out a polite chuckle, “This is to say, even in love do the smallest doubts scare you, but when you are afraid of such little things, you are still in love, too.”

His explanation seemed to help, if only for a second. 

It was true that you had your doubts, but those doubts only stemmed from love. That fear which grew inside of you had taken root, but when enough time had passed, it was the love which had bloomed from it. 

Both the fear and love would come with a connection as strong as this one.

In the beginning, Willy had never dreamed of having a romantic partner. His solitary lifestyle simply lacked the means necessary to cultivate a long-term relationship. He had never desired romance or human connection of any kind. He had his factory and the Oompa-Loompas to look after; he was stretched thin as it was.

It was with sickening rapture that he sought the reason for why his heart seemed so content within your hands. He had to know the true meaning behind what he felt, even if he had to wade out in to the wild, dark depths up to his neck. He was barely treading water, sinking still, feet kicking desperately and hands reaching, clawing for purchase but there was nothing for him to grab onto. No way to steady himself as his soul careened toward what he had been running from for so long, a runaway train on the track towards trust and away from self-preservation. 

At first, you wanted to be the one in control. You had your fair share of demons and setting the pace for the relationship yourself was very important to you, but neither of you wanted to go too far too fast. 

You became acclimated to his world quite quickly. 

You just seemed to fit right in and, with time, Wonka found himself closer to you than he had ever been with another person. 

The two of you had been together for quite some time now and the red string of fate binding your hearts together was pulled taut. 

It seemed that you both knew you were in the right hands and the love that grew here was stronger than any fears or doubts which gripped you. 

“What scares me the most is that you’re pulling away from me,” you confessed to him, and that revelation made his eyes widen perceptibly, “sometimes I think you don’t even realize that you’re doing it.”

The conversation had shifted and Wonka realized that you were no longer just discussing his absence in light of the holidays. There was deeper emotion and meaning laced within what you were saying to him now. 

He was used to being alone, as were you. The only difference was that while you had never lost hope that the right person might come along, he had done everything he could to close himself off. His heart was a precious thing and that was what the world had been after. Yes, he had closed his factory because of theft, but he put his whole heart into his work and, if anyone were to steal his heart, then there would be nothing left for the one whom it belonged to. 

He made sure he guarded his heart all these years, even if he didn’t know the reason for it. It was easier to deny the very fact that love was something every person desires, even ones who have become so layered and complex that it would be difficult to imagine what a true love might look like for them. 

Wonka was not afraid of anything. 

However, if one thing made him apprehensive it was the idea of anyone finding him out. 

Not that there was any chance of that; no one was able to think quite like him. But if anyone came close, that meant he’d cling to them forever, holding on for dear love. 

His gaze shifted down to your hands that were folded in your lap and reached for one. Long, delicate fingers gently wrapping around your right hand as he brought it to his mouth. 

A kiss for each finger, you counted, one two three four five…

Then, his lips made contact with your inner wrist. The sudden and unexpected brush of lips against your sensitive skin made your breath hitch.

“I promise to be more attentive,” he whispered on your skin, his hot breath tickling the inner area of your wrist, “the only one pulling me anywhere is you and I am only moving forward.” 

“You’ve got to go forwards to go back.”

He had believed that, in more ways than just one, in relation to his factory and to people, but there was no going back now. Even if that were an opinion, he wouldn’t have wanted to.

Within half a second, he dropped your hand and tilted his head, leaned in close and pressed his warm lips to yours in the most sensual, tender kiss your lips had ever known.

Your heart fluttered in your chest like butterfly wings beating against your ribcage, desperate to free itself and get to his. Your soul sought the kind of connection that your mouths were getting and jealousy was an understatement. 

If this was his way of making it up to you, then let it be known that you wanted nothing else for Christmas this year than a clear mind and the taste of your lover left over on your cupid’s bow. 

It was all electric, body and soul alight, glistening brighter than fairy lights strung up for the season. 

He tasted sweeter than his own candy and you smiled into the kiss at the very thought. He ate a lot of his own sweets, if only to test the taste, and you couldn’t help but enjoy the sugared kisses, your sweet tooth craving satisfied only by his honeyed lips. 

Somewhere in the haze you found the opportunity to grip handfuls of his tawny tresses, fingers digging into the soft curls that drove your heart mad with desire. You loved his hair and so infrequently did he let you touch or comb it. It was about as unruly as he was, wild, untamed and free, just like the man it belonged to. 

Your gentle tugging on his hair elicited a soft grunt from him and his lips attacked yours more feverishly, taking on a more aggressive quality now that you had accepted and encouraged him. 

There was no rhyme or reason for anything that occurred while you were with him, except what was happening now.

Wonka did everything on a whim. Sleeping, eating, working…no schedule, no routine, no nonsense. 

“A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.”

Perhaps the most nonsensical thing that had ever happened in Wonka’s factory was your fear that he might leave you. 

Strike that. Don’t reverse it. 

You didn’t want anything to change. There were more twists and turns in this man’s head than there were in his factory and you had lost yourself trying to find your way out. You never left his mind, not once. Even while he worked or spent time alone, you were in his thoughts, whether it was subconscious or not. 

Your own mind didn’t register your movement as you crawled closer and sought out more of his sugary sweetness which was more potent than any nectar of the gods. Your lips devoured his, tasting every inch of the same mouth that poured prose and poetry into your ear each night that you laid with him.

He hummed pleasantly against your lips. His gentle sounds teased you; so rare was it that he ever made a sound during these moments of intimacy. Oh, how you tried, and your futile attempts filled him with great satisfaction. He had more discipline than you ever imagined; living alone for so many years without the warmth of another had taught him to go without, but desperation clung to his bones and manifested through each fervent, heated kiss. 

Willy wouldn’t have described himself as needy, but he appreciated physical intimacy when it occurred and sometimes it was as necessary as any other proper communication. He wanted more than a quick romp; he craved human connection. It was completely unfounded for someone like him to want to share a connection with anyone, but here he was asking for it with his mouth on yours and your reciprocation of that same need meant everything to him. 

You tested the waters, grazing your teeth along his bottom lip to determine how far he might be willing to go. He didn’t stop you. His lips simply parted, allowing entry of your tongue. 

The only sound he made was a little gasp, which you swallowed as your tongue delved in to taste the inside of his mouth. Your hands were still holding the sides of his head, fingers buried deep within his unruly curls. 

He helped maneuver your body closer to his, unabashedly bringing you to sit on his lap. As you settled on top of him, one of his large hands moved down to the small of your back and held you firmly in place. 

You could feel the heat of his hand through your shirt. You had no grasp of how long the two of you continued to kiss like that. The passage of time, though a precious thing, was unimportant in the current moment. The only thing you demanded more of was him and you would greedily take all that he had to offer you. 

You were enchanted by him. He surprised you at every turn and, if it had been anyone else, you’d have questioned where you stood with them, but wasn’t that the point? The less anyone knew about Willy Wonka, the more exciting it felt to be in his presence. 

It was impossible to know whether the things he revealed about himself were true or not and there was beauty in that alone. If beauty was in the eye of the beholder, then he had the upper hand here.

You did not stop to see why his hand had suddenly been removed from your back, but any questions you might’ve wished to voice were answered when you noticed him reaching for one of the top buttons on his vest. 

The steady progression of events had led you here and you were too immersed within the moment to stop him, but you wouldn’t have wanted to anyway. You were entranced, enthralled, enraptured by the whole of him and his heart belonged to yours. 

The wet graze of your tongue against his cupid’s bow spurred him further, lips tangled tantalizingly with yours as his fingers worked open the buttons on his vest. 

The threshold had been breached. 

The moment was yours for the taking, if you wanted it and you knew that you did. 

Lost somewhere between drunk on lust and in love, you began to help him unbutton, starting at the bottom of his vest and continuing until your hands met in the middle of his chest. You followed this same pattern for both rows of buttons.

Coincidentally, this journey ended right above his heart, but another one was merely beginning. 

Your hands were shaking with anticipation as you looked up to notice him already gazing at you lovingly. A tender smile curved his lips like a crescent moon and the sunlight bleeding out through the cracks in your soul made the stars in his eyes sparkle. 

You cupped his cheek and pressed a gentle kiss onto the bridge of his nose. His arms encircled you, holding you flush against him and his shirtsleeves rode up on his forearms, exposing just a fraction of skin with a fine dusting of sand-colored hair. 

You let him hold you to him as his lips attached to your neck. You imagined when he pulled back that there would be an imprint of lips, a tattoo of his love painted across your collarbone, signifying that you belonged to him alone. 

You tilted your head to give him better access and he thanked you by delivering a loving nip to the column of your neck. 

You hadn’t forgotten your intention. 

With hands still shaking, you reached for his vest and pulled it open. His lips detached from your neck in an instant and long, elegant fingers wrapped around your wrist, effectively stopping you from undressing him. 

His eyes were crystalline pools of skylight, airy and substantially quantified by the depths within them. They had a mirror-like quality and you could see yourself reflected in them as you held his gaze for a heartbeat too long. 

“Only if…this is something that we both want…”

Willy’s words of brevity filled you with wonder. 

“If I’m being honest with you, Willy…I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something more than I want you now.” 

That single sentence melded with and fused into his soul. In a breath-to-breath admission of consent, your words had tied his tongue with cursive letters. 

He breathed a sigh of relief and held within that exhale was his own consent. You had granted him permission, assuring him that you were not offering yourself out of obligation or for complacency’s sake and that thrilled him perhaps as much as the act itself would. He felt the blood rush to his groin and he moved beneath you, shifting your body weight more onto his thigh. 

Willy nuzzled your cheek, dragging his nose along your soft skin. His arms had yet to unravel themselves from around you; he wanted to take his time. However, he was increasingly aware of his own sense of desperation. It had been some time since he had last gotten into bed with a lover. 

Actually, the last time he had gotten into bed with anyone was with you. 

Willy had a low sex drive, but on occasion it would crop up and remind him that he was, in fact, human and had needs, whether it was simple biology or heightened by the desire to connect with the one he loved. 

Whenever he thought of a lover and what had previously been just some nameless face at the forefront of his mind, that vision was now you. Yours was the love he sought; your hands were the ones meant to hold his heart. 

He let go of you and shrugged off his vest. 

Your lips captured his once again and he imagined this was what dreams tasted like. 

He went to stand up and you quickly took the hint and moved off his lap. He got up and began unbuttoning his white undershirt while you watched. He could see the fire burning in your irises, your pupils dilated with desire as you watched his delicate fingers pop open each button. 

You knew better than to rush him; a treat as sweet as him was meant to be savored. 

You took this opportunity to slip your own shirt off your body. With your skin exposed, his eyes traveled across your midsection and his fingers hesitated, fumbling the button he was on. His breath hitched and you swore you heard him whisper the word “beautiful” as he gazed upon you. 

Once he had recovered, the swiftness with which he finished removing his undershirt made your head spin. In his haste, he had forgotten to remove his bow tie and unbutton his sleeve cuffs, which made you giggle. He seemed flustered, his cheeks reddening once he realized, and perhaps this was the first time you had ever witnessed him with a blush on his cheeks. 

You reached out to help him and a soft chuckle dripped from his lips like maple syrup, “It would appear I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself, my dear.”

You chuckled as well as his bow tie and undershirt were removed, “well, I’ll take it as a compliment…that you seem so eager to have me.”

Your words were spoken as if in jest, but his response was anything but. 

“Doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt that I love,” he quoted, his smooth baritone steeping you in the tea of his desire. (William Shakespeare, Hamlet.)

It was enough to quiet your mind and when he said it, you felt your entire world get a little smaller. Your heightened senses had inflated your soul and carried you to the clouds. You were a runaway balloon stuck in a tree and his words were the hand that enclosed around your string. You had seen vast lands and known love in its many forms, but never until this moment had you felt so much in the presence of one. 

His heart knew yours better than it knew itself and the cracks left by heartbreak were filled in by your endless love for each other. 

You moved in to kiss him again and his hands cupped your warm cheeks. His breath tasted as sweet as the chocolate he made, which only made sense because of how often you saw him sampling it. He kept a bit in his coat that he’d pull out and nibble upon and often would you go sifting through his pockets for little treasures and treats that he had left over. Sometimes you found such delights that it had to have been no accident that they had been left behind. No, he knew your guilty pleasure was his chocolate and he made sure to satisfy your cravings, both for chocolate and for him, as often as possible.

Your tongue slipped inside his mouth and he finally graced your ears with a very delicate moan. 

His hands moved down the length of your arms to finally grab your hips. He pulled you in, your pelvis against his, and you could feel the hard press of his bulge against your thigh. 

While you kissed, he began to walk you backwards toward your shared bedroom. 

You could not have torn your lips apart to look where you were going even if you wanted to. 

You trusted him to get you there safely, perhaps more than you had ever trusted another person or at least you hadn’t trusted anyone this deeply in a very long time. Too many others had taken a hammer to your jawbreaker heart and smashed it to more manageably sized pieces, but once broken, it could never be put back together without its’ once-pristine surface now marred with jagged cracks. 

At least the breakage let the light of your soul pour out into his hands…

Willy was stained by your brokenness, his heart bruised the color of your trauma. 

He had been burned before, broken in a very real way, and therefore it was never a question of if you would trust him, but how much and when. He knew how long it could take a person to truly open up if they wanted to, but for you, he was willing to wait an eternity and then some. 

Time stood still and Willy had the presence of mind to remember how it felt to cradle your body to his when the only things that cemented your souls was an equal share of trust and love for one another and the mutual decision to take just one more chance. 

You sighed with relief when the backs of your knees connected with the mattress. 

Willy didn’t push you or press for more. His lips left yours in favor of your neck and several chaste yet sweet kisses were left along your collar bone as if his lips were asking for permission without the accompaniment of words. 

 In between you, you reached for his belt. 

He felt your fingers wrap around the waistband of his trousers and a gentle smirk crossed his features, “after something, are we?” 

His coy response made the tips of your ears get hot and you huffed, “well, it isn’t my fault that I’ve gone and gotten all excited…”

“I hope you’re not implying that it’s mine,” he replied as his smirk widened. 

“I wasn’t implying anything,” your time spent with him had sharpened your wit, “I’m saying it.”

His eyes shared in your mirth, twinkling with laughter at your response. He wrapped an arm around your lower back and pulled you in. With his cheek to yours, lips near your ear, he whispered, “shall we make use of your excitement, then, dear?”

You felt a shudder run down your spine as he spoke to you, the dulcet undertones of his honeyed voice pierced you like a knife through the delicate flesh of an orange. You wanted to sink your fingers into his heart and peel it apart to devour the pieces, sustaining yourself on his love. 

You nodded and he deemed it appropriate to continue. He gently pushed your hands from his belt and took on the task himself. He pulled it from the loops and laid it on the chair nearest to him. 

When he turned back to you, you were already removing your pants. He smiled to himself, stopping in his tracks to admire you as you undressed. He almost wanted to help you, but held himself back. Mutual trust came at a price and he would not want to overstep any unspoken boundaries. You had not explicitly told him not to help, but you hadn’t told him to do it either and so he decided it was best to let you indicate what you wanted from him and how comfortable you were with the situation. 

Neither you nor he were particularly trusting individuals. Your experiences with people who took advantage of others made you wary and skeptical, through no fault of your own. Maturity and wisdom came with age and while you had both grown and learned, you had built walls around yourselves both figuratively and literally, in Wonka’s case, to guard your hearts and protect them. 

Now, you were bearing your souls to each other.

It was an unlikely thing, but you were both ready. You had known Wonka for a long time now and you had no doubt that you and he were meant to be in each other’s lives. There was a reason that you were here. Even though you might have needed a bit of reassurance from time to time, it was never because you truly thought he might leave you. Giving word to that unreasonable fear set you free, because in your heart of hearts you realized that you were not afraid at all. 

You were lonely.

You had forced it down for years, but acknowledging it now was cathartic, because never again would you find yourself isolated like you had so many years before. 

Willy was no stranger to isolation either. Though he had reasons other than your own, he empathized. 

It was difficult, at times, for the two of you to find a rhythm. Both of you had been alone for so long that it took time to become acclimated to sharing your lives with each other, but in this moment you both knew that there was no person you would each rather share a life with than each other. 

Willy was never at risk of pulling away. He was simply learning how to love you. 

As soon as you pushed off your pants and stepped out of them, he was kissing you again. In a flourish of limbs and bare skin, you fell backwards onto the mattress with him. His hot lips descended over yours as his fingers linked into the spaces between your own. In all ways except for one, your two bodies were unified and, if either of you could help it, that would soon be remedied. 

The mattress dipped and shifted beneath your shared weight as Willy crawled on top of you. You held his hands for as long as you were capable of doing before you needed to feel him more solidly at your fingertips. You dropped his hand, grabbed his shoulder and dug in your nails to hear him hiss into your ear and nip at your neck. 

He couldn’t even finish undressing because you demanded every ounce of his attention. 

Your spirits were engaged in this battle of carnality and you had consumed him, corrupted his mind and possessed him body and soul, but all’s fair in love and war, both of which you had waged fervently on his senses. 

At risk of ruining the moment, he pulled away and got up to finish removing his trousers. Your chest heaved as you took a moment to catch your breath, propping yourself up on one arm. 

“And here I thought…we were just getting to the good part,” I quipped. A teasing smile bloomed on my face as he turned to look down at me. 

“And I thought you liked my kisses,” He replied without missing a beat. 

His lopsided grin made you giggle, but the sound of his zipper being pulled down tore your attention away from the witty banter. The fire of fierce need had begun to burn bright inside your belly once again after being extinguished to mere embers only seconds ago. 

You watched him kick off his trousers and make no move to pick them up.

He moved back down onto the bed and leaned into you. You met him halfway and pecked a chaste kiss onto his lips. Your bodies fit together like two immaculately chiseled sculptures whose delicate features appeared to be made of something much softer than stone. 

You knew what he wanted from you now and you felt goosebumps rising on your flesh as you anticipated his caress. 

He cupped your head, holding you to him as he lowered you back against the pillows. He liked to take charge of this part himself and you let him, despite the anxiety you felt at relinquishing control over yourself. You didn’t like feeling out of control, especially of your body and Willy knew this. He tried his best to make you feel comfortable and safe, never moving forward without verbal consent. 

“Shall I touch you, dear?” 

You reflected on his question before you nodded, swallowing thickly before you could make a sound, “yes.” 

You knew that he would check in with you frequently to make certain you still wished to continue. 

With your consent, his fingertips grazed the length of your arms. His warm touch sent pleasant shivers through you and you fought the urge to arch into him. He had a way of making you feel everything he wanted you to feel with just one touch. It was like magic, the control he had over your body and sometimes you wondered if his creative abilities branched into other realms as well. 

His hands slid down your sides, massaging your warm skin and admiring your supple curves, the angles and indentations of your hips. Before he traveled lower, Willy wanted to devote some appreciation to the rest of your body first. His hands moved to your back, working underneath you to swiftly unclip your bra. He had a way of doing things so fast that you barely had time to register what he was doing before it was done. Perhaps it didn’t seem possible, but impossibility did not exist where Willy Wonka came from; if there was a way to do the impossible, he had already figured it out and told no one. 

With your unclasped bra no longer pulled taut, he delicately pushed the straps off your shoulders and plucked the hindersome piece of fabric away from your chest. It dropped unceremoniously to the floor and his blue eyes glittered with mischief when he looked upon your exposed breasts. 

You wanted to cover them, but he held your arms at your sides. True to the creative genius he was, he had to admire beauty where and when he saw it and you were a masterpiece. His tight smile had relaxed as he gazed down at you beneath him and he practically cooed with appreciation for your form. 

“You’re very beautiful,” he whispered heatedly, like it was almost difficult for him to get the words out. He was overwhelmed with all his attention focused on the body before him. 

You wanted to thank him for the compliment, but all that came out was a soft squeak. 

He chuckled at your little sound and bent his head. He placed a firm kiss on your left breast and you sighed in pleasure at the gentle touch of his plush lips on your pillowy skin. His lips traced the curves of your breasts before encircling one of your nipples, suckling lightly as if it were a piece of candy. 

You mewled and arched into his mouth, desiring more from him and as quickly as possible, but Willy liked to take his time with you. He never left you unsatisfied, but you could expect nothing to be fast paced. 

His fingers wrapped around your hips to hold you in place as he moved to your other breast and did the same thing. His hot tongue teased your candy pieces to hardness and he hummed his appreciation, sending waves of pleasure down to your core. 

You squirmed in his grasp and whimpered pathetically, “please, Willy,” you begged him, “I want you now.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll have me, dear,” he reassured you, his thumbs rubbing placatingly against your hips, “when I’m ready for you to.” 

His teasing remark made you huff in irritation until his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your cotton panties and paused you in your tracks. 

You whined as his fingers barely breached the fabric barrier before he removed them. His hands moved to your inner thighs and spread your legs apart for him to nestle in between them. 

All you could do was watch as he leaned closer and pressed a kiss to your navel, just below your belly button. His kisses traveled lower and lower down your pelvis to your pubic bone and finally to your core. You writhed in pleasure when his mouth found its way to where you wanted it, but your panties were still in the way and you groaned with frustration. 

Heat emanated from your core due to your arousal and the crotch of your panties were damp with your wetness. 

Your head dropped back against the pillow as he used the tip of his nose to brush lightly against your clit through your panties. 

You were so pliant to his will and responsive to his touch that he almost felt powerful. If it had been anyone other than him, he would have, but all he felt in this moment was an overwhelming feeling of love. The fact that he could give you a comfortable experience of vulnerability and pleasure perhaps did enflame his ego a bit, but he loved you even more for it. To see you enjoying yourself because of him was almost too much for him to handle and he could feel his cock swell to attention. 

He placed a couple of open-mouthed kisses to the crotch of your panties before he dragged them down your legs. He would have liked to tease you more, but he was already beginning to lose patience and he didn’t want to rush through too quickly. 

With your panties removed, he could admire your glistening folds and the sweet juices that had dribbled out of you. His mouth watered as he delved in for a taste, his tongue tentatively flickering against your opening. 

You let out a cry and bucked your hips, desperate for him to fill you. You needed friction and fullness to achieve release and Willy knew you couldn’t get either of those things without his compliance. He smirked at that and lowered his head between your thighs. 

Your hot core pulsed as more of your honey leaked onto his tongue. He moaned in satisfaction, savoring the taste of your sweetness and the delicious sounds you were making for him. He had never tasted anything this sweet except for his chocolate and if he could have only one of those two things right now he would have picked you without a second thought. 

It was almost too much for him to pull his mouth away, but he knew that he must if he were to indulge in the ultimate act of pleasure with you. You both wanted that more than you wanted air to breathe. A greater craving than candy, your existing love and soul connection a stronger aphrodisiac than chocolate. 

With a final flick of his tongue against your clit, he dragged his mouth off you. You whimpered at the loss, but in the back of your lust-flavored cotton candy mind you knew that your shared night of pleasure was just beginning. 

He got off the bed again and opened the nightstand drawer. He withdrew a small tinfoil packet and a small clear bottle of lubricant. 

You were still sprawled out on the mattress, your hair a halo around your head. The darkened room made it difficult to see what he was doing, but your eyes had adjusted enough for you to see movement.  

You felt eyes on you and before you glanced up from the object he was holding, his voice broke the silence, “are you comfortable continuing?”

Driven by lust and lover’s greed, you nodded your consent. Willy did not respond at first, waiting on your actual acknowledgement and proper agreement. Your voice was shaky as you replied to him, but you knew what you wanted and were certain in your response, “yes. I want this. I want you, Willy.”

The sincerity in your voice convinced him and he tore open the condom wrapper. 

Excitement thrilled you and coursed through your veins, carried into your heart by blood. Your body was singing with sensation as you wanted nothing more than his solid body atop you, his hard length buried in your tight heat. 

You watched him with barely-concealed enthusiasm – well, perhaps the only concealment was from the darkness in the bedroom – as he took off his underwear and rolled the condom on. He then squirted a generous amount of lube onto his fingers and coated his cock. 

You could hear him jerking himself off and the obscenely slick sounds from the generous amount of lube. He had yet to give himself any physical stimulation up until this point and you were eager to repay the favor. 

In the dark, your reached for him and he came to you, ready to meld together and fill you full of himself. 

He positioned himself on top and guided your legs around his hips. He propped himself up with one forearm flat against the mattress so that he wouldn’t rest his entire body weight on you and the other guided his condom-covered tip to your entrance. 

He gave your forehead a tender kiss as he pressed in. Your lips parted at your sharp intake of breath and your muscles tightened and seized around him. Willy kissed your face, calming you and keeping you still and relaxed until he bottomed out. 

He nuzzled against your cheek and moved his free arm behind you to cradle your head. 

You tilted your head back and captured his lips. The two of you kissed lazily for several moments as your bodies adjusted to one another. Your walls twitched around his cock, sending jolts of electricity down to his toes, into the pit of his stomach and behind his eyes. Everything felt fuzzy and seemed out of focus except for you. 

The one thing that was clear to him was his love for you and the appreciation he had for you being a part of his life. If he could not trust a single soul with his legacy, he knew that he could trust you with himself and that was more than enough. 

For once, nothing made you question Willy Wonka; his intentions were clear.

Your fears were just that: fear. It was irrational and based on nothing of consequence. However, the very fact that you were afraid let you and he both know how much you cared. 

You would never take Willy, and he would never take you, for granted. 

He would reassure you that though he was not used to sharing his world with another, that you were his world now and you would share in every aspect with him and reap the rewards of a unique and whimsical life with perhaps the greatest chocolatier who ever lived. 

Take out all the fantasy and spectacle and you were left with only love and imagination. 

All these people thought the most fantastical thing about Willy Wonka were his creations, but what took your breath away, and had since the beginning, was the man behind those creations.

 You had fallen in love with him as much as you had with his brain and his intellect, his body, his soul. You wanted to dip your fingers into him like if he were made of melted chocolate. You would lick the essence of his existence off your fingertips to taste his candy-coated soul and sugared thoughts. There were not many candies or chocolates of the Wonka brand that you hadn’t tried, but none were sweeter than the man himself. 

If he existed only in your mind, then your mind was alive with the thought of him. 

All too soon, your thoughts abandoned you as you felt him begin to move. 

He slowly pulled out, angled his hips and pushed back in. 

The sudden movement jarred your body and you clung to him tighter. 

As he began to set a pace, you rolled your hips down onto him each time that he pushed in. This seemed to please him, witnessing you thrusting with him, your bodies moving in unison toward a shared release and reciprocation of pleasure. 

He grunted softly in your ear with the effort of thrusting into you. His soft curls tickled your cheek and you bit back a giggle. A particularly rough thrust ripped the sound from your throat and you laughed aloud. 

His brows furrowed in amusement at your laughter, but he grinned with you nonetheless. 

His thrusts became harsher, deepening as you adjusted and conformed to the rhythm and pace he set that was creating a delicious friction between your legs. You moaned shamelessly into his ear and he thrusted harder, encouraged by the sinful sounds you were making. 

Willy kissed you, his lips feverishly moved against yours as he held you in his embrace and your skin blazed with red hot fervor. A thin sheen of sweat clung to your bodies and you could feel the heat rolled off him in waves. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, but it didn’t bother you as you kissed him harder, demanding more intensity out of your shared intimacy. Your core pulsed, muscles gripping and clenching tightly around his cock. 

Your moans began to take on a higher pitch the closer you got to your release. Willy could tell that you were close now and he was eager to send you over the edge. Sex was, at least for him, about mutual enjoyment and gratification, not domination, exploitation or manipulation. It was about individuals who loved each other enough to put aside their individuality and become one, just for a moment of bliss. 

His forehead pressed against yours as he thrusted into you harder than before, his pace becoming erratic the closer he came to his own release. 

As he panted, you felt his breath fan across your face and he smelled of chocolate.

You balanced on the edge of oblivion as your feverish coupling would soon send you into orgasm. 

After a few more hard thrusts, Willy slipped a hand between your legs and gently rubbed your clit. Your release seized you, your body shaking violently with hurricane force winds of equal parts pleasure and zest. It was as if the air had been knocked out of you and you were falling down into his waiting arms. Ecstasy radiated from your core, carried in waves throughout your body. 

You were alone with your pleasure, waiting on your lover to join you in the afterglow. 

You cried out his name as he thrusted into you through your orgasm. He lasted several moments after you came before he released, filling the condom with several hot bursts of his seed. 

He had just enough strength left in his body to pull out and collapse beside you. His harsh panting soon turned to gentle sighs as his heartrate decreased and his body cooled. His strawberry blonde curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat and were sticking out at wild angles except for the top which was always a bit flattened from the way he wore his hat. 

You reached out and petted his frizzy hair, your fingers delicately massaging his scalp. He let out a quiet little moan and you smiled at him. 

With a deep inhale, he sat up and peeled the sticky condom off his softening prick. He tied it up and tossed it in the wastebin, then snatched his underwear off the ground. He picked yours up as well and handed them to you for you to slip on. 

You got off the bed and put your panties back on, then crossed the room to the bathroom. A few moments later, when you returned after you had cleaned yourself up, you found him lying in bed waiting for you. 

He smiled at you as you approached and extended an arm out to let you curl into his side as you got back on the bed with him. He already had a blanket laid out to pull across your nude bodies so that you could cuddle in modesty and without getting a chill. 

He looked down to watch you settle in and you met his gaze for a moment, appreciating his features. His gorgeous blue eyes were like pools of galaxy speckled with stars. His aquiline nose, which most people thought was too big for his face, looked proportionate in your opinion and beautiful just the same. He had the softest features of any man you had ever seen, slightly chubby cheeks, a round face and curved jawline. He was exquisite in every sense of the word and just looking at him made you fall more deeply in love. 

As attractive as he was to you, his personality spoke to yours in a language only the two of you spoke fluently. 

His appreciation for literature and culture was unique and inspiring and, because it tied in with your own, you learned a lot from each other. His quick wit and casual snide remarks that often passed over other people’s heads made you laugh as though you were enjoying your own little joke with each other.  

During your private appreciation for this man, you concluded that you had no reason to ever think he might be pulling away from you. 

In surreal Willy Wonka fashion, he seemed to read your thoughts as he finally spoke, “I’d like to see you in the Inventing Room with me tomorrow. I want you to be as involved with the holiday busy season as I am.” 

He addressed your insecurities by offering a solution to the problem and your heart felt a bit lighter. He wanted you to be involved in his work so that you didn’t feel so isolated or lonely. He had promised to be more attentive and he intended to do just that, but you could offer him aid and visit him while he worked. True love was buoyed by compromise; you’d see to it that you did your part to keep your relationship strong. 

“Forgive me for not being as attentive as I should be,” he continued, “I’ve been so busy, not to excuse myself.”

“I understand,” you replied. 

He seemed surprised for a moment, as if he half-expected you to still be upset, “and it isn’t entirely your fault. I should come around more if I’m missing you. We’ll find a solution. We have time.” Willy put his arm around your shoulder and pulled you close so he could kiss your head, “time is a precious thing, my dear. Never waste it.”

Between his words, you heard what he was not saying. 

And while he had a point, what you did have was now. 

You could agree just to exist for a moment, sharing in the silence of the universe and listening to nothing but your dreams and the sounds of your hearts. 

You would fall into each other the same way that you fell in love: accidentally and achingly slow. 

One day you would both look up and see how far you had come, but for now, you still had a way to go. 

You knew his heart belonged to yours and that was enough to keep trying. Once the busy season calmed down and you had more time to focus on the two of you, you would ease into it like lovers were meant to, but right now you had an obligation to yourselves not to let the fear of failure drive you apart. 

It might seem fatalistic to ruin a relationship before it had run its course, but you’d seen it happen and the last thing you wanted was for that to be yours. 

You knew deep down that it wouldn’t happen. 

Your love was as strong as your imaginations were wild and no mind would ever dare dream the two of you apart. 

[morsmortish]

thinking about barty crouch jr’s animagus as a scorpion…

listen. hyena and raccoon are thrown around a lot. for what it’s worth, i DO somewhat see the feral, bloodthirsty interpretation, and i must say i agree with the hyena hc to a much greater degree (it’s imagining a hyena’s teeth that convinces me). but i’ve always thought of barty as slightly less primitive and more…precise. he’s savage and deadly but the way he poses a threat is not through unrestrained, barbaric brutality, but more through a calculated, cruel precision. yes, there is a part of him that wants to rip things apart with his teeth but in the grand scheme of things i can’t help but see barty as delivering a final blow not with a raw savagery, but with a razor sharp, poisoned sting. he is somewhat impulsive, like when he lunges at harry at the end of gof, but more than that, he is so calculated. he seems so much more machiavellian and cunning than uncontrollable and barbaric to me, especially thinking about the detail of his plotting in gof. he builds a whole situation, sets everything up so perfectly, and his plan SUCCEEDS. all of his dominoes fall right into place and voldemort returns, and barty doesn’t necessarily ‘win’ here through brute force, by ripping anything apart, but by carefully piecing something together. he constructs a near perfect plan and. it. works. even the way the story is written presents a final, deadly blow of the portkey and the graveyard, rather than a constant sense of attrition. barty’s final blow is venomous and fatal and, above all, PRECISE. harry is sent into that maze with every piece laid out perfectly, and no one even knows. it’s perfect.

this was supposed to be short but i just had another thought. the story of the scorpion and the frog. the overarching moral of the story is that vicious people cannot resist hurting others even if it hurts them as well, which i see as relating far more to regulus than to barty, who i don’t believe would never do anything not in his own interest. however, something else that i pick up on is the scorpions attitude. from the moment he agrees to his deal with the frog, he knows he his doomed. he knows his own nature and he knows what he will do. he accepts his fate and he drowns, just as he knew he would. to me, this is like barty knowing and accepting the risk he is in when first joining the de, then knowing that from the moment regulus and evan and his mother die, he will join them soon enough. to me, barty has accepted his fate by gof, and he sets out on his mission knowing what will happen just like the scorpion setting out on his journey across the river did. doomed from the start, and he goes down with a smile. he still got what he wanted, in the end.

[house-of-hamartia]

AND WE ARE GOING FOR YEARNING SMLUFF.

gods, I just live for the whole smudged rouge all over their lips. It's just something that so small in the grand scheme of the artwork, but gives me so much life.

Like, the sloppiness of the kisses in the heat of the moment, because the only thing that truly matters is getting to kiss the other's lips.

Now I just have to choose if to with Victorian garments or with the XVIII ones lol.

Honestly, these two have taken over my brain so much, fml, I cannot stop thinking about them.

Like, I wish I had a bit more mental energies to draw all that I see in my brain lol.

I will start blabbering about them a bit, soon enough.

I am just picking up my courage.

In the meanwhile, enjoy this WIP and I hope you will like this!

--Nemo

[eddiegettingshot]

agree sm with your last post. the girl (the one who just made the joke, not the one who dmed him being a weirdo) was just fooling around without attacking him or something like that and os posted her account on his stories and now i'm seeing everyone jumping on her. i saw three people saying “kys” which is crazy because she's just 19 and she didn't do nothing wrong???

right like sorry but in the grand scheme of things even if she HAD lied (to spread the rumor that oliver is... looking at ryan's mentions for posts about himself? something that wouldn't mean anything and would also make sense for him to do?) the payoff of blasting some random fan on your huge platform to your followers who are so deranged even YOU cannot stand them half the time, over something the entire fandom has been joking about for at least a full day, is still pretty much zero. and then there's the fact that he clearly would have had to go look at her twitter account to see she'd said any of that, because as far as i can tell there was no mention of it on her instagram, which is where she actually interacted with him. so...? like this is so immature and annoying to me lol. and this is a guy who's been having problems with his fans on and off for like. years. it's not like he's completely unaware about how it works. literally don't look at your message requests, turn your dms off, turn your comments off, stop opening twitter, log OFFFFFF

[finnlongman]

I've been thinking about this passage from The Butterfly Assassin. In context, this is a conversation about trying to be better than the worst version of yourself (and, for those who haven't read the book, "the worst version" of Isabel is a literal contract killer, so the stakes aren't low here). I think of it often in the context of choosing to nurture your kinder instincts, your second thoughts, your better choices, even when they don't come naturally, but it struck me that it works too when thinking about the world.

The world often -- at the moment, and always -- feels like a black hole. There is so much bad in the world. There are so many awful things happening that I can do nothing about, that you can do nothing about, that hundreds of people making a concerted effort can do nothing about. That is devastating and disempowering and the apparent impossibility of reducing the amount of awfulness in the world can make us completely disinclined to try.

We cannot, it seems, make the black hole smaller.

But can we light a candle? A torch? A single lightbulb?

Perhaps we can't subtract badness from the world. Can we, though, add goodness? Can we create some small lights, whether that's being there for a friend or making life easier for a colleague or doing a job that, ultimately, helps someone we'll never meet -- even if what we do is far behind the scenes without a clear sense of the direct impact? Can we make somebody smile, and remind somebody they're not alone, and be a friend to someone desperate for connection?

These candles, lit one by one, will not shrink the size of the black hole. But they will make it a little easier for people around you to see.

I think, over recent months, that I have found myself so focused on what I couldn't do that I lost sight of what I could, especially when what I could do seemed mundane and tiny in the grand scheme of things. But the grand scheme of things is not the only measure by which we should look at these things. A single candle to the darkness of the world might be a lighthouse to the one person who sees it.

The small goodness matters. Even if it doesn't change the world or fix anything or even save lives. There is never a situation in which putting more goodness into the world is a bad thing, however inadequate it may feel in scope or quantity. It is hard to take time for the candles when I'm focused on the black holes, but I'm trying to shift my focus to them, because I've felt so lost and helpless amidst the big picture and I've lost sight of the personal. Perhaps in this, I've been so focused on the forest I can't see the tree that needs watering.

There are a lot of big things I don't have any power over. There are a lot of small things I do. There are a lot of big evils I cannot stop, and a lot of small goodnesses I can choose, every day.

There's a reason I often write light another candle in copies of TBA that I sign for people, but I think I need to start listening to my own advice.

[fatuismooches]

The book ask has me thinking...

Pantalone, keeping records of funding. Like, how much he gave to who and what it was spent on. And then an entirely different book of records of him spending money and what for.

The formatting gives a date, a price, who it was for and what he bought. And a few pages in, the format changes. Date, what it was, who it was for.

And then it changes entirely to what it was and reader.

Page after page of just item and reader.

Scarf, reader.

Stuffed animal, reader.

Blanket, reader.

When the Traveller asks him why the prices disappeared he just says that it's to keep prying eyes from knowing too much. In reality, he got yelled at for spending too much money when Reader got their hands on it once.

It's also really unfortunate. Pantalone has black hair, glasses and gets shipped with Dottore.

I have black hair and glasses, where's my ship with Dottore? It's not fair.

🦚

I LOVE THIS. Pantalone who is meticulously organized (unlike a certain co-worker of his), making sure that the tiniest details are exact and up to date. With his work and all, it's essential that everything is neat and accurate, can't have forgotten debts or fraud, now can he? Anyone who needs to view it for business purposes can understand it easily. Unfortunately, they cannot view more... private matters anymore. (Or perhaps it's fortunate, because whenever regular employees see how much Lord Pantalone spends on his dear spouse, they tend to have sudden bouts of lightheadedness.)

It's sort of obvious to everyone how much the Harbinger spends on you, it's kind of a no-brainer to everyone that of course the richest man in Snezhnaya would have no issue with spoiling his lover, but it just quite never clicks until one actually see the records of his expenses for you. It just... boggles the mind and any normal person would need to sit down. If you think a few pages is bad, it's nothing really in the grand scheme of things because he's been keeping a record for all the years you've been together. And the funnier part is that he has all these luxurious purchases for you, and then really simple things next to them as well that you yourself requested. I imagine Pantalone likes to flip through the records every now and then and reminisce about certain purchases and your reaction to them.

Poor Paimon, her head is absolutely spinning from all the zeroes after zeroes in Pantalone's purchases. Traveler too - and they thought Childe was generous! They are only left to wonder the numbers for you though. And poor Pantalone as well - he left you unguarded for a few minutes and all of a sudden you've discovered his secrets... For a long time he's always been very good at dodging the conversation of price whenever he buys something for you, this time however, it seems his luck has run out. Needless to say even though you're pouty and ignoring him for a bit he quickly makes it up to you by cuddling you and promising to "cut back a bit" (never happened.)

At first he thought of downplaying the prices to appease you, but quickly removed that idea from his mind because of how much hassle and trouble it would probably end up creating. In the end he leaves your expenses blank in the main book, but has another side ledger solely dedicated to you. Thankfully, you have not found this one yet, and he plans to keep it that way. For the sake of both of your healths...

[vraisetzen]

𝐖𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐔𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞'𝐬 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐚𝐢 𝐢𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲.

I often find myself disagreeing with the wider Bleach fandom whenever the topic of Ukitake comes up — specifically fans who wished they saw his Bankai before his death.

I have never been one for powerscaling, and probably never will be — I do see how it can be fun or interesting to have a consistent and accurate barometer of abilities against which one can compare, but what is important to me isn't the strength of a character's Bankai/Domain Expansion/insert-relevant-power. It is how they fight, and how they overcome the perceived and obvious weaknesses to their abilities that I find more compelling.

Ukitake, as someone who was chronically and terminally ill, and never participated in any major fights save for one (and was promptly removed from battle), thus frustrates many powerscalers: What did Yamamoto meant when he said him and Shunsui were equals? What was he capable of when he's not ill? Or better yet — if he was never ill?

However, it bears reminding that Ukitake was a respected member of the Gotei 13 — I cannot imagine Yama-jii and Central 46 accepting his post if they were skeptical of his abilities; they could have also removed him from his rank as easily as they appointed him (not that this would happen without much protest from his junior officers and fellow Captains).

And more importantly, Ukitake's illness is a part of him — in the same way that Mimihagi resides in his body, extending his life when he should have died as a child. To paraphrase a line from Stephen Sondheim's Fosca, sickness is to him as health is to others. To dwell on these fruitless counterhistories is to ignore a vital part of him.

But I digress.

Still, I understand this curiosity surrounding Ukitake's Bankai — it falls under a more general desire to want to know more about his character, and his past, especially when we know a lot more about Shunsui.

However, for better or for worse, Ukitake's character was never meant to take centre stage. He was only ever tangentially related to the story's main events through Rukia and Kaien, and even his relationship with the former struggles at creating an impression. In fact, his first proper appearance being that of hearing about Aizen's passing whilst bedridden sets up his entire character for the entirety of Bleach: he is there, and he is someone important, but in the grand scheme of things, he is insignificant until the time came for him to to sacrifice himself.

Is this bad writing? Possibly, but in a work featuring an ensemble of characters, many of whom possess extraordinary ability and skill, Ukitake's illness and limited time on the battlefield sets him apart. He is a reminder of the vulnerabilities that can plague even the most hardened warriors of the Soul Society, and that anyone, no matter how small or weak, can prove vital to a story.

Maybe Ukitake did have a Bankai, but it would deplete so much of his health that he was better off not using it, and thus we were unfortunate enough to have never seen it. Or maybe he did not have a Bankai, and that would raise even more questions about his Shikai and true potential.

Regardless of which, I would like to think that Jushiro would prefer to be remembered for his kindness, his fondness for his younger subordinates, and his wisdom, to being lamented as someone who should have been given more time to do so much more.

[mediumsizedpidegon]

The Naruto timeline is killing me. I know the general idea is that it’s been ~60 years since Konoha formed but everyone’s talking like Konoha has existed for forever.

It doesn't make sense! Tsunade is in her 50s in canon! she shouldn't talk about Konoha like it was well established when she was a child! By saying Tsunade is Hashirama's granddaughter instead of his daughter, we must interpret that Hashirama had a child like. a decade before Konoha formed, so that when Konoha is 10, Tsunade is born. But that's BATSHIT. that means anyone older than sixty– an age even front line shinobi can reach as evidenced by Hiruzen, and surely an age shinobi that specialize in skills that are less directly combative/take them out of the village often, MUCH LESS CIVILIANS!! You cannot make propaganda good enough to make an entire generation of senior citizens forget that your honorable village hasn't even hit a century.

There is such a big deal made of Hiruzen remembering a time before Konoha and so you expect him to be like. late 80s or 90s. old enough to makes him recalling that time suitably rare. old enough that every shinobi is like. wow. you're hot shit and also God Of Shinobi. But he's SIXTY EIGHT. Sakura's civilian grandparents probably remember a time before Konoha. This is not that big of a accomplishment. I don't care if Kishimoto thinks 60 years is a long ass time to a shinobi. It just doesn't work for the sort of worldbuilding he's trying to sell.

My only options are to either stretch the timeline to fit the vibes of "Konoha has been around soooooo long (while still be relatively new in the grand scheme of things)" or scrap all that "Konoha is ancient" shit.

......So. I’ve stretched it to Konoha being formed 100 years ago when canon starts (the year Naruto graduates the Academy). This is more reasonable, making it so that no one alive really Remembers A Time Before, making Konoha's propaganda much more effective.

This, however, has had some significant impact on Hiruzen's generation because even though I have made them significantly older when canon starts (like. mid 80s) they were still born about ~20 years after Konoha was founded. Early enough that some instability was around and Hiruzen's generation could personally know Hashirama and Tobirama, but they don't actually have any experience living through the Warring Clans Era. This has likewise made the Sannin much much older– around the same age as Hiruzen actually is in canon.

But Tsunade's age actually makes sense for her being Hashirama's granddaughter now! So there's that!