#overpowered af too

[marshmallow-bg3]

Monk gear my beloved.

[eyes-0f-etro]

me: I'm gonna replay final fantasy 13-2 because I miss Noel dearly

me, beating final fantasy 13-2: fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.

[astarionascendant]

[kylestfs]

Dynamic

In a city of millions, two men—Ryan and Jason—lived completely separate lives, their paths never meant to cross.

Until tonight.

Bored, they each scrolled through their phones, searching for something (or someone) to pass the time. That’s when they both found it.

A strange, unnamed app, sitting deep in the app store. No description. No reviews. No history. Just a sleek, pulsing chat bubble icon with a single prompt after installation:

*Start Chat*

Neither of them hesitated.

They clicked.

Their screens went black for a moment before loading a simple chat window. A single message appeared at the top.

— You are now connected. Say hi! —

Ryan, stretched across his bed, thumbed at his screen. The chat had connected him with a random guy.

Whatever. He had nothing better to do.

Ryan: Hey. Who’s this?

Across the city, Jason blinked at the message. Who the hell was this?

Jason: idk, just found this app. You?

Ryan: Same. Looks kinda sketch ngl

Jason: Yeah lol. Guess we’re both bored af

Simple. Casual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the pull.

Neither of them noticed at first, but the moment they exchanged words, something shifted.

Something had taken hold.

Ryan absently rubbed his fingertips together. His skin felt… softer.

The air in his room seemed warmer, heavier against his body. His shirt, loose before, now draped differently over his torso. His waist felt tighter, his frame subtly shrinking in on itself.

He shifted against his mattress. Something about the way his body rested felt off.

No—not off. Different.

Ryan: Lol yeah… kinda fun tho~

Wait.

His eyes widened slightly. Why had he typed that? That tilde at the end—he never texted like that. It was… cutesy. Flirty.

A faint pink dusted his cheeks.

His softer, rounder cheeks.

Meanwhile, Jason tilted his head at the message.

Something about it made his gut tighten. No—not tighten. Expand.

A slow, rippling sensation spread through his torso, a warmth settling into his shoulders, chest, and arms.

His grip on his phone felt stronger.

He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons shift beneath his skin. His palm looked different.

Larger. Thicker. Rougher.

His lips curled into a small smirk. He typed without thinking.

Jason: Yeah, guess it’s not so bad. Ur kinda funny lol

The moment he hit send—

Crack.

Jason inhaled sharply as his spine lengthened. A sudden heat surged through his body, muscle knitting together, growing denser, stronger. His once lean frame stretched, broadening, his shoulders pushing outward with a slow, satisfying pressure.

He rolled them instinctively, feeling the unfamiliar weight of his new build. His chest felt heavier, his pecs firmer, fuller. His biceps bulged slightly as he shifted, his veins subtly rising beneath his skin.

His scent was changing too.

The faint, neutral smell of his room was being overpowered by something else. Something thicker, muskier.

Something his.

Ryan’s breath hitched as he read Jason’s text.

“Ur kinda funny lol.”

It wasn’t even that flirty, but why did it make his stomach flutter?

His fingers trembled slightly as he typed back.

Ryan: Omg shut uppp lol ur teasing me~

The moment he sent it—

His waist cinched inward.

His stomach flattened, growing softer, smoother. His hips pressed outward, the bones shifting beneath his skin, forming an alluring, delicate curve.

His legs stretched slightly, but instead of gaining size, they slenderized.

His thighs—once average—became soft, plush, and bony.

His calves slimmed, his ankles narrowing into dainty, elegant proportions. His fingers flexed, and he gasped.

They were smaller.

More delicate.

A faint, involuntary giggle bubbled up from his throat.

His higher, sweeter, softer throat.

Jason exhaled through his nose, stretching his newly broadened body.

His arms felt heavy with strength. His hands—now massive compared to before—flexed against his thighs, gripping the fabric of his sweats.

A warm dampness clung beneath his arms, his natural musk intensifying. He reeked.

And he loved it.

A cocky grin spread across his face.

Jason: Lmao, what, you like it when I tease?

Ryan shuddered. His plush thighs squeezed together. His ass twitched.

His soft, round, plump ass.

Jason leaned back, rolling his shoulders. His chest stretched against his shirt, the fabric clinging to the new thickness of his pecs.

His scent was unmistakable now—deep, raw, masculine, and honestly really smelly.

His armpits—warm, slightly damp—radiated a rich, musky funk. His feet, once average-sized, had grown huge, the soles pressing against the floor with a newfound weight.

His socks, discarded nearby, were stained with sweat, the scent thick and heady in the air.

Jason: Lol bet you’d love burying your face in my pits rn huh?

Ryan’s breath hitched.

His body trembled.

A deep, unfamiliar need coiled in his gut. His thighs clenched instinctively, his ass wiggling against the bed.

His lips parted slightly, his pinker, softer lips.

A whimper slipped out.

His hgher, needier whimper.

His mind felt hazy.

Ryan: Omg wtf why would u say that!!!

Jason: Lmao, you love it.

Ryan whined.

He did.

He fucking did.

Jason was complete.

His massive frame, his thick, dominant scent, his cocky, fuckboy energy—he was the epitome of a top.

His feet huge and sweaty. His pits ripe and musky. His voice deep and commanding.

And Ryan?

Ryan was his.

A tiny, blushing, submissive, needy bottom.

His soft, round ass—perfectly made for his top. His body, delicate, built to be claimed. His mind, rewired to crave Jason’s dominance, his scent, his filth

They had started as strangers.

Now, they were something else.

they only had memories of being a couple for a year.

— two days later—

Jason was all Ryan could think about now—his sweaty frame, his overpowering musk, his deep, arrogant voice.

His scent.

His filth.

A whimper slipped from Ryan’s lips. His pinker, fuller lips. His stomach twisted with hunger.

Ryan: omg jason…

Jason smirked at the message, stretching his broad, muscular arms above his head, his damp armpits airing out. He let out a long, lazy exhale, flexing his thick biceps.

His body felt heavy, powerful, dominant.

Ryan was wrapped around his finger.

Jason : Lmao what

Ryan’s thighs clenched.

His soft, dainty fingers hovered over the keyboard. His heart pounded.

He knew what he wanted.

He needed it.

But saying it outright—admitting it—felt so shameless.

Still, his body was betraying him.

His fingers moved.

Ryan: can u…

He hesitated

A soft whimper left his lips as he wiggled against his bed.

Ryan: c-can u send me… a video… of ur fart again?

Jason blinked.

Jason: Lmao, again?

Ryan covered his blushing, soft face. His cheeks burned

His tiny, needy, giggly body squirmed.

Ryan: pls babe?

Jason chuckled, scratching the back of his head.

His short, unkempt hair was messy, sweaty, sticking up in places.

He didn’t think much about it.

In fact, he didn’t think much about anything.

Not his scent. Not his filth. Not the way his boxers clung to his sweaty skin, or how his feet were practically marinating in his old socks.

He just existed.

And he smelled like himself.

Jason: sure i guess, babe

He barely gave it a second thought as he shifted, spreading his legs slightly. He leaned back, pressing into the bed, his massive, sweaty frame sinking into the mattress.

He lifted his thick ass cheek slightly and—

PPPPPFFFRRRRTTTTT

A long, wet, lazy fart rumbled out of him, vibrating against the fabric of his stretched-out, sweaty boxers.

The scent hit him instantly.

Jason: Lmao, that one was loud af.

Ryan shuddered. His eyes were wide, trembling, desperate.

His plump thighs rubbed together, his body overheated with need. The need to smell it.

He had to know.

He had to hear it.

Ryan: how did it smell?

Jason raised an eyebrow.

Smell?

What smell? He didn’t smell at all, right ?

He gave a casual shrug, completely oblivious to the dense, suffocating funk that now lingered in the air around him.

Jason: idk, just normal I guess?

Ryan let out a needy whimper, his fingers gripping the sheets.

Jason: Wait… U really like this huh?

Ryan’s heart pounded. His soft chest rose and fell rapidly.

He couldn’t deny it.

He was hooked. Obsessed.

Jason stretched again, his thick, sweaty muscles flexing. A cocky smirk played at his lips.

Jason: Alright then, say it.

Ryan blinked.

Ryan: s-say what?

Jason grinned.

Jason: Tell me how much u want me.

Ryan whined.

His body burned with humiliation, excitement, and deep, desperate need.

He wanted Jason to own him.

And he would admit it.

There was no escaping it now.

——————-

Ryan :

Jason :

[astrologydray]

Who Would Win in a Fight? Mars Sign Edition 🥊🔥

🥇1st Place: Aries Mars – Undisputed champion of throwing hands. They don’t think, they just swing first and ask questions later. Pure rage-fueled energy, no fear, and they will fight anyone, anywhere, at any time. They literally enjoy conflict.

🥈2nd Place: Scorpio Mars – Calculated and scary AF. They don’t just fight, they seek destruction. They don’t just want to win; they want you to never recover. If they don’t beat you physically, they’ll ruin your life emotionally. Silent but DEADLY.

🥉3rd Place: Capricorn Mars – Unshakable, strong, and ruthless. They might not start fights, but when they do, it’s brutal and efficient. They’re cold-blooded, strategic, and won’t stop until they’ve completely dominated you.

4th Place: Leo Mars – Fights like they have an audience. They’re strong and fearless, but half of the fight is about making sure people see them winning. If you embarrass them, they will go feral to protect their pride. Victory = ego boost.

5th Place: Taurus Mars – Slow to start but impossible to take down. They won’t fight unless you really piss them off, but once they do? Good luck. They have insane physical strength and endurance, and they will outlast you no matter what.

6th Place: Sagittarius Mars – Chaotic AF, throws random punches. They fight like they’re in a bar fight with no rules, and they might even laugh while swinging. They have speed and energy, but if they’re losing, they’ll just run away and talk sh*t later.

7th Place: Aquarius Mars – Wild card energy. They either stay completely detached or snap unexpectedly. You never know what they’re gonna do, but if they go off, it’s chaotic, unhinged, and unpredictable. They’ll use mind games and psychological warfare too.

8th Place: Virgo Mars – Fights with insults, not fists. They’ll destroy you verbally before it even gets physical. But if you actually fight them? They’re calculated, quick, and will target your weaknesses like a fighting strategist.

9th Place: Gemini Mars – Too busy talking to fight. They will roast you so hard you’ll want to fight them, but they’ll dodge every punch while still talking sh*t. They win most fights by pure distraction and mind games. Will throw hands if absolutely necessary, though.

10th Place: Cancer Mars – Fights emotionally. They’ll either start crying mid-fight, fight with pure rage-fueled strength, or bring up your deepest insecurities while swinging. Will fight if cornered, but they prefer holding grudges forever instead.

11th Place: Pisces Mars – Easily overpowered, but unpredictable. They might cry or beg for mercy, but don’t be fooled—they will sabotage your life behind the scenes. Their best move? Making you feel guilty for even fighting them.

12th Place: Libra Mars – Hates fighting, will probably negotiate peace instead. They might throw a single slap if absolutely forced, but realistically, they’d rather gaslight you into thinking you don’t even want to fight anymore. The real winner in a social setting.

[sgiandubh]

Love Again? Meh

The pressure surrounding those damned elections is so unbearable, I thought finally watching Love Again on Netflix was a decent deflective idea. And since I can never sleep on a full moon's night, it really sounded like a good plan, too. Though with zero expectations, as I already wrote.

Two hours later, I probably lost a handful of neurones I will never get back again. Rom-coms are supposed to leave you in a bubbly mood, and with a strong belief in things like love trumps all, there are plenty more fish in the sea, goodness always prevails, and so on. This one left me flatter than a bottle of Coca-Cola foolishly left open and with the clear idea those people entirely missed the point.

If Nora Ephron is your gold standard, this might feel definitely subpar. But still, that's not the biggest problem I see with this movie. Love Again is exactly like those hotels rated 'pleasant' on Booking - you're not sure if they are terrible or, like Dorothy Parker used to say, 'terrible with raisins in it', which supposes at least some effort being put into it, one way or the other. The plot is remarkably bland and simply serves as a pretext for the real purpose of this movie, which is to promote Céline Dion's five new (perfectly forgettable) songs. The chemistry between S. and Priyanka Chopra is so laboured, that you'd be forgiven for thinking these two people just met in a train compartment and had a perfunctory chit-chat, never to hear from each other again.

Rom-coms are also supposed to be #silly magic in a bottle, yet there is little to no magic in a script so unbalanced, Mira's overpowering (if understandable) grief constantly threatens to flounder everything else. Where everything else includes the budding romance with Rob Burns (🙄), the music critic with no particular qualities, except a dazzlingly shy smile and Season 1 JAMMF's gimmicks, only in today's clothes and without Balfe. Overall, there is too much righteous kerfuffle and too little hope, in this movie that desperately begs for your sympathy, without ever being able to get it. And I shall mercifully pass on the mildly sexy (?) scene, even if without it we would still be wondering where exactly to place the sunshine, lollipops and roses inflexion point on that particular timeline.

Overall, the only question left without an answer is just how much genuine fun did S and Chopra have, while making this movie, at all. My perhaps biased guess is next to zero, based on the overwhelming impression that what was shown of their BTS rapport felt awkwardly transactional and opportunistic AF. This lack of authenticity buries a movie that feels just like something that had to somehow be shot, then had to somehow be released, then had to somehow make its way to Netflix' digital bosom repository. This movie is so meh, it is impossible to recommend it to anyone, and I have to say I am very sorry about that.

I said it before and I will probably say it again: S deserved better choices and opportunities coming along his way. He still does, but he also needs some urgent soul searching, if he wants to avoid looking like a one trick pony and see his acting prospects dwindle accordingly. Which won't exactly be the end of the world for him, but still an awfully unfair waste. So let's hope he will be able to choose wisely and especially out of his comfort zone which well, tends to dangerously expand, lately. The current Onlies' objectifying folly does not help, because the more it goes, the more it cuts S from a reality that is always ready to bite.

While I shall congenially follow whatever he's up to, I would really like this gifted guy to surprise me with something bold, something different and most of all, something that requires more intellect than muscles.

I know he can do it. But, does he?

[skzdarlings]

the fifteenth heir ; faerie prince au ; jeongin/reader ; part one

masterlist.

When you save the life of an injured wolf, you are not expecting him to turn into a prince and save you in return. Of course, as it turns out, fairy tales are not that simple. - A prequel to The Same But Different: The story of how Prince Jeongin overpowered his fourteen older brothers to take the throne of the summer court.

part one | chapters tba | ao3 link.

pairing: yang jeongin/reader content info: set in the faerie prince universe, the prequel to the same but different. faerie/human romance. strangers to lovers. eventual sexual content.

content warnings: please heed the following trigger warnings and read at your own discretion. this story is predominately a romance but classified under horror as well. there will be gruesome scenes, images, and threatening scenarios. this chapter features murder, isolation, mentions of human cannibalism, neglect, suicidal thoughts, explicit violence, and dark fantasy elements.

chapter word count: 7000 words.

enjoy <3

-

Absolute silence surrounds the house.  In daylight, pests are lured closer by the meaty red stench of blood.  At nightfall, every lowly thing knows to keep away from the yawning maw of that front door.  Even animals understand a chasm, this black hole that swallows life and belches bones back into the woods. 

You wake behind the eyes of the monster, curled up in your cot by the attic window.  Even the slightest noise wakes you, the smallest disturbed pebble a thunderous exclamation in the silence.  

Your eyes adjust to the moonlight darkness.  You scan the yard.

Leave, you think, pleading with everything and nothing.  You beg whatever is out there to get away before it gets hurt. 

It’s been a week since your father’s last hunt and his hunger is going to get the better of him – and you are a selfish little girl in a terrified woman’s body and you don’t want to hear another murder. 

Silence is absolute until it is not.  It always ends with a scream.

Your own shriek is strangled in the sleepy rasp of your voice, startled by a shape emerging from the thrush of the woods.   Your racing heart patters as the shadow takes shape in the moonlight.  

Oh, it’s a stag.  

Two - no, three of them. 

It’s better than a person.  Your father won’t be hungry for an animal this late in the week. 

It’s still unsettling. Your father occasionally allows you into the woods to hunt for animals.  You are not allowed to venture far and nothing intelligent approaches the house, so you never find anything more than rabbits and squirrels.  If there are more animals out there, it is deep, deep in the miles of trees, well past where the footpaths fade and the branches start to tangle into a wall of impenetrable brambles. 

You have never seen a stag before. 

The first stag crosses the yard.  It steps tentatively, as you suppose deer are wont.  But there is something about the angle of its head, the curious, scrutinizing tilt as it looks at the house – like it’s really considering it, the way people might.  The way people do, with a breath of relief. 

Thank god, they always say.  A house. 

Our car broke down on the highway.

We were hiking and got lost.

There’s something about these woods.

We don’t know how we got here.

You don’t know how they get here either.  Despite the repeated claim, there is no highway anywhere close.  You have looked.  There’s nothing but the house. 

The stags cross the yard one by one, flicking their heads, their antlers waving in the dark.  For a moment, the shadows look like long, spindly fingers, stretching up and up as if taunting you with a friendly wave.  Hello, they say, we’re out here and you’re in there.  Can you see us too?

Then the porch lights wash yellow over the blue night.  Your father steps onto the porch.  He always answers the door, just like you are always in the attic.

The stags run, though it seems more jaunty than afraid, a bouncing trot back into the woods.  Your father hollers after them, enraged his hunger was piqued only to find no satisfaction.

You lay back down and close your eyes.  This screaming is preferable to the usual kind, but it is still screaming.

And it always ends with a scream.

-

You are sitting by the window, legs curled up and arms around your knees.  You watch the yard, the flies zipping here and there in the daylight.  You have been watching for hours, wondering if the stags will come back.  They seem like an impossible dream in the light of day.  Try as you might, you cannot picture them in the yard.  They just don’t belong there.  Nothing does.  It makes that murky dream feel like a nightmare. 

Your watching is interrupted by a creaking on the stairs.  Your father is coming up to the attic. 

You jump out of bed, dressed in your too-small shorts and too-big shirt, like always, and you fetch the key under your cot, like always, and you are waiting at the closed door when he arrives, like always.

Even though you can hear each other breathing, he still knocks at the door. A  semblance of politeness.  Knocking, like he is protecting your privacy.  Knocking, like you can’t hear him hacking his way through human bodies, like you can’t hear the mess, like you don’t know where the meat goes. 

He knocks, like always.

You slide the key under the door so he can unlock it.  It’s a type of understanding, isn’t it?  You can’t leave without his permission.  He can’t reach you without yours.

The door opens. 

He is holding a hunting knife.  It should scare you.  He has used it against you before, the one and only time you tried to run away.  He let you out to hunt and you ran for that elusive highway.  Ran, got lost, got scared, got found.  He cut at your legs, not to sever or maim, but in a frantic, desperate kind of threat.  That he would.  That he would do a lot.

But there are things he won’t do.  He won’t make you eat the remains of his human catches.  He hands you the knife and says, “Go.”

“Do you want something too?” you ask like you don’t know the answer. 

“No,” he says, with no further explanation for what he intends to hunt and eat.

You take the knife.

It’s a cool day.  You think it must be autumn but the deeper you sink into the woods, the warmer it gets.  The gentle breath of the autumnal breeze vanishes as you leave range of the house.  The sun brightens while the shade thickens, the forest a starker and starker contrast of light and dark.  You keep to the shade because it is sweltering in the sun with no breeze. 

It feels strange to do something like that.  Does a moment of comfort really matter?  Your legs are scarred, the woods are hot, and the house is always waiting.  Does a minute of shade really matter?

Resigned, you trudge through the woods in your bare feet, stepping into patches of hot sunlight.  The knife dangles in your loose grip.  You hardly feel the path under your feet.

A sound bleeds into the quiet nothing.  You ignore it even though it could be a catch.  That’s why you’re out here, isn’t it?  To find food?  A rabbit, a squirrel.  There are no stags.  You were dreaming.  There is nothing.  Nothing but the house, right? 

Nothing but this, like always. 

You stop.  Your grip tightens around the knife.  Every part of you throbs like it is begging to be pierced.  Maybe it will wake you out of this nightmare.  Maybe it will set you free.  Maybe you just want the house to spit your bones into the woods.  At least you’d never have to go back in. 

You hear it again.  It is not the skitter of an animal or a human scream or any sound you know. 

Crying, you realize.  It’s the whining wail of a hurt thing, more despondent than afraid.  It pierces those vulnerable places faster than a knife.  A new ache replaces it.

You follow the sound.  It sadness is so persuasive that you begin to cry as well. 

You stumble towards some trees, their branches low and tangled.  You swing at them with the knife like it’s a machete.  You need to get through.  You don’t know why. 

It must be an animal on the other side.  It could be hurt or it could hurt you.  It could be one of the stags.  Somehow, you know it’s not, thinking of those taunting antlers.  They couldn’t make a sound like this. 

The branches cave with a shatter, all at once as if tired of fighting. You stumble into an alcove, a little shelter among the trees. 

In the middle of it, curled up and crying, is a wolf.

A wolf? 

Its fur is a solid midnight black, darker than the shadows around it.  Its big body is irrefutably canine but the face is not wolf-like.   

A fox, you think, though the proportions are all wrong.  Foxes are not this big and overwhelming.

You don’t dwell on it because this fox-wolf is hurt.  In the obsidian darkness of its coat, you almost miss the streaks of blood, the open cuts just barely visible. 

You drop the knife.  The fox-wolf watches it fall, its whine gone silent in your presence.  Its black eyes are steady.  It looks at the knife then at you.  There is a horrible sadness in its gaze, a miserable resignation to the droop of its head.

You know this feeling well.

“Did he do this to you?” you ask, as if you expect an answer.  It is not more unusual than speaking to yourself.

The fox-wolf whines, a sad, imploring beg.  Its gaze goes to the knife. 

“I’m not like him,” you say.  “I’m not here to hurt you.” 

Even as you say it, you are not sure your father is responsible for this.  It’s not his nature.  For all his abominable offences, your father does not hunt for sport.  He slaughters indiscriminately but it is always purposefully.  Animals, early in the week, brought back skinned and ready for cooking.  Humans, later, when he changes, when he starts sweating under some invisible heat source and nothing else satisfies him.   

That is when you go to the attic and let the door lock behind you.  You know he’s still your father when you can hear him breathing on the other side.  When the hunger possesses him, he is a screaming, mindless thing, throwing himself at that fortified door, clawing it up like an animal before leaving to hunt easier prey. 

He has managed to avoid that state for a while, no longer waiting for the arrival of a meal but seeking it out in advance.  Preventative measures became necessary over time.  The length of his satisfaction keeps shrinking.  He used to last months, then one month.  Now it is a week before he hunts again.

He is hunting tonight so the hunger has not yet taken over.  He did not mindlessly attack this animal.  If he deliberately targeted this fox-wolf, he would have brought it back as meat for you. 

You approach the animal, tentative but not as wary as you should be.  It has big teeth: visible, sharp incisors when it opens its mouth.  It would keep away any sane person with a reasonable fear of suffering.  But a bite is not different than a walk in the hot sun.

You kneel beside the animal.  You touch it carefully, parting the bloody fur and exposing the wound beneath.  It is not the work of a knife.  It’s a gash near the neck, an attack as wild as it was intentional.

Blinking, you recall those antlers in the dark. 

“Did the stags do this?” you ask gently.

The fox-wolf whines.  It sound affirmative, even though that’s impossible. 

The greatest impossibility is the sudden pang in your heart.  You thought it had already turned to dust.  A small, broken shard beats for this hurt creature. 

“Poor foxy,” you say. 

You kiss the crown of the fox-wolf’s head.  It emits a whimper.  It rests its head in your lap.

It has been so long since you kissed anything.  You kissed your parents a long time ago.  Long before they disappeared on a walk in the woods, when your father came back alone and unnaturally hungry no matter how much your then-teenage self cooked and cooked and cooked. 

There was one final kiss you gave each of them, but you don’t remember it now.  It would have been inconsequential at the time, taken for granted there would be many more. 

You will remember this one.  Giving affection to another living thing is as important as receiving it.  You were affectionate, once, you think. 

For a time, you sit in the alcove, tucked away from the world and the woods.  You stroke the fox-wolf’s head from the crown to the neck, then back up.  You drag your pinky down its snout and its eyes close like a person lulled to sleep. 

The fox-wolf stirs first.  It lifts its head and looks at the knife.  When it looks at you with those glossy black eyes, you understand. 

“No,” you say without hesitation.  Terrible sadness cloys in your throat.  “I know it hurts, but you’re not going to die.  I won’t hurt you.  Don’t ask me that.” 

You don’t question its seeming understanding.  You know it’s still impossible, but you cling to that connection.  You imagine it sees your own scars and the obvious exhaustion of your weary body.  You imagine it recognizes the droop of your head.  You imagine a broken part of its animal heart beats for you too.

“You’re not going to die like this, okay?”  Your voice is small and rough.  A tear slides right off your cheek and onto the fox-wolf.  Despite your efforts, the tears keep coming, plinking along the fox-wolf’s scars like raindrops.  You brush the creature with careful fingers. 

“You’ll be okay,” you say.  “I promise.”

You use the knife to cut a strip of fabric from the bottom of your t-shirt. 

“This is the only shirt that fits me, you know,” you say, talking to keep the animal calm while you wipe its wounds clean.  “It was big when I got it.  We were just coming to the house for the summer.  I was thirteen.  I didn’t even want to go but Mama said it would be good to get out of the city for a couple weeks.  It’s been longer than that now, you see.  A lot longer.  I’m all grown up.  And Mama’s gone. It’s just me and Daddy and the House.  This isn’t a good place, but you know that.  The forest did something to him and now he gets hungry.  He's not my Daddy when that happens. He’s just hunger. And when he’s not hungry anymore, it’s like he wakes up, and then he’s a mess, like he sees all the blood for the first time.  The worst part?  I think it’s all because of me.”

You never say this out loud, not even to yourself in the quiet nothing.  You say it now because it’s the reason you rip your last shirt and bandage the hurt animal. 

You have to save something because of how much has died to save you. 

“He doesn’t want me to run away, to get too far in the woods,” you say.  “I think he’s scared that what got him and Mama will get me.  And whatever it is, it’s worse than this.  Whatever it is, it makes the house safe in comparison.  He’d rather keep getting hungry and kill all those people than risk the forest getting me.” 

You kiss the fox-wolf’s head when it whimpers. 

“I want to save you, foxy,” you say.  “Because he only stays alive to keep me alive.  He hunts so he won’t hurt me.  All the horror, all the bodies, all the death… it’s to keep me alive.  Trapped, but alive.  And it’s not any kind of life worth protecting, but that’s what a daddy does, I guess.  I’m all he has left to protect.  I don’t think he’ll die until I do.  Maybe I should.  Maybe I should let this all end.”

The fox-wolf whines again but not from pain, lifting its head to turn those solemn eyes onto yours. 

“I know,” you whisper, scratching behind its ears.  “I guess we never know why things happen the way they do.  Maybe I was meant to be here so I could find you and help you.  Let’s make a bargain.” 

Steady black eyes gaze up at you. 

“I saved your life,” you say.  “And maybe that was the purpose of mine.  So you have to use it.  You can’t lay down and die in these woods.  You have to be okay.  Then you have to go back where you belong and you have to keep using the life I gave you.  Okay?” 

You curl around the fox-wolf.  You hide your tears in its fur, uselessly because it can feel your shoulders shake. 

“I think I’ll be okay for a little longer,” you say.  “Until it gets me – the forest, or the hunger, or him.  But I’ll be okay if I know you’re alive, all right?  You’re the first real thing I’ve seen in years.  I forgot the world could make such beautiful things.  If I can think about you free somewhere outside of the woods, it will make me happy, foxy.  Please be alive for me.” 

The fox-wolf curls around you too, twining in a big coil of wolven bulk and fur. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

You lay there for another moment, until the sun has shifted in the sky and the shadows fall differently.  The hot light touches the border of the alcove.  By then, your tears have stopped. 

You sit up and wipe your wet face.  You take a breath and the fox-wolf watches. 

“I have to go now,” you say.  “Be careful, foxy.”

You kiss its head once more. 

Then, because you never take a kiss or word for granted anymore, you say, “I love you.”

Because you do, because all the love you had for the world and your family is somewhere inside you still.  It needs somewhere to go.  It feels right, giving it to this sad creature that needs more life. 

“Take care,” you say. 

It does not whimper or whine.  It watches with those steady eyes as you take the knife and leave the alcove in your too-small shorts and ripped-up shirt, the only thing left that’s yours as you leave your love and hope behind. 

-

Your father usually hunts through the night.  You don’t know where he goes and you don’t what the path is like.  You just know that he doesn’t trust to send you down it even though you could get away once and for all.  You suppose it’s not hard to believe the path would be laden with monsters.  After all, he must be one of them. 

The house is empty.  You go inside with a bundle of berries cupped in the remains of your shirt.  The front door swings behind you.  It doesn’t lock because nothing approaches it willingly.  If it does, it won’t last long.

You go to the attic.  It’s the only locking door.  It traps you, like always.

You put the berries on the bed and the knife under the bed beside the key.  Your shirt is now a sticky, juice-spattered mess, cut at the belly, but it doesn’t really matter.  You sit on the bed and eat your berries one by one, watching the yard. 

You fall asleep at some point.  You wake hours later in your cot, long after the sun has set and the gloaming is gone. 

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dark.  You peer through the attic window across the moonlit yard, looking for the disturbance that woke you.  It might be your father.  He is due back.  Sometimes he kills his catch on the way but sometimes he waits until he’s at the house.  The body ends up over the fire in what used to be a cozy sitting room. 

You don’t go there.  You don’t need to see when you can hear and smell.

You hear a clatter on the porch.  He must have reached the house before your eyes adjusted.  The automatic porch lights flip on, that wash of yellow over the dark yard. 

It illuminates something on the border between the yard and the woods.  It’s another stag, tall and broad with spindly antlers.  You can just barely see the shadow of more stags behind it.  It’s hard to count them, antlers blending into branches.

The first stag steps forward.  Your head tilts as you watch, bemused by its awkward step.  Is it hurt?  It seems to crick and creak as it moves.  You imagine a pop as it lumbers forward. 

Then it rears up.  It lifts its head. 

No.  No, it doesn’t. 

Its neck is craning, its torso elongating.  It lengthens and pops and rises until it looks halfway like a person in the yard, hunched with too-long arms dangling down the length of a tall body.  It still has antlers. 

You fall back in a panicked jump when the front door opens and closes.  For a moment, it’s you that feels like an animal, skittering frantically on all fours.  You climb onto the cot and peek out the window.  More antlered half-human figures are in the yard, watching the house.  The yellow porch light glints in the eyes of the closest one, human-shaped but flashing bright with a heated anger. 

It looks at the door.  Then it looks at you. 

You drop down, not making a noise, too scared to even scream. 

There are footsteps on the stairs.  It’s welcome for once.  You have a monstrous thing of your own.  Your father has returned from his hunt.  Maybe he killed and ate it on the way.  He’s coming to see you and he will be clear-eyed and horrified but maybe, maybe, maybe you can find your father in that pain.  He will comfort you and tell you monsters aren’t real, like he did when you were young, when your father was the most indomitable force in the world.  He could keep out any monster. 

You grab the key and dash for the door.  You wait for the breathing, the gentle cadence.  Yours come rapidly.

You slide the key under the door and it scrapes the ground, like always, then it’s inserted into the lock, like always.  The mechanical unclick.  Like always. 

But it doesn’t open like always.  You stare at the door, breathing louder than any scream.  You push it open.  Your eyes are raised to look at your father, but he’s not there.

Your gaze drops. 

“Foxy?”

You don’t understand the sight.  This is irrevocably the fox-wolf, the very same one, still bandaged in your t-shirt scraps, still with those steady black eyes.  It’s sitting on its haunches, gazing up at you.  The key is on the floor beside a small covered basket. 

You take a tentative step to look around.  The house is empty.  Your father has not returned. 

The fox-wolf, who somehow unlocked your door, accepts your unintentional invitation and trots into your room.  You watch as it sniffs around then waits patiently beside the cot. 

You pick up the key and the basket, at a loss to do anything else.  You close the door and it locks behind you.  You don’t know how you are going to hide a wolf from your father, but right now you don’t care.  Its presence is an immediate and thorough balm.  You rush to the cot and take a seat.  A peek out the window shows the yard is now empty. 

“You scared them away, foxy,” you say, rubbing its head.  Its tail thumps happily, its eyes scrunching with pleasure.  It has an almost-human smile.   You kiss its head.  “I think you’re a sweetie,” you say.  “The woods are full of scary things.  We sweeties have to stick together.”   

You place the key under your bed and the basket on your pillow.  The fox-wolf nudges it with its nose, whining eagerly.  Its tail continues to hammer with excitement. 

You smile.  It’s probably an ugly smile, unpracticed and strange, but the smallest uptick of that unused muscle fills you with unparalleled delight.  You didn’t even know you could still feel that way.

“Is this for me?” you ask. 

The fox-wolf watches with that squinty-eyed grin.  Your smile returns, still an awkward flicker on your long unsmiling face, but true.

You uncover the basket. You are truly shocked at what you find.

As much as the monsters scare you, they are not unusual.  You are used to the woods and the horror.  You are not used to smiling and you are not prepared for a basket full of baked goods.

When did you last see such a thing? It feels like a memory of a story, fantasies of someone else’s life.  The basket is filled with rolls of pastries sprinkled with powdery sugar, leaking purple berry and yellow custard.  Dark sugar sprinkles, a spicy scent – cinnamon, you think.  You remember.  Was it your favourite?  Maybe it will be now.

You don’t know where to start or what to say or do.  You look at the basket of sweet sugar wealth, overwhelmed.  The scents are so sweet that it’s almost sickening, your near empty stomach roiling.  Your smile quivers and breaks and then you are crying with hysterical abandon. 

The fox-wolf whines with concern, its front paws up on the cot as it stretches to check on you.  You wipe your eyes and try to speak, though it takes some time to sound coherent through the gasping.

“I’m sorry, foxy,” you say.  You are even more distressed to find those black eyes glassy with sympathy.  “I promise I’m happy,” you say.  “I just don’t know how to be.  I’m sorry.  I promise I feel it inside.”

It continues to look at you with concern, its short ears wilting.  You rub the top of its head affectionately and try to smile again.  It feels toothy, like an aggressive snarl more than a smile, but it’s not afraid. 

You look at the pastries again.  You truly don’t know what to do next.  As much as the fox-wolf seems to understand you, it can hardly communicate, so you can’t ask where it found so much luxury in the woods.   It makes you think your father might be close, that the fox-wolf found this treasure abandoned by unlucky humans. 

You feel guilty, but the pastries are so tempting.  There is something especially wondrous about them.  Maybe because it’s been so long.  The longer you look, the more your mouth waters, and the more it looks like something from a dream.

You lift a pastry, feeling a combination of hunger and nausea.  You haven’t eaten anything like this in years and you are scared your body will reject it.  You still crave it.  You didn’t even realize you wanted it all this time.  You didn’t realize you were capable of wanting anything ever again.

You take a small bite.  The pastry is delicate.  It flakes and melts on your tongue, the sweet sugar leaving a powdery residue on your lips.  You lick it off.  It’s so sweet but so soft that you cry again.

“It’s perfect, foxy,” you say. 

The fox-wolf still looks morose, one ear perked to gauge the slightest negative shift in your tone. 

Your smiles are not reassuring, so you extend a gesture instead.  You break a piece of the pastry and offer it. 

“Please,” you say.  “Share with me.  It tastes even better that way.” 

It tickles when the fox-wolf licks the pastry off your fingers.  If a smile felt strange, laughter feels bizarre, an awkward guffaw, subsumed in the gasp of your tears. 

You eat a few more bites, sharing with the fox-wolf.  Then you cover the basket and put it under the bed.  You pace yourself.  You know you won’t keep down more than that.  Your stomach is already rebelling under the onslaught of foreign sweetness. 

There’s also a special pleasure in knowing it’s there.  You don’t even want to finish the basket because then it will be gone forever.

You look at the fox-wolf.  You know it will be gone soon too.  It can’t stay here.  It’s not safe.  Even at his best, your father will see a beast fit for food.  He won’t care about the intelligence in those dark eyes.

For now, the house is empty and the basket is full.  You rub the fox-wolf’s head.  Its tail thumps again.  You smile a smile you thought you had lost.

“Come on, foxy,” you say.  You make room on the cot. 

The fox-wolf jumps.  It turns in a small circle near the foot then settles.  It rests its chin on your knees.

You stroke your pinky down its snout as it blinks with sleepy contentment. 

For the first time in a long time – since a life that no longer feels like yours – you lay down to sleep with a smile on your face. 

You usually sleep lightly, disturbed by the smallest noise as it breaks the silence, but the silence is not absolute tonight.  The fox-wolf breathes and the gentle cadence of its slumbering breath is like a lullaby.  

It’s the deepest sleep of your life.  You hardly ever dream in your light dozes but it comes in vivid colour tonight.  Swirls of monsters, antlers, and hunting knives.  Also sugar, cinnamon, black fur and dark eyes squinting in an obvious smile.  In your dream, those eyes change, the intelligent but animal gaze softening to something human.  You dream of your attic room, a dream so vivid it almost feels real.  You can feel the cot under you, the chill of the nearby window, the familiar moonlight. 

But it isn’t real.  It can’t be.  The fox-wolf is gone. A  young man sits on the end of the cot, gazing out the window into the woods.  If this was real, you would petrified, but you feel that same peaceful calm, his company a comfort.  Old hurts and present fears feel far away. 

The young man looks at you.  Moonlight and shadows dance across his features, but you think he is beautiful, with eyes so dark and focused, hair black and smooth.  His cheekbones are sharp.  His face is like a knife and yet –

And yet –

There is something unspeakably gentle about him.  Not because he’s helpless, not because he’s dull, but in spite of all that danger and sharpness.  He looks at you with an undoubtedly affectionate gaze, tilting his head as he holds your gaze. 

You blink.  You think you might be waking because you shiver, but you don’t want to wake.  You want to stay right here with him.  You have been wanting him before you knew you could.  You want to look at those eyes forever.  You want to feel this safe always.

He moves, swift and soft as a shadow. A  blink and you would miss it.  He tugs the blanket back over your shoulder.  Your eyes stray along the length of his bare arm, across his bare chest.  The scraps of your t-shirt bandage a scar that runs along the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

Then you look at his hand, so close to your face.  Any other hand and this dream would be a nightmare.  But this is a good dream.  You sigh contently as his long fingers gently brush the crown of your head.  His fingertips trace your temple, carefully down your jaw.  No one has ever been so gentle with you, not in a long time.

You sigh again.  He softly sweeps his pinky down the bridge of your nose.  Your sleep deepens.  You sink into a perfect peace, undisturbed for the rest of the night.

The morning is another matter entirely.  You wake in sunlight, more groggy than ever.  It’s not the familiar pale light of early morning but the golden heat of noon.  You haven’t slept for so long in years. 

You feel the usual ache of sleeping on a rickety cot, something designed for weeks of use, not a decade. 

You sit up.  The fox-wolf is gone.  There’s nowhere in the attic for it to hide, the space under the cot too small.  You crouch on the floor and check anyway.  The key is there, the knife beside it.  The basket is there too. 

The fox-wolf disappearing is an impossibility among many, but you know it was all very real.  You uncover the basket to find the pastries as fresh and appetizing as last night, not even a little stale from sitting out all night. 

You look around the empty room, sitting with the basket cradled protectively in your lap.

You don’t know what to do.  You haven’t felt that way in a long time.  Everyday has been the same, passed through a disassociated state of bland observation and slow breathing.  This single disruption has uprooted everything.  You feel the basket in your lap and you know you can’t spend another day sitting at the window. 

The choice is made for you.  There is a clamoring in the yard so you look out the window, not sure what to expect. 

It is the most mundane of all creatures.  Your father is dashing back to the house in a clumsy sprint. 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge.  There is something wrong about the way he’s moving.  There’s a stumbling desperation to every wide leap.  He looks more like a stag than the stags did. 

Did he come home last night?  His hunt should be over.  The hunger should be satisfied. 

The front door swings and slams.  You can hear his frantic thunder up the stairs, so much thudding he must be racing on all fours.  You curl away instinctively, pressed up against the window, as far away from the door as possible.

He throws himself against it with a scream.  You squeeze your eyes shut.

He’s still hungry.  Maybe his hunt turned up nothing or maybe it didn’t satisfy him.  You don’t know what happens now.  Maybe he will eventually beat the door down.  Maybe he will drive himself to death in his hysterics.  If he dies, you’ll be trapped, sealed in here with that basket as it slowly empties.  Eventually it will taunt you, like the stags, waving, mocking you caged in your glass like an animal –

You are getting hysterical too, even with your hands clamped over your ears to block out your father’s wailing.  It’s not even just the fear.  He’s your father, sometimes, somewhere in there.  He used to make you laugh and tell you stories, lift you on his shoulders and tell you about the world.  He used to scare away the monsters.

“Daddy,” you try, voice breaking on a childish cry.  “Stop it.  Please.  Daddy, it’s me.”

You can’t find the strength to yell.  You doubt he can hear your wobbling voice over his own screaming.  The door shakes so hard that you imagine all the walls crumbling under the force of each slam. 

You drift in the fantasy of it, of this whole house crumbling around you.  There’s nothing to do but stare, silent, and wait to die.  It’s a better end than you expected, a last meal, a good sleep, a sweet dream to send you off.

You close your eyes. 

Something changes in the air.  You don’t hear it or see it, but you feel it, a rush of warmth that fills the house.  Gentle as a hand drawing a blanket over your shoulder.  The sun brightens and heats the window at your back. 

You lower your hands.  It’s then you hear a piercing bark, almost a scream but not quite.  Almost human, but not quite.

It can only be one thing.  You whip around and watch as the fox-wolf careens through the yard, fast as a bullet.  By the time you are on your feet, it’s already in the house and racing up the stairs.

“Back!” your father screams, the only coherent word out of his mouth.

You can hear them fighting.  A body thumps down the stairs but the weight of it sounds too heavy to be your feral, emaciated father.  He must have pushed the fox-wolf.

More than anything, that propels you into action.  You made a bargain with that fox.  You gave it a life.  You’re not going to sit here and let your father take another life at the expense of yours.

You put the basket on your pillow.  A part of you wants to eat the whole thing while you have the chance, die with a full stomach and a face powdered with sugar, but there’s no time.  You reach under the cot and you grab the knife and the key.

Will he even have the clarity to use the key?  You’re not sure, but you slide it under the door.  There is clearly some intelligent thought churning in his mind, because he picks it up.  He fumbles the lock while the fox-wolf stampedes back up the stairs. 

The door explodes open.  Your father and the fox-wolf crash inside, tangled in a violent fury.  Your father yells at it, prying at its jaw to release its brutal clamp on his forearm.  He is not stronger.  The fox-wolf might have ripped his arm right off it you hadn’t cried out. 

The fox-wolf releases your father so it can look at you.  Your father kicks it in its distraction, sending it hurtling to the door with a yelp. 

“Don’t hurt it!” you cry.  “It’s already injured!” 

Your father does not reply.  When he looks at you, your heart stops.  There is nothing of your father in his eyes, something vicious and lost staring back at you.  

No.  Not at you.  He doesn’t see you anymore.  He sees a clear path to prey and he takes it.

He charges you, too fast for you to react in your terror.  The knife clatters to the floor as he tackles you and slams you onto your back. 

Your body fights, an instinctive propulsion from something buried deep inside you.  Under all that disassociation, all that resignation, there is a part of you that wants to live.  It claws its way to freedom.  You push your father, your adrenaline spurred by his.  You scream with the same abandon. 

The weight and smell of him abruptly disappears.  The fox-wolf has clamped its jaws around his ankle.  It drags him clear across the room where your father is left to scrabble against the floorboards.

Then the fox-wolf pounces on you.  You don’t know what’s happening until you’re lifted, grabbed by the arms and hoisted onto your feet.

Except –

Foxes can’t grab.  Wolves can’t stand. 

It happens so fast.  You are on your back, the ceiling overhead, then you are on your feet and the only thing you see is a pair of dark eyes. 

Dark human eyes.  You blink at a face, a familiar face, the face of the young man from your dreams.  If he was beautiful in moonlight, he is devastating in sunlight.  His hair is so black that it sparkles blue in the light, his features so sharp in contrast.  He is like a drop of starlight.

The beautiful man grips you with two humans hands.  He stands upright in a human body.  You can’t look away from his human face, all those sharp and delicate angles.  He is so beautiful that he hardly seems real.  You would have been less surprised to see another monster. 

His grip tightens.  It wakes long slumbering parts of you. 

“Foxy?” you say in a pathetically small and fragile voice. 

Your father is back on his feet and the – the man? –

The fox-wolf-man –

He dives at your father and lands in canine form, those sharp incisors snapping at his face. 

The knife is within your father’s reach.  You see it but the fox does not.  When your father grabs it, you jump, catching his arm before the knife can do any damage. 

The three of you are locked in a messy tangle.  Your father is bleeding from wolf bites and the animal is snarling.  Everything feels wet.  You can’t tell finger from claw, limb from wound, spit from blood. 

You kick and scratch and bite like an animal, seeing nothing but red in the terror of your frantic adrenaline.

That part of you so desperate for life is at the surface.  You feel your whole body for the first time in a long time.  You feel the shattering pain when your father hits your head with his own and you spill back.  He holds you down while grappling with the knife.

The whole thing is over in seconds.  Your mind is flooded with every gory image of a tooth in a slab of meat.  You don’t reach for the knife.  Your father is close, his neck within reach, and the animal of your body rears with terrified instinct.

Do you mean to kill him?  Do you want to kill him?     

It doesn’t matter. You kill him anyway. 

The skin breaks shockingly easily as you tear into his throat with your teeth.  Blood spills out of him, pounding jugular and a bath of red. 

You sputter and choke on it.  You use a last burst of adrenaline to shove him off you.  You are not sure how fast he dies.  You don’t look, spitting up blood and retching. 

You wipe your mouth, smearing more of the relentless red mess.  You are on your hands and knees.  You lift your head and open your eyes. 

The fox-wolf is a man again.  He is on his hands and knees as well, his face only inches from yours.  He is staring like you are the wondrous anomaly, his mouth open with his shock. 

You look at each other for a long moment.  Then he smiles.  He has deep dimples, frighteningly sweet next to the sharp inhuman incisors still visible in his mouth.  Like your own crooked snarl of a smile, it is not a pretty grin so much as it is big.  And like your broken smile, you can see he means it truly affectionately. 

You can’t speak with the blood on your mouth.  You try but you sputter.

He reaches for you.  He gathers a red wet smear on his fingers, gently wiping your lips.  It wracks your whole body with a shiver, the shock of violent residue, the shock of being touched. 

You finally take a clean breath.  He looks at the blood on his fingers. 

He flashes you that sharp, dimpled smile again.

“Wow,” he says with a wheezing laugh. 

You can’t even think about asking what’s so funny.  The last drop of adrenaline bleeds out of you.  The floorboards rush to meet you as your arms and legs buckle. 

Your body surrenders your mind to blackness.

[pooks]

there is something funny about Ichiji remaining with the Straw Hats, after Ace leaves him in Luffy's care and sets off to chase Blackbeard (now with a clear conscience that his husband won't get hurt)

first of all, Sanji and Ichiji needed to clear the tension between them and it took a while to get enough privacy for them to talk. there were a lot of tears (angry tears in Sanji's case and remorseful tears for Ichiji) involved. there's too much trauma to be resolved, but they both acknowledge that they're victims, in one way or another. both of them cry tears of joy when they embrace each other for the first time as brothers.

Luffy is ridiculously clingy and happy about Ichiji, and Sanji by proxy, being officially part of his family. Ichiji has a calmer temper than Sanji and just takes it in stride. after a while, he gets used to Luffy wrapping long rubber arms around him and it's somehow comfortable, it makes him feel safe. he also yells Ichiji's pirate name every single hour. Ichiji just sits and watches his latest antics with amusement. he absolutely didn't try when Luffy pushed his straw hat on his head (yes, he did. zoro, nami, usopp and chopper are witnesses. he's never been happier.)

Zoro wasn't really suspicious of him, he just found the dynamic between the cook and his older brother...odd and tense, compared to Luffy and Ace's open, cheerful bond. Ichiji confided in him, during a nightwatch, that he hasn't been a good older brother to Sanji and he wishes to atone for past sins. since he hasn't given Zoro any reason to doubt his words, he just accepts it. doesn't stop Ichiji from teasing Zoro a little since he is NOT subtle whenever he stares at Sanji's behind.

Nami has tried to swindle money from Ichiji, that's how she welcomes him. it didn't work because Ichiji is always a step ahead and managed to swindle Nami. he gave the money back, cause it could be put to better use (aka food for the crew). otherwise, they get along just fine. he is the only man allowed in Nami's room because he is a married man and he's gay. (she practice braiding on his hair, so she can do make perfect braids on Vivi's hair).

Usopp finds another big brother figure in Ichiji, probably more than in Zoro or Sanji. Ichiji is actually the one who tells him that it's okay to be afraid in dangerous situations, because if there is no fear, then there's no courage because courage only exists in spite of fear. he doesn't always believe all Usopp's tall tales, but appreciates his storytelling. he's the first one Ichiji tells about his dream; to write the true chronicles of the next pirate king. they bond a lot over this, being artistic souls.

Chopper sees him as a cool big brother figure, but in the calm and collected way (Zoro is the strong, invincible one while Sanji is kind, nurturing one). someone who always has a plan...with at least two backup plans. Ichiji likes Chopper in turn, finding him cute and takes this as a chance to feel like an actual big brother.

and now, post-alabasta

Robin finds Ichiji just as interesting as Sanji. Ichiji's trust was very hard earned, since he was just as suspicious as Zoro. when Robin detects his North Blue accent and correctly assumes that he and Sanji hails from there, Ichiji successfully evades any further questioning by pointing out that he recognizes a South Blue accent in her voice. and that's just the end of the discussion. both of them has pasts they don't want to talk about and respects each other's boundaries. it's not until Enies Lobby that Robin understands how far Ichiji will go for the sake of friendship (he would murder and dismantle world government, if she asked)

Ichiji was hard to win for Franky. Ichiji was pissed af during Water 7. he was civil, but cold during Enies Lobby. after they left, Ichiji got accidently triggered when Franky talked about how "super" his overpowered abilities (like Sparking Red) was and nearly lashed out. he let it slip out that he was an unwilling subject for human experimentation. they did bury the hatchet after that, especially when Franky bawled about it and Ichiji just awkwardly patted his shoulder. he found it odd that he took it more personally than what he did.

Ichiji is a bit unphased about Brook, a living skeleton is hardly the oddest thing he's seen in the grand line. after Thriller Bark, Ichiji always thinks of Ace and Brook is a good confidante to speak to. he often accompany Brook whenever he plays violin or piano, both of them create a couple of new songs which Ichiji sings (he has a very beautiful song voice).

bonus:

Vivi did eventually figure out Ichiji's original identity (and by default, Sanji), but it's a secret kept between her and Ichiji. both of them understand what will happen if the secret gets out and it will put not only Ichiji's life in danger, but also Sanji's. not to mention that they have already met once before.

(context: Germa, as a recognized kingdom by WG, attended the same Reverie when child!Vivi encountered Wapol. only Ichiji was allowed to accompany Judge since he was his heir)

[so-long-soldier-writes]

Don't Panic!

kai parker x reader

summary: the wedding was a disaster... a better warning would've been nice.

tags: no use of y/n, s06e22, canon-typical violence, blood, gore, stabbing, canon divergence, temporary character death, death of minor characters, blood drinking, happy ending for some (not ric)

word count: 1.8k

a/n: this is cheesy af & lowkey self-indulgent... i just wanted blood sucky heretic kai

Despite the suspicious note that fluttered down from the hayloft above, you’re definitely panicking. Right after you had just wrapped up the most unpleasant conversation with Joshua Parker himself, a small piece of paper practically landed in your hands, reading, “don’t panic!” with no other context. Immediately, you were most certainly panicked, because one, who does that?! And two, the penmanship was so distinctly Kai’s, it sent a shiver up your spine. 

Yet… Kai had been gone for months, trapped in 1903 after Bonnie double-crossed him on a rescue mission for the brothers’ mom. Everyone around you moved on, including his sister, who up until five minutes ago, was standing, smiling at the altar.

Now, she lies still in Ric’s hands, red staining her delicately white dress. 

In less than twenty minutes, chaos descended upon the ceremony in the form of a vengeful and angry Kai Parker wielding a huge knife. You had about two minutes to process his return, brain stuck in a mental freeze, before both he and his sister were dead. 

You couldn’t help it - you screamed. You covered your mouth as quickly as you could, hiding your reaction from the coven, but it didn’t matter. They were dying, one-by-one, as a result of his death. Magic killed the family in ways you’d never seen. Throats were slashed by invisible forces, bile rose up in the throats and poured out their mouths, air was pulled straight from the lungs, leaving them choking as they gasped for breath. You ducked from both the horrible sight and the blood. It was everywhere, whether it came from the dying witches or the shattered windows. People were stumbling around as they fought to find the exit, but none were going to survive this and they all knew that. 

To your left, apparent when you forced your gaze to turn away from the coven, you noticed Damon was missing and so was Elena. Back up front, Ric was carrying his deceased wife away from the scene of the crime, and you felt a heavy pang of remorse for them both. Too soon, you were the only non-Gemini member left. Even the priest had taken flight quickly, not like you could blame him. You hid behind your row of chairs, eyes squeezed shut, and waited for it all to be over. 

You swore you weren’t hiding any more than five minutes when the sound of stirring filled your ears. You listened, but stayed still in fear of drawing attention to yourself. Instead, you focused your gaze on that stupid note in front of you, “don’t panic”, now splattered with blood. You tried not to cry; he’d brought a bloodbath to his sister’s wedding, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him. In fact, you still loved him. 

You considered sneaking out through the side entrance, seeing a sliver of sky through the door. 

A tongue clicked, interrupting your train of thought. Kai’s voice followed, stopping your heart abruptly.

Half of your mind was convinced it was an optical illusion, but the other half knew it was true: Kai was alive - somehow. Through the small slit in the chair, you watched him talk to his father, then frown at him unsympathetically. 

Kai dragged a finger across his face, through a bleeding wound. He lifted it to his lips and suddenly everything made sense. 

Before you could react, a second bout of chaos erupted by the entrance of Bonnie and the return of Damon. Their anger was reasonable; Kai had done the unspeakable. Yet, as they began to target and threaten him, your feelings overpowered your logic, and you stood, making your presence known. 

“Kai!”

All three heads whipped over to you. You swallowed hard.

“Where the hell did you come from?!” Damon asked, face red with taut emotion.

“I’ve been here. I-”

“Elena’s in the hospital,” Bonnie interrupted. “Because of him. His whole family’s dead because of him.”

“I know… At least about the family part… Is Elena-?”

“She’s in a coma. I can’t wake her up.”

“She won’t wake,” Bonnie continued, facing Damon. “He made sure of it.” She raised a hand at him, a spell on the tip of her tongue.

“Wait!” You shouted, breaking her focus. “Let me deal with him!”

“Absolutely not! I don’t trust you! Not around him!”

“Bonnie, I can handle him! You can’t kill him, not anymore.”

“I’ll find a way… vampire or not.”

“Please,” you pleaded. The thought of watching him die twice made you nauseous. You loved him, despite the crime. “Bonnie…”

“I should’ve killed him instead of just putting him in 1903!”

“If you didn’t do that at all, this never would’ve happened!”

“Excuse me?” She said coldly, turning to you. “Are you saying this is my fault?!”

“No! I’m just saying- I mean- It was avoidable! If you’d let me be with him the first time, I could’ve-”

“Gotten yourself killed earlier? I don’t think so!”

“Bonnie, please! Don’t kill him, I-” ‘Need him’ danced on the tip of your tongue, but you decided against it. 

“He needs to pay for what he’s done! He-”

In an instant, she was interrupted. Five seconds later, you didn’t even see her anymore. 

“Wha-?” You looked around, confused. You weren’t anywhere near the barn, actually. You were in the woods now. The barn was in the distance, but not within a short walk. 

“Hey,” Kai’s voice was clear behind you.

You whipped around to find him. Him alone, with you, close enough to touch.

“What happened?”

“She was distracted. I moved us both out here as quickly as I could.”

“Oh…” You took several deep breaths, staring at him. He watched you carefully, waiting for a reaction. Soon, you ran into his arms for a much-needed hug, missing him so desperately, and being so heartbroken over his temporary death. You squeezed him, tears flowing from your eyes carelessly. He held you tightly, lips pressed to the top of your head. 

After a moment, you pulled back and gently hit his shoulder. “You asshole!”

“What?!”

“‘Don’t panic?!’”

“I hoped it would ease your mind, princess. I didn’t want to hurt you. I wanted to warn you, but didn’t want to give too much away in case it landed in the wrong hands. I’m sorry, baby.”

“You killed yourself! I had to watch you die, then your whole coven, and I was so scared, because I love you, and I didn’t want to lose you, especially not like that!”

“Baby, I’m sorry! I wish you didn’t have to see it.” He wet his lips with his tongue. “The only way to get out of the prison world was to make a deal with Lily, and she wanted her family, so I promised to bring her family back to her if she gave me her blood. I wanted to get back to you, I was so lonely without you. I need you, and I love you, too.”

You cried more, the same feeling in your head. You knew you didn’t want to live without him, you’d known it since the first time you knew you loved him. “I- Don’t ever do something like that again! I need you, too, Kai, and you scared me!” You repeated.

“I know. I know.” He pulled you into him again, hugging you even tighter. “I’m sorry.”

He held you until your tears stopped. You gripped his suit tightly, burying your head in his chest. “What happens now, Kai? I’m scared to lose you again. Damon’s angry. Bonnie’s going to kill you the next time she sees you… Or me.”

“Elena’s only taking a short nap. Enough time for his anger to fester, but two months max. They’ll live, and I’m not going to let them hurt you. They won’t get me, either, nor will Lily let them.”

“Lily? Where is she?”

“She and the heretics should all be here soon. I want to take you to them, if you’ll come with me. You have a choice, but I want you to come, if you will.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Of course, I’ll come. I don’t ever want to be separated from you again.” 

“Me neither. I don’t want to go a day without you.”

“I don’t either. I love you. I don’t care about today, I need you.”

He nodded slowly. He knew the remorse would hit you eventually. His actions would weigh on your heart, whether you’d admit it or not, but he also knew you loved him and would protect him no matter what. He felt the same for you, protective to the point of recklessness. 

And with that thought, he kissed you, reminding you of that love he craves so much. That love he’d only ever felt from you. 

You kissed back instantly, cupping his neck with your hands. He broke off for a second to breathe, then kissed you again. You indulged, then gently pushed his head down to your neck, directing him where you wanted him; he let you guide.

“Hm?” He muttered against your soft skin. You always loved when he’d kiss your neck, though confusion battered him this time. It was late, in the middle of an unfamiliar forest - not quite the environment to start this, but he’d also never dissuade it.

You kept him there anyway. “Feed.”

He pulled away, surprised. “What?”

“Before we go any further, feed from me. You need more than a lick to sustain you if we’re going to get all the way back to town.”

“But baby-”

“I trust you. I want you to drink from me.”

Your heart beat with excitement he’d never gotten the pleasure of hearing as a regular witch. Kai couldn’t help it when he got another yes from a third affirmation for consent. He licked your neck gently before nipping your vein. You put your hands around his neck, encouraging him further. He latched to your carotid and began to suck, your blood sweet on his taste buds. 

A moan passed your lips and it spurred him on. Kai only drank for less than a minute, but it was enough to fill him for the time being. He cocked his head at your dazed smile, before copying what he’s seen Damon do a thousand times, and bit his wrist to feed you in return. The bit of paleness that took to your skin faded, along with the dizzy expression in your eyes.

“You okay, baby?”

“I’m perfect. You feel better?”

“Feel a little drunk on your taste, if I’m honest,” he said, smiling.

You kissed him one more time before reaching for his hand. “Bring me back to where you’re staying now, with Lily. I’ll let you feed again once we’re settled in.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that, love. Ready?”

“Ready for anything as long as I have you.” 

In a blink of an eye, you were off.

[forsaken-headcanons]

Dusekkar needs magic to keep himself alive,cuz his physicality is weak AF as the cost for this much power

The Spectre minimised his magic to the point he isn't overpowered but also won't drop dead suddenly (which took a lot of calculations) and also has to strengthen his physicality cuz he is toofucking fragile

The fact he is a technical director is kinda ironic(?) cuz he is clearly magic based(if this is the correct way to phrase it) I think he uses magic to fix technical issues lol

He is having some health and physical(maybe mental) issues due to lack of magic in forsaken rn,he relies on Buildermen and Shedletsky to help him with some of his issues now since they're close

(this is why he has lower Hp)

-randomized anon

I wish I could use magic to fix my code too.

[upat4amwiththemoon]

Too much

Summary: I need you to hold me.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x female!reader

Warnings: angst, cursing

Word count: 1052

a/n: I’m clingy af, so I hide it by not talking to anyone and isolating myself bc I’m smart and mentally stable😎

Tags: @thought-of-you-and-me @rafecameronswhore @sayah13 @wandsmxmff @emsmultiverse @natashamaximoff69 @scarsw1fe

masterlists | guidelines

Letting out a squeal as she stretches her whole body, Y/N opens her eyes slowly. The morning sun is lightly shining through the bedroom curtains, making her smile. She turns her head to the side, seeing her girlfriend of one year still asleep. Y/N wraps her arms and legs around Wanda, and nuzzles her face into the crook of her neck, sighing at the comforting warmth that engulfs her.

Wanda’s breathing changes the moment she feels the weight on her. Mumbling something incoherent, she tries to pull away, but Y/N is holding on too tightly to get away. “It’s too hot like this.” She grumbles, eyes still closed. Her voice is raspy and tired.

“But you’re so comfortable.” Y/N whispers, at the edge of falling asleep again.

“Y/N.”

The hands pushing her away makes Y/N finally roll further from her. She has a pout on her face, but Wanda doesn’t see it, having turned around so her back is facing her.

Y/N moves to her back, staring at the roof. Her tiredness has now fully passed, so she stands up and goes to the kitchen, deciding not to think too deeply about Wanda’s action. She’s allowed to have her space, even when Y/N feels like being as close to her as possible.

It takes twenty minutes for the breakfast to be ready, and for Wanda to gather up her strength to face another day. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Y/N grins when her girlfriend shuffles into the room. “Did you sleep well?” She sets the breakfast into two separate plates and pushes one of them in front of Wanda.

“Mostly, I just don’t like how hot it gets in our room.”

“We could get a fan.” Y/N sits down opposite of Wanda.

Humming, she just moves the food around the plate. “I was thinking,” she bites the inside of her cheek, “maybe we could get another bed to the study, so I could sleep there. That way it won’t be too hot. ‘Cause, you know, two bodies in one bed generate more heat.”

Y/N’s face falls. She sets her fork down and stares at Wanda, who isn’t meeting the eye contact. “Uhm, sure…if- if that’s something that’d make you more comfortable.” She gives her a tight lipped smile before going back to her food. Did she do something wrong?

“Yeah, thanks.”

The rest of the breakfast goes in silence, but Y/N goes right back to normal when they settle to the couch together. She flings her legs over Wanda’s lap and snuggles herself right next to her. “Do you have to go to the compound today?” She asks, playing with the ends of Wanda’s hair.

“I don’t think so.” Wanda’s posture seems more rigid than normally. She isn’t rubbing Y/N’s leg like she usually does and her face is stoic.

Y/N stares at Wanda. Her hand lowers from Wanda’s hair to her own lap, she starts playing with her fingers, suddenly nervous. Is Wanda angry at her? is the first thought going through her mind.

“I think I’m gonna take a shower.” Wanda pushes Y/N legs off of her as she stands up.

“Can I join?” There’s a playful glint in her eyes.

“I’d prefer to go alone.”

Wanda doesn’t wait for Y/N to answer. Sitting up properly, Y/N puts the television on and starts watching the first channel she stumbles upon. Her mind is raising all over, thinking over the past week, past month, if she has done something to upset Wanda this badly, but nothing concrete comes to mind.

The quiet sound of the shower turning on seems almost overpowering to Y/N, her senses heightened from the sudden tension growing in their home. She tries to focus on her breathing, three seconds in, three second out, forcing her brain to think it’ll be okay.

After a few hours of things going a bit more normally, Wanda decided to get a start on dinner while Y/N takes her turn in the shower. She’s humming a Sokovian lullaby to herself while stirring the pot on the stove. Her body tenses immediately, as Y/N’s arms wrap around her waist.

“Whatcha cooking?” Y/N’s voice is cheery, a grin decorating her face. She leans her chin against Wanda’s shoulder. “Smells really good.”

“Can you stop?” Her voice is raised and sharper than usual. Stepping away from Wanda, to give her room to turn around, Y/N’s grin turns into a look of confusion. “Why can’t I ever get a minute alone here, huh? You’re just so goddamn clingy every minute of the day. You’re fucking suffocating me.”

Y/N stays quiet, surprised by the words coming out of her lover’s mouth.

“I’m finally starting to understand why everyone warned me about you being too much. Too loud, too touchy, too needy, too fucking annoying!”

The words hit Y/N like a gut punch. It physically hurts her to hear those words again. She really through she had gotten herself under control, she promised not to be such a nuisance in everyone’s lives, but here she is again. “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”

“Thant’s your problem! You’re blind to your own faults.” Wanda lets out a frustrated groan when she notices the despair on Y/N’s face. Turning the stove off, she moves the pot to the side and walks to the hallway. “I’m going to the compound for some time, finish dinner by yourself.”

Y/N watches as Wanda pulls on her shoes and jacket, stepping out of the house with the door slamming.

Her lower lip trembles when the sound of the car turning on hits her ears. She’s really leaving. Y/N goes to the living room, her appetite lost, and sits on the couch, the sound of the television and tinnitus filling her head. Her eyes are wet, but she doesn’t let the tears fall.

She stays there on her place for hours, not moving even an inch. The sun is already setting down and the grasshoppers have started to play their song.

The next time Wanda walks through the door, Y/N keeps her mouth shut and blurry eyes locked on the television, and Wanda lets out a sigh of relief.

[hijackalx]

GORTASH NSFW ALPHABET

A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

hmm honestly feel like it depends on if hes feeling u or not. if he was just trying to catch a nut hes rude af. like before he leaves he'll throw a wet rag at u. and he used cold water to get it wet 🥲 BUTTTT if he really does like u i think he'll prolly run a bath for u both or something. i can see him washing ur hair/body for u 🥺

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

his chest duhhh lol thats why he walks around with his titties out. i think hes got a really good upper body in general. like shoulders/arms/chest. and i feel like hes an ass man. yes that means all booties ALL. he likes to spank, bite, and leave marks all over it. omggg the type to smack or pinch ur ass in public LMAO

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

yall already know im a firm believer that this man cums bucketfuls. he'll have u sitting there like "damn why is it still going" LMFAO almost exclusively wants to cum inside. to the point to where its hard to convince him not to. he wants to breed u sooo bad 😭😭

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

*NONCON MENTION* it gets him concerningly hard when u tell him no but let him do it anyway. like i dont think he would ever AGGRESSIVELY force u to do anything hence the "let him", but something about being able to change ur mind/overpower u does something to him *NONCON MENTION OVER*

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

well. i think hes an expert when it comes to pleasing himself (which is typically thru penetration, so for my AFABs if yall can finish vaginally just know he do be laying pipe 🤤) but he didnt really grow up caring about his sexual partners much lol. i do think he wants to please you though, like badly. thats the only reason hes willing to let u offer some guidance when it comes to giving oral/fingering u.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

mating press yall. like when he hooks ur legs over his shoulders and basically folds u like a lawn chair lol. also likes doggy though so he can pull ur hair and leave welts on ur ass lol.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

hes wayyyy too intense to be goofy at any moment while u guys are fuckin LMAO. like this man loves sex and gives his ALL. he puts his mf game face on and locks IN baby 😹😹

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

YESSSSSS !!!!! YES !!!!! this man is SO hairy EVERYWHERE !!!! the same texture as the hair on his head. im about to faint yall catch me

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

uhh. i can see him being kind of romantic on special occasions. but like i said hes pretty intense usually and to me that doesnt leave much room for romance lol. especially since he can be so mean too

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

yeah. like all the time. hes a hornball so if ur not around as an alternative he WILL be jizzing into his hand. omfg if yall are like, ever distanced from each other he will want to send nasty ass letters back and forth to keep him satisfied until u get back LMAO god forbid they ever end up at the wrong place

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

his office. will fuck on every surface and up against every wall. everyone else is afraid to touch anything in there 😭

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

he likes when u seem weaker than him, either in the sense that he has a physical or mental advantage over u. dont let anyone else treat u like that tho or he'll think ur a pussy lol

N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

^^ as i mentioned letting other ppl have the same power over u as he does is a turn off. so if ur like me u got to grow a backbone or get the boot 🥾🤾‍♀️ 😭😭  anyway. i dont think he'll be willing to do anything that makes him feel "lesser" or more submissive. i mean u could probably trick him into doing it if u make him think its his idea or something LMAO

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

i genuinely think he eventually gains an affinity for giving ??? he likes the sounds u make and the way u pull his hair. so yeah, gives lots of kisses and will mutter a lot of praises while down there too. dont get me wrong though u better be giving back too 😹😹

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

rough as fuckkkk bro. doesnt ever like to be gentle. sex just brings out a lot of aggression in him. u will be sore and bruised after. if u convince him to chill out he'll be a pouty baby about it

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

anywhere and everywhere possible. i dont think its a goal of his to be seen by others while doing it but i also dont think he cares so that doesnt really stop him

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he'll try to get u to do all kinds of fucked up shit. including shit that is probably lowkey dangerous 😹😹 hes pretty sadistic so get ready gurl

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

15-20 mins max shawty lmao sorry 😹😹 and since he wants to act like a wild ape ur prolly not getting a round 2 since he wore himself out. but if u didnt get off in time he'll use his hand to help u finish even if hes sleepy 😴

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

will tease u at random times throughout the day by saying some absolutely horrendous shit in ur ear while ur in public and then acting like nothing happened. but usually doesnt want to waste much time before the act, so he might tease just enough to get u ready. nothing more though

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

heavy grunter and breather. will only moan occasionally if its really hitting right 😹😹 if u do get him to moan i can see it being decently loud. its like a reward

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

very high libido man........ prepare ur hole 🪦

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

sometimes he can stay awake long enough for aftercare but other times itll have to come after a power nap 😭 youll be like "bae how was it" and turn around to see him completely unconscious. snoring and everythang

[pillow-talk-and-sleepy-cuddles]

I absolutely love big bottoms and small tops! Just a little guy absolutely wrecking someone that could easily overpower them is hot af. Points if the big bottom is a cockslut and didn't know it until then.

yes... yes anon. i agree. it is so hot. it works with like every ship too. even if the bigger one is usually the dom in most writing/art.

Scarian? Let Grian dick Scar down for once.

Rendoc? Let Ren make Doc whimper and whine for more.

Ethubs? Let Bdubs pull Etho's hair as he fucks his ass.

Cleo and any other Hermitgal? Let them fuck Cleo, let them make them moan so loudly it seems like the whole server can hear them moan.

yes. let all the usual tops bottom and the usual bottoms top.

[amazingmsme]

Okay, image this, Ares being a smart mouth shit to Athena and Hephaestus, his older siblings, since he's the God of War and is very much egotistical.

Athena and Hephaestus wreck him at times to humble him a bit, sometimes just because he's having a sour attitude over something.

Athena is shown to be stronger than Ares, and if he overpower her, she'd probably be five steps ahead and have a way to turn the tables.

Hephaestus, being a blacksmith, is just already strong as hell, and he has the chain he used on Ares and Aphrodite. He can set up a tickle trap too

Also, I like the idea of Athena purposely going soft on tickle because she knows Ares can handle pain and a lot more rougher things, so her slowly tracing and wiggling her fingers on him would drive him literally insane (also because he probably hasn't got gentle touch in thousands of years he's been alive. Tocuhe-starved War God >:3)

KSGFRKBALCBSKS I’M HYPERVENTILATING FINALLY SOME ARES LOVE!!!!! Seriously, I love him so much & he is so severely misunderstood in media & really enjoy what we’ve seen of him in epic!

But he loves to piss off his older siblings & instigate petty quarrels between them, but it doesn’t always work out how he planned. He does have a bit of a superiority complex & acts like he’s invincible, & it’s exactly that kind of cocky behavior that gets him caught

You’d never expect it, but Ares is actually quite the talker when he wants to be. (He likes listening to himself) & it just so happens to annoy both of them, so why would he shut up? Athena & Hephaestus are constantly having to put him in his place & remind him who the baby brother is & it flusters pisses him off so bad!

If they notice he seems particularly upset, then they take a gentler approach, or at least try to. They’re all awkward af. Hephaestus gets uncharacteristically goofy when he tries to cheer up his siblings. Sure he starts out pretty sincere & asks why they’re upset, & if it’s not super heavy he’ll proceed with the plan. He asks if they can smile, & if they don’t or say they can’t he starts to act a lil sillier & asks if they’ll ever smile again. Ares knows this game by heart, but he always holds out til the last second, claiming that no, he really will never smile again, fuck off (he doesn’t mean it) & Hephaestus knows that he’s playing along, but doesn’t call him out on it. Instead he just tickles him until Ares assures him that yes he feels better & that is a real smile on his face, no he’s not faking it, you asshole!

If Athena notices that he’s upset, she just goes up to him & asks if he wants to spar. He always says yes, & it’s fairly common for them to still train together. But while fighting she’ll try to bring up fond memories from battles or training sessions. She waits until he’s in a bit of a better mood before completely switching tactics. She’ll wait until she has ahold of him or pinned him down & then yell “tickle fight!” & digs in before he even realizes what’s happening. She doesn’t care if she’s collateral damage, she just wants to have some fun like old times & take his mind off things. & she loves to bully him about it the whole time, so it’s a perfect excuse

Ares is a pretty even match with both of them, so he really does have to put up a fight if he wants a chance at escape. But if they’re working together? Yeah dude’s a goner

& you are SO right about light tickles being his weakness! Especially because when he thinks of tickling, he automatically thinks of the more rough, hysterical laughter kind rather than the light grazing, giggle your head off kind. & that lowkey makes him short circuit & go completely mad. He’s not used to any kind of soft touch, so he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He gets soooo squirmy & giggly, it’s definitely the easiest way to get him flustered

& ever since he’s been with Athena, he’s a lot less touch starved. So don’t worry about him, she made sure to make up for lost time & show him what he was missing

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Sword gays showdown, round 2 of bracket one

Propaganda:

For Zoro:

Literally training to be the greatest swordsman in the world. Has a special three swords technique (one blade in each hand plus one with the handle held in his teeth). I haven't read the manga or watched the anime but the live action adaptation gives me extremely gay vibes and based on the fandom things I've seen I'm not the only one

bro uses three swords. has one in his mouth. dont ask how the HELL he manages that. one day he will be the worlds greatest swordsman....after he beats the current greatest for both the titles of greatest swordsman and fruitiest swordsman. he's dramatic as FUUUCK like bro what the hell. has homoerotic fights with the local twink like everyday. directionally challenged, can and will get lost in a paper bag, doesnt know left from right...he probably cant read, too. hes too silly ngl

First of all, im in like episode 250 and so far he hasnt been shown attracted to any woman at all during the whole show so far, not even when one changed clothes in the same room as him and this is anime so you know there were other characters with bloody noses and shit. With that out of the way he wields three swords at once [two in his hands, one is his goddamn mouth dude. Its cool af trust me.] When he was little he made a promise to his best friend that he'd be the best swordsman in the world. Later she died in a tragic accident and left her sword which he still uses today. He also carries a cursed sword but he overpowers the curse with a combination of skill and sheer luck. He got stuck in a chimney. While his crewmates sail their ship he takes naps. He learned how to cut through metal by fighting a guy who could turn his body into metal blades. That's metal. He refuses to fight this liberal marine officer because she looks like his childhood best friend and its just understandably really awkward for him. He's autistic. He's a he/him bisexual lesbian. He's a gay man. He's ace/aro. He's whatever you want him to be babey!!

he has 3 swords, wields one in his mouth sometimes, his dream is to be the greatest swordsman in the world

three swords and big aroace-spec gay vibes

He not only has a sword he has *three* swords. He's absolutely gay there's no way to see this man as straight. Also one time he licked his sword for no reason and that was really funny to me so I had to mention it

Look, this man thinks about three things: Swords, His Captain, and Booze. He’s on a quest to be the worlds greatest swordsman. The Live action has a scene where he declares his undying, unwavering loyalty to his captain WHILE reaffirming his promise to be the worlds greatest swordsman. At this point His dream and his Captain are so intertwined it’s crazy. Man is so sword-y he’s got three of them. When one of his swords broke he carried its empty scabbard until he was able to give it a SWORD FUNERAL. He hears a sword is cursed and takes that as a challenge. He will literally tell his swords off for “bad behavior” when they “act up” due to being straight up cursed. He tests one by throwing it in the air and sticking his arm out to see if it is so blood thirsty and ill tempered that it will cut him. Even though he’s literally the first mate if you ask him what his role is he’s going to answer Swordsman.

He's dedicated his life to two things: becoming the greatest swordsman in the world and his captain, Luffy. 

He mastered the three sword style. Its his style. It would've been more swords but he could only fit one sword in each hand and one in his mouth. He wants to be the world's greatest swordsman, a deal he made with his childhood best frenemy (before she died falling down the stairs). He thought he was All That at the start and was almost completely decimated by the actual Worlds Greatest Swordsman. Now, after two years forced training with that guy, he's probably in the top tier no-doubt, and honestly could already be the best but we just don't know for sure yet. Also, did I mention: he's got the whole demon/devil imagery going on at times. And he has absolutely no sense of direction! plus is a total softie when it comes to Chopper and all the children who somehow gravitate towards him. And he loves naps!

One of the guy's main goals in life is to be the best sword fighter and he fights with three swords which I think is telling enough of his skill.

For Sayaka Miki:

my favourite scene is the one where Sayaka turns off all her pain receptors to battle the shadow witch, uncaring of the damage dealt to her body, because what is a body but a decaying vessel you must eventually abandon anyway? that was very depression of her <3 Also there’s that one time (in the rebellion movie) where Sayaka stabs herself on her own sword to release the witch that dwells within her. and then she immediately gets up to fight back to back with her girlfriend. that moment lives rent free in my head. Sayaka is so depression and I love her for it:)

SHES SO GAY ITS NOT EVEN FUNNY SHE FLIRTS W THE MAIN CHARACTER HER NARRATIVE FOIL IS ANOTHER GIRL W TBE OPPOSITE COLOR SCHEME THEYRE RED BLUE LESBIAN MOMENT YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT ELSE ??? SHE COMES TO THIS FALSE REALITY LITERALLY JUST TO SEE HER GIRLFRIEND ALIVE THEY LIVE TOGETHER AND THERES A WHOLE OUTRO SEQUENCE JUST W THE TWO OF THEM SHE STUDIED THE GAY BLADE I STG also she uses a sword 🗡️ love u sayaka

[obsidianpen]

Your opinion on f/m ship is sadly very common even among readers themselves. I got out this mentality after reading a lot of Hermione fanfics. In B&G Hermione comes off as an individual with independent and often conflicting beliefs and personality so it was really easy to detached myself from her and see her more as a character than a projection of myself. I’m just really surprised that it made you anxious writing her.

I grew up reading Bl in an environment where queer books are being published publicly/officially and from what I’m seeing people are more accepting nowadays. This isn’t really the kind of opinion you’re asking for but I think female writers writing mlm actually help the lgbt community. I’ve seen so many gay men and women write books and enjoy it openly now. Less censorship now too.

oh yeah. I do wonder why that is the case so much, and there’s probably a lot of reasons for it. In my case personally I know it had a lot to do with always comparing myself to other girls, caring almost solely about what made me ‘desirable’ and both doing anything to achieve that and feeling like I was competing with everyone around me… that constantly comparing and judging bled into books, too. I tend to judge FMCs much more harshly than MMCs, though I’ve grown aware of that and try to do better. (Didnt stop me from DNFing fourth wing though. I hated how violet was written 😂).

but yeah I see this in the fanfiction community a lot. If hermione is emotional and cries or whatever, people complain and think it’s annoying. If it’s Harry, he’s a sweet baby angel with valid feelings too good for this world. If Hermione is a bit too plain she’s ’basically a self-insert’ or a Mary Sue. But lord knows I’ve clicked on far too many stories where Harry is bland AF and no one seems to care. I’m speaking hugely vaguely ofc but I do think Hermione stories get hit a lot harder when she’s not written super in character; feels like readers will not only forgive but applaud an OOC extra sensitive/smoll/cutesy or, alternatively, crazy overpowered OOC Harry. Can’t help but think gender plays a massive role here.

and to your last point, I agree. I think any writer creating a thoughtful and well crafted story helps, regardless of whether or not they’re a man or woman or whatever. The ‘well crafted’ part being critical, of course. I once read a story that featured a f/f pairing and it was written by a man but I only found that out after I was halfway through the book because I kept stopping and thinking, this is so bad???? This has to have been written by a straight man who has no idea how women who were friends for years speak to each other???? Aaaaan I was right lol.