part 2 of Zoro in WCI
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I tried to write something to sum up my thoughts on this, but then it got longer and longer and tbh I'm itching to write a fic set in this AU djjdkf I think I could develop on their inner feelings more than in the comic form
Before posting the first part I didn't realize people had such strong opinions on how this would play out lmaooo
imo, of course Zoro wants to fight Sanji, not with actual intent to harm (they threaten each other on the daily, come on), but because that's how they are together, how they communicate. He respects Luffy's decisions and their goal here, which is to learn what's really going on with Sanji, but he's gonna be pissy about it all he wants. They both have so many intense and conflicted feelings about this and neither has any idea how to resolve them. So they fight.
ofc yall are free to headcanon this interaction any other way you want <333
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hearing about gale from tara is always such a treat because she's known him for so, so long, ever since he was just a boy and has watched him grow into who he is now:
Player: Excruciatingly awkward. On my side, at least.
Tara the Tressym: Don't be too hard on yourself, sir. You've been like that all your life.
Player: It's very unsettling how you can tell what I've been up to just by looking at me...
Tara the Tressym: Tressyms are exceptionally intuitive. And also, you wear your emotions like a very garish cravat.
Tara the Tressym: If that's all, then what comes after is for you to decide, Mr Dekarios. Think well on all that's happened, and stay true to that heart of yours. It's a good one.
which also sort of ties into this:
Player: I'd never want to lose you, Tara. I'll return the Crown to Mystra.
Tara the Tressym: There's a good humanoid. You had me scared for a moment here. But you're wise - and wiser all the time.
Player: That's just my boyish charm.
Tara the Tressym: Boyish charm and knees that creak like rusted hinges! Quite the combination.
Player: I'm honestly not sure. But don't worry - it's nothing I can't handle.
Tara the Tressym: Very tough.
Player: Must be the beard.
Tara the Tressym: Don't be silly. What is it really?
she's absolutely not averse to teasing him. however, it's never cruel and always light-hearted, just like she's not afraid to call him out on evading questions or making him reflect on the choices he takes if she does disagree with him. it really speaks of how long they have been at each other's side.
Tara the Tressym: Mr Dekarios. Gale. You are the finest mind - the finest wizard - I have ever had the pleasure to know. If anyone can beat this thing, it is you.
When you tried to control the Weave - when it all went, pardon my language, belly up - I was terrified. Scared you'd be hurt. Scared Mystra would punish you for your transgression. But do you know what never crossed my mind?
That you wouldn't figure a way out of it. My clever friend never leaves a knot knotted. This parasite is one more knot, so get to tugging threads. And - Mr Dekarios - please. The beard. I'd cut it down myself if I could hold a razor.
so from tara's pov, gale's always been awkward and obvious with his emotions.
she's convinced he has a genuinely good heart, one that she hopes he'll stay true to.
tara thinks he's wise, and growing wiser (condition: gale rejects to take the crown for himself).
she also thinks he's clever and brilliant.
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new wip wednesday
i wanted to get the first chapter of this done as an early bday present to me because ive been talking about this fic for foreverrrrr but its not gonna happen because im bad at measuring time and effort 😮💨 but look! hunger games au fic!
Anakin pushes his face into his neck, letting his lips press against his pulse for a moment.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, recognition and warning rolled into one tone.
But Anakin wouldn’t be who he is if he allowed the man in his arms to so easily twist away. He wouldn’t even be here now, pressed up against him with the scent of saltwater and lilacs and leather filling his nose, if he let one warning word distract him from his goal.
So instead he pushes further, wraps his hands around Obi-Wan’s hips and takes the skin beneath his lips between his teeth. The soft fabric of their pants brush together, so loud in the stillness of the kitchen that it’s deafening—that it’s almost loud enough to drown out the catch in Obi-Wan’s breathing.
But Anakin has trained himself over the past five years to listen for all the small ways that Obi-Wan Kenobi capitulates, so he hears his sigh, feels the slump of his shoulders against his own as his head sways forward and then back.
Anakin takes his time worrying a bitemark into his neck, just at the edge of his beard. On the holos that will film Obi-Wan’s face today, it’ll look like a shadow.
But Anakin will know. Obi-Wan will know.
“Anakin,” his lover murmurs, and Anakin’s hand moves from his waist up to stroke down his arm, corded with tense muscle. Fisherman’s muscle. Victor’s muscle too.
Not today, he means. It’s obvious in every line of his body. It’s obvious in the fact that he left the bed so early in the morning when neither of them must work. It’s obvious in the distance in his eyes, the frown across his lips.
Today is not a day where Obi-Wan will accept pleasure from anyone’s lips or hands, undeserving as he feels to be on the receiving end of such a kindness.
Anakin’s left hand falls to cover Obi-Wan’s, tangling their fingers together. His are rougher than Obi-Wan’s, working man’s hands now that he is twenty-one and a man of the sea like most are on Stewjon. The rough drag of his calluses over the hairy knuckles of Obi-Wan’s hand makes Anakin swallow a smile. Victors of the Hunger Games are forbidden from working laborious jobs. They’re meant to languish away in their Coruscanti-funded manors, with idle minds and idle hands, picking at paints or design stencils or any number of different government approved hobbies
Obi-Wan Kenobi is not made to be idle. He has no patience for painting or sewing, for cooking or jewelry design. Luckily for him, Stewjon is the fourth planet from Coruscant, on the edge of the inner rim, and it’s rather small, rather ordinary. In the colder months, during the few months of the star year where the galaxy is not forced to care about the Hunger Games and its Victors, he can slip away to the ocean. Fish and sail like he was born to do, Stewjoni through and through.
But Anakin is out on those choppy seas year-round now that he’s four years finished with his compulsory education. His hands are rougher than Obi-Wan’s and they always will be.
Anakin likes it. Likes the way Obi-Wan’s softness contrasts against his own rougher places. Likes that he can sneak away from Obi-Wan’s manor in the blue of the pre-dawn light, first to the sea and then to the market, and Obi-Wan will be there when he gets back. Likes that when he leaves, his lover is curled up asleep in their bed. And when he returns with the fattest fish from his haul, Anakin can cook it for him too.
He likes that he is the only thing Obi-Wan needs. He provides. He cooks for him. He feeds him. He touches him with his rough hands, to dirty him and then to clean him up. Everything that Obi-Wan needs, Anakin is the person to give it to him.
He supposes he has Coruscant to thank for that.
He’s not stupid enough to say that—ever, but especially today. Especially on the day of the Reaping.
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