#fanciful fiction

[lyss-sketchbox]

Idk what this hat is called but goddamn you can put it on anyone and make them look 20x cooler

[lesbian-jack-barnabas]

hey again audio drama tumblr. I’m a fucking nerd and I’m doing a thing rn

i am a science nerd at heart and as such I’m making a list of podcast recs based on different branches of science (If you like physics/chemistry/astronomy/zoology/etc you should listen to [podcast] type of deal). If anybody wants to drop shows that either a) features a scientist character or b) has a general plotline/themes that line up with some branch of science or other I’ll be indebted to you forever 🙏 I’ll be using it half for the list and half as recs for myself. Tbh. Because I love myself a good podcast scientist

[aevris]

the shipyards at 5am 🏗️

[hellomagicalsouls]

✨he looks heavenly✨

i am so excited to see this man in action for season 4. it's going to be full one tarot card, séance readings, all round witch shit. which is what i've wanted since day one.

the fashion, the vibe, the pose. beautiful. its giving klaus season one or the closest we'll get to season one.

and klaus season one will always be famous. the jewellery. the background, yes it dingy and grimy but im obsessed. i have way too many feelings on how good he looks.

i would prefer he had his curls but im willing to overlook it for this absolutely impeccable picture.

i am so excited to see him hopefully use his powers and maybe even enjoy using them. still worried about the damn tower tarot card but this. this is everything ive wanted in klaus.

when i think about klaus, this is damn near perfect to what i think. add curls and it is perfect.

[zae-heeyyy]

Pastiche

Summary: You and Arthur escape through writing. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader Word Count: 2,345 Trigger Warning: Tuberculosis, death Tags: angst, sadness, high honor Arthur

a/n: Thanks for you kind words on Chiaroscuro. I've enjoyed writing again so much! I'm in my tragedy era. My hs english teacher's voice haunts me when I'm writing, so I spent a lot of time scrutinizing this. Didn't mean for it to be so long, but I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

pastiche: a work of art or literature that imitates the style or character of another, often as an homage or tribute.

You knew there was something special about Arthur Morgan the day you met him. Despite his best efforts to believe otherwise, he was easy on the eyes, and his dry humor combined with his strong sense of honor sealed your crush on the cowboy. Everybody else could see that he was sweet on you, too, noticing when he pulled you to sit at the fire with him or how he watched you around camp. As more time passed, you'd become mostly inseparable, taking every moment you had to sneak away together. One of your favorite places to escape to was the fields of Little Creek River in Big Valley. You'd be reading a book and glance over to find Arthur staring intently at an animal until it was out of sight. Then he'd open up his journal and sketch it.  He wasn't doing that today, though. He was staring across the field, but you could tell he was elsewhere in his mind.

"Got somethin' to say," his eyes met yours earnestly. When he told you he loved you, a laugh erupted deep from your belly. Dumbfounded, he asked, "The hell is so funny?" his own laugh betraying his attempt to be solemn. It was hilarious to you that he didn't think you already knew that and that he didn't know you absolutely felt the same.

Another day, you were lying in Arthur's lap in the grass. Just the day before, he had returned to camp with bruised knuckles and some poor fool's blood on his face—one of Strauss's clients. You longed for a life where bruised knuckles and loan sharking were distant memories.

"Where would you be if you weren't here," you'd asked, holding his hand in yours. He stroked your thumb with his and gazed over the valley like always.

"Hard to imagine." He mumbled, sounding far away.

You nodded in agreement and replied, "You're always writing or drawing in your notebook. Maybe you could've been an artist or a writer." The thought brought a soft smile to your face, and you imagined, just for a second, a life where Arthur's biggest worry was perfecting his latest masterpiece.

He huffed in dry amusement, "Probably wouldn't have known how to read if it weren't for Dutch and Hosea."

You assented again and sighed, the smile on your face growing wider.

 "Arthur Morgan: author and illustrator." You held your hands up in dramatic fashion as if envisioning the words in front of you. Then you untangled yourself from him and sat up, "You could, you know? It's not too late. Maybe a biography?"

"A story about my life, huh?" He looked at you with a dumb smile, "I think a book about dirt would be more interestin'." He bobbed his head up and down as if nodding made his thought more true. You shoved him playfully, and he raised his eyebrow at you and held out his hands questionly. "What? There's all different kinds of dirt," he started counting on his fingers." Brown dirt, red dirt, hard dirt—"

You cut him off, "I'm serious, Arthur! This life…it ain't one normal folks live." A shit-eating grin crept up his face as he fought not to make another joke at his own expense. He shoved it down and kept listening. "Sure, it's just your life to you, but other people might find it interesting, exciting, even."

He thought for a second, then put his hands in the air, mimicking you, "The Confessions of Arthur Morgan: The Detailed Life of a Gunslinger by Arthur Morgan. Sounds like a Pinkerton's wet dream."

 "I see what you mean," you trail off, fingers playing in the grass. "Could change the name. People publish under a different name all the time. There's a word for that, I think."

"Pseudonym," he responded, his accent thick. "Think it's got one of those silent letters in front." He said it so matter of factly, and it confirmed what you already knew about him: he was far more intelligent than anybody ever gave him credit for. Still, you left the idea alone and thought Arthur had, too.

Then, on another afternoon in the fields near Little Creek River, he spoke out of nowhere. "Arthur Callahan or Tacitus Kilgore?" 

"Hmm?" you asked, barely glancing up from your book.

"For the pen name," he confirmed, scratching his chin thoughtfully. 

From that day on, your trips to Little Creek River became writing sessions. He bought a notebook that you two would trade off, coming up with ideas for the dramatized life of the gunslinger. You'd taken some creative liberties, and the story wasn't exactly a biography anymore. It had shaped into a Western love story. Arthur Callahan, after living a bad life, met someone who made him want to be better, an angel sent to rescue the devil himself. Arthur Callahan would get the perfect ending; a normal life. It was all Arthur's idea. 

"It's not my story; it's ours," he'd told you. 

You had been daydreaming about the possibilities for your novel for some time, but the chaos of life with the gang left little room to focus on it. The sudden move from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point made things worse. Somewhere in the move, the manuscript was lost or destroyed—either way, it was gone. You couldn't hold back your tears during your next trip to Big Valley. Arthur's big hands swallowed your face as his thumbs wiped your tears away.  

"Shhh, we'll rewrite it, sweetheart," he promised.

Despite Arthur's gentle nudges, you couldn't find it in you to rewrite the story. Another day, he'd invited you to ride with him, heading off to your usual spot. He'd asked once more if you were feeling up to writing again. When you rejected the idea, he shook his head, seemingly surrendering. 

"Fine! You're so damn stubborn." There was no malice in his voice, though, and his eyes twinkled a little. "Looks like I gotta take matters into my own hands." Instead of stopping the horse in the fields as usual, Arthur stopped short, cutting into nearby woods. Eventually, he halted outside of the small cabin that was Vetter's Echo and hitched the horse outside. 

"Come on," he said, helping you down. "I've got a surprise for you." You walked up the cabin's steps, and he swung the door open to a small living quarters. "It don't got a back door, and I'm pretty sure the feller living here got mauled by a bear, but it's got one of these things." He gestured to the desk in the corner of the small cabin, a typewriter sitting atop it, "I don't have the first clue about using it." So he left it for you to figure out. He'd sit on a stool beside you, reading from a notebook, and you'd type slowly at first, but as time went on, the keys felt as familiar to you as a gun trigger did to him. 

Then things started falling apart. You'd moved from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point, then to Shady Bell in a matter of weeks. The men went on a job to rob the bank in St. Denis, and most didn't return. You'd forgotten about the manuscript while trying to survive and spent weeks worried about Arthur and everybody else.

Then he came home to you, waterlogged but alive. You'd never felt more relieved. He was skinny and had a persistent cough, blaming it all on his rough journey. But it didn't stop him from finishing the book as promised. He'd write whenever he had a chance, and you'd go back to the little cabin in the woods, you typing and him reading.

Then he couldn't get through a page without coughing. You listened, concern etched on your face as he told you about his coughing spell and subsequent visit to the doctor in the city. Tuberculosis: practically a death sentence. After that, he'd step back when you tried to be close to him and wouldn't let you kiss him or be intimate with him. You spent a lot of time crying while he dipped his head in profound shame. 

Weeks later, he woke you up at night, gently shaking you and whispering to not alert anyone else. "C'mon, get dressed and ride with me." He was serious, his jaw set, his voice low but demanding. You didn't know what was wrong, but dread ran through your veins. You rode far away from camp, mostly in silence, your anxiety not letting you say anything. 

"You're gonna live a good life. "he finally said, breaking the silence. Your eyes stung, and you felt a lump in your throat.

"I don't want to hear this right now, Arthur."

He shook his head, frustrated, and spoke through clenched teeth. "Listen to me." His tone made you flinch. He'd never taken on that tone with you, ever. "This whole thing with Dutch, it's over. You gotta run. Gotta get out and make a good life for yourself." 

You wanted to protest; you weren't going to leave him, not now. But then you saw the waiting stagecoach up ahead. Your heart dropped and shattered into a million pieces. You reached around him to pull the horse's reins, coming to a skidding stop. You hopped down and started shaking your head, frantic in your movements and words. 

"No, Arthur. No."

You wiped away the quickly falling tears as you turned, fast walking, almost running back to that godforsaken camp that was Beaver Hollow. Even in his sickness, it only took Arthur a few big steps to reach you, grabbing you by the waist and turning you to face him. And then you cursed at him, pounded your fists against his chest, and wailed into the night. He just pulled you close to him, squeezing you until you didn't fight anymore. He gave you a stack of cash, made you promise to run, and said he'd come find you after it was all over. But both of you knew, deep down, that you were setting eyes on each other for the last time. He kissed your head. You sobbed into his chest, only letting go when the impatient stagecoach driver beckoned you.

"Never could've imagined I'd know somebody as perfect for me as you." All you could choke out was, "I love you," over and over and over again. He slipped a folded letter into your hand and helped you into the coach filled with your things. He stood silently with his hat in his hands while you rode off into the night. You sobbed for as long as your body let you while the coach took you down to Copperhead Landing.

First, Tilly showed up with Jack, and then Sadie came with Abagail. But then John arrived bearing Arthur's hat and satchel with a look in his eyes so terrible that it brought you to a screaming sob. That night, when everybody had finally settled down to sleep, you slipped away, leaving a note of thanks and well wishes. You were alone then, the way you wanted it to be without Arthur.  

Eight years; it had been eight years since everything went to shit. In eight years, you worked your ass off with any odd jobs you could find. Keeping busy was how you cured your broken heart. You'd tried as hard as you could to forget about the life you'd once lived until you read a headline in the newspaper: MICAH BELL KILLED. The memories flooded back to you, and you returned to a place you hadn't visited in a while. You only kept 2 things from that time: a letter from Arthur and the manuscript you'd written with him. Forged in Fire, you called it. After all this time, you couldn't remember who came up with the name, but you remembered why. You two were like tempered metal; the more you walked through hellfire, the stronger you became.  

Then there was Arthur's letter. You'd read it only once before today.

"Things I wanted to say but did not have the courage to say aloud." was scrawled across the top of the page, followed by a list.

"Keep visiting Big Valley.

Keep writing.

Publish the book.

Watch every sunset.

Trust your gut.

Please, be happy."

You heard his voice through every word. He'd underlined the third point: publish the book. In that moment, you decided to take a leap. You wrote to a publisher and sent a copy of the manuscript. And that's all it took. Things went into a tailspin after that, and before you knew it, you were holding a hard copy of the manuscript you and Arthur had worked on together all that time ago.

You'd made an effort, then, to find Abigail and John and Jack. They were held up at a ranch, Beecher's Hope, and were married now. You caught up with the Marstons and apologized for hastily disappearing all those years ago. They were happy for you, and you for them. 

On your departure, John took your hand, "I don't talk about him much these days, but I don't think he loved anybody like he loved you." He paused for a moment and forced his eyes to meet yours. "He's buried out in Ambarino, near Donner Falls. Top of the mountain. I can take you." You declined John's offer but set out east toward Donner Falls the next day. 

You found him around noon and watched wistfully as an eagle flew from its spot on a rock behind the flowery grave. You fell to your knees, no longer able to control the tears flowing down your face. "I did it, my love," you choked through tears. It'd been a long, long time since you let yourself feel this pain—a longing to reach something impossible. You dabbed the tears away from your eyes and sat in the grass, hugging Forged in Fire to your chest. "Thought I'd read it to you," you spoke into the air. You opened the book, cracked the spine, and read "Chapter One: Heaven's Fall, Hell's Rise."

[mourambles]

Imagine you’re at a restaurant with your f/o; one of you orders a milkshake and the other just orders a glass of water.

The waitress turns up a few minutes later with your order; she’s completely forgotten the glass of water, but you notice as she puts the milkshake down that she’s put two straws in it.

You and your f/o just stare at the drink, both turning red to the ears.

[thechaoticdruid]

I've said it once and I'll say it again. Astarion isn't middle aged. He isn't 40 in human years.

Wyll and Lae'zel who are both confirmed in their early 20s have laugh lines. (I'm 24 and literally have laugh lines.)

No Astarion isn't a teenager, but he's not middle aged. From what we know he was under 200 when turned and he would have to be 400 to match up with the human equivalent of 40.

My man is probably in his early 30s maybe late late 20s at the very youngest in human years.

[fandomfixation2]

I am going to a costume party on Saturday.

I am dressing as Al from Quantum Leap. The hand link needs some work but otherwise how’d I do?!

This is the outfit I based mine on:

[rexscanonwife]

This little trickster thinks he can get away with ANYTHING by giving me a little peck on the cheek (and he's right 😑)

Taglist♡: @me-myself-and-my-fos @tiny-cloud-of-flowers @sunstar-of-the-north @dearly-beeloved @adoredbyalatus @changeling-selfship @crushes-georg @miutonium @cherry-bomb-ships @rosieaurora @rejaytionships @sunflawyer @in-true-blue-love @tropicalgothships @little-miss-selfships

[officially-other]

My first attempt at writing that's vaguely like poetry: from a dragon

I am not what you think.

I walk around, awkward limbs and flighty mannerisms, and you think I’m strange. You have no idea how strange you would think I am if you only saw what was underneath.

Underneath, I am a creature of the ocean. Something that could never pass as human, and no longer wants to. Saltwater rushes through my veins in secret, silent to everyone but me. To me, it’s a roaring sound of the waves that I have never seen except for within my soul. It yearns to dissolve into the ocean like it could long ago, but for now those days are over and I am hidden underneath skin and muscle.

Underneath, there are wings; fins; antlers. They ache to tear from my back, through my skull. Nonetheless, they stay hidden for me, safe in the silence. Protected like I protected my kin in a lifetime so close to the surface and yet unreachable. Wrapped in a form that no longer coils around them like a serpent, but keeps them hidden from predators well enough I suppose.

I suppose.

I accept my form reluctantly and do what I can to make it mine. I shape it to feel better when I discover my gender, and when I can’t shape it to fit my true self I cover it in things that feel a little more like home. A little more draconic. A little more like the ocean that I never have seen, but feel homesick for anyway.

I do find joy in being in this body, at least. Out there, there are others. Angels working minimum wage, dragons sitting on a park bench, wolves buying groceries. We hide, but we do so to be free. We walk through crowds, and no one notices our scales and fur and feathers. But we do. We see each other, even if from miles away, and we see what’s underneath.

And underneath, none of us are what you think.

(Tags for side commentary/context)

[fo-enjoyer]

Random ✨dapper✨ f/o scenario

Your f/o wearing a suit or dress regardless of gender.

Them having a problem putting on a dress or a tie, and asking you to help.

Them getting absolutely wasted on wine at a very fancy pristine party.

Digging their heel into someone that disrespect your fashion sense.

F/o dipping you while you dance.

Them going on a very in-depth discussion about when white or red wine is appropriate for what occasion while shopping, and you zoned out 2 hours ago.

They wait outside for you, and they're stunned when they see your fancy attire.

Them gossiping about other people at a fancy party.

Fidgeting with their outfit like messing with their cuffs, slightly pulling on their dress, and ect.

Your f/o trying to get the fancy street cred, but can't act fancy to save their life.

Brings little fidget toys in case you get bored, and maybe for themselves as well.

F/o taking one step in, and immediately leaving thinking there's way too undressed for this.

Reserving only the best seats at a fancy restaurant, and letting you have anything you want in reason.

Your f/o talking very fancily to someone equally as fancy, and you have no idea what either of them are saying.

You both leaving a party, and then your f/o reveals they took most of the fancy snacks.

Them purposely embarrassing you for fun at a fancy event.

Them making a fancy candle lit dinner at your house. (bonus if something catches on fire)

[thlayli-ra]

Stray (part 4)

Characters - CM Punk, Drew McIntyre, Larry, Samoa Joe

Pairing - CM Punk/Drew McIntyre, CM Punk/Samoa Joe (past)

AU - Stray AU

Rating - Mature

Warnings - Strong language, mentions of human trafficking, imprisonment and prostitution

Words - ~3,000 words (this is a longer one, yay!)

Summary - Punk asks a 'friend' for help

The door rang at six the next morning and Punk answered it immediately, already fully dressed.

'What did you do now?' the large set man on the doorstep grumbled.

'What makes you think I did anything?' Punk asked with his hand on his chest, taking offence to the accusation.

'When you call me at 5am telling me to bring spare clothes and my tool kit, I take that as a strong sign that you've done something,' Joe replied gruffly, stepping in past Punk and up the front steps. 'So just get it over with and tell me what the hell hap-'

He stopped mid-word when he reached the top of the stairs and found the stranger sitting innocently on Punk's sofa, naked except for a poorly fitting pair of boxer briefs and a dog collar around his neck. The newcomer gaped at the sight, then quickly dumped everything onto the floor.

'Excuse me,' Joe politely said to the stranger then roughly dragged Punk to the back steps at the far end of the living area.

'Ah, you grabbed me by the fucking neck,' Punk whined as Joe slammed the door behind them to give them some privacy.

'What the hell is that?' he demanded to know.

'I believe it's what they call an adult human male,' Punk shot back sarcastically.

'Don't get smart with me, Phillip Jack!'

'Oh, we're doing the Phillip Jack thing already, are we?'

'Just tell me who the fuck he is?'

Punk shrugged his shoulders. 'Dunno.'

'Well, what's his name?'

'Dunno.'

'Then where'd he come from?'

'I found him round the back of Mrs Goldstein's house. Good thing too, if she'd found him first she'd probably have had her third stroke and-'

'Wait! Wait! WAIT!' Joe scrubbed his eyes with his fingertips. 'What do you mean you found him?'

'Last night during the storm,' Punk retorted as if that made complete sense. 'Kid was all alone and banged up so I took him back here and cleaned him up.' Joe was trying to process just what the hell was happening but Punk didn't seem to notice. 'Hey, you know sign language, right?'

'I know exactly four languages, one of which is sign language, yes,' Joe replied, not following any of this in the slightest.

'Great! Come with me!' Gripping Joe by his broad shoulders, Punk shuffled him back into the living area and over to the lounge where the stranger was sitting calmly, stroking Larry who was sleeping next to him on the couch. 'Hey, so, this here is Joe, he's sorta, kinda, well, he's my-

'Friend,' Joe cut in abruptly.

'Yeah...' Punk muttered bitterly. 'Friend.'

The stranger stared blankly at them both.

'Well?' Punk looked expectantly at Joe. 'Go on.'

Heaving a huff of frustration, Joe signed 'hi, my name is Joe. What's your name?' when Punk cuffed him on the arm.

'He can hear you alright, I just need you to translate what he's saying.'

By this time, seeing someone else using hand motions had excited the stranger and he began throwing gestures right back at the large-set man who blinked with a furrowed brow. 'That's... not ASL,' he said, at last. 'Wait, where's your globe?'

'Pfft, I don't have a fucking globe,' Punk snorted.

'Oh really? Not even that one I bought you three Christmases ago?'

Punk quickly backtracked. 'Ohhh, that globe! Yeah I still got that globe.' He rushed over to a closet at the far end of the room and took a long time digging around before he finally produced it, still in its box and sealed.

'You keep it in the back of your closet?' Joe asked coldly, accepting the box from Punk.

'Just for safe-keeping, while I'm getting my office repainted.'

'Riiiiiiight.' Ripping the box open, Joe fetched out the plastic globe and placed it on the coffee table in front of the stranger. 'Can you show us where you're from?'

On instinct, Joe had turned the globe so that North America was facing the stranger but once he placed his large fingers on the sphere, he began turning it, passing over the Atlantic Ocean until he settled it at Europe. A wobbly smile broke his lips when he pressed his fingertip to a spot and both Punk and Joe leaned in for a closer look.

'You're from England?' Punk brows shot up.

The stranger gave a vicious snarl.

'From Scotland,' Joe corrected. The cat paw bobbed wildly. 'Hold on a minute...' Joe fished out his phone and began tapping away on the screen while Punk stared down at the tiny nation pressed beneath the stranger's large digit.

'We've been to Scotland before, haven't we?'

'Yeah, few times. Back when we were starting out, we had some bouts in Glasgow.'

'That's right! You from Glasgow?' The stranger shook his fist. He then began pointing his fingers upwards. 'You're from... Up? Uptown? O-over...? Over-town?'

'Skye?' Joe put in his guess but everything received a shake of the head. The stranger then splayed his fingers, hovering them around him. 'Air?' Cat paw! Cat paw! 'Oh, Ayr! You're from Ayr?'

'How do you know all this shit?' Punk asked, his nose scrunched.

'Unlike you, I like to try and learn about the places we visit.' Joe returned to his phone, ignoring the eye roll from the tattooed man. 'Ah, now it makes sense. He's using British Sign Language.'

'Is it that different?'

Joe sighed with exasperation. 'Yeah, it is.' He turned his attention back to the stranger. 'I've pulled up the BSL alphabet. Can you spell your name out for me? Slowly?'

'You could just have gotten him to write it out,' Punk pointed out with a scoff.

'He's been with you since yesterday and you didn't think to do that.' Punk snapped his mouth shut. 'Go on.' The stranger began moving his hands. First he pointed his left index finger up and placed his right index and thumb against it, opened up like a semi-circle, clearly making the shape of a familiar letter. 'D,' Joe confirmed. Then he crooked his left index finger. 'R'. Next he placed his right index finger on the tip of his left index finger. 'E.' And finally he knitted the tops of his fingers together, palms facing. 'W,' Joe said and put the all the letters together. 'Drew? Your name is Drew?'

The dark head and cat paw bobbed excitedly. Blue eyes pricked with tears from finally hearing his own name being spoken back to him. He wasn't the only one who found himself emotionally affected by the reveal. In the corner, Punk had gone deathly quiet, his lips hanging open slightly as his mind raced.

Drew... his name is Drew...

'So, how did you get over here, Drew?' Joe asked. The Scotsman replied by swooping his fist through the air, his thump and pinkie extended. 'You flew here?' Cat paw, but then the fingers grasped the collar at his neck.

'They flew you here,' Punk answered, understanding the hidden meaning. 'They guys who held you prisoner?'

Cat paw, followed by more finger spelling. Joe read them out as they were motioned 'L. I. E. Lie, they lied to you?' Cat paw, followed by a sawing and hammer motion. 'They said it was for work?' Cat paw, then another grasp at his collar. 'But they imprisoned you instead.'

'They forced him to fight,' Punk cut in, already knowing this part of Drew's horrific recent past. 'Probably around the illegal circuits, remember them? We looked into a few before we realised how fucking dangerous they were?'

But Joe was rubbing his fingers back and forth over his lips, deep in thought. 'Drew...' the blue eyes stared back at him. 'They made you do more than fight, right?' The Scot hesitated, glancing cautiously at Punk. 'That collar around your neck. Did they make you do anything... sexual?'

Punk hitched a breath, feeling his skin turn as cold as ice. The sensation overwhelmed him when he watched Drew's beautiful eyes darken and his head sink in shame. Punk couldn't contain the snarl in his throat as he scrubbed his palm over his face. His fists were shaking and he needed an outlet for it. Now!

He slammed his fist back against the wall. Hard. Feeling the skin break as it hit unrelenting brick. Joe looked up at him, his brows lowered. Go on, say it! Like a 'cornered feral cat'. Just fucking say it!

But it was Drew who piped up, flattening his left palm and swiping his right pointed finger beneath it. Joe's attention moved back to the large hands, trying to decipher them. Drew helped him by reaching down to shake the shattered chain at his feet. It was the first time the larger man had seen it and his face gave away the shock. 'But you escaped,' he explained, bringing Punk's focus back to the room.

Drew smiled broadly, then placed his thumb against his chest, swooping it around in a figure of eight. It took Joe a while to work out the sign but when he did, a grin broke out on his usually sullen face. 'Yes, yes I see,' he replied warmly and mimicked the same gesture on his chest.

Punk watched them both with bewilderment, wondering what joke he was missing out on, when Joe beamed up at him. 'You get it, right Punker?' he asked, doing the motion again. Punk shook his head. 'That means you!'

'Me?' Punk blinked, and looked over to Drew for confirmation. The blue eyes twinkled back at him, full lips spread wide revealing two deep dimples in his bearded cheeks. He did the motion again, swirling his thumb over his chest and Punk finally understood. He was following the path of the waves and serpent on his chest tattoo, just like he had last night in the wet room.

All of a sudden, Punk lost the ability to draw in breath. Overcome with emotion, he bit down hard on his cheek to stifle any sobs. 'Y-yeah,' he stuttered, shakily bobbing his head. 'Then I found you.'

With several mysteries solved, Joe moved on to the tasks Punk had sent him for. First on the checklist was removing the metal cuff and chain from around Drew's ankle. While Joe opened his tool box, Punk went into the kitchen to prepare some breakfast for them all. Larry lay flat on the couch, glaring at Joe as he placed a rod into the locking mechanism of the cuff and gave a threatening growl when Joe pulled back the mallet to strike.

'Yes, yes, I know Larry,' Joe said to the little dog. 'I promise I will be careful.' Another snarl. 'I promise! Urgh, you just had to adopt the dog that's a small furry version of you, didn't you?' he shot at Punk.

'Guess we're just the type that's nobody else wants,' Punk fired back from the kitchen.

He knew it was a cruel barb and from the corner of his eye, he saw Joe lower his arm and close his eyes, taking in a long, deep breath through his nose, the way he always did when he was trying to compose himself. Eventually he shrugged off Punk's vicious comment and moved on.

The cuff broke apart on the second strike and Drew's leg was finally free. He asked Punk to fetch the first aid kit ('under the sink, top shelf. You really should know this by now! What if you burn yourself or cut yourself with a knife in the kitchen!') then cleaned and wrapped the wounds on Drew's ankle. Once the Scot had been treated, Joe helped him into some old clothes of his. He may not have the height that Drew did, but he was large and broad so the clothes fitted much better than Punk's did.

By the time, they all sat down at the table to eat, Drew was transformed. Wearing a navy T-shirt and black shorts with his long hair pulled back in an old hair-tie that Punk had found in a drawer, he looked more... normal. Like any other guy. Well, except for the collar around his neck. Punk placed his food down in front of him and had a double-take, examining him from head to foot. He couldn't deny that he looked good. Really good!

He served Joe next then, after topping up Larry's bowl, he joined them at the table with his own stack of pancakes. Grabbing up the syrup first, he proceeded to empty almost the entire bottle onto his stack as Drew and Joe looked on in disgust.

'You never change,' Joe muttered. They soon tucked in and Joe's eyes lit up with the first taste of the warm pancakes. 'Wow, these are delicious! You've really improved your technique.'

Punk chewed his bottom lip awkwardly. 'I didn't make 'em,' he confessed. 'They're yours. I found them in the freezer box.'

'Wait, so they've been in there all this time?'

Punk never once took his eyes off the pancakes on his plate as he stuffed another bite into his mouth. 'Just... forgot they were there.'

The atmosphere dampened and they ate the rest of their breakfast in silence.

A short while later, Punk escorted Joe to the door. 'Thanks again for helping out,' he said, stuffing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

'No problem, I just...' Joe gently shoved Punk out onto his front step and closed the door behind him with a quick glance upstairs to make sure nobody was within earshot. 'Punker,' he said, sternly and the cage-fighter knew there was a lecture coming, 'listen to me. Drew is a big guy. He's taller than both of us and he's clearly really strong.'

'I know what you're getting at,' Punk sighed, 'and I've been thinking it too.'

'Good,' Joe cut in with relief. 'Cause anybody who trafficked a guy like Drew here and kept him prisoner all these years has to be dangerous.'

'You don't have to worry about me,' Punk smiled weakly out the side of his mouth.

'You know you have a habit of getting yourself into stupid shit you're not cut out for.'

Punk bristled at that and folded his arms across his chest. 'What you saying here exactly?'

'This isn't your problem to solve. Drew was trafficked here illegally by criminals - you have to call the cops.'

'Why?' Punk argued, getting defensive. 'So they can just toss him in a holding centre somewhere. He's already been imprisoned against his will for years, I can't do that to him again.'

'You don't know that!' Joe protested. 'You're not a social worker-'

'No shit,' Punk snapped back, 'because I'm actually helping the guy.'

'You can't let what happened to you cloud your judgement here,' Joe tried to reason with the cage-fighter who was getting more irate and closed off by the second. 'I get that what Chez and her family did for you was incredibly kind and selfless but there's no expectation on you to pay that forward.'

'And what if I want to!' Punk opened his arms wide. 'What if I just wanna do the right thing here?'

'This isn't some fifteen year old kid we're talking about,' Joe kept his voice calm and composed, the way he always did when they argued. Punk hated when he did that! 'The guy looks to be in his mid to late thirties. He's not even from here, he has a whole life and family back home, maybe even a wife and kids.'

'He doesn't have to stay if he doesn't want to,' Punk debated, 'but until he's ready, gets back on his feet, who gives a shit?'

'And what if those guys come looking for him?'

Punk paused, pursing his lips. 'We'll be alright. I'll keep him safe.'

Joe scrubbed his hand across his brow, no doubt feeling a stress headache taking hold. 'It's not him, I'm worried about. I'm worried about you.'

'I told you already, you don't need to-'

'But I do! I can't help it. Every damn minute of every damn day I worry about you and it drives me fucking crazy! I can't keep doing this.'

'Then why did you answer my call at 5am this morning? Why did you even come here?'

Joe heaved a long, weary sigh. 'I don't know,' he admitted. 'I really want this to work out between us, this whole 'friendship' thing, I really do, but you've got to put in the effort too. You've gotta at least try to move on.'

'You're the one who left me!' Punk was raising his voice and he couldn't help it. All the pain and hurt from the past few months was spilling out of him like water gushing through a fractured dam. 'You don't get to tell me when I'm ready to move on. Anyway, how the hell am I meant to move on when I keep finding your shit all over my house!'

He clamped his mouth shut, realising his faux-pas too late. Joe stared back at him, furious agony marring his features.

'Exactly. Your house! Your career. Your hopes, your dreams. Your life. You, you, you! That's all it's ever been about. You're so fucking selfish!'

'Yeah, well why'd you stick around so long if I was such a shitty boyfriend and an even shittier fiancé?'

Joe shrugged his shoulders in defeat. 'Good question,' he said, bitterly as he turned away. 'Least you've matured enough to admit that at last.'

Punk could have called his name, could have told him to stay and they could talk things out properly but he knew it wouldn't work. The one talent that he had was making things worse. So he let Joe walk away. Again.

Stepping back inside, he forced all the pain down deep inside him again, pushing it into the dark recesses and sealing it tight.

Right now, he had more important things to worry about than whining about how his life was falling apart at the seams. He had a blue-eyed Scot called Drew who needed him.

Who needed him to be strong.

To be continued...

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[singwith-love-at-our-throats]

The Darkling by @thisisoffyourbird is all bound!! It’s HUGE (1400 pages!!!)!

Look at them all next to each other!!

This was my first attempt at book binding, and it was so much fun!!

[ortofosforico]

Summing up my thoughts about Loki s2ep3:

[eat-applez]

I have decided to post a couple of pictures of my rats

I have posted a couple of photos of my rats

EDIT: For anyone worried, I put covering up on the top too!! ^^

[tokkias]

alcohol free ship: natsu dragneel x lucy heartfilia summary: All it takes is a few drinks for Lucy to start doing things she knows she might regret in the morning, and unfortunately for Natsu he's the one designated to pick up the pieces. ao3

In all his years in Fairy Tail, Natsu had learned to hold his liquor. A couple of shots and plenty of beers had done little to faze him over the course of the night.

He couldn’t exactly say the same of his partner, though.

She was only halfway through her second cocktail when Lucy started to feel the effects of the alcohol hit her, and with Mirajane keeping them coming, well, that was a recipe for disaster.

Any other time, Natsu might have stepped in before she got to that point; drunk Lucy was… sloppy, to put it kindly, but after a few weeks of rough jobs, she deserved to let loose a little. Still, he knew he best keep an eye on her, lest she get herself into trouble. Or, at least, that was the plan.

He had only looked away for a moment, but in that time, he had lost sight of her within the sea of rowdy, boozed-up guildmates. Slight panic set in as he scanned the room for her, worried about what sort of trouble a drunk Lucy could get herself into. Thankfully, a flash of golden hair hobbling towards the bar quelled his nerves.

"Ah~! Another drink, please, Mira!"

Her face was flushed a deep red as she swayed from side to side, trying to keep her balance in her drunken state, before ultimately grabbing hold of Natsu’s shoulder in an attempt to stay upright. The last time he had seen her this evening, she was a little tipsy, but now, she was absolutely hammered.

Figuring that tonight was his turn as the responsible one of the pair, he spoke up before Mira had a chance to respond to her request.

"No. I’m not letting ya drink any more tonight," he told her firmly, deciding that if he wasn’t going to put his foot down now, she would make it both of their problems for the rest of the night.

"You’re no fun," she whined, a pout making its way onto her lips as she leaned in closer to him. She was so close that their noses were almost touching, her expression inscrutable, and he flinched back a bit as he was hit with the pungent smell of alcohol on her breath.

Mira’s voice would snap her out of her little trance: "I think Natsu’s right, Lucy. I’m going to have to cut you off for tonight."

Natsu silently thanked every god, deity and star there was that Mira wasn’t going to enable Lucy to make the rest of his night absolutely miserable. He didn’t like it when she got like this. Sure, Lucy was weird, but drunk Lucy was weird weird. She’d get all affectionate and emotional with him, and he never really knew how to respond to it. Sober Lucy had firm physical boundaries with him, but as soon as she got a little liquid courage in her veins, she would be all over him. If Lucy remembered some of the things she’d done while drunk, he thought she might have sworn off drinking altogether out of pure shame and embarrassment.

He couldn’t earnestly say he disliked the attention and affection she gave him while drunk. The way she swooned over him, the way she draped himself over him, the way her brain seemed to become nothing more than Natsu, Natsu, Natsu, Natsu, always had him feeling some type of way about her. He recalled a night where he had allowed her one too many, and she eagerly spent the rest of the evening running her hands across his arms and chest, admiring his form in a way that was a little more than friendly. The memory of it had been burned into his brain; her touch scorched into his skin, leaving mental marks that he would simply never forget.

To be honest, he liked the way she felt against him, but there was just one problem he had with it.

This wasn’t his Lucy.

His Lucy would be sure to give him a smack across the head if his hand trailed too low down her back for her liking, not clinging to him the way she was right now.

She had since moved on from her prior woes and had instead found herself attached to his side, her arms wrapped around his, pulling it into her cleavage as her chin rested on his shoulder.

"Naaaaatssssuuuuu~" she purred, "come dance with me~"

"No," he rejected point-blank, not wanting to entertain drunk Lucy’s antics tonight.

He’d watch over her, make sure she was okay and taken care of, but he refused to let himself be dragged into her drunken whims.

That plan shattered to pieces the moment he spoke, and Lucy’s bottom lip began to quiver and her eyes became glassy with true, genuine tears. As soon as he saw the first tear run down her cheek, Natsu knew that he had royally fucked himself.

"Is it because you hate me?" She whimpered, pulling away from him to hold her hands in her face, weeping into her palms.

"No, Lucy, I don't--" Her sobs and wails were beginning to draw much unwanted attention their way, and Natsu rested his hand on her shoulder in a bid to do some damage control. "I don’t hate you. Fine. Fine. I’ll dance with you."

That was one thing drunk and sober Lucy had in common: for her, he would cave so easy.

Eyes immediately lighting up, Lucy pulled him over to the centre of the guildhall with more force than he thought possible from her, joining them in the fray of guild members drunkenly bopping along to the music over the speakers.

Natsu didn’t dance. He was happy to sit on the sidelines and drink until the inevitable fight broke out, but he didn’t dance. Or at least, not in the way that Lucy wanted to. He really had no idea what to do with himself, but it seemed that no one else in the crowd cared that much, though most importantly, it seemed that Lucy didn’t care that much. She was happy to drunkenly move along to the music, throwing her head back and her arms into the air before pulling them back down and running her hands sensuously down her body as Natsu stood there and gawked like an idiot.

Judging by the stench of alcohol and the familiar company he was in, Natsu figured that he might just be the only sober one among them, and he wasn’t sure if that made this whole scenario better or worse.

Lucy didn’t give him much time to ponder before she forcibly captured his attention once more by wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her, and making him sway alongside her in time to the music. Her body was pressed up against his, her lips so close to his that he worried she was going to kiss him. And god, yes, he wanted to kiss her so badly, but not like this. Not in the middle of the guild hall with everyone watching, while she’s absolutely drunk out of her mind. Not when she wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

He’d always heard the whispers about how oblivious he must be to not notice just how damn attractive his partner was, but what they didn’t know was just how much he knew about her body. He was intimately familiar with the way her skin felt under his hands—with every curve and dip of her body, every scar, every mark. Natsu was well aware that Lucy might damn well be the most attractive girl he’d ever have the pleasure of meeting, of touching, but he just never felt the need to let his attraction be known to anyone, much less her.

They were best friends; nothing about that needed to change just because the image of her—her laugh, her smile, her golden blonde hair falling over her shoulders, her perfect pout, and her soft rosy cheeks—were all burned into his brain. Any way he might have felt about her that was anything but platonic had long since been locked away in the deepest depths of his brain.

The pungent stench of alcohol on her breath was unavoidable in their close proximity, but the way her lips were pursed like she wanted him to lean down and capture them with his own was much more distracting.

She was looking up at him, almost expectantly, waiting for him to do something that the both of them might regret in the morning. It was almost enough for him to disregard all his time spent locking away his feelings for her, as if she alone held the key to his heart. Any other night he would have let his resolve crumble beneath him with just how easy it would have been to tilt her chin up and press his lips against hers, but the part of him that yearns for her wants to taste Lucy, not the long island iced tea’s she’d been downing all night.

Her deep chocolate eyes bore into his soul, demanding all of his attention, all of him.

He dropped his head back slightly—anything in order to avoid her intense gaze—and sucked in a deep breath to clear his head.

"Alright, I think you’ve had enough fun for tonight," he told her, interrupting whatever moment she was trying to create between them. "It’s time I get you home, Lucy,"

For once in his life, Natsu chose his words with purpose, so neither she nor anyone else could choose to misinterpret his intentions.

Ignoring the deep pout on her lips, he detached her body from his and grabbed her wrist, pulling her away from the crowd.

"Leaving so soon?" Mira chimed from her spot behind the bar as she saw the two making their exit.

Not bothering with a verbal answer, Natsu simply gestured his head towards Lucy, who had found herself clinging onto his arm to keep her balance as she stumbled alongside him to keep up with his sober pace.

In response, Mira flashed him a weary smile that he could only assume was her way of wishing him luck on making it back to Lucy’s apartment.

Lucy stumbled along behind him, struggling to keep up with his fast pace as he practically dragged her along the streets of Magnolia. All he wanted was to get her home safely, put her to bed, and be over with this whole mess. He didn’t want to think about the way that she looked at him anymore, lest he let all the work he had done pushing away his feelings unravel like a sweater with a loose thread.

It wasn’t until a stray crack in the pavement caught the toe of her boot that he found himself looking back at her as his instincts kicked in, catching her in his arms before she could fall to the ground.

He paused for a moment to settle his racing heartbeat from her close call before having to remind himself that she was still very much drunk and struggling to balance herself. Even though drunk Lucy wasn’t his favourite, he still wasn’t about to let any harm come to her.

Making sure she could stand on her own, he tried to let her go so she could walk on her own, but she didn’t take kindly to his attempts, clinging even harder to him as he tried to pull her away from him, her forehead firmly pressed against his shoulder.

"Carry me," she murmured into his chest.

Deciding it wasn’t her worst idea of the night, Natsu obliged, turning away from her and crouching slightly so she could crawl onto his back. He stumbled forward slightly when Lucy chose to throw her full body weight onto his back, but he quickly found his bearings for her sake, catching her legs and adjusting his grip so he wouldn’t drop her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she nuzzled her nose into the back of his neck, taking comfort in his familiar scent and the soft warmth of his scarf.

With sober Lucy, he would have jumped at the opportunity to tease her about how heavy she’d gotten, even though she was just as easy to carry as the last time, just to goad a reaction out of her, but right now he needed to get her home with as few interruptions as possible. As much as he might have liked to run down there, he kept a steady, even pace to avoid jostling his partner too much, fearing what would happen if her stomach were to become unsettled from the movement and the alcohol.

She had settled down a little since leaving the guild; perhaps her weird drunken behaviour was enabled by the weird drunken comrades she had surrounded herself with. It came as a small relief to Natsu, knowing that she would hopefully be easier to get in to bed in this state so he could finally be free from the curse of drunk Lucy.

He didn’t need to think much about the path he was taking; he had walked it so many times that it had become muscle memory, even with the full weight of his best friend on his back. It wasn’t long before the ever-familiar building came into sight, and he nudged the door open before trudging up the stairs.

He always kept the spare key Mira gave her in his pocket, but usually that was reserved for when he was here against Lucy’s will, and in her current state, he wasn’t about to search her pockets for the main copy. Lucy let out a soft whine when he placed her down before fumbling with his keys. Thankfully, it didn’t take long before the familiar click of the lock turning rang out, and he opened the door, guiding Lucy inside before closing it behind them.

His suspicions about her settled state were confirmed when she let out a soft yawn, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands as she did so.

"Can you help me put on my jammies?" She asked, stifling another yawn with her hand.

Knowing that she probably wouldn’t take no for an answer, Natsu begrudgingly rummaged through her dresser to find some appropriate sleepwear. He lifted her shirt over her head, throwing it on the floor to collect in a pile that Lucy could scold him about tomorrow, before pulling a fresh shirt back on her.

He knew that if some of the guys at the guild found out about this, he would never hear the end of it, but it really wasn’t like that. There was nothing sexy about it. He was just doing his duty as her best friend to take care of her. She was drunk, falling asleep in his arms, and he wasn’t going to let her go to bed in the shirt that she had definitely spilled her (or someone else’s?) drink on. He eased her onto the edge of her bed, pulling her skirt down and discarding it with her shirt before slipping her feet through the leg holes of her favourite pair of sleep shorts.

"There. Now ya can go to bed," he told her, giving her a gentle pat on the head.

Lucy stuck her bottom lip out in a pathetic little pout at the prospect of losing his attention for the night before grabbing his wrist to pull him a little closer.

"Tuck me in? Please?"

Just as he was about to tell her to do it herself, he met her pleading gaze and realised that he was truly fucking whipped.

With a defeated sigh, he pulled back the sheets for her to crawl into before pulling them back up to her chin and tucking the excess fabric falling off the edge beneath the mattress. She looked so comfy and content laying there, tucked in nice and tight beneath her soft sheets, and Natsu couldn’t help but smile at the sight, even after all the grief she had put him through.

All in all, he was just happy she had made it home safely and through the night without incident.

The sun had set many hours ago, and while he knew he could make it home fine on his own, Lucy’s couch seemed like the comfier, lazier option, with the added benefit of making sure she didn’t get herself into trouble when left alone. She would yell at him for crashing here in the morning, and in turn, he would brush it off like he did every other time.

Taking off his scarf and jacket, he tossed them over the back of the couch before making himself comfortable, rearranging the cushions as he saw fit to rest his head on through the night. His eyes fell shut rather easily, comforted by the soft cushions that his body sank into and the familiar smell of his best friend lingering all around him.

Sleep did not come to him before Lucy’s voice did, ringing out through the air, signalling that something was wrong.

"Naaaaatssssuuuuu," Lucy called out to him in a high-pitched whine, "I need yooouuuu-"

Deciding ignoring her pleas would only prolong her cries, Natsu pulled himself off the couch to make his way over to her bedside, where he sat himself on the edge of her bed next to where she lay.

"Yeah? What’s up, Lucy?" He asked, willing to indulge her while she seemed to be acting somewhat normal.

"I love you," she mumbled, her eyelids heavy, lashes fluttering as she let them fall.

Her sudden declaration did little to catch him off guard. They’d exchanged dozens of I love you’s in the past because it was true. He loved her, and she loved him—the same way she loved everyone else in the guild. Of course the words held weight for them, but not any more than they should have coming from any other member of their family.

"I love you too," he replied, brushing her fringe out of her eyes.

"Noooooooo," she whined, "I’m in love with you." Her eyes fluttered back open to meet his, and within them, he was met with a sincerity that he wasn’t sure he was able to comprehend. "It’s different."

His hand still rested atop her head as he tried to process what she had just confessed.

Lucy was in love with him.

Lucy was in love with him.

His Lucy, the one who could have anyone she wanted with a bat of her lashes and a pout of her lips, was in love, with him.

There was something wrong about her saying it.

Not because he didn’t believe her, not because he didn’t think that he was deserving of her love, but because she was still utterly inebriated.

"You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re drunk," he replied, playfully flicking her nose in an attempt to lighten the mood and calm his racing heart.

"No I’m not," she murmured, "I knew I was in love with you when we were on Tenrou, and I was afraid we were all going to die, but then you held my hand and I-" Lucy paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts, remaining as eloquent as her sober self even after far too many drinks. "I remember thinking, wow, Natsu really is incredible."

Her eyes were trained to the ceiling, a dreamy look in her eyes, no longer acknowledging his presence even after she had just confessed that she had been in love with him for years now.

Natsu couldn’t bring himself to do anything but sit and stare. He remembered that moment. Of course he did. He remembered the helplessness in her eyes as she sobbed, remembered the way she looked up at him when he held her hand in his own.

He remembered how it tore his heart in two to see her like that, because it was in that moment that he finally thought he understood what romantic love was.

He just didn’t think that she was feeling it as well.

His mouth dropped open to say something, but all the words got stuck in his throat. Sure, he’d thought about what might happen if she felt the same way, but he’d stopped considering that scenario long ago, happy and content with the way their relationship was. Now that it was coming true, he had no idea how he was supposed to respond.

"You don’t have to say anything," she murmured. "I just didn’t have the confidence to tell you while I was sober."

When her gaze finally met his own, he could see that the soft smile on her lips made it all the way up to her eyes, relief sitting behind them as though a large weight had been lifted off her chest. There were no tears, no grief that he still couldn’t muster the words to tell her how he felt; she was simply at ease.

"Thank you," she said, breaking through the silence that had been left behind by his inability to find the right words.

"For what?" He asked, taken aback slightly by her choice of words.

"Taking care of me," she replied. "I know you don’t like me when I’m drunk."

"I like you all the time," he told her, giving her a poke to the chest. "I just prefer ya when you’re sober."

She exhaled softly through her nose with a gentle smile on her lips in what he could only assume was a show of her vague amusement at his jab before quiet befell them once more.

"Hey Lucy?"

"Mm?" She hummed, her eyes having fallen shut once more as sleep began to take its hold on her.

"How ‘bout you tell me again tomorrow, y’know, when you’re not drunk," he suggested, hoping this conversation would not be lost on them in the morning.

"Okay," she breathed, her content expression still remaining as she began to fall into the depths of sleep. "Goodnight, Natsu."

"G'night, Lucy."