#minifes

[forlix]

𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞・b.c.

— incurable playboy turned doting boyfriend was a character development arc nobody saw coming for christopher bang, including (especially) his frat brothers.

words・2.8k pairing・frat president!chris x gn!reader genres・fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, college!au, fuckboy!chris, boys being boys, kissing, implied sex so mdni warnings・substance use, talk of past heartbreak

a/n・here is "nobody believes you're dating" w/chan, requested by none other than my @rachalixie for my 2k event !! anny, i hope u love this fic as much as i love u; thank you for allowing me to write something so self-indulgent <3

In the deafening throes of one of Phi Mu Alpha’s spring kickbacks, Minho finds Jeongin and Seungmin standing in motionless silence by the kitchen counter. Both boys are gaping at something with an intensity that dips egregiously into the realm of creepy. He moves to pour himself a shot.

“What the fuck are you people looking at?”

Seungmin prods a pointer finger in the relevant direction. It takes a few seconds of scanning the scene for Minho to find what he’s referring to. He digs a knuckle into his eye, instantly confused by what he’s seeing. Maybe the gaping is justified.

The windows and doors have all been thrown open to invite the balmy April weather into the foyer of the frathouse. There’s a large crowd of people huddled around a long, foldable table stationed before the stairs; Jaehyun clutches a ping-pong ball between his fingers, singular eye squinted shut as he takes aim. The number of remaining solo cups dwindles rapidly, as does the players’ sobriety.

Something—someone—is missing.

Not to say “beer pong virtuoso” was one of the reasons Chris was elected frat president, but you’d think the guy had a career path in basketball with how he’s given the entire Greek life community alcohol poisoning by courtesy of two or three plastic balls alone. Minho has never known him to miss a shot, let alone miss out on a game.

Today, however, the reigning champion is only spectating, seated above the ongoing match on one of the steps of the main staircase.

A beautiful stranger is sitting beside him, cheek pressed to his shoulder as you peer at the match through the bannister.

You say something inaudible. The laugh it earns from Chris is bright enough to pick up from a few streets down. He leans in to murmur something in return, and you slide your hand over his nape to pull his mouth onto yours, light blush crawling up and over your ears. The way Chris melts into you can only be described as familiar, his eyes slowly fluttering shut, finger hooking delicately beneath your chin, grin going lopsided as your lips part—

“That’s enough,” Minho hisses, tearing his eyes away with considerable effort. “Aren’t you ashamed? Just fucking ogling.”

Jeongin shakes his head, grinning. “It’s dinner and a show. We’d be idiots not to.”

By dinner, he must mean the gallon of chocolate milk he’s been drinking from for the last hour. He now holds out said gallon with the intent to cheers. Seungmin picks up the entire handle and does the same.

Minho sighs, clinks his glass against theirs, and they throw back their respective refreshments in unison.

“Anywho.” Jeongin swipes the back of his hand over his mouth before going on. “You guys know who that is?”

Minho resurfaces with a wince, relishing in the bitter aftermath, then motions for Seungmin to give the bottle back straightaway. He arrived to the function late and he’s not nearly as drunk as he’d like to be.

Seungmin obliges Minho only after another heady swig. “No clue. Probably just another fling, no?”

“Mmm,” Jeongin hums in assent. “It’s Chris we’re talking about, after all.”

"Agreed. Case closed.”

There’s an air of finality in Seungmin’s voice—but Minho isn’t so sure.

Perhaps because he has never noticed that Chris had dimples until now; or because you fold so naturally into Chris' side after your kiss ends, head nuzzling against the crook of his neck and hand seeking out his to hold in your lap; or, most likely, because Chris' eyes seem to return to you when he looks at you, as if his gaze drifting anywhere else is but a momentary departure from where it really belongs. As if he comes home every time you come into his line of vision.

Whatever the reason, the idea coalesces in Minho’s mind, even as inebriation begins to fall over his cognitive faculties like a curtain, that the boys have got it wrong.

Jeongin utters his name, jolting him out of his trance. There’s another shot lifted halfway to Minho’s lips that hasn’t budged in minutes. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Minho looks at Jeongin first, Seungmin next, then back at Chris and his stunning companion. He’s not inclined to answer the question in full, but he can in truth. A coy smile crosses his face.

“Threesome?”

Jeongin laughs hard enough to collapse onto the kitchen island. Seungmin drags a hand down his face. “Come on, man.”

In the corner of his eye, you’ve gone back to kissing again, slow and sweet and secretive. Chris' gentle hold on your jaw shields you from view but fails to hide his lovesick smile. Dimly, Minho thinks that maybe his friend has met his match.

Then, he takes four shots in rapid succession—and stops thinking altogether.

Christopher Bang’s love life is like a horror movie and romcom spliced together: a fiasco of a film to which his housemates have front row seats.

The frat’s upperclassmen live in sets of four-bed, two-bath suites comprising a small common space with a kitchen and a sitting area, sandwiched by bedrooms on either side. It is in that common space that Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jisung often see or hear Chris stumbling home after a night out, entangled with a different attractive stranger every time—so often, in fact, that they’ve come to believe that he’s deathly allergic to anything bigger than a one-and-done hookup.

They can’t judge. In part because they’d be throwing stones from glass houses, but also because the man’s penchant for empty physicality is far from unfounded. His past self gave pieces of his heart to the wrong people, contracted first-degree burns from the guileless warmth he sought out. Now, his version of “intimacy” is less a connotation of closeness than it is a self-contradiction, for it should be impossible for so much distance to remain between two people in a single bed.

Chris hasn’t vocalized any of this. Nor have his housemates discussed it with each other. The knowledge simply exists in the air between the four of them like something akin to taboo, dipping in and out of acknowledgement depending on the circumstance.

This might be the circumstance of all time.

At around 11:40 A.M. on a Saturday, three doors in the suite open at once. Hyunjin and Changbin aren’t coincidence—the latter is coercing the former to go to the gym again—but they lift their eyes to the opposite side of the living room, and the slice of milk bread dangling from Hyunjin’s lips very nearly takes a fatal fall. Changbin manages to snatch it up with an extended hand.

Chris has just emerged from his room as well. Your silhouette follows close behind, your mouth stretching into a yawn as you massage the sleep from your eyes. You’re sporting a mesh green sweater identical to one Chris owns. They find Chris' accessories more interesting than his clothes, though: two hickeys peeking out from beneath his jaw and the base of his neck.

Chris sees Hyunjin and Changbin right away, and his expression goes utterly blank, not unlike their faces as they watch you close his door meticulously. You turn around and gasp.

The four of you stare at each other for what feels like multiple business days. At least, Hyunjin, Changbin, and Chris stare at each other; your eyes dart between the men on the other side of the room and the man next to you, silently pleading for him to say something. He does not for a long while.

Then, he lunges for one of the throw pillows on the couch and flings it at Hyunjin like a shot put. It ricochets off his chest and lands on the floor rather anticlimactically.

“Distraction!” Chris yells anyways, grabbing your hand and tearing towards the exit, wild grin on his face. “Go, go, go!”

Your raucous laughter lingers even after you’ve been hauled away, accompanied by an unintelligible, breathless shout of something along the lines of my toothbrush—and then the front door clicks shut, and there are two.

Changbin and Hyunjin lock eyes, struggling to process what just happened. Hyunjin is the first to move, wandering hesitantly into the bathroom that Chris and Jisung share. Nothing about the place looks out of the ordinary.

“Well, shit,” Hyunjin says out loud.

That is, aside from the two toothbrushes slotted in the holder on Chris' side of the counter.

Something moves in the bathroom window, catching his attention. Hyunjin looks over just in time to spot you and Chris dart out onto the lawn two floors below. Chris has his arm draped over your shoulders, yours wrapped around his waist. Your smile is discernible all the way from here, and Hyunjin sees a perfect mirror of it on his friend’s face when Chris glances at the frathouse over his shoulder. 

Has he always had dimples?

Moments later, Changbin joins him in peering out the window. A high-pitched cackle erupts from the older boy’s lips. “Look at that idiot.”

Standing off to the left is a tiny, astonished Han Jisung, his arms full of groceries, jaw sitting squarely the grass and whites of his eyes on full display as he watches you and Chris stroll away.

Hyunjin laughs with his whole fucking body. Changbin whips out his phone and takes a picture.

When you finally breach the topic, it’s because you don’t think you can physically study for another minute—but also because, after multiple long months of fruitless sparring, your curiosity finally wins.

Your boyfriend is seated in your desk chair, feet kicked up onto your mattress with his laptop propped up on his thighs. His features have rearranged themselves into an expression of intense focus as he pores over his production homework. You can hear music blaring through his headphones from all the way here.

You uncross your legs from below you, scootch across your bed, and lift your hands to cradle his cheeks. He startles as if coming out of a trance, then begins to smile when he reads the words hi, Channie off your lips.

His headphones fall around his neck. He sets his laptop down onto your desk with a dull thunk. The next thing to drop is you when Chris seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the mattress. The somber atmosphere of your study session is shattered by your muted laughter and Chris pressing his lips to every inch of your exposed skin he can. He saves your mouth for last.

“Hey, beautiful,” he answers, but only after kissing the living daylights out of you, the syllables soft and silky with adoration. “Missed me?”

You drag your eyes from his brown irises with blown pupils to his sloping nose, from his disheveled dark locks to his cordate lips, so plush and warm against your own that you swear you still feel them there. You brush a hand over the back of his neck, your head now spinning so badly that you barely remember what you wanted to ask him.

“Always,” you say. “I was starting to feel jealous of your homework.”

He chuckles. “Shit, I’ll drop out of college right now, baby. Just say the word.”

“You’re perfect,” you hum.

“Says you,” he murmurs, nudging the tip of his nose against yours.

Your lips find each other’s again—needless to say, your study sessions aren’t known for their productivity. Some time passes before you come up for air. Even afterwards, Chris doesn’t let you go far, pulling you into his chest by the curve of your waist, nuzzling his cheek into your hairline. You only need to whisper for him to hear your question.

“Can I ask you something?”

“'Course,” he returns, and you’re close enough to sense him tighten with apprehension. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry.” You print a kiss to the side of his neck for extra reassurance. “It’s just…I’ve been meaning to ask how your friends feel about me.”

He tightens with something else now: surprise, you’re guessing; you’re hoping. You hadn’t seriously considered that the answer could be negative, but it’s dawning on you now that the possibility of that isn’t zero.

“Where’s this coming from?” Chris inquires, his tone opaque.

You hesitate, mentally reviewing your interactions with your boyfriend’s social circle. Hyunjin and Jisung can’t make eye contact with you when they speak to you. Minho does nothing but make eye contact with you whether he’s speaking to you or not. Jeongin and Seungmin can maintain small talk for about ten seconds before they start looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. Changbin is the only one you’ve held a conversation with, and only because you were going up the same stairs at the same time and the alternative would have been mind-numbing silence.

What is the best way for you to say this?

“Well,” you begin, “I can’t help but notice that they act a little—when I’m around, they’re a bit, uh—”

“—crazy,” Chris offers. “Completely fucking bat-shit crazy.”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

Chris threads a hand through your hair, the comforting gesture doing nothing to assuage your worry. It seems there’s some truth behind your impressions. Your next words are tinged with a quiet sadness.

“I’m not imagining things, then?”

“No, angel,” he sighs. “But not for the reasons you think.”

A beat passes. Chris perceives your silence as a chance to backtrack, to opt out of this conversation if it’s one he’s not ready for. He would’ve leapt at the opportunity once.

But he realizes in that moment, with your voice gentle against his ears and your touch so doting upon his skin, how much has changed since he met you: from the color of the sky to the word home and everything in between, including his cynicism towards love and all the iterations of forever it holds. 

With that epiphany comes another, then another: he wants you to know why his friends are acting insane, wants you to know about him and his past and all the wounds of his you never know you healed, wants you to spend the rest of this forever with him.

His pointer finger dusts beneath your chin, a wordless request for you to look at him, and he nearly liquifies when you do and he finds entire constellations in your eyes. 

“It’s a lot,” he mumbles, though he suspects you know that already; he suspects you know about the other stuff, too. 

You bring your hand to the side of his face, bring your forehead to rest upon his. Your closeness washes over him like a low summer tide lapping over sandy shores, a soothing balm spreading over scorched flesh. 

“It’s you,” you breathe. “I will love it just the same.”

Chris' held breath comes out in shudders.

So this is warmth.

Minho and Felix are watching anime on the couch when a knock comes at their door, unfortunately during a pivotal moment of a pivotal episode. 

Minho hits pause with a ghastly groan. Felix laughs and rises to his feet, dashing into his room to grab the two silver necklaces he’ll be loaning out for the evening. “Coming!”

Outside, Chris is standing alone, hips and thighs accentuated by a pair of tight-fitting dress pants, sculpted chest and collarbones framed by a thin, cream-colored shirt with the top three buttons undone. Most of his hair has been pushed off his forehead, leaving a few locks free to fall over his right eyebrow. He’s rolling up his sleeves when Felix opens the door, veined forearms flexing as a result of the effort.

“Well?” He asks. Minho cranes his neck to look past Felix.

Both boys start to holler and whistle like excited macaques.

“What in the Calvin Klein is this?” Felix shouts, spinning Chris around by the shoulders. “You look insane, bro. Holy fuck.”

“What’s the occasion, young man?” Minho inadvertently sounds like a gruff uncle. “Where are you going dressed like that, huh?”

Chris' laugh comes easier nowadays. What’s more, it comes in a way that reaches the rest of him, that ends in a tiny, high squeak that you really have to look for in order to hear.

Felix and Minho can't help but replicate his smile. Those clothes look good on him, yes—but happiness looks better.

“You guys are silly,” Chris giggles. Dimples indent his cheeks as he accepts the necklaces from Felix. “Thanks, man. I’ll give ‘em back tomorrow.”

“No rush,” Felix replies, grinning. “Have fun, yeah?”

“We will.” Chris starts to retreat down the hallway, hands moving to clasp the jewelry around his neck, but not before he blows the both of them a kiss.

“Be back before ten!” Minho hollers; Chris laughs again, turns a corner, and disappears.

Felix closes the door. His smile falters fast. Minho has brought his face mere centimeters away, his expression thoroughly humorless.

“Tell me only the truth, Lee Yongbok,” he deadpans.

“O-okay—”

“Is Chris in a relationship?”

“—oh.” Felix frowns. “Well, yeah.”

Minho blanches. “How—how long?”

“One year, give or take? Anniversary’s today.”

Minho is stunned. Felix is stunned that Minho is stunned.

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[krakenartificer]

Leverage AU where Nate does go into the priesthood … but still ends up doing the same thing.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned.”

“Go on.”

“I knocked over a liquor store.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Well my mom’s sick. We can’t afford the pain medication, and I know alcohol is a bad pain reliever, but I don’t know how to break into a pharmacy, so …”

“OK, my son, what we’re going to do is, we’re going to get your mom her medicine. But I’m going to need your help. I need you to call the health insurance company, and tell them —“

“Is… is this my penance?”

“Uh yeah. Sure. Penance. Yeah.”

[enma1966]

#Magnet 貼ればいいってもんでもない MINIFESで手に入れたGOバッジに付け替えようとしたら…、外れません やむなくリアにペタッと 第二世代“R“のグループ“2nd GENERATIONS”もペタッと MINIFESのステッカーもペタッと #GOBADGE #2ndGENERATIONS #MINIFES #MINIFES2022 #BMWMINI #MINI #MINICOOPER #MINICOOPERS #COOPER #COOPERS #CLUBMAN #R55 #MINILIFE #MINIFAN #ミニ #ミニクーパー #ミニクラブマン #クラブマン #SONY #a7 #α7 #a7R3 #a7RIII #α7R3 #α7RIII #SUPERROKKOR #SUPERROKKOR45mmF28 #Chiyoko #MINOLTA (稲城中央公園) https://www.instagram.com/p/ClvKDBevdrQ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[streetsweepershenanigans]

Out of all the '86 flyboys who became like uncles to little Bradley, it wasn't Mav, it wasn't Slider, it wasn't even Wolf or Wood- who taught him his first swear word, it was Ice He'd done it with his nieces and nephews and little cousins before, so why would Bradley be any different? Of course, he figured one of the others would have beat him to it, but the shocked and speechless look on Maverick's face told him otherwise.

When no one had been looking, he'd quietly beckoned Bradley over with a "Hey, baby Goose, com'ere." When Bradley's little voice had proudly chirped "fuck" over the dinner table, Maverick had immediately choked on his food and dropped his fork while Carole immediately burst out in laughter so contagious, Ice couldn't help but catch on. Mav's pale face and shocked expression only making the situation funnier.

"Carol, I swear- I didn't- I never-" Maverick rushed to defend himself.

"Oh honey, I know. And I know I didn't, which means," Carol turned on Ice then, and damn. He didn't think of that. He figured Maverick would've already pulled the stunt. "Mr. Goody two-shoes, Thomas 'Iceman' Kazansky, is the first person to teach my son a swear word." Carol cackled while pointing and accusing finger at him.

"Ice-" Maverick implored in disbelief.

"Well, I figured-" Ice gestured over to Maverick while struggling to conceal his grin.

The conversation turned from their to all three adult coaching little Bradley on how, yes- that is a word, and no, it's not a very nice one that should ever be used, all while desperately trying to suppress their laughter.

However it was Ice who would suffer the unforseen consequences of his little prank, as over the years, neither Maverick nor Bradley- now proudly Rooster, would ever let him forget that it was Admiral Thomas "Iceman" Kazansky, Commander of the Pacific Fleet who had taught him his first swear word.

[mortal-kingss]

“I guess the Corruption likes you as a moth. I think it’s fitting. Do you know what a moth is to a spider, Jon?”

“You know I don’t.” His back is to Martin, and he can feel another set of hands creep to his waist.

“Prey.” Martin whispers into his ear, taking his hands as he laughs softly.

—

HELLO!!! i made a fic for this piece, its an au!!! please check it out, i spent a long time working on it i hope u enjoy it <3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/49448209

[forlix]

𝘀𝘂𝗯𝘁𝗲𝘅𝘁・l.f.

— in which you forget that your hot housemate follows you on twitter.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀・1.1k 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴・roommate!felix x gn!streamer!reader 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲𝘀・fluff, flirting, kind of an smau, implied friends to lovers, humor if u count jeongin being a piece of shit

𝗮/𝗻・saw this tweet the other day and it was so painfully lix coded that i knew i had to write something asap. contains a tiny bit of gaming jargon but is hopefully comprehensible. ENJOY ♡

y/n ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ @ y/nxx

if someone brings you fresh cut fruit to your table when you're gaming, they either like LIKE you or it's your mom

11:23 A.M.・Oct. 2023・220.2K Views

bokkie 🐣 liked your post.

“My tweet?”

You read aloud the newest text in your chatroom, and your face brightens when you remember the one in question.

“Oh, about the fruit—no, it’s so true though. And I love my mom, don't get me wrong, but I have an inkling she did it to guilt trip me." You change your posture and adopt your best motherly tone of voice. "‘This is your tenth consecutive hour wasting your young adulthood in front of that damn screen. I am now going to hand deliver apple slices straight to your mouth.’ That kind of vibe, y'know?"

A slew of messages follows your anecdote, but it is a comment from one of your moderators that catches your eye first:

je0ng1n: what about the other option tho 👀

You groan at the sight of his username. “Man, why are you always here? Don't you have a job?"

je0ng1n: i’m on break je0ng1n: taking a dump je0ng1n: ungrateful bitch

You brandish a middle finger to the camera. “Hope the dump sucks."

je0ng1n: HEY je0ng1n: don’t even joke about that :(

An involuntary cackle precedes your next words. “If you’re actually wondering, though, the only person who’s brought me fruit while I’m playing video games is indeed my mother. Heartbreaking, I know.”

At this, the steady flow of messages morphs into a gallery of depressed cat emoticons; your audience never fails to impress you with their way with words.

“But if someone other than your disappointed parent is bringing you fruit,” you go on, “they might as well get on one knee in the process, honestly. That's such an adorable, loving thing to do.”

Suddenly, the words MATCH FOUND splash across your monitor, and you move your cursor to accept the game invite—only to be met with a pop-up window and a familiar error sound that grates on your ears like screeching tires.

You know how this story ends: the lights in your mouse go dark, and you look on in dejected silence.

je0ng1n: LMFAOOOOO je0ng1n: bro’s mouse definitely just exploded again

“You guessed it," you sigh. “Hang tight for a sec, guys."

Half an hour ago, you could’ve sworn you heard sneakers being kicked off, a set of keys falling against plastic. Now, you pull one side of your headphones off and roll your chair a few feet backward, calling through your half-open door: “Lix, are you home?”

You pick up on a soft clunk that sounds like metal hitting wood—the cutting board, maybe?—and then your housemate's low, accented answer bounces off the walls of your shared hallway.

“Yeah, you alright?”

“The mouse,” you say helplessly.

“Ah.” It’s not the first time you’ve summoned him for this. “Be right there.”

A few seconds later, you remember to tack on a hurried disclaimer: “I’m live, by the way!”

“I know.”

This brings a bashful smile to your face, though the expression quickly turns to one of pure dismay when you return to your desk and witness the disastrous state of your chat.

Felix has become a regular guest on your stream by now, always popping in to show you a TikTok or ask for your opinion on a new pair of jeans or simply give your camera an awkward wave—but he may as well own your channel with how completely and unequivocally he has captured the hearts of your viewers. They’re convinced he’s the sexiest person to ever grace the earth, with his chiseled features and coffee-colored eyes; with a grin that could set entire estates on fire and a voice that could scrape the nadir of the Grand Canyon.

Do you agree? Absolutely.

Do you have any intention of voicing this sentiment, so long as you’re splitting rent with him? Absolutely the hell not.

Another of Jeongin’s messages—GET ME HIS NUMBER OR I GET VIOLENT—inspires you to minimize the stream window before Felix gets here. It’s for the best.

A few moments later, the door opens, and the air shifts inside your room. A hand comes to rest on the top of your head; a familiar silhouette appears in your periphery. There is a fond grin plastered across your face and a bright greeting sitting readily on the tip of your tongue.

But then, Felix places a plate of freshly cut fruit in the empty space to the left of your keyboard—here, he hums, the sound falling against the shell of your ear like a drop of melted chocolate. And the gears of your brain grind to a complete stop.

There is no further acknowledgment; no supplementary explanation for what he's just done. He simply picks up your mouse and gets to work.

The words of your tweet swim dizzyingly before your eyes, not unlike those halos of stars and birds that revolve around disoriented cartoon characters. And you’re suddenly, achingly aware of your roommate's arm nudging against yours as he tinkers away; of the aromas of vanilla and laundry detergent that always come with his proximity; of the heat that’s risen to your face, and the plethora of questions that have surfaced to your mind.

A soft huff of laughter follows a gentle utterance of your name, and you snap out of your trance. Felix’s eyes are glinting with amusement when you meet them.

“It’s been recalibrated,” he says, handing back your mouse. “Just give it a few minutes.”

Your fingertips brush over his palm when you accept the object, and even this blink of contact has your heart performing an elaborate hopscotch routine across the plane of your chest.

It’s either your mom, or…

“Thank you,” you mumble, finally retrieving your larynx from the bottom of the Atlantic.

“Anytime,” Felix returns, and you know he means it. “You need a duo, by the way?"

“Yes, please.”

He gives you a warm smile at this, and there’s a hint of something else—something new—in the curve of his lips. “Give me two.” And he’s gone as quickly as he'd come.

You will never know how Felix slips his phone out of his pocket the second he emerges from your room, his pulse hounding his ears as he turns a nervous gaze upon his screen.

There is now a supersonic blur of messages saturating your chatroom, a colorful cacophony of moving emotes and capital letters, but he is focused wholly on the person in front of the camera and how you slowly lift a hand to your mouth, deathly silent despite your every viewer demanding your comment on the matter, your sanguine cheeks visible even through the gaps of your fingers.

That is all he needs to know.

Felix sinks into the leather of his gaming chair and bends to power on his computer. Only after a deep breath blows past his lips does his smile start to stretch into a grin, every bit as embarrassed as it is relieved.

je0ng1n: no way je0ng1n: no fucking way je0ng1n: my heart fluttered je0ng1n: wtf je0ng1n: how’d you pull HIM??

y/nxx has removed je0ng1n as a moderator of this channel.

𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other works here. thanks so much for the support ♡

© 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘅 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.

[betweenlands]

Jimmy Solidarity's Guide To Dying First

Congratulations and/or sorry that happened! Dying first in a series is always really rough, and people are probably going to feel bad they ended your series early. Unless you're me. They don't feel bad about killing ME off first, which is probably why I beef it a lot.

Anyway, here's some specific ways you might have your death invalidated or made about me:

Are you new to this series? Oh my god I am so sorry. The Watchers are about to be SO weird about you and I honestly hope I die next so I can take some of the heat off you.

Did we die in the same incident? Expect the Watchers to say I died first anyway.

Are you Lizzie? Expect the Watchers to say it's because of our ~sibling bond~.

Are you Scott or Tango? Expect the Watchers to make up something about our whirlwind romance dooming us both.

Were you TEAMED with Scott or Tango? See above, except it's actually because my "curse" is super contagious or something.

Were you teamed with ME? See previous two points.

Are you Pearl or Grian? Expect the Watchers to say it was totally, definitely because of wanting to ensure the same person didn't win twice, even at the cost of the canary curse being broken.

Are you Martyn? Same as above but also -- Lol. Nerd.

What else should you expect?

You're going to start growing feathers. Sorry! The Watchers are going to try to "canary-code" you too, so they don't have to stop being weird about me.

The Watchers loooove to take credit for things that were barely even them. If anything happened involving the two of us for five or more seconds, it's a sign that I "cursed" you to die first.

If you're really lucky, the Watchers will make up some nonsense about toxic fumes or something that ensures I still get the brunt of their weirdness.

See you soon, probably, because for some reason Martyn has decided to cater directly to the Watchers and make it his sole goal in life to ensure I permadie as soon as humanly possible!

Love or whatever, Jimmy Solidarity

[sparkbeast20]

The Gang are trap in a curse book

Mammon: We have to get out of here!

Asmo: We're trying-

Levi: Look! The writing in the wall!

Everyone turn to the wall

Satan: "In order to escape, you need to sacrifice a human soul-"

Everyone: ...

MC: Oh...

Mammon: Right! Solomon, it's your time to make a heroic sacrifice-

Solomon: Fucking excuse me?

Belphie: We all know that we are not sacrificing MC's soul

MC: Guys-

Luke: That doesn't mean you get to treat Solomon like sacrificial Lamb!

MC: Guys-

Satan: Solomon lived a good amount decades-

MC: GUYS!!!!

Simeon: With all do respect Satan. But what make you think we are okay Solomon's soul being uses as a sacrifice?

MC: Fuck it!

You walk up to the wall.

MC: I offer my soul-

Lucifer: MC DON'T-

All of a sudden the wall broke down the middle and a door appears and immediately the door opened revealing Thirteen.

Thirteen: I thought I told you, the only one who get to have your soul is me!

Everyone: 😶😶😶😶😶😶😶😶😶😶😶😶

MC: See?

MC: Beside, I don't think Solomon still have a soul

Solomon: Hey now.

[shiplessoceans]

What if episode 4 starts and Ed and Stede start arguing like: "Where the fuck were you, you fucking dick?!"..."Oh I might as well ask you what you've been up to! I've got a traumatised crew because of what you've put them through!"

Mid argument we cut to the deck where you can see the crew all sitting there awkwardly, averting each other's eyes and pretending they're not overhearing the shouting match down below. Mum and dad are fighting vibes. Lucius rolls his eyes and asks if anyone wants a cigarette.

Cut to later in the episode they've made up and the crew are relieved to see them getting along. They retire for the evening and then we follow Ed and Stede to their quarters and it's on. It's happening. Clothes are being ripped off, it's frenzied and passionate. They make out like horny teenagers and then Ed drops to his knees and we see Stede's eyes widen as he lets out a loud, long moan. And then we:

Smash cut to the deck where the crew are sitting. Awkwardly averting each others eyes at the definite loud moans, impassioned cries and satisfied grunts from down below.

After an uncomfortably long beat, Lucius speaks:

"I can't believe I'm gonna say this ... But I think I liked it better when they were fighting."

[violent138]

Here's the premise, certain Batfam members are at a charity gala trying to get fingerprints from a target. Steph plays at waitress and carries away an empty glass, but she gets bumped into and all the glasses shatter despite her best efforts.

"Shit. Well, good thing he drinks like a fish." Steph said over their comms as they eyed the second wine glass.

"It's the fourth one on the tray," Tim declared, watching the glasses, moving through the crowd.

"They're in a circle."

"It's the one with the half milimitre of champagne still left--"

"No, it's not." Bruce said. "It's the one closest to the waiter, the one with the smudge."

"This is ridiculous." Damian announced, "I'm getting his phone."

"He'll notice, don't do that," Bruce muttered, trapped with some obnoxious businessman and moments from spilling something to get out of it. 

"I'll get it back to him in two minutes--"

"I can keep track." Tim argued, trying to move to get it, but Dick grabbed his arm, dragging him along.

"Come here," Dick ordered, walking them both right up to the man. "So nice to see you tonight, have you met my brother yet? Tim Drake Wayne, he's very eager about interning at your company."

Tim played along instantly, shaking the guy's hand. "Is it true you've managed to get around the cost of catalysts for your hydrogen fuel cells?"

"It's still quite new, but if you're serious, we can definitely set something up."

Tim grinned. "You wouldn't happen to have a number I could--"

"Oh absolutely. Here." The man handed over a business card.

"We got it," Dick muttered over comms as Tim carefully put the card away. "Anyone bring the disulfur dinitride?"

"Car," Bruce said, irritated when he realized he was trapped.  

[enma1966]

#MINIFES #MINIFES2022 #FUJISPEEDWAY 今年のMINIFESは雨です… それでも富士山の麓に何百台ものMINIが並ぶなかいつもの（？）ぶらぶら&わいわいがやがや 予想通り全部は周りきれず…、惜しい 今年はいつになく新鮮なFESでした ご一緒させていただいたみなさん、ありがとうございました♪ #BMWMINI #MINI #MINICOOPER #MINICOOPERS #COOPER #COOPERS #CLUBMAN #MINICLUBMAN #R55 #MINILIFE #MINIFAN #ミニ #ミニクーパー #クーパー #クラブマン #SONY #α7 #a7R3 #a7RIII #α7R3 #α7RIII #voightlander #voightlander35mm #colorskopar #colorskopar35mmf25 #フォクトレンダー (富士スピードウェイ) https://www.instagram.com/p/ClbdsaqPrdb/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[shoezuki]

Sampo has taken him to dozens of planets at this point, massive ships the size of celestial bodies and burnt out stars that have turned lush with discolored plant life over billions of years. Massive, writhing metropolitans and quaint, warm planets with people who gawked at their appearance. He's seen massive astral leviathans' open maws that span galaxies and ingest stars, phantom ships made of wood and bone slice through shimmering fogs. Planets composed of intertwined living beings, made of twisting and layered plant matter, places where the stars speak low sharp words and dance over his closed eyelids and make him dizzy.

But he hasn't take Gepard to his home planet.

Gepard assumed it was inevitable; he had known a while before Sampo had taken him off Jarilo-IV that Sampo wasn't from Belobog. He'd suspected it but been unsure long before Sampo mended him back to health. It was a partially spoken truth now, while Sampo divulged more information about every aspect of the universe to him.

"When are we going to your home planet?" Gepard had asked, openly, one night they spent on a waterlogged planet with specks of land, watching as the ocean jumped up and strange aquatic creatures swam through thick air.

Sampo had scoffed, Gepard watching him stand and look out over the horizon with his arms crossed. "My home planet? Please, no need to go to that lump of rock! Trust me, it's the worst planet out here. I've walked on gas giants and burning sun's that were better than that place."

"You came from it," Gepard said softly, maybe thinking Sampo would understand why there's something clinging on the inner walls of his heart that make him want to see where Sampo came from so bad. "It can't be that horrible then, right?"

Sampo doesn't speak, but he shakes his head. "Do you wanna go out? Do you think we could swim in the water... sky... thing?" He grins and Gepard let's him change the topic, content to follow Sampo.

He doesn't talk about his planet without Gepard pushing him. He doesn't talk much of anything about where he came from, how he grew up, why he apparently spent years jumping across planets long before he ended up in Belobog. Gepard asks, sometimes, when he feels maybe he can coax a response from Sampo. But he always deflects, gives vague or contradictory answers, or only responds with tame non-answers.

Sampo acts as usual; he talks constantly, about little things or memories or stuff he wants to show Gepard. When he's not talking, he's humming, tapping his fingers against the glass control panels of the ship, kicking his foot absentmindedly against his chair with a constant metallic thunkthunkthunkthunk. He always grins wide when he looks at Gepard, sometimes grabbing Gepard by his face and pressing kisses against every inch of skin so rapidly it's almost overwhelming.

Sampo talks to Gepard when he thinks he's asleep. Gepard, every time, pretends not to listen.

"I don't want to take you back."

Their bed is small, more like a cot made for one person. Gepard had offered it to Sampo the first time they'd investigated their stolen ship but Sampo had just laughed and pulled Gepard to lay with him. Every night Sampo holds Gepard, arms locked around him and keeping his head pressed to Sampo's chest, or his own body weight draped over Gepard like a weighted blanket.

Right now, he hooks his chin over Gepard's shoulder, running fingers through his blonde hair, one hand over his side. Sampo's hand ghosts over his ribs, burning through Gepard's shirt, directly over the rough, newly healed scar.

He's quiet, so painfully quiet, and gentle, with his touch faint and entirely for Sampo's own gain. Gepard nearly drifted off, but now he keeps his eyes closed, his breathing soft, hoping Sampo doesn't feel how his heart jumps when Sampo brushes a finger over the shell of his ear.

"I don't want to take you back," he repeats softly, his words dark and low with the confession, "I'd keep you in this... stupid little ship, in the stars with me forever. If I could. If you wanted. Only if you wanted."

Gepard does want it: to keep waking up to nothing but stars and Sampo's sleeping face or exhausted grin; to listen to Sampo drawl on about all the stars and planets and strange celestial lifeforms they pass with knowledge that feels bigger than Sampo himself; to be dragged from planet to planet, Sampo's hand searing new marks into his own palm and finger prints, his excitement electric and tangible.

Gepard does, deep down, want it. He wants Sampo to himself, too. To give himself entirely to Sampo. But a part of him will always be in Belebog. They both know it.

Sampo is quiet, the next morning. More than quiet--he's subdued, faraway, as if locked inside himself. Even when Sampo isn't speaking he's loud, his presence always drawing and begging for Gepard's attention. Now he seems small, curled in on himself in the piloting seat.

"Sampo?" It feels rude, wrong to break the silence with his own voice, but Gepard does. "Are you okay?" Sampo turns his head, barely, to look at Gepard where he stands against the wall. He shoots him just a smile, but says nothing. It makes more concern coil and simmer deep in his gut.

Gepard has no clue where they are now, in the vast impossibility of space. The universe is foreign to him, but Sampo treats it like an old friend, like he knows it intimately. Gepard has let Sampo take the reigns, guide them to wherever he wants to go. It had stressed him out, at first, the lack of knowing, the unfamiliarity of new worlds. But now more than ever, he's content just being with Sampo. He'd go with him anywhere.

Where they are now, though, feels different. The outside space is dark, swirling celestial bodies of black and grey and bloody reds and browns the colour of bruises. The terrain is made up of fragments of comets, rocks, shattered formations and debris. The debris varies from collections of dust to meteors larger than their ship, jagged and broken apart like Qlipoth had shattered them open with his hammer. Gepard sees the metallic glint of wrecked ships, metal shards embedded in rock and flayed among it all.

He hates this place. Gepard doesn't know if it's him, or if it's some sort of cosmic effect, but there's a heaviness pressing on him. Maybe it's something real, tangible, or maybe it's the way Sampo navigates the wreckages and meteors with a stiff ease in his shoulders.

Gepard walks up to him, quiet behind him. He wants to touch Sampo, feel the heat of him against his palms, but for some reason he feels like he can't. Instead he places his hands on the back of Sampo's seat, his fingers barely brushing against Sampo's back.

"Sampo, are you okay? If... if something is the matter, you can tell me--"

"What d'ya think?"

Gepard blinks, finding himself shocked by the weight of Sampo's gaze suddenly on him. His eyes always have a dull quality to them, the shine underneath his pupils gone save for when Gepard whispers against his skin or presses his lips across his face. Now, though, his eyes are dark, all consuming. They absorb the light and snuff it out, making the small ship feel cold. "I... what?"

"This place," Sampo hums, turning back to focus on navigating. His smile is a practised, stiff line. "It's lovely, isn't it? Or do you find it creepy? Messy? I mean, it's a lot of destruction. There's a good reason no one but ol' Sampo comes around here anymore."

Gepard frowns, feeling like Sampo's having a conversation he's not a part of. "What do you mean? What is this place?"

"There used to be a planet," he pauses, making a noise in the back of his throat, "actually, a few planets. Small ones. They'd been under the IPC's control for a looonnng time. Until they abandoned 'em after clearing all the minerals out and leaving the planets hollow."

His mouth is dry, his fingers digging into the back of Sampo's seat harshly. Sampo's voice is light, conversational, like he's explaining one of the allegedly 'boring and lame' planets they'd passed before. "The planets were basically just rocks, before the IPC made them into mining projects and shipped a bunch of people to work away there. They left the workers when the mines dried up.

"Rivet Town looks almost exactly like the mining planets did, back then." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head slightly. "The people who'd scrounged up enough money took off, taking everything they could with them. Mine supervisors left behind their working families and their kids and went back with the IPC while the planets starved slowly."

The ship slows, between asteroids and at the edge of a vast, whirling expanse of debris. It swirls around out and around a burning, black body of... of something, within the center of a shattered planet light years away from them. Gepard stares, and the sight of it burns into his eyes.

"D'you know how Masked Fools recruit people?" Sampo says it with a giggle, not waiting for a response. "Sometimes they just whisk kids away from happy families before they can remember anything. Sometimes people go to the taverns themselves and try and choke down the drinks, but that's not often. Most often, though, the Fools find hopeless, little planets and whisk away orphans seconds before... boom! Planet gone! You never forget the popping noise a collapsing, imploding planet makes."

He cackles, laughter loud and echoing off the metal walls. Gepard's hands are shaking, staring out into the ruined abyss, the remnants of planets and lives and a past Gepard can never, ever see or understand. His eyes burn and his heart aches.

Gepard lunges forward, pressing himself harshly against the chair as he wraps his arms around Sampo. He circles his chest and presses his face into the curve of his neck, holding him so tightly as if Gepard is trying to squeeze Sampo into his very being. Sampo's laughter becomes broken, wet and frantic when Gepard holds him tightly. He shakes under Gepard's tight grip, the shine of tears of Sampo's face as he continues to stare into ruined space. Sampo bites his lip, hard, to stifle himself.

"Come home," Gepard exhales, pressing his words into Sampo's skin, "come home with me. After-- after all this. I don't care how long we're out here or where else we go but please. Please come home with me. I'll copy the key to my apartment. I have enough room in my closet for you. We can--I can buy you wigs and dresses and whatever the fuck you want. Anything."

"Why?" It's a whisper, barely a question. Sampo lifts his hand and grasps the forearm pressed over his chest. "Why?"

"Because Natasha probably still needs your help, and Seele will gut me if you don't return, and Hook without a doubt misses you, and Serval pretends she hates you but still asks me how you are when you text me, and I'm in love with you." He sucks in a breath; saying it always makes him feel airy, lightheaded. "I'm in love with you, and I want you there. Why else?"

There's silence for some moments too long, Sampo still shaky in Gepard's grip. He starts to worry that he's suffocating, that it's too much, but when he tries to pull away Sampo grabs his arms and holds them there, stopping him from moving.

"... but my criminal record's gone," Sampo whines, the faintest bit of humour in his voice. He tilts his head back, eyes still red rimmed when he looks up at Gepard with a searching smile. Gepard, having spent so long with him at this point, knows what he's really saying.

"I'm sure you'll record will be as long as it was before in no time." Gepard grumbles, wrinkling his nose and letting his conflicted feelings into his tone. But he lets it drop away with a sigh, shaking his head and feeling fond. "... as long as you try not to give my Guards too much grief, Koski."

Sampo doesn't say anything, but when he smiles and laughs, when he pokes into Gepard's cheek and says that the Silvermane Captain better not go soft on him, his eyes are shining.

[thus-spoke-lo]

In case you need a reminder today—your value in fandom isn’t determined by your contributions. Fandom is made better by your art, your writing, your ideas, but the level to which you participate has no bearing on your worth. You have a right to exist in fandom whether you’re publishing a 100k multi-chapter masterpiece, tossing up a few sketches or headcanons, or just sharing or liking the creations of friends and fellow artists.

[fanaticsnail]

snail! my favorite writer, my idol, i have a request.

i am sick at the moment (it's not bad but it's not great) and i had a thought: the one piece men caring for their sick partner.

honestly just thought it would be cute and fluffy. and since you (in my humble opinion) are the best writer, would you consider writing this little drabble, this little writing exercise?

like it could be the straw hats or it could be cross guild, take your pick.

sincerely,

your #1 fan :)

Masterlist here

Pulling a Galadriel, my dear sweetheart: “I asked her for one hair from her golden head… and she gave me three.” And three, my dear, you shall have. Sending my love and desire for a swift recovery for you @bonedaddi3!

Warnings: fluff, not established relationship, sick!reader, gn reader, kissing. Word count: 200+ per character (Zoro, Sanji, Mihawk)

Get Well Soon

As your illness spreads through your body, you realize your every fiber is aching with each small movement. Your performance is dropping, your energy is dwindling. The overwhelming desire to sleep where you stand has you cathartic and longing for its quick slumber to claim you in its restful embrace.

Zoro

From his reclined position lying on the deck of the going merry, his skin basking like a reptile under the heat of the glowing sun; he peeked through the smallest crack of his eyelids to examine you. Huffing out a breath of frustration, he growls as he immediately springs up to his feet and charges at you. As he drew himself as close to you as he could without touching you, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brows at you. 

Exhausted, you forced your chin upwards and looked at the first-mate through half-hooded eyes and attempted a lazy smile at him. This seemed to force his scowl deeper, his eyes more intense as he crouched down and immediately grasped the back of your knees to thrust you over his shoulder and effortlessly carry you below decks. 

“Zoro! What are you doing?” you shrieked, huffing as the world began to swirl further in your grogginess. He grunts in response, using his heavy boots to kick his way through doors rather than to utilize his free hand.

As you witnessed the light of the sun begin to become shielded by the hallway’s door, you physically slumped against the wide and muscular shoulders of the swordsman. After several further turns and doors open, you find yourself being unceremoniously thrown onto the plush mattress of your bed. As soon as your back meets with the duvet, you begin to hastily rise up onto your elbows behind you - only to find yourself met with the splayed fingertips and open palm pushing you back onto the bed. 

“Sleep,” he growled at you, his frown continuing to hold firm and unwavering on his face. 

“But I-,” you began, your words being removed from your lips by another hard shove onto the mattress and another command from the first mate. 

“-Sleep,” he again commanded, holding his hand firmly atop your chest and giving you on last little shove to hold you in place before removing his hand from your chest and stomping his heavy footsteps over to the door. He halted one final time, fingers almost brushing with the door handle before he turned back around and briskly walked back over to you. 

Hesitantly, he stooped low and pressed his chapped lips atop your burning forehead. This gentle gesture from the first-mate had your eyes widening and heart pounding within your chest, his kiss feeling completely foreign but not unwelcome. As he drew his lips away from your head, his cheeks tinted with a small hue of pink, he uttered quietly.

“Get well soon.”

Sanji

As if sensing your illness before you had even truly allowed it to embrace you yourself, two strong arms immediately wove themselves around your shoulders with a heavy, weighted blanket. You couldn’t process the hastiness of his guidance, opting to wordlessly allow him to lead you wherever he decided to take you.

Circling your body in a cocoon, the chef of the going merry chaperoned you within his embrace into the kitchen and shepherded your body into the corner booth atop the comfortable pew. He looked over your face without his gaze meeting your eyes, adjusting the heavy duvet to circle around you and join at the front with ease. He crouched down and removed your shoes, tucking them beneath the suspended dining table and looking into your eyes. 

“Comfortable, dear?” He asked you, a warm smile adorning his lips as he stared his gray eyes deeply into your own. That small question is what finally broke you, the innocence in his face as he humbled himself before you had your heart soaring in appreciation. You allowed yourself a small nod to bob your head in confirmation. Sanji chuckled, placed a small, chaste kiss atop your knee and rose from his crouch towards the sink. 

Pouring burning water from the tap, he began soaping up his hands before retrieving a stainless-steel knife from his collection and sharpening rod. He began dragging the knife to and fro to ensure its peak condition twirling the blade between his fingers once he had finished.

“I’m going to make you something,” he declared, walking over to the fridge and flashing you a winning smile, “All you need to do is sit there, look pretty,” he shot you a small wink, “And get well soon.”

Mihawk

“Again,” he barked, watching as you fought through the pain to swing your claymore against the target and meet the board with a less than stellar connection. Mihawk’s displeasure was written all over his face, his eyes narrow and lips curled into a deep scowl.

“Run the drill again,” he commanded you, rising to his feet and stalking slowly to approach you. You huffed out a frustrated breath, your body screaming at you to stop forcing it to perform; but the overwhelming desire to please your mentor by serving him with your skill drove you on. 

His eyes scanned you, noticing your slight change in hue. The amount of sweat pouring from your temple down your chin didn’t seem to be in reaction to the drill you were running, but rather your lethargy in illness. But he refused to allow you the luxury of commanding you to stop. 

“My lord,” you panted, dropping the tip of the blade to the floor and keeling over in pain at your body’s inability to continue fighting, “My lord, I’m sorry. I’m letting you down. I just want to make you proud-.”

“-There is nothing you could ever do to make me less proud of you,” he sliced through your words and immediately found himself at your side, “And the greatest thing you can do when fighting an unwinnable battle is to ask for help.” He wove himself beneath your right arm, hoisting you up by hooking his right arm around your knees and cradling you into his chest with his left. 

As he raised you within his arms, you couldn’t help but lace your arms around his neck and shoulders as he carried you back towards the gloomy castle of Kuraigana. You placed your forehead against the skin of his bare shoulder, almost causing a small flinch at the elevated temperature from your mentor.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his flesh, closing your eyes as he carried you and beginning to fall into a slumber. Mihawk checked over you, watching as your breathing steadied as the final wave of exhaustion crashed against you and toppled you into bliss. 

“Allow me the luxury of nursing you back to health,” he whispered against your hairline, placing his lips gently atop your fallen strands, “I need you to get well soon, and I will do anything in my power to ensure you’re returned to your prime once more.”

Mini, apprehensive, tag list: @gingernut1314 @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @feral-artistry @sordidmusings

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

"What about this one?"

Ed tucked his smile against Stede's bare shoulder as he felt Stede's fingers circle around his wrist, and he propped himself up properly, folding his hand beneath his chin. The scar on the side of his wrist was a skinny, fishhook-shaped thing, faded with age. "Must've been about...I dunno, nineteen, maybe? Tried to impress some guy by spinning my knife around my finger and it slipped."

Stede, encouraged by Ed's huff and fond eyeroll at his teenage antics, laughed, the arm around Ed's shoulders pressing down into the small of his back.

This was a game they played, sometimes. Stede picked the smaller scars, most of the time, the ones without too much baggage. He'd never asked about the ugly knotted scar above Ed's hip, or the nasty twisted thing that pushed his kneecap sideways, or the faded X carved over Ed's heart, and definitely not the even, uniform scars on his thighs that had been covered up with shaky tattoos of flowers and hearts and sharks.

There were lots of scars that weren't those, and Ed didn't mind most of them. Past foolishness, past bravery. Stede's favorite scars were the cluster of puncture scars on Ed's tummy and the long, swooping scar under his chest, because they were proof of living, of outsmarting the world. He liked to lick the scar under Ed's chest during intimate moments to make him whimper, knew just how to rest his hand on that sensitive patch of tummy to make Ed gasp.

And, tonight, Ed was halfway towards taking this little game somewhere. He had a very convenient scar from his twenties (didn't fully clear the railing during yardies and landed on a deeply unfortunate section of wood) right along the crease of his hip that Stede could explore -

Stede's voice turned thoughtful, then, his fingers trailing over Ed's shoulder blades. "Don't tell me if you don't want to. But what about...these?"

Ed practically bit his tongue. Those things were faded to hell, only really visible along his shoulders though they'd once stretched down to the small of his back. They were from the first and only time he'd ever gotten flogged.

Ed pushed himself up, resting fully on top of Stede's chest, now, his arms crossed under his chin. "So," he started. "I don't think I'd turned fifteen yet."

"Oh, Ed," Stede whispered, his face crinkling with sympathy.

Yeah, Ed thought, he wanted to get this one out. Pretty often, Stede's reactions to the rough ones felt like cleaning an old wound.

See, if his plan for that day had worked, he probably would've described it as his first fuckery. Because he meant to get caught stealing extra food, and he'd had a plan that seemed perfect.

He'd been sailing on ol' Hornigold's crew for maybe three months. And one of the other cabin boys looked out for the fresh ones. He was a couple years older than Ed, always shared the food he stole and never got caught. Ed had had the biggest crush of his young life on Felix.

Now, Jack had told him one night that floggings weren't shit. Jack was about Ed's age, but he'd been around longer, so Ed had believed him. Jack had said there was nothing to it, you just had to bite your tongue a bit and it'd be over before you knew it.

Ed should've known something was up when he'd winked at Jack and Felix over his shoulder as he was marched to the mast and they'd looked scared out of their heads. He'd stuck his tongue out at them through his smile, cheerfully admitted to his charges, imagining laying in Felix's arms that night as Felix gently patched him up -

The first strike took the breath out of Ed's lungs. He'd screamed himself hoarse by the time it was finally, finally over, laid there on the deck sobbing for much longer as Jack and Felix tried to stand him up.

The worst part was how the older guys laughed, even the ones Ed had thought were pretty cool just that morning. Ed would never look at anyone the same again, for as long as he lived.

He had wound up in Felix's arms that night, but he'd still been too busy crying his eyes out to really appreciate it.

"Pretty fucked up," Ed concluded. Stede's face was all crumpled up, his lip wobbling, and Ed gently cupped his face in his hands. "I'm alright, babe, c'mon. I'm right here."

Stede's voice was steady enough. "Are we sure everyone who laughed at you is already dead?"

"Yeah," Ed snorted, leaning forward to press a kiss to the tip of Stede's nose. "Stede, man, really, it was so long ago -"

"That's the worst part," Stede said. "You were fourteen, Ed! You deserved so, so much better."

Ed paused.

Stede met his eyes, taking Ed's hand and holding it tight between both of his. "You deserved so much better," he said firmly. "You are precious, Ed, and you deserve to be treated like it."

Maybe Ed couldn't fully believe that, not all the way, not just yet. But he wrapped his arms around Stede, tucking himself in sound and safe. "You treat me like I'm precious."

Stede's hand landed on his shoulders, rubbing gently, like he was trying to soothe the pain of decades-old wounds. "Making up for lots of lost time."

[breakfastteatime]

Cal wakes up from a nap. Oops, fell asleep on the couch again. He's so dozy, so comfy, maybe he'll drift off again and...

Wait.

Something feels different about his head. He stirs, brushing the blanket pulled up to his chin.

"Shhh. Go back to sleep." It's Merrin. She must be sitting next to his head. "I am not finished yet."

Her fingers are in his hair, brushing through and separating small handfuls into trios. The feeling is familiar, a distant memory from so long ago. He feels himself relaxing. "Why're you braiding my hair?" he asks, although it sounds more like "whyybraidnmuhheyh?"

Somehow, Merrin interprets his mushy words. "It is shiny. And pretty."

"S'not."

"Oh, yes, it is." There's a gentle tug as she deftly braids. "Fiery. Like my magicks."

"S'green."

"Hush, Cal. Let me finish."

Cal zones out, drifting into memories of Master Tapal patiently plaiting his braid, tying it off with the finest of thread. It never seemed possible for someone with such huge hands, and yet Master Tapal managed it every time. Sometimes he would tug on it to get Cal's attention. Other times, if he couldn't grab the hood of Cal's robes fast enough, he'd grab Cal's braid instead, and that never failed to bring Cal to a sudden and complete halt - usually before he wandered into traffic in the Brave's landing bay. He smiles at the memories, at the warmth, the tradition, the simplicity.

Merrin probably isn't going in for simplicity. Maybe he'll look like Cere did in that echo he picked up from Trilla's lightsaber. She looked so awesome with her hair like that. Could he grow his hair out that long? His pictures it - autumn reds, oranges and golds trailing all the way down his back, tied in intricate braids...

...who is he kidding? He'd sling it back in a ponytail and be done with it.

He giggles to himself.

"You are strange, Cal," Merrin tells him.

She has no idea.

A few minutes later, Merrin's fingers pull away. "Done. You may wake up. BD? You can come and look now."

Familiar feet tippy-tappy their way over. BD gives a long, slow beep of awe, and then the light of his scanner shines through Cal's eyelids.

Pretty, BD declares.

"I am not pretty," Cal grumbles.

"You are. You are a pretty princess," Merrin says. "BD, quick, make a recording."

"Excuse you, I'm no princess, I am a queen," Cal corrects.

"Forgive us, Your Majesty," Merrin says.

Curiosity wins and he opens his eyes, sits, frees his hands from the blanket, and explores his head. What he finds is a series of small, tight braids encircling his head - much like a crown. He leans forward and catches a glimpse of his reflection on the table. "Huh."

"You like it?" Merrin asks. "Cere explained to me how to do it, but it is easier to practice on somebody else."

"I do like it," Cal says. "It's really practical. Keeps it out of my eyes, too."

The hatch opens. Cere and Greez board the ship, both carrying several grocery bags. Cere clocks Cal first, nodding in approval. Greez does a double-take, puts down his bags, and moves in for a closer inspection.

"Well?" Cal asks, moving his head to really show it off.

"I love it!" Greez gushes. "I mean I really love it. I want it. I want that style right now."

"When you have more hair, I will teach you how," Merrin says.

He grins. "It's a deal. You heard it here, folks, Greezy is officially growing his hair out."