#skip tracing tools

[faultfalha]

There are free and paid skip tracing tools for real estate. The free tools are often ad-supported, while the paid tools often come with more features. In general, the paid tools are more accurate and have more features, but the free tools can be useful for basic tracing.

[realestateskiptracing]

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor au anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 2: Piercings and Puns

“Pleeaaasse?” Johnny whines, pressing his hands together and giving you the biggest, sparkliest puppy dog look you could imagine.

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Please! My two o’clock cancelled an’ I’m so bored!” He flops over the counter, arms dangling right above the appointment books. You pointedly ignore the size of his biceps.

“I’m not letting you pierce me just because you’re bored.” You scoff. “Now shoo, Simon’s got an appointment coming in soon.”

“But ye barely have any!” He argues. “All I’m askin’ fer is a wee ear. No’ even a nipple!”

A shocked amalgamation of a bark, laugh, and scoff forces it’s way out of you at that. “It’s still a no!”

Johnny groans, but at least moves away from the counter. Unfortunately, he takes the opportunity to circle around behind you, pinching the cartilage of your ear. “C’mon, ol’ righty’s beggin’ fer a conch.”

The intercom buzzes before you can respond. You swat Johnny away with one hand while pressing the speaker button with the other. “Hello?”

“I’ve go’ an appointment with Ghost.” A man’s voice drifts through. You blink dumbly for half a moment. You still haven’t gotten used to Simon’s social media and booking moniker - he doesn’t like giving his real name out much, apparently.

You buzz him in. Johnny is still hanging around the desk even when you leave to get Simon - making your way down the shirt hall to his studio. The large man stands in front of his stencil maker, back turned to you.

You knock on his door frame quietly. “Your guy’s here.”

“Be out in a moment.” He mumbles, focused on whatever he’s doing. You don’t really know the steps by heart, but you do know that there’s something so special about watching artists perform this repetitive song and dance. This rhythm they know by heart. Skilled hands enacting each step with careful precision.

He’s so hard to read. Big and bulky but calm as the night sea. You want him to like you, but you know badgering him certainly won’t get you there. So, you turn on your heal and head back out. When you return to the front, Johnny’s disappeared back into his room.

You suck your teeth and lean back in the desk chair, rolling your earlobe between your thumb and index finger. It’s not a bad offer, really. You only have two earlobe piercings on each side. Wouldn’t hurt to add a helix… you’ve also wanted to get your thirds done for a while. Work your way up. You glance at the clock. Simon won’t be done with his client for at least an hour or so, and you’ve balanced the registers for the moment. Both Kyle and John are out today, so they won’t need anything.

It wouldn’t hurt… well, not metaphorically.

With a sigh you stand, wandering your way to Johnny’s space. The door’s wide open, and his head snaps up the moment you step close like a sixth sense. “Takin’ me up on my offer, bonnie?”

You roll your eyes. “Guess I am.”

“Whit d’ye want?” Johnny practically skips around his station, pulling out wrapped, sanitized tools and placing them on a rolling tray. He pats the center of the padded table in the middle of the room.

“Uh, been wanting to do my thirds for a while.” You shrug. “If you have time for two.”

“Och, I’ve got all the time in the world fer ye, hen.” Johnny grins, pulling up in front of you and grabbing a marker.

He’s so close as he places the marks on your ears, warm fingers feeling for the best spots. A thumb traces the back of your left ear down just to the beginning of your jaw briefly. Fuck, he smells good. Warm musk with hints of citrus around the edges. The way he tucks your hair back, hands framing your face as he lines up the dots, is so oddly intimate compared to the other times you’ve gotten pierced. He chews at his lip in concentration, pulling at the scar on his chin while turning your head back forth a couple times.

“Think I’ve got it.” He grins and steps back. “Have a look.”

You take the mirror, casually checking but not paying too much attention. You trust him to do right by you. “Looks good.”

“A’right. Now the fun part.” He grins, tearing open the pack of tools and a two new needles.

“Is this fun?” You frown, squirming a little at the size of the needle.

“It’s always fun t’poke a pretty girl.”

You roll your eyes, a growing theme between you two it seems. “Oh, you thought that was real clever, didn’t you? Had that in your pocket a while?”

“Why donnae ye reach in an‘ check?” He murmurs, leaning close to clamp your left ear. You’re half tempted to tell him it’s mean to tease a fat girl like this - but you don’t think he means anything like that by it. He’s just a flirt by nature.

Before you can answer, he shoves the needle through your ear. You stiffen, a strained noise bubbling up out of your throat.

Johnny coos as he slips the earring into your ear. “One doon.”

“Uh-huh.” You sniffle. Not that it hurts badly, just a basic physical reaction. Johnny still gives you an empathetic smile.

The second goes quicker, Johnny locked in on his work. It’s interesting, seeing how intense they get. You Is it odd to wish someone would look at you like that? With that much focus and passion?

“There ye go…good girl.” He murmurs in that deep rumble that would have you squirming if you didn’t still have a needle through your ear. “Doin’ so good f’me...”

“You’re a devil, MacTavish.”

Johnny just chuckles, knowing full well exactly what he’s doing. He steps back to look at the final result after slipping the second stud into your ear. They feel hot - like two small ovens on either side of your head.

“If it weren’t for the piercings I’d think ye were blushing, hen.”

“You’re gonna get yourself slapped one of these days.” You scoff, sliding off the table.

“Wouldnnae be the first time.”

You find yourself rolling your eyes for the millionth time.

You grunt, squatting low in an attempt to pick the last of the parlor trash. It’s not that you mind, trash was part of your duties from the start, but holy shit do these boys put bricks in their bins? You’d think tattoos would make light trash. Especially after the sharps are disposed of separately.

“Solid?” Simon appears in the hall, eyes flicking over you. You still can’t tell how he feels about you. Neutral, you suppose. At least that’s all you can glean from behind his seemingly permanent black surgical mask.

“Ya.” You sigh, letting the bag drop and leaning back to stretch. “Just heavy. Swear y’all aren’t throwing rocks in these just to fuck with me?”

You give him a grin. Simon just cocks an eyebrow - exaggerated by the small piercing lining it. You think, maybe the slight shaking of his shoulder is a laugh. In combination won’t he crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Maybe not.

“‘ere.” Simon grunts, closing the short distance between you quickly before snatching up the bag like it weighs almost nothing.

You stutter, following after him toward the back exit. “You don’t have to-“

“Not a problem.” He grunts, tossing the thing over the side of the bin. He quietly leads you back inside, locking the door behind you “Johnny go’ you already?”

When you frown in confusion he points to his ears.

“Oh! Yeah.” You shrug, leading the way back to front desk to finish up your closing duties. “He’s insistent. I’d wanted them for a while anyway so I figured there’s no harm.”

“Give ‘im an inch...” He sighs, pointing to the black bar bridge piercing at the apex of his nose. “Somehow talked me into this shite.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah? I think it suits you.”

It really does. You can’t see most of his nose form under the mask but the arc of it leading up to bridge is strong, the piercing settling into the space nicely.

Simon breaks the silence. “You about done?”

“Almost. Just gotta check the ATM against the book real quick.” You nod.

He stares down at you for a moment, glancing out the semi-opaque window, now black with the night sky. There aren’t many street lamps on this side of town. You can only see a very faint glow from the one down by the car park.

“I’ll wait.” Simon settles his wide frame into Kyle’s usual chair.

“Oh! No you don’t have to! I’m sure you’re tired-“

“Wouldn’t feel right leavin’ you alone in the dark.” He cuts you off.

“It’s not a far walk-“

He scoffs. “Definitely not leaving you to walk alone.”

You sink your teeth into your lip, debating briefly on arguing. Based on his comfortable lean and crossed arms, it’s probably best to just let him walk you home. He looks so wide like that, veins prominent across his forearms. Fuck, you gotta find a boyfriend or booty call or something in this city. Anything to stop the temptation to stare at your hot coworkers.

It doesn’t take long to finish up your final chores. You turn all but one light off, wiring down from the bright overheads glaring at you all day. You glance over at Simon a few times while locking up the ATM, his covered face lit up by the light of his phone.

He leads you out of the shop once you’re finished, locking the door behind you and trying it a couple times to be sure. “Which way?”

“Uh, down here. It’s only twenty minutes.” You murmur, feeling guilty that you’ve kept him out extra late. You shove your hands in your hoodie pockets as you walk, the only sound on the street made up of your footsteps and some distant cars.

“What falls but never gets hurt?” Simon asks suddenly.

You frown. “Huh?”

“What falls but never gets hurt?”

You squint at him, trying to decipher anything from his face in the low light. You get nothing but a calm, warm gaze resting on you.

His eyes crinkle in the corners again. “Rain.”

“Pffft-“ You choke, caught off guard. “That’s such a lame pun.”

“Oh? I’ve got a better one.” Simon says, a smirk in his tone. “Why’d the mother clam scold her children?”

You chew your lip. God, you’re too literal to be clever enough for stupid puns and riddles. It doesn’t help that your head is spinning from this brick shithouse, incredibly attractive and intimidating man spitting popsicle puns at you.

“They were being shellfish.”

“Oh fuck off!” You shove at his arm playfully without thinking. He gives, let’s you push him slightly before you stiffen. “S-sorry! I don’t-“

“Nothin’ to apologize for.” The corners of his eyes crinkle deeper. Yeah, definitely a smile. You answer it with one of your own.

[yoomiwrites]

We won²

Summary: The war is won, yet you lost too much. And well – how much can you still win? Read the first chapter here: We won

Note: I felt the rush and wrote more chapters for Ekko (5 or 6, depends on where I'll "cut" em). So yeah, more Arcane on my feed! I also wrote a Mel story which I'll probably post later.

Life after the war was a slow, aching process. The streets were littered with reminders of what they’d lost—buildings in ruins, empty spaces where loved ones once stood. Amid the chaos of rebuilding, you found purpose in small acts: patching walls, tending to wounds, and, most of all, looking after Ekko.

He threw himself into the work, determined to rebuild faster than his body could manage. You often found him at the break of dawn, still tinkering or sketching plans, dark circles under his eyes.

“Ekko, you need to sleep,” you’d say, gently prying tools from his hands.

He’d protest, insisting he was fine, but you didn’t budge. You made sure he ate enough, often sitting beside him with your own plate to ensure he didn’t skip meals. It was a rhythm you both fell into—one that kept him going and kept you close. Even if your heart ached to be more than his friend, you knew this was what he needed.

One morning, you found Vi at Powder’s grave. She stood there alone, her shoulders tense, her jaw tight. You hesitated before approaching, unsure if she wanted company. But when she glanced over and gave you a nod, you joined her.

The grave was simple, adorned with flowers that had started to wilt. Vi’s fingers traced the edge of the stone, her gaze distant.

“She was a mess, you know,” Vi said suddenly, her voice rough with emotion. “But she was still my sister.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. You thought of all the times you’d seen Powder and Vi together as kids—the way Vi had shielded her, protected her.

“I think she knew you loved her,” you said softly.

Vi scoffed, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “Maybe. But I spent so much time hating her, it’s hard to forgive myself for that.” She paused, then added, “But Cait… she helped me. Helped me forgive myself.”

Her words carried a weight you recognized—the struggle of moving forward when the past still clung so tightly. You swallowed hard, thinking of your own burden.

“I’m trying to move on too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “He… he doesn’t need me to love him like that. He needs a friend. And I want to be that for him.”

Vi turned to you, her sharp gaze softening. “You’ve been through hell and back for him. That counts for something, even if it’s not what you want.”

“I know,” you said, blinking back tears. “It’s just hard. Letting go.”

Vi’s hand landed on your shoulder, her grip firm but comforting. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said. “And if it gets too much, you know where to find me.”

Her words weren’t poetic or grand, but they were exactly what you needed.

As the days turned into weeks, you found yourself letting go little by little. You stayed by Ekko’s side, but your heart began to heal. You threw yourself into the work, into helping Zaun rise from the ashes. And on the days when the weight of it all felt too heavy, Vi’s rough but steady presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone.

Ekko didn’t notice the shift in you, and that was okay. You didn’t need him to. It was enough to see him smile, to know he was still here, and to know you had a place in his life—even if it wasn’t the one you’d once dreamed of.

[inkyquillstories]

A Firstborn with Second Thoughts (A Body Swap Story)

Note: Lucky for you if you saw the original post (which was flagged for some reason?), here's a definitely more SFW version I guess haha

(Brandon) 

(Tom)

My name is Brandon, and I have an older brother named Tom. We’re brothers, but you wouldn’t think so at first glance because we look so different. Tom is tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, while I’m shorter, thinner, and lack his athletic build. Our personalities are just as contrasting—he’s outgoing, carefree, and not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, whereas I’m bookish, reserved, and tend to overthink things. Despite our differences, we’ve always had a relatively good relationship. He’d tease me sometimes, but never in a mean-spirited way, and I’d help him with his homework when he got stuck. We had a balance, and it worked.

However, when Tom went off to college, things took a turn. He fell in with a reckless crowd—guys who cared more about drinking, partying, and skipping class than actually studying.

(Tom having fun in college) 

It wasn’t like he was ever the academic type, but his natural charisma had always carried him through. That didn’t work in college. Without discipline or structure, his grades plummeted. My parents were livid, especially my father, who had worked hard to send Tom to a good school. They weren’t about to let all that money go to waste. Meanwhile, I was in my senior year of high school, excelling academically, and on track to get into a prestigious university. I knew my parents wished Tom had my dedication, but I never expected them to take such drastic action to fix things.

When Tom came home for the holidays, our parents sat us down for a serious talk. They explained their plan: they were going to use a secret family heirloom—a body-swapping talisman—to switch our bodies. 

I thought they were joking at first, but when I saw how grave my father’s expression was, I knew they meant it. Tom was furious, shouting that this was insane, while I sat there in shock, unable to process what they were saying. Before we could protest any further, my father held up the talisman and muttered a phrase in a language I didn’t recognize. Everything went dark.

When I woke up, I felt... different. My sheets felt tight, my body felt heavier.

(Brandon waking up) 

Confused, I sat up and noticed that my clothes—my usual loose-fitting boxers—were now straining against a larger frame. I glanced down and saw muscular legs where my thin ones should have been. 

Panic surged through me, and I stumbled out of bed, rushing to the mirror. The reflection staring back at me wasn’t mine—it was Tom’s. His chiseled jaw, his deep-set eyes, his broad chest. It was me. I was him. 

A scream from the next room startled me—my scream. I ran to Tom’s room and found my old body flailing in oversized clothes. Tom—now in my body—looked horrified.

Our parents were waiting for us in the living room, prepared for our reactions. They handed us each a bag containing our new belongings—phones, wallets, even keys to our respective rooms. We were expected to swap everything, down to our names. “From now on, you will call each other by your new names,” my father ordered. “No slip-ups. Act like nothing happened. If you disobey, this arrangement will last even longer.” I looked at Tom, my former self, and saw the helplessness in his eyes. But what choice did we have?

That night, I sat in Tom’s room, getting acquainted with his life. I stood in front of the mirror, my breath shallow as I took in the reflection that wasn’t mine. Tom’s face—my face now—stared back at me, a mix of confusion and curiosity in those deep-set brown eyes. I lifted a hand to touch my jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath my fingertips. My old face had been smooth, youthful, almost delicate. But this? This was strong, angular, rugged. My fingers traced the defined cheekbones, the squared jaw, the broader nose that gave me a more commanding presence. Even the way my eyebrows furrowed looked different—more intense, more... powerful. 

Even my posture felt different, more naturally dominant. My legs, too—thicker, stronger. My calves flexed with every slight movement, and my feet… even they felt bigger, more grounded. I wiggled my toes, marveling at how different they looked, longer and more substantial than my old ones.  

In the next few days, I stood in front of Tom’s closet, my fingers brushing against the rows of neatly folded shirts and stacks of jeans. Everything felt bigger, heavier. I grabbed one of his t-shirts and pulled it over my head. The fabric stretched comfortably across my broader chest and arms, fitting perfectly in a way my old clothes never had. 

Downstairs, Tom—now in my old body—stood awkwardly in my usual hoodie and sneakers, fidgeting with the sleeves. “This is so weird,” he muttered, staring at me like he was looking in a funhouse mirror. “We actually have to go out like this?”

I smirked, grabbing the keys to his car. “Unless you suddenly know how to drive, yeah.”

His scowl deepened, but he followed me outside without another word. As I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather felt familiar yet new beneath me. I adjusted the mirrors, and for a split second, I caught my reflection—Tom’s reflection—staring back at me from the rearview mirror then I looked at the pedals and loved my new perspective. I grinned. “Let’s go.”

We pulled into town, and from the moment we stepped out of the car, it was like I had stepped into a whole new world. “Yo, Tom!” Someone waved at me from across the street, and without hesitation, I lifted a hand in response. A couple of guys I vaguely recognized from Tom’s social media clapped me on the back as I walked by, greeting me with easy confidence.

“Tom, man, you hitting the gym later?” one of them asked.

I laughed, flexing an arm instinctively. “You know it.”

The words rolled off my tongue effortlessly, and it felt… right. No one questioned me. No one looked past me. They saw Tom—the strong, charismatic, confident guy. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t just the shy, smart little brother. I was someone people noticed. Someone people respected.

Tom, trailing slightly behind me in my old body, kept shifting uncomfortably. He barely spoke, barely made eye contact. The contrast between us was stark. I had spent my whole life in his shadow, and now, here he was—quiet, uncertain, small. And me? I was the one towering over him, leading the way.

As we drove back home, I caught my reflection in the window once more. The smirk on my face wasn’t just Tom’s. It was mine. I dropped my brother home and proceeded to the gym.

Eventually, I had to go to college and college life as Tom was surprisingly easy. I went to his classes, aced his exams, and even managed to keep up his social life. His friends were shocked at how “responsible” I had become, but they admired it. My parents were pleased with my performance, thinking they had fixed Tom’s future. What they didn’t know was that I still partied—I just balanced it better than Tom ever did. I was living his life better than he ever could.

Meanwhile, Tom struggled in my old life. He hated the long study sessions, the lack of social outings, the expectation to be quiet and diligent. He constantly complained, but he knew that failing to keep up my grades would mean a prolonged swap. I tried to encourage him, but he was miserable. He didn’t want my life. But the more time passed, the less I wanted to give his back.

Months went by, and I grew more attached to my new life. I loved the strength, the confidence, the admiration. When I came home for the semester break, Tom stared at me and muttered, “You even look bigger.” I smirked and shrugged. “Kept up your gym routine.”

My parents announced that they had decided to extend the swap indefinitely, claiming that everything was better this way. Tom clenched his fists, but he had no choice but to accept it. Me? I was secretly thrilled.

Later that night, I found Tom sitting on the edge of my—his—bed, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. His expression was distant, frustrated. I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest. “Alright,” I said, breaking the silence. “Let’s go over some things.”  

Tom let out an annoyed sigh. “Seriously?”  

I nodded, stepping inside and shutting the door. “Yes, seriously. You keep slipping up, and if we mess this up, Dad will keep us like this even longer. So, let’s make sure you know who you are.” I sat across from him, leveling him with a firm gaze. “What’s your name?”  

He gritted his teeth, then mumbled, “Brandon.”  

“Louder.”  

“Brandon,” he said again, voice bitter.  

“Good. How old are you?”  

He shifted uncomfortably. “Eighteen.”  

I tilted my head. “And I am?”  

His jaw tightened. “Twenty.”  

“Who’s the older brother?”  

He swallowed hard before answering. “You are.”  

A small smirk tugged at my lips. “That’s right. And what do you like to do in your free time?”  

Tom hesitated before mumbling, “Study. Read. Play strategy games.” The words sounded foreign coming from his mouth—my mouth.  

“And what do I like to do?” I asked, pressing further.  

His fists clenched in his lap. “Work out. Party. Hang out with friends.”  

I nodded approvingly. “See? You’re getting the hang of it.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Listen, you need to start thinking of yourself as Brandon. You need to act like him, talk like him, live like him. The more you resist, the harder it’ll be. The sooner you accept it, the easier your life will be.”  

Tom looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t expected—defeat. A reluctant acceptance of what was happening. He exhaled slowly and muttered, “Fine.”  

“Good,” I said, standing up. “Now, repeat after me. ‘I am Brandon. I am eighteen. I’m the younger brother.’”  

Tom clenched his jaw, but he obeyed. “I am Brandon. I am eighteen. I’m the younger brother.”  

“And I am?”  

He swallowed hard. “You are Tom. You are twenty. You are the older brother.”  

I grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now you’re getting it.”  

As I walked out of the room, I felt a deep satisfaction settle in my chest. The more Tom accepted his new role, the more permanent it all felt. And honestly? That was exactly what I wanted. To solidify this, I changed all his social media passwords, cutting off any connection he had to his old life. If he wanted to live as me, he had to fully embrace it. I wasn’t going to let him live vicariously through the life I had made better.

One evening, after dinner, I found my dad in his study, sipping a glass of whiskey while reading through some paperwork. He barely looked up when I stepped inside, only acknowledging me with a small nod. I hesitated for a moment before speaking.  

“Dad,” I began, keeping my voice steady, “how long do you plan on keeping us like this?”  

He sighed, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “I haven’t given it much thought,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair. “But everything is working out, so why change it?”  

His words settled over me like a warm blanket. I nodded, suppressing the grin threatening to creep onto my face. I had expected some vague reassurance that this was temporary, but instead, he was practically confirming what I had already been feeling—this wasn’t temporary at all.  

Dad stood up and, to my surprise, pulled me into a firm hug. “I’m proud of you, son,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.  

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. He had never said those words to me before—not when I aced my exams, not when I won academic competitions, not even when I got accepted into top-tier colleges. But now, as Tom, as his firstborn, he finally said it. And for the first time, I truly felt like his eldest son.  

As I stepped back, I saw the way he looked at me—with pride, with respect. It was a look he had never given the old Brandon. And maybe that was why I felt no guilt when I realized I didn’t want to go back.  

Dad was happy. The new Brandon had adjusted. And I… I loved this. Being Tom felt right. More and more, it was starting to feel like a permanent arrangement. And honestly? I was perfectly okay with that.

The End.

[eliounora]

I've been trying to draw and feeling overwhelmed with all my ideas, and I had this thought I thought I might share. now that I've graduated and work full-time, I find myself missing drawing a lot. of course it has been my primary hobby and my most developed skill, but previously, even in university, I had more time to draw. now a lot of my time goes into necessary tasks like exercise, household chores, socialising, and resting, so while previously I might have spent my evenings staying up late and drawing, now I fall asleep before I can even start lol

though I have always liked drawing, I'm just now realising how important it is to me, which explains why I've been so frustrated with it. in the past few years, in my busy adult schedule, I've resorted to tools that make the process faster (relying heavily on references, sometimes tracing difficult parts like hands, skipping backgrounds, not even attempting challenging poses or perspectives) and while I've learned a lot, I have now reached a point where I feel both afraid to try drawing without a full reference and bored of not being able to implement my own ideas. because my end goal is to just draw something and get something drawn for the sake of it, I've lost the enjoyment of the process, and I've become too focused on the result being good. what I realised is that the bit I enjoy about drawing is the challenge, trying to get that one difficult bit right. and storytelling!

so I've decided to make more time to sit down, get back to the basics, and challenge myself! I'll even try to draw traditionally more, and somebody requested legolas and gimli, so here's a hand-drawn rough sketch of them:

[knoepfl]

Title: In the Pale Moonlight

Characters: Astarion x Reader

Warnings:

Slight angst

Emotional vulnerability

Hints of possessiveness

Blood drinking (lightly implied)

Masterlist

Words: 1,150

The fire crackled softly in the camp, its embers glowing like faint stars in the night. Most of the party had already retreated to their tents, the quiet hum of sleep settling over the clearing. Only two figures remained awake—the vampire spawn and the one foolish enough to grow close to him.

Astarion sat with his usual grace, one leg crossed over the other, his silver hair catching the moonlight in delicate strands. In the soft glow, he looked almost ethereal—too beautiful for a creature forged from centuries of cruelty and pain. His crimson gaze flickered toward you, playful as ever, but beneath that smile was something harder to decipher.

"You should be resting, darling," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, the way a cat watches a mouse. "Or did you come out here for me?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "What if I did?"

Astarion’s grin widened—sharp, dangerous, and yet somehow genuine in a way that made your heart skip a beat. He had a way of making every word feel like both a joke and a promise.

"Then I’d say you have excellent taste," he purred, scooting closer with a fluid, feline movement. His hand reached out, brushing against yours for the briefest moment, sending a shiver up your spine. "Though I must wonder—what keeps you so captivated? My devastating charm, perhaps? Or is it the mystery that draws you in?"

You gave him a sidelong glance, trying to see past the layers of bravado he wore like armor. "You think I haven’t noticed the cracks beneath that charm?"

His smile faltered, just a flicker, and for a second you saw it—the exhaustion, the fear, the ache of someone who had spent too long pretending. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by that familiar smirk.

"Oh, you wound me," Astarion said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "I thought I was doing such a good job at hiding my flaws."

You leaned in slightly, close enough to see the faint lines of strain around his eyes. "You don’t have to hide them from me, you know."

For a moment, Astarion stilled. The playful banter he wielded like a weapon faded into silence, leaving only the barest trace of something raw and uncertain between you.

"Careful, darling," he whispered, his voice low and almost… pleading. "It’s dangerous to care for someone like me."

You searched his gaze, seeing the layers of fear hidden beneath the mirth. He wanted to trust—desperately, perhaps—but he didn’t know how. Not after what Cazador had done to him, not after centuries of being treated like a tool, a possession.

"You don’t scare me," you whispered back, your hand brushing against his.

Astarion chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "That’s what makes you dangerous, too."

He turned his hand over, letting your fingers interlace with his. For all his teasing, there was a fragile quality to the way he held your hand—like he wasn’t sure if he should hold on tighter or let go before it was too late.

The fire crackled softly between you, filling the space with warmth and light, though neither of you really needed it. The moon overhead bathed Astarion in pale silver, making him look like a dream—too beautiful, too tragic.

"You know," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, "I spent so long believing I could only survive by taking, by pretending, by being whoever someone needed me to be. And now…"

His gaze met yours, raw and exposed in a way you’d never seen before. "Now you come along, with your kind words and your foolish heart, and I don’t know what to do with you."

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "You could try being yourself."

A bitter laugh escaped him, but there was no malice in it. "And what if you don’t like who I am?"

"I already do," you whispered.

The weight of those words settled between you, heavy and undeniable. Astarion’s smile faded into something softer—something real. For the first time, he looked at you not as a game, not as a conquest, but as someone who saw him for what he was and didn’t flinch away.

"I hate how much I want you," he confessed, his voice rough and uneven. "It’s terrifying. But gods help me, I can’t stop."

The admission hung in the air between you, fragile and dangerous. You knew what it cost him to say it, how much trust it took for him to bare even a sliver of his heart. And in that moment, you knew you would never betray that trust.

He shifted closer, his hand tightening around yours as if grounding himself in the connection. "Stay with me," he whispered, almost too softly to hear.

You nodded, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from his face. "Always."

For the first time in what felt like centuries, Astarion allowed himself to relax—just a little. The fear was still there, the shadows of his past still lingering, but for tonight, he could pretend. He could let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as broken as he thought.

And with you by his side, perhaps he wouldn’t have to pretend for much longer.

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this softer, more vulnerable take on Astarion. If you’d like a follow-up or have any other requests, feel free to ask!

[tipsynight0]

Anatomy of affection

Parings - eyeless Jack x female reader

Word count - 1.1k

TRIGGER WARNINGS - medical procedures, surgery, graphic descriptions of blood and organs, use of paralytics, body horror, gore, blood, cannibalism, descriptions of anatomy and dissection.

Summary - (y/n) is giving Jack a snack.

Author's Note: Not sure why I enjoyed writing this so much, but explaining it to my boyfriend and watching him look at me like I'm the freakiest thing he's ever seen was... interesting. Anyway, if you're squeamish about organs or cannibalism, maybe skip this one! <3

The cold metal table pressed unyieldingly against (Y/N)'s back, its chill seeping through her skin, heightening her awareness of her immobility. She lay paralyzed, her gaze locked on her lover, Jack, who moved with deliberate, practiced grace across the dimly lit room. The acrid scent of alcohol hung thick in the air, a hasty attempt at sterilization given his scarce supplies. Beside an operating tray, Jack's hands skimmed over his instruments, lingering briefly before selecting each one, his fingers brushing the tools with an expert's familiarity. He listened intently to the rhythmic pulse in (Y/N)'s neck, sensing her heart beating faster.

He leaned close, his calloused fingers tracing a gentle path over her stomach, claws lightly grazing her skin. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice soft yet intense, "I know what I’m doing." Despite herself, (Y/N) let out a nervous laugh, nodding ever so slightly. She attempted to wiggle her toes, flex her hands—anything—but her body remained numb, just as Jack had planned with the precise dose of vecuronium. This moment was one they'd prepared for, an experience she had willingly chosen.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she took in her surroundings—the familiar concrete walls lined with shelves of carefully arranged medical supplies and the slight glint of tools on the nearby tray. Jack seemed engrossed in his setup, double-checking every item with a meticulousness she recognized and loved. He finally pulled off his mask, revealing his grey skin and the unmistakable gleam in his eyes. One of his many tongues darted out to moisten his lips, a glint of hunger flashing across his face. She watched, captivated, as he inspected the monitor, satisfied that her vitals remained steady. Just in case, he had an Ambu bag at the ready, a trophy from one of their nighttime scavenging trips to abandoned clinics. They had both invested in this, carefully planning each aspect of this night.

Jack leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, lingering briefly before he grasped his scalpel. "Alright, baby," he said with a smile that, despite its toothy sharpness, held a tenderness she trusted, "it’s time." His hand moved to her face, cupping it gently. His surgical gloves snapped into place, and his fingers began to trace a path down her abdomen, a silent promise of care. When he made the first incision, (Y/N) could only assume it had happened; her body remained numb, yet she could sense his excitement. Jack’s tongue flicked out, practically salivating as he worked, pausing only to press gauze to the incision and lap up the blood with reverence.

"Everything going good down there?" (Y/N) asked, her voice wavering but full of curiosity.

Jack nodded, casting her a reassuring glance. "Yes, darling. You’re doing great." For a rare moment, a look of genuine expression crossed his face—a mix of pride and fascination.

"Did you enjoy being a medical student?" she asked quietly, trying to break the silence that seemed to press down on them.

He chuckled softly, the sound rolling through the room as he continued to focus on removing layers of fat and tissue with precise, careful cuts. "It was… fine," he murmured, his brow furrowing as he concentrated. "I just wanted to help people." For a moment, his mind drifted to those less careful procedures he'd performed in the past, crude and impersonal compared to this. This was different; this was for her. Every detail mattered, every movement was intentional. She was his priority, and he’d take hours to ensure her recovery.

The procedure continued, his hands working methodically as he navigated around muscles, vessels, and organs. With skilled precision, he reached the ureter and blood vessels before finally removing the kidney. Holding it up triumphantly, he allowed himself a brief, reverent pause, admiring its color and texture. (Y/N) felt a shiver race up her spine, offering him a shy, almost giddy smile.

"It’s beautiful," he breathed, his voice filled with admiration. "The scent is… intoxicating." He placed the kidney into a basin of ice, his attention undivided as he resumed his work. The following hours passed in quiet conversation and careful stitching. His words were soothing, his lips occasionally grazing her forehead as he worked his way through the final sutures. "Almost done, darling," he whispered, his voice rich with affection.

At last, with a sigh of satisfaction, Jack pulled off his gloves, his fingers finding her face as he leaned down, pressing soft kisses along her cheeks, forehead, and neck. "Alright, alright, go eat," she laughed, flushed from his touch.

Jack sighed, nodding, but his gaze shifted to the basin, where her kidney lay on ice. Slowly, he lifted it, placing it in a pristine white bowl, adding a dash of salt and pepper. Seated near her, he picked up his scalpel and fork, slicing through the jelly-like texture. She watched, utterly fascinated as he lifted the fork, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of iron and freshness. This was not just any organ—it was hers, a part of her.

He tilted his head back slightly, letting the first bite linger on his tongue, savoring it fully. A low, appreciative groan escaped him. "You taste… perfect," he whispered, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

(Y/N) bit her lip, captivated by his enjoyment, as he tried to maintain some semblance of decorum while eating but couldn’t help himself. Each bite was savored as though he were tasting something divine. Once finished, he leaned over her, his tongues intertwining with hers, the taste of iron and warmth flooding her senses. She gripped his sweater, pulling him closer.

Pulling back, he whispered, "I love you," his hands cradling her face as he pressed his forehead against hers. "Don’t worry; I’m going to take good care of you for the next few weeks."

[3wwo-guys]

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘~ | Jefferson Hatter x Cheshire Cat reader

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 Word Count: 2.4K

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:

Jefferson, obsessed with getting back what he once had. Decides to kidnap Emma to see if she can make a hat that he once used. However, this time he has a friend - maybe lover - help with his endeavour. Jefferson (Mad) Hatter x Cheshire cat accomplice reader.

A/N: Woah... My first fanfic...

"Do you really think she can do it?" You ask, staring at the cerulean blue of his eyes. Seemingly burrowing into your very soul, you look away, though not escaping his gaze. After he doesn't respond, the silence gives you your answer. He circles you, as if a predator stalking his prey. "Isn't intimidating prey my thing?" you chuckle, your lips spreading into a Cheshire-like grin, showing the very core of your soul. He smirks, chuckling, the low sound resonating in his throat would make your tail wag. Well...If you still had one. He walks around the house - somewhat preparing. You follow not far behind, tracing his every step, your eyes trained on his form.

However, soon, you stop. Rushed footsteps echo in the mostly silent forest outside, a new, unfamiliar scent flooding your nose. Your ears perk at the sound of laboured breaths and pants. A familiar playful grin dances onto your lips. Jefferson turns to face your defensive form, your yellow eyes trained on something outside. "Something out there?" He can visibly see there hair on the back of your neck stand up. "Someone." You say back, now cold and unwavering your eyes not looking away from the being outside. His arms snake around your waist, his chin now resting on the top of your head. He lowers his mouth to your ear nicking it slightly, smelling your hair. He takes a long, deep breath in, savouring you. You can feel him smirk against your ear. "Fetch"

Time skip

Mary struggles in her restraints, writhing violently, trying to hoist the chair over. Jefferson (tired of her disobedience) grips her roughly, attempting to stop her meltdown. You sit at his feet in a squat with one hand resting on the floor, your head laying on his leg. He pushes her back, his gaze now falling to you. A sigh tumbles from his lips. "Kitty. I think this one needs some special treatment. Don't you?" Standing now, you face Mary, your eyes bore into hers. The vivid colours swirl in your eyes, blues, pinks, purples and greens. It's mesmerising...

Hypnotising.

"Go to sleep..." Your voice floats in the air, soft like a satin ribbon. Her eyes flutter shut, her body still and lax. Yawn. Soft cracks echo in the room as you do a few cat stretches to soothe your aching bones. Jefferson's hand strokes under your chin, your body instinctively moving closer to relish in the warmth of his body. "Good kitten, good girl." A meow or purr rips itself from your throat, causing a soft vibration on his hand. Mischievous eyes grace his.

Time skip, The Hat Room

You lay lazily on the table, your head resting on your folded forearms, near his busy hands. He stills, setting down his tools. "I think it's time..." He stands, grabbing his coat from an adjacent chair, you reach for his scarf, tying it neatly around his neck. There are a few beats of silence but he soon breaks it. "Get changed wear something...presentable." He commands, you hop off the table, stretching. He pets your head. "Why can't I wear what I'm in now?" You playfully shine a bright smile at him, highlighting your sharper, elongated canines. He looks down at your outfit, his iconic smirk flashing across his face, your outfit being pyjama pants and a random t-shirt you found. He laughs, his nose scrunches and his eyes squeeze shut.

It's the most beautiful thing you will ever, have ever, seen."I'll be back in what? 10 minutes." He walks into the main room, adjusting himself as he gets ready to leave. He turns to you his face stern. "Get changed." He then walks out of the door, raising a hand as a wave not bothering to spare you a glance. As soon as he leaves, you retreat to your bedroom, getting changed into something more presentable. However, it seems that Jefferson had already thought ahead as new clothes were already laid out on the bed: A corset (matching pattern as Jefferson's), a black dress shirt with tiered sleeves, a studded belt, a black bowtie (again with the same pattern), black dress pants and black stilettos. 'Thank God' You thought as you didn't know what to wear. You dress very casually around the house not caring about how you look, your confidence normally overshadows that.

Time skip

You watch as a yellow buggy, parks outside the large mansion, Jefferson steps out of the car, dragging his foot behind him seemingly limping. However, you can see through his thin facade. The blonde behind him, the one you assume is Emma, seems fascinated by the large house. Eventually, they make their way inside. Jefferson leads her to the living room and then leaves her to join you in the kitchen. You sit on a countertop, watching, waiting, though mostly enjoying some snacks. Jefferson walks in while you prepare the tea. "So... she suspect anything?" You question as he starts getting something ready, you grab the whistling kettle and place it on the silver tray, nestling three cups with it. "She's looking for a dog" He states, his voice laced with amusement, you catch one and reply with a "The one upstairs?". He looks at you, grinning. Then, he leans over your shoulder, slipping something into the teapot. His face turns towards you, a cheeky smile painted on his lips. Leaning in, you connect your lips briefly, very briefly. 'meow' Eventually, he leaves, telling you to bring the tea in 5 minutes, on the dot.

Show time!

You walk in to see Jefferson and Emma talking, the two of them a few metres away, giving Emma some sense of (faux) security. She looks at you - surprised - as if she wasn't expecting to see another person. "What something on my face?" She blankly stares at you, mouth agape. Now, you set the tray down on the table - pouring the cups of tea - handing one to Jefferson. "Thought you might want to warm up for your search. It's cold out there." She seems stiff, tense, and on edge and you suppose you can guess why. "That is kind of you, but I think I should get back to it." Emma says, you watch as Jefferson hands his cup to Emma. Now, you reach for your cup, going in for a slip before Jefferson gently pushes it away from your lips - it's a warning. Slowly, you approach the sofa sitting on the back edge instead of the actual cushions. "I know. That's why I brought this." Jefferson, reaches into one of his pockets, taking out a map of the forest. He must have retrieved it when he went to check on you. "I'm a bit of an amateur cartographer. Mapping the area is a hobby. Maybe this will help you track down your dog." While Jefferson speaks Emma takes long sips of her tea, unlike yours as it sits long forgotten on the table. The map is spread on the grand piano. Emma lets slip a small 'wow', She approaches the map. "What's it's name?" The two others look at you. "The dog." You clarify. You can see the panic in her eyes and you look at her skeptically. She seems hesitant before she says "Spot", a fake, plastic smile is plastered on her face. "Cute" chuckles Jefferson as he turns to face you, his eyes never really leaving Emma. Her fingers run along the map, tracing a bond line. "Well, Route 6 runs the boundary of the forest, so..." There's a break in her sentence as she sips the tainted tea, you can see a mist cascade over her eyes and mind. "So if I just follow that I should... be able to..." Her speech slurs, into a mess of incoherent words. "Something wrong?" You ask unable to hide the amusement in your voice, however, it doesn't seem like Emma really noticed anyway. "I'm just, uh, feeling a little..." She doesn't finish the sentence before she falls back into Jefferson, he hoists her up, wrapping his arms around her middle. Green envy seeps into your skin as you watch the two. "Oh. Let me help you." He motions for you to get off the sofa, and you begrudgingly get up from your comfortable spot. "Dizzy" Emma's words are lost in between her heavy pants. "Let's just lie you down here." Jefferson 'lays' her down on the sofa, though it's more like he dropped her. "There you go. Let me get you some air." He continues, walking off, his limp now seemingly healed suddenly. You walk over to Emma, propping her head up with a pillow, though that seemed to be the downfall of your 'act'. "Your limp..." she looks past you, Jefferson suddenly stops his strides. An iconic sinister smirk creeps onto his face, it sends a - pleasurable? - shiver through your body, goosebumps rising all over your skin. "Oh. That." He walks back towards you, looking down at you and Emma. Emma on the sofa and you on your knees just in front. "I guess you caught me." The teacup Emma previously held dropped to the floor, you clasp it and set it neatly on the table. "Who are you?" She looks between you both, your hand pushing some hair behind her ear. Though neither of you get to answer before she passes out.

"You drugged the tea? that's so basic." You state, standing up. He feigns hurt as he glares at you, once again he strokes under your chin and another purr resonates from within. He chuckles as you become limp and slouche into him, though not because of the tea. Your eyes roll back "Meow"s slip from your loose lip, and when you realise what you're doing you quickly push him back, panting. "That was mean" You say annoyed, though it doesn't look very believable since your cheeks were practically as red as tomatoes, you lightly punch his shoulder.

Time skip

You rest in the corner of a room, Jefferson standing in the middle, sharpening a large pair of gleaming scissors. A few miscellaneous pillows, blankets and t-shirts lay under you, you're curled in the very centre. Watching. Low huffs erupt from your chest as you lay there bored, Jefferson giving you no attention at all. 'I'm going to die if he doesn't give me attention' you thought as you dramatically pressed your hand against your forehead. 'No, I'm not' You say again in your mind. Standing up, you make your way to Jefferson, nuzzling his neck and wrapping your arms around his body. Attempting to savour as much of him as you can, his smell seemingly intoxicating you. So much that you don't catch Emma leaving her room. Well, that is until you hear the creak of the floorboards, your head immediately snapping towards the sound. Jefferson's head follows but much slower.

Time skip

You watch as Emma and Mary leave the room Mary was previously held in, the pair stopping in their tracks once they hear the cocking of a gun. Their eyes are as wide as a deer in headlights. "I see you found 'Spot'!" This was your cue, quickly you pry Mary from Emma's grip, resting a knife against her jugular. Mary squeals, thrashing in your grip, pointlessly wasting energy. "I've already called for backup, they'll be here any second," Emma says hesitantly, Jefferson darkly laughs, motioning his gun towards you. Emma now makes eye contact with you, agonisingly waiting for you to make a move. "You called back up huh..." Your words seep with sarcasm, you reach for something in your pocket, a smooth cold material gracing your fingers. You pull out a black walkie-talkie. "Oh.. No. You didn't" You feign sympathy and throw Mary into Emma, both having to move backwards to avoid falling over. "Now tie her back up." This time Jefferson's voice is stern and unwavering, 'cold' some could put it.

He grabs Emma, leading her somewhere, you follow with no hesitation however this time Jefferson stops you. "Make sure, she doesn't escape-" "But!-" "You can check on us, just make sure that she stays in that room." He points back to where Mary is imprisoned, sadness or jealousy shines deep within your eyes at the thought of them being alone. Together. It seems like he could sense it as he leans over to place a small kiss on your forehead. The horrified look of disgust - or something else you couldn't see - flashed upon Emma's face. I made you wanna laugh out loud but with that, Jefferson left.

Check-in

You push open the door to the 'Hat Room' many shelves are lined with copious amounts of hats. Obvious to the name. Emma turns to you, watching as you close the door - her only escape route - it seems you had accidentally intruded in the middle of a conversation. "And them.. the feline actions, the tea... their grin. You think you're the Cheshire cat." The look in her eyes is pure astonishment - not the good kind though. "I am the Cheshire Cat." Before you can continue with the conversation, you're cut short. Thrashing is heard from upstairs, loud banging, etc. You spare Jefferson a simple look as you leave, your eyes meeting, his softening. "Good luck", and with that you ascend back up the stairs.

...

You raise a gun to Emma, pressing the barrel into the bottom of her skull. "Where the fuck is Jefferson?" She doesn't answer back, instead, she sweeps your legs, knocking off your feet. Suddenly, you're the one with a gun to your head. "Emma, look out!" Jefferson runs into the room and tackles Emma, knocking her into Mary, who currently is still in the chair, now all of you are on the floor. A struggle ensues. Emma tries to get to the gun, however, you run up and grab it before Emma could get her hands on it. Somehow during the struggle, Jefferson had managed to loosen the scarf enough, that it had fallen off. You toss Jefferson the gun, he cocks it and points it at Emma. You reach for his hat, making your way towards him, placing it snugly on his head. He smiles, the flame of madness raging vividly in his eyes, he pulls you into him, an arm snuggly around your waist. "Off with his head." He chuckles darkly, Mary picks up a croquet mallet and strikes Jefferson with it, then without warning she kicks you, sending you both tumbling out the window.

A/N: How do I end this?

[kezdispenser]

Tinsel, Whiskey, and Mistletoe

A Dean Winchester one shot

The bunker always felt a little too cold, a little too big, and a little too much like a military base. Functional, sure, but cozy? Not even close. But this year, you’d decided that was going to change.

It was Christmas Eve, and while Dean, Sam, and Cas were out handling a minor salt-and-burn, you’d spent the entire day turning the bunker into something that vaguely resembled the holidays. You’d raided every thrift store, big-box shop, and craft aisle within a hundred-mile radius, hauling back decorations, lights, and enough tinsel to choke a reindeer.

By the time the guys returned, the bunker looked... different.

Dean was the first to step inside, his boots echoing against the floor before he froze in place. His eyes scanned the room, widening at the sight of garlands strung along the railings, a small but cheerful tree set up in the corner, and stockings hung along the edge of one of the desks.

“What the hell?” he muttered, blinking like he’d walked into an alternate universe.

You popped your head out from behind the tree, holding a string of lights you’d been wrestling with. “Surprise! Merry Christmas, Dean!”

Sam walked in behind him, his eyebrows shooting up. “Whoa. You did all this?”

“Sure did,” you said, grinning as you plugged in the lights. The tree lit up, casting the room in a warm, festive glow. “If we’re gonna spend Christmas in the bunker, we’re doing it right.”

Dean crossed his arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You realize this is a secret lair for fighting monsters and saving the world, right? Not Santa’s workshop?”

“Uh-huh. And you realize you’ve spent the last however many years skipping Christmas like it’s the plague?” you shot back. “Not this year, Winchester. You’re having a proper Christmas, and you’re gonna like it.”

Sam chuckled, clearly enjoying Dean’s discomfort. “She’s got a point, Dean.”

Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t argue further, which you took as a win.

The evening felt strangely quiet after dinner, the kind of peaceful stillness that settled in your chest when you were alone with people you cared about. You didn’t want to let the night slip away without showing them just how much they meant to you, how much you appreciated everything they did—even if they didn’t always show it.

When it came time for presents, you couldn’t help yourself. You’d spent weeks getting gifts for all three of them, each one hand-picked with the hope it would mean something to them.

First, you turned to Sam. You handed him a large, neatly wrapped package. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate to tear into it. His eyes widened when he saw what was inside: a collection of vintage books, including some rare editions on folklore and hunting techniques, as well as a beautiful leather bookmark with his initials engraved on it.

“Holy—wow. You really went all out,” Sam said, clearly surprised. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” you said with a soft smile. “I know how much you love your research. Thought these might help.”

Next, you handed Castiel his gift, and he unwrapped it carefully, as if savoring the moment. Inside was a rare celestial map, detailing constellations and star formations. You could see the quiet joy in his eyes as he traced the patterns. You had also thrown in a small hand-carved wooden angel figurine for him, something you knew would resonate with him more than anything store-bought.

“This is... beautiful,” he said, his voice soft and full of appreciation. “Thank you, (Y/N).”

You nodded, trying not to let your emotions overwhelm you. You had always known the angels in his life were complex, but this—this was something tangible that he could hold onto.

Finally, you turned to Dean. His gift was a bit more elaborate—a box that was heavier than he expected. As he opened it, he found a set of custom tools, engraved with his name and a few inside jokes about the number of times he'd complained about broken equipment. You’d even thrown in a high-quality flask, knowing he’d appreciate it on long hunts.

“You didn’t have to get me all this stuff,” Dean said, his voice soft, but there was something in his eyes that made your heart flutter. He stared at the flask for a moment before looking back up at you. “This is... amazing, (Y/N). Thank you.”

You smiled at him, trying to mask the overwhelming sense of love you felt for the three of them. “You guys deserve it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “For all the shit you go through, for everything you’ve given. You deserve something nice, even if it’s just for tonight.”

Dean reached across the table, brushing his hand over yours in a rare moment of sincerity. “You didn’t have to do all this. But I’m glad you did,” he said, his words heavy, but sincere.

You took a breath, trying to hold back the tears you could feel welling in your eyes. “I wanted to make it special,” you whispered. “For all of us. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

The smiles on their faces were more than you’d hoped for. It wasn’t about the presents—it was about the fact that you cared enough to show them they weren’t alone, that despite the chaos and violence that had always been a part of their lives, there was still room for peace.

And maybe, just maybe, there was room for love.

Later, when Sam and Cas had gone off to their rooms, you found Dean sitting in the war room, nursing a glass of whiskey. The tree’s lights reflected in the amber liquid, casting a warm glow over his face.

“Hey,” you said softly, walking over and sliding into the chair next to him.

He glanced at you, then back at the tree. “This is... a lot.”

You shrugged, resting your chin in your hand. “You guys deserve it. You never take a break, never let yourselves have any normal shit. I just wanted to give you something good for once.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the tree. Then he smirked, shaking his head. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you love me for it,” you shot back without thinking.

The words hung in the air for a beat too long. You glanced at him, expecting him to laugh or roll his eyes, but instead, his gaze was locked on yours, intense and unreadable.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low. “Maybe I do.”

Your breath caught as he leaned closer, his whiskey-warmed breath ghosting over your lips. “Mistletoe,” he murmured, his eyes flicking upward.

Your heart flipped when you realized you were sitting directly under the sprig you’d hung earlier. “Cheater,” you whispered, but you were already leaning in.

When his lips met yours, it was soft at first, almost hesitant. But then his hand cupped your jaw, and the kiss deepened, all heat and unspoken feelings pouring out in one perfect moment.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

And just like that, the bunker didn’t feel so cold anymore.

---------------------

A/N: Here's a Dean one for you girlies.

[shuggymaniac]

((Following the “Buggy son of Xebec” theory))

AU where Fingarland Garling didn’t obandon Shanks in a treasure box and instead raised him along with Shamrock to be a a”God’s knight”.

And Buggy?

Seeing that he would lose Xebec’s took his secret infant son and ran to a safer place, a place where he can lay low away from the eyes of the marines and his traitorous subordinates, a place where he can raise Buggy as best as he can.

A small Time skip for Buggy….

Xebec was too hard on his son. Since the world government made sure to erase any trace of him making him only a story that pirates tell each other as if he was a myth. Such a thing had took a toll on his already declining mentality. So he focused those ideas and emotions on Buggy.

As soon as Buggy was able to fight which is like 5 to 7 Y/O he made him go through brutal training. He focused his conquerers Haki on him at any given moment to force Buggy’s to awaken but it only made the boy build a resistance to it, much to Xebec’s anger. He then tried to teach him how to wield a sword and fight with it, but it always seemed that his arms were too weak for sword fighting, which sent him to frenzy. He would teach him how to survive in the woods and sea and apply it putting him in a spot that was far away from their home and ordering him to come back. Most times Xebec would end up bringing Buggy home after couple of days passed with him not showing him, and he would find him crying and clinging to his leg begging to go back home. And he told him about the government teaching him all the reasons of how HE needs together stronger to follow in his father’s footsteps.

One of the things that he learned was what Buggy didn’t make up in strength he made up with his brains, he studied hard, taught himself how to draw maps from the few navigation lesson he gave home. He couldn’t hold a sword but he drew model guns and bombs that he explained would be a great advantage for Buggy. The young boy even showed signs to a very advanced observation and armenant Haki He could have harvested those talents, helped his son grow stronger in a different way, but Xebec could do that. Seeing that side of him only told him one thing….

“Buggy is weak, meaning you’re weak and that’s why you lost all those years back.”

Which fueled Xebec to be harsher on Buggy telling him over and over again how useless his ideas were and to stick with what he was teaching him. He stopped saving him forcing the young Boy to venture on his own and take almost a month to come back home, since he would have to hide from predators. He destroyed any “distractions” which were his navigation tools and books demanding he spent more time swinging swords and building muscles.

And Buggy? Since Xebec was the only adult in his life that he seeked his validation blindly. He told him he is weak and should get stronger? Then he should get stronger, even if he stayed all night swinging a wooden sword. He threw away all his interests and minimized his ideas? Then it was all stupid and Buggy should be thankful that his father noticed it.

When did it stop? When Buggy was knocked out by Xebec while they were training and didn’t get up. Xebec waited thinking it would only take a few minutes for the boy to wake up so they can continue training. But Buggy didn’t. An hour past and the small boy didn’t wake up.

Xebec never ran as fast as he did while carrying his son’s unmoving body to the nearest doctor even if it was in a village. Turns out Buggy has several bruises that could have caused torn muscles and broken bones, and a concussion. The ex pirate was mortified he almost lost his son because of his own selfishness. What made it worst is that when Buggy woke up he didn’t get angry nor sad he just apologized for being weak and promised that next time he’ll try harder.

That was enough for Xebec to decide that Buggy is not safe with him. So, he tracked down Roger and his crew and left Buggy with them. And he did it by telling Buggy to steal something from their ship and the moment Buggy boarded it he sailed away. Buggy was caught by the Roger pirates and became devastated when he realized his father was no longer there. Believing that the reason why he left him was because he was “useless” seeing the young boys reaction and realizing who his father was Roger decided that Buggy is part of their crew and unlike Xebec they nurtured his interests and ideas and because they never had a specific “red haired boy” as the golden child they focused on Buggy feeding his confidence and bravery, leading him to a path or becoming a great and terrifying pirate.

What about Shanks?

The young man always felt like he didn’t belong.

Yes, he did have the talent. Yes, he had the strength. But he detested having to put on appearances. He hated being forced to smile and lying to people about how he was pleased to see or serve them. Having his brother doing better than him made it worse, especially when his father kept comparing them and demanding Shanks to get better.

Having everything handed to him does has its joy but to have it easily all the time can be boring, his only joy was either when he dueled with his brother since he was the only one who was a true challenge, and when he got not legally old but old enough, he drank and he drank a lot, which disappointed his father who decided to focus on Shamrock, making him an heir to him, he thought Shanks would get jealous and try to get better but the only response he got was for his son to celebrate having such title taken from him. And that maybe angered his father but it made the young man relish in the small freedom he had, the freedom of not being tied down by something or someone and he wanted it more.

Now, Garland maybe didn’t care for Shanks but his twin brother thought otherwise. Despite their different personalities and preferences it didn’t mean he harbored the same feelings that their father had for his younger brother her twin. He might not be as expressive as Shanks, but Shamrock really does care for his twin even if he drove him crazy sometimes he was used to it.

So, When Shanks confined in him that he is thinking about renouncing his title and status as a God’s knight and just sail the seas searching for adventure. But such thoughts worried Shamrock and using his brains and influence on their father he proposed something else. Shanks can still keep his title and status but he would keep it on the low which means he can’t have some of the previous privileges at least not in public. His duties would change instead of staying in one place and wait for the elders to order on a mission, Shanks would venture into the sea and hunt pirates.

It’s a task that could take decades to finish especially after Roger’s death which caused the new age of piracy. Shanks would be required to give annual reports on how many pirates he finished and if he had any new plans. Such reports would only earn a simple glimpse from his father as he focused on bigger things and Shanks can have his freedom to sail the seas for adventure and even forming his own crew, maybe even form some true friendships that had nothing to do with strengthening family ties. It was perfect plan.

Shamrock’s back still ached from how hard his brother hugged him as a thank you.

And so…

Buggy used his charisma and smarts to be one of the 4 emperors of the sea, his Circus pirates were feared, causing many to jump of their skin if they heared even a simple festival confetti. Not only that he made profit by selling merch of his and his crew’s likeness to the people and behind those scenes he would sell weapons to pirates, making them swear their loyalty to him and earn favors.

Shanks did hunt pirates as his brother suggested. At first they were not interesting preferring to just continue sailing and celebrating with his new friends, which had no idea who he truly was. Until he met black beard pirates which made him remember that just because he was born with talent and strength doesn’t mean anything in real life if you don’t have experience in battle. Causing him to have the scare around his eye. After that he decided to train more and make alliances with some people and earning favors.

One day, he got a task from his father, how the elders ordered him to focus on a specific sea emperor and bring him down, because unlike the other 3 this one doesn’t stay in one place and is moving across the grand line causing havoc.

Shanks made his way across the seas to get to this infamous sea emperor. The star clown who made a fool of everyone. The weapon monger who made marine’s high tech weapons look like water pistols. The manipulator who is brainwashing the people to love him.

Shanks was ready to fight tell death, to have an enemy that was worst than black beard, to have bullets flying and swords clashing…..

Shanks didn’t expect to wake up in the same bed as Buggy’s after they drank together the night before…..

Nor dead he expected to chase after the pirate after that not for the sake of completing his task but to win the heart of a pirate…..

Buggy wants to find the one piece to be the king of the not only the pirates but THE WORLD!!! He just needs to shake off the annoying one night stand that keeps chasing after him!

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part Nine: The Expo

Your eyes widen to saucers as you climb out of John’s work van. The event hall in front of you is huge - the largest in the city. A big, glass dome with a high-end hotel attached. It glows in the morning sun. Lines of people have already formed out front. You passed them on your way around to the vendor entrance. It’s the twentieth anniversary for the Tattoo Expo, apparently, which means they expect massive crowds.

“I hate that Kyle couldn’t come.” You frown as a security worker hands over your badge. It’s fancy - heavy weight with brightly colored, neo-traditional graphics. Something about having the word VENDOR hanging around your neck makes your heart skip.

John sighs, heaving one of the boxes of his books onto your dolly. “Yeah. He tried but he couldn’t get his head out of the toilet long enough to do much of anythin’.”

You wrinkle your nose. Apparently he had caught some nasty stomach bug, poor guy. You thought about calling and checking in on him, but you worried that was too clingy. After… everything, you don’t want to come off as anything other than normal about it. Which you are. Totally normal.

At least Johnny was home for the day to help him out.

“Has Simon ever come?” You ask, titling the dolly pack to push into the convention hall.

John’s arms flex as he fights with his rolling tool box to get the handle back out so he can pull it. He just had to wear a sleeveless muscle tee, didn’t he? It’s rude, frankly. You look over his more rarely exposed shoulder and upper arm pieces - some more faded than others. Some more colorful, some better crafted. Part of you wants to reach out - to trace them the same way you want to with Simon. You want to ask him in detail about each one. Maybe he’ll let you, someday.

“Can you actually picture Simon in a convention hall?” He chuckles eventually, finally getting the toolbox rolling properly.

You laugh. “Guess not.”

The 141 booth sits in the center of the floor, surrounded by a few other big-name shops and figures in the community. You glance around at them, only recognizing a few. You don’t get much time to look around. There are only a couple hours designated for set up and you have to help hang all the flash options, get the cash box sorted, and be ready for the flood when it comes. You’ve mentally prepared for chaos, reading through pretty much every reddit and twitter thread you could find about convention disasters. You know that won’t happen here, and even if something did, John wouldn’t abandon you to it. Still, you feel better being mentally prepared for anything - no matter how unrealistic.

“Why do you still do these?” You ask, pinning one of the large flash sheets to the display board. “I mean - you don’t exactly have to get your name out there.”

“I enjoy them- the community. I was here when this was still bein’ held underground in an old warehouse.” John looks around, eyes scanning the rows of artists. He doesn’t share his thoughts, just stands there quietly for a moment with his hands on his hips. After a few beats he grumbles quietly, “Gettin’ old…”

You focus on setting up the front table where you’ll be stationed. John brought a few prints of work as well as several copies of his book. He brought a few signed ones as well, only selling them for about twenty more bucks than the usual price. You asked why he doesn’t mark them up more, but he just shrugged you off with a mutter of ‘I’m not all that’ before moving on to another task. You decided it was best not to argue that he is, indeed, all that. His books are literally filled until the late fall.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so proud of setting up a decently aesthetically pleasing display all on your own when you’re surrounded by real artists, but you still grin wide with your hands on your hips. It’s simple, with cards for each of the boys lining one sit and a roll of tattoo tickets for the day beside the cash box. The table cloth with the shop’s name looks nearly identical to the sign. One might call it lazy marketing, you find it charming.

“Somethin’ happen with you and Kyle?” John asks suddenly, back turned as he messes with something in his rolling tool box full of supplies.

You freeze, eyes wide and mouth dry. Did Kyle say something? You thought you’d been normal about it. Kyle hadn’t acted any differently - which shouldn’t have hurt your feelings - and you were sure you’d met him with the same level of normalcy. The past weeks race through your mind. Every moment, every interaction, picking each apart into threads in milliseconds.

“Uh, no? Why?” It comes out squeaky. Unsure. Lord, you really are a terrible liar.

John hums. He’s quiet for barely a beat, a moment that seems to stretch for lifetimes. You can almost feel your cells aging while you wait. “You’ve been quieter than usual around him. Just wanted t’make sure.”

“Oh.” Had you? You thought you’d been the same as always. Both of you totally moved on from… the incident. Well, except for those few times you caught yourself staring - zoning out while thinking about the way his lips pressed to yours. Imagining Kyle pulling you into the back room again. Another kiss with less nervousness and more heat. Actually bending you over the desk properly-

“Y’with me, love?” John snaps you back to reality.

“Yeah!” You jump and stutter. “Yeah. No. We’re fine. I’m… fine.”

You wonder if the giant guy in the weird homemade mask at the booth across from yours would smash your head in if you paid him. Let him free you from the torment of embarrassment. It had been eating away at you, if you’re honest with yourself, and now lying right to John’s face just feels… awful. He’ll find out. You know he will. Maybe he already knows as that was a test. Fuck if it was, you totally just failed.

The clock turns to nine, and you have no choice but to let that be a problem for your future self.

Something you realize rather quickly as the attendees begin to flood the hall is that John is a god here. People don’t meet his eye. They speak meekly, even to you, with voices low and faces flushed. The line for your booth stretches down the walkway as soon as the doors open - appointment tickets practically flying out of your hands. You overhear a pair of friends muttering about sleeping outside overnight to get in early enough for John’s booth. It makes your head spin.

You wonder if they’d still act that way if they saw him snoring open-mouthed at the desk in the back room mid-afternoon.

“Thought I heard 141 got a new front desk girl.” A syrupy southern accident lilts above you just as you finish selling tickets. He’s handsome. Blonde and blue eyed with a little scar gracing his cheekbone. Not much younger than John, you don’t think. Probably around Simon’s age.

You slip on your usual customer service smile. “Hello! How can I-”

“Graves.” John grunts behind you, not even looking up from the work in front of him. “What d’you want?”

“Just wanted to come see how you were.” The man - Graves - grins wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And to meet your new front of house. Philip.”

You take the hand he holds out, giving a perfunctory shake and your name. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that John doesn’t like this guy, whoever he is, and you’re inclined to trust his judgement. You opt for basic small talk. “Are you an artist?”

Graves nods. “I own Shadow & Co. It’s a few blocks over from your place.”

Oh. You’d heard of them. They came highly recommended when you were looking for artists in the area initially. In the end you opted for John based entirely on vibes. The Shadow building is far too modern - to minimalist - for your liking. Too corporate.

“Y’know, we’re looking for a new desk girl as well.” Graves smiles. You do your best not to sneer at his use of desk girl. “We’re growing pretty quick - even if you wanted to split your time-”

“She’s full time with us.” John snaps - blatant irritation lining the edges of his voice. He still doesn’t turn around.

The blonde man pauses, glancing between you. Something passes over his eyes - some implicit knowing that you don’t quite get - but it’s gone just as fast as it came. He digs into his pocket, flipping open a too-new wallet and pulling out a business card. “Well, if you ever want to work somewhere more exciting-” you nearly laugh at that. “-give us a call, hm?”

You glance up to his face, then back down at the card. John’s tattoo gun continues to buzz behind you, but you can tell he’s slowed down. He’s listening. Before even really thinking you extend your hand, pushing the card he holds away from you.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m very happy here.”

Philip scoffs, dropping the card on the table. “Keep us in mind, yeah?”

He disappears into the crowd easily - blending in just like his shop’s namesake. Your nose wrinkles. You snatch up the card and tear it in two. “Dickhead.”

You think you hear John chuckling behind you, but can’t be sure over the roar of the convention.

The day flies by - people bustle by your booth. You run out of signed books just over halfway through - prints not long after. Your voice feels hoarse from talking to so many people. The hall has grown quite hot and you’re sure that your hair looks insane at this point. Either way, you’re having a great time. You get to talk to a with full body trash polka that you like for some reason. You get to meet one of the people involved in the stage competition - her massive thigh piece holding some of the best color work you’ve ever seen. All in all, despite the discomfort, you think this ranks in your top ten favorite days. Maybe top five.

“Excuse me?” Murmurs a voice so soft you almost miss it entirely over the roar of the convention. When you look up, you’re met with a painfully young face. Definitely not old enough for the 17+ entrance requirement.

“Hi!” You put on your warmest smile. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh, I was just…” They stutter, shifting in place. “I- Are there any signed copies left?”

You look them over, a too-familiar pang in your chest. You know those eyes, that anxiety. The jumpy way they look around at the people passing by and tug at their sleeves. Your teeth sink into your lip and you look over at the three blanks that make up your entire left over stock. Glancing over your shoulder, you see John finishing with his current client - giving the man a firm handshake before turning to clean up his station. There’s a fifteen minute break until the next one - his last for the night - and as much as you don’t want to take up his precious little time to set up…

“Let me check!” You squeak, shaky as you grab one of the blanks with all the subtlety of a brick over the head and cross the few feet over to where John sits. You lean over to speak in his ear, low enough that the kid won’t hear you. “John?”

“Hm?” He hums, turning slightly on his stool.

“Can you sign this one?” You chew your lip. “I know you had a set amount but this kid looks so…”

He glances behind you at the teenager in question, bashfully staring at their feet.

“I’m sorry, I know you need to set up for the next-”

John cuts you off by taking the book from your hands and standing.

“Thanks, dove.” He gives you that lovely, warm smile and rolls his shoulders before making his way over to the front table.

The teenager’s eyes go so wide you think they might pop out of their head. You decide to hang back and not interrupt their moment. John sets the book on the table and grabs a sharpie from your back up stash of pens. The kid mumbles something you can’t understand. John’s voice lowers as well. You can’t hear them, but you watch John scrawl something in the book and hand it over. He pushes away the crumpled, messy wad of cash the teenager tries to give him, shaking his head and saying something else that you don’t catch. The kid looks like they’re about to cry, a wide, wet grin splitting their face as they say goodbye and practically prance away.

You melt, shoulders slouching and what you’re sure is a very stupid smile breaking out across your lips. You don’t know why you doubted him for even a moment.

“What’s that face?” John scoffs, cocking a brow at you.

“Nothing.” You shake your head and re-take your spot at the table.

The ending of the convention is rather uneventful. Some of the other booths begin clearing up early. You take the time to count the cash box - which is absolutely stuffed to the brim. John rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck about five times in the span of a few minutes. Maybe you could convince them to do a company yoga class. It’s easy to see how tense and tired they get. You file that idea away for later.

Luckily most of the booth set up belonged to the venue and, since you sold out of books and prints, you don’t have haul those back to the van. All you have to take is John’s rolling toolbox and tattooing table. All things that easily fit in your bag and dolly. Thank god. Neither of you speak much on the drive back to the shop - opting for comfortable silence. Your ears ring ever so slightly from the noise of the convention hall. When you were in it, you hadn’t realized just how loud it was. John’s eyes are locked on the road, the slight glow from the setting sun warming his skin.

The sun just disappears over the horizon as you put the last of the equipment in the backroom - stacked rather messily but that’s another problem for future you. You’ve been working for a grand total of fourteen hours and, somehow, it still has yet to hit you. Adrenaline and excited energy still pulse under your skin.

John sighs loudly, crossing each arm over his chest to stretch them out. “Could really go for a scotch right now. You want a nightcap?”

Your cheeks warm, still riding high from the excitement of the day you agree easily. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He gives you a gentle smile, softened further by the low street lights. “Let me show you a spot.”

The place John leads you to is small. Local. You sit at the bar and take a moment to look around. Three pool tables take up half the floor space. It looks like a small tournament is going on - a white board showing the matches and who will go against who next. Two ski-ball machines are tucked in a corner beside the bathroom, currently taken up by two younger men who you aren’t completely sure are drinking age. The lights and music are both low. One of the bartenders is posted up on the opposite end of the bar with two other people watching Shin Godzilla on the mounted television. It’s cozy and oh-so very John Price.

You get an easy sipper, something fruity and sweet as a treat for the long day you’ve had. It’s nice against the warmth of the summer evening. A heat that’s only aggravated by the one that settles in your spine whenever the guys are around. John especially.

“Think that kid was a little young for the event…” You blurt in a poor attempt to make conversation.

John nods along. “Definitely.”

“That was really nice of you. I didn’t want to… I don’t know.” You murmur, unsure why exactly the words won’t stop. You blame the drinks and exhaustion. Seems realistic enough. “They just seemed so sad.”

“Wasn’t nice. Just the right thing t’do.” John shrugs. His words come slow, almost as if he’s unsure if he should say them. Though, you find it hard to believe he has ever been unsure about anything in his life. “I know what its like… to need t’escape. Lied about my age just to enlist.”

Your eyes widen. “R-really?”

He hums. “They didn’t care much back then.”

For some reason you never thought about John’s childhood - his homelife. You know he has a mom somewhere. Kyle let it slip a couple of times - said she’s a really good cook. John doesn’t volunteer information about himself often, you gathered that much. He’s worse than Simon, somehow, which says a fucking lot.

“Did-” you mull over your words. “You didn’t grow up around here, yeah?”

It’s a clumsy attempt at getting him to talk, but it works well enough. He nods. “Hereford. My mum’s still out there.”

Score. “Do you visit her much?”

John shrugs, chuckling. “When I can. I could move back home and it wouldn’t be enough for her.”

You snicker.

“She’s the best woman I’ve ever known…” He murmurs, eyes far away. It’s only for a moment, but they look past you. Defocused in a way that seems to out of character for the hyper-aware man.

Your faces are close. Hunched in like school kids exchanging secrets and gossip during recess. Your eyes dart from his to his lips and back. It’s confusing. All of this. The intimacy you have with each of them in these moments is overwhelming. You like Kyle - you liked kissing Kyle - you really shouldn’t be wanting that from your boss, though. A co-worker is bad enough but John… John is off limits. You know that. Even so, you find yourself subconsciously leaning just a bit closer, eyes roving over the freckles you don’t see standing further away and the grey flecks in his eyes. You think, for barely a millisecond, that he leans in too.

Until he sits up straight, tossing back what little is left of his drink. “Let’s head out. Could go for a smoke.”

You nod, swallowing down your thoughts and following him out of the bar like a lost puppy. You’d follow him to the end of the earth, you think. Even if it hurts that you can’t get as close as you want, you’d go anywhere for him. Yeah, that’s definitely the drink and tiredness talking. Part of you also knows that it is undoubtedly true.

John rounds a corner to the side of the bar. It’s moderately lit, a single street lamp just down the way giving you just enough light to see. You lean against the wall beside John, the exhaustion beginning to cling to your eyes.

“Are you?” John asks suddenly.

“Hm?” You hum, unsure of what he’s asking about.

“Happy here?” He cuts the end off a cigar he pulled from the silver box that lives in his back pocket.

In the low light of the alley, his pupils overtake most of his irises. Dark and intense as he looks you over from head to toe. You see it, suddenly. The god that the others do. He’s not as physically large as Simon, or as loud as Johnny, but he fills every inch of any space he enters regardless. You suppose you became so used to being in that radius that you forgot just how much presence he carries. You’ve wrapped yourself in it like a blanket. A shield.

Your cheeks warm and you shuffle your feet. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” John sighs out a cloud of smoke. “It’d be a pain in the arse to replace you. The boys care about you too much.”

You stare up at him. You can feel something on the edge of his tone - some weight that you don’t understand. There always seems to be another layer to the things he says. Implications that you can’t understand, context that you’re missing. Part of you wants to ask, needs to ask, but the words get stuck in your throat. What would you say? You’re not even entirely sure what you need to ask. You know they care about you, and you care for them in turn, so why does it feel like there’s something missing?

“Does the boys include you?” You blurt, one again wishing that big guy from the convention was here to smash your head in like wile e. cayote and the anvil.

He looks you up and down, slightly taken aback while you debate on bolting. “Thought that was obvious.”

You scoff, still flustered. “You’re hard to read.”

“Am I, now?”

You nod. A comfortable silence falls over you, despite the awkwardness surely emanating from you. Your lip catches between your teeth, eyes on your feet. “John?”

“Dove?” He tilts his head, once again leaning ever so slightly closer to you.

“Thank you. For everything.” You murmur, voice low and unsure. “It’s… it’s really good here.”

“Think nothin’ of it, love.”

You look up at those pretty blue eyes. They always make your chest ache with some deep hole you haven’t been able to pin down. At first you could blame it on wanting to do well - to be a good employee. It’s more than that, though. It starts in your chest and seeps it’s way through the rest of you. A want. A craving. That’s the word. You crave those eyes on you. The weight of his hands, the fortitude of him.

You’re not sure who closes the gap - whether it’s you or him - but either way it closes. It’s too natural for the context of your relationship. You slot together too well. It’s not like with Kyle. John carries an intensity with him that Kyle never could. His beard scratches not unpleasantly. His lips are warm - you can taste hints of scotch and his cigar. He smells of spice and earth. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders - unsure of where to put them.

This is wrong. It’s messy. You already lied about Kyle, which he’ll surely find out. If he hasn’t already. What about Johnny? Or Simon? Will they think less of you? Are you less for this? For impulsively kissing your boss in some back alley? Will Kyle be angry if he finds out? Your thoughts surge, all chaotic waves crashing against each other in an attempt to make sense of this situation you find yourself in.

John’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer into him. Your arms drape around his neck as you push onto your tips toes to meet him.

That’s a problem for future you.

A/N: Sorry this part took so long, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to escalate it or not but I want to get a move on with these boys

[eelnoise]

stop and go (nsfw!)

!!usopp!! x fem!reader cw: sloppy blowjobs, implied freeuse/prior consent an: so a planned series of drabbles have seemed to mostly turn into full fics, so i guess i'm gonna post all of them separately over the next few days. also i love usopp sm btw wc: 1500ish tagging: @kaizokuniichan @throwmethroughawindow @missmugiwara @nina-ya @risenwrites masterlist | kofi

“You’re serious?” Usopp breathes out as he watches you get to your knees and prod away at the buttons on his pants, “You’re gonna do this right now?”

Giggling, you tilt your head to meet his gaze, heart skipping a beat at the sight of his flustered expression that even his goggles cannot hide. Loose strands of the sniper’s curly hair frame his face, and though you can’t see his eyes, you can feel them sharply upon you. A piece of metal that once had every intention of being fashioned onto the side of his slingshot now sits idly between a calloused finger and thumb, his focus on the project quickly fading as he watches you closely.

“Would you rather I stop?” You ask, leaning your cheek on his thigh with a sharp grin. The twitch of his cock growing hard beneath your palm is telling enough, though you're keen on teasing him into an answer.

“What if someone comes in?” He asks, lifting the goggles away from his eyes to rest at the top of his head. “What if they overhe-”, Usopp's words are cut off by a breathy exhale as you trace along the outline of his length in a way that could make even the most iron-willed men crumble.

“I thought that nothing could get past you, Captain Usopp.” You coo up at him, milking the sweetness of each word.

A nervous laugh escapes Usopp's lips, his eyes locked onto yours, the rosy tint to his cheeks now unmistakable. He swallows hard, the metal slipping from his grip and clanking noisily against the tools spread out on his workbench.

“I... I guess, I guess not,” he manages to stutter, closing his eyes for a brief moment before reaching out to run his fingers through your hair. The concerned twist of his expression eases into a smirk, and the sniper leans back somewhat in his seat. “I mean - that's right!” he muses, and though his tone is smug, there is a glimmer of excitement veiled behind it – and he pulls the words out slowly and with a gentle lilt, making your heart flutter and electrifying your veins. “And, y'know… I could stand to relax a little.”

“So let me help you,” you reply, a playful nip at his inner thigh earning a sharp intake of breath from him. Your fingers lace through his belt loops, tugging at the leather before deftly unfastening the clasp and sliding the strap out of the way.

Usopp fidgets in his seat, the metal creaking beneath him as he shifts to accommodate the way your face now rests mere inches from his crotch. The anticipation is palpable, a heady mix of apprehension and excitement heavily lacing the air between the two of you.

“...Mhm,” Usopp hums, the low hum causing a shiver to run down your spine. His hands grip the arms of his chair, knuckles turning white as he leans back, giving you room to work.

Your fingers hook beneath the waistband of his trousers, taking a moment to slide them down his hips, revealing his stiff cock, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. Usopp's breath hitches when your breath wafts against him the room swirling around you as you're fully enveloped in the task at hand. Your eyes lock onto it, and without a word, you lick the tip, savoring the salty taste before you take him into your mouth.

Your tongue traces up and down the underside of his length, lips sucking and leaving trails of saliva to run down his shaft and into the soft tuft of curls at its base. So genuine and so sweet, Usopp's soft exhales and sighs begin to fog your brain, making you clench both your toes and pussy in hedonistic pleasure.

When you suddenly release him from your wet mouth, he looks at you with a furrowed brow in confusion. He goes to speak, but you silence him with a raise of your finger. "You were busy, right?" You query, nodding to the abandoned project on the table above you. "Don't let me stop you, keep working on it." You smirk at him, placing messy, open-mouthed kisses to his inner thighs.

Usopp’s eyes widen at your request, but he nods regardless, his expression one of disbelief and arousal. "Right… Keep going," he manages, fingers threading through your hair before releasing his grasp while you resume your ministrations.

The sniper's focus is split, his mind grappling with the dizzying sensation of your tongue lapping at him while his hands fumble with the metal and tools, occasionally cursing at himself for dropping a screw or misaligning a piece. You can feel the tremor in his hips as you slip him back into your mouth, the feel of his cock against your tongue and the sound of his labored breathing around you fueling your own lust.

You hum in note of his lack of focus and pull yourself away from him just long enough to speak. "Tell me what you're working on," you mutter against the tip of his cock, "Something for your slingshot?"

Usopp's breath catches as he watches you, the way you kiss and lick your way back down his shaft leaving him dazed, "Yeah..." he replies, "It's... where I want to keep a new kind of ammunition that I’m w-working with. It'll sprout vines and grow, entangling my enemies and pulling them to me."

"Mhm," You murmur in reply, the sound vibrating around your mouth enough to make him whine. Usopp's entire body twitches, the tip of his cock throbbing as you suck on it, expertly taking him deeper with each bob of your head. 

"Sounds really cool," you purr, lips sliding up and down his shaft with a wet slurping sound. You can feel the veins throbbing beneath his skin from the intensity of your actions. “You’ll have to show me how it works.”

"Y-you know I will," Usopp breathes, the trembling in his hips growing more pronounced. The scent of his lust is intoxicating, the taste of him on your tongue sending a jolt down your spine. You're driving him wild, and there's no denying it.

The sound of your tongue swirling around the pulsing head has him biting down on his bottom lip. His fingers twitch, the tools and metalwork forgotten as he watches you, a helpless look on his face that only serves to spur you on further. His hands find your head to guide your movements, and though he means to be gentle, it's hard to keep from rutting his hips down your throat.

He moans your name, voice absolutely sick with lust, "I'm..." He can't finish, the shudder that rips through him a clear indication of his impending release.

Eyes half-closed, he grips your head tighter, urging you on as you work your magic. His mind is a blur of sensations, the taste of your mouth and the feel of your tongue enough to tip him over the edge. Usopp's release is just as powerful as you had hoped, the taste of his cum a heady mix of salt and musk. You hum around the base of his cock, the vibrations making him twitch as you swallow his essence.

Usopp's breathing slows, his eyes closing as the release fades. The strength finally leaves his fingers as they fall away from your hair. He leans back, breath stuttering as he comes down from his high. "Fuck..." he breathes, the admission almost a whisper, "That... was crazy. You're crazy."

You smile, the taste of him still lingering in your mouth, "Glad you enjoyed it," you reply, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. You tug his pants back up, the sniper's cock sliding out of your mouth, leaving you with a wet, satisfied smirk. "Why don't I help you with the rest of your work?" 

Usopp chuckles, his eyes roaming your body as you stand, the scent of sex and sweat between you heavy in the air. "You... you really don't mind?"

"Looks like you could use it." You suggest, rubbing your thumb sweetly over his thigh, an almost imperceptible grin playing on your lips. "I'm here for you, yeah?"

A small smile tugs at his lips, and he nods, reaching for your hand. "Then let's get to work," he whispers, pulling you to your feet. The sniper's hand finds yours and he squeezes it gently before leading you to stand aside him at the workbench.

The air between the two of you is charged, a current of electricity flowing from one to the other as fingers brush and hands touch. The sniper works with more focus now that you're at his side, your presence a grounding force alongside his own creativity.

Usopp hums in concentration, the back-and-forth between the two of you smooth and seamless. The sound of your voices mingling with the clank of metal and the soft snaps of mechanisms working in tandem create a symphony fitting for the creation of his new ammunition

The hours pass, Usopp's focus intensifies, and the object in front of you begins to take shape. The sniper's eyes gleam with pride and determination, and his lips curl into a pleased smile when he’s able to make the vines grow at will with a simple flick of his wrist.

"See?" Usopp grins, eyes sparkling, "Told ya I was getting there."

[fattorimunin]

Rupees Don’t Grow on Trees

The setting sun dragged its slow steps, sinking beneath the horizon like the weary travelers themselves, staining the sky a deep golden red, flecked with streaks of violet clouds in the distance.

Dust-covered and drenched in sweat after a brutal battle in the forest, the group finally reached a half-decent inn on the outskirts of a city after crossing a desolate old stone bridge. The surrounding area was barren, and the inn's faded signboard was barely legible, but inside, there were drinkers, women, and even children.

The rusted iron sign creaked in the evening wind, as if whispering a silent warning.

But no one cared. Everyone was too tired and desperate for a hot bath.

"Beats sleeping in a tree," Legend grumbled as he dropped onto the doorstep. His fingers were still trembling from the aftershocks of weapons clashing in combat.

"And it's cheap," Wild added, looking half-starved. His eyes were fixed on the fragrant aromas wafting from the inn's kitchen. Days of relentless travel had left him surviving on scraps.

"Something about this place feels off," Four said, his violet eyes gleaming warily as he glanced at the flower pots lined along the windows, most of them withered.

"No one's smiling, no one's talking. There are women and kids, but their expressions look... stiff."

"Maybe they're just tired. Like us," Twilight patted his shoulder and pushed the door open. A smear of black dust was left on Four's clothes where Twilight had touched him, but none of them minded. At this point, they were all dirtier than pigs in a pen.

The innkeeper, a short and chubby man with an overly enthusiastic smile, provided them with two rooms, hot soup, beds that looked clean enough, and a pot of strong-scented tea for each room.

"Thanks. Finally, a decent night's rest," Sky mumbled, rubbing his eyes. The moment he slipped on a clean shirt after bathing, he collapsed into bed, softly snoring almost instantly.

Night fell completely. Everyone was so exhausted they relaxed more than they should have.

Hyrule was the first to wake.

The night was still heavy, his head pounding as if someone had bashed a pot over it all night. Blinking, he noticed the room was too quiet.

"...Guys?"

He stepped outside the room and realized the entire inn was deserted—save for them.

Their bags had been rummaged through, rupees and even some gem-encrusted tools gone without a trace.

"Guys! Wake up!"

He skipped over Sky and began desperately shaking the others. They slept unnaturally deep. Even slaps didn’t wake them. It wasn’t normal.

Poor Hyrule nearly broke down until he splashed a bucket of water on the eldest member—Time—finally getting a reaction.

As Time groggily sat up and took in the chaotic scene, his brows knitted so tightly they could crush a mosquito. Without a word, he grabbed another bucket and began splashing the rest awake.

Everyone, now drenched and dazed, had no choice but to face reality.

"They must've used some kind of sleeping powder. Blown in through the windows while we were asleep."

Hyrule pointed to traces of white powder along the windowsill.

It explained everything. As a hybrid, the drug hadn't affected him as strongly, allowing him to wake first.

"We got robbed?!" Warriors dumped his pack upside down. Half his gear was gone. The others scrambled to check their belongings.

Legend stared at his empty hand, wailing, "Three months of rupees! They even took the ring I was wearing!"

Chaos erupted. Wild discovered someone had even taken his spare underwear. Why? No one knew.

It wasn't their first time being robbed. But it never got any less frustrating.

"I swear I put my rupee pouch under my pillow..." Legend growled, face twisted with resentment.

"That innkeeper was definitely in on it. That smile was too creepy."

"At least we're still alive," Twilight said dryly.

Wild munched on a rice ball to calm himself, mumbling about his missing underwear.

"You still have food?!" Warriors turned, eyeing him.

"Give me a bite, please. My stomach's eating itself."

"Nope," Wild said flatly, stuffing the rest into his pocket. "Last one."

"It won’t even fill you up," Sky muttered. "And I saw it roll around on the ground."

"Three-second rule," Wild replied between bites.

"Focus," Time barked, now fully geared up and clutching his still-untouched sword. "We need Wolfie's nose. We don't have time to waste."

Following Wolfie's trail, they moved quickly until the city's silhouette emerged in the distance.

"There's a market up ahead. A big one. They probably took our stuff there to sell."

Four pointed to a sign near the entrance.

"We can’t draw attention," Time warned. "This isn't our turf. No trouble."

Twilight muttered, "Tell that to Legend."

"Hey! I didn't even get a chance to cause trouble last night!" Legend stomped.

"All I want now is to find that innkeeper and—"

"Cuss out his entire family line?" Four cut in.

Legend: "...How did you know I was going to say that?"

By the time they reached the market, the morning rush had begun. The lively scene momentarily distracted them.

Just as Hyrule described, the place was chaotic but full of energy: rows of vendors shouting over each other, smells of spices and grilled meat mixing with sweet fruits in the air. Musicians played on corners. A troupe performed fire tricks and tightrope walks.

"Move fast. Before our stuff is long gone," Time murmured.

"Listen up. We’re broke. Not a single rupee. Worst case? We earn our way out. You all have skills. Use them. Find a way to make some rupees"

His gaze swept across the group.

"Pup, Sky, Wind—you’re with me. We’ll hunt the thieves. The rest of you, start earning. Even a little helps. We can't afford to be stuck here."

They split up into the crowd.

"Maybe I can set up a stall. Treat bruises and such. What do you think?"

Hyrule, the team’s healer, quickly found direction. He glanced nervously at the noisy market and looked to Legend.

"Go for it. Traveling healers are rare. Ones that don’t sell fake potions? Even rarer."

They gathered a few old crates and set up a modest stall. Legend scrawled a sign:

"Injury Treatment – Fast & Painless!"

Business was so-so. Legend was just helping with payments and crowd control, and honestly, he enjoyed the peace… until a drunken man staggered over, slammed the table, and scared off their current patient.

"Hey kid, look at this leg! I fell yesterday, can’t walk, hurts like hell!"

Hyrule didn’t even get a word in before the man plopped down on the medicine box, nearly crushing Hyrule’s hand.

Legend’s brow twitched. Then he opened his mouth.

"Maybe what you broke wasn’t your leg. Maybe it was your brain."

"What did you say?!" The man reeked of liquor, his voice like a broken forge bellows.

"I said, drunk in broad daylight, barging into a healer’s stall like a boar in a shrine. You should head to the butcher’s. Let someone check if your brain’s been pickled and served cold."

Legend pointed at him with precise venom.

"You little—"

Legend planted a foot on the crate, leaning forward with a grin sharp as a blade. "Yeah, I said it. And I’ll say more. You try anything funny, and I’ll make sure your legs and the little thing between them never work again. Next!"

The man froze, caught a glimpse of Legend’s cold violet eyes and his hand already on the sword hilt—and burst into tears.

He stumbled away, legs jelly, trailing something suspiciously wet.

Nearby vendors stared, then erupted into laughter.

"That mouth! Kid, you make a living off this?"

Legend rolled his eyes. "No, I—"

"Open a stall! I’ll pay to have you cuss out my clingy ex-fiancé. He won’t stop showing up!"

A vibrantly dressed woman bounced over, eyes gleaming.

"You serious?"

"Twenty rupees. Very serious."

Five minutes later, Legend stood beside Hyrule’s stall. Behind him hung a scribbled sign:

"Cussing for Hire – I Say What You Can’t. Loudly."

When the ex showed up five steps from her stall, Legend let loose:

"If you had even a shred of shame, you wouldn’t be buzzing around like a fly for the third time this morning. Even dogs know how to read the room. You? You look like you were born with your umbilical cord strangling your brain."

"One more step and I’ll yank that wig off and parade it around this market like a prize—see if people think your bald head deserves applause!"

Gasps, then laughter. The man fled, holding his scalp.

The woman beamed and slipped five more rupees and a meat pie into Legend’s hand.

Hyrule stared, slack-jawed. Legend had just earned twenty-five rupees… for yelling.

Then another furious woman stormed over, clutching a wilted bouquet.

"What’s your rate? I want him annihilated."

Legend raised a brow. "Who? Details first."

"My ex. Three years together. He proposed to me while flirting with our neighbor behind my back. The neighbor apologized—said she didn’t know he was taken! Tell me that’s not textbook scumbag!"

Legend nodded. "Certified. Where is he?"

"Over at the apple stand. Red cloak. Probably scamming another girl right now."

"Deal. Twenty rupees. He won’t show his face again."

He adjusted his clothes, walked into the crowd, and called out in a voice that cut through the market:

"Hey! Red cloak! The one smiling like he borrowed his lips from a cucco! Maybe stop stinking up the air. That sweet talk you’re using—didn’t you copy-paste that last week too? Or did you finally run out of recycled lies?"

The man froze. Legend smiled.

"When you got engaged, was your brain swapped for a toilet bowl? Three years of love flushed like garbage, and now you're strutting around like a prize cucco. Those flowers you gave her? Rotten now, but still more sincere than you ever were."

"You live by your groin and think with it too. Go home. Look in the mirror. Ask yourself if that face is worth three wasted years. Leave now and I’ll forget I saw you. Stay, and I’ll make sure no vendor here sells you so much as a rotten apple."

Silence. Then laughter exploded. One vendor even dropped his skewer.

The man fled.

The woman cheered and gave Legend another meat pie.

Legend took it silently. Four, walking past with crates, looked at the laughing crowd, then at Legend.

He quietly decided to set his stall somewhere far, far away.

[bakugoushotwife]

kinktober day twenty: makeup sex

>>> this is the epitome of vanilla i’m sorry—i got carried away imagine just sweet passionate love making with geto and well here you go whores

>>> starring: suguru geto x curvy!f!reader >>> cw: breakup, angst, oral (f receiving) mating press, breeding, pet names. >>> wc: 4k >>> event masterlist

this is what hell must be like.

when gojo tells you the news, you laugh. you know he’s joking. despite his ghostly sick appearance and red eyes, you just know he’s playing a joke on you like always. you know suguru better than anyone. even gojo. you’ve been together in a romantic capacity for the better part of a year—though you’ve been together since you walked into class one day and declared yourself his friend. you know how depressed your boyfriend has been recently. you’re the one that’s been trying to piece him back together, patient and understanding and gentle as always. after haibara, you’re the only person he’ll even tolerate sharing his space—but not even you have managed to get him to open up. you know he must be questioning the nature of things as of late. the mission to protect the star plasma vessel changed him. but—to kill a village of innocents? his own parents?

“satoru, that’s not funny.” you shake your head, the more you stare at his sympathetically heartbroken face the more it sinks in that he is not joking. you stumble back into the table behind you, the familiar sting of tears ripping at the corners of your eyes.

“they want him dead.” he says with horror, though he seems to fight with himself before your very eyes. he shakes his head. “he killed them all…he..”

“i don’t care!” you cry out, heart pounding in your ears. “it doesn’t matter what he did—he had a reason! i know he did, satoru—please. he’s…he’s all we have.” you know just what to say to appeal to his heart, and know satoru feels some sort of debt to you—since he wasn’t able to keep suguru from diving off the deep end on his own.

he scrunches his nose. “i can’t kill him. not if i wanted to. tried already.” he grumbled, looking down at his shoes.

“you saw him!?” you say, quickly connecting the dots— you step up to shove his chest. he lets you, he deserves it, but the hurt on his face is clear. “you saw him and you didn’t think i’d want to go? what—“

“he didn’t want you there.” he says under his breath, making your jaw shut immediately. your eyes flash with something deeper than hurt, more like anguish. your eyes find the floor now, searching and scanning the tiles for the answer as to why. why he left you here. you would have gone with him. you would have done whatever it took to stay together. even hearing that your partner slaughtered villagers and his own family couldn’t deter you. you knew he had snapped—but he would never hurt you.

satoru slumps forward. “maybe he just…didn’t want to hurt you any more than this. maybe he knew he couldn’t walk away if you were there.”

you wish his words could make you feel better. in a way they do, they make you hope that he was thinking about you in those moments, at least. though the more you hear about him over the next few months from gojo, you doubt anything but his enlightenment carried any weight in his mind.

you’re as good as lost. you reject missions and skip class in favor of searching for any traces of his cursed energy marks with the special tools you specialized in, all to no avail. he’s gone for good. you shrink into yourself and finish your time at jujutsu tech as a shell of your former being. the shadows consumed the sunshine, you’re only able to push yourself as far as you need to in order to pass, but nothing beyond that. you feel like you only live on to spite him, to find him and confront him over all this—no matter the time that’s passed. you won’t stop until you find him again.

turns out, you didn’t have to do much searching. nearly two years after geto leaves, he shows up again. he’s sitting on your couch, giving you his signature soft smile as you enter your own home. you have to blink this mirage out of your vision—so you shake your head a little and rub at your eyes viciously. he hums your name, and your eyes fill with tears. it sounds just like always, like his own kind of love confession with how gently he lets it roll off his tongue. so much for that anger-fueled confrontation you’ve been dreaming of.

he says it again, standing from the couch. he watches your body tremble without knowing if he should stay put or step forward to hold you. he’s not stupid, he knows he lost the right to touch you a long time ago. but…it’s instinct to him. he comes closer and you don’t stop him. you just stare up at him through teary eyes, stabbing him with your pain and sadness and the feeling of betrayal. his hands hesitate to pull you into him.

“can i?” he asks, his brow ticking up in question. “i know i messed up, angel. i want to make it better.” he watches your face carefully, noticing how your brows push your worry lines forward. you’re thinking about it. and the fact you have to think at all hurts him a little, though the only person he can blame is himself. he doesn’t regret leaving. he doesn’t feel guilt over the deaths left in his wake—he hasn’t killed anyone who didn’t deserve it—nor did he feel any sadness over parting with his previous life. other than you, the only source of any negative emotion.

he left satoru and shoko. he left his teacher, his other friends at jujutsu tech. he convinced himself this was the only way, a clean break. he didn’t want it to be harder than it had to be on anyone—his fellow sorcerers. he knew you all would only try to convince him of a different path, that his relationships with his closest friends would be ruined if he had to use force to get away. in a cowardly way, he knew he couldn’t handle the heartbreak you would inevitably look at him with, akin to the look you’re giving him now, and the weakness you brought out on him was something he could no longer afford. so he made sure he never ran into you, hoping that as time went by, you would affect him less and less.

clearly, that did not go according to plan. he missed you deeply, your silken voice and warm touch was the only thing that brought him comfort during his darkest hours, you never shied away from him even when he was silent—when he was angry, irritable, and straight up rude to you, you still crawled into his bed and tugged his face into your chest. you disregarded his attitude every time, pulling the tie out of his hair and hushing him with the scrape of your fingernails against his scalp and the weight of your leg tossed over his hip. you didn’t let him push you away, that’s why you left him no choice but to abandon you. your love was too addicting in the end, though. he can’t make himself stay away—even with his renewed sense of self.

he kept coming back to the idea that you…you were different from satoru and shoko and nanami. again, you never shied away. no matter how difficult he made it on you, you remained by his side. was it too far fetched to imagine you may yet still?

you nod. he’s gentle, careful of being too foreboding and rough too quickly. he’s dressed differently, a black haori and long nagagi, covered with his patterned gojogesa. you think there must be some symbolism in it, maybe a jab to his old friend—maybe an allusion to the heian period he hoped to return to. his hair has grown a few inches, and he doesn’t keep it all pulled back anymore. you think he looks…good. he looks like him, like a regal leader—like he was always meant to be. he wraps his arms around your frame slowly, like he was afraid you would change your mind.

but then you slide your arms around him too, tucking your face to his chest with a stuttered sigh. deep relaxation. he blinks a bit in surprise, tightening his hold around your shoulders as one hand keeps your head trapped against him. his heartbeat is so steady—just like you remembered it. you close your eyes and breathe in his cinnamon bourbon scent, and tears slip down your cheeks as it comes over you in waves that this is real. he’s real, standing in your apartment with his arms wrapped tight around you like you were the one who disappeared suddenly.

“you’ve been gone for so long.” you choke out, your chest heaving a bit with your words—all the hours spent missing him cutting through your happiness to see him. he feels your body tremble, and he realizes that you’ve started to cry. he leans away from you, moving his hands to your face. “you left me here. you didn’t even say goodbye, suguru!”

he frowns, petting your hair down with one hand while the other remained cradling your cheek. you lean into the touch, his hands a bit more callused than you remember them being. they’re still so gentle, these same hands that killed his own parents. these hands that are covered in blood when they aren’t being gentle. but you don’t shudder, the chill of fear never creeps over your body. you know his hands will only touch you softly, with all his love. unless you asked for any different, of course.

“i know. i messed up, my love. i shouldn’t have left you behind.” he sighs, shaking his head at the tear tracks on your cheeks. “don’t cry. i’m here now. i’ll never leave you again. i promise.” he assured, his voice slightly deeper and huskier than it had been in school. he takes it one step further, “i came back to make you mine again. come back home with me. be my wife.”

you widen your eyes at this one, looking up at him with raised brows. “suguru—“

“hear me out, hm?” he smiles warmly, and it relaxes you a bit. you nod to him again, closing your hand around his wrist. “you never let me down…even when i probably deserved it. i don’t resent our friends. i love them! i wish to save them, to save you, my love above them all. please, i won’t ask you to be involved in my work. i just want you back. where i can keep you safe and really make this up to you. i’ll make you happy.”

“i never thought you were wrong—i knew there was more to the story…i..you know i will go with you.”

“pack your bags and i’ll tell you everything, then. you can decide how involved you want to be, i just don’t want you to feel obligated.” he insists, guiding you towards your room.

he stays true to his promise. you pack all the clothes you want to keep on hand and your valuables, and suguru tells you everything. from the mission with riko and toji, to his conversation with yuki, to the village mission and the little girls he found himself taking care of. he explains his thoughts—why this is the only way things will work. he doesn’t want it to be violent—he just loves you so much. he loves gojo, he loves shoko and nanami and yaga and even those that despise him. he wants you to live in a better world, where his twins and any kids you may have together can play freely outside without any worries of techniques and cursed spirits. where children of his that inherit his own ability will never have to endure this same fate. where gojo can relax and shoko never has to see another dead friend—not until old age, anyway. it’s peaceful. and it makes sense…you can’t be angry.

not when you want to hurry home and meet these girls of his, now about seven years old. they’ll be excited to have a mother figure, despite how young you both still are.

“i’ll do whatever will help you then, darling.” you affirm, setting your belongings by your door. “if you want me to lend you my power, i can do that. if you’d rather me stay out of the meetings and tend to the girls, i can do that too. we’ll see how it goes, hm? i’ll do anything it takes.”

your willingness takes him by surprise. he wanted to take you back home and show his devotion to you there, but your words breathe new fire into him. he knows the girls will be all over you the moment you walk in and he won’t be able to have you to himself properly anyway, but he has to worship his goddess. your room is spacious enough…and this would be the last time you’d be in it.

you know that look when you see it, even if it’s been a while. you giggle softly at him, dark eyes a few shades darker with excitement. perhaps he found your forgiveness sexy—maybe your own devotion. either way, the familiar stare lights a fire in your stomach that hadn’t burned in a long time.

“suguru…” you hum, keeping your own lusty gaze trained on him as you perch at the edge of your bed.

“anything?” he repeats your earlier words, stepping toward you. “like marrying me? i want to start my own clan.” he smirks the slightest bit, “and i want you as my wife. i want the girls to have my name, but i want you to give me more children of the same.”

you bite your lip. a family had always been in the cards for you and geto. you were probably far too young to talk about such things, but he was never shy about what he wanted his future with you to look like. you’re glad to see that hasn’t changed. gojo was right, your boyfriend just couldn’t bear watching your face as he left—or risking the heartbreak that would follow if you didn’t come with him.

“you’re built for it, love. divinely feminine and made to be worshiped. i do need to beg for forgiveness after all…” he hums, sinking to his knees in front of you. you part your knees for him from muscle memory, and he’s tugging your work slacks down your hips and pulling at the buttons on your top. he sighs with relief at the sight of you. partially because you were gorgeous, the other part because this was a view he didn’t know if he would get the pleasure of experiencing again. he holds your ankles, pressing tender kisses to each of them before ultimately picking your right leg to trail his lips along, his kisses growing rougher and more possessive the closer he gets to your folds.

you mewl and squirm under his affection, trying to muffle your own sounds with the back of your hand. he can’t help but chuckle just a bit at your squeamishness. it had been a long time—and at least the way you wiggle around his head tells him that you haven’t been with anyone since he left—thank god, he wasn’t really in the mood to kill anyone tonight. he was only in the mood to be here; contently slathering his spit along your pussy lips, humming at the tang of you that meets his tongue. he hooks his arms around your legs to drag your cunt closer, eager mouth suckling at the pearl between your legs with a satisfied grunt. your head falls back at the feeling of his practiced muscle flicking your hood back.

“god, yes sugu, feels amazing…missed you so bad.“ you sigh out, his warm mouth knows all of your secret spots, his tongue licking over each one like you had never been apart. he’s slow and meticulous with every stroke, letting you feel his rushed breath fan over your burning need. you’re almost to the point of begging for him already—when you had plans to give him a real piece of your mind the next time you crossed paths. here you are, letting him devour you at his own pace, agreeing to be his housewife or baby mama or the vice president of his cult—or some mix of all three.

he guides your hips to hump his face, the longer strands of black tickling the inside of your thighs with every languid ministration. you thread your fingers through the locks, relishing the hold it gives you to grind down on his lips, a heat only geto can bring you starts to ball up in your core. he kneads your thighs, making out with your pussy as a reminder that you’re back—he got you back. you are his again, but he needs your cum on his tongue to really convince him of that.

he dives deeper, sliding his mouth to your entrance and letting his thumb take over sloppy slow circles over your clit. you tug on his silky tresses at the roots, making him groan and speed up just a bit. it’s just like when you were teens—he can’t get close enough and you can’t stay quiet, though now that you are grown you don’t really have to.

“sugu—wanna cum for you, please…” you whine, feeling like you were rolling downhill, the feeling in your stomach so bubbly and warm you know you can’t hold out much longer. he nods his permission, now was not the time to deny you anything—though he wants your release so bad that he couldn’t tell you no if he wanted to.

he doesn’t have to tell you twice, his fingers move in a perfect rhythm with his mouth to drive you over the edge. you squeeze his face between your thighs, such a perfect feeling that he’s missed for far too long. your nectar made him even crazier—he calculated everything but how your love would control him. how this taste and the sight of you with your back arched and mouth open as you push your pussy against him repeatedly to ride out your high would have him doing anything in the world to ensure he got to see it again.

“we’ll marry when we get back to the estate.” he nods, pushing you back with a light shove—just enough to communicate his own need. your eyes flicker down to the layers he was removing to get to you—his bulge tucked tight against his hakama, trying to spring free. he growls a bit, frustrated with how good you looked laying against the pillows, how your body had thickened up in all the right places. you really were built to be a mother. he finally frees himself, finally bare to you for the first time in almost two years. he pushes a large hand through his hair, eyeing you with just a touch of that newfound craze he’s garnered. he pushes your legs back to your chest, clearly intent on using the mating press for its namesake. “it’s only right since i’m going to put a baby in you right now.”

he lays his length over your stomach, reminding you of how he’ll have to stretch you to accommodate him. he’s so long he nearly touches your belly button—and just as wide around. his balls always hang low—heavy and full as he stares at you with hazy lidded eyes, admiring the way you seem undaunted by the tall task of fitting him in your snug walls or letting him knock you up with the firstborn of the new generation, one that would grow up in a new world you would help him build. “i love you. i can’t get those years back, but i can give you the rest of my life.”

your eyes soften a bit, body melting into the mattress. he slides his cockhead along your soaked folds, arms tensing and relaxing at the feeling of your hole sucking him in—and who is he to deny you after all this time? “i love you too—“

you cut yourself off to suck in a breath as he rips the bandaid off—bottoming out and hushing you as you squeeze and writhe around him. “you can still take all of me—that’s my girl.” he sighs shakily, your clamping pussy was quickly becoming a problem. he hadn’t allowed himself to be horny in your absence; all he could do was miss you and wish he had you back in his arms. but you’ve given him more than that, you’ve given him permission to breed your tight pussy all for himself, you’ve promised to help him in his cause and watch after the girls he was willing to lose you for, albeit temporarily. you’ve given him your heart back. you’ve given him everything.

your hands fly to grip the beefy muscle of his upper arms, fighting to ground yourself through the feeling of him cleaving through you. your eyes are already rolling back in your head by the time he actually starts to move, feeling this full was satisfaction in and of itself. you think some part of you should feel pathetic and guilty for letting him do this—for taking him back, no, pledging yourself—to him once more. you know this will mean isolation, but you don’t care. you’d do anything to have him, and you don’t feel any regret in the realization. your mouth drops open a little, the way he leans over you to kiss your parted lips makes you grin. his broad frame keeps yours in place and deepens his path to burrow toward your womb. he swallows up your sounds of pleasure, grunting into each sloppy kiss. your hips absorb his thrusts, legs pinned by his huge hands ensuring you were bent to his liking. he’s slow just like before, stroking deeply and withdrawing almost all the way, brutal in his own fashion.

“please—faster, oh— nghggg~” you whine out as he gives you what you asked for, bracing one hand on the headboard above you so he could set a proper tempo, fucking into you with intent to claim. you’re mesmerizing. he’ll never let you out of his sight, even, if it means you’ll be safe beside him—or under him. he watches your face contort with pleasure, hot wet walls gripping him so expertly he can’t help but shove himself deeper and deeper as fast as possible—needing to bury his load as far as it will go.

“so good angel, you’re gonna make me bust already.” he says with a gruff chuckle. you nod, egging him on. he finds that adorable, rewarding you by pinching your swollen and needy clit. your back arches a bit and you squeeze him uncontrollably. he chuckles at your reactions, pleased to have so much control. “looks like you will too. cum with me.” he hums his order gently, rubbing you in circles while his hips never slow their rocking motions, driving you to the point of whimpering helplessly. you nod, feeling the dam break and your cum rush out all at once. he groans at the growing wetness, he can’t hold back anymore. he fucks you through your orgasm, twitching at the sensitivity his dick receives from the sloppy mess that’s been made of you.

“look at my girl…stuffed full like she always should be.” he grins, leaning over to kiss your forehead. “i love you, angel. i’m so glad you let me have another chance.” he says with a smirk that tells you that you didn’t have much choice in the matter—but your cooperation meant a lot to him.

you smile softly at his praises, not at all worried about your fate with a man they considered dangerous. because to you, he was still your suguru—and he would never hurt you, his special siring sorceress.

[mclalan]

What art program do you use? sorry if you already answered something like this but im so mesmerized by the techniques you use in your art.

Thank you. No need to apologise; I don't mind answering this question because it's an excuse to walk through my latest image!

The concept for this piece is based on being perceived online through interpretations of posts and artwork, yet how artificial this can be. The relationship the viewer forms is more with the narrative of the work, and any insight into the artist through this feels highly awkward to me, which is precisely what I want to explore with this piece.

In this example, I wanted an attractive sitter to look like someone out of a new romantics music video or like an Enya video, because this genre and era of media is very aesthetically pleasing and nostalgic for me. I hold it as an unobtainable ideal— a hauntology. So, as wonderful as it is, it equally feels shameful and perverse because it's an aesthetic object of desire that I am contriving.

The sitter is holding one of my cartoon characters, Lauren Ipson, the protagonist of my Ersatz world project. A trope in writing is when a character acts as a self-insert of the author, and I'm conscious to try and avoid that with Lauren. I try to write Lauren as dry and sardonic yet also fun, dramatic, and friendly. I don't think of these as personal qualities of my own, but I imagine personal qualities bleeding into fictional characters is inevitable.

Yet Lauren Ipson feels much more alive a character to me compared to any attempt at self-portraiture or self-expression that I've done, which is very little because I'm not interested in constructing a perceivable identity. (I'm aware this text itself can be interpreted as self-expression; however, to me this is just another construct.)

So Is the sitter meant to be me, controlling Lauren? I'm definitely baiting the viewer to think this, and you can interpret it that way if you want, but really I don't think of the sitter as me at all. My intention is to show how it's all a facarde. The sitter is basically just as much a doll, a puppet, a mannequin as Lauren Ipson is, if anything more so.

There's a deliberate irony between Lauren's cartoon rendering and the sitter, who I wanted to render with more detail and evoke a modernist style. I'm inspired by Hans Bellmer and Dorothea Tanning with their work with dolls. However, despite that implied visual hierarchy, the more detailed sitter shares a similar, stilted vector construct to Lauren. They're both born from vector drawing after all. And it's further undermined with the way Lauren the doll looks directly at the viewer, as if she's alive, while the sitter looks to the side with a blank, almost dead-in-the-eyes expression.

Anyway, with that in mind, almost all of my work starts as a thumbnail sketch. Although I often draft digitally and am fine with doing that, I feel more confident doing it freehand on paper. Digital rendering feels more like a refinement process to me. Funnily enough, although I often prefer to sketch with physical materials, I'm anxious of refining or rendering with them.

I like my designs to be very direct and conceivable, so a solid silhouette, pose, negative space etc. I often create a quick digital sketch with this in mind, either by tracing or referencing the thumbnail, although sometimes I skip this step and go straight to the rendered drawing. The aim is to establish a visual guide, dividing the drawing into various shapes for digital airbrush rendering later on.

With this composition, I made a second draft with more attention to details such as the face, hands and feet. Sometimes I'll use photo references if I'm struggling with posing or anatomy. These drafts are often blue because it's easier to render the black linework over a transparent blue sketch.

The chair took some time but was relatively simple to render. It uses the line tool set to magnetic anchor point, following two-point perspective vanishing points. I like two-point perspective because it feels sort of digitally native to me to have these impossibly perfect vertical lines. I also know the horizon line should be at eye level or something, but I just like the idea of the top of the chair to be perfectly horizontal.

Here I'm drawing the final rendered form. I use the stroke tool with it set as smooth as possible. Often I'll redraw lines over and over if it means getting certain curves to look right. Once the lines are drawn, I'll fill them in and remove the stroke, leaving just the solid vector shape. The shade of grey I use is done to simply denote the shape. It does not represent any kind of shading or anything; in fact, when I bring it into Photoshop, all these shapes are set to the same shade, but if I had that here in Animate as I'm drawing, it would be impossible to see what I'm doing. The red background is just for clarity.

Once it's all drawn, I'll make sure every shape is clean, overlapping nicely, and divided into its own layer. A composition can often be comprised of hundreds of separate shapes.

Each shape will be its own layer in Photoshop, which will operate as a clipping mask. The clipping masks act like masking tape or shielded off areas for soft brush opacity rendering, similar to the soft atomised rendering from an airbrush, just done digitally.

I follow very rudimentary painting techniques of simple shading, lighting, and bounce-back highlights. I follow a simplified Grisaille technique, focusing on strong values in greyscale before adding a wash of colour with a color gradient map set to layer style color. Sometimes my values can be a little off, but as long as the values are all consistently acting together, I can correct them with transparent washes or color curves. If the greyscale looks harmonious with all the forms clear, colour will likely work.

Proper digital painters will say this is an amateur process, with results that look mechanical and stiff, as colours in the real world all bounce together off different surfaces, resulting in colour harmonies. However, I don't mind the inharmonious nature of the colours, as I find the values give the composition enough harmony. I'm working digitally, so why go to all the effort to make it not look digital? It's interesting to me to have the red chair look blindingly red, the green skirt look blindingly green.

Colours can look boring without some form of harmony though, so I will add in blue-greens with the darker areas, more turquoise greens towards the highlights.

Skin tones are far more complex, however, as it's something that's more informed by realism. This is why kigurumi dolls with their plastic flesh look so artificial to the eye, because we're familiar with how light passes through flesh and skin and all the subtleties of colour that it picks up. This piece is the first time I've explored flesh tones, as typically I avoid all this by rendering skin as grey porcelain.

I needed to really up the contrast, with shaded areas becoming purples and highlights verging on washed out. Areas with more blood, like feet and cheeks, appear more orange and red. Areas closer to bone and cartilage, like the bridge of the nose, can look almost blue and green. Exploring these colour values and tints in the aim of natural tones was fun to do, and ironic given how blank the face is.

Although in the moment I feel very much like I'm rendering a realistic reality, when I step back, I'm reminded how stylised and unrealistic the painting actually is. It looks kind of insane, like everything is so uniform and overtly saturated. It doesn't feel present in a real space, despite the shadow and form implies one. But I'm not consciously thinking of these things, of style, as I'm working. To me, it's a process of world-building and problem-solving.