#slack lining

[bonelesssboiz]

It’s a reliable truth that every man will, upon seeing one of those outdoor tightrope slack lining type things, will try it out.

[ghouljams]

Fae!Gaz is the king of manufacturing coincidence. After all, what is love but a few well placed moments? He knows your routine, knows every route you take to and from home, work, fun. He knows you. It's easy to insert himself into your life. Subtly at first. A familiar face on the tube, passing you in a crowd. Then more aggressively, a shared cafe spot, bumping into you on the street, you run out of tea and go to ask a neighbor only to find yourself in front of his door. Nevermind he's floors above you, somewhere you'd never consider to go, but his flat is well lived in and he's so charming. It would be weird to assume he'd moved into your building just for you. You don't know everyone that lives here, after all.

You don't know how or when you end up back in your flat, but the sun has risen well past morning by then.

He chases you down to return a few bills you dropped, makes a joke, asks if you're stalking him he sees you so much. You laugh, tell him you were starting to wonder the same thing. "You came to my house, that's pretty weird," Gaz points out, and you have to admit that does make you seem like a stalker. You swear up and down that isn't it. Gaz makes you promise not to see him again today.

You end up in his shop.

"You must really fancy me," He grins, leaning against the counter. You feel your cheeks start to burn, waving off his flirting. It's pure coincidence, you tell him. "Course," He replies easily, "coincidence."

[sprout-fics]

Homecoming

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x OFC 'Fix')

Snowblind Masterlist

Rating: M Wordcount: 3.8k Tags: Whump, Angst, Fluff, Post-torture, Post-rescue, Established relationship, Living together, Domesticity, Non sexual intimacy Warnings: References of torture, starvation, captivity A/N: Part of 'For Once In Our Lives' on AO3

It’s five in the morning when Simon pulls the car up to his flat.

Your flat too, but still his, technically. Your name, like his, isn’t on the lease. If anything it’s Price’s, his official signature on the document so as to avoid collecting a paper trail for his lieutenant. Despite that, it’s been your space together for most of the year now. Your presence is written in the curtains that hang neatly in the front window, the pitcher of kitchen utensils on the counter behind the coffee maker. You’ve staked you claim on a section of the bathroom counter upstairs, taken advantage of the corners of the shower to deposit half empty bottles of shower supplies you hardly ever get use with the amount of time you’re deployed. The couch in the living room was your idea, a replacement for the terrible worn thing that had tormented your spine in the evenings you’d spent sleeping on it, before you were allowed in his bedroom.

You left traces of yourself, whispers, small hushed murmurs that cling to his skin in the weeks you were gone. In your absence Simon had sought you there, had waited and prayed for the smallest blip of life on a radio that had long gone silent.

Eighteen days. Two weeks and roughly one hundred hours from the time you went dark to the time you’d been rescued.

Your captors had starved you, tortured you, beaten you bloody and left you to fester before returning for more. You’d gone through interrogation training with Price’s supervision, and you had been prepared from the moment you’d stepped off the plane for no man’s land for the capture that might, and did, ensue.

Nothing had prepared you for the return home.

Simon exits the driver’s side door fluidly just as you stir from your drowsy state, blinking wearily up at the flat beyond the garden gate. The windows are dark and shuttered, closed off, and it feels aching somehow, lonely. The dim, hazy light of dawn tucks dusky shadows around the corners of the townhouse, softly blue and patient, waiting for your return.

You open the door to your side, withholding a wince at the motion of your torn shoulder. Yet Simon is already there, hands reaching for you before you can protest. Normally you would, too stubborn to allow anyone else, especially him, to do things for you. Now, when Simon lifts you into his arms you say not a word. The walk to his car from the infirmary had been exhausting enough, atrophied muscles screaming with each step, too weak from the weeks you’d spent in hospital care. So you lift your good arm around his neck, brace yourself there and tuck the crown of your head under his jaw in a silent gesture of comfort to you both.

Simon is quiet as he walks up the steps, chest rising with slow, measured breaths as he balances the weight of you in his arms. You’re not sure how he manages to get the front door open, and if you weren’t...as you are now you probably would have made a wry comment about his dexterous hands. Instead it’s silent between you both, with the weight of the things that have happened weighing too heavy on your fraught souls.

You’re deposited on the couch that no longer smells like you while Simon fetches your bag from the car. In the time it takes him you manage to look around the apartment, witness the devastation your absence has caused.

Half eaten MRE foils litter the dusty coffee table. Beneath them are maps of Serbia, and you trace the marked coordinates of your last known location, notes scribbled in slanting writing that indicates sleeplessness. An empty tumbler sits to the far edge, a thin circle of amber at the bottom betraying his taste for bourbon. The room is unkempt, like he’d bumped into things and never bothered to pick them up. In the far corner: A knife wedged into the wall. The spare one you’d left behind.

The front door closes, and in the echo heavy bootsteps draw your attention to the large, looming figure that enters your line of view.

“How’s the pain?” Simon asks, and when you look up to his eyes you can’t tell the shadows there apart from his war paint.

You catalog the various aches and pains left even after your medical discharge. A broken shoulder that’s still mending. Stitches on the meat of your upper thigh, a dark slice across your collarbone above your two broken ribs, a fractured fibula that may leave you with a permanent limp unless you adhere to the PT instructions sternly given to you.

Yet the look in Simon’s eyes is different as it plucks a tender, grieving chord inside your chest. Tired, blank, hiding the rot you know is there, the rot he refuses to show you.

“It’s fine.” You almost say on instinct, but catch yourself before you can. It’s a lie, one he won’t appreciate, not here. Not now.

“How much more am I allowed to have?” You ask, and before you can finish the words Simon is fishing through your bag for the discharge papers, scanning them with his back turned before reaching back inside for a small orange canister. He vanishes in the direction of the kitchen and reappears just as swiftly with a tall glass of water that you finish along with the medication.

There’s a pause then, and once more your eyes look up to peer at him under his mask. There’s a sunkenness to his gaze that whispers of the dark grip of insomnia, a gaunt sort of coloring that you’re able to see despite the ink around his eyes.

“Is there anything in the cabinets?” You ask, and your voice seems so loud in the silence between you. “To eat?”

Once more he’s off, striding in the direction of the kitchen without a word. You hear the click of the stove, the cabinets being rifled through, and then quiet as Simon sets about making something.

After several minutes you get up to follow him, mouth parting in a silent, wheezing cry as the pain of putting pressure down on your booted calf. Yet you bite down on any wounded noises, clutching the wall and crossing the foyer to come stand on the threshold of the kitchen.

He didn’t even turn the lights on.

You do, and it makes him cast a small glance over his shoulder, the sturdy frame of him obscuring whatever he’s making on the stove.

“You shouldn’t be standing.” He tells you, voice low in his chest with a familiar rumble. “Sit.”

“You left me alone.” You try to joke, but it has no effect. He doesn’t even seem to register it, acting automatically in cooking whatever it is he’s poking at with a wooden spoon.

So you see yourself to the tiny kitchen table beneath the front window with the curtains still closed. As you wait, you study his back, the way Simon is postured. There’s a tightness to his shoulders, a coiled uncertainty that’s weighed down only by fatigue. The soft, dark, familiar cloth of his hoodie stretches across the planes of his shoulders, having shrunk from one too many times in the wash. The sleeves are rolled up halfway, exposing the dark swirling ink of his forearm on his left side. You trace the images there, of bombs and broken bones and viscera that you thought yourself would be a part of weeks ago in the dark shed they’d kept you in.

It’s similar, in a way. The slant of light that cuts through the curtains reminds you of the pale illumination that peeked between the gaps of wood of your cold cell with the dirt floor and the cold, cold earth beneath your exposed form. In the silence between you both, it feels like a different sort of prison, both of you captive to your own thoughts of the things that happened, and that which didn’t.

Simon turns at last with something red and simmering in a bowl- tomato soup, by the smell. It instantly makes your mouth water, pallet tired of the bland hospital food served to you for weeks now, interrupted only by the snacks Gaz and Soap had smuggled past your nurse. It takes restraint to allow it to cool, and as it does Simon slides into the chair across from you, his side of the table noticeable empty.

“You’re not going to eat?” You ask quietly.

“No.” Comes the almost instant reply.

You feel your expression fall as he watches you before he adds on: “Later.”

It’s as good as you’re going to get for now, and you’re much too tired to press him on it. So you set about slowly sipping your soup, letting the warmth curl in your empty belly. There’s an anxious sort of grumble there, body still too taxed to have anything more complicated than this you think. He knows, you’re sure, has been in the same chair you’re in trying to take care of himself in the aftermath of it all.

Alone.

The warmth sours in your stomach.

Simon watches the expression pass over your face silently, observing. Watching, as he always does, taking in every minute detail and storing it for some unknown study in his thoughts you’re rarely privy to.

You finish the soup despite the lingering bitterness at the back of your senses, swallowing down the touch of nausea from your painkillers and looking to the man across from you.

Silent. Still. Unmoving, like the dead.

You reach out across the table, set your hand atop his gloved one, and Simon startles.

There’s a glazed look in his eyes that doesn’t fully dissipate as he looks at you, and in return you offer him a shaky sort of smile.

“Simon.” You whisper, and it draws him back just a little more, eyes unblinking but still something a little less than empty. Not fully here with you, caught in the tormentous spiral of what if’s that settle heavy over you both.

“Where are you?” You ask, voice a breathy murmur.

It seems to shake something loose from him, your hushed inquiry, drawing him back to himself and out of the coffin of his mind. He’s silent for a few moments, just staring back at you, and you watch as his eyes clear, as he’s able to see you again.

“Not goin’ anywhere.” He tells you, and overturns his hand to gently clasp at your hand atop his. “Fix.”

You smile, finally, feeling some of the weight ease from your shoulders, and you squeeze his hand back in reassurance.

“Still with me?” You ask quietly in the dim morning light of your apartment, and Simon blinks slow before offering a little nod.

“Always.”

Always. With you.

Simon leaves the dishes in the sink as he helps you up the stairs one step at a time, gingerly making your way to the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. He sits you atop the toilet seat as he runs the bath, and when you grumble about lifting your sore arm he merely grunts in reply, acknowledging of your griping in a gruff, familiar way that eases the bitterness lingering on your tongue.

He helps divest you of your clothes, and you try not to feel self conscious of the new scars that litter your skin. He traces them with nimble fingers and glancing touches, hovering over each one meaningfully and with great purpose. It’s as if he’s re-memorizing the shape of you, the touch of your skin with freshly healed lacerations and trials of stitches that embark a pathway under his hands.

“Fix.” He says again, softly, and it sounds reverent somehow, worshiping a cracked altar damaged by those who sought your demise. He remains at the foot of it, face upturned into the light that streams through the slats of the broken shed that held you captive and allowing the glow of revelation to stream onto his open eyes.

Later, once you two have mended yourself to each other once more, you’ll ask him if you’re still beautiful. He’ll say yes without question, fervent with a desire so raw it peels marrow away from his bones, strips the sinew bare from his flesh just so he has one more thing to offer you. You’ll get the same answer every time you ask him, and each time the silent question of “Do you still love me despite everything?” will echo soundlessly in your chest.

To which he too, answers: Yes.

He settles into the too-small bathtub behind you, and you shudder at the skin to skin contact that feels so foreign after being so far away from him for so long. The broad drum of his chest braces against your back as he takes his time bathing your tired, weary limbs. You settle into him easily with a sigh, allow him to scrub you free of the sterile touch of the hospital wing, the smell of antiseptic vanishing beyond a haze of fragrant bubbles from your too many bottles of soap. Beneath it is the smell of him, the thick and heavy weight of his musk that you crane towards with a small groan, bumping your nose under his jaw to drag in a breath of him.

“Alright?” He asks, pausing, and you nod into his collarbone, dopey and sated. It releases a little bit more tension from his shoulders, and you feel it in the way his chest depresses, burying yourself there in all the space he’ll allow you.

Which is, to say, all of him.

“I dreamt of you.” You say suddenly, and he pauses as he bends over you, one strong hand grasping the underside of your thigh to haul it upwards to wash. You almost don’t realize you spoke, eyes closed and body loose in the warm, sudsy water.

“I dreamt we went back to the states.” You go on, voice a soft murmur, slurred with fatigue now that you unwind softly into his arms. “We bought a big plot of land in the mountains where nobody could find us, with an old cabin and a fireplace.”

Simon pauses a moment longer before giving an answering hum, resuming his task and minding your stitches with gentle precision.

“Would have to chop a lot of wood.” He offers mildly.

“We took turns.” You reply, head lolling against his chest. You slip just an inch down, and one strong arm loops around your middle to keep you from descending further. “We got chickens too, and a cranky old barncat. I planted tomatoes in the vegetable garden.”

Simon is quiet as you ramble, allowing your thoughts to trickle free like the gentle loosening of a stream after a winter’s frost. He envelops you, warms you through, and in the beautiful blossom of your mind you allow the inside of your heart to be laid bare to him.

“Price and the boys came to visit. I made chicken soup.”

“With our chickens?”

You make a wounded little noise at that, and you feel him almost mistake it for a sound of pain.

“We watched the fireflies in the summertime.” You go on. “Stayed up to watch the sunrise just because. I can still see the colors beyond the trees.”

Pale pink and blue. The same colors that bleed through your curtains, the same colors that had slanted over your face in your would be tomb, allowing you the barest glimpse of freedom.

You swallow then, throat suddenly thick with tears. Like the trickle of a stream, your words pour gently out of you until they flood your eyes all at once, chest seizing with a pained breath as you shudder.

“Every day.” You croak, and he’s stopped now, bent over you as you tremble against him, hot tears seeping into the bath water. “Every day I dreamt of you. The whole time I was there. From the moment I fell asleep until the moment I woke up.”

Simon is silent, tucking you to him, stroking a heavy hand over the chilling flesh of your upper arms, allowing you to dig deep into him like he’s the only thing that will hold you.

“I knew you’d come for me. I never once thought you wouldn’t. The whole time I couldn’t stop thinking of you because I knew you’d come find me. I knew you wouldn’t let me go.”

He whispers your name then, your real name, and you hear in his voice the way he trembles through it, as if he’s somehow not allowed. Simon whispers your name like a hymn he’s unfamiliar with, a grace given to him by your endless adoration. You feel it crack in your chest with a cry, swallow down the pain just so the despair, the hurt, the relief surges through you in wet, broken gasps. There’s no longer any words. Instead there’s the shudder of you both as you fold into each other, as he holds you like he can never bear to part from you in his arms again.

There’s so many things you want to say, so many things you wish you could tell him. You want to say you were so scared he’d find your body, that you wouldn’t survive the trip back to base, that he wouldn’t recognize the person that came back to him. You want to tell him that you were scared he’d be so terrified of how deeply you’d consumed his soul that he’d leave you, that losing you that way was better than losing the whole of you to something he couldn’t stop.

You want to tell him you felt the same, that you almost wish he had left you so that someday, should you lose each other, it would somehow hurt less.

Instead now, you cry into his arms and silently beg for him to hold you just a little longer.

You’re not sure how or when you get to the bed, wrapped up in a towel and bare as you lay on your side quietly crying. He doesn’t disappear from you, merely takes you against him and tucks himself impossibly further around you, as if shielding you from your own fears and phantoms.

“Fix.” He whispers, a hand roaming your back as your breathing eventually evens out.

You cling to him, wet skin and all, drinking in his scent, leeching off his warmth and imbuing it in your wounded form. He shifts, tilts you up so you look into his face, free of his mask, wet blonde lashes clinging to his cheeks with every flutter of his eyes. The full range of grief plays out clearly on his face, a despair and a longing so deep that you feel dirt pour over the coffin where both of you are entwined.

“I’ll come for you.” He tells you, voice dark, an ominous, dangerous rumble of a distant storm threatening to consume the horizon. “Every time. There’s nothing in the whole fucking world that can keep me from finding you, Fix.”

You nod wordlessly at him, face scrunching with unshed tears, breath shuddering in the hollow of your chest where he resides.

He takes a breath of his own then, eyes wide before he speaks.

“When they took you to the chopper, I went back.” He confesses. “Price tried to stop me, but I couldn’t leave after what they did to you.”

You shudder to think of the sight that must have been- with Ghost as a wild, feral animal seeking blood, unable to be tamed by the man he trusted the most, seeking out vengeance just to cool the bloodlust raging beneath his skin. Disregarding your injured state at the hands of the other medics, instead taking one look at your crumpled form and feeling a fury so violent it clouded his unwavering judgment in the field.

“I killed all of them.” Simon tells you, and there’s no regret in his voice, no horror at his own actions. A cold, calculating killer fueled by the most terrifying of motivations. “I felt their bones break beneath my hands, how hot and wet their blood was. I carved out their brains and left them for the vultures but it wasn’t enough. I’d kill them a hundred times over if I had the chance.”

You know he would. It should scare you, the lengths this man has gone through to keep you here in his arms. It should terrify you, should make you reconsider all viable possibility of being with him. Yet you fail to even feign shock at the devotion he has for you, laying skulls at your feet just so you can tell him how much you trust him, how much he deserves you- as if you somehow deserve him too.

“When I saw you on that hospital bed...” He goes on, voice softer now, a tone reserved just for you. “The only thing I could think was that I...I could never lose you again.”

“Never.” You tell him, clutching at the arm encircling you to him with ardent fixation. “You’re not going to lose me. I’m going to wait for you each time because I know you’ll come. Even if it means going through it all again, I’ll stay alive just to come back to you.”

You kiss him then, slow and tender, and he shivers bodily into you before surging forward, lips catching yours, body pressing into you as he kisses you like he’d forgotten the taste. Simon kisses you like its the last thing he’ll ever do, like he want to carry the touch of you from one afterlife into the next, like he’s trying to ingrain the sensation of you against his scarred flesh in case you’re ever taken from him again.

“Simon...” You sigh, and he swallows the sound like he’s trying to drink in every breath, as if it’s just one more taste of you.

“I’ll kill anyone who tries to keep you away from me.” He swears coarsely into your mouth. “I can’t- can’t do this without you. You make it all so fucking bearable, Fix. Nobody else can have you.”

You don’t want anyone else. You want him.

“I love you, Simon.” You manage between kisses, the naked, damp planes of your bodies stuck together as he tangles himself inside of you further, so that you’ll never be able ti dislodge him even if you wanted to. “I love you.”

“You’re mine, Fix.” He tells you in return, and you know what it means even though he won’t say it. “I won’t let them take you.”

You know he won’t. In this lifetime, in the next, you’ll stand by his side. You’ll bathe in the darkness of him so ichor drips from your lips, so that your name is seared across his tongue as if it’s the last word he’ll ever speak. You’ll echo a prayer unto his violence and he will kneel at the altar of you once more and ask for a redemption you can’t offer. Instead, you’ll tumble down into the grave together, caught in each other’s arms just like this, the world be damned.

You’ll wait. He’ll come for you. Then you’ll go home and watch the sun rise.

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[reikomakoto]

A tad late for the @kawoshinweek but just in time for mermay! Swimming lessons with merman draft kaworu!

If you like this consider checking out my @monster-kawoshin sideblog <3

[viejospellejos]

Menuda crack!!!

[piratefishmama]

Crossing The Line | Part 9

“Eddie. Dude. You have to stop pacing, you’re gonna wear a hole in the goddamn floor and we ain’t covered for that.”

Eddie did not stop pacing, he just turned on his heel and went in the other direction, starting a fresh line in the floor. “But what if— nah, he wouldn’t… I doubt it, no he was probably just—but then what if—"

“Man, you’re spiralling, if he’s gonna come, he’s gonna come, if he doesn’t, then he doesn’t, what’re you worried about, you don't even like the guy” Eddie didn’t stop pacing. “Unless… Do you?”

“I… may have… actually looked into him?”

“You what?”

“After he turned up at the coffee shop! He was just… he was nice, dude, and… an he had no reason to be, at all, I was a bitch for a whole week towards him for no reason, but he was nice, and funny, and he can sing even if he can’t do shit with metal, he can sing, and… his photoshoots don’t touch up shit he really is that pretty, and I think i'm going to spontaneously combust and die if he turns up tonight dressed to blend in.”

“Wow.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Okay, so, what did you find out on your deep dive through Instagram?” Eddie finally stopped pacing. They were in what the bar deemed to be a ‘green room’ which was really just a room in the back for bands to get their shit together before the gig started, Corroded Coffin always turned up a good hour or so early to make sure everything was set, and of course, get rid of any pre-gig jitters. Gareth was the only one completely ready, his drums were already out there, set up and covered by a black sheet waiting for their time to shine, and his outfit was sorted ages ago.

So Gareth was the one currently in charge of dealing with Eddie, while the other two primped elsewhere.

“Not just Instagram, Jesus, imagine if I’d have scrolled too far back and liked a pic from like, 2001 by accident. How about no to that inevitable mortification. I googled.”

“You googled.”

“Yes I googled!! Did you know that he donated like, ninety-something percent of his earnings from a bullshit rom-com soundtrack deal to LGBT charities across the US after they cut a lesbian couple out of it?”

“No…”

“Neither did I! The fucker didn’t tell anyone!! I HAD TO DEEP DIVE INTO ROBIN’S INSTAGRAM! Trust me that was a scary thing to do, she’s scary. but he pulls that shit all the time apparently!” It wasn’t for publicity, it wasn’t to make himself look good to a demographic, he did it because he could. Because he wanted to. “Did you know he regularly terrorizes producers and directors into offering fair contracts for their child actors and young muscians like a goddamn world class showbiz babysitter?”

“…Nope.”

“Neither did I!! Did you know that he got PERMISSION to sing Crazy Train from the actual goddamn Osbornes? Cause I sure as shit didn’t know that either! He spoke to Sharon, DIRECTLY, Gareth, DIRECTLY. What the actual fucknuggets on fire, does he want with me?!”

“I dunno, to kiss you maybe?”

“WHY?!”

“Can’t claim to have an answer dude, you’re not exactly my type. Maybe you’re his, he did come all this way, right?”

“Pretty sure he could find a weird metalhead in his own damn town, y’know?”

“Maybe it’s not the metalhead thing, I dunno Eds, I just know that maybe this guy will be in the crowd, and if he is, hell yeah, you have managed to secure probably thee best opportunity we’ve ever had in the history of ever, by… being a bitch.”

“We’ve ever had?” Eddie looked at him with a small frown

“Yeah man! Steve Harrington is a huge star in the music world. Dude probably has his own goddamn recording studio in his place… maybe if it goes well… we could ask him if we could use it, save us some cash on a recording studio for demos.”

“…Dude. That’s. That’s kinda taking advantage isn’t it? An I’m not whoring myself out to get free studio time.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, BUT if you start dating this guy—"

“Gare, anything you say that relates to me using my first potential relationship as a step ladder to fame, is SUPER shitty. Let’s not do that. If he offers, then… maybe, but… that’s not—I wouldn’t even think about asking for that, we wanna get where we’re going on our own, not have it handed to us, right?”

“Well… yeah but… a helping hand would be nice sometimes, y’know? Get us out of playing these shitty dive bar gigs and into the big leagues, you know I can’t stand part time work filling the gaps in the wages, man, retail managers always suck donkey dicks. I cannot work another summer at Staples, they have like no AC, it’s torture, it’s like an oven in there and Ralph doesn’t wear deodorant, he claims it’s an allergy, but I know, I know it’s not, he does it as a power thing it’s weird. This… could be our ticket out.”

“Steve isn’t a ticket. Maybe stop digging a grave you can’t climb out of, yeah? I know I wasn’t the best towards him but… he’s better, deserves better than that… I’m not using him. An honestly I dunno if I’d even know how y’know? It’s not like I’m bursting with experience… barely even—y’know what, I’m not talking about this, big nope on the using Steve as a cheat code to achieving fame! Let’s just… get our shit together and get out there!”

Gareth smiled before rising to his feet, drumsticks in hand “you’re the boss, man. Where’s Jeff an Frank?”

“Bathroom touching up their shit… promise me you won’t bring it up to Steve, yeah? Like… if he does come, you won’t—”

“Dude, dude… I was just throwing out dumb ideas to get you out of your head, I’d never, that’d be really uncool of me” Eddie looked at him with doubt because… okay, maybe there was a little truth to the interest in the subject, Gareth had worked part time in the stationary section of Staples for three years now and he was just about ready to die if he had to deal with his supervisors summer BO any longer, but if Eddie put his foot down and said no, then it was no, the idea was vetoed. Axed. Deader than dead

He could deal with Ralph. Probably.

“…Right, well… oka—”

The door opened, a frizzy head of hair poking around the entry way, one of the bartenders, “You’re on in five guys! Wh—Where’s the rest of you??”

“Gareth go get em for me? I’ll get the crowd warmed up.”

“On it.”

T-5 minutes. Gareth rushed out the opposite door to the bathrooms behind 'stage', otherwise known as the staff bathroom. The bar was heaving, music from the speakers to fill the void of sound before the live music act, loud and thumping, it’d be them soon, filling that void, deep breath. Eddie fluffed his hair once more, spritzed it with hairspray one last time, checked his minimalist eyeliner, and shook himself out, and grabbed his baby.

Show time.

Part 11

[bunitivity]

Zosopp always taking naps together.

Usopp started staying up late just to see Zoro more. It's also a good chance to talk whenever the day was too busy or slept through.

It quickly becomes a habit. And while the sniper doesn't intend on messing with his body, he just can't help it. So Zoro becomes his alarm to take a break. To finish for the night and go to sleep.

Yet, he is also his biggest temptation to slack off. Just seeing him peacefully snoring on deck after lunch is enough. But he can't just do nothing. He has to help Franky, Chopper, entertain Luffy, take care of his plants...

But he looks so, so, so, so, sooooooo comfyyy. Just a few minutes with him. 5 should be enough. Well, okay, maybe 10. A small tiny nap wouldn't hurt?

Zoro feels comfortable sleeping next to Usopp and Usopp feels safe sleeping next to Zoro.

But Nami has other plans. No nap for them. For now...

Ah this is so cute I love it so much just the idea of Usopp using Zoro’s nap as a sign to take a break but also an excuse to slack off… the duality of a man. Just Zoro waking up and finding Usopp using him as a pillow. Normally he’d just push him off and go about his day but Usopp just looks so cute and peaceful he just can’t so he’s just stuck there…

With nothing else to do Zoro just sort of absentmindedly starts petting and playing with Usopp’s hair and Usopp starts nuzzling closer because he’s sooo comfortable and this is so nice.

Zoro starts to get sleepy because sleeping with someone else and feeling their warmth is a lot nicer than he imagined…

That’s of course when Usopp wakes and gets embarrassed as soon as he realizes how this looks and he starts flailing and apologizing profusely. Seeing Usopp so flustered flusters Zoro too and now he is embarrassed and the only way he knows to shut it all down is to just. pull Usopp into chest and smother all his loudness and say something like don’t make this weird. It’s not weird unless you make it weird and Usopp quiets and says something like okay but I would appreciate it if you didn’t try to suffocate me in your big ass tits next time and then apologizes immediately when Zoro actually tries to do it lmao. And that’s how they start sleeping together.

[aloha-obi]

HC that Dick spent most of his early years just following Bruce wherever he went- like he goes on all business trips to foreign countries and does his schoolwork (he’s homeschooled/private tutoring til at least high school) in Bruce’s office. He’s occasionally seen doing increasingly ridiculous stunts in the background of Bruce’s zoom calls. One time B just left the room and put a 10 year old Dick in charge for the rest of the meeting. The kid closed a business deal, declared a corporate wide policy for paid birthdays off and organized a bring your dog to work day. When meetings become too boring B puts himself on mute and plays catch with Dick until someone actually has something worth saying. And everyone remembers but it’s taboo to bring up that time Bruce got (accidentally) blasted in the face with a football while discussing budget cuts

[mommybites]

Slowly becoming more and more feral as the days of her vacation drag on. I’d give close to anything to be able to just lazily eat her out and edge her for a few hours right now, those delicate gasps and the feeling of her back arching beneath my fingertips, such a good slut… ♡

Good thing she’ll be back soon.

[yogadaily]

(via Pinterest  || Curated with love by yogadaily) 

[rocketbirdie]

damn. i knew zack's voice direction was bad in crisis core reunion, but man, it was truly awful. wtf went wrong, seriously? i know they wanted to be faithful to the original, but fuck's sake.

zack sounds so fucking good in rebirth!!! just like i figured he would!

i feel so bad for caleb pierce. he's gotten nothing but hate for years, and it's almost entirely to blame on shitty voice direction. yes he sounds different than the old zack. but now we get to hear his full potential, and i think he does the character justice.

i really hope we get to hear a lot more of him in part 3, because his performance in rebirth is great.

[distressedwalnut]

A woman!

[weidli]

wait, don't give up on this yet

[broodygaming]

A “you got this babe” immediately followed by someone biffing it trying to tightrope is SO specific and yet so real

[ocymoron]

And there he stands, Dabi—his big brother— wreathed in flames every shade of blue with this strange look on his face.

His lips downturned and pressed together tightly, trembling. His furrowed brows and scrunched nose. It’s an unfamiliar face, one that he only remembers through cracked doors. No tears fall— they don’t even form, they can’t— but his older brother still looks like he’s holding them back.

“I’m proud of you.”

The air is heavy between them. It feels weighed down by emotions too complicated to name— grief, it’s grief— and he doesn’t know how to respond so he doesn’t.

But it’s fine because his older brother— Touya-nii— keeps talking, voice choked.

“I wish I could’ve known you.”

[iknowwhereyousleepatnight]

painted my nails. i’m feeling very gender today