#vinegar bottle gifs

[silverfoxlou]

fond memories :)

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Take the damn shot

A/N: Ohhhhh I've spiraled. Going from Mandalorian fics to writing about a radioactive cowboy with no nose within a couple weeks of each other is totally healthy :) Tags: Fallout, Cooper Howard, Cooper Howard x F!Reader, Cooper Howard x You, Ghoul x Reader WARNINGS: Canon-Typical language and violence. Summary: A single quiet day in the saloon is all you wanted. But somehow, your Ghoul partner is pulling his gun and you're covered in another person's blood. Honestly, it's just typical.

Word Count: 1.7k+

(GIF Credit to @djo)

The Ghoul hates to admit it, but he needs you.

In the same sick and twisted, goddamned way he needs the Vials to stay sane, he needs you next to him. When poison air grows thick and the scorching sun sinks beyond a brutalized horizon, you’re always at his side. Day in and day out, you stick around. Full of piss and vinegar, ready to take on the fucked up world you’re all stuck in.

And Cooper’s not one for generosity anymore, but he gives you credit a lot of the time. He knows he can be nasty, and you don’t mind one bit. In spite of his callousness and general disregard for safety, you put on a chipper attitude and tug him (sometimes physically) along to the next town.  Outwardly innocent but filled with a mutual hatred for Vault-Tec and what its influence had done to the world and yourself, you’d quickly become his diamond in the rough. 

And you shine particularly bright in the shack of a building the Wasteland called a saloon. You’ve made careful friends with a couple of gray-haired biddies- presumably the owners-  in the back of the room, and chat happily with them. Cooper sits off to the side behind you, a bottle of the local brew dangling between his fingers. He’s content for the first time in a while; ass in a creaky rocking chair and boots kicked up on an old milk crate. The brim of his hat is pulled down to hide the majority of his face, but eyes wander lazily from you to the front door. 

Cooper didn’t think many things were nice any longer, but listening to you prattle on with the women warmed something in his dead heart.

“You’re awfully pretty for this place.” The older of the two women, sporting a single eye and an impressively neat beehive style, compliments you. “Gotta be out of the Vaults with that skin.”

The Ghoul tenses, knowing the mention of your 200-year prison would strike a nerve. 

“Yeah. I’m from before the war, actually.” You say it plainly and chase it down with a swig of liquor. “Fuckin’ Vault-Tec.”

The Ghoul’s familiar with your story, from you finding out about the plan to drop homemade bombs on American citizens to your confrontation with the executive group in Vault 31. Little did you know, you’d be sneaking in with no chance for escape. Cooper tightens his fist at the thought of Hank MacLean shoving you carelessly into a cryopod and slamming the button to lock you in. You’d relayed the story to him with watery eyes, and that’s something he absolutely loathed. He had enough personal beef with Hank that your trauma added to his ever-growing list of things to be absolutely pissed-the-fuck-off about.

Finch and Sparrow, as they were so comically named, clutch their pearls in sadness as you tell your story. They fawn over you, and Cooper makes out a few ‘fuck them Vaulties’ and a ‘well as much as it sucks, we’re glad you made it this far’. You sniff just barely and wipe your eyes. 

“Thanks, ladies. It means a lot.” 

The conversation turns back pleasant for the most part, and you’re enthralled as the women pull you into the town gossip. Cooper begrudgingly gets up to piss, comfy as he was, but stops at your side to hand off his bag first. You take it with a nod, more interested in the rumor mill than his whereabouts for the moment. He swaggers to the back door of the saloon, where wind whips sand against his jeans and patters the leather of his boots with tiny rocks. 

Voices drift out the door from inside as Cooper yanks his zipper back up. 

“Is it true what they say ‘bout Vaulties?” It’s a man’s voice, gruff and demanding in comparison to the happy lilt of yours. “Heard your story and always been… curious.”

“If you listened, you would know I ain’t no Vaultie.” Your reply is instant, but the edge in your voice has Cooper stepping a little faster down the short hallway. He reemerges to the sight of a suspiciously dressed man leaning against the wood beam beside your table, a little too close for comfort. 

“Sure you are, darlin’. I can tell by lookin’ at’chya.” The man’s face is half-covered by a bandanna, and a pair of sand goggles are pushed up on his forehead, “Like they say.. everything’s… softer.”

There’s suddenly a hand landing on your shoulder, and Cooper sees red. His gun is pulled before he knows it, leveling at the man’s forehead. 

“Hands off the girl.” He growls. 

On closer inspection the man is probably close to the age you appear. Above the bandanna, weatherbeaten skin turns into frizzy ginger hair. He’s wearing a typical duster type coat, and the goggles are leaving red marks in his forehead. Cooper decides he’s taken shits more attractive than him. 

Probably smarter, too. 

“Fuck off, Ghoul.” Is the reply Cooper receives, sending  a flash of white-hot anger through his already irradiated body. “I wasn't talkin’ to you.”

It was all too common, being brushed off. At this point in his life, it actually brings a smirk to his face. Your mouth is even tipping up at the edges, having had many interactions with the can of worms this guy was prying open. 

“Listen man, I think you should let it go.” You warn and try to stand from the broken chair you had been carefully perching on. The red-head doesn’t relent, and pushes you back down into the chair. It wobbles dangerously as Cooper stomps closer. The movement prompts your captor to pull his own gun. It’s a crudely made pipe pistol, but able to shoot flying projectiles into your brains nonetheless.

“Get your goddamn hands off her before I decorate that wall with your fuckin’ skull.” Cooper yanks the hammer back on his pistol, hesitating at your close proximity.

The redhead pulls his bandanna down and Cooper watches you lean away as you recognize the scent and characteristics of a Fiend. His teeth are hanging loosely at crooked angles, and the pock marks around his mouth from scratching his skin open drip blood and serous fluid. His gun is trained on Cooper, but he freezes when he sees the Ghoul shift forward. 

“Ah ah ah. How’d you like me to put a bullet in her instead?” The Fiend tugs you to your feet and nuzzles at your hair as he presses the barrel of his gun to your ribs. “I’d love a taste myself.”

The suffocating need to keep you safe and at his side fills Cooper’s corroded veins as you scowl at the Fiend whose nose is pressed dangerously close to your cheek with rotten teeth bared. Rage ignites from the anger he’s already feeling. 

BANG. 

Cooper’s watching when the red spray of blood washes over half the saloon, but still doesn’t quite comprehend what’s happened. His gun didn’t fire, but the scent of ignited powder fills the air. You fall to the floor along with your captor, and the aforementioned rage boils over. He holsters his gun and scrambles to pull you away in the chaos.  

Thankfully, a quick once-over shows you to have no injuries, but the same can’t be said for your attacker. A foot away the Fiend lies still, about five pounds lighter from the gaping hole in his chest. Gore from his wound is splattered thick across your face and neck. Your eyes are pinched closed to avoid anything unsightly entering them, and you lash out blindly when Cooper grasps your arms. 

“Let me go, you rotten bastard!” The Ghoul catches your right hand before it can hook into his jaw, “I’ll kill you myself.”

“Quit squealin’ sunshine, it’s me.” Cooper growls

While he’s getting a handle on your flailing limbs, a shadow covers the both of you. Cooper glances up at the one-eyed old woman who’s sawed-off shotgun is still smoking in her left hand. 

“I know your brain is shrunken and all, but next time take the shot sooner.” She bites. “And feel free to clean up my damn bar.”

Cooper is torn between staring at the older woman- Sparrow, he thinks-  and trying to contain your squirming. He’s not too fragile to admit he really doesn’t want to take a punch from you right now, so he wipes the back of his hand across your eyes and tugs you to sit up beside him. 

“Cooper?”

He huffs a laugh at your incredulous tone and flicks away the remnants of blood littering your skin “The one and only. Open your eyes.”

They flicker open slowly, and you pout at the blood congealing on your clothes. “I just got these pants.”

Cooper sets a hand on your thigh and squeezes gently. “I’ll buy you a new pair. S’Long as you promise not to get Fiend all over those ones too.”

You thrust an elbow into his ribs at the jab and climb to your feet. Cooper follows with a dramatic groan. 

“Old man.” You tease over your shoulder, observing the carnage from Sparrow’s well-aimed shot. A kick to the corpses’ ribs follows, sending a splatter of blood across Cooper’s pants. You shoot him an insincerely apologetic look. “She’s right, you know.”

The Ghoul follows your gaze to Sparrow, who’s hollering at any remaining patrons that dare tread too close to the mess, damning them for tracking blood around the bar. 

“‘Bout what?” 

You lean into his space, the scent of blood thick in the air. “Take the damn shot sooner.”

Cooper grabs the back of your neck and yanks you forward in a hard kiss. The blood transfers easily onto his lips, and he licks it off while pulling away. “Fucker deserved more than one shot.”

Possessiveness floods his mind and he squeezes the soft flesh beneath his fingers. 

“I’da strung him up by his balls if I got my hands on him.” He mutters, tracing another finger through the blood and popping it into his mouth. “After grabbin’ onto you like that.”

You lean into his chest and let a smile curl the corners of your lips up. “All for little ol’ me?”

The Ghoul pinches your bloody cheek. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

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

thanks for reading, much love ❤

Read More: Fallout Masterlist

[drvscarlett]

Let Him Cook Pt 6

Charles Leclerc x Masterchef! Reader

Let Him Cook Series 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

A/N: Thank you for that anon who gave me a message for the next part of the series. This one is dedicated for you!

taglist: @bookstore-of-dreams@barcelonaloverf1life@ririyulife@minseok-smaus@mehrmonga@sltwins@charlesgirl16@six-call@spideybv28@casperlikej@weekendlusting@janeholt3 @evie-119@leilanixx @randomgirlnumber-13@itsjustkhaos

Cookies and Grand Prix

Y/NCooks just posted a photo.

Y/NCooks Now that my masterchef duties are done. Its my first time going to a grand prix as Charles' girlfriend. I hope you like cookies

User1 OMG IM GOING TOMORROW!!! OMYGODDDDD

Y/NCooks I'll give you a cookie when I see you! User1 Ohmygod, this is the best. You are the best!

User3 I'm envious of everyone going to Monza this year, Y/N is giving out cookies

User4 The details are everything on those cookies

CarlosSainz55 Im technically a former ferrari driver so can I claim a cookie?

LoganSargeant can i have one too? Y/NCooks this is for everyone!! Make sure to drop by Carlos and Logan! Maxverstappen1 Expect me around! User5 Everybody is a ferrari fan!

"Okay mon amour, so there will be a big crowd when we arrive" Charles briefed you as you get closer to the venue "Make sure to stick close to me."

"Yes honey, I know. Hold your hand and don't let go"

Charles has been extremely stressed and he thinks it might not be a good idea to bring you to Monza for your first GP as a couple. However, you couldn't pass up the opportunity. You have seen how the people cheered for Charles when he won in Monza, the crowd was electrifying. You wonder what will happen if it happens again this weekend.

Besides, you have a basket full of cookies that you prepared to give for those fans of Charles that you will meet.

You were immediately greeted by a huge crowd calling out Charles name. It was no wonder that there was several security guards waiting at Charles' designated parking lot.

It was normal for Charles to stop to take photos and to sign some merch. What surprised the duo was that the fans were asking for Y/N and her cookies.

"We really waited for you guys so we can get some cookies" one of the avid Tifosi said

"I really hope the cookies give ferrari luck"you agreed.

There was a buzz in the paddock as you gave away several more cookies to the different fans you encountered. You managed to give Carlos and Logan since they were also waiting at the parking lot. You were so carried away talking to everyone that you didn't realize that you already ran out of cookies.

"Oh no, I didn't save cookies for your other friends" you concluded upon reaching the garage.

"That's okay mon amour, I'm sure they would understand that there is no more cookies" Charles assured.

And like a comical entrance, a man in full Red Bull gear enters the sea of red uniforms.

"What do you mean no more cookies?" Max asked "I did not just go through all the security details to not have cookies"

"Oops."

Grill the grid: eggs

It was a fairly easy challenge, the media team thought. They believe that there will be no harm to let the drivers cook since its just a simple hard-boiled egg.

There was a stove, a pot, 2 bottles of water, eggs, vinegar, salt, and pepper on the table. They also thought that it will be funny to put unnecessary spices and ingredients on the table so there is grated cheese, spring onions, cinnamon, carrots, and etc..

The drivers entered the room looking confused at the different set up of the Grill the Grid.

"We're giving people what they want, today were actually allowing the drivers to show off their cooking skills with this special episodes of grill the grid"

Charles is obviously happy. He was already raving about how there are different versions of eggs that he tried at home because of Y/N.

"I have already tried doing poached egg, soft-boiled eggs, french omelette, american ones" Charles enumerated "I think I'm the best at making scrambled eggs"

"Its just scrambled"

"There is a technique there" and Charles continued to ramble on the different techniques that he has used to achieve the perfect scrambled eggs.

On the other hand, Oscar is attempting to make a hard boiled egg. He admits to the camera that he did not have any experience of it but he definitely knows how it taste (obviously).

"So Oscar what is your game plan here?"

"Well, I'm planning to boil the water and I think I should add some vinegar and then maybe sugar and salt so the egg will be flavored" Oscar stopped as he heard the giggling on set "Wait am I wrong?"

"No, no, just continue"

"Okay so I think I'm gonna let the eggs cook once the water is rolling then I'm gonna wait for 15-18 minutes because I don't wanna serve raw eggs" Oscar continued.

The staffs are a bit shocked by the length of time. It was beyond overcooked but they wouldn't say anything to the Australian driver.

It cuts to Max who seems to be pretty confident with his skill. Its a simple egg, how hard can it be?

"Of course, we have to get the water boiling and then I'm going to put it in for 5 minutes and then get the egg out" Max explained.

If Oscar has a long waiting time, Max was immediately dropping the egg even before the water is boiling because Max believes that the water is hot to the touch.

"What happened, why is the egg still runny?" Max wondered

He cut off the egg and there was still slimy white and the yolks were uncooked. There was a frown on his face as he looked back at his pot, he thinks he is being sabotaged.

"I'm gonna do it again"

Yuki was excited to do the cooking challenge. He insisted that he will not just make a hard boiled egg but he will also showcase a soft-boiled egg. The staffs were ecstatic to see him running around to get iced water for his eggs.

"I make these weekly so I'm really confident that it will turn out well"Yuki has a permanent grin as he fishes out his soft-boiled egg.

"If you want a soft-boiled egg, boiling water with the bubbles and then 8 minutes on the clock. Then you put it in an ice bath and then peel it" Yuki narrates.

He opens his soft boiled egg and it showcases a jammy yolk and soft whites, the perfect kind of soft-boiled eggs. The studio applauds at Yuki's efforts.

Y/NCooks just posted a photo

Y/NCooks since the episode is out, here is the list of photos sent to me by the crew. Guess which is which.

User2 OHMYGOD, THIS IS SO FUNNY!!!

User3 LOOK AT OSCAR'S REALLY OVERCOOKED EGGS

User6 i was seriously laughing when he said 18 to 20 minutes User7 For real, man thinks he is tenderizing meat

maxverstappen1 i demand a part 2

Charles_Leclerc "its so easy" maxverstappen1 shut up. i have been cooking now kellypiquet p is getting tired of eggs every morning user9 max is really serious to train himself on how to make eggs

User14 I just know that yuki is the one with the best looking egg, so smooth!!!

Y/Ncooks yes!!! User17 charles is the one with the unsmooth peeling Y/NCooks the man can't have it all, i guess

LandoNorris thank God they didn't send you my photo

Y/NCooks lando, i dont think anyone grabbed a photo since the fire department was called CarlosSainz55 you did what???? Charles_Leclerc and they call me as someone who can't cook when we have Lando here being a fire hazard LandoNorris Y/N THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE OUR SECRET User22 atleast team papaya are both needing lessons.

The cookie prank.

Max was still upset that he didn't get to have cookies in Monza. He was really looking forward to it so he wasn't the least suspicious when he allowed Charles inside his home since he brought him cookies.

It was wrong of Max to put down his defenses.

"I'm gonna get some water, you want anything?" Max asked

"No, I'm just gonna get comfortable here with your cats"

Charles stood in front of the cat litter box and he pulled the ziplock bag that he has. Inside the ziplock bag was another set of cookies that looks like cat poops. He laughed quietly as he sets up the scene.

"Max, do you know about that coffee made from poop?" he asked the Dutchman

"Of course, Kopi Luwak" Max replied "Why did you ask?"

Max walked out of the kitchen and he can see clearly how Charles picked up a poop from the litter box. He almost dropped the water that he is holding upon seeing that.

"What if we use cat poop instead" Charles wondered

"CHARLES WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

The pure mortification in Max's face when Charles started eating the poop. It seems like his friend lost his mind after driving in Ferrari for all these years.

"You should try some"

"Y/N, CHARLES IS GOING CRAZY" Max immediately placed you on a call "I THINK HE NEEDS THERAPY"

"Woah slow down Max" you were out on a grocery run and now Max is screaming at your ear

"Hello mon amour"Charles greeted on the other line.

"HE LOST HIS MIND, HE STARTED EATING MY CAT'S POOPS"

You made a mental face palm as you remembered how Charles insisted that you make very realistic cookies that looks like poop. Charles never opened it to you that he will be using it to prank Max. You started laughing at the shock in Max's face.

"Max, those are cookies" you defended

"THEY ARE CAT POOPS, CHARLES LECLERC IS EATING CAT POOPS"

Oh what would you do with these boys.

[wood-white-writer]

"Didn't mean to make your heart Blue" || [6/...]

— OPLA!Buggy x F!Reader

“On sunny days I go out walking, I end up on a tree-lined street. I look up at the gaps of sunlight. I miss you more than anything."

— Mitski, "Francis Forever"

Pairing: Buggy the Clown (Live action) x F!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 7

Summary: You were an apprentice of Gol D. Roger’s crew in your youth, long before his eventual demise. Along with the Red-Haired Shanks and Buggy, you were a formidable trio; the embodiment of a new generation of pirates yet to come. But times changed, and so did you and your friends.  The crew arrives at the Baratie, and several things go down in a matter of hours. Decisions are made, both stupid and not so stupid. Old and new faces come back into your life, and unable to deal with the events in Orange Town, you handle it in the worst best way possible: through the bottle.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, fem!reader, LA!Verse, slight canon divergence, alcoholic indulgence on a catastrophic scale (drink responsibly ppl), blackouts, morally grey reader, violence, mentions of everyone (marine, fish people, pirates, etc.) having a past beef with Reader/"Cross-Hairs", Buggy POV in the end,

A/N: So, since this chapter was delayed, I think it compensates due to the fact that it is approximately 7k words long. The chapter jumps a little between the events of the Baratie, but there's a reason for that: the reason being that the Reader is shitfaced for most of the time during this chapter. Also, shout out to @ay0nha for putting up with my rambles during this period, really appreciate it XD

It hurts. Everything hurts. That’s the first thing he feels. 

His feet, his back, his torso, but especially his head. It’s like a hamster is running on a wheel inside the bones in his skull, squeaking, chirping, driving him insane from the inside. 

The wheel is pounding, and pounding until all he wants is to chuck that fucking hamster into–

“Hey, he’s waking up!”

Shanks? Why is he in his head? Fuck, he takes it back. The hamster can stay, rent-free, for as long as it fucking wants to, as long as it isn’t fucking Shanks—

“Buggy?”

On second thoughts, that voice doesn’t strike any sense of irritation with him. In fact, he finds it comforting, like the morning sun shining atop the ship deck. He doesn’t mind listening to that.

“Buggy?”

His eyes open, and he thinks he's seeing the sun for the first time. The sun and the moon, in fact, at the same time. Golden, blinding, warm, and cold, but he wants to watch them until his vision turns white and all sense of sight abandons him. 

It’ll suck to be blind, but damn, what a hell of a way to go.

The more he stares, however, the more everything else falls back into place. He realizes it’s not suns he’s staring at, but two sharp eyes and a concerned face that makes him feel just as warm.

He’s in a bed, he finally discovers. There’s a pillow under his head, a fresh sheet up until his midsection which strangely smells of vinegar, inside a room he just now remembers is the Oro Jackson’s de-facto ‘infirmary’ which really is just an old storage space that was refurnished when they first got the ship.

There’s something wrapped around his head, tight but not too tight that it’s squeezing. It’s been done by precise and sturdy hands; a professional, someone who knows what they’re doing.

He blinks once, then twice, and everything around him finally settles. Including everyone perched around the bed.

“Ah, Buggy, my lad!” It’s hard not to recognize the booming voice of his captain, who proceeds to lean over him with his hands pressed around his biceps until the massive mustache trickles his chin. “Thought you were a goner for a moment!”

He kind of wishes he was one because the strength of Gol D. Roger is not to be underestimated. His ribs squeeze and it's hard to breathe, but out of respect for his captain, all that leaves his throat is a guttural groan that he hopes conveys the message clearly enough.

Gol D. promptly removes himself from his poor apprentice with his hands raised, and when he steps back, Shanks takes his place next to the bed. “Gods, Buggy! What were you thinking? You could’ve been killed! Rayleigh said you were lucky it was just a concussion!”

That’s when it dawns on him. Riiight, there was a scuttle. Some asshole pirates trying to ambush them, they picked the wrong fucking targets. Some … guy was flying over him? Did that happen, or was it just a fever dream?

He remembers kicking someone in the balls, and then … and then …

Lightning. Making its way for him as the darkness embraced his vision. A line of gold, straight as a sword, narrowing in on him.

Did it catch him before the darkness did? 

He hopes so.

“Lay off me, will ‘ya!” he shouts at his friend, trying to get up. However, the fucking hamster wheel in his head keeps spinning until he settles back down against the pillow. “I was doing good!”

“Yeah, until you weren’t!” Shanks disputes and grabs his fellow apprentice by the collar of his sleeve. “I told you to fucking move, but it’s like you spaced out! She had to carry you all the way back here with your head all bleeding!”

Carry him?

He glances at you, finally. You’re sitting there, hunched slightly over the bed with those eyes looking at him, and he’s thinking you fucking carried him? It’s not that he’s ashamed, not at all, but if anything, he was always hoping the roles were switched. 

He’d be the one carrying you. With your strength, he imagined it would be quite the weight to uphold, but he would do it. For you, he would move the seas if he could, Devil Fruit or not.

“Buggy, are you alright?” 

You’re the one talking this time. Not the captain, nor Shanks, just you. The lighting is here, and he feels his skin prick. It’s electric. Cold. Warm. All and nothing combined. He could listen to it – feel it – for hours, days, maybe even years without ever growing weary of it.

He puts on his best brave face and scoffs, forcing his arms to cross themselves despite the surge of aches that rush through his body doing so. “Of course I’m alright! I’m Buggy! I bounce back, always!”

“Still,” your hands fall on top of his, and he feels his body freeze. “I was worried.”

“’Worried’?” Shanks cackles and gestures to you with his thumb over his shoulder. “You should’ve seen the damage she left behind. The entire place was smithereens, I tell you, Buggy! She knocked over those assholes like frickin’ chessboard pieces!”

“What did I always tell you?” Gol D. slams a hand on top of your shoulder, knocking you slightly forward. “She’s got eyes sharp enough to cut through steel, and pirates too, apparently.”

You laugh awkwardly. “I didn’t cut through them, really. I just … knocked them a little over.”

Shanks cackles. “Don’t be humble. You should’ve seen the guy who knocked you out. I swear, none of his bones were where they were supposed to be. He won’t be walking, or doing much of anything, ever again.”

Buggy can imagine it, but also not. He looks at you now, and he sees his concerned friend with those kind eyes that contain both the sun and the moon. He’s always known you’re strong – the strongest person he knows of save for his captain, but not unkind. Not cruel. Not sadistic.

Yet, if what Shanks just said carries any weight, it confirms what he’s always known. 

You’re a beast, and beasts only follow their prime instincts. They don’t allow others to harm what or who they consider theirs.

And it means that you consider him yours. 

Maybe in a different way than he’d prefer, maybe in a way that’s different from the kind he harbors towards you, but it still confirms he’s yours. 

He will never want to find himself on the opposite side of that. Of you. Never you.

When he looks at you again, looks down at where your hand is pressed on top of his, he takes it in his own. 

“I’m fine,” he finally says, his lip tugging in what is supposed to be a smile. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, though.”

You chuckle softly, and he smiles. Fuck, how can he not? He remembers it all so clearly. The way your dimples are shaped, the length of your hair, the soft tint of your lips.

“You? Never.” You finally say. “Never you”

---

You reflect on how it's weird that some things change whereas others don't. 

Flowers prosper and bloom and die. The sun ascends, stays up for a few hours, then descends back into the horizon. 

Friendships grow strong, stay strong, then they aren't.

Some things change, some don't. 

Baratie being among the latter.

It's bright enough inside to momentarily blind you, just like it was a little over ten years ago. Save for new faces with the employees and some design choices, the overall place has stayed the same. 

There are people there of prestigious backgrounds - both pirate and not - and you think of how receptive the restaurant must've been to make both parts come together without any regular scuttles. 

A neutral ground for all to come and enjoy the feast. Well, that is the principle, but not everyone abides by it.

It’s been a while since you last visited the establishment, and last time, you were banned for life. 

Frankly, you don’t recall much of the events; too drunk on rum at the time.

What you do remember is that it involved a few broken bottles of Baratie’s finest wine, some mashed-up furniture, and cutlery, a rival captain who wouldn’t take a “fucking get lost” for a “no”, and it ended with you standing surrounded by a bunch of broken bodies of your own making.

Needless to say, Zeff was pissed. 

More than pissed, actually. He was fuming.

He probably still is.He has a thing for grudges if he’s still alive.

Maybe … Just maybe the old man’s chewed off something more than his leg and kicked the bucket? That’d be a sight to see considering he only has one remaining foot.

"My name is Sanji. What can I get for you?"

The waiter - Sanji - is fine, not going to lie. A good fighter, too, if his little display seconds ago is a testament to that. A bit too young for your preference, with a nose too small, and hair too bright and blonde. Not quite blue colorful enough.

All in all, not a bad look at all. Just for the aesthetics, though. A solid 7/10, you conclude.

"One of everything, please!" Luffy requests enthusiastically.

For whatever reason, Sanji does not seem to share your general affinity for the restaurant. That’s odd. Most people who work here tend to boast about their occupation in the famed restaurant.

Though, if you have to make a guess, Zeff is likely a contributing factor behind that disdain. He’s tough on people, even tougher if he likes someone.

As discontented as Sanji seems, however, it does not keep him from trying to withhold his flirtatious demeanor with Nami. A Casanova, it looks like. Funny.

"Waiter, can I get a beer and something for my friends?" Zoro asks, fed up with the one-sided dalliance going on between your shipmate and the waiter.

"Two beers!” Usopp promptly adds. “though, I usually have three."

"And one milk!" Luffy chimes in.

"Three beers and a milk," Sanji notes. His eyes land on you, and that signature smile falls to his lips. "And for the ladies?"

You’re already here, you think to yourself. Why not make the most of it? For nostalgia’s sake.

"A bottle of Baratie's Finest," you request, your chin resting in your palm. "Not the kind you keep for customers, though. Pick one from Zeff's private stash, if you can afford to smuggle it past his bushy nose?"

"A classy beverage for a classy lady, I see." A mischievous glimmer shines in his eyes and smile. "Although that stash is off-limits, what kind of a man would I be if I refused a lady her desired beverage?”

You tilt your head a fraction to the side. "I'm sure he won't mind. At his age, he needs to watch his liver."

"That is true,"

Quite frankly, everything else evades your attention the second the waiter arrives with your order. Sanji brings you your meals, and your pricey bottle of Baratie's Finest, and it’s the Red Apple edition.

Perfect.

You eat, and eat, and drink, and then drink some more, not even stopping to concern yourself with the price tag. 

The food at the Baratie's has not been in decline when it comes to quality above all else. It's delicious, and not a lot of places have earned that kind of claim in your life.

The food is good, but the drinks are ethereal. 

One glass turns into two, and two promptly becomes three. So forth, and so forth. Anything to dull the tightness lodged in your chest. 

A tightness that has not left you alone in the past couple of weeks.

You've developed a pretty good tolerance over the years, and after several more units, you begin to feel the tickle on the edge of your hands. Baratie’s Finest indeed.

After five, the feeling settles on the tip of your spine.

After seven, you start to wonder what went wrong. It's a dangerous area to indulge in, especially if liquor is involved, but you don’t stop.

What went wrong?

What did you do wrong?

In another life, you would've traveled the world with them, doing nothing but drinking, fighting, exploring together.

Instead, you’re here, drinking with a crew yet still feeling like the loneliest asshole in the world. It’s not your crew.

You lose a smidgen of focus, and in the grand specter of things, focus is something you could do well with less off. 

You can afford to think less, feel less, and know less. Life has been full of ups and downs, and quite frankly, you've grown weary of it all.

Fuck, maybe Luffy’s onto something? Maybe you are sad?

… Nah.

Once Zoro orders another beer, you go as far as to share your bottle with him. His face scrunches at the taste and he coughs several times, but he admits that it’s good.

As you sit there on the edge of the couch, sipping your beverage and tasting your food, Sanji arrives to collect the bill. You know Luffy doesn’t have a berry to his name yet, and so you wonder how long it'll take before Zeff notices.

More specifically, how long it’ll take him before he realizes he's missing something from his private collection?

“Who the hell is Monkey D. Luffy?!”

Speak of the Chief… and he shall appear.

This time, you do not interfere when Luffy attempts to bargain for his lack of cash. You simply sit back and observe. 

As much as Luffy tries, he does not have the words or mind suited for this kind of business yet. It’s Capitalism at its finest. 

“You eat, you pay!”

Thoughts and dreams can only get you so far in life, but at the Baratie, it’s coin.

When Zeff grabs Luffy by the front of his shirt, the chief's eyes turn to you, and holy hell, is he furious. 

“And what in the blazing hell are you doing here?!"

“Zeff,” You greet him and raise your beverage his way, a tilted smirk on your face. "It’s been too long."

"Not long enough! I thought I told you to get fucking lost last time? The damages you did cost a fortune!"

“In my defense, it was the other guys that started it.”

He gives you such a dirty look that his jaws clench. “Don’t give a shit. Why are you here?”

You twirl the bottle around in your hand. "Just enjoying the ambiance, as always. I was in the area, and so how could I pass up the chance to try your scrumptious meals again? Or drinks, for that matter?" 

On cue, you raise your - or rather his - bottle closer up to him. 

It’s stupid, the rational part of your brain argues. One does not fuck around with the Chief of the Baratie, but among the few joys you have left in life, this remains one of them.

His eyes narrow in on the bottle and there he is.In the blink of an eye, he snaps it out of your hand with such fast precision that you're almost caught off-guard. 

Zeff narrows in on the mostly empty flask like it's personally insulted him and his entire lineage. “Where did you get this?"

"It was on the menu."

"It sure as shit was not! How could you—" He freezes like a thought suddenly dawned on him, and if a man can become purple from anything other than oxygen deprivation, Zeff's current mood is the closest thing to it. "Sanji. Why that snot-nosed, little—! ... When I get my damn hands on him."

It seems that whatever vendetta Zeff has towards his employee, it outweighs the one he has for you tenfold, which says something. Without another word, he yanks Luffy by the scruff and all but drags him with him to the kitchen. 

Ordinarily, you would’ve intervened on behalf of your captain, but with Zeff now preoccupied, it’s your chance to rob the bar of a few more beverages.

And in your dictionary, “a few” is the equivalent of “a shitton”.

"Wow," Usopp murmurs with a low whistle. "That guy really hates your guts."

"What are you talking about? I’m his favorite customer." You raise what remains in your glass to them. “Anyone want another one?”

"I do," Nami relents.

Zoro laughs, probably for the first time since you’ve met him. "Now you're talking."

Maybe, just maybe, you’re beginning to like these people. 

With a couple more drinks, maybe you’ll be able to tell.

———

“You know, I kind— I kinda assumed you were an asshole when we first met?” 

Usopp’s struggling to stand on his feet, legs bent slightly forward as he makes a half-assed attempt at ordering another drink. You can’t tell if the bartender is electively ignoring him or not, and truth be told, you don't blame the guy if the former applies.

Between the two of you, you’re more adept when it comes to dealing with liquor. Sure, your lips are a little looser now and the bright lights are starting to hurt your eyes, but all in all, you’re not even half as drunk as you want to be. 

Seriously, fuck me sometimes. You just had to go all out when you were younger. Days and nights spent pouring bottle after bottle left your liver hardened rather than weakened.

Now, because of the high tolerance you stupidly developed, it's come here to bite you in the ass and keep you from getting wrecked. 

“Oh?” Your sarcasm couldn't be any more discernible than it is now as you eye your crew mate. “What made you reach that conclusion?”

Usopp twirls around, horribly off-balanced, and slaps a hand over your shoulder. 

A little too personal for your liking, but you let it slide for now.

“I mean, for starters, you—,” he hiccups. “You always have that look about you. Like someone just pissed in your ale.”

You give him an unimpressed but vaguely piqued once-over. “Descriptive. Go on,”

“And soso— And so I and the guys are wondering if you’re like that because some clown broke your heart or—,” he hiccups again. “Or some— something? Did he piss in your ale?”

You shrug his hand off at once. You don’t want to think about him, now least of all. "No.”

Not even a second later, his arm his back over your shoulder and he leans closer. It's probably meant as a comforting gesture, but given how absolutely wasted he looks, you perceive it with a grain of salt. 

"Y-You can tell the great Capt— I mean, the Great Usopp, alright? We've all been there before, I—I'm ssssure. I mean, Zoro doesn't strike me as much of a ladies' man, but he's probably got stories, too."

The bartender finally stops by and leaves a beer bottle in front of you on the table, completely ignoring your companion, and disappears to make his next rounds.

You take the flask and flick the cork off with your thumb. "Well, if you really want to help, —" 

You turn around so that your back hits the bar counter, twirl Ussop around with the guidance of your hand and shove him lightly towards where Nami and Zoro are sitting. "— Talk to the others first about their heartbreaks."

If he wants to object, he's too drunk to for it. Instead, he recollects his limited stance and all but wobbles over to the corner where your other companions are seated.

He’s their problem now, but it’ll be an interesting display.

You recline against the bar counter to chug your beverage in peace when a voice suddenly speaks up from next to you. 

“I thought you were retired.”

With how loud the music is, it might have slipped your notice completely. Then again, the owner of said voice has always had that thing about him. 

He could whisper, and the entire room would’ve heard.

You glance up at your side, and you’re halfway tempted to smile when you see who it is. 

“It’s been a while, Hawk-Eyes.”

Everything from the feather on his hat to the cross around his neck and the pointy way his beard is trimmed has stayed the same. Not a scar, a bruise, or blemish to spot on him.

In ten years, he looks to have aged only one. Some people are fortunate in terms of youth, and you would definitely consider Dracule Mihawk one of them.

“Cross-Hairs.” He inclines his head to you, a silent courtesy reserved only for those whose company he tolerates. “I believed you abandoned your life behind the mast years ago.”

You take another generous gulp from your bottle before you respond. "So did I, but life finds a way, doesn't it?"

"Indeed." He peeks over his shoulder to where your companions are seated, his countenance less than impressed. Then again, that's just his face by default, so hard to tell with him. "And last we met, you were a Captain."

"Last time we met, you almost cut my right arm off." For emphasis, you pull back your sleeve to show off the straight scar that separates your upper arm from the rest. It's faded, old, and never noticeable unless you decide to wear anything short-sleeved, but it's there all the same.

He doesn't apologize. Of course, he wouldn't. Instead, he raises his sparse glass of wine to you. "Nothing personal."

You raise your bottle to him in turn. "Of course not,"

Clink!

You drink your respective beverages in companionable silence. However, even with your halfway inebriated state of mind, you can't help but think of the reasons for his presence. 

You have your suspicions, and you're not shy about voicing them.

"This isn't your usual scenery." You say. “What makes one of the great Warlords of the Sea seek out a place such as this? Business or pleasure?"

"Business," he answers curtly, as though he'd prefer to do anything but. "I'm looking for a captain."

“It’s not Shanks, I take it?”

“No, it’s not. It’s a captain by the name of Luffy.”

It doesn't surprise you. It should, but it doesn’t.

The lengths the vice-admiral is willing to go to retrieve his grandson, which apparently includes hiring a Warlord to do so, doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. Unbreakable willpower is a family trait, after all, if you've learned anything from Luffy. 

It wouldn’t suffice with a gun; he had to send the entire fucking arsenal.

Still, at least it’s Mihawk of all people. It shouldn’t be a source of relief, but had it been anyone else, be it Kuro or Axe-hand or Bu-... 

Your fingers subconsciously dig into the fragile, empty bottle you’re holding.

The point is, had it been anyone else, you would've intervened. You have intervened, several times by now, but not tonight. 

Tonight, you're here to drink and forget, then drink some more. You don’t have the sobriety to worry about much of anything anymore.

"Garp must truly be at his wit's end if he employs you for his endeavors." Once you retrieve the bottle at your disposal, you pluck off the cap and swirl it lazily in your hand. The lights from the bar dance around the transparently brown rim, like a shooting star with no exit and no entrance to the rest of the universe. Forever stuck. "Seems excessive to send you of all people after something so seemingly simple."

"From what I've heard, this particular quarry is something of a wildcard."

"If you’re here, I’m sure of it."

Mihawk tilts his chin up, eyeing you curiously in your peripheral vision. "Are you saying that you're acquainted with this Luffy?"

"I'm saying no such thing. It's just mere speculations on my part." Another fistful of alcohol travels down your esophagus. "You're only employed when it's truly serious, and the vice-admiral is known for only getting involved in those kinds of matters. It adds up, is all I’m saying."

“I hardly consider it dire. It's more a means of killing some time on my part." He does not take his eyes off of you, and even in your current state, you can tell that something is brewing beneath those sharp eyes. "However, if said captain has you in his arsenal, then I feel like some investigation is warranted. After all, the Captain of the Cross-Haired pirates is not particularly known for her tendency to submit to others."

You quirk an eyebrow at him and circle your finger around the bottle rim, pondering on the subject yet not biting at the metaphorical carrot he dangles in front of you. "Technically, it’s just like you said: I'm retired, and the Cross-Haired pirates are no more. I’d think most people are aware of that.”

"The Marines believe otherwise,” he counters calmly. “The Cross-haired pirates may be disbanded, but their captain’s bounty remains on the posters. The vice-admiral was quite adamant that, while he wants the boy alive, he’d prefer it if you weren’t."

“I see.” The vice-admiral should learn to take a fucking number. “Tell me, have you elected a means of execution, or is it the dealer's choice?"

"I recall he mentioned something along the lines of wanting your head on a spike."

"Crude."

"I agree."

"Then," you raise your glass. "Am I to have my last drink here tonight?"

He shakes his head. "No, I'm here for the boy and nothing else."

You'd expect him to be forward with his line of questions; demand you just give Luffy up and be done with it, not side-stepping the subject like he's doing now. 

If he suspects something, he'll sniff it out like a bloodhound until he gets what he's searching for, regardless of how many cards or people fall around him. You’ve not exactly been subtle about your affiliations with his quarry, something you’ll berate yourself for come morning, but it all depends on how this plays out now.

"I won’t give you the answer you seek. You’ll have to do that on your own.”

You're not friends, but you're not necessarily foes either. 

For as long as you’ve known the swordsman, Mihawk's only ever had a beef with Shanks for reasons undisclosed even to you. Even after you parted ways with your red-haired crew mate, Mihawk never seemed to have anything personal against you despite the rather brutal nature of your previous encounter. 

If anything, there's a certain level of respect veiled between you, one former pirate to another semi-former one, and it’s something you hope he'll honor just this once.

To your relief, he decides to not push the matter, but the interest lingers in his eyes. 

It's not easy to notice, but you make it a habit to take note of limited details. "The boy must be something special to have earned your loyalty like this, Cross-Hairs." 

"I suppose you'll have to find out for yourself." 

"Perhaps so," he concedes.

You chug the rest of your drink in one go, put the empty bottle on the tabletop in the space between you, and push yourself off the counter. "For what it's worth, I wish you good fortune with your endeavor. However, I’ll warn you; if anything happens to the kid, I'll get involved.”

“Duly noted.” Once again, he dips his head to you. "And Cross-Hairs,"

"Hmmm?"

You glance at him from over your shoulder, but his gaze is fixated on something else this time. Something on the other side of the bar, to the borders of the waters. If he sees anything, you can't tell what it is, and he doesn’t share. 

Not explicitly.

"There is unrest brewing in the seas," he finally reveals, casually as if he's discussing the current state of the weather. "I'd suggest you keep your feet dry for now, at your convenience."

You don't know what he speaks of, but whatever it is, you'll follow. He is not a man who prides himself on his capacity to proclaim falsehood. If he tells you that the sun is green, you'll believe it, and you make it a habit not to believe in a lot of people.

That applies to this warning too.

"I'll see you around, Hawk-Eyes."

You need another drink.

———

You slip in and out of consciousness a couple of times throughout the night, never coming to the same places twice, with a belly full of rum, beer, and whatever else with enough alcoholic percentage to knock out a horse. 

At one point, you're in the restaurant munching on some bread rolls.

At another, you're puking your guts out in the bathroom stalls. 

At the third, you're chugging even more liquor straight out of the bottle while a bunch of people cheer you on.

The circle goes on and on and on until it spins out of control like a zoetrope. Faces flash in front of you, one after the other, never the same two times in a row. 

It's alright, you tell yourself, as long as you forget.

You forget about blue eyes, blue hair, and red noses. 

You forget about Gol D. Roger and the time you spent on his crew.

You forget it all, if only for a few hours.

Next time you come to, you're still miraculously standing on your feet. You’re currently in the kitchen on the Merry, and currently listening to Nami telling a ridiculous story about how Zoro challenged Dracule Mihawk to a duel.

What a funny story.

In fact, it’s so funny and so outlandish that you can't help but snort. Since when has Nami been the kind of person to tell jokes?

Maybe Usopp's tendencies have rubbed off on the standoffish young woman, or maybe she's smoked something along with her drinks? 

Fuck, you have to ask her where she got the stuff.

It takes a few moments of awkward silence until you realize that no one is joking, Nami least of all. The room is still, and as if all alcoholic content has left your blood, it dawns on you last of all.

Oh hell no.

You slowly turn to Zoro with a deadpan look in your eyes, and despite the urgency, you ask him as calmly as you can, "You challenged Dracule Mihawk to a duel?"

He bobs his head and continues polishing his swords. "Which he accepted,"

You blink, and blink, hoping that this is just a fragment your beer-and-bottle-drenched brain has conjured to fuck with you, but Zoro remains where he is and so is everyone and everything else.

Fuuuuuuuck…

You thought he was one of the smart ones, too. His sense of navigation doesn't work for shit and if anyone can get lost on their way to the lavatory, it's him. Still, you withheld some semblance of hope that he would exhibit the same kind of recklessness as his captain.

Turns out, it has all been for naught.

You rub your temples hard enough to sting. With a nasty headache developing, you decide to pop the question. "Cremation or burial at sea?"

"... What?"

"Pick one or the other, I'll see to it that arrangements can be made."

"I'm not going to die.”

"You are a fly to him." Nami grimaces. "Something to be swatted and forgotten,"

"Not if I win." Zoro is steadfast and determined, like every new pirate on their first voyage.

It’s a look you remember well. In a way, the young swordsman kind of reminds you of Mihawk himself, and if there's one thing you can link to both, it's that annoying stubbornness that never yields. Even when the odds are against them.

"You're not going to win," Nami tries.

Zoro remains infuriatingly unconvinced. "You don't know that."

"You won't." This situation, to your chagrin, sobers you up enough that you can't blame the liquor on your next actions or words. 

You take a step towards him, and with an iron fist, grab him by the front of his shirt and force him to face you. He's unamused. “I think I liked you better when you were drunk,” he murmurs.

"I want you to get this, really get this.” You snarl. “Once you go against Mihawk, and there's no coming back for most. He's not known as the World's Greatest Swordsman for no reason, and as good as you are, take it from me. He'll end you."

He inclines his head to the side with deep-rooted skepticism. "Sounds like you really know the guy,"

"It doesn't matter whether I know him or not." 

"Everywhere we go, we make enemies, and for some reason, they've already got a grudge against you, Captain Cross-Hairs." 

With one hand clenched against your offending wrist, he starts to list off his other hand. "Since you know just about every asshole we come across, you might as well tell me about Mihawk's preferred method of execution. Will he chop me in half, or is he excessive like the damn clown and goes all the way with splitting someone into pieces?"

You feel your nails begin to pierce through the fabric of his shirt, inches away from leaving open gaps. You're not their guardian or their mentor. You're not the one supposed to keep the crew at ease or lead them towards certain victories. 

That's the captain's role, and you're not it. Not on this ship, with this crew.

Your only purpose here is to keep them from killing themselves on their first voyage, but if they're so determined to do it themselves despite the warnings you provide, then it's not on you.

Pulling him a few inches closer to you, you look him straight in the eyes, and that's when you see it. The aforementioned stubbornness that follows each and every young pirate you've come across in your life. The notion that they're invulnerable; unkillable. 

Nothing can hope to end them.

You remember what it was like, that feeling, and it almost breaks you to see it in front of you like this. 

You know aggression won’t do it for him, so you try an approach you haven’t tried in years. Bargaining. 

“What will it take for you to pull back from this?”

“He’s coming for Luffy. I’m his first mate, it’s my duty to protect the captain.”

To protect the Captain…

That's how you know that there's no convincing the young swordsman to stand down, not this time. 

He's persistent, exceedingly so, and if there's one thing you've learned during this voyage with these people it's that hell hath no fury like a straw hat pirate determined.

This is not on you, yet it doesn't make it any easier to let go of him. But you do.

Taking a deep breath, you uncurl your fingers and let him step back. 

"Fine."

You need another drink.

Glancing over your shoulder, you meet Luffy’s concerned gaze. “This is your call, captain.”

You don’t need to be here for this. You’ve done your part, and now it’s his turn to do his.

You give Zoro a pat on his back, just one. It's not meant for comfort, it's not an act of sympathy either. 

It's just a pat, like the kind you give your friend when they're about to gamble away all their savings over a game of cards. It’s the “fuck around and find out, but do it yourself”-kind of gesture.

Heaving a sigh, you sidestep him and let your fingers fall off his shoulders. "It's been fun, Zoro." 

And the worst part about this all is that you mean it, truly. It has been fun to sail with them, share a few beers, and joke at the expense of others. Your time on this ship has been fun. 

Like old times.

You won't go as far as to call Zoro a friend, you never do, but it's close enough that you'll probably miss him in the long run.

Zoro looks at you, his countenance indecipherable. "Say that to me again when I win this fight,"

"I can't." Because you won't.

---

The water forces its way into his lungs at such speed that it feels like he's swallowed buckets by the time they finally come up for air. He harks and coughs and tries to get as much of it out, but he doesn’t feel any lighter. 

Get it? Lighter, because he’s just a head now and— alright, forget it.

For once, he's happy his head is disjointed from the rest of his body because if it wasn't, he'd probably sink to the bottom of the ocean from the fluid in his belly alone.

The taste of salt and sand stays like a sour afterthought on his tongue, and as much as he tries to spit it out, he can't be rid of all the grains. "Fuck! Give me a warning next time, will ya?! Kinda vulnerable to seawater and all that!"

Whatever fish-guy has him strapped to their back this time does not dignify his complaints with a verbal response. Instead, all he hears is a couple of snickers, like their humor is fuelled at his expense. 

Assholes, the lot of them. 

It takes some time for the tangy scent to abandon his nostrils, but once it does, it's immediately replaced by the fine scent of something divine. Something delicious. 

It smells of food. Actual fucking human food. Not whatever Arlong and his litter gorge on, which he personally believes to be carcasses of dead sea animals they happen to catch on the shores of their island. 

It's honest-to-god cooked, seasoned, edible food.

Buggy can feel his mouth water, and for once, he cannot blame it on seawater.

They're finally at Baratie.

The finest restaurant in all the East Blue, renowned for its excellent taste and unrivaled quality. Only the richest of the rich get to dine here, and while he's not exactly flowing with berries at the moment, he’s famished.

“Hey, Lips!" he yells out as loud as he can through the shitty bag. "How about you order me some hot dogs once we get a seat? A clown's gotta eat!"

The only sort of response he gets is an elbow to the bag, which incidentally clashes right into his nose. "FUCK!"

"Shut up!"

There's scuttling to be heard, doors opening, and a shitton of gasps echo from all around him. They have an audience, he deduces, and not a particularly receptive one at that. 

Arlong makes a spectacle, something about "serve" and yish and yash about dinner and last meals as they get a seat.

Fuck, what he would give for a meal.

For the first time in what feels like forever, he feels solid ground settle under his neck. Though it's a pleasant reprieve from being thrown back and forth like a yarn ball caught in a cat’s game, he won’t consider it much of an upgrade. He's fucking hungry, damnit!

"Who are you, old man?" Arlong speaks, and Buggy hears uneven steps approach them.

An unfamiliar voice answers. "My name's Zeff, and I own this place."

Right, the Chief. Maybe he can ask him for some crumbs since his captors aren’t exactly on the generous side.

"Well, I'm Arlong, and I own the East Blue."

"No one owns the sea. Not even a fish man."

Ooooh, burn! Suck on that, shitface!

"Listen up!” Arlong exclaims when the chief’s negotiation tactics fail to appease him. “I'm looking for a pirate in a straw hat! Goes by the name of Luffy!"

The saw-nosed motherfucker truly has to be even more extravagant than himself, Buggy admits to himself with no short amount of begrudging compliance. Fishface even goes as far as to threaten the poor diners with having them for dinner instead, by the sounds of it. 

Buggy can appreciate the message it conveys; he’s used it himself, but he refuses to find any common ground with his captor, so he buries the sentiment ten feet down into wherever the hell his body is.

He listens as the diners lose their appetite, all the while Arlong begins to gorge on whatever he has on his plate. For a while, all he can make out is the sound of meat being torn off something and the occasional cry from one of the diners in the distance.

Even from miles and miles away, Buggy can feel his stomach twist painfully due to the lack of food in it. Oh, it’s hell on earth to smell everything you want yet being unable to even grasp it. And here his captors are, toying with him, torturing him with it.

Seriously, fuck them.

He’s about to demand to get something to chew on when Arlong’s other henchman — Kuroobi or some shit like that — beats him to it. "Hey, boss, I'm feeling for a bottle right about now."

Arlong laughs. "Don’t have to tell me. Take what you please. I don’t think that one will mind sharing one of hers.”

“And get one for me too while you’re at it,” Lips supplies.

The henchman cackles and gets up to his feet to retrieve what he’s looking for, but not before lightly kicking the bag that is Buggy’s current prison cell in the side. 

“HEY!”

“Sorry.” He apologizes unapologetically.

Buggy grinds his teeth together and tries to think of something — anything — to keep his mind off his ever-rising hunger. When he gets his body back, he'll take some bottles and shove them right up these fuckers a—

CRASH!

Buggy hears the sound of something breaking from the opposite side of where the fish man just headed. Countless gasps ring through the restaurant’s interior, bouncing on the walls, and he hears the henchman’s painful wails from a distance away.

He’d laugh - he does laugh, because it seems like someone didn’t want to share their precious drinks and decided that full-on attacking one of the fish people was the appropriate kind of response.

It’s impressive, he thinks. Very much so. Oh, he’d pay to see that again, and he’ll have to give that person a fucking kiss, just for making his day a little bit better.

It’s a shame he can’t see the—

"Fucking get lost."

Buggy feels his head freeze in the bag.

He recognizes that voice. The morning sun shone atop the ship deck. Warm. Cold. All of them at once. 

He's finally found you.

---

Taglist: @kurinhimenezu, @carpinchootaku, @ay0nha, @teh-vampire-bunny, @lokiscure, @internationalsuper-spy, @detectivesparrow , @yuriwk , @notyuralycat , @angeli-fucking-cat, @machinema7k , @shuujin, @avatar-lover, @gingernut1314, @autumn-slaves. @marvelouskatie, @floristoflillys, @dizzyenby, @redpool, @deliri-yum22, @aemondsb1tch, @ackroxia, @gayandfairycore (If you want to be tagged for this story, just send me a message or leave a comment :))

[lanwangjihouse]

tag of the week:

@peanutbutter-nutella :

#the sheer expression on lan wangji's face 〰 that he could murder xue yang with just his glare alone for making wei wuxian use his bonding binding fancy spell on somebody else 〰 he downed the whole bottle of vinegar ✳

[slvt4lanadelrey]

Mine |

Vada Cavell

Warnings: under age drinking, swearing, kissing, slight smut, jealous Vada.

Your lips wrapped around the top of your beer bottle, your body was forcefully pushed around the thick crowd; slamming, colliding with bodies around you. Eventually, your body tumbled forward; collding into someone's shoulder. Your eyes swelled with relief seeing the taller blonde infront of you. Mia stood with a drooped smile, eyes unfocused; searching the room for the sound of your voice.

"Mia?" You asked again, smiling up at the girl. Your heel rolled against the floor, swaying on your feet. The vodka positively flew through your veins, the beating of your heart was pounding in your head; you pretended like the whole world was different shades of purple, and that it wasn't spinning.

Mia furrowed her eyebrows, glancing down at you. She nodded, mentally ticking the checkbook in her head.

"Y/N, Vada's trying to find you." The girl slurred, pushing her body forward when someone barged into her. Her chest bumped into your face, suddenly getting a eyeful of her boobs right in your face. Your face flushed: your neck, ears, cheeks and the tip of your nose turned a beat red. The girl apologized, moving on with her day when she swiftly moved through the ocean of crowed people. When you finally registered everything that was going on, Vada was already filled with anger. The shorter brunette was found on the other side of the room. She held a grasp on a red solo cup, crumpling the plastic cup in her hand when she saw your face anywhere near Mia. It felt like vinegar was drenched in her mouth, her words coming out venomous and crude when she tried to talk to Nick. Nick grumbled out, having to be the poor victim to Vada's aggression.

"Go see for yourself, Vada." The older boy said, pulling himself away from Vada when she began to panic. She nodded, pushing through the bruising crowd, her shoulder bumping into unsuspecting teenagers around her. When she finally found you: your head was titled back, a vodka bottle pressed to your lips; gulping down the liquid with such a urgency that it almost tore Vada away from her thoughts of jealous, she suddenly wanted to nurse you back to health; but she had more pressing needs to tend to.

When you finally took the bottle away from your lips, wiping away the reminding dribble of the clear liquid with the back of your wrist, Vada tore your body away from the room. You must have been too entoxicated, your mind not even registering the tugs on your arm as Vada all but dragged you through the crowd of student.

"Vada?" You slurred, your body falling into a unfamiliar room. Vada didn't say anything, she only stared at you through fogged eyes. She would never admit to the seething jealousy that scorched her skin. The image that played back and forth in her mind: you with someone else, you underneath someone, ontop, kissing, fucking.

"Vada?" You asked again, smiling down at her. You wanted to wrap yourself around her, press kisses along her pouted lips. She refused your touch, pushing your body back until it slammed into the bed behind the both of you. You fell with an ungracious grunt, thrashing when your back finally hit the comforting surface.

"Shit."

She glared down at you, her stoney stature cold when her eyes searched your own. Her fists were clenched, her jaw slat.

"What's wrong?"

She dryly laughed at the question, her anger blazing out of her; oozing out like a bad oder.

"What did Mia ask you?" She seethed, crawling onto the bottom of the bed. When your eyes lit up, the image of Vada crawling across a bed and settling between your legs more than pleasurable in your mind, she stopped. She sat down on her legs, staring down at you; refusing to move an inch, not until you spill.

"Mia?-" you thought about it, racking your brain for something that wasn't present in your mind just yet. "Mia, Oh! She- uh, she told me you was looking for me. She could have warned me that you was jealous. Don't get me wrong, Jealous Vada is a very big turn on but- you literally just threw me on-" Vada blocked out your words, second gussesing her choice to date a girl who was a nervous rambler just like her. She thought for a moment, sucking on her teeth before surging forward. She slammed her lips into yours, swallowing the surprised moan that ached from your lips. She smiled, smirking into the attack. When you tried to pry at her clothes, or embed your fingers into her hair she shook her head. She grasped ahold of your wrists, pushing them into the mattress below her. You grunted, hips rutting forward. She giggled when you whined at for her, your eyes watering at the throbbing pain between your thighs.

"Dont ever, do that again." She warned you, nibbling down on your pulse point. When she felt the vibration of your voice, trying to make a play to talk she sucked the skin of your neck into her mouth. You gasped, back arching off the bed at her sudden urgency of taking your clothes off.

"Your mine, got it?" You swallowed, audibly. She smirked down at you, sinking further down your body, pushing your legs up further.

"Mine." She snarled, an animalistic sound leaving her parted lips before pressing feather light kisses along your revealed stomach.

"Fucking mine."

[yourgentlegirlfriend]

Apple pie

part 1

part 2

my angels! sorry i’ve been so busy i’ve been so excited to post this for you guys and am actively writing chapter four as WE SPEAK. thank you guys again sm for 600 followers ugh i cry. MUAH.

DISCLAIMER: IF YOU WERE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH NSFW/DARK CONTENT OR ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18 PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT WITH MY BLOG. MUAH.

Warnings: Talks about sex and mentions of hookups, mentions of yelling and crying, slight obsessive and stalking behaviors, just tons of angst- enjoy it.

Word count: 2,307

Days turn into weeks; weeks turn into a month. A month of you not even seeing Leon. You shouldn’t have grown attached to him in only three days, but what did he expect? You didn’t know if you were angry or if you were just sad. You now felt anger daily walking up the sidewalk to see his yard dying. He’s home, that’s the thing. All of his windows are now covered with black curtains. And it made you so.. angry.

He knew how to press your buttons too—pulling his curtains open and popping open his windows right before he left for his long night out. Listening to his Jeep pull out of his driveway, then come back hours later, the sound of him and some random woman laughing. Your eyes peered over your book as you watched Leon and said woman walk into his house, and before they even reached the bedroom, he was tugging at her sweater, her hands holding his chest. Stupid motherfucker. His eyes open as he sloppily kisses the woman, looking at you through the window as his shirt gets tugged off. The way his jaw fucking moved as he hungrily kissed the black-haired woman back. You’ve never stood so fast, trying to make it seem like you didn’t care as you closed your blinds. At least trying to sleep, shoving your pillow into your ear at the exaggerated cries and moans coming from Leon’s house.

But even though it hurts, you still get that aching feeling for him. To make him another pie or even a whole dinner and just knock on his door, apologize? You would say sorry if it meant you could see him smile again. And since it’s just shy of May, your strawberries are blooming. You knew they were coming in, and it gave you some joy for the first time in a while.

You woke up so early this Saturday morning, getting the small black basket sitting by your sink and running outside, a loud squeal of joy leaving your lips at the bright red strawberries. At least 15 of them too. Your fingers carefully tugged at the small stems, putting all of them into your basket. You let them sit in the vinegar bath for an hour, then run them over ice-cold water and put them in the freezer for exactly an hour so they’re cold and just a bit crisp. You stare down at your notepad as you lean against the counter, quickly writing

“I hope everything is going well! With love, your neighbor.”

You bite your lip as you stare at the basket of perfect strawberries before grabbing them and walking out your door. Your lawn is your pride, staring at your flowers before you walk down the sidewalk and up Leon's driveway. You stare at his door for a while, your hands gripping the basket in your hands as you regret your decisions. Maybe turn back while you can. He obviously doesn’t want to talk to you. Yet you want to talk to him. Your knuckles meet the door, your breathing stops as you just stand there. You stand there for a while too, looking around the porch before your eyes squeeze shut as you bend over, laying the basket on his welcome mat and walking back to your house.

———————————-

Leon jogs every morning, and it’s the perfect excuse to stare at your house without seeming like a weirdo again. His breathing labored as he slowed his jog as he hit your yard, his eyes looking at the strawberry bush to see that they finally bloomed and you had picked them. He couldn’t help but feel happy- happy knowing you had something to make you smile. He knew you’d been waiting on them for a while.

When he finally gets home, his breath steadies as he pulls the water bottle from his fridge, taking a long drink.

Then there’s a knock on the door. His head turns towards his entryway, listening to the knock echo through his hallway. Maybe it’s the mail? He would be happy even to see his boss. His footsteps are quiet and careful as he walks to the door, his body carefully leaning against it as he peers out the peephole.

Fuck.

You’re just standing there, strawberries in hand as you glance around his porch. His chest grows tight as you go to knock again but stop yourself, resting the strawberries on his welcome mat. He wanted nothing more than to swing open the front door and ask how you’d been. How’s work? How’s your garden? His eyes close as he presses his forehead against the door, he reaches over, pushing his black curtain aside as he watches you shut your door.

And he immediately swings his front door open, grabbing the small basket and shutting the door yet again. He sets them on his dining room table, his fingers grazing where your hands once held at the small handles. His eyes skim over the note, the little heart you put at the end. Yet he grabs it, crumbles it up and throws it away.

—————————————-

You gave him all your strawberries; you didn’t even try any yourself. This made your eyes water, the familiar wetting of your cheeks making you immediately rub at your skin. The noise of your house phone ringing makes you jump, your sniffling stopping as you slowly walk to the kitchen, pick up the phone and press it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“They were good. Would’ve made a perfect pie.”

Leon’s voice rings through your ears, your eyes immediately shooting towards his house, but disappointment shades your face as you see his curtains closed.

“Yeah, they were perfectly ripe. I'm glad you enjoyed them.”

Leon’s hand tapped at his window seal, staring at the empty basket of strawberries on his dining table.

“My lawn is dying.”

Leon’s chuckle makes your heart flutter as you nod your head, a small laugh leaving your lips.

“Yeah, yeah, I noticed actually.”

Your laugh makes his heart flutter.

The silence on the line is painful. Listening to Leon’s soft breaths on the other end.

“Goodnight.”

Leon’s voice sounded so friendly as he smacked the phone down. His breath increases before he grabs the small black basket, throwing it against his wall.

—————————-

You’ve been working too many extra shifts. The doubles turn into triples, sleeping on your breaks and downing black coffee. You get maybe four hours of sleep before you’re up again, throwing your hair up and dotting concealer under your eyes so you don’t look as dead.

Leon notices this new routine too, watching you run out the door at five in the morning, speeding down the street. When he finally sees your car out of view, he steps down his porch, his shoes crunching against the dying grass of his lawn as he walks over to yours. The grass was drying out and your flowers looked sad. Leon stared at the bushes for a few seconds before he walked over to your hose, twisting at the small handle before filling up your watering pot. He somewhat knew how you watered your plants, somewhat. After filling the pot, he let the hose spill water into your dying grass before carefully pouring the water over your bushes, making sure to get the roots and the dirt first and slowly make his way up the flowers.

When he finished, he ran his finger over one of the leaves, nodding before he placed your pot back, tangling up your hose once more and going back inside.

Leon did this for two weeks. Noticing that you were finally slowing down on shifts, he stopped; his black curtains draped open as he watched you step out into your lawn in the morning, staring confusedly at your plants. You knew they probably should be dead right now, your eyes narrowing at the healthy flowers.

—————————-

It couldn’t be Leon right?

Since it was coming up Summer, you were shocked Leon hadn’t been pulled out of town yet. He hasn’t been leaving much though, and when he did come back you always wanted to run out of the house to help him up his porch but his random women always seem to help him just fine.

Saying Leon wasn’t handsome would be the biggest lie. Lightning would come down from the sky and strike you. A quick google search also gave you maybe a bit too much information about him- pictures of him with the president, or him getting awards pinned to his chest, his name on memorial blocks, and way too much more. How have you never heard of him? The man has conspiracy rants about him online.

It made you even wonder if he did work for the local PD. You stared at your phone on the wall, biting at your nails with your laptop in your lap. You’re almost a whole bottle of wine deep? Why can’t you feel it? Your eyes went from reading the king article to scanning for your clock at the sound of pounding at your door.

Midnight?

This isn’t a bad neighborhood.. you felt your stomach steep as you looked around but you had no sort of self-defense mechanism at all. Maybe call Leon?.. No, no, don't call Leon. Now you really felt that wine as you stood up, tripping over yourself a bit and catching yourself as you walked towards the door. Your fingers at the small window by your door and your heart sinks at the sight of Leon staring at your door, watching his chest rise before he pounds on the door again making you flinch before you swing it open, the man staring at you.

Before you could even speak, he groans out in frustration at the sight of you.

“You called the fucking police department to check my employment status?”

This isn’t the usual Leon voice, he sounds pissed off and he is. And it’s valid.

———————-

You may have been in your own world, dozing off to the thought of whatever the fuck you do.

Leon's heavy breath filled his room as he pushed himself into the girl below him, closing his eyes, refusing to look at her before there was a ring on his phone. When he throws it down putting it on do not disturb, he can’t help but almost scream out of frustration as he pulls out of the girl, walking to his phone.

“Hello?”

“Control your little neighbor pet, Leon. Guess who called the police station asking for you drunk as ever. You’re lucky I didn’t call your boss.”

Leon hung up so fast, staring at his wall as he mumbled to the girl on his bed to leave, listening to her shuffle her way out of his house. He pulled his pants up, buckling his belt and tugging his black t-shirt back on as he stormed out of his house, marching to your door.

———————————-

You just scoffed as you looked at Leon, your hand gripping your door as he just stared at you with his sharp eyes.

“I didn’t do anything.”

Leon shook his head at the smell of the wine on your breath, looking past you to see your laptop and wine on your couch. Leon pushed passed you, grabbing the laptop on your couch and holding it in his arm as he scrolled through your search history.

“Get out!”

You’ve been googling him for hours, pinning websites to your pin bar. Leon slammed the laptop shut, staring at you. Your eyes are so soft, tears threatening your eyes as you watch him. It’s only been three months and he was obsessed with you. You followed his lead, slowly driving yourself to become obsessed with him.

Everything he did was in your favor. When you were overworking yourself, he made a really special visit to the diner, threatening your dick of a boss to hire somebody else or he would face severe consequences. The weeds in your garden, changing his entire schedule to revolve around you.

Leon was so obsessed with the thought of you, living this life where you and him could be perfect. It’s an unrealistic and stupid thought- honestly, it was fucking insane, clinical. Yet he just knew he had to stay away. He felt like everything he touched crumbled below his fingers, and if you somehow slipped from him, it would break him.

Watching the way your eyes water made that familiar ache start to form in his chest. He handed you your laptop, his hands visibly shaking.

He was walking away from you- again. You felt the tears slip from your eyes and you screamed at yourself. Don’t cry, don’t let him show you how you affect him so horribly. He reached for the doorknob but you couldn’t help but watch his back as you quickly wiped your hands, grabbing at his arm.

“Leon please..”

Hearing your voice crack made Leon’s heart erupt into flames, his hands suddenly stopped shaking as he turned back to you, his face a bit softer as you let go of his arm, your eyes still glossy. Your cheeks that light shade of pink, your lips slightly parted. His head shook as he took a small step forward, grabbing at the sides of your face before he slammed his lips against yours. And the way your hands reached up, it made him want to stay so badly. To hold you the rest of the night, he gently pushed you, not enough to hurt you, just to make you stumble, still looking up at him. But before you could even look, he was gone, and the door slammed again in your face. Leaving you stranded in your quiet living room.

———————————————————————-

taglist!

@bimbo-baggins86 @karmasshit @cweampier @wh0islyuri @ovaryacted @arianna-irwynarn @smallp00ks @xxacademy @x4ver1a @cryptkillo @darthdidi

[hey-august]

If you are still doing the prompts, reader saying prompt nr 2 to Buggy because we already saw him crawl in the show and yanno. Yannnoooo…..

(Also I know using chop chop powers in this specific way may not be everyone’s piece of cake but if the idea of him and reader in a consensual scene with him only having parts of his arms and legs instead of all of his limbs to move over to reader also does anything for you…. WELL. I mean WELLLLLL)

Gif from monikanarnia

WELLLLLLLL, ANON 🤭 This got WAY out of hand. Not very smutty, it's more about the vibes here.

Prompt: “Crawl to me.” Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, buggy discovers he might have a humiliation kink 🤡 Word count: ~1.3k

That drunk moron. It’s infuriating, honestly. There are parts everywhere, like the aftermath of a dog who got too ferocious with a stuffed toy. In this case, it was a pirate who got too deep into a bottle of rum. You woke up to a solo hand resting on Buggy’s side of the bed. Hoping that the rest of his body was on the floor or at least safely nearby, you got up and promptly tripped over a forearm. Just a forearm. And that was the sign - Buggy literally lost control of himself.

The rest of your morning was spent on a fucked up treasure hunt. Flesh and body parts strewn across the ship, meekly waiting for someone to find them. A few choice parts you opted to leave where they were, because fuck him. Buggy’s torso, found in a hallway and all in one chunk, was too heavy for you to carry. His head was in the kitchen and pissed you off with the peaceful sleepy expression it had. His feet were waiting outside a bathroom and they could stay there for all you cared. You also left behind the hand still clutching an empty rum bottle. Everything else you found either on your own or in a pile that the crew put together. You toted the pieces back to the bedroom to keep safe. Safe.

You just finished locking up the last dresser drawer with a satisfying ‘click’ when shouting signaled the captain’s arrival. His voice oscillated between shrill and hoarse, a symptom of a likely hangover. As Buggy got closer, you could pull out pieces of what he was griping about. In between usual orders for the crew were demands and queries about where he was and wasn’t. You knew they would point him in your direction, so you leaned against the dresser and waited.

The hand you left on the bed perked up at the sound of knocking. It zoomed over and opened the door to rejoin it’s owner. In toddled Buggy. You thought that you’d feel better after seeing him, but the unreadable expression on his face ticked you off. It’s like he couldn’t decide if he was happy to see you or annoyed about the absence of his body. The thin tight lipped smile held under his smeared face paint flickered into a frown more than once as you stared at each other.

After a moment, you crossed your arms tauntingly. Buggy shuffled into the room further and flicked his hand to close the door. He wasn’t graceful.

“Really? You left me like this?” Buggy’s question finally pulled forward the smirk you tried to tamper down.

You pointedly looked at him up and down (not that there was much to look at right now) before answering. “What’s wrong?” 

“What the FUCK am I supposed to do without arms or legs?” Buggy shouted as he wiggled the hands attached to his shoulders and stamped the feet his torso sat on.

“Hm, that sounds like a you problem. I was just cleaning up the mess you left,” you said coldly. 

“Babe, the mess is ME. Of course it’s a me problem, it’s my body,” he sneered. “Give it back, I know you have me locked up like some fucking hostage.”

“Like your audiences?”

This wasn’t working. Buggy needed to try something different. Honey, instead of vinegar. All he wanted was to reassemble so he could fall apart in bed. He was exhausted and it’s hard to sleep when parts of himself are just out of reach. It’s like voices in his head that he can’t turn off. You were mad, obviously. And what should a good partner do when someone’s mad? Listen. Lucky for him, he still had ears.

“Sweetie, sweets, dearest,” the performer cooed with an apologetic smile as wiggled forwards a few inches. “You’re upset with me, I get. What can I do to make it up to you?”

You allowed yourself time to roll through your thoughts. There was a lot you could ask for - gold, treasures, a date, fancy food, new clothes. One idea called out to you, a wicked little sound that stuck in your head like sludge.

“Crawl.” The air in the room stilled. The atmosphere shifted, pressing down on you both. The weight pulled Buggy’s smile down into a disgusted scowl.

“Say again?”

“I want you to crawl to me. Then you can have your things back.” You said the request as if it was the simplest thing to do. As if he had enough body parts to crawl with.

“C’mon, baby, I’m not gonna-”

“Then you’re not gonna get shit. Crawl, Captain.” 

The sharp tone in your demand stirred something deep inside Buggy. A depraved perversion that had been waiting for a moment to shine woke up ready to play. His cheeks flushed as the pounding in his chest shifted from hot anger to burning desire under your unrelenting stare. With a click of his tongue, the pirate stared at the ground and wondered how to start.

You watched as Buggy lowered himself horizontally to the ground through a controlled topple, stopping short of smashing his nose on the wooden floor. Fingertips and tiptoes held him aloft - just barely. Strands of hair that escaped his bandana dusted the wood floor as he hovered, steadying himself before making another move. Craning his neck, ocean eyes sought yours to ask if this was enough. An emotionless stare said it wasn’t. Keep going.

A dramatic sigh wafted across the floor as Buggy began inching his way towards you, moving at a pace that his stiff hands and feet set. It was slow progress and you followed every bit of it. There were a few moments you thought he’d give up. Moments where he’d pause to give his aching fingers a rest. Stopping to look and see how far away you were, both physically and emotionally. If it wasn’t for the embarrassed erection throbbing underneath him, Buggy probably would have tried harder to talk his way out of this.

He felt ashamed, embarrassed, and so fucking turned on - which only added to the humiliation. Part of him wanted you to say he had done enough and could stop. But a hornier voice told Buggy to keep going, to see what would happen. Finally, he was close enough. He had huffed and panted his way across the room, fingertips and cock throbbing through most of the awkward journey.

You looked down at the small man at your feet, waiting for him to make the next move. After a brief respite, Buggy rightened his body, relying on his Devil Fruit ability to make up for the lack of limbs. Once vertical, Buggy turned his face towards yours. You would have thought the hot red blush was the result of physical exertion after a night of drinking, if it wasn’t for the blown out pupils and the way he licked his lips.

“Are you turned on? Did that fucking turn you on?” you asked in disbelief. His narrowing eyes the only answer he’d give.

“C-can I have my body back?” A slight quiver slipped out with the request.

With rolling eyes, you released the pirate’s body parts from their wood prisons. Buggy quickly reassembled himself with a flurry of movement. His eyes met yours for a brief moment before darting away in shame. The knot in his stomach tightened, pulling his cock in an aggressive twitch.

“You still mad at me?” Buggy mumbled. You didn’t miss the uplift intonation hidden under the question.

“Why? Do you want me to tell you how to make it up to me?”

Buggy’s eyes widened at the prospect and the blush on his face spread to his ears. The answer tasted uncomfortable. A little bitter, but he liked it. Still, he was reluctant to admit to this craving.

Reading into his hesitation, you grabbed Buggy’s chin and pulled his face to meet yours. “Tell me, Buggy.”

You broke through the weak barrier he pretended to hide behind. Buggy’s hands wrapped around your forearm, wanting to stay in this position. To keep this dynamic. His face softened and he nodded vigorously against your hold.

(prompt list)

[thetriumphantpanda]

Ghost Of You | J. Miller (Chapter Five)

Series Summary / Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. And no-one ever explains the guilt you feel when it isn’t anymore. When it’s just a dull ache and you can finally breathe again, when you can start letting people get close to you again. People like Joel Miller.

Pairing / Joel Miller x Widow F!Reader

Word Count / 3.7k

Warnings / FLUFF. ACTUAL FLUFF AND SOME HAPPINESS. Talking about suicide, mourning and descriptions of grief and depression. And a little surprise right at the end that I will not spoil for y'all.

Authors Note / Okay. I LOVE THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH. I have to admit when I wrote it I actually made myself cry and that's no word of a lie. I am having so much fun fleshing this story out and I hope that the slow burn isn't too slow for y'all but I promise these two are moving in the direction we want them to move in - I PROMISE YOU. If you enjoy this then I would LOVE to hear from you - Comments, reblogs and asks genuinely make my day.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

A week later, your garden is abuzz with life. Tommy has dragged the kettle grill from his garden into your own and is currently trying to get the coals to light, Joel is standing over his shoulder trying to get him to listen to what he thinks will work. You giggle to yourself when Tommy follows Joel’s instructions, and the flames catch. Younger brother yet again bested by his older brother’s knowledge. 

Maria is stepping out of the kitchen with plates and cutlery, placing them on the table, where Ellie is sat curled on the chair with her nose in a book. She’d come to the library on Monday and switched Artemis Fowl for the Chronicles of Narnia, another good choice in your opinion, and she’d spent most of the last thirty minutes with her nose stuck in the book. 

“Here you go, honey,” Maria pushes a glass of blackberry wine into your hand, “Shane sent us a bloody crate of this stuff, he’s made so much this year.” 

You clink your glass with her own and take a sip, letting the sweet liquid fall down your throat. You have to admit it was getting better with every year. The first year Shane had proudly debuted his wine it was way too sour, everyone apart from Tommy had been too polite to tell him so. The next year, it had been drowned in enough sugar to give anyone diabetes, but now he was getting the hang of it, and with the sun starting to lower in the sky and all your favourite people, apart from one, around you, you had to admit you thought you were happy. 

You’d spent all day cooking side dishes that you’d saved up your ration cards for. Potato salad, a slapdash attempt at Greek salad, just without feta and balsamic vinegar, you’d even made a fresh loaf of bread. Maria and Tommy had brought meat to grill – there were steaks from the last lot of cows to have been slaughtered, chicken that Maria had skewered with peppers, and even burgers and sausages. Your luck to have found this place never failed to amaze you. You could convince yourself all this was back on the street you’d lived at in California before outbreak day. Ellie had even attempted to make a pie as dessert. She’d lifted the cloth covering the pastry when she’d knocked on the door, Joel in tow. 

“It’s apple, because I remember you saying that was your favourite,” You’d smiled and pulled her into a quick hug, “Joel insisted on a whole pastry lid though, something about it being better than the lattice.” 

You’d looked him in the eye, “Well, Joel is outnumbered here, but we’ll let him off for tonight.” 

He’d dipped to kiss your cheek as he’d walked in through the threshold, passing a bottle of whiskey to you, “If you set that in the freezer it’ll be nice and chilled for something to drink after dinner.” 

Once the flames have died down and the coals are embers, you watch Tommy set the chicken skewers on the grill. You head inside and pull your sides out of the fridge, cutting slices of bread. There’s a tiny amount of butter left which you also pull out, setting everything on the table outside, watching as Ellie’s eyes bulge at foods she’d never experienced before. You smirk at her, whispering that she’s welcome to try anything she wants but to make sure Joel doesn’t catch her, sure that he’ll chide her for her manners. 

You go back inside and pull another plate out for Tommy to set the cooked meat on and fill two tumblers of whiskey for the two of them, setting them on the empty plate to take them down to the men. 

“It never fails to amaze me how much cooking on fire takes you men back to the dark ages.” You joke, holding the plate out for Joel to take a glass, which he does gladly, neither him nor Tommy enjoying Shane’s homebrewed beer much by the looks of it.

You hand Tommy the plate once he’s taken his own glass, “Didn’t Sarah always used to say the same thing?” Tommy asked, Joel nods in agreement, “Somethin’ about being cavemen.” 

You laugh and leave them to it, heading back to the table where Maria and Ellie are talking together. As you sit down you can tell that Ellie is attempting (and failing) to get Maria to let her try her wine. 

“You don’t want this, trust me,” You smirk, sitting down on the chair next to her, “I’ve been drinking my entire life and it’s already going to my head.” 

You make polite conversation around the table for a little while until Tommy is walking towards you with a plate full of grilled meat. He sets it down before he sits down next to his wife, Joel taking the other unoccupied chair opposite you. Within moments, plates are full and you’re all eating in silence. 

Joel watches you intently as you cut a slice of steak. He watches as your eyes close and your head tilts back a little until a little groan falls from your mouth. He can’t stop his brain from thinking how much he’d like to be the one making your eyes close and your head tilt back like that. God, he really was getting old if a singular glass of whiskey had him thinking like this. He drags his gaze from you back to his own plate of food, so you don’t catch the darkening of his eyes. 

“Tommy, Jesus Christ, I haven’t had steak like this in so long.” You’re praising his brother, breaking off a slice of bread to dip into the dripping that’s come from the resting steak. 

Everyone is silent as you make your way through the rest of the meal. Once you’ve all eaten your fill there’s less left that you thought there would be, everyone obviously making the most of the rare luxury of meat. 

Ellie insists that although you’re all fit to burst, you have to try a slice of apple pie and you’re thankful you did. She’d done an absolutely fantastic job of it on her own and you couldn’t help the swell of your heart as she’d grinned when you told her it was just as good as the one you’d made together, backed up by everyone else around the table. 

Maria and Ellie do the dishes together, packaging up leftovers for everyone to take home with them for the next day as Joel and Tommy start a small fire on the grass of your garden in a small drum that you don’t dare ask where he got it from. You tell Ellie about your days camping with your dad, toasting marshmallows and getting sticky when you tried to pull it off the toasting stick. 

You drink whiskey for the first time in ages as you swap stories across the fire and you can’t help but smile. You love this little bunch of people, the five of them, sat around, keeping you company, making everything seem just that little bit easier. 

You glance to your left a little while later, Ellie is asleep, resting her head on her hand. The conversation has lulled a little, Maria and Tommy are holding each other’s hands, glancing at Ellie too. 

“I think I’m ready to call it a night,” Maria speaks, “We’ll take Ellie back to yours Joel, you stay here and finish your drink.” 

He’s just poured himself another glass of whiskey from the bottle and is cradling it in his impossibly large hands. He nods, gently waking Ellie to tell her that Maria and Tommy will walk her home and he’ll be back soon once he finishes his drink. She doesn’t argue, standing up with a yawn. 

“Thanks for today,” She says to you, bending down to your chair to give you a quick hug, “I’m glad you liked the pie.” 

You smile at her and say that you hope you’ll see her soon, bidding her a goodnight. She gives Joel a hug too, telling him not to stay out too late because he’s an old man. He snorts but agrees he won’t stay long. 

Maria and Tommy also give you a hug, insisting that you stay put instead of standing. And then they’re all gone and it’s just you and Joel sat around the fire. It’s quiet, the silent never uncomfortable between the two of you. 

“Can I ask a question?” You ask quietly, once the silence becomes too much, looking down at the glass of whiskey in your hands. 

The fire is warm, even if its flames have died down. It’s casting a gentle orange glow across Joel’s features which makes him look soft, even more welcoming than normal. 

“Of course you can.” He replies, sipping his own drink. 

“How long did it take for you to feel okay again?” You can’t look him in the eye, can’t look at him altogether, it’s a personal question, one you never thought you’d feel okay asking, but the wine and whiskey have made you brave, “You know, after Sarah?” 

He’s silent for a long time. Long enough that you wonder if you’ve upset him. You’re about to open your mouth to apologise for overstepping a line when he speaks, “It wasn’t time that did it,” He answers, thinking back to the last time he’d said those words, it’s still true, “It’s more about what I found that made it easier.” 

You’re running a finger around the rim of your glass trying to distract yourself but you can feel his eyes on you, “It never goes away, not really,” He sighs, “Not to make you feel even worse about things, but it shrinks a little, until you can remember all the good things about that person, instead of how much it hurts that you don’t have them anymore.” 

“What was it like for you?” You look at him now and fuck he’s pretty. No amount of grief would deny the way your stomach flipped when you see him in this moment. The flickering orange light of the flame illuminating the shadows of his face, his eyes are darker than normal, and you think you might just drown yourself in them if you look any longer, “What was your grief like?” You look away, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. 

You watch as he leans his elbow on the arm of the chair, resting his fingers on his mouth as if he’s contemplating what to say to you, “I couldn’t see the point of life without her anymore,” He speaks softly, “Sarah was gone, the world was gone, so what was I still doin’ here, you know?” You nod, because you do know. You know all too well. “In those first few days after I tried to kill myself,” You let in a sharp inhale of breath, which he doesn’t acknowledge, “I was ready, I wasn’t scared, but I flinched, and for twenty years I always wondered why. Why did I flinch when I pulled that trigger?” He’s silent again for a while and you want to reach out and offer your hand to him, but again, you don’t, you keep it in your own lap, “I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that it won’t always break your heart, but I think you already know that,” You nod in agreement as you close your eyes, “You’ve just gotta find the next thing worth livin’ for.” 

You want to tell him you’re sorry, but when had that ever helped you? No amount of sorry from anyone was going to bring your respective people back. You’d always thought that saying sorry was a cop out anyway. Something someone said when they didn’t know what else to say, so you didn’t. 

“You know, it never even crossed my mind.” You muse, mostly to yourself than anything else. 

“What didn’t?”

“Killing myself,” You reply almost immediately, “I think now that it would have been the easiest thing, I could have been with him, I wouldn’t have been here to listen to everyone gossip about me, I wouldn’t have spent a year of my life practically locked in my house, but it never once crossed my mind.” 

“You wanna know what I think?” He asks, watching you as you nod, “I think that’s because deep down you knew you’d be okay, whether you realized it or not,” He’s reaching for the nearly empty bottle of whiskey to top his glass up, “I know it hurts, sweet pea, trust me, but you’ll know what love is again someday.” 

It’s such a striking thing for him to say that it catches you completely off guard. Outside of the handful of times this evening that you’ve caught yourself thinking of how utterly beautiful a man Joel Miller is, you’ve never thought about finding someone else. Mark was meant to be your one and only, you’ve vowed to each other that was the case, signed your names on a piece of paper to the same effect. ‘Til death us do part. It’s silly but when you’d uttered those words to Mark, you’d always imagined dying together. Old age, hands held, drifting off together. In reality it hadn’t been old age, but you’d held hands, right until the bitter end, but then you were left here, all alone, and he was gone. 

“You know those romantic movies we used to watch before?” 

“You used to watch.” He interrupts, a small smile on his face. 

“Alright, those romantic movies I used to watch,” You let out a little giggle, “Whenever someone died before their time, they would inevitably get just the right amount of time to tell the person they loved that they wanted to move on?” Joel nods that he knows what you’re talking about, “I guess I’ve always thought I needed his permission, not really just to find someone else, but to move on and live my life again.” 

“Did you need his permission for much when he was around?” He asks. 

You shake your head, “He was always so laid back, even when we were on our own out of the quarantine zones, we were a team, but we understood each other, understood what we both needed, so no, not really.” 

Joel speaks without a pause, “Then you just need to ask yourself for permission then.” 

Silence falls between you both again. You’re staring at the flames in front of you and draining your glass of whiskey. It was never your favourite, you didn’t like the way it burnt on your tongue or the feeling of it settling in your stomach, but like anything in this world, it was the case of any port in a storm. Joel follows suit and drains the last of his drink. 

“I should really be gettin’ back,” He speaks softly, “But thank you, for today, it’s been one of the nicest days I can remember.” 

You both stand up, Joel taking the empty glasses and you taking hold of the whiskey bottle with the last bit of amber liquid in the bottom. He walks in front, stopping to drop the glasses in the sink which you insist you’ll wash up yourself. You set the whiskey bottle on the side and follow him to the front door. 

He pauses before he can turn the handle and open the door and you wonder what’s going on. Joel is the kind of man who is always sure of his actions, never falters, but his hand is outstretched and he’s not moving. You’re leant against the wall on one shoulder at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the top floor of your house when he turns back around to you. 

“I think he’d want you to be happy, sweet pea,” He breathes, “You have too much love in here to not give it to anyone else.” His fingertips are brushing the space between your breasts where your heart is, and you wonder when he got so fucking close to you.

You look up and he’s looming over you, those beautiful brown eyes looking directly through yours and into your soul. His hands are cupping your cheeks. Those rough and calloused palms are warm against your skin which had cooled in the evening air. You can’t quite believe it but you’re tilting your face up towards him and he’s leaning his down towards yours and before you know it, his lips are pressed to yours so softly you might cry. You can sense his hesitation but as your eyes flutter closed, you’re pushing yourself onto your toes to press your lips more firmly to his. 

And then it all comes crashing over you. The moment you close your eyes, it’s not Joel’s face in your mind, it’s Mark’s. It’s his hands cupping your face, they were softer than Joel’s. It was hit scent you could remember through your nostrils, not the smoke and musk you could smell of Joel. Your hands are fisting the lapels of his jacket as you pull away, pulling in a sigh as he rests his forehead against yours before pulling himself away. He’s still close enough that your hands are still on his jacket, but he’s dropped his hands from his face. 

“I’m sorry, Joel,” You whisper, shaking your head, “I can’t.” Is what you murmur. 

He drops his head and steps back from you, making your hands drop from his jacket, he’s turning on his heel and heading to the door with a mumbled apology. 

“Joel!” You call out before he has chance to shut the door behind him, he turns and faces you, “I’m not saying never,” You confess, “Just not right now.” 

You watch as a flash of hope appears on his face and he’s giving you that signature lop-sided smile, “I’ll wait, sweet pea.” And then he’s gone. 

*

It’s late and Joel can’t sleep. He’s been tossing and turning since he got into bed an hour ago, replaying the events of the evening in his mind. He’s trying to blame his irrational choice to kiss you on the whiskey, but he knows it isn’t true. Every day he’s seen you since you sat down and ate strawberry pie together, he’s wanted to kiss you. Wanted to kiss the sadness and the grief out of your body and put you back together again. It had nothing to do with the whiskey and everything to do with you. 

The way you’d asked him about his own grief, so quiet and unsure as to whether you were overstepping a line. The way you’d listened to him talk about wanting to end everything but didn’t offer an apology or the look in your eyes that told him you felt sorry for him. The way that every time he spoke to you, you opened up a little bit more, let him in a little more. Hell, even the way you’d winced at every mouthful of whiskey. It was all you. And it had been a dumb fucking decision. 

He could hear the break in your voice as you’d told him you couldn’t, like you were afraid of letting him down. He couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d said, ‘Just not right now’ and his stupid smile at your words. He didn’t want to push your boundaries this much, didn’t want you to think you owed him anything. He just wanted to make you less miserable. 

He runs a hand over his face and grumbles to himself. He knows sleep won’t find him now. His head won’t shut up and all he really wants to do is run to your front step and tell you he’s sorry, that you don’t have to make him feel better by telling him to wait if you don’t mean it. He’ll never forget the spark of electricity down his spine when your lips touched him, or how he craved to push his whole body against yours when your hands had pulled at the lapel of his jacket, but he doesn’t need you to feel like you must want him back. 

If only he knew that you were led in your own bed, a few streets over, in a similar state of insomnia. Led in your bed, staring up at the ceiling, wishing that Mark’s face hadn’t been at the forefront of your mind when you’d closed your eyes. That’s what does it, what fills your body with panic. That you wished for the first time that you didn’t think about him. You’d wanted it to be all Joel, consumed by him, you didn’t want Mark’s face in the back of your mind. 

Tears roll down your cheeks and onto your pillow. Your brain is telling you that soon enough he won’t be there. You keep wishing he wasn’t, and he won’t be, you’ll forget about him, forget the shape of his body against yours, the sound of his voice in your ear, and surely that’s not right. Surely you should always want to remember him. Your first love, your first everything, really. 

Joel was a good man. One of the best you’d ever had the pleasure of knowing, and he didn’t deserve someone who wasn’t able to give their all, someone who would always close their eyes and see their dead husband. You couldn’t make him wait for you, but could you let him go? Could you let Joel go? The man who had fixed your rotted porch step just because he didn’t want you to hurt yourself. The man who didn’t push you for insight into your grief, just stood there and let you be, letting you share when you were ready. The man who had been through the same kind of loss as you and had been walking around for the last twenty years knowing he failed at ending it all. 

You run a hand over your face and decide that no, you couldn’t let him walk away, but you weren’t quite ready to let someone in like that. You needed to speak to him, to lay all your cards on the table for once, and that scared the shit out of you. It was time to put your big girl pants on and face the music. 

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[silverfoxlou]

hate to see you leave, love to watch you walk away

[vanilla-cigarillos]

Burying Spells - Some Important Thoughts (on what we can do better)

Burying spells (spell jars specifically) is a very common practice in witchcraft, but as someone really passionate about the environment there are aspects that a lot of people aren't aware of. I think it's important to discuss, so let's talk about it!

Disclaimer: This is not to bash anyone who buries their spell jars/remnants. I just want to give some education on the subject, especially to younger witches getting into the practice <3

What Are Spell Jars?

For those who aren't aware, a spell jar is (usually) a form of spellwork in which a jar is the vessel for your magic. Spell jars are generally used for protection, but many people also use them for hexing and baneful magic. They're very beginner friendly forms of witchcraft, and as such a lot of new witches tend to gravitate towards them.

History of Burying

The idea of burying spell jars, generally tends to come from the concept of a "witch's bottle". This was a form of protection magic made in older times, with its purpose being to protect against negative energy. Not all of these bottles were buried, but it was commonly done to conceal magic from others (typically under a doorstep or within a fireplace).

This became especially prevalent during the 1600s when practicing witchcraft was dangerous.

Why Shouldn't We Bury?

To get the most obvious point out of the way, burying spell jars is adding to pollution of the environment. It's litter, and shouldn't be seen as any other way. Spell jars don't grow in the environment, and it doesn't belong there. The witchcraft community is one that tends to honor nature, so this practice sticks out like a sore thumb.

Another common practice I've seen within the community is burying baneful spell jars in spaces such as graveyards. This is disrespectful to those who reside in them; the dead don't deserve to be surrounded by that sort of negative energy.

Rivers or bodies of water are also common places for people to put their spell jars and other remnants. This also shouldn't be taking place. Creatures living in these bodies of waters can be harmed by this littering.

Glass or paraffin wax are not biodegradable, flowers from the grocery store can be laced with pesticides, microplastics can be found in salt and synthetic vinegar can impact the ph of soil.

Alternatives

Use biodegradable vessels such as bell peppers

Use ingredients that are safe for the environment

Put remnants into compost bins

Display your spell jars on shelves, and hide baneful jars in dark places

There we go! Hopefully this post has been helpful for how we can be better witches for a better earth <3

[dreamgrlarchive]

Any diy beauty recipes for the summer?

Summer Beauty at Home 🎀

pretty soft feet scrub and mask ❤︎︎

1/2 cup light roast coffee grounds and 2 tbsp lemon juice

pretty self explanatory. simply mix this combo in a stainless bowl. after cleaning and soaking your feet in mildly hot water till softened, scrub with this mixture up to your calves. focus on your ankles and cuticles!! then let sit for about 5-10 minutes before rinsing (you can cover your feet with plastic wraps)

rinse with warm water and cover feet in your cream or lotion of choice.

i do this all year but the most during the summer since we’re wearing pretty open toed heels and sandals. 🎀

bright and glowing skin cream ❤︎︎

1 cup olive oil, 1 cup softened shea butter and a few drops of whatever essential/fragrance oil you choose

simply whisk or blend ingredients until whipped and soft

store in a mason jar and keep at low-room temperature

this after a long bath and good exfoliation, has my skin so soft and luminescent for over 24 hours 🎀

weightless scalp rinse ❤︎︎

1 tsp of lemon juice, 4 tbsp apple cider vinegar, 1/2 cup of warm water

wash your hair paying close attention to your scalp

rinse well and apply the rinse to your scalp with a nozzle tip bottle

lightly scrub and rub your scalp with the rinse and leave on for about 3-5 minutes and rinse with warm water

be sure to moisturize your your strands and ends with whatever you choose

during the summer my hair gets extremely sweaty, and greasy and after a while a wash just doesn’t break it down well enough. this rinse ALWAYS flushes my scalp out so well 🎀

softening hair mask ❤︎︎

1 banana, olive oil, raw aloe vera gel, jojoba oil, honey

mash together well and coat slightly dampened hair in the mask

leave on for about 15 minutes (i go even longer sometimes)

rinse well with cool water

then wash and condition

my hair is always so soft and bouncy after i do this. i usually do it when getting ready to do a wash and go 🎀

[growing-yet-into-magic]

"Whatever" broth. Good for whatever. 🍲

Save bones from meals and takeout and wherever else in a ziplock. Store in your freezer.

Save veggie peels, potato peels, veggie scraps, you name it, in the same or another ziplock bag. Store in your freezer.

When you're ready to make broth, peel an onion. Chop it in half.

Toss everything into a a crockpot, and cover with water.

If you enjoy Seasoning Things ahead of time, I like a chili-ginger-garlic combo. Intensify based on your preferred level of flavor. Some people like lemon juice. I used to have the bottled kind but recently I've been trying to use up some fancy vinegar someone gave me.

WAIT. Probably for four hours, ideally even longer. I've done eight hours before.

Strain. carefully. With cheesecloth or another implement.

Store broth in freezer. Now you have broth! Use it in whatever. Who cares. It won't taste the same in recipes that want something specific but it's not like it cost you any money either. Make noodles or whatever

Now, go forth and soup! I mean 'sup'. No I mean soup.

[nathandrakeisabottom]

Yesss please sam drake food/eating hcs?? Fave meals, hated meals, etc

It is with great joy and great belatedness that I post my first Uncharted piece in ages. Thank you for the lovely ask, anon. :)

⋆ Sam Drake - Eating Headcanons ⋆

Two words: scarcity mindset.

After running away from Saint Frances’s, to claim money was tight is to be telling some humorous bit, Money was borderline non-existent. And as such, came what the Drake boys do best: theft. 

Liquor stores were their easiest, and most consistent source. Sam still takes great pride in telling his many stories revolving around ‘cashier meet-cutes’ disguising their proudest heist to date: a 12-year-old Nathan smuggling canned goods under a moth-holed hoodie. 

Because of this, gas station snacks: twinkies, Lays chips, slurpees, etc. all tend to give him this simultaneous sense of nostalgia and nausea. Like when you’re eating eggs and all of a sudden, your body gags on the next bite.

But on an especially shitty day, expect him to be gobbling a Big Gulp and a half-frozen hot dog on the nearest street corner, with a half-smoked cigarette still sunken between his lips. It’s the way he wallows. 

Secretly wants you to tell him how bad that shit is for him so he has an excuse to snottily spat back “who the ‘ell cares?”. He finds pride in not caring about anything. (He cares about everything.)

Getting fast food at the drive-thru? Man waves you off a total of three times claiming he doesn’t want nothing before proceeding to eat half of your McNuggets without asking. He loves BBQ sauce and needs Tabasco on everything like it’s his will to live.

Big fan of spicy, sour, and tart, anything that makes your mouth pucker. Pretzels, salt and vinegar chips, cottage cheese, pickles, pineapple (😉). “What can I say? I admire a fruit that fights back!” — he snorts before taking a raw bite of a lemon, just to squirm you out.

Maybe a bit of the masochist in him. 

When he and Nate were able to get proper gigs (12-year-old Nathan: illegally, of course), they were able to progress to the simplest of grocery outlet options. Eggs, instant ramen packets, canned vegetables that were 9 out of 10 times eaten raw out of the can with a fork, and more nothing-but-toast-for-dinner than they’d want to admit).

Sam and Nate spent most of their childhood eating their dad’s scrambled eggs and microwaved peas. When their mom passed, and dad released them to the state, Sam decided he’d only ever eat over-easy again.

Nate still chooses scrambled. He asks for cheese and green onions to split the difference, but always ends up only eating half of it before the memories come too strong and he has to push his plate away. 

QUICK eater. MESSY eater. And I mean quick and messy. 

Will use as minimal cutlery as possible, and if disposable, even better.

A scooper. Tends to be a chronic careless spiller with how frequently he tries to funnel all the last crumbs into his mouth, how quickly he chugs even a glass of water. (Most shirts of his are stained as a result.)

Tends to wait till the last possible moment to eat or drink anything. Breakfast basically doesn’t exist to him. 

Spills more beverage down his chin and shirt than his mouth (but a wet t-shirt certainly isn’t the worst thing to happen. Especially not to Samuel Drake. ;)

Pizza order: Meat Lover’s with extra sausage. Maybe some green bell peppers when he finally compromises with Nate during movie night.

Never, ever orders (well, non-alcoholic) drinks when eating out. And only water when he finally lets himself cave. Otherwise, he’s stealing sips from the nearest patron’s Jarrito bottle (his favorite is Tamarind).

Doesn’t bother cleaning up his fruit peels or peanut shells, even around others. That shit’s going on the floor without a second look.

Surprisingly, a king and natural on the BBQ. Despite having so little in their childhood, Sam still tried to go hard on the holidays for Nathan’s sake. Fourth of July is still Nate’s favorite holiday exclusively because of Sam’s public park-smoked ribs and the long, bumpy motorcycle ride up the highest hill in whatever city they were currently loitering in, just to see the fireworks. 

A dive bar master. Nate always orders whatever grease-covered appetizer they got in the back. Sam purposely keeps his stomach empty so there’s more room for whiskey. (Since nobody asked, incredible at pool, and will offer any woman in a twenty foot circumference a lesson. Cue the leaning chest over back, cue stick fantasy.)

A love language that was a total surprise to him is his partner cooking/baking something just for him, especially if it’s from scratch. Gets that rare, soft look in his eyes as he watches them carefully place each steaming plate onto the table. And trust, he’s not looking at the food when it happens.

Loves his partner in an apron. Like… loves his partner in an apron.

Make him food, and as soon as it’s eaten, he’s eating you after. ;)

When he finally settles down post-Madagascar, it’s a fucking struggle to get him to go grocery shopping at all for the first few months. 

Self-punishment, maybe. 

Nathan buys them himself instead and leaves them on the porch of Sam’s trailer park home when he’s too depressed to answer the door. 

Basically has to be forced to eat actual meat and vegetables. For the first few months, he reverts and eats only familiar prison food. The same single pot of chili/beans for a whole week, half portions only for each meal. Uncooked canned carrots. Microwave popcorn when Nathan calls him asking if he’s eaten, and when Sam lies, it sounds more believable with the microwave droning in the background.

However, when he finally starts to pick himself back up, when he gets his first day job since prison, finally lets Nate buy him a used truck to get around, his first solo call from Sully, that’s when he finally starts to eat.

And when he finally feels like himself again, when he finally lets himself want to live again, the first hobby that Sam Drake takes up is cooking.

[mare-noctis-studios]

slow dancing with astarion?

this one kind of got away from me

send me prompts!

Naithrel evorlethor eryndorael esilissyr

(Together we shall dance under the starry sky)

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Pairing: Astarion x You (gn terms) CW: Established Relationship, Slow-Dancing, Mentions of Cazador, Implied Past Trauma, Word Count: 2,053

Astarion has snuck away from the party and Tav goes to find him, slow dancing ensues

It takes a moment to notice what was wrong with the scene in front of you. Happy faces cajole with each other in the tavern, flasks of ale slopping over bench tops as the people toast to the good health of every living thing. The troupe in the corner belt out tune after tune, the younger folk pairing off to dance while the children run under table legs in an elaborate game of chicken-chasing: the fan-dangled party game you introduced to the townsfolk. You spy Karlach - having recently acquired the ability to touch others without turning them to ash - challenging anyone in the vicinity to arm wrestles with a steadily growing pile of coin beside her. Gale and Shadowheart stand near one of the rear walls, talking quietly and observing the merriment through weary eyes. Lae’zel stoically bears the weight of a child’s curiosity as the tiefling children you rescued crowd around to hear her war stories. Even Wyll is deep in the goblet holding court with an enraptured audience, swapping tales of derring do with Halsin to the delight of the fans.

Then it hits you. That flash of white hair, usually swindling someone of their coin while in an inebriated state, was missing. You scan the room one more time to make sure, to no avail. Astarion wasn’t here.

Disengaging politely with the wife of the mayor you were chatting with, you slip out of the main room towards the stairs that take you to the rooms above. The inn-keeper had given you rooms on the top most floor, away from the smells of the stable yard below with a pretty little prospect of the town green. This was where you were headed now, leaning on the wall to stay steady as the bottles of Chultan Fireswill catch up to you. Astarion’s room is empty at first, but you spy the ornate clothes he had dressed in for the celebration tossed haphazardly over the end of his bed, and the cool breeze against your cheek alert you to the open balcony doors.

Astarion is there, one hand smoothing over the knots and whorls in the wood, eyes fixed on the glint of ship lights in the far distance. You study him for a moment: the moonlight turning his white hair into shining silver, as is spun from the finest silk this side of the Greypeak Mountains, his pale skin looking as if it was carved from the purest marble.

You intend to walk over and join him quietly, but your little toe against the edge of the cabinet had other ideas, muffling several curse words as the marble shoulders tense. You shake off the pain and continue forward, out into the cool night where there was nary a cloud in the sky. Stars wink back at you as you settle in next to him, the warm press of your bodies pleasant in the night air.

“You’re turning into Wyll” you say after a long moment, watching the sails sway on the ocean. “All this sneaking off at parties, he’s a bad influence.”

Astarion barks a short laugh at that and focusses his attention to tracing the grain of the railing.

“Everything ok?”

You feel the sag in his body as he deflates a little, leaning closer into your warmth.

“Nights like these… people partaking in frivolous amusement… serves as a stark reminder of what I am” he says bitterly.

You link your pinky around his, eyes firm on the horizon as he stops tracing the wood and starts tracing the lines on your palm.

“Everything I drink tastes like vinegar and everything I eat tastes like ash…” he trails off, following a deep blue vein up along your forearm. “And now that we’re near the city, I…”

He falters, stilling cool fingers in the crook of your elbow to feel the thrum of your fast-beating heart. You turn to lean a hip against the railing, starting your own tracing from his hand up over his bicep, over his neck and cheekbone to brush curls delicately over one pointed ear.

“I can’t escape the memories of what Cazador made me do in establishments such as this” he finishes quietly, thumb gently brushing the side of your elbow as his gaze falls to the floor. You pull him into a hug, arms looping low around his slender waist as his go around your shoulder, face burying into your neck.

You noticed over the course of your relationship how little Astarion got to experience intimacy for intimacy’s sake – the nights lounging by the fire in his lap with a book Gale recommended open between you as you read passage after passage, a kiss brushed lightly over a cheek when greeting him after time apart, the languid kissing in the wee hours of the morning when neither of you could sleep, hands exploring gently without intent – and just how much of his sexual proclivities were only about the sex.

Those nights curled up in each other’s arms quickly became tradition, whether you were reading a book, or swapping stories from your childhood, or discussing the finer points of caring for cashmere cloth while travelling, and your companions quickly adopted your tent as extra storage since you rarely spend any time in it. Gale would comment on it occasionally, comparing Astarion to Tara with the way his eyes gleam possessively if someone got too close, and you have caught Halsin on more than one occasion studying the two of you with poorly concealed desire.

The sex was great, as it had always been, but once you were past the awkward admissions of power and manipulation you realised that Astarion had no idea how to be in a loving relationship. His boundaries were set it all sorts of fucked up ways, twisted and warped by Cazador and his own self-loathing, and they were your challenges to unravel – one experience at a time.

Amongst the sanctity of your companions, Astarion could hardly bear a minute without your touch in some way; a hand on the shoulder, a ruffle of hair, a peck on the lips in passing. He always found some way to bump your hip while working, to trace a finger down your arm, to wrap his hand around whatever limb he could reach.

He craved the warmth of your skin. You always lamented at how you ran hot as a child, sweating it out over brutal summers, but it is a blessing in disguise as you lay wrapped around each other of an evening, cold lips pressed to a warm neck and legs tangled in perfect equilibrium.

You begin to walk back slowly, pulling Astarion with you as he catches your gaze. Inky black eyes in the moonlight turn to soft red inside the room as you light the candles with a soft word. He presses a kiss to your neck, your jaw, your cheekbone, over your nose until your lips meet softly, tenderly as hands splayed over your shoulders push you closer together.

“Wait, my love” you murmur, smiling when he chases your lips with a pout. “I want to dance.”

His face falls minutely, then fixes in a pleasant smile.

“By all means darling, let’s go downstairs and rally the band!” His laugh is forced so you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks, kissing him quiet. You pull back and close your eyes, focussing on the smell of Astarion’s parfum, the taste of wine on your lips, the touch of gentle hands on your back, and you reach into the Weave.

Pleasure swirls around you, tendrils of intent wrapping around your hand as you lifted it between you two to show him the purple essence. You hum the tune in your head and will the music into existence, eyes opening triumphantly as the sounds of a flute and harp echo softly around you. Astarion’s eyes never leave your face as you take one of his hands and slide the other around his waist, desire and an amount of trepidation clear as day.

“I don’t want the band” you say simply, swaying with the music. “I want to dance with you.”

Astarion’s smile is purer than anything you have ever encountered as he takes the lead in waltzing a slow, haphazard circle of the room. “My darling” he whispers, kissing you deeply before guiding you through a slow spin. “My love.” You come back to his arms feeling lighter than a feather, adoration for your lover swelling until it felt fit to burst from your chest. Something must have shown on your face because his eyes crease in amusement, lips pressed to your temple as you sway to the melody. “My divine grace. You are surely a succubus sent to capture my soul for I don’t understand how I deserve to know your love” he says quietly into your hair, thumb idly stroking the small of your back. You go to speak but he silences you with soft kiss, pulling away the barest amount to speak as if his words were a sacred prayer. “You have been nothing but kind and patient -  accepting my faults without condescension or malice. You have taken my broken spirit and breathed life into a long-dead heart with nary a thought to compensation.”

He stills in the middle of the room, red eyes bright with wonder, the hand holding yours coming up to cup your cheek. Tracing his thumb over your bottom lip he draws you in for a deep, tender kiss, pulling your bodies so close you are sure you will melt into him.

“I might have stayed the irascible, wounded man incapable of leaving the shadows of my past if you had not taken my hand and drawn me to the very light I avoided for nigh 200 years.”

Your heart beats rapidly, surely to burst out of your chest as you tighten your arms, trailing kisses down his temple and jaw. He has come so far from the man you met by the nautiloid crash; a man who closed himself off from anything that could possibly hurt him, hiding pain and uncertainty behind a veneer of snark and derision. It seems a lifetime ago to the man currently in your arms, and if all goes well, he shall stay there for a lifetime to come.

“For the first time in 200 years I am hopeful for my future.” His voice was small, but the conviction was clear. “For the first time… I imagine a life with someone by my side. I could never have hoped to experience the love you have so freely given me, when all you received in return was lies and attempts at cohesion.”

You smile at that, bringing one hand to cover the one on your cheek and the other to press over his still heart. “I would have made do” you tease, pleased to see the joke land positively. “I am so proud of you Astarion. From the first moment we shared, your vulnerability – even though it pained you at the time – is something I will treasure forever. I see the light in you, my love, and it is breathtaking.”

The candlelight seems to pulse with your words, glowing even brighter as the music swells to a triumphant chorus.

“You are deserving of a happy ending my darling elf. My only wish is that I am written by your side when our stories are told.” Tears well in your eyes and spill but you find you don’t care, pressing a kiss to the tear tracks on Astarion’s own cheek. He pulls you towards the bed and helps you rid yourself of your party clothing, settling alongside you under the rough sheets as you will the music to cease. The candlelight dims and you drift into a contented sleep, lips pressed to your hair murmuring loving epithets until your eyes droop. Just before they shut, you hear the familiar lilt of Elvish;

“Leuthilsel, delaesyrn eni, su'lmélo. Phorael'sar nindol su'linueth natha. Ren amin mindelara, natha darthas. Galennor tuulo’laer, eldalié. Syl’esske, melamin, melme’amin. Sylvaris, lyrie’nythas, varulitharien. Naithrel evorlethor eryndorael esilissyr.”

You smile through the tears and press a soft kiss to Astarion’s throat, finishing the vow in a voice laced with happiness.

“Ai’tel’quessir, mirimaar amin, nindelar. Leuthilsel mirimaar tel’quessir. Tel’quess eni.”

Here is the translation of the Elvish:

“My beloved, heart of mine, forever. By the stars’ grace we are bound. In your eyes I find home, my heart rejoices. Forever we walk, together. For all eternity, my love, my soul’s mate. Sylvan beauty, my heart’s delight, enchanter of the woods. Together we shall dance under the starry sky.”

“To the elves, our people, we shall belong. My beloved among the elves. My elf.”

Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading! K

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[dreamingcloudie]

hii! 💐 anon here! wanted to apologize for not being active, school has been really stressful 😭 anyways could i req, child reader with dottore where dottore reads child! reader a bedtime story , ( I imagine child! reader being in Arlecchino's orhpanage. And was tired from training that day so they asked Dottore to help them sleep by reading a bedtime story ) don't forget to take your time when writing and get some rest ! :D also back with platonic! Dottore cause that's just my favorite 💓

❛❛ Brave Little Warrior ❜❜

✎ ❛❛ You're an interesting one, aren't you? ❜❜

Pairing(s): Dottore & Child!GN!Reader (PLATONIC)

Genre/Format: Fluff (oneshot)

wc: ~1.2k

Notes: School sucks anon 😔 I hope you're taking good care of yourself! Anyways, Dottore as a big brother figure? Yes please 🙏 I love this request, so wholesome 😭💕💕 I hope you'll like this one!

The House of the Hearth, an orphanage to train children to become fierce warriors. And of course, they had set up an education system as well.

By Arlecchino’s request, Dottore, albeit was reluctant, would come by the orphanage every so often to teach the children. He taught mostly anything science related. If he had to face these kids for hours on end, then he would need to talk about something he enjoys to keep himself sane.

When he first came to the orphanage, his ominous aura and intimidating form would strike fear into the hearts of the children, which he was thankful for because he didn’t want any of those brats to come up to him. All the children were afraid of him, they’ve heard rumors of how a mad scientist would come and take naughty children to a place much worse than the confinement room.

And that man pretty much fitted the description of the rumored mad scientist—that he has strange toothpaste-coloured hair.

So luckily for him, he didn’t have to worry about these kids to cause trouble in his classes.

They wouldn’t dare.

Though, he would admit it could get a bit boring when he taught them. The classroom would get so quiet when he talked, but oh well.

“So, can anyone tell me why lemons conduct electricity?” He asked.

And as expected, no one raised their hand, afraid that they might get the answer wrong and they would be faced with something worse than detention. However, a voice spoke among the crowd before he could continue.

“Because they have citric acid!”

He looked to where the voice came from and saw a bubbly kid with a grin on their face.

How interesting, a child who isn't afraid to speak up. He thought.

Then he recalled that Arlecchino mentioned something about a new kid was brought to the orphanage a few days ago… (Y/n), was it?

So it was them it seemed, he had never seen them before.

An amused smile took over his usual scowl when he heard the answer.

"My, you are a smart one, aren't you? Correct."

Everyone was scared of him and would not get close to him willingly, let alone even looking in his way. This was the first time a kid would talk to him on their own accord.

What an interesting soul you were.

He was sure that the other kids had told you about the 'mad scientist' rumors already. But when the lesson came to an end, to his surprise you walked up to him and tilted your head up to look at him.

"Mister harbinger, can we do the volcano experiment for the next lesson, please?" You asked.

To which he only responded by staying silent for a few seconds before he huffed and made his way to the exit.

With that response, you assumed he rejected your suggestion. Feeling dejected, you blew at a strand of your hair before going to the bedroom you were assigned to.

---

The next time you saw 'Mister harbinger' was a week later. When he came into the room, you gasped excitedly at what he was carrying. Some baking soda, a bottle of vinegar…

And a volcano model.

He put the items down onto the desk and as usual, the class stayed quiet to listen to what he had to say. He scanned his eyes around the room and spotted you with the silliest wide grin on your face.

You were a breath of fresh air to him. And so he decided to indulge you in your request.

"Today, we'll be doing the volcano experiment."

---

It's been a month since you've been in the orphanage.

As class ended, it was now time for combat training. You made sure to say your goodbyes to The Doctor before leaving for the training ground, and he nodded in return.

For a few hours, you and the other kids were paired up to go against each other. But to your dismay, you ended up losing every duel.

Among the other kids, you didn't excel in battle. Your stance was sloppy and you had trouble controlling your stamina usage. For that reason, the kids who won against you would make fun of you for being weak.

However, you did have a gifted mind to make up for that, in which The Doctor took interest in.

As you laid on the ground exhausted, you could make out the silhouette of the harbinger leaning against the wall. He was there as Arlecchino’s second pair of eyes. Making sure none of the kids fool around.

When he saw how exhausted you looked, he felt a tiny spark of pity in him.

He would not admit it, not in a million years, but he might have a little soft spot for you. The moment you first talked to him. Right then and there he decided that you would be the only kid he could tolerate.

When the training finally ended, everyone other than you scurried to go back to their rooms, not wanting to be in the presence of the second fatui harbinger any longer.

And you were just laying on the ground panting, sweat was rolling down your face. 

"Why are you still laying there, brat?" Mister harbinger spoke, strolling over to you.

"I… I'm tired." You told him.

"Let's get you to bed then," he said. Holding a hand out for you to take.

You grabbed a hold of his hand and he got you back up, leading you to your bedroom.

Before he could leave the room as you settled down on the bed, you called out to him, "Wait!"

He halted in his tracks, tilting his head a little at you.

"Can you, um, read me a bedtime story, please?" 

"You are training to become a Fatui member, you want me to read you a story?" He scoffed.

"Please, Mister! I'm too tired and I want a story to help me sleep…" You pleaded.

He stood still for a while before sighing and sitting down on a chair next to your bed.

As he did so, you got under the covers and laid down, hugging your teddy bear with a silly grin on your face again.

He observed you for a while, thinking back to how the kids would make fun of you for not being great at combat. You didn't show it but he could see the shame and sadness in your eyes.

And so he made up a little story, secretly wanting to cheer you up.

"Well, once upon a time, there was a… little warrior who wished to become stronger—"

As he continued, his soothing voice was making your eyes heavy, but you were too invested into the story. And you wanted to wait until it was finished.

"—they trained every day so they could beat down foes and the others would stop making fun of them—"

When it finally came to an end, you were still wide awake and you asked him, "What happened next? Did they become a better fighter?"

He looked at you and smiled a little to himself, patting you on the head.

"Not yet, but they worked very hard and I know they will one day. They are a brave little warrior, after all."