#fits perfectly doesn’t it

[kameyyy]

saw my following page was just my posts and went ‘who did i unfollow now…’ it was you 😔 sincerest apologies kam

hello wyr my dearest <333 it's not a problem at all and i understand 100% !!! this happens to some of my moots a lot as well, really no need to apologize <33 (this is in fact your second time and i do not mind <3 you followed me again after all !!! :D <33)

[luxury-nightmare]

He was a

Punk

He did

Ballet

[tobytost]

Ezra has the fattest crush and Zare so knows it

[phoenixkaptain]

Novel A New Hope Vader is my favourite Vader (so far) because he Is Anakin, he is everything Anakin is set up to be. He is intimidating, he is overwhelming, standing next to him feels like standing next to a black hole, he is-

The biggest little shit in the entire galaxy.

You canNOT convince me that he didn’t say half his lines with a shit-eating smirk. He is awful to be around, he is the worst person to ever exist, he is SO annoying.

And Novel Vader is so Anakin because the book can give us details the movie can’t. The book gives us the author’s choice of wording, the way the author intended the scenes to be, and Vader is such a little shit almost constantly but my FAVOURITE will always be when Tagge talks back to him about the Force, saying it isn’t as powerful or scary as he makes it out to be and Vader just-

“I find,” Vader ventured mildly, “this lack of faith to be disturbing.”

-the WORD CHOICE. The fucking WORDS chosen.

“Ventured”??? “Mildly”??? He is CHOKING this man!!! This man is DYING!! He is being such a little shit right now, this is it. This is the Him, this is Anakin Skywalker right here. He is using unnecessary force and being a bitch about it and there will never be anything that so perfectly encapsulates Anakin Skywalker than this fucking scene in this fucking novel.

On the topic and as a brief aside, the novel is what makes me think that Leia was planned to be Vader’s kid, or at least a narrative mirror to Vader, right from the start. She is also such an Anakin.

“Darth Vader… I should have known. Only you would be so bold— and so stupid.”

She just… also. Encapsulates Anakin. Like. Yeah. Yeah, this is what he could have been. He could have been a terrifying figure that people rallied behind. He is loyal to the death, as is Leia. She spits on Darth Vader while he’s having her dragged away. She mocks him to his face. This is the character that the Anakin Skywalker of future movies mimics. Her passion, her anger, her being a little shit and insisting throughout everything that it WAS a diplomatic vessel and they WERE on a diplomatic mission.

Leia is the first character to face down Vader in this novel and not show fear. She is the first character who refuses to submit in the face of the scariest guy in the galaxy. She continues to refuse to submit. She’s just. A great fucking liar.

Leia puts all her trust, her very life and the sake of the entire rebellion she’s fighting for, in a droid. An astromech droid. She begs for them to take the droid further, not for them to find her. She’s willing to die, and she trusts her death will not be in vain because she trusts a droid.

And that, if nothing else, is all the proof needed that Leia is what Anakin could have been.

[reebiz]

Bonus points if their name is changed against their will

Plus the people who brought them to/control said artificial world

[cruel-hiraeth]

WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN ꒰ ajax tartaglia childe x reader ꒱

cw: a little angst, a little romance, a lot of ambiguity. wc: 777. notes: this is based on a prompt—childe x the last time you see each other, but only one of you is aware of the fact—suggested by my loveliest bitti @rabbbitseason and leigh @sugurei.

Snow flurries dot his lashes, kissing the freckles that dust his strawberry cheeks as he knocks on your door—nearly too short of breath for his dimpled smile to be convincing. While he knows the news (held it as a secret from you, one which putrefied and festered until it nearly rotted his organs), nothing could prepare him for this meeting.

The door creaks open. Behind it, your face is wan and drawn up, funerary. Once lively and headstrong, the sunny candlelight of your eyes—a balm that soothed his soul in foreign lands, an omniscient presence in his fondest memories—has been snuffed.

“I take it you’ve heard the news?”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Ajax doesn’t have a biting or witty remark; he simply stares at you for a beat too long, then nods. He wishes you would tease him, now, just like you used to. 

The scoff that leaves your lips is a comforting, familiar sound. Yet it’s ephemeral—over before he can appreciate it. He steps inside your room. 

A private dwelling on the Fatui base is sought-after, and your friend was able to pull some strings as a Harbinger to secure you your own space. Your quarters are exceedingly cramped, and have only the necessities: a standard cot, a wet bath, and a kitchen with a sink, a hot plate, and a narrow counter. There’s a table attached to a wall in the entryway—unusable during the lingering, frigid winters—accompanied by a pair of folding chairs. 

You treat him too formally, he thinks mirthfully, as you busy yourself brewing tea that he gifted you after a trip to Liyue. It’s your pride that keeps an appropriate amount of distance between your bodies, that firmly measures your tone, that keeps your heated glances brief. But it’s also your pride that drew him to you. 

(Ajax was never good at backing down from a challenge.)

Tears silently slip down your cheeks as you work with your back to him, swallowing any noise that threatens to bubble past your lips, though—unbeknownst to you—he understands what the telltale tremble of your shoulders means. With a delicate hand, you pour boiling water over the precious tea leaves and watch as they slowly bleed into liquid amber.

The quiet in your small home stretches uncomfortably thin. Words catch along the curve of your tongue and the tip of his; neither of you can vocalize your emotions. His boot taps against the floor, your fingers against the counter. 

When you serve Ajax his tea, his ultramarine stare pins you in place, unfurling your wings and your worries. He soaks in your watery gaze, and wishes (cruelly, selfishly) that he could revel in the beauty of your sorrow; perhaps he should—before it’s too late. But he can’t bring himself to hurt you further, no matter how desperately he wants to taste you, salt and spit and skin. 

“It’s just for a few years,” you reason aloud, absentmindedly worrying with the side of your porcelain cup—another gift from your companion. Your voice is thick with all that remains unsaid; it quavers.

“The Chasm is a treacherous place,” you say between sips of scalding tea that burns your tongue, “but I have faith in the Tsaritsa’s infinite wisdom. She will see to the safety of our expedition.”

No blade could cut through the tense air between you. Ajax clears his throat and musters a smile that feels like a lie. “It will be over before we know it.”

He reaches for your hand—palm upwards, welcoming—and you take it. The lambskin of his glove is soft, warm from the blood thrumming through his veins. You rest in silken stillness for a few moments, intertwined like that, chests rising and falling in unison. Then, he brings your hand to his lips, and brushes a kiss against your knuckles. It’s as brief and gentle as the flap of a crystalfly’s wings, yet the caress steals your breath—as does the flame-blue burn of his eyes. 

Before you can say anything (and before he does something he shouldn’t), he rises to his feet and grasps the doorknob. A rushed “I’ll miss you” is all he can utter before ripping the door open and slamming it shut.

Tsaritsa forgive me.

He repeats the words over and over like a mantra, tears blurring his vision, though the archon isn’t the one he should be asking for forgiveness; she’s not the one who is about to embark on a mission that’s as good as a death sentence. 

But you? 

Left to your fate, thoughts of what could have been prickle your flesh, steam curling up from the cup of Ajax’s untouched tea.

[emilykat-artblog18]

Tugboats can sing too! (Plus Captains)

Sorry it’s been a while doing these cuz College was taking most of my time and energy. I promise I’ll get back to it including making art again -Kat

[inoreuct]

drink from me

a sherry-laced conversation about thirst and running away. zosan | 2k | hurt/comfort

Being a coward isn’t as easy as one might think.

It’s juxtaposition in its own right; cowardice is, as defined, a lack of bravery— And yet Sanji supposes it takes bravery to be able to ditch everything you stand for. To turn tail and run. Bravery to bear upon your shoulders the disappointment of everybody who had ever believed in you. 

He sighs deeply, tilting the bottle in his hand so that the dregs of liquor slosh within. This is why he doesn’t drink.

It’s relatively easy most days. To lock his past behind a set of double doors, bar the handles with a padlock and chain so he can pretend that everything he’s running from isn’t just three paces behind, snapping at his heels, starved and ready to eat him up whole. Alcohol slots the key back into place and twists it without his permission. Twists his heart until it aches.

He doesn’t know why he’d started. The bottle of sherry had sat, nondescript and guileless and half-full on the galley table after the night’s dessert, and Sanji had paused before he’d slowly wrapped his fingers around the neck of it and let his nails scrape against the dark glass.

The cork had popped almost too easily and here he is now, taffrail digging into his forearms as he takes a long drag from his cigarette and lets bitter smoke fill his lungs full to bursting. Blood orange coats the back of his tongue, cloyingly sweet, thick on the roof of his mouth— He’d made a layered trifle with cacao nibs and caramelised cream that had been slathered between slabs of boozy vanilla sponge, and the aftertaste clings to his teeth. Sanji peers down as what’s left of the sherry glimmers vaguely inside the bottle and fights the urge to chug the rest. 

He could, if he really wanted to. He hardly drinks but it certainly doesn’t mean he can’t. 

A soft scrape against wood catches his attention, barely perceptible. He fights to keep his spine from stiffening, fights to maintain his loose-limbed, easy demeanor; the liquid warmth in his veins helps some but not enough, and he’s halfway through another drag when near-silent footsteps stop just behind him. 

Zoro’s haori shifts in the wind, palm loosely wrapped around the end of Wado’s hilt where she’s strapped alone to his hip. “Was wondering where you went,” he says easily, looking out over the ocean. 

Sanji scoffs. It burns his throat more than the sherry did. “For someone built like that, you’re surprisingly quiet, marimo.”

The immediate urge to kick himself is something new. He rarely feels it— It appears often, don’t get him wrong, he just. Ignores it. It’s a little more difficult tonight. Built like that. The noise that escapes him is mirthless. What’s that even supposed to mean, huh? Alcohol’s always made him snappy and he does feel bad for once — But he’s tired, and the chores won’t do themselves. 

“Make it quick, would you?” he mutters when Zoro still hasn’t replied, low and quiet in the still evening air as he curves down to dig the heel of his palm into his temple. “My spice jars are still all over the counter, and I have to mop the floor before I wash the dishes—”

“It’s done.” 

Sanji blinks, before his eyes narrow and he turns his head to look at Zoro properly. “The dishes?”

“Everything.” The swordsman huffs when Sanji gives him a dubious look, gaze flicking over and away again as he rolls his eye. “Luffy asked me to clean up the galley. Said you needed a break.”

Well. The cook exhales, measured, and buries his face into the crook of his elbow. Taps his cig so that ash doesn’t fall into his hair where he’s holding it aloft above his head. “Tell him thanks, but I don’t.”

He clocks it out of his peripheral vision when Zoro smirks and waves a hand to gesture to his cigarette and his slouch and the glass bottle dangling against wood. “What’s this, then?”

I don’t know. Shop’s closed, please fuck off and come back tomorrow morning. 

The other words that sit at the tip of Sanji’s tongue are far more scathing. He feels them, bites them back viciously before he can burn anyone other than himself. “If there’s a single thing out of place in there I’m gonna—”

“Kick my ass, I know, I know.” Zoro chuckles under his breath. “Don’t you get tired of saying the same things over and over again?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t constantly choose to be selectively deaf, moss-for-brains.”

The swordsman huffs another soft laugh, and conversation peters out after that. Sanji feels an itch building at the base of his skull, flickering just under his skin; it’s making him restless. He taps the bottle against the rail just to fill the silence. Zoro reaches a hand out and Sanji gives it to him easily, unthinkingly, watching and pretending he isn’t as the swordsman thumbs over the faded paper label that’s peeling at the corner. 

Zoro’s hands are scarred, he notes. He knows this, of course, but he never gets tired of letting his gaze drift over tan skin and old scars, thin slivers of pearly tissue painted silver in the moonlight. A breeze ruffles his hair as Zoro finally drinks, and he’s distantly surprised to see that it’s a measured sip and not a swig like what it usually would have been. 

Fucking hell. Sanji’s inhale shudders when he pushes himself up and stands straight, now-free hand wrapping around lacquered wood as he finishes his cigarette and tosses the butt over the side. He needs to stop thinking. He’s paying too much attention. There’s a pressure building behind his forehead and Zoro is an overwhelming presence beside him, unavoidable, stoic and staunch as ever, perfect posture, perfect honour, a sentinel with a pure white sword like some sort of— of hero from a storybook. Perfect perfect perfect.

It’s all building like a scream behind his lips, a river at a bottleneck, and he clenches his jaw to keep it in. Grits his teeth until he hears them creak because what would happen if he opened his mouth? Nothing good, he’s sure. Nothing anyone needs.

Sanji nearly startles when the bottle taps against his elbow. “Talk to me.”

“Nothing to say,” he replies immediately, taking a careless gulp and holding in a cough. 

Zoro’s slow exhale feels like it shifts the wind itself. Their ship creaks gently. “You always have something to say, curls.”

“Look, you—” He cuts himself off, tempering his breath. “I’m tired, alright? So can you just get to the point?” Fuck, he needs another cigarette. 

Maybe that’s the problem. He knows he’s the problem, sure, but Sanji suspects that he’s been running for so long that he’s forgotten how to walk. It’s grown into him like weeds wound through his ribs, the way he sees poison in water that’s perfectly clean, the way peace makes him more anxious than chaos does. He needs to stop running. He doesn’t know how. 

Zoro pries the sherry from his fingers and it’s only then that he relaxes the death grip he’d unintentionally had, a shudder slipping over his shoulders. Zoro holds the bottle loosely between his scarred fingers and doesn’t drink.

The silence thickens. Static crackles within his bones.

Sanji doesn’t know why he starts talking. Doesn’t know why it feels like a dam breaking in his chest, but his mouth is open, and the words are emptying out. “I’m tired of looking over my shoulder for something that isn’t there. Luffy gave me something to run towards, for once, but—”

He doesn’t know how to say it’s not enough without sounding ungrateful, without being greedy. “Sometimes I think I could… consume every one of the Blues, and still want more,” he allows. “Need more.” His fingers lace together, and Sanji dips his head with a wry smile even as he looks at the endless expanse of sky in front of them. “I’m afraid I’ll drink the world and still come up dry.”

There is a thirst in him. Something different than what had wracked him for a month on that barren rock. Hunger he can handle; he eats just enough to stave it off and goes about his day. This, though— Sanji can’t help the way it buzzes in the back of his head and keeps him wound up like a coil of electrical wire. He kneads dough and whisks egg whites just to have something to do with his hands. He defaults to his usual barbs when he’s feeling ungrounded so he can kid himself into thinking he possesses some semblance of normality. His shoulders ache as he stares out over the sea and wonders what it’s like to hold so much and still, still, be so achingly empty.

The winds change, carding cool fingers through his hair. 

“Drink from me,” Zoro says, and Sanji’s breath catches between his teeth.

His head snaps up to find Zoro already looking at him, face unreadable, elbows on the taffrail and bottle cupped in his hands. The swordsman looks serene, Sanji thinks. Gaze trained straight ahead, ever clear of his objectives as Wado gleams at his side, starlight in an ivory sheath. 

“Drink from me,” he repeats. The words are solemn as they always are in moments like these, the liminal space just after dusk but before true night, as his eyes shift over to Sanji and lock in place. “I won’t let you go thirsty again.” 

Sanji’s mouth dries. It’s hard not to feel pinned as Zoro looks at him; the weight of his gaze is almost physically tangible, like a familiar green coat settling over his shoulders. That’s the thing about Zoro— For all Sanji jokes about him having plant life in his skull, the swordsman has a penchant for dropping absolutely earth-shaking statements without even seeming to think about them at all. The cook swallows once, twice, tries to find his words as his lips part and loses them as soon as he takes his next breath.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop feeling like a ticking time bomb. But as Zoro’s lashes flutter and he looks away, Sanji feels something in him settle. The relentless buzz that always seems to sit just beneath his skin soothes out into a quiet hum. 

Maybe part of it’s how Zoro’s scarred and still perfect. Untouchable. Sanji couldn’t hurt him even if he tried, even if he blows apart.

His fingers wrap, unthinking, around the neck of the bottle as it’s pushed back into his hand, the pressure of Zoro’s touch lingering until he’s sure that Sanji has a good grip. The swordsman’s boots brush softly across the planks as he turns to leave and he’s halfway to the stairs before Sanji speaks.

“Marimo.”

He knows Zoro turns without even looking. “Hm?”

“Did Luffy really ask you to clean up the galley?”

A pause, before Zoro starts walking again. “Get some sleep, cook. I’ll take the rest of your watch.”

The silence he leaves in his wake is honey-thick. First watch is Sanji’s shift, it always is— He cleans up the galley and stays awake until Zoro comes to take over. 

(The galley is clean. His watch is covered. His mind is quiet.

For once, he can’t find himself another reason to stay.)

 

The sherry holds no evidence of them ever having shared it. Sanji lifts the tinted glass and there’s no trace of Zoro, no proof that his mouth had ever been where Sanji’s is— None of the candied orange and rosemary from the duck they’d had for dinner, gamey and blood-sweet.

I won’t let you go thirsty again.

Sanji tastes it still, gentle in the back of his throat as he drains the bottle.

[thedeepestwarmestblue]

Mr. Harrington scans him head to toe, giving his extended hand a long look and Billy feels filthy, though he showered twice before coming over. He slides his gaze to his son, a curious tilt to his head.

“I remember that name. Is this is the same one who gave you trouble at the beginning of the year?”

Billy goes cold, the smile sliding off his face. Mrs. Harrington drawing in a shocked inhale.

“Marco! He’s a guest —“

Billy drops his hand, kicking himself because he knew this had been a bad idea. Had told Steve over and over, ‘it’s not going to work, pretty boy, I’m telling you, people like you and me don’t mix’, but Steve wouldn’t have any of it.

Billy bows his head, hot and humiliated, tries to make himself speak around the knife in his throat, but Steve is stepping in front of him, defensive.

“Dad! Really? We’ve been over this! There was a misunderstanding —“

Lucia is next to him then, her hand pressing into his back, guiding him into the kitchen, apologizing quick and low in his ear. Leaving Steve to argue with his father behind them, his voice muffled as the double doors swing shut.

She continues apologizing for her husband as she fixes them each a glass of wine, her Italian accent thick, her eyes dark and tender. The translucent blood red liquid swirls up the sides of fine crystal when she slides it across the counter to him. A third glass waits for Steve when he comes in several minutes later without his father. The fourth absent, like she had known.

His face pink and frustrated, brows drawn together. He throws himself down onto the sofa with his mother with a dramatic groan, taking in a deep mouthful.

“He won’t be joining us,” he says, flat.

Lucia runs her fingers through her son’s hair and Steve closes his eyes, sighing. Billy looks away. Steve opens them, winces when he looks at Billy, apologetic.

“I’m really sorry about that, Billy —“

Billy shrugs him off, like ‘I told you so’. Steve sets his wine down slowly, the glass making a gentle clink against the granite. Looks at Billy for a long moment, concerned, lips thin and unhappy, then he turns to face his mother and launches into furious Italian, his hands everywhere.

Billy watches him, entranced, can only imagine what he’s saying by the expressions on his face. The language fluid and musical, clashing with his tone, harsh and mocking, his eyebrows arching, swooping, buckling. Billy can hear his frustration. Questions, the end of sounds curving upwards. His mother clucking, soothing him, a hand on his knee. ‘Lo so, bambino, lo so’, she repeats over and over.

Steve eventually runs out of steam, looks over to Billy with a grimace.

“Sorry … I’ll use English,” he says.

Billy shrugs, finding it intensely attractive. The wine he’d been sipping not helping one bit.

“All good.”

[deadpoetsandlivinglegends]

Petition to make Dream Boy by Beach Bunny THE Anderperry song

[intelectualderealization]

yeah good job Gregory J. Read for directing Like Minds, now I’m gonna wait my whole life for my soulmate but not that “soulmate” everyone talks about, soulmate in Alex Nigel way. Where’s the one person who thinks EXACTLY like me and will kinda drive me crazy but I’ll be fine with it, and who’ll think that we will be together in every universe. Gimme Alex to my Nigel rn

[wumiings]

“airplane created the pidw world from nothing” “airplane is an unwitting prophet recording his visions” airplane is altering a pre-existing world death note style; reality has to keep readjusting itself so that whatever new bullshit aphrodisiac plant he invents has ‘always’ been there. it didn’t use to be like this.

[thetrinitytest]

pov the hub is in lockdown but it’s only 4 AM and the power is almost completely drained (he wants to give you your coffee)

[akechi-if-he-slayed]

butchlander old woman toxic yuri….women with haunted pasts trying to kill each other….

[gods-favorite-autistic]

How is there not a Fabian edit to the song Ship in a Bottle by fin

[buckdiazlafd]

.