#yes so this one got away from me

[goodlucktai]

could you write a kid sanji fic like you did with luffy?? like sanji gets whammied with a devil fruit n gets turned back tk his germa years or something??

x

Sanji wakes up in the infirmary. He lies there for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling. The room is cool and comfortable, a fan blowing gently in the corner and a door wedged open to let in a breeze rich with the salty, briny tang of the sea. 

Something about it seems strange. He knows that this is the infirmary, recognizes it somehow, even though it doesn’t look the way it’s supposed to. The last time he was sent to the ship’s medical room, it was barely more than an out-of-the-way broom closet, manned by a grizzly old bear who made it clear he didn’t have time for clumsy trainees and their second-degree burns. There certainly wasn’t room for a proper bed, and if there was, Sanji wouldn’t have been tucked into it so carefully. 

Was the wood in The Orbit always this color? he wonders, eyes drifting to stare at the wall nearest his bed. Rich, almost red, each finished plank as smooth as glass. 

“Oh,” a voice says, “you’re awake!” 

Sanji is very used to strangers. The Orbit is a cruise ship, ferrying hundreds of different customers across the Blues every day. But he’s never seen a person like this before. 

It’s a little reindeer, in a pink and blue hat and a fluffy white hoodie with a sheep printed on the front. They hop down from their chair and cross the room to him in an enthusiastic clatter of hooves. Sanji is a runt, according to most of the crewmen on The Orbit and all of his former siblings, but this reindeer is even smaller than him, by almost a foot.

Did they hire a new doctor?

“How are you feeling?” they ask earnestly. “All your labs came back okay and your vitals are strong, but I’m worried you might be coming down with a fever. And I think you were having some bad dreams.” 

Sanji blinks, still half-asleep, and decides to humor the little creature. “I feel okay.”

“Good! Let me get you some water and take your temperature again. Then I’ll let the captain in to see you.”

“The captain? Why does he want to see me?” It occurs to him, belatedly, that he might be in trouble. Sanji sits up fast, ignoring the way it makes his head spin, and cries out, “I didn’t mean to!”

The reindeer turns with an insulated water bottle in their tiny hands, brow furrowed beneath their fur. “Didn’t mean to what?”

“I don’t—whatever I did. It was an accident. I can still work.” Don’t send me back. Don’t make me go. He’s frozen with a familiar terror, one he has done his best to outrun but will never outgrow. 

He knows it’s silly. He boarded the ship on Cozia and told everyone who asked that he was an orphan. If they decided to go through all the trouble of bringing him home, instead of just kicking him off at the next port, then that would still be leagues away from where Germa Kingdom usually resides in North Blue. They can’t send him back because they don’t know where he’s actually from. No one will ever, ever know. Sanji will never tell. 

But he’s afraid anyway. 

“You’re not doing anything until I say so,” the reindeer says firmly. “Doctor’s orders! Luffy only wants to see you because he’s worried about you! He’ll say it’s ‘cause he misses your food, but that’s not true. Well, it is true, but it’s not the only thing he misses.” 

Sanji isn’t sure he followed all of that, but the reindeer seems pretty certain that the captain isn’t going to storm in here and shout at Sanji or fire him. It’s enough that Sanji is able to release his death-grip on the blanket and accept the water bottle that gets shoved insistently towards him. 

Luffy? he wants to ask. The captain of The Orbit is called Chas. And Sanji is only a trainee in the kitchens, hardly allowed to do more than shadow the seasoned chefs. When he does cook, it's for himself, and maybe sometimes the mice that live in the underbelly of the ship. He can’t think of any reason why the captain—or anybody, really—would miss Sanji’s food. 

Luffy. The name settles inside of him like the first swallow of warm soup on a blustery winter day. He doesn’t understand it, but he presses his hands to his chest and tries to hold onto it. 

When the reindeer is satisfied that Sanji’s sufficiently hydrated and his temperature is normal, they say, “Okay, you wait right here while I go get him. Is there anything you need? Are you hungry?”

Still a little nervous, Sanji shakes his head quickly.

The reindeer makes a dubious “hmmmm” noise like they’re not convinced but they don’t want to argue. They pull the door open the rest of the way and disappear out of it, calling for someone at the top of their lungs.

There’s a lot of noise out there. Sanji tilts his head, trying to listen. He can hear music and laughter. Then he hears the thunder of feet approaching the infirmary at a breakneck pace, and he barely has any time to get scared before a beaming face appears in the doorway. 

Oh, that’s Luffy. Sanji knows it’s him right away. He doesn’t know how he knows. It’s the warm soup feeling again. 

“SANJI!” the familiar stranger exclaims, bursting inside with wild enthusiasm, like there’s something very wonderful waiting in the medbay somewhere. Sanji is sure there isn’t—it’s just him in here. 

But Luffy bounces right onto the bed, sitting cross-legged on top of the soft blankets so that he and Sanji are eye-to-eye. 

“Chopper said you woke up! You’ve been asleep for ages. How do you feel?”

“Okay,” Sanji says carefully. Luffy definitely isn’t Captain Chas. So this definitely isn’t the infirmary on The Orbit after all. He must be somewhere else. But how did he get here? And how do they know his name?

“You look okay,” the older boy agrees, leaning in like he’ll be able to tell it’s true just by getting a good look at Sanji’s face. “But there’s no way you’re not hungry! You missed dinner and breakfast and lunch!”

Twisting the blanket in his lap, Sanji says, “I’m really okay.” Judge used to send him away without dinner all the time, for any little thing. It was a punishment Sanji actually preferred, because it was the only one that didn’t leave him bruised or bleeding. Hunger pains are like an old friend to him. 

“Nope,” Luffy says suddenly, and leans forward and scoops Sanji right out of the bed. “There’s not a ton of rules on my ship, but the ones we do have are super important. And this rule even belongs to you—no skipping meals, shitheads!” 

He adopts a low, slightly husky drawl for that last part, like he’s imitating someone. Sanji is too preoccupied with being picked up, clutching at Luffy’s shoulder and the front of his shirt, to wonder much about that.

“Put me down, please,” he blurts, barely clinging to the manners that were sometimes his only saving grace in Vinsmoke Castle, even though he really wants to flail and shout and kick until he’s dropped or tossed away. Bigger people make him nervous. Bigger people grabbing him makes him nearly black out with fear. 

But Luffy just laughs, and it’s a warm, ringing sound. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to listen. And it’s actually not that frightening, after all, being held up by him.  

“Can’t,” he declares. “Chopper said you weren’t allowed to get up, which means I have to carry you.” 

“The reindeer said you were the captain,” Sanji says suspiciously.

“I am the captain. That means I’m not the doctor, or the shipwright, or the navigator, or the cook. I can’t do any of those things that my nakama can do, that’s why they’re so important. That’s why what Chopper says goes!” 

He tosses Sanji up playfully and catches him, the way Sanji has seen guests do with their children sometimes. Luffy’s not big and burly like the deckhands on The Orbit are, but he’s strong. His slim arms feel safe. 

Outside, Sanji has to squint through the late afternoon sunlight, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. They’re on the second story of a grand ship deck, coming down the stairs at a brisk clip.

From their seat on a rope swing, the reindeer themself wails, “Luffy! I said he had to stay in bed!” 

“Huh? I didn’t hear that part,” Luffy calls back blithely, everything he just told Sanji about listening to his crewmates tossed out on its ear. “We need food! Nami, the fridge!” 

“Yes, yes,” a tangerine-haired woman says, sounding put-upon. She folds the paper she’s reading and sets it aside. When her eyes fall on Sanji, she smiles in a way that transforms her whole face. “Hi, there. Iva said you’d be a little confused until the hormones wore off. Do you know me?”

Sanji doesn’t know Iva and he doesn’t know what hormones she’s talking about, but he likes her smile. Everyone on the deck is smiling at him, like they’re happy to see him. He doesn’t understand. No one has been happy to see him since his mom died. 

Behind the tangerine-haired woman, there’s a skeleton in a feather boa, strumming absently on a guitar. The bare skull where his face should be is wearing a rictus grin and heart-shaped sunglasses. 

It should be a frightening thing to see. Instead, it simply makes everything else make perfect sense. 

Oh, Sanji realizes, the worry and confusion in his heart finally settling. This is a dream. 

“Guess not,” the woman is saying to a man with a long nose and lots of curly dark hair piled up in a bun, since Sanji never answered her. 

“It’s only temporary,” the man replies earnestly, though he sounds a little anxious himself. “We’ll have him back to normal before you know it!”

“We’d better,” a green-haired man says dryly. “If Franky cooks for us again, I may throw myself overboard.”

“Oy! I make boats, not fancy five-course dinners!” 

“I can,” Sanji starts to say, forgetting himself. He stops abruptly, covering his mouth with one hand, but it’s too late. Everyone’s already looking at him again. But if it’s a dream, and they’re all dream people, then they won’t mind if he talks out of turn. Testing the waters, he continues carefully, “I can make dinner.”

“You can?” Chopper, the reindeer, asks like it’s some amazing feat. “But you’re so little! You already knew how to cook when you were this little?”

“I’m almost nine,” Sanji says importantly. “That’s practically almost a teenager. That’s almost grown-up.”

“Almost, almost, almost,” a tall woman with a curtain of shimmery black hair murmurs, her voice rich with laughter and openly affectionate. 

“Naaamiii,” Luffy whines, unlike Judge or Chas or any other authority figure Sanji has ever met. “Fridge!”

“Well, get a move on then!” she says, turning him by the shoulders and propelling him forward to one of the doors by the stairs. A bunch of the others start to follow, but a sharp look from the green-haired man causes them to stay behind and glare mulishly at him instead. 

Even Nami doesn’t linger after unlocking the fridge. She swipes a snack from inside, something in a delicate little crystal dessert cup, then tousles Luffy’s hair playfully, then touches Sanji’s cheek like she’d like to tell him something, but doesn’t know how to make him understand. Then she goes, the galley door swinging shut behind her. 

Luffy sits Sanji down on the counter and stands back with his hands on his hips. 

“I may not be a cook, but my brothers and I grew up by ourselves most of the time and we didn���t always have someone around to make meals for us,” he declares. “Before Ace went away, he made sure I wouldn’t starve. There’s like three whole things I know how to make really well! So Sanji can tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. What should we cook?”

The name Ace causes a tender pang in Sanji’s chest that he doesn’t understand. It makes him want to check on Luffy and make sure he’s okay, even though he’s standing right in front of Sanji, beaming ear to ear. 

He kicks his dangling feet back and forth, glancing around the big kitchen, with its spotless counters and hand-stitched dish towels and the pink apron hanging from one of the cabinet handles. It’s a kitchen that belongs in a home. 

He looks back up at Luffy. 

“What was your favorite thing to cook with your brothers?”

Barbecued alligator isn’t a viable option for half a dozen reasons, but there’s dark meat chicken in the fridge that will make a neat substitution. Luffy is hapless but enthusiastic. Sanji doesn’t actually trust him with an open flame so once the chicken is seasoned it goes in a big dish to bake in the commercial-sized oven. 

The entire kitchen is messy somehow even though they didn’t even use the whole thing. Sanji’s face hurts from smiling. 

“I hope you like it,” he says, twisting the dial on a funny tomato-shaped timer. “But you don’t have to eat it if it’s bad.”

Luffy boosts himself up to sit on the counter beside Sanji. Lifting a big bowl of fresh fruits into his lap, he picks out a lychee and begins peeling it with deft fingers.

“Sanji is amazing,” he says plainly. “He’s the best cook in all the Blues and the whole Grand Line. He made a cake so yummy that it stopped a crazy rampage once. I’m really glad he’s mine.”

Reaching over, he takes Sanji’s hand. It’s small and fragile in Luffy’s grasp, and covered in scars, but the young captain doesn’t say anything about any of that.

He puts the peeled lychee in Sanji’s palm, a perfect shining little moon. 

“Sanji can’t make anything bad,” Luffy says, utterly certain. “His hands are good.”

It has to be a dream. Most people only get one big miracle in their lives, if they’re lucky, and Sanji had his already—the chance to run to freedom, granted to him by his sister in an uncharacteristic act of kindness he still doesn’t understand.

There’s no way a place like this could really exist, full of people who smile warmly at Sanji and touch him without hurting him, who worry about him when he’s sick and miss him while he’s gone. 

Sanji hopes he remembers all of it when he wakes up. 

For now he mumbles shyly, “Can we cook together some more?” 

‘Together’ ends up meaning together-with-everybody as the rest of the crew refuses to be left out for much longer. Even the green-haired man slinks inside the dining hall eventually. He doesn’t help at all with the tricky lemon blueberry icebox cake that Usopp stubbornly insisted on, but he gamely tastes whatever gets pushed his way. The kitchen becomes even more of a mess than it was before, and there’s flour everywhere and sticky blueberry sauce all over Sanji’s hands, but he hasn’t laughed this much since he was little. Since he could still run off to mom’s room and climb into her big soft bed and curl up with her arms around him, while she told him stories that made the world seem like a smaller, kinder place. 

These people don’t make the world seem smaller. They make it seem huge. And Sanji isn’t afraid of it. He doesn’t want to hide. He wants to see the whole thing. 

He wants them to be there when he finds All Blue. He thinks maybe he can really, actually find it, if all of them come with him. 

(Two nights later, Sanji wakes up overheated and extremely cramped in a bunk not built for two grown men. He bites back a groan at what feels like the remains of a bad hangover and cranes his neck to see who is sprawled out over him like an inconvenient blanket. 

Of course it’s his captain, the overgrown kid snoring away with his arms tucked around Sanji’s middle. 

Little shit, he thinks, beginning the careful process of extracting himself. He manages to slip out of bed without waking the younger boy up, scowling without real ire at the shameless way Luffy stretches out in his sleep to fully commandeer the whole bunk. Did he have a bad dream? Sanji wonders a second later. 

He untangles the blanket and covers his captain with it properly. Lighting a cigarette, a brief flicker of fire in the dark quarters, Sanji lingers just long enough to push a hand through Luffy’s hair. 

Whatever happened, it’s nothing a good meal won’t fix.)

[dreamofbecoming]

listen i know we all love steve “completely ignorant of queer culture to the point that bisexuality is a surprise” harrington being roasted and educated in turns by robin and eddie, yadda yadda, good stuff. i read “they made a horror version of rocky?” in a fic recently and cackled. also a big fan of “he knew he was bi from the start and just never talked about it” as a trope, love it excellent well done

but what about steve who realizes after starcourt that the most important person in his life now has this thing that’s a major part of her life that he knows nothing about, and what if he fucks it up? what if he says something ignorant or rude by accident, and hurts her? what if he loses her because he didn’t know the right thing to say? what if he can’t keep her safe because he doesn’t know what to look out for? absolutely fucking not, this steve says

and listen she’d never say anything, because she can tell that he can tell how much she likes teasing him and teaching him things, so he plays dumb, and she thinks it’s very sweet. but she notices when the zines she keeps under her bed that she buys at that one secret bookshop in indy when she can sneak away on family trips start going missing, always one at a time, and replaced in a few days with another disappearing. and she finds the new ones he must have gone to buy the weekend she was at her aunt’s house hidden in the back of his closet when she goes to steal one of his sweaters. and she notices when he slips more of her queerer movie recommendations into his personal take home pile rather than the movie night stack when he thinks she’s not looking.

she doesn’t notice when he drives to indianapolis after she tries to explain to him why she can’t just ask out a cute girl, tries to impress on him the fear attached to every moment of attraction that he simply has never had to feel, but later she finds a crumpled receipt from a diner in one of his jacket pockets when she’s looking for his keys, and the address is across the street from the bar the gorgeous woman at the bookstore told her about, the one she memorized the address of but hasn’t worked up the guts to think about visiting, and she knows he must have gone looking for a place like that, must have been trying to understand, must have been scoping it out to make sure it was somewhere she could feel safe, after she told him she never had.

so when eddie nearly pops a blood vessel when they clock each other and she mentions that steve is the only person she’s ever come out to before, her hackles come up. because she gets it, she does, he’s only known king steve until recently, so it makes sense that he would be afraid, be concerned for her safety.

but steve is her person, and no one- no one- has ever made her feel as protected or as cared for as he does. no one has ever tried as hard to understand her, no one has ever put so much work into making her feel safe and seen and loved. and she thinks maybe even if no one else ever does, that’s ok. because she has steve, and more importantly steve has her, and that means no one gets to question his ally credentials in her presence without a dressing down to remember, no matter how well they mean or how recently they helped save the world.

(and maybe she’s not as surprised as she could be when he figures out bisexuality all on his own, because she’s been reading all the same pamphlets he has, after all. and she’s seen the way he looks at eddie, i mean come on. maybe no one else has noticed, but then, nobody knows steve harrington like she does.)

[sleepy-steve]

🧠🪱 Wiggly Wednesday Thursday 🧠 🪱

thank you for tagging me @stervrucht 🖤

no pressure tags: @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe @stevesbipanic and of course anyone else that would like to ♡

thinking about Steve and Eddie who, after going through rounds of physical therapy after everything, continue to work out together because Steve obviously loves it and loves having a friend to work out with. and Eddie notices the difference in his stamina when he gets back to performing on stage. (and if Eddie likes to watch Steve work out a little bit, and likes Steve coming over to help his form more than a little bit, well that’s his business.) but Steve takes a dance class and shakes up his usual warmup, leaving Eddie with some… thoughts.

***

“Okay, Munson,” Steve says, pulling his arm across his body for a shoulder stretch. “You ready?”

“Ready to be tortured? Always,” Eddie jokes. It was their thing. Eddie acts like he hates being there, but he still shows up every other day to their local gym in Indianapolis. And he won’t ever deny the benefits he’s noticed since starting their exercise regime. He's faster on stage, doesn't get winded near as easily, holding those screaming notes without feeling like his lungs will explode. Little did he know that today his joke would come to be true.

Steve liked most kinds of exercise. He was a sporty guy. He liked the pull and stretch of his muscles, the feeling of accomplishment after achieving a new goal, that delicious soreness the day after a really good workout. But mostly he loved trying new things. He’d give anything half a chance if he thought it might be fun. Which is how he ended up at a dance-aerobics class the week prior, finding himself having a lot of fun, blushing furiously when the women in the class complimented how quickly he picks up the steps.

He went back three more times that week. Part of his enjoyment came from the new warmup he was taught in the class. Steve’s usual warmup consisted of basic stretches and a light jog, covering all bases to ensure he didn’t get injured, but not very exciting.

This, however, was far more enjoyable. Steve found himself sinking deep into stretches he didn't know he had flexibility for, and moving his hips to a beat, ultimately just having way more fun with the warmup. And it was about to become a huge problem for Eddie.

Steve pops his headphones over his ears, the tape deck tucked securely in his shorts pocket. He bends over, inhaling deeply as the song starts, rising up with his hands overhead, exhaling as he rolls his wrists, hips moving side to side with the beat. His already short cropped t-shirt rises, showing off a good amount of his chest. He lets his arms come down, bending over again, feeling the pull in his hamstrings. Gripping his elbows, he lets the top half of his body hang, swinging from side to side, his hamstrings fully stretched out.

Eddie looks up from his own basic stretching, shocked to see Steve fully bent over, because hey, since when was he so flexible? With Metallica blaring through his own headphones, Eddie just stares, completely forgetting where he was at in his warmup.

Steve lets his hands drop, moving to one foot, back to the centre, then the other foot. Ass just up in the air, his shorts way too tight. Eddie swallows. He’d been denying his crush for months at this point, and good god this was not helping.

Rolling his shoulders as he stands up, Steve lets his hands travel down his bare thighs, sinking into a squat with his back arched and head tilted back. Eddie's eyes are wide as he watches those tight little shorts with the little cut-ins on the sides ride up, showing far more of Steve's glorious hairy thighs than Eddie can handle. Steve drops his head forward, hunching his shoulders as he moves back to standing. He repeats the motions, and Eddie wishes he had the strength to pull his stare away from Steve's ass.

Seeing Steve's head tilted back and his back arched is sending Eddie insane. Like, he geninely thinks he might evaporate on the spot if he keeps watching. But he just can't look away.

Turning himself sideways, Steve has one foot stepped out in front of the other, legs perfectly straightened into a triangle shape, bent over his front leg. Just when Eddie thinks he’s about to get up and end his suffering, Steve lowers himself down into a lunge. His little shorts definitely way too small and tight for the movement, Steve lunges back and forth, fingertips resting on the ground on either side of his front foot. Eddie watches as the t-shirt rides up with each lunge, the desire to get his lips and tongue all over Steve's chest overwhelming him.

Shaking himself, Eddie tries to remember which shoulder stretch he was up to. He attempts something close to a stretch, but he can’t be sure he's doing it right, because Steve has lowered himself to the ground, front leg bent and back leg perfectly straight, and is fucking thrusting into the ground. If he were to ask Steve, he’d find out this was a hip flexor stretch. But Eddie’s forgotten how to form words entirely, suddenly imagining nineteen different ways he wants to get dicked down by the man before him.

Eddie suffers in silence, heart racing in his chest, watching as Steve repeats the movements on his other side. He prays that the torture ends soon, that they can just get to the workout, and Eddie can go back to pretending he doesn't want to ride Steve until his thighs give out. But Eddie gets no such luck.

Steve has moved into some kind of triangle position, hands on the ground, legs straight, and of fucking course, his ass in the air. Eddie marvels at how straight the shape is, only for a moment, because then Steve is lifting his heels up and down in turn, and jesus christ those tiny little shorts are just riding up, and Eddie can see a hint of Steve's ass peeking out. His jaw drops. He may actually explode.

Just when Eddie's thinking he can't take much more of this, Steve lowers himself down, knees spread wide, arms stretched out in front of him and head tucked down. A wild and rushed series of thoughts fly across Eddie's mind, all centred around Steve kneeling down in front of him. Eddie needs to get it together quickly.

As Steve brings himself back up to the triangle position, walking his feet to meet his hands and rolling his spine up, shoulders and head rolling back last, he sees Eddie taking off for his warmup jog. Assuming that he probably just took too long with his new warmup, Steve shrugs it off and starts his jog shortly after.

Eddie hits his personal best in several weights that day, desperately trying to expend his excess energy in some way. He barely registers the wins, mind still stuck on Steve and his perfect ass in all those new positions. He almost dissolves on the spot when Steve claps him on the shoulder in congratuations.

At the end of their session, Eddie takes a freezing cold shower and prays for the sweet release of death.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

OOH YEAH BABY ITS THE SURGERY EPISODE BABY!!! ME AND THE HOMIES NEED SOME NEW FACES FOR OUR NEW PLAN, AND WHO BETTER TO GET THE JOB DONE THAN THE TWO MOST EVIL PEOPLE WE'VE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE OF HAVING OUR LIVES VIOLATED BY? I MEAN IT WOULD BE FUNNY. IT WOULD BE FUNNY.

[dykedvonte]

Honestly I see Jimmy's refusal to put Curly out of his misery less about his weird feelings of envy or his delusions but the fact Curly is all but stated to be a shield to Jimmy from his actions and people seeing the worst in him.

The only characters that Jimmy really interacts with one on one before the crash are Curly and Anya, two individuals he has wildly different relationships with. It's likely that Curly really did most of the talking between them as the pilots and the rest of the crew as staff. They didn't know of Jimmy's more reprehensible behaviors cause they never really had the chance to and Jimmy is subconsciously aware. If they had disliked him more than Anya would have told Swansea earlier or even Daisuke when things got really bad.

It's why he takes the immediate opportunity to blame Curly; He's the shield. He's saved Jimmy's ass more times than he can count and more times than Jimmy would ever admit. Even when he can't really do it anymore, he mentally shields himself from his own faults by putting Curly between them. Letting Curly die puts too much on him because he doesn't know how to function without a safety net.

In the end Curly only lives because Jimmy needs the idea that Curly will inevitably make things better to stay alive, meaning Curly has to live, no matter how much it pains him to do so.

[bitterseaproduction]

Angsty Bilbo dying Bagginshield art giving me another story idea~ 😂😭💕

But no, seriously? A play on the popular time travel fix-it, but one where Bilbo dies protecting Thorin during the Battle of Five Armies? And Thorin is inconsolable, I can’t even. And he might pull himself together long enough to stabilize Erebor, but there is No Way he can be a good ruler in his grief, so he has to pass it on. (I was going to say to Dain just to twist that knife a little harder, but actually there are reasons hinted below on why Fíli & Kíli must have lived.) And Thorin just… he wanders, probably. A shell of himself for the rest of his days.

And yet, when he inevitably passes away, he awakens on the road to the Shire. And he’s younger. And he’s so confused, quickly suspecting he must be dead and this is nothing like what he was taught to expect. But then his instant impulse to check Bag End has him walking in on that same meeting from so many years ago, his Company intact, the wizard smiling at him, introducing him to… to…

Bilbo. His Bilbo. The sight of him makes Thorin want to weep and hold him and never let go again, but he is instantly terrified to do anything, because is this a dream? Will he wake? What happens if he says something new, will ‘this’ be ruined somehow? He doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to change anything, save for the end. The very end.

But, even as he strives to mimic himself, he knows something is wrong. He’s off-script from the start purely due to his shock, but he tries to recover, get back on track, and within words, he’s managed it. The discussion is righting itself, and no one there could possibly know the difference, right?

And yet, Bilbo stares at him. From the instant Thorin walked in, Bilbo was staring, looking lost. As he had before, that first time, but it wasn’t the same. Bilbo had been confused then as well, but it had been a light, anxious uncertainty then. This time? He was frowning, his expression tense.

His eyes haunted.

Because Bilbo has also lived that night before. Just once as far as that night was concerned, but it was familiar to him. So familiar. That first night had haunted him for decades, to the very end of his long, long life, when he thought he might know rest, and perhaps — if he was truly as lucky as some once claimed — he might get to see his friends again. See Thorin again.

Instead he had slept, drifted away, and awoken to a battle about to start.

And he had questioned it, had stumbled that first time, but he adjusted. He tried to save Thorin. To save them all.

And he failed. Again.

Then, when he finally slept for the first time afterwards, he awoke to the battle starting again.

And again.

And he tried, over and over, day after the same horrid day to find a way to get through. And sometimes Thorin lived. Sometimes the princes did. Sometimes, new people died. The wrong people.

Once, in his darkest moments, he thought that perhaps someone was trying to teach him humility, teach him to accept fate as it was and not try to fight it, not change anything. And so he went through the motions as well as he could remember them after all those years, following them to the letter, save for when he sobbed all the harder when it was done.

He sobbed again, the relief bone-deep, when he awoke again the next day, the battle still awaiting him.

He lost count of his attempts, and no one could rightly vouch for his state of mind when he finally resorted to the one thing he had refused to try: Not since that fourth (or fifth?) time, when he managed to be there for the fight and threw himself in Azog’s way, but Thorin pulled him out of the way, and screamed at him with such outrage and fear and despair in the few beats he bought by pushing Azog over, that Bilbo never attempted it again.

Until that final day. And that time, Bilbo didn’t give Thorin a chance to stop him.

And it broke a heart Bilbo thought long since shattered to hear Thorin scream, to feel him pick him up and hold him close and hear his voice like that. But the words faded soon enough, and he couldn’t feel anything, nothing except for regret and acceptance, because this was different. He felt it. This time, he would not awaken again, and that was fine. He had saved his king, kept all of his dwarves safe that last time. If that was to be the last, then that was all he could ask for. It was alright. He could sleep.

Then he woke up.

Not outside Erebor, but inside a hole. His hole. Bag End.

He walked outside, stood in the sun, and watched a wizard walk up the road to his door.

He did not understand.

[mondaymelon]

me n who ?!?!?!? ME N WHO GUYS ...

picrews: 1 2 3 4

mking silly girlfailure picrews are the only thing saving my sanity which took quite a number of blows today ( its hanging on by the measliest thread but i think its better to consider it go n e )

anyways i wanna make a silly tag game so we are going to make a silly tag game because in the wise words of martin luther king i think wait it was probably gandhi "be the change you wish to see in the world" arent i so cool guys im taking like the first step forward and :stareyes: ahahah

(no pressure) tags !! 🏷️ : @cienxpidity, @ilyuu, @anonbinaryweirdo, @suntoru, @tuesdayberries, @lume-nosity, @mrcrazyvillainvillainn, @ceneid, @amalythea, @xianyoon, @aeon-yao, @ryuryuryuyurboat, @auroratumbles, @snobwaffles, @the-white-void + everyone i probably forgot to tag (SPS IM SORRY) n anyone else whod like to join !!

[omaano]

“Dank farrik!” Din shouts. “There’s a karking rancor in there!”

Boba is grinning like a kid. “Yes! And I haven’t named him yet. He imprinted on me. I spend so much time down here, you have no idea.”

The Return of the Mandalorian to the Book of Boba Fett by TranquilizedDropBear

If you ever thought "I love Boba Fett, I'd love to see him in his own damn show sometime" in regards to Ep 5 of TBOBF can I maybe very enthusiastically recommend you the above linked fic? Because it's lived rent free in my brain for months now and I've thought about it so much that as far as I'm concerned Boba was the one to fill in Din on the background lore about the fall of Mandalore and whatnot. Because we can all use a pair of maybe-Mandalorians bonding sitting on top of a rancor in our lives, no?

Also I had been dying to make this drawing for months now for @bobadinweek's AU bingo for my Canon Divergence slot.

[corrodedcoughin]

just thinking out loud but the Steve going to college because believe it or not he’s finally found a very specific course that catches his interest and it happens to be in Fort Wayne so he can still check in on the kids. It gets even better when Robin and Nancy decide they want to stay local too so they all pack together and get excited (and nervous) about moving.

The time comes and they leave Hawkins and suddenly it’s the first proper day of classes. The three of them are spread over the campus so Steve treks alone to his first class, the reason he chose the college in the first place: Introduction to Folklore.

He’s so ready to learn about something he’s finally interested in. Doesn’t pay attention to the usual seating conventions and social status, just wants to know where they’ll be starting, cliques and popularity contests a long gone part of his life.

The professor is in her stride, painting a picture with her stories of creatures from folklore and the origins, Steve can’t believe it but he’s genuinely excited to learn for once. The pinpoint accuracy focus on the professor is shattered when a voice erupts next to him

‘That’s great and everything but shouldn’t there have been a moth man lover sighting by now? Where is the justice for this noble creature I ask you? I know there’s monster fuckers out there professor.’

The professor slowly engages the guy in conversation but Steve is seething. Who does this guy think he is? Does he think this is a private class just for him? That Steve isn’t paying good money to be here? So pen clenched in a white knuckled hand Steve lets his bitchy temperament get the better of him ‘I thought this was a folklore class? Not a self insert romance lit course’ he clearly says it too loud because the boy next to him. The one who started all this turns to Steve and raises an eyebrow, a smug smile on his face and lets out a ‘huh interesting’ and what’s Steve supposed to do with that? And more importantly what’s Steve supposed to do with the fact that the guy is stupid hot with this long hair, tattoo combo and that the smug look on his face definitely made Steve’s heartbeat thunder in his ears? Out of rage on behalf of his fellow students, of course.

Turns out it doesn’t matter, the class is over and Steve is running out the door, determined not to get caught by those eyes again.

It starts off a Thing between them. Every week the guy, Eddie, will challenge the lecturer with some inane point that Steve refuses to accept he actually believes to the point of Steve firing back an argument at him. Eventually they are full on debates in the middle of the class that the professor has to mediate after eddie decided that standing on the table would be appropriate (of course, not to be outdone, steve followed).

They absolutely do not have a thing for each other and the rest of the class absolutely do have a sweepstakes on when they’ll get together

[pepperpixel]

“Can't remember when we walked past the O.R. sign!

(sur-ger-y!)

Can't remember passing out with her hand in mine!

(my-my-mind!!!!)

I remember waking up with my mind repaired.

(A-OK! ^^)

I remember when I realized, she wasn't there...”

Amnesia was her name….. is. so. horrifically. sadly fitting for these two in literally every single line. And I’m gonna NEED ALL OF U GUYS TO GO LISTEN TO IT NOW OK… THIS ISNT A DRILL GO GO GO GO!!!

Anyway… uhh. the fact Betty “blessed” this guy to like. An eternally long lifespan w THIS FUCKED UP OF A MENTAL STATE IS SO SCREWED UP GHGH- Like poor Simon god damn…! u kno he’d rather just keep on not sorting out his baggage and trauma forever too cuz it’d be too complicated… too much… force him to admit things about himself and about BETTY that he really really doesn’t want to… better to just leave it all unexamined.. pack it all into lil boxes so he can just try to ignore it and pretend it doesn’t exist… HE GOTTA LIVE FOREVER W IT THO… *ME BANGING ON SIMONS DOOR AT 3 IN THE MORNING*: “SIMON U GOTTA ACCEPT URSELF!!!! LOVE URSELF!!!! ACKNOWLEDGE N ACCEPT EVEN THE “BAD” PARTS OF URSELF!!!! SIMON PLEASE!!!!! SIMON EVEN PPL WHO LOVE YOU AND WHO YOU LOVE CAN HURT YOU!!!! ACKNOWLEDGE IT!!! ACKNOWLEDGE THE HURT AND ACKNOWLEDGE UR FEELINGS!!!! AND URSELF!!!!! SIMON!!!!” anyway… gGHGH YEA, SRRY. SIMON PETRIKOVS MENTAL ILLNESSES MAKE ME FEEL LIKE IM GONNA EXPLODE. ANYWAY HAVE SOME ART. W a bunch of diff versions cuz I’m indecisive!

[artsycooky13]

top 3 fave bbys in the burrito show (bonus SUPER LONG tags on how i feel bout the characters)

[grumpyghostdoodles]

Beach day, Part Two!! (Part one Here<3)

[leupagus]

Really enjoying writing Book 2/Season 6 of this monstrosity, where instead of having Sansa and Jon fighting to regain Winterfell and all that nonsense with the "Battle of the Bastards," it's gonna be like 10K of Sansa being the Warden of the North equivalent of that mom who just needs FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE AND QUIET YOU GODDAMN KIDS

To the Lord Robin Arryn, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, and my Dear Cousin,

I write to you from Wint

"Sansa — sorry, Lady Sansa, you'll never believe—"

"Jeyne, you don't have to call me 'Lady Sansa,'" Sansa said as she looked up from her parchment. "You're the steward of Winterfell now."

Jeyne Poole, hanging onto the handle of the door and swinging it absently back and forth like she'd done back when they were ten years old, frowned. "My da always said the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were worthy of respect."

Sansa leaned back in her chair. Father had dealt with the business of the holdfast in the Library Tower, so he could wrestle with the accounts without being interrupted every twenty minutes. Sansa had always thought that a bit unfair, since it meant you had to climb all those stairs just to find him, but now she was wondering if she could perhaps build the tower twenty or thirty feet higher. The exercise would probably do her good. "Your father always called mine 'oi, you,' if I recall correctly."

The look Jeyne gave her was deeply unimpressed. "Aye, and you always complained about it. Do you want to hear about the cow loose in the guest house or not?"

erfell at last, which was the dearest wish of your beloved goodfather Petyr. His dying words were to express the hope that both his goodson and his niece be safe and secure in their homes, and I am glad to say tha

"Lady Sansa, Master Mikken has refused another dozen apprentices. He said they're all 'knuckleheaded clods who wouldn't know a round ball fuller from a chisel punch." This time it was her master-at-arms, who'd been Rodrick Cassel's round-faced child named Beth when Sansa had left. Now he went by Cass and looked like he could wrestle a (very short) bear if needs be.

"I don't know a round ball fuller from a chisel punch," Sansa replied, frowning.

Cass shrugged. "Well, and nor do I. But that's near fifty lads he's turned away. We need someone helping with the forges. We've been making do with the army smiths that Prince Stannis let us—"

"Prince Stannis?" He was going to hate that.

Another shrug. "We've got to call him something, milady. You won't call him 'king,' nor will any of your bannermen, but his soldiers give us no end of trouble when we call him 'lord.' So 'prince' it is. And he is one, too, ain't he? King Robert's brother. That'd make him a prince, right?"

Sansa answered with a shrug of her own. By the time Stannis and his companies returned from the Dreadfort, everyone in the North would likely have settled on Prince Stannis, which would lead to a great deal of shouting and probably threats of lighting people on fire, but she had at least a fortnight to think of something.

"As I was saying, we can't use the Baratheon smiths forever, and the ones from our bannermen have all gone home with their bannermen. Mikken needs apprentices, and we need our forge at full strength."

"All right, let's go speak with him," Sansa sighed.

t through the goodness of Stannis, of House Baratheon, and his masterful command of the armies of the North and the Stormlands, I am now secure as Warden of the North.

Not only that, but your dear cousin, my brother Rickon has somehow survived all the danger that the North has presented, while it was under the thrall of the Ironborn and House Bolton. He is now safe and I will reu

"My lady?" Maester Wolkan peered his head into the room.

[north-wilkesboro-moonshine-cave]

congratulations to Mme. Pascale Leclerc, who has surely just experienced both the funniest and most unhinged weekend a mother could ever have. Dear fucking christ, I hope your middlest son brought you a bottle of champagne for yourself, ma'am.

[eruptedinlight]

look at this wonderful talisman

[faunabel]

my fave form of what's basically friends to lovers is when two people meet and have all their own baggage and the connection they form together and love they have for each other forces them to unpack all that baggage if they want to make things work. the kind of relationship where you're forced to look in the mirror and stop avoiding ur own problems because that person forces u to confront all of them (and u force them to confront theirs, too) because the relationship will Not work if you keep up all these walls either from your person of interest or even from urself!!! and there's too much of something there to give up and move on because it's difficult

the kind of thing where there's romance but the real plot of it all is self transformation through loving another. like the focus is on two individuals w/ their own lives who come together and have romantic feelings for each other vs the romance itself being the plot.

and maybe in the end they don't even stay together! maybe it doesn't work out! but there's drastic change and an undeniable impact they both made in each other's lives that will live on. is changing for the better not love in its rawest form?