I Love The Overlap With The Furry Part Of My Following It Might Not Be Intentional But I'm Happy That

jealousy

Both are very confused and (apparently) bisexual

Okay I'm getting somewhere with them

Every few days I think about them

"You love me," he jokes.

"I do," Mihawk doesn't joke in general.

Shanks gags around the accidental mouthful of jerky, desperately trying to push it down. Or up. Mihawk doesn't look up, in fact, doesn't budge at all, eyes stuck to the same word in the line.

"The—" Shanks wheezes. Shanks chokes and coughs and wiggles like a dying roach before spitting the sorry chunk out and rasping "the fuck you do" with teary eyes.

It sounds offended. A little bit hurt, metaphorically and literally. Mihawk pulls his knees up to his chest, shuts the book closed between them and clutches freezing fingers into tight fists. Then, folds his arms too for a good measure, as Shanks slides across the crow's nest in one hurried effort. It's a mere few seconds of wailing, creaking and yelping in a small space between the railings before the book he was reading tumbles down, down, down, and Shanks pulls himself up, up, up, squeezing in between Mihawk's thighs. It looks fucking scary. It feels fucking scary, with everything swaying and moaning around them from the sudden commotion and Mihawk hears a splash as he desperately clings to Shanks' collar, body pushed into awkward angles beneath the weight of another.

"What is wrong with you?!"

Shanks has that face on, one of mad childlike stubbornness, with pouting frown and searching eyes, and the wind is oh so harsh against Mihawk's back. He doesn't know what to do, every muscle very much frozen in something akin to animalistic panic. Shanks pushes for both of them, forehead pressing into his with skull-cracking force.

"Say it again."

"No."

"Captain's order."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You're on my ship."

"That's not—"

Hands let go of the railing and touch his chin. No, cup. Hold between two palms, fingers brushing loose hair away, shaking, begging. "Mihawk, please."

Mihawk pulls the collar and bites into the sodden mouth. Hard enough to make the dry lip pop with blood, not hard enough for the bastard to let go. He keens instead, scooting in closer, so much that his knees slide almost entirely under Mihawk's behind and tip him over. There's a moment of cold fear and hearts dropping as Mihawk's head and hat fall between the spindles and someone shrieks "what the hell is going on up there" from the deck.

"Got it! Nothing!" Shanks wheezes, yanking Mihawk on top of himself, slapping a cheek to the bare chest. A few heartbeats later, a sheepish confirmation comes. "Got it?"

Mihawk squeezes his thighs and nods with a gulp, fingers stupidly not letting go of the hat's brim.

God, help them all.

The wind blows and blows, the breaths get slower, the tense muscles grow tired, and Mihawk feels himself slouch. Shanks rubs his ear slowly, almost as surprised at the loss of contact, and blinks up — all blood and snot and dried tears Mihawk rolls his eyes at.

"You're a pig of a man," he sighs, not sounding half as annoyed as he intended, not half as disgusted as he should be, wiping the scrunched face with a sleeve.

"Let me try," the captain whispers, and Mihawk waits for him to push his arm away, confused, but lips meet lips in a gentle press again and, oh, oh Shanks definitely tries.

Mihawk laughs into his face, into his neck, elbows finding rest on his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist in surrender. He cradles the heavy red head as the man, the boy, runs the last of his quiet tears into his shirt.

"I'm so fucking tired of you."

"You're too young to be tired of anything, Red."

Shanks pulls away and slumps back, running palms along Mihawk's lost in the air forearms, holding his wrists gently. Not slim enough for the ring of fingers to connect around them, not firm enough to be meant for holding.

"I can't promise you anything," he tries once more, staring empty at the thumbs caressing him.

Shanks looks up with the same pout. "You just did."

"That wasn't a promise."

"Then let me try again," the grip grows tighter. "Until I get it right."

He won't, Mihawk knows.

They try again.

we all know and love smitten-yet-ridden-with-guilt-and-insecurities-Thorin, so here - I wrote some!

---

Gandalf was right; Thorin is not cutting a very fine figure as King Under the Mountain. He knows that much, his bruise-dark undereyes and unkempt hair hardly adding to his already lacklustre appearance (much still needs done, and rest is for those more deserving than he). He had, however, not shorn his beard since the Battle, and while poorly maintained, the little length since gained might mask his less appealing facets. Maybe.

Thorin had never been a vain dwarf. His faults were many, he could see that much now (…not a ssssingle… the memories still makes his skin crawl), but vanity had rarely tormented him, despite having long been aware he would never hold any great dwarven beauty. Kili's pitiful beard was a family heirloom, of sorts; the line of Durin had seen many an unpolished gem. However…

Curls of spun gold, framing steely eyes. A mouth cut from stone…

Now, this was rather late in life to wish he had been born with some beauty to tempt with. His hammer bears down on the white-hot metal once more. If the thoughts could not be forced from his mind, his hands would force them into his craft. The blade is taking shape. Thorin was confident in his smithing; bending metal to his will had always come easier than attempting to do the same with the councils of Erebor. He would not falter now. And yet, as the garden trowel glows under his attention and the flames of his forge, he worries. It is not a courting gift, he swears it. Bilbo has simply found a patch of weeds in one of the less collapsed atriums of the outer wings, and how he had shone when he told the company of the things he would grow there.

Thorin is glad for it. Carving a garden from the rockface would have been much harder to explain away as a token of their friendship. But oh, to have Bilbo take root here like this. Plant your trees, watch them grow… Would Thorin get to see that acorn again? Would it make his heart claw its way out of his chest to lay itself bare for a hobbit that would never spare a longing glance for the likes of him? No… Thorin shakes his head with a rueful smile as he douses the finished tool in cold water, steam hissing. If Bilbo Baggins were ever to have his head turned by a dwarf, it would surely be someone much more handsome than this haggard King. The Shire has no kings, and Thorin was glad for it - it would be infinitely worse could he entertain the idea that Bilbo might come to admire the lustre of his crown, even if never that of his smile.

Thorin carves his maker's mark into the wooden handle, wincing at his own shameful indulgence, and yet unable to truly regret it. Thorin would provide his gem with the tools to plant his garden, and if Bilbo would stay a single day longer than planned to tend to it… Well, the whole of the mountain should be merrier for it. Yes, he decides, a set of gardening tools could not hurt. The sketches of a hundred courting bead designs covering his desk could yet be contained if he permits his heart this less perilous outlet.

I love when I get like reblogs like

#UEIBVFFFHJKMNBGZ??? #AAAJJKVXTKB??? #crying shitting throwing up #aaaaaaaAaaaaaAAAAAAAAAA

and the nex one is just

#👍

Kill count higher than your salary

Batman thoughts

(Eoin Macken is runway level of gorgeous but he just fits the softer vibe in my head

Like yeah I believe this is a dad to a bunch of lost kids)