Warmup From A Couple Of Days Ago

CRUEL

another leyendecker redraw cause im silly like that

For the science ig

do u see sanji as some brand of genderqueer or more transfem? i love both sm but im curious about ur view specifically

Kind of both honestly. The headcanons I draw usually aren't put together in the same timeline, mostly it's just things I'd love to explore. As his character in general, genderqueer/gender-fluid Sanji is my favourite because the idea of them growing into their femininity instead of internalising it makes me feel a lot. I see him as someone pretty comfortable with presenting masculine most of the time, but (I ranted a lot about this on twitter lol) intentionally or not, identity struggle is a big part of his character and I really wish it wasn't written off as just a running gag. Thriller Bark was sort of a break off for Sanji's development and, in my head, if Oda continued working on their inner world instead of just kind of shallowing Sanji out, some sort of gender flexibility would be a beautiful conclusion for them. So, that's my "canon" rendition of Sanji

Canon and Oda's writing is the reason I'm kind of reluctant to push my thoughts on Sanji being a trans woman to a bigger public because I feel like it correlates with a lot of harmful stereotypes about trans women, which makes me personally and other trans folks uncomfortable. With how the original source treats Sanji, I really don't want the wrong audience to turn something so joyful into something vile. She's very dear to me, I think she would've been an amazing character with an amazing story that I'm absolutely loving to explore rn, but I'm keeping her for myself and all of you hehe

"Well, fancy meeting you here."

The main hall is quiet at night. Not for long, of course, just a moment between the midnight's fall and just before the sunrise, when the room gets so eerily quiet Dushan thinks he could count the mice around the corners just by the sound of them. The fireplace is the only light inside, he squints at its gleam with slightly blurry eyes before slumping down a and finding Dorian's worried gaze.

"Fancy indeed," Dushan echoes, eyes following the slope of the mage's shoulders, buried beneath the fur — it's one of those robes he managed to salvage from home, he knows it just by the shape.

From the Trevelyan house, that is. Something about the way the fibers cling to Dorian's slightly sweat-damp skin, how he shivers barely noticeably, something about that makes Dushan's guts ache, dull and weary. He gets up from the throne with some unexpected effort and crosses the distance to the chamber's door, pulling Dorian into a hug.

"Why are you up?" his lips find the left temple, his fingers find the back of his neck, pulling the heavy head into a cautious embrace.

Dorian, unusually cold palms hidden beneath the fabric, wraps his arms around his middle in return. Stands like that for a few seconds, chest to chest, beat to beat, breathing shallow and just a bit too fast.

"Couldn't sleep without you."

There's an unspoken implication that something woke him, one of those heavy night terrors that leave him panicked and gasping for air. Dushan kisses his temple again and hears a quiet chuckle muted by the layers of fabric. "You look terrible like that, you know?"

Dushan pulls away slightly, arching a brow. "Like what?"

Dorian breaks the embrace, taking a few steps aside and slumping down on the throne — legs thrown over the armrest, arms folded over the chest. He bounces a foot in the air, eyes finding the fire Dushan was staring daggers into minutes ago. "Like this. Like a ghost of an emperor looming over his lost kingdom. Was afraid that if I look at you for too long you'll start turning green."

Dushan snorts and makes a scary face, letting the anchor shine and light his frame. Dorian rolls his eyes to that, idly bumping his heel into the golden binding. "Oh shut up."

He doesn't see the painful vince, Dushan makes sure of that, grabbing him and turning him in his seat like the mage weighs nothing. Dorian yelps, almost offended, as Dushan kneels down in front of him. A brief eye contact — the Inquisitor marvels at the sight of him against the starry skies, and then lets his own head fall, burying his face into the robe, into the tense thighs. I'm tired, he wants to confess. I'm so tired and I can't keep my eyes shut for more than mere seconds no matter how close I hold you.

Dorian doesn't really need him to spell it out, does he. Dorian runs his fingers through his thinning out hair and whispers gentle words Dushan can't yet understand.

"Amatus, come back to bed."

"Marry me."

The silence rings. Dushan doesn't lift his head, not until Dorian lifts it up for him, hands squeezing his cheeks in a deadly grip.

"Have you gone mad on me?"

They stare and stare at each other, Dorian's sheer panic against Dushan's stone calm. He palms at his forehead, grips his cheeks again, something hysterical in his posture. "No, really, you impossible bastard, have you lost your mind?"

Dushan's stoic expression turns to amusement, as he finds a wrist to kiss. "I'm on my knees already, I can beg."

Dorian huffs. Dorian puffs, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, the other pushing Dushan away with a force he doesn't really mean. The Inquisitor sits back willingly, looking up open and offering, eyes squinted in loving humour.

Dorian shakes his head. "Absolutely I will not."

And weak, awed curses follow, as he stares down at the man at his feet.

Dushan leans forward again and pulls one bare, frozen foot into his own lap. Kisses the knee, does the same with the other. There are hands in his hair, still feverishly pushing him away without any real strength to them, lips whispering something inaudible and "get up, get up before anyone sees you, matula" as they grow trembling and unsure. Dushan hugs his legs, like he's afraid Dorian will set off running, and looks up, face suddenly stern.

"I've done many things wrong and I will do much more. But I want to do this, this, right, while time remains."

The anchor burns, his eyes burn, as the hall grows green in color. His own panic rises as he speaks urgently.

"Whatever you want, however you will have me. But when the Herald dies I want him to bring your name to the grave, Dorian Pavus. I'm no Trevelyan. I'm no Inquisitor. I'm but a man devoted to you and I want to go as one."

There are tears, Dushan can't see them gleaming in the dark but Dorian chokes on his breaths like he can't find his voice or any air around them. He hits his shoulder last time, then slides down to the ground until there's nothing but his limbs and chest and the oh so familiar smell of his oils as he grips Dushan so hard that neither of them can breathe now.

Merely a whisper, "You cannot say such things. It's cruel."

Dushan nods and kisses his lips pressed together in a salty line.

"I know. I am."

"You're not," comes out as a louder cry.

"Now you're talking nonsense."

"The whole castle just heard you pledge allegiance to my father's name. Don't nonsense me."

"I did no such thing. I asked you to marry me."

"And I told you I won't."

"No trouble," Dushan says contently, leaning against the base of the throne. "I will ask you again."

Mock cover

"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.

i am Very Normal about Merlin BBC (2008), why'd you ask?

Did a thing for the soul and peace of mind