#header promise

[postsentiment]

"memory paints a halo of tender thoughts around you" antique telegraph postcard, circa 1900

[arcanegifs]

30 CaitVi Season 2 Tumblr Mobile Gif Headers (download link)

Showcase of some of the headers:

‼️ DO NOT DIRECTLY SAVE THESE FROM TUMBLR ‼️ The headers on Tumblr are compressed. They won't look good if you save them here directly. They're only here for a preview. Please view and download them all from Google Drive instead. Download Link: (HERE)

Some more notes:

There are 30 basic gif headers in the gdrive for you to choose. Please like/reblog if you do use them.

If you don't know how to upload a mobile header, you can find my guide here.

PLEASE MAKE SURE YOUR BLOG BACKGROUND IS WHITE or BLACK (depending on the bottom header effect). Else, the header effect will look off.

DO NOT RESIZE THE HEADER WHEN USING THEM. It will look wonky. Just click "done" after you upload them.

You can find a masterlist of all my Tumblr mobile and Discord headers here. I'll update the masterlist with these new season 2 headers when I'm more free.

Credit is not necessary, but highly appreciated.

Enjoy!

[one-sunny]

Waiting, waiting

Sanji x reader

Summary: Following the events of Whole Cake Island, Sanji is a broken man. He turns to the only person he has felt true affection for with a desperate plea. Angst, desc. of a panic attack, hurt comfort.

Based on the song “Would you fall in love with me again.” Also, disclaimer, i haven’t seen the entirety of the WCI storyline but im sending it anyways 🤷‍♀️

Masterlist

Would you fall in love with me again,

Your relationship with Sanji has always been complicated. You knew of the affection you had for each other, of the longing, and of the little things stuck in your minds that have kept you away from each other. He offered sweet words and the affirmations you needed for comfort. You offered him a gentle presence and acceptance. There were consistent lingering touches and longing stares. But there was always something keeping you away from each other.

There was nothing but relief upon Sanjis return to the crew. You were aware of what he endured and of every way he was different.

He returned to doting on you all, but he lingered in the kitchen and away from the crew far longer than usual. His prep took extra time. The dishes were a much larger task. And above all else, he no longer accepted any aid from you as he so freely did before.

If you knew all i’ve done?

Sanji made an effort to avoid you upon his return to the ship. He was a broken man, but above all else, he wasn’t sure he could face you. After everything he had done. After everything he had to face. Could you really look at him the same?

The man was never sure what to make of your relationship before.

You spoke to him freely, combatting his flirting at time, and leaving him a flustered mess. No one could make him blush in the way that you did. No one made his heart flutter like you. And no one made him feel loved like you could.

The things I cannot change.

Sanji felt his lungs constrict.

Everything was too much. The things weighing on his mind, playing in a constant loop, it was all too much. His hands ball into fists and the cigarette is flattened between his lips with the effort that it took to hold back his tears.

But it wasn’t enough.

A hand presses to his mouth in efforts to quiet his cries. His fingers were wet and pruned from soaking in the dish water, the smell of soap overwhelming his senses. Shoulders begin to shake and his knees nearly buckle with the effort of keeping himself upright.

His breath hitches. One. Twice. A third time and Sanji feels himself spiraling. He can’t breathe.

Would you love me all the same?

“Sanji.” You call out to him. He doesn’t have to turn around for you to take in his wrecked state. You rush to his side, prying his hand away from his mouth and pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Hey, hey, hey.” You coo in effort to comfort him. “Sanji, you’re okay. I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re on the Sunny.”

His hand shoots out to grab at your sleeve, nails digging into the fabric. Quick breaths push out of his mouth as the tears stream down his cheeks.

You cup his face in your hands, speaking to him in a low voice and trying to talk him through the panic attack. To breathe. To let you in. To remind him that he is safe now.

As his breathing stabilizes, he collapses forwards into you. “I’m sorry.” He calls to you. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sanji, why are you apologizing?”

He tugs you closer and presses his face into your shoulder. You hand rubs along his back as he sobs into your shirt. “I’m sorry.” He repeats the words over and over. “I’m sorry I’m not a better man for you.” He chants his apologies for everything he has done. For not treating you how he should. For not showing you the love you deserve. “I’m so in love with you and all i’ve done is run from it. You deserve better.”

A shiver shoots down your spine at his ramblings. He was in love with you. He was in love with you. It was something that you knew deep down, something you easily reciprocated, something that the two of you had complicated for far too long.

“Sanji, hey, come on. Come on love.” You coax him out of his place at your shoulder, running your fingers through blonde locks, and look back at him with every ounce of adoration in your body. “I forgive you for everything you’ve done, okay? You were trying to protect us. I could never fault you for that.”

“You don’t understand, I- I-“

“I don’t care about any of it.” You wipe at the tears to no avail as they continue to fall. “I love you the same as I did before, Sanji. I’m in love with you. And I always have been.”

His lips purse into a thin line and his chin quivers with his effort to just stop crying.

You stroke a hand over his forehead, pushing his hair out of the way, and leaning in to press a delicate kiss to his skin. Your lips trail around his face to pepper kisses along his skin. His fingers tighten into your shirt as he clings to you.

Then, a laugh leaves his lips. It’s breathy and clipped, but it warms your heart all the same.

“I missed you, Sanji.” Your lips brush along his jaw, your voice tingling at his skin and making a smile pull to his lips. You lean back and revel in the smile that you had missed so much.

“I missed you too, darling. More than ever.” Sanji presses his forehead to yours as another breathy laugh leaves him. “Can I- Can I kiss you?” He shakily asks.

You push forwards to connect your lips in a delicate kiss and his hands move to cup your cheeks. The kiss is tinged with salty tears and tobacco, but it’s a combination that is just so Sanji that you don’t mind. Sanji is the first to drag himself away, drawing in a deep breath, before breaking out into a bright smile. It lights up his whole face this time.

I know that you’ve been waiting, waiting for love.

[chancheols]

Meowmeowracha, my most beloved.

[rangewithme]

natsuki save me ,,, save me natsuki ,,,,,,, I need him to show up at the store to visit shin in the manga bro it's gonna be like injecting euphoria directly into my veins

[lovisu]

Day 01 ⎯ Secret Santa: Make a gift for a friend or stranger OR make a gift you’d give to your younger self

☆ ⎯ Furina Layout for @cookiesbrainrotcorner !!! Made for @theleverethiding’s event !! Credit if using (＞。☆)

[rookmeo]

a decaying flower in the end

rb + credit if using, render by @milaxan7

[aarontaylorjohnsonsdivorcelawyer]

library card ➵ valgrace university au

part 7 [masterlist]

[hullygeee]

featured pairing: Harvey/farmer word count: 57.1k rating: T status: complete

Alice took in her surroundings for the first time. She’d built the mines up in her head for so many years. Now that she was here, she was surprised to see that everything was incredibly ordinary. There was no evil aura, no impending sense of doom. Just the rusty old ladder, an elevator, and a lot of rock. She picked up the sword and put it in her bag before she could talk herself out of it.

Click here to read the full fic on AO3!

[beetlesrecs]

𐙚      ⠀⠀the beatles   ⠀⠀  ౨ৎ ⠀⠀   layouts

Like or reblog if you save ♡

[chiropteracupola]

"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.

it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!

The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.

Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.

There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.

The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…

Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.

“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.

“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”

“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.

“May I come up?” asks the girl.

“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.

“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”

“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”

“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.

“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.

“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.

“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.

“I always have, I’m afraid.”

“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.

Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.

“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.

It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.

And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.

“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”

“Has she a name, then?”

“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.

“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”

“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.

“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”

“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.

Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.

But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.

“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.

“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.

“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.

“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.

“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”

He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.

Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.

“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.

But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.

Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.

Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.

“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.

“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.

“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”

“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.

“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.

“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”

“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.

“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.

“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.

And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.

But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?

So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.

Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.

Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.

She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.

Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.

“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”

“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.

Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.

“May I?”

“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.

[patrick-stewart]

Hey everyone! I've been in a mood to make icons lately but not quite sure what I want to make so I thought I'd see if people had specific requests 💫 So send me a character/celeb + a palette number (or a link to a palette from here) and I'll make icons for them 💕 (insp)

[one-sunny]

Favorites

Sanji x F!Reader

Summary: Following a comment from Sanji, you and the other girls begin to wonder which one of you is Sanji’s favorite girl. Mentions of blood (nosebleeds), a bet and kinda toxic behaviors, teasing Sanji, angst!!!

Masterlist

“Alright, ladies, here we are.” Sanji holds a tray of snacks and drinks in hand. He passes out the brightly colored drinks to each of you and turns to grab the snacks that he brought along. With a sweet smile, he offers you the plate, “For my favorite girl.” You stall for a moment in the grab, Sanji clearing his throat as he grabs the other plates. “For my other favorite.” He offers Nami the plate. “And for my other favorite.” Robin takes the plate from him as you look to each other in confusion.

The snacks and drinks were usual, even the cheesy nicknames, but this was the first time he referred to any of you as his ‘favorite’. As Sanji scurried away, your mind begins to wander. You glance to Nami and Robin who are indulging in their treats already.

You sit forwards in your sun lounger, “Who do you guys think is Sanji’s favorite?”

They both stall for a moment in thought.

“I vote Robin.” Nami shrug, sipping at her orange and pink drink.

You shake your head, “Nah, i think it’s you Nami.”

“It’s Y/N.” Robin declares.

Nami looks around for a moment, a bright smile pulling to her lips. “I bet it’s Robin.” She looks between you both with a mischievous smile.

“Nami.” You speak her name as a warning but that cheshire grin doesn’t falter. She quirks her brows up and glances between you and Robin. You let out a resigned sigh, “How on earth do you even plan to test it?”

“It’s Sanji.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure it won’t be all that hard to figure out.”

“Fine,” You laugh. “I bet it’s Nami.”

Robin raises a skeptical brow, “It’s definitely Y/N.”

Leaning forwards in her seat, Nami eyes Robin closely. “Believe it enough to bet on it?”

Robins mouth opens, she pauses, before a smile finally pulls to her lips. “Absolutely.”

And so the bet was settled.

Nami proposed a more subtle approach, knowing that Sanji would short circuit if the three of you confronted him about this. You are all special to him, you were almost certain he would blabber on about and blush.

As Zoro announces the approach of land, the mischievous grin reappears on Nami’s face. The group gathers and everyone begins to chatter in excitement to explore the island. As always, Nami planned to scope out any shops near by to help in completely filling every inch of her closet. With no responsibilities, you and Robin have no choice but joining her on such a quest.

“Sanji,” Nami grins at the man. “Will you join us?” With her unspoken role as the straw hat treasurer, she was well aware of how well stocked the kitchen was for the time being. Leaving the man free to explore as he pleased, or in this case, follow his crew mates ventures.

“Of course, Nami-swan.” He offers a big grin and the four of you are off.

Through countless stores and even more outfit try ons, Sanji follows close behind you all, holding bags and gushing compliments. An equal amount of compliments, Nami notes dejectedly.

The final store of the day was nearly empty, likely due to the hour of day and high price tags. This left the back area near the changing rooms near empty and Nami took the chance to spring into action.

Sanji was seated on one of the cushions before the two changing rooms doors, you and Robin at his sides, and various layers of dresses crowded in between. Nami is in one of the dressing rooms and asked for you all to give your opinions on a dress she wasn’t sure about. The door is soon thrown open and your jaw nearly drops.

Nami steps out in the dress that barely makes it past her butt, Sanji’s eyes blowing wide as she turns to the floor length mirror near by. “I’m not so sure about it.” She declares, offering a small twirl.

The man beside of you fidgets nervously with cheeks flushing a deep color. “You, uh, you look good.” He chokes out.

“You guys don’t think it’s too short?” Her arms lift up with the question, the fabric dragging up her thighs, proving that it was definitely far too short for the pirate life. But you know that she was already aware of such a thing.

Sanji raises a hand to his nose, trying to subtly wipe it against his black suit jacket, shoulders slumping.

Nami eyes him close through the mirror, before offering a simple shrug. “I don’t think i’ll get it.” She waltzes over to grab two different outfits. She offers one to you and one to Robin, before ushering the other women into the dressing room due to the… complicated straps involved on the dress.

You step into the other room to eye the short dress she had collected for you. Despite the competition sparking in the woman’s eyes, it was just your size and a color that would compliment your skin tone well. Stepping out of your clothes, you pull on the sleeved dress, adjusting the position of the cutout at the chest, before attempting to tug up the zipper. However, the awkward positioning of it, coupled with the snug fabric, it wasn’t working out.

“Nami?” You call out.

“Little busy.”

With a small sigh, you hold the front of the fabric to your skin and open the changing room door.

Sanji’s eyes immediately meet yours as you offer him a sheepish smile. “Uh, do you mind lending a hand?” He looks at you with wide eyes. “The, uh, zipper. I can’t reach.” You attempt to explain and he is soon scrambling to his feet.

“Of course, my dear.” He smiles.

You can practically hear the gulp as Sanji steps closer to you. He delicately takes the zipper between his fingers to drag it up your back, fingers brushing hair from its path and sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. He lets out a shaky breath that fans over your skin, “Done.” There’s that love sick tone to his voice that you were all very familiar with, but it was laced with something else that you couldn’t quite place.

The dressing room door suddenly flies open and Robin steps out in her new outfit. Sanji takes an abrupt step away as Nami follows her out to urge her in front of the mirror. When you turn, you notice the gush of blood he is wiping as he seems to look away from Robin.

Nami shoots you a smug look.

Your lips purse as Sanji excuses himself from the three of you, muttering something about needing a cigarette, and an uncomfortable heat seems to settle deep within your chest. A hand presses into your sternum as you stare back at yourself in the mirror. At the sight of your frown, Nami waltzes over, looking at your reflection over your shoulder.

“The colors pretty on you, but I don’t think I like it either.” She simply shrugs.

After changing back into your own clothes, the three of you drift out of the store without making a single purchase, much to the shopkeepers dismay. There, you find Sanji leaning against the wall and puffing what you assume is his third cigarette since leaving you. He offers a sweet smile, collecting the bags from off the ground, and waving off any offers of help.

The walk back to the sunny goes by quick and you’re met with Luffy’s beaming smile as he fills the cook in on a local restaurant that he heard about. Sanji relents and Luffy is nearly vibrating in excitement at the prospect of food.

But Zoro snorts his protest, “Saw that place on the way back to the Sunny. It’s all high brow, suit and tie.” His nose wrinkles at the idea.

“That restaurant is on the other side of the island.” Chopper tips his head in confusion as he remembers the map he had found of the island. Zoro simply waves the comment off.

“Who cares! I heard they have this special squid dish that sounds really yummy.” Luffy practically salivates at the idea.

“They probably have some fancy booze.” Nami points out and the green haired man relents. “Plus, it gives us a chance to wear out our nice outfits that we can’t wear out at seas.” She beams at the idea of getting dressed up opposed to the usual itinerary of battle. Then, a mischievous grin pulls to her lips, “Sanji, you should wear that green button up you have.”

“Oh, uh,” He gapes, cigarette nearly falling from his mouth in shock.

“Or the purple, but I may be biased.” Robin simply shrugs.

You grin, playing into the mischief. “I think you look good in blue.” You state, ignoring the implications as you further the compliment. “It brings out your eyes.”

“Yeah, true. Blue is his color.” Nami’s head tips to the side in thought, her love for fashion outweighing everything else.

Sanji flushes a bright red as he inhales a deep puff of smoke. “Right, uh, i’ll do that.” He mutters to himself, unable to meet your eye. The reaction makes your heart flutter- face nearly going pale at that realization.

“We, uh, we should go get ready.” You clear your throat in effort to stamp down anything trying to rise up inside of you. Nami seems none the wiser, but Robins eyes linger on you a beat too long as you all head to the girls quarters.

The next bit is a flurry of fabric and products as you all enthusiastically get ready for the fancy meal. Shoes were the next big speculation. It was never certain if this would become a dine and dash situation, or if a fight would break out for what ever reason. That was the uncertainty of the straw hats.

You all finally emerged to the rather impatient group of men, some dressed far nicer than others. Regardless, the group followed whatever ridiculous dress code and would be granted the way in.

Eyes fall to Sanji and a heat fills your being at the light blue button up he adorned, the silk fabric perfectly complementing his eyes, just as you had said. He offers a bright smile and the usual spiel of compliments for the three of you.

“Doesn’t the new dress look really good on Robin, Sanji?” Nami prompts, batting her lashes at him. The man simply smiles and echoes the compliment.

As the push and pull goes on, all the way to the restaurant, your shoulders sag a little bit more. A strange nausea settles in your stomach despite how hungry you had been moments ago. As Nami peers back at you with her teasing grin, you can only force a smile.

The group is met with a rather exasperated waiter as Luffy continues to be his rowdy self despite the places atmosphere. Menus are offered and drinks delivered. Yet you can’t even bring yourself to focus on the matter as Nami and Robin continue their challenging chatter.

“Hey,” Sanji’s voice is soft from your side. “You okay?” His warm gaze settles on you and that feeling in your stomach becomes overwhelming. The tips of your ears heat up and you have to force your eyes back to the menu.

“Yeah, i’m all good.” You mutter, drawing in a shaky breath. “Just, uh, can’t decide.”

Sanji hums in thought for a moment, before tipping his menu toward you to point something out. “You should get this, sounds like something you would like.” The sweet sincerity. The simple act of knowing. It makes your heart flutter and you realize you could easily get lost in the blue of his eyes. And suddenly you really do want to throw up.

Because how long has he made you feel like this?

“Yeah.” Your voice cracks. “I’ll do that.”

The meal is delightful, but you can’t bring yourself to swallow more than a few bites. Sanji asks quiet questions throughout the night to ensure you were okay and undoubtedly adding mental notes to what ever list he kept up there. At the meals end, when Luffy has consumed all of his food and your left overs, the crew head back to the Sunny with smiles on their face.

But your shoulders are tense.

Upon your arrival, you call Nami and Robin into your shared room to demand the bet be stopped. To not push any further. It was all none of your business, truly, and you didn’t want the man who regarded you all so highly to somehow get hurt.

“We need to call it off.”

Nami’s laugh is breezy, “Why would we do that?”

“I don’t know, I just kind of feel bad about it all.” You awkwardly rub the back of your neck, silently pleading the women to give in without digging too deep. “Feel like we’re just messing with his emotions.”

“But we aren’t. It’s not like we’re messing with his head, i just want him to finally admit Robins his favorite.” Nami frowns at the implication that you all were hurting him in any way.

“Perhaps she’s right.” Robin settles on her bed in deep thought.

“Come on, it’s Sanji.” Nami attempts to wave it off. “He flirts with women, especially us, all the time. He can handle just a little bit of push back.” She looks between you both. “At least until we know who wins.”

“Let’s just say you win.” You sigh. “You’re right, Robins the favorite.”

“But we don’t know that for sure.” Nami huffs out. “If you both want to end this so bad, fine, but I think we should just ask him. I want an answer.”

“Let’s just leave it.”

“Robin, you agree right? I think we’re entitled to knowing.” Nami turns to focus on the raven haired woman. Her head tips to the side in thought, as if weighing out the options, and Nami takes that as a sign of silent agreement. “Then it’s settled. Let’s go ask.” And with that, she is off.

“Nami!” You call after her in protest.

Robin lets out a deep sigh as the two of you follow after her. She ends up in the kitchen, where Sanji is leaning over his log book for the kitchen supplies. He looks up, surprise evident on his face, as Nami leans directly on the counter in front of him.

“Sanji,” She begins and you groan at the gnawing feeling in your stomach. “We’ve been trying to figure it out all day but we can’t. So who is your favorite? Me, y/n, or Robin?”

Sanji watches her for a long moment, drawing in a deep breath of smoke, and slowly blowing it out away from Nami’s face. “You’ve been trying to figure out all day?” He glances over Nami’s shoulder at Robin. His eyes then lock on you, his face reads of betrayal and hurt, his lips turning down in a frown that he covers up with a cigarette. “So you’ve all just been messing with me today?” He nods slowly, as if playing back the whole day in his mind.

You step forward to speak your protest, “Sanji-“

“No. No it’s okay.” He waves a hand at you with a forced smile. “I love you ladies equally, I don’t have a favorite.” With that, he excuses himself from his own kitchen, leaving you all standing in defeat.

“We took it too far, didn’t we?” Nami frowns.

“That we did.” Robin confirms.

Her shoulders sag and she worries a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry, I should have listened.” She huffs out with guilt weighing heavy. “We’re terrible people.”

But it falls on deaf ears as you waltz out the door and after the man.

It takes a moment to find him. You have to search nearly the entire ship before finally spotting him sitting among some cargo crates, knees to his chest, eyes turned up to the night sky. Watching him for a moment, your heart completely shatters as a shaky hand plucks the cigarette from his mouth.

“Sanji.” You hesitate stepping forwards. His head snaps over and he forces a smile that looks closer to a grimace. With a deep sigh, you move to sit beside of him. “You can tell me to go away if you want, but I just wanted to apologize.” He remains silent. “We made this stupid bet and, ugh, i don’t know. We got wrapped up in trying to prove our own points that we didn’t stop to think about how stupid we were being!”

“You’re not stupid.” He simply states.

But you shake your head, “Yes. Yes I am.”

His head finally tilts to look at you and you note the tears forming at the corner of his eyes. “You’re not stupid-“

“Sanji, i’m an idiot.” You interrupt, voice breathy as you look into pretty blue eyes. “Because I hurt an amazing guy like you. You’re so good to all of us and we just, ugh.” Scoffing at yourself, you notice the ghost of a smile in his expression. “I’m sorry, Sanji. I just, I need you to know that. I’ll leave you alone now but-“

“Can I be honest?” Sanji prompts, hands twisting together. You give a small nod as you prepare yourself for a blow that Sanji would likely never even offer. “You’re my favorite.” His voice is small, nervous, and he can’t even meet your eye.

“What?” The question is all you can force out.

“I, uh, said you’re my favorite girl. Favorite person ever, really.” He shakes his head, stamping out the butt of the cigarette on one of the crates beside him. “Always have been.”

“Oh.” You swallow hard as all the emotions that have been festering inside of you, the ones you have tried to shove down deep, rise right back up to the surface. Heat fills your cheeks and you’re suddenly trying to scrape together a rational thought. “Uh, can I be honest?”

Sanji nods with a tense smile, preparing for his own blow of rejection.

“I, uh, never really paid attention to it until now,” Your head tips to the side as you attempt to meet his eye. “You’re my favorite guy. Favorite person to be around, like, ever.”

“Ma cherie, my dear, my love, please.” His voice is weak and his head drops. “Don’t mess with me like that I can’t take it.” Hair blankets over both eyes now.

“Sanji,” You lean in hesitantly, hand finding his chin while the other brushes his bangs from his face. “I’m not messing with you. I’ll never do something like that again, I-“ Words catch in your throat but his expression pleads for more. So you take in a deep breath, preparing to speak words unspoken, the very thing that you have been trying to suppress. “I like you, Sanji, a lot.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” You let out a breathy laugh as his pretty blue eyes light up and a smile breaks out across his face. The heat is evident against your palms as a blush covers his cheeks.

His eyes flicker away for a brief moment, “Can I- Can I kiss you?” Your gaze softens at the bashful expression on his face and you offer a firm nod. Sanji scoots closer, bringing you into his embrace, and gazing at you with a love sick expression.

And while you have seen that look before, it held a new weight.

His lips hesitantly brush over yours, as if still expecting the rejection. When you don’t pull away, he pushes forwards, lips pressing firmly against your own. Your hands move from his cheeks to wrap around his neck and pull him in more closely.

Sanji smiles against your lips at the action.

Lost in the embrace, neither of you seem to notice as Nami and Robin approach, fully ready to apologize. Instead, Nami’s jaw drops and Robin hides a laugh behind her hand.

“I can’t believe I lost!” Nami pouts.

Robin laughs to herself as the two turn to walk away, a silent agreement that they could come back to apologize when Sanji was a little more… available. “Did you really think I would take a losing bet?”

[laninha-1]

soobin (txt) lockscreens ✰

like or reblog if u save and use please

[bluecamellias]

[bnsni]

quick angsty little drabble

mouse-verse

YOU don't like how they stare at Prowl.

Like he's fire, that every touch his pede lands, broils a warmth too strong, it flourishes into a malevolent ire.

"He's unstable, mouse." Ratchet said, not sparing you a look as he scribbles away on his datapad. He termed it so simply, so casually, it was as though he's lecturing you on the basics of Cybertronian anatomy, all over again.

"He's not unstable. He's different."

You're roosted by his desk, fists clamping, unclamping, easing up the temper pressurized in your chest.

"Look." He swivels around to face you, arms crossed. "I know you like standing up for the guy. You're the closest person he's got. I get it. I understand. But please, next time when a pede's about to connect to someone's skull — don't, don't try to go in for the save, alright?"

"I wasn't protecting him." You can't help but bite back.

He kneads his face. "Then what were you trying to do kid, if you're not desperate for a one-way trip to Primus with a broken skull. "

"Making a point. Stating my case. That those bots who punch him as they please get nothing out of that."

Ratchet regards you for a moment. His optics were gentle and firm as a silent understanding passes over his face. He wants to say something but can't.

"It's nothing big. in a few week's time, he'll be the same again."

"But he's not the same. He's never the same, Ratchet."

Why does everyone think he won't be affected?

He's got his back to you, kneeling on the ground, helm in his servos. You stood at the doorway, sympathy pulling your features taut as you observe the way his doorwings fall to the side. A broken bird. No wings to fly.

He seemed so alone in his habsuite. So small. He could curl up into a ball, if he could. Lights, close to darkness. Space, empty. The middle is Prowl. Just Prowl and only Prowl.

"Control." Was all he said. Almost like a breath of a whisper. "I've got no control. Not even with my subordinates. Not even with myself. Nobody believes me."

His helm lifts up until it falls back, optics to the ceiling. His digits are curled out like he's trying to grasp something that's not there.

"I do." You said.

"You don't."

"I do."

Surprised pulled his features when you're close, fingers a gentle mould around his cheek. . He's not surprised by your touch or by your close proximity — he's used to them

No, what he's surprised is how contorted your expression was, how his spark twists much as how despair twists your face.

Prowl maintains the rigidity of his expression. His servos falls to his lap though and finds himself leaning a little into your touch.

In a fit of boldness, you lean up and pressed your forehead against his. Electricity crackles at the touch and colors burst into your vision.

At first it was sickly black. A storm, broiling in the depths of his mind. Tendrils curl out and nip in an attempt to deter you away. But you won't be. When you eased in your own thoughts of verdant foliage, rustic charms of sceneries and anything that's warm —he loosens visibly and let's his helm fall into your shoulder.

"You're good to keep around." He murmers, drawling against your uniform before becoming still in your hold.

You hug him tight. The thick lump on your throat is hidden by your smile.

"Yeah..."

It was better not to tell him how charred his mind was.