#today's bread is: neatly contained

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon’s sweet wife

seen other people talk about the task force finding out about Simon’s bird at first in subtle ways so I made this

It started with the lunches.

At first, no one thought much of it. Simon had brought the occasional sandwich before, nothing out of the ordinary. But then it changed. Out went the basic bread and meat, and in came proper meals. Lasagna. Curry. A neatly packed container of something warm and homemade, tucked right beside a little folded note Simon was far too quick to snatch out of sight when Johnny leaned over, grinning.

“C’mon, Simon,” he teased, voice full of curiosity. “Just let us have a peek. We wanna know who’s makin’ you lunch like that, eh?”

Kyle nodded, snickering.

“Piss off,” Simon grumbled, big hand curling protectively around the note like it was a classified file. He didn’t care that they were watching, didn’t even look up. Just reread your words, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth beneath the mask.

“Ay, Johnny, look! you can see a heart through the paper!” Kyle laughed, catching the way the light hit the thin paper just right, revealing the faint outline of a heart signed with your name.

After that, it became a bit of a running joke. Not that Simon gave them anything to work with. But the mystery only deepened when, during a three week deployment at another unit, a care package showed up with his name on it.

To say the guys hovered would be an understatement. Johnny and Kyle practically sat on either side of him like vultures, trying to act casual. Price stayed back in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, looking disinterested but Simon could feel his eyes, just as nosy as the others.

The box had all the essentials: snacks, cold weather gear, a familiar blanket from home. A couple of your sweet notes, some of his favorite tea in bulk. But what really got them going were the Polaroids tucked in between the layers of stuff.

Kyle caught a glimpse of one. Simon sitting on a porch step with you in his lap, your smile soft, his arm wrapped tight around your waist.

Johnny elbowed him. “Alright, Simon. When ’re we gonna meet this mystery missus of yours?”

“She wouldn’t like you.” He grunted in response 

“What is she, a grump like you?”

Hardly.

The real surprise came a few weeks later, when a sweet bird showed up at base asking for Lieutenant Simon Riley.

Price was the first to see you. He’d expected someone with a set it glare, reserved, maybe a little sharp around the edges. Instead, you walked right up to Simon with a warm smile, kissed his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world, and handed him a jacket. 

Simon knew Price, Kyle, and Johnny were watching from around the corner. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if half the rookies and a few of the other sergeants were too.

But none of that mattered.

Not when his sweet girl was standing in front of him.

“Why are you here, baby?” he asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You forgot your jacket,” you said, brow furrowed. “And I heard it was supposed to be cold today. I didn’t want you to get sick.”

Your voice alone cracked something in him, and it was impossible not to smile under the mask.

“Y’know I would’ve been fine, love.”

Still, he took the jacket from your hands with a quiet “thank you,” promising to wear it, walking you down the hallway before watching you turn and head back out.

Well— not before Johnny and Kyle caught you at the corner, peering over the wall like a couple of kids up to no good.

They didn’t say much, but by the time Simon heard about it later, you’d already agreed to let them come over for dinner sometime.

He just shook his head. Not even surprised by their antics. But he didn’t say no either.

Because you’d said yes.

So next Saturday, he guessed he’d be setting an extra few plates at the table for Johnny, Kyle, and probably Price, too. 

[jisokai]

But do you see me

You slam the door behind you and stand wide eyed, panties a tight ball in your fist.

“I slept with Sanji last night,” you announce. You feel sick.

Nami sighs, not sparing you a glance from her focused nail painting. “Happens to the best of us.”

Your jaw drops. “Us?”

sanji x reader 6.3k words | oneshot, complete

minor spoilers for whole cake island, mutual pining, smut (p in v, fingering, overstimulation), porn with feelings, friends with benefits, friends -> fwb -> lovers, mentions of mutually drunk sex, reader uses she/her

read on ao3

note: this is me coming to terms with the fact that post-Whole Cake Island, I may in fact be in love with this stupid wet cat of a man. i tried my best to keep him in character but who knows!!

The sun is warm, its rays streaming through the windows. You hum while turning in the sheets, eyes fluttering open. It takes a few seconds for your vision to clear—soft edges sharpening as your body adjusts.

It’s a pleasant morning. You feel good: warm, a little sore, heart fuzzy with an inexplicable glee. Your forehead throbs from last night’s wine, but it’s dull against your giddiness.

You blink once, eyes flitting across the room, and your stomach drops.

The sheets fly as you throw yourself out of bed. Your legs wobble as you race to collect your clothes from the floor, tossing on your dress and clutching your undergarments in a vice grip before yanking the door open and speeding down the hall. Your stomach is a ball of knots while you sprint to Nami’s room. You burst in without knocking.

The ginger sits cross-legged on her bed, a bottle of nail polish at her side as she brushes liquid cerulean along her fingertips. Her only reaction is the quirk of her brow and a cursory glance.

You slam the door behind you and stand wide eyed, panties a tight ball in your fist. 

“I slept with Sanji last night,” you announce. You feel sick.

Nami sighs, not sparing you a glance from her focused nail painting. “Happens to the best of us.”

Your jaw drops. “Us?”

She doesn’t reply.

“You—” you point at her. “You don’t even like men!”

She blinks, unphased. “You’d really call him a man?”

You have no response.

(The man—or not man, according to Nami—in question stands at the entrance of his cabin. In his hands is a tray with breakfast dishes: affectionately sliced fruit, neatly arranged bread, a serving of rice. It’s paired with freshly squeezed juice and an additional cup of tea, of course.

He stares into his room, now emptied of you. The covers are half strewn off the bed and a pillow is on the floor. Your hair tie sits on the nightstand. There’s a smear of lipgloss on the sheets.

His smile dies, morphing to a tug of disappointment. He sighs, shoulders and heart drooping.)

Nami stands by the door unamused. “You can’t hide here all day,” she says flatly.

You’re curled on the floor, leaning against her bed. “I’m emotionally processing.”

“You’ve been processing for an hour.”

“I need to process for longer.”

“You need to eat,” she retorts. “You didn’t have breakfast. Come to lunch.”

Your face twists. She’s not wrong; your headache has grown significantly, at least partially due to your empty stomach. But where there’s food, there’s Sanji—the other source of your distress. You are not ready to see him. 

“You can’t ignore him forever,” she adds.

Meekly, you reply, “But I can ignore him today.”

She sighs, face softening with a poorly contained grin. She steps away from the door and crouches beside you.

“I’ll bring you lunch,” she says. “But you owe me a thousand berry.”

You huff, smiling.

“Fine.”

You crawl under the bed, hiding behind the bedskirt in case someone comes looking for you. It’s dark and quiet, the rocking of the Sunny a lullaby coaxing you to sleep.

But you can’t. Instead your mind continues to race, heart thrumming against the wooden floor as you run in metaphorical circles. Fragments of the night reel through you: ghosts of touches, whispers of filth, the most intense euphoria rushing through your body. Just the thought of Sanji’s hands on you makes your legs squeeze together.

Because as hard as it is to admit… you like Sanji. He’s handsome and charming. He’s a strong fighter, self-sacrificing, and always ready to serve others. If you listed all of his qualities on paper and held it at arm's length, you’d think he’s a suitable match, even. Because he’s Sanji, the chef for the Straw Hat pirates.

But he’s Sanji. Sanji the pervert and the man with eyes for any creature that looks remotely like a woman. He’s Sanji, the man who calls you his darling love, but uses the name for every woman he meets. He’s Sanji, a man who makes passes at you so frequently you assume they mean nothing.

And you know why he’s like this, all the answers turned crystal clear when he returned to the crew—when he returned home, here at the Sunny instead of Germa Kingdom. What can you expect from a man who… who wasn’t man enough, according to the standards of his family? Whose natural gentleness and desire to serve was rejected and punished. Whose only experience of love came from the women in his life. 

You know the story of not-Vinsmoke Sanji. But knowing why he acts this way doesn’t mean you can handle anything beyond your usual dynamic—your amused dismissal of every pass he makes, no matter what kind of warmth he manages to strike in your heart.

You sigh. The boat rocks.

The door opens. Your stomach clenches before relaxing when you spot Nami’s shoes.

“What the hell?” she grumbles when she sees the empty room.

You slide yourself from beneath bed and she yelps. You feel like an idiot.

“Sorry,” you mumble, face burning. “I got worried someone would come looking for me.”

She smiles pitifully. “That bad, huh?”

You nod. She sets down the tray; a plate of fried rice with a small bowl of fruit and a slice of toast. You have both juice and tea.

“He insisted you eat it all,” she adds.

Your stomach clenches, stinging with hunger while your appetite simultaneously fades away.

(Sanji’s lunch is no easier, similarly distracted by thoughts of you.

But unlike you, his mind flashes with visions of the night before. You were a mess in the sheets, head thrown back as he bullied his cock against your clit, teasing your entrance with filthy condescension until you begged and wailed. Tears streamed down your cheeks, clumping in the length of your lashes. Your eyes sparkle beautifully.

He sunk into you with a promise— to give you everything you wanted. You had all of him; there was no reason to beg. He would give himself to you as long as you were with him.

And then you left his room in the morning.

You didn’t come to lunch.

The visions fade as reality settles in. He wonders if you’re okay. Will you eat all the food he sent with Nami? Did he upset you? Did he hurt you? Was it too much last night, when he… when he didn’t let it end with just one cry of release, one broken whimper of his name. What about when he turned you on your stomach, pushing his hand along the curve of your back and—

He exhales in his seat, gritting his teeth while recalling the way you clawed at the sheets, the tightness and… and the wetness and warmth you engulfed him in as he fucked you.

“You okay Sanji?” Usopp interrupts his thoughts. “Your nose is bleeding and you’re not even being a horndog for anyone.”

The cook coughs in surprise, rice catching in his throat.

Zoro makes a face of disgust across the table.)

Nami doesn’t let you escape dinner.

“I’ll give you five thousand berry!” you wail, trying to twist out of her grip. How is she so strong?

“You don’t even have that much,” she mutters. “And this is my room. Go rot somewhere else at least.”

Your stomach tightens. Nobody else would guard dog you effectively against Sanji—except for Zoro, but even in your panicked state you have the tact not to go that far.

So you sit yourself, begrudgingly, between Nami and Usopp at the table. Contrary to your worries, the cook doesn’t burden you with special attention beyond the usual, humming, “For you, dear,” as he tables your plate. You nod curtly, eyes averting to your food while ignoring the heat crawling up your neck.

He sits across from you. Despite the knots in your stomach you somehow sustain your appetite. Sanji offers you another portion and you manage to decline without choking on your last bite. You meet his eyes, those crystal clear waters, and are immediately hit with a full wave of guilt. 

This is Sanji, you remind yourself. Safe, sensitive, sacrificial Sanji. 

An embarrassed smile crosses your face, one just for him, and the grin he returns is blinding.

Relief settles in your chest. The knots in your stomach begin to unravel. With him smiling so sweetly across from you, eyes so earnest in their care, you trust that you can work this out. If that means a terribly embarrassing conversation followed by sweeping your feelings under the rug indefinitely, then by god that’s what you’ll do.

As an attempt to make reparations you offer to help with the dishes, but you leave when he begins a monologue about the disgrace of making a woman do his work for him. 

“Oh, but share a bottle of wine with me when I’m finished here, yes?” He calls.

You nod meekly. He’s asking to talk, the minimum you can do for him after your earlier avoidance. 

He flashes another sunny smile, and you duck out of the room before the flush can take over your face.

Once again, you wake up in Sanji’s bed.

This time there are no signs of an explicit night you don’t remember. You’re fully clothed—although, in different clothes than what you were wearing the evening prior—and your body has its strength, no soreness lingering in your hips and back. You lay tense, staring at the ceiling as you wonder why you’re incapable of learning from your mistakes.

You frown as your head throbs, digging through your memory for what happened. There’s a hazy vision of Sanji’s attempt to have a conversation, you downing glasses of wine like water to cope with your embarrassment. His somber smile is the last you remember.

(Sanji did his best, all things considered.

The first time truly was mutual inebriation. In his drunken state, he was weak to your advances. Or maybe the advances were his own, his usual dance of flirtation that you were all too willing to give into. But regardless you reciprocated, and he had no choice but to follow your lead.

But last night… you chugging glass after glass to find the courage to speak, to sit there with him… of course he wouldn’t touch you or take advantage of you when he had a power over you that he shouldn’t be privy to in the first place.

He can admit that he took you to his room for the night, partly out of his own selfishness to hold you close—no matter how troublesome his poor restraint might be—and partly to look after you, to be there in case something were to happen to you.

Oh—he would never forgive himself.)

“Good morning, my sweet,” his voice calls beside you. The mattress shifts and you reluctantly turn to the source.

The cook leans above you, seated on the bed. A tray of breakfast foods sit on the bedside table, his hands pausing their diligent spreading of jam on toast to carefully sweep at your hair instead. His touch is warm, loving. You feel nauseous.

“I’m so glad I didn’t miss you this time. You need to eat breakfast,” he continues.

You think you should die. You keep that to yourself, for Sanji’s sake.

The cook helps you sit up, offering foods that are easy on your stomach. You thank him diligently and shovel them into your mouth. He holds up a slice of apple after you’ve swallowed your bite of bread. You ignore his reddening face, his eyes trained on your lips.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t press for answers. Instead he watches you, moving gently, smiling warmly.

After your second piece of toast and three slices of apples, determination blooms in your chest. When you speak your voice wavers, but you push through.

“Sanji,” you start. He tenses at the call of his name. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to—” you pause, catching your own lies. “I mean, I did mean to run away yesterday, but I don’t want to act that way around you.”

You receive another smile, one so understanding that your heart squeezes. “It’s okay, my love. If you truly want to leave, I don’t mind. You must know that I would never do something you don’t want.”

Something shatters in your chest.

“No—” you immediately protest. This is Sanji: safe, sensitive, sacrificial Sanji. “It’s not that I don’t want this, it’s just—I don’t—”

Your face pinches in frustration, half pleading for help. But Sanji flushes again and you try to smother the expression. 

“I don’t want things to change between us, I guess,” you manage flatly.

He hums, reaching to swipe at the corner of your lip. His touch brings your skin to life, buzzing. You swallow.

“I understand,” he answers.

Your heart crumples at his agreement. Then it hardens, annoyed at your own lack of consistency. Aren’t you the one afraid of taking anything further, of sharing your feelings with him out of fear for his character, fear for his loyalty?

He likes you, you know this. Or at least, you know he’s attracted to you, enough to have his eyes morphing into those obnoxious hearts, to be visibly affected by your presence. But his attraction to women, his fawning and his pledges of love, don’t necessarily mean he’s committed to one woman in particular.

Maybe he thinks you’re hot, and that’s that.

You watch the cook as blankly as you can, smothering any expressions while arguments bounce along the perimeter of your mind. You go back and forth, thinking up new perspectives just to immediately refute them. Sanji watches you, blue eyes trained as if he can read the dialogue.

Would it not be better to ask him?

No, that’s too easy. Too easy to set yourself up for rejection, to hear confirmation of every concern you have about his perception of you. 

Instead a new idea blooms in your mind. A voice of reason sits on your shoulder, shouting at you that it’s a recipe for regret. But when you sit in front of Sanji’s warm gaze, his gentle eyes, his beautiful face, you find that you have no strength. You would rather deprive yourself of what you want from him if it means getting to be closer to him at all.

“I liked sleeping with you,” you clarify before you can stop yourself. Your face flames. Sanji freezes as he listens carefully. “… I’d be interested in doing that again—if everything else can stay the same.”

You avert your eyes, not ready to see his reaction. Even so, you can hear the sharp intake of his breath. One of his hands takes yours resting on his blanket.

“Angel,” he pleads. 

You keep your eyes averted. His free hand raises to your chin, finger guiding it upward. When you meet his gaze, you can’t look away, even after his hand falls.

“You must know that I would do anything you wished.”

The confession makes your heart race, then sting. You frown.

“Sanji, I’m not asking you to do whatever I want. I want you to want it too—”

He huffs, face twisting in amusement, twisted with something else, something more complicated. Something almost melancholy.

In an instant his mouth is on you, hungry as it parts your lips. His hand runs up your arm, then slides down your back to clutch your side. You gasp in surprise, feeling him grin as he swallows the sound. You’re forced on your back, a hard chest pressing against your own. His hips meet yours, firm bulge already present and growing.

As soon as he’s on you, he pulls his mouth away, leaving you panting. His lips attach to your neck, peppering kisses on his way to the base of your jugular before he sinks his teeth into the skin. You gasp and feel him smile against you for a second time.

“Are you still hungry, dear?” he asks.

You’re dizzy, mind swirling as he continues south, sucking at your collarbones. Any hunger for food has evaporated, incinerated in your stomach from the fire that sparks. It’s replaced with a hunger for him.

“Sanji—” you breathe, brokenly.

He groans against your skin, hips rutting against your thighs. He’s fully hard, and you’re aching.

“My love,” he gasps. The name strikes your heart both in pain and glee. “If you say my name like that—”

“Sanji,” you cry again when his hand lowers to pinch your nipple beneath your shirt. He’s relentless, sliding his hand to cup your cunt. You nearly choke, “Sanji.”

When he has you like this, spread open and tearing off your clothes, lowering himself to get a taste of you everywhere, you’re powerless. All the heartache in the world couldn’t keep you from giving in, from letting him drag a finger up your wetness—wetness made for him—and sink into your folds.

(And it’s true, what you think: that it’s enough for him to have you this way. It’s enough to touch you and kiss you and memorize every curve of your body, to burn the memory of your taste on his tongue. If that’s what you want.

Or, that’s what he’ll tell himself, if it means having you at all.)

Things don’t change on the surface. You and Sanji are still friends, still normal around the others aboard the Sunny. Normal entailing that he makes you a drink when the sun blares harshly, offers to take your shirt if you want to remove a layer. These gestures and suggestions make your heart flutter and your gut tighten, but that’s how it is—how it’s always been. 

Part of you leans into it, wants to play pretend for a moment longer as if he’s yours. Until, of course, you catch a glimpse of him with Nami and Robin, offering the same drinks, leaning in the same way he does with you. 

Something twists inside your stomach. You look away.

This is how you want it—or maybe not how you want it, but how it needs to be for your own sanity. For your protection. It’s a reality check: no matter how much sugar Sanji feeds you, it will never be something special. You are just another woman.

“Darling, I—”

You grimace on instinct, butterflies turned to an ache in your chest as Sanji approaches with a plate. It looks delicious, layers of frosting and cake and fruit. Your expression must be easy to read, because Sanji backs off easily when you reject the offer of the dessert.

(You miss that there was only one plate. Only one dessert, made just for you.)

Somehow that same day you end up tangled in your sheets, face down and whining as he runs a hand along your spine to press you further into the mattress. You’re aching, slick bared to cool air as he teases you, bullies his tip around your overstimulated entrance, singing praise when he sinks in for another round.

The position is a savior, your face buried in the mattress where you can keep your feelings secret, where you can’t be read so easily. It feels good, so good. Sanji treats you well, knows all the ways to have you unravel for him, to have you lost and open and honest, so vulnerable in his grasp. How many women has he laid with to obtain this skill? You wonder if he knows how hard it is to let him taste your skin and come inside you, to give you moments that feel as if it’s only ever been the two of you, that his arms were made to hold you and only you.

When you come again, spasming around him while his lips mutter filth into your ear, there’s a hollowness in your chest.

He must be oblivious to how you feel, if he’s able to dance this dance with you—if he can see your tears as you finish and kiss them away in the aftercare. You smile lazily, playing it off as your subspace, and thank him. Isn’t this how you want it to be?

(But Sanji is one of the smartest of the Straw Hat Pirates. He is far from oblivious. However, he is weak-willed when it comes to you.

Something is warring in your heart, something large beneath the surface, with the power to shake the earth. He is aware, always on the precipice of asking. You are far too precious to feel pain, to be distraught. The end of your closeness with him, your tenderness and your touch, would wound him, but that sort of loss is nothing new for Sanji. He will manage.

He would ask, always wants to stop and hear you speak. But then you climb atop him, spreading your legs, and he throbs, aching for you. Your hand takes his length, hardening once more, to guide it through your folds, and all he can do is exhale as he watches in amazement as you sink down, beautiful face pinched as you fill yourself—fill yourself with him—

You take him to the hilt. He makes a sound, almost a whimper, before you lean back to grab his thighs and ride him. He gasps at the view: taut muscles, bouncing breasts, your cunt swallowing him with every drop of your beautiful body, and he has to bite down the string of I love you’s that threaten to leap from his lips. 

He is powerless against you, too.)

“So can we call you two official?” Nami asks candidly. She sits cross legged on her bed, filing Robin’s nails.

“Huh?” you frown, painting clear polish across Usopp’s fingertips. The sniper is the honorary member of girl’s nights.

“You and Sanji.”

“What?” you and Usopp gawk in unison. His hands flail, smearing the brush over his skin. You frown at the mess.

“You and Sanji are dating?”

You huff, rolling your eyes while you reach for a paper towel. “No, we’re just seeing each other.”

“You and Sanji are fucking?”

Nami laughs while you scowl. Robin’s lips tug against her cheek. Usopp stares at you in disbelief.

“Usopp, I think even Luffy knows by now. They’ve been banging for weeks.”

The man’s jaw drops, a strangled noise coming up his throat. “No… No way. What do you mean you’re not dating? He’s been in love with you since—”

He yelps when you pinch him, flinching in your grasp.

“He is not in love with me,” you sneer.

Everyone stares at you blankly.

“He’s not!”

“Woah, I thought you were one of the smart ones,” the sniper says flatly. You pinch him again.

“He doesn’t love me,” you repeat. “He’d say those words back to anyone.”

Brown eyes blink at you. “Don’t tell me… You’re in love with him?!”

“It… I don’t know,” you trail off with a grimace. “It doesn’t matter, anyways. I don’t want us to be anything more.”

He groans, free hand covering his eyes. “This is the worst. You’re both idiots! Oh we’re doomed…”

You roll your eyes and resume your work on his nails in silence. Robin is the first to break it.

“You should know by now that you can trust your crew. Maybe—”

“Stop,” you command, cutting her off. Her eyebrows raise, both in surprise and challenge, but she obeys.

“Sanji,” you huff, shoulders rolling his arm away. “Enough with the couple stuff.”

His face flickers with something painful, eyes shining with a moment of hurt before he schools into an easy smile. “Sorry dear,” he answers, sliding away.

Your heart aches at the gesture, but you don’t take back your words. Instead you watch as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pants and heads for the door of the tavern.

“Good riddance,” Zoro chimes beside you, nursing his third sake.

You huff.

A quiet falls over your corner of the room, the two of you taking in the space: Usopp and Franky dancing, Nami chatting up a rich-looking man, Robin standing quietly to the side. You frown when you notice Brook’s missing presence, head craning to finally spot him on the other end with the music. Zoro’s eyes repeatedly dart to Luffy, where he sits surrounded by empty plates and boisterous company. 

Your heartache grows when you spot Zoro’s fingers tapping the handles of his swords. Ready, in case something were to stir. Ready to defend, time and time again without question.

A pang of jealousy strikes your chest. You wonder what it’d be like to receive that sort of devotion, too.

“You and Luffy—” you stop, not sure where you were going.

“Huh?”

You swallow, eyes dropping as you swirl your drink. “You’d follow him anywhere, I guess.”

The swordsman frowns. “He’s my captain. … Yours too.”

Something heavy crawls up your throat. “You would even if he wasn’t.”

He grunts. “... Yeah.”

You glance to the side, away from him. Your eyes meet the door again, just in time for Sanji’s second entrance. You think he’ll look for you first, make his way over even after you shrug him off. A woman walks by, faltering when someone bumps into her. Sanji reaches on instinct, arm securing her at the waist. You watch despite the turning in your stomach as he grins, eyes solely focused on her form when he helps her stand upright, fingers trailing down her arm to grab her hand.

Good riddance, Zoro’s words repeat in your mind. Even if you did manage to rid yourself of Sanji, you know you’d be the only one suffering, watching him fall to his knees for the next woman who loves him.

You turn away with a grimace.

Zoro is still watching you, brow furrowed in a way you can’t decipher. If you had to guess, it’s a mix of concern and displeasure. 

“I know,” you mutter. “I’m an idiot.”

He grunts—you don’t know if in affirmation or denial. Your stomach flips again.

“It’s better this way,” you conclude.

Green brows furrow further, now in pure disbelief. You don’t know what the expression is for, but the thought of trying to explain anything makes you want to cry. Your nose stings, a glimmer pooling beneath your irises, and the swordsman’s eyes widen with pure concern.

His lips part to speak, but the words never come.

“Hey marimo, quit it. You’re upsetting her.”

Zoro’s face pinches in irritation at Sanji’s scolding. Grey eyes dart to your side, the source of the voice, to argue. “Don’t blame me for your idiocy—”

You stand abruptly. The chair screeches on the floor, not loud in the ambiance of the room, but enough to silence the men. “I’m leaving,” you announce.

“Darling, is something wrong—”

“I want to go to the Sunny,” you interrupt. 

“Oh, of course—”

“Alone,” you add, stepping away.

Sanji moves to follow, huffing out a confused, “Wait,” but Zoro intercepts him. You don’t bother attempting to listen to their argument, instead bolting for the exit.

(“Marimo, move,” Sanji growls.

The swordsman refuses. “You’re just gonna make it worse.”

The cook fumes, rage flooding through his arms. He has the urge to throw a punch. How would he know what upset you? Something ugly burrows in his chest. Does he know? Would you tell Zoro something that you couldn’t tell him?

He swallows, feeling sick.)

You’re most honest when you’re under him. Even when you’ve only had one drink, body fully sober, you can’t lie—and you can’t hold anything back.

So he asks then.

Your legs are open for him, splaying you on your back while he stands above you. His large palms press your thighs as he connects your hips with harsh thrusts. A mewl escapes your lips, chest panting as a hand travels up your belly and your breast, stopping to smooth over your clavicle.

“What’s happening here, angel?”

The words hardly register. You’re too consumed by his brutal pace, so he slows and asks again.

You blink rapidly, confused. “Huh?”

He leans forward, hips suddenly stalling as they pull back, dragging his length out of you painfully slow. You whine, head dizzy from the change.

“Sanji?”

He groans but doesn’t relent, stopping with his tip just barely inside of you. He rubs the skin between your breasts again.

“Your heart, love. Tell me what’s troubling it.”

He punctuates the command with an unexpected thrust, filling you all the way to the hilt. You choke, winded, and then scowl as he starts slowly pulling out again. Groaning, you try rutting your hips, but his hand holds them in place. 

Anger bubbles in your chest. “Nothing.”

He hums, the thumb on your thigh stroking carefully. “Please.”

You huff, frowning. “Sanji, I’m fine. The only thing making me upset is this pace.”

He thrusts again and you cry, tightening around him. This time he doesn’t budge, remaining buried inside you. When you meet his eyes, they’re firm, searching.

“Sanji—”

He twitches inside you at the sound but refuses to move. “Tell me. You can tell me.”

You scoff. “I don’t want to tell you.” 

A noise catches in his throat. His hand returns to your thigh before he pulls out and slams into you without warning, continuing his torturous thrusts. 

“You can tell me anything. We were friends before anything else—”

“We aren’t anything else,” you sneer beneath him, face twisted. It’s a truth that strikes your gut, rips through your skin and flays you beneath him—raw, open. The pain tangles with the pleasure, swallowing you. “So please stop acting like it.”

Sanji’s face twists, crumpling from the request. “I can’t,” he confesses, hips rolling into you again. “I can’t have you like this and pretend that it’s enough. Not… not when I’m in love with you.”

Your chest empties of air, his words a punch to the gut. 

“You don’t mean that,” you manage to whisper.

His eyes widen at the accusation. “What?” he asks, in disbelief.

(How could you challenge him and his love, assume that he would lie to a woman—to you? It’s one thing to have you reject his feelings; it’s another for you to think he does not mean them.)

You whine at his next thrust, how it touches you somewhere deep. Tears well in your eyes. Sanji jerks in surprise, hands immediately coming to cup your cheeks as you release a sob. It’s too much, so much that everything flows out of you without warning.

“You don’t love me,” you cry. “You’d love any woman—you just like that I let you touch me.”

“I love you,” he repeats desperately. “Why does it matter where the feelings come from?”

“Of course it matters. I… I want to be special to you—I want you to love me for myself.”

“You want me to love you?” his voice shakes.

“For me. Not just because I fell in love with you first.”

“You love me?”

(His heart thrums, racing in his chest. The buzz travels through his body, throbs in his cock. He thrusts harder without realizing, trying to satiate the ache.)

You sob harder. “It doesn’t matter—”

“Of course it matters,” he echoes your earlier words. Both hands grip your thighs until his knuckles pale. Sanji is always gentle with you—sometimes condescending, but never rough enough to leave marks beyond a love bite. Now he holds you in a bruising grip, thrusts fueled by anger. “I could be treating you like my wife—treating you like you deserve. Taking you out, buying you gifts—”

“Stop,” you wail.

He doesn’t, instead huffing as he stares down at your body beneath him. Sweat-slick and glistening, spread and curved.

“Never, beautiful. Never ever—”

“You’ll leave,” you snap. That gets Sanji to stop, stuttering his hips when his arms nearly give out.

“I would never—”

“You don’t love me, so you’ll leave me for the next woman.”

“What next woman?” he demands.

“The next one who falls for you.”

His fingers clench harder, nails scraping your skin. “You—you think I’d let you go? Darling, after all this?”

One hand releases to slide along your thigh and rub your clit. You sob again, a broken noise, body shaking against your will. “Wait—” you plead, feeling the coil within you tighten, but Sanji refuses, fingers dipping to swipe your dripping slick and rub you with it. In the next second you cry, vision flooding with static as the rush of your release consumes you.

Sanji’s hips give two more deep thrusts before they stutter, slapping with urgency before he presses to the hilt with a groan. Heat floods your insides as the aftershocks finally start to fade.

Anger floods your system as he collapses over you, his body a weight you can’t shake.

“Sanji,” you growl as you wriggle beneath him, pushing at his shoulders.

He slides his hands to capture yours. Pressing them into the mattress as he lifts his head and chest to look at your face.

“Oh my love, my darling angel—”

“Sanji,” you bark, heart racing with panic. “Stop.”

“You love me,” he announces.

Heat crawls up your neck and face. Your eyes sting from frustration. He blinks at your expression, one hand coming to cup your face.

“I love you, too.”

Your face pinches, “You don’t—”

“Please.”

You swallow, mouth clamping at the anguish on his face.

“Please believe me when I say I love you. Especially if you love me too.”

You grimace. “Sanji…”

“What can I do to make you believe me?” He pleads, heart open on his face. Desperate.

“I—I don’t know… Sanji, you fawn for every woman we meet, so much that you lose your reasoning. All it would take is a weak moment for you to get whisked away by someone else. Women are just women to you.”

Hot tears hit your cheek. “You—you think that about me? That I would… that I could be unfaithful to you?”

Your stomach sinks at his broken voice, his crushed expression peering down at you. But you nod, knowing he needs you to be honest.

He sighs in defeat, pulling out of you while he sits back, a hand lifting for him to smother his face. You watch with confusion.

(This is the uncertainty you were suffering through? Uncertainty about him, his affection for you, uncertainty about whether or not he would stay with you, stay loyal to you.

Is this how you see him?

Is this who he is?)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

You don’t know what to say. Instead you keep your eyes trained on him, still lying on your back because your body is too weak to lift itself.

“Sanji,” you call. 

He doesn’t look your way. (His head is not strong enough to meet you.)

“Sanji,” you repeat.

He sighs, eyes closing before opening again with resolve. He turns to look at you, filled with determination.

“Give me a chance,” he says firmly. “Please, let me show you who I can be for you.”

Your heart clenches, eyes wide with disbelief. He holds your gaze, ocean blue irises pleading.

“I don’t know…”

“Just one chance,” he wagers.

Your face twists with uncertainty. One chance usually comes with many smaller chances; you don’t know if you can handle the back and forth, the constant heavy conversations. 

“I only need one,” he pushes. “Now that I know how you feel about me.”

You exhale, feeling your heart crawling towards him. What difference does it make at this point? You’ve been kicking yourself acting like a jealous girlfriend even while asserting to him that you aren’t together.

He doesn’t press any further, waiting for your response. You roam your eyes over his face, tracing the swirl of his brow, the slope of his nose. His eyes are focused but patient, lips smoothed neutrally. Sun colored hair frames his face in waves, stubble emphasizing his jaw. He’s beautiful.

He’s here, waiting for you to let him give himself to you.

You fold. “Okay.”

The grin that takes over his face is blinding, so overwhelming you want to bury yourself in the blankets. Who are you to elicit this kind reaction—such genuine crinkles around his eyes? His hands reach for you, gripping your side as he leans forward to lay against your body. Your breath falters.

“Thank you,” he mumbles as he kisses your temple. His lips travel across your face, claiming every speck of skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he says between each peck.

“Okay, okay,” you mutter, trying to pry him off you. But his grip is too strong.

“I love you,” he says, stealing your breath before capturing your lips. “My angel, I’ll prove to you how well you can be treated.”

Your chest stings at that, crawling up your face. You blink before tears can surface again. “Okay.”

Sanji laughs, a huffed and throaty sound, before burying his head into your neck. His hair tickles your skin, the touch of a feather, of lightness and freedom. You still feel uneasy, the future looming over you with all its unknown possibilities. But with Sanji in your arms, his warmth against your body, his declarations of love in the air—you feel there’s a future of joy waiting for you.

(On the horizon there’s a future where you still don’t understand. Maybe you will never understand; this is the reality of being two different people. However, there is a future with trust, where Sanji’s devotion has been proven, is proven daily, and you learn to lean into his love. A love he has never before received, and a love that he will only ever hold for you.)

sorry if the end is kind of bad and cringe and typical for me. i was going to try and make it sexier but i can only handle so much porn.

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter two || perpetually miserable

❛ ❜ Kento Nanami x F!Reader (on going)

❝When a mysterious package arrived at Kento’s doorstep, addressed not to him but to a stranger, he nearly returned it without a second thought. Yet something—curiosity, perhaps fate—made him pause. He sent it back with a handwritten note, polite and thoughtful. Days later, he found himself holding a letter in reply. And with every carefully penned word from the woman he’d never met, something stirred—an unexpected tenderness, a quiet fascination blooming like spring through frost.❞

series warning ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut. anxiety.

uploads ; every thursday

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Despite the ten-hour drive separating Kyoto from Tokyo — the endless stretch of highway and rolling countryside between you — you and Kento Nanami corresponded quietly, steadily, through letters alone. In an age where everything was instant, immediate, fleeting, you both clung stubbornly to the slow, deliberate ritual of pen and paper. No phone calls. No emails. Not even a glimpse of each other’s voices beyond the inked words that arrived neatly folded week after week, and yet — despite the distance, despite the silence between envelopes — you found yourself feeling like you knew him more intimately than anyone you had ever met. His measured words, the careful cadence of his sentences, the small glimpses he gave you of his world — they painted a picture of a man who was deliberate and reserved, but deeply thoughtful beneath the surface.

Kento — though he would never admit it aloud — felt much the same. Your letters were never demanding, never rushed. They asked for nothing but what he was willing to give. You told him about the seasons shifting in Kyoto, about the bookstore’s quiet days and the customers who came and went like the tide. He shared small details in return — the books he was reading, the rare evenings he baked bread from scratch, the simple rhythms of a life he rarely spoke of to anyone else. Over time, the letters became something more than just correspondence. They were small anchors — soft lights in otherwise ordinary weeks — reminders that somewhere out there, someone was listening carefully, and writing back with equal care.

It was a particular morning when Kento made his way through the old iron gates of Jujutsu High, the first hint of spring brushing against the air. He was, by all appearances, as composed as ever — immaculate suit, the silver glint of his watch catching the morning sun, expression calm, almost indifferent. But there was something different about him today, something lighter in the way he carried himself. His steps were a fraction less heavy, his shoulders a touch less stiff.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

Satoru Gojo — sprawled out on a low wall near the training yard, sunglasses perched low on his nose — caught sight of him immediately. He grinned, a slow, lazy smile curving his mouth as he pushed himself upright. “Well, well, well,” Satoru drawled, falling into step beside Kento as he crossed the courtyard. “If it isn’t Mr. Nanami, looking suspiciously... chipper this morning.” Kento gave him a sidelong glance — flat, unimpressed — but said nothing. Satoru only laughed, hands tucked into his pockets. “What’s got you all sunshine and rainbows today? Secret lottery win? Early retirement? New bakery discovery?” Kento adjusted his tie with a careful flick of his wrist, his voice dry. “Some of us simply know how to start the day without dramatics.” But the slight, nearly imperceptible softening at the edge of his mouth gave him away — and Satoru wasn’t the type to let that slide. “Come on, Nanami,” he teased, elbowing him lightly. “You’re in a good mood. That’s suspicious enough to call for a full-scale investigation. Spill it.” Kento sighed through his nose, already regretting not taking a different path into the building. “There’s nothing to spill.” Satoru’s grin only widened, sensing a crack in the usual stoic armor. “Uh-huh. Sure. I’m just saying — whatever it is, you should bottle it. Sell it. Nanami’s Secret to Not Looking Perpetually Miserable. I’d buy it.”

Kento ignored him, as he usually did, but the warmth in his chest lingered as he walked away — a quiet, stubborn warmth that even Satoru’s relentless teasing couldn’t touch. Because tucked carefully in his briefcase, sealed in a fresh envelope, was another letter — one he would post later that evening, once the day was done and the city’s noise had settled into a soft hum, and maybe it was foolish — maybe it was old-fashioned — but Kento Nanami found he didn’t particularly care, some things, he thought, were worth the wait.

The shop had grown quiet with the approach of evening, the last golden rays of sunlight spilling across the floorboards, painting long shadows between the tall shelves. You sat at your usual spot behind the counter, a fresh sheet of stationary spread before you, the familiar weight of your favorite pen balanced between your fingers. Writing to Kento had become a kind of ritual now — a gentle pause in the week, something steady and comforting. You found yourself thinking of him in quiet moments, wondering what book he was reading, whether the cherry blossoms had begun to bloom yet in Tokyo, whether he had managed to bake something successful that week. It was strange, how easily he had slipped into your life without ever having heard his voice or seen his face. You smiled to yourself as you set the pen to paper, the words coming more easily now, lighter, warmer.

Dear Mr. Nanami, I hope this letter finds you well — and that Tokyo is beginning to look a little like spring. Here, the trees have just started to blush pink, and the afternoons are beginning to carry that soft, hesitant warmth that makes you want to linger outside a little longer. I wanted to say — as much as I love our letters (and I truly do), there’s a small part of me that wonders what your voice sounds like, or what expression you wear when you speak. It feels a little strange, doesn’t it? To know someone so well through ink and paper, but not through their voice, or their face. If you’re comfortable — and there’s no pressure at all — I’ve written my phone number below. Maybe, sometime, we could speak. Or, at the very least, it might be nice to match a voice to the elegant handwriting I’ve come to know so well. [Your phone number] Of course, there’s no rush. I would be happy just continuing to write, if that’s what you prefer. Wishing you a peaceful week ahead. Warmly, [Your Name]

You leaned back, reading the letter over with a soft smile before folding it carefully and slipping it into an envelope. Your heart beat a little faster than usual as you sealed it — a small leap of faith — but there was no regret as you tucked it into the outgoing mail.

It was strange and thrilling all at once — the idea of hearing his voice, of maybe, finally, putting a sound to the careful, thoughtful words you had come to treasure.

When Kento returned to his office that evening, the sun was already dipping low behind the Tokyo skyline, casting the world in a hazy, golden glow. He set down his briefcase, shrugged off his jacket, and retrieved the familiar cream-colored envelope from the mail tray.

He knew, even before opening it, that it was from you. Kento unfolded the letter carefully, smoothing the paper flat against his desk. His eyes moved over your words slowly, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. But when he reached the bottom of the letter — when his gaze landed on the neat line of numbers beneath your signature — he froze.

Your phone number.

You had given him your phone number.

He stared at it, the simple row of digits, feeling a sudden, unexpected warmth rise to his cheeks. Kento Nanami, who was nothing if not composed — who faced cursed spirits with unflinching calm — sat there, in his quiet office, blushing like a schoolboy over a phone number scrawled in delicate ink. For a moment, he simply sat there, his heart thudding quietly in his chest, the room around him fading to a soft hum. Then, moving carefully, deliberately, he pulled his phone from his pocket — an older model, the kind not yet cluttered with too many apps — and entered the number into his contacts.

[Your Name]

He hesitated only a moment longer before tapping out a message, his fingers surprisingly steady.

Good evening. This is Kento Nanami. I received your letter. Thank you — for your words, and for trusting me with your number. I would like very much to speak with you, if you’re still willing.

He stared at the screen for a beat, then hit send before he could think better of it. The message delivered with a soft, decisive sound. Kento sat back in his chair, exhaling slowly, the faint trace of a smile still lingering on his lips. Outside, the city buzzed and shimmered under the growing night, but inside his office, the world had gone very, very still — and quietly, wonderfully expectant.

The bookstore was long closed, the last traces of sunlight faded into a deep, inky blue as the city of Kyoto hushed itself into nighttime. You sat curled into the corner of your small, worn couch, an old knitted blanket pulled around your shoulders, a book lying forgotten on your lap.

Your phone — usually an afterthought at the end of your day — buzzed softly where it rested on the cushion beside you. You glanced at the screen, and for a moment, your breath caught in your throat.

Good evening. This is Kento Nanami. I received your letter. Thank you — for your words, and for trusting me with your number. I would like very much to speak with you, if you’re still willing.

You stared at the message, a slow, uncontainable smile tugging at your mouth. Your cheeks warmed — the kind of deep, thrumming blush that crept from your neck to your ears — as you carefully set the book aside and picked up the phone. It felt different, seeing his words appear in real time instead of waiting days between letters. More immediate. More real. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment before you typed, careful but not overly formal.

Good evening, Mr. Nanami. I’m very happy to hear from you. And of course — I’m still very willing.

Though I must admit, it feels a little strange, doesn’t it? After all the letters?

You hit send and watched the little blinking dots appear almost immediately — he was there, on the other side, sitting somewhere in Tokyo, reading your words. In his apartment, Kento sat on the end of his couch, phone in hand, his usual book momentarily forgotten on the coffee table. He was still in his dress shirt and slacks from the day, tie loosened, hair slightly rumpled from running a hand through it too many times. When your message appeared, the faintest breath of laughter — rare, soft — escaped him. Strange. Yes, it was. But not unwelcome.

He shifted slightly, settling back, fingers moving over the keys.

It does feel strange. But not unpleasant.

A good kind of strange, if that makes sense.

You smiled as the message came through, pulling your knees tighter to your chest, the blanket slipping slightly from your shoulder. You typed quickly this time, feeling lighter, more at ease.

It makes perfect sense. I’m glad.

I was wondering what your voice would sound like, you know. After all this time.

Kento read your words slowly, his thumb brushing idly along the edge of the phone. His chest tightened in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable, just... unfamiliar. Warm. He answered more simply than he usually might have in a letter.

If you’d like, we could speak now.

Your heart gave a small, traitorous jump. You stared at the message, your fingers tightening slightly around the phone. The thought of hearing his voice — the voice of the man who had written you dozens of letters, who had slowly, quietly become someone you thought of more often than you’d admit aloud — made your stomach flutter with nerves and something softer, sweeter. You bit your lip, feeling the ridiculousness of your own hesitation, then typed.

I’d like that.

A moment later, your phone lit up — his name on the screen, a call. You took a steadying breath, thumb hovering for a heartbeat before you tapped to answer and brought the phone to your ear.

"Hello?" Your voice was a little softer, a little more breathless than you intended, for a beat, there was only the faint sound of the connection — and then, a voice. Low, even, with that precise, careful tone you somehow already knew without ever having heard.

"Good evening," Kento said, and just like that, you smiled, tucking your knees tighter to your chest, the sound of him — warm, deliberate — settling around you like a second blanket. "Good evening, Mr. Nanami."

"You can call me Kento," he said, and though his voice was steady, you could hear it — the faint thread of something gentler, something almost shy, beneath it. You laughed quietly, the sound light and genuine. "Then you can call me [Your Name]," you offered. There was a pause — not awkward, but full — and then you heard it: the faintest exhale, almost like a chuckle, low and quiet and warm, and somehow, in the quiet between words, the distance between Kyoto and Tokyo didn’t feel quite so vast anymore.

At first, the conversation stumbled — polite small talk, careful questions, the kind of hesitations that came naturally when two people who had known each other only in ink and paper finally stepped into the sound of each other’s lives. You spoke about the weather — the early spring rains in Kyoto, the stubborn lingering chill in Tokyo. About books, of course — the ones that had shaped you, the ones you found yourself returning to like old friends. Kento’s voice, though measured and calm, softened as the minutes slipped by. He listened intently, the occasional hum of acknowledgment or low chuckle making your heart lift in quiet, secret ways, and then, without realizing how, the conversation shifted — widened — and deepened.

You talked about small things: the stubborn ivy creeping along the side of your bookstore, the way the light caught in the windows at dusk. Kento told you about the small bakery he visited sometimes on his way home from the school, the quiet pleasure he found in the rhythm of kneading bread, in the structure and precision of it. You confessed that you sometimes read aloud to the empty bookstore when business was slow — your voice filling the quiet air with words meant for no one but yourself. Kento admitted he often found himself reading the same sentence three or four times over when he was tired, not because he hadn’t understood it, but because he liked the way certain phrases sounded, the way they lingered. It was easy, after a while, to forget how long you’d been talking. The world outside faded — no ticking clocks, no demanding schedules — just the low, steady cadence of his voice in your ear and the soft rustle of the blanket you curled tighter around yourself.

At one point, he asked — quietly — if you wrote anything yourself, beyond the letters. You hesitated, then admitted you sometimes scribbled out poems in the margins of your notebooks, though you never showed them to anyone. "I think that suits you," Kento said after a moment, and though the words were simple, they made your cheeks warm. "A person who finds the poetry in small things." You laughed softly, shy but pleased, tucking the blanket higher over your chin. "And what about you, Kento? Do you write anything besides letters?" There was a pause — a long one — before he answered.

"No," he said slowly. "But sometimes... I think about it." Another small truth, offered carefully, like a coin passed between hands. You asked about the last meal he cooked — a simple soba dish — and he asked what flowers were blooming outside your shop now that the season was changing. It was a meandering conversation, full of little detours and half-formed thoughts, but somehow it felt more real, more alive, than almost anything you’d experienced in a long time. At some point, you shifted, stretching your legs out along the couch, the phone cradled against your ear, Kento’s voice still steady, still there. A glance at the clock startled you — 2:45 AM — but you didn’t want to say goodnight, not yet. You could tell from the way Kento’s words had slowed, softened further, that he didn’t want to either.

"Should we hang up?" you asked quietly, though your tone betrayed you — more hope than suggestion. There was a long, warm pause.

"I don’t mind staying a bit longer," Kento murmured, voice low, almost sheepish in a way that made your chest tighten, and so you did. You talked about your favorite childhood memories — the ones tucked away like pressed flowers between the pages of life. Kento told you about summers spent reading under a tree near his childhood home, the way the wind would rattle the leaves overhead like some secret language. You told him about the first book you ever loved, the one you read so many times the spine cracked, the pages soft and feathered at the edges.

He told you — almost reluctantly — about the first time he tried baking bread and how he’d mixed up the salt and sugar. Your laughter was sleepy and warm, curling like smoke between you, and when he chuckled in response — a real, unguarded sound — you found yourself grinning into the darkness of your apartment. By the time you both finally, reluctantly, said goodnight, it was nearly 4:00 AM.

"Sleep well, [Your Name]," Kento said, and there was a softness to the way he said your name that made your heart flutter painfully in your chest. "You too, Kento," you whispered. Neither of you moved to end the call at first — the silence between you heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just full. Full of things unsaid, of possibilities neither of you dared to name yet, and then, with a final murmur of goodnight, the call ended.

You set the phone down on the cushion beside you, staring up at the dark ceiling, a slow, silly smile spreading across your face. Miles away in Tokyo, Kento leaned back against his couch, phone resting on the coffee table, his eyes closed, a rare, quiet smile tugging at his mouth.

Neither of you slept much that night.

But neither of you minded.

[lilareviewsbooks]

Review: Silverborn, Book 4 of the Nevermoor Series -- I'm Going To Eat My Hand

THIS IS A SPOILER FREE REVIEW!!

5/5 stars 542 pages contains: found family on steroids, MAGIC!!!, dubious morals from institutions i fear...

Hi everyone! Listen, I know I always make contained reviews where I make an assertive but polite point about a book. I fear I cannot do this today. When I say this is my Roman Empire I need you to believe me. I have been reading the Nevermoor books ever since the first one came out in 2017. I was 14 when I read the first one. I'm 21 now, and I've been waiting (not very patiently) for every release ever since. I've reread them so many times there's some lines I know by heart. I love the audiobooks, I love the physical books, I love the ebooks. I LOVE NEVERMOOR SO MUCH!!!

Silverborn had a series of publications delays and it's arriving 5 years after it's predecessor, Hollowpox. I can confidently say there hasn't been a week in those 5 years where I haven't at least vaguely thought about Silverborn. I've been waiting for this. I obtained a copy as soon as was literally possible, and I have been taking my time to read it so I don't rush through it and enjoy it as much as I can. Before I even began Silverborn I did my fourth?? complete reread of the series, which I completed in less than a week. And it was finals week, too!

Safe to say my excitement during this read was through the ROOF. I was having SO MUCH FUN, and I'm so happy with the book! It was a wild ride, and, as always, it brought me comfort, and joy, and laughter! This installment also came with so many answers, new mysteries and corners of Nevermoor to explore, so it was especially exciting to read!

It would be hard to review Silverborn regardless of my love (shall we say obsession?) for the series, since it's a fourth book in an unfinished longer series. What I can say confidently is that Townsend's writing has not lost a lick of its charm, humor or quirkiness! As always, it's as gripping as anything, and flows like a dream! Her characters continue to flow off the page, and the dialogue is off the charts. Her creativity and worldbuilding are unmatched -- every part of Nevermoor feels like somewhere you could step into, and its nonsense makes perfect sense to me!

This volume especially impressed me with Townsend's attention to detail. The smallest of bread crumbs dropped in book one return here with a massive payoff, fitting neatly into the mystery that this book revolves around. I love the subtlety of it all! My friend pointed something out to me about the first book that I hadn't even thought about in all my rereads, it was so glossed over... We assumed it was a plothole, but no! It showed up to tie everything into a neat bow! Beyond satisfying!

Little details of Nevermoorian worldbuilding are my favorites, always, and this book had plenty of that! We explored whole new places, which left less space for the familiar ones -- WunSoc, the Hotel Deucalion... -- but paid off massively. Not only did it expand the world, but also allowed for a character-driven installment of the series. Here, the focus is more Morrigan's development and her relationship with her father-figure, Jupiter. This has always been the crux of the series and I'm glad to see it analyzed like this! It also neatly picked up threads relating to Morrigan's relationship with the concept of family from the last books. Overall, the book shows the attention to detail and level of planning that goes into the series, and I appreciated it so much!

This was an incredible installment that left me teary-eyed on multiple occasions, and had me laughing out loud even more frequently (as per usual)! If you haven't picked up the Nevermoor books, I would highly recommend this series! This is a smart, whimsical, thematically-driven middle grade that does not disappoint time and time again. It weaves an expansive world with a wealth of threads that, I assure you, Townsend has not forgotten about! What an incredibly sensitive, thoughtful, action-packed and fresh new book!! I'm beyond happy!!

[adarkrainbow]

To conclude my series of posts about "Frau Holle" (honestly this character is so cool, why isn't there more of her alongside other "great archetypal fairytale witch-goddesses"? She's clearly equal to the likes of Baba Yaga), I will share some elements highlighted by Cyrille François in another article which focused on the brothers Grimm's edit of their fairytales... The article initially covers how the story of "Frau Holle" evolved from the Grimm's first collect/first edition to their final "product", the one we know today.

Because if you didn't know, yes the brothers Grimm collected faithfully all sorts of oral tales around them... But the fairytales we know today are edited versions of the text they collected. For example, when they collected several variations of a same fairytale, they tried to fuse them into one story (this is why the German "Little Red Riding Hood", or rather "Little Red Cap", has two wolves instead of one). They also were known to modify their tales to make them more "German" because their entire point was to collect and preserve purely German folklore. They notably removed all French elements from the fairytales - elements unavoidable since before them THE dominating continent of fairytales was the French one, but elements hated since the French were perceived as the enemies and invaders of Germany... This is why the first edition of the brothers Grimm fairytales contained German variations of purely French stories such as Puss in Boots, Blue-Beard or "The Orange Tree and the Bee", that the Grimms promptly removed upon identifying their French origin ; and this is also why in the first-edition version of several fairytales we can find terms of French origin ("Fee" for "fée", "fairy" or "Prinz" for "prince"), that the Grimms also promptly erased...

Here are some key points of the evolution of "Frau Holle", from the first edition to the last:

In the first edition, the good girl went to the well to fetch water. This made the story closer to its "ancestor" and French counterpart, Perrault's "Diamonds and Toads". By the second edition onward, the girl goes to the well to spin straw ; this was also made to highlight the presence of Frau Holle, which in German legends is a figure associated with spinsters and weaving. It also makes the story more cohesive.

Up until the 1837 version, the text is unclear and vague enough that a possibility is left open: the girl might have thrown herself into the well as an act of suicide, caused by despair. Of course, the Grimms couldn't have that - after all the heroine of a fairytale can't be rewarded for trying to kill herself - and so from 1840 onward it is explained that she jumps in the well to fetch back what fell at the bottom.

In the original version, there is no mention of anything between the moment the girl falls down the well and when she wakes up - later editions precise explicitely that she lost consciousness as she fell, to highlight how the transition went from one world to the next.

In later edition, the brothers Grimm decided to add a mention of the girl's courage and braveness when she accepts Frau Holle's other, as a way to highlight how spooky and threatening the character must look, and how counter-intuitive the choice to serve her is.

The brothers also added several details here and there for practical effect: for example they added that she removes the bread with a baker's shovel (before we didn't know how she removed it), or that she doesn't just pick the apples but also puts them neatly into a pile.

As usual, but it is no surprise to those who know the Grimms: just like in "Hansel and Gretel" or "Snow White", here the wicked stepmother used to be the girl's biological mother, similar to Perrault's "Diamonds and Toads". But the Grimms, due to their worship of the mother figure and the idealization of the family decided to turn the bad mother (such a horrible idea!) into a wicked stepmother (an outsider entering in the family to break it apart, now that's acceptable). [The text notably points out M. Tatar's chapter within her "The hard facts of the Grimm fairytales" called "From Nags to Witches: Stepmothers and other Ogres"]. The change from mother to stepmother also helps the Grimms "rationalize" the mother's favorotism, due to the bad sister being of her own blood.

Originally the character of the bad sister was more akin to the one of "The three little men in the forest", and her main crime was to answer in a bad and dishonest way to the various entities she met in the otherworld. The Grimms only decided later to highlight her main "crime" as sloth, by adding the element of her pricking her fingers to make it believe she spun thread until she bled, as her sister did.

Finally, the Grimms, still out of their desire to present family as some sort of fundamental and essentiel value, changed the passage where the girl wishes to return home. In the original text, it is just said that she grows sad living at Frau Holle's house, and thus demands to leave. In later editions the Grimms explicitely added that the reason for her melancholy was because she longed to return home and to her family: as such, they again point out that, in the moral system they developed, the faithfulness to the family, even if they treat you badly, is a virtue and a sign of goodness. (Again, we all know how fucked up this can be and how fucked up this entire moral ended up becoming in other centuries, but again, that was the Grimm's big thing... They were ALL about family, these two.)

[thus-spoke-lo]

He’s a Real Picnic // linecook!Sanji x reader // SFW

Written for @bastardblvd’s Wet Hot Slimeball Collab CW: gn!reader, some gendered pet name (ex. ma chérie), crack-ish. Sanji-typical shenanigans. WC: ~800

“Did you know that this wine takes seven summers to create, my sweet?”

You glance at the green bottle that Sanji holds in his hands. “No, I can’t say that I did.”

“Here, darling.” Sanji pours you a glass and hands it to you. “You see, what I’ve learned is that the best things in life take time and persistence, and this wine is no exception.”

“Huh.” You raise an eyebrow and take a swig from the glass; it tastes like wine, alright. “How interesting.”

“Isn’t it?” He brushes his blonde hair out of his eye, smooths out the picnic blanket that covers the patchy grass of the park. He takes multiple small containers out of the grand, hand-woven basket that sits in the middle, and begins to arrange their contents neatly on the plates in front of you—real plates, not the cheap paper kind that you’re used to hauling along for afternoon picnics, with intricate designs painted along the edges. “Do you know where I got these plates, my dear?”

You sigh. “Let me guess. When you were working under Chef Zeff in Fr—”

“When I worked under Chef Zeff in France that one summer,” he drones, not even hearing your response. “Now here, why don’t you try this? I special-ordered this baguette from a bakery out of town, just for today.”

You sputter as he shoves a piece of bread in your mouth. “Sanji—”

“I know, ma chérie, I spoil you too much.” He sighs and grasps your chin between his thumb and forefinger, directing your gaze to him. “But you deserve it. I see how hard you work every day, how you put up with the disgusting flirtations of our customers with a smile. It’s vile what they put you through, truly awful.”

“Sanji, listen—”

“Darling, we don’t need words,” he says, pressing his long finger to your lips to silence you. “Our love is one that only needs lingering glances over glasses of wine, a shared laugh over the gentle grazing of our hands as we both reach for the last piece of Brie—”

“Sanji! For the last goddamned time, I am on a date!”

“Of course you are, lovely,” he laughs, sitting back on his heels. “You’re on a date with me, just like I’ve always dreamed of.”

“Not with you.” You point to the sad-eyed man sitting next to you. “With him.”

Yuuta quietly waves at Sanji and smiles, leaning down to take a cracker from the plate on front of you; Sanji smacks Yuuta’s hand and shakes his head slowly. “Those are not for you, sac à merde, and you have no business interrupting my afternoon with my delicate flower.”

“Oh, should I go?” Yuuta asks, looking at you with an expression that made him look utterly and irresistibly soggy.

“What? Jesus, Yuuta, no, you don’t need to go, he’s just”—you pause and breathe deeply, grumbling as you exhale. “Let me handle this.”

Yuuta shrugs in response and pulls out his phone, popping in earbuds as if to give you privacy for whatever was about to happen.

“Sanji,” you start, taking both his his remarkably soft hands in yours, “you need to go, my guy. You crashed my date.”

“But my sweet, summer blossom, I put so much of my love for you into this experience! I brought all your favorite foods, and I got up early just to make sure everything looked perfect!” Sanji places his hands on each side of your face, his expression becoming more panicked as he spoke. “Do you know how hard it is to find someone to work the overnight shift? I owe Dabi so much money now!”

You carefully pry Sanji’s hands from your cheeks and close your eyes. A groan escapes your lips, and you know you’ll probably regret the next words you say. “Look. Maybe another time, okay? Just…not now.”

“You—you mean it?” His pupils practically turn heart-shaped at the suggestion.

“Yeah. Sure. Why not.” You could do worse.

“Well, then my apologies, let me clean this up and I’ll be out of your way.” He winks at you, like you now share a secret you’d rather not have between you, and he begins to pack up the picnic basket.

“Hey, Sanji,” you coo, tugging at the hem of his shirt as he starts to put away the bunny-shaped apple slices.

“Yes, my darling?” he grins, practically salivating at the sound of your voice.

“Can you, uh… can you leave the food at least?”

“…fine. But he can’t have any.” He leans over, until he’s mere inches from Yuuta’s face. “And I’ll know if you do.”

Sanji lights a cigarette and takes a long drag from it while he glares at the two of you, blowing the smoke in Yuuta’s face, then stands and shoves his hands in his pockets as he wanders off. You sigh and turn to Yuuta, who is quietly watching Power and Denji’s latest video, chuckling to himself while he shoves a slice of apple in his mouth.

Somehow, this is still the best summer you’ve had so far.

[theplumblossomswordsman]

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ Music of our soul.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

Who would've thought that the day he always looked forward to would never come? Many words were left unspoken, many notes were left unplayed…so much love he wasn't able to share to that one person he cherished the most. He told himself, it would've been better if he also died back then, that way, he wouldn't suffer this anguish and grief that caused him to rot from the inside. If only he was brave enough to confess his feelings sooner, the weight in his heart would've been much lighter, his regret wouldn't have been this great, and he wouldn't have wallowed in despair for years.

‘You're so funny, hyungnim. What if I return with longer hair huh? Will you still recognize me?’

‘I trust if we meet again, I will remember you.’

Chung Myung could still remember Tang Bo's flushed face back then. A shade of pink staining his cheeks with his green eyes wide in surprise from the answer he received, obviously unaccustomed to his hyungnim's tacky remarks.

Chung Myung could clearly remember, as if it was just yesterday, the sweet ring of Tang Bo's laugh and sarcastic comments because of his sappy reply. His friend was planning to return back home after graduation which is why they decided to make something memorable ― a piece containing their efforts, soul, and purpose. For Tang Bo, the piece was just that, but for Chung Myung, it was more than a sheet of notes, it was his love, his emotions, his unsaid yearnings for his friend. He didn't have the courage, he was weak, his lips would always stutter whenever he tried to turn his heart's longings into words. Perhaps his music can change that. He hoped his violin could speak the words for him, hoped that the melody would reach his beloved's heart, and maybe, just maybe, he would gain the strength to speak upfront and pour out the feelings that he had held inside his chest for so long.

But alas, fate wasn't as merciful as one would wish.

‘It's late, where is he?’ The ticking clock broke the silence in the music room where Chung Myung was pacing back and forth, arms crossed over his chest while stealing occasional glances on the clock plastered on the wall. He and Bo were supposed to practice today and they should've started by now if only that guy wasn't late. Frustrated and a little concerned, he made his way to the door which abruptly opened, revealing a disheveled Tang Bo, a slice of bread trapped between his lips and uniform tussled as if he had a wrestle with a bull.

‘The fuck? Where have you been?’

Tang Bo laughed, devouring his bread before speaking. ‘Sorry hyungnim, I woke up late.’ An apologetic grin formed on his face ― how could Chung Myung stay upset with that kind of expression? Sighing, the latter's gaze softened, the worry and annoyance from earlier no longer existent as he reached out and gave his friend a gentle pat on the head. ‘Fix yourself up so we can begin, you punk.’

With an eager nod, Tang Bo stepped inside and began tidying himself, straightening his clothes and tying his hair neatly oblivious of the eyes that lingered on his back. Chung Myung couldn't take his eyes off him, admiring every form of this person both inside and outside, the only person that caught his heart. Was it during their first year when he realized that his feelings were special towards his childhood friend? He could barely remember. They had been together for too long, they studied music ever since preschool, accompanied each other in practices, and sooner in life, attended competitions as duet, dominating the music world of the youth with their harmony and perseverance. What was the title given to them again? Chung Myung pondered. Ah yes, Twin Sovereigns. Side by side, they made names for themselves, note by note, they created a harmony only they can play. A stage will never be complete without the other. That's what they are.

‘Bo-ya.’ Chung Myung called.

‘Yeah?’ Tang Bo replied nonchalantly, his focus entirely on setting up his music scores.

‘I like you.’

Tang Bo flinched and glanced at his hyungnim, a bit puzzled thinking he misheard something. ‘Pardon?’

‘I…��

Yet his sentence was never finished. And it never will.

A bright light consumed the room, no, the whole city, devouring everything in its way without pity and crushing buildings into ashes and dust. The land shook mercilessly, the sun turned black as if it turned its face away from humanity, and clouds of smoke consumed Shaanxi like wrathful waves of a storm-bound ocean. Nothing was spared. When the dust settled, what was left of Shaanxi was a barren wasteland of rubble and remains devoid of life ― laughter vanished, busy streets disappeared. Houses, establishments,

schools disintegrated like mere sandcastles by the seaside.

Nothing was left. Nothing but silence.

An eerie silence that could make one's skin crawl.

Silence that speaks louder than any man could.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ

“I like you…” Chung Myung murmured. “Those were the words I wanted to say.” Months turned into years since that day, but not a single moment did he forget that person's face, always bright and beautiful with a voice constantly filled with cheer and mirth, not a single moment did he forget how he grew to love and cherish such a man. Oh how he wished they could've played a duet back then before the tragedy. If Bo wasn't late perhaps they could've played together for one last time. Chung Myung chuckled at the thought, amused at how he's trying to curse the dead for being late. Together with his beloved, he buried his music deep in the past as each note reminds him of that person. Each sound brings out a memory that would nudge his heart into a series of aches and lament. He wanted to forget it and move on but how can he when his dreams were plagued with that man's face? It has been years but he never married because of his conflicting emotions, when will he be ready to find love again? Can he even call it romance if he wasn't able to confess his feelings to that person? Maybe it was just a phase, a youthful whim? But why did it serve as an anchor that held him in the past while everyone around him already moved on?

It was already late in the afternoon when Chung Myung decided to return home. Passing by a lone cafe, he heard a familiar tune that evoked unexplained hope from his chest. His steps were slow when he crossed the threshold, scents of vanilla and chocolate greeted his nose accompanied by the warm atmosphere that eased his shoulders and soothed his tense expression. By the piano, a man sat, eyes covered in a black cloth yet his fingers missed not a single key. A familiar tune it was, enticing Chung Myung to approach in quiet steps afraid that if he was reckless, this image in front of him would vanish into thin air.

“I trust that if we meet again, I will remember you.” He stood just inches beside the man, with head tilted backwards trying to recall a certain memory. “And it seems I really did.”

A small smile curled on the man's lips. “Hyungnim.”

“Hm?”

“Back then, I heard what you said.” The surroundings seemed to slow just for them, noises dulled and both can hear each other's voice ever so clearly. The melody from his instrument was like a flame that warmed both their hearts and calmed their minds. Though his sight was gone, he can feel the longing from his hyungnim's voice ― the same longing he endured for years. And at long last, they met again, like how music bonded them in the past, it was also music that brought them back together at present.

“Is it too late to say that I like you too?”

“No…”

Chung Myung replied with a soft smile.

“You're just in time.”

[sadiebelle]

i saw the light this morning

(exaggerated but true events of my morning on the 16th of december.)

“good morning!” is what i would say if the morning was good. but it wasn’t. woke up feeling not so refreshed. rough sleep. i had that uncomfortable feeling in my leg that made it seem like i was cooped up in a small space, that i needed a good old streeeeeeeeetch. quite restless! not in the bestest of moods from the get-go.

got out of the warmth of my ditsy floral yellow duvet and my bright pink quilt that my mama got me for Christmas last year. made my way towards my bedroom door, which is always left open in hopes that my cat will join me for a snuggle (she never does…), and stepped over the mountain of clothes i left on my floor. december homework leaves one feeling disorganized sometimes. no time to fold my laundry and make my bed!

anywho. i’m now walking in the hallway, headed towards the bathroom. oh! nevermind. my brother is taking a steaming hot, forty minute shower. great. i’m even grumpier now. i turn to head back to my room (i may as well be productive for the next twenty minutes of his shower, or else i’ll be late for school), and, rather unfortunately, stub my toe really hard on the corner of the hallway banister.

holy moly!!! pain pain pain. oh my gosh. i say some rather colourful words (opposite intention as the word “huzzah!”, but with the same verbal enthusiasm). groooooan. today sucks already. my poor toe hurts so bad. gasp! it’s all red! are you kidding me, how hard did i kick that stupid wooden post? crap! ow ow ow. (oh my gosh, what’s that light at the end of the hallway!? no, stupid, not the sunrise! i think i’m dying! i can see the other end!)

okay… i need a pick-me-up, or else i will be emo for the rest of the day. eureka! i’ll make myself a cappuccino! ugh, i’m so grateful my mom realised that getting rid of our espresso machine was a mistake. her crusty and old french press was just not cutting it. i put my white Nike socks on (my poor toe…), head downstairs, and realize that i’m not wearing my glasses. i can already feel the headache brewing.

i retrieve them: problem kinda solved (i can see, head still hurts). i reach the kitchen to prepare my lunch, neatly packing some cabbage casserole in a glass container (unironically yum i don’t care what you think!), as well as an apple, a chocolate-peanut granola bar (hopefully no one dies upon smelling this, i think mournfully), a spoon, and a dismembered gingerbread man – no frosting. i put some bakery bread in the toaster, though the slices are too long so they stick out awkwardly like a tall person’s feet under a hotel blanket. can’t relate.

i spot the glistening espresso machine, ready for use. oh, you better not disappoint me, girl; i’m holding on by a thread! ok, fast forward to my double shot being poured in my mug, i open the fridge so that i can froth some milk, and guess what? (“what?”, you say out loud) THERE’S NO MILK! are you joshing me right now? %$%&*$, i say. “what’s wrong?” my mom asks from my dining table.

everything, i say melodramatically, facepalming and shaking my head (she laughs at me). my toast pops. i choose to just spread butter on it because i can’t be bothered to fight with the solid block of organic peanut butter my mom insists on buying over the oily stuff. (don’t tell her i said this, because she’ll never let me hear the end of it, but she is right; the organic stuff tastes better) anyways. the rest of the morning is bad. my bangs look clapped. i’m post-period breaking out HELLAAAA. i just remembered that i have work tonight. my sweatpants are sitting wet and cold in the washing machine, no time for them to dry in time. shucks, i guess i’ll just have to wear jeans!

jeff buckley, please give me strength! Yard Of Blonde Girls, bring me to life! (ooh girl, you bet your cheeks it did.) i feel rejuvenated, rejoiced, and reconciled. i will not succumb to my sour mood, nuh uh. goodbye!

[omegaremix]

Rosie’s Vintage shopping list, 2018.

Two more stops to go before the music shopping spree is history. Whatever locations are on the list seems to be further away each time. Today’s theme is the record annex which is picking up on Long Island. It started a year-and-a-half ago when Hideaway Vinyl set shop in Rosie’s Vintage in Huntington. Looks like they have an online presence still despite nothing being updated in a few months, so why not take the trip to see what it’s all about?

It’s been quite a while since being in Huntington. I do have some personal history there. My ex- Yenny brought me over to work there (our second job working together) for several years and it’s where she used to live. And let’s try to forget a dreaded miserable summer post-rain day out with former friend and staffer Molina, who took me through a cemetery, burger place, and an isolated park in an attempt to get close to me. No dice.

I walk in to Rosie’s and it’s bonafide vintage. Looks like the owners took over a small Fifties-style house in white-bread suburbia. Walk in and you’ll certainly feel the loud creaking of the all-wood floors. Its’ living room, dens, bedrooms, and many closets are filled with tons of kitsch, knick-knacks, and collectibles from the mid-century. Street signs, old threads, compasses, jewelry, board games, wardrobes, dolls, salt-shakers…I can go on. There’s many stories and tales to be told by each and every object that survived its’ era; all neatly organized, piled, and sorted. As an added touch, there’s the classics played on the overheads. Collections were posted on its page and testimonials from its customers recall their purchases: old vials and medicine jars, pill and spice tins, matchbook collections, sports pennants, dishes, and the occasional naughty glassware. I can still go on if you want me to.

The guy behind the register greets me and asks what he could do for me. I’m here for Hideaway Vinyl, I say. He tells me that they left shop a few months ago. Could’ve fooled me. They no longer exist. They’re still present online on social media but it all made sense why the lack of updates. Had Hideaway stayed, there’d be a presence of punk, hardcore, surf, ska, and rockabilly. He did show me where all the vinyl is now deposited by Vinyl Paradise. Remember them? There were twelve shelves top and bottom of pre-owned vinyl, four of the same across from those bins of newly-pressed and Record Store Day releases. 

Of the first twelve were plenty of rock, pop, dance, and 12″ dee-jay singles most for $10.00 and less with the occasional new hardcore pressing. I found a lot of 12″ hip-hop and dance singles; Nice & Wild and Harold Faltermeyer were two hits New York’s Z100 played growing up during my single-digit Eighties youth. Everything else in Shabba Ranks, Mad Skillz, Boogiemonsters, and Blahzay Blahzay were all summer hits going to Brentwood. WBLS, Hot 97, and Kiss FM played them all. As always, there’s the pop-rock quotient from Genesis and Dire Straits. Hello, nice to meet you again. Also relieved to find was the complete Malcomb McLaren & The World Famous Supreme Team’s “Buffalo Gals” in a die-cut label sleeve.

In comes Thea, co-owner of Rosie’s Vintage in her rockabilly / Rosie The Riveter motif. She says hello and sees the stack in my hand. She offers to put it aside for me which I obliged. I kindly ask if there would be more vinyl and does tell me there might be some upstairs. That’s where I’m going. Heading up is possibly one of the steepest set of steps I experienced walking. I also had to dodge a heavy-set punk couple decked with gauges, tattoos, low-cut tank tops and tees coming from downstairs. I walk up and there’s a closet with a secret crate of records on the floor containing The Talking Heads’ 77 for $20.00 and its’ sister Tom Tom Club’s Close To The Bone for $15.00. Shucks. I scour the upstairs to find many more antiques. Compasses, typewriters, old magazines, books, brochures in one room with very little traces of 7″ records in one crate. The kitchen was full of dishes, glasses, and silverware stacked in the sink and on its’ counter but no records to be found.

Thea rings me up and I’m golden. This became the shortest time spent in any store with the smallest stack and the least amount of money paid. 45 minutes to look through 16 bins of records for a total of $29.00 and I say good-bye to Rosie’s Vintage and Huntington until next time. Only two more stores are on the list to go before calling it quits on record-shopping for a while: Sunday Records in Riverhead and Innersleeve Records in Amagansett.

Genesis Abacab

Nice & Wild “Diamond Girl” 12″

Shabba Ranks “Mr. Loverman” 12″

Dire Straits self-titled

Mad Skillz “Nod Factor” 12“

Boogiemonsters “Recognized Thresholds Of Negative Stress 12″

Blahzay Blahzay “Danger!” 12″

Harold Faltermeyer “Axel F” 12“

Spyro Gyra self-titled

Malcomb McLaren & The World Famous Supreme Team “Buffalo Gals” 12″

[jaehyunasbread]

[viridwns]

Phantomhive MOM!AU

Vincent Phantomhive x fem!mom! reader

Masterlist

warnings: Yandere themes, dark themes, mentions of stalking, forced and unhealty relationship

A day in the life

"Stop that." Vincent's stern voice rung through the once silent work study. You didn't look up from the romance book you were reading as the main character was about to do something stupid. "Stop what?" You questioned him. Your voice was barely audible as you were still emerged in your book. "Sighing. I'm trying to work, darling." His head was hanging low as he scribbled something on a paper before laying it on a pile of letters on his left. You knitted your eye brows together; your focus slowly draining away from the world you were pulled into. "Sighing?" You re positioned your body on the small sofa you were lying on, to get a better look at your husband. "I didn't notice i was." Your eyes were slowly drifting from the page you were reading. The focus you once had completely gone. You sighed as you put your book down, probably not finding the motivation to read it further today. "You're doing it again honey." You side eyed him.

Sighing became as natural as breathing for you the past days. Being surrounded by 4 luxury walls and not being able to do anything without your husband monitoring your every move, has lead to extremely tiring days with a continues repetition of what you were doing the day before. You threw your book on the small coffee side table on you right as you huffed. "I'm just so bored Vincent." You plopped yourself on your back as you stared at the blank ceiling. The sound of pen hitting paper stopping for just a second. A few seconds of silence enveloped the room. You felt your palms getting sweaty. 'Oh no did i say something to trigger him?' You questioned yourself as the silence only lasted longer. But the sound of Vincent writing again made you heave a sigh in relieve. "I suppose your days have been looking a tad bit bland yes, why don't you take our sons for a walk?" You shot up, your vision going a bit blurry from the fast movement you just made. Did you hear that right? You were allowed to go outside? Without him? You looked at him with uncertainty in your eyes. "Are you serious?" You hesitantly asked. He looked up from his paperwork and stared you death in the eye. "Yes, i am. Now go before i change my mind." He smiled slightly at you as you immediately stood up. "No! i will go right now." Not even the fastest runner could compare with the speed you flew out of that door. Your face lighting up at the fresh air and bright sunlight that was waiting for you. "Be back in 2 hours! I do expect a reward when you get back!" You heard him yell from the study, but you weren't planning on ever returning.

On your way to the front door, you ran past the head butler Tanaka. "Oh wait Tanaka!" You couldn't contain your excitement as you rambled at him to get the twins, and ready them for a walk. He was skeptical at first, but as soon as you said he could check the information by Vincent, he nodded and went on his way to do as you wished.

When you reached the door, you slipped on your white patent leather shoes and reached for your cloak that was hanging neatly by the door, barely touched. You were now waiting by the door, eager to pull that damned handle down. You spotted your two sons and Tanaka walking over to you, the twins beaming with happiness.

"Here are they. Have a safe walk miss Phantomhive. I will see you in two hours." Tanaka bowed down at you politely as the twin grabbed your hands in theirs. "Thank you, i'll see you then!" And with that, Ciel pulled down the handle to open the door. He pulled you outside as the younger twin calmly walked next to you, almost hugging your side. The sound of shoes hitting gravel filled you with utter happiness as you basket in the sunlight you were getting. The fresh air filling your nostrils like freshly baked bread.

"I am so happy daddy finally let us go on a walk with you, but we had to make the promise to keep you safe!" The oldest of the two said, an annoyingly cute smile plastered on his face. "He told us, as if we wouldn't already keep you safe." The younger one scoffed. You laughed at their antics. "Well my knights in shining armors! Why don't we go to the harbor! i really want to see the sea." You smiled down at them as they nodded eagerly. If luck was on your side, you could sneak on a ship and just sail far, far away from this hellhole. unbeknownst to you, a navy haired man had just ordered his butler to grab his coat for him, the reason for it being that he wanted to go on a nice two hour walk.

I finally found the motivation for another part for the mom!au T-T

Song i listened to while writing this:

[torpidx]

Saimami now

Bitter Sweet Love ((CHAPTER 1))

A/N; I know what you want bae, working hard to please you.

CHARACTERS ; Shuichi Saihara , Rantaro Amami CONTAINS ; Saimami , Vampire!Rantaro , Human!Shuichi , hints of obsession and possessiveness , Enthralment , eventual smut , slow burn

It was a dark day; it was gloomy and depressing, but to Rantaro it was perfect; he loved the smell of a cloudy sky and the fresh smell of grass on these kinds of days. Today was the day he would go into the small village that lived down from his large castle; he was dressed extra fancy for the occasion. The only reason why he was visiting specifically today was because a blood moon was coming soon, when he would be the most hungry. Rantaro wasn't a big fan of human blood, but it was the only thing he craved for this particular day. He wore a ruffled button-up with a matching pair of black high waisted pants and dress shoes; his fingers were decorated with pretty rings and his hair was all ruffled but still neatly made. With that said and done, Amami left his castle and began to walk through the dark forest. Shuichi walked down the packed streets of the village holding a basket of food that he had bought from people at their venues. People's voices ringed in his ear as they greeted him giving all of them a small nod. Stopping at a small bread venue, he stared before pointing at a fresh looking loaf, he was about to pay before getting bumped into, getting knocked onto the dirty, washed away road, everything in his basket being spilt out all over the streets. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn't see you there.” A hand became clear in his vision, staring up at the face before him. “Oh.” Shuichi was starstruck at how beautiful this guy was; he’s never seen him around and his clothes were much neater than his and his hands were gorgeous. they were so long but just the right amount of thickness. Wait. What was he even thinking about? Shuichi shook his head before taking the stranger's hand, pulling himself up. “Ah, Thank you.” The stranger smiled, “Are you new around here? Haven’t seen anyone like you around here.” He didnt mean for it to come out as rude or in a bad way; he saw the strangers eyes widen before he let out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I live just out of town and I was running out of.. Food supply, The names Rantaro, but you can call me Amami. ” Shuichi sensed a strange weirdness in this guy, but he chose to ignore it. It was probably just the overwhelming small talk that made Saihara nervous. “Ah.. If I hadn't knocked all my food out, I would have given you some. I’m Shuichi Saihara..Nice to meet you, Amami.” Even his name sounded good, but why all of a sudden he was attracted to someone, he’s never felt like this towards anyone besides Amami. He got butterflies just by looking at him, and the way Amami stared at Shuichi made him feel like he already knew everything about him, even his deepest darkest secrets. “Oh.. I guess It’s kind of my fault that your food went everywhere, isn't it? Shuichi? Here, I've got some money to spend. I'll buy whatever you need. Unless you feel weird that a stranger is buying you things.” Shuichi looked at the food on the streets, then backed up at Amami. “Oh.. um.. If it's not.. Bothersome then, I guess I wouldn't mind.” He felt bad about taking Amami’s money, but he needed the food if he wanted to eat tonight. Amami’s body felt like he was on fire; the smell lingering off the stranger was strong. He smelt of sweetness and a hint of blueberries.. He’s never smelt like someone this good before ..And it left him wanting more; he began to wonder how his blood would taste down his throat; it made his whole body ache. The simple touch of bumping into Shuichi he already felt obsessed, the burning that was left made Rantaro long for even more, but he couldn't do that to someone who seemed nice. He was only supposed to be looking for someone who didn't have much to live for anyways who was willing to give him blood for the blood moon but the urge to tease and play around with Shuichi was unreal. he wanted to hold him away from everyone and bite everywhere, leave marks for only himself to see. He only wanted Shuichi to pray; it was an instinct that was held against him. Amami was shaken out of his thoughts when Shuichi said yes to his request, giving the other a small smile. “Well, let’s get on with it.” After a day of letting Shuichi dragged him around to different venues; it slowly became darker than before, the clouds finally went away, when the moon appeared, the venues started to close, and people started going home. He’s always heard tales of humans going to sleep after a long day before the monsters could get to them. He found it to be intriguing to think a monster couldn't pray on their meal while a weakened human was sleeping. It was silly, that's how humans think. “Shuichi, I think you should head home now. It’s getting quite late.” Shuichi seemed shocked at the fact that it was already late, he was having so much fun with whom he considered a new friend. He stared down at the floor, he didn't want the day to end yet, “What if you came over… for a bit longer, I would normally be asleep, but.. I’m not tired yet, and if you want, I have a spare room since it's late out and you said you lived out of town.” He felt silly inviting a stranger over, but he couldn't help himself; he wanted to get to know him more. He could sense Rantaro was shocked, the greenette didn't think it would be this easy, but he quickly agreed. “Yeah, I would love to, getting back home would be quite a struggle..” Shuichi laughed before nodding, leading the way back to his house.

[verysmolspams]

Arven x OC!Aurelia: Post Area-Zero Confession

If you have not finished playing Pokémon S/V, please do! This may contain spoilers

Basically this is what Aurelia would have done instead of what your character usually does when your team leaves Area Zero. Aurelia is fem., lots of emotions but nothing too crazy.

Characters: Arven, Aurelia (OC), Miraidon, Nemona, Penny

Word count: 1447

———————————————————————

The incline on the hill did nothing to ease the heaviness in my heart. Something in me still wondered if there was a way to save what was left of the Professor, but to no avail. I noticed Arven lagging behind me as well, his face cast down to the ground beneath him as he trudged.

“Hey, let’s take the long way home today!” Nemona said cheerily, trying to lighten the mood. As my heart wanted to hope to, the weight of grief I felt told me there was another solution.

“That might be nice, but for now I think we need some rest, Nemona.” I responded earnestly. She and Penny turned around to look at me, confused at where my usual go-getter energy went.

“I’m a little tired from this insane expedition, and I’m sure you could benefit from a rest too.” I finished.

Arven looked at me from the floor, wondering if I read him like a book.

“You have a point,” Penny added. “And I’m sure we could do it again later.”

“I wouldn’t mind rain checking,” I added, wanting to not disappoint Nemona. “I really appreciate it, but I just need rest right now, and I think you guys deserve rest too.”

Nemona pouted lightly, but nodded.

“Okay, later then! c’mon Penny!”

“I- wha- okay.” Penny was taken by the arm as Nemona led her somewhere, giving me a smile and a wave with her free arm. When the two were out of sight, I turned to Arven, who had been looking out at the coast.

I spoke softly. “Do you wanna just sit together for a bit?”

He looked at me confused, before nodding.

“Any place in particular?” I added.

He shook his head. He didn’t seem to be in the mood for much of anything, a heavy grief weighing on him.

“Alright, it doesn’t have to be special. I just want to make sure you’re okay,” I say, offering a smile. A smile escaped him as I walked in the direction of an open patch of grass. He followed me, with Miraiadon curiously chittering.

“We’re just gonna hang out for a bit, maybe have some snacks. Don’t worry.” I said, returning Miraidon to the pokeball. I placed my backpack down on a near rock and grabbed my blanket, unfurling it onto the flat grass in front of me.

I heard Arven fumbling through his pack as well, taking out a few cooking things.

“Can.. we make a sandwich together?” He asked, with hopeful eyes.

“Of course, bud,” I responded, keeping the usual smile. “Any particular kind today?”

He thought for a moment.

“There’s an old recipe I always used to do… do you have any, chorizo?”

“Oh yeah I always keep that on me.” I said, digging into my ingredients.

“Other than the peanut butter sandwiches I consume so often I also love a balanced sandwich with good meat. Did I ever mention that?” I say, looking up at him.

“You mentioned loving the BLTA combination, but you didn’t tell me you liked meat in general.” He spoke rather softly.

“Okay! Well now you know. In any case, here.”

I toss the pack of chorizo I had to him as he catches it.

“Thanks, Aury.” He manages a smile.

“You’re welcome, bud.”

I couldn’t help but smile a little extra.

Maybe today was the day I tell him… wait, maybe it’s too soon. He did just lose his father…

I battled an internal monologue without noticing that Arven had set up all the ingredients as I pondered.

“Aury?” He asked, quietly.

“Oh! Sorry, I was deep in thought,” I apologized and came over to the picnic table he neatly set out.

From there we began to build the sandwich: I buttered the slices of bread first as the ingredients were prepped and organized by Arven. He also had me add a little salt, and then an herbal mix of his own that must have come from the herba mystica. When he finished the slices of bread were facing up, ready for the ingredients. He handed a few to me before he began putting the first sandwich together. His hands worked delicately and quickly, seeming to know how to terrace every ingredient so that balance and decadence was achieved.

“Aury, would you hand me a pick?” He asked, voice a little more confident.

“Oh! Sure,” I said, reaching for a pick that caught my eye. It had a faux, blue flower on it that I found particularly beautiful. I handed it to him.

“This one looks pretty,” I said casually.

He paused for a moment, before placing the pick in.

Perfection.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone make a prettier sandwich than you, Arven.” I praised him.

“Thanks, little buddy.” He smiled with a rosy complexion.

“Now I wanna see how you’ve been improving since we last cooked together.”

I worked with a little more enthusiasm. Seeing his spirits lifted really wanted me to try and impress him with this sandwich. My internal monologue started running again as I realized what I was doing:

Are we trying to woo him with our sandwich making skills?

Hush, we gotta focus.

But I thought we were gonna do a picnic with him just to tell him… wait a minute.

I almost dropped a piece of chorizo as I tried to stop the thoughts in my head.

“Whoops!” I said, catching it, but also hitting a knife off the table by its handle.

“Estas bien?” He asked as he rushed to the side where the knife fell. It was a particularly sharp knife, and it barely missed when it fell. A sigh of relief left him as he realized I wasn’t hurt.

“You gotta be careful there, little buddy. Did you get butter on your fingers?” He joked lightly.

“Psh, nahhh. There’s a lot of thoughts going on right now.” I admitted. There was a pause before he spoke, turning to me with a concerned expression.

“Que occure?”

“It’s nothing you did, I promise,” I sheepishly answered, realizing I had backed myself into this mental corner.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” I said, putting a hand on my chin.

“Remember how I had planned on telling my crush how I felt and then having them meet you?”

He looked defeated, but was willing to listen through.

“Y-yeah, you were,” his spirits were gone, the poor thing.

Wait, is that what I think it means?

“W-Wait,” I stuttered.

He looked at me as if I had seen right through him. His cheeks flushed red and looked like he was about to explain himself in panic.

“Hang on,” I said, my right arm reaching out and touching his right shoulder.

I JUST TOUCHED HIM, SHIT.

He looked away reflexively, concealing an even bigger blush. I knew at this point there was no turning back.

“I was hesitant to tell you at first because I wasn’t sure how you were going to take it, but I think I know now.”

He looked back at me, a tear forming.

“Arven, I like you.” I spoke slowly, as to let him hear how seriously I was taking it.

His eyes widened for a moment in surprise.

“You… like, me?” He asked, pointing to himself.

“Yeah,” I softened my face. “You are such a beautiful human, and I was afraid of losing our friendship, so I wasn’t sure how to go about this. You mean a lot to me, Arv. I really mean it.” I gave the arm I was holding a gentle squeeze.

Tears from before turned to happy tears.

“Oh bud this is, this… I, I- I like you too,” he finished, putting a hand on my shoulder awkwardly.

I gently pulled him into a hug, unable to contain the magnetic feeling that arose from the messy spilling of emotions. His hold was so gentle, and yet tight enough to feel the warmth in his chest. I let my thumb rub on his upper back in a soothing motion.

“I’m so sorry if my original plan caused you so much stress. I was still trying to figure out how to make it perfect. And yet, this is also wonderful.” I sighed breathily as I continued to hold him.

“S’okay,” he sniffled a little. I looked up to pretty, teal eyes, shimmering from recent tears. I gently reached to wipe one away from his face, and could have sworn he almost leaned into the touch.

“Can we, stay like this for a little bit?” He asked, holding onto me.

“Of course,” I responded, leaning my head into his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

———————————————————————

Hope y’all enjoyed! 🤍

[silversatoru]

birthdays don’t have to suck

fushiguro megumi x f!reader (elli)

synopsis: you get really sick on your birthday, but megumi makes sure that you still have a good day :))

t/w: fluff, reader is sick, vomiting, medicine (tylenol lol), some details pertain specifically to elli

wc: 2.2k

a/n: a small birthday present for the love of my life @megumifushi who never sleeps enough and is always sick,, i love u and i hope ur days not too bad <3

you stared into your dimly lit laptop, red eyes squinting at the black text that sped across the screen as your fingers scrambled against the keys. you weren’t even sure that what you were writing was comprehensible at this point, but your essay that was due tomorrow morning wasn’t gonna write itself. at this point it just needed to get done, concerns of quality were thrown out the window hours ago.

aside from the burning and stinging in your eyes, your entire body ached, and you were ridden with chills and goosebumps. seemed like a fever was coming on, but you didn’t have the time or capacity to care about that right now. you’d pop a few tylenol and crawl into bed in a couple hours, and everything would be better tomorrow.

what time was it anyway? it couldn’t possibly be that late yet, right? 

you glanced to the corner of the screen, eyes falling on a bright 3:56am that made your heart sink and your eyes widen. you had a terrible habit of losing track of time and staying up into ungodly hours of the night — a habit that your wonderful boyfriend was trying so terribly hard to break. 

you glanced to your left and took in his sleeping form, his lips parted ever so slightly as he took small breaths of air. he’d be disappointed and upset with you if he knew how horrid your sleep schedule had been lately, and he’d probably blame your chills and headaches on your lack of sleep as well — which in all fairness was probably pretty accurate. 

“i’ll just finish this up real quick and then i promise i’ll sleep, ‘kay gumi?” you spoke softly, running your fingers through his soft, spiky hair. 

he was undisturbable, his mind off somewhere in a dreamland that was quite the distance from your small bedroom. and that was probably for the better, because him nagging at you to go to sleep would be too distracting for you to get your work done. 

your hands moved rapidly against the keyboard for about another hour, words spilling onto the screen until you finally hit the page requirement for your paper. it was probably terrible, most likely had a few words spelled wrong, and honestly you were pretty certain you’d repeated yourself several times, but fuck it — submit. you were typically an excellent student, so one bad paper wouldn’t kill you, and you were too tired and achy to care right now. 

you got up and placed your laptop onto your desk, plugging it in and letting a heavy sigh fall from your lips as you made your way back over to the bed. the soft blankets were therapeutically warm on your chilly skin as you crawled in against megumi’s back, effectively turning him into the little spoon and pressing your nose to the back of his neck. thankfully, sleep found you shortly after, your eyes fluttering shut as you drifted off into a much needed slumber. 

babe 

wake up 

babe

you woke up to small finger pokes to your cheek from megumi, his face laced with concern as your vision finally focused on his features. he bent over and pressed his lips to your forehead, pausing there for a fraction of a second and then standing back up. 

“i think you have a fever. i noticed when i woke up and you felt like a fucking space heater,” he frowned, confirming your initial suspicions from last night, “i’ll go get some medicine”.

you groggily nodded your head, shivers coursing through your body and dotting your extremities with goosebumps. your condition had definitely deteriorated overnight, your eyes stinging and a horrible nausea creeping up your throat. 

by the time he returned with the medicine you had yourself propped up against the pillows, thick blankets pulled up to your chin in an attempt to minimize the icy feeling in your body. he handed two small tylenol tablets to you with a disappointed look on his face — a look that said: i’m gonna kick your ass for not getting enough sleep again. 

“i’ll let everyone know you’re not feeling well enough to go out tonight,” he hummed as he handed you a glass of water, your brain filling with thick fog as you tried to decipher why he would need to let anyone know you were sick. 

the look of pure confusion signaled to him that you had no idea what he was talking about, megumi shaking his head before he spoke up again, “it’s your birthday, dumbass, we were supposed to get food and stuff with yuuji, inumaki, and nobara and maki”. 

birthday 

oh 

forgetting about that was another habit you continued to succumb to every year.

“mm, shit,” you sighed after drinking back the pills, “i forgot”. 

“figured you would,” megumi clicked his tongue, “but i didn’t, because i’m a good boyfriend. can you drag yourself out to the kitchen? you should eat”.

“don’t think so,” you mumbled, attempting to disappear back under the blankets before he could coerce you to follow him outside of the bedroom. 

but megumi is impossibly even more stubborn than you are, wrapping his arms under your body and lifting you to his chest, “guess i’ll just have to carry you then”. 

“fine,” you let out a long groan — was it a bit dramatic? maybe. but in your defense you felt like you’d been hit with a train.

he peppered your face with kisses as he carried you out of the bedroom, lovingly setting you down on one of the high bar stools around your kitchen table. he instructed you to stay in the chair, abruptly returning to the bedroom to bring out a couple blankets to wrap around your shoulders. you were grateful for the extra heat, you body still shaking and shivering as the medications worked to cure your fever. 

megumi was a man of few words, preferring to display his love for you through acts of service than grand confessions, and this was very eminent when he wordlessly grabbed a couple pots and began cooking for you. you let your face fall onto your arms, resting your chin as you watched him silently shuffle between the stove and the pantry. the silence was comfortable, and you weren't going to complain about watching your muscular boyfriend walk around the kitchen in nothing but a pair of loose, plaid pajama pants. 

a few minutes later he was placing a steaming bowl of soup and a couple slices of baked bread in front of you, a savory scent flooding your nostrils. 

“red lentil,” he spoke as he handed you a spoon, “it’s your favorite, so you better eat it”. 

“yes, sir,” you gave him a small smile, dipping the cool metal into the hot liquid and scooping a spoonful into your mouth. 

“all of it”

“yes, megumi, i will try”

to no surprise, the soup went down pretty fucking horribly, your head hanging low over the toilet while megumi held your hair out of the way. your throat was practically raw by the time you were done heaving and vomiting up the meal, your eyes brimming with hot tears. 

megumi tied your hair up in a neat bun so he could step away, filling up a glass with water and carefully helping you to take small sips and rinse out your mouth. he was tedious with the clean up, washing your face and helping you brush your teeth — ensuring that you felt the best you could given the situation. he then scooped you back into his arms, carrying you back to bed and profusely apologizing for making you eat the soup — but he was just trying to make you feel better, he really was doing his best.

you were ready to add today to your long list of terrible birthdays, chalking it up as another failed attempt, but megumi was not about to let that happen. he knew you had a rough history with birthdays, but now that he was here? you’d have a bad birthday over his dead body. 

he scoured the back of your fridge for ginger ale, gatorade, jello, and whatever else he could find to make you the perfect sick-person platter. and he made sure he was logged into every streaming service that the two of you collectively owned, preparing netflix, hulu, and crunchy roll so that he could easily access every single one of your favorite shows and movies. and so you spent the majority of your day tucked safely against megumi’s chest, forcing down small sips of ginger ale and watching an assortment of tv. 

your phone rang at some point — a facetime call from all of your friends who had gotten together so they could all wish you a collective happy birthday. megumi stuck a singular candle into a cup of blue-raspberry jello and ignited it with a small flame; and then they all sang the most terrible rendition of “happy birthday” that you’d ever heard, yuuji’s voice a little louder and little more out-of-tune than everyone else's.

you mustered enough energy to blow out the flame, everyone cheering while megumi shoveled a scoop of the blue jelly into your mouth. you swallowed it with a smile, praying it stayed down while everyone sent you off with an assortment of “feel better!”, “we love you!”, and “wish you were here!”

your night got pretty quiet after that, you and megumi climbing back under the covers to watch a few more episodes of your new favorite anime. it wasn’t until well into the night that he finally asked you if he could give you the presents he’d gotten for you. reluctantly, you said yes. you hated receiving gifts (it was just one of the many reasons you hated your birthday) but you knew that megumi wasn’t going to take no for answer. 

he was obviously nervous, palms sweaty as he handed you a couple neatly wrapped packages in plain, solid colored paper. they were very megumi, perfect folds with not a single crease, the paper simple yet elegant and adorned with a singular bow on top. 

you hesitantly peeled the paper off the smaller of the two, revealing a tiny box that contained a classic looking silver locket. you felt your heart pinch in your chest as you clicked the locket open and revealed two small pictures of each of the two of you. you weren’t particularly sentimental, but on top of your lack of sleep and not feeling very well, the simple gift caused few tears to well up in your eyes. but he was quick to wipe them away, insisting that you had to open the second gift first, and that birthdays weren’t meant for crying. 

you followed his instructions, ripping open the second package and revealing a larger box that contained a series of envelopes. each one was decorated with tiny doodles of you and megumi, his demon dogs, hearts, etc. they were sickeningly cute, and you immediately reached for the first one before megumi reached out and stopped you. 

“they’re not for now; they’re for when i’m gone, you know, on missions and stuff,” he could barely even maintain eye contact, his eyes dipping low as yours filled back up with tears. 

despite your lack of energy and the fever that was starting to return, you showered him in hugs and kisses after that, thanking him over and over for the most perfect gifts, and for making your day as wonderful as it could have been. 

all things aside, you were coming around to the idea that birthday’s don’t have to suck. 

bonus: the first letter: 

to y/n:

i know im not great at telling you what i have to say through words, actually, i’m kind of really bad at it. but i thought writing these might be a nice way to try and get better? i’m not sure. anyway, i guess i’ll start by saying that you mean a lot to me, and i probably miss you a lot right now (even though ill be too afraid to reach out and say it). not sure how long i’ll be gone for at the time but it’s probably a few days at least. gonna work hard so i can hurry back to see you. 

i hope you’re sleeping enough, but i know you’re not. you never do, especially when i’m not there to yell at you. i hope you’re eating enough too. but you’re probably also not doing that. you’re like taking care of a stubborn child, you know that? but this is supposed to be a love letter so i’ll try to refrain from scolding you too much. but do try to take care of yourself. ill see you soon. 

megumi

[arrowflier]

i wish you'd write a fic where mickey reluctantly goes on a picnic with ian (maybe with their baby girl and dog?)

This is a great excuse for a little more of my new headcanon where they pick up a couple strays. I have to apologize, though, because this is probably not as fluffy as you imagined—there’s a pretty heavy backstory that’s hinted at. I tried to add some cute things too, though!

For the curious, first mention of their oldest daughter Brit (Mickey calls her Brat) here and of the dog, Basil, here.

---

“You want to go on a what?” Mickey asks incredulously as his husband putters around their small kitchen, putting together sandwiches.

“A picnic, Mick,” Ian replies, his head currently stuck inside the open fridge. He pops out long enough to give Mickey a look. “And don’t act surprised, I told you yesterday.”

Mickey holds out his arms, palms up. “Do I look like I knew this was comin’?” He moves out of the way as Ian closes the fridge and rounds the counter, lunchmeat in hand. “I didn’t know you were serious, man!”

Ian sighs, laying ham on bread and reaching for a knife to spread the mustard. “What’s the problem, huh?” he asks. “You don’t want to have a nice day with us?”

“Hey, don’t you do that,” Mickey commanded, pointing a finger at him. “Excuse me if I don’t want to take a toddler and fucking dog to a damn tourist trap.”

Ian rolls his eyes as he finishes the sandwiches, setting them neatly in a piece of tupperware that Mickey doesn’t remember owning. “It’s not a tourist trap, Mick,” he says patiently, “it’s a park. And your daughter wants to go.”

Mickey scoffs, trying not to soften too noticeably. Ian knew he always gave in when he used the d word. “Yeah, she wants to go cause someone showed her a bunch of pictures yesterday.”

“I was trying to keep her occupied, Mick,” Ian says for what feels like the millionth time. “She just saw her mom in the hospital, she needed a distraction.”

“That bitch has never been her mom,” Mickey starts to respond, and Ian glares at him.

“Told you not to say that shit,” he says lowly, casting his eyes around for their daughter. “She doesn’t need to hear it.”

“Relax, she’s in her room,” Mickey tells him, but he stops anyway. Well, stops the name-calling, at least. “But you know I didn’t agree to lie to her, Ian, that’s all your brilliant idea.”

Returning to the fridge to grab a few cold pops, Ian blows out a breath. “And I told you, we’re not lying. We’re just…,” he stands there for a second with the door open, considering, before finishing with, “we’re just holding back a bit until she’s older.”

Mickey’s mouth is twisted, but when Ian comes closer to put a hand against his face, it relaxes. “Just for a little bit, Mickey, ok?” Ian asks softly. “Just let her think she’s a normal kid for a little longer. Longer than we got to.”

And fine, Mickey could do that. He nods.

Ian smiles, pecks him on the lips and pulls away. “Good,” he says. “I’ll go get Brit, you get Basil, and we’ll get on our way in a few minutes.”

Mickey stands still in the corner of the kitchen for a long moment, listening to his husband call out for their kid. “We’re goin’ on a picnic,” he mutters to himself. “With a kid and fucking dog. How the hell did I end up here?”

He whistles, hears the patter of small paws against tile as said dog comes careening around the corner from the living room. Basil comes to a sudden stop against Mickey’s legs and drops his rear to the floor with a thump, tail whipping rhythmically against the wooden counter. Mickey sighs as he grabs the leash off the hook on the wall behind him and bends down to attach it to the dog’s bright red collar.

“At least you’re not wearing a fucking sweater,” he tells Basil solemnly, and sputters when Basil rewards him with a lick across the face.

—

They’re almost there on the L, Brit clinging to Ian’s leg on the crowded train and Mickey trying not to let on that he has a 40 lb dog hidden in giant fucking tote bag between his feet. Thankfully, Basil is great at playing dead—Mickey taught him that one himself—so the biggest difficulty will be carrying him out without getting a hernia.

The kid tugs at Mickey’s pant leg as the train rounds a corner, and he looks down to see her grinning up at him through wisps of dark hair that escaped her messy pigtails.

“Are we goin’ to see the baby?” she asks excitedly, lisping a bit as her tongue hits the space where her front teeth used to be.

“Uh,” he says, looking to Ian for guidance. Ian is pretending not to listen, though, the bastard. He looks back down into his daughter’s dark eyes.

“Not today, Brat,” he tells her, and keeps going before she can pout. “We told you it’s gonna be a while, yeah? Your sister’s not done bakin’ yet.”

“Like a cake!” she exclaims. Mickey sees a little old woman smiling at them, and wonders if she’d think it was so cute if she knew half the story.

“Yeah, like a cake, kid,” he agrees.

“But where are we goin’?” she asks next.

Mickey absently tucks a longer strand of loose hair behind her ear, and answers, “Remember that place your dad was showin’ ya the other day?”

She gives a delighted gasp just as the announcement is made for Lake Station, and when she sees him bend to hoist up the bag they’ve hidden Basil in, she dashes for the now-open doors.

“Hey, wait!” he calls after her, but Ian beats him to the door with his long, unburdened stride, catching up to her quickly and leaving Mickey to deal with everything else.

Mickey looks down into the open tote, and Basil blinks an eye open to look back from where he’s curled around the container holding their lunch.

“Typical,” Mickey mutters, and hobbles off the train in pursuit.

—

Thankfully, the kid was more interested in seeing the gardens and the lakefront than any of the crowded, no-dogs-allowed areas, so after a few quick pics of her fooling around in front of the Bean, they get settled in with minimal fanfare toward the center of the park.

Mickey is leaning back on his elbows on the ratty blanket they brought, picking at his sandwich and watching his little girl run wild over the grass as Ian and Basil chase her, their own meals half-eaten and forgotten beside him. He watches as Ian catches her, the two of them falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs as Basil’s leash wraps around them, the dog running circles around his humans. Mickey laughs when Ian tries to stand and promptly falls back over, having to stop and free his damn giraffe legs from the leash before he tries again.

Ian kisses their daughter on the head and hands the dog off to her as he gets up, heading back toward Mickey. There’s no need to worry about whether she can handle it—Basil may weigh almost the same as her, but the dog had always been careful with her since she came to stay with them more than a year ago.

“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Ian asks softly as he approaches. He collapses onto the blanket next to Mickey, just close enough to press their legs together. He lets a hand rest between them, and Mickey shifts his weight off one elbow so he can take it, twining their fingers together. His eyes are on their children, the human and the furred, but he can see Ian smile from the corner of his eye.

“Nah,” he murmurs quietly. “Guess not.”

Ian leans in and presses a kiss to the side of his neck, then to his cheek. “Just think,” he whispers into Mickey’s ear, “in a few months we’ll have another one.”

Mickey can’t help but snort. “Yeah, if we can keep her incubator from runnin’ off and overdosing again before then.”

Ian nudges him with his knee, and Mickey looks over with a raised eyebrow. “Hey, I didn’t call her a bitch this time,” he points out, and Ian rolls his eyes.

“It’s progress, I guess,” he relents, settling more firmly into Mickey’s side. They sit together, holding hands, and watch Brit and Basil play under the bright noon sun.

“I want to come back once she’s here,” Ian mentions. “The new baby." He turns his gaze to Mickey, eyes soft. "All of us together, as a family.”

“Fuck no,” Mickey vetoes immediately. “You want to do all this with a noisy infant in a shit-filled diaper, you get to do it yourself.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Ian responds, and Mickey groans.

Because he knows if Ian wants it, he’ll be dragging a 40 lb dog, a hyperactive child, and a newborn around the damn park before he can even threaten divorce.

But as he watches his daughter walk their dog on the green grass, his husband reclining beside him on a soft blanket, the sun shining down on him, he thinks about adding a baby carrier to the picture, just there next to Ian. And he has to admit that it might not be too bad.

[seabreeze2022]

Bahamas Cruise 2022, Part 3, March 24. Wardrick Wells.

The top of Boo Boo Hill. This is a famous place for cruisers to put a piece pf driftwood with their boats name on it. If you are not careful people will turn yours over and put their name on the back. Some are very creative and artsy. However, I find the whole thing to be a blight on the island and am embarrassed that eco friendly sailors would do this.

This is also just about the only place on the island where you can get decent cell phone service. We are just about 16 miles in either direction to the nearest cell phone tower. So people take their cell phones up here to check in on the world and contact family. Below is Nancy with her cell phone, on a popular bench for calling from. In the background is a plaque.

Cruisers are an inventive bunch. Since the cell reception is best up high. Sailors will put one cell phone in a dry bag, then haul it up the mast. Then hot spot off of it. It works!

Above view is looking NW at the mooring field. Photos do not do the view justice.

This view is looking NNE with a beautiful sloop under full sail coming off of “the Sound”.

Back at the dinghy. Park headquarters are in the background. Now we will head back to our boat at Emerald Rock mooring field.

A little down time before fixing dinner.

Here comes a glorious sunrise over Rendezvous beach, Wardrick Wells.

Early morning on the mooring ball, winds from the NW. Had we been on the anchor, I would be monitoring any dragging towards the beach. But here we have plenty of confidence in the mooring, after diving it the first day and inspecting it.

This was our first mooring in the Bahamas and had a bit of a time getting secured. The lines are so huge Nancy could not get pick it up with the boat hook and run the bow line through it before we fell off. We actually lost one boat hook over the side during one of our attempts. Which was easily retrieved once we were secure.

Later we knew more of what to expect, and worked out a better procedure. But it is always a fun event for the spectators in the anchorage to watch the next boats come in. Some capture the mooring ball on the first attempt. Some take 20 attempts, with tempers flaring. Up in this part of the Exumas chartered catamarans are frequent. Which frequently are inexperienced Captain and crew. Catamarans have some built in obstacles to picking up a mooring ball anyway from the high wide bow. For some reason, the Europeans try and grab the mooring ball going downwind. We watched one even attempt to grab the mooring at the stern and walk it to the bow.

Our freezer is a constant headache for Nancy. About every 3 days she has to pull all of the meat out. Defrost the freezer and then repack the meat. A few pieces will be frozen, those will go on top. The thawed pieces go on the bottom.

Nancy is a great cook. Here she is making bread. We will put it on top of the warm engine compartment to rise if we are motoring.

Todays hike starts at Beryl’s Beach, searching for the ruins of their house. And maybe to “Slave dip”.

This Beryl’s beach looking east. It is a small half moon beach. The folks with dogs bring them here by dinghy for their potty run. The trail head is marked and easily found by the stone wall that stands about 3 1/2 ft. tall and 1 1/2ft. wide.

This was our first exposure to this kind of wall in the Bahamas. As we found out later, they are common. Some built by slaves during the Loyalist era. Some built a couple of decades later. It is comprised by the many loose coral rocks covering the island. Neatly stacked, very stable and secure. Our question was, “Why?” It was a lot of work. Was it a property line? Was it merely to remove unstable rocks out of the way, making it less likely to break a leg while walking? What livestock did they have on the islands? Goats would not be contained by these walls. And they are the only livestock living wild on some of the islands today. These walls would be a highway for a goat. They love climbing on things like this. The land does not look like it would support cattle. Cows would probably break a leg in the many pot holes.

The walls are probably for livestock, they go from shoreline to shoreline. Seldom to an open beach where the livestock could use the beach to go around the end. I have yet to find a open spot where a gate would be. So I need to do some more research.

Just short of the “ruins” we ran across a couple of deep solution holes. I am sure at one time they held water for the locals. If a hurricane hit I would hide in one.

The “Ruins”. One of several very small house foundations grouped together. Built of rocks and mortar. Some broken sea shells around that were common food in the day of the Loyalist. The view was great. Instead of living on the cooler windy side of the islands most of the ruins we found had a view of “the Bank”. Where they could see boats sailing in.

This is a West Indian Top shell, Cittarium pica. There were many remnants of these around the ruins. Obviously a major food source for the Loyalists.

View from the ruins. We were surprised by the cactus in the Exumas.

Another view of the wall leading back to “Beryl’s Beach”. On the far end of the beach, I found what appeared to be a Conch pen. Even if wasn’t, I am sure they had those. Only makes sense to gather more than you can eat, then keep them in knee deep water for easy gathering later.

Time to take a break…….