#I'M SORRY IF THIS IS INACCURATE

[nomnomdiary]

I made edit of Arthur Wright pict with faceapp and ibispaint for make him more realistic and TA-DAHHH HERE IT IS!!!

SHIIIT I'M SCREAMING, MY SIMPING GOING CRAZY ASDFGHJKLASDFGJKKASJADBSAKDBSABD

WHY HE LOOKS LIKE HENRY CAVILL T_T

[ekko-idk]

Laios: people are hard to understand... There's way too many social rules to follow, popular conversation topics, eye contact, etc. They also rarely say what they mean and often they say the opposite, so much so that misunderstandings happen regularly.. Monsters are predictable animals with a set of rules and precautions you can follow to either tame or defeat them. if you know what to do, they're very easy to deal with!

Kabru: monsters are wild creatures with jerky unpredictable movements.. Their attitude can change in a second and if you don't have an insane amount of knowledge about them they can be, and often are, very dangerous. Human cultures often have strict and easy to follow rules that depend on certain communication strategies that are somewhat agreed upon universally. People no matter of background also react the same to many things (smiling, frowning, pupil dilation, etc.). if you know what to do, they're very easy to deal with!

[neighborhood-yogurt]

Sorry to tell you this baby. but if your little fantasy story uses the word July, you done gone and canonized the Roman empire. Sorry bout it, but that's just how it shakes out sometimes, big boy.

[paperultra]

candy stripes.

Pairing: OPLA!Vinsmoke Sanji x Fem!Reader Word Count: 5,048 words Warnings: Swearing, hospital setting [A/n: Soulmate AU. :)]

sortiger (adjective): delivering prophecies of the future; having the qualities of being oracular

Nobody else can see the string but you.

You wish you didn’t. It has no texture, no weight, so you can’t understand why it can’t be invisible too. But the string demands attention with every use of your hands, seizes your eye when you wash dishes in the morning and brush your teeth at night, a garish and bloody red that matches the stripes of your uniform.

You hate your string and you hate the color red.

Miss Xinyu, the old lady in Room 30, has one too. At least, that’s what she had told you when you gained the courage to mention yours one day, not knowing what it meant and how much you would come to dread it.

“It’s your red string of fate,” she had explained. “It connects you to the person who understands you more than anyone else in the world.”

In other words, your soulmate. Your one and only.

Miss Xinyu says you’re a lucky ducky, knowing what your future holds.

Her string goes into the ground now. You don’t think being reminded of a dead person whenever you look at your pinkie is very lucky.

The biggest reason why you hate the string so much, though, is because you’ve always had a problem doing what you’re supposed to unless you want to, which causes a lot of trouble for a nine-year-old girl. You already have trouble being nice to patients who are mean to you, so how can you love and wait for someone you’ve never met? It makes you feel icky.

Why can’t you choose? How come you have to have one at all?

Your only source of comfort is that your string is very, very thin and runs out of the hospital. That means your soulmate, whoever they are, is very, very far away. You’d very much like it to stay that way.

But it doesn’t.

—

Nurse Taoh wants you to watch the patients in Room 8 while he finishes his charts. You don’t really want to, if only because it’s Nurse Taoh asking – he likes to order you around more than Dr. Gu – but you don’t want to get into trouble again, so you go.

(… And okay, you are just a little bit curious about the new inpatients. You only know three things about them: one, they were brought in together last night while you were in your room poking holes into your paper instead of correcting it; two, they’re a man and a boy, presumably father and son; and three, everyone says it’s a miracle they’re still alive.)

(Then again, you’ve seen many miracles here.)

The unit is quiet as you walk down the hallway. Quiet, but not silent, as your polished shoes squeak like little mice against the floor and you whisper the room numbers as you pass by them. Two, four, six – eight.

You stop and knock, three sharp raps against the brown wood.

“Hello?” You open the door and poke your head in. “My name is –”

The squiggly-patterned curtain that often separates patients for privacy is drawn, and you clamp your mouth shut as you realize the patient closest to you is asleep.

Shutting the door silently, you creep closer to the foot of his bed. The man underneath the sheets lies quietly; he is little more than a skeleton, eyes sunken and bones sticking out underneath blistered skin. His beard is long and scraggly, but it pales in comparison to his mustache, each side braided and sticking out to the sides.

He looks angry, even though he’s sleeping. You hope he’s not the type to wake up and yell at you as you tiptoe past to check on the boy.

You pass the curtain, catch a glimpse of the bed sheets, and see –

Red.

Your feet root themselves in place, the room suddenly devoid of air.

You stare. Blink hard, twice. Look again. Then, trembling, you look down at your hand.

Your eyes trace the string around your own finger, following down to the dip of it that barely touches the ground and back up over the blankets until it ends in a red loop around the boy’s pinkie, tied off with a little bow.

Your stomach turns.

Stumbling forward, you make your way to the visitor’s chair in the corner. You slump down into it and stare straight ahead at the curtain, refusing to look at the boy’s face.

He continues to sleep.

You don’t want him to wake up.

—

The boy does not stir during your first meeting, but that small mercy is quickly eclipsed two days later by a single bowl of chicken broth.

The look on your face is sour as you walk down the hallway again, the broth splashing up against the lid with each step. Because most of the patients in the hospital you live in are elderly, the staff have somehow gotten it into their heads that you simply must spend time with the boy in Room 8 because he is your age and you need to socialize with other kids. You very much don’t want to. Not with him, at least.

Dr. Gu is just leaving the room when you arrive. She gives you a quick smile, the corners of her eyes wrinkling, and pats your head.

“So you heard that the boy woke up, huh?”

You grunt, looking away with a pout. “Can’t you give this to him, Dr. Gu?”

“Nope. I have to finish my rounds,” she says. “Go in and have a chat. His name is Sanji. You’ll like him.”

“I doubt it,” you mumble underneath your breath.

Dr. Gu probably hears you, but she doesn’t scold you, merely patting your head one last time before you enter Room 8.

The dividing curtain is drawn this time. The window curtains are pulled back, too; it’s a somewhat cloudy day outside, but bright enough to sharpen the shadows on the walls and make the boy look even paler than you remember.

His eyes are closed as you approach. A sprout of hope that he might have fallen asleep again blooms in your chest – you’ll just leave the broth on the table, you think to yourself, and go about the rest of your day. Nobody said you had to watch him drink it.

You get about five feet away, already planning to drop some books off to the other rooms, when the boy’s nose suddenly twitches.

His eyes open to thin slits. Your hope shrivels like a weed in the desert as he speaks.

“What’s that?” His voice is quiet and raspy.

Your eyebrow twitches. “It’s just chicken broth,” you say tartly, setting the tray down on the overbed table and turning it around so that it’s over his lap. You take off the lid and steam bursts from the bowl.

The boy reaches up to rub his eyes. The red string dangles from his pinkie, and you quickly look away with a scowl.

“Who are you?” he asks, scooting back to sit up more as he gradually becomes more alert.

Reluctantly, you give him your name. “Will you need help with the soup?”

He shakes his head. His gaze latches onto the contents of his bowl, and he stops, transfixed.

You scramble to stop him as he suddenly grabs the bowl and attempts to gulp it all down in one go.

“Don’t do that! You’ll throw up!” Without thinking, you seize his hands and pry the bowl away from his mouth. A few drops of broth splash over the blankets and his gown, and your irritation grows. Now you’ll have to fix that. “Drink it slowly.”

“I haven’t eaten anything for weeks,” the boy complains. “What do you know?”

“I’ve been studying medicine since I was a little kid,” you retort. “So I know a lot.”

He frowns. “You are a little kid.”

“I’m nine years old!”

“No, I’m nine! You don’t look as old as me!”

There’s no way this … this brat is the same age as you! Fuming, you let go of the bowl and jab a finger at his face. “I am nine years old and I know more than you! You can’t drink the broth like that!”

You’re met with silence. The boy’s eyes are wider than saucers. Pride wells up inside you at your ability to shut him up.

But then he puts the bowl down and seizes your hand, and your pride gives way to horror as he folds down your index finger and lifts your pinkie – the pinkie with the red string wrapped around it.

He lifts his own pinkie, the rest of his fingers folded. Your jaw clenches when you see how the string has shortened to mere inches, bridging the space between his hand and yours.

“Holy shit,” the boy says. The largest grin spreads across his face, and it’s blinding and scary and you hate it, you hate it. “It’s you! You’re my soulmate, aren’t you?!”

“No,” you reply quickly, whipping your hand behind your back and backing away. “No, I’m not!”

“But you see the string too! I knew I’d meet you some day. How come you’re”— he pushes the table away, eagerly but just gentle enough so no more of the broth spills—“how come you’re hiding it behind your back?”

“I’m not your soulmate,” you bark, panic rising in your chest. “Don’t you ever say that!”

You only catch a glimpse of the hurt that flashes across the boy’s face before you turn around and dash out of the room.

Mrs. Hong finds you in the storage closet later, curled up behind the shelves of gauze and IV tubing. She coaxes you out with a promise of rice balls and no questions asked. You wish all the adults were more like her.

—

The next day, Miss Jaylee hoists you over her shoulder like a human sacrifice and brings you to Room 8.

“I don’t want to see him! You can’t make me!”

“He’s refusing treatment and food unless he sees you,” the woman answers briskly, each of her steps jostling you up and down. “You don’t want to be responsible if Sanji dies, do you?”

“I don’t care if he dies!”

Miss Jaylee clicks her tongue and walks faster.

You flail, feeling a little guilty for your cruel words but too proud to take them back. Sanji couldn’t have heard you, anyway, and nobody here is going to let him die no matter what he does or what you say.

You hear a door swing open. Miss Jaylee walks into Room 8 and turns around, and you lift your head, glaring at Sanji as his face lights up and his cheeks turn rosy.

“[Y/n]!”

Your own cheeks burn in embarrassment at the position you’re currently in. This, you only now realize, is way worse than walking into the room voluntarily.

“How come they’re carrying you? Are you okay?” he asks.

“Let them treat you,” you snap, arms limp and dangling. “And eat your stupid food or I’ll get in trouble.”

“Okay.” You nod, opening your mouth to speak again only for him to continue, “But only if I get to talk to you afterwards.”

What is he, a prince?! What makes it so easy for him to demand such things?

“That wasn’t what you told them,” you protest, squirming, but Miss Jaylee only tightens her arm around your waist.

(“Be nice,” she warns. You growl.)

“It’s important,” Sanji stresses, looking pointedly down at his hand and then back at you.

You bite down on your tongue as the red string glimmers in the light.

Dr. Gu and Nurse Taoh stare at you expectantly. Your neck is starting to ache from craning it, and there’s a feeling that you’ll never stand on your own two feet again unless you do what he wants.

“… Fine,” you hiss through gritted teeth.

Only once you promise to stay does Miss Jaylee let you slide off her shoulder. You stand to the side, arms crossed impatiently as they take Sanji’s vitals and ask him some questions. He’s only half paying attention, head turning to look at you more than once, which you merely turn up your nose at.

“All right, we’ll leave you two to chat now,” Dr. Gu says. “If you need anything, just let [Y/n] know, okay?”

“Okay,” Sanji says.

With that, the three adults leave, and you and Sanji are left alone once more.

“I’m glad you came. They were starting to get mad at me,” he says, then cuts straight to the chase. “How come you don’t want to be my soulmate?”

“Because I don’t want a soulmate,” you immediately reply.

“But why? It’s nice, isn’t it? Being special to each other?”

“You can’t be special to me. We’re not even friends.”

For the second time, Sanji looks hurt.

“…We’re not?” he asks. You shake your head. “But … you brought me food.”

You’re befuddled. “Because Dr. Gu made me,” you say, trying to ignore the disappointment on his face. “Besides, I yelled at you yesterday. Friends don’t yell at each other.”

“I thought that you were maybe just really surprised …” His voice gets smaller and smaller. “Some people get mad when they’re just surprised …”

“I wasn’t surprised. I saw it when you were still asleep.”

“Oh,” Sanji mumbles. He looks down at the sheets, scratching at the wrinkle in the thin white fabric. “Okay.”

He says nothing more. You fidget, wondering if he’s pretending to look like he’s about to cry or if he really is trying not to. You’re not good with people who start crying.

You chew on your bottom lip. Sanji tucks his hand with the string on it underneath his bed sheets, his eyes disappearing behind his tangled hair, and fine, you feel kind of bad whether he’s tricking you or not.

“I’ll only be friends with you if you don’t talk about being soulmates,” you finally tell him begrudgingly. “Not ever, okay?”

His head shoots back up. “Really?!”

“Only if you don’t talk about it! I’m serious.” You huff at Sanji’s sudden change in mood and click your tongue. “If you stay sad you might not get better.  Don’t get the wrong idea!”

He nods, grinning bigger than ever.

Oh, dear, you think as he promises that he’ll be a really, really good friend, you might have made a mistake.

—

By the fifth day, Zeff, the man who was brought in with Sanji, is awake.

You hear them arguing before you see them, pushing a cart of books for Sanji to browse through as per your agreement the day before. They’re loud, and Sanji calls the man an old shitbag right as you knock and push the door open.

“I’m here,” you announce, and the two quiet down to look at you. You give Zeff a polite smile. “Hello, sir. I’m [Y/n].”

“Hello, little miss,” Zeff says, his features softening from the angry expression he’d directed towards Sanji a moment before.

“Why are you being nice to her and not me?” Sanji pipes up from his side of the room, all puffed-out cheeks and petulantly crossed arms.

“Because she don’t make my ears ring with nonstop whining,” the man answers sharply. “Now get a book and read so I can finally have some peace and quiet.”

“You get a book and read,” Sanji grumbles.

“What was that, boy?”

You cut in before they start bickering all over again. “Do you want a book too, Mr. Zeff?”

Zeff’s gaze flicks over to you once more, and your shoulders tense. The man takes a deep, calming breath, and then he sighs, reclining back into his pillow and closing his eyes. “No, thank you, little miss,” he mutters. “Reading’s no good for my head right now.”

“Do you have a headache?” He grunts in affirmation. “Do you want me to get a nurse?”

“No, no, don’t need any of that.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a headache,” Sanji accuses.

Zeff’s mustache twitches. “All you need to know is that you oughta stop yappin’ when a man wants peace and quiet!”

(Not again.)

As you give up and walk over to draw the curtains, Sanji says your name desperately. “Can we read somewhere else?” he pleads when you glance at him. “I don’t want to be stuck in here with him right now.”

Narrowing your eyes, you appraise his weak-looking frame, pointedly skimming past the red string that snakes over to you. “Can you even walk around yet?”

“Yeah,” he says defensively. He wriggles out of the bed sheets and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Holding onto the side rail, he stands up and grips the IV pole for support. Though he’s a little shaky, he shuffles a few steps towards you and smiles when he manages to do so. “See?”

Well, you think, if you and Sanji stay here, you’ll need to have some light in order to read. But it will probably help Zeff if the room is as dark as possible, so if you guys go somewhere else, Sanji’s lamp won’t need to be on.

“Okay,” you agree. “Wait here. I’ll get some slippers.”

Ten minutes later, with Sanji shuffling along in his slippers, IV pole in one hand and your arm in the other, the two of you arrive at the common room and find chairs in the corner to sit down in.

“These’re mostly history books and stories for old people,” you explain as you pull out the one cooking-related book you could find from the top basket of the cart. “This was the only food one I could find.”

“That’s okay.” Sanji takes the book from you and begins to flip through it. “Oh, this one’s about seafood in the South Blue! Have you ever had any?”

“No.”

“Me, neither. I’ll try it someday, though … hey, this fish looks like a fried egg!”

Against your will, you perk up. “… Really?”

For the next half-hour, Sanji fawns over the spices used on grilled Sea King meat and how to cook wine clams and the best fish for South Blue-style sushi. And it’s … not boring. He doesn’t hog the book, and the pictures are cool, and he asks you which ones you think are the coolest or would taste the best. Looking at a book with another kid is different from reading with an adult. It feels like you’re sharing, not like you’re being tested on your comprehension or how to pronounce long words.

Hanging out with Sanji is okay when the string doesn’t sour it.

“So you want to cook all of these one day?” you ask after scanning through a full-color page of steamed Ocean Hawk feet.

“I want to cook things from all four seas,” Sanji says. His legs bounce with excitement. “That’s why I’m gonna find the All Blue.”

“What’s that?”

The boy glows.

“It’s where the North, East, South, and West Blue seas all meet. Think about it – fresh-caught fish from all over the world all in one place! I’ll be able to cook dishes no one’s ever cooked or tasted before.”

You’ve never heard of such a place. But Sanji talks about it with such conviction, such resolve, that you figure the All Blue could really exist.

“I hope you find it,” you say, and you mean it.

“I will.” Sanji closes the book. “And when I do, I’ll cook something just for you. A-As a friend.”

He peeks over at you, his eyes even brighter and bluer than before, his cheeks flushing a familiar red. And you find yourself believing him, just a little bit.

—

Sanji keeps his promise.

You know he still likes you (blech) and so does most of the staff (double blech). Nurse Taoh thinks it’s funny and teases you about your little boyfriend in Room 8 who always asks where you are. Mrs. Hong reminds you to be sensitive whenever you stop by to pick up meals. Dr. Gu tells you to tell her right away if Sanji ever does something that makes you uncomfortable.

But he never does. Sometimes his words spill out clumsily like a broken faucet and other times he blushes and stutters, leaving you to wonder what he’s going on about, but he doesn’t try to kiss you or hold your hand, and he doesn’t say a word about the red string that is very much still there. If anything, he just annoys you at times, with how nice he is to you and how sunny he gets when you eat lunch with him sometimes.

You’ve never seen somebody so happy to be in a hospital before, even if it’s just because he wants you to like him. It’s weird.

It’s on the eighth day of Zeff and Sanji’s stay that you learn not everything is how it seems.

You’d gotten in trouble the night before for digging holes in the garden – you had kept the seed from your dinner plum and wanted to see if you could make it grow, but Miss Jaylee had caught you while taking Mr. Hu out for some air – so you’re somewhat grumpy on your way to Room 8, two notebooks in hand.

One of them is blank for Sanji. He wants to record all the meals he’s gotten and write down how he would make them. The second notebook is full of your notes that you need to study for your quiz tomorrow.

Zeff is sleeping again when you enter. You move quietly across the room to where Sanji is lying with his back to the door.

“Sanji.” You can see his shoulders tense underneath the sheets, but strangely, he does not roll over to face you. “I have your notebook.”

No answer. That is even stranger.

Frowning, you walk around to the other side of the bed. Sanji moves to bury his face into his pillow, but not before you hear a very soft, wet sniffle.

“Sanji?”

“Sorry.” His voice is high and so muffled you can barely understand him. “You can just leave it on the table.”

“Why are you crying?” In the back of your head, you know it is not the most sensitive thing to ask. But for some reason, you need to know. “I won’t laugh or tell anyone.”

You hear another sniffle from the mop of blond hair. It takes a long time for Sanji to answer, but he eventually does.

“I don’t like hospitals.”

Your brow furrows. “Oh,” you say, somewhat surprised. Most people don’t like being in a hospital, you’re pretty sure of that, but you didn’t know Sanji didn’t like it this much. “Why?”

Maybe he’s tired of getting poked all the time, or the bland food, or the hospital smell. Nobody here can change that. Maybe he’s homesick. The hospital can’t fix that, either.

Sanji turns his head slightly and takes in a small, shuddering breath. “’Cause it … it makes me remember my mum … when she was sick,” he mumbles, almost too quiet to hear.

“… Oh.”

You had assumed, upon learning that Zeff and Sanji were not at all related, that Sanji was like you and never knew his parents. He’d never talked about having any before, only his time on the Orbit and with Zeff. But he does know them – his mother, at least. And she was sick. The memory is what’s making him so sad, and it’s yet another thing that the hospital can’t help.

You don’t want him to be sad. You did make him your friend, after all, even if he does annoy you sometimes.

“I’m sorry,” you say, standing awkwardly with his notebook still in your possession. You remember what Miss Jaylee has told other patients before. “That, um, must have been really hard for you.”

Sanji squeezes his pillow more tightly.

Should you go? Should you talk to him some more?

“Please don’t tell anybody,” he whispers before you can decide. “Especially Zeff.”

“I won’t,” you reply firmly. “I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry I can’t hang out today. I really wanted to, but, um …”

“It’s okay. We can do it later.”

“Okay.”

You set his notebook and a pen on the bedside table. After some thought, you refill his water and, after even more hesitation, fix the bed sheets on him a bit so they’re not as twisted up. That is the best you can do.

The red string follows you as you quietly leave Room 8, and you don’t think about it at all.

—

“How do you spell necessary?”

“N-E-S-E-S-A-R-Y.”

“That doesn’t look right. I think it’s S-S-A-R-Y.”

“Maybe you can find it in the book,” Sanji suggests, kicking his feet as he lies on his belly next to you.

“Yeah, maybe.” You flip through the pages of your textbook, searching for the correct spelling lest you get marked off again.

It is the tenth day. Sanji is doing alright, and Zeff is up and about with his new leg. Dr. Gu says they’re good to go, so they’re leaving after Zeff finishes breakfast. You’re not sure how to feel about it.

In the meantime, Sanji is helping you with your essay about scurvy. He knows quite a bit about it, which makes sense since he’s lived at sea, and you hope the perspective he’s supplying will impress Dr. Gu.

(“That’s why every ship needs a good cook,” he tells you proudly. “We make sure everyone eats right so they stay healthy.”

“That’s why you and Mr. Zeff are going to have a restaurant ship, right?”

“Mmhm.”)

Sanji rests his face in his hands, cheeks squished against his palms while you continue to scan through your textbook. You finally find the word in a photo caption and, with a triumphant noise, jot it down correctly.

Someone knocks on your door. The two of you turn to face it simultaneously.

“[Y/n]?” It’s Mrs. Guo.

“Yeah?” you call, already slightly irritated.

“Is Sanji there? It’s time for him to leave.”

A frown presses down on your lips. Sanji sighs and gets up as slowly as possible, taking his notebook with him.

“Coming,” he says.

The two of you dawdle on your way to the hospital entrance. You pet Cabby the dog when you run into him and his handler and stop by the kitchen so Sanji can thank the cooks. There’s no rush, not really, but an uneasy feeling continues to well up in your stomach anyway.

Upon arriving at your destination, Zeff waiting at the double doors with a giant bag of treasure slung over his shoulder, Sanji stops and turns to face you.

“I’m – I’m going now,” he says, as if just realizing it.

“Okay,” you say.

You and Sanji stand in silence for a moment before Sanji’s bottom lip starts to wobble.

Yours starts to wobble too. The uneasy feeling in your stomach bubbles up into your throat and behind your eyes.

“I’ll write you,” he blurts, voice cracking. “You’ll come visit, won’t you?”

“I don’t know.” You don’t know if they’ll let you. The hospital is busy and the ocean is big, bigger than you, and you don’t know it at all like Zeff and Sanji do. “But I’ll write back.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

You are crying now.

For the first time, your arms wrap around Sanji, and he clings back as both of you bawl. Your tears and snot stain the shoulder of his brand-new clothes. Your uniform grows damp at the collar. It doesn’t matter at all.

“I don’t know if I’ll see you again,” you croak into his shirt, face hot and eyes blurry.

His grip tightens. “You will,” Sanji replies in between sniffles. “I know it. Even if it’s when we’re really old, we’ll see each other again.”

“Okay.”

You believe him. Not because of fate, but because you want to.

—

You write to each other every single week for the next ten years. You tell each other everything.

Well, almost everything.

—

“You seem nervous,” Nami says. “Don’t tell me a little bribery got under your skin?”

“No, no.” You wipe your hands on your thighs and try to relax against the back of the booth. “Just … not used to places like this, that’s all.”

The Baratie is nicer than you imagined. Sanji had kept you up to date over the years, sending newspaper clippings and recipe drafts as the restaurant he and Zeff founded grew in staff members and reputation, but seeing it in person is a whole different deal. You’re telling the truth when you said you’re not used to a place like this.

But it’s not why you’re nervous.

“Hey, look!” Usopp exclaims, pointing across the room. “I think those guys are gonna fight.”

The rest of you look. Near the kitchen, two men are arguing, and the pink-haired man sitting at the table stands up when the pirate shoves his food onto the floor.

Usopp sucks his teeth. “Yikes.”

Luffy leans forward in interest. Zoro simply stares, and Nami rolls her eyes.

One of the waiters approaches them. You watch as he tries to deescalate the situation, but neither party is having it.

The pink-haired man draws a gun.

Within seconds, the gun and both would-be brawlers are on the floor.

The waiter shoves his foot into the pink-haired man’s back to keep him down, then picks up the plate of bread rolls again, stepping over both groaning bodies with the ease of one who’s done it before.

He reassures the other customers as he approaches your booth. You’re not concerned about the fight so much as you are about the way that you know.

It’s been ten years, but you just know, even before he gets close enough for you to see the red string that trails up and disappears into the black of his pants pocket. Even before you see the blue of his eyes and the annoyed set of his brow, exactly the same as you remember.

He places the rolls down onto the table, and for the first time, you wonder what you want.

“Hi, welcome to our shitty restaurant where the only thing worse than the ambience is the food. My name is Sanji. What can I get for you?”

[thewildwoodpigeon]

Susan foreman is such a weird character to me. She's technically the whole reason the plot of the entire series kick off, but dosent have much impact on the plot beyond that, with her constantly playing damsel in distress and isn't allowed to do all that much by either the charcters or the writers, which sucks! Susan, in concept is such an intresting character! I do like her! It's just that the writers did so little with her at the time when she could of been so much more.

[ultimatekecaps]

A lil watercolor art of edward gijinka from a few weeks ago hehe

Bonus art: magma doodle of thomas and james yip yippee

[silverstreams]

pet peeve of mine sorry

For those not familiar, GLaDOS stands for Genetic Lifeform and Disk Operating System!

only the a is small! since it stands for "and". So it's not GladOS or Glados or GLADoS or gLaDoS or GlAdOs or glad0s It's something that's very easy to miss while playing the game!

In case you are wanting proof, here's her name mentioned in the Dollars and Sense slideshow playing on loop (plus the more readable texture itself)

And here it is as seen on her side!

[throneofsapphics]

Plss can you write more Rowaelin x reader, something with a pregnant reader where they are very protective, maybe a little smut at the end???

we won't risk you

poly!Rowaelin x Reader

Summary: Reader is pregnant, and starting to get fed up with Rowan and Aelin.

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: smut, minor injury and blood, a bit of angst

A/N: yes absolutely! thank you for the request <3

Rowan, of course, figured it out first, detected the shift in your scent. You hadn’t been trying for a baby, but hadn’t not been. After all, the three of you were bound together for life. 

Soon enough, extra food was being shoved at you, special teas, lots of fruit and vegetables. It was endearing. At first. 

You never went out into public alone. If it wasn’t Aelin or Rowan, it would be Fenrys. Who was almost as bad as them, snarling at anyone who looked at you a second too long. Within weeks, all of Orynth knew you were expecting a babe. After the news broke, things got worse. Terrasen may be at peace now, but there’s still those out there who hold a grudge. According to Aelin and Rowan. When guards seemed to appear around you - in the castle, you put your foot down. 

“I’m fully capable of protecting myself.” You hissed at them. Both of them stared back, completely unperturbed. 

“We know.” Aelin said and you groaned. 

“I don’t see you trailed by guards everywhere you go.” 

Her eyes darkened slightly. “We won’t risk you. Both of you.” 

“At least tell them to stay out of sight.” You muttered after seeing the expression on Rowan’s face. Pure determination. You wouldn’t be winning this fight. “Why can’t I just stay with you?” 

“You’re going to sit in on state meetings?” Aelin raised a brow. 

Last time you sat in on a meeting, half of them left with their tails between their legs. Diplomacy wasn’t your strong suit. Actually, it would be pure torture for you to have to sit there. “You have a point.” 

-

You reached for the mug, pressing up on your toes, finally you were able to curl your fingers around the handle, gently easing it off the shelf before … it slipped crashing to the ground with a loud thud that seemed to ring through your head. That was the last straw. You scrambled to the floor, ignoring the bits of porcelain digging into your bare knees and started grabbing the pieces, tears streaming down your face. Everything seemed to be going wrong recently. The morning sickness had finally drifted away, but it was like a bad luck charm followed you. Just this morning you banged your hip against the corner of a tall nightstand, before opening a door too quickly and jamming your toe against it. The third strike - your favorite mug, broken. The one you drank out of every morning. You vaguely heard the door opening, and sensed panic coming from both of your mates - likely scenting the copper radiating from the small cuts. You didn’t realize you had cuts on your fingers, nor bits of porcelain sticking into your knees. 

You felt Rowan’s hand on your shoulder, “put them down,” his voice was soft but firm. 

“I just need to -” 

Careful hands reached to take the pieces from you, but you clenched your hands around them and tucked your hands into your chest defensively. You hissed as they dug in, blood spurting up around them. 

Rowan's fingers curled around your wrists, applying just enough pressure that you’d drop the pieces, and one hand curled under your knees, the other under your back as he carried you over to the couch. 

He frowned, looking at the small pieces sticking out of your knees. When you went to take them out yourself, he swatted your hands away, ignoring your scowl. 

“I’m pregnant. Not incompetent.” 

“And you’ll let us take care of you.” Aelin’s hands were already cupping yours - somehow acquiring tweezers in the few seconds it took Rowan to carry you over to the couch. 

“I need to clean that-”

“Stop.” Rowan cut you off. “You won’t go anywhere near it.” His voice was nearly a growl. 

You could sense the protective instincts flowing through both of them. “It’s just a mug, I can clean it up.” 

He glanced down at your knees, and your hands where they both were picking the small pieces out, before meeting your eyes again, as if to say really? 

Tears welled up, and you will yourself not to cry again. It’s just a mug, you told yourself. That’s it. No reason for you to get so worked up about it. 

They wiped away your tears, and the blood, and healed the small cuts on you - before dragging you to a healer to make sure everything was okay. 

The healer could see the expression on your face, and shared a sympathetic smile when their backs were turned. “She’s perfectly healthy.” She told them, “no need to limit any activities, for now.” 

You almost winced at the ‘for now’ portion. Rowan and Aelin would take that as right now. “Thank you,” you said instead, and let them lead you away. 

After the mug incident, as you’d named it, they never let you out of their sight. Never. You were always with one of them, and only got time to yourself in the bathroom. Even then, if your bath was a bit too long one of them would knock either to check in or join you. 

You nearly snapped one morning, tempted to call them excessive, to tell them to piss off, but a conversation replayed in your mind. Aelin telling you of Lyria, of how Rowan lost her, and you cooled your temper, focusing on taking some calming breaths. 

Still, that was enough to have Aelin at your side immediately, scanning you for any signs of harm. They were especially sensitive to any bits of distress that might be coming from you, any sense that something could be off. “What’s wrong?” She frowned, a thumb brushing across your cheekbone. You leaned into her touch. 

“Nothing,” you murmured. 

“Liar,” she purred, and you saw the worry in her eyes. Aelin wouldn’t give up until you gave a satisfactory answer, that you knew for certain. 

“It’s just a bit much.” All of the air seemed to leave your body as you watched her, watched for any reaction - sign of anger or upset or betrayal. But only confusion showed. 

“What is?” 

Gods, you didn’t know how to put it into words. How to put it into kind words. How to explain without coming off as ungrateful or a major asshole. “I’m feeling a bit stifled.” 

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Her eyes lit up. Maybe she thought you’d been indoors too long. You swallowed the tinge of disappointment, that she hadn’t picked up on the real issue, and nodded. Let her wrap you up in a coat and scarf, despite the fact that it’s September and mild outside. No need for either of those. 

Fae instincts, you reminded yourself. 

-

“You’re tense.” Rowan put down the book in front of him. Your head was resting in Aelin’s lap. She stiffened, but her fingers kept running through your hair, movements never faltering. 

“Of course I am.” You finally snapped. “I can’t take a deep breath without either of you hovering over me. I haven’t been alone in weeks.” 

“Last time you were alone you ended up bleeding.” Aelin peered over to look at your face and you groaned. 

“It was one mistake.” 

“That won’t happen again.” She shifted both of you on the couch, so your back was pressed against her chest, and her hands started working your shoulders, releasing some of the tension you’d been carrying. 

A moan left your lips. Arousal quickly filled the room - coming from both of them, so you moaned again. Testing their restraint, their control. Aelin’s hands drifted further down your arms, hooking underneath them to run her thumbs over the sides of your breasts. A shiver ran down your spine at the touch. Sensitive, they’d grown so sensitive over the last few weeks. And Aelin was well aware of that fact. 

“Aelin,” you breathed, head thrown back against her. 

“Yes darling?” Her thumb grazed over your nipple, and your back arched, mouth barely stifling a whimper. “So responsive,” she murmured, and repeated the action. You wanted her. So gods-damned bad. Both of them wanted her, both of them. 

From the hungry look in Rowan’s eyes, the way his gaze monitored Aelin’s every move and your every reaction, you could tell he felt the same. 

Intimacy had been … tricky, so to say. At first, they’d been terrified to touch you. You came up with a solution of your own, and let them catch you touching yourself inside the bath … 

You were nearly there, your fingers circling your clit, soft whimpers leaving your lips, when a hand caught yours. Rowan stood there, his eyes blazing with lust, his body practically trembling. Aelin stood behind him, her expression near identical. 

You snatched your hand away, “I was busy.” 

Aelin had already taken her clothes off, “move,” she said softly, nudging you forward. You let her slip in behind you. 

Rowan growled, but she grinned at him. “You were too slow,” and her hands started ghosting along your shoulders, thumbs brushing against your nipples. 

“Aelin,” you breathed, “please.” 

“I do love hearing you beg, darling.” She murmured, her lips grazing your ear, before her canines scraped alongside the column of you throat. You spared a glance to Rowan, and saw him exercising centuries of self-restraint, his hardness already showing. “You planned this, didn’t you?” 

You didn’t get a chance to reply as one finger dragged up your folds, before gently circling your clit. You’d been so on edge for the last few weeks, that you threw your head back in a moan, cumming almost embarrassingly quickly. 

Rowan didn’t bother toweling you off, and carried you right to your bed.  

He took his time. Took so gods-damned long to prepare you that you dug your nails into his shoulder and told him you’d do it yourself if he couldn’t. 

[manuinout]

Thankfully, Insta and TikTok had a positive reaction to Bloofy! But I was just so scared that they were gonna bully him just like they did with Fear, Anger and Anxiety ;-;

[soukokuforthesoul]

when lying beside chuuya at night, the blanket the only thing between their skin, becomes dazai finding that he can no longer stay. he wants to, that's evident enough. but wanting has never done anything good. he shouldn't have even come here. but somewhere in his dazed mind, his first thought had been chuuya. and now he lays buried beneath regret and guilt. along with the knowledge that he can't and won't ever gain anything good from this. neither will chuuya, and no matter how much they try to convince themselves otherwise, it's all only a futile attempt to find solace in one another. when, really, chuuya is the only one with anything worth living for. chuuya has so much ahead of him and being with dazai will do nothing to contribute to that.

and then chuuya shifts, his arm draping over dazai's chest. his body is warm, his fingers curling into a loose fist where dazai's heart beats. then the only coherent thought in dazai's head is: he has to leave.

he's hesitant. it takes everything in him to shuffle away from chuuya's warmth, away from his quiet breathing and soft skin. but he does it anyway, slipping out of the bed and gently adjusting the blanket until chuuya is covered almost all the way. he refuses to look anymore, however, and ducks his head down. he searches briefly for his clothing before realizing it's sure to be muddled up with chuuya's somewhere on the floor.

instead of trying to squint through the dark, he stumbles to the closet and snags the first clothes in his vicinity. they're chuuya's, so they're sure to be tight. but, as dazai struggles into them, he find them familiar. it takes him a moment to place them as his own, and he recalls chuuya, several months back, taking them with the promise that he'll grow into them. dazai grits his teeth, vowing to buy new clothes the next moment he can.

he pivots, turning to the window. the screens are drawn over it, but it's open, letting in cool air. dazai opens the screen and closes the window. he lets out a breath, staring through the glass and up at the clouds that obscure any sign of the moon. streetlights light up the sidewalk, glowing in place of the lack of stars.

behind him, chuuya stirs. the light from outside must've alerted him, and he sits up. wearily. dazai tenses, silently scolding himself for his carelessness.

"osamu?" chuuya mutters, rubbing his eyes. the blanket slips down, settling at his waist. he squints at dazai who stands silhouetted by the window. "what time is it?"

dazai considers. he glances at the clock. "3 a.m. go back to sleep," he says calmly. he remains still, allowing chuuya's recent awakening to mask the fact that he's clothed now.

"are you leaving already? you can stay a bit longer." chuuya shuffles to the end of the bed, bringing the blanket up to wrap around his shoulders, leaving his legs in the open. they swing over the edge, and he's ready to get up. to drag dazai back in.

dazai closes his eyes, turns slightly to the side. "sorry, chibi," he murmurs.

chuuya huffs, but relents. dazai is just as stubborn as he. if he wants to leave now, there's not much room for debating. "come back tomorrow?"

"mm." dazai doesn't bother answering. he would hate to lie as the last thing he'd say to chuuya. so he simply walks to the door, letting chuuya gaslight himself into thinking dazai will be back tomorrow. "goodnight, chuuya."

chuuya is still perched on the end of the bed, his head turning to follow dazai out the door. "'night, mackerel."

it's quiet in the hall as dazai slips out and away. he can almost feel chuuya's gaze on him through the window as he walks down the street. but he pushes the image of him out his mind, focusing on the road in front of him. there's nobody out tonight. a distant sound of cars and trains only just makes it to the street. but dazai is gone, by then. and chuuya is alone. there will be no tomorrow.

[robinasnyder]

Dumb Jon Kent headcanon, but fuck it.

Jon Kent's teeth have mamelons and they're never going away.

What are mamelons, you may ask? They're the little bumps on front teeth you see on kids.

These:

Now, the thing about mamelons is that they generally go away after about a decade. They're there when your permanent teeth grow in, but wear down over time from chewing. These are on the incisors (front teeth). But the molars also tend to be sharper in kids and those wear down too.

Except, that is, if you have something like, say, an overbite, where your teeth aren't lined up normal. Then your bite pattern can get thrown off, and you can maintain those more child-like teeth.

Anyway, what I'm saying is that Kryptonians don't do teeth like that. Clark has really straight teeth. Nothing he eats is wearing them down, which means his teeth were just like that from the jump. But Jon is also human, and human teeth have mamelons. Thing is, Jon's teeth are also basically invulnerable. Which means that Jon manages to have mamelons on his incisors and sharp molars like a human child, even though his teeth are otherwise straight and perfect.

Also means Jon's lower teeth especially can act like a serrated knife.

[jessamine-rose]

*lovingly tackles Aine*

Read my Yandere! Pierro longfics first ♪( ´▽｀)

Last week, my beloved mutual @ainescribe surprised me with Savior! Darling fan art and AHAI9232@2-!/! CRYING SCREAMING I WANT TO LOOK AT THIS ART AND WORSHIP YOUR VERSION OF SAVIOR THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BLESSING ME WITH YOUR ART—

*clears throat* Anyway, now that I finally have the time to properly sit down and comment on the fan art, I’ll do just that. Feedback will be in the tags and it will be unhinged. Once again, thank you so much to Aine for drawing this <3

[limoncats]

happy pancake day y'all

[mezzmerizd]

silly meme thing made me draw Tango and one of my fav. dinosaurs, an Allosaurus, sooo enjoy!! :]]

[mimikusu]

Today I learned that ppl with adhd are more likely to have allergies... and I'm very much obsessed with this now.

[lovebun-com]

can you draw pitcher server and coaster getting cozy in there blankets

Very silly !