#and i think even still has its instruction booklet kicking around together with it

[aeide-thea]

me like: i wonder what would happen if you tried to quilt partially/fully-felted roving to an outer cotton shell. like could you make weird hippie sweatpants or would getting the wool felted enough to be quiltable onto the cotton without an inner woven layer to sandwich it in place make it too not-fleecy to have the right feel. 🤔

[atlabeth]

neighborly things - sokka x fem!reader

summary: reader can’t make things for shit. thankfully, she has a cute and crafty neighbor willing to help her. 

a/n: im so sorry lmao. i have requests and i have 2 series that havent been updated in like a month but sometimes i just need to write a stupid little oneshot to get back in the writing mood. i did this in an hour 

im not a screwdriver expert so dont come at me if some of this info is wrong lmao 

wc: 1.6k 

warning(s): some cursing but otherwise pure fluff. also i didnt proofread im SORRY im pretty sure they laugh grin and smile like 200 times 

-

“Dammit!” 

 Anyone unfortunate enough to have a place near you during this time would have heard the phrase on more than twenty occasions, and it wasn’t even noon yet. You had gotten the parts in the mail to put together a new dresser a couple days ago, and had finally decided to take on the task. You didn’t know if it was because you were inexperienced with furniture or just lacked basic comprehension skills, but it was proving to be no less than Herculean. 

 You threw the screwdriver at the wall and fell back to the floor as you let your arms sprawl out above you. You had been trying to screw in a part for no less than thirty minutes, and if a miracle didn’t happen right about now, you were going to lose your mind. 

Your head snapped towards the door when she heard a knock, and your brows creased. “God?” You muttered as you got up, wondering if you had actually thought a miracle into existence. 

 You weren’t greeted by a deity when you opened the door, but the man standing in front of you was pretty damn close. With ocean blue eyes, hair pulled back in a ponytail with shaved sides, and toned arms, he was a sight to behold. But you had no idea why he was in front of your door. 

 “Hey, are you okay?” He questioned, genuine concern in his tone. 

 “Um, yeah, why?” You were trying to rack your brain for any memory of this guy — because you knew you would remember him if you had seen him before — but to no avail. “Also, who are you and why are you here?”

 “Right,” he chuckled. “My name’s Sokka. I’m your neighbor; I live—” he gestured at the door just next to your place, “—over there. Moved in a couple weeks ago, so that’s probably why you don’t know me. I’ve just been hearing a lot of cursing and loud noises coming from your place, so I figured I would stop in and see what was going on.” 

 “Oh. That’s.. very considerate of you, Sokka. I’m just…” you sighed and chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all. “I’m just trying to put together a dresser, and it’s not going well at all. That latest sound you heard was the culmination of my rage. I threw a screwdriver at the wall.” 

 “Yeah, that’ll do it,” he laughed. “Listen. I don’t wanna intrude on you or anything, but I happen to be pretty good at putting things together. I had to do a lot of furniture construction when I first moved in, plus I’m the one all my friends call when they need help with putting anything together. I could probably help you with whatever’s troubling you.”  

 “Are you serious?” 

 “Oh, no. I just go door to door joking around with people, asking if they need help with their furniture, sometimes I ask if their refrigerator is running? It really gets a kick out of them.” 

 You rolled your eyes goodnaturedly and stepped aside so he could enter your apartment. “Thank you so much, Sokka. I’ve read the instructions a million times, I seriously don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” 

 He crouched down and picked up the manual, turning to a dog-eared page and skimming over the instructions. He pointed at the screwdriver you had thrown against the wall and glanced back at you. “Is that the one you’ve been using?” 

 You closed and locked the door behind him then walked over to the wall, picking up the unfortunate victim of your anger and spinning it in your hands. “Yeah, why?” 

 “Do you know what kind it is?” 

 “Um.. maybe? God, I don’t know. I think it’s a Phillip’s head?” 

 Sokka laughed and shook his head, holding up the manual so you could see it. “That’s where you’re going wrong. You need a Pozidriv for these screws — they’re similar enough that anyone can make a mistake.”

 You stared at Sokka in complete amazement — apparently, your savior lived next door, and he came in the form of a handsome guy with basic knowledge on putting furniture together. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you said as you walked over and took the booklet from himl. You flipped through it a couple times and read over the part, shaking your head in disbelief. 

 “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!” you repeated, louder this time. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get that thing to- to work, to screw, to— whatever you call it?” 

 “It’s actually to—”

 “Thirty minutes!” You interrupted, earning a small chuckle from Sokka. “Thirty damn minutes that I have been trying to get that screw in, and it’s all because I was using the wrong screwdriver. Why would they make screwdrivers that are so similar but aren’t interchangeable?!” 

 He shrugged and held up his hands. “Don’t ask me — I don’t make the rules, I just follow them. But like I said; this dresser might fall apart if you keep using this thing. I actually have a Pozidriv back at my place, I can go get it and we can finish this up together.” 

 “God, that would be the biggest help,” you admitted. “But I don’t wanna take up your time — I don’t know how I would even repay you.” 

 “I’m doing this because I want to help you,” he said. “You don’t have to repay me. Think of it as… as a neighborly thing.” 

 “A neighborly thing?” you repeated with a laugh. “Well, if you’re offering, I’m definitely not going to refuse.” 

 “I am offering,” Sokka winked. “And unless you want to be at this for another three days, I think you should take that offer.” 

 You pretended to deliberate over it before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “I guess I’ll let you help me. I mean, really you should be thanking me for this brilliant opportunity to, um.. hone your skills.” 

 He laughed, a brilliant sound that made your heart sing, and nodded as he went back to the door. “Thank you so much for letting me put together this dresser. Truly, it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

 “Then I’m happy to be of assistance.” 

 Sokka grinned then unlocked and opened the door. “I’ll be right back, then we can get started.”

 -

 Once he got back, the two of you got to work. The next three hours passed so quickly as you and Sokka talked about everything from the work you did to people in your lives (no girlfriend, thankfully), to exchanging stories — even the silence, though rare, was comfortable. 

 Sokka pushed the last drawer into its place then clapped his hands as he stood up, admiring the fruits of your labor. “And that’s it! We’re done.”

 “Wait, we’re done? Already?” You set down the instruction manual and stood up as well, backing up to Sokka’s position to see what he saw. “Wow, that looks.. that looks just like the picture. We are good at this! Well, you’re really good at this, I’m good at keeping you entertained. But still!” 

 You held your hand up for a high five and he laughed, but not without meeting it with a satisfying clap. 

 “It does look pretty good,” he admitted. “And not only do you have a brand new, fully functioning dresser, you also had the priceless experience of spending three hours with the neighbor you know nothing about.” 

 “That’s not true,” you countered. “I know that you’re really good at putting things together, you’re a genius when it comes to anything math or science, and you hate blueberries.” 

 Sokka snickered and brushed his hands off on his jeans. “That’s everything there is to know.” 

 “I dunno, Sokka. You seem like a pretty interesting guy.”

 “Really?”

 “Yeah. It’s not every day that someone offers to put together a whole dresser just because they feel bad.”

 “Well—” he tore off a blank part of the instruction manual and picked up a spare pen from the counter, then put it up against the wall as he scribbled something on it. Sokka put the pen down and handed the slip of paper to you with a smile. “If you ever need any more help with furniture, then call me.” 

 You could feel your cheeks heat up as you took the paper. Your fingers brushed ever so slightly as you took the slip of paper, and you decided to just go for it. You bit back a grin and tried to sound as innocuous as possible. “And if I want to get to know you beyond the blueberries?” 

 Sokka laughed and leaned against the doorframe. “Definitely call me.”  

 “Great.” 

 The two of you smiled at each other like idiots for way too long before a notification from his phone broke the silence. He jumped from the sudden noise and dug his phone out of his pocket, giving you an apologetic look. “Sorry, my sister just texted me and I gotta get over to her place.” Sokka started towards the door then paused and turned around. “I actually had a lot of fun doing this, though. I’ll see you around, yeah?” 

 “Yeah.” You knew you had that same smile on your face, but it just wouldn’t go away. His energy was contagious. “Definitely.” 

 “Great.” He winked at you one last time then left, closing the door behind him, and finally snapping you out of your spell. 

 You leaned against the dresser and stared at the slip of paper in your hands, committing the number to memory. 

 You were definitely going to take him up on that offer. 

-

perm tag list: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin​

[feitclub]

In The Cards

It all started with James Bond, the arbiter of worldliness and all things cool when I was just a kid stuck in suburbia. The movies were frequently shown on TV and I made it a point to watch them all over and over again. One of my early favorites was Live and Let Die: the theme song kicked ass, it was Roger Moore's first film so he would never look more handsome, and the movie was full of straight-up magic. The bad guys have a fortune teller on their side, and she can seemingly see everything James Bond will do, even from a great distance. The key to her abilities, aside from her being a virgin (which Bond *ahem* takes care of) was her use of tarot cards. Drawing randomly from this special deck of cards, she could literally see the past, the present, and the future.

I had never heard of tarot cards before but I knew I wanted them. I could not have been older than 12.

When I got my hands on a deck, likely from a book store at the mall, there was an instant level of disappointment. The tarot cards in the Live and Let Die had a very specific look to them, and I had presumed that was just how all tarot cards would look. The deck which I bought (received? I don't remember if my parents were in on this) looked different. All the cards were there, but the art I had expected was not. The biggest difference that stood out to me was the "Death" card: in Live and Let Die that card has a super badass drawing of Death-incarnate wearing a suit of armor while riding a Pale Horse as all manner of human beings knelt or simply fell before him. In my deck, Death looked like a cartoon skeleton without clothes or a horse as he literally reaped the grass with a scythe. I am not here to judge aesthetics, but if you see something in a movie and you end up buying something else, especially as a kid, that's not going to sit right.

(I have tried to use modern search engine tools to discover what kind of deck I had: it was easy to figure out that Live and Let Die used a kind of Rider-Waite-Smith deck, but I think I might have ended up with a variant on a Marseilles deck - exactly which variant, I could not say)

Artistically it was a let down but the appeal of the tarot cards only increased as I learned more about them. First, I discovered that the deck was huge with 78 different cards: the big-picture cards that were featured in the film with names like "The Lovers" and "The Fool" were part of the Major Arcana, but there was also a full set of Minor Arcana which resembled playing cards: four suits, lots of numbers, and several face cards. Secondly, every card had two different "readings," depending on which direction the card faced when drawn.

78 cards, all with two different meanings, meant memorization. As a kid, I was all about memorization. In elementary school my friend Sasha and I tried to memorize the Periodic Table and I think we made it to the lanthanides. When I discovered the joy of watching professional sports, I made a point of memorizing all the teams - by division - in all four major sports leagues. Then I started memorizing the championship winners (and the runners-up) of each major sports league for the last ten years...then the last 20. These tarot cards were going to be my new thing, I could feel it.

I started carrying the cards with me wherever I went. As a kid in school this was easy since I always had a backpack on so the size of the cards meant nothing. Sasha and I (we had watched Live and Let Die together, so this became a team obsession) each had our own deck and we both would take turns drawing cards and looking them up in the little booklet that came in the box. I can remember taking them with us on a school trip to Boston and when we weren't in awe of the historical sights (do I need to tell you we were both nerds?) we kept up our tarot studies while walking around town. On one occasion, just as we drew a card and the booklet said it meant "danger," a car honked its horn at us. We were walking in the middle of the street! Clearly, the magic was real.

The tiny booklet also included a recommended layout when "reading" the cards. The lady in the movie just turned them over one at a time and everything made sense to her, but instead these instructions had us laying out ten different cards in a pattern where each card has a different relationship to the reader. Today I can tell you this pattern is called a "celtic cross" and it is only one of many, many shapes and patterns that can be used, but preteen me did not have that information. I had clear directions: to read the cards I had to flip over ten of them and explain them all.

Before I knew it, before either of us were really ready to be doing anything like this, I remember both of us became tarot card readers at our synagogue for a Purim festival. At the time I didn't think anything was weird, but in hindsight I am impressed that no one raised an objection to kids bringing such a thing into the synagogue so we could be fortune tellers. I should say that we were members of a Reform Temple and I cannot recall ever hearing words like "blasphemy" or "occult" used by our rabbi or anyone else in authority; it stood in contrast to all those self-described Christians I would see on TV who were mad about evolution being taught in schools, talking animals existing as characters in children's books, or anything else we might read in a Chick Tract (which come to think of it, we also discovered around this time while riding Metro-North trains into New York City).

My tarot reading habit did not last; Sasha and I had a falling out of sorts and other things just became more important than these strange cards. My deck sat on a shelf in my room for years until I moved out of my childhood home. I cannot say for certain but it more than likely did not leave with me. But my curiosity surrounding the tarot would linger in my mind and resurface soon enough just as my next big obsession would come along and reveal itself to be tarot-adjacent: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure.

When I discovered JoJo via a fan-subtitled bootleg VHS in the late 1990s, I had no idea the six episodes of anime I just saw covered only one small part of an ongoing (to this day!) manga. The story, as presented on the tape, started in the middle of the action. A lot of it did not make sense, but I latched onto one element right away: every character had superpowers which were embodied - literally - in a spiritual version of themselves on screen and all these alter-egos had tarot-related names: Star Platinum. Hierophant Green. THE WORLD. There wasn't much connection between the card names and the powers they possessed, but it was the coolest thing I had ever seen. If I had still owned a deck I might have started imagining other powers for the other cards not shown on screen (not knowing that they were all represented in some fashion in the original manga).

Leap forward another - gosh, twenty years? - and my tarot fascination never really went away. When I see a Kickstarter or an Etsy page for a new take on tarot cards, I often take a peek at what ideas are on display. A lot of them are just...porn-y. Some are cute. But I'm old(er) now, I don't have the raw enthusiasm I did when I was in 7th grade and the prospect of magic playing cards just made perfect sense. I see daily horoscopes on Japanese TV which I recognize aren't "real," how could I scoff at one kind of fortune telling and then pick up a deck of tarot cards?

Except...who cares if it's "real." What does it matter if these cards are, ultimately, a random assortment of quality art? It's been three entire decades since I first saw them and I'm still deeply intrigued. Part of being old(er) is coming to terms with your own tastes and biases; I no longer need to apologize or feel shame for liking old pop songs or macho action movies and if I've always had a feeling that tarot cards are cool, that feeling is correct.

There's also the feeling that I know so little about tarot cards that I cannot possibly pass judgement on people who use them. I recently started testing a Body Positivity mobile app that uses tarot cards as a means to spark self-reflection and, well, body positivity. The tarot cards in the app are not "real," they're not even physical. They're just drawings on a screen. But the drawings are nice, and if flipping a virtual card over can have a real impact on my own mind, who's to say what flipping real cards over could do?

Even though I felt a need to write all this down, I'm not actually seeking permission here. I already made up my mind and bought a brand-new deck of tarot cards. It's here, next to me. I’ve opened them. I try to draw a few cards whenever I have a chance, but I don't know where this reignited interest will take me. Will I start memorizing them all, again? Will I have another car-honking-its-horn-at-me moment? Maybe I'll just enjoy them aesthetically (they are very nice-looking if I may say so). I don't know what will come next any more than these cards do, but I know I like having them here and I want to know more. At the very least, tarot cards have already taught me an important lesson: I know better than to try and read them while walking in the middle of the road.

---- I shared this story with my Patreon supporters before posting it publicly. Want to help me write more things? Join today: patreon.com/feitclub Ko-fi works too: ko-fi.com/feitclub

[trans-shuichisaihara]

fake it till (we) make it - Scene 1

the celebrity fake dating oumota au I started last month or smth and finally picked up again. I really love this au so uhh hopefully y’all do too! coughs bc it’s probably a slow burn and i have too many of those

(read on AO3)

Kaito Momota, up-and-coming actor newly known for his roles in various sci-fi films, has a problem. Said problem comes in the form of his frequent costar ringing insistently on his door at 2am.

“What the fuck,” is all his tired mind can create to greet him with. If Kokichi minds, he doesn’t show it, a wild grin filling his face.

“Good morning, Kaito!”

“It’s the middle of the night, this better be real fuckin’ important.” A headache is already starting to form right behind his eyes, so he really isn’t in the mood for-

“I’m bored; you should be a good host and entertain me!”

Three seconds later, Kaito slams the door in his face.

“Hey! Kaito! C’mooon!” The relief from his voice being muffled only lasts a matter of seconds, as Kokichi goes back to ringing the doorbell rapidly.

“Fine,” he groans, throwing the door back open, “Get in here before I call someone to get rid of you.”

He wastes no time obeying, hurrying past Kaito and straight to the living room, vaulting over and onto the couch.

He sighs, closing the door and massaging his aching head. “You could at least take off your shoes, asshole.”

“I’m good,” he cheekily replies, resting said shoes on the arm of the couch, “Come sit over here.” He pats the seat next to him. Kaito shakes his head and opts to sit on the opposite end.

“Are you gonna explain why the hell you’re awake at 2 in the morning or should I just assume you’re going out of your way to bother me?”

He hums in response, before his expression changes to a pout. “My manager wants me to change my sleep schedule so we can get some night scenes out of the way. But no one else is ever awake at this time of night unless they’re completely smashed.”

Kaito pinches his nose; what was Kokichi starring in again? He himself isn’t doing anything currently, waiting for preparations for the next film to wrap up. “Why don’t you go bother Miu then? She supposedly never sleeps.”

“She sleeps weird hours, but she’s in France with Kaede right now.”

Oh, yeah, that’s right. “Ugh, call her or text her or something then; it’s like normal morning hours there.”

“No thanks,” Kokichi declines, kicking off his shoes, “I don’t want to interrupt her honeymoon.”

He furrows his brows at his word choice; they’re there for Kaede’s piano concerts, right? Well, whatever. “Why don’t you go bother-” Fuck, who could he send Kokichi off to? He couldn’t bother Shuichi or Maki with him, and all their other mutual friends either expressed annoyance with him or didn’t stand up to him when he was being like this. Dammit. “... Fine, whatever, guess you can be my problem for tonight.”

It has to be illegal for him to look so happy at being the source of someone’s sleep deprivation. “Aw, I knew you’d come around. No one can resist me.” Fucking spoiled brat.

“Just find some way to entertain yourself; I got plenty of shit lying around. I'm goin' back to sleep.” He stands, waving him off, but doesn’t get far before Kokichi lunges forward and grabs his wrist.

“I have a huge Lego Star Destroyer in my car and if you don’t help me build it I’ll egg your house.”

... Well, how could he say no to that? “Dude, you act as if building that would be a bad thing.”

He hums in response, releasing Kaito and tossing his keys up to him without warning. He catches it midair, nearly missing the sly smirk that crosses Kokichi’s face. “You’ll see~!”

The box isn’t that big, but it’s heavier than he expected it to be. Not anything he can’t handle, but it still causes him some trouble getting it through the door, determined to be as difficult as its owner. He becomes very familiar with information on the side of the box as he’s bringing it in; 3152 pieces, recommended for ages 16 and up.

Looks like Kokichi would have to sit out, haha.

Relaying that joke to him when he finally sets it down in the living room earns him a huff and an annoyed shout reminding him that they’re the same age. Geez, it isn't Kaito’s fault he looks nothing like a 23 year old. He doesn't look a day over 15, and that's just a fact.

“So, why do you even have this? Don't tell me you bought it just to bribe me,” he asks as they pull out the bags of pieces from the box, Kokichi flipping through the first few pages.

“No way, it's just something I impulse bought last Christmas and never got around to building. I remembered it while I was sitting around bored and hey, you're the residential space freak.” He grabs the baggie labeled “1” from Kaito’s pile, tearing it open with more force than necessary.

“Hey, careful! You’ll lose pieces like that!”

“Relax, it's the first bag, and your house is surprisingly clean. Seriously, do you even live here?”

Kaito feels a bit offended at that. “What does that mean?! You think I live like a slob or somethin’?!”

“Uh, yeah? Your dressing room is always a mess.” He pauses. “Do you keep the mess in your bedroom then?” He gives him a teasing wink as he begins snapping pieces together.

“My room’s clean too, asshole. It's not hard to keep a clean house.”

“I bet it is, when you own literally nothing.” He shakes his head. “I was expecting collectables and spaceship models everywhere.”

Well... He does have those, but they're in his study where he can see them while he works out. “What, so are you saying you own a bunch of junk then?” He did say that he impulsively bought this.

Kokichi's face goes flat for a moment, before snapping back into a grin. “Yep! You caught me, I'm a huuuuge hoarder!” And a huge liar; anyone who works with him for even five minutes knows that.

“Yeah, sure.” Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. He can't judge a house he's never seen. Which begs the question- “Where the hell do you even live?”

“I wonder,” he answers with a non-answer, flipping to the next page. Kaito shakes his head, unsurprised.

After he grabs one of the other instruction booklets and his own bag of pieces - pushing Kokichi’s scattered pieces towards him to prevent mixing - the two of them work in silence for a long while. Kaito starts to yawn as he flips through the seemingly endless instructions, blurry vision causing him to keep misreading the pictures and forcing him to frequently tear apart sections of his progress.

“You're really bad at this,” Kokichi comments as he finally finishes his booklet, standing up and stretching.

“Fuck you, I'm doing my best on three hours of sleep.”

“Hmm, should've gone to bed earlier. Besides, I only got four and I'm perfectly fine.” Despite his words, the next sound to leave his mouth is a poorly disguised yawn. “Anyway, I'm gonna raid your pantry as punishment for being so slow.”

Ughhh. “Good luck finding anything, I haven't gone grocery shopping recently.”

There's a long pause as Kokichi inspects the food situation for himself. He returns a minute later with a tupperware container. “How are you alive?”

“Meal prep and tons of leftovers.” He hauls himself up with a low groan, before walking over and taking the container from him. “Don't eat this; it's my lunch for tomorrow.”

Kokichi sticks his tongue out at him. “Whatever, I didn't want your gross... whatever that is.” He huffs, turning back into the kitchen to poke around.

Kaito sighs. “Want me to order a pizza?” That's a better option than him getting into the little food that remains.

He perks up, closing the barren freezer. “I supposeee,” he drawls, pretending to be disinterested.

“What toppings?” He pulls up a list of nearby pizza places, hoping one of them would deliver at almost 3:30am. Closes at 3am, closes at 2am, midnight... Damn.

“None pizza with left beef, obviously.”

“C’mon Kokichi, a serious answer please.”

“Fine, pineapple with anchovies.”

“Alright, no take backs,” he answers, still squinting at his phone to find a place.

Kokichi sighs after a minute of unsuccessful searching. “Gimme that, I know a place.” Before he can object, his phone is in his hands and the pizza is ordered, along with some mystery combo items.

Afterwards, the phone is returned to him unharmed, thankfully. “It’s gonna be 34 dollars, spaceman.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah yeah, lemme go find my wallet.” He shakes his head and makes the mistake of leaving Kokichi alone unattended downstairs.

By the time he digs his wallet out of his nightstand and takes a quick piss, the doorbell rings. He splashes some water on his face to help keep himself awake, hurrying down the stairs as Kokichi’s opening the door.

“Thank you very much! Sorry, no autographs, but you can get one from Kaito if you want.” He hurries past Kaito and away from the delivery girl, a pile of boxed food in his arms.

Kaito sighs as he pulls a 50 out of his wallet. “Need me to sign anything? And keep the change, it’s fuck o’clock in the morning, I know.” Once he’s signed in three separate places aside from the receipt, she finally leaves, letting him turn his attention back to Kokichi.

“Hey, what’s your Netflix password?” He immediately asks once the door’s closed. “I tried a bunch of stupid space references but it’s not working.”

“Like hell I’ll tell you that, use your own.” He plopped himself back down at the abandoned Legos, trying to regain focus.

“I don’t have oneeee,” he whines in response, dropping the controller down onto the floor as he flops onto his side. Kaito resists sighing again and picks it up, turning the console off, ignoring Kokichi’s continued mumbled whines.

They sit in silence for a few long moments before Kaito realizes that something’s off with the Legos. “Hey, where the hell’d all my small gray pieces go?”

He shoots Kokichi a look, and he receives a toothy smile in response. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll step on them at some point!”

He scowls - like hell he will. “Seriously, do you want us to build this or not? If we lose a shit ton of pieces right off the bat, that’s not happening.”

“I mean...” Kokichi sat up, observing his nails for a moment before turning to the pizza box next to him and opening it. “I’m pretty bored with it now. I’m trying to think of a better game to play, since Netflix and chill is out of the question.”

He coughs. “Shuddit. Fuck, you’re such a pain.” He shakes his head and starts to pick up the pieces, taking the complete piece and the almost finished one to the empty bookshelf he’s been meaning to fill in the corner of the room. Once he’s finished, Kokichi beckons him back over, shoving a paper plate with a slice on it into his hands. He eats it, only because he paid for it and he’s hungry from sleep deprivation.

It’s not too bad, honestly.

“Hmmm, I wanna take a selfie...” Kokichi thinks aloud, leaning his full body weight of literally nothing against Kaito as he pulls out his phone and opens the camera app.

“Seriously?! I’m trying to eat!”

“Just one, promise! Say pineapple!” The circular button takes their picture silently, unlike paparazzi cameras. He lets Kaito approve of it before returning to his previous position.

“Satisfied? Will you let me sleep and not make a mess if I go back to bed?” Kaito asks after the pizza and half the breadsticks are gone, yawning again.

“Only if you answer my question.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Shoot.”

“What do you think about fake dating? Specifically, me ‘n’ you?”

His question is answered by him coughing to avoid choking on his own spit.

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking with the Schuylers (44)

I’m posting this from the bus to NY (!!!) sorry this one took so long, but I’m much happier with the direction this turned out than it’s precious draft so take that as you will.

[Edit: I finally fixed the formatting-sorry about that nightmare!]

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Tagging: @linsnavi @butlinislin @oosnavi @adothoe

The hot compression of a faux leather skirt has begun to take its toll on Eliza, who stretches her calves in hopes of a burst of relief. It maneuvers the wave of her muscles with a crinkling protest, a lacy top clinging to her physique with a hold she hasn’t quite gotten used to. The slight chill of the air flows through the room and soothes the mugginess of backstage.

“Are you dying yet?” Peggy’s voice, loud and playful, carries across the room with ease. The issue of leather unencumbers her although she has been outfitted in a jumpsuit crafted entirely from the material. She holds a drumstick in each hand, twirling them between her fingers with ease before tapping them against an extra amp. The rhythm is familiar, a song they had crafted together, and Eliza hums the tune while she adjusts her fishnets.

“The crowd is huge tonight.” Angelica’s mass of well-tamed curls pokes out from behind the curtain; the muffled sounds of their opening act receiving mass amounts of applause is a comfort. Angelica hadn’t been too sure about hiring some boy band to back them, but The Rev Squad seems to be getting the praise Eliza had imagined upon convincing her sisters to hire the band.

Eliza adjusts the strap of her electric guitar over her shoulder, her grin wild and untamed as their opening act clamors off the stage. They’re still on an evident high from the crowd’s love, whooping and hollering. Their confidence clashes with the anxiety that still radiates from the Schuyler sisters, the juxtaposition evident. The boys are a mess of sweat and flyaway hairs, water splashing from opened bottles onto their reddened faces. Angelica lets out a hint of a smile before looking away, getting into her own headspace with deep breaths and a few words muttered under confident breaths. Peggy joins their fight, running and hiding with three opened bottles of water around a corner.

Eliza, like her eldest sister, finds herself far too occupied to engage in their games. However instead of moving for a silent confidence boost, her eyes are trained on the last band member to exit the stage. The Rev Squad stylist has dressed each of its members in a suit of varying colors. There’s Lafayette, in a full red ensemble to match the unwavering flame of pride in his eyes. Herc is in bright blue, with a t-shirt underneath (presumably to stop the sweating their last round of outfits had brought him, which he’d gently and apologetically complained about just once). It matches the sweatband he prefers to wear around his head and throw out to the audience each night as their fanbase has grown. John, in his bowtie and gingham, fits the roll of the ‘nice boy’ perfectly. But it’s the simplest of the suits that has Eliza’s heart racing, practically jumping through her lace bodice.

She and the band’s resident bad boy (which she continually attempts to convince to her father is just an unfit label) hadn’t been seeing each other for long. Hell, she’d only met him when The Rev Squad first came to tour rehearsals up in California. The electricity had been too much to deny, and they’d hit it off as soon as she’d stepped into his rehearsal and he’d lost the words to his entire solo. The energy between them had lasted through Los Angeles, and Tulsa, and Tampa…and tonight, playing a sold out crowd in Central Park, those feelings were only heightened.

Eliza’s hands find the bare skin at the bend of his elbows, where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his suit. Her fingers grasp at the material, her lips diving forward to find his before he can take the steps to meet her. It’s a silly thing, this suit, and the way just two black buttons coax the fabric to hug his body in a way that makes her want to pull it off. He seems to want the same thing, the way one stage-sweat misted cheek presses against her collarbone, finding the best position to trail his lips where he knows it’ll drive her crazy. And then, he stops; a poorly aimed pool of water hits Alexander’s back, droplets of water coasting over his shoulders to mist the top of Eliza’s head.

The sudden mist is enough to jolt her awake, brushing at her face and casting a quizzical glance at her hands when they come up completely dry. The dream had been so lucid that even the space on either side of her hips is still fuzzy with the static energy of Alexander’s touch. Closing her eyes, Eliza wills herself to drift back into the world she had so unwillingly left, the tune of an unknown song stuck in an elevator music aesthetic in the background of her mind. She rolls over, a contented hum leaving her system carried on a golden glow of happiness. Her nose meets the feeling of bare flesh and an aroma of dark roast coffee. The lucid feelings of hands on her waist had been real, although Alexander’s arms are fully wrapped around her waist instead of just resting there. His eyes are still closed; they move rapidly underneath a thick blanket of eyelashes in a rare moment of peace. For a moment Eliza watches him-lets herself get caught in the way his relaxation fills the air around them. Her own eyes flutter between open and shut, a hazy side-effect of her ear against his breathing and his beating heart.

“Okay, I have to ask; what the hell were you dreaming about? I mean I know I’m a sleep-talker but you were sleep-singing…”

She shakes her head, the stray tendrils of her hair tumbling down her shoulder along with the lightness of her laughter.

“Can you roll the sleeves of your suit on Monday?” He moves himself away from her with a bemused expression so that he can catch her eyes, the drowsiness a welcome compliment to her upturned lips and reddened cheeks. Alexander chuckles. “What? It was a really good dream.”

She draws out her words with the low musings of a purr, running her fingers along his arm.

“I’m really glad you stayed.” It’s almost inaudible; she murmurs the words after she’s settled back into his chest, her stomach in combat between fluttering and flipping. The tender press of his lip against her forehead invites a wave of tranquility, transporting Eliza back to a time where she had been able to wake up like this every day. She catches the moment; drinking in the heat of his legs against her cold toes, his hurried heartbeat, and his laughter shaking the pillow of his chest. These are the feelings she had been reminiscing about. These are the things that turn her paintings gold and coat them in billowing air in gentle strokes of her paintbrush.

The temporary air serenity is shattered by the slam of her bedroom door against the wall, and for a moment Eliza has a flash of memory; their first time, her hot tears, his hands paving the way to a warm trail her mind turned into embers that stung her body. But this isn’t that time, this isn’t Christmas…that much is evident by Peggy’s yelp of surprise and the lurid click of the door being shut almost as soon as it had been opened.

“Let us know when you’re decent, please. This is important.” Eliza can practically hear Angelica’s eyes rolling in her head, her clear and decisive timbre allowing an impatience to drip from each syllable. She smooths down her camisole and pulls on a pair of shorts, shoulders lifted in a halfhearted shrug.

“Again; why did you give them a key?” Alexander stretches out over the bed when Eliza gets up, groaning before hauling himself up as well. He yawns, a break in the drowsy annoyance he had been displaying, and Eliza rewards him with a kiss and a run of her thumb along his jawline.

“We can come back to bed after, I’m sure it’s nothing. I mean, technically you don’t even have to get up at all.”

“Yes you do, Alex, you’ll want to hear this too.” His curiosity is piqued upon hearing his own sister’s voice, even though she wears more of a bitter tone he’d grown much too accustomed to dealing with. When he opens the door, when his eyes meet the sight of Peggy, Emily, and Angelica with identically crossed arms, he wishes John hadn’t introduced them at all. While Eliza throws herself into the mix he hangs back, intimidated by the wall of frantic conversation that erupts simultaneously, over-stimulating the flow of the room. Angelica’s shouting, Peggy waving her arms while speaking. Emily is shushing them all, spinning on her heel to give Eliza’s sisters an instructional glare as she holds a magazine out to his girlfriend.

He rushes forward as he feels the change in her demeanor; the way she grows silent and her lips thin into a line with a slight downward dip. Her posture sinks, her eyebrows furrowing as she clutches at the booklet with fervent intensity. And then, she drops it completely. Her voice is silent but her lips form one word; unbelievable.

“I mean I was going to come over here and yell at you about this but then I had to ask for your address, and by the time I got it and your sisters were done interrogating me my PR education kicked in and I realized that this is just a bunch of bullshit.” Emily shakes her head, her own copy of the tabloid rolled in her hands like a weapon. She bats it against her opened palm, a distraction. Peggy chimes in as she plops herself on the table, running a hand through her curls.

“I saw it on my way to Maria’s and I think I might’ve forgotten to pay the man at the pharmacy but I don’t even care, I called Ange as soon as I read it.”

The room stands in hesitant silence; the girls wait for Eliza to speak-to react, to say something more than the five syllable word that had never come out. She is immobile. Once she’s read the article the first time Eliza’s eyes fog over, the letters on the page blurring and dancing. They create an image where only the offensive words are sharp enough to read, stabbing in pin-pricks that coat her body in discomfort. She can just barely make out Angelica’s voice, muted by the ringing in her ears. Her heart has begun a sprinting pace, pulsing against her chest and pushing her down to the couch. She clutches the magazine with white knuckles until her muscles lose control; it flutters to the ground in a flurry of turning pages that breaks the silence with the cut of a knife.

Alex slips the magazine from Eliza’s hands, replacing its emotional weight with the winding of his fingers through hers. She draws in a sharp, staccato breath of air before holding it in for a moment. Her throat convulses with the fight of tears that threaten to spill from her eyes but she holds them there. Eliza concentrates on the warmth of Alex’s hand; the way her sisters have positioned themselves around her. She isn’t sure if it is for her own comfort or Alexander’s-he’s visibly tensed since opening the magazine-but it comforts her nonetheless.

…

“How are you feeling?” The question comes in the same tone it always has; genuine, yet slightly mundane. Lisa begins all of their sessions like this, after the meditation and the breathing and the necessary time it takes to prepare for the emotional turmoil she’s signed up for once a week. This week feels different; the meditation was longer. Lisa had let her linger in her own thoughts, the room filled with the trickling of her fountain and her soft and easy breaths. She knows she has to leave this state soon; to do the work she’s come here to do. She’s sure that Lisa has seen the article; has it marked somewhere in her legal pad in her broad, slanted handwriting. She’s sure that the topic is written in a lot of places at this point.

She’s spoken about this more than any trashy tabloid deserves.

There is no one word to describe the way her heart has been jumping around in her chest. A sentence cannot place the pin-pricks, or the headaches, or the nausea. She’s never felt less like herself than in this moment; even when she had been with James, even when she had been living in the hell he had crafted for her…although Eliza is still living in it-that much is certain.

“Do you want to talk about this first or lead up to it?” Eliza likes when Lisa gives her choices; she’s able to sit for a moment, to mull them over in her mind although she’s already made it up. She needs to talk about this article. She needs to thread the thick line that connects her past to this moment, weaves it intricately through her heart and into everything she’s been feeling since she read the words surrounding her name. What Eliza wants is to hide. This is too much. She’d felt so safe, so connected to the present that for once it had felt as though she had a normal chance at a relationship and a life outside of him.

He has excellent timing.

She taps her foot on the ground, a decision made by the way Lisa stares back at her. Her hazel eyes, set behind thin-rimmed cranberry glasses, search her for an answer in a mirror of a mind reader. Eliza doesn’t even have to speak her wishes out loud-that’s something she’s grown to love about Lisa. The middle-aged woman flips the magazine over, setting it backward on the table so that Eliza is looking at an ad for a double stacked hamburger instead of her own face.

“How are things with Alexander?” Good. She starts with the topic she feels will be easiest, the one that’s always elicited more positive responses than negative. And Eliza does smile, although it’s once of twitching hesitance instead of glowing peace. Her shoulders raise and collapse, and she picks at the hem of her dress.

“It’s weird not having him around. He’s very understanding, but I know that he felt a little put out by it all.”

“You’re not as happy as you have been in the past.” Eliza shrugs again, reaching forward to grab a package of putty from the coffee table. She stretches it as far as it will go, the sound of crackling air bubbles a familiar relief. When it has reached its limit, when it has been stretched too thin, she folds it back in on itself and repeats the process. Her body responds to the tense and release of the putty with an understanding taught by experience. Tense and release; the stress has stretched her so thin.

“We had a fight the other day.”

“About?”

“It was my fault, really. And I guess it wasn’t even really a fight so much as it was me overreacting. I didn’t see him all week-he wasn’t returning my calls, he was being flighty. And we all went to John’s for game night on Friday, and he was there, and it just set something off. I was just so upset that I hadn’t seen him so I invited him over after and we talked and he felt really bad about it all. He just got caught up in his work. And I mean, I was really overreacting,”

“-I’m going to stop you right there.” Lisa’s lips are scrunched to one corner of her mouth. She pauses in her writing, tapping her pen over her legal pad with unease. “Your language is very self-directed. During this story, you’ve said your name much more than Alexander’s. You’ve blamed yourself rather than seeing your own side of the story.”

“It was my fault, though. I can’t blame Alexander for working as much as he is. He’s trying to make a name for himself. He has a lot of goals, I can’t hold him back from that.”

“There it is. I want you to think about what you’ve just said for a minute, out of context, and we’ll come back to this.” She flips the page of her notepad, her pen jumping rapidly along the page before pausing completely. Lisa’s eyes move just above the rim of her glasses. “You and James fought a lot, too. Verbally?”

“Yeah.” Stretch and release. The putty pops in her hands. She rolls it between her fingers, soft and pliable. “We fought so much that I can’t even remember what our arguments were about. The…the bad nights always started with a verbal argument.”

There never seemed to be just one thing that set James off more than another; one night Eliza was too shy, the other she was a flirt, or a tease. Names were spit at her through darkened eyes and a posture that loomed over her own small frame. He had a way of making her feel dwarfed, as if her stature and her femininity and her disposition were a curse instead of a blessing. She had folded herself from the tension of the putty so many times that she had completely rearranged who she was to fit him. She hadn’t been Eliza back then, only a shell of herself. Then, she had been Eliza who belongs to James.

“I’m just wondering if maybe this language you’ve been using has been healthy…I want you to understand that this pattern of blaming yourself for every problem in your relationships is self-destructive behavior.”

“It’s not like that with Alex.” She sits forward in her seat, the putty still in her hands and her eyes narrowing subconsciously in a sudden feeling of offense. “He’s nothing like James. You told me I have to start letting go of people and being so clingy, didn’t you?”

“Eliza, let’s take a step back for a minute.”

“No, I want to talk about this.” Her heart is racing now, angered and tired and pulsing heavy against the cage of her chest. If this weren’t her heart, if this were a fist or a foot banging so forcefully on her, Eliza could imagine the stormy ocean of blues and blacks that would have already begun to form there.

“Ok, then. We’ll talk. About the article. You’ve read it?”

“Yeah. A few times.”

“And…”

“I don’t know.” Eliza is perched on the edge of her chair. Her posture is upright and dainty, although tainted with the draw of her shoulders to her cheeks and the tightness of her knuckles. The putty cracks in her hands. She doesn’t want to talk anymore.

She doesn’t speak. For a long time Eliza concentrates on the rhythm of her breathing and the trickling of the fountain because if she lets herself falter, even for just a moment, she’s sure that the inevitable collapse will happen. She longs for the safety of her bed, for Alexander’s sleepy smile and his need to order Chinese instead of pizza. The need for things to be different doesn’t solve anything, only fills her gut with unsettled breathing and the soft heat of anxiety, almost a familiar comfort at this point.

Eliza stares down at the photograph of the double cheeseburger, her foot tapping to the rhythm of an unknown, uneasy song. She’s been to the restaurant before-knows that their veggie burgers are nothing more than thin, overworked patties and wilted lettuce with too many unnecessary toppings. The photograph, however, makes her stomach turn in desire. There are perfectly crafted patties, thick and misted with beautiful dew-dropped juices. The bun is golden, almost glowing. She can almost hear the snap of the lettuce and onion just staring at the ad. But this is merely a façade, a photograph taken multiple times under the best light and with all of the circumstances ideal. There were things like photoshop, and professionals. This burger had everyone on its side. This burger had the advantage.

They’ve used the worst paparazzi photo of her on the magazine’s front cover. Her hair is a mess from the wind, mouth half opened in the midst of a word. Her name-her father’s name-is printed in bold letters next to James’s, just as it had always been. Just as it always will be.

She doesn’t want to feel the twinge of her heart upon seeing his picture again; she’d blocked him from all of her social media, completely shut him out. She avoided the newsstands like the plague, straying far away from any possibility of running into her past again. Now, she faces it head-on. The heat of Lisa’s eyes on her-watching her, waiting for her-burns heavy as s thick and consuming guilt crashes against her with a tsunami weight.

She doesn’t want to talk about it.

Lisa does.

“You’re stuck.” It’s nothing more than an observation, a smooth tone taking note of the way Eliza’s knuckles have relaxed to hold the magazine on her lap. It could be the way she rests it there, unopened. It could be the way her heart seems to have stopped altogether, although she’s sure Lisa isn’t able to tell, no matter how good she is. Maybe it’s the way her lips stick to one another, magnetized by the words she can barely manage to think let alone speak out loud.

“How does it feel to see his picture again?” Eliza feels like all she has done in these past few weeks is cry; for herself, for Alexander, for her future…the way her tears begin to trail down her cheek.

“It feels awful.” It’s the most substantial sentence she’s uttered all session, with downcast eyes and a wavering voice. She’s allowed time to think; to breathe, and to process the words running around in her mind. “I hate him for what he’s done to me. I hate that I can’t have a normal relationship with Alexander, who clearly deserves better than someone who can’t give him what he wants-what we both want.”

“And that’s a valid thing. It’s okay to feel things, Eliza.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m tired of waking up and being this shell of someone I don’t even know. I don’t want to fight with Alexander anymore. I don’t want him to feel like he’s not trying hard enough. I’m tired of being stuck.”

“There’s something else…all of this fighting, you keep coming back to it. Is there a possibility that you’re hinged on this one small fight for a reason?”

Eliza shakes her head. Her heart resumes its erratic pulsing. Her chest hurts. Her heart hurts. She knows what is about to be said before Lisa can find a way to craft the words eloquently, in a way that will be the least offensive to a clearly fragile Eliza. There is no need to skirt the subject at this point; it has been the trademark thought in her mind from the day she had seen the magazine-had seen her photo next to James’s.

“I’m wondering if this fighting is your subconscious way of punishing yourself, or trying to push Alexander away.”

She doesn’t move from her perch on the couch. The fountain continues to trickle. The putty is still in her hands. Her breath hitches in her throat.

“It’s perfectly normal…if you still have feelings for James, somewhere deep inside…this is a completely understandable thing, Eliza.”

“Can we talk about this next time?”

“You were with him for a substantial amount of time. It’s not human to be able to will that all away.”

Eliza pushes herself off of the couch, her shaking hands launching herself and sending her stumbling. She catches herself just before hitting the coffee table, standing before ripping her purse off of the coffee table. Somewhere, in an incoherent plane of existence, Lisa’s soothing tone is still moving along professionally crafted sentences, her pen a continuous attachment to her yellow legal pad. Even as Eliza knocks down the coat hook with her fumbling hands, even as she murmurs rapidly-paced apologies through her choking breath, Lisa continues to speak. She rises to meet Eliza at the door, watching her hastened pace careen down the hallway.

“Talk to Alexander, tell him how you feel. He can help you, Eliza.”

It takes her three tries to close her shaking hand around the doorknob.

In the silence of the musty hallway, Eliza sinks down to the carpet and holds her head, numb and heavy, in her hands.

In this public level of privacy, Eliza cries until the janitor comes to close the architect’s office next door.

A CHANGE OF HEART? Schuyler and Reynolds reunited

Elizabeth Schuyler is making headlines again-this time for her newly rekindled relationship with old flame and political hopeful James Reynolds!

“She’s always loved him,” our snitch spills “it was only a matter of time before she came to her senses.”

The 20 year old senator’s daughter has been seeing fellow Columbia classmate 23 year old Alexander Hamilton, a fact backed by both her Instagram and Twitter accounts, which boast plenty of photos of the ponytail clad future lawyer. But our source, close to both Reynolds and Schuyler, has falsified these statements.

“[Hamilton] is nothing more than a family friend. She has been seeing him to appease his dream of a green card.”

It seems that Phillip Schuyler’s dreams of supporting the nation’s immigrants have spread to his middle daughter. But we’ve busted this front, and we wish #Jeliza the best in their rekindled romance.

Want more? We’ve compiled a list of our favorite James and Eliza moments throughout the years!

How do you feel about this rekindled romance?

[your-iron-lung]

Mixed Up 10 | The Pirate Song |

Chapter Word Count: 2208

Pairings: Zoro/Sanji

Genre: Comedy, Drama, Romance

Chapter Warning: Strong Language

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,

Next Chapter: 11

The tension that surrounded the front-desk was so palpable that it was keeping customers from entering or leaving the store. A few had tried to overcome their uneasiness by attempting to walk past the duo under Zoro's soul-chilling glare, but were so perturbed and consumed by dread that they gave up and continued to circle dumbly around the store until they felt it was safe enough to pass. Nami and Sanji were oblivious to the anxiety as they stood leaning over the counter, watching Zoro gleefully as he mutely munched away at the sandwich Sanji had brought him for lunch.

The two of them looked absolutely delighted as they conspiratorially leaned together, already at ease with one another despite only having met once before. Knowing that they were waiting for him to make the first move, Zoro took his time eating, slowly consuming his food with all the lackluster of a grazing farm animal. None of them mentioned or even seemed to notice the apprehensive customers that had a formed a line outside the door, waiting to come inside.

Swallowing down the last bite of his sandwich, Zoro finally spoke.

"Well, I'm glad you two are fucking happy about this."

In an instant the thick, atmospheric cloud of tension snapped and dissipated as a collective sigh of relief arose from the customers who felt they were now free to leave and enter.

Zoro slouched back in Nami's rolling chair, swiveling around discontentedly in his seat to cast his seething glare between the two of them, ignoring the sudden influx of people that circulated past them. Nami laughed a bright, jubilant laugh that Sanji took to liking immediately. He then felt compelled to laugh along with her as he leaned across the counter to level Zoro's glare with a mirthful look of his own.

"I bring you food and business, and this is what I get in return? Death threats and empty promises? I expected better from a, uh, hang on-" Sanji paused in his tirade to grab and begin flipping through the Super-Star! Guitar's instructor profile booklet the front-desk counter offered its guests. He found Zoro's page at the back quickly, snickered at the unflattering photograph of him, and read aloud from the quick biography and pretended not to be impressed with what he read. "-From a '3 time Bass Guitar Monthly cover story performer, who's use of the 3-necked bass 'Santoryu' has made favourable impressions across the country.' See here, I thought you were supposed to be a professional."

"I am," Zoro snarled, sitting up to snatch the booklet away before Sanji could read anything more about him. "And my threats are anything but empty."

Rolling his eyes and snatching the booklet back, Sanji said, "I'm sure you're all bark and no bite, but I wasn't talking about your lame death threats, idiot."

"Then-"

"The art show," Sanji replied flippantly, scouring through the booklet to inspect the other instructors and paused over Brook's page. "Usopp's art show is tomorrow; you haven't even tried to make an effort to get me any more involved in that."

"Wow, really?" Nami said in a tone that was so disapproving, several patrons were stricken with a severe sense of inadequacy that would haunt them for the rest of their day. She hopped and twisted onto the countertop so that her legs were dangling on Zoro's side and kicked out at her associate, who easily rolled out of reach in her chair. "I told you to take him!"

"I was!" Zoro said angrily, scooting around in the wheeled chair as Nami continued with her attempts at harassing him. "I still am! The damn thing hasn't happened yet, so get off my ass about it."

"That may be, but I still don't know where the hell it is, or what time it starts, or what the fuck being a fake bodyguard even entails," Sanji said flatly, closing the booklet and setting it aside before it could offer him further distraction.

Rolled all the way against the far wall, Zoro planted his feet firmly on the ground and crossed his arms, frowning harshly at the both of them.

"It starts at 7," he began, narrowing his eyes at Nami when she stuck her tongue out at him. "We have to get there early, though, so we can help set up, so I'll come by at 4."

"That's really fucking early, are you that incompetent with directions?"

"Fuck you," Zoro bit out. "He wants me to pick up some prints at his place beforehand so we have to leave early enough to get that shit done, asshole. Does that cover it?"

"No," Sanji said, amused with how easy it was to irritate him. "Where is it, what do I have to do, etcetera?"

"Hey, Zoro!"

Behind Sanji, a young teenaged girl waved enthusiastically at the grumpy looking punk, prompting Zoro to stand up and ignore Sanji outright as he went to great his next lesson.

"Been practicing?" Zoro questioned as he lead her away, looking back over his shoulder to sneer nastily at both Nami and Sanji.

'Rude fucker,' Sanji mouthed after him as he left, earning a hasty and discreet middle finger in response that made him snicker.

"Don't worry about the details too much," Nami said as she slid off her perch to retake her seat behind the counter. Sanji turned back towards her as she began to organize her desk. "All you really have to do is dress formal and look imposing to keep Usopp from shitting himself."

"Easy," Sanji said, striking what he hoped was a dashing, yet imposing form.

"Sure." Nami smiled. "The hard part for you is going to be getting along with Zoro the whole night."

"Bastard," he said, slumping.

Giggling, Nami reached across to where the printer was situated on her left and grabbed a piece of paper from its tray.

"Anyway," she said as she began to write on it. "I'm going to go ahead and give you the directions to the place since Zoro's probably going to make you drive."

"Asshole," Sanji commented lazily, leaning over the counter to watch as she wrote. "What's 'OperationUtopia'?"

"It's the venue the show gets held at," she replied, handing the piece of paper over to him once she finished detailing the instructions. "It's really hard to find because it's so underground, but Zoro's been there before often enough that if you can at least get him in the general area he should be able to recognize it. But that might be giving him too much credit."

"I'll be sure to jog his memory if he needs a reminder."

He gazed over her neat handwriting before folding the piece of paper until it was small enough to fit in his pocket. He looked back to Nami, who sat twisting in her seat with the sweetest smile he had ever seen gracing her gorgeous face and thought momentarily about asking her out on a dinner date.

Instead, he returned her smile with a charming one of his own and asked for her number.

"You think you're real smooth, huh?" she teased as she pulled out another piece of paper from the printer and tore it in half, writing her number down on one of the halves and handing it over to him. "That's just in case Zoro gets you guys really and truly lost."

"Of course, mon Cherie," Sanji cooed, happily noticing that she had adorned the little scrap piece of paper with hearts. "And now I must sadly take my leave of you, but you can expect many a call or text from me later!"

"Uh-huh, buh-bye now Sanji."

Nami winked at him as he gathered together the containers he'd brought their food in and turned to leave. Sanji's heart fluttered as he bowed before her and then left through the door, ignoring how many people were struggling to get in and out.

As he strode down the sidewalk back towards his car, and even through the rest of his day, Sanji felt wonderfully happy. With the weight of not knowing where to be and what to do the next day lifted from him, he proceeded to get the curtain rods he'd been denied the night before and spent the rest of the day texting Nami off and on, learning various things about both her and Zoro in the process.

He was surprised, though not very, to learn that they had been in a band together a few years ago, though they had since been put on an indefinite hiatus. She wouldn't tell him why, but suggested he check out their music and had given him the name of their band and a link to their old soundcloud.

When he got home and fixed the rods above the windows in his bedroom, he pulled out his laptop and set it up in the kitchen so he could listen to their music while he prepared dinner. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he entered in the link Nami had sent him via phone, and pulled up the Mugiwara Menace's soundcloud profile.

Glancing through their track listings, Sanji found himself unsure of where to start, and wondered if he should ask Nami what her opinion on where to start was- decided he didn't want to bother her with his indecisiveness- and eventually settled for listening through their discography in the order the songs had been uploaded. With his laptop placed off to the side on the counter, he hit play on the first track and then began to work through his dinner routine.

As the song started to play, he paused and glanced back to his laptop screen, scrutinizing the band's profile picture when the sounds he thought they'd be playing didn't exactly line up with what he thought their punk band would be like.

Along with Zoro (who looked like a younger, dorkier version of himself), and Nami (who was as cute and beautiful as she was now), a third man stood between them that Sanji didn't recognize. Wondering if this was just someone Sanji hadn't met yet, he was startled to see that the band had just over 5,000 followers. For a band of only 3 people to exist within a genre that was as atypical as punk was- to have that many fans was impressive.

Below the picture, a caption read that they were the pioneers of a new punk genre they'd proudly labeled 'Parrot-Punk', which was what was apparently being played for him now.

Snorting at the idiocy of the genre they'd given himself, he wondered what the hell he was getting into when the song he'd selected got over its calm intro. It started out quietly but soon crescendoed into a loud, punkish roar that filled and consumed his apartment with a catastrophic beat that still managed to follow an organized rhythmic pattern. He quickly turned the volume down to something that wouldn't blow his ears out and then tried to resume cooking.

For the most part, it sounded like the same generic punk sounds he'd heard before, but with an odd mixture of instruments he wouldn't have expected a punk band to make use of- and then the vocalist began to sing.

He wasn't sure why, but he'd assumed that Nami's voice was the one he was going to hear shouting out the lyrics, and was taken by complete and total surprise when he realized that the singer was Zoro.

Sanji's first instinct was to laugh.

Zoro's voice was low, rough, raw, and clearly not intended to sing with, but it didn't stop him from bellowing out the words to the song in a manner that was so impactful it made Sanji slowly stop what he was doing entirely.

The song was jaunty and sounded like a rowdy sea-shanty reinvented into an angry anthem of anti-establishment. The overall tune of it sounded happy and carefree, but when he listened to the lyrics he understood just how misleading the tune really was.

There were so many individual components to the song that Sanji initially wasn't sure what he was meant to focus on first. He tried to listen to the song as a whole, and found himself overwhelmed with all the different aspects the song had going for it. The guitar was accompanied with a violin that jilted around the thick, heavy, resounding bass line that thudded in time with the sharp percussion, leading Sanji on as the track progressed towards its end.

It was, he had to admit, very well composed and put together; it went well beyond what he thought Zoro's song-writing capabilities could be, and wondered which one among them was the one who'd actually written it. He stared down at the forgotten ingredients he had splayed before him and doubted his initial ability to be able to make fun of Zoro's singing.

He let the song finish and stood in momentary awe before he decided that he wouldn't be able to concentrate on cooking and listening to the music at the same time. He bookmarked the band's soundcloud and then shut his laptop before finishing his dinner, wondering how his tomorrow would play out and what impact getting into their music would be.