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vncannyvalleygrrl · 4 months ago

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Stuck In The Closet (Birchum x Karponzi)

(disclaimer: i do not support the show, the daily wire, or conservative ideology)

includes: smut (mdni), semi public sex, trans mr.birchum, internalized homophobia, implied/ref cheating, vaginal fingering, (rough) oral sex, hate sex, barely any plot. homophobia but it's like super not serious.

He couldn't believe this.

He really couldn't fucking believe this.

Mr.Birchum decided to stay late after school had finished for the day to clean up his woodworking shop. Normally he would let the janitors do it for him, but he knew they would just tamper with the saws and smoke weed in his classroom like the woke brain-rotted babies they were.

He walked over to the closet by the end of the room, letting the door close behind him as he searched for a broom and a dustpan. He froze as he heard a *click* behind him. Grabbing the door handle, he quickly tried to open the door, but to no avail. His hand went to pat his pockets for his keys, a certain dread filling him as he felt nothing within them.

He was stuck in the closet. Shit.

This was just what he needed. After a long day of irritating students being on their phone, recording TikToks in the middle of class, and dealing with his mortal enemy -Mr-Fucking-Karponzi - and his woke bullshit, this is what he needed. To be stuck. In the closet.

'Isn't this what the kids call a 'gay joke'? I am NOT a gay joke! I-I mean.. I'm not gay.' Birchum cringed at his homoerotic invasive thoughts. Even the idea of him kissing another man made his stomach feel tingly, nauseous, nervous, all at once.

Something outside the closet had interrupted his stream of thoughts. Footsteps on the linoleum floor. Someone was coming! He wasn't sure if he should be happy someone was coming to free him, or if he should be ashamed that he needed the help of someone else.

He heard the doorknob turn, and...

Oh. It's him.

Mister. Fucking. Karponzi.

"Mr.Birchum? What are you doing in here?" His voice rang through the closet, like nails on a chalkboard to Birchum. He could feel his face grimace at the sight of him.

"Just... getting a broom. Now get out of my way." He grabbed the nearest thing he could see, a screwdriver, and pushed Karponzi away from him, about to step out, before Karponzi held an arm up.

"Oh no sir. Students have been coming to me saying that you won't let them be on their phones during class? Is this true?"

Birchum wasn't even paying attention to whatever the hell Karponzi was spewing on about, he was more focused on the door shutting and locking behind him.

He couldn't believe this. Now they were both in the closet.

"Oh, damn you!" Birchum felt his fists ball up with anger, his voice booming in the small closet. "The door locks automatically you woke dipshit!"

Karponzi gasped, clutching his pearls.

"Excuse you?! I came in here to inform you of your toxic teaching patterns, and you call me that?!?" Karponzi's voice was much more shrill than Birchum's, his brows furrowing. "I would rather you just call me a slur, Mr.Bigot-chum!"

"Are you telling me to?" Birchum rolled his eyes. "Snowflake..."

"I cannot believe you sometimes. It's amazing how immature you are." Karponzi groaned. The closet was so small, the two were practically pressed together chest-to-chest. Birchum would feel Karponzi's breath on his shirt. The feeling of closeness made his stomach churn. The air around them felt hot as they argued.

"Oh, I'm immature? Just because I don't want to be- infected by your gayness?"

Karponzi shot him a look behind his fogged-up glasses.

"Gayness?! Is that what you think of me? Infected like some kind of animal?!" His voice cracked.

"In fact, I do!" Birchum shouted back. Where the hell are the other teachers?

"That's not what your students have been saying, mister!"

"Do you seriously believe those cockroaches? They're teenagers, of course they're going to say that about me!" Birchum pressed himself against Karponzi to intimidate him, to make him step off, but it only made the bugs in his stomach flutter more. He felt his body heat up, his cheeks tinting pink. Shit.

Karponzi's jaw fell open as Birchum pressed himself tightly against him. The sight of Karponzi, a man Birchum despised for seemingly years now, looking up at him through foggy, askew glasses, face beet red... this was doing it for him. Better than anything his wife ever did for him.

Birchum let out a restrained sigh. The nerves in his body were going haywire, his blood seemingly rushing south. He laid his clenched hand next to Karponzi's head, pinning him against the closet door.

"I... I am not a gay. Get that through your head." He muttered in a deep, rough tone, his nose mere inches away from Karpozi's. As they stared into each others eyes, one full of malice and the other full of fear, Karponzi gulped to himself.

He always kind of had a thing for Birchum and he always hated himself for it. After they argued over the next dumb thing the school was doing, yelling in each other's faces, he would run to the bathroom to fuck his own hand, claps resonating through the walls as his hand smacks against his tightly held cock.

He really didn't want to think about that right now. Especially with Birchum right in his face, breathing angrily against his ginger beard. Domineering was the first word to come to his mind. The next word was erotic.

Slowly, Karponzi raised his hands and laid them on Birchum's bulky shoulders. Birchum's heart skipped a beat in his chest, his brown eyes widening. With a nervous sigh, Karponzi replied.

"... I'm sorry, but... do I have your consent to kiss you?"

His words fell out in a whisper, though Birchum heard it easily. His stomach turned into a knot, his boxers soaked with his own arousal. Neither could take the building tension anymore.

Birchum moved the hand next to Karponzi and laid it on his cheek, quickly moving into position. Their lips met, the two started to come undone faster than either expected. As their tongues danced against one another, facial hair moistening with saliva, Birchum was already unbuttoning his red shirt, the scent of sweat and masculine odors stuck to the fabric. Karponzi's hand put itself on his nude, hairy chest, fingers gently caressing over the scars beneath his chubby pecs.

Birchum closed his eyes tight, groaning in his lover's mouth as Karponzi's hands made his way across his chest, groping and kneading his firm tits.

The air around the two as they fondled and explored their bodies was hot, filled with the aroma of androsterone and sex. Birchum's mind was numb, yet brimming with word vomit. He was trying to do anything to convince himself he wasn't gay, that he was a faithful conservative man...

But damn this felt good.

Karponzi left the kiss first, bending down in front of Birchum. He puckered up his lips, planting kisses down Birchum's sternum, his lips being tickled by chest hair. One hand stayed on his breast, grasping desperately, the other slithering down his waist.

"Do I have your consent to-"

"Just fucking do it, Karponzi." Birchum cut him off, his body shuddering as his coworker toyed with his man melons.

Birchum went and undid his belt buckle, haphazardly dropping it to the floor and pushing his trousers down to his ankles. Karponzi quickly kneeled down in front of him, gazing up at Birchum's soaked boxers. His mouth watered.

Birchum felt like he was going mad! This isn't right, he has a wife and kids! Sure, he was a trans man, but at least he's not a gay. His body seemed to act separately from his brain, thinking with his throbbing T-dick.

Karponzi couldn't help but to smirk behind his steamed-up glasses, pushing the hair that had fell from his manbun out of his face. His fingers ran over the wet spot, slick with Birchum's arousal, toying with his clit.

A whine vibrated through Birchum's throat, his hands came up to hide his blushing face. He peeked through his fingers as he felt the boxers slowly being pulled down to his knees.

Karponzi's finger slid between Birchum's cunt with ease, feeling more like a slip-n-slide than an organ. Birchum shivered at the feeling, his wife never touched him like this. He's pretty sure she was a useless lesbian anyway.

"Someone's excited." Karponzi giggled to himself, his digit retreated from Birchum's sopping boy pussy.

"Shut the hell up..." Birchum gritted his teeth, staring down at him with an anger filled glare. Karponzi only replied with a humph, leaning forward to slide his tongue between Birchum's folds.

Birchum's bulky thighs tightened around Karponzi's head, one of his hands leaving his mouth to reside on his manbun, holding onto it with a vice grip. He always dreamed of cutting off his stupid ponytail just to watch him cry, but now he was using it as a bike handle, Karponzi's face as the seat.

The closet was full of groans and the lewd sound of squelches as Karponzi ate Birchum out. Birchum was feverishly bucking his clit into his partners mouth, needy to burst the dam building in his stomach. Karponzi didn't hold him back from humping his face, his beard damp with Birchum's juices got him harder than anything else he's ever jacked off to. He slid his hand between his thighs, stuffing his index finger in lovers warm, plush insides.

"Ohh, fuck.." Birchum's eyes fell to the back of his head, his hips rolling in sync with the quick pumps of Karonzi's digit. His breath was harsh and hot, sweat beading down his flesh. He swore he was seeing stars as he felt a second one enter.

His climax arrived like a tsunami, both of his hands tightly grasped on Karponzi's head, tugging at his hair in balled fists. Karponzi slowed down his movements, his tongue pressed flush against his abused T-dick. His fingers curled inside of Birchum's pussy, letting him ride out his orgasm. He slid them out with a slick pop.

The two didn't say anything to each other, both too tired and embarrassed to talk about anything. They sat down on the floor, Birchum's chest heaving and mouth agape. The reality of the situation slowly hit him, a heavy weight on his chest.

He just face fucked the man he despised, and he was still stuck in the closet.

Birchum looked over to Karponzi, who was busy licking his lips. Birchum cringed at the sight. With a hoarse voice, Birchum was the first to break the silence.

"I can't believe this. I'm still trapped in the closet and there's no way out. Do you have your keys?"

"I'm also stuck in here with you. We're in this together." Karponzi smiled at him, sliding his hand next to Birchum's. Birchum reluctantly intertwined his fingers with his, feeling a strange twinge in his chest.

"... That's sweet and all... but I don't want to be here much longer."

#mr birchum #toxic yaoi #the daily wire #ik im a few days late but happy pride #birchum x karponzi #mdni

21 notes · View notes

revasserium · 10 months ago

Note

hiii i'm a new follower and i love your writing so much

ik u said no requests in ur bio but i just finished reading ur sanji fic.. so even if ur still not taking requests i'd just like to throw in an idea that u may or may not feel like using in the future, up to you (i'm requesting this with opla sanji in mind but if u wanna use it for zoro that's cool too)

k so imagine reader being invited to a friend's wedding, & being excited to go until they find out their ex is coming too (with their partner of some amt of yrs). so now reader is pressured to bring someone w/ them & ends up asking their best friend sanji bc they don't want others thinking they're still hung up on the past.

wedding dress

opla!sanji; 6,544 words, pining with a happy ending, fluff and a tad of angst, flirting, lovesick!sanji, whipped!!!!sanji, no "y/n", zeff is a whole mood, confessions, sanji-appropriate nickname usage, modern!au?

summary: you invite sanji to be your plus 1 at a wedding

a/n: im so sorry this took so long. but. better late than? never? also, there is a tiny bit of rehashing for ep 6 of the live action for sanji and zeff's relationship so... spoilers?

It’s a chilly, overcast kind of day when the call comes in. And in retrospect, Sanji thinks he should’ve known better when he’d seen your name on the caller ID. He’d hesitated, because by god if it wasn’t his New Year's Resolution to get the hell over you this year, but it’s almost December again and he still can’t help the way his heart races at the sound of your voice.

“Hey sweetheart — long time no talk!” he answers after a brief moment of contemplating his entire life, dusting his flour-covered hands on his apron.

“Hey! Sorry for calling so… out of the blue…” your voice is still as sweet as ever, and the way his stomach twists at the tinkle of your nervous laughter makes him want to kick himself. Still, he forces himself to stay calm, clearing his throat as he checks the oven — it’s almost done pre-heating.

“Now you know what I said about actin’ a stranger — just because you moved halfway across the entire world doesn’t mean we ain’t best friends anymore, right?”

It’s what you’d said when he’d been standing at the airport, three seconds from dropping to his knees and begging you not to go. But he hadn’t, because he knew how hard you’d worked for this — for this opportunity abroad, to study art in the birthplace of the Renaissance itself, in the heart of Italy.

“And… you might be able to come visit me, right?” you’d said, rocking on the balls of your feet, your eyes full of what Sanji could only call false hope — which is always, always the worst and most painful kind.

Sanji had swallowed and nodded and said something or other about Europe and fine dining, but there’s a terrible, prickling heat eating up the back of his neck and a voice that’s screaming at him to pull you to him and kiss you. He doesn’t. And he regrets it to this day.

“Ah — right… I’m actually calling because… I’ll be in the area in about a week and…”

Your voice pulls him out of his reverie and he clears his throat, hitches a smile to his face that he knows you can’t see but he’s sure you can hear.

“Oh! That’s great, darling! You’ve gotta come for a drink, I’ll whip up all your favorites — we can make a night —”

“It’s actually for a wedding.”

There are a few moments in everyone’s lives when they learn the true meaning of a thing for the very first time — elation, pride, stomach-twisting guilt, and… fear. True fear, the kind of fear that shakes the muscle from your bones and sends them tingling, threatens to overwhelm you with numbness. Fear, that pushes adrenaline through you like a drug, forces the world into a terrifying, all-consuming focus.

Sanji feels the fear coursing through him, wild and contentious at your words.

A wedding.

Your wedding? Perhaps?

He can’t bear to think of it; he’s so terrified he can barely breathe.

Then comes the moment after, the wave of everything else that the fear had washed away — confusion, anger, guilt (always guilt, for some reason), because isn’t he supposed to be happy for you? For you, the person he loves most in this entire world, to find love, to know happiness. He should. He should.

“Oh.”

Sanji sags back against the hard, metal counter. Almost mindlessly, he reaches into his pockets with shaking hands, digging around for a smoke.

Your breath is soft in his ear, too far across the phone line and a thousand miles of ocean.

“I originally wasn’t even planning on going — she’s not a very close friend — we had like one class together but —”

And within the span of a minute, Sanji also learns relief. The kind that melts the world around you into sizzling butter and champagne bubbles. The kind that makes you want to lie down on the ground and scream.

“— it was so close to your restaurant so I said yes but I didn’t know he was gonna be there and —”

You’re still talking, rambling like you do. And it takes nearly everything inside Sanji to pull himself back to the conversation.

“Sorry, love, who did you say was gonna be there?”

“My ex — you know the one —”

Sanji grimaces, flicking on his lighter with still-shaking fingers.

“Mm, yeah I do. The tall, dark-haired bastard who —”

“Yeah well — he’s gonna be there too and I just —” he hears you swallow hard and take a long, steadying breath. An unnameable something is calcifying in the depths of his stomach as he waits for you to collect yourself.

Curiosity? Why had you called like this, so suddenly, about a wedding where your ex was going to be? Concern? Were you thinking of going back to him?

But slowly, as you stutter through your next few words, the unnameable thing obtains a name — dread.

“— I just don’t think I could do it myself, y’know? And — and you were the one who got me out of it wh-when I decided to break it off with him so…”

Sanji takes a long drag of his cigarette and casts his eyes up at the high, white-slabbed ceiling of the kitchen, scored with long strips of bright, fluorescent lighting that floods the entire room in a direct, unforgiving glow.

He closes his eyes and counts to three.

“Course I’ll come with you, darlin’. It —” he wets his lips, taps off a bit of ash from his cigarette, and sucks in through his nose, clearing his throat of the words still lodged there, “— it’d be my honor.”

Relief — he hears it in your voice, and by gods he can almost see it — the way your whole face would light up, washed as if by the setting sun, your eyes wide and dark, your cheeks flushing his favorite fucking shade of pink and —

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I really owe you for this one —”

Sanji makes a valiant effort at a nonchalant chuckle; it comes out sounding like a dog with a bit of bone stuck in its throat instead.

“Nonsense — what are best friends for, anyway?”

There’s a tiny pause where Sanji can feel the words best friend scraping along the insides of his mouth, barbed and harsh, leaving his tongue feeling raw and metallic.

“You really are the best friend anyone could ask for,” your voice is soft and honest and Sanji wants nothing more than to chuck his phone into the industrial blender.

You tell him that you’ll send him the details, that you can’t wait to see him soon, that you’ve got a world and a half of catching up to do, that you’ll buy him so, so many drinks, and that you’ll come bearing presents. He laughs at the right times, makes soft noises of consent and agreement, and when finally, finally you tell him goodbye, he clicks off the phone and takes another long drag of his smoke.

And then, he whips his hand back and throws the cigarette butt into the large sink, where it tinks against the metal and sizzles sadly in the murky dishwater.

“Real sucker for punishment, aren’tcha, lil’ eggplant?”

Sanji groans, turning around to find Zeff with his arms folded, the hip to his bad leg propped against a counter.

“Will you fuck kindly off — can’t you see I’m going through a thing here?”

Zeff snorts, clunking unevenly towards him.

“You been going through that thing for the last year and a half since you chickened outta askin’ her to stay so —”

“I didn’t chicken out — I — it was her dream to go to Florence and study —”

“And what was your dream then, ey?”

Sanji bangs his palm against the counter and sighs, “It’s not like I could leave you here with —”

“With what? A thriving restaurant business that I started? A guest list out the door and round the corner —”

“I — I helped!”

Zeff rolls his eyes, “Ah sure ya did, but I never asked you to, did I?”

Sanji huffs, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to stop the torrent of horrible, sad, acrid things he could say and could never mean, so he swallows them back down. When he looks up next, Zeff is still standing there, but there’s a softness around his eyes.

He opens his mouth a few times, but eventually, all he says is, “The oven’s over heatin’.”

Sanji swears and jumps up to tug open the oven door. A wave of hot air whooshes out and nearly catches him in the face. Behind him, he can hear Zeff’s dark, gravelly chuckle, and the dull clunk of his wooden leg.

“You burn the kitchen down, you pay for it.”

And then he’s gone again, leaving the door swinging behind him, and Sanji very much alone with the too-hot oven and a counter full of things he can’t really remember the recipes for anymore.

Nearly a week later, Sanji finds himself standing at the airport, rocking on the balls of his feet, nearly in the exact same place as he’d been a year and a half prior. Except this time, you’re not walking away from him. You’re walking back towards him. He wonders if there’s a name for deja-vu in reverse and comes to the realization that that’s just called… a memory.

And memory seems to work in strange ways now, images superimposing themselves on top of one another — the flicker of a film lens, the bat of an eyelash, the shadow of a smile crimping the corner of your lips. All of this, he sees in the here and now, but he sees it in the air around you too, shimmering and mirage-like — all his memories and dreams of you layered over the shape of you. Your memory like a ghost of itself, trailing behind you as you walk towards him, a shy smile on your face, your cheeks flushed from travel and the cold and —

He doesn’t let himself hope. Not this time.

“Hey!” your voice is just as bell-like as he remembers it, pitched a little higher than it usually is, probably out of nervousness. But it still feels like a kick to the guts. Sanji forces himself to smile.

“Hi, love,” he says, leaning down as you reach him, but the motion aborts halfway because — is it still appropriate to hug you like he’d always done? To press his lips to your cheek or your hairline and revel in the bright citrus of your shampoo, to soak in the butter and cream of your skin like he used to?

There’s an awkward half-second pause before you’re standing up on tip-toe and Sanji’s heart nearly drops out of his ass as you lean in. But then — your lips skim by his cheek and your arms are around him, and stupid, stupid, stupid heart — thundering in his chest like horses or hooves or fists or thumping rabbit’s feet — leaping into his throat and pattering against the base of his tongue as he wraps his arms around you and holds you close. But it’s not close enough. It’s never close enough.

He breathes and distantly, a part of him notes that you still use the same shampoo.

“Hi…” your voice is warm by his ear, a bit muffled, but he can’t help the way it makes him shiver, “It’s… so good to see you.”

He nods, not trusting his own voice to do the normal thing and, oh, you know — work.

“I’ve — I’ve missed you.”

He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cough as he nods again. He feels your arms slackening around him and a fierce, terrifying thing is flapping its wings in his stomach, screeching at him not to let you go. But he does — like he did before.

“I — I missed you too,” he says, though his voice sounds flat and scratchy and he clears his throat again.

A dozen different expressions flicker across the lovely planes of your face and finally, it settles on endeared exasperation.

“Please don’t tell me you still work through like three packs of smokes a day.”

Sanji laughs then, shaking his head as he reaches over for your luggage, “Nah — well, maybe not three but —”

You whack him softly on the arm.

“I actually tried to quit right after you left.”

“You did?”

Sanji shrugs as the pair of you start to make for the exit. He feels your gaze go slanted and shrewd.

“How long’d that last?”

He smirks, “Few hours.”

You whack him again and this time, he dodges out of the way just to bask in the bright spark of your laughter as you chase after him.

“Seriously though, you know how terrible they are for you!”

“Sure do,” he says, tugging one out of his pocket as soon as he clears the airport doors, pivoting left towards the parking garage. You have to jog to keep up with his longer strides, your breaths misting the air between you in silvery puffs.

He makes no move to light it as he helps toss your luggage into the trunk of his car, sliding into the driver’s seat. You huff as you wiggle into the passenger’s side.

“Then why —”

Sanji waits patiently for you to buckle your seatbelt before pulling out of the parking space, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting soft against the middle console. He slates you a glance.

“Cause,” he says, fixing his eyes back on the road, an easy smirk twisting his lips, “it’s a metaphor.”

You groan, sinking into the seat, “Just because you read John Green one time —”

“Oi, I’ll have you know I read his entire bibliography after you showed him to me.”

“Ugh, whatever you manic-pixie-dreamgirl-loving ass.”

“Yeah, whatever — you actual manic pixie dreamgirl.”

You smile and Sanji allows himself the brief and aching delusion that the past year and a half didn’t happen, that you never left, and that you’d never leave. That you’d always be here, warm and laughing and just within reach.

The rest of the car ride is spent in mundane conversation, in how was your flight and tell me about Florence and how’s Zeff doing these days and I wanna know about your latest dish. It’s light and easy, and Sanji lets it warm the air around him. By the time he pulls into the front of your hotel, all the unsaid words from the past year and a half have soaked through his socks and into his shoes. It sloshes out onto the pale pavement as he opens the car door.

He helps you roll your luggage up into the lobby and tells you he’ll be here at 3PM to pick you up tomorrow. The venue’s just three blocks away.

“Yeah, I’ll see you then,” you say, pursing your lips, waving as he backpedals towards the automatic doors.

“You’ve still gotta send me pictures of the dress you’re wearing — I gotta find a matching tie.”

You laugh, a bit embarrassed, “Right — and here I thought I might surprise you.”

Sanji freezes, eyes wide.

“O-oh! Er — well, you can just — just tell me what color or —” he waves vaguely, “send a picture of a corner of the dress — just so I have something to color match against —”

You nod, eyes glittering, eager once more, “Oh! That’s a good idea — I’ll do that.”

“Great,” Sanji says.

“Great!” you echo, perhaps a bit too chipper.

He gives you one last smile before turning and striding from the hotel, firing up the engine as calmly as he can, forcing himself not to turn and check if you’re still watching him through the brightly lit, sliding glass doors. He allows himself a glance through the rear-view mirror as he pulls away from the drive and his heart skips a beat when he realizes you’re still standing there, right in the middle of the lobby, fingers wrapped around the handle of your suitcase, your eyes fixed on the shadow of his retreating car.

He lights the smoke the second he turns the corner, your shadow no longer in his rear-view mirror.

That night, Sanji dreams in fits and leaps, flashing images and long, sticky streams of could-have-beens —

He dreams of your laughter in a white-tiled kitchen, of powdered sugar and eggshells cracked and leaking on an exposed wood counter, chopsticks clinking against a thick glass mixing bowl. He dreams of your voice echoing off the shower tiles as you sing off-key, the way you used to when you’d sneak into his college dorm for movie night and a midnight snack. He dreams of coffee mugs and errant rose petals and dandelion seeds blowing in the wind. He dreams of dancing with you in his arms in a darkened dorm room that morphs into a bigger room with a softer carpet, one that he’d never seen before but he knows implicitly (like bodies know) is his home — it has pictures on the walls, trinkets lining the far bookshelf, your favorite scarf draped over the back of the well-worn sofa.

In the dream, you pull your head back from where it's pillowed against his shoulder and smile up at him. He leans down to kiss you, his lips hovering half an inch from yours.

Sanji jerks awake to the sound of his alarm, fingers fumbling for his phone, groaning as he smashes the orange snooze button and flips over to bury his face back into his lumpy pillow.

“Ah… fuck.”

It’s not the first time he’s had that dream, and he knows it won’t be the last. But it’d been so real that night, real enough to make him wonder if it just might come true.

He rubs at his sleep-crusted eyes and peers blearily at all the notifications on his screen. There’s a text from you with a picture attached. He clicks it open to find a short message attached to the picture — I really did want to surprise you…

He blinks for three seconds at what looks like a blurry picture of studded black silk before he remembers —

“Send me a picture of a corner of the dress — just so I have something to color match against.”

He allows himself a laugh, swinging his feet out of bed even as he types back — you coulda just told me it was black…

He watches the three little dots appear and disappear a few times, chewing on his bottom lip, before the text appears — well there are different shades of black, right???

Sanji laughs, shaking his head.

sure there are.

A string of tongue-out emojis, followed by an equally long string of middle-finger emojis.

He spends the rest of the morning fussing over which specific black tie to wear before settling on one that he’s quite sure is the exact same shade of black as your dress (and yes, he does have quite the collection of black ties), before tugging his best suit out to press.

It shouldn’t feel so easy, slipping back into the rhythm of things, of texting and smiling and hearing your voice in his head when he reads your texts. It shouldn’t feel so easy to forget the months of radio silence and guilt, the oppressive, resonant weight of what might have been if either of you had done a single thing different that day at the airport — he wonders if he should’ve reached for your hand, he wonders if you’d ever looked back.

He hadn’t. He couldn’t let himself.

He is waiting for you in the lobby at 2:45, wearing a hole into the plush Persian carpet, collecting strained looks from the concierge who had assured him three times in the last four minutes that he’d already rung up to your room and that you’d said you were on your way.

“Wow, you’re early — sorry I took a while — I couldn’t figure out what to do with my hair and —“

Sanji lifts his head and thinks distantly that all those rom-com cliches of a guy looking up, time itself slackening, the room smearing sideways around him, the music going slow, the lighting soft — all of it is painfully, startlingly true after all.

Because there you are, walking towards him, still saying something, but he can’t make out the words anymore because time isn’t really a thing anymore, is it? He can’t focus on that and also the dark glimmer of your dress, the way the neckline skates just beneath your collarbones, barely skimming the skin there before it slips down along the slope of your shoulders in a way that makes his breath unspool inside his chest like loose threads.

And in the slanted, ethereal light of the winter afternoon, your dress looks like it’s cut from a swath of darkest midnight, moonless and scattered with stars.

You blush as Sanji attempts to pick his jaw up off the floor and hitch his lips into something resembling a smile.

“W-wow… you look…”

Your smile is shy as you press your palms against the dress, looking down, “Thanks… you don’t think it’s… too much?”

Sanji shakes his head, feeling dazed.

“No! I mean — it’s —“ his mouth is dry, drier than he ever remembers it being, and suddenly it’s very hard to swallow and Sanji isn’t even sure the muscles in his neck know how to perform the action, let alone force words out alongside it. He struggles for another few seconds, his jaw working furiously as his eyes skitter down and back up the shape of you.

“You look… perfect,” he says, finally, because the word has been ricocheting around his chest like a stray bullet and he had to let it out somehow.

“Thanks — you don’t look so bad yourself,” you say, your voice breathy in a way that makes Sanji’s stomach squeeze.

He offers you his arm, and you glide forward to take it.

He drives the three blocks to the wedding venue in a daze, his mind spinning slow and off-axis, tilted so by the gentle waft of your perfume, the lullaby of your voice as you chatter nervously about this and that and the weather, I mean, can you believe it’s gonna be an outdoor wedding in the winter? He wonders briefly why you’re so nervous, and then he’s reminded of the reason he’s even here at all — your ex will be here. Ah. Right.

“Ready?” he asks, offering you his arm again as the both of you follow the meandering stream of arriving guests toward the paved outdoor garden area where the ceremony is due to take place.

“No, but… you’re here so…” you let out a breath and for a second, Sanji almost thinks he hears the hint of an ache in your voice. An ache like an old scab picked at too many times, like unrequited love, perhaps. It’s an ache with which Sanji is so intimately familiar that he immediately tamps it down and vows not to think about it again for the rest of the night.

There are stiff-backed waiters wandering around with plates of hors d’oeuvres and thin flutes of bubbling pink champagne.

Sanji grabs two glasses and hands you one.

“Cheers, then.”

“Bottoms up,” you say, tossing back the entire flute in one.

Sanji cocks his eyebrows, grinning as he follows suit, smacking his lips.

“Alright then, I guess if that’s how you’re playin’ —”

Your laughter is light, if a little strained, but he remembers how quickly bubbly drinks tend to go to your head and makes a concerted effort to slow down. You make it all the way through the actual ceremony without bumping into your ex, though you do lean over and grab Sanji’s hand as the bride and groom exchange vows — something about love being a choice, one that they promise to make every morning of every day for the rest of their lives — and he looks over to find you misty-eyed, bottom lip caught beneath your teeth.

“Sap,” he whispers, leaning over. It earns him a choked laugh and a half-hearted elbow in the ribs, but it’s worth it to see the tension melt from your shoulders.

Sanji turns back towards the bride and groom, exchanging rings now, and unbidden comes the images of you and him standing where they are — you in a dazzling white gown, him still in a dark suit, but one perhaps of more expensive material and much better tailoring. He thinks about all the things he might promise you, wonders at what you might promise him in return —

“I promise to love and cherish you —” you might say.

“I promise to make all your favorite foods,” he might say.

“I promise not to touch your emotional support le creuset pans.”

“I promise not to make you taste all my experimental dishes —”

“Okay, but what if I want to —”

He imagines the way the crowd would titter, how the officiator would affectionately clear his throat. He imagines Zeff’s warm, well-worn laughter, rough and a little torn at the edges because he’s just as sentimental as the next guy behind all the beard and gruffness. He imagines the crowd smiling up at the pair of you, the way you’d squeeze his hands to get the both of you back on track —

He jerks out of his reverie as you tug your hand away from his to clap, and it takes him a beat to realize that everyone else is clapping and cheering too. He blinks — the bride and groom are kissing, pulling apart as the music swells around them and they link hands to walk back down the aisle.

Sanji clears his throat and hurriedly gets up to clap as well, his eyes trailing the radiant smiles on both the newlyweds’ faces. Another sharp ache sings through him but he feels your hand in his again and he can’t tell if he wants to grip you tighter or pull away. They’d both hurt just as much, wouldn’t they?

“C’mon, let’s get inside — I wanna judge the catering with you,” you whisper, your breath tickling his cheek, and he knows without having to look that you’re standing on your tiptoes, your chin almost propped on his shoulder.

He fights down a bout of shivers and smiles, “My favorite part of any formal event, honestly.”

You laugh, “I know — me too.”

So you spend the entire dinner service whispering to each other about the food —

“God, this steak is so well done I think it just might dislocate my jaw —”

“What’s in this sauce?”

Sanji chews thoughtfully before making a face, “Dunno, but it’s got oregano.”

“Oh the cake looks good though.”

“Yeah, but we both know how much sugar and butter goes into that right?”

You nudge him with an elbow, “Weird, cause I’m pretty sure happiness is also made of sugar and butter.”

“Well for me, it’s always been…” but Sanji trails off, biting his tongue. No. He can’t say that — not now. Not here.

Because for him, happiness has always just been you.

So instead, he swallows passed his own mouthful of regrets and attempts a lopsided grin. And thankfully, your attention is drawn elsewhere by a loud peal of laughter before he has to make a shitty joke about happiness being a well-lit kitchen and a gas-lit stove.

You’re both at least a bottle of champagne deep when it finally happens, inevitable as a summer storm — your ex saunters up to you on the dance floor, sporting a grease-slick grin, eyeing you up and down like a piece of well-cut meat. Sanji is at the bar, grabbing more drinks and you’re catching a breath of fresh air just outside the dance hall.

“Well, well, well — look who it is.”

Sanji turns sharply at the sound of the voice, his eyes narrowing — Asshat. Fantastic. The bartender is putting the finishing touches on two custom cocktails but blinks, confused, as Sanji swipes both drinks out from the bar and casts him a hurried grin.

“Thanks mate, these look great,” Sanji raises the cocktail glasses at the bewildered bartender before hurrying off, slowing ever so slightly as he reaches you, straightening his spine and smoothing out his shoulders.

“Here, got them special-made for you,” he says, pressing the cocktail into your hand, cutting into something that Asshat is saying.

“Oh! Thanks — oh wow, this looks so good!” you beam up at him, taking a sip.

“Oh wow, didn’t know you were still hangin’ out with this guy,” Asshat says, hooking his thumbs into his belt-hoops and jutting out his chin.

You frown, pressing your lips, “Excuse me?”

Asshat scoffs, posturing, “I mean, when we broke up, it was cause o’him right? So I just thought you might’ve realized what a mistake that was and —”

Sanji barely has the time to feel offended before Asshat is gasping and stumbling back. You’d tossed the remainder of your drink straight into his face.

“What the —” Asshat sputters, his fists clenching, but quick as anything, Sanji swipes out a leg that catches him right in the shins and makes him stumble. In one fluid movement, Sanji pushes his own drink into your hand before reaching out the other arm to steady the now flailing Asshat, catching him around the shoulders.

“Whoa there! Seems like you’ve had a bit too much to drink, my friend!” he says, loud enough for the people around you to hear. He thumps Asshat on the back in a would-be kind gesture before tugging him close, still coughing, and hissing in his ear —

“Listen here, you asswipe — you’re gonna turn around and walk away and stay the fuck away from us for the rest of this wedding, you understand? I’ve got plenty more o’this for ya if you don’t, got it?”

Sanji scuffs his foot along the gravel-covered ground in a motion that could easily be mistaken as fidgeting, but you know better. And so, it seems, does Asshat, who scoffs and shoves Sanji off him with a glare, but after another second, straightens his drink-soaked jacket, turns, and stalks away.

You let out a long breath, swallowing hard.

“Hey darlin’… you alright?” Sanji turns and bends down to level his eyes with yours.

“Y-yeah — thanks — you didn’t need to —”

“Nah. Course I did — it’s why you invited me, right?” he allows himself a lopsided grin that borders on self-deprecating and you look up, eyes wide.

“No! I — that’s not —”

“It’s okay, love — I promise I’m not offended —” Sanji’s babbling, he knows he is — but he has to, because the alternative of letting you speak, of letting you confirm what he already knows to be true (that you’ve only ever seen him as a best friend, that you love him in all the ways except for the one way he wants you to, in the one way he loves you) is too much. He tucks his hands in his pockets and shrugs up his shoulders, pulling them up towards his ears like armor.

And then you lean in and kiss him, and every single word he’s ever thought of saying just to fill the silence turns to mist and mornings on his tongue. His mind turns blissfully blank and when he regains consciousness (or has he? Because isn’t this the dream he’s dreamt every waking moment of his life for the past… however many years?), he thanks every god he can name that he feels his fingers in your hair, his other hand cupping the soft curve of your jaw. He tastes your uncertainty against his lips and presses in, hoping, praying that if he just kissed you hard enough you might understand.

When you pull away, he can’t help the satisfied purr that curls up his chest at the pinkness in your cheeks and the slightly glazed-over look in your eyes.

“O-oh — sorry I —”

Sanji shakes his head, leaning in to push his forehead against yours.

“Nah, nah, nah — if you tell me that was a mistake now I might just turn around and never speak to you ever again — because don’t you dare —”

You let out a helpless laugh, shaking your head as you reach up to cover his hands with yours. It’s only then that he realizes they’d been shaking. He swallows and he thinks he can taste every single morning after for the rest of his goddamn life in the whisper of your breath.

“It — it’s not, I wasn’t —” you close your eyes and Sanji holds you still, foreheads still pressed. Distantly, Sanji is aware that people are cheering, that more drinks are being poured, that the dance floor is probably a mess. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t think he’ll care about anything else ever again — why would he? Now that he’s got you.

“Shh… take your time, love… we’ve got all the time in the world.”

He feels the relief take you, and then you’re falling into him, burying your face in the lapel of his suit jacket, probably smearing it with your foundation. Vaguely, Sanji considers framing it when he gets home.

“I’m… I’m sorry it took so long — I’m sorry I didn’t — that I wasn’t…” you curl your fist into the material of his shirt and thump him lightly on the chest, even as he laughs and wraps his arms around you.

“I know, darlin’… I know.” Sanji presses his lips into your hair and can’t help a smile.

Finally. Finally.

Your hair smells like citrus shampoo.

Finally.

“I thought about you every single day,” you admit, your voice small when you finally pull back to look at him again. He thinks there might be tears in your eyes, or maybe it’s just the starlight caught in the thick night sky of your lashes.

“Did you now?” he asks, fumbling for some semblance of normalcy amidst this night of revelations.

You nod, fervently, and god he wants to kiss you again. Briefly, he wonders if he should, if he’s allowed to now. Instead, he smiles and cocks his head.

“So? What changed?” and he can’t help the tiny note of hurt out of his voice, the slightest shiver of disbelief. After all, cynicism is a hard habit to break.

Especially after so many years of practice.

You shrug, sighing, “Nothing — everything. I mean — I’d always… but then I thought — you had your career as a chef and I didn’t even know what I wanted to do with my life. But it —” you lick your lips, and Sanji nearly breaks when you tear your eyes away from his. He wants to force you back, to soak in the dark and bright of your gaze till he can see the world exactly as you see it.

“It’s always been you…” you say.

At this, Sanji does break. He tips your face towards him with a thumb and a forefinger and leans in, waiting for you to pull back, bracing for it. But you don’t — instead, you press in and close the space between you again, and again, and then again.

He wants to tell you — he needs to tell you that it’s always been you too, that there’s never been anyone else. From the moment he first laid eyes on you, he’s known, even though both of you were children back then, and neither of you had any idea what “love” actually meant. He knew then, too.

“Love…” his voice trails off, but you smile, and he knows you know, knows that you can hear it in the rawness behind his voice, in the softness of his breath, in the way it shakes.

You make to kiss him again. But your lips hover half an inch from his and you stop. Sanji sighs.

“What — why’d you stop?”

Your smile is sweet and sharp, honey glinting on a razor’s edge, and he knows that he has you. And maybe that he’s always had you and was just too blind, too terrified, to see it.

“Haven’t you heard? It’s a metaphor.”

Sanji groans, “Fuck your metaphors.”

You bat your lashes, pulling an expression of mock affront onto your face.

“Well at least wine me and dine me first —”

Sanji licks his lips, “What’dyou think I’ve been trying to do for the last ten years?”

Your breath catches.

“Oh.”

Sanji smirks and kisses you again, slowly this time, languid and deep. Unhurried. He luxuriates in the way you go soft in his arms, in the way he can feel the gentle hitch of your breath as he runs his tongue along the edges of your teeth, coaxing you towards him, closer and closer and closer.

The hardest, angriest part of him wants to swallow you whole, bite down just to hear you hiss, to taste your blood on his tongue. To make you feel even a sliver of the pain he’d felt. He tamps it back down — there’s time for that later.

Instead, he forces himself to pull back and allows himself the satisfaction of watching you chase him, pursing your own lips with a bashful look away, your cheeks dark.

“So,” Sanji takes half a step back, puffing out his chest in the best imitation of a fuckboy at a wedding party, “wanna get outta here?”

You let out a helpless laugh, falling into his side. He lets the sound ring through him like so many silver bells.

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

He chuckles, looping an arm around your middle and leaning towards your ear.

“Your place, or mine?”

You roll your eyes, “I’m pretty sure I still have a toothbrush at your place.”

Sanji hums, “You still have a whole drawer at my place.”

You smile up at him, open and happy and sincere, “Then… I guess that’s your answer then.”

#opla #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece live action #opla sanji #one piece netflix #one piece fluff #sanji opla #sanji x reader #sanji x you #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x you #opla x reader #opla x you #opla fluff #x reader #floofy floof floof #scheduled post

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trenderworm · 4 years ago

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hi everyone. happy pride month! (ik im a few days late)

i wanted to open up icon requests! ill do them for anyone! (kin, hcs, system introjects/alters etc) just send an ask with character and any flags u want!!

here are some examples of ones ive made.

(zuko ones from an old acc)

#mogai #pro mogai #lgbt+#lgbt #pride icon #open icon requests #icon requests #lgbt icons #mogai icons

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starkissr · 6 years ago

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idk why

ppl want to be fake friends like i’d rather have real friends or no friends but i don’t get why ??? ppl rly wanna try n be my fake friend like no listen i’m sorry but i can’t be ur friend on the day u feel lonely n a stranger when ur thriving and omg!!!! this one rly just told me my expectations are too high bc get this! i asked her to consider me like o ok lol so you’re rly telling me in ur twisted idea of a friend I’m not allowed to expect u to care abt me like isn’t that only the literal definition of a friend my mistake??? bc i totally get having no expectations of ppl and all that but at the end of the day when ur then best friend decides to ignore ur existence then come back into ur life whenever they feel like it? like my problem isn’t that ur trying to come back into my life i’m open to whatever ok but when u can’t have consistent intentions to be a good friend u auto = fake aka nobody ???? i GET that ppl mess up obv i’m not perfect either but it’s just admitting that and actually understanding where u went wrong n at least making an honest effort of not doing it again that is SO CRUCIAL

wow wow wojeofiae and like it’s just soooo funny when ur pride is the fucking reason we’re not friends??? like if ur ego is what’s holding u back i rly don’t need someone so easily swayed by that bs in my life? so no i’m not gonna try or give a fuck abt u if ur idea of a friend is not aligned w mine like and if it isn’t that’s fine we don’t have to be friends uk but like idk it sucks tbh bc i’ve been sooo transparent abt how ur lack of words/actions hurt me so bad so u literally know but don’t do anything w this knowledge??? n still wanna try and talk to me like we’re friends after?? fuck no

it’s sad that 2 of my absolute best friends did this to me in diff ways but like this is the underlying pattern n it just hurts so bad when the person ur the closest to in the world and has learned the most abt u and has been thru sooo many ups and downs just one day decides that ur not important to them anymore uk??? like and when they come back later bc of c that’s what they always fucking do! they expect it to be like the old days and make u feel like ur fucking crazy for being hurt when they literally just left u in the dark. it was so painful to grieve thru that period without u bc i had to feel what it was like when u turned ur back on me and yes it was v fucking cold bc when i was ur friend it was all sunny days n that was a stark contrast but

also these past few days rly just make me wanna ask u why tf are u so fucking bipolar and a passive aggressive cunt to me one second and talking to me in ur bubbly tone like im ur friend legitimately 2 seconds later bc oh u just remembered u can use me for this thing or that??? i’ve literally never met an angrier or immature person? like ok obv i’m just off one on this rant so i’m gonna explain just how this girl tried me today! so she’s my roommate n keep in mind like i have told her explicitly my problem w her is that she hurt me when she didn’t communicate w me n went mia like i said this multiple times so no guess work needed n anyway today i was playing music in our room and guess what this girl does!!! puts her music on louder than mine! at first i was like?????????????? literally what? LIKE DID U RLY!!!!!!!!! JUST DO THAT LOL it was rly too much for u to tell me u wanted to play ur music???? i was honestly amazed and was like ok like obv this just sounds like shit at this pt n tbh all i wanted to do was just ask u why u felt that u didn’t want to tell me u wanted to play ur music? but then i checked myself and remembered ur words that i am expecting too much of u when i ask why u don’t care to communicate certain things so i guess it’s too much to ask u this too so like what now? n i just turned my music off after this internal resolution that u literally told me i can’t expect anything from u aka i can’t ever expect u to show up for me so like who is someone to u that is there one day and not the next?? like a relationship needs a degree of stable commitment and if i can never count on u why would i want to waste my time waiting on u to fuck up / my breath for calling u my friend?

the ppl i’m lucky enough to call my friends are ppl that i’m inspired by and i’m not saying ur an ugly person like obv u have parts of u that are so beautiful and that’s who i saw in u before but like if u keep showing me how ugly u can be don’t blame me if u singlehandedly broke my trust in u ??? AND ANYWAY LOL if ur reading this still the CHERRY on top of it all and what actually got me fucking mad is this !!!! girl!!!! asked me for a bandaid a breath after i turned my music off. like. o. ... .m. . . m. g. i just honestly couldn’t believe it n w her cheery ass tone like this is what i’m talking abt how u only matter to them when they need u!!! i was debating asking her abt the music thing now that she decided i was worth speaking to but literally it just wasn’t worth it to hear another one of ur excuses??? i would’ve loved to see what u would’ve twisted out of that situation tbh but i was also like ok like i don’t wanna help u bc ur a cunt but then i was like uk what! she wins if i’m a bitter person bc of her by telling her no so i let her have my stupid bandaid but talk to me like we’re friends one more time and i swear to fucking god !!!!! i won’t be so silent

n my friends are like r u gonna be friends w her after n i’m like ? what friend treats a friend like this ????????? like real q? this is not a friend. why would i say yeah i’ll be friends w her just to make her happy? no bitch my one requirement to be my friend is to act like a fucking friend and if u tell me that’s expecting too much of u like ok but u have to understand! this is my definition of a friend i can’t be ur friend then ! stop half ass trying!!!!!! either leave me tf alone or the moment u choose to decide (and actually act like) u wanna be real to me is when i consider u my friend again uk!! i’m not gonna hold ur shit over ur head but idk i feel like it’s bc they think that i will that they don’t try or honestly i don’t know their reason why but all i do know is there’s a blatant discrepancy between their words and their actions. for both of them but like the one who did this to me first even apologized to me and like i honestly rly appreciated that like it was only! a year and a half late lol but still i was happy but then they went ahead and did them and i haven’t heard of them since! like ok COOL so u just wanted to say we’re friends then go away again like that’s what i’m saying i don’t get it why do ppl want to be fake friends? what’s the pt????????? wow ok these are just the questions that i’m asking myself rn it like tears me apart that the ppl who know me best can’t bother to act like my friend when they wanna still have the perks of calling me a friend ! literally if any of them were to hit me up and put an attempt that lasts o idk beyond a single day to be my friend then i’m down i’m there but don’t fucking tell me i have high expectations for thinking ur my friend yeah obv i’m rly frustrated at everyone for complicating everything like clearly i care so much abt these ppl and that’s why i’m hell bent on trying to make myself feel ok for not taking them back bc as much as i love them i have self respect and literally it would just become an emotionally abusive relationship if i try to engage in a friendship where the friend would just let me down every day like i already have my own shit i’m dealing w why tf would i want to put myself thru unnecessary pain?

like everyone knows when ur being genuine or not. the recent one gave me a fake apology and it was so clear it was fake and last night she even admitted that it was n that she doesn’t think she needs to apologize and like i’m just like ......... so let’s just say i forgot that u can’t stick to ur word ok.... did u rly just have to remind me again?! this is what i’m talking abt it’s just painful and i can’t be ur friend if u can’t be real w me ok that’s all if anyone wants to be a human w me say hi like i rly don’t think anyone reads this so i was gonna delete my tumblr so long ago bc like whats the pt if no one sees u but then i realized how fucking cool that is and how liberating it is to just like put ur thoughts out into the interweb like journal writing is cool n all but on the off chance someone other than me does happen to see this then hi ur only looking at my deepest thoughts so i might as well know who u r lol but like if not (prob) then that’s ok i’ll just lol at myself when i reread this later! as stressful as this is like omg i’m graduating next week and i won’t have these kinda petty problems anymore and like that’s cool when that happens but idk i’m just not ready to grad f m u so ik as like annoying as this is and as stressed as i am abt my classes and assignments and finals and the future i’m eternally grateful for my education n like that’s why i don’t wanna leave! it’s the little things like tn i was at a coffee shop studying w friends n in the car ride back me n one of them were talking abt that one cute barista like he doesn’t matter but having someone to just say whatever the fuck u want w n confide in! it’s these little pleasures that i just love so much!!! n like i didn’t even notice but my friend brought to my attn like how he was acting kinda dumbstruck when he was talking to us n i was like lol fuck ur right that’s fucking hilarious n i had a new thing to laugh abt that i wouldn’t have if i had experienced it alone uk! like talking is literally what allows a relationship to flourish so w these 2 ppl where they just don’t communicate w me like that sounds like such a small flaw but the reason why it’s such a problem is that it literally stunts the friendships growth! how can we connect and etc if u can’t share what’s rly going on w me??????? or like why do u feel u don’t need to talk abt the truth?????? but ya as i was saying lol it’s ok i’ll just have to grind until i can get into my next school (hopefully, someone take me pls lol sos) but ya idk i suffer a lot during school but tbh it’s my fav ever so i’m so sad i’m graduating!!!!!! but like the only thing that’s making it ok is bc all of us are saying the same thing and it’s comforting that even tho we all dk what the fuck is going on i’m not the only one

so mostly sad bc i’m gonna miss my real friends here soooooooo much like w all my heart omg nothing will be the same again and i’m not ready! i’ll miss being seconds away and the fact that i can go over or call them like hoe get ready bc we’re going to the beach that’s down the street!!!! at my parents place the beach is half an hour away and i was in love but u had to drive like an extra 15-30 min to get to even nicer beaches n bruh let me tell u i rly did myself right by going to a school an actual 5 seconds away from the beach and granted besides us students it’s a rich white conservative person area but still it’s in a cute n clean area?? omg like this is just as good as it gets uk??? so ya blessed to be stressed

!?!?@#

#mind

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