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cozage · 1 year

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Made for Two

A/N: This might be the last part of Made for Two?? Idk let me know what you guys think (you are allowed to send me feedback or requests for more of this fic only right now)

Characters: gn reader x Sanji

Cw: usual angst, some slightly possessive themes and fighting going on

Total word count: 5.5k

Part One | Masterlist

Dance for Two

The first thing you noticed was the heat. It was stifling, and you threw your covers off of you to get some relief. A stark contrast to the bone chilling cold you felt last night.

A body stirred beside you, and you looked over to find Sanji rubbing sleep from his eyes. He sat up, still half asleep, and his eyes scanned your room.

Sanji’s voice was groggy when he spoke. “We must’ve left the winter climate last night. Franky needs to get the heating and cooling system fixed soon.”

Your eyes were trying to look anywhere but at the man next to you. He must’ve gotten hot in the night and thrown his shirt off. He appeared unfazed by his current position, but you were painfully aware of the lack of clothing he had around his torso at the moment.

You had seen Sanji shirtless several times, and you had never thought twice about it. But you had been with Zoro then. And Sanji hadn’t been in your bed. He had never been so close.

Now though, you were trying your best to ignore that fact and how much it was affecting you in this moment.

“Are you hungry?” Sanji asked, and your eyes finally looked over at him.

You nod, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact with him, even though you desperately wanted to let your eyes linger downward over his body.

He smiled, unaware of your thoughts, and got up from the bed, heading towards the door. “Let’s both change into something more comfortable with the weather, and I’ll be back to get you.”

He left you alone, and you sat there for a few moments trying to process it all. He had been so casual about the whole encounter, it made you wonder if you were missing something. But you couldn’t think of anything, so you decided to push it to the side for now. You got up, trading your sweatshirt and pants for a tanktop and shorts.

You opened your door to find that Sanji had also opted for a casual shirt and shorts as well. As you left the cabin area, you found the sun had also just started its day, and you stood to watch its brilliant colors paint the sky. Even though the sun wasn’t fully up yet, the humidity was high and the heat was sweltering. At least it wasn’t just your room that was stuffy, but it was the whole damn ocean.

“It’s going to be a boiling day,” you noted, looking at the horizon.

“Not a good day for macaron making,” Sanji said, frowning.

“What do you mean?”

Sanji walked over to the railing and leaned against it, watching the sunrise. You followed suit, standing next to him.

“Macarons need a very specific atmosphere in order to cook. If the temperature or humidity is too high or too low, they won’t set right. It’s all about finding the perfect middle.” He smiled at you, shrugging at the unfortunate event. “We’ll have to find something else to do today.”

You smiled politely, but your mind was racing. You hadn’t expected Sanji to actually make desserts with you, or even hang out with you at all. You thought about how you had spent the last four days, and how you were just planning to do it again. The only person you really wanted to be around right now was Sanji, and a small piece of you was afraid he’d get sick of you if you stuck around for too long.

“Any ideas?” You kept your eyes on the horizon, watching the sky and sea begin to come alive with color.

“Whatever you want.” His voice was so kind and welcoming, you wanted to believe him.

It was responses like that when you were reminded just how different Sanji and Zoro were. Zoro would simply grunt at your requests to spend time together, offering to let you be his spotter while he trained. Zoro was silent and dark, but Sanji was the combination of a million colors and emotions. Zoro was unreadable, but Sanji was always speaking his mind. If Zoro was the night, then Sanji was the sun, bringing the dawn of a new day.

Sanji must’ve noticed you lost in thought, but he let you sit with them while you watched the sunrise in silence. When the sky of pinks and reds melted away and turned into the soft blue you were familiar with, you bumped against him. It looked like he was lost in thoughts of his own, and you wanted to bring him back to the present.

“Breakfast?” you asked, smiling up at him. He beamed back and offered you his arm, leading you to the kitchen.

“Are you hungry for anything in particular?” He asks, pulling a chair out for you to sit in.

You hum, thinking for a moment. “A yogurt parfait?”

He grins and nods, heading over to the fridge to gather the ingredients. “Fruit? Granola?”

“Both please! And honey too, if we have it.”

“If we have it,” Sanji scoffs. “You mock me as a chef. Of course we have it!”

You giggle at his upset, and watch him quickly whip up two parfaits with mixed berries and granola. He drizzles honey on them both, and walks over to the table to place them both down.

You take a bite, and delightful flavors fill your mouth. “Do you know when we’re supposed to reach another island?”

“Why? Is something wrong?” He asked, glancing between you and the parfait in a concerned manner.

“No, no,” you reassure him. “The food is delicious! I was just thinking how nice it’ll be to get off the ship and go do something, you know?”

“Ah, I see.” His body relaxes back, relieved it wasn’t anything serious. “I hope it's a warm island.”

“Me too,” you say dreamily. “Heat like this is only enjoyable when you’re at the beach.”

Sanji looks at you, a shocked expression on his face. “You like the beach?”

You nod, taking another spoonful of yogurt. “Love it,” you say in between bites. “Those islands where nobody else lives, and it’s just a small little beach and a jungle are the best.”

Sanji nodded, still watching you with intrigue. “What do you like about it?”

“Beach volleyball, laying in the sun,” you take another bite of your breakfast. “Oh! And I love your barbeque days, especially when you barbeque the fresh fruit we find on the island and when we fish and cook it over the fire!”

Sanji couldn’t remember you doing any of those things in his recent memories, but he didn’t comment on that. Most of the time you sat in the shade with Zoro and kept to yourselves. Sanji prided himself in being in tune with the crew’s likes and dislikes, but he would’ve put money on you hating the beach days that you just described.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky, then,” Sanji said hopefully. “And we’ll find a beach nearby.”

Unfortunately, Nami later reported that luck was against you. There wasn’t another island for at least another two days.

You sighed and walked up to the library, trying to ignore the blasting music radiating from the crow’s nest.

“Got any recommendations?” You asked Robin, who was sitting at the desk.

“Oh! Y/N,” Robin said, sounding surprised to see you. “A book?”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “Not much else to do on a day like today, you know?”

She chuckled lightly, and picked a book out of a pile. “This is a pretty good one. I’d read it again.”

You reach out and grab the book from her. It was romance, but Robin recommended it, so you decided to give it a shot. “Thanks!” You turned around and left the way you came, bounding back down to the kitchen to rejoin Sanji. Now that you had something of your own to do, you wanted to keep Sanji some silent company while he worked.

The morning came and went, you sitting at the table engrossed in your book while Sanji cooked breakfast for the crew in shifts as they woke up. Every time someone came through the door, you looked up and smiled at them. You tried to ignore the look of surprise that flashed across each person’s face when they saw you, but you understood why. You had to admit you were dreading having to see Zoro after your last breakfast encounter, and it was bold of you to sit somewhere you knew he would eventually end up. You weren’t even sure why you were sitting in a place where you were sure to see him, but you didn’t feel as scared with Sanji nearby.

But you never had to worry about it, because Zoro never showed up for breakfast.

When the last member had come and gone from the kitchen, Sanji started cleaning up, and you got up to start helping him.

“Nope!” Sanji says, grabbing your hands as you reach for some dishes.

You groan. Sanji was so chivalrous, sometimes it was annoying. “Please let me help, Sanji. Then we can both enjoy our free time.”

Sanji shakes his head to refuse your help again, and you know you won’t win this battle. Him letting you help last night was an outlier situation, and it would probably never happen again. You returned to your seat and reopened your book.

“Why don’t you go lay out on the deck? Get some sun.” Sanji offered, starting to scrub at the dishes.

“No thanks,” you say, finding your spot where you left off. “I prefer being with you.”

Your cheeks redden at the sentence that slipped out of your mouth, and you can see him freeze in the corner of your eye. He opened his mouth to say something but no words came out, so he shut it and turned back to the dishes.

You couldn’t focus on your book after that. You tried, but your eyes kept drifting over to Sanji, watching him at the sink. Your eyes lingered on him, completely in his own world while he cleaned.

Nami barged into the kitchen, interrupting your thought process. Thankfully she was too frustrated to notice your eyes on the cook.

“It’s going to rain!” She huffed, collapsing into the booth across from you.

“Really?” you asked, looking at the window. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Starboard bow. Probably about 20 minutes from now.”

You didn’t see anything, but you knew Nami wasn’t wrong about these things. “How long will it last?”

Nami groaned, flopping backwards onto the seat. “All day! And Chopper and Franky just got the pool set up! It’s not fair!”

You laugh at that and close your book, standing to your feet. “I think I’m going to go watch the storm roll in. Want to come?”

Nami rolled her eyes. “And be reminded of my ruined sunny day? No thanks.”

You exit out of the kitchen, throwing one last look at Sanji before you leave. You catch his eye, and he smiles at you. Your heart skips a beat involuntarily.

You can’t stop the question before it’s out. “Come join me when you’re done, Sanji?”

“Of course.”

You walked onto the deck, and looked towards the starboard bow, like Nami had said. There were clouds gathering in the horizon, and you assumed that would turn into a storm, so you walked over and leaned against the railing to watch.

A shadow cast over you. “Super great to see you out and about, kiddo!”

You turned to find Franky, and you smiled at him. “Hey Franky. How have you been?”

“I'm not going to lie, pretty busy.” He leaned against the railing next to you. “Between the heating and cooling issues and other projects, I’ve got my hands full. But how are you?”

“Okay,” you said. It was the typical response you gave, and every time you said it, it started to feel a little more true.

“Super!” Franky yelled, patting you on the back just a tad too hard. “Listen I gotta run, but I’m glad you’re doing good. If you ever need to get your hands dirty and your mind clear, come let me know, okay?”

You laugh lightly and nod at his offer. “Thanks Franky. That means a lot.”

“Anytime!” And then you’re alone again.

You notice a lot more standing on the deck by yourself. You can hear Chopper’s and Luffy’s shouts and splashes from their makeshift pool, and the soft bass of the music from the crow’s nest is mostly overshadowed by Brook’s violin. It’s lively, but there’s comfort in it all. You don’t feel as alone, listening to the sounds of your crew. But you still feel tense, like something is missing.

The soft clicking of shoes on wood melts the tension away, and you glance in the direction of the sound to find eyes as blue as the sky.

“Hey,” you say, a smile forming on your lips as you see him.

He mirrors your grin, and comes to stand next to you, looking out over the horizon. The clouds in the distance have grown closer and darker, and you can feel the excitement growing in your stomach.

“Do you like storms?” Sanji asks, looking out at the clouds.

“I love them.” Your eyes stay on the storm. You can start to see sheets of rain pouring across the ocean, getting closer by the second. “There’s something comforting about them. It’s like they cleanse everything and give it a fresh start.”

Sanji lights a cigarette next to you and takes a long inhale, and then blows it out. “A fresh start, huh? I like that.”

“Do you like them?”

He shrugged. “I normally don’t mind them, but the really bad ones remind me of when I was a kid and got stranded on a desert island. It’s usually fine, but they always give me a bit of anxiety.”

In a move of boldness, you lean over and rest your head on his shoulder. At first you can feel him stiffen and you think you’ve misinterpreted the situation, but then he relaxes and you do too.

You watch the rain grow closer, slowly lessening the visibility by the rain.

“You ready?” you ask, watching the rain approach at a fast pace.

“You sure you want to be outside for this?” Sanji said, looking at you with a bit of weariness.

You felt a big raindrop hit your arm, and soon after hundreds joined it in coating your skin with water. The sound of rain smacking against the wood becomes deafening, pierced only by the slight cries of Chopper and the gleeful shouts of Luffy, who both rush inside. You breathe out a sigh of relief, letting the rain wash away your pain and sorrow.

You pull away from Sanji and spin in a circle with your eyes closed, swaying lightly in the breeze by yourself. You feel a hand grab yours, and you open your eyes to see Sanji trying to speak to you, but you can’t hear any words over the rain.

You lean in close to him and yell as loud as you can. “What?”

“Will you dance with me?” He shouts back, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

His arms wrap around your waist, and you lay your head on his chest. You all stand there for a long while, just swaying in each other's arms. Finally the rain starts to lighten up a tad, and you can hear a song being played on the violin. You both turn to look, and you find Brook under the tree, serenading you into a dance.

Sanji picks up the pace a bit to match the tempo and readjusts your grip so you are doing more of a ballroom waltz than simple swaying. You’re a bit clumsy on your feet, but Sanji leads you confidently, spinning and dipping you with perfect elegance. The whole thing made you feel equally silly and giddy.

“I didn’t know you could dance!” You shout over the music and the rain.

“I’m not very good at most of them,” he admits. “But I like the dances that are made for two.”

“Not very good?” You scoff. “Sanji, you’re amazing!”

“Well, I-” A bolt of lightning strikes near the ship, and you yelp in surprise. You can feel Sanji’s grip tighten on you for a moment as he looks around.

“That's enough of that!” Brook yells, running to the door of the interior of the ship.

“Hey!” Nami opened a door to scream at the two of you. “The storm’s getting bad! Get inside!”

You pull Sanji along with you, laughing as you dance to the door. You all dance down the hallway to the aquarium, stopping occasionally for Sanji to dip or spin you around. The music is long gone, but neither of you seem to notice.

You dance a lap around the aquarium, leaving a trail of dripping water as you go. You’re about to make a second lap around when you slip on a puddle, and Sanji catches you before you face plant onto the floor.

“I’m going to go get us some towels,” he said, looking at you and then the floor. “And…maybe a mop.”

You giggle at that, still high with adrenaline and giddiness from dancing in the rain. “Hurry back, okay?”

He bows as he exits through the door, and you find yourself staring at it after he’s gone, waiting for him to come back.

“Didn’t know the cook fancied sloppy seconds.”

The dark voice came from behind you in the aquarium, causing your breath to catch in your throat. Your hands clenched into fists, but you refused to give Zoro the satisfaction of answering him. Answering him would just lead to an argument, which is exactly what he wanted. You stayed there, facing away from him and staring at the door, willing Sanji to come back.

“Tell me, Y/N,” the swordsman said your name like poison, and you flinched at the sharpness of his words. “Why do you think that man is being so nice to you?”

You hear Zoro get up, the sound of his boots echoing throughout the aquarium as he approaches you. The hair on your neck tingled, but you attributed that to the cold rain instead of the man behind you. You bit your lip to keep yourself from crying, eyes still glued to the door. Sanji would be back any second, and you wouldn’t be alone.

“I can tell you why,” he whispered in your ear, and you flinched again at his sudden closeness.

He walked around to face you, staring at you in the eyes. It was hard to look at him. There were so many conflicted emotions you held connected to his face. But you refused to be the one to break eye contact, and you could feel the daggers he was staring into your soul.

“It’s because that love cook wants to fuck you.”

He was just saying it to get you to react in some way. You were certain. You stared back at him, doing your best to show no emotion. You must’ve been successful, because he pressed further.

“I figured you’d be dumb enough to fall for it, of course,” he said with a devilish smirk on his face. His voice was low and threatening, like a predator who was about to pounce on his prey.

“But you couldn’t even wait until we arrived at the next island before you hopped on his dick, could you?”

Zoro was cruel and manipulative. You knew that, which is why you were so mad that it worked. You could feel tears welling up in your eyes, and you tried desperately to blink them away.

“It’s not like that,” you say, shaking your head. You can feel tears leak out onto your cheeks.

Zoro laughed at you, and all you want to do is run away and hide. “It is like that, and that's why you’re crying. ‘My love,’” he mocks Sanji. “‘Anything for you!’”

He returns back to his usual, harsh voice and leans in close to you. He’s so close that you can smell the sake on his breath when he speaks.

“More like anything for what’s in your pants.”

Your hand connects with his face before you realize what you’re doing, and a loud, sharp sound echoes through the room. Both of you stand there staring at each other, stunned for a moment. You can’t believe you got a hit on Roronoa Zoro, and you wonder if he was too busy taunting you to see it coming or if he let you slap him on purpose to start an argument.

“Get. Out.” you growl, pushing on his chest. He doesn’t budge. He’s just standing and staring at you, one side of his face starting to grow red.

“Get out!” you shriek, pushing his chest, and then resorting to punching it when that doesn’t work. “I’m not doing this anymore, Zoro! I’m done! Get out!”

You see his facial expression change slightly, and he steps out of range from your swings. But you step toward him, trying to push him toward the door. He stumbled backwards for a moment, not expecting you to continue your assault, before he regained his footing.

“That cook doesn’t love you,” he spat out.

“I never asked him to!” You scream back.

You had given him what he wanted. You had fought back. You push him again, trying to get him away from you. But he’s expecting it this time, and he grabs your wrists and pulls you close to him. His face is only centimeters away from yours, and you curse your heart for fluttering in your chest.

“Calm down,” he whispered, his eyes fixated on your lips.

You knew what was coming. This was the duality of Roronoa Zoro. Screaming matches one moment, tender and caring the next. He loved to get you riled up one second just so he could calm you down the next.

And you almost fell for it again. Almost. But as his head dipped down to meet yours, you thought of the cold dark nights alone in your room, his hostile glares and comments from the day before. You thought of the warm string of lights that were now illuminating the once dark space, the sunrise and dancing.

His lips met yours for only a second before you pulled away from him and shoved your palms hard into his chest, pushing him away from you.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to get the taste of him off your lips. You let out a shaky breath and glared at him.

You hated him, and you hated how inferior he made you feel. But you really hated that a small part of you wanted to curl back into him and let him hold you, like nothing happened.

“I said get out.” You put all of your anger and hatred into your words, willing yourself to stand your ground.

He stared at you, half bewildered and half amused. This was uncharted territory for him. Normally you fell back into his touch, desperate and eager for more of his love. But today, you stood there with defiance in your eyes.

“You’ll see.” He chuckled lightly to himself. “He’s gotten you wrapped around his finger now, but you’ll see, darling,” he raised his pitch to imitate Sanji on the last word. “He’ll get bored of you, and he’ll leave you, and you’ll be alone again. And nobody will come to save you this time.”

Satisfied with having the last word, Zoro turned on his heels and walked out the door.

Once the door slammed shut behind him, you fell to your knees. Your hands flew up to your mouth to stifle a sob.

Sanji wasn’t manipulative like Zoro. He was kind, and sweet, and he made you your favorite meal even when you had barely ever spoken to him just to see you smile. He wasn’t doing all of this just to get laid, was he?

Your mind drifted back to yesterday morning, at breakfast with Nami.

“I heard he didn’t go back to the boys cabin last night. You’ve been around Sanji almost as long as I have, and you really think its-”

Even the navigator seemed to think Sanji had an ultimatum for his kindness. Your heart ached at the thought of you being used like that, and you clutched at your chest in pain. You didn’t know what to do or who to believe. You wanted to run away, restart the day, or just go back to when you and Zoro first broke up and beg for his forgiveness. Everything was so much more complicated now that you had Sanji beside you.

“Sorry I took so long! It took me a while to find the-” You hear things clatter to the floor and the click of Sanji shoes rushing over to you.

“What happened?” He asked, kneeling down next to you. He hand presses against your forehead and you pull away from him, still covering your eyes. “Are you sick? Do I need to go get Chopper?”

“Just leave me alone,” you sob. “I just want to be alone.”

“It’s okay, my love. Talk-”

You’re reminded of Zoro and how he mocked Sanji, and rage flares up in you. “Go away!” you scream, tears thick in your voice. “Get out!”

Sanji sighs, and you hear him stand to his feet. You hear him start to walk away from you, and your heart constricts. You know you told him to go, but you don’t want him to. And you’re too cowardly to beg him to stay now.

You can hear him reach the far side of the room, and he pauses for a moment, then he begins walking back to you. You start wiping your eyes, and you feel a soft cloth wrap around your shoulders. Your eyes open to find his sky blue eyes staring back at you, holding a towel around you.

He looks at you nervously, like he’s waiting for you to scream again. But you just sit there, wrapped in a towel. The only sound is the occasional drip of water from your clothes.

“Please don’t leave me,” you whisper to him, your voice breaking.

“I won’t, I won’t,” he coos, trying to soothe you. He wipes the tears from your cheeks and pushes the hair away from your face, keeping his eyes on you the whole time.

“I hate him.” You can’t bring yourself to say Zoro’s name, but Sanji knows what you mean.

“Did you see him?” He asks, looking around the room.

You nod, tears starting to form in your eyes again.

“What did he say?” Sanji’s voice is calm, but you can feel the anger radiating from his body.

You just shake your head, not wanting to respond. You lean forward, pressing your head against his rain-soaked shirt. He lets you rest there, stroking your wet hair absentmindedly while you work to steady your breathing. You inhale the familiar smell of cigarette smoke and slowly calm down, finding yourself drifting off to sleep.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when your eyes reopen, but you’re in your room, wrapped in blankets. You can still hear the rain falling outside, and you sit up to assess yourself and your surroundings. You’re still in wet clothes, and you quickly strip them and replace them with new ones. Your fairy lights are on, but there’s no other indication of someone in your room.

You exit your room into the main cabin area, and head towards the deck, but raised voices stop you before you leave. You stand near the door, listening.

“I don’t give a damn about your feelings!” Sanji’s voice yells from outside, muffled by the rain still falling.

“No shit!” Zoro screamed back. “You’re so far up Y/N’s ass you can’t see anything else!”

“You don’t know anything about me, mosshead, so stay out of it!”

“I know you took what wasn’t yours, cook.” Zoro’s voice turns into a growl, and you struggle to hear his words. “Y/N belongs to me.”

Sanji chuckled at the swordsman’s words. “Y/N doesn’t belong to anyone, idiot.” You hear his shoes coming closer to the door, until he stops on the other side. “The fact that you don’t get that proves you don’t know anything at all.”

“I know more about Y/N than you’ll ever know,” Zoro shot back, and you could feel a knot forming in your stomach. “You can’t compete. I know the best positions to make-”

“Piss off!” Sanji yelled, slamming into the swinging door in front of you wide open. His mouth falls open when he sees your figure in front of him, and the lit cigarette falls from his lips.

You turn on your heels and dart back to your room, but Sanji’s quick to follow you.

“Y/N-” He trails after you into your room.

You spun around to face him, glaring at him. “Why are you being nice to me?” you demand.

He froze, confused at your sudden hostility. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re out there defending me, making me food, being so nice to me…why?!”

“Because,” Sanji hesitates, his eyes scanning the room nervously. “Because I…”

It didn’t add up, Sanji never took any special interest in you before. He was always kind and cordial, bringing you food and making your favorite snack. And he just treated you better because he wanted to piss Zoro off. But now you were broken up, and there was no reason to keep up the act after you and Zoro broke up. Unless what Zoro said was true.

You’re sure you’ve got him. Sanji can’t lie to you. So you ask him point blank. “Are you just trying to fuck me?”

“What?” He takes a step back, alarmed with your bluntness. “What are you even saying?”

“Just answer the question!” You don’t care if he thinks you’re crazy. Maybe you are.

Sanji clicked his tongue and pulled out a cigarette. “That swordsman is in your head,” he said, putting it to his lips.

You resist the urge to grab him and shake him. You knew he was avoiding giving an answer.

“So you are,” you say, your voice trembling. “You’re just doing this for-”

“You love to watch the sunrise,” Sanji said, rushing to cut you off. “The sunsets too, but you only did that with mosshead, so it’s painful to see it now. You like barbequed fruit and rainstorms and you don’t really enjoy romance novels but you’ll read them if Robin recommends them. You prefer the quiet moments and the soft, fluffy desserts and you love your crewmates.”

Sanji paused for a moment and stepped forward, reaching for your hands to hold. You let him take them, and he interlocks his fingers with yours. You watch his hands, intertwined with yours, and you like how nicely they fit together. You feel calmer now, all of the anger inside of you suddenly feels small and unimportant.

“I’m doing all of this because I think you deserve it. You deserve to be treated well. You deserve to have someone who lays with you while you sleep. Who watches the sunsets with you. Who dances in the rain. I just want you to feel important, okay? So if you’re not feeling that way, tell me and I promise I’ll find a different way to show my love for you”

“Your love…” you swallow the lump caught in your throat. “For me?”

His cheeks turn red, and you can see his nervous energy reach a new level. He fidgets with your fingers, and you can feel his hands start to get clammy. He doesn’t speak for a while, and your eyes glance up to his, but he’s watching your hands as well.

“Sanji?” you prompt, peering up at him through your lashes.

“It’s nothing,” he whispered, and he pulled you closer to him. His face is only centimeters away from yours, and you can feel your heart fluttering in your chest.

You thought you knew what was coming, and you tensed in suspense, ready to pull away at any moment.

“Do you want to dance?” he said, the smell of tobacco rolling off his tongue with each word.

You nod in response and lean against his chest. You both gently sway to a beat that doesn’t exist, and you can’t help but feel more at peace now than you ever have in your entire life.

#SURPRISE!!! Enjoy this!!!#one piece #one piece imagine #one piece scenario #one piece x reader #vinsmoke sanji #sanji #sanji x y/n #sanji x reader #sanji x you #cozage #made for two #✧˚sanji✧˚

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answer2jeff · 3 months

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from velcro to bunny ears — carmen berzatto.

warnings : mentions of emotional neglect ?? distant relationship from siblings. not an x reader.

a/n: i wrote this in 20 minutes please excuse me if there are any typos..

I have a feeling Carmen always had trouble with the milestones other kids his aged reached.

Mental math, riding a bike—it all came to him much slower than he was ever comfortably able to admit. Kind, but not smart. Polite, but not friendly. Creative, but not handsome. Imaginative, but not funny.

He's been this way for as long as he can remember, occasional dabbles in art and his passion for culinary being the only part of himself he could be sure would be seen as the best of the best, even if he didn't truly believe he was quite at the epitome of perfection.

Shoelaces.

Fuck, were those the bane of his existence at just 7 years old. Stupid Velcro that made a tearing sound that was similar to a bloodcurdling scream.

He'd been wearing shoes with Velcro strips, or short laces that purposefully looked tucked and didn't require tying, since he could walk.

Jesus. Carmen never even learned how to tie them. Asking anyone, even his mother, was simply too much to ask. Instead, he would insist that Velcro shoes were okay, and he wasn't too old for them.

Until Uncle Jimmy came to visit during the summer of 1998.

Mikey, barely 16, was out with friends for the weekend, possibly getting drunk on beaches and rolling joints on the roofs of parking garages. And 11 year old Natalie was celebrating her classmate, Ashley's, 12th birthday. Rollerblade hockey was the new craze. Why wait for mucky fishponds and vast lakes to solidify and freeze over in the dead of winter when you could just go across the street and bust your ass on the concrete instead?

It wasn't necessarily Carmen's idea. Cicero, being the overbearing babysitter he'd become due to Donna's negligence, couldn't handle seeing his poor little nephew cooped up in the tiny upstairs bedroom riddled with hand drawn artworks plastered on his walls. It wasn't right. Summer was for bruises and scabs that would be forgotten about with the booming sound of fireworks and taste of sugary popsicles dripping down your arms.

"Why don't you go hang out with the kids across the street, Bear?" Cicero asked him. Carmen picked his little head up from his sketch book and looked out the view of his window.

He only shrugged.

"They're playin' rollerblade hockey. Your brother Mikey fuckin' loved that, y'know? When he was your age, I mean. Give it a shot, eh? Might be nice kids."

The Raymondville's. Carmen didn't know much about that family. He didn't know they were nice, or played rollerblade hockey like his older, therefore much cooler, big brother. All he knew was that they were also older, therefore much cooler than him too.

That's all that mattered anyway. But he had this tendency to follow in his brothers footsteps. With Jimmy's rare visits and Donna's unpredictable and equally scarce moments of wanting to be an actual tender and caring mother, Mikey was the closest thing to a reliable adult he ever had. Natalie was too busy spending every moment she could out of the house until she'd come crawling back to Mom, who would only scold her for ever wanting to leave in the first place, to notice how perfectly Carmen blended into the wallpaper.

A happy house.

Rollerblade hockey sounds fine.

After a dig through the attic and rummaging through a box of old sports equipment—low and behold lied the skates. Black and turquoise. Mikey's favorite colors. The 4 wheelers were a little intimidating, but Carmen faintly remembered spending a week with Aunt Lisa and learning how to at least stroll down the sidewalk of his cousins neighborhood.

"Go on," Cicero gave a gentle push to Carmen's small and trembling shoulders, leaning back on the front porch to carefully watch his nephew try and be an active member of society from a distance. His little blonde curls blew in the evening wind, the humidity from earlier in the day still weighing them down. His hands shook vigorously which were tightly gripping a pair of Mikey's old rollerskates.

A jumble of "hi's, my name is," and "can i play's," fell out of his quiet mouth. They were met with nods from the 5 boys, easily ages 9-12, the oldest being 13. But this was only after shared glances and shrugs of discomfort were shown. The Raymondville's had never seen this fragile little kid in their lives: short and skinny. But they knew the Berzatto's. They knew cool Mikey and pretty Natalie—but not average Carmen. A breath of relief washed over Carmy, and he sat down on the fluffy and bright green grass to remove his white lace-less sneakers and shoved his feet into the slightly too big skates.

The straps snapped down easily. But those damned laces, thick and white with little black stitching, taunted him. He swallowed.

Carmen simply tucked them in, his stomach queasy at the feeling of the plastic aglet's poking his feet.

He stumbled a bit, but he secured himself as he remembered to bend his knees just a bit. It wasn't all too different from skating on the ice in mid-January. Except now it was mid-June, and every wheel could easily catch itself in the bumps and cracks of the old streets of the neighborhood that hadn't been patched in years. But alas, the laces came loose, and one had caught right in the metal bolt of the wheel and zipped right around it, knocking little Carmy off his feet and onto his bum.

Tears immediately pricked at his waterlogged eyes when he looked around just to see everyone had already started the 5th game of the day without him.

Uncle Jimmy simply sighed and beckoned his hand toward himself, shaking his head in pity rather than surprise. Carmen's shoulders shook with silent sobs as he held his skates in one skinny arm and his sneakers in the other. He couldn't even wipe the snot that pooled from his nose or the consistent tears that streamed down his cheeks and soaked his t-shirt.

"Jesus," Cicero swore under his breath, leaning forward "Nobody ever teach you how to tie your shoes, Carm?" he raised a brow, carefully taking his nephews Velcro shoes and setting them down on the porch beside him. At 7 years old, with a one sibling being 12 and the other being nearly 16, one would expect he could tie his own shoes. He couldn't tell which question was greater: how he hadn't learned through observation, or why he never just asked?

"N—no," Carmen hiccuped, wiping his eyes and taking a seat down beside his uncle. He carefully watched as Cicero went through step by step instructions of the 'bunny ear' method. The little boy was mesmerized by the simplicity of the loop Cicero wrapped around his thumb, pulling it into a tight and secure bow in such quick timing. He never forgot after that day.

Sometimes he still mumbles "wrap around the coop, push through the loop," as he ties the laces of his white Nike Cortez sneakers before going on his 3rd soul searching and ultimate sensory seeking 15 minute walk of the week.

"Bunny ears," Uncle Jimmy said to Carmy.

And 'bunny ears' he did.

tags : @lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber @sexyyounglatinoboy @febris-amatoria

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto blurb #i need to see more posts like this #just talking about carmen #and his childhood #carmen berzatto headcanons #the bear #cicero the bear #uncle jimmy the bear #natalie berzatto #mikey berzatto #ugh this blurb is so cute #but sad

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witch-and-her-witcher · 4 months

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neris | T | slice of life, angst, winter solstice | ao3

The path was a little bumpy and a little elf had to pick up your gifts along the way to deliver, @kix-j! I wasn't your original secret santa, but I'm so excited to share this fic with you for @acotargiftexchange! Also, please enjoy the mood board and playlist to accompany these baddies being a bit sad together.

It goes without saying, but thank you @wilde-knight for the read through and @iftheshoef1tz for the supportive discussion! <3

~*~

Mist creates a watery haze outside the open windows.

The window panes are dotted with rain and condensation from the warmth of the fire meeting the chill of the December air, creating a spectacle of colors reflectant — evergreen and brown from the pines along the cliff’s edge, the vast gray-blue of the churning ocean, as well as the warm ember yellows, oranges and reds from twinkling string fae lights along the mantle, the roaring fire.

The air is just as crisp to inhale with the snap of humidity, the underlying brine of the ocean.

The eastern coast of Autumn.

Eris has promised to bring Nesta, and finally they’ve found the time to secret away to the cliffside retreat.

It’s more soothing than she ever could have recreated in her mind, even with Eris’s vivid depictions of times past. Now that Nesta is here, enveloped in the oceanside and forest, embraced by nature’s harmonized production of chaos and stillness, she can’t imagine spending time anywhere else.

You belong, the raindrops pattering on glass and cedar say.

You are safe, the warmth of the soundless fire caresses against her skin.

You are seen, the crashing waves call to her.

Home, Eris’s hands wrapped in hers promise.

Rubbing circles absently, Eris seems hardly aware of the contact as he stares out the open windows and takes in the same scenery. Music plays in the background, heavier in low brass instruments as he claims is more appropriate for Winter Solstice than her favorite piano pieces.

He isn’t wrong. The rich melody is warm and cozy like sitting cuddled up amongst the cushions and woven blankets on the couch with a partner and a warm drink. Free and easy like the temporary reprieve from everyday tasks and responsibilities.

Not that Nesta will admit it to him.

Directing her gaze to his face rather than the scenery, she wonders if her eyes reflect the ocean colors in compliment the same way the fire dances like it belongs in his amber stare.

“Still want me to close the window?”

Eris blinks down at her, as if he’s been startled awake. “No, it’s fine,” he says, voice gruff from the stretch of time they haven’t spoken a word. Entranced in a wholly fae way, a thrall Nesta never could have maintained as a mortal staring out of an open window — even to a view as picturesque as this one.

“Will you admit I was right, then?”

“Foundationally, it still makes no sense. It’s a waste of energy to keep the room warm with the windows letting in the chill.”

“Don’t want to take the excuse to use body heat to compensate?”

Eris’s lips curl into his devilish smile. “Was that your plan, Archeron? Not well thought through, there is fire coursing through my blood.”

“You’re so conceited,” Nesta says, studying her nail beds. It’s too difficult to maintain a petulant tone when she’s busy getting lost in his pleasing features. “I was only trying to make up for your own lack of imagination, provide you with the material to make a move.”

Eris sips from the ceramic mug with his mulled wine, the soft breath from his nose wafting the spicy, holiday scent towards Nesta. He squeezes her hand in his.

He doesn’t answer because they both know she’s full of shit. Eris’s thoughts are made of nothing but moves. Maneuver after maneuver to shape the world to his will. To predetermine the outcome to his benefit. It’s why she’s sitting here now, a grand proclamation and then minute movements to shape the possibility of this reality.

Which means, Nesta is to his benefit.

She thought at first just politically, maybe even to spite her brother-in-law, but now …

It’s all of that, but more. The benefit is the way he looks at her now, the tension eased from his features and the gears whirring only at half speed behind that calculating gaze.

Unable to resist any longer, she lifts her fingertips to his jawline. Traces the freckles that dot along the sharp shape of him.

“What thoughts were you so engrossed in?” she asks as he tilts his chin up, giving her better access to follow the constellations down his neck.

“Truthfully?” His voice vibrates under her touch and Nesta smiles, pleased with his display of trust. Lady Death has her grip on his throat, and her Autumn prince can care less. “I wasn’t thinking of much beyond the waves.”

“That’s rare.”

“It is. I can’t remember the last person I could sit with and have my mind drift so easily and not worry about where the proverbial knife in my back could come from.”

Nesta’s hand dips down along his thickly knitted, creme sweater, down to his waist where she knows he keeps a knife tucked away. “I could make this more exciting for you if you would like. Unfortunately, my attacks are much more straightforward. Nothing beyond a block or counter strike to plan against.”

He shivers unbidden as her fingertips caress the skin just above the dagger’s hilt.

“Don’t be humble, it doesn’t suit you,” Eris says. Nesta scrunches her nose in response.

“Where’s the air left in the room for me to blow smoke? You took it all.”

“Tch.”

Eris leans his head back on the sofa, pulling Nesta flush to his sculpted chest, easy to feel even under the thick material of his sweater. She settles back comfortably. Eris winds his arms around her middle and Nesta tucks her toes under his calves for warmth.

“Nap and then walk.”

Nesta hums in agreement, lashes already fluttering shut.

“Watch out —”

Nesta shrieks as she nearly loses her footing on the slick leaves coating the narrow trail darting between pines and mostly bare deciduous trees — the culprits for the slip hazard. Strong hands yank her back before she can teeter off the trail etched into the cliffside or stumble onto her hands and knees.

“You’re very bad at this,” Eris chides, not releasing her hand once Nesta is firmly on her feet again.

She doesn’t mind the anchor between them. Eris is always warm and it carries through their joint touch.

“Where I trained, there were more arrogant males kidnapping me and leaving me for dead … and less wet leaves. I’ll correct that error in the future.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“Oh?”

“No more training.”

“Oh. Right.”

Nesta stares out at the rocky beach coming closer with each tenuous footfall. She’s careful how and where she sets her brown leather boot, trying to use those instinctual fae senses in the way Eris has tried to teach her. To feel out the shape of the land beneath her, listen for the way it wants to be tread on.

You sound so old when you talk that way, she teased, and then added, Oh, wait —

He’d cut her off by scooping her off her bare feet, curling her legs around him while he pressed her back into the bark of an oak tree. Shown her that despite his centuries of knowledge gained, other parts didn’t shy away from a young male’s work. Like putting his back into it.

Those scrapes from the tree bark in her back had been the most delicious pain to tend to the following evening.

When she’d finally joined him in Autumn, he’d sworn off mandatory training, but it didn’t mean there weren’t lessons. They simply aimed to familiarize herself with her body, mind, grounding her as a fae rather than honing her as a weapon.

Nesta looks out at the blacks and grays of the stony beach and black, silty sand mixed amongst it all. Listens to the way the rocks roll back and forth over each other as the tide pulls them to and fro. Searches for a bridge to what was and what is.

No more training.

There’s still the occasional jolt of anxiety that she should be making herself useful, needing to seek her sense of belonging in the training arena — and then reminding herself that isn’t how she needs to go about it. Was never really about her, while it had helped, it had been someone else’s form of self worth projected onto her.

It’s been months and Eris still has to remind her she doesn’t have to fight to master herself, to prove anything.

Occasionally she misses the strength, the power, at the tips of her fingers and toes, her blade’s end. The lethal beauty of it all. The control of it all.

But mostly she feels relief.

She rubs her chest absently.

“Stop thinking about it.”

She huffs. “Right.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are,” Nesta tuts, casting a look over her shoulder. Eris’s hair is tousled handsomely from the wind and his gaze cuts straight through her. “And should I stop thinking about it tonight, when we’re in my sister’s home to celebrate her birthday and Solstice?”

“Preferably,” Eris says. “Gives them less control over you. Worry about nothing but how good-looking the male on your arm is.”

“Gods. Are we really going to go together?”

“They’ll find out eventually.”

“It feels suicidal.”

They’ve completed their descent to the beach. Nesta follows Eris’s lead, picking along the ground to find a few good stones to begin chucking into the sea foam and waves. They face the ocean, comfortable in the sound of breaking waves against the jutting cliffside some leagues away and nothing more for a stretch of time.

“Maybe we don’t go.”

Nesta raises a brow. “Really? You’d give up the drama of such a grand reveal?”

“Under the right circumstances, I could be convinced. Although, it would be such a loss. To miss Rhysand’s face when he realizes where you’ve been hiding. A good reminder I can keep a secret from him if I want to.”

The male satisfaction of it all is clear on his face. Nesta herself wouldn’t mind sticking it to Rhys. But … She’s not sure she’s ready to face her sisters yet. The sting of betrayal is still raw.

And as for her mate.

Nesta worries at her bottom lip.

“Hey.” Eris turns, cups her chin and places his thumb on her lip to quit her worrying. “It will keep. I can still get my dramatic reveal without ruining our getaway. Your family will just have to learn you’ve been sleeping with the enemy another time.”

“You enjoy this too much.”

“I’m five hundred years old, dear. These moments don’t come about every century, especially with the likes of Rhysand. He keeps his cards close to his chest.” Amber blazes with the heat of too many centuries of history Nesta can’t begin to grasp. “I can enjoy your company deeply for the magnificent creature you are while dually indulging in a sense of victory. I’m allowed the occasional bout of pettiness.”

“Once a century.”

“If that. Realistically, every other.”

“Gods, you’re old.”

The insult bleeds through the sentiment she knows he’s trying to get across on reflex.

She stares up at him, searching for sincerity or that cunning flicker of a tell. Looking down at her along the blade of his nose, Eris keeps his expression open, confident, certain. Unperturbed even by her knee-jerk reactions. Youth, he’d told her another time when her mouth had run away from her.

It’s almost too much. Nesta wants to look away, to not have to face how sure he is in all of this. When she still searches for cracks in all that he’s laid out for her, in all that they’ve already laid bare for the other. She wants to hide away the vulnerabilities this male sees — sees and accepts. But the hand on her chin doesn’t allow her too.

She closes her eyes and exhales through parted lips. Tries to calm her frantically beating heart.

When did that start?

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It’s Eris’s turn to huff, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he tucks her close into the space against his chest where he can set his chin on her head, wrap his arms around her, and she doesn’t have to bare it all straight to his face. Nesta curls into him, relishing how easily they slot against one another, in the easy passing of understanding.

They’re both difficult people, but they’re difficult for a reason.

A strong wave crashes and sprays them, but it only joins the mist hanging in the air. The moisture is curling the ends of Eris’s hair and Nesta is sure her hair is frizzy from it, but she doesn’t particularly care.

“I like it here,” she says into his sweater.

“Me too.”

“It’ll still be here even if we go for an hour.”

“It won’t be an hour, you know that.”

After the initial shock, they’ll want to get them drunk to ply for answers. Rhys loves any excuse to tear through his wine cellar and Nesta’s reappearance with Eris Vanserra, in a romantic relationship no less, will free every cork he swears has cost him a small fortune a piece. The schmoozy interrogation, the looks of dismay her sisters will give her and the guilt Nesta will feel as soon as Feyre brings up the baby …

“Does it make me weak? To not want to face them yet?”

Eris hums, the sound rumbling in his chest against her. It inexplicably comforts Nesta to her core. Knowing that when Eris considers matters, it's not lightly or to sugarcoat her feelings, but with careful judgment, weighing facts. That’s why Nesta is prepared to ask questions she only wants to hear a real answer to.

“Weakness would be bending to anyone other than yourself. They don’t control you, Rhysand isn’t your High Lord any longer. They’re just family and being uninterested in their particular brand of overbearing, backstabbing, and tongue-in-cheek pleasantries isn’t weak. It’s strategic.”

“Is this from personal experience?”

“You see where we are for Winter Solstice. If I had to breathe the same air as my brothers for another minute longer, I’d likely stab one of them.”

They could use a stabbing, any one of them. But Nesta can read between the lines that any boiling over emotions wouldn’t be useful now. Eris has bigger plans and he needs his brothers aligned and on his side, annoying and horrible as they are.

Nesta pulls away from him. “Ready to walk back?”

Eris nods. He gestures for her to go first. Nesta grins knowingly, turns with a swish of her hips. If she asks, he’ll say it’s to ensure she doesn’t fall off of the cliffside — but the simmering heat in his gaze as he watches her backside will say otherwise.

“I can think of better ways to stay entertained this evening besides sitting around a stuffy Night or Autumn Court party.”

A shower and dinner pass pleasantly.

Nesta feels warmed through as they sink back into the sofa with books perched on either side, feet kicked out on the plush ottomans. Between the food, the wine, and the fire, it’s nearly too much to add touching Eris as well. There’s a healthy flush to his high cheekbones, up to the tip of his ears, that she’s sure is reflected on her own features.

“Well?” Eris conjures the bundle of Solstice gifts Nesta had painstakingly shopped for and wrapped leading up to today. “Are we arriving late to exchange gifts?”

By now, it’s surely been thoroughly discussed over dinner how Nesta has returned to her flaky habits. Not bothering to arrive with the plus one marked on her note of untraceable origins.

Nesta’s full stomach curdles at the thought of all of those harsh, judgemental eyes on her once again. Exhaustion runs through her to consider the amount of energy needed to combat that level of criticism, spoken or not — shared in the open, or mind to mind.

Leaning forward, Nesta snatches the bottle of dessert wine the northwestern province of Autumn is known for. The grapes there reach the perfect frost several times a year due to proximity to Winter and the vignerons work like fiends to harvest and press the delicacy.

She pops off the cork.

“We’re staying, get rid of the other gifts however you want.”

She tosses back a swallow of the sweet alcohol straight from the bottle. Eris lifts his hand to flick the remaining bundles to another pocket realm, to some charity organization’s front stoop, she doesn’t know —

She launches forward to grab the simple, brown paper wrapped box with the loudest bow on the top before the parcel can disappear with the others.

“Except …” She considers the present, the recipient who will neither care nor know who the giver is. Sweet, innocent baby Nyx. “Send this one to the River House.”

It’s gone in a puff of ozone and charred oak. The scent of Eris’s magic lingers, but his attention span for the issue dissipates just as quickly as the gifts themselves.

“Feel better?” he asks, lacking any emotion outside of cool interest as he assesses her.

Nesta takes one more guzzle of the wine for effect and then sets it aside. “Yes.”

“Good,” Eris says, turning to face Nesta. “Because you mentioned something about better ways to spend the evening.” He places a hand on either side of her head while stretching his impossibly long body over hers, hovering just without touching aside from where his knees straddle her, pulling down the cushions beneath them. “Yet all you’ve done is tease.”

“Tease? Me?” Nesta says into the space they share breath, Eris’s lips painfully close. Her nerves tingle with the desire to touch, to press her mouth against his. To swipe her tongue inside of that now familiar warmth and forget all about troubles in her mind that preside in the far north of Prythian.

“You,” Eris confirms in a low growl. He doesn’t wait any longer, angling down to slot their lips together and stealing the breath from her.

Nesta’s toes curl in her thick socks.

Eris kisses her with scorching desire. Licking the lingering taste of the dessert wine from her mouth and luxuriating in the soft sighs he pulls from her. Nesta bunches her hands in his sweater at his sides and tugs him closer.

“I can’t let my reputation suffer then,” she says against his lips, lashes parted enough to see the lust heating Eris through if his hot skin weren’t enough to give away his flush. “Let me see to that.”

Eris smiles devilishly. “Show me your worst, Archeron.”

Her stomach coils low with arousal and Eris rumbles against her with satisfaction as the scent of just what he’s doing to her curls around them.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, Nesta pulls Eris down to meet the rest of her body craving to feel his comforting weight. As if by osmosis she may gain some of his unfaltering confidence. It’s a fool's errand, by all accounts. To try and master in a few months what it's taken him to gain over centuries.

But as Eris deepens the kiss and shifts his hips along hers, his own interest heady in the air, Nesta thinks the effort will have a benefit either way.

#neris #nesta x eris #nesta archeron #eris vanserra #acotar winter gift exchange 2023 #acotar #acotar fanfic #my writing

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ltwilliammowett · 1 year

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Sailor's weather superstition

Of course superstition doesn't stop here either and to be clear it's only a thing with sailors but also with farmers and so on. But here are a few:

A ring around the sun or moon, means that rain will come real soon

If you see a halo around the moon on a clear night, it could be an indication of bad weather. This is not a spooky prediction, but quite banal science. Although it looks like a ghostly ring, it is really just the light of the moon refracted (or bent) by ice crystals. These ice crystals form the cirrus clouds - the tuft-like clouds we find high up in the sky. These cirrus clouds don't cause rain or storms, but here's the thing: they precede some low pressure areas by a day or two, and low pressure areas bring precipitation.

(x)

In other words: If you see these ice clouds refracting the light around the moon, it means that cirrus clouds are present, which could indicate a coming storm. also goes with the sun, but please don't look in there, it's not good for your eyes.

Mackerel sky, not 24 hours dry

A mackerel sky looks like a sky full of fish scales. These are cirrocumulus or altocumulus clouds formed by atmospheric waves at high altitudes. As these high clouds gradually penetrate the sky and the air pressure begins to drop, precipitation associated with the disturbance can be expected in about 6 to 12 hours.

(x)

A thickening and lowering of cirrocumulus to altostratus or altocumulus in the middle tier is a good sign that the warm or low pressure front has moved closer and rain may begin to fall within less than six hours.

Clear moon, frost soon

Well, that's what they say about clear nights in winter, clear moon, frost soon. And we can be sure to expect a cool morning. This is not untrue, because if there are no clouds, the heat that has been collected during the day can escape from the earth's surface through the non-existent cloud cover and can therefore cause frost in autumn and winter.

Red at morning, Sailors warning; Red at night, Sailors delight

Since I have already made a separate post on this, please forgive me for only attaching the link. https://www.tumblr.com/ltwilliammowett/670757025738866688/red-at-morning-sailors-warning-red-at-night?source=share

Hair curls at high humidity

Human hair is extremely sensitive to changes in humidity. There are even hygrometers that use human hair as a measuring instrument. Your hair can absorb water from the air through hydrogen bonds. Since humid air contains more moisture, a strand of hair can form more hydrogen bonds and you suddenly look like Curly Sue - of course not, but your hair can frizz.

Feeling a storm in your bones

Oh, every old slat is there, and will certainly stand on deck all the time and tell you from their aching bones and joints that the weather is going to be bad. Well, some people are sensitive to the weather and rheumatics and people with arthritis often react more sensitively to temperature and weather fluctuations (I can tell you a thing or two about that). This is because their body fluids are in a constant equilibrium with the ambient air pressure. So when the barometer drops - like an approaching storm - your tissues can swell, irritating nerve endings and causing you additional pain. However, not everyone is like this and therefore rheumatics are not to be used as living barometers.

Thermometer cricket

No thermometer on board for once ? No problem, grab a cricket, preferably the ecanthus fultoni, aka the thermometer cricket.

(x)

Because as soon as the temperature rises, the animal chrips much faster, when it drops, it's the other way round. But not only that, you can even determine the temperature exactly. The chirp rate is counted in the time of 13 seconds and then the number 40 is added. This value corresponds almost exactly to the temperature in Fahrenheit.

#naval history #weather #sailor's superstition #age of sail

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twola · 1 year

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Seven Deadly Sins - IX

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. A continuing series.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Perdition: a state of eternal punishment and damnation into which a sinful and unpenitent person passes after death.

➵ AO3 Link

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“I’m really sorry for you son, it's a hell of a thing.”

Arthur’s world slowed. It shrunk down to the room in this doctor’s office in Saint Denis, closing in on him, choking, like something pressing down on his chest. Making it even harder to breathe than it already is.

“Wha- what d’ya mean?” He hoarsely asked the doctor, who frowned before turning toward the sink opposite where he sat.

Tuberculosis. Consumption.

“You’re real sick, it's - it's a progressive disease. You’ll be… well, the best thing is rest. And getting somewhere warm and dry and taking it easy now. Is that possible?”

“Sure, I can just take my winters in my country club in California. No, it's not possible.” Arthur retorts icily.

“Well.. like I said, I’m real sorry.”

The doctor moves toward the table, grabbing a syringe. “Let me give you some more energy today, at least.”

Arthur barely registers the pinch of the needle in his arm, but he does feel the rush of energy through his blood, a warming that goes to his head and jolts his weary bones.

The doctor goes back to the table, fiddling with the syringe he just emptied.

“Doc - does it, how - c’n I give it to someone by…?”

He turns around, slowly. The doctor’s eyes flit down to Arthur’s hands - his left ring finger that was conspicuously empty.

“Are you talking about a woman? One you’re intimate with?”

Arthur nods, an even larger pit growing in his stomach.

The doctor’s frown deepens.

Arthur Morgan has always been an unrepentant man. He stole, he robbed, he shot and he killed his way through life. He was sure he would get his someday - at the end of a revolver perhaps, or the hangman’s noose.

He supposed he deserved it, that the higher power he’s never truly believed in would smite him down one day for his deeds - and he had accepted that. Bad men don’t get to have a good life. Why bother changing if all of that blood was going to damn him anyway?

The horse beneath him whinnies as he pushes his spurs into her side, urging her faster, faster, through the tepid and humid marshes of Bluewater, north, north to where the gang had taken refuge after Lakay, at some old blasted hill country camp in the damp and dark hills of Roanoke Ridge.

Arthur found himself praying - to a God he’s never prayed to before - that the punishment he was going to receive would be enough - enough to satisfy the divine being his justice.

You don’t deserve that punishment.

You don't deserve to die. Eliza didn’t deserve to die. Isaac, that bright and bouncing boy, he certainly did not deserve to die.

The thoughts of damnation and punishment invade his psyche so much so that he does not even realize he’s reached Beaver Hollow, absentmindedly going through the motions of hitching his horse and starting to walk toward Tilly, at the edge of the camp reading a book on a blanket.

“Miss Tilly.”

Tilly looks up and smiles. He doesn’t even have to ask, “She took laundry down to the river.” She nods her head to the left, motioning down the hill toward the winding Kamassa carved out of the Roanoke Valley.

Arthur nods and quickly heads down the trail, unwilling to speak to anyone else at the moment. Thoughts of his impending demise were shoved to the back of his mind - he would face them later.

He needed to see you first.

You’re singing, singing, of all things. Scrubbing a shirt against a rock. One of his shirts. The domesticity of it all warms his heart for a short moment - a moment before he remembers he’s a dying outlaw on the run and you are not his wife doing laundry at your homestead. Your soft laugh, your sly smile; the way you sigh his name when he’s buried between your thighs. How could he ever be deserving of your love, of all things, with this much evil he’s done?

You’re a petty thief. A saint compared to him.

You’re simply the object of his transgressions.

He’s lusted after you, your nude frame in the moonlight in Flat Iron Lake. He saw you and lusted for you and took you, that night under the bright moonlight as you sighed his name.

He’s gluttonous with your body - the sweet tang of your slick, feasting upon you in some old boathouse, head between your thighs taking of you far more than his fill.

He’s a greedy, greedy man - collecting your moans and sighs like a rich man collects gold coin - to drown himself in the pile he’s ripped from you.

He’s envious of any man who touches you - to brush against your soft skin that should be blessed only for him.

He’s killed, he’s murdered and maimed, for you - a wrathful punishment against men who dared disrespect or hurt you.

He’s guilty of slothful want - ignoring and shirking responsibilities and jobs and getting money to lock himself in a room with you and spend the hours worshiping your body.

He’s prideful in his possession, wanting all to know that you belonged to him - that you chose him, the miserable bastard that he is, above all others.

Just when he thought he was given his deliverance, laid on his knees next to you after Guarma - the karmic forces of the universe threaten to take him away from you again.

Your song falls into humming as you move to lift the wet work shirt of his - the blue one he always manages to stain, wringing out the water from it before laying it out on a large, flat stone to dry.

God almighty, does he love you.

Maybe he will be spared this tiny bit of retribution for his incalculable sins and be damned to never touch you again. Never feeling your kiss or your warmth or the sweet clutch of your cunt on his cock again. That certainly is punishment for both of you.

Christ, he just wants to lay you down in the mossy grass and take you apart, loving each and every inch of you until he physically can’t.

But he won’t. If by some divine providence, he hasn’t cursed you, he swears he will never touch you again. He’ll put you atop his horse and take you to Annesburg and put you on a train with every penny he has socked away. To go on living, away from the gang that seems to be splintering by the day, away from him, slowly dying under the weight of his failing lungs-

“Oh, Arthur, there you are.” You turn and catch sight of him, a smile gracing your face as you slide across the rock to sit on the edge closer to him.

“Feel like I haven’t seen you in days,” you sigh, but cannot keep the smile from your face as he steps closer, a cold sweat breaking out over the back of his neck.

“Sweetheart, I-“

Arthur is cut off when you cover your mouth to cough, a wet, eerily familiar sound that sends his heart sinking to his feet.

“Sorry - think I’ve got a cold. Haven’t been feelin’ well since we got here, these damn hills….”

He’s been so busy since coming back from Guarma, moving the gang up to Beaver Hollow. The Pinkertons and the Indians and Annesburg and… he’s barely been around. He hadn’t heard a cough. His mind works a million miles an hour as he’s back in the chair in the doctor’s office in Saint Denis.

“There’s a good chance you’ve given it to her, son.”

“What were you going to tell me, cowboy?”

You wipe your mouth with your sleeve and he sees the faintest red staining your teeth.

This is his comeuppance. This is everything he’s ever deserved. Every terrible decision in his life, every person he’s ever hurt - it has all come to this. Damnation and hellfire and all of the pain he’s ever dealt out to others - it comes back in a crushing feeling in his chest far worse than the sickness slowly killing him.

He should have known. He should have known.

People around him get hurt.

They die, because of him.

Because he’s a bad person.

“Arthur? What is it-”

He moves to you in quick steps and falls to his knees, taking your hand and pressing it to his lips before moving against his cheek.

“I’ve damned us both.”

Your eyebrows quirk up in alarm, “What are you talk-”

“I- I’m dyin’. I got TB.”

“What? How - ?” You mumble incredulously, eyes like saucer plates.

“One o’ Strauss’s debts - beat him, he was already dyin’ and I beat him goddamn bloody….”

Your eyes start to lose their focus as you look down at your hand, small, pinkish splotches of blood faintly stain your fingers. You look back to him as color drains from your face.

A dawning of realization sweeps through your eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart. I - I…” he stumbles as his heart breaks.

Words fail him.

He’s sorry, he’s sorry he’s sentenced you to death, a terrible fate of drowning within your own body. That you’ve been caught up in the punishment he was fated to receive in the life he’s lived.

His bloodshot eyes water over as he can’t look at you anymore. He presses your hand to his lips again.

You pull it away violently. You may as well have shot him, the searing, visceral pain he feels piercing his heart - he would rather be shot than feel this.

“I…I need… I need to...” You whisper, standing up from your seat on the rock. You stumble a step away before catching yourself, eyes distant.

You may as well have stabbed him in the chest and ripped out his beating heart. He reaches out to you on his knees and you bat his hands away.

“I need to be alone right now,” Your voice has gone low and you refuse to meet his gaze.

“Sweetheart-“

“ Leave me alone.” You snarl back at him.

You turn away from him, quickly walking further down the riverbank, stumbling across the smooth river stones. He jumps to his feet, quickly following you, catching up to you after several steps.

“Darlin' - let me- let me take you to the…”

You stop in your tracks, not turning around. Arthur tries to grab your hand, and you nearly hiss at him, drawing away. You finally turn your head partway toward him, and a burning, smoldering, naked hatred reflects back at him.

“Haven’t you done enough?” Your frame shudders as you try to hold in a cough.

Arthur stops - painfully close to you. Close enough to reach out and draw your small frame to his, but his arms don’t work.

Your eyes narrow before you turn and walk away, your body language obvious that you do not want him to follow.

He’s watched before as someone he’s loved walked away from him. The stabbing, crushing feeling as real as any bullet or knife, or blow. The slow bleed of being left alone. The exsanguination of his beating heart - where love is given, but not received in return.

Arthur lies in his cot. It feels so empty. It truly is only made for one person, especially one of his size, but he’s gotten so used to you being in it that he can’t bear to sleep without your warmth next to him.

Roanoke is cold. Damp. He’s stripped to his dark blue union suit, underneath a heavy blanket on his cot, staring at the flicker of the oil lantern as darkness settles in.

Arthur stumbled back into camp as the dusk was falling in, he somehow managed to avoid needing to interact with people and was able to pull the canvas shut on his tent as the hours wore on.

He’s listening for you, your soft voice or shy footsteps. Staring at the pocketwatch he left on the bedside table again, vowing to wait just a bit longer before storming out of his tent and going straight for his horse to scour the countryside for you. The nagging feeling in his chest was compounded by the damn Murfrees around.

Fortunately, for his sanity, he is not forced to make that decision.

The tent’s flaps are drawn back and a form slides between them. The burning lantern throws light on you, as you step closer, wringing your hands and staring at the ground. Your bare feet peek out from under your skirts.

“Sweetheart?”

You quietly pad toward the cot, and sit yourself down on the edge, swallowing and finally meeting his gaze as he sits up, shedding the blanket and placing his legs over the edge of the cot. Your eyes are red and bloodshot, and he knows that he’s the cause of it.

“If we’re dyin’, then I don’t want to spend any more time bein’ cross with you. I want to be with you as much as I can.” You say softly, almost a whisper.

“I’m so sorr-”

“Don’t. We’re here now. Ain’t nothing gonna change that.”

You settle in to sit next to him, and he puts his arm around you as he kisses your shoulder. For a moment you stare at the pitch of the tent before turning your head toward him.

His hand gently cups your cheek as he leans to kiss your forehead. “You’re… you’re the best thin’ that’s happened to me.”

You’re silent, and each moment that goes by drives the stake deeper into his heart as your eyes search his face.

“Darl-”

You cut him off by pressing your lips to his. By throwing your arms around him and pushing your body against him. By crawling into his lap and weaving your fingers through his hair. He pants gently, eyes wide as you pull back only inches. He thought he’d never taste your lips again.

“Make love to me, Arthur.”

“Are y’sure?”

Your eyes flit downward to his lips before coming back up to his eyes. Your hand moves to cup his cheek as you lean into him again, pressing your forehead against his. You nod, slowly, to answer his question.

You press your lips to his and he drinks of you as if he were a parched man. His arms wind around you, pulling you against him, plastered against each other.

“Oh, darlin’…” He sighs between kisses, having maneuvered you to straddle his lap, his hands settle on your hips as you begin to slowly roll your hips against his.

Your knees settle on either side of his hips as he sits on the cot, and through the layers of cotton of your skirts and his union suit, he swells. A groan escapes his throat as his blood settles hotly in his lap.

With one slow undulation, you cant your hips so that his burgeoning cock settles against your folds, parting them through fabric. Arthur’s eyes flutter open as you sit up straight in his lap, and your fingers slowly move to the collar of his dark blue union suit, undoing the first two buttons with practiced ease, as if you had been undressing him all of your life instead of only a couple of months.

More and more of his chest becomes visible to you as you work your way down, the bones of his ribcage much more prominent under the layer of muscle than they ever had been before.

He wheezes. Your fingers stop haltingly, the third button of his union suit halfway undone, falling back against his sternum. His bloodshot eyes catch yours once he has recovered his breath, pained, vulnerable.

“We don’t have to do this.” He mumbles, gaze locked on yours, the blue-green of his irises betraying that while the low tones of his voice say one thing, his tortured soul pleads for another.

“I’m not leaving.” You whisper back at him, your fingers slowly moving back to the buttons of his suit. Your gaze flutters down to his chest again as you continue your work of disrobing him.

You’re completely caught by surprise when he lifts you from his lap and easily maneuvers your body to lay on the cot before he climbs atop you, pressing his hips into yours again before chasing your lips as he settles his elbows on either side of your head.

Even ill, even dying, Arthur has more than enough strength to move you however he pleases.

His lips trail from yours down your neck, nuzzling his beard against your skin, leaving warm, wet splotches as he works his way down. He pulls back, balancing on his knees, shrugging out of the arms of his union suit, letting the fabric hang at his waist. You pull your shirt from your skirts and up and over your head, letting it fall to the wayside over the side of the cot.

He leans down and catches your lips briefly before sitting back up again, unbuttoning his union suit completely and pushing it down to his knees. His swollen cock bobs before he places his hand upon it and strokes a few times.

You shimmy your bloomers down from underneath your skirts, kicking them away as you draw your skirts to lay limply around your waist, baring your lower half to him as he hovers above you.

Arthur’s hand moves slowly from his cock toward you. He slides the sleeves of your chemise down, and the cotton falls from your skin as his fingers tug at it. He traces the pad of his thumb over your nipple, and you shiver as the skin pebbles as he passes it over. Arthur’s large hand then moves to cup your breast, squeezing lightly. His other hand weaves into your hair as he kisses you breathlessly.

The hot line of him settles against your soft belly as he settles between your hips, your legs falling open for him as the cotton layers of your skirts fall away.

Arthur wants to spend every waking second he has left in his miserable life in the gentle warmth of your embrace, skin to skin, about to bury his cock in your hips.

And when both he and you are bare and tangled in each other in his dark tent, with nothing but the heavy beating of your hearts and panting of your breath in the tent, Arthur gently, slowly slides his cock into your folds. A soft groan escapes his mouth as your hips touch, and you wrap your legs over his hips, crossing your ankles over his back as you whine back, the stretch of when he enters you sweet and overwhelming.

He takes his time, waiting for you to grow used to his intrusion into your body. When he does start to move his hips, it’s slow, gentle, as if he were savoring each and every second of being locked inside you. He slides down your chest, leaving small love bites upon your skin as you squirm underneath him with each thrust of his hips downwards to press you into the cot.

Your fingers spread out over his back, his hands weaving through your unbound hair, and your hips moving together in the dance of lovemaking without rush or the ferocity of your normal coupling. His hips roll and you accept: the sound of wet skin on wet skin periodically interspersed between soft moans, cut off gasps, and the creaking of the cot as your bodies move together.

You come and it’s completely by surprise, a choked-off whine as you clutch at Arthur’s shoulders, trying to smother your noise into his neck. He grunts and continues his pace through your orgasm, whispering soft affirmations into your ear as he fucks you, until the clutch around his flesh is too much to stand.

“I’m gonna… god-” he rasps into your ear, you can feel the muscles in his stomach clench against yours as he careens toward orgasm, “Where d’ya -”

“Inside - always inside, until -” you whisper, and he presses his mouth over yours to stop you from continuing further, from speaking into the world the terrible, unfailing truth.

He hitches his hips into yours, and a stifled moan rumbles from his chest against your mouth, as you can feel his cock twitch within your cunt. Arthur pours himself into you, coating your inner walls with his warm spend. How many more times would he be able to do this before he or you couldn’t?

He gasps, far more winded than he should be.

Arthur pulls out and you feel the slow drip of his cooling spend from your body, knowing it doesn't matter anymore. He quietly settles himself next to you, his hand moving to cup your cheek.

The tears in your eyes spill over, and he knows, it’s not from joy or physical satisfaction. He pulls you into his chest and his throat gets tight as you sob into his skin. Your hands are gathered tightly between the two of you, and he’s afraid you’re going to feel the rattling of his failing lungs under your fingertips.

He’s afraid that he’s going to feel the rattle from your lungs as you’re wrapped in his arms.

You weep into the curve of his neck. You weep for the impending death of dreams, of futures, and for your collective demise.

He cannot stop the tears from spilling from his own eyes. They track down his cheeks, hollowed and gaunt, as he stares at the pitch of the tent where the two of you are slowly dying in each other’s arms.

He weeps for you, that you are a casualty of the damnation he was always destined for.

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #red dead smut #seven deadly sins #ao3 #twolafic

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homeofhousechickens · 9 months

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i saw your post about eggs hatching because it was too hot. i have never raised chickens and don't know much about it so my bad if this is a silly question but i'm assuming this isn't a common occurrence. does that mean it doesn't matter if you raise roosters and chickens together if you plan on harvesting eggs, because there's a very low chance of fertilized eggs developing and hatching? or do people who raise chickens for eggs not raise roosters at the same time? or do you just separate them? does it depend on the season? thanks!

My roosters are always with the hens at the moment as roosters make hens happier (this is proven by science) 😊 so most of my eggs are fertilized which is no surprise. If i didnt have any roosters this would never be a problem. I'm a chicken breeder so I want fertilized eggs but if I just wanted eggs I wouldn't need a rooster, the eggs wouldn't be fertilized and they wouldn't turn into chicks.

What IS surprising is that Ibis was able to hatch while not being turned as eggs that are not turned have a high mortality as chicken embryos can get stuck to one side of the egg shell. Now there has been plenty of instances of chicks hatching just fine despite this its just rare. (Maybe me moving the bag around as I cleaned was enough to move the egg?)

The conditions that they hatched in likely had the right humidity and heat- you would call what happened "dry hatching" which is a way of incubating some people swear on but usually they use things like a Styrofoam incubator. Soiled chicken bedding is moist, so when it's in a plastic bag it can start composting and producing heat and humidity. I actually gift my bedding to local gardeners sometimes for this reason as it makes good fertilizer when composted down or insulation for the soil in winter.

Ibis hatched with zero problems associated with poor incubation. They had a perfect navel and no deformities or troubles like curled toes, splayed leg, or wry neck. They began eating quickly and have been thriving ever since, which makes me feel very impressed by them.

I actually know Ibis's parents because I only had one hen laying in the 19 day time frame because the rest were broody or off lay. Zinger is Ibis's father and Sassy is their mother

#trash baby #Ibis

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keysorsomething · 2 months

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So I’m assuming that rodions always been a fan of the cold, it could be like 50 out and he’d be in a tank top, how would he be with a reader who’s from like Florida and use to the heat and gets cold when it’s like 70 out, how would rodion hold out in the Florida heat and how would reader hold out in the Russian cold

This is very random but I just was bored😭

This is a great idea and I love it but I'd like to warn you I'm from the west coast (California) and have never been to Florida or Moscow so a lot of this is based on google searches lol <3

Request page !!

He thought he cold handle the heat

I mean, it does get pretty hot in Russia, during summer

But the few degrees between low-90s and high-70s gets everyone from time to time

Plus, Flordia is so much more humid than the Moscow region

Feels like he's suffocating

Makes you carry around ice cubes so he can rub them on his face

Shirtless 90% of the time

Googled how to safely remove his skin without dying

Nikto agreed to help him

----

When you get to Russia he was very excited!

He was very tired when you got there cause he didn't sleep the whole plane ride, he just couldn't wait to have his love in his home !!

He tries to get you there in summer, so it's warm, but if he can't he knows his way to stay warm

Real Russians frequently state that the aren't more cold resistant, but know how to layer (I've seen several of them compare it to cabbage lol)

So he layers you up so much you can barely move for the low tempatures !!

It gets very cold in Russia, he can't have you freeze or get frostbite !!

He used to hate when his mom did it to him as a kid but he doesn't understand the irony of subjecting you to having three jackets when he hated it himself

Constantly leans over to fix your clothes so you stay warm

Also frequently apologies about it being so cold

Overall, it's probably Florida for winter and Russia in the summer :)

#call of duty #cod mw2019 #rodion cod #rodion x reader

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youwouldntlietopapa · 8 months

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24- with Primo. Please and thank you.

First, I was hoping for some Primo prompts. I feel like I don't get a lot of chances to write him and I'd like more.

Second, HOW DARE???? I HAVE A HEADACHE NOW FROM CRYING??? WHY??? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME YOU MONSTER??????

Third, I'm not even sorry.

No real warnings on this one except for maybe emotional pain over yet another old man I love. Please refer any complaints to the account above. It's all on them.

Also available on AO3

ahem @the-cardinale just... if you're interested.

_____________________________________________________________

It had always been something when it came to Primo over the years. A few false starts. A few missed opportunities. Always the wrong time, the wrong place. The Ministry, duties, family, Papa, all of it. The stars simply hadn’t aligned. Not like you’d wanted. Not like you’d prayed. And, Satan help you, you had prayed. Each morning and night, before the great altar and alone in your room. Everything you did for the Abbey you offered up as a prayer.

But, instead, you had watched him, year after year. Rising in power, basking in his unholy glory, becoming the man you knew he was meant to be. His radiant beauty and his noble bearing only shining brighter each day. Even as you watched his silken hair of spun gold shift to silver and his taught, perfect skin begin to loosen and droop. Like the finest wine, grown nearly priceless with the passage of time.

If only time had been so kind to us both, you thought, looking into the mirror with a heavy sigh. Pulling your hair back tightly, winding it into a practiced bun at your crown. Trying valiently to put such thoughts out of your mind. The same thoughts you’d been trying to set aside for years… decades.

Fool. It’s too late now. Best to just let him go.

You shake your head and sigh, duty calls and you haven’t risen so high in the ranks to loose your footing now. Just forget it and get on with your day.

You manage it, reasonably well, as you do most every day. Assigning duties to the new Sisters, overseeing others, paperwork, emails, prep for lectures and seminars, making calls about bookings, sceduling meetings. The list is endless. Endless enough to keep you occupied with other things. The way you like it. The way that keeps you sane. Head down, nose to the grindstone.

Right up until you look up and find yourself standing in front of the greenhouse.

You could have sworn you only came out to get a little fresh air, to enjoy the warm early days of fall before the winter chill takes hold. Lost in your own thoughts, a million miles away. While your treacherous feet have betrayed you once more and carried you here, quite against your will. They know the path too well, walked too many times, years ago and all the time in between. Slowly spacing out the visists when it hurt too much to be there. Finding excuses and other places and busy work and anything else that didn’t remind you of the smell of fresh turned earth and the humid heat and sun warmed skin…

“Been a while, Sorella.” His voice catches you off guard. Still low and soft as a summer breeze. The gravel just beneathe is more pronounced than it used to be, but it’s the most beautiful sound in the world as far as you’re concerned.

One hard swallow is hardly enough to clear the decades of desire and regret caught in your throat and threatening to choke you. But it’s all you have before you turn to face him. “… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… to interrupt… I should go.”

But his hand grabs your arm and roots you to the spot. You don’t want to look, too afraid of what you’ll see. Anger, hatred… Lucifer preserve me, indifference. Still his hand holds you firmly.

“Please… look at me.”

And how could you say no? How could you ever say no? Even if it hurts. Especially when it hurts. You turn back and his eyes lock on to yours while the world around you crumbles to dust and the once solid ground falls away while you drop into the pit desperately trying to cling on to him just for a moment. Just for one precious, perfect moment where he might actually be yours. The man that he was, that he is, that he will be. Not the nothing it’s been for so long, too long, so painfully, foolishly, hopelessly long.

“I miss you, mia rosa.” His fingers loosen, sliding down your arm to catch your hand. The sensible part of you is desperate to pull away. You know this pain too well. How it will cut the heart out of you again. Again and again. Like every time before. “Please… please… don’t go. For me.”

“Papa, I…”

“No.” He says firmly. Not angry, just final. “No. Not here. Not from you. Non quando ho aspettato così a lungo che tu tornassi di nuovo qui, amore. Non sono quell'uomo, non per te, non posso esserlo. Preferirei morire.”

There’s a desperation in his eyes you don’t know that you’ve ever seen before and his hand holds on to yours like you might drift away.

“You know my name. You know who I am.”

“Primo... please.”

He’s already closer, so close you have to look up at him. So close you can feel his warmth and smell the lingering scents of the garden clinging to his clothes. His warm, gentle hand cups your cheek and he stares at you until you’re sure he can see right into your soul.

“How long are you going to hide from me? If you won’t stay… tell me how long is my punishment? I need to know. Please. So I can, at least, see an end. Tell me and I will wait, without complaint. But don’t just leave me here. I beg you.”

“Primo…” Decades. Decades upon decades. Still he steals the breath from your lungs and the sense from your head. Just being close is enough to drive you to madness. Every wall you’ve built around yourself to keep yourself safe feels as solid and secure as damp tissue. “The punishment isn’t yours. You know that. You know that. How many times have I told you? I know. I understand. It’s all right. I don’t begrudge you one ounce. But it hurts and it will keep on hurting. It’s no one’s fault… but, Satanas… It hurts until I can’t breathe.”

“Amore…”

“Please… it… it’s never forever, Primo. And I can’t do for now. It’s too late for that. Much too late.” It feels like a betrayal. Like an attack he doesn’t deserve. Just to say it out loud. That the tiny spark of hope that refuses to go out isn’t really enough to sustain you after so long.

For half a second you think he might let go, half a second that drags out into eternity where you are terrified he will let go. It’s one thing to say the words, to insist that it’s what’s best. But your stomach lurches dangerously and your throat tightens painfully at the terror that you might be right. That it really is just… done. And when his fingers slip free of yours, it’s all you can do not to scream until you shatter.

Instead it joins the other, cupping your cheeks tenderly. The warmth of his palms seeping deep into your skin and setting that tiny, dying ember back alight. “Not for now, angelo mio.” He says quietly, gently. His work callused thumb brushes a tear from your cheek. “No more for now. I am done with stolen days. With lost time. No more.”

His lips brush against yours, so softly it’s more like a memory.

“No more puppet pretending to be king. No more smiling court jester.” His brow furrows and his eyes glisten with tears barely contained. “Ho dato loro una vita, amore mio. Non ho mai avuto intenzione di dargli anche il tuo. E sono fauci spalancate e insaziabili. Ma non più. Ho finito. Hanno tutto ciò che otterranno da me. Non permetterò loro di avere anche questo.”

Primo’s forehead presses against yours and you can feel him fighting to control his breathing. Shaking from the effort of holding together. “It can’t be too late. Please. Tell me it’s not too late.”

“Look at me, Primo… really look at me. I’m not a girl anymore. Whoever she was was worn down with time and this is all that’s left. You… you deserve better. More. That girl got old, my love. And there are too many pretty young things here who would make you happy. Give you a son.”

“I am looking at you. You think I am so blind?” He says with a hint of a smile, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb. “It’s not them I want. And I raised three sons already. I don’t need another. What would I do with a baby, amore? I have my children here.” Primo waves to the garden. “They are enough.”

“It’s you I don’t have and you I want. Always you. Only you.”

“Hell’s teeth, you are stubborn as ever.” You huff.

Primo finally smiles, chuckling softly. His arms wrapping you in his warm embrace. “Si, I am. More maybe. You know how old men get.”

Your hand reaches up and cups his cheek as he did yours. Noting all the subtle changes and all the things that are still the same. Drifting along his jaw and around behind his sun baked neck. Letting your fingers run through his hair. Thinner now, more silver than gold, and still like the finest silk. His eyes slide closed and the hum of pleasure that rumbles in his chest still echoes through your soul.

His lips are on yours again. Tentative at first, waiting for you to pull away, and claiming your mouth deeply, desperately, passionately when you don’t. His strong hand cradling the back of your head, holding you steady. You’re vaguely aware of moving and the sound of the greenhouse door. But none of it matters. Nothing else matters outside of his embrace, the taste of his lips, and the familiar press of his body. When you drop into his old chair, the years fall away and you’re curled in his lap once more. Hands buried in his hair. His own hand deftly loosening yours from the bun, letting it spill down your back. Combing his fingers through with a soft moan.

“Amore mio…” He breathes against your lips. His grip on your hair holding you close. “Forgive me. Forgive me, please. Ask of me anything. I will burn the greenhouse. I will tear up the garden. I will give you the world if you ask. Only forgive me.”

“Anything?”

“Si.”

One hand slips from his hair. Tracing the lines of his face, all the victories and defeats, all the loves and heartache, the joys and sorrow mapped out over the face that’s been in every one of your dreams from the first time you laid eyes on him. Staring back into his mismatched eyes that have seen even the darkest coners of your mind and never once flinched away.

“All I want is all I’ve ever wanted.” Your hand finds his and you lace your fingers together. “You.”

A rosy blush blooms across his cheeks and he smiles a little sheepishly, dropping his head. “Sono tuo, dolcezza. Come lo sono sempre stato. Completamente, interamente, irrimediabilmente tuo.”

“I forgive you. I have always forgiven you.” You lift his chin and smile gently.

“Now kiss me, you fool.”

_____________________________________________________________

Sorella = Sister

mia rosa = my rose

Non quando ho aspettato così a lungo che tu tornassi di nuovo qui, amore. Non sono quell'uomo, non per te, non posso esserlo. Preferirei morire. = Not when I've waited so long for you to come back here again, amore. I'm not that man, not for you, I can't be. I'd rather die.

Ho dato loro una vita, amore mio. Non ho mai avuto intenzione di dargli anche il tuo. E sono fauci spalancate e insaziabili. Ma non più. Ho finito. Hanno tutto ciò che otterranno da me. Non permetterò loro di avere anche questo. = I gave them a lifetime, my love. I never intended to give them yours too. And they are gaping and insatiable maw. But not anymore. I finished. They have all they will get from me. I won't let them have this too.

Sono tuo, dolcezza. Come lo sono sempre stato. Completamente, interamente, irrimediabilmente tuo. = I'm yours, sweetness. As I always have been. Completely, entirely, hopelessly yours.

#Papa I x Reader #primo x reader #ghost fanfic #marriage prompts

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the12thnightproject · 9 months

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My @flash-exchange fic is for @iphigeniainaulis , who listed Mitsunari as one of her favorites. I never need any encouragement to write about our lovely shy strategist.

Title: The Root of the Problem

Mitsunari x Mai

Prompt: cockroach/bugs

Content warnings: cockroach/bugs

The trouble begins with a carrot.

It is no secret that Mitsunari hates carrots, and goes to great lengths to avoid eating them. Conversely, Hideyoshi and Masamune both believe that carrots are a necessary dietary component and go to equally great lengths to feed them to him. Stir-fried carrots, carrot preserves; even mochi with carrot filling (which in retrospect, everyone agrees had been a terrible idea, even for those who like carrots) find their way into his meals. No matter how distracted he is, how deep into a book, Mitsunari unerringly avoids the orange root, and his dishes, when returned to the kitchens, always contain uneaten carrots.

However, this particular troublesome carrot did not find its way back to the kitchen. Instead, it fell onto the desk, rolled across the room, coming to a stop behind a pile of books. Now… had this incident occurred in winter, the carrot would have eventually fossilized and been swept away by a maid. Unfortunately…

It is summer.

A very hot summer.

A very hot humid summer.

Thus, the wayward carrot sits alone in the soggy heat to do what leftovers do. Until what remains of the carrot is discovered by a-

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Even Mitsunari’s famous focus can be broken, especially when Mai is in trouble. Before she finishes screaming, he leaps to his feet, alert to an attack, just as she throws herself into his arms. Correctly interpreting this action to mean there is no immediate danger, he hugs her close, the adrenaline rush subsiding with that sense of peace that she always brings. She is the ocean at low tide, her presence calmly shimmering like the waves in sunlight.

He gently strokes her hair, marveling at how perfectly she fits in the space between his shoulder and chin. When her initial fright fades, and she moves to step away, he draws her back in, wishing to continue their embrace, continue breathing her for a while longer. Maybe, maybe… since she is already in his arms, he can take the opportunity to kiss her.

It wouldn’t be the first time an afternoon of work has been replaced by a few stolen hours together… in his bed… on the desk… and on one lovely Autumn day, under a tree by the lake.

He leans closer, pressing a soft, tentative kiss to her forehead, waiting for a sign that she too wants to forgo their tasks, waiting for that moment when her breath catches, and she smiles into his eyes and…

A frantic Hideyoshi skids into the room, sword aloft. “I heard screaming.”

“Oh.” The now blushing Mai turns toward him. “Sorry. I saw a bug.”

“A bug.” Hideyoshi glances around the room, scowling when he spots the (admittedly large) cockroach feasting on the rotting carrot.

“Yeucch.” Mai shudders and buries her face in Mitsunari’s shoulder again.

Within moments, Hideyoshi efficiently relocates the bug, disposes of the corpse of the carrot (or more correctly - relocates the carrot and disposes of the corpse of the bug), and proceeds to deliver a lengthy lecture about the necessity of eating your vegetables and keeping your quarters clear of rotting food. “I expect you will, from now on, eat what is set in front of you.”

Knowing this was a moment for diplomacy, Mitsunari makes a quick “hmm” that he hopes Hideyoshi interprets as assent.

But with Mai comfortably nestling against his chest, her breath soft on his neck, her thrumming pulse calling to his own - Mitsunari is sure of one thing…

… He will not be eating carrots.

#tw: cockroach #tw: bugs #ikemen sengoku #ikesen mitsunari #mitsunari ishida #flash exchange #fanfic

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the-chosen-fanfiction · 11 months

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Big James | Side By Side | Romantic

Dialogue prompt: “Why don't you join us as well?”

Requested: Yes

Your home in Capernaum is quiet and empty when your husband James is on the road with the Messiah, but he has an idea that you had not yet considered.

You swallow away the lump of guilt in your throat as you count another tally on the wall of your kitchen. Blinking away the tears, you shake your head at your own silliness, although you justify it by claiming that it helps you cope.

The first stripes of chalk have started to fade already as the months pass. Humidity in the room as well as the home simply being lived in causes it to do so. Frightened you will lose track of time, you close your eyes, fighting against your tears.

Today’s tally marks half a year of James’ absence. Six months ago, he came to ask your blessing to follow the Messiah. Although you had only been married for barely just as long, you had to miss him already.

Weeks upon weeks of missing your husband, the man you so deeply loved. In spite of it being for a cause you deemed the worthiest of all – denying the Messiah would be foolish – it hurts you more than you’d ever admit. As long as James is with Jesus, everything will be well in the end, you don’t doubt that for one second.

But your bed is cold, and the other spot at the table remains empty during dinner every night. You often seek out Eden, but you don't want to be too much of a bother. She seems to cope with her husband’s absence better than yourself. The last thing you want is to be a burden, and so, you bite your tongue about it and suffer in silence.

The fact that your first wedding anniversary is rolling around tomorrow is not helping, either. You don’t want the memory of your wedding day to be associated with something painful, as if it was a time that things were better compared to now, which is not the case. You’d want him to trade his life with you for a life with the Messiah under any circumstance. If anything, there is no reason for you to express the way you are truly feeling, for it would be egotistical at best.

Still, a tear rolls down your cheek. You quickly wipe it away with the back of your hand, sighing deeply before resuming on preparing dinner – for one.

A quick stop at the market is necessary, for you are in need of saffron and have just thrown out a rotten bunch of leeks. You take your bag as well as some money – you notice that you’re running low and should definitely see yourself to an extra job on the side if you want to stay fed throughout winter – and head out of your homestead, locking the door behind you.

Your neighbour greets you as you pass and you reciprocate her kind smile, although her eyes contain something sad, as if she pities you. Taking a sharp breath, you avert your gaze back to the road, feeling the pressure.

Of course the rumours had been there when James had first left as well as Simon. Whispers that they had left you and Eden behind to pursue some rogue Preacher, but as word of Jesus’ miracles spread, many began to believe that He had to be the Messiah and so, the rumours faded. Still, some people pity you, asking you how you are with good intentions, and the answer you give them is always the same. Not keen on drawing attention to yourself, for it is not about you but about Him in the end, you reassure the townsfolk that you’re fine.

The familiar face of the farmer’s wife selling fresh produce is a welcome one. You smile and bow your head slightly.

“Shalom shalom,” you breathe, “Could I please have a bunch of leeks and a small bag of currants?”

“Shalom (Y/n), of course.”

She gets you the items you requested and hands them to you, but as you reach out to take them from her, she smiles a little. “I just saw your husband rush through these streets. I bet you must be happy that he’s back.”

Your eyes widen and your face flushes with slight embarrassment. “Huh? James isn’t home, what do you mean?”

Her mouth falls open slightly. “Oh, you mean that he hasn’t been home yet?”

Shaking your head, you feel your throat run dry and you swallow thickly in order to ease it. “How long ago did you see him?”

The merchant shrugs. “About half an hour ago, I think. He was with his brother.”

The revelation makes your cheeks turn hot. Perhaps that she is mistaken, but if he was in the company of John when he passed by, it is likely that it’s him. You quickly pay for the goods and tuck them into your bag before thanking her.

“Thank you for the food, and for telling me. Perhaps he went to my in-laws first, I’ll… I’ll check their place.”

The woman gives you an apologetic smile. “I hope I haven’t unknowingly ruined some sort of surprise he might have been planning for you.” Her words somewhat calm your nerves, for perhaps that he indeed wanted to make it special.

You give her a final greeting and forget about the saffron, instead rush over to the house of Zebedee and Salome as fast as your feet can carry you. Nearly tripping over a rock that shoots into your sandal, you stumble into their door and knock on it rather awkwardly. Even though there is no need to hurry, inexplicable unrest tugs at your heartstrings.

Zebedee appears on the threshold and smiles at you brightly. “Ah, my favourite daughter-in-law!” he quips, a comment he often makes upon seeing you. After all, you’re his only daughter-in-law, and for some reason Zebedee keeps on making that same joke. “How are you? What brings you here?”

“Is James here?”

Your father-in-law frowns. “James? He left a few minutes ago, have you missed him?”

“So he’s back?” you query, then nod. “I mean, if that is the case, yes. Do you know where he went?”

Salome brushes up next to her husband, and wraps an arm around you. “Shalom (Y/n), he can’t be far. He went to the house of Eden and Simon to sort out some business. Is everything alright? You look a little flushed. Are you ill?”

With a small shake of your head, you once again feel your nerves somewhat ease. “I’m not,” you say, “But thank you for that information. I’ll check their place next.”

Zebedee grins and pats your shoulder. “You’ll be alright.”

You shrug. “Certainly.” Salome gives you a reassuring hug, which you gladly accept.

The trip to Eden’s home is not too far from here, and with a quickened step, you make your way through the dusty streets of Capernaum. Right as you turn the corner towards their house, you see Little James and Thaddeus standing in front of the door. They smile upon seeing you approach, but this joy drops when they notice your slight distress.

“Oh, hello (Y/n)!” Little James says, “Good to see you again. Is everything alright?”

“Shalom, have you been back in town for long?”

Thaddeus purses his lips whilst thinking for a moment. “Ah, about an hour, I think? Why?”

“I haven’t seen Big James yet.”

Little James’ eyebrows shoot up. “That’s strange, we thought you were aware of us being back already. He actually just left for Andrew’s flat, he needed to figure some things out there. If you’re quick, you might be able to catch up to him.

“I’ll have to hurry, then.” you say, “Thank you, guys. I’ll speak to you soon, okay?”

They give you kind smiles and you head towards the former fisherman’s place. For some reason, your heart feels incredibly tight as it slams against your chest unevenly, as if you’re almost nervous to meet your husband again. Although you’re sure he has a good reason for it, you feel almost sad that he hasn’t come to see you first before dealing with the other tasks that are keeping him busy.

With your leeks still in the bag around your shoulder, you rap against the door of Andrew’s flat. Looking rather dishevelled due to being on the road for weeks without a chance of taking a proper bath, the curly-haired son of Jonah opens it and looks at you with widened eyes, surprised to find you here, seemingly anxious to boot.

“Ah, (Y/n), shalom. What’s wrong, didn’t you like James’ surprise?”

Your face pales. “Surprise?”

Andrew’s jaw falls. “I… He just left a few minutes ago to go home, he wanted to freshen up and make a quick stop at the market to buy you some…” He pauses, gulping when he realises. “Oops. Sorry for ruining it, now.”

You let out a sound. “No, it’s okay,” you breathe, “All what matters to me is that he’s back in town, but it seems like I’ve been constantly missing him by a hair.”

Wondering what you mean by that, Andrew opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt him before he can say something. “I will no longer take up your time, you must be exhausted from the trip. Thank you for telling me, Andrew. Shalom shalom.”

“Shalom shalom.” Andrew answers, sounding puzzled but not inquiring further, and you hurry back home. For some reason, you’re feeling embarrassed. Have you in your eagerness to see him again made yourself appear desperate? Have you been too impatient to logically think that he’d come home eventually and that you would have had plenty of time to prepare dinner to share with him in the meantime?

You’re almost ashamed to face him.

When your home appears, the door is askew and your heart skips a beat at the sight, your feet carrying you hurriedly towards it. You push it open and kiss your fingers before brushing them against the mezuzah on the doorframe before heading in, the hinges creaking at the disturbance. With his back turned to you stands your husband, eyes upon the tally marks on the wall.

“Shalom, James.” He turns to face you with an expression you can’t quite place, as if he is relieved to see you but at the same time concerned.

“Shalom shalom, my love.”

He opens his arms and you immediately drop the bag of groceries to the ground, not caring whether the leeks get bruised or not as you let yourself fall into his arms, hugging him tightly.

Burying his face inside your hair, James inhales deeply. “It’s good to see you again, love.”

You tighten your arms around him. “Likewise, Jay,” you sigh, embracing him firmly. The warmth of his body is familiar and welcoming. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, (Y/n),” he mutters against your cheek, kissing it. “Don’t get me wrong, it is great to be at Jesus’ side and help Him spread the Word of God, but it is difficult being away from you.”

You take in his scent and smile. “I went on a wild goose chase through Capernaum to find you.”

He chuckles, brushing some hair out of your face as he pulls away from the hug to face you. “I had to take care of some things first. I hadn’t taken a bath in days and wanted to put on a fresh tunic before heading your way with these.” He steps aside to grab a bunch of flowers he has purchased on his way home and you blush, smiling at him as you take them.

“Oh, James, they’re beautiful.”

“Did you really think I’d forget our first wedding anniversary? I know it is not until tomorrow, but this is just a little taste of what is to come. I’ll be taking you out of the house, okay? Spend some quality time together.”

You are at a loss for words. “Dear, I don’t deserve any of that.”

“Of course you do, you’re the love of my life.” he reassures you, kissing your forehead sweetly. His smile falls, however, as he turns back to the wall. “What’s with the marks?”

Knowing that you cannot deny what it is for, you sigh and let your eyes fall to the ground, shuffling back and forth a tad awkwardly. “It’s… The amount of days since you’ve been called.” When you fall silent and James does not respond right away, you elaborate further: “I… I know it is wrong to be negative about it. I mean, you’re at the side of the Messiah! Any wife would be so lucky to be married to one of the Disciples of the Christ! But missing you is hard and I need a way to keep track of the passage of time.”

James gives you a stern look, his brow knit together in concern. “Oh, love.” he sighs, “I’m so sorry. I–I can talk to Jesus about it, if I could visit home more often. I am aware that you’d gladly see me at Jesus’ side, but our marriage shouldn’t suffer because of the ministry–”

“James, no.” you cut him off, “Our marriage is not suffering at all. The only thing that is difficult is us missing each other, but it is for a good cause.”

He cups your cheek and tilts it up, searching your eyes. “Why don't you join us as well?” he asks out of the blue, and it takes you aback. Blinking in slight confusion, you wonder if your ears are deceiving you. “It would be wonderful to have you on the journey as well. We don’t have any children yet, so we don’t have that responsibility.”

“But who will look after the house?” you breathe, “Who will make money to provide for it?”

James smiles and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that, my love. My parents can check up on it every so often to see if everything is in order and we don’t need money while we’re on the road. We live from donations to the ministry and we’re looking for ways to make passive income on the side. I’m sure Jesus wouldn’t mind me bringing you along.”

Exhaling, you rub your face and take a long moment to overthink the suggestion.

“I… I would love to, actually,” you breathe, “but I’m not sure if I’m the right person for it. I hardly know anything about Torah, I’m not a teacher and I don’t really have survival skills.”

Your husband grins. “Well, did you think that all of us feel like we’re the right people for it? Jesus told us He doesn’t need perfect teachers nor does he require you to be knowledgeable about everything. He has called the imperfect for a reason.” He lets out a sound of amusement, “Plus, do you think that Nathanael, Thomas or Matthew have any survival skills at all? It’s definitely not a prerequisite and we’re in everything together.”

“Okay.” you decide then and there, “I’ll come with you.”

James’ smile grows wider and he kisses you for a moment, excited to hear it. Once he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours and smiles. “I’ll ask Jesus as soon as I see Him. But first, we should enjoy tomorrow, alright?”

Nodding in agreement, you wrap your arms around his neck, embracing him. As you stand like that for a moment, your eye falls upon the chalk stripes that still sit on the wall.

First thing in the morning, you make a mental note, you’re going to erase them all.

#the chosen #reader insert #the chosen x reader #x reader #chosen x reader #big james x reader #the chosen big james #big james x you

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