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@sabrinacarpenterdaily

Love Seat

Wrote a ZoSan Meet-Cute fic based off of this post. Here’s a snippet!

Summary:

Sanji is enjoying an entire movie screening room to himself… until some sentient piece of algae walks in, gets lost, then sits down right beside him. And listen, it’s not like Sanji likes algae, but the guy is kind of.. cute.

Just a little! That’s all!

Or;

Perona has sent Zoro out on a mission: watch her new favourite movie at the theatre. This sees him out in the boonies, but that doesn’t matter. He gets there eventually.

Somehow, he returns home with a potential boyfriend, and apparently new gossip material for Perona and Mihawk.

Excerpt:

“Listen here, Marimo—!”

“Marimo?”

“Y-yeah. Sea moss.” He gestures around his own hair as an explanation.

“My name is Zoro. Roronoa Zoro.”

“Okay, James Bond. I don’t care what your name is!”

“Fine, call me whatever you want, Curly, but Roronoa is my surname. It’s Japanese.”

Sanji slaps a hand over his exposed eyebrow and gives an affronted gasp. Of all the nerve! “My name is Sanji!”

Zoro — Marimo, whatever — blinks at him. “Sanji? Just Sanji? Who do you think you are? Beyoncé? Rihanna? Zendaya?”

Sanji frowns, then finds himself settling back into his seat beside this aggravating mossball of a man with a huff. He paid good money for this seat. He’s not going to lose it because some asshole sat beside him and refuses to leave.

“No, I’m not an iconic black woman. But, though I don’t really have a last name — not anymore, at least — I do go by Blackleg. It’s.. a tribute to someone important to me.” Sanji doesn’t know why he even bothered to answer, or why he explained that much, but he can feel Zoro’s gaze on him — intense and warm, searching and calculating, scorching yet simultaneously gentle — before he looks away with a huff.

“Whatever,” he says, no doubt going for flippant, and he’s just sassy enough to make it work, but Sanji still catches the sliver of understanding there.

How profound for a sentient piece of grass, to know when to drop a subject.

They continue to watch the movie in silence. Well, at least for all of two minutes.

“What’s going on?”

Sanji groans and rolls his eyes. “Maybe you should have thought about that before coming into the movie 20 minutes late!”

Zoro blinks. “20 minutes?” He checks his phone. “It’s been four and a half hours.”

Sanji balks. What, he was supposed to be here for one of the previous showings?? “Is that supposed to be better?” he whispers back, voice and ire weakened by his shock.

How can someone be so unorganized? It’s almost fascinating.

Zoro shrugs. “I.. got turned around on my way here.”

“Oh,” Sanji says, recalling the nonsensical directions Zoro had been walking in while trying to find his seat. He even left the theatre once or twice, and Sanji had assumed he got the wrong movie, but nope, the guy’s a donut. “So you got lost.”

Sanji must strike a nerve, because Zoro’s sun-kissed cheeks start to turn red as he vehemently protests. “I don’t get lost!”

Again, Sanji is left thinking this man is cute.

“You sure about that, Mosshead? You seemed lost just looking for your seat.”

“Listen here, Dartbrow—“

“DARTBROW!”

“— I got here just in time for this showing, didn’t I?”

“Dartbrow…” Sanji grumbles to himself as he pets at his eyebrows. And the idiot didn’t even get to this showing on time! That’s the whole point! “Suffer. I’m not telling you shit about the movie. Figure it out yourself, you stupid hawksbill turtle.”

How unfortunate that Sanji actually likes the endangered species of turtle, even if Hawskbills are known to get a little lost during migration. Turtles are just so cute; how can he not?

Hope you guys enjoyed this silly little snippet! Let me know what you’re thinking so far.💞💞💞💞 The rest can be found here!

I love sweet step dad 😭

Baking Treats

alcoholic/sweet stepdad!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader - SFW

warnings: stepcest, kissing, slight heavy petting

not proofread ✌️

“You know we can make’em from scratch right?”

Leon steps up next to you as you finish placing the last cookie down on the cookie sheet and pop it into the oven. 

You roll your eyes at him but don’t stop the smile stretching your lips, “Yeah but these are classic. Kinda like you.”

He grins, laugh lines deepening as he presses you against the kitchen counter, hands caging you as they settle on each side of you.  

“Yeah? A classic, huh,” he murmurs, lips ghosting across yours making your eyes droop.

“Uh huh,” you whisper, hands skating up across his chest to wrap around the back of his neck, “vintage, even.”

He chuckles and presses a feather light kiss to your lips. Sighing, you tug him back in, mouths softly meeting in another kiss. Leon keeps his kisses teasing and light until you nip his bottom lip with a whine. 

“So sweet,” he mutters before licking into your mouth with a hungry groan. 

The hint of whiskey still on his tongue has you pressing your thighs together, a Pavlovian response now as heat rushes through your body. He pulls away to grab your waist and lift you up onto the counter. Standing in between your legs, his hands grip the fat of your thighs and he yanks you into him. 

You whimper as the makeout turns into heavy petting; Leon’s hands are everywhere on your body, caressing your soft skin and groping your tits. He’s slowly working your leggings down your thighs when the kitchen timer dings. 

Leon steps back with a sigh as he helps you back down onto your feet, righting your clothing. 

“Thanks,” you smile sheepishly, quickly reaching for the oven mitt. 

“Nobody likes burnt cookies,” he leans against the counter, dark eyes watching you pull the cookies from the oven. 

You set the pan gently down on the stovetop and spin back around, tossing the oven mitt on the counter. 

You step over to Leon and wrap your arms around his shoulders, “So, where were we?”

divider: @firefly-graphics

delor.

the world is my stage and im blundering my way through a closed-curtain performance. a close call, set to halftime.

Pride month writing thing (specifically transfem :3)

The small droplets of water ran down my cheek. From the water radiated comfort. Not a release of dismay but of elation. My watered eyes, for the first time in what feels longer than my memory can withstand, wept tears of joy and not repression, or pain or stress or anything like that. In the mirror I do not see a hurt sad boy, but a strong brave woman. Despite all the hate she got. Despite all the friends and family she sadly left behind. Despite the countless doctor appointments that felt like they went nowhere. Despite the anxiety of going out dressed in a way that felt real and right. Despite the nonsense politics. Despite her own lack of faith she would or even could survive. Despite everything she stood happy and proud. Through all the change I could still see the person I once was, the once sad boy. From the boy I saw not fear but relief. Despite what my parents had told me, I had not killed the boy. The boy was never real. The boy was nothing more than a mask and after all this time there stood the person who was always underneath. The girl smiled. I smiled. Happy pride month. 

Bargain

“Go now, be useful for once,” Mother said before shutting the door behind me, leaving no time to say my goodbyes.

I didn’t blame her—she did what needed to be done. Our family was abundant: me, my seven siblings, Mother and Father, and our remaining grandparents, all cramped within the confines of our modest home. Our so-called estate wasn’t much to speak of—a few sheep, a handful of goats, and two geese that were nearing their imminent death due to a hole in the shed, barely standing against the cruel winter winds.

The countess didn’t pay much for me, but it was just enough to get the family through the winter. I was to stay at the estate and serve her until I reach the age of twenty, but deep in my heart, I knew that I would never return home. I didn’t mind the arrangement, I was somewhat happy to not be a burden any longer. Mother tried time and time again for a son—a strong pair of hands to share the weight of the farm—each time she was met with another daughter. Among ourselves, we’d joke that she will keep going until the animal barn is occupied. Mother’s womb was cursed, but resilient as she was, she refused to give up.

I stood outside the door for a moment, shivering as the cold gnawed through my thin coat. I allowed myself one fleeting moment of sadness, one brief pang of longing for my sisters’ familiar chatter, only while I was still close to my home. Once I began my journey up to the mountains, there would be no room for such indulgence.

I took a step, then another, and then another, slowly starting to make my way through the village, eery silent on this cold winter day. My shoes were not nearly sturdy enough to withstand the slush and wetness of the melting snow, and so my feet felt cold and slippery inside of my boots. I told myself it was fine—the Countess’s castle was sure to be warm.

I knew the way well. As little girls, my sisters and I would venture towards the castle on playful escapades, pretending we were princesses invited to a grand ball. The construction loomed over the village, a monolith of cold grey stone crowned with towers so tall they would often pierce the clouds.

The Countess herself never descended to the village. Her affairs were conducted through written correspondence with the chief, and though no one had ever seen her, she was regarded with a mixture of reverence and gratitude. Food, money, and work trickled down from her estate, and as long as those needs were met, her anonymity was unquestioned.

At last, my long journey came to an end as I stood before the grand entrance of the castle. I reached for the heavy iron knocker and let it fall. The door creaked open almost instantly, as if the mistress herself had been standing just behind it, awaiting my arrival.

“Welcome, girl.”

Before me stood an impossibly tall woman, her presence commanding and severe. I had to crane my neck just to meet her piercing gaze.

“My lady,” I stammered, dropping into the deepest curtsy my frozen knees would allow. Mother had insisted I show gratitude, no matter how much my pride might protest.

“Come in, now,” she hurried me inside, no doubt after seeing my red cheeks and blue hands, bitten by the frost.

The castle’s interior was nothing short of magnificent. Ornate rugs cushioned every step, golden trim gleamed on every surface, and a grand piano stood in the corner of the vast entry hall.

“Let me help you with your coat,” the Countess said, a faint smile curling her lips as she tugged the coat from my shoulders and let it fall carelessly to the floor. “Shall I toss it? You’ll be given new clothes, of course.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

I didn’t care. Had she told me to strip naked and burn every scrap I owned, I would’ve gladly complied.

“Now,” the Countess continued, her tone clipped but not unkind, “your room is prepared, with your uniform and other necessities waiting inside.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

A question lingered on my tongue, and I couldn’t go any further without my curiosity being unfulfilled. “Will I be sharing my room with the other girls? When will I meet the rest of the help?”

The Countess paused mid-step and turned her head slightly toward me, her voice soft but final. “There are no other girls.”

I dared not ask more.

She led me down a series of silent corridors, the only sound our footsteps against the polished stone floor. The air felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were listening. The Countess moved with fluid grace, her steps purposeful, until at last, we stopped before a wooden door tucked away in a secluded wing.

“This will be your room,” she said simply, opening the door and stepping aside to let me enter.

The chamber was modest but clean—a narrow bed, a small writing desk, and a wardrobe stood against the stone walls. On the bed lay a neatly folded uniform.

“Rest. I will call for you when I require your presence.”

With that, the Countess turned on her heel and shut the door behind her, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing faintly in the still air.

I was left alone.

***

The next day I waited and waited, but the servant bell never rang. Mother had always told me that the help should neither be seen nor heard, so I remained hidden in my room until I the relentless growling in my stomach became unbearable. It was when the night befell that I decided to exit my room and make my way downstair to fetch a bite to eat. Thankfully, my mistress had walked me through the kitchen the day before, sparing me the need to trouble her.

The kitchen was located in the basement, to the left of an expansive wine cellar. On the far side stood a large entrance framed by double doors. The air grew colder as I descended, and shadows danced along the stone walls, cast by flickering sconces.

In the kitchen, I rummaged through the pantry and cabinets, but to my dismay, I could not find so much as a loaf of bread. It struck me as odd—peculiar, even—considering the Countess's tall and robust figure.

Resigned to another night of hunger, I turned to leave, the cold flagstones chilling my bare feet. But just as I reached the doorway, I froze. The faint sound of shuffled footsteps echoed from beyond the double doors, followed by the creak of one slowly swinging open.

A rancid stench hit my nostrils, making my stomach lurch violently. I kneeled above a cauldron, gagging and retching, but with nothing in my stomach, I could only produce bile, burning my throat and mouth as it went up and out.

Then I saw it.

A figure stood in the entrance of the kitchen, looking not at me but past me, its eyes milky and unseeing. Its skin, sickly pale and stretched taut over sharp bones, looked as though it might tear with even the faintest movement. It swayed slightly, head twitching with an unnatural rhythm. Its skeletal frame was draped in a garment I recognized instantly—a black dress, identical to the one I wore.

I couldn’t scream—the bile in my mouth sealed it shut. With every ounce of strength I had left, I scrambled upright, my feet slipping briefly on the slick floor. I bolted for the stairs, shoving past the creature with my elbow as I fled, its frail frame giving way beneath my desperate push.

I fled upstairs, breathless and desperate to escape the oppressive confines of the castle. The grand front door loomed before me, heavy and unyielding, refusing to budge no matter how I tugged and clawed at its gilded handle. Behind me, a faint rustle stirred the silence, and I turned sharply—there she was.

The Countess was poised elegantly, half-lying upon a couch, a glass of deep red wine balanced delicately in her pale hand. Her presence, though unexpected at this late hour, brought me relief. Whatever horror lurked in the shadows of the basement seemed distant in her commanding presence.

"There you are," she said, her lips curling into a serene smile. "What has frightened you so, my dear?"

I tried to respond, but my voice faltered, choked by the sobs racking my chest and the tears streaking my cheeks.

“You look terrified, girl,” She said, putting her glass aside. “Come on, sit with me.”

I sat down beside her, struggling to contain my shaky hands.

“I saw…” I began, my voice quivering as I struggled to produce a sentence. “I saw someone in the kitchen.”

The Countess's smile did not waver, her emerald eyes studying me with detached amusement. "Oh? Did you now?”

"It—it looked human," I stammered, my voice cracking under the weight of my fear. My arms wrapped around my torso as though trying to physically restrain the terror bubbling within me.

"Hush now, child," she cooed, reaching out to stroke my hair with a gloved hand. "There are no monsters in this castle. Perhaps some warm chocolate would soothe your nerves. Would you like that?”

“If you’d be so kind,” I managed. She was not surprised in the slightest, and I began to think that perhaps it was my exhausted and hungry body was the one playing tricks of me.

She reached for a small bell and gave it a faint ring. The chime echoed through the halls, fading into an uneasy silence. Time stretched unbearably, the stillness gnawing at my frayed nerves.

After a glance at the clock, the Countess sighed lightly. "You'll have to forgive my maid. She's unwell."

I smiled. It wasn’t a servant’s place to judge the quality of the help.

At last, footsteps echoed from below—slow, uneven. From the shadows of the basement stairs emerged a frail figure, clutching a tarnished silver tray with an unsteady grip. The dim light revealed her hollow eyes, sallow skin stretched tight over sharp bones, and the unnerving twitch of her head with every step.

I sprung up, my body trembling as it slowly approached us. The Countess’s plump hand tugged on mine, forcing me back down on the couch. She didn’t let go, her fingers tightening with surprising strength.

"There," she said with an air of finality as the creature set the tray before me. "Your chocolate.”

The cup was chipped and stained, its contents a vile concoction of yellowed milk and clumped cocoa powder. A foul smell wafted up, coiling into my nostrils and threatening to turn my stomach.

“Go on,” the Countess urged, nodding at the cup, her smile sharpening at the edges.

I looked at the monster, flailing and struggling to maintain its balance. My body once again betrayed me, my hand shaking so violently the drink almost spilling on my dress.

With a deep breath, I forced myself to take a sip. The sour tang hit my tongue, mingling with the bile already souring the insides of my mouth. I gagged, barely managing to swallow.

"Not to your liking?" she asked, her eyes alight with amusement, like a child observing a caged animal.

She plucked the cup from my shaking hands and handed it back to the creature, who accepted it with jittery fingers.

"Well," the Countess said lightly, her voice carrying a chill that cut through the suffocating warmth of the room. "You've had your treat. Now, it's my turn."

Without hesitation, she tightened her grip on my hand and yanked me closer. Before I could scream, her teeth sank into my neck. A sharp, searing pain shot through me, and I cried out, my voice breaking into gasps and sobs. My limbs felt impossibly heavy, and my eyes could no longer see, as my body slumped into the Countess's arms as she finally pulled away.

The world swam in and out of focus. Distant voices murmured, but their words were hazy and disjointed.

"If she dies, you may have the scraps," the Countess's voice floated through the fog.

"If she survives... well, you might just have yourself a little friend."

I took a painful breath.

all the people i wasted poems on

i hope you get your peace

i hope this lets you feel release

i hope the hurt was worth it

i hope the feeling raw

i hope it scalds when you remember me

and burns the skin right off your lying maw

you dont understand, im 🎀 OBSESSED 🎀

୨୧⭒๋࣭ ⭑ 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙,

𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐢 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨 ✧˚ ༘ ೀ⋆.˚

ineffable story prompt: boyfriend day

Here’s a fun story prompt for Aziracrow that I thought of and i wanted to share: Modern day, Human AU, Az and Crowley have been dating for almost a year now, it’s national boyfriend day and Crowley has been panicking about the day for a while because he can’t come up with any ideas for what to post for boyfriend day. He arranged for a nice dinner with the two of them and ordered Aziraphale’s favorite chocolates and bought him a new book, but Crowley is so hung up on the social media boyfriend day post. Everything seems so insufficient and Crowley drives himself into a nervous frenzy because he can’t come up with something meaningful enough to post for boyfriend day.

When the day finally arrives (October 3rd btw), Crowley has about 10 different posts drafted but he can’t pick one. While the pair of them are at breakfast together, he basically decides not to post anything. His love for Aziraphale is greater than just one instagram post. Besides, Aziraphale is barely on social media anyway; he’s got one post from 4 years ago about one of his favorite books and is never active. It’s a sharp contrast to Crowley who got a certifiable instagram addiction. Anyway, Aziraphale and Crowley are both aware it’s boyfriend day. They exchange their gifts at breakfast (Az got Crowley a new pair of sunglasses and a signed vintage queen vinyl) and they discuss their dinner plans together for tonight.

And then they go about their day, Crowley finally relaxing minutely about the boyfriend posts, but then he starts seeing everybody else's posts and freaks out. As he’s walking to Aziraphale’s flat after work, he gets a notification that he was tagged in a post and he opens instagram confused. It was Aziraphale posting. For national boyfriend day. He made a post with the full carousel of pictures of the two of them. Some of them are really sweet photos, like one time when they had a picnic at st james or when they made cookies at Crowley’s flat and made a mess in the kitchen. There’s also some photos that Crowley didn’t even know about Aziraphale taking, like a photo of him half asleep while they were watching the princess bride or a photo of his arse in his favorite skin tight jeans. Az tagged Crowley in the description section which reads something along the lines of:

‘I love you. You mean the world to me. I hope I get the chance to love you for the next 6000 years.’

By the time Crowley swipes through all of the pictures, he’s definitely not crying. And then he gets another alert that he’s been tagged in someones story and swipes to find that Azi has spammed his story with dozens of photos of Crowley, some of them pictures of the pair of them, but many of them are candid shots of Crowley in the moment, laughing or smiling earnestly at the camera. Crowley had no idea that Aziraphale took so many pictures of him.

By the time he arrives at Azi’s flat, he’s ugly crying and Aziraphale’s confused and worried and then they’re hugging and kissing and they go out to dinner and its lovely and romantic. And later that night Crowley does end up posting for national boyfriend day. He posts a photo of Aziraphale that he took one day when they took a trip to the beach with a long heartfelt caption that goes something like this:

‘angel, i love u. u make me the happiest person in the world. ur literally an angel and deserve so much better than me, so thanks for putting up with me. i love u so much. i love how fussy u r about ur books. i love how u light up when u smile. i love how passionate u r about ur favorite things. i would love to spend the next 6000 years with u, but its funny that u think 6000 years is enough. i love u to alpha centauri and back, angel.’