there's nothing SUPER about misogyny..

based off of this post by @wlwsanji on twitter

Mikey's voice is light.

It's tinkly, a little melodic, a little soft, airy- sounding, like a breeze coming through an open window.

You like how it sounds when he speaks, when he laughs, and especially when he says your name, the little 'chin' at the end he hasn't quite dropped despite being well into adulthood.

You like it even now, a thousand miles away, the tinkly breeze of his voice inundated by the crackle of the receiver, and the occasional shuffle as he takes another bite of a snack on hand.

And he always hums between it, changes position in his bed, an occasional "oof" as he turns over and presses the phone to his ear.

He likes your voice but he's not half as good with the words to describe it. He says it's "pretty" that's it - he likes your accent, the way your mouth forms certain words, the lilting foreignness of his name on your tongue, when you elongate "manjiro" to get his attention.

He's never said it mind you, but he thinks you know it already- or at least he hopes you do. You talk a lot with him, and he's surprised by how much he likes listening.

halchin sounds like the sound you make when you sneeze

Ran's legs ache.

He thinks the soles of his shoes might have burned down to his feet by now, and it especially hurts when he presses down on the gas and there's a sharp spark of pain across his thighs.

But he doesn't complain, and instead, he watches you slip off your heels in the passenger seat and curl up on the leather to lean your head against the window, the drive silent and peaceful with the low drum of the radio and the rain slapping at the exterior.

When you arrive back home, he comes around to your door, lifts you effortlessly with your heels in one hand while he nudges the door shut with his hip, and you rub his back wordlessly, in that way you often do.

Without speaking, without the need to, just silent and peaceful bliss of coming home to slip under the covers with him.

Title: The Hanma's

Summary: Hanma and you know those intimate moments are few and far between. But you always find a way to make the most of them.

Cw: fem!reader, established relationship, reader and Shuji have kids, some suggestive content, pet names (sweetheart, baby, pretty girl, princess, mama, doll),some mentions of violence, this is kinda self indulgent lol.

Hanma Shuji has a morning voice like no other. It’s gritty, rough, laced with the aftermath of disuse and sleep, cigarettes and alcohol. It’s gravelly, inflected with the slight slur of fatigue, but it rolls over your body in such a way that makes the heat in your stomach thrum with energy. 

He swears the nights are deliberately shorter when he’s at home.

The mornings arrive too fast and the covers are pulled too quickly and he winces a little when the cold draught slips past the door left ajar and he thinks this is maybe the karma for spending so much time at work and never enough at home.

He pulls the blanket over his head and groans, his head of tousled curls now lopsided and flattened against the soft downy pillow.

Your arms come around him instinctively, your breath warm against the pronounced clavicles, the hollow of his throat flexing when he swallows.

The sleep grit is crusting in the corners of his eyes and he pulls up one hand to rub at them, the other pulling you closer against his chest, secretly relishing in the sigh of contentment he hears when you press a chaste and soft kiss to the dip in his collarbones.

You're starting to believe Shion doesn't have the capacity to be mad at you,

and it makes you a little angry when you've done something wrong, and he can only click his tongue and say 'I don't mind, I'll sort it out' and he's on his hands and knees picking up the shards of the broken glass now scattered over the kitchen floor.

He might nick his own palms with a wince, but he diligently grabs the broom and sweeps the flints up before you can comment on how you should have been doing it.

He turns up with a replacement the next day and it finds a home next to the others, as if it had never happened in the first place. And he never gets mad, never yells, never speaks negatively even if you deserve it, even if you're pushing his buttons and being irritating, he can only smile.

You crash your car, you lose your handbag, you set the smoke alarm off, you get into trouble constantly and he has nothing to say except, 'it's okay, it'll be fine' and you're torn between believing maybe that he doesn't have the capacity to get mad at all with you,

you made me cry i hate you