#silence (gull)

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Resolve

[whatlurksbean]

What Lurks beneath- chapter 28 page 746

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[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: 'Rule 27: It’s a poor choice to help a hare at high noon, but it will certainly appreciate you if you do.'

WARNING for some descriptions of violence

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

You’d first set foot on The Rose Queen when you were the tender age of eleven. Or, well, something close to that. It wasn’t like most peasant orphans were taught numbers, let alone how to interpret calendars well enough to mark the passing of years.

It was the first ship you’d ever seen up close—sleek, and salt-stained, and creaking beneath your toes. The Boy King at its helm had turned his nose up at you in his too big coat, with his too big boots and tricorn hat that kept slipping down over his eyes. It was a ragtag crew that you’d wandered into, made of nothing but runaways and street rats. The ship itself was just as unusual and fresh-faced. It was built in a very impractical sort of way, with hallways that led to nowhere and portholes that opened up into endless seas of shadow where you could tumble down, down, down for hours and never see an end (or so you’d been warned). There were paintings on the walls, all off-centered and hanging on crooked nails that wobbled with every dip in the waves. The masts and rails were stained a deep, bloody red, in honor of its title. And no matter how the raging winds and waves battered at those petals, your Captain would have you out there the next morning to paint them anew. The Rose Queen was the finest pirate ship in all the ocean, and you only half-said that out of personal bias.

The vessel of the Silver Songbirds was… not like that.

It was grand, certainly. But there was a barren cleanliness to it that didn’t feel lived in. Sure, Riddle’d had you literally scrubbing stains out of the deck with a toothbrush and pot of turpentine, but this was different. Sterile, rather than squeaky. The wood planks didn’t whine with a weary, seaworthy groan beneath your feet that you could feel through the heel of your boots—as if to reassure you it was there. The air smelled of salt, sure, and you could see a group of gulls circling overhead, but the whole of it felt… empty. Lonely.

The black haired man led you to a small, private room in the ship’s hull. That alone was strange. You’d been sharing quarters for the whole of your seafaring career. This new little suite of yours had a bed, and white paint on the walls, and a porthole for a window. He gently coaxed you into sitting at the foot of the mattress and readjusted the coat resting along your shoulders. His smile was soft, kind. The sort of warm, pretty expression that you could read about in a love poem.

You remembered your Siren’s vicious, pointed smirk—red, and haughty, and sharp enough to cut glass—and fought a pang of something you absolutely refused to put a name to.

When you blinked back into focus, his lips were moving in a slow, steady flow and you focused your best on the shape of them. It was hard, with how placid his expression was—with how little there was to make out of anything he was attempting to get across. And whether it be your furrowed brow or a sudden memory that oh right, you’d told him your ears worked as well as a three-legged horse pulling a one-wheeled cart, he startled into silence. His face twisted up with chagrin, and he offered you an apologetic smile with round, pink cheeks.

He fumbled around in his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled out a hasty note to press into your palms.

‘My name is Neige Leblanche, and I’ll be taking care of you for this journey.’

You paused, fingers worrying at the sides of the neat, square bit of parchment. It felt right to offer your own name in return. That would be the polite thing, surely. But you paused, throat tight with uncertainty and a prickling, unpleasant sort of heat. Because you’d never even told your Siren your name, had you? Not even once.

And beneath that sudden, sour gut punch was something else.

‘Rule 116, your name is not a number, but it is your value. Do not offer it to any whose own interests are undue.’

The first time Ace had found himself with a wanted poster (‘Ugly,’ he’d complained, bitter. ‘How am I supposed to hook any tail with this? I look like a mutant potato. This stupid portrait is worse than prison.’), Riddle had taken your handwritten Book of Rules and underlined that one thrice over. You hadn’t thought much of it until you’d had to cut a hangman’s noose from around your idiot, foxy friend’s throat—the handiwork of the tavern folk he’d been boasting to only an afternoon before. And then it had made sense. Ace had survived (with a new, grand tale of woe that he liked to repeat ad nauseum until you wished you’d left him strung up), but the lesson had remained.

Carefully you swallowed the words resting on your tongue and offered a polite-ish nod in their place.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you. For saving me.”

Neige shook his head in a panicked sort of rush, hands waving back and forth with a clear ‘none of that! None of that!’ before reaching back into his pockets to search for another note.

‘It was my honor,’ he wrote, words jumbled and sloppy in his haste. ‘It’s the duty of all officers to help those in need.’

Your brow pinched. Officer? Officer of what?

Your Siren had called these Songbirds dangerous. ‘Not safe’ written into the sand over and over again with his curled claws. You didn’t know much of mainland politics and other such nonsense, but maybe there was some sort of… Siren Hunting Order? Soldiers of the King sent out to scour the seas and keep them safe for a host of weary, would-be-merman-meals? That would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

Another note was pressed into your hands.

‘How did you end up stranded on that island?’

Islet, you wanted to correct petulantly. Riddle would have. Your Siren would have.

You opened your mouth and hesitated. Telling Nigel, or Nergal, or whatever his name was that your ship had been besieged by a pod of ravenous mers (and one fair-faced asshole who you already missed far, far too—) was as good as serving them up on a silver platter, wasn’t it? Siren hunters probably traded information like how pirates traded maps or merchants traded gold. And you’d be damned if your loose tongue was what led to your friend companion co-strandee’s family being hunted for sport just after he’d finally managed to make his way home again.

So you stiffened your upper lip and turned to look your savior in the eye.

“I fell overboard,” you said, firm. “Because I’m an idiot.”

He blinked, startled, and you could recognize the spluttered ‘…oh’ shaping his lips.

He handed you another scribbled bit of parchment, gaze averted and awkward.

‘I’m sorry.’

“Never apologize to the half-wit for whatever fallacy of their own led to them falling into the pit,” you recited naturally, and Nigel startled. His doe eyes went round with confusion and he tilted his head at you like a curious hound. Nothing intimidating, more like some kind of fluffy cocker spaniel or primped up lapdog staring up at you with too-long-lashes and too-few-thoughts.

You shrugged.

“Just a rule I was supposed to follow,” you shrugged off. You offered a slanted grin. “Though when you’re the idiot in question, it can be pretty hard to avoid.”

Neville smiled at you with a soft sort of laugh that you swore you could feel dancing along your skin.

Another note.

‘I’ll be back in a bit. Please enjoy the amenities here and get some rest. If you need anything, let us know and I’ll get it sorted personally.’

You dipped your chin in thanks and collapsed back against the small, flat mattress in the corner. It was soft, sturdy, probably good for your back and all that nonsense. The sheets were crisp and white, and they rubbed blandly at your weary hide. You could smell the lingering, sharp fragrance of some kind of tacky soap in the cotton. Totally not unpleasant at all. Theoretically, it should have actually been the best bed you’d ever slept in. But a part of you missed swaying back and forth in a net hammock, and an even bigger part missed plopping down in the sand with the heat of a crackling fire at your front and the even steadier warmth of the long, curling, press of gemstone scales at your back.

You flopped over onto your side and stared at the empty, carefully manicured surface of the desk opposite you and wished more than anything that you’d brought your shell.

.

.

The room was cold when you next woke, and you shivered into the jacket Neige had draped along your shoulders (because it was ‘Neige.’ It had been signed on the bottom of the note he’d left you that morning alongside your breakfast. Which was stupid. The dumbest name you’d ever heard). The starched fabric of it all wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than shivering through the chilly ocean mists that were seeping in through the porthole.

You burrowed into the swathe of white and blue wool like a rabbit in a hole, and then winced in irritation when another of those stupid, gaudy pins dug into your cheek.

You plucked the first from its place—the duo of silver songbirds. It really was quite pretty, despite the ominous undertones and all. Two, graceful, delicate sets of feathered wings arching up into the sky—forever frozen in a dance to the clouds. You dropped it into the little, dark crevice between your bed and the wall. Good riddance.

Next came a crest that was familiar in a distant sort of way—a memory that tickled that back of your brain from days long past. You hadn’t noticed it before, what with the echoes of ‘not safe, not safe, not safe’ blaring in your head like an alarm, but it was just as neatly polished as the birds pinned above. It was diamond shaped, the edges embossed in twining lines like the cut of a rope. At its head sat a strange sort of crown, with the arches and more familiar pointed designs replaced by the billowing arcs of sails.  All of that gallantry surrounded a pair of rearing stallions—hooves crossed along a golden edged sword and circled with blue ivy.

You twisted it between your fingers, watching the metal glint in the low light. You hadn’t set foot in proper society since Riddle had let your young, dumb self abscond into the ocean all those years ago. You could hardly remember the flag of our home country, let alone the specifics.

You frowned and the edges of the badge pricked at your fingers.

You dropped this one behind the bed too, with a petulant flick of your wrist to make sure it really stuck.

.

.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often, there’s some business I’ve been having to take care of.’

You handed the note back with a shrug.

“It’s no bother.”

Neige offered an apologetic grimace nonetheless and another of those smiles that looked a bit too sweet to be real.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

You bristled before you could help it, thoughts spiraling away to harpoons, and nets, and hunting parties. And then you settled your shoulders into a polite, easy line and offered one of your own too-put-together smiles in return.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you saved me after all.”

Neige smiled again, easy and comfortable, and pressed another slip of parchment into your palms.

‘Where were you headed? When you fell overboard?’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck you with a barbed cactus branch dipped in—

Ahem.

You cleared your throat in a way that was surely a Very Normal Person Thing To Do, and tried to ignore the fact that he was so brazenly attempting to map out his plan of attack—to pinpoint the route that the sirens had been chasing and run after it like hounds tracking a fresh scent. Which, to be fair, sirens were a scourge on the seas. Hundreds upon hundreds of good men and women had been lost to their crooning songs and wickedly sharp teeth. They were vicious, often cruel, and so much stronger than any mortal sailor that of course the world above would fear them. You’d been very much of the same opinion until only quite recently, and now—now you just couldn’t.

“I don’t know where we were going,” you lied, and Neige’s brow pinched in a dour, rejected kind of way. “But,” you tried, sprinkling in a touch of truth to make the lie go down easier, “I know we were coming from Port o'Bliss.”

He nodded, that uncongenial expression slipping off his face as easily as it’d settled there.

He rattled off something quick and bubbly, and you pointedly arched a brow. The brunette blushed bright pink and hastily scrabbled for another bit of paper.

‘Thank you for being so helpful. I know it can’t be easy.’

Your neutral expression froze on your face and when you smiled it felt more like a polite bearing of teeth. Did he know? Could he see right through you? Or worse, was he getting all the answers he wanted from you either way, no matter how you tried to coat it in a veneer of misdirection.

“Sure thing.”

He handed you another note, this time for his pocket. Crumpled and soft, the ink a bit smeared along the curling letters.

‘It’s a poor choice to help a heron at high noon,’ it said, ‘but it will certainly appreciate you if you do. So my thanks to you.’

Something settled in your gut at the familiarity, something deceptively warm and homey.

“It’s a hare,” you said, without much thought. “Not a heron.”

Neige nodded with a polite, smiling mumble that looked like another apology, and then left you to your own devices.

That night, a veritable feast was delivered to your tiny, white-walled cabin. A grand spread of food fit for a king. There was roasted fowl, pools of thick, spiced gravies, mountains of vegetables that you’d never even seen before. And tarts. So many colorful, fruity tarts that were so sweet they almost made your tongue curl.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked as Neige took a seat at your desk to nibble at the meal alongside you—a cloth napkin folded neatly across his nap and a clear glass flute for wine placed a bit precariously by his elbow.

He smiled, honey warm, and offered you another note.

‘For helping the hare.’

.

.

Neige didn’t come to visit you the next morning, and his absence had the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

You paced and paced around your cube of a barrack. It was maybe four steps from one end to the next, but the constant bumping your toes against the wall was better than just sitting there doing nothing. The worst part was the silence. Not the one in your head. Yes, yes, you were more than used to that. On and on, yada yada. But the silence of the ship. The Rose Queen had always felt like a living thing, a great, wooden beast with a pulse you could feel thrumming beneath your toes, your palms. All you had to do was lay a hand against its side and you could feel the rumble of the tide beyond, the rushing footsteps of sailors sprinting about to meet one of Riddle’s orders or other, the thump of heavy, wet mop heads smacking the deck overhead. It was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet. This ship? No matter how you laid against the boards or pressed flat to the walls, there was nothing. And it made you feel like you were trapped aboard a vessel full of ghosts.

The sun had long begun to set by the time Neige returned, and by then you were nothing but a livewire of nerves.

Had they found him? Your Siren? Was he there somewhere, just a few floors above—strung up like a fish in a net? Caught and displayed like a fine trophy? Or had they killed him outright? Had they found his pod? Had he put up a fight? Had he—

A piece of rolled parchment was held out for you to take, a satin blue ribbon tied along its belly. Neige’s soft, brown gaze was glued to the floor and you snatched the paper from his hands like a rabid cat and tore it open. You could barely keep your eyes steady to read it all—fine, pointed print done up in a neat hand.

‘—danger to those who venture—'

‘—for the safety of the people—’

‘—therefore, the decision has been made—'

‘—with the greatest consideration—’

‘—with immediate effect—'

‘—we have declared the extermination of—'

“You can’t!” you wailed, and Neige’s doe eyes darted up to yours and immediately away once more in guilt. “He’s—he’s not bad. I swear! I know how things look—and—and I know he’s not—that’s he’s a—but you can’t—”

Neige’s wavering stared jumped back to you in open surprise, and you saw his lips twitch on one word—delicate brows pinching in question.

‘He?’

You frowned and fought the urge to stomp your feet. Because, okay, fine. Sure, you were arguing tooth and nail for someone whose name you maybe didn’t even know. Someone who had swum away from your stupidly sentimental ass with all the power and grace of a beast fit to rule the depths of the oceans while you could barely flounder at its surface. And sure, sirens killed people and ate them. But this one was—he was special, and you’d be damned if you let some primped up fishermen try to reel him in on a hook just because he’d maybe eaten a few people. And—

There was a hand on your shoulder, and Neige was staring down at you with an expression not dissimilar to that of a parent about to tell their child that the cat had got out and met a terrible, squishy end beneath the wheels of your neighbor’s carriage. He sighed, dark lashes brushing along his cheeks, and then reached out with his other hand to tap a finger between your collar bones.

“What?” you snapped, and he tapped again. “Me? What about me?”

He paused, gaze meeting yours with a pointed sort of melancholy.

Oh.

Oh.

You remembered the pins you’d dropped behind your bed, one by one. You remembered the strange coat of arms crowned with golden sails and bearing a great, shining sword. Something regal, something imperial that a commoner like you would have only caught fleeting glimpses of in parades, and marches, and war calls.

Something like, say, Pyroxene’s Royal Naval Fleet.

You glanced down at the parchment again, crumpled between your fists, and smoothed it out into something legible beneath your fingers. You reread the text with careful focus.

‘For the Crime of Piracy’ it said. Right at the tippity top. In red ink.

“…ah,” you blinked. “That makes a lot more sense.”

.

.

You were to walk the plank on the ‘morrow.

Which honestly, you hadn’t even thought was really a Thing—walking the plank, argh. Fiddly dee and a yo-ho-ho. That sort of storybook nonsense. The parables that parents passed onto their children to try and scare them away from a life of villainy. Real pirates were put to the rack, or hanged in the town squares to scare the adults away from doing the same.

But you supposed it was practical, at least. Blood was hard to scrub out of wooden decks, so beheading would have been a bit of a mess. Bullets were best to be conserved out on the high seas where stocks were already low, and honestly, your body would just have to be thrown overboard anyways before it stunk up the barracks. So, like, doing it all in one would be quite efficient. You could appreciate that. 

Your hands would be bound at your back and you’d be given three breaths, three steps, and then you’d be tumbling down into the waves below. Claimed by the waters that you’d patrolled for so many years now. Fitting, honestly. Riddle would be proud (beneath the raging, spitting indignation of you being caught at all, but that was another matter). At least you wouldn’t be going out from food poisoning or something mundane like that, so that was a win. And who knew. Maybe your Siren would find you again when you were nestled to rest in some seabed not too far from here, and he could finally make a meal of your dumb ass yet. Happy endings abound.

You wondered idly at the dual branches of fate you’d wandered along in these past weeks, and if it would have been better to hide away when you’d first seen those sails on the horizon. To keep to the little, crescent island you’d found yourself on and slowly starved to death. Alone, abandoned, and sitting in a forever stillness worse than any silence you’d known before.  Forever staring out over the horizon for a glance of amethyst fins that you knew you’d never see again.

If given the choice between the two, you’d take the plank.

.

Neige brought you another feast that night, and you gorged on it merrily. 

When he nervously kept piling your plate with choice cuts after choice cuts, gaze diverted to the floor and looking like a kicked puppy dog with its tail between its legs, you rolled your eyes and swatted at his fingers.

“Unclench yourself,” you huffed, and he puffed up stuttery and pink in horror. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just doing your job, right? If we’d met under different circumstances I bet I would have shot you first. So, really. All’s fair.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth, guilt still swimming heavy and warm in those doe eyes of his.

He said something under his breath, something that you’d bet even if your ears were working at full capacity you wouldn’t have been able to parse out. He leaned forward to scrawl a note on the napkin beside your plate.

‘You’re happier now? After all this? I don’t get it.’

You reached out to pat him merrily on the shoulder, more a smack smack smack then anything really pleasant. He could see him fighting a wince with all the trembling sort of bravery of a field mouse. Poor dear. What was the Royal Navy thinking? Hiring on someone who looked like they belonged on an advert for rouge and sweets. This was the last face a pirate was expected to jeer into? This one? Really? It was a wonder this little, squirrely man hadn’t keeled over the first time someone spat on his boots.

“It’s a poor choice to help the fish at high noon,” you said around a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s my choice. And I’m happy to do it.”

“Fish?” you saw him mouth, brow pinched, and you batted at his shoulder again before reaching for another of those too-sweet tarts.

.

.

There was a whole procession for your execution. With speeches. Which even with the slowly encroaching panic worming into your guts, you couldn’t help but think was at least a little funny.  

The whole crew was lined up in solemn formation, listening stalwartly to some judge, or high ranking officer, or whatever rattle off who even knew what. Your crimes? A homily? The lunch menu? Fuck if you had any clue. And you were the one being fed to the sharks. There had to be some joke hidden in here, right? The scoundrel pirate who could never be tried, simply because they couldn’t hear their own sentencing. You wouldn’t even know when to stand up and shout ‘I object!’ It would probably be pretty funny, right? If you just did that out of nowhere. And what was the worst that could happen? Oh, no. A fine. Please, sir. Add it to the list of debts I owe from beyond my watery grave. Amen.

A hand at your lower back gave you a gentle nudge forward and you shifted against the ropes binding your wrists. They were nicer than your own stores aboard the Rose Queen. Not nearly as itchy, the fibers neat and clearly expensive. Neige stepped up beside you and offered you a look that was likely meant to be kind, but your growing nerves had started to eat through your willingness to play friendly. You could feel the weight of the crew around you, even if you couldn’t hear them. The creak of the deck beneath your toes as they shifted about, the way their bulk must have been shielding you from the worst of the wind. Unlike with your own mismatched family of castaways, their presence wasn’t reassuring. And you kept your eyes locked forward and away from the field of sharp gazes eating into your hide.

The plank was narrow, and immediately you were fighting the urge to sway on your toes. Having your hands bound at your rear only made it worse. It threw off the whole of your center of gravity and had you feeling dizzy and seasick.

You took one breath, stuttery, and one step. The wood whined beneath your heels in a vibration you could feel all the way up to your knees.

Another breath, another step. You could feel the salt soaked board starting to bend now. Clearly it wasn’t meant to support much of anything, let alone a whole person. And for some reason the idea of it breaking beneath you was so much worse than taking that last step all on your own. A sudden plunge that was out of your control. It had your heart hammering in your throat and cold nausea bubbling in your belly.

You looked down. You didn’t want to, but it was like your gaze was a weighted, magnetic thing. Pulled down into the salty depths below. The water looked rougher than it had a moment ago, or maybe you were just really starting to panic. You could see the white froth of the wake breaking against the ship’s hull. It churned like the start of a storm, which was really, terribly inconvenient. Seeing as it’d been so still and calm just a few minutes before. And, y’know, the fact that you had to fall into that mess of sharp peaks and rocking waves. You swore you could see dark shapes flitting about just beneath the surface, a flash of grey, or maybe green. It was hard to tell, with the brightness of the early morning sun in your eyes.

No one was poking at your back, urging you forward, which you thought was quite odd. You’d been taking your sweet ol’ time sauntering to your demise. You’d assumed they’d have less patience for a pirate with cold feet. Instead, the world around you was just silent and still. Shifting with the raging waves below, but empty and quiet as a tomb for all you knew otherwise.

You took your last breath, your last step.

And then the ship lurched and you were plummeting towards the water. The dissonance between having something beneath your feet—no matter how frail—and then nothing was jarring, and it had you gasping on impulse. Hair whipping at your cheeks and lungs squeezing tight as the air screamed past your throat. It felt like you were drowning before you even hit the water.

When you did finally crash into the waves, it hurt. You’d always been a fairly proficient swimmer, but whether it be the mind numbing panic or the ropes binding you tight, tight, tight, you just started to sink. The salt stung like an open wound, and the water was cold. Frigid. Like being tossed into the jagged side of a glacier. You at least had the sense not to gulp down a mouthful of water out of reflex, but that didn’t make things much better.

You screwed your eyes shut, bubbles frothing at your nose, and tried to find that peace that you’d clung to all night long. A life for a life, one catch for another. No one was going to miss you anyways. And if you had to meet the reaper some way, then of all the ends the universe could have spun for you, at least this one had some meaning to it.

You sighed into the darkness, soft, but when your lips parted next around what should have been a mouthful of icy saltwater, all you could taste was air.

Your eyes shot open in the gloom to a mess of familiar golds and purples that you’d thought you’d never see again.

Your Siren pulled back, bubbles curling from the edge of his lips into a soft stream of warmth between the two of you. Nestling as deep as a full breath all the way in the tightest corners of your lungs. You could feel the dip of his claws as he settled his hands at your shoulders—keeping you in place. And immediately you shrieked and flailed in your bindings.

“You—!”

You promptly choked on another mouthful of sea water and your Siren wailed—all that molten fondness in those lovely amethyst eyes of his sharpening into familiar, pissy exasperation from one second to the next. He dragged your face back to his, slotting his mouth against yours and pushing more air into your lungs. You leaned into it before you could help yourself. Half for the whole oxygen thing, and half, because, well—

When he pulled away this time he smacked a hand over your mouth with a sneer, his thumb and index finger hooked upward to pinch at your nose. He jabbed a claw in your face with a clear ‘stay put’ and immediately went to work cutting through the bindings twined along your arms. The ropes fell away beneath his talons like butter to a hot blade, and he fretfully ran his palms up and down your limbs—looking for any stray bits of netting like a compulsion. Once he seemed certain that you’d been properly freed from your ties, he hauled you up against his chest in a grip that had you losing all the air in your lungs all over again. You could feel the cool jut of the sea glass around his neck pressing into your collar, and he buried his head down into your throat until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The frills of his tail fluttered in the water, and the bulk of those twining strands curled up and around your legs like a barnacle.

He was warm. Warmer than you’d been expecting, for a creature who spent his life patrolling the darkest depths of the ocean. It wasn’t the same sort of heat that would beat off a human’s hide, but it was more comforting than any you’d ever known. You burrowed down against his shoulder, nose scrunching against the side of his neck and the fins at his ears brushing your temple. You could feel his claws flexing at your sides, feel the shift of his scales against your skin. And just as your lungs were starting to burn, he ducked forward to pull you into another kiss—filling your chest with wonderful, wonderful oxygen all over again.

You blinked blearily past the sting of salt in your eyes and he scrubbed a thumb against your cheek.

Now that those high, wonderful, heart bursting emotions were settling back into something manageable beneath your ribs, you took a moment to look at him. Really look at him. Because you’d sent him on his way, hadn’t you? Waved him off with well wishes and a hope for his happiness. And all that aside, how had he even managed to find you—

Bubbles streamed from your nose as that newest shared breath began to run dry, and your Siren hooked an arm around your waist to propel you upwards.

You crested the surface with a gasp, paddling instinctively against the churning wake. When all that did was leave you smack, smack, smacking at your Siren’s chest like a flailing toddler, he hissed—a spitting, pissy thing you could feel on the breeze—and hauled you back up against him. Just like he had all those times you’d swum together in your cove. You forced yourself to settle, bobbing gently against the tide as he kept you both aloft.

Once your body had managed to catch up with your brain to realize that it was, in fact, not drowning, all of the adrenaline rushed out of you like a broken spicket. You slumped against the Siren’s chest, fuzzy headed and dizzy. Because he’d saved you. Which made no sense in the least. But you’d almost died, and he’d saved you—

Your gaze drifted back up to the ship from which you’d only so recently taken your Cannonball of Doom and startled.

There was blood everywhere.

Staining the railings, splashed along the low flying flags, dripping along the deck. A macabre mess of gore and claw marks gutting the once grand vessel like a beached whale. Some of the crew still seemed to be hanging onto the life rafts, others were taking running leaps into the water like they were under compulsion—eyes glazed over and distant. There was a prickling all along your skin, something twisting familiar and strange in your gut, and oh. Oh.

One of the grander looking officers (the one who had been giving your pre-execution speech, perhaps? He looked similar enough) was shouting something from his place at the bow of one of the life rafts—arm extended in a grand show of valor and sword glinting into the light of the morning. And then a great, emerald siren was rearing over the side of that tiny vessel with a sharp grin on his face and sharper talons on display. The officer was dragged overboard, and the siren’s tail came down on the guardrails with a force that had the wood splintering and the already haphazard little boat rock, rock, rocking until it caught on a high wave and capsized.

You could see the flash of colorful scales and the tips of even brighter fins all around. Cresting above the water just long enough to grab hold of another wailing victim and drag them down to the depths. There was enough blood in the water that you could smell it. Acrid and copper against the ocean’s already sharp, salty musk. And sure, you were a pirate. You’d been in raids, you’d seen death. Plenty of it. But this. Well. It was unfamiliar. In a strange, detached sort of way. These assholes had chucked you overboard, after all. So you only really had a teensy, tiny pinch of sympathy for the fact that being eaten alive probably hurt like a sonofabitch.

It was more strange, you supposed, to be at the center of a sirens’ hunt and not be the one facing down the angry, bitey end.

You kicked in the water, nose scrunching when the red tide lapped against your chin.

“This isn’t going to attract sharks, is it?”

Because if you were saved from drowning at the hands of a royal militia only to wind up as a fish’s dinner, you would be terribly annoyed.

Your Siren rolled his eyes at you, like you were just the most ridiculous and stupid creature in all of creation. And then he made a languid swipe of his large, fully-healed tail and began to swim away from the literal bloodbath he and his pod had wrought. With you and all your silly, fragile humanness in tow.

It was far too relaxing, being pulled along against his side. The gentle rocking of his tail beneath you as he swam at the surface—always ensuring to keep your head above the water as he did so. You could feel your eyes starting to dip, feel a yawn cracking along your lips. Maybe it was just the adrenaline crash hitting, or maybe it was the relief that you hadn’t even wanted to address. He’d come back. For you.

The earless pirate who never seemed to do much but stumble into one conundrum after another. Who had only annoyed him at best and shorn his fins to shredded, useless bits at worst. Who had thrown shells at his head and only nicked him a little when you cut the ropes from his hide.

Who had made him human foods with fire and taught him your language in a messy scrawl of sand and snark. Who swam with him in the bay and twined a necklace of shining, purple sea glass around his neck. Who braided his hair, and laughed at his pouting, and—

There was a rough roll of surf that splashed in your face and you spluttered against the white froth.

The Siren paused and beat his tail against the deeper waters, propping you upright as you hacked and fretfully patting at your back. You could see his mouth moving as he mumbled something, brow pinched, and stared back at him with your own wobbly frown—confused.

“Why did you come back?” you asked, and the Siren’s brows jumped up into his hairline. He looked startled, genuinely. And that only had you even more befuddled. “And how did you even find me?”

This time when he huffed, there was a subtle sort of irritation there that you’d learn to recognize well.

He was pouting.

Something brushed against your fingers in the water, soft and fleeting. You glanced down just in time to catch a blur of lavender flitting nervously below the choppy waves, never dipping close enough again to touch, but looking hesitant to keep much further either.

The Siren followed your gaze only to narrow his eyes, pointed teeth bared as he swatted at the poor, round, little octopus with his tail. A clear shoo, shoo if you’d ever seen one. The octopus squeaked, sending bubbles spiraling in all directions, and frantically looped out of the way of the mer’s petulant tantrum. You whacked him right back, indignant on your teeny friend’s behalf. Because—!

“You followed me,” you burbled, and the little octopus spun in a fretful circle. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the poor, little dear was wringing its hands. Your Siren bared his teeth and smacked out again. “Hey! Don’t be an ass! He saved me,” you argued, and your bitch of a merman just snapped his fangs in your face like a feral cat.

You gawked.

“No way. You can’t be annoyed that you were beat out by a baby, purple octopus the size of an orange.”

He huffed and turned up his nose, and you burst out into laughter for the first time since you’d watched him swim out of your cove all those days ago.

You laughed and laughed until tears were beading at the corners of your eyes, and your Siren was grumbling in complaint and pinching your sides with his curved claws. There wasn’t real malevolence in that stern glare of his, though—just more of the prickly, teasing sort of snide side eye he’d given you in your latter weeks together. Fondness, you realized. That’s what was softening it all. The same sort of warmth you held for him.

Your favorite, pissy, preening, self-righteous goldfish.

You snorted into his shoulder, still shaking on giggles, and you could feel his sigh against your temple. You burrowed down against his side, feeling his fins brush along your hips as he kept the both of you afloat.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. “For coming back.”

You were expecting another melodramatic sigh, another plaintive roll of the eyes. Instead, his fingers came up to twine with yours and tugged your hand to rest against the pendant at his throat. You blinked, confused, and he just curled your palm around that little, sand-smoothed piece of glass.

You arched a brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

This time he did roll his eyes at you, and when he spoke he mouthed the word dramatic and wide so he was sure that you could see it.

‘Moron.’

You whined in complaint and smacked his fingers away. “But I’m your moron.”

Another huff, soft against the nape of your neck. And you could see the barest twitch of a smile on his red lips as he turned back into the tide and continued his trek home.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[humaling]

Nothing's Ever Gonna Hurt You, Baby.

pairings: finnick odair x victor!reader

summary: it's supposed to be another normal day with your husband—but it takes a turn when you wake up to eerie silence.

warnings: anxiety attack

word count: 3.8k

author's note: based on a req! i tried my best to write an anxiety attack. i got a bit lazy w the ending heh

When the war ended, you and Finnick moved back to District 4. It was a heartbreaking sight—the town lay in ruins, everything you once knew and loved buried beneath the rubble. But not all was lost. Some homes near the shore or deeper into the outskirts had been spared the worst of the destruction. A few were falling apart, some had been looted, but they were still standing.

Like the old family beach house you grew up in. Tucked away at the far edge of District 4, hidden behind thick jungle, it had always been out of reach—too remote for Snow’s influence to ever fully touch.

You hated living there as a kid. The jungle terrified you at night—the shadows, the sounds, the way the wind moved through the trees like whispers. You begged your parents to move closer to town, to where life felt brighter, safer.

Now, decades later, you and Finnick—your husband—have made that same beach house your home. It's the only thing that still feels familiar, untouched by the Capitol’s hand. Even with its isolation, or maybe because of it, you both prefer it here. It offers a kind of peace, a quiet freedom neither of you ever had before.

For a while, you both tried to believe that peace was enough. That the quiet meant safety. That the crashing of the waves and the rustling of the jungle could lull you into something like normal. You planted herbs in the garden. Finnick fixed the broken shutters. You spent long afternoons sitting in the sand, your feet buried in the warmth, watching the tide come in. There were even moments—brief, fleeting—when it almost felt like healing.

But peace is a strange thing when you've lived without it for so long. It starts to feel unfamiliar, almost threatening. You wait for it to be broken, because it always was before. Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget.

But freedom, you’ve learned, comes with a price. Snow may be gone, but the scars he left on both of you remain.

They linger in the quiet moments, in the in-between spaces—when the chores are done, when the sun dips behind the trees, when the fire crackles low and there’s nothing left to distract you. That’s when it creeps in. The past. The memories. The ache you’ve tucked so carefully behind smiles and routines.

That’s when the silence changes.

Some nights, it’s too quiet.

That kind of quiet that creeps under your skin and settles in your bones. The kind that isn’t peaceful at all—it’s heavy, still, like something’s waiting to happen. You’ve come to hate that silence. Because that was what it sounded like the morning you were reaped. No birdsong. No waves crashing. Just this eerie, unnatural calm. The air so still, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

It was the same during the Quarter Quell. That silence before they called your name again. Before they dragged you back.

Now, even here—years later, with the war over, with Finnick beside you—you can still feel it. That weight. That pause before the storm. It comes without warning. You’ll be chopping vegetables or brushing your hair or just standing on the porch watching the sea, and then… silence.

Your hands start to tremble. Your breath gets shallow. And for a moment, you’re not in the beach house anymore. You’re sixteen again, standing on that stage, eyes fixed on the Capitol seal. Or you’re in the arena, cold and bloodied, waiting for a cannon.

Finnick notices every time. He doesn’t say much—he just comes close, presses his hand over yours, or pulls you into his arms, grounding you with his presence. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes it isn’t. But he never leaves you in it.

You wake to the sound of nothing.

No gulls. No wind through the trees. No boards creaking under Finnick’s footsteps. Just stillness.

The kind that wraps around the house like fog, thick and quiet and wrong.

You sit up slowly, the sheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. The sun’s already risen—soft light spills in through the window, casting long, golden bars across the floor. Finnick’s side of the bed is cold.

You already know he’s gone to the market. He mentioned it last night, just before falling asleep with his hand resting on your back. “Won’t be long,” he’d said. “Back before lunch.”

Still, knowing and feeling aren’t the same.

The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s oppressive. Heavy. Your chest tightens before your brain can catch up, before you can remind yourself that you’re safe, that this is your home now, that there are no cameras, no Games, no Capitol.

It doesn’t matter.

Because this is the kind of quiet that used to come before something awful. The kind of quiet that filled the square before a name was read out loud. The kind that settled over the jungle before a trap snapped shut.

You throw the blankets off and plant your feet on the wooden floor, grounding yourself with the texture, the temperature, the reality. You breathe in through your nose, slow, steady. Just air. Just the smell of salt and sun and old pinewood.

You tell yourself to move.

You go through the motions like it’s all fine—open the shutters, wash your face, tie your hair back. Pretend the pounding in your chest is just leftover from a dream. Pretend your fingers don’t shake when you reach for a cup. Pretend the silence is just silence.

You don’t let yourself cry. Not today. Not over nothing.

By the time Finnick returns, basket in hand, salt in his hair, humming something low under his breath, you’re sitting at the table slicing fruit with a steady hand.

He leans down to kiss the top of your head like he always does.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice soft.

And you lie with a smile. “Yeah. Just a little too quiet this morning.”

You don’t look up when you say it. Just keep slicing the fruit—steady, even strokes, the way you were taught back in the Capitol when everything had to be perfect.

Finnick pauses.

It’s just a moment, barely more than a breath, but you feel it. The way his hand stills on the back of the chair. The way his body goes quiet, not tense, just still. He’s watching you—reading more into your voice than the words you gave him.

You don’t have to explain. You never really have with him.

Still, he doesn’t say anything right away. Just slides the basket onto the counter and starts unpacking it like nothing’s wrong. Fish, bread, a jar of honey. A few apples, bruised but fresh. His movements are easy, casual—but his eyes flick to you now and then, like he’s keeping track of your breathing, your shoulders, the way your hand tightens just slightly on the knife.

“You know,” he says after a minute, like it’s just a passing thought, “the gulls were making a racket near the dock this morning. Could barely hear myself think.”

You glance up, and he’s got that look—half-grin, half-concern. The kind he wears when he’s trying to make you smile without calling attention to why you’re not. It’s light, but it’s there: the worry, tucked behind his lashes.

“They must’ve all flown off the moment I got back,” he adds, turning to rinse a piece of fruit in the sink. “Didn’t want to compete with your mood.”

It’s not a joke, not really, but the way he says it—soft, teasing, careful—it makes something inside you loosen. Not all the way. Not enough to stop the thrum of anxiety under your skin. But enough to let you breathe a little deeper.

You set the knife down, wipe your hands on a towel, and lean against the counter next to him.

“They’re cowards,” you say quietly.

He huffs a laugh. “That’s what I’ve always said.”

You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t need it. He just bumps your shoulder with his and starts slicing the bread, like the silence never touched either of you at all.

The kitchen settles into a soft rhythm. Finnick slices the bread while you arrange the fruit. The air smells like salt and citrus, and for a little while, it feels almost normal. The silence no longer presses—it breathes. Shared, it’s lighter.

You’re halfway through whisking eggs when the old telephone in the hallway buzzes. It’s a low, crackling ring—the kind that always startles you, even though you’ve lived with it for years.

Finnick wipes his hands on a towel and glances toward the doorway.

“I’ve got it,” he says, already moving.

You nod, not looking up.

The moment he steps out of the kitchen, the room changes.

It’s subtle. No footsteps. No hum under his breath. No weight in the air beside you. Just the eggs, the sound of your whisk scraping the bowl, and the sharp scent of rosemary from the sprig he’d dropped onto the cutting board.

And that’s what does it.

The rosemary.

The Capitol had used it in everything—on meats, in oils, in perfumes they gave to the stylists. That crisp, herbal scent that once meant luxury now coils in your chest like smoke. It clings to your skin, to the walls, and suddenly you’re not in the kitchen anymore. You’re in a room too clean, too white, too quiet, the kind of quiet that hums just beneath your ears. The kind of quiet that always came before someone screamed.

Your grip tightens on the whisk. You blink. You try to breathe, but your lungs don’t seem to want it. The light from the window feels too bright. The bowl is too loud. The silence is back—but it’s not empty this time. It’s waiting.

You tell yourself you’re here. That the war is over. That you’re home.

But your chest keeps rising too fast. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You try to stir again, but the motion turns frantic. The whisk hits the side of the bowl too hard. The sound is sharp—like metal clashing—and it yanks you deeper into the memory.

Your vision blurs. You press your palms flat against the counter, the wood solid beneath your skin, grounding—but barely. Your knees threaten to buckle. You think about calling out to Finnick, but your throat’s too tight. You can’t make a sound.

Your palms are flat against the counter, your breath shallow and ragged, but it’s not helping. You’re still not in your body. You're still not here.

You're there.

The scent of rosemary thickens, warping into something else—metallic, sterile, suffocating. The kitchen tilts just slightly, enough to make your stomach twist. The light in the window shifts too fast, too bright—like the artificial sun in the training center, never rising, never setting. Just watching.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. Hard. Fast. Like it’s trying to outrun something. The room feels too small. Too loud. Too quiet. Your fingers twitch. Your jaw clenches.

And then—your elbow bumps the bowl.

It clatters off the edge of the counter and crashes to the floor. The sound shatters through the silence. Eggs spill across the wood in a yellow bloom, splattering up your legs. The metal whisk bounces once, then rolls, slow and mocking.

You fall to your knees in the mess, your hands trembling uncontrollably. Your chest tightens until there's no air, no space to breathe. Your vision blurs as your mind races, latching onto one terrible, impossible thought:

They’re sending you back.

You don’t know how or why or when, but it’s happening. The Capitol found a way. They always do. You can already hear your name echoing through the square again, see the seal flashing in the sky, feel the grip of peacekeepers dragging you toward that same metal door. You’re sixteen again. You’re twenty again. You’re never free.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Please—I can’t do it again—”

Your hands are over your ears, trying to drown out a sound that isn't there. Your body curls in, trying to disappear, but the panic swells bigger than your skin. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

Then you hear it—footsteps. Fast. Familiar.

Finnick bursts through the doorway, breath catching at the sight of you on the floor.

“Hey—hey, I’m here,” he says immediately, voice low but firm, already dropping to his knees beside you. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

His hands don’t grab, don’t rush. He’s careful—always careful. He slides one arm around your shoulders, the other gently covering your trembling hands, coaxing them down. He presses his forehead lightly to yours, anchoring you.

“You’re not going back,” he murmurs. “You’re never going back.”

Finnick’s voice seems distant, muffled—like it’s coming from a far-off dream. You can see his lips moving, but you can’t hear him. The world around you is too loud, too chaotic. Your mind is racing, drowning in the fear, in the terror, in the impossible thought that this will never end—that you will always be herded, always be a tool for their games. Always.

His hands are on your arms, his voice in your ear, but it’s not enough. You’re still trapped. Still choking on the panic that rises up like a wall around you.

Finnick tries again, sliding his arms around you, holding you close. His warmth is solid—his touch soft but urgent. You feel him against you, but you can’t seem to grab onto the reality of it. The world is spinning too fast. You’re suffocating in it.

His thumb gently presses against your wrist, soothing, steady, but your breathing is still ragged, too fast. You can’t catch it. Can’t catch anything.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, a calm insistence, but it feels like your eyes are stuck behind glass. “I need you to look at me, sweetheart.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t pull your face toward his. Instead, he leans in, just enough to let his breath brush against your ear. His words are a quiet hum, just soft enough to slip under your skin. He knows you’re listening, even if you can’t hear him all the way.

“Focus on me,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

But your mind can’t stop spinning, and all you can feel is the pressure—the terrible pressure—in your chest.

You feel him adjust his hold, and before you can process what’s happening, his hand is on your wrist, gently pulling it toward his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat fills your senses—strong, steady, frantic with worry, but there. You press your palm flat against the warm, firm skin under his shirt, the thump of his pulse grounding you.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches you with his warm, quiet eyes, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest work through the shaking of your body.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice soft like a lullaby. "I’m here, honey. I’m right here, and you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone."

You press your palm harder against him, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart in time with the panic still swirling inside you, and for the first time, it anchors you. His heartbeat, frantic but real, becomes your lifeline. Something solid. Something constant.

He continues to breathe deeply, slowly, and as his chest rises and falls under your hand, your own breath starts to find its rhythm too. You can hear his voice again, soft and soothing, cooing gently at you.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart. In and out. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s as though his heartbeat is guiding you, leading you back to yourself. You press your face against his shirt, taking another shuddering breath, then another. The panic still clings to the edges of your mind, but Finnick doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull away. He simply holds you, holds you together, as the storm inside you starts to quiet.

With every beat of his heart against your palm, you begin to feel the ground under your feet again. Solid. Real. Safe.

You cling to him, your hands still trembling, but now they’re locked onto the front of his shirt, holding on like he’s your lifeline, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. Your fingers dig into the fabric, needing to feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him, beneath your touch.

You press your face into his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat the only thing that makes any sense. The terror still lingers at the edges of your thoughts, but Finnick is here. He’s always been here.

And that thought—he’s here—becomes the anchor you need.

He’s murmuring softly into your hair, his voice smooth and quiet, like he's speaking only for you, only to you. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, his hand running up and down your back in soothing strokes. His warmth seeps into you, calming the tremors that still shake your body.

“They won’t bring you back,” he says, his voice firm but gentle, a promise etched in every syllable. “No one is ever going to send you back into those arenas. Not again.”

You try to breathe, to pull in the air that’s been so elusive, and the simple truth in his words begins to seep through the fog of fear. But the panic is still raw, still sharp. You squeeze him tighter.

He presses his lips gently to the top of your head, a soft kiss, as if that kiss could chase the darkness from your mind. “It’s just me and you now. Always. You’re safe here, sweetheart. I’m right here, and I always will be.”

Your hands move to his back, desperate to feel every inch of him, like you need to make sure he’s real. That this—this life, this peace—is real. You try to nod, but your body doesn’t quite follow.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer, his voice low, rhythmic, like a lullaby. “No one can take you from me. Not ever. It’s just us, okay?”

You breathe again—slow, even this time, like you can finally draw the air deep into your lungs. The crushing weight of it all lightens just a little. You feel him there, solid and unmovable, his warmth wrapping around you like a shield. The fear begins to loosen its grip, just a little, but the feeling of him—his strength, his presence—grounds you more than you ever thought possible.

You press yourself closer, clinging to him like you’re afraid of letting go, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. He lets you hold on. Lets you take the time you need to breathe through it, to feel the trembling ease.

“It’s just us,” he whispers again, voice soft, so tender. “And we’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

The words feel like the only truth in the world right now, and slowly, the storm inside of you begins to quiet. With every breath you take, with every beat of his heart under your hand, you start to feel yourself coming back. More grounded. More here. More safe.

The panic still lingers at the edges, but Finnick’s presence is a steady reminder that it won’t take you again. That this is your life now, and he’s right beside you in it.

You slowly lift your head from his chest, meeting his eyes, still clinging to him as though you never want to let go.

“I’m here,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the last of the tears. “And I always will be.”

The world starts to shift back into focus, but you stay in his arms. You don’t want to move, don’t want to break this fragile moment just yet. His warmth is like a shield, keeping you safe from the echoes of fear that still try to creep up from the depths of your mind.

For a while, you simply breathe. Slow, steady, in and out, matching the rise and fall of Finnick’s chest beneath your palm. It’s like he’s breathing for you, keeping the rhythm until you can catch it yourself.

His arms are still wrapped around you, one hand resting gently against the back of your head, the other at your waist, keeping you close to him. You don’t say anything, neither of you do, but there’s a quiet, unspoken agreement in the stillness between you.

You’re safe here. Safe with him.

Every time the panic tries to sneak back in, Finnick seems to sense it. His thumb continues to stroke up and down your back, the motion comforting, calming. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push you to speak or explain. He knows. He understands.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you don’t need to explain. You don’t need to hide the fear. He knows it, just like he knows the quiet spaces inside of you—the ones no one else could ever touch.

“Whenever you need to,” he says softly after a while, his voice steady now, without the urgent tone from before. “You can hold me like this. You don’t have to face it alone. Not ever.”

The sincerity in his words settles over you like a blanket, the warmth of them seeping into your bones. You nod slightly, still curled into his chest, your cheek resting against the fabric of his shirt. Your hands are still gripping him, but not in panic anymore.

The silence between you now feels different. Not like the heavy, oppressive quiet you felt earlier, but something softer. Like a shared space where nothing is expected—just two people breathing together, letting time stretch out around them.

Minutes pass, maybe even an hour. You lose track of time, caught in the comfort of his presence, the steady beat of his heart against your palm. Slowly, the tension in your body starts to ease, the sharp edges of fear softening, melting away. You can still feel the residue of it, just a faint echo, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight it had before.

You take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs. And then another.

“Thank you,” you murmur against him, the words thick with emotion, but they feel right. You’re not sure you’ve ever said them with more honesty.

Finnick presses his lips into your hair, the lightest kiss, and you feel the soft smile in the movement. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t loosen his hold. Instead, he just stays there, holding you as you settle back into yourself, as you piece together the fragments of calm you can finally feel.

“I told you,” he whispers softly, voice laced with that quiet confidence that’s always been a part of him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

You don’t have the words to respond. All you can do is hold onto him, close your eyes, and allow yourself to let the fear fade into the background. The world outside can wait. For now, it’s just you and Finnick, and the peace of this moment, fragile but real.

[inseobts]

REQUESTS ARE OPEN, WOWIE!! Id like to request a scenario with a gender neutral reader with the strawhats platonically, where for whatever reason (devil fruit or if they were born like this), the reader is a full on monster in the very literal sense. Like a Lovecraftian beast hellbent on protecting their crew.

The Crew and the Creature

strawhat crew x gn ! strawhat ! reader (platonic)

words count: 2.3k

tags: monster reader, found family, platonic bonds, protective reader, light horror, humor

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sea is quiet. Too quiet.

Then something massive moves beneath the Thousand Sunny.

“Monster below!” Usopp screams, pointing over the railing “I saw a shadow—huge! With, like, tentacles!”

Franky rushes over “Maybe it’s a Sea King?”

“No,” Robin says calmly, her eyes scanning the water “That’s not a Sea King.”

The crew stares down. Bubbles rise. A thick, black shape coils in the deep.

Then it breaks the surface.

It is you.

You are not pretty. You are not small. You rise from the water like a nightmare pulled from the darkest part of the ocean. Your body shifts, sometimes scales, sometimes flesh, sometimes something else. You have too many eyes. Your teeth are not right. You drip seawater and silence.

And still, Luffy smiles.

“Hey!” he shouts, waving “You’re back!”

You let out a sound. It is not a word. Not exactly. But it means something like safe.

Chopper runs to you “Are you hurt?” he asks, climbing onto your arm, checking your many strange surfaces.

You gently lower him to the deck.

“I missed you,” Nami says, though she hides behind a mast “You scared away those bounty hunters back on Orange Island.”

“Yeah, and half the town,” Sanji adds, lighting a cigarette “Still... thanks.”

You do not speak like the others. Sometimes you speak in dreams. Sometimes in strange sounds. But they always understand.

Luffy laughs “You’re our monster!”

You blink all ten eyes at him.

“I mean it in a good way!” he says quickly “Right, guys?”

Usopp gulps “Y-yeah! Like, a cool, creepy bodyguard.”

“Cool,” Zoro mutters, sheathing his swords “Creepy’s right.”

But he’s smirking.

You settle on the deck, body shifting into a lower, less frightening form. You try to look less sharp. Less shadowy. More… crew.

“Still terrifying,” Brook says, his skull rattling “But I feel very safe. Thank you.”

Usopp looks over at him and says "You're the one talking about terrifying??"

Luffy sits on your back without asking “We’re heading for a new island. Lots of Marines. Lots of trouble.”

You growl low.

“Yeah,” he says “I knew you’d like that.”

You do not eat. You do not sleep like the others. But you stay. Always near. Always watching. Always protecting.

They are your crew. And no god, beast, or man will touch them while you still exist.

As the Thousand Sunny sails through the mist, thick fog clings to the deck. The sea is quiet again.

“New island ahead!” Nami calls “But something’s off…”

Robin narrows her eyes “There’s no wind.”

No waves. No gulls. Just silence.

Then it hits them.

A blast of air. Cold. Heavy. Wrong.

From the fog, a Marine warship appears, black sails, no flag. The kind used for secret missions. Assassins.

“Ambush!” Usopp shouts “They’ve got cannons aimed at us!”

The crew rushes to action.

Luffy cracks his knuckles “Let’s go.”

The Straw Hats move fast, Zoro to the bow, Franky to the cannons, Robin already summoning arms.

You rise from the lower deck.

You are not yet monstrous.

Your shape is tall. Barely human. Your skin shines wet like a deep-sea creature. Your eyes blink down your arms, across your collarbone, along your cheeks. Too many, but still familiar. You walk on two legs, but they stretch and bend wrong when needed.

“Hey,” Luffy calls out, grinning “Feel like scaring some Marines?”

You nod once “Give me a minute.”

Your voice is deep. Cold. Soft, like a wave under the hull.

You leap from the Sunny, arms snapping longer in the air, fingers clawed and sharp. You land on the enemy ship. The deck groans beneath your weight.

Marines freeze.

You stretch, spine cracking, growing taller, skin peeling back just enough to show something ancient.

They aim rifles.

You look at the captain “Don’t.”

He fires.

You disappear into smoke and shadow.

The Straw Hats watch from their deck as screams rise from the mist.

“Still terrifying” Usopp mutters.

“Effective” Robin says.

“Super effective” Franky agrees.

Within minutes, it’s over. You walk calmly back to the Sunny, not a drop of blood on you.

Chopper runs to you with a towel anyway “You okay?”

You blink “Yes.”

Sanji tosses you a can of juice “For your throat. You always sound like you swallowed gravel after a fight.”

You open the can. Sip. You do not say thank you, but you nod, which is more than usual.

Zoro stretches his arms “You went easy on them.”

You turn your many eyes toward him “They weren’t worth more.”

He smirks “Fair.”

Later that night, the fog long gone, you sit alone at the edge of the deck. You’ve shed your shape again. Tentacles hang lazily into the sea. You watch the moon.

Footsteps. Quiet ones.

Robin sits beside you. She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches the stars.

Then, softly, “Why don’t you stay in your human form more often?”

You shift, pulling yourself into it, slowly, carefully. You look almost like them again, though your eyes still glow faintly in the dark.

“Feels wrong,” you say after a long pause “Heavy. Small.”

“Unnatural?” she asks.

You look at her sideways “The monster is more me than the person.”

Robin nods “But both are you.”

You don’t reply. Not right away.

Finally, you say, “I like it better here.”

She smiles “With us?”

You nod “Yes.”

She stands “Good. Then stay.”

You watch her go. The ship rocks gently. For once, the ocean is quiet.

You stay in your human form just a little longer.

The Sunny drifts near a small island. Just trees. Rocks. Nothing dangerous. Or so they say.

“I’ll stay with the ship” you say.

No one argues.

They know you don’t like towns. You don’t fit in them. People stare. Or scream.

“We’ll bring back food!” Luffy grins “Meat for me. Saltwater things for you.”

You nod.

They leave.

You wait.

You sit still as a statue, eyes half-closed. But you’re never really asleep. You feel the ship breathe. You feel the waves talk. You feel something… else.

Something watching you.

It comes out of the forest.

A long, narrow boat. Quiet. Hidden in seaweed and shadows.

You smell them before you see them, old blood and gunpowder.

Pirates. Not smart ones.

They don’t see you until they’re close. One of them points “Thought this ship was empty—what the hell is that?”

You stand.

Limbs stretch. Flesh twists.

You don’t scream.

They do.

You don’t kill them. Not unless they try first.

They try.

So you do.

By the time the crew returns, the pirates are gone. Their boat is cracked in half, floating far from the shore.

You sit on the figurehead, dripping sea-water, arms folded, eyes open. Your "human" shape, but your mouth is wrong, wider than it should be. Smiling.

“What happened?” Nami asks.

You shrug “They were lost.”

Luffy laughs “Bet they wish they stayed that way.”

You tilt your head “You brought food?”

“Yep!” he holds up a sack.

You take it, tearing it open. Not meat. Not fish. Something else, shaped like a heart, but not a real one. Candy. Soft. Sweet.

“I saw it and thought of you” Luffy says with a grin.

You blink at him.

“You thought of me when you saw candy shaped like an organ?”

He shrugs “Yeah. You’re weird.”

You don’t laugh, but you let out a noise. A dry chuckle.

“You’re not mad?” Usopp asks, watching you carefully.

“No,” you say “I like it.”

That night, you stay in your human shape longer than usual. You sit with them around the table. You eat. You speak.

Only sometimes. Only when needed.

But when Chopper starts talking about an old wound, you listen. When Brook plays his violin, your many eyes all close.

And when the moon rises high, and the sea starts whispering again, your shape shifts slowly, carefully, into something ancient and sharp.

But your place at the table stays empty only for a moment. Sanji slides your untouched mug closer to the edge “Come back when you’re ready.” he says.

You will.

You always do.

It starts as a simple raid.

Another island. Another greedy warlord.

The Strawhats get involved because someone asked for help and Luffy doesn’t even think twice.

You follow. You always do.

The man ruling the port has a big gang too. Armed. Smart enough to use traps.

Too bad they’re not smart enough to leave your crew alone.

The fight breaks out in the old dockyard. Smoke. Fire. Screams.

You're already half-shifted, tall, monstrous, voice cracking through the air like thunder.

Zoro cuts down a wave of goons.

Robin snaps arms like dry twigs.

Sanji launches into the air, spinning, fire trailing from his heel.

Usopp covers them all from the back, sniping, covering, yelling tips no one listens to.

Then it happens.

You hear it first, a shout that turns into a scream.

“AHHH—!!”

Usopp.

Your head jerks around looking for him.

He's on the ground. A blade in his shoulder. Blood soaking his jacket. One of the gang stands over him, laughing.

“Little sniper talks too much.”

Something in you snaps.

You drop your shape like dead weight.

The air turns cold.

Even your own crewmates shudder.

You do not walk. You flow.

You grow taller. Eyes open all over your body, the kind that don’t blink, don’t weep. Tentacles rip through your arms. Your mouth opens sideways. No teeth, just depth. Your skin peels back in places, showing muscle made of shadow and ink.

The gang member barely has time to scream before he vanishes in your jaws.

Then you turn to the others.

You don’t care if they run.

You hunt.

You crash through wooden walls. Your roar knocks people to the ground. You move like water, like madness, like hunger with bones.

Luffy watches from the rooftop “They messed up.”

“Big time” Zoro agrees.

"A MONSTER!!!" the enemies start to scream at you.

And then a flash. A cannon. They had backup. One shot slams into your side.

You scream. For real this time.

The blast rips through part of your body, smoke and ichor pour out. You crash into the street, bones (or what counts as bones) twisting.

“Y/N!” Chopper yells, already running.

But you rise again.

Shaking. Bleeding. Eyes still burning.

You don’t feel pain. Not yet.

You leap.

You tear through the rest of them. You don’t stop until they’ve either run or lie broken in the dirt.

Only then do you fall.

Your limbs lose shape. Your body pulls inward. You start to collapse.

But arms catch you.

Usopp, pale and hurt, grits his teeth “I’ve got you.”

You're bigger than him. He’s shaking. But he holds on anyway.

“Stupid,” you whisper “You got stabbed.”

“You got blown up,” he says, coughing “Don’t change the subject.”

Chopper reaches you seconds later, frantic “Lie down—don’t shift again, you’re leaking—everything!”

Luffy walks up, face serious for once “You went nuts.”

You nod weakly.

“Good,” he says, grinning again “I was about to.”

Sanji lights a cigarette “That was terrifying,” he says casually “Ten out of ten.”

You close your eyes. You feel your body melting back into something half-human, half-broken. The pain is catching up now.

“You protected me” Usopp says, still holding on.

You try to say something but for once, your voice is gone.

You sleep for three days.

Not real sleep. Not dreams. Just darkness. Warmth. Weight.

Voices pass through sometimes.

“Stable,” Chopper mutters “Barely.”

“Reattaching muscle with sea-stone thread? That’s insane.” Franky says, awed.

“They’ll make it,” Zoro says “Or I’ll drag them back myself.”

You drift.

Until you wake.

It’s night. The Sunny is quiet. Your body is wrapped in cloth and bandages. Your shape is smaller, closer to human. You're too weak for the other one.

Your eyes open “Hey.”

Usopp sits next to you, one arm in a sling, face tired, but smiling.

“You’re alive. And not screaming in monster-language, so I’m calling that a win.”

You try to speak.

Only a whisper “You’re okay.”

He laughs “You nearly died. I got a scratch.”

You turn your head. The others sleep nearby, or keep quiet watch. No fear. No running. Just… waiting for you to wake up.

“Why?” you rasp “I lost control.”

“You protected me,” he says simply “You chose us.”

Your claws twitch. You remember the way your body moved, without thought. The way you devoured the man who hurt him.

“I’m not like you.”

“No,” Usopp says “You’re not.”

You tense.

He leans in “But you’re one of us.”

That doesn’t make sense.

“I lie,” he says, smiling “Nami steals. Zoro drinks. Luffy eats enough to kill ten men. You? You destroy anything that tries to take us away.”

He leans back “I think that’s fair.”

You stare at him.

Then slowly… painfully…

You smile.

It’s strange. Your teeth are still sharp. Your skin still wrong. But your smile is real.

The next day, you walk on the deck again. Still weak. Still wrapped in cloth. Still you.

Luffy cheers when he sees you.

“Y/N!” he shouts “Back from the dead!”

You nod “Barely.”

He grins wider “Good. We need you for the next fight.”

Sanji tosses you something.

A rice ball. Shaped like a heart again.

You blink.

“You’re part of this crew,” Nami says, hands on her hips “Whether you look like a horror story or not.”

Chopper adds, “But please don’t bleed out again. I can only take so much stress.”

You sit down. You eat. Slowly. Carefully.

The sun rises behind the Sunny. The wind shifts.

Robin looks at you, voice soft “Do you still think you’re just a monster?”

You think.

You look at your hands. At the crew. At the sea.

“No...” you say.

You pause.

Then “I’m your monster.”

They all grin.

[psformybss]

Can you do one where the public reacts badly towards Drew’s secret?fiancée? I know you have done a good one but can you do a bad one?

When the World Knew

series masterlist

warnings: internet hate, secret relationship reveal, angst, emotional distress, comfort, death threats (mentioned), protective!Drew, hurt/comfort

an: fun fact i originally wanted to make the reveal angsty, actually wrote a few different versions of it and this one is one of them except more angsty than it originally was

The day they got caught was golden.

Not metaphorically—actually golden.

The light, the laughter, the way the ocean curled around their ankles as they kissed. Teddy chased a gull down the shoreline. Drew held her hand like it was second nature, like no one was watching. Because they thought—hoped—no one was.

For a few sacred hours, it was just them and the surf. A soft kind of joy.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the picture hit the internet like a match to dry brush.

By morning, it was a fire.

By evening, it was an inferno.

And by the next day, it was war.

She hadn’t meant to check her phone.

She shouldn’t have.

But the moment she saw her face plastered across fan accounts, tagged in screenshots of that photo, the dread sank into her like a stone in water.

They had found her.

Not just her name—her Instagram. Her photos. Her old high school posts. Her graduation selfie with Drew’s arm around her waist. The blurry prom pic she forgot even existed.

And they ripped her apart.

Her DMs were flooded.

“You’ll never be enough for him.”

“He deserves better.”

“You’re ruining his career.”

“He could have any woman he wants, and he chose you?”

Then it got worse.

“Die.”

“Go kill yourself.”

“He’ll leave you. They always do.”

She locked her phone and sat in the silence of their bedroom, blinds drawn, heart thudding behind her ribs like a warning bell. Her skin itched. Her throat burned. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to scream or throw up.

Teddy barked from the living room. She didn’t move.

Her hands were shaking.

Drew found out during a scene break on set.

His phone vibrated nonstop—texts from his sister, his publicist, old high school friends, “Check Instagram now.”

He pulled up Instagram.

Saw the photos.

Saw the screenshots.

Saw the hate.

Saw her name trending.

He didn’t even tell the director he was leaving.

She didn’t hear him come in.

She was still sitting on the floor of the bathroom, back against the tub, eyes blank. Her phone was on the counter with the screen turned face-down.

He said her name once—softly.

She didn’t answer.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, cupping her face with trembling hands. “Hey. Baby. Look at me.”

Her eyes flicked to his. Shiny. Empty.

“They found me,” she said, voice hollow. “They found everything.”

Drew’s stomach twisted.

“They’re sending death threats.”

She blinked, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

“They said I should kill myself so you can be free.”

“Jesus,” he breathed, pulling her into him. She didn’t fight it. Just collapsed against his chest like she had nothing left holding her up.

“I thought I could handle it,” she whispered. “But I didn’t think it would be this.”

His jaw clenched. He stroked her hair like it could ground her. Like maybe if he held her close enough, none of it would stick.

“They don’t know you,” he said, his voice raw. “They don’t get to touch you like this.”

“I feel disgusting,” she choked. “Like I ruined everything. Like I’m the villain in their fantasy.”

“No. No,” he said, pulling back to meet her eyes. “This is not your fault. You didn’t ask for this.”

“We waited, Drew. We waited. We wanted it to be ours. Safe. Now they’ve taken even that.”

He saw it then—the heartbreak buried beneath the fear. Not just the backlash. But the grief of losing something sacred.

“I should’ve protected you,” he said quietly.

She shook her head, voice trembling. “You did. You always have.”

That night, Drew didn’t sleep.

She lay in bed beside him, silent tears soaking into his hoodie. He stayed awake, watching the curve of her cheek against the pillow, the slight hitch of her breath. Every time her phone buzzed on the nightstand, he had to force himself not to throw it across the room.

By dawn, he’d had enough.

He opened Instagram. Sat on the edge of their bed. Hit record.

No lights. No filters. Just a man and his fury.

“If you’re my fan,” he said, “you don’t get to send death threats to the woman I love.”

His voice was low, but it shook.

“She’s been part of my life since we were kids. Before the shows. Before the cameras. She has never once asked for attention or clout or anything from me but love.”

He swallowed hard.

“And now, because someone snapped a picture, she’s being harassed, threatened—told to die. All because she wears a ring I gave her.”

A pause. His eyes narrowed.

“I’m done being quiet. This isn’t just internet drama. This is real. This is the woman I’m going to marry, and you’re hurting her.”

His hand tightened around the phone.

“If you say you care about me—really care—then stop. Right now. Because I won’t stand by and watch you destroy the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He posted it without rewatching.

Then he turned off his phone.

And climbed back into bed.

The internet fractured.

Some fans doubled down—called him whipped, dramatic, claimed he was “blaming his supporters.”

But others fought back harder.

“This woman has done nothing wrong. Leave her alone.”

“Imagine being with your high school sweetheart and people think you’re the villain?”

“I can’t believe how disgusting people are being. Drew’s right to be furious.”

“Love like this doesn’t happen often. Protect it.”

Slowly, the tide shifted.

Not fully. But enough.

She could breathe again.

Not because the hate was gone.

But because he didn’t let her drown in it alone.

They stayed inside for a few days.

Ordered takeout. Watched comfort movies. Played music too loud just to block out the world.

Drew held her through the panic. Sat with her through the silence.

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he was building a new shield around her every time.

And eventually, she started to come back to herself.

She started answering texts again. Opened her camera roll and smiled at pictures of Teddy chasing his tail. Sat on their back porch with her knees pulled to her chest and said, “Maybe one day we’ll laugh about this.”

Drew kissed her temple.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

[heliosunny]

PLEASE need some hsr mermay content IDC WHO PLEASE I TAKE ANY MERMAY CONTENT 🙏🙏🙏

Deadly Gamble

Yandere!Merman!Aventurine x Reader

The sea had been a mirror of tranquility just moments before, its surface glinting under the moonlight like scattered coins. Then, without warning, the waves rose in fury, their dark crests slamming against the ship's hull with enough force to send tremors through the deck. The storm had descended like a predator, but even its wrath paled in comparison to what came with it.

The singing slithered through the chaos first. It wove between the howling wind and the crew's panicked shouts.

"Don't listen to them!" Came the captain's voice, his hands locked onto the wheel as the ship pitched violently.

But the warning came as the first sailor staggered toward the railing. "They're... they're singing for me..."

You reached for him, fingers brushing his sleeve just as he leaned over the edge and the water beneath him erupted, dragging him down before his scream could even leave his throat.

The deck shuddered beneath your feet as another wave struck. A jagged crack split the planks near the mast, seawater surging through the breach. Someone shouted, "We're going down!" before the world tilted, and the ocean swallowed everything.

Cold was the first sensation that pierced the fog in your mind. Your body was leaden, half-buried in wet sand, each breath burning as you coughed up saltwater. The storm had spat you out, though every muscle screamed in protest as you pushed yourself onto your elbows.

The second thing you noticed was the silence. No wind. Just the gentle lap of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

"Now this is a surprise."

Slowly, you turned your head.

Aventurine lounged in the shallows, his tail, gleaming like spilled gold, curled lazily beneath him.

"Most humans don't survive" he mused, tilting his head. His fingers trailed through the water, sending ripples toward you.

He moved suddenly, closing the distance between you in one fluid motion. His hand closed around your wrist. "Let's see how long that luck holds."

The water was rising around your legs, his pull relentless, and panic clawed up your throat.

"Oi! Get away from them!"

A rock struck the water near Aventurine's shoulder, sending up a spray. He recoiled with a hiss, his grip loosening just enough for you to wrench free. A villager stood further up the shore, a fishing spear leveled in warning.

For a heartbeat, Aventurine didn't move. His gaze flicked from you to the interloper. Then, with a low laugh, he leaned back, sinking into the waves.

"Run along, little fish," he murmured, his voice carrying even as the water swallowed him whole. "But remember, the ocean always takes what it's owed."

You were alive.

For now.

The village had been kind to you, feeding you, clothing you, letting you rest in a small but warm inn by the shore. The locals spoke of the mermen with wary resignation, as one might speak of storms or droughts.

"Just don’t wander too close to the water." an old fisherman had told you, his gnarled hands mending a net. 

You had been careful.

Yet here you were, barefoot in the damp sand, the cold tide licking at your ankles.

The sound had woken you, a melody, tugging at your limbs like puppet strings. You hadn’t even realized you were moving until the salt-sting of the sea air snapped you back to awareness.

And there he was.

Aventurine perched on a jagged rock just beyond the shallows, his tail flicking idly against the surf. Moonlight gilded the sharp angles of his face, his eyes gleaming as his song faded into a smirk.

"Sleepwalking, little fish?" he crooned, tilting his head. "Or just eager to see me again?"

Your fingers scrambled for a weapon—a rock, a piece of driftwood, anything—but the beach offered nothing.

"You dragged me here" you spat.

"I merely… invited. You came all on your own." He leaned forward, bracing his chin on one hand. "Admit it. Part of you wanted to."

You took a step back. "What do you want?"

"A conversation." His tail lashed, sending up a spray of seawater. "You’re not like the others. They die. But you…" His gaze raked over you. "You survived."

"That’s just luck."

"Luck?" He grinned. "Oh, sweet thing. Luck is my domain." He slid from the rock, disappearing beneath the waves for a heartbeat before resurfacing closer. "Tell me your name."

The command slithered into your bones, sweet and heavy. Your lips parted—Then you clenched your jaw.

"I’m leaving."

"Fine. Run back to your little hovel. But we’re not done."

You didn’t wait to hear more.

The sand was cold underfoot as you fled, his laughter chasing you all the way back to the inn.

You locked the door.

The news of an incoming ship spread through the village. Finally, a way home. You should have felt relief. Instead, your fingers tightened around the edge of your drink as you sat in the dim-lit tavern of the inn, the weight of unseen eyes prickling the back of your neck.

The innkeeper had hired new help.

You recognized him instantly.

But you played along.

"New here?" you asked, feigning ignorance as he slid into the seat across from you.

"A traveler, just passing through" Aventurine replied. His fingers drummed against the wooden table. "Heard there’s a ship coming soon. You planning to board?"

You took a slow sip of your ale, watching him over the rim. "Maybe. Depends on if the sea’s in a good mood."

He chuckled. "Luck’s a fickle thing, isn’t it? I’ve got a theory—some people are just born under lucky stars. Others…" His gaze flickered to the window, where the ocean churned in the distance. "Others make their own luck."

"And which one are you?"

His grin widened. "Why don’t you find out?"

For days, he wove himself into your routine, bringing you meals, lingering in conversation, his words laced with double meanings. He was testing you, seeing how long it would take for you to break.

Instead, you matched him.

The night before the ship’s arrival, you found him on the inn’s back porch, staring at the moonlit waves.

"No disguise tonight?" you asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"Would it matter if I did?"

You stepped closer. "Why bother with this charade?"

Finally, he looked at you, his eyes gleaming with something almost like respect. "Because you’re interesting."

"You could stay"

You raised a brow. "And what? Become your next meal?"

He laughed. "Oh, little fish. If I wanted to eat you, you’d already be gone."

The ship would come.

The choice, for now, was yours.

And as you walked away, you could’ve sworn you heard him whisper

"Luck favors the bold."

You had spent your last days in the village sharpening knives and weaving nets into makeshift traps. The villagers warned you—no one hunts the mermen and lives to tell the tale. But you were done playing his games.

The night before the ship arrived, you waited by the shore with a harpoon stolen from the docks, the moon hidden behind storm clouds. The sea was eerily calm.

Then, a ripple. A flicker of gold beneath the waves.

You lunged before you could think, driving the harpoon into the water with all your strength.

And missed.

Aventurine surfaced just inches from the blade, his laughter ringing like wind chimes in a hurricane. "Oh, little fish, did you really think it would be that easy?"

You snarled and struck again. This time, a rogue wave knocked you off your feet before the harpoon could find its mark.

He tsked, swimming lazy circles around you as you sputtered in the shallows. "So predictable." Then his grin turned razor-edged. "But don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow."

Before you could reply, he was gone.

The ship arrived at dawn, a sturdy merchant vessel, its crew none the wiser to the predators lurking beneath the waves. You boarded with your jaw set, your fingers brushing the knife hidden in your sleeve. Let him try.

The attack came just as the ship reached open water.

One moment, the deck was bustling with sailors; the next, screams erupted as sinuous forms vaulted over the rails.

You barely had time to draw your blade before he was on you, his grip iron-strong as he dragged you toward the railing.

"This," he purred against your ear, "is where your luck runs out."

The water swallowed you whole, the surface receding as he pulled you deeper, his kin following with other struggling victims in tow. You fought, clawing at his arms, but his smile never wavered.

His teeth sank into your shoulder. You gasped… and instead of choking on seawater, you breathed. Your eyes flew wide.

Aventurine released you, licking a drop of blood from his lips. "A gift" he said, as the other mermen began tearing into their prey. "And a curse." He leaned in. "You have seven days. After that?" His tail coiled around you. "You will die."

Seven days.

Seven days to find a way out.

Or seven days until the ocean claimed you for good.

The other mermen circled you like sharks scenting blood, their eyes gleaming with amusement. You were Aventurine’s discarded toy, a plaything he had bitten and left to drown—but not quickly enough.

One reached out, claws grazing your arm. "The human!" he hissed.

You didn’t wait for them to strike first.

Snatching a jagged piece of driftwood from the seabed, you swung. It connected with the first merman’s temple, sending him reeling back with a snarl. The others hissed in surprise.

You barely dodged, twisting away as teeth snapped where your throat had been. Kicking off the ocean floor, you swam for the surface, lungs burning despite the cursed gift of Aventurine’s bite. But they were faster. A hand closed around your ankle, yanking you back down.

Crack

A ship’s broken mast, torn loose in the storm above, plunged into the water like a spear, impaling the merman holding you. The others scattered as the heavy timber pinned their kin to the seabed.

Aventurine found you washed up on a desolate atoll, gasping and bleeding.

He emerged from the waves with a slow, mocking clap. "Bravo" he drawled. "I almost thought you’d make it." His eyes flicked over your trembling form. "But your luck’s run out, darling."

"Then take it back."

"Take what?"

"Your gift." You staggered to your feet. "You want me dead? Fine. But I won’t drown for your amusement."

He laughed, slithering closer. "And how do you plan to—"

Your hands locked around his wrists, and with every ounce of strength left, you pulled. He stumbled, tail flailing—and then you twisted, dragging him onto the sharp rocks lining the shore.

"You—"

"If I’ve got the worst luck," you spat, pinning him down as his scales scraped against stone, "then so do you."

A wave, monstrous and sudden, crashed over you both, wrenching you back into the sea. Saltwater filled your mouth, your vision darkening as the current tore you apart—

And then his hands were on you, shoving you toward the surface.

You broke through, coughing, just in time to see him vanish into the depths.

You dragged yourself onto the rocks, breathing hard.

---

Six days left.

And now? He was angry.

Aventurine had always played his games alone.

But now, the whispers slithered through the reefs, the human had wounded him. Not just in flesh, but in pride. And the other mermen, sensing blood in the water, were eager to finish what he had started.

One in particular, a brash hunter with emerald scales, had already set off toward the shallows. "I'll bring you their heart"

Aventurine killed him.

"Anyone else..." he looked up at the others, flicking blood from his claws, "want to interfere?"

Silence.

But vengeance required more than intimidation. So he descended—down, down, past the carcasses of sunken ships, past the trenches where light dared not reach, to the abyss where the sea witch lurked.

"Aventurine," she crooned. "Come to beg?"

He tossed the hunter’s severed fin at her feet. "Come to bargain."

She laughed. "Is it about that specific human? Want them to suffer?"

"I want them to understand," he corrected, "What it means to lose everything to luck."

The witch leaned forward, her ink-black hair swirling. "Then take their luck away." She pressed a vial into his palm, inside the vial, liquid gold swirled. "One drop… and Fortune will abandon them forever."

Aventurine’s fingers curled around it. Perfect.

The storm raged above the waves as Aventurine cornered you against the jagged rocks of a coastal cave, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. The vial of cursed luck glinted in his hand. Took quite the effort to bring you here.

"You've been quite the problem, but every game must end."

"You don't have to do this. I will die eventually."

"Oh, but I want to," he hissed, baring sharp teeth. With terrifying speed, his hand gripped your wrist, the other tipping the vial toward your lips.

You thrashed, turning your face away as the golden liquid spilled, only for a rogue wave to slam into the cave, knocking you both sideways. The vial flew from his grasp, spinning through the water—

And shattered against his chest instead.

The effect was instant.

The liquid seeped into his scales like poison. His pupils shrank to slits as realization dawned.

"NO!"

The ocean itself seemed to turn against him. A current wrenched him backward into the cave wall. A jagged rock gashed his tail as he crashed against the reef. He hissed in pain—only for a startled moray eel to dart from the coral and sink its teeth into his arm.

He was unlucky now.

And despite everything, you hate to witness the scene.

You swam forward and seized his wrist.

"Don't touch me!" he snarled, trying to jerk away.

"If I let go, you'll die."

You loosened your grip—just slightly.

A nearby conch shell, dislodged by a flick of his tail, plummeted and cracked against his skull.

You tightened your hold with a sigh. "We need to fix this."

The journey to the sea witch’s lair was a nightmare.

Every movement Aventurine made invited disaster. A school of venomous jellyfish drifted into his path. A dormant volcano rumbled beneath you, spewing boiling vents. Once, a shark—his own ally—mistook his shimmering scales for prey and took a chunk from his fin.

By the time the abyss opened before you, he was bleeding, seething, and utterly humiliated.

The sea witch’s laughter echoed through her cathedral of bones.

"Ohhh," she cooed, circling you both. "This is marvellous!"

"Undo it" Aventurine demanded.

"Or what?" She flicked his nose. "You’ll trip me to death?"

You stepped between them. "There has to be a way to lift the curse. For both of us."

The witch paused. "Why would you help him?"

You didn’t answer.

She smirked. "A trade, then. His luck returns… if you give me your remaining days."

"No."

"Deal." You ignored him.

The witch’s grin split her face. "Then hold still—"

Aventurine moved.

His free hand snatched a rusted dagger from the witch’s belt—and plunged it into her throat.

Her shriek shook the ocean. Black blood clouded the water as her magic unraveled in a whirlpool of curses. The vial’s effects shattered.

And your borrowed time?

Still ticking.

Panting, Aventurine glared at you. "Never do that again. You suck at bargaining."

"Let’s just go back."

The sea witch’s blood still clouded the water around you, her dying curse echoing in the silence. Aventurine’s grip on your hand was iron-tight—not out of affection, but necessity. Without you, his own luck was a liability.

You studied his sharp profile, the way his jaw clenched as he scanned the dark waters ahead. Why did he stop you? He could have let the witch take your remaining days.

As if sensing your thoughts, he scoffed. "Don’t look at me like that. I just hate owing debts."

You almost laughed. "So stabbing her was… what? A favor?"

"A solution," he snapped, tail flicking irritably—only to dislodge a rock that nearly brained him. He scowled. "We need to find another way. Before your time runs out."

The words hung between you. Five days. Maybe less.

The ocean had never felt so vast.

With your free hand, you sifted through the wreckage of sunken ships while Aventurine begrudgingly directed you toward hidden merfolk archives—places where old magic might still linger.

"Here, try to find something useful."

You reached for one, but he yanked you back just as a dagger—rusty and loose from its display—clattered down where your hand had been.

"This is exhausting."

You sighed. "Then let’s hurry."

The first two days passed in a blur of near-misses and dead ends.

Aventurine, despite his pride, refused to let go. Not when a collapsing tunnel nearly crushed him. Not when a rogue current almost swept you both.

By the third day, frustration simmered beneath his skin.

"There’s nothing," he snarled, flipping over a table in the ruins of an undersea shrine.

"Wait." Your fingers brushed a mosaic on the wall—a merfolk legend depicting a mortal and a sea spirit bound together. "What’s this?"

"...Two lives becoming one." His voice was oddly quiet.

You turned to him. "Would it work?"

"It would mean sharing your curse." A pause. "And your luck."

The weight of it settled between you.

You had nothing left to lose.

He had everything to gain.

"Do it." you said.

Aventurine’s grip tightened. "You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to."

"I know my time is up." You held his gaze. "And I know you hate losing."

For once, he had no clever retort.

The ritual was simple.

A cut on his palm. A cut on yours. Blood mingling in the water as ancient words spilled from his lips.

Pain lanced through you, sharp and bright, as something shifted. Your vision blurred; your lungs burned. Then—

"...It’s done."

You looked down. The mark from his bite was gone.

And when you finally, finally let go of his hand?

Nothing bad happens to him.

"Come on, little fish" he muttered, tugging you toward the surface. "Want some fresh air?"

The ritual had changed something fundamental between you—and Aventurine wasn't acting like himself.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. The way his fingers lingered when passing you seaweed-wrapped fish. How his eyes tracked your movements like a compass finding north. When you climbed onto the shore of a deserted island to gather driftwood, he transformed his tail into human legs (a glamour, he'd grumbled, not his favorite form) and followed.

"You don't have to come" you said, watching him scowl at the way the grains stuck to his skin.

"I know" he snapped, but made no move to return to the waves.

The realization hit when a stray fishing hook snagged your sleeve, nearly dragging you into the water. Aventurine, halfway across the beach, flinched as if he'd felt the tug too.

You froze. "Did you just—"

"No" he lied, too quickly.

You pressed your palm to his chest. His heartbeat thundered against your fingertips—matching yours.

"You didn't tell me it would be like this." 

He looked away. "Would you have agreed if I did?"

The answer hung between you.

The mermen noticed.

Of course they did.

Aventurine had always been untouchable—a creature of chaos and cunning, feared even by his own kind. Now? He was vulnerable. 

They came at dusk, their silvered knives glinting beneath the waves.

"Traitor," one hissed, circling you both. "You've bound yourself to a human."

Aventurine's grip on your waist tightened. "Say that again," he purred, "and I'll turn your spine into a necklace."

But the threat rang hollow. They knew.

Hurt you, and he'd bleed.

Kill you, and he'd die.

They lunged forward. Only for Aventurine to move, faster than you'd ever seen, his borrowed human strength fueled by something raw and desperate. The attacker's body hit the sand with a wet thud, throat slit.

Aventurine turned to you. His glamour was slipping, gills flaring at his neck.

"We can't stay here" 

You stared at the corpse, then at him. "Where can we go?"

"Wherever the tide takes us."

That night, as you drifted on a stolen fishing boat beneath a sky full of stars, Aventurine finally admitted the truth.

"The ritual wasn't just about sharing time," he said, fingers tracing the new mark on your wrist. "It was about sharing fate."

You swallowed. "So if I die..."

"I die. And vice versa." He said it casually. "Annoying, isn't it?"

You laughed, despite everything. "You hate this."

"I loathe it." he agreed, but when you shifted closer, he didn't pull away.

Somewhere in the dark water below, his kin were hunting.

But for now?

You had time.

----

It felt like a beginning.

He had never done anything like this before.

Aventurine crouched in the moonlit shallows, his claws dripping with seawater and something darker. The bodies of his former kin floated just beneath the surface, their lifeless eyes staring up at the stars they would never see again. Their blood swirled around him like ink in the tide, their stolen life force threading through the water—his to claim.

Pathetic, he thought, watching the last of the ritual’s glow fade from his fingertips. Sacrificing fools for a human’s sake.

But it wasn’t just your life he was extending.

It was his.

And that, at least, made sense.

You found him at dawn.

He was sprawled on a half-sunken rock, his tail streaked with fresh wounds, his breathing deliberately slow. When you called his name, he didn’t startle. Just turned his head lazily, as if he’d been waiting.

"There you are, little fish." he drawled. "Sleep well?"

You ignored the taunt, wading into the surf to inspect the gashes along his side. "What happened?"

"Hunting accident." He flicked a claw toward the horizon, where the first pale bodies were just beginning to wash ashore. 

You frowned. "They’re… dead?"

"Mm. Unfortunate." He watched your face, searching for disgust, for horror—but all you did was press a hand to the worst of his injuries.

"You’re bleeding." 

He almost laughed. Oh, darling. If only you knew.

But he wouldn’t tell you. Not just because you might recoil.

Because this was his secret to keep.

That night, when you slept, he pressed two fingers to the mark on your wrist, the one that bound you together, and felt the steady, strong pulse of it.

Ridiculous, he thought.

And yet.

When you shifted in your sleep, your fingers brushing his, he didn’t pull away.

The next morning, you caught him staring at the horizon.

"What are you thinking about?" 

He smirked. "How much I hate owing favors."

You rolled your eyes. "You don’t owe me anything."

"Exactly," he said, too lightly. "So don’t expect this to become a habit."

But when you turned away, his gaze dropped to the mark on his own wrist, the one that matched yours, and for the briefest moment, his smirk softened.

Worth it.

[hummingbird24220]

Ello, I'm back to respectfully request Sanji with a reader who smokes. Reader has been stealing smokes from Sanji while also keeping their bad habit a secret from the rest of the crew. Once the rest of the crew find out and a light scolding from sanji (especially if you wanna do fem reader because he'd never yell at a lady in anger) Reader and Sanji become smoking buddies and it becomes a kinda unspoken thing that when sanji steps out for a smoke break reader will follow.

(A very fluffy request after the the flith I requested as a palette cleanser <3)

Yuus!! Something about Sanji smoking is just so..GODDAMN...HOT. Unfair, really.

Hope you enjoy!

Smoke Signals

Sanji x Reader

You didn’t mean to start stealing them. It just… sort of happened.

At first, it was one—snuck from a box left out on the counter while Sanji was distracted bickering with Zoro. You were planning to toss it. Honestly. But it sat in your pocket all day. And when the sun set low and the crew was distracted by a loud game of cards, you found yourself behind the galley, crouched next to a barrel, lighting it with shaking hands.

One became two. Then five. Then… well. You were practically on a schedule.

No one knew. At least, you thought no one knew. But Sanji? Sanji always knows.

It came to a head one quiet afternoon.

You were perched behind the Sunny’s mast, tucked away in your secret spot between some crates, the butt of a half-finished cigarette between your fingers. You hadn’t even gotten three puffs in before:

“That’s my brand, y’know.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin, spinning to see Sanji leaning on the railing just around the corner, one eye visible through his fringe, narrowed with something between amusement and quiet judgment.

“…Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tilted his head, slowly approaching with a cigarette of his own tucked behind his ear. He didn’t look angry—if anything, he looked… smug. Too smug.

“Thought I was losing my mind,” he said. “Box after box, lighter always warm. You think I don’t keep track of my own stash?”

You blew smoke to the side and muttered, “Thought you were just chain smoking more than usual.”

He huffed a laugh at that, crouching beside you.

“I do chain smoke,” he admitted, “but not that much. You’ve got light fingers.”

Silence.

The breeze tickled the hair at your temples, but you didn’t look at him. You focused on the cigarette instead, avoiding the way he was watching you.

“…You gonna tell the others?” you asked, tone low. “It’s a bad habit. I know. I don’t need Chopper or Nami getting on my ass.”

Sanji was quiet for a beat. When he finally spoke, it was gentle.

“No. Not unless you want me to.”

You blinked, glancing at him. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “I get it. Sometimes it’s not about the smoke. Sometimes it’s just about the moment.”

He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it, flicking the lighter once before handing it to you without looking.

You didn’t speak, just took it with a small nod.

The two of you sat like that for a while—quiet, back to the mast, knees pulled up. The smoke curled in lazy spirals, drifting off into the wind.

Then Sanji added, a little softer, “But I am cutting you off.”

You blinked. “What?”

“If you’re gonna keep the habit, you’re buying your own packs. I’m not your dealer, sweetheart.”

You snorted, laughing for the first time all day. “Fine. Stingy.”

He smirked. “Damn right I am.”

“You know, if I were anyone else, I’d be giving you a damn lecture,” Sanji said, flicking ash over the rail as you exhaled beside him. “It’s a filthy habit. Bad for your lungs, your skin, your stamina—”

“Your teeth,” you added, puffing smoke toward his head with a sly smile.

He side-eyed you. “I was being mature, thank you.”

“You’re being hypocritical.”

“Tch.”

You both went quiet for a moment, listening to the soft creak of the ship as it rocked against the sea. A gull squawked overhead. Somewhere in the distance, Usopp shouted something about a “sea beast with too many eyes.”

You took a long drag, eyes half-lidded. “How long have you been smoking anyway?”

Sanji gave a small sigh, his lips curling into a crooked smile. “Since I was about fourteen, actually. Zeff used to catch me behind crates and throw bread at my head.”

You laughed. “Sounds like something Nami would do.”

“She’d use a shoe,” he muttered, and you both grinned.

Then—

“WHAT IS THAT SMELL?!”

You froze. Sanji swore under his breath. You turned to see Chopper, eyes wide, nostrils twitching like he’d just walked into a burning pharmacy.

“WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE BURNT POISON?!” Chopper shouted.

You panicked, immediately stuffing your cigarette behind your back (like that would help), while Sanji coolly tried to step in front of you. It didn’t work. Chopper had already seen everything.

“You’re smoking?! YOU’RE BOTH SMOKING?”

“Calm down, Chopper—” Sanji tried.

“CALM?! CALM?! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT DOES TO A DEER’S LUNGS?! OR A HUMAN’S?! OR A HALF-HUMAN-HALF-GIRAFFE—?! Wait. No. That’s Kaku.”

The shouting attracted everyone.

Luffy dropped down from the upper deck. “Smoking? Who’s smoking?” Usopp and Franky came bounding over. “Yo, what’s the drama—whoa. Are you smoking behind the barrels?!” Nami’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. You? You’re smoking?”

You looked at Sanji. He looked at you.

“…Traitors,” you muttered.

“WE KNEW SANJI SMOKED,” Nami said, pointing a very betrayed finger your way. “You were supposed to be the healthy one! The one who eats fruit voluntarily!”

“I still eat fruit voluntarily!”

“NOT ENOUGH IF YOU’RE PICKLING YOUR LUNGS!”

Franky leaned on the railing, looking impressed. “Didn’t think you had it in you. Secret smoke ninja. Suuuper stealth.”

Usopp gasped. “You’re the smoke thief! I told Sanji he wasn’t just losing them!”

Sanji, still trying to play it cool, waved a hand. “Alright, alright—everyone back off. I already gave them a hard time. They know it’s bad. They’re cutting back.”

You snorted. “No, I’m not.”

He kicked your shin. You elbowed his side. The two of you bickered until Luffy finally said:

“Wait. Are cigarettes like candy sticks?”

“NO!” “YES!” “Sanji—!”

The cook sighed, rubbing his temples. “Okay. Fine. Don’t be like me.”

Nami crossed her arms, and Robin, from the stairs above, smiled with that ominous softness. “We could always hide the cigarettes.”

Sanji and you both paled.

“Try,” you challenged, only half-serious.

“Please don’t,” Sanji added. Fully serious.

That night, the two of you lit up behind the kitchen’s back wall, now exiled to the furthest edge of the deck. You both inhaled quietly, the stars above you, the sea whispering soft shushes around the ship.

Sanji spoke first, blowing smoke toward the moon.

“…You’re gonna quit someday.”

You didn’t answer.

After a long pause, you replied, “Maybe. But not tonight.”

He bumped your shoulder. “Yeah. Me neither.”

It became a rhythm. Not one either of you planned, exactly. It just… was.

If Sanji stepped outside after a meal, still rolling his sleeves up and sighing like the weight of the kitchen was dragging him down, you’d be about thirty seconds behind him, arms crossed, pretending you were just happening to be out on deck at the same time.

If you stood up mid-conversation and brushed a hand against Sanji’s arm, gave the lightest nudge to his side or shoulder, he’d sigh with the fondness of a long-suffering boyfriend, reach into his breast pocket, and wordlessly follow.

Eventually, Sanji stopped bothering with words. He’d pat your head twice—tap tap—and head toward the usual spot near the edge of the galley, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were following.

You always did.

It was quiet time. Not for venting, not for planning. Just existing. Just breathing the same poisoned air together while the Sunny glided across blue.

And to everyone else on the ship… it was maddeningly, weirdly cute.

One afternoon, Nami was laying out her maps, trying to concentrate while Luffy snored on the floor beside her. She didn’t even look up as she muttered:

“There they go again.”

Zoro, from the other side of the deck, raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

She jerked her chin toward Sanji, who had just padded across the deck. Tap tap. Two fingers on your head. You blinked, stood up, and followed him with zero hesitation, the two of you slipping around the corner like practiced dancers.

Zoro blinked slowly. “They really do that every day now, huh.”

Robin turned a page in her book. “Every afternoon, post-lunch, and before dinner prep. Like clockwork.”

Usopp groaned from above, dangling off the mast. “They’re like pigeons. Pigeons that blow smoke rings and flirt without knowing it’s flirting.”

“I can hear you,” you called over the wind.

“THEN STOP BEING CUTE ABOUT IT!” Usopp yelled back, voice cracking.

That evening, as the stars peeked out of the inky sky, you and Sanji leaned against the railing, barely speaking.

He offered his lighter, but you were already flicking yours.

“Beat you,” you said.

“Only ‘cause mine’s temperamental,” he muttered, puffing smoke from the corner of his mouth.

You were quiet for a moment, letting the silence settle.

Then: “Why do you pat my head like that?”

Sanji blinked. “Dunno. Habit now. Easier than calling out.”

“You do it in front of everyone.”

“Is that a problem?”

“…No.”

You leaned forward on the rail, elbows braced, head tilted slightly to the side. The way your hair caught the breeze made something tight curl in his chest. He quickly looked away.

You didn’t say anything else.

Neither did he.

But when he flicked the ash from his cigarette and nudged your elbow with his own—lightly, just once—it felt like a wordless secret. A shared ritual. A pact of smoke and quiet and weird affection.

Back in the kitchen later that night, Zoro shoved a dish into Sanji’s arms.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Sanji blinked. “What did I do this time?”

Zoro rolled his eyes. “You’re turning smoking into flirting. It’s disgusting.”

Sanji just smirked, lighting another stick.

“Jealous?” Zoro growled. You walked past. Tap tap. Sanji followed you with a grin.

Zoro muttered, “I’m gonna start setting their cigarettes on fire with my swords.”

-

You didn’t always smoke anymore.

Sometimes, when Sanji stepped out for a break, you followed just to be there—hands in your pockets, leaning beside him in the breeze, letting the silence hum between you while he lit up. No cigarette in your mouth. Just presence.

He noticed the first time.

“You forgetting something?” he asked, tapping the box in his hand.

You just shrugged. “Nah. Just wanted the company.”

He blinked. Looked at you for a second too long. Then turned away, ears just barely pink.

“…‘Course,” he murmured, smoke curling around his lips.

It happened gradually. You’d disappear after docking on a new island and return with little brown-paper-wrapped bundles tucked under your arm. Sanji would be in the middle of slicing something or stirring a sauce, and you’d toss them onto the counter with a casual, “Got your favorites. That one vendor in the alley with the beard. He remembered you.”

The first time, he blinked, looked down at the pack, and tried not to smile too obviously.

“You didn’t need to,” he said, voice soft.

You just shrugged again. “Did anyway.”

Even if you weren’t low. Even if he had cartons stashed away. Even if you were technically trying to cut back.

Didn’t matter. You always brought him more. Unprompted. Like a quiet habit.

He always thanked you. But over time, the thanks started slipping into things like “You’re too sweet for your own good,” or “How’s a guy supposed to stay cool when you do stuff like that?”

The words came with little touches. A nudge of knuckles. A pat to your head that lingered half a second too long. His thumb smoothing a wrinkle out of your sleeve.

The crew noticed.

“Oh, they’re worse now,” Usopp muttered one day, watching the two of you return to the ship side-by-side, matching stride for stride.

“They’re not even smoking!” Nami whisper-hissed. “What’s the point of sneaking off together?!”

Robin didn’t look up from her book. “The point is each other.”

Franky whistled. “That’s suuuper soft.”

“Do we say something?” Chopper asked, fidgeting.

“No,” Zoro groaned. “If we say something, they’ll stop. Let the weirdos have their little smoke-date thing.”

“…You’re just mad no one shares cigarettes with you.”

Zoro turned to Usopp slowly. “You want to go through what their lungs are going through?”

“…Touché.”

That night, you leaned against the galley wall, eyes closed. Sanji was beside you, watching the stars. He was halfway through a smoke, and you were sipping a cold drink instead, exhaling like you’d just finished a long day.

He glanced at you. At your relaxed posture, the way your eyes flickered open to look at him without urgency. The way the corners of your mouth pulled just slightly upward.

He wanted to kiss you. He didn’t.

But he said quietly, “Thanks for the pack earlier.”

You just smiled and said, “Don’t mention it.”

He didn’t. Not out loud, anyway.

But when he knocked the ash off the end of his cigarette and brushed your pinky with his own, holding it there for a heartbeat longer than usual…

You understood.

-

Sanji wasn’t watching you. Not intentionally.

He just… happened to be looking in your direction. And happened to see you talking to some flashy vendor with too many rings and not enough shame. You were laughing—shoulders bouncing, face bright in a way he hadn't seen all week. And you leaned in close—too close for his comfort.

He felt something cold twist in his gut. It wasn’t rage. Not the kind that flared and shouted. It was quiet. Burning slow, like the cigarette pinched between his fingers.

He turned away.

Didn’t even finish his smoke.

Later that afternoon, you returned to the Sunny with a bounce in your step and a suspiciously smug grin.

He was cleaning up the galley, moving a little more sharply than usual. His sleeves were already rolled, jaw clenched slightly as he chopped onions like they’d personally offended him.

You came in with a paper bag and chirped, “Sanji!”

He grunted, not looking.

You held the bag out with two hands. “Look what I got. I don’t even want to smoke these—I just wanted to see your face.”

Still silent.

You dramatically opened the bag with a flourish, revealing a golden box of premium black-label, sea-aged cigarettes, the kind Sanji would never buy for himself.

His knife paused mid-chop.

You beamed. “They’re limited run! Normally like—five times the normal price! But the guy was a fan of the Straw Hats and gave me a discount!”

Sanji finally looked up. His eyes flicked from the box to your excited face, and something in his chest twisted in a completely different way.

“…You dumbass.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He sighed, putting the knife down and walking over. He took the box gently, fingers brushing yours—just for a moment—and examined the seal with an incredulous look.

“You bought me the stupid expensive ones,” he muttered, voice softer now. “Just ‘cause you like seeing me happy.”

You shrugged, a little bashful now. “Well. Yeah.”

Sanji snorted. Then laughed. Then reached out and flicked your forehead.

“You really are a dumbass.”

You rubbed your forehead, pouting. “Rude.”

He didn’t deny it. But the way he looked at you—lingering, fond, helplessly endeared—it said more than words.

That evening, you didn’t even get a chance to step outside.

As the crew gathered for dinner, Nami finally put her chopsticks down and stared across the table.

“Alright,” she said. “What’s going on with you two?”

Silence.

You paused mid-bite. Sanji froze, halfway through pouring water into Luffy’s cup.

Robin looked amused. Usopp leaned forward eagerly. Zoro sighed with a muttered “Finally.”

Chopper blinked between you both. “Wait—are they not together?”

Luffy tilted his head. “I thought they were married.”

“MARRIED?” you both exclaimed.

“Emotionally,” Robin clarified. “It’s a very domestic vibe.”

Nami crossed her arms. “So?”

You looked at Sanji. He looked at you. There was a beat of quiet. A little laughter bubbling at the back of your throat. You nudged his foot with yours.

Sanji scratched the back of his neck, exhaled slowly through his nose, and said—

“…I like them. A lot.”

Your heart thudded once, loud.

You smiled, slow and sure. “Yeah. I like you too, cigarette hoarder.”

Luffy let out a victorious whoop. Usopp choked on his drink. Franky pumped his fist and yelled “SUUUUPER FINALLY!” Zoro raised his glass wordlessly. Robin smiled behind her book.

Nami leaned toward Chopper and whispered, “Pay up.”

He groaned and handed over ten berries.

That night, Sanji stepped out for a smoke.

He didn’t say anything.

He just tapped your head—tap tap—and waited with a crooked smile until you followed.

You didn’t smoke. You didn’t even bring a lighter. You just leaned on him while he puffed quietly, the two of you close enough to share warmth. He reached over and laced his fingers through yours.

“…This counts as a date, right?” you asked, voice low.

He chuckled, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “Dumbass.”

But he was grinning.

And you knew he meant yes.

[iydiamartinx]

SOMETHING BENEATH THE DARK II

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 2.5k synopsis: After a brutal fight leaves Nightwing broken and sinking beneath Gotham’s black waters, something finds him as he drowns. warning: graphic depictions of violence

It had been weeks since the storm. Since the harbour. Since he was rescued by a creature in the water.

Dick had healed—at least physically. The bruises faded. The ribs stopped aching. The limp from the thigh wound vanished somewhere between rehab and stubbornness. But the memory of your face never did.

You had been real. He could still feel the chill of your hand on his face. Still see the way your sea-glass eyes drank him in with utter awe and curiosity. The same way he had felt when he gazed upon you. 

But no one believed him.

Tim had tried to humour him at first, pulling up satellite footage from that night, checking thermal scans, even dragging a drone out to the harbour with sonar. Nothing. No strange shapes in the water. No heat signature. Not even a scale.

“Gotham’s harbour is basically radioactive sludge,” Tim had said with a dry snort. “If there was a mermaid, she’d have at least three eyes and probably looked more like a swamp monster than a pretty woman like you’re describing.”

Bruce hadn’t said much—but the downward tilt of his lips told Dick, his adoptive father was also having a hard time believing his story and was on the same page as the others who were chalking it up to blood loss. Oxygen deprivation. A hallucination brought on by drowning and the concussion he sustained.

Dick could hear them whispering behind closed doors. Worrying that perhaps the injuries he sustained were more severe than they thought. Wondering if maybe he still wasn’t as recovered as he looked.

But he knew what he saw.

And he wasn’t letting it go.

So that night, when the clock struck one and the manor fell quiet, he left under the guise of patrol. He followed memory more than instinct, back to the place it all happened.

The harbour was quiet, the only sounds being the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. His gaze dropped to the rocky edge, to the faint speckles of rusted red staining the stone—almost gone now, fading with time and tide. That was where his brothers had found him. Broken. Barely breathing. Alone.

But he hadn’t been alone.

He stood at the edge for a long time. Eyes fixed on the water. Hoping to catch a glimpse of silver beneath the surface, a shimmer in the dark. But there was nothing. Only the endless stretch of darkness. 

“I know you’re out there,” he said softly.

Silence.

He crouched, letting his fingers drag through the water. “You saved me. I wasn’t hallucinating. I saw you. I felt you. Everyone thinks I made it up, but I didn’t. I remember your eyes.”

Nothing.

Minutes passed. Then more.

The wind picked up. A gull cried overhead. The chill sank deeper into his bones.

He finally let out a sigh. Maybe they were right. Maybe it had just been a dream.

He straightened up, brushing off his hands, only to suddenly freeze when a small, barely there ripple disturbed the gentle water.

Then another. Larger. It looked to be getting closer

Just past the rocks, where the water dipped darker, something moved. A shape. A shadow. A head—barely above the surface. Hair like oil. Eyes glinting in the dark.

His breath caught.

She was there.

His siren.

Exactly as he remembered her—silent, watching, half-submerged in the same waters that nearly stole his life.

His body moved before his mind caught up. He stepped into the surf, boots sinking into wet sand as waves lapped higher—up to his knees, then thighs.

“It’s you,” he whispered, chest tight with relief, wonder, something dangerously close to hope. “I knew you were real.”

He hadn’t even realized how deep he waded into the water until the cold water was up to his chest. His breath hitched as he watched her move closer too.

Slowly, fluidly, she drew closer—her form rising from the depths with effortless grace, propelled by the slow, deliberate sweep of her tail. The silver glint of scales caught the moonlight as she surfaced higher, until they were nearly chest to chest, with only the waves between them.

She was just as he remembered.

Not fully human—if at all but no less hauntingly beautiful.

Her dark hair floated around her shoulders where part of her was still submerged, weightless and wild, and her eyes—those eyes—still glowed with that spectral, sea-glass green. Watching him not with suspicion or fear, but with wonder. Like he was the strange one.

Her head tilted, just slightly, the gesture feline in its curiosity.

Then—slowly, as though testing both his courage and her own—her hand rose, webbed and tipped with sharpened claws.

She pressed her palm lightly to his chest, just over his heart. The tips of her claws didn’t dig in, but they rested close enough to remind him of what she was. What she could do if she decided.

His gaze dropped, drawn to the place where her hand met his chest—small and reverent, webbed fingers splayed over the damp fabric of his suit. Unbeknownst to him, she was listening. Measuring. Reading the rhythm of his pulse like it was language. The thrum of life beneath his skin was steadier now than when she’d found him broken. He’d recovered well—for such a fragile thing.

His eyes continued to drift lower. Scales, shimmering and iridescent, traced the gentle curve of her chest, wrapping along her hips and trailing downwards into the darkness. He could barely make out the powerful tail beneath the water—coiled and tense, a gleaming shadow beneath the surface. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he whispered, voice hoarse and low in his throat.

Her eyes met his once more, sea-glass cool and unblinking. What a strange creature he was—to seek her out. If it had been any other of her kind to have found him, he’d already be sinking to the bottom of the harbour, lungs full of salt, flesh being ripped from his bones.

Her hand moved again—curious, unhurried. It drifted up from the strange armour clinging to his chest and continued upward, finally brushing against skin. He was warm. So warm. Her own blood ran cold as the depths she called home, but this… this was something else. His heat soaked into her fingers, into her bones. Touching him reminded her of the heat of the sun, not something she had much of a luxury to indulge.

Dick hadn’t even realized he was leaning in until his breath mingled with hers, their lips a whisper apart. Her gaze didn’t drop, didn’t shy away. She just watched him, those eyes a mirror of still water and something deeper stirring below.

And then—everything changed.

A ripple.

Barely there.

Her pupils contracted, eyes narrowing in a sharp snap of instinct. She whipped around before Dick could even blink, her body cutting through the water with a flash of tension. A low, feral hiss escaped her throat—more beast than human—as she moved protectively in front of him, the tips of her claws flexing just beneath the surface.

For a moment, Dick thought it was him. That he’d misread everything. That maybe he’d gone too far—that the almost-kiss had been a mistake or that he’d somehow offended her. But then he saw it.

Another ripple.

Something else was moving through the water—closer now, moving just beneath the surface and drawing near like something was swimming closer. Until a head emerged.

At first glance, this new comer looked like you. The same sleek tail. The same hair, dark and slick, trailing like kelp in the current. But the resemblance faded quickly the longer he looked.

This one was wrong.

Her features were sharper, more inhuman. Eyes too wide, eyes pitched black. A nose too small that was almost like slits. Her teeth, when she smiled, it wasn’t just her canines that were sharp, long and needle-thin—made for tearing. Her skin bore that same silvery sheen—but mottled, tinged with green like algae clinging to bone.

“You found food,” the creature hissed, voice low and serpentine. “Humans are such a delicacy these days.”

A chill sliced through Dick’s spine.

You let out another warning hiss. “He’s mine.” You snarl, barring those sharp canines in warning. 

Your hand slid back, just enough to brush against his abdomen, nudging him subtly toward the shore.

Go.

His human body wasn’t made for the water—not like yours was. The siren before him—this twisted reflection of you—could reach him in seconds. Could drag him under, tear him to pieces before he ever broke the surface.

He wouldn’t stand a chance.

With another more insistent nudge to his abdomen, you told him again.

Go.

Yet, for some reason Dick couldn’t get his body to move. He almost felt as if he was entranced.

Your voice was silvery and melodic—eerie, yes, but strangely beautiful. It stood in stark contrast to the creature before him, whose every word dripped like venom. Her voice was all hiss, almost like nails scraping against a chalkboard. Whereas yours was fluid, almost gentle in comparison... more human.

The second siren tilted her head, eyes narrowing like a shark circling wounded prey. Her grin was wide and cold, but it never touched her eyes.

“Oh?” she cooed, oily and amused, mockery curling at the edges. “Since when do we claim them? I didn’t realize you were keeping pets.”

Her gaze flicked to Dick, then back to you.

“You’re not even feeding on him, are you?” she purred, drifting closer with near-perfect stillness. “Strange little thing. You’re protecting him.”

Then she inhaled, slow and deep. The faint outline of her pupils expanded.

“He smells fresh… and familiar,” she murmured. “His blood has tainted these waters before. The clan will be disappointed to know you’ve stolen their meal.”

Dick felt your hand tense against his stomach.

Not from fear.

From control. From restraint.

Because you were on the verge of attacking.

Realization hit him, you had saved him that night. Not just from Killer Croc but from her.

From them.

And now, you were doing it again.

“Weak little halfling,” the other siren spat, voice dipping into a low growl. “We should’ve killed you long ago.”

She bared her jagged teeth in a wicked smile, dark eyes glittering with hate.

“You always were too soft,” she sneered.

And then she lunged.

Water exploded as she propelled forward with terrifying speed. Claws out. Jaws wide.

You met her halfway.

The collision was violent—two bodies crashing together with a snarl and a wave that rocked the sea. The impact sent a shockwave through the surf, and Dick stumbled back, the force knocking him off his feet. Cold water surged over his head as he went under, his breath ripped from him in a single gasp.

When he surfaced, sputtering, the world was chaos.

The water churned around him—frothing and wild, streaked red in places. The air was filled with shrieks and the sharp, wet sound of claws tearing flesh.

He couldn’t see much.

Only flashes.

Scales slicing through moonlight. Limbs twisting. A tail whipping across the surface. Guttural hisses and the unmistakable, stomach-turning rip of something sharp meeting flesh.

You were locked in a brutal tangle—moving too fast, too deep, disappearing and resurfacing in bursts of violence. At one point, you had her head locked in your arm, your fangs poised at her throat. You made the mistake to look to him, where he was still in the water. 

“Go!” you hissed over your shoulder. Dick finally snapped into action, turning and slogging through the water toward the safety of land.

But that glance—that single lapse of attention—was all she needed.

Her claws raked deep across your abdomen—four brutal lines that tore through scale and skin alike. Flesh parted beneath the strike, blood spilling out in thick, black-red waves into cold sea. A pained shriek tore past your lips, the sound not at all human, pain burned through every nerve.

But Dick was almost to shore.

And she saw it.

The attacker released you, slipping from your grip and darting past in a blur of motion—toward his back. Toward the exposed softness that was human skin and slow, breakable limbs.

“No—!” you hissed, breath a ragged snarl of fury and fear.

You moved before the thought finished forming.

Even wounded, you were faster.

You slammed into her from behind just as her hand reached for his ankle. She shrieked, thrashing, but you didn’t let go. Your claws tore into her side. She bit down on your shoulder, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. You drove her back into the rocks, again and again, until her grip weakened.

Until you could end it.

Your teeth found her throat and with a brutal jerk of your head, your tore flesh from sinew, cartilage from bone. Her shriek turned into a wet gurgle, her body convulsing once—twice—then falling still.

She sank slowly, the light fading from her eyes.

The water around you bloomed red—both from her blood and yours. It was everywhere. Turning the already dark tide darker with blood.

You hovered there, suspended in the sea, your breath harsh and shallow. Every pulse of your heart bled more into the waters. The pain blurred your vision. The rocks, the surface, even Dick’s silhouette—it all spun.

Dick who had finally reached the shore turned, chest rising and falling, horror written across his face as he saw the state you were in. You could see the desire in him to wade back out into the waters but with all this blood it wasn’t safe for him. You raised a single webbed hand. 

“Stay there,” you rasped.

Somehow, you pulled yourself forward. Clawed your way from the surf, dragging your shredded body onto the shore where he worriedly waited.

Your arms gave out just a few feet away from him, the water gently lapping a your weak form

Blood smeared the rocks beneath you. The gash across your stomach pulsed with every shallow breath, painting the shoreline in vivid red. Dick dropped to his knees beside you, hands immediately pressing to the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.

“No, no, no—stay with me,” he breathed, voice cracking. “You’re okay. You hear me? You’re okay.”

You blinked up at him, eyes unfocused, lips parting as if to speak but only faint, ragged wheeze was heard. 

His eyes darted to the gills fluttering along your throat.

“Oh shit…”

You couldn’t breathe. Not like this. You needed water—but if he put you back in, you’d bleed out before help ever arrived.

Panic surged in his chest as he fumbled for his comm.

“Nightwing to base—someone get to the harbour now! I need evac, med supplies—something!” he snapped. “She’s—she’s dying.”

You were trembling now, violently. Your tail twitched, curled tight, and then—

It started to change.

Right before his eyes.

The iridescent scales along your hips began to vanish, receding like the tide. Your gills fluttered a final time before sealing shut. The long, powerful tail that had coiled through dark water began to shift—shortening, splitting. Legs emerged, slender and trembling, curling instinctively towards your shivering body. 

Your gasping stopped. But your body kept shaking, blood still leaking between his fingers.

You were human now— or something close enough but you were still dying in his arms.

He didn’t hesitate.

Sliding one arm beneath your knees and another around your back, he lifted you carefully against his chest. Your head lolled weakly against his shoulder, skin cold and clammy.

Determination surged through him. He would save you like you saved him.

← Previous Chapter

[hauntedbyjoel]

Stay A While (Part 3)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: eventual smut | oral (f & m) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise | mutual longing | pining | slow burn | causal intimacy | soft but charged tension | no outbreak word count - 12.3k summary - You rent a guesthouse by the beach, needing space to figure things out. He lives in the main house—quiet, distant, and kind in ways that surprise you. Slowly, something shifts.

part one part two

𓇼𓆉𓇼

It’s been three days since that quiet morning by the sink. Three days since Joel looked at you over mismatched mugs and asked, “Now what?” with a crooked brow and soft eyes. You hadn’t needed an answer then—hadn’t expected one.

Now, though, you’re starting to learn what comes next.

It starts in subtle ways. A second toothbrush appears behind the bathroom mirror. Your book—dog-eared and spine-worn—sits abandoned on Joel’s coffee table, exactly where you left it. A carton of oat milk shows up in the fridge, tucked behind his half-and-half like it’s always been there. You don’t mention it. He doesn’t either.

You still sleep in the guesthouse most nights. Joel never asks you to leave it, never hovers. But sometimes—after dinner, or after his hand finds yours beneath the table—when the silence grows long and full, you walk back with him across the yard. Shoulder to shoulder under the stars. And he lets you in without a word, like he was already hoping you’d come.

The mornings settle into a rhythm. He wakes first, always. You hear him moving around his kitchen—coffee brewing, chair legs scraping softly against tile. When you shuffle in, bleary-eyed and drowning in his hoodie, he doesn’t say good morning. Not out loud. He just presses a kiss to the top of your head and nudges a mug across the counter—yours, the chipped one, always filled just the way you like it.

Some days you set up on his couch with your laptop and a throw blanket, replying to emails while the sound of waves hums through the cracked window. Other days you head back to the guesthouse, just for space. But more and more, that space feels optional. Like something fading. Something softening at the edges.

Midweek, the email comes.

You’re seated at your little desk by the window, sun filtering through sheer curtains, when the subject line blinks across your screen. You open it on instinct, not expecting much—probably just another internal update.

Instead:

We’re happy to approve your request to work remotely full-time, effective immediately.

No conditions. No timeline. Just one open door.

You sit back in your chair, blinking. Then reading it again. Your heart catches up a beat later, rising into your throat.

Outside, the late afternoon light drapes the yard in gold. Joel is already in the shed—shirt damp with sweat, sleeves rolled high, sanding something with focused care. You watch him through the screen door, hand still curled around your coffee mug.

You almost call out to him.

But the moment feels too perfect to break.

So you don’t. Not yet.

The next few days roll by in a rhythm you stop trying to name.

You work from your usual perch—laptop open, toes brushing the floor, the sound of gulls in the background like white noise. The guesthouse door stays open more often now, breeze drifting in with the scent of the sea. On some afternoons, Joel passes by, nods once through the screen, and keeps walking.

Sometimes he brings things. Little things. A handful of basil from the planter outside his shed. A drawer you hadn’t realized was broken, quietly fixed. A hammer you didn’t know you’d need—left on your porch with a folded note underneath: Figured you’d get tired of borrowing mine.

You return the favor. Banana muffins with a sunken middle. A paperback with your favorite parts underlined in pencil. A handwritten note in the margin that says, this part reminded me of you.

He never returns the book.

On the fifth day, he comes by with a bag of tools slung over one shoulder, glancing up at the sagging gutter above your door. You try to offer coffee. He shakes his head—says no—but ends up lingering for half a cup anyway, elbows braced on your porch railing while you talk about nothing in particular. How loud the ocean was last night. Whether tourists ever stop asking for directions to the same café. He looks at you while you talk. Not in a way that demands anything. Just… like he’s listening.

That night, while reheating leftovers, your phone buzzes on the counter.

Jules: Soooooo Jules: Are you and hot neighbor joel married yet or what

You snort. Thumb out a reply.

You: Shut up You: It’s not like that Jules: Not yet

You roll your eyes. Start typing something sarcastic—but your hands pause on the screen.

You glance out the window. Joel’s lights are on.

And your chest twists—not with nerves, but something warmer. Softer. You’re not in love. Not yet. But you’re starting to believe you could be.

The next morning, sunlight spills across your sheets. You wake before your alarm, blinking up at the ceiling, a slow smile curling unbidden at your lips. Everything feels… light. Full, somehow.

You step outside barefoot, coffee steaming in your chipped mug. Joel is already in the yard, crouched by the fence, checking the boards. He doesn’t see you right away—but when he does, he lifts a hand, gives you that quiet, familiar nod.

You raise your mug in return.

Later, when he stops by with strawberries from the farmer’s market, you tell him.

“They approved it,” you say, trying not to grin. “Remote full-time. For good this time.”

Joel raises a brow, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “That so?”

You nod. Your hands are still damp from rinsing the fruit. “I guess that means I’m… staying.”

His smile widens, soft but steady. “Yeah,” he says. “Think I already knew that.”

You look down at the counter, biting back a smile.

“Hope you’re not sick of me yet.”

He leans in a little, voice low. “Not even close.”

Joel’s grin lingers a second longer than it needs to.

It softens the lines in his face, eases something in your chest. You hold his gaze for a beat, then reach for the strawberries he brought. The container is still cool, the faint scent of sugar and sun clinging to it.

“Didn’t even ask if I liked strawberries,” you say, peeling back the lid.

“I figured,” he murmurs, voice low. “You seem like the type.”

You arch a brow. “What type is that?”

He shrugs, stepping back toward the porch rail. “I don’t know. Soft.”

It shouldn’t make you blush. You’re not even sure it’s meant to. But something about the way he says it—quiet, like a thought slipping out before it could be measured—makes your stomach dip.

You pop a berry in your mouth and lean your hip against the counter, watching as he lingers just outside your screen door. He doesn’t come in all the way. Not tonight. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, the last of the golden hour casting him in long shadows.

“I like soft,” he says, after a pause. “World’s hard enough.”

You look at him—really look—and something catches in your throat.

There’s no rush to this thing between you. No urgent unraveling. It’s grown in the quiet moments—bare feet on wood floors, slow coffee mornings, the way your hand finds his without thinking.

But lately… it’s started to matter. In a way that presses at the edges of your chest.

You set the container down gently and wipe your hands on a dish towel.

“You staying long?”

He shakes his head. “Just came by to drop those off.”

You nod. Try not to feel disappointed. “Well, thank you. They’re perfect.”

And then he’s gone, the screen door clicking shut behind him, boots thudding softly down the steps.

You watch him cross the yard, the sky just starting to blush with the colors of early evening.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

That night, you end up at his place again.

Not planned, not really. Just one of those easy evenings where dinner lingers, and conversation pulls you across the yard before you even realize you’ve left.

Now you’re curled up on his couch, warm from wine and the way he looks at you like you already belong here.

He’s beside you, elbow propped on the armrest, the corner of his mouth twitching every time your knee brushes his. You’re not sure what you’re talking about anymore—some half-finished story, maybe—but it doesn’t matter. Not with the way his eyes keep falling to your mouth.

Not with the way your hand keeps drifting closer to his.

You talk about nothing. The kind of nothing that only comes when you feel safe—when you’re not trying to impress, just exist.

Eventually you mention your friend Jules again. Something she said on the phone, something teasing about him.

Joel doesn’t laugh.

You glance up.

His mouth is set in a firm line, his gaze focused somewhere over your head. You wait for the tension to pass, but it doesn’t.

“Something wrong?” you ask gently.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just… I don’t know.”

You sit up straighter, shifting to face him. “Tell me.”

He exhales, scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Just wondering if maybe you’ve… told your friends a lot about this.”

“This?”

He nods.

You blink. “I mean. Yeah. A little. Is that… not okay?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s just…” He pauses. “I’m not used to being talked about, I guess. Not in that way.”

Something in your stomach curls—guilt, maybe. Or defensiveness. You can’t tell.

“I didn’t say anything bad,” you murmur. “Just that I—”

He cuts you off gently. “It ain’t about what you said.”

You’re quiet for a beat. “So what is it about?”

Joel looks at you then—really looks. And there’s something in his expression that makes your chest ache.

“I like this,” he says, voice rough. “I like you. Just don’t want it to turn into something it’s not. Some story for your friends. Some… summer thing.”

You reel back slightly. Not hurt, exactly. Just caught off guard.

“I’m not making you a story,” you say, voice a little too sharp. “I thought we were building something.”

Joel winces at your tone. Sits forward, rubbing his hands down his thighs.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters. “I just—look, I’ve had people pass through before. People who liked the idea of this place, the quiet. Thought it made me simpler than I am.”

You’re still for a moment. The TV hums in the background. Outside, the sky has darkened, shadows pooling like ink across the porch.

“I’m not passing through,” you say finally. “I asked to stay.”

Joel’s eyes flick to yours. There’s a soft thud in your chest, the way he looks at you.

“I know,” he says. “I do.”

You both sit in silence for a moment. Then you reach for his hand. Thread your fingers through his.

“I’m not going anywhere, Joel.”

He turns his palm under yours, squeezes once.

“I don’t want you to,” he murmurs.

You swallow, throat tight.

“Then say something,” you murmur. “Say… anything.”

He finally looks at you. The silence between you stretches—but it’s not empty. It’s full. Brimming with every unsaid thing, every almost that’s hung between you for weeks.

“I’m not good at this,” he says finally, voice rough. “At talkin’. At—whatever this is.”

You shake your head. “You’re doing fine.”

Joel huffs a quiet laugh. It’s more breath than sound. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

Your chest tightens. “Like what?”

He leans back slightly, enough to glance toward the window—toward your guesthouse, maybe, or the yard where you’ve shared so many unspoken moments. Then his eyes come back to you.

“Like I got someone to come home to.”

You don’t respond right away. You can’t. The words land too hard. Too true.

Joel notices. His brow furrows. “That too much?”

“No,” you say, quickly, almost too fast. “It’s not. It’s not too much.”

You shift closer, knees brushing.

“I’ve been waiting for something to feel right,” you say. “Not perfect. Just… real.”

He nods slowly. “This feels real.”

You nod too. And then you both go quiet again—until your knee bumps his, and you don’t move away.

He reaches out then. Just his hand, palm up between you. No pressure. Just there.

You slide your fingers into his.

That’s when the kiss happens—not sudden, not sweeping. Just natural. The moment folding in on itself.

His lips meet yours gently, like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like this is a beginning, not a peak.

His lips brush yours once—twice—before he really kisses you.

There’s nothing urgent about it. No crash of heat or clumsy scramble. Just the slow burn of something patient, something earned. His hand shifts, thumb grazing your cheek like he’s anchoring himself, and your fingers tighten in his.

He kisses like he means it. Like it’s the only thing he’s been sure of in days. When he finally pulls back, your breath catches. His lingers—nose brushing yours, thumb stroking your jaw.

“You make it hard to think straight,” he murmurs.

You smile, soft and stunned. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking down to your mouth again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The air shifts again—thicker now, warmer. But still gentle. Still unhurried.

Joel leans back just enough to look at you, one arm slung along the back of the couch. His fingers curl slightly, just brushing your shoulder, like he doesn’t want to let go but needs space to breathe.

“You cold?” he asks, suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward the throw blanket draped over the edge of the cushion. “You’re shivering a little.”

You hadn’t noticed. But now that he’s said it—

“Yeah, maybe a little,” you admit.

He lifts the blanket, settling it gently across your lap. His knuckles graze your thigh as he tucks it around you. Then, after a beat, he shifts closer again—slow, deliberate. Not asking. Just… offering.

And you lean in.

You settle into the space between his arm and his chest, your shoulder brushing his, your temple resting lightly against the side of his jaw. He goes still for a second—like he’s surprised—but then you feel the slow rise and fall of his breath as he relaxes into you.

His arm comes around your back, loose but steady. His palm rests just above your hip, fingers splayed like he’s memorizing the shape of you. You stay like that for a while. Not speaking. Just breathing.

Your hand rests over his heart. You can feel it beat.

“You always this warm?” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He chuckles low. “Guess I run hot.”

“Lucky me.”

He tilts his head, just slightly. His nose brushes your hair. “You are lucky,” he says, teasing soft.

You scoff, laughing quietly. “Cocky much?”

His arm tightens, pulling you just a little closer. “Only ‘cause I mean it.”

You turn your head, just enough to meet his eyes. There’s something in them—something quiet and wanting. A warmth that looks an awful lot like care.

And this time, when he kisses you, it deepens—slow, careful, but laced with intent. His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to say everything he can’t bring himself to speak aloud.

His hand shifts, fingers skimming your waist, your ribcage, the edge of your jaw. Not pushing. Not rushing.

Just wanting.

Your breath catches, and his does too.

You feel the moment teeter—poised on the edge of something more.

Joel’s thumb drifts along your jaw, tracing the shape of your face like he’s committing it to memory. His eyes are on you the whole time, watching every little shift—how your breath hitches, how your lashes flutter, how you lean into him without even meaning to.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You can’t—not with the way his voice settles so deep in your chest. You just blink up at him, lips parted, and that’s all it takes for him to kiss you again.

Slower this time. Longer. He kisses you like he’s savoring it—like he’s been thinking about this for a while.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead tips to yours. Your breaths mingle in the space between you, slow and steady.

“I like this,” you whisper. “Us. Like this.”

Joel hums low in his chest. “Me too.”

Your hand slides up his chest, fingertips trailing lightly over the fabric of his shirt. You pause over his heart, right where it’s beating strong and fast beneath your palm.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“You’ve got me thinkin' crazy things,” he says, voice rough.

You look at him through your lashes. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Like how I’d give damn near anything to fall asleep with you right here. Wake up with you like this.”

The heat that moves through you then isn’t just physical. It’s something heavier. Warmer. Your throat tightens, but you smile, brushing your thumb along his collarbone.

“I wouldn’t hate that,” you say softly.

Something shifts in him, right then—something subtle, but sure. He shifts his body toward yours just enough to close the space between you entirely, his thigh pressing alongside yours under the blanket. His hand moves to your back, sliding slow up the curve of your spine.

Your eyes flutter closed at the touch.

Then his mouth is at your ear, warm breath ghosting over your skin. “Wanna hold you.”

You nod without thinking, already melting into him. “Then hold me.”

He does.

Joel pulls you closer, slow and careful, until your legs are tangled and your head rests against his chest. His hand curls around your waist, thumb stroking slow along your side, and your hand finds his again—your fingers weaving easily through his.

Time moves differently like this. Softer. Slower.

You feel his lips brush your temple. His voice hums against your skin.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?”

You smile, eyes still closed. “Not yet.”

“Good.”

The next kiss is different.

It starts soft—just a press to your cheek, your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth. When he finally kisses you full, you’re already leaning into it, fingers tightening where they’re tangled with his.

You shift, turning more fully toward him. Your legs draw up, knees brushing his thigh under the blanket. Joel’s hand trails down your back, fingertips warm through the fabric of your shirt.

You feel his palm slip beneath it, skimming lightly along the curve of your waist.

Still slow. Still careful.

But there’s tension building now—like something has started and neither of you wants to stop.

You tilt your chin up, and he takes the invitation. His mouth finds yours again—deeper this time. Hungrier. One hand cups the back of your neck, the other anchoring you by the hip as he pulls you closer.

Your breath catches when you feel his tongue stroke lightly against yours.

You pull back just a little, just enough to speak.

“Joel,” you whisper.

“Mm?”

Your fingers rest against the base of his throat, where his pulse beats strong and steady.

“Can I stay tonight?”

His eyes flick up to yours. Warm. Wanting. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel doesn’t say anything right away. He just leans in, kisses you once more—soft and slow and deep—before rising from the couch and offering his hand.

You take it.

His palm is warm in yours, steady as he helps you up.

“C’mon,” he says, voice low and rough. “Bed’s warmer.”

The hallway blurs past. You cling to him, fingers fisting in the fabric at his shoulders, lips finding the hollow of his throat. He growls low in his chest and nudges the bedroom door open with his foot.

The world narrows to this: his weight, his mouth, the solid rhythm of his steps as he carries you in like you’re something precious.

And when he lays you down—gently, reverently—it’s not rushed. Not this time.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face and kisses you slow.

“Wanna take my time,” he murmurs, gaze dark. “If that’s alright with you.”

You nod, breath catching. “It’s more than alright.”

His hands trail slowly down your sides, over the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t rush. Just watches you for a moment, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he’s memorizing something.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, voice rougher now. “Drives me insane.”

You reach for him, pull his shirt over his head, palms running along the trail of dark hair on his stomach. He hisses through his teeth and presses his hips into yours.

“You keep doin’ that,” he growls, “I’m not gonna last.”

You smile, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Didn’t say I wanted it quick.”

He hums, kissing your collarbone. “You wanna come on my fingers, baby? Or you want me to fuck you?”

Your breath stutters.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “I—I want—”

He kisses you then. Cuts off the words, swallows your breath with his own. And when he pulls back, his voice is rough. Gentle, but no less sure.

“You want both, don’t you?”

You nod, breath hitching. “I want everything.”

Joel groans—quiet and rough—and leans in again, mouth brushing yours. His hands are slow, reverent, tugging your shirt higher until he can kiss down your chest, your stomach, the soft skin just above your hips. His fingers slide under your waistband.

“Lift up for me, baby.”

You do, and he peels your shorts and underwear down in one slow motion, tossing them aside before settling between your legs. The way he looks at you—like he’s starving and worshipful all at once—makes your breath stutter.

He kisses the inside of your thigh first, then higher, until his breath ghosts over where you need him most. You squirm.

“Joel…”

“I got you,” he murmurs.

And then his mouth is on you—tongue flat and slow, licking a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. You cry out, hips jolting, but he just holds you still with both hands and groans against you like he’s never tasted anything better.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, lips dragging against your skin. “Cant believe I get to taste you like this.”

You nod, whimpering. “Joel, please—don’t stop—”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

The warm glide of his tongue on your clit—it’s too much and not enough, all at once.

“Fuck, yes—just like that—” You’re almost sobbing now, hips rocking against him. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Let me take my time.”

You nod—or try to—but all you can do is breathe his name as he settles in.

He moans into you when you tug his hair, and the vibration makes your legs shake. Then two fingers slide into you—smooth, patient, curling just right. Your whole body jolts.

“Joel,” you gasp. “Oh my God—”

“Yeah?” he rasps, mouth still working you open, tongue slow and greedy. “That what you needed, baby?”

You can’t speak—just nod, thighs trembling.

He hums, pleased, and doubles down—tongue circling, fingers thrusting deep and steady. Your breath comes in broken whimpers now, your back arching as heat coils tight in your belly.

“Please,” you gasp. “Don’t stop—don’t—”

“Not gonna,” he breathes. “Not until you fall apart for me.”

And you do—seconds later.

The orgasm hits sharp and fast, your thighs clamping around his head, cries breaking free from your lips as you grind against his mouth, helpless to stop the wave crashing through you.

Joel doesn’t pull back, not even a little.

He groans like he’s starving for it, fingers still working you through it, licking you through the aftershocks until you’re trembling, until you gasp his name again and tug at his hair to make him stop.

He finally lifts his head.

His face is flushed, mouth wet, eyes glazed and dark.

“Fuck,” he says softly, breath catching. “You should see yourself right now.”

You blink at him, dazed and wrecked.

“You—” you manage, voice weak. “You’re really good at that.”

He grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawls back up your body to kiss you—deep and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You’re really good at letting me,” he murmurs against your lips.

You giggle, high and breathless, still floating.

And then—

His cock presses against your thigh. Hot and heavy. Unmistakable.

Your fingers trail down to curl around him. He groans into your mouth, hips twitching.

“You wanna keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, wide-eyed.

And this time, neither of you hesitates.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath still shaky. One of his hands slides away from your thigh, reaching blindly toward the nightstand drawer.

You hear it open, the faint rustle of foil—and you know what he’s reaching for.

“Wait,” you whisper, touching his wrist.

He pauses, eyes flicking to yours.

“I’m on the pill,” you murmur, brushing your thumb across his knuckles. “You don’t have to.”

His eyes search your face. Not in doubt, not in disbelief—but like he’s trying to make sure you really mean it.

“You sure?” he asks softly.

You nod. “I want it to be you. All of you.”

A sound slips from him—something rough and low and nearly broken. He tosses the packet aside, his hand settling on your hip instead, thumb stroking gently over your skin.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

Then he shifts, nudging your hand away, steadying himself above you with one palm planted by your head.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, guiding your leg around his hip. “Let me in, baby.”

You spread for him instinctively, body already aching for it. He drags the tip of his cock through your slick folds, breath catching as he aligns with your entrance.

“Still okay?” he asks—quieter now, more serious.

You reach up, cup his cheek, and pull him in until your lips are brushing. “I told you,” you whisper, “I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

He presses forward—slow and steady, sinking into you inch by inch. The stretch makes you gasp, legs tightening around him, fingers digging into his back. He hisses low between his teeth, forehead pressing to yours.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “You feel like heaven.”

He bottoms out with a low groan, staying there—buried deep, unmoving—for a long moment. Just breathing with you. Letting you adjust.

You nod softly against his cheek. “You can move.”

He pulls out nearly all the way, then pushes back in slow. Again. And again. Long, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.

His hand slides down your side, over your thigh, gripping just beneath your knee to hitch your leg higher. The new angle makes you gasp—makes him groan.

“Shit—yeah, just like that. So fuckin’ tight,” he pants, his rhythm picking up. “Taking me so good, sweetheart.”

You moan, helpless to do anything but cling to him, hips rising to meet every thrust.

His mouth is everywhere—your jaw, your throat, the underside of your chin. His voice, low and steady, rumbles in your ear:

“Wanted this for weeks. Wanted you for weeks. Thought about this every goddamn night—your sounds, your face, your body under mine.”

You tremble, fingers threading into his hair. “Joel—”

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he growls. “You feel like you were made for me.”

He reaches between you without breaking rhythm, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, perfect circles.

You cry out, louder now, your body arching off the bed. “Oh my God—Joel—I’m—”

“I know, baby. Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock.”

You do—again, but harder this time. It rips through you like a tidal wave, body convulsing, voice breaking on a sob. You hear him curse, feel his pace stutter, and then—

His hand cups the back of your head as he drives into you harder, rougher now—but still controlled. Still tender in the way he holds you. His other hand stays at your hip, guiding your movements to meet his.

“Fuck—gonna come—fuck, sweetheart, fuck—”

You feel it the moment it hits him—the tension snapping, his body pressing tight to yours, his groan deep and wrecked as he spills inside you.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, buried deep, his chest pressed to yours, both of you breathing like you’ve run miles.

You wrap your arms around his back, palm smoothing down his spine. “Joel,” you whisper, soft and floaty.

He hums into your neck. “Still with me?”

“Barely,” you murmur, smiling.

“Good.” He kisses your temple, slow and sweet. “You did so fuckin’ good for me.”

He eases out of you eventually, careful not to rush it. You wince a little at the loss—at how empty you suddenly feel—but he doesn’t go far. Doesn’t let you go.

Later, you lie tangled in the sheets with your head on his chest, legs still wrapped around his like you’re afraid to let him go. His hand moves absently up and down your spine, slow and steady, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

The room smells like salt and sweat and skin. The open window lets in a breeze that cools the heat of your bodies, but neither of you reach for the blanket.

You shift a little, just enough to press a kiss to his collarbone.

“Joel?”

“Mhm?”

You smile into his skin. “You’re warm.”

That earns a quiet chuckle. His fingers curl a little tighter around your side. “You’re a furnace,” he mutters. “I should be complainin’.”

You hum, content. For a long time, neither of you say anything else. Just the rise and fall of your breath. The steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Your lashes grow heavy.

And eventually you fall asleep in his arms.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You wake to the smell of coffee.

For a moment, you forget where you are. The bed isn’t yours. The sunlight filters through unfamiliar blinds. Your legs are sore, and the shirt you’re wearing definitely isn’t one you packed.

Then you hear movement from the kitchen. A faint clink of ceramic. The sound of a drawer sliding shut.

And you remember.

You smile, stretching beneath the sheets.

When you make your way out to the kitchen, Joel’s at the stove, shirtless, hair still damp from the shower. He’s flipping something in a pan—eggs or pancakes, you can’t quite tell—and there are two mugs on the counter, steam curling up in lazy spirals.

“Morning,” you say, voice still scratchy from sleep.

He turns, glancing over his shoulder. That same soft, crooked smile tugs at his mouth.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.”

You cross the room and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. He leans back into you instinctively.

“Thought you might sleep in,” he says.

“I would’ve if someone hadn’t kept me up all night.”

You feel the low laugh in his chest more than hear it. He twists just enough to kiss your temple.

“Sorry ’bout that.”

“No you’re not.”

He grins. “Nah. Not really.”

You sit at the counter while he plates breakfast. There’s music playing softly from a speaker near the sink—some easy guitar, gentle vocals that fill the quiet without crowding it.

He pours your coffee just the way you like it. Passes over a plate and a fork.

Neither of you rush. It’s not awkward. It doesn’t feel like you’re playing house—it just feels like this is what mornings are supposed to be like. Like something has quietly clicked into place.

After breakfast, you wash the dishes while he dries. Your shoulders bump once, twice, and on the third time he turns and kisses the top of your head.

It’s not the first time you’ve done this together. But it feels different now.

Back then, the silence was new. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to press too hard on whatever was forming between you.

Now—it’s comfortable. Known.

Your hands move in rhythm. He reaches for the dish you’ve just rinsed without looking. You hand him the next before he asks. There’s no nervous energy, no awkward glances.

Just… this.

This shared space. This quiet knowing that something has shifted.

“I was thinking,” Joel says, flicking a soap bubble from your hair, “I don’t have much to do today.”

You arch a brow. “No fence post to fix? No broken gutter?”

He shrugs. “All caught up.”

You glance toward the window. The breeze carries the scent of salt and something sweet—maybe honeysuckle. The sky is clear, cloudless, warm. A perfect Saturday.

“I guess I don’t have much to do either,” you say slowly.

He watches you for a beat, like he’s reading more into your tone. Then: “Wanna go out?”

Your lips twitch. “Like... a date?”

He gives a half-smile, a soft huff through his nose. “Yeah. Like a date.”

You set the towel down, turning fully toward him now. “What kind of date?”

“Whatever kind you want.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly sheepish. “I thought maybe we could drive out to that little town—you know, the one with the farmer’s market and that weird antiques store?”

“Oh my god, the one with the taxidermy goat in the window?”

He grins. “That’s the one.”

You reach for your mug, heart fluttering in your chest, and nod. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The drive out of town is slow and winding, windows cracked to let in the salt-thick breeze. You sit with your legs tucked up beneath you, one arm perched along the window, the other resting in the warm space between you and Joel. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on your knee, thumb brushing back and forth without thinking.

His playlist hums low — soft rock and California shimmer, the kind of music that sounds like open windows and late summer air.

“Didn’t peg you for a Fleetwood Mac guy,” you tease as the chorus of Landslide drifts from the speakers.

Joel shrugs, lips twitching. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d move to a beach town with no plan.”

You grin. “Touché.”

The town is a blip along the coast, just a few stop signs and faded storefronts that lean slightly from years of sea wind. You find parking on a crooked side street, and he waits by the passenger side while you hop down, your hand brushing his on instinct. He links his fingers through yours like it’s nothing—like he’s always done it.

The market is exactly as Joel promised: full of weather-beaten booths and hand-painted signs, little kids darting around with sticky snow cone fingers, and old women selling candles that claim to cure heartbreak.

You buy a jar of local honey and a bottle of homemade hot sauce you’re sure will destroy your tongue. Joel buys a loaf of cinnamon bread from a woman who insists he take a free sample.

When he hands it to you, you say, “This is clearly a bribe,” but take a bite anyway.

Your hands stay linked the whole time.

Eventually, the two of you wander into the antique shop — the one with the taxidermy goat in the window, its glassy eyes staring off into purgatory. It’s even weirder on the inside.

Joel lifts a pair of aviator goggles off a shelf and raises his brows. “These scream you.”

You smirk. “Please, you’d wear those before I would.”

He tosses them back gently and trails behind you as you explore rows of dusty books and stacks of mismatched ceramic mugs. Somewhere in the back, you find a box of faded postcards. One catches your eye — a sepia-toned photo of the beach, probably from the 1940s.

“Look,” you say, holding it up. “Imagine sending this to someone you love and having to wait a month to hear back.”

Joel takes it from you, eyes skimming over the back where someone had written in perfect cursive: Wish you were here. Come back soon.

He clears his throat, something unreadable in his expression. Then he tucks the card under his arm and brings it to the front with the bread and hot sauce. Doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either.

Not then.

Later, you eat lunch at a tiny dockside café with cracked vinyl seats and fresh-caught fish. Joel drinks a beer. You sip an iced tea with lemon. The sunlight makes the table warm beneath your forearms.

You’re halfway through telling him about the worst roommate you ever had when he reaches across the table, just brushes his fingers over yours like he can’t help it. You go still, heart thudding.

“What?” you ask, suddenly shy.

He shakes his head, quiet. “Nothin’. Just like watchin’ you talk.”

You stare at him for a second too long. Then you look down, smiling like an idiot into your fries.

When the check comes, he pays before you can argue.

“Don’t say it,” he warns, standing.

You huff. “I was just gonna thank you.”

“Mm-hm.”

The café is quiet now, the lunchtime rush long gone. You swirl the last bit of your drink with a straw, ice clinking gently against the glass. Across from you, Joel leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the backrest, watching you with a kind of calm contentment.

His plate is empty, yours mostly picked over. The sun filters through the wide windows, catching in the curve of his jaw, the warm brown of his eyes.

“You full?” he asks, voice low and easy.

You nod. “Couldn’t eat another bite.”

He hums, glancing toward the register. “You want anything for later? Muffin, cookie—something sweet?”

Your brows lift. “You offering to carry snacks in your truck like a dad?”

His mouth quirks. “Only for you.”

You grin and shake your head, standing to gather your things. He beats you to it—reaching for your bag and sliding it over his shoulder like it’s second nature.

You give him a look. “You don’t have to carry my stuff.”

“I know,” he says, steady. “Still gonna.”

Outside, the town is sun-warmed and slow-moving. People drift down the sidewalks, a few lazy cars coasting by. Joel falls into step beside you like he’s done it a hundred times—shoulder brushing yours, his fingers grazing your lower back when someone passes close.

There’s no plan. Just the soft, meandering sort of afternoon that doesn’t ask for anything but time.

You duck into a little local shop—just for a minute, you say—and Joel trails behind, quiet as ever. The place smells like linen and driftwood and something faintly herbal. You finger through a rack of handmade candles while he watches from a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets.

“See anything you like?” he asks.

You turn, holding one up. “This one smells like sea salt and rosemary.”

He leans in, breath brushing your temple as he smells it from over your shoulder. “Smells like your place,” he says.

Your heart skips. You tuck the candle under your arm without replying, cheeks warming.

At checkout, Joel pulls out his wallet before you can blink.

“Joel—”

“Don’t start,” he mutters. “You can get the next one.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Fine. Next one’s yours.”

When you step back outside, the breeze has picked up just enough to tug at your sleeves. You walk for a while—through a little market, past a row of tiny galleries, along the quiet edge of a marina where boats sway in their slips. 

Joel walks close beside you, not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his arm. His eyes flick to yours whenever something catches your attention—whenever you pause to admire a stand of local honey or handmade soaps. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t have to.

You stop at a flower stall near the end of the row, eyeing a bundle of wild-looking stems tied up with twine. The woman behind the table catches your gaze and grins. “They’re mostly native,” she says. “No pesticides, nothing fancy. Just whatever’s blooming out back.”

Joel leans down beside you to look. “These your favorite?” he asks, nodding to the bunch you’ve been staring at.

You shrug, a little self-conscious. “I don’t know. I’m just drawn to them.”

He watches you for a beat. Then he pulls out his wallet and hands the vendor a few bills before you can stop him.

“Joel,” you murmur.

He ignores you and hands you the flowers, rough fingers brushing yours. “For your desk,” he says simply.

You stare at him, lips parting around something that never quite forms.

He just smiles—small, almost shy—and gestures to the next stall like nothing happened.

You tuck the flowers into the crook of your arm and follow him.

A few stands down, you pause again, distracted by a display of polished sea glass arranged by color. Joel watches as you crouch down to sift through the little bowls, your fingers brushing the smooth edges. When you glance up, he’s already reaching into his back pocket.

“Don’t” you laugh, swatting at his arm. “You really don’t have to get me anything else.”

He just smirks and pulls out his wallet again. “Too late.”

You roll your eyes but don’t stop him.

He buys you a pale green piece and presses it into your palm without a word.

You close your fingers around it, warmed by his hand.

When the market starts winding down, the sun already tilting lower, Joel glances at you, then at the sky. “We should head back soon.”

You nod, but don’t move. “This was really nice,” you say quietly.

He shifts his weight, then lifts a hand and gently tucks your hair behind your ear. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It was.”

And this time, when his hand drops, it finds yours again—without hesitation.

You don’t let go of his hand on the walk back to the truck.

The sun has started to mellow, its light stretching longer across the pavement, gilding the tops of trees and warming the tops of your shoulders. The air smells like sunscreen and cut grass and the last sticky dregs of summer fruit.

Neither of you talks much on the drive home. The windows are down, the breeze is warm, and the silence is full—comfortable in the way that silence only gets when someone understands you. Joel rests one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually between you. You don’t reach for it, but you think about it. You think about how easy it would be.

Back at his house, you pause at the porch steps.

He glances at you over his shoulder. “You comin’ in?”

You nod.

Inside, everything is familiar. Your second toothbrush still tucked behind the mirror. Your sandals near the door. The flowers he bought you already in water, their heads tilted toward the light.

You help him put things away—the strawberries from the morning, a few pantry items from the market. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the sound of drawers opening and closing.

At one point, you lean down to return a spoon to its place and brush against him by accident. Joel steadies you instinctively, his hand warm on your back.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move his hand. “Don’t be.”

You glance up at him and catch the softness in his expression—something in his eyes that makes your heart stumble a little. You straighten up slowly, and for a second, the moment hangs there, weightless.

Then he clears his throat and steps back. “You hungry again yet?”

You smile. “Not even a little.”

Joel chuckles, runs a hand through his hair. “Wanna sit outside for a while?”

You nod.

The two of you settle on the back porch, drinks in hand, legs stretched out. The sun sinks behind the trees, and the sky turns gold, then pink, then purple. Cicadas start up somewhere in the distance. A breeze stirs the air.

“I think I could stay here forever,” you say after a long stretch of quiet.

Joel doesn’t look at you right away. “You can.”

You turn your head. He’s watching the sky, his profile soft in the fading light.

“I meant it,” he says. “You don’t have to go anywhere. Not unless you want to.”

Your chest aches with how easily he says it. Like it’s just true. Like it always has been.

You reach for his hand. He lets you take it.

“You make it really hard to leave,” you say.

He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. “Good.”

“I forgot how nice this can be,” you say softly, running your fingers over the edge of the dish. “Just… being with someone.”

Joel hums in agreement. “Don’t think I ever really knew before you.”

You look up. He’s watching you again with that same quiet intensity, like he’s still surprised you’re here—even after all these days, after all the soft mornings and slow nights. You shift closer, knee bumping his, and he doesn’t move away.

You glance down at your hands. “This feels different.”

“From what?”

“From the beginning. From the first time I came over.”

A beat of silence. Then his voice, low and sure: “That night, I didn’t think you’d stay.”

You look up at him, surprised.

“I hoped,” he says. “But I didn’t expect it.”

You reach for his hand without thinking, tangling your fingers in his. “I didn’t either.”

And then you’re both quiet again, not because there’s nothing to say, but because everything’s been said in the little things—his shirt in your drawer, your shoes by his door, the way your fingers fit just right between his.

Eventually, he leans back against the couch, tugging gently so you follow. You end up tucked against his chest, legs tangled, your head resting over his heart.

And that’s how the night ends. No big moment. No grand confession.

Just the two of you, surrounded by little pieces of a shared life that’s just starting to take shape.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Over the next few days, you notice the space between his world and yours shrinking in small, deliberate ways. It happens gradually—so seamlessly it almost doesn’t register until you catch yourself reaching for the cutting board without asking, or folding his laundry like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

One morning, while making coffee, you find your favorite mug in his cabinet. Not tucked away—front and center, like it’s always been there. 

The drawer that used to hold mismatched batteries and takeout menus now has your hair ties coiled in the corner, a tube of mascara resting neatly beside his shaving cream.

He never says anything. Just makes space. Quietly, consistently.

And you, without even realizing, fill it.

That night, after dinner, you’re curled up on the couch with him—bare feet tucked under your legs, the TV playing something neither of you are really watching.

Joel’s hand rests on your shin, thumb rubbing slow circles against your skin. His touch is casual, but there's something thoughtful in his expression. Like he’s turning something over in his head.

You stretch, shifting slightly to face him. “You good?”

He glances at you, then back at the screen. “Yeah.”

You wait a beat. Then, quieter, “Joel.”

His thumb pauses.

He sighs. Not in a tired way—more like he’s bracing himself. “Been thinkin’.”

You smile a little. “That’s dangerous.”

He huffs out a laugh, but it fades quickly. His gaze finds yours, steady and serious.

“You ever think about just… moving in?” he asks.

The words land softly, like they’ve been waiting in the air.

Your heart skips.

He clears his throat, a little awkward now. “I mean—you’re already here more than you’re not. Got your coffee, your books… your damn oat milk takin’ up half the fridge.”

You bite your lip to keep from grinning. “You complaining?”

He shakes his head, eyes warm. “Not at all.”

Eventually, you shift your head just enough to glance up at him. “You sure you’re ready for me to take over your space?”

Joel looks down at you, the corner of his mouth tugging into a half-smile. “You already did, sweetheart.”

You huff a soft laugh, then nudge his side with your elbow. “I mean, like—really move in. Clothes in your dresser. Period stuff under the sink.”

His brows lift like he hadn’t thought about the specifics, but he doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs a little, easy as anything. “Sounds right. Might even clear out a drawer for you. Maybe two if you’re lucky.”

You shift to sit up, one leg folding beneath you, suddenly needing to see his face. “What about when I’m annoying?”

Joel’s hand finds your knee, squeezes gently. “Then I’ll grumble about it under my breath and still make you coffee in the morning.”

You blink. He’s not joking. Or maybe he is, a little. But the warmth in his eyes tells you he means every word of it.

“You really want this?” you ask.

He nods once, slow and certain. “Yeah. I do.”

You study his face for a moment, searching for any hint of doubt—but there isn’t any. Just that quiet certainty he carries so well, like once he makes up his mind, it stays made.

“Okay,” you say, voice a little breathless. “Then I guess we’ve got some packing to do.”

Joel’s mouth curves, not quite a grin, but something deeper. “Already cleared out a few drawers,” he murmurs. “Figured it might happen. Eventually.”

You blink. “You did?”

He nods. “Bottom two in the dresser. Closet’s got space, too. Might’ve taken a few things to Goodwill last week.”

You stare at him, lips parting. “Joel.”

“What?” He shrugs, a little sheepish. “Didn’t want you trippin’ over my old crap. Figured if you were gonna stay, you’d need room.”

You don’t answer right away. You just look at him—really look at him—and wonder how you ever thought this would be temporary.

Then you lean in, nose brushing his. “I don’t have that much stuff.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’ve got a whole house’s worth of space.”

You huff a quiet laugh, pressing your forehead to his. “You really planned this out, huh?”

“Didn’t plan,” he murmurs. “Just… hoped.”

Your heart trips a little at that.

There’s something in the way he says it—simple, like it didn’t cost him anything, but you know better. You know Joel doesn’t hope lightly. And he sure as hell doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.

“I don’t need much,” you say, voice soft. “Somewhere to work. Somewhere to sleep. Somewhere you are.”

He brushes his thumb along your jaw, eyes never leaving yours. “Then you’ve got all of that.”

You nod, just once. “Okay.”

It’s quiet for a moment after that. Comfortable. You can feel his pulse under your hand, steady and warm, and the soft creak of the couch when he shifts just enough to pull you closer.

“Do you wanna start movin’ things tomorrow?” he asks. “Or take your time with it?”

You smile into his chest. “Yeah, I would love to.”

Joel exhales like that means more to him than he can say out loud. Maybe it does.

“What if you used the guesthouse?” he says. “For work, I mean.”

You blink. “Really?”

He shrugs, but it’s not casual. He’s been thinking about this. “Already got your desk in there. You’ve made it yours without even tryin’. Figured—if you’re gonna be stayin’—might as well have a space that’s yours from the jump.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out at first.

He shifts a little to look at you more fully. “I like having you here. I like waking up and knowing you’re just across the yard, or next to me. Doesn’t matter. I just… like it. And if workin’ remote means you can stay for real… then we’ll make it work.”

You swallow hard, throat tight. “That’s—really thoughtful.”

“I want you here,” he whispers. “However you want to be here.”

Your breath catches. Slowly, you nod.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Then I’ll stay.”

His shoulders relax—just the smallest bit—but you feel it. You feel the tension ebb from his chest under your hand. He exhales, not quite smiling, but close.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says.

The way he says it—it’s not possessive, not urgent. Just sure. Quietly relieved.

You stay there a while longer, curled against his chest as the evening settles in around you. The TV plays something neither of you are watching, casting a soft flicker across the living room. His thumb strokes lazy circles over your arm. You feel his heartbeat under your cheek—steady, slow, familiar.

At some point, you doze off. Just for a few minutes. You wake to the warmth of his hand brushing your back and his voice low in your ear.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You’re half-asleep as he helps you up, following him down the short hallway to the bedroom. The sheets are already turned back. The window cracked open just enough to let in the sound of crickets. He waits for you to climb in first, then slides in behind you, one arm tucking around your waist like it’s second nature.

You fall asleep with his hand splayed across your stomach and his breath warm against the back of your neck.

The next morning, you wake to birdsong and sunlight cutting soft through the blinds.

Joel’s already up.

You hear him in the kitchen—drawers opening, something clinking against the counter. When you shuffle out of the bedroom, he looks up and smiles, pouring two cups of coffee like it’s any other day.

Except today’s different.

Today, you’re moving in.

“Well, good morning,” he says, sliding your mug across the counter.

You take it, still sleep-warm, hair a mess. “You’re chipper.”

He shrugs. “Big day. Figured I’d let you sleep a little before we get started.”

“You’re very prepared,” you mumble behind the rim of your mug.

“Got a mental checklist and everything,” he says, mock serious. “Step one: don’t break anything. Step two: don’t make too many jokes about how many throw pillows you own.”

You squint at him. “You love my throw pillows.”

“I tolerate them.”

“You use them more than I do.”

He grins into his coffee.

You end up barefoot on the porch with your mug in hand, Joel beside you, both leaning against the railing as the breeze rolls off the water.

He doesn’t say much. Just stands there with his arm grazing yours, coffee in one hand, his gaze somewhere out over the trees. It’s not rushed. None of this is. The birds are loud, the sun not quite high yet. It feels like a moment you’ll remember—not for what’s said, but for how still it all is. How right.

Joel’s shoulder brushes yours. “We don’t have to rush,” he says softly. “You’ve been here a while already. This just… makes it official.”

You smile into your cup. “Feels a little like I’m getting promoted.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “More like you were overqualified from the start.”

You bump his elbow. “So what, the guesthouse was probation?”

His mouth twitches. “Somethin’ like that.”

It’s teasing, but the warmth beneath it is real. He hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t asked. Just made room until you were ready to claim it.

By late morning, the two of you are in the guesthouse, standing among the soft clutter of your life—books stacked in corners, shoes half-tucked under the couch, your throw blanket draped over the arm of the chair like it’s always lived there.

You don’t take everything though.

Some things you set aside deliberately—your desk lamp, the little ceramic tray that holds your paperclips, a few books that make you feel capable even when you're not. You line them up neatly near the window, like you're curating a space that hasn’t fully come into being yet.

Joel watches from the doorway, arms crossed but loose, a softness in his eyes that doesn’t ask questions.

“I figured I’d leave a few things,” you say, not quite looking at him. “For when we get around to setting this up.”

His voice is low. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

You glance back, mouth twitching. “Unless you’re planning to rent it out again.”

That gets a short laugh. “Not a chance.”

You nod, and it’s quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that feels full, not empty. 

Back at the main house, the light has shifted—bright but low, slanting across the floors in warm stripes.

You find Joel in the bedroom, crouched near the dresser with the bottom drawer pulled open. Not saying anything. Just rearranging things—socks and flannels folded with quiet care.

You lean against the doorframe. “You know I could’ve done that, right?”

He looks over, that familiar crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “Yeah. But I wanted to.”

You step in slowly, eyeing the drawer. He’s cleared the whole thing out—more than just a token corner. Enough space for everything that matters.

“Middle one’s empty too,” he adds, like he’s offering something small, even though you both know it’s not.

You don’t answer right away. Just cross to the bed where your overnight bag sits, unzip it, and start pulling things out. Not folded perfectly. Not organized. Just yours.

He watches you for a second, then goes back to what he was doing—quiet, easy. Like this is just the next natural step.

At some point, you pass behind him to reach the closet. He doesn’t move out of the way. Just leans back into you slightly, shoulder brushing yours, like he needs the contact.

You find a spot for your sweaters on the top shelf, slide your boots beside his near the door. Nothing dramatic. Nothing forced.

But later, when you hang the last shirt and close the closet door, you find Joel watching you again.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just nods once, like there it is. Like that’s it. You’re in.

By the time the sun dips low, the kitchen smells familiar.

Garlic, tomatoes, something sweet simmering low on the stove. You hover near the counter, half-in-the-way and not really helping, sipping from a glass of red Joel poured without asking.

It hits you slowly—like déjà vu. The same wine. The same soft instrumental playlist humming from the old speaker near the sink. The same pasta dish, you’re almost sure of it. He hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t need to.

You glance at him over the rim of your glass. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Joel lifts a brow, not looking up from where he’s stirring the sauce. “Doin’ what?”

You nod toward the stove. “This. Pasta. Wine. Music. This is the same dinner from the first night I came over.”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Figured it worked pretty well the first time.”

You laugh, setting your glass down. “You trying to seduce me again?”

His mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t take much.”

The moment stretches there—warm and familiar, but new again in the context of everything that’s changed. That first night, you’d felt uncertain, teetering on something fragile. Now, you just feel sure.

You set the table while he finishes up, pouring the rest of the wine and stealing a taste of the sauce when he’s not looking.

Dinner’s quiet, easy. The clink of forks against plates, the soft thrum of music in the background. You don’t talk much—not because there’s nothing to say, but because you don’t need to fill the silence.

At one point, Joel reaches for your hand across the table and rubs his thumb over your knuckles. You smile at him, small and private.

“Thanks for making dinner,” you say.

He squeezes your hand gently. “Thanks for staying.”

You don’t remember the exact day it stopped feeling temporary.

It wasn’t some big moment. Just… a gradual softening. Like water wearing down stone. Like breath filling up a quiet room.

A few weeks go by. Your desk is set up in the guesthouse. Your robe hangs behind the bathroom door. Joel keeps pretending he doesn’t eat the granola you buy but refills the jar every time it’s low.

You call Jules on a Sunday afternoon, curled up in the hammock outside with your laptop open but untouched.

She answers with a dramatic gasp. “She lives! Did you move in and immediately forget about your entire social circle?”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Hi to you, too.”

She pauses. Then, voice gentler, “So? You’re really in, huh?”

You glance back toward the house, where Joel’s working on the porch with a mug of coffee in hand. He looks up just then and catches you watching. Smiles. You wave with your pinky, the way he likes. He lifts his chin in return, lazy and content.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m in.”

Jules exhales like she’s been waiting to hear that. “You sound… good. You sound happy.”

Another beat. Then her voice, a little quieter. “I’m really glad you’re staying.”

Your chest warms. You blink up at the sky, blue and endless. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too.”

A pause. Then, back to her usual tone, “So when do I get to come over and assess the cohabitation situation? I need to see how many dad mugs he owns and whether his spice cabinet is organized.”

You laugh. “You’ll hate it. He alphabetizes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He has a label maker.”

“You’re marrying this man.”

“Stop,” you say through a laugh, your cheeks warm. “Too soon.”

“Just sayin’. I called it.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just look toward the house again, where Joel’s still sitting—solid and familiar, like something you can build a whole life around.

And quietly, you think: Maybe she’s right.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Epilogue – about a year later

The house feels different now.

Not dramatically. Not in some rearranged-furniture, new-color-palette kind of way. Just... fuller. Quieter, somehow. Settled.

The kind of home where you can hear the wind shift through the trees and know which windows are cracked. Where you know Joel’s home by the way the floor creaks near the back door, or by the thump of his boots left just slightly out of place, like he forgets and remembers you live here at the same time.

Jules is coming over for dinner—her first time since the move-in turned permanent, then turned into something else entirely.

You’re in the kitchen barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, Joel behind you slicing vegetables like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He hums low to himself, some old song you can’t name. You’re both a little tired from the week, but it’s the easy kind of tired. The kind that comes from living, not surviving.

He brushes past you on his way to the stove, drops a kiss to your shoulder without looking.

You’re stirring the sauce when Jules finally swings the door open.

“Okay,” she announces. “This is disgustingly domestic.”

You laugh without turning. “You’re late.”

“I brought wine, don’t push your luck.”

You glance up as she walks in, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, tote bag full of overpriced cheese and whatever candle she’s into this week.

Joel wipes his hands on a towel and offers a small wave. “Hey, Jules.”

She waves back, already walking to the counter. “Joel. Still handsome. Still brooding. Love that for you.”

He grunts, amused, and ducks his head back toward the stove.

You and Jules catch up easily. The kind of conversation where nothing is that important, but all of it matters. She leans on the counter, talking about her new boss, a bad date, the way her cat now only drinks from the bathroom sink.

And then, mid-sentence, she freezes.

“Wait.”

You pause. “What?”

Her eyes drop to your hand.

“You got engaged?” she shrieks, grabbing your fingers and yanking them into view.

You grimace. “Jesus, Jules.”

“You got engaged and didn’t tell me?”

“I was going to!” you laugh. “I just—wanted to sit with it for a while.”

She stares at the ring—your ring. An antique-style oval diamond, softly set in gold, low to your hand. Not flashy. Just… right. It catches the light gently, like it was made to be there.

“You sat with this for a while?” Jules demands, half-laughing, half-offended. “Girl. This is a life event. There should’ve been balloons. There should’ve been screaming.”

You shrug, biting your lip. “It didn’t really happen like that.”

Joel looks over his shoulder, smirking. “Definitely no balloons.”

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Three Months Ago, On the Beach

It had been one of those long, quiet days—warm breeze, no plans, the kind of day that unfolds slowly without asking anything from you.

Joel had asked if you wanted to walk down by the water. Just the two of you. No music. No errands. Just sand and sea and a flask of something dark tucked in his back pocket.

The sun was already dropping by the time you made it down the beach. That magic hour light stretched everything golden, made the water glow like glass. You’d brought a blanket but didn’t sit on it—just let it drag behind you as you walked, barefoot through the damp sand, shoulder to shoulder.

He’d been quiet.

Not in a heavy way. Not in a bad way. Just... thinking.

You’d been watching the waves when he finally spoke.

“I keep wonderin’ when it’s gonna hit me that this ain’t temporary.”

You turned to look at him, brow lifted.

“You, here,” he said, nodding toward the stretch of beach, the horizon, the invisible line between your lives then and now. “Us. All of it. Thought it’d feel like a phase I’d get used to. But it doesn’t. It just... feels right.”

You smiled softly. “It does.”

He nodded once, then reached into his jacket pocket.

And your heart stuttered.

No box. Just a ring in his palm—simple, gold, one round diamond. No fanfare.

“Marry me.”

It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a demand either. It was Joel—direct and steady and sure.

You blinked. “Is this happening right now?”

His lips twitched. “Only if you want it to.”

He didn’t try to explain. Didn’t build it up. Just let the moment hang there between you, salt in the air, wind tugging at your sleeves.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he added, quieter now. “But I hope you do.”

You looked down at the ring—how familiar it already felt in his hand. How carefully he held it. Like it wasn’t just a ring, but a thing he’d chosen with intention. A future he’d already pictured.

You stepped closer. Let your fingers brush his.

“Yeah,” you said. “I want to.”

Joel exhaled, shoulders dropping in the way they only did around you. Then he slipped the ring onto your finger with that same careful steadiness, like he was built for this.

You kissed him there on the beach, the sky behind him glowing peach and pink, your fingers still curled around his.

And it didn’t feel sudden.

It felt inevitable.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Back in the kitchen – present day

Jules is staring at you across the counter, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

“So,” she says, voice pitched somewhere between a gasp and a whisper, “you’re telling me this man just whipped out a ring on the beach like it was a normal Wednesday?”

You grin, cradling your wineglass between both hands. “Pretty much.”

“No speech? No kneeling? Just—‘marry me’?”

You nod.

She places both palms on the counter like she needs to ground herself. “That is the most Joel thing I’ve ever heard.”

You laugh, and something inside you softens—again. It’s been softening a lot lately.

“I think that’s why it worked,” you say. “He wasn’t trying to perform it. He just meant it.”

Jules exhales dramatically. “God. Okay. So—how do you feel? Are you like, spiraling? Are we planning a wedding? Am I maid of honor? Please say yes, I already have a dress.”

You smirk into your glass. “We haven’t even picked a date yet. It’s not like that.”

“Not like what?”

You glance toward the back door. Through the screen, you can just barely make out Joel’s silhouette on the porch—feet kicked up, book resting on his chest, one hand absentmindedly petting the cat who now acts like she’s lived here forever.

“Not urgent,” you say. “Not big. Just... real.”

Jules follows your gaze, then softens, lips pulling into something quieter. “You really love him.”

You nod, eyes never leaving the porch. “Yeah. I do.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then she reaches across the counter, gently touching your wrist.

“I’m really glad you stayed.”

You blink once. Swallow. “Me too.”

Jules sits back, eyes flicking toward the pantry. “So. You gonna tell me how many shelves in this house you’ve colonized with weird granola and emotional support spices, or what?”

You laugh, fully now. “All of them. He doesn’t even fight me anymore.”

“Good,” she says. “That man needed help.”

Joel walks in right then, barefoot and rumpled, holding two empty glasses.

“You talkin’ about me?”

Jules lifts her chin. “Always.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the glasses down next to the wine bottle. Then, quietly, he reaches for your hand. Rubs his thumb over the inside of your wrist like he forgot other people were here.

You squeeze his hand back, just once.

Jules watches the exchange, something warm and knowing in her face.

“Yeah,” she mutters under her breath. “You’re definitely marrying him.”

You look at Joel. At the way he’s already reaching for the corkscrew like he’s going to open another bottle. At the way your ring catches the light between you.

And yeah.

You are.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The house is quiet after Jules goes.

You close the door behind her with a soft click, the night air lingering on your skin. The last bits of sunlight have long since faded, and the house feels dim in that cozy, late-evening way—warm from the oven, from the wine, from the kind of easy conversation that only happens when someone’s known you for years.

Joel’s rinsing a few plates in the sink, sleeves pushed up, ring on his left hand catching in the light when he moves.

You walk up behind him and slide your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his back.

“She’s gonna bring this up in every conversation for the next six months,” you mumble.

Joel chuckles, setting the plate down. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You hum against him. “About what?”

“That we’re getting married.”

You smile. “Yeah. She called that early.”

He turns off the water and dries his hands slowly, deliberately, before turning in your arms.

For a moment, you just stand there, wrapped around each other in the kitchen, the faucet dripping softly, the house humming low with silence.

Joel tilts his head, brushing his thumb against your jaw.

“You happy?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “I am.”

“Not just comfortable.”

“No,” you say. “Not just that.”

He nods once, like he needed to hear it anyway.

You rise onto your toes and kiss him—soft, unhurried, familiar. The kind of kiss you give someone you already share a life with. The kind that says this is still new and it’s already forever.

When you pull back, you press your forehead to his.

“You know,” you whisper, “this might be the part where we live happily ever after.”

Joel smirks. “Think so?”

You nod again, closing your eyes. “Feels like it.”

His hands find your waist, steady and warm.

“Then let’s keep livin’ it.”

[ftmsimonriley]

soap picks up fishing while on mandatory leave, allowed to borrow price's boat to take it out on the coast, never far enough to catch anything more than rockfish and other coastal dwellers, most of which he releases back anyway. he spends his days out there, drinking and letting the hours tick by as he waits for a bite.

one day, the water's calm and he doesn't have a care in the world. a little past tipsy, he's watching some gulls fly past when suddenly the line catches. the speed of the boat doesn't make up for the speed at which the reel rapidly unravels as whatever is at the other end takes off. he's left to scramble for the rod, and it's a fight to reel it back.

about halfway back, the line goes slack.

he's left feeling a little disappointed as he winds it the rest of the way, expecting nothing at the other end. but what he reels up is half of a catshark. obviously something else was trying to catch it, too.

when he looks up from the mangled corpse, he's startled to find something in the water staring back.

a human face, with just eyes out of the water, deep brown with seemingly no pupils, which he chalks up to the trick of the light reflecting off the water. what skin he can see is pale and freckled, and the short hair flattened to the person's head is deepened to a dark brown from how wet it is.

he knows mers exist. he never thought he'd meet one, much less almost accidentally catch it.

"this yers?" he calls out, undeterred by the lack of a response. only quiet staring, the mer never letting the waves push it closer to his boat. he's quick to pull the catshark off his hook, less careful than he'd be with a live one. with an underhand toss, it hits the water with a quiet splash before sinking.

the mer is diving after it in a split second, and soap assumes that's all he'll see of it.

he stays out for a bit longer after that, intent on catching something that's not already half eaten. but the mer seems to have scared off all the fish, and he's considering accepting that today wouldn't be his day before something heavy is landing on his deck.

there, is a whole northern pike, freshly killed. when he looks over the side of the boat, there in the water is those same two brown eyes.

"dinners on you, is it?" he's a bit in shock, not only with meeting a mer but having it seemingly hunt for him. but unless its somehow messed with the pike before throwing it on board, soap isn't going to question his intentions beyond interpreting this as some form of gratitude for giving him the rest of the catshark.

and after that, he sees the mer every day he's out on the water.

always keeping his distance, always just his eyes above the surface. he starts to call him ghost, what with his ability to disappear and reappear so easily, and his eerie silence. ("like a wee ghost swimming around my boat.")

he suspects ghost is also, intentionally or not, scaring away all the fish. but at this point, he's casting as an excuse. why fish when he has a mer to talk to (or to be apt, talk at, as ghost never speaks) all day?

[mahoshonensuicidehotline]

Everybody wants 2 rule the world

[dooberific]

❝ 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘗𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘐𝘵'𝘭𝘭 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘓𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 ❞

harumasa x afab!reader

genre: slightly suggestive, we are back on the boy failure train

summary: reciprocity is the key to keeping all 'professional' relationships afloat

wc: 1.3k

note: I’m working on the requests submitted (plus my own ideas) and will have them queued to post over the next week or so! Thanks for the love ❤️

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You drawled as you propped up on your elbows, sunglasses tipping down your nose with a grin. 

The waves that rolled into Port Elpis had made for a perfect slow, rocking motion for a nap in the sunshine. It would have been a shame to not take advantage of it you had thought as you shimmied out of your top and stretched out across the deck of your boat. 

It was a sun kissed day in heaven in your book, the gentle crank of your fishing pole and the distant song of the gulls working their magic to lull you into a state of peace until you heard the telltale thump of feet down the pier in your direction. 

Harumasa sucked a breath between his teeth as he shook his head, fighting off a smile in the name of professional courtesy. “Tempting offer, but I’m on the clock so I’ll have to decline.” 

You shrugged, pushing your glasses back up as you folded your arms back behind your head. “Suit yourself, law man.” 

“You say that like your office isn’t right down the hall from mine.” 

You groaned, plucking the half empty beer can from your side, waving it in the air like a trophy. “I’m trying to conveniently forget that right now, Asaba.”

It was one of your coveted days off, and you wanted nothing more than to forget everything related to hollows, H.A.N.D, and Section 5 in favor of a cold beer and a basket of greasy fries from the stand at the parking lot by the marina.

“I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you need something from me, and not that you get off on watching girls sunbathe.”

“You’d guess right, but it’s not that I don’t appreciate the view,” he corrected as he stepped off the pier and onto the boat, footing unsteady with the bobbing of the waves that lapped at the sides of your vessel. 

He passed a Manila folder into your waiting hands, watching as you indiscernibly skimmed the contents behind your sunglasses. He crouched down beside you, head cocked as he watched your facial expression shift unpleasantly.

You snapped the envelope shut before raring back and smacking him across the chest with it, the force of your strike with the rolling of the boat dropping him from his heels to his ass with a oof!

“I told you I don’t do that kind of thing anymore. I’m a reformed—,”

“Member of society and a public servant, yeah yeah, but you are the only one who can help me with this!” 

“We have a whole department dedicated to cyber-related cases, Asaba.” 

“Okay fine you are the fastest way to get this done, but I’m practically begging on hands and knees here! Come on (y/n), we’ve been friends for years now. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if there was another way.” He rolled his lip out like a kicked puppy, but you could see the sincerity in his eyes even if he refused to fully break from his cheery, coy attitude. 

You sighed, head thumping against the deck as you mulled it over. Truthfully you had your mind made up already, you both had a healthy exchange of professional favors in your histories, and what was one more? What you wanted was honesty, because if he was asking you to stick your neck out it was the least he could do.

He had taken to pacing the deck now, your silence more disconcerting for him than your difficult attitude was. 

“This isn’t officially related to work is it?” 

He was silent, arms crossed as he stared out over the rolling blue waves, the tails of his headband fluttering in the same wind that tousled his hair. 

“No, it isn’t.”

Good enough, you weren’t one to pry too deeply. You already felt like you were a little more tuned into his personal issues than most others just from similar favors you had done for him in the past. 

“I’ll help you.” 

He whipped around, trademark smile curling his lips. “I knew you’d—“

“But you have to help me out first.” 

You stretched your arms above your head with a yawn, back arching invitingly off the deck. “I have no intention of leaving this deck, so be a dear and grab my laptop from inside—that’s not the favor though.” You quickly added as he hurriedly went to fetch your computer per request.

“What’s the favor then? Gonna ask me to scrub barnacles off your boat?” 

You snorted. “Nah, it’s just that on a day this pretty it’d be a shame to miss out on even an ounce of sunshine.” As you spoke your hands drifted from above your head, dragging slowly down the side of your neck to your chest as your shoulders bowed. 

You didn’t miss the way his eyes locked onto the trail of your fingertips as they drifted lower, ghosting over the contours of your stomach before slipping into the waistband of your shorts. Your hips lifted just enough to slip them past the curve of your ass, shimmying the fabric down till it hooked over an ankle. You kicked them off in his direction with a grin, watching him fumble to catch them before you slung a bottle of sunscreen at him as well. 

“Haru dear, be an angel and help me get my back.” 

You certainly weren’t expecting company when you had picked one of your…flimsier swimsuit sets to wear as you lounged on the water today, but the thick way he swallowed as you rolled to your stomach, propped on your elbows and drew your hair aside had you grinning like a lovestruck teenager. 

Shit, if he kept it up you’d have to invite him over more often. 

“I don’t have all day here~” You chided, twirling your hair around your finger as you peered at him over your glasses coyly.

“R-right, sorry,” he tossed your shorts aside, white-knuckling the sunscreen bottle as he hit his knees beside you. 

“Be gentle with me, Haru~” you cooed, relaxing your posture as you rested your chin on your crossed arms. 

You couldn’t help the way you tensed when his hands met your sun warmed skin, the cool temperature of the sunscreen on his palms a stark contrast. You could feel the callouses on his hands scratch at your skin as his fingers flexed hesitantly, kneading into the muscles along the curve of your spine. 

“You’re pretty good at this, I’d about pay to have to put your hands on me like this.” You mused aloud, feeling his hands pause  just shy of the tie on the back of your swim top as he cleared his throat. You rolled your head to the side.

“Don’t forget to get under the straps good, don’t want any unnecessary burn lines.”

His hands drifted higher, sliding under the straps of your swimsuit top and across your shoulders, the pressure of his fingertips akin to a massage as he worked the sunscreen into your skin despite the tremble in his hands.  You sighed dreamily as his hands retracted.

“Alright, you’re uh, you’re good.” 

“Perfect, thank you for that.” You hummed happily before you hooked your legs around his waist and shifted your weight, throwing him flat against the deck as you pinned him, one hand braced next to his face as you leaned over his proned form.

You tsked, drawing his chin up with your fingertips, enjoying how blown his golden eyes were with your proximity. “Haru, you need to get outside more, your little cheeks are awful red.” You cooed, watching his skin flush down his neck. 

You settled yourself back on his lap, wiggling your hips as he squirmed beneath you, your hands teasing the buttons of his shirt apart as you loosed the straps of his chest plate. Your hands splayed across his pectorals, as you leaned in close. 

“This could take a while,” you whispered, lips almost grazing his as you took care to grind against his lap. His breath hitched, hands latching onto your hips. 

“So how about you join me~?”

Rey 2024

[novaursa]

What about a Jace x sister

Where he fell in love with her and in the same time he is not ok with it. He might be the only Targaryen related who thinks that’s not okay to loved their related. But no matter how he can stopped loving her, she might have a look more “Targaryen” with white hair with some black in it (narcissia Malfoy style?)

He always do some weird shit to be closed to her without drow to much attention, And when they finally get really closed their mother call all the bastard to become dragon rider. And Ulf find them in the Pit and try to get something from them in exchange of his silence.

Jace wake up and choose violence 🫣 and just say no and fuxk her in front of him and say that if he say anything he make sure his dragon will eat him

Sins of the Blood

- Summary: Jacaerys always loved his sister, more than he should. It was wrong, he knew it, but the dragon in him claimed you as his long ago.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. Requests are closed!

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I've bonded the reader with Grey Ghost for the plot.

The sea breeze dances through the open halls of Dragonstone, carrying with it the scent of salt and the distant roar of the waves. You stand with Baela and Rhaena on the sun-warmed terrace overlooking the cliffs, the three of you bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Your laughter rings out, clear and melodic, mingling with the cries of the gulls that circle above.

Jacaerys Velaryon watches from a distance, his heart heavy with conflicting emotions. He knows he should not be here, should not be watching you so closely, but he cannot help himself. You, his sister, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, have been a constant presence in his life, a source of both comfort and confusion. His eyes trace the silver streaks in your hair, a reminder of your Targaryen blood, mingling with the deep brown inherited from your true father, though only you, he, and his mother know the truth.

He remembers when you were children, how you would chase each other through the halls of the Red Keep, your laughter infectious, your bond inseparable. He had always been protective of you, even when you didn’t need it. You were fierce, a dragon through and through, and yet, as you stand now with Baela and Rhaena, there is a softness to you, a grace that makes his breath catch in his throat.

"Do you remember the first time we flew together?" Baela’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. She grins at you, her violet eyes bright with the memory.

"Of course," you reply, a smile tugging at your lips. "I thought Jace would never let me ride my own dragon, he was so worried."

Jace feels a pang at your words, both pride and regret mingling in his chest. He had always been overly cautious with you, more so than with Luke or Joffrey. Perhaps he had always known, even then, that his feelings for you were not entirely brotherly.

Rhaena giggles, leaning in closer to you. "He’s always been that way, hasn’t he? Always the protector, always looking after you."

You shrug, though the warmth in your eyes betrays your affection. "He cares. That’s just how he is."

Jace clenches his fists at his sides, torn between the pride that swells in him at your words and the guilt that gnaws at him for the thoughts he cannot seem to banish. He knows it is wrong—this desire that burns in him like dragonfire—but it is also undeniably a part of him, a flame that refuses to be extinguished.

Take what is yours. The words echo in his mind, a voice that is both his own and something darker, something ancient. The blood of the dragon runs hot in his veins, urging him to act, to claim what he believes is his by right. You are his sister, yes, but you are also so much more. You are the embodiment of everything he has ever wanted, ever desired.

You turn then, as if sensing his gaze, and your eyes meet his. For a moment, the world seems to stop. The laughter of Baela and Rhaena fades into the background, the sound of the waves dulls, and all he can hear is the pounding of his own heart.

"Jace," you call out, your voice breaking the spell. "Come join us!"

There is no hesitation in your invitation, no hint that you are aware of the storm raging inside him. You are just his sister, inviting him to share in the simple joy of the evening, oblivious to the battle he fights within.

He forces a smile, masking the turmoil beneath, and steps forward. "I was just enjoying the view," he says, his voice betraying nothing.

Rhaena giggles again, nudging Baela. "See, I told you he’s always watching over her."

Baela laughs, a sound like the tinkling of bells. "It’s because he’s a good brother."

The words cut deeper than they should, a cruel reminder of the line he cannot cross. He wants to be a good brother, he truly does. But the blood of the dragon does not care for such boundaries. The blood of the dragon demands more.

As he approaches, you smile up at him, that same smile that has always had the power to calm him, to soothe the fire within. But today, it only stokes the flames higher.

"Are you alright?" you ask softly, your eyes searching his face for something he cannot give.

He nods, the lie slipping easily from his lips. "Of course. Just… thinking."

You raise an eyebrow, a knowing look passing over your face. "You think too much, Jace. You always have."

He laughs, though it is a strained sound. "Someone has to, with you lot always running headlong into trouble."

Baela snorts. "As if you don’t love it."

He shrugs, unable to deny it. "Perhaps."

You laugh then, a sound so pure and unburdened that it twists something deep in his chest. How can you be so carefree, so unaware of the darkness that haunts him?

The conversation drifts to other things—plans for the next dragonride, the latest antics of your younger brothers—but Jace finds it hard to focus. His eyes keep returning to you, to the way the setting sun catches in your hair, to the way your eyes sparkle when you laugh. Every moment is a battle, every word a reminder of what he can never have.

Take what is yours. The voice whispers again, insistent, relentless.

He pushes it down, burying it beneath layers of duty, of honor, of love for his family. But it is there, always there, a part of him that he can never truly silence.

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting the world in shades of orange and gold, you turn to him once more, your expression soft, almost tender.

"Thank you, Jace," you say quietly.

He frowns, unsure of what you mean. "For what?"

You smile, and it is a smile that breaks him, because it is so full of warmth, of trust, of love. "For always being there. For always watching over me."

He swallows hard, forcing down the lump in his throat. "Always," he promises, and it is both a vow and a curse.

You reach out, your hand brushing against his arm, and the simple touch sends a shock through him, setting his nerves alight. For a moment, he forgets himself, forgets everything but you.

But then Baela speaks up, her voice pulling him back to reality. "We should head inside. It’s getting late."

You nod, but your eyes linger on his for a moment longer, as if searching for something, something you cannot name.

Jace watches as you turn away, following Baela and Rhaena back into the castle, your laughter fading into the evening air. He stays behind, his heart a tumult of emotion, his mind a battlefield.

He knows what he feels is wrong. He knows that he should push these thoughts away, should bury them deep where they can never see the light of day. But he also knows that the blood of the dragon is not so easily denied.

As the stars begin to twinkle in the darkening sky, Jace makes a silent vow to himself. He will protect you, he will care for you, as a brother should. But he will also fight this desire, this hunger that threatens to consume him. He will not let it destroy him, or you.

But deep down, he knows that it will be difficult.

And as he watches the last light of day fade into night, he wonders if it ever truly will be.

Months have passed since that evening on the terrace, and yet the fire within Jacaerys Velaryon has not dimmed. If anything, it has only grown stronger, a persistent heat that simmers beneath the surface, threatening to consume him at every turn. He has thrown himself into his duties, into training and studies, hoping that the rigor will burn away these unwanted desires. But nothing works. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot escape the pull you have on him.

Today, he finds himself wandering through the halls of Dragonstone, his mind restless, his heart unsettled. The castle is quiet, the stillness only amplifying his thoughts. His feet carry him to the library, a place he knows you often retreat to when you seek solace or simply a moment of peace. He tells himself it is a coincidence, that he has come here to study, to distract himself with books and knowledge. But deep down, he knows the truth.

As he enters the library, the scent of aged parchment and ink greets him, a familiar comfort. He pauses in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room until they find you, seated near the window, the light of the midday sun casting a soft glow around you. You are engrossed in a book, your silver-streaked hair falling over your face, your expression serene. The sight of you, so peaceful and unguarded, sends a wave of warmth through him, and before he can stop himself, he is walking towards you.

You look up as he approaches, a smile tugging at your lips. "Jace," you greet him, your voice soft and welcoming. "What brings you here?"

He hesitates, his mind racing for an excuse. "I thought I might find you here," he admits, the words tumbling out before he can catch them. "I wanted to see if you needed any help with your studies."

You raise an eyebrow, a playful glint in your eyes. "Since when do you offer to help with my studies?"

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. "I just thought... we haven't spent much time together lately. I miss it."

Your expression softens at his words, and you close the book in your hands, setting it aside. "I’ve missed it too," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

He can feel the tension between you, a charged energy that crackles in the air. The pull is stronger now, a magnetic force that draws him closer, and before he knows it, he is sitting beside you, his body instinctively leaning towards yours.

"What are you reading?" he asks, his voice rougher than he intended.

You glance at the book, then back at him, a small smile playing on your lips. "A history of Old Valyria. I’ve always been fascinated by our ancestors, by the dragons and the blood magic they wielded."

"Of course," he murmurs, though he hardly registers the words. He is too focused on the way your hand rests so close to his, the way your eyes seem to shimmer in the light. "Our blood is strong, isn’t it? The blood of the dragon."

You nod, your gaze holding his. "It is. It’s what makes us who we are."

The words resonate deep within him, a reminder of the truth he has tried so hard to ignore. The blood of the dragon is what binds you together, but it is also what drives him to the brink of madness. The fire that burns in his veins is not just a curse, but a part of him, a part of you. And he is no longer sure if he can continue to fight it.

"I wanted to ask you something," you say suddenly, breaking the silence that has settled between you.

He blinks, trying to focus. "What is it?"

You hesitate for a moment, as if gathering your thoughts. "I was wondering if you could help me with my dragon training. Grey Ghost is so much more... spirited than he used to be, and I thought maybe you could help me understand him better."

Jace swallows hard, the thought of spending more time with you, alone and away from prying eyes, sending a thrill through him. But it is also dangerous, more dangerous than anything he has faced before. Still, he finds himself nodding. "Of course. I’d be glad to help."

You smile, a smile that warms him from the inside out, and he knows he is lost. He cannot deny you, cannot deny himself any longer. The pull is too strong, the fire too fierce. And as you rise to your feet, gesturing for him to follow, he feels that pull tighten, like a chain around his heart, binding him to you.

The two of you walk side by side through the corridors of Dragonstone, the silence between you comfortable, yet charged with an unspoken tension. Your presence is a balm to him, calming and yet igniting something deep within, something he can no longer ignore. Every brush of your arm against his, every glance in his direction, fans the flames higher, until he feels as though he might burst from the sheer force of it.

When you reach the courtyard where the dragons are kept, you turn to him, your eyes bright with excitement. "Let’s start with the basics," you say, your voice full of eagerness. "You’ve always been better at this than I am."

Jace shakes his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. "It’s not about being better," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "It’s about understanding them, forming a bond with them."

You nod, your attention fully on him now, and he feels a surge of pride at the trust you place in him. "I know," you say softly. "And I trust you to help me."

The words strike him like a blow, the weight of your trust almost too much to bear. He wants to be worthy of it, to be the brother you believe him to be. But he also wants more, so much more, and it terrifies him.

As you step closer to him, your arm brushing against his, he feels that pull again, stronger than ever. He knows he should move away, put some distance between you, but he cannot bring himself to do it. Instead, he finds himself leaning in, his body drawn to yours like a moth to flame.

"You know," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, "I’ve always felt safest when I’m with you."

The confession catches him off guard, and he looks down at you, his heart pounding in his chest. "Why?"

You smile up at him, a gentle, almost shy smile. "Because you’ve always been there for me, Jace. No matter what."

His breath catches in his throat, the intensity of the moment almost too much to bear. The pull between you is undeniable now, a force of nature that neither of you can resist. And as you stand there, so close that he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, he knows that he is about to cross a line that he can never return from.

But before he can act, before he can make the decision that will change everything, you reach out and take his hand in yours, your fingers curling around his. The simple touch sends a jolt of electricity through him, and he is lost, completely and utterly lost.

"Jace," you whisper, your voice trembling with something unspoken.

He looks down at you, his heart in his throat, and he knows that this is it. This is the moment he has been dreading, the moment he has been craving. The pull between you is too strong, the fire too fierce, and he knows that there is no going back.

But then, as if sensing the turmoil within him, you give his hand a gentle squeeze, your eyes full of warmth and understanding. "Thank you," you say, your voice soft and sincere. "For always being there."

And just like that, the moment passes. The tension between you eases, and you step back, releasing his hand. The pull is still there, still strong, but it is no longer overwhelming. For now, it is enough to simply be with you, to feel your presence beside him, to know that you trust him.

As you turn your attention back to the dragons, Jace takes a deep breath, steadying himself. The battle within him is far from over, but for now, he has won a small victory. He has resisted the pull, resisted the fire. But he knows it is only a matter of time before the dragon within him demands more.

And when that time comes, he is not sure if he will be able to resist.

The winds howl around the jagged peaks of Dragonmont, the volcanic heart of Dragonstone. The sky above is dark, thick clouds swirling in ominous patterns, but here, beneath the shelter of the mountain, you and Jacaerys find solace in the company of your dragons. Vermax and Grey Ghost, their massive forms partially obscured by the mist that clings to the rocky terrain, rest quietly nearby, their watchful eyes ever alert.

The air between you and Jace is charged, as it has been for days now. Since the arrival of the Dragonseeds and the beginning of the Red Sowing, there has been an unspoken tension, a shared anxiety that neither of you has fully voiced. Today, it seems, that silence is about to be broken.

Jace paces before you, his brow furrowed, his steps uneven. "I can’t help but worry," he finally says, his voice low, almost a growl. "Mother’s decision to let these Dragonseeds try to claim the dragons… it could destroy everything. The only thing that sets us apart, that makes us legitimate in the eyes of the realm, is our bond with the dragons. What happens if anyone can do it? What happens if they succeed?"

You watch him, feeling the weight of his concern settle over you like a heavy cloak. You understand his fear; it echoes within you as well. "They are Targaryen bastards, Jace," you say softly, trying to find the right words. "The blood of the dragon runs in their veins, even if the world doesn’t see them as we are seen. But you are right to be cautious. We cannot control what might happen if they succeed. But we can control how we respond."

He stops pacing, turning to face you fully. His dark eyes are intense, filled with worry and something deeper, something you’ve seen growing there in recent days. "What if it shatters everything? What if the realm no longer sees us as the rightful heirs? If they can claim dragons, what does that mean for us?"

You rise from your seat on a smooth outcropping of rock, moving closer to him, your steps slow and deliberate. You can feel the warmth of the dragons nearby, the heat from the mountain beneath your feet, but most of all, you feel the heat radiating from Jace, a fire that matches your own.

"We are more than our dragons," you say, your voice steady. "We are the blood of the dragon, yes, but we are also our mother’s children, the heirs of House Targaryen. That will not change, no matter what happens with the Dragonseeds."

Jace’s gaze softens as he looks at you, the storm in his eyes momentarily easing. "You always know what to say," he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. "But I’m still afraid. Afraid of what this means for us, for our family."

You reach out, your hand finding his, and the contact sends a spark through you both. "Then we face it together," you say firmly, your fingers tightening around his. "Whatever comes, we face it together, as we always have."

For a moment, there is only silence between you, the kind of silence that speaks louder than words. The dragons are quiet too, their presence a comforting weight in the background. Jace’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, and the simple touch sends a shiver down your spine, the connection between you deepening with each passing second.

Without thinking, you step closer, and suddenly the space between you is gone. You can feel his breath on your skin, warm and unsteady, and the intensity in his eyes is almost too much to bear. The pull between you is stronger than ever, an undeniable force that you can no longer resist.

"Jace," you whisper, your voice trembling with something unspoken, something that has been building for so long.

He doesn’t reply, at least not with words. Instead, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that is both hesitant and eager, as if he is afraid you might pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you kiss him back, your hands moving to cup his face, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, all the pent-up emotions of the past weeks, months, perhaps even years, pouring out in that single moment. It is as if the fire that has always burned between you has finally found release, and there is no stopping it now.Jace’s hands find their way to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the desperation in his touch, the need that mirrors your own. "I’ve wanted this for so long," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with desire.

"So have I," you admit, the words coming out in a breathless rush. "Jace, I—"

He silences you with another kiss, more urgent this time, and you can feel his hands moving to the fastenings of your attire. There is a moment of hesitation, a final chance to turn back, but neither of you takes it. Instead, you help him, your fingers trembling as they work to undo his clothing as well.

The air is cool against your skin as your garments fall away, but you hardly notice. All you can focus on is Jace, on the way his hands move over your body, on the way he looks at you as if you are the only thing that matters in the world. And perhaps, in this moment, you are.

He guides you down onto the warm rock, his movements careful, almost reverent. The heat from the mountain seeps into your skin, mixing with the heat of his touch, and you feel yourself trembling, not from fear, but from anticipation.When he finally joins with you, the pain is brief, a sharp sting that quickly fades, leaving only the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly connected to him. Jace pauses, his eyes searching yours, as if waiting for your permission to continue.

You nod, your voice caught in your throat, but the look in your eyes says everything. "Please," you whisper, and that is all it takes.

He begins to move, slow at first, almost tentative, but as the moments pass, the hesitation fades, replaced by a growing urgency, a passion that neither of you can control. You cling to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, urging him on, meeting his every movement with your own.

The world around you fades, the sounds of the dragons, the wind, the distant roar of the sea, all becoming nothing more than a distant echo. There is only Jace, only the fire that burns between you, the flames that consume you both, driving you higher and higher until you feel as though you might burst from the sheer intensity of it.

Just as you reach the peak of your union, lost in the sensation of him, you hear a sound, the soft crunch of footsteps on the volcanic rock. Your eyes snap open, and you see him—Ulf the White, one of the Dragonseeds, standing a short distance away, his expression one of surprise and amusement.

Jace’s movements slow as he becomes aware of the intruder, but he doesn’t stop, his body still pressed intimately against yours. His eyes narrow, and you can feel the tension in him, the protective instinct that flares up at the sight of another man watching you in such a vulnerable moment.

Ulf’s smirk widens as he recognizes both of you, his voice carrying an easy confidence as he speaks. "Well, well, what do we have here? Prince Jacaerys and his fair sister, indulging in some… private time, I see."

Jace doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze locked on Ulf, his body shielding yours from view. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, dangerous. "You will leave now, Ulf. And you will speak of this to no one."

Ulf’s amusement doesn’t fade. "And if I don’t? I imagine this little secret could be worth quite a bit."

Jace’s expression hardens, the dragon within him rising to the surface. "I have another proposition for you. Leave now and never speak of this, or tell someone… and Vermax will feast on your bones."

The threat hangs in the air, thick with the promise of violence. Ulf’s smile falters, the realization of Jace’s seriousness sinking in. He glances at the dragons, both Vermax and Grey Ghost now fully alert, their eyes locked on him, and he takes an involuntary step back.

"Fine," Ulf mutters, the bravado gone from his voice. "Your secret’s safe with me, Prince Jacaerys. I was never here." With that, he turns and hurries away, casting one last nervous glance at the dragons before disappearing into the mist.

Jace watches him go, his body still tense, but as the danger passes, his attention shifts back to you, his focus returning to the moment you had both been lost in. The fire that had momentarily cooled begins to burn again, his hands finding yours, his gaze intense.

"I will marry you," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "In the traditions of our ancestors, in the ways of Old Valyria. You are mine, and I am yours, for now and forever."

The words send a shiver through you, the weight of them, the promise in them, filling you with a sense of certainty, of belonging. You nod, your voice trembling as you respond. "Yes, Jace. Yes."

And as he moves within you once more, the world around you falls away, leaving only the two of you, bound together by the fire of your blood.

[solxamber]

Summer Nights with: Housewardens + Jamil

Riddle Rosehearts: Sunset Picnic

The beach is glowing in the soft, honeyed light of the setting sun as you and Riddle set up your little picnic. The spread he prepared is impressive—tiny sandwiches cut to geometrically perfect triangles, fresh fruit neatly sliced, and, of course, a beautiful tea set because Riddle wouldn’t dare let you drink from anything less.

He’s organized every detail down to the napkins, each one folded with the kind of precision only Riddle could manage on a sandy beach.

“Everything looks amazing, Riddle,” you say, grinning as he finishes laying out the plates. You reach for one of the sandwiches, hesitating, and he gives you a small nod of approval, that familiar little quirk of his lips barely there but unmistakably proud. It’s a face he probably doesn’t realize he’s making, and it fills you with a warm, giddy feeling.

“I wanted to ensure everything was perfect,” he says, a little stiff but earnest. “Picnics require planning and, naturally, precise arrangements.” He starts to explain why certain foods pair better with the salty sea air, but you can’t stop watching the light catch in his red hair, the way it glows warm and bright as the sun dips lower. You try not to laugh too loudly when he catches you staring, stumbling over his words as his face flushes a deeper red than you thought possible.

It’s when you’re halfway through a pastry that a gull decides to make a surprise swoop in for an attempt at dessert. Riddle bats it away with the napkin he’d just set perfectly, muttering something about “unacceptable behavior from public wildlife” before composing himself and offering you his arm for a stroll along the beach. It’s such a typical Riddle response that you have to bite back a laugh, feeling a strange, happy ache in your chest.

You link arms with him, and the two of you start walking along the shoreline as the sun continues to melt into the horizon. He’s close, close enough that his shoulder bumps yours with each step, and you feel the warmth radiate from him even as a cool evening breeze begins to settle in. Riddle is quiet for a few moments, looking out toward the waves, his face soft and thoughtful.

“This evening is…” he begins, and you can tell he’s searching for the right words. “It’s quite…pleasant, isn’t it?”

You smile at his careful choice of words, a classic understatement. “Riddle, you’ve outdone yourself. It’s perfect,” you say, squeezing his arm.

He relaxes a bit, giving you that tiny, almost shy smile he only shares when you’re alone like this. “I’m…glad you’re enjoying yourself. It isn’t often that I get to do something so…free,” he admits, glancing away as his ears pinken.

You walk on in comfortable silence, letting your feet sink into the cool sand. The only sounds are the gentle crash of waves and the soft squish of your steps. And then, impulsively, you let go of his arm, running forward to splash through the shallow waves. He stares, caught off guard, before breaking into a smile that’s full and bright, his laugh surprising and infectious as he watches you dodge the incoming surf.

“Come on, Riddle!” you call, extending a hand toward him. “No rules, remember?”

He hesitates only a second before slipping off his shoes and stepping in, a bit awkward but determined as he lets you pull him along. He doesn’t protest as the water laps around his ankles, nor does he scold you when you pull him right into a particularly big wave. His only response is a rare, playful smile as he lifts an arm to shield himself from the splash, then softly grips your hand, steadying you both as you stumble from laughing.

The stars begin to dot the sky, and the last traces of sunlight fade to a gentle indigo. Riddle’s voice is soft when he speaks next. “I never would have done something like this,” he admits, his eyes on the distant waves. “Not until you… You’ve changed my life in more ways than I thought possible.”

Your heart flutters, and the sincerity in his gaze makes it impossible to joke, even though your instinct is to lighten the moment. “You mean everything to me, Riddle. Really.”

His hand tightens in yours, his expression shifting to something so tender it makes your breath catch. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice barely a whisper. “I never thought I’d feel so…so at ease. Especially not here with—well, anyone.” He clears his throat, looking away briefly before meeting your gaze again, his eyes soft, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart race.

You stand there in silence, lost in each other’s eyes, the cool waves washing over your feet. Eventually, Riddle leans forward, brushing a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead. It’s delicate, hesitant, as if he’s savoring each second.

When he pulls back, he lets out a tiny breath, then nods, his cheeks a lovely shade of pink. “Shall we continue?” he asks, the corners of his mouth lifting in a gentle, almost bashful smile.

You nod, linking arms once more as you walk back, each step filled with an unspoken promise, the kind of love that feels more boundless than the sea itself.

Leona: Stargazing

The night’s air was soft and warm, perfect for lying under the stars. Leona and you had managed to find a quiet spot, away from the crowds and even farther from prying eyes, just outside the city’s lights. Blankets spread across the grass, you leaned back, letting the cool, green scent of the earth mix with the distant murmur of the breeze.

Leona, as usual, looked like he belonged in this setting. Reclining with his arm lazily behind his head, green eyes half-lidded as he looked up at the stars, he didn’t seem even remotely distracted. Which was rare. You couldn’t help but grin at how relaxed he was, how right he looked there next to you, his expression unusually soft.

“Didn’t think stargazing was your thing,” you said, letting your hand find his.

A low chuckle rumbled from him, almost like he was barely holding it back. “You’re right. It’s not. Only reason I’m here is ‘cause you are.”

His words should’ve sounded casual, but there was something in his tone that made you want to melt. With Leona, compliments were rare but always real, always hitting a little deeper than you expected.

You turned your face to the stars for a moment, letting his words settle like an extra layer of warmth. The sky was thick with them tonight, a kind of quiet show for the two of you. “Aren’t you at least a little bit curious, though? You know, about what’s out there?”

“Not really. Stars are just lights, herbivore. I don’t see the big deal,” he replied, then, after a pause, added with a smirk, “But… I’m more interested in what’s right here.”

Of course. Right on cue. You couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that so?” you teased, poking him in the ribs with an elbow.

“Watch it,” he muttered, his fingers lacing with yours and holding you in place. His grip was firm but warm, and there was something so steady, so grounding about the way he held your hand, his fingers curling protectively around yours.

You leaned into his side, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steadiness of his presence right next to you. For a guy who claimed he didn’t care much about stargazing, he was certainly taking his time.

The night deepened, and you felt yourself slipping into a comfortable haze. The silence was sweet, each passing minute less about the stars and more about just being near each other. And then, you caught him looking at you, his usual smirk replaced by a softer gaze. His expression was one you rarely saw, one that felt completely genuine, like he didn’t even realize you’d caught him.

“What are you staring at?” you whispered, a little more breathlessly than you intended.

His smirk returned, but his tone was quieter, less playful, as he murmured, “Nothing that isn’t mine already.”

It was impossible not to smile, to feel the warmth blooming across your face. But before you could come up with a reply, he’d tugged you down into his arms, wrapping himself around you in a way that left absolutely no space between the two of you. The stars felt almost irrelevant now, each one fading in comparison to the feeling of him beside you.

And as the night stretched on, you stayed there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, surrounded by stars and held by a silence that felt like home.

Azul Ashengrotto: Moonlit Dance

The beach is bathed in moonlight, and you’re wrapped in a soft, intimate silence with Azul, the night stretching around you like it’s been painted just for this moment. The waves lap gently against the shore, the cool sea breeze tugging at your clothes, and in the quiet, Azul extends his hand, his gaze soft and almost shy.

“Would you… dance with me?” he asks, his voice as soft as the night.

You slide your hand into his, feeling his fingers tighten slightly as he leads you into a slow, graceful rhythm under the stars. There’s a tenderness in his every movement, a carefulness, as if he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold you close enough. He glances down, just barely meeting your eyes, and the slightest blush colors his cheeks, bringing a sweet warmth to his normally composed features.

As the two of you sway, he lets out a quiet laugh, his gaze turning to the horizon. "I must admit, dancing here... under the stars... feels like something out of a dream."

"Then let’s make it one we won’t wake up from," you whisper, leaning in just a bit closer.

For a while, you dance in silence, and then—seemingly gathering his courage—Azul spins you and, with a soft breath, dips you low, his eyes wide as he holds you steady. His face is so close to yours, every detail softened by the moonlight, and he swallows, clearly flustered yet smiling. You can’t help but laugh, and he joins you, his voice a low, warm hum that fills the air between you.

Before you know it, you’re pulling him into a dip of his own, and he lets out a surprised, quiet laugh, gripping your arms as you bring him back up. You’re both laughing softly now, and he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your cheek as his smile softens.

Without another word, he leans in, closing the distance between you with a kiss, gentle and warm, his lips brushing against yours in a tender, quiet promise. It’s a kiss that says everything he sometimes struggles to put into words, a sweetness that speaks of his care, his love, his wonder at being here with you.

When you part, his gaze remains locked on yours, his thumb brushing softly over your hand. "I never thought… I would ever share a moment like this with someone,” he murmurs, his voice so sincere it makes your heart ache a little.

You smile, bringing your forehead to his, feeling the warmth of his breath, the softness of his hands holding you close. "Well, it looks like you’re stuck with me for a few more dances."

His lips curve in a gentle, almost shy smile, but his eyes are shining as he wraps his arms around you, holding you close as you sway under the stars, feeling like you’re the only two people in the world.

Kalim Al-Asim: Nighttime Drive-In

Kalim’s eyes are practically sparkling as he takes in the sight of the massive outdoor screen and rows of cars, all parked under the blanket of night. “This is amazing!” he exclaims, his voice brimming with excitement as he hops out of the car. “A whole movie in a car? And we don’t even have to wear tuxedos or sit in a velvet chair?”

You laugh, grabbing his hand as he leans back into the car with a bright smile. “Not exactly the red carpet, huh?”

He shakes his head, grinning ear to ear. “Way better. It’s like our own secret world here!” He gestures to the backseat, which, thanks to him, is overflowing with an assortment of treats—popcorn, candy, nachos, sodas, even a small box of cupcakes. "I didn't know what snacks people usually get, so I just brought everything!"

“Of course you did,” you chuckle, squeezing his hand. “You know, they usually sell snacks here.”

“Oh!” His face lights up. “Then we should buy some more! I can hand them out to people—it’ll be fun!” And with that, he’s already leaning out the window, cheerfully offering snacks to anyone in earshot. A few nearby people laugh, some take him up on the offer, and soon, Kalim’s practically holding court from the car, as if the drive-in is the most thrilling event of the year.

Eventually, though, the movie starts, and Kalim settles in beside you, practically bouncing in his seat as he tries to watch the screen and point out funny moments. Every few minutes, he turns to you with wide eyes, laughing softly. “Did you see that?” he whispers, as if you weren’t sitting right there. “This is great, we need to come to these all the time!”

“You know you’re supposed to actually watch the movie, right?” you tease, bumping his shoulder.

Kalim chuckles, nudging you back. “But I don’t want to miss a second of seeing this with you. Besides,” he says with a mischievous smile, “I think this part’s way more exciting.” He takes your hand, drawing you a little closer as he intertwines your fingers. The movie fades into the background as he leans over, his laughter softening into a gentle smile that makes your heart feel like it’s about to burst.

As the night settles, the energy around you shifts, and the once-lively atmosphere turns tender and quiet. Kalim drapes a blanket over your shoulders, pulling you close so your head rests against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you protectively.

“This is kind of perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and sincere. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, a subtle blush lighting up his cheeks as he gazes down at you with warm, adoring eyes. “Thanks for bringing me here. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun just… being.”

You smile, lifting your head to catch his lips in a soft kiss, one that lingers longer than either of you expected. When you pull back, he’s grinning, a little dazed but more than happy. “Can we do this every night?” he whispers, fingers tracing little patterns on your arm.

“Maybe not every night,” you laugh, resting your hand against his cheek, “but definitely any time you want.”

He beams, pressing his forehead against yours. “Deal. Now, let’s make sure we finish every last snack we brought,” he says, grinning as he pops a piece of popcorn in your mouth before stealing a kiss—sweeter than any of the candy piled up around you.

Jamil Viper: Midnight Swim

The night air is cool, and the water looks almost magical under the moonlight, its surface shimmering with soft ripples. You’re already up to your waist, playfully splashing around, but Jamil is still standing at the edge, arms crossed as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, the corners of his mouth quirking up in that half-smile you know too well. “You know, it’s not really my thing to… jump into random bodies of water at night.”

“Come on,” you laugh, waving him over. “It’s just us, the moon, and the water. Think of it as a mini adventure—no schedules, no duties.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes a little, but you can see the fondness in them. “Fine, but only because you’re stubborn.” He wades in slowly, the water barely making a ripple as he slips in beside you, his usually precise movements softened in the calm, quiet setting.

You drift closer, feeling the water carry you both into an easy rhythm. The night is silent, save for the gentle lapping of the water, and for once, Jamil looks entirely relaxed. No carefully crafted expression, no alert gaze scanning for potential chaos—just Jamil, as he is, quietly peaceful in the moonlight.

After a moment, he lets out a soft sigh, almost as if he’s finally allowing himself to enjoy it. “You know, I have to admit… I can see the appeal,” he murmurs, glancing over at you with a rare, unguarded smile. “Feels like everything just… stops.”

The two of you float side by side, comfortable in the quiet, and bit by bit, he starts talking. About little moments from his day, funny memories he normally wouldn’t share, dreams he usually keeps close to his chest. It’s as if the night, the water, and your presence have created a place where he feels safe enough to let go.

When you reach out to brush a wet strand of hair from his face, he doesn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, he leans into your touch, his gaze softening as he catches your hand, holding it against his cheek.

“Thank you,” he says softly, a hint of emotion in his voice. “For convincing me to try something new.” His fingers trace a light pattern along your wrist, and there’s something almost reverent in his expression as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours with a warmth that makes you feel like you’re floating.

As you part, he chuckles, sounding almost shy. “I’ll admit… it was worth getting a little out of my comfort zone.”

You grin, leaning into his side as the two of you drift together, his arm wrapping around you to hold you close. In the moonlit water, his usual guardedness has slipped away, leaving just the two of you sharing a rare, quiet peace. As he presses another gentle kiss to your temple, you feel your heart swell, more than a little in love with the rare, beautiful serenity of the moment—and the way he’s finally, finally letting you see his softer side.

Vil Schoenheit: Bonfire Night

The scene is perfect from the start. Vil has every detail arranged with flawless precision: the bonfire flickers elegantly, framed by a semi-circle of blankets, and an artful spread of chocolate, graham crackers, and marshmallows gleams in the firelight. He turns to you with a graceful smile, gesturing for you to sit, and you can’t help but think that if anyone can make s’mores look like a scene out of a classic romance, it’s Vil.

The night air is warm, and as Vil carefully toasts a marshmallow, he holds it over the fire with a practiced elegance. The marshmallow never catches flame, never bubbles too much—it’s a perfect golden brown. Watching him concentrate on such a simple act, his face softened by the glow, feels almost like an intimate privilege, as if he’s revealing something vulnerable just by indulging in this little tradition.

But the fun really begins when he offers you his masterpiece. “Now, this is how a marshmallow should look,” he murmurs, extending it with all the poise of someone handing over a rare delicacy. You take a bite, nodding seriously, though the gooey marshmallow nearly sticks to your lips. Vil looks on with amusement, laughing softly at the sight. “I suppose there’s charm in the chaos of s’mores after all,” he muses.

After a few rounds of attempting his perfection, he starts loosening up, even experimenting by making one for himself that’s just a little… charred. “Careful,” you tease him, nudging his shoulder, “you’re about to get soot on that spotless track record of yours.”

He laughs, a rare, unguarded laugh that sparkles in the quiet night. “Tonight, I think I’ll allow it,” he says, before diving into his treat, unbothered by the crumbs or the faint stickiness left on his fingers. The firelight dances across his face, catching every angle with a golden glow, and you’re struck by the warmth in his smile, a stark contrast to his usual poise.

At some point, as you’re leaning back against the blanket, he pulls you closer, arms wrapped loosely around you, and you feel his cheek brush against your hair. “It’s strange,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, “to think that I’d find this much contentment out here—no scripts, no cameras, just you and a fire.” There’s a note in his voice that makes your heart squeeze, a raw sincerity that cuts through the night.

With Vil’s hand resting on yours, and the stars stretching endlessly above, you’re content to sit in the comfortable quiet. You trade stories back and forth, and for once, Vil lets himself be a little dramatic—tales of travels and encounters, where he plays up the details just to make you laugh.

By the time you’re on your last s’more, Vil’s once-pristine fingertips are as sticky as yours, and he’s practically laughing at himself for it. “A worthy sacrifice,” he says, smiling at the mess, then glances up at you, eyes alight with something warm, tender, and unguarded.

Before you know it, he’s leaned in, lips meeting yours in a sweet, unhurried kiss. The fire crackles softly, framing you both in a bubble of warmth, and for a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the world.

Idia Shroud: Late night ice cream date

The sky is velvet dark, pinpricked with stars, as you and Idia share a late-night ice cream outing. After the shops have closed, you end up at a deserted park, with only the soft hum of streetlights and the occasional flicker of a firefly. It's quiet and perfect for sneaking glances at each other without anyone else around to notice.

Idia looks adorably awkward, like he’s calculating every step to make sure it goes exactly right, but the way he holds your hand gives him away. His fingers fit between yours, warm and a little shaky, and each time you look over, he’s already looking at you, cheeks flushed. "I—I didn't think anyone else would actually enjoy this level of, uh... casual," he murmurs, glancing at the night around you like it’s a new phenomenon.

You laugh, squeezing his hand. "Idia, it’s perfect. And the ice cream is a solid bonus."

He relaxes a bit, venturing a small smile, even though he’s keeping his eyes carefully on his mint-chocolate chip. "I kinda thought I'd be the only one cool with midnight ice cream runs in a creepy empty park." His awkward chuckle is laced with hope, like he’s waiting for a hint that this really is something special for you.

"It’s exactly my vibe," you say earnestly, leaning just a little closer. "Besides, getting ice cream with you feels... well, like magic."

He doesn’t miss a beat, eyes lighting up at that. "Magic, huh? Guess I’ll take that as an S-rank compliment." He steals a quick glance your way, and for a second, his face softens, like he’s letting himself believe this perfect moment is real. He’s a mix of nerves and quiet confidence, daring himself to be this close to someone who, for some reason he’s still baffled by, loves him.

Finally, as you both settle down on a bench under a streetlamp that flickers like it’s unsure of itself, he clears his throat, still holding your hand. "I never thought...well, I didn’t think I’d get to do this kinda stuff," he says, the words a bit shy. "It’s like... in my head, this was always just some 'maybe someday' scenario."

With a gentle smile, you tilt his chin up just slightly, so his eyes meet yours. "Idia," you whisper, "you’re more than ‘maybe someday’ to me. You’re here now."

There’s a spark of bravery in his eyes as he closes the last inch between you, leaning in for a soft, tentative kiss. The taste of mint chocolate lingers, and his hand in yours trembles, but he doesn’t pull away. When you both break apart, he’s blushing, but his smile’s one of quiet wonder.

"Okay, okay," he mutters, laughing nervously, "I think I could get used to this..."

Malleus Draconia: Firefly Hunting

The air is thick with summer warmth, and a soft, whispering breeze trails through the trees as you and Malleus stroll into the clearing. Fireflies dot the shadows, little beacons of light sparking up and winking out, and Malleus’s eyes light up with unmistakable delight. He stands there for a moment, captivated, before glancing down at you with an almost childlike wonder in his gaze.

“These tiny lights,” he murmurs, his voice filled with awe. “They remind me of stars that dared to fall closer to earth.”

You laugh softly. "I’m not sure they’d like being compared to stars, but I see it."

Malleus grins, a hint of mischief in his eyes, and with a subtle flick of his fingers, a soft, verdant glow ripples from his hand. Suddenly, the fireflies seem to double, then triple, in number, painting the entire clearing in an ethereal light. A thousand tiny stars dance around you, and you can’t help but let out a gasp, the world feeling like a fairytale brought to life.

“Now they’re stars,” he whispers, pulling you close as you gaze up in awe at the enchanting scene he’s created. “Just for you, and just for tonight.”

Your fingers intertwine as he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close in the flickering, gentle light. You both watch the fireflies in companionable silence, each moment feeling as if it’s stretching out forever. Occasionally, he brushes his fingers over your arm, his touch as soft as the summer night itself.

“Malleus,” you say softly, feeling a grin start to play on your lips, “you’ve got to tell me, have you done this whole ‘summon the stars’ thing for other people?”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I assure you, I have not.” He dips his head, his eyes meeting yours with that unwavering intensity that always makes you feel like he sees right through to your soul. “No one else has ever made me feel as you do. With you, magic feels… natural.”

Your heart skips a beat, and before you know it, he’s pulled you even closer, leaning in until his forehead is resting gently against yours. There’s an honesty in his gaze that feels as warm as the summer night, as everlasting as the stars. Without a word, you close the space between you, meeting his lips in a kiss as soft as a breath.

The world around you fades—the fireflies, the trees, even the quiet hum of nature itself. All that remains is the warmth of his embrace and the gentle press of his lips against yours, tender and heartfelt, and the promise of endless moments like this.

When you pull back, you see him looking down at you with a soft, almost incredulous smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “For this night. For…” He trails off, as though searching for words big enough, magical enough, to describe the happiness you’ve given him.

“Anytime,” you reply, voice barely above a whisper as you smile back. “But I’m holding you to that firefly magic for next time too.”

With a low laugh, he gives a small nod. “Then I shall make it a thousand more.”

Masterlist

[cece693]

With me hitting a writing block, I thought back to a childhood series I adored—The Hunger Games! This idea is simple, but was easy to write as you are lovers trying to survive the games, but is that really possible? Don't know what else to say, except, that I hope you enjoy!

FIGHT FOR ME

pairing: finnick odair x male reader tags: you and finnick go back, friends to lovers, Annie doesn't exist in my realm, you're a fellow victor from district 10, district 10 specializes in livestock (so killing animals and providing meat to the capital), you are a man who is very calm, which pisses finnick the fuck out

The first time Finnick Odair saw you, he was still raw from the saltwater of his own Games—seventeen years old, paraded through the Capitol on his Victor’s Tour and sick of being beautiful for other people. He’d escaped a banquet by slipping onto a penthouse balcony, chest heaving with too-sweet air, when he noticed someone already leaning on the rail: you, District 10’s victor from three years prior, tuxedo unbuttoned and head tilted toward the constellations as if mapping a route home.

“Careful,” Finnick muttered, meaning the cameras inside.

You didn’t turn. “They’re all busy applauding themselves. We have five safe minutes.”

Something in the weary certainty of your voice cracked Finnick’s practiced charm. You offered him a silver flask—clear water, not liquor—then spoke of tides, ship knots, the glide of moonlight on coral. It was the first conversation since his crowning that hadn’t felt like being filleted. When he finally laughed—really laughed—you smiled and said, “I hoped that sound still existed.”

In the months that followed, your paths crossed whenever the Capitol trotted its trophies out: interviews, charity galas, private auctions none of the sponsors called by their real name. Finnick collected jewelry; you collected secrets—tiny acts of rebellion like pressing a note into his palm (“Meet me on the roof in seven minutes”) or blocking a Capitol lackey from drugging Finnick’s drink with a casual shoulder-bump. He started counting on the solid weight of you at his side, the unspoken code that if one disappeared, the other would go looking.

Affection snuck up on him in increments: the way his breath hitched when you ruffled his sea-damp hair during training sessions for new tributes; how jealousy burned when Capitol aristocrats laid greedy hands on your arm; the warm twist low in his stomach whenever you said his name without the purr everyone else used—just Finnick, bare and simple, like a real boy instead of a legend.

By the time he admitted, alone in his mentor’s quarters, “I love him,” the word felt too small for the tide inside his chest.

10 YEARS LATER

District 4—Victor’s Village, Sea-glass Lane

Your visits had become ritual: once every moon-cycle you traded cattle fields for Finnick’s weather-bleached porch, dropping your overnight pack beside the rope hammock and letting the salt wind unknot your shoulders. You told yourself it was friendship. Finnick told himself it was safer that way—love unnamed was love unexposed.

That bright autumn afternoon began like the others: gulls wheeling over the breakers, Mags humming in the kitchen, Finnick showing you how to splice line without fraying the fibers. You were teasing him—“Your knots look jealous of each other, so tight they can’t breathe”—when the Capitol emergency broadcast hijacked every screen in the house. The image of President Snow flickered across the living-room holopane.

Finnick’s laugh died. Your hands stilled, rope half-braided between you.

“As a reminder of the Capitol’s benevolence,” Snow drawled, eyes reptilian, “the Third Quarter Quell will draw its tributes from the existing pool of victors.”

Silence—vast, tidal—before Mags’ china teacup shattered in the next room.

Finnick’s stomach plummeted so violently he tasted copper. Not him. Anybody but him. He lurched to his feet, nearly tripping on the coil of rope, and reached for the remote with hands that suddenly wouldn’t obey. The holopane kept hissing—Snow listing dates, times, protocols—until Finnick found the power switch and cut the feed. The room plunged into hush broken only by surf, by the distant clang of a harbor bell, by Finnick’s pulse roaring in his ears.

You turned, expression almost peaceful. “It was inevitable.” You eased back onto the couch, folding one ankle over the other with that maddening calm he’d never managed to crack. “We always knew the Capitol wouldn’t let us die peacefully in old age.”

Finnick knelt before you, uncaring that his knees hit hardwood. “Stop. Don’t you dare put that resignation mask on. You fought harder than anyone I’ve ever seen—in your Games, in the years after, every time you kept another tribute from breaking.” His throat tightened. “You think none of that matters?”

“Finnick—”

“Stop.” Panic made his voice a brittle thing. “Don’t tell me you’re ready to go back into that place. Don’t tell me you’ll lie down because Snow snapped his fingers.”

Your calm ignited something furious inside him; he felt it flare through every scar the Capitol had ever kissed. “You think your death will satisfy him?” Finnick shook his head, curls whipping. “They’ll drag us both in anyway. They’ll kill us on screen. Don’t make it easy for them.”

“Finnick,” you repeated softly, brushing a strand of sea-tangle hair from his lashes. “I have no illusions. I’m twenty-six. I have been living on borrowed time since I won the games at thirteen. If dying keeps another child out of the Arena—”

“Don’t you dare dress suicide in charity.” Finnick's voice cracked; he forced iron into the next words. “Your life isn’t a bargaining chip. It’s mine, too—do you understand that? I’m in love with you. That means your heartbeat is mine.”

Shock flickered across your face—the confession he’d whispered only to empty walls now alive between you. It trembled there, fragile as a soap bubble, until you lifted a hand and rested your palm to his chest, over the tattoo of knots near his heart. Your thumb stroked once, twice, the way you smoothed rope before pulling it tight.

“Finnick Odair,” you murmured, voice turned rough, “I don’t deserve that kind of devotion.”

“Then fight until you do,” he fired back, desperate. “Fight for every stolen night like this. Fight because I can’t stand if you’re not beside me.”

The holopanel continued to drone outside—people celebrating that their young children wouldn't be reaped, the Capitol anthem swelling—but the two of you stood in a pocket of stillness. Finally you nodded, as if accepting command aboard a doomed vessel.

“Okay” you said. “I'll fight to stay alive, but that doesn't mean I won't protect you out there.”

“You’ll protect me?” Finnick echoed. “You realize how backwards that sounds?”

You arched a brow. “I’ve watched you cart more than one Career across the ground with a spear through your calf, Odair. Someone had better keep you from playing hero.”

For the first time since Snow’s card, a laugh—thin but real—broke from Finnick’s throat. It felt like breathing after surf had pinned him under. “Deal,” he whispered, resting his forehead to yours. “We protect each other. Always.”

You bumped noses, conspiratorial. “Always is a long voyage, sailor.”

“Not when it comes to you.”