#walks into the vast sea...

[chilapis]

why does thinking about ajax for prolonged periods make me literally cry. what is this disease. what ails the physical that the mind stands unaware of. what lurks in the depths. i need him to hold me forevermore. i think i hauve Covid

[entelodante]

Wyrms come in a lot of different flavors in Abattoir land, so we're starting with the Sweep variety! More info found BELOW!

Containing some of the largest species of Wyrms, Sweeps are distinguished by their mouth placed ventrally on the proboscis, needle-like teeth, all 8 limbs used for locomotion, and a swollen hind gut. Sweeps are typically some of the most hardy Wyrms in the wastes, able to continue to move at all temperatures. They thrive at a range of about -100 to -160 degrees Fahrenheit, but are unbothered up and to around freezing point. They ARE more vulnerable to the scalding rain more typical to the Southern areas of their range. If they get to hot they swell up and can burst, so they typically try to stay Northernly! Honestly the best weather prediction you can find nowadays is these guys stuffing themselves full of ice and snow before a storm rolls in.

But! We've got a varied bunch here so lets get into the SPECIFICS of these Annelids! I've got a small sample just to show off some of the basic types you'll encounter.

Sleek Wanderer These guys are found in the remnants of the great plains, which are now vasts expanses of snow and ice. Sleeks are primed to spend their lives enduring the biting winds of their home as they snuffle their way through the ground cover. They move especially slowly, often a single step for every sweep of their mouth! Being in such a barren home, they don't really worry about too much going on around them. Assuming you don't bother them too much you can touch them or even ride one and it wont pay you any mind. The only time they get a little aggressive is when brooding, then they may try to strike. Though it isn't anything you could not leisurely side step.

Whistle The noisiest of the bunch, these guys are known for the iconic whistling noise they make during the uh.. digestion process. They live in warmer areas and eat a lot of plant matter so they tend to have a more swollen gut. On the smaller side of things though! And a LOT quicker than other sweeps, they WILL turn and slash you if you startle them. Still not fast enough to meaningfully chase a human, but they got some reach on em! They typically run into humans a bit more as they also like to congregate around the exteriors of Abattoirs to eat the plants that grow there.

Grimacing Chatter The most BEAUTIFUL of the sweeps, these guys like to curl up their 'lips' and expose their teeth down to the roots. Their teeth are mobile as well, used to shift through the snow and dirt for food. The sound of these teeth clattering against each other is a signature of these big beasties. Probably for the best as these fellas are EXTREMELY aggressive! They are the Southern most variety of sweep, dealing with a wide range of predators by flailing their head towards any perceived threat. If you get caught in their maw they WILL start to chow down on you, never a missed meal with these guys!

Eastward A sweep that enjoys the spoils of a sanguine Atlantic! Eastwards are so named because they are usually always facing that direction, nibbling at the snow and ice to feed on any blood that blows in on the breeze. They begin their lives spawned by the blood sea and will spend the first half of their lives walking away from the ocean. The second half of their life is spent walking back towards it! Once their they are back at the shore, they are able to withstand the heat drifting up from the sea by sweating profusely. They keep most of their body on the frozen shore, reaching into the warmth with their big ass mouth. After a life of walking, they will gorge themselves on blood until they breed, after which they promptly die. Nature is beautiful even now!

Swingsnap While Wyrms have no eyes and therefore don't really have a concept of light, the fact that humans and their derived forms still mainly rely on sight has greatly influenced the Swingsnap. Their dark coloration is perfect for blending in with the eternal night of the wasteland! They possess a highly sensitive sense of smell/taste to track down the remnants of humanity. Once they come upon their quarry, they are quickly able to coil their toothy maw around them, stabbing into them with many hundreds of teeth. Their prey is 'chewed' by the constant coiling and shifting of the mouth, drunk down bit by bit. After a week or so of gnawing, they will drop the remaining pile of gristle and begin the hunt once more.

That's the gist for these fellas! Typically these are the chillest of all Wyrms, both literally and in the attitude sense! Most of the time you'll run into these guys just in the middle of nowhere. Stand still and they'll most likely just pass you by.

That being said all varieties can still bite!

[hoseoksluna]

LITTLE JUICE | JJK

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x wine!oc

genre: smut, pwp

rating: 18+

summary: when you get insecure about being constantly needy for your boyfriend, jungkook shows you that it's okay.

word count: 6.4k

warnings: the plot is TEENY TINYYYY in this one, pure filth, mirror sex, dd/lg, little space, new roles for the wine universe omg, jungkook is a caretaker, pet names, degradation kink, praise kink, dry humping, they're so in love it's sickening, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), fingering, squirting, daddy issues, heavy dom/sub dynamics, handjob, penetrative sex without condom, cowgirl, plushies used in a sexual situation.

luna's note: i'm so sorry i couldn't get this out for you on xmas day since i was so sick, but let this be a gift for the new year! i missed writing smut sooooo much, and i can't wait to get back to it starting january. this was so fun omg. i missed wine sm. my daddy issues be daddy issuing so this has something new in it, i'm super excited abt it!! i hope you like this and that you enjoy reading. make sure to let me know what you think in my ask box!! mommy luna is baaaaackkkkkkk. HAPPY NEW YEARRRRR. <3 (one day early but i felt like saying it idc) BIG MWAH.

luna's necessary side note: i missed u all so damn much wtf. OH, AND HAPPY BDAY TAEHYUNGGGGGG.

𓂃 ౨ৎ

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster, 

@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, 

@hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk, @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo

The mirrors, lining the walls, are nearly all fogged up once you take a step inside the vast rehearsal room. A certain mellow, yet familiar song led you towards the right door—one that made your ears perk up in curiosity because it reminded you of something you’d heard a long time ago, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. Not until you rearranged your bobas into the crook of your elbow and slid open the door. 

The stuffiness of the room only added to the sensual aura of the song, and your legs nearly gave out on you. 

No BS by Chris Brown.

The song that started it all.

Jungkook, clothed in black from head to toe, seems to be locked in his own world as he moves his body in the center of the room, his chest and feet hitting each beat without a singular mistake or a misstep. And when the chorus of the song flows in, his whole figure follows suit. It rolls into the rhythm like the slowest, most passionate wave of the sea that splits in the middle and begins to course down your sternum. Your cheeks darken with a feverish tint. You feel every inch of his movements inside you as if he were there, and when Jungkook spins and sinks to his knees, propping only one Nike-shod foot on the floor, and he hip-thrusts before he continues those rippling motions to the last beats, the muscles of your thighs quiver on reflex and your dampened private parts flutter.

You did not expect to see that when you texted Jungkook you were going to visit him just because you finished work early and you could get boba before your favorite shop closed. You feel as though you just got blessed twice. 

TGIF, indeed. Never in your life had you ever thought you’d celebrate the work week ending like you are right now—with two bobas in your arm, cooling your heated skin, and with your eyes witnessing erotically angelic artistry in a humid room. And with your sensitive parts outright dripping, too, because the song ends, enveloping the room in a silence that welcomes in Jungkook’s heavy breathing as he slumps back onto his back, his chest lifting and falling in the air. 

You feel fuzzily faint. He made you wet in record time and he hasn’t even touched you. Nor has he looked at you. 

Instinctively, your hand grasps your mango boba and you press it against the side of your face. Smile to yourself as a lightbulb flicks to life in your mind. 

Leaving behind your purse, you take both of the delightful treats and walk over to him. His eyes are closed as he’s absolutely unaware of your presence, your steps soft and sly. His round, sweat-splotched nose puffs out hard breaths that move through you and you coo to yourself silently before you place both of your feet on either side of him. You squat down, careful not to let your bum touch his lap, and you get his boba ready, placing your own on the ground. And with the loudest roar you can muster, you press the drink to his glistening cheek. 

He yelps. His fear-filled eyes fly open, his hands quick to catch you as you tumble down on him in reaction, your lungs submerging the room in your obscenely loud giggles. Tears of laughter cloud your vision, preventing you from seeing the horror twisting his face, but the little you saw was enough to douse your body in extraordinary elation. The tapioca inside the long cup swirls as it swims ferociously in the thick, violet liquid, mimicking the roundness and the blackness of his pupils with utmost perfection. 

You swipe a finger under your eye, speckles of your glitter smearing its pad. You lean down, your laughter subdued as it slowly fades out, and you can see the horror smoothing out and transforming, seamlessly, into a relieved adoration that taps against your heart. You kiss him with the boba now cooling your cheek as well. Leave behind a hard peck on his perspiration-coated mouth that makes him softly hum into this physical exchange of love, and just before you draw away, he breathes out against you with his nose. And that doesn’t just tap on your heart, it knocks on it most warmly. 

You love him so much. Too much. So much that the simplest of his body and human reactions make you feel things. Things that normal girls don’t normally feel. 

Good thing you’re not a normal girl. 

You’re a messed up girl. And you’re a girl in love. Have been for the past year. 

“You scared the shit out of me.” 

Your mouth widens into a pleased grin, and the light bulb that shone in a bright yellow melts into a warm, dusky pink tinge that floods your spine—only because he squeezes the dip of your waist that you’ve been working hard at carving out. A new thing you’ve implemented into your daily routine after you’ve gotten a new job that doesn’t allow you to fuck him all day long like you used to. The sex has gotten even better with time as the wine of his love ripened and matured. To such an extent that you found yourself craving it more than you had in those times when you were just seeing him for sex. Two rounds aren’t enough for you—and you remember well that after two rounds you were usually too exhausted to even keep your eyes open. Now, because you have matured too, your vessel for his love and his liquid stars has grown, needing more to feel satisfied to the fullest. The new job kept you away from him, the long hours teased you. So much that your bathroom breaks were too frequent and obvious and you spent them locked in a bathroom stall with one hand in your panties and your other holding your phone to your ear while Jungkook guided you, his hand, too, in his pants, locked in the same place on the other side of the line, whispering encouraging, lewd instructions that sent you shaking over the edge in mere minutes. 

Instructions that got him in trouble at his workplace, hence why he had to come up with a solution. Because your thirst was never quenched in minutes. His voice was too pretty, and too soft. 

Gym five times a week for you, dance lessons for him, physical distance for the both of you. A perfect solution for a perfect problem. All that sexual frustration was released during those exercises filled with delicious pain and you went to work the next day free of that carnal lust swishing in your veins. You focused on your work, and you didn’t have to take long bathroom breaks. You didn’t even need a spare pair of panties in your purse anymore.

It worked—and it’s completely crazy to you that all it took for you to break your public purity streak was seeing him dance like that. 

You sit up and with your swift movement, the squelching sound of your cunt rubbing up against your juices sounds out across the room. Your cheeks heat up with a different shade of red as embarrassment runs down your spine, especially as Jungkook’s brows twitch upwards and his eyes widen, his large hands lowering down a little, following the curve of your figure that leads to his favorite part of you. 

Your hips. 

A blush scatters upon his cheeks, too. He heard it. 

He calls out your name, sweeping his tongue across his abruptly dry and chapped bottom lip. Your name, not princess, not baby. Your government name without any embellishment of adoration. 

You’re in trouble. 

Your embarrassment pinches you at the two dimples on the small of your back. “Y-yeah?” 

Jungkook opens his mouth, but he pauses for a moment. As if he could sense where the emotion touched you, his long and warm fingers find its icy traces that it left behind while still keeping the crooks of his thumb anchored on your hip bones. 

“Did you get wet for me?” 

A shiver cascades down the slender column of your back, a visible one for his eyes to see that coax out his softness for you, evident in the roundness of his bottom lip that he juts out, triggering your unprecedented shyness. What a drastic shift of dynamic in your relationship you perceive this to be. All along, for a year long, the atmosphere of your shared love has been nothing but an environment of safety, where you could unfold your sexuality as naturally and confidently as you wanted to without an ounce of coyness. Introduce an unyielding desire and a well-meaning solution for it into the equation and watch the change bloom. 

For some reason, you’re reminded of his past, now distant, liking of a certain degradation kink that once grew like vines across your intimate relations with him. The memories travel along your veins—the vulgar pet names, the calling out, the rough handling—and crest at your core, moistening the center of your panties even more as your walls pull in. And the way Jungkook takes that bottom lip between his teeth divulges to you quite clearly that he feels it. 

Which is a bad thing because you can’t lie about it. 

But… you can’t divert his attention from it. 

You slosh his drink in your hand. “I got you your favorite,” you chirp, the boba twirling beneath your hand while his identical pupils remain unmoving, unblinking, fixed on you. You manage a smile, but its staticness crumbles as soon as you realize that Jungkook isn’t really influenced by your change of topic. “Taro boba. I got a milk one, too. Mango. You wan—”

His hands descend down to your thighs, squeezing, halting the tide of your words, the progression of your trick. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your skirt and before you know it, he lifts you just a little bit to maneuver you and make you sit on the shaft of his semi. A low gasp gushes out of your throat as well as a leak of your dew not only onto the fabric of your underwear but onto the material that now clings to his manhood. 

He twitches, hardening beneath your pussy, and gooseflesh pricks your skin. 

“Mango? You always get Taro with me.” 

The glitter from your eye make-up that you smeared across his cheek during your kiss twinkles underneath the dimmed light and he doesn’t guide your hips to move against him. No, he rolls his own—ever so slowly, ever so discreetly. His hands merely hold you down, but nothing about it is forceful. Subdued pleasure springs up your sternum, pooling in your head, making you woozy as quickly as if he were pouring booze down your throat. And when he heightens the pressure enough that he twitches again, you recognize he’s doing the same move that is a part of the choreo he was practicing. 

Your heart hammers against your chest. Your nipples pebble against your cotton top, and Jungkook’s eyes fly to them, catching and taking in their aroused state, perhaps even coaxing it out of them. 

A sigh leaves his mouth. He fists the hem of your skirt, dipping his head into the current of the pleasure he’s giving both of you, and so do you. 

You just can’t help it; you can’t fight it. When your toe touches the surface of the wine of your shared love, nothing can keep you from taking a dip. And the same applies to Jungkook, too. In this case, he’s dripping in red, having slipped entirely into the current, one arm out of the water, fingers wrapped around your ankle, pulling you into the water. 

And something about his desire lessens your strange coyness. His lack of solution offering brings down the stigma, setting you free. And you missed him. You missed him terribly. Haven’t felt his dick in five fucking days. 

You place your hands on top of his. 

A small fire begins to burn within the snug blackness of his eyes. All of a sudden, the noises he stifled come out in soft, almost inaudible growls that cause your clit to throb and your nails to dig half-moons into the skin of his hands. A green light from you for him to enjoy this—and he does. Jungkook throws his head back, his pretty chin pointing to the ceiling, and his big chest heaves. 

It is only at this moment that his eyes leave yours just to bask in this forbidden pleasure. 

Anyone could walk in—the doors aren’t locked, nor are they shut at all. Anyone could think the practice room is available for personal use, without a single soul present. And anyone could see you riding the horsey because the sight of him lost in the vivacity of it all forces you most carnally to give him more. 

You hump him. 

“My friend got it the other day and she said it was delicious,” you breathe out, speaking of your unordinary choice of boba. The movements of your hips are small, minuscule, but hard enough that his knuckles get painted with a shade of ivory that sprinkle your chest with little shocks of joy and pride. A thick vein bulges on the side of his throat as Jungkook tries his best not to let out the entirety of his noises that his body is brimming with—and for that very reason, you grab his hands and place them very brattily on your perked, full breasts. “I wanted to try it and see for myself.” 

This feels good. This feels like the time before you got older and greedy. And the feeling is validated when Jungkook whisks his eyes back at you and grapples your tits, squeezing them so hard that it’s you who bites their bottom lip until you nearly draw blood, your body set on fire with a blue desire that kisses his big hands with such roughness that he whimpers. 

But the moment is ruined all too soon. 

A myriad of high-pitched voices is carried through the thick air, accompanied by giggles. You gasp, looking behind you, and before you know it, you’re up on your feet and Jungkook’s unopened boba is knocked to the side, now rolling sideways towards the mirror. 

You go to fetch it, but a strong hand on your arm prevents you from doing so. You spring back to your place in front of him and you glance up at him in confusion just to see him frowning down at you. 

Sweat drips down his temple. The tips of his brows almost meet in the middle, but swim away and relax at the sight of your puzzlement. The voices grow louder, your breath hitches in your throat and Jungkook’s hand lifts and pets down the back of your head, awakening the butterflies in your tummy as if he’s done it for the first time in your life. 

A yearning to kiss him consumes you. 

“Stay here,” Jungkook murmurs, keeping his hand wrapped around the back of your neck. “If they see us like this, they’ll walk away.” 

You nod, understanding if you were to do as you wished, the girls would’ve taken it as a sign to enter the room and perhaps mingle. But if they see you stuck in an intimate moment like this, they quietly and quickly leave without any unnecessary fuss. 

Smart man. 

“I’m also so fucking hard that I can’t even hide it,” he continues, lowering his tone even more. It penetrates you, making your clit thrum, and as your grin blossoms, so does a romantic shade of blush across your cheeks. You envelop your arms around his torso, propping your chin on his chest, radiate your love up to him, and Jungkook smiles down at you. “As per usual.” 

He kisses your forehead, lingering there for a beat longer before he lifts his head and focuses his gaze at the situation at the door. You don’t care much because you dwell on the hot and cold sensation he left in his wake from the warmth of his mouth and the iciness of his lip ring—something you’ll never get used to and something that will always ruin your panties. 

“They’re gone.” 

And so is he. Off to shut the door and lock it, peeking through the little rectangular window to check if anyone is around. Once the coast is clear, you sense him behind you as you bend to pick up his knocked off boba and you stumble upon his gaze in the mirror as soon as you straighten your spine. 

A hungry look is wrung into his features. 

The corners of his eyes droop in arousal, narrowed as they are. His pupils are blacker than the tapioca in your hands. His teeth nibble on his bottom lip impatiently and you flutter all over, taking in his state and his large stature towering above you. You could melt into him and never be found again, hidden in the crevices of his body that you still believe are there for you. Hidden forever, safe and sound. 

He’s delicious through and through—and it’s been five days since you last had a taste of him. 

Five torturous days. 

“You must be thirsty after all that dancing,” you say, breathless and thirsty yourself. His chest heaves, colliding into your back, and all those soft crevices of him touching you brings you back into that ravenous, greedy state you can’t get out of so easily. Dangerous, he is. Utterly, utterly dangerous. Erasing your clean streak like that. “Let me open it for you.” 

You go to turn around and fetch his straw from your purse, but he doesn’t let you. He encages you where you are by a mere placement of his hand on your hip, fingers back to gripping the fabric of your skirt. He can rip it off if he likes—he can buy you a new one and make your heart elated anytime. 

The idea hardens your nipples, making a show for him all over again. 

He pushes you flush against him, earning a sultry gasp from you. The fingers that gripped your skirt elongate across your mound while the other graze your chin, elevating it a little, ensuring a strong eye contact. 

You flutter. Can’t take it anymore. He has to take you home and fuck the shit out of you before you— 

“I am thirsty,” he purrs, his lips borderline touching yours. “But for something other than bubble tea. Care to guess what it is?” 

Your breath lodges in your throat. You know well what he means, but out of habit and out of personal pleasure you pretend to be dumb. You want to hear him say it—you want him to be as detailed as he was during those naughty afternoon phone calls that got him in trouble with his boss, who told him off for having long work breaks. You want him, his filthy mouth and even filthier, condescending manners. 

You want the old times—and for the sake of your desire, you remain silent. Twist your brows in feigned confusion. Widen your eyes a little. Puff out your cheeks. 

Your adorableness makes him twitch against your hip. Jungkook sucks in a breath. Takes the hand that caressed your chin and glides it down your neck, your chest, your stomach that flexes under his touch until he winds up at the waistband of your skirt. There he stops and he tilts his head to the side, sweeping his tongue along the pillow of his bottom lip. 

“What I want,” he starts, his breathing quickening. “Is the little juice that is in here.” He skims the pads of his fingers down your mound, beneath the hem of your skirt and along the sopping surface of your clothed feminine flesh. You mewl, your hips instinctively riding his fingers, following the sailing, back and forth motion. Your adorableness deepens with the influence of the sudden pleasure by the way it scrunches up your features and Jungkook whimpers again, stopping his motions when he feels you timidly soak his fingers. “I want it so bad that I can’t go one more minute without it.” 

You glance down more to see how big of a mess you’re making on his hand, but as attuned as he is to his role, brought about by his arousal, Jungkook takes your breath away with his following actions. 

He moves you closer to the mirror. Bunches up your skirt even higher so you have a perfect view of your panties, which have a large wet spot in the middle. Little rivulets of your juices flow out of their confines and down your inner thighs, proceeding to make a puddle on the hardwood floors beneath your feet. Jungkook’s fingers are shiny in the light, coated in your lustfulness, and he drifts them up and down that stain—over your swollen clit and sensitive lips. 

“See? Here. This little wet princess part of you is what I crave.”

And just like that, owing to his words, you flourish into the little girl you haven’t been safely dwelling in for months, sliding into that role as easily, tenderly and meekly as if you were slipping your feet into your fluffy slippers. You regress, beautifully, making sweet little noises into his neck as you go to hide in there, poking his drink into his hand, silently telling him to take it while you rub your sticky thighs together, eager to get the uncomfortable throbbing feeling away. And he does, solid in his own caretaker role, sinking down onto his knees, placing the drink on the floor against the mirror. But he remains there, looking up at you, eyes big and round, yet still steady, sure, mature and irrevocably dependable. And you sense those eyes to be telling you to take your panties off and give the Daddy what he craves. 

You hook your thumbs under the waistband of your underwear and drag it down past the middle of your thighs, letting him handle the rest, but you catch his eyes watering ever so gently—and the discovery causes your heart to skip a beat. He’s taken in the role you’ve slipped into, having watched it happen in real time in all its glory, and perhaps he’s nostalgic, or perhaps he’s just euphoric, but he takes the time to bask in it all. 

And he kisses the cotton fabric of your panties first before he kisses the soft flesh of your thigh. Drags it down. Lets it pool in his hands at your ankles. Peeks up at you. 

“The way you willingly give yourself over to me never fails to mesmerize me,” he purrs, pressing another kiss to your thigh without taking his eyes off of you. Your stomach jumps, energy-charged butterflies scurrying to the front of your stomach in longing to kiss him, too. “You’ve been feeling bad about being needy for me. Worked hard for weeks to be a good girl, but what you don’t know, princess, is that you were a good girl even when you called me up at work asking for me,” he continues, lips brushing against your skin with every pronounced vowel. He edges around your knee and begins to pepper gentle, wet kisses there. Your mouth falls open—and you discover this place is a spot of more sensitivity than your neck. You double over, grabbing a tight hold of his tousled, yet soft hair, and Jungkook moans against you. “And you’re a good girl right now for giving yourself over to me, even when you’re so careful about being horny for me in public.” 

Your body forces out the same kind of noises, so tender and pained, your heart rapidly kicking against your ribcage. Your arousal is heightened by his words carrying such devastating praise, even when the most inert core of you aches for such different debauchery—the very opposite of what he’s giving you. 

You leak for him, nonetheless. 

Unable to take it anymore, Jungkook cradles your ankles and carefully rids you of your ruined panties, half-stuffing them into the front pocket of his jeans. A tiny bit of the pink fabric sticks out of it and the sight intoxicates you, pulling you deeper into your little space. Even more so when he finishes his praise because he wasn’t done yet. Not quite. 

“And to see you be little for me so prettily again after such a long time,” he husks, spreading your legs far apart enough to see that gleaming rivulet make its way down the inner of your thigh. “That makes me the happiest man in the world, princess. I missed you. God, I missed you.” 

Jungkook leans in and, with his tongue flat against your inner thigh, he collects the little juice you leak for him. He moans at the taste, but the sound is broken by a cry marked by yearning for more. He doesn’t stop there—he delves immediately, without sparing a second, into your lap with such a verve that your back crashes against the still fogged up mirror. His mouth seizes your clit, making kissing sounds as he laps and sucks at it with a hunger that could never be replicated in the arts. You grip his hair tighter for support, almost sliding down the mirror while struggling to contain your noises, the pleasure permeating every inch of your body that is ultimately submitted to him. The pressure of the delight he’s giving you deepens when he places one of your thighs on his shoulder, helping you take it while he continues to moan into your pussy and eat her like she deserves. 

But you can’t take it. Not at all. Not when he begins to flick his tongue on your clit in a way that he does. 

Your foot slips, but Jungkook is in control. He makes sure you land on your bum safely and painlessly, not once ripping his mouth off your cunt. His eyes continue to be steady, fixed on you, narrowed into such thin, alluring slits that it hastens your sweet release. You hiccup as you take little breaths, overwhelmed by it all. Your cheeks burn, and the fire spreads down your limbs, leaping over to your boyfriend at work, who glows with a rosy tint. Jungkook pulls away a little bit, dripping in arousal and perspiration, and he allows you to see his technique in all its glory. 

The tip of his tongue stimulates your engorged clit with rapid, hard flicks. 

Your orgasm inches closer and closer. Jungkook pushes your legs all the way back until you’re a squished mochi that he can’t get enough of, and when he puts a bigger pressure on your little bud, it is your absolute undoing. 

Closer and closer, the orgasm takes over you completely. From the top of your head to your little toes that flex in your sneakers, you begin to shake uncontrollably as the highest level of the delight bursts upon your body. Jungkook’s noises grow in volume simultaneously, enraptured as he is by the view of his created paradise unfolding over you—and he never stops looking at you. 

Not even as you come down from your high. 

Not even as he, with your little juice dripping down his chin, turns you around and stacks one of your feet on the mirror while he keeps the other leg back with his hand. His limbs surround you, and as you blink through the blinding fog of your orgasm, you realize that you accidentally managed to match your shoes with his. High Nike dunks, black. The ones he got for you as well when he bought a pair for himself. 

Your hole clenches in the mirror. A stream of your little juice makes a larger puddle on the floor beneath you. 

“Look at you dripping for me, fuck.” 

Hooking your leg over his right limb, he strums your entire feminine flesh with the four of his fingers, the squelching and squeaking sounds of your pussy pulling a tortured groan out of him as if he hadn’t gotten a taste of you a mere minute ago. His other hand sneaks to your tits to feel them up, stopping at your pebbled nipple, which he fondles as he breathes against you, inhaling your scent. Your hips buckle, your drenched seashell sensitive from his feast, and Jungkook lets out a pleased chuckle. 

“My pretty little pussy. Always so sensitive from all my love, huh?” 

You nod, meeting his gaze in the mirror, and Jungkook grins before he places a fat, rewarding kiss to your cheek, the two of his fingers, middle and ring, one of them adorned with that white Miffy plastic ring, starting a series of circles on your clit. 

Your hips buckle again, the pleasure soft yet dizzying, overwhelming your senses. Jungkook tightens his grip around you, squeezing your breast. 

“Whose pussy is this, princess?” 

In the middle of it all, a light bulb flicks to life once again in your woozy mind. And a pleased smile, just like his, begins to grow on your mouth. But Jungkook is impatient and you’re not responding fast enough for his taste, so he lifts his soaked fingers and uses them to grip your mouth. 

There it is. 

“I asked you a question. Whose pussy is this?” 

You’d bite your lip if he weren’t squishing your cheeks together, but your satisfied smile reaches your eyes, crinkling them. That causes him to relax his hold and give you a chance to give him the answer he seeks. 

Little does he know you’re about to manipulate him into giving you the sin that you desire. 

“This slutty little pussy is yours. Yours and no one else’s, Dada.” 

His brows twitch and light unrolls across his face, softening his features in a way you’ve never seen before. He curses, momentarily rolls his eyes back, and he plunges his wet fingers into his mouth before he seizes your mouth in a compulsive kiss that thoroughly shuts off your brain. You taste yourself on his tongue, and you comprehend he licked off his fingers and didn’t swallow only so you could get the treat he had himself—because he busies his fingers by burying them inside your fleshy heat. 

And he fucks you hard and doesn’t stop even when you begin to make intense little noises into his mouth. 

You struggle to kiss him back when he curls his fingers and pistons into you with rapid jerks from this angle. His other hand tugs your top upwards, finds its way into the cups of your bra just so he could pinch and rub your nipple in the way that you like. And when his tongue flicks against yours and his mouth purses softly against yours before he deepens the kiss, your orgasm hits you so unexpectedly that you’re as surprised as him once you come apart all over not just his hand, but the mirror, too. 

You splatter it with your little juice and even then, Jungkook doesn’t stop. Growling with heavy breaths, he strums your clit as fast as he can until there’s nothing left you can give to him. 

You slump against him, high on the complexity of yours and his aphrodisiac love. Specks of your glitter—your small shooting stars gravitate down to your flushed cheeks, and then his fingers are in your mouth, traveling far down and deep until you grace him with the sound he likes. You gag around them and he nods, pleased, smirking. 

“Good girl. Your slutty little juice tastes good, doesn’t it, baby?” he asks, and your stomach springs, your drunken feelings intensified by the fact you finally got what you yearned for. “Your mouth makes me fucking crazy. Dada, slutty pussy. I’m gonna lose my mind.” 

You mewl, your eyes heavy, but you want more—you want his cock, and he can feel it, he knows it. He knows it when he pulls out his fingers and kisses you as if the world was meant to end in the next minute. He knows it because he withdraws and he tells you. 

“Dada’s gonna fuck that slutty little pussy of his, hm?” Jungkook murmurs, and then his zipper is down, and just like the old times—he doesn’t rid himself of his clothes and gives you a brand new world with his strokes just the way he is. 

Fully clothed, with his hard drooling cock poking out of his unzipped jeans. 

He presses you against your wet juices on the mirror, spitting on his hand and lubricating the tip of his manhood. He enters you and you gasp, fogging up the mirror with your breath, and the hand that holds your head steady against the mirror buries into your hair while the other wraps around your hip. He sheathes himself inside you slowly whilst your eyes flutter shut at the feeling of finally being stretched out by him and once he bottoms out, it’s over. 

Your life is over.

“Dada’s pussy always so tight.” 

He pounds into you religiously—creating a new order for this brand new world. Hard, merciless strokes that scramble your brain and turn it into a mush. Your ass ripples with each collision and his noises melt into yours, a hymn for the utopia he’s fucking you into. And then he’s lifting you from the mirror and keeping you flush to himself, staring at you in the reflection while your tits spill out from your bra, bouncing, and Jungkook can’t get enough. Both of his hands drag down your straps, freeing your breasts, and he’s groping them, pinching your nipples without ever stopping the entrancing snapping of his hips. 

“Pretty princess getting fucked. Look at you. So pretty and all mine.” 

And then his Miffy-adorned finger is back on your clit, rubbing hard circles, and your personal world is finished—because your pleasure is his ultimate undoing. 

The smacking of skin quietens and his hips begin to roll—a languid, staccato version of his choreo that got you all needy and wet but an hour ago. Jungkook whimpers into your ear how much he loves you, over and over again, as he stuffs you full of his cum, and he doesn’t stop rubbing your swollen little clit until you come all over his twitching cock. 

And he doesn’t pull away. 

He holds you like this, panting into your neck, his grip still tight, still evoking a sense of safety you won’t find anywhere else. Your drowsy eyelids flit, consider yourself well-spent, and the thought begins to sing a celebratory song in your chest—because all that hard work paid off. 

You’re no longer greedy; you’re gratified after the first round. 

Jungkook kisses the nape of your neck. “We should go before Bunny and Vinny start wondering where we are.” 

The song wraps around your heart, which dissolves at his words. Jungkook pulls himself out of you, but you swivel around and throw your arms around him, catching him off guard. His still erect and wet length brushes against your thigh—and the contact makes you quiver in his arms.

“I feel good,” you explain into his ear. “I don’t need more.” 

Jungkook chuckles. Wants to look at your face and he smooths your hair back, grinning at you. “I’m proud of you, princess, but look,” he says, glancing down. You follow his gaze down and perceive he’s talking about his private parts. “I’m still hard.” 

His cock twitches at his words and twitches once more at the sound of your giggles—happy, happy giggles because the stigma behind your neediness withers and completely disappears, never to be found again, only because Jungkook isn’t embarrassed or afraid to show you he needs more. Your chest becomes light, light enough that you think you grew a pair of wings to fly around the room with.

“Gym, Gguk. You have to hit the gym more often,” you joke, knowing his work out schedule transcends beyond the five days you spend at the place. 

The corner of his mouth curls as mischief twinkles in his eyes, divulging to you that he likes the way you challenge him. 

“Oh yeah?” he questions, lifting his arm, pulling back the oversized sleeve of his T-shirt to flex his biceps. Your cheeks heat up at the strong mountains that appear and your hand can’t help but to knead it. “These aren’t big enough for you, huh?” 

You scoff and shush him at the same time, leaning over to plant a singular kiss to his muscles. Jungkook uses the opportunity to hide you in his embrace and you both sputter into laughs and giggles. He pecks your hair, but something interrupts your sweet moment. 

“Look at the mess you made,” he says, pointing at the mirror, and you gasp when you turn around. 

An imprint of the side of your face is left behind on the reflection. Foundation, mascara and glitter amidst the little pearls and rivulets of your juices. You worry what you look like now if your make-up is smeared to this extent, but it soon is washed away from your mind when Jungkook crawls forward and makes a heart on the wetness of your slick. 

He takes a picture of it and then he cleans it off with his gym towel. The floor, too. 

At home, you fuck him hard for it. 

With his Taro boba in his arm, Vinny on his chest and Bunny in the crook of his other arm, you ride him until your thighs burn and he resembles the prettiest rose you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Having come more than enough on his cock, you jerk him off while you flick your tongue on his tip, and he moans, flushes and convulses until he spills all over your hand and his stomach. Ropes of him cum reach the plushies, too, as he can’t stop coming and, growing feignedly jealous, you swallow him, longing for him to drip down your throat. 

He comes so much that your belly is full and he’s as gratified as you were in the practice room. 

And after a quick shower, you both drift off to your brand new world unexpectedly, the events of the day having exhausted you enough that you fall asleep within the next heartbeat. Vinny and Bunny tumble on in the washing machine while you and Jungkook dance in the new paradise, having stepped into the role of parents having a date without the kids. No stress, no stigma—just the freedom of being loved right. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist

[scentofpines]

I was at the northsea <3

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny AU- Pt.1

[Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.9] [Pt.10]

As someone who lived in the middle of nowhere, Amity, the ocean both terrified and enthralled Danny Fenton.

The first time his parents took him to the beach, it was the middle of the day and he’d been stuck in the prototype GAV for hours upon hours on their “quick, ghost rumor hunting field trip.”

It wasn’t quick, and they caught exactly zero ghosts. When Danny saw the expanse of sand underneath the summer sun, he and Jazz both bounded out of the van like feral little monkeys. Danny and Jazz sprinted down the sand, their parents ambling behind them with their arms loaded up with towels, a first aid kit, and an ungodly amount of mildly ecto contaminated food that they already fought before getting onto the beach.

Danny had splashed into the water, yelped at the freezing temperature, and then promptly found a shell to keep. His mom taught him how to swim with the waves, having come from Surf City herself, and his dad taught Jazz how to dive.

It was a day full of fond memories, especially the memory of the Great War of Sand-Castle Crushing he and Jazz waged against each other.

They stuck around for the sunset, the ripples of colors and peacefulness that swept across the vast waters caught Danny in its hold.

He hadn’t forgotten that moment. Not even when he died.

After a particularly hard day as Phantom, Danny would fly to the coast and loose hours just sitting on the sand and watching the waves lap against the shore. And when those nights were clear? It felt like a slice of his own personal heaven, with the stars shining on his shoulders and the encompassing crash of the waves sheltering his heart.

And on some days, when being Danny left him frustrated, Danny would fly out to the coast and use his intangibility to walk beneath the waves. Near the coast, it’s cloudy with swirls of moving sand and disturbed waters. He walked, and walked, and floated and floated beneath the waters, taking contentment from the way the moonlight of his stars filtered through the water. He admired the way light would glint on the scales of fish and crustaceans alike as he floated beneath the surface. On those days, Danny would pick up trash and polluted things and bring them to shore, to place in the trash cans and all of the recycling cans. He picked up shells and decorated the beaches he frequented, because if it were decorated, perhaps people would refrain from chucking their waste into the sea.

Well, usually, it’d be trash.

Danny watched speechlessly, jaw cracked open just a smidge, as an explosion happened right over his head. The distortion of the water did not hide the fact that there were large chunks of plane pelting down at him, a different figure flying away from the explosion. Danny went invisible and intangible as large metal pieces plunged into his current water space.

“Gosh, people these days,” he huffed. “This is gonna take forever to…”

Danny trailed off, seeing a humanoid shape crash into the water, clearly unconscious. Danny didn’t hesitate before shooting towards the drowning person, glowing green and fully visible again. The stranger’s eyes- holy shit, that’s Batman- turned towards him before closing behind cracked open lenses. Batman slumped falling unconscious. That’s not good.

Danny rocketed out of the water with the vigilante in his arms. If it weren’t for his supernatural strength, there’s no way lanky teenage Danny would have been able to carry Batman’s grown ass built like a tank self to the shore. Likewise, if it weren’t for his strength, Danny wouldn’t have been able to start chest compressions through the layers of armor.

Danny leaned back with a sigh as Batman coughed out only a bit of water, because Danny hadn’t taken all that long to get to him, and held up his hands in a “I don’t have weapons” way as Batman whirled to him.

“Hi. Are you alright?” Danny asked, ectoplasm and instinctive ghost speak fuzzing his words a bit. Damn, Batman must have nearly died a lot. He’ll freak out about meeting Batman later.

“You saved me,” an awkward pause. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. The other guy went that way.”

Danny waved vaguely.

“…What are you?”

“Oh my god, Batman, you can’t just ask someone what they are!” He immediately replied, inwardly smacking himself for the joke. He watched Batman’s face, watching for any sign of discrimination against ghosts, or any sign the man had a sense of humor.

“…”

Neither, apparently, was the answer.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just here to clean up the beaches. You humans really like to pollute the beaches. It’s quite rude, you know. That plane of yours, well, it’s not your fault,” he amended. “But it’s gonna damage sea life. And I don’t know if you’re in the habit, but please don’t litter on the beach or in the water, especially with your unconscious body. It’s tedious to clean.”

“…I see.”

“Stay. I’ll take out your plane. Make sure it doesn’t stay on the sand, alright?”

With that, Danny stood. Unaware of the way the moonlight lit up his hair like white flames and accentuated the sharp points of his ears, Danny turned away and flew back to the plane site, dragging the pieces up with ease.

Batman sat on the sand, likely exhausted from his fight, and watched him carry the pieces of the aircraft up.

“Here. All done. I gotta get going,” because Danny has school and this just lost him two hours. “Will you be alright?”

Batman nodded once, sharply.

“Good.” Danny went invisible, watching Batman sat up straighter, glancing around in a suddenly visible awareness. Oh, well. Tucker’s gonna freak out.

——

Three years later, Danny’s moved to Gotham for university.

And after midterm season, Danny went for a ghostly walk, but this time, in the waters surrounding Gotham.

When he surfaced, Batman was crouching on a lamp post, waiting for him.

“Oh, it’s you,” Danny said. “Hello. Did you know that people are polluting these waters with bodies too?”

“Yes,” Batman said, graveled voice resounding on the shipping containers around them.

“You should do something about that. Do you like places that are polluted?”

Batman sighed. “What are you?”

Danny hears a small, tinny voice by Batman’s ear, coming from a comm.

“Oh my god, B, you can’t just ask someone what they are!”

Mind flashing back to the night Danny drug a waterlogged Batman out of the ocean, Danny cracked a smile.

“Phantom,” he said, decisively. And, because this isn’t Amity anymore, “the Beach Clean Up crew from the flip side.”

——

Bruce, waking up on the sand: wtf

Bruce, seeing a child next to him who probably saved him: wtf (in “adoption”)

Bruce, seeing Danny’s skin glitter like stars, hair aflame, and pointy ears: wtf (in “I can adopt fae folk, right?”)

Bruce, seeing that Danny doesn’t leave any footprints: wtffff (detective mind goes brrrr)

——

Bruce, after Danny leaves: *donates 20 mil towards beach clean up efforts and anti-pollution causes*

——

Bruce’s Goggle Search History, documented by Oracle:

Sea spirits

Sea vampires

How to parent supernatural kids

How to thank your sea child

Are shells a good gift?

Ocean conservation efforts

Sea spirits that glitters under moonlight

Sea spirits that cleans up beaches

Wayne corporation waste disposal

Companies that dump trash into the sea

*outgoing call to Lucius Fox*

What is “mean girls”

——

Bruce, learning “current pop culture” from his kids:

Bruce, remembering the kid who saved him and realizing he’s probably as old as his own kids are: *adoption tendencies intensifies*

[rosemaryhoney27]

Danny's request for shelter Part 2

Title: "The Gift of Pandora"

Themyscira was a place of strength, of honor, of serenity.

It had become a haven for Jazz and Dani, a sanctuary where the scars of fear could begin to fade. But Danny Fenton was not a boy who believed in debts—especially not to people who had taken in his family like their own.

And so, he decided to repay the Amazons not with gold or favors, but with something far rarer.

He asked for a meeting—with Pandora.

The request wasn’t simple. Even with his ties to the Justice League, Danny had to call in every favor he’d earned—and lean on the parts of himself most people didn’t want to acknowledge.

The Phantom Lord of the Ghost Zone. Warden of the Veil. There were entities in the Realms who owed him. And after weeks of negotiating with spirits, ancient keepers, and one seriously grumpy Oracle, he got what he needed:

A message delivered through ethereal fire.

“She will come.”

Themyscira’s skies were painted with dusk when the veil between realms thinned. A ripple passed through the air like a breath held too long—and then released.

Pandora stepped through.

Not the mythical “box” bearer of mortal fear and temptation—though she had once been. This Pandora was regal, composed, and laced with the quiet sorrow of millennia. Her presence was like standing near the edge of something vast and unknowable.

She wore silver robes that shimmered with ancient script, her hair braided with starlight, and in her eyes glowed the light of a woman who had seen the rise and fall of empires, of gods and monsters, and still chose to walk forward.

The Amazons, wary but respectful, watched from the cliffside temple where the meeting was held.

Wonder Woman stood beside Danny, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“You brought her here?” she said quietly.

Danny nodded. “She’s not a threat. Not anymore. She’s knowledge. Pain. Healing. She’s exactly what your people deserve access to.”

Diana glanced at him, then at Pandora, who was gazing out at the sea like she remembered when it was first poured into the world.

Then, Pandora spoke. Her voice was low and deep, resonant like chimes in a storm.

“I am Pandora. Once cursed to carry the suffering of mankind. Now, a witness to its resilience.”

She turned to the Amazon assembly.

“I was made to hold what was feared, what was unknown, what could corrupt. But from the bottom of the jar, one thing remained.”

She looked to Dani, then Jazz. Then Diana.

“Hope.”

The Amazons opened their gates to Pandora—not as a goddess or myth, but as a teacher.

For weeks, she stayed on the island. She told stories no scroll had ever held. She walked with the wounded and sat in silence with the angry. She helped Jazz construct a new theory of trauma and identity that blended Themysciran teachings with the lessons of ancient, forgotten civilizations.

She shared with Dani the knowledge of spiritual containment and how to channel destructive energy into rebirth. Dani took to it like wildfire to dry grass.

Diana herself had long felt the burden of myth—the expectations, the legacy, the symbols. But with Pandora, she found a peer. Someone who had also borne the weight of the world.

One night, they stood at the edge of a cliff, side by side.

“We were both created by the will of gods,” Diana murmured.

“And we both learned to choose for ourselves,” Pandora replied.

When Pandora finally left, it was not with farewells, but with promises.

The Amazons would always have access to her wisdom. She would return when called—not as a savior, but as a sister of spirit.

As she stepped through the veil, she turned to Danny one last time.

“You carry great weight, young one. But you’ve learned the truth of all burdens: they become lighter when shared.”

Danny nodded.

“They shared mine,” he said simply.

And when Diana approached Danny again, her eyes softer now, she placed her hand on his shoulder.

“You honored us with trust. And now, with truth. For this, Themyscira owes you a debt.”

Danny smiled.

“No debts between family.”

And so it was written in the scrolls of Themyscira: that a boy with ghostfire eyes brought them not a weapon, not an ally—but the one thing even the strongest warriors need.

Hope.

[kumkaniudaku]

Creatures of The Night

Summary: Stack meets his match on a return trip home.

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Black!Fem OC

Warnings: Smut (18+)

Word Count: 3,779

As much as Mississippi had changed, it was still the same. Vast rolling plains of farmland tilled by rough, Black and brown hands still carried the stench of oppression thought to be a relic of a different time. Poverty still touched communities loudly crying out for relief. Generations of families still lived in shotgun houses and small brick dwellings passed down from faces they'd only ever seen in photo frames grouped together on tiny altars as reverence for their tireless sacrifice. And, deep in the darkest parts of the city, when the sun went down and the moon illuminated deeds hidden in the light for decency's sake, a hole-in-the-wall establishment made room for all sorts of devils and demons to enjoy themselves in the dead of night. 

Beneath bright lights and a thick, impenetrable haze of sour weed smoke, Stack sat perched at the bar, sipping dark brown poison to mimic patrons around him. He hadn't had much taste for the stuff since the '30s, but it brought him comfort. The jitters of being so close to home were enough to stoke the flames of nervousness he thought he'd long relinquished to the past. He'd tried several times to go from Jackson to Clarksdale, pay his respects to loved ones lost, and disappear until the next time the supernatural pull of days past whispered for him to return. But something about the spruced-up warehouse fitted with leather couches bunched around small tables and platforms sporting chrome poles nearly touching the ceiling had a hold on him. Or rather someone.

She moved like water. Fluid and calming, capturing Stack's attention with minimal effort. Sable skin illuminated under blue neon reminded him of the young woman from the film he'd financed years back. Hip-hop was still nonsensical and watered down trash in his mind, but involvement had it's benefits – club environments, glitz, glamor, fame, fortune, and an endless supply of thick skulled idiots willing to do whatever necessary to live a life of fleeting pleasures forever. Then her. A beauty beyond compare, acting as a siren calling him to destruction on troubled seas. 

Stack's first visit to Dreams was by accident. The low rumble of bass knocking so hard against the wall he thought the doors might blow open from the force sucked him into a vortex he couldn't escape. An unexplained magnetism knocked him off his path and past a long line of patrons hoping for a few hours of illicit fun. A couple dollars, slick talk, and a kind request for entry helped him past unfriendly looking security and into a world in and of itself. And there she was. Walking through the crowd in white lace, leaving little to the imagination with a switch in her hips beguiling enough to earn his attention well into the wee hours of the morning. 

Lily is what the DJ called her from his booth alongside the stage. Fitting. In a room full of miscreants and hoodlums, she seemed like too perfect a flower for a place like this.

Night one, Stack only watched. Behind dark lenses in an even darker corner of the room, he gathered information like a student studying a master at work. Glossed lips curled into a smile, flashing bright white teeth at every man she encountered. While she spoke them into a slurring, lust-drunk stupor, they handed over wads of cash surely meant to take care of a family at home. A talker. Stack liked that. 

The second night, when he'd had some liquid courage, and the crowd was thin for a Thursday night, he noticed her already noticing him from her throne on stage. Every twirl around the pole produced an opportunity for intense eye contact lasting the full duration of her performance to Juvenille's 'Slow Motion.' As the song wound to a close, Lily left him with a wink, fluttering long lashes as her fingers wiggled a greeting in his direction. Stack never saw her again that night. But he felt her. She'd imprinted herself on his brain and all but dared him to stay in Jackson another night. 

Friday night, with nightcrawlers from far and wide filling every corner of the club, Lily and Stack made first contact. 

"Why you be in here by yourself?" Lily's down home alto came in loud over T-Pain's voice while Stack took sips of poor quality bourbon. 

A slow smile crept across his face. "Chillin'. I ain't from here." 

"You sound like you from here." When her veiled question induced little more than a chuckle, Lily tried a more forward approach. "Where you from then? You one of them rap niggas from Memphis?" 

Ever perceptive, Lily saw Stack's chains and rings the moment her suitor walked into the club earlier in the week. If he wasn't a rapper, he sold drugs. Either one worked just fine for her. Income was income, illegal or otherwise. She couldn't care less if she could put a few of his dollars into her pocket by the end of the night.

"Nah. From up the road a little bit." Stack's intentional lack of information made Lily smile as she nodded. 

No need for details. She knew less about other patrons, but that never stopped them from pouring 10s, 20s, and 50s into her g-string like water from the tap. "I can sit down?"

Lily teased a smile, hoping her charm would be enough for Stack to grant access to the castle he'd made for himself. He didn't answer with words. A half smile and a gesture toward the spot beside him was enough of an invitation. 

Sliding herself against worn leather, Lily tested the waters by scooting within an inch of his thigh. When no objection came, she deliberately caressed his knee with hers and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table. 

"Where your ol' lady at?" Surely, there was a missus in the picture. 

Stack chuckled. "Your guess good as mine. Ain't seen her in a few years," he answered before taking another sip. A partial truth couldn't hurt. He knew where Mary had gone. It just hurt too much to say it. "Where your man?" 

"Your guess good as mine." Mirrored cheeky grins spread across their faces in tandem. Stack fought hard to keep the full spread of his lips at bay, hoping to conceal the true nature of his identity. Lily pretended not to take notice of the canines calling for her attention, preferring to live in the fantasy Dreams offered everyone who walked through the door. Lily scooched closer. "What's your name?" 

A name. The question caught Stack off guard. In all his travels, he had no problem proudly alerting anyone who asked that they were speaking to the last of the Smokestack twins. But here, so close to home and the fables that seemed to stick no matter the decade, too much information could crack the seal on problems kept bottled since he fled years ago. 

Stack took another sip to bide his time before setting the glass on the table and answering. "Eli. Yours?" 

"You know my name. Rico call it a hundred times every night. Much as you been in here, you had to have heard it by now." 

"So, you been keepin' tabs on me?" 

"I keep tabs on a lot of people. 'Specially the ones like you," she smiled, showing a gold framed tooth of her own. Without breaking eye contact, Lily reached for Stack's glass and pulled it closer to her side of the booth. 

He watched her with keen focus, noting how her lips parted slowly to invite a healthy sip of alcohol. Each swallow made her throat bob seductively as a subtle mating call that he couldn't leave unnoticed. A master at her craft. Stack couldn't help but admire the work, even if it was at his expense. 

When she slid the empty glass back over to him, Stack licked his lips to stop the trickle of saliva attempting to escape. "That wasn't free, baby girl." 

"Say my name right, Eli." Lily's sing-song command made Stack's stomach clench from arousal as her fingernails danced up his thigh beneath the table

He sat up straight and threw an arm over the top of the booth for stability. "That wasn't free, Lily," he corrected. "You owe me." 

"I always pay my debts. Come see me tomorrow, hm?" 

"What about tonight?" An eager inquiry, but he couldn't promise another day. Stack had to get moving. 

Lily opened her mouth to speak, preparing to offer a rebuttal, but found herself cut off by Rico from the DJ booth. 

"Y'all ready for Lily to come back to the stage?" 

Of course, they were. She was the biggest draw in town. Chatting up the secretive stranger on his third consecutive visit couldn't supersede getting to the money. 

Rolling her eyes, Lily began to exit the little corner of desire they'd built together. "Tomorrow. Come 'round three in the morning. I got something for you in the back."

"Y'all close at two," Stack countered, trying to snuff out Lily's endgame. 

"That's just what the police say. We open as long as the money comin' in." Finally free from the booth, Lily made a show of adjusting her all-white outfit and smiled. "Three o'clock. I keep my word, Eli. You just worry about gettin' here." 

Stack didn't intend to stay in Jackson, Mississippi another night. He had plans – moves to make, gravesites to visit, offerings to leave for souls long passed on. October 16th had come and gone with him shirking responsibility in the name of cheap thrills and a beautiful woman. In over 70 years, he still hadn't learned his lesson. 

At the worn-in bar, perched on a barstool with another glass of bottom-shelf bourbon in his hands, Stack watched the digital clock behind the bartender tick to the top of the hour. He didn't have much time. 'Get in and get out,' he coached himself as he adjusted the Michael Vick jersey on his shoulders and centered the Jesus piece on his chain. 

Sure enough, Dreams was still jumping with no end in sight. Stack's eyes slowly scanned the room behind his sunglasses, hoping for any sign of his target. Familiar urges tingled the base of his spine, begging for the green light to taste the focus of his desires. Turning Lily was a new development. Longing for a partner to walk alongside him in the curse known as eternal life hadn't left him since Mary's untimely demise. Lily fit the bill just right. She didn't need to continue showing herself for money. He'd take all that away and replace it with even greater riches if he could get her alone for a conversation.

As he searched high and low for his prize, a set of fingers danced up Stack's back before lips caressed the shell of his ear. "Welcome back, Eli. Follow me." 

Simple instructions and chills manifesting all over his warm skin convinced Stack to follow the long-legged beauty through the throng of thrashing bodies and past a thick velvet curtain partitioning an area reserved for more private encounters. 

Blue lights were no more. In the quiet of backrooms sparsely populated with men willing to spend a little extra dough and dancers intent on milking them for more, red lights tinted everyone's skin into a hue reminiscent of Satan in his imagined form. 

Stack tried to mind his business as Lily tugged him along to the room at the end of the hallway. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a man's eyes roll back into his skull, mouth hung open in an unexplained trance while a young light-skinned woman whispered into his ear. There wasn't much time for Stack to make sense of what his mind had conjured. A second attempt at peering past the thick tinted glass was robbed just as Lily pulled him into their soundproof hideout. 

Low lights and black padded walls shielded the pair from outside influences trying to force their way into their fortress. Stack ran his fingers along the soft fabric, wondering just how effective it was at keeping all sorts of sounds from leaking out to the public. 

"You gon' sit down, or you came to do a dust inspection? Whatever you find, make sure you talk to Varis about all that." Lily's attempt at a joke received a cool, closed-mouth smile as Stack studied her body from head to toe. She pointed to the couch spanning the length of the room's back wall. "Sit down. It's me and you now." 

Good. The less prying eyes and intrusions, the better. 

Lily watched Stack take measured steps to the back of the room, studying the swagger in his walk and where his wallet bulged in his back pocket. Most men came with all they could spare without being caught by wives concerned about dwindling cash flow. Eli was different. Money seemed expendable to him. A real spend some and make it all back type. Perfect. 

A sure heel-to-toe strut carried Lily across the room to a decanter full of dark liquid and a pair of glasses resting on an empty bar cart. Stack watched her pour from the glass container, looking for something to comfort him in an unfamiliar predicament. He felt a rush of unexplained wind whip past his ear as a shiver manifested in his fingers. 

"Why's it so cold in here?" Stack questioned as Lily walked the drink over to him. 

She smiled but withheld her answer until she'd stopped her journey to stand between his legs. "When it's warm," she started with her arm extended to hand over his beverage. "Things get too soft. Ice cream, butter…" Once her hand was free, Lily eased her way into Stack's lap to plant her knees beside his hips. "Nipples. Dicks. You don't wanna go soft, do you, Eli? What we gon' do with that?" 

Lily's warm tongue tracing figure eights against the spot under Stack's left ear trapped a sound in his throat, leaving his body to betray his thoughts. Lily felt the quick contraction and release of his muscles, but remained committed to her task. 

"You should take a sip," Lily suggested as she switched sides to give Stack's other ear attention. "I owe you, remember?" 

Stack considered the advice, taking a slow look at the unfamiliar elixir. He'd learned a lot of lessons in all his years. Never trust a man saying 'trust me,' mind the business that pays you, and only drink the troubles you pour yourself. Lily embodied all things beautiful in the world, but wasn't that fine. A principled man was a man too difficult to manipulate. His brother taught him that. 

Stack took a second look at the glass and ultimately shook his head. "I'm good, baby. Trynna remember this one. Maybe next time." 

"Suit yourself." Her nonchalant nature almost made Stack change his mind and take a swig just for the taste. It couldn't hurt too bad. 

But, just as soon as he'd rejected her offering, Lily had pulled the cup from his hand and set it aside. 

Kisses against the throbbing vein counting each heartbeat disarmed Stack's guard and senses better than any drink or pull of cigarette ever could. A pretty face and the spark of danger were still his weaknesses. He'd battled for years to overcome the sinister draw of a woman's treasure, even going so far as to plan and follow through on a sham of a wedding in Las Vegas. He and Mary knew it wouldn't work, but it felt good. Being joined to each other by loose legal documents and cheap rings plucked from a sleazy jewelry store just before a chapel with only the spirits of loved ones there to witness their union felt right.

He wondered how Mary might feel now, knowing he'd fallen back into old habits instead of mourning her like a husband was supposed to. He'd slipped so deep into thought that he didn't register Lily's hands sliding into the front of his jeans until her fingertips grazed his shaft. 

"Can I repay you," she whispered against the scar on his neck. "You wouldn't take my drink. At least enjoy what the private room was made for." 

Stack let his heavy eyelids flutter closed and released a deep breath. "We ain't 'posed to touch back here, ain't it?" 

"I do what I want. Don't worry about the rules when you with me."

"You don't wanna turn on some music, at least? Can't be that quiet in here," Stack questioned, still trying to gauge their true level of privacy. 

Lily smiled against his neck. "Nope. Let 'em hear." 

Deft fingers and a delicate palm freed Stack's member from the confines of cotton and stiff denim, giving it room to stand proud between them. They watched together as she closed her hand around it and began to stroke. 

"Looks like the cold is helping, hm?"

"Fuck," Stack whispered into the ether. Her skin felt like fine silk enclosed around the part of him that ached for touch the most. He'd lost the battle. The only hope for redemption was to finish with his mind intact and leave Jackson, Mississippi without looking back. 

Slow kisses stole the last modicum of focus Stack had left. "You like that," Lily questioned in her seductive timbre. A murmured 'mhm' spurred her forward. "I wanna show you something else." 

Stack wished he would've asked Lily to elaborate. Maybe he would've given himself more time to prepare for her mouth to envelop him in a warm embrace. His hips jolted upward, pressing his tip to the back of her throat and receiving a soft gag as his thank you for a job well done. 

Pleasures belonging to another time flooded Stack's entire nervous system. He flew through boyhood, when fooling around with Mary was new and exciting. The audible slurp from saliva escaping the corners of Lily's lips took him back to a woman in Chicago sneaking to be with him when her husband chose to turn his attention to business and away from matters of the home. There was the time he'd snuck into the French Quarter, freshly turned and searching for a body to claim. Remembering her name would take too much of his rapidly diminishing brain power, but he'd never forget that pretty face and how she seemed to welcome his fangs sinking into her skin. Stack always wondered what happened to her and if she fared well after the turn set in. His mind tried to drift to something, anything to ward off his incoming completion, but each mental swipe through his memory's Rolodex became infiltrated by Lily as she pulled her mouth away from his lap.

"Can I tell you somethin'?" Lily's question barely registered as Stack curled his fingers against the couch. She kept her hands busy, smiling to herself while she watched his eyes roll into his skull. "I'm sort of like you. Sometimes, when I want to feel like everybody else, I pretend. It's fun, you know? Keeps me goin' until the next time somethin' excitin' happens." 

Stack felt his body struggle to come back to baseline. Every alarm bell in his head rang at once, screaming for relief. No luck. He was at her mercy, eyes still rolling as release became imminent. He groaned for help that no one would hear. 

Lily chuckled and shook her head. "I almost wish you wouldn't have come back. That's why I ignored you that first night. They still tell stories about Elijah and Elias Moore to this day, but I didn't believe 'em. Motherfuckers lie around here. Too much time on they hands." Balls tightening in her free hand while she continued to get him off signaled an approaching end as Stack attempted to will himself free of her clutches to no avail. Lily continued. "Them biblical names somethin', ain't they? Seem like the most evil people in the world named after somebody in the good book. Your brother, your old girl, you…" Lily trailed off before bringing her eyes up to meet her victim's face. "I didn't quite make the cut. Lilith still has a nice ring to it, though, right? It's memorable." 

The feeling of being watched, the magnetic pull, the men in a trance and passing out money like candy – it all came rushing back to Stack as he felt his body weaken with every quickening stroke. Succubus. Tales of their existence always sounded like more myth than tangible reality. Smoke chalked each story up to weak-minded men looking for someone to blame for their lack of focus and restraint. Stack thought it might be fun for a beautiful woman to use him as a sexual object for a night but sided with the wisdom of his older brother. He never expected to find out. But lust had won again. His fatal flaw had lured him to the edge of death once more.

Stack opened his mouth wider, trying to scream with no sound reaching the atmosphere. It wouldn't matter anyway. No one was coming. He wouldn't be saved. The witching hour had overpowered him a second time. 

"It's almost over, baby. Be good for me," Lily taunted, her eyes darkening as her once dazzling smile curled into something more sinister. 

Climax felt like a slow death. Stack prayed for something quick. An instant draining of his life force to make the misery worth it. He'd reunite with the ones who loved him on the other side. Unfortunately, natural deaths full of promise and peace no longer had a place. A second curse had been levied upon him. A forever damning to serve as the source of life for another immortal being until he served no purpose and could be discarded like waste on the highway. 

With her mouth back to work, Lily welcomed every drop of semen onto her tongue like a dog lapping for water in the hot sun. She'd been waiting for someone like Elias. Someone to provide an endless treasure trove of what lesser men provided in feeble quantities. Forever had come to her with little effort. What a gift with a beautiful host to sweeten the deal. 

When he was empty and heaving for a break, Lily relished in the slow creep of euphoria consuming her from within. Stack remained frozen, eyes wide with fear and his jaw slack. 

Nuzzling her face against his thigh like a feline does her trusted companion, Lily smiled with traces of her trophy still coating her lips. 

"Welcome back to Mississippi, Elias. Stick around this time, won't you?" 

------

No tags. Enjoy the one off! For now, at least.

[2b4st4r]

Hi! If you're not busy, can I request luffy and readers toddler daughter (is like 6yrs old) accidentally time travel to the past where luffy and reader are not together yet. And the thing is: the little girl is a complete copy of luffy, same color of hair and eyes, same gullible attitude, and the same love for meat and adventures.

Past & Future

Luffy x f! Reader

Words: 7,748

Summary: This story follows the Straw Hat Pirates years after Luffy became the Pirate King, now with his six-year-old daughter, Lanko, who bears an uncanny resemblance to him, and her mother, Y/N, a key member of the crew. When a mysterious pirate attacks, sending Lanko to the past with a devil fruit ability, the future Straw Hats unleash their fury, brutally dispatching the assailant. Meanwhile, Lanko finds herself on a younger, less-worn Thousand Sunny, encountering younger versions of her parents and their crew, who are utterly bewildered by her appearance and her claims of being Luffy and Y/N's daughter. After a heartwarming but confusing interaction where Lanko’s innate Luffy-like traits are evident, she mysteriously returns to her own time, leaving the past Straw Hats to ponder their surprising future.

Warning: This story contains instances of child endangerment, brief descriptions of a gruesome death and violence, and implied time travel use of Y/N

A/N: I hope you enjoyed!! I’m still trying to get used to tumbler so it might not be the best. LANKO IS READER SND LUFFYS DAUGHTER

Masterlist

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The salty spray of the Grand Line kissed Lanko’s cheeks as she darted across the deck, her bare feet slapping against the worn timber. A tiny whirlwind of boundless energy, she was a spitting image of her father: the same unruly black hair, the same wide, innocent eyes, and a grin that stretched just as far. “Catch me, Papa!” she squealed, a six-year-old whirlwind of giggles and pure, unadulterated joy.

“Shishishi! You’ll never escape the great Pirate King!” a familiar voice boomed, and a much larger, equally chaotic figure lunged after her. Monkey D. Luffy, King of the Pirates, was in his element, playing tag with his daughter under the endless blue sky. Five years had passed since he’d claimed the greatest treasure and the title, but not an ounce of his childlike enthusiasm had faded. Lanko was every bit his legacy—a tiny, insatiable ball of curiosity, a bottomless pit for meat, and a spirit as free as the ocean itself. From the ship’s railing, a gentle smile graced Y/N’s lips as she watched her two adventurers, her heart swelling with a love as vast as the sea they sailed.

Lanko, giggling, finally stumbled into her mother's outstretched arms, a flurry of black hair and joyful squeals. Y/N hugged her close, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. "You two are impossible," she laughed, her eyes twinkling as Luffy, still breathless from their game, flopped dramatically onto the deck beside them.

“But it’s fun, right, Y/N?” Luffy grinned up at her, his signature straw hat tilted slightly. He reached out and gently took her hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her skin.

Y/N leaned down, ruffling Luffy’s already messy hair. “It is fun, you big kid. But someone’s going to be starving soon, and we all know who that’ll be.” She winked at Lanko, who instantly perked up.

“Meat! Papa, meat!” Lanko bounced in Y/N’s lap, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Luffy’s face lit up, an exact mirrored expression of his daughter’s. “Shishishi! See, Y/N? She gets it! A true adventurer needs her meat!” He scrambled to his feet, pulling both Y/N and Lanko up with him. “Come on! Sanji must have something amazing cooking!”

As they walked towards the galley, Luffy swung Lanko onto his shoulders, her laughter echoing across the deck. Y/N walked beside them, her arm linked through Luffy’s. The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, casting long, peaceful shadows. This was their life now: a ship full of nakama, endless adventures, and the warmth of a family built on laughter, love, and an insatiable appetite for life’s simple joys. The Pirate King, his queen, and their little princess, sailing towards whatever tomorrow brought, together.

The easygoing atmosphere shattered in an instant. A jarring CRUNCH reverberated through the Thousand Sunny, followed by the screech of metal. "Enemy attack!" Usopp's panicked cry cut through the air, quickly joined by the booming of cannons.

Luffy’s playful grin vanished, replaced by a steely, focused expression. “Alright, crew! Let’s go!”

Zoro was already drawing his swords, a dangerous glint in his eye. Sanji, ever the gentleman, instantly shifted from culinary bliss to battle-ready stance. Nami, ever practical, was already pointing her Clima-Tact, calculating wind currents. Chopper, ever loyal, transformed into his Guard Point, while Robin coolly observed the encroaching ship with her keen eyes. Franky let out a “SUPER!” yell, readying his weapons, and Brook unsheathed his sword, a chilling, yet elegant, "Yohohoho!" echoing on the wind.

Y/N, without a word, scooped up Lanko, her movements swift and practiced. “Down below, sweetie. You know the drill,” she said, her voice calm despite the chaos erupting around them. Lanko, though usually boisterous, understood the gravity of the situation. Her small face was serious as she nodded, burying her face into her mother’s shoulder.

“Be safe, Mama! Papa!” she whispered, as Y/N quickly carried her towards the hatch leading to the lower decks, Sanji covering their retreat.

Luffy watched them disappear, a flicker of concern in his eyes, but it was quickly overshadowed by his unwavering resolve. He stretched his arm, rubbery and formidable. “Alright! Let’s show these guys who they’re messing with!” The roar of cannon fire intensified, but the Straw Hat Pirates, seasoned by countless battles, met the challenge head-on. Their captain, the Pirate King, stood ready, his nakama by his side, prepared to defend their ship, their dreams, and the precious, innocent life they’d just sent to safety.

The roar of battle raged for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only ten minutes. Cannons boomed, steel clashed, and the familiar shouts of the Straw Hats filled the air. Then, cutting through the cacophony, a sound that froze them all: a high-pitched, terror-stricken scream.

"Lanko!" Y/N shrieked, her voice raw with fear. Luffy's head snapped around, his eyes wide with a primal fury. How had they gotten to her?

On the shattered remnants of the lower deck, amidst splintered wood and scattered supplies, a gruff-looking pirate stood over a trembling Lanko. His hand hovered inches from her face, his index finger glowing with an ominous, sickly green light. Lanko was huddled on the floor, her small hands pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

"One move, Straw Hats," the pirate snarled, his voice gravelly, "and this little brat gets a taste of true despair." He looked directly at Luffy, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "You call yourself the Pirate King? Watch as your own flesh and blood vanishes." He didn't know the full power of his Toki Toki no Mi (Time-Time Fruit), only that it could erase people from existence. He had no idea he was threatening to send the Pirate King's daughter to a time unknown.

A guttural growl ripped from Luffy’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage that vibrated through the Sunny. Y/N’s face was ashen, her eyes fixed on her daughter, a silent scream caught in her throat.

"Don't you dare!" Luffy bellowed, stretching his arm, rubbery and menacing, towards the pirate. But the man was faster.

With a malicious laugh, the pirate slammed his glowing finger onto Lanko's forehead. A blinding flash of sickly green light erupted, enveloping the little girl. Before anyone could move, before even Luffy's extended arm could reach her, Lanko simply vanished. The light faded, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and the gaping hole in the lower deck where she had been.

Silence, thick and suffocating, fell over the Straw Hats. It was a silence far more terrifying than any battle cry.

Then, the storm broke.

"LANKO!" Y/N screamed, a raw, primal wail of despair as she collapsed to her knees.

Luffy’s eyes were no longer wide with fury, but cold, hard, and utterly murderous. Every muscle in his body tensed, and the air around him crackled with an oppressive haki. "You," he said, his voice deceptively quiet, a tremor of unimaginable power beneath it. "Bring her back. Now."

Zoro’s hand was already on his wado ichimonji, the sheathed blade vibrating with his suppressed bloodlust. Sanji’s leg was cocked, ready to strike, his face contorted in a mask of grim determination. Nami’s Clima-Tact sparked with an ominous electricity, and Robin’s eyes narrowed, a thousand arms ready to bloom. Franky’s cannons hummed with energy, Chopper let out a furious growl, and even the usually composed Brook seemed to radiate a chilling aura.

The pirate, though initially smug, felt a cold dread creep up his spine. He had faced countless pirate crews, but this was different. This wasn't just a challenge; this was the wrath of a father, of a mother, of a family pushed beyond their breaking point.

"What did you do?!" Y/N sobbed, pushing herself up and stumbling towards the man, pure fury in her eyes. "Where did you send her?!"

The pirate, despite his bravado, suddenly looked uncomfortable. "She's... she's not gone for good," he stammered, his bravado cracking under the combined glare of the Straw Hats. He knew his Toki Toki no Mi sent people forward in time, but he had no control over where or when exactly. "She's just... moved. In time."

"Time?" Luffy's voice was a low growl, more dangerous than any roar. "You better bring her back. Or I will tear you apart piece by piece until there's nothing left but dust!"

Meanwhile..

The blinding green light dissipated, and Lanko stumbled, catching herself before she fell. She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting the splintered deck of her father's ship, the frantic shouts of battle. When she opened them, a profound silence met her, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves against a hull.

She was still on the Thousand Sunny, that much was clear. The familiar lion's head figurehead stared out proudly, the grassy deck felt the same under her bare feet, and the smell of the sea was just as salty. But something was… off. The ship looked new. Not a single scratch marred the polished wood, no scorch marks from recent battles, no worn patches from years of adventurous wear and tear. It gleamed, pristine, as if it had just set sail.

And then she saw them.

A young woman with bright orange hair was meticulously drawing a map at a large table, her brow furrowed in concentration. Next to her, a man with a long nose was dramatically recounting a tale to a reindeer, who seemed engrossed. A lean, blond man was humming softly in the galley, a plume of steam rising from a pot. A swordsman with green hair was asleep against the mast, three swords nestled beside him. A dark-haired woman was reading a book, a faint smile on her lips. And a skeleton was playing a gentle tune on his violin.

They were her family, her nakama, but… younger. Much younger. The green-haired swordsman looked less scarred, the blond cook’s face was less lined with battle fatigue, the navigator’s eyes held a youthful spark she didn't usually see. And her mother… she wasn't here. Lanko spun around, searching, but Y/N was nowhere in sight.

The orange-haired woman looked up from her map, her eyes widening slightly as she spotted the small figure. “Hey! Who’s that?” she called out, her voice wary.

Lanko, still reeling from the sudden, jarring change, could only stare. Her six-year-old mind struggled to process this familiar yet alien Sunny, these familiar yet unfamiliar faces. She looked exactly like her father, a tiny, wide-eyed replica, standing utterly alone on a ship that was home, but wasn't.

Lanko’s lower lip began to tremble. The faces of her family, younger and unlined by the battles she knew they’d faced, were now staring at her with confused, almost suspicious eyes. This wasn’t home. Not her home. A sob hitched in her throat, raw with sudden, overwhelming fear.

“Daddy! Mommy!” she wailed, her voice small and shaky, echoing strangely in the quiet air. Tears welled in her big, dark eyes, identical to her father’s.

The orange-haired woman, Nami, exchanged a glance with the long-nosed man, Usopp. “Daddy? Mommy?” Nami mumbled, then her eyes widened as she took in Lanko’s features more closely. “Wait a minute… she looks just like…”

Before she could finish the thought, the door to the galley burst open with a familiar, explosive energy. “Meat! Is Sanji making meat yet? I’m starving!”

And then he stepped out.

He was undeniably Luffy. The same wild, black hair, the same boundless energy practically radiating off him, the same intense focus, currently aimed at the galley. But he was younger, much younger, without the subtle gravitas of the Pirate King she knew.

Their eyes met. Young Luffy blinked, his perpetual grin faltering as he saw the tiny, crying girl. His head tilted, a familiar gesture. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice still full of an almost aggressive curiosity.

Lanko’s sobs hitched. She saw him. Her Papa. Younger, but still him. The sight of his familiar face, even in this strange, new form, broke through her fear. Her little arms instinctively reached out.

“Papa!” she cried, a joyous, desperate sound, and dashed across the deck, launching herself at the bewildered young captain.

The entire Straw Hat crew collectively gasped. The resemblance, uncanny before, was now undeniable. Two identical faces, two sets of wide, dark eyes, two explosions of black hair. The only difference was the height and the fact that one was a little girl, clinging fiercely to a young man who looked exactly like her.

Luffy, momentarily stunned, instinctively caught the small girl, who wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder. "Papa! I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry! I tried to hide, but he found me, and his hand glowed, and I didn’t mean to disappear, I promise!” Her words tumbled out in a teary, incoherent rush, punctuated by hiccuping breaths.

The younger Straw Hats stared, utterly bewildered.

“’Disappear’?” Nami repeated slowly, looking between the crying girl and their equally confused captain. “What is she even talking about?”

Usopp, ever the quick thinker (or quick fabricator), dramatically clutched his head. “Aha! I’ve got it! It’s… it’s a temporal displacement anomaly! She’s from the future! Yes! A time traveler!” He puffed out his chest, completely convinced by his own spur-of-the-moment lie. “That villain must have used a… a ‘Time-Time Fruit’ to send her here!”

“Time travel? Usopp, don’t be ridiculous!” Sanji scoffed, though he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene. The resemblance was uncanny, almost spooky.

Luffy, meanwhile, was completely absorbed in Lanko. He gently patted her back, his brow furrowed in concern, though he didn't grasp a single word of her apology. “Hey, hey, why are you crying?” he asked, his usual boisterous tone softened. “Did you get hungry? Did someone take your meat?” His priorities, even in the face of a crying, time-displaced child, remained refreshingly simple. “Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hurt you here! We’ll just find you some meat!”

Lanko, still sniffling, looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, so much like his own. “Meat?” she whispered, her tears momentarily forgotten.

“Shishishi! Yeah, meat!” Luffy grinned, his concern immediately shifting to the promise of food. He hoisted her onto his shoulders, her small, identical face now perched above his, still streaked with tears but already showing the glimmer of a hopeful, familiar smile.

The rest of the crew exchanged exasperated glances. They had a miniature, crying version of their captain on their hands, apparently from the future, and their actual captain was already bonding over food. This was going to be a long day.

As Luffy, oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding around him, bounced Lanko on his shoulders, the rest of the Straw Hats watched in a mix of awe and disbelief.

“Did you see that?” Usopp whispered, nudging Nami. “The way her eyes lit up at ‘meat’! It’s just like him!”

Nami nodded slowly, a dawning realization spreading across her face. “It’s not just how she looks, Usopp. It’s… everything. She’s got his exact same level of… well, Luffyness.”

Down below, Lanko was already chattering excitedly. “Is it really meat, Papa? Like, a whole mountain of it? With bones to gnaw on?” Her tiny fists pumped the air, her face already mirroring Luffy’s enthusiastic grin.

“Shishishi! Of course! Sanji makes the best meat!” Luffy declared, completely delighted by her reaction. “We’ll eat until our bellies burst!”

Sanji, despite being a bit flustered by the sudden appearance of a child who looked exactly like his captain, couldn't help but crack a small smile at the sheer, unadulterated joy radiating from the pair. “Alright, alright, you two bottomless pits,” he called out, heading back into the galley with a fond sigh.

Zoro, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up, a rare smirk on his face. “Looks like we’ve got two idiots on our hands now.”

Robin chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling. “Indeed. Her innocent wonder, her immediate focus on food… it’s quite remarkable.”

Even Chopper, who had been whimpering with worry a moment ago, found himself giggling at Lanko’s unbridled excitement. She wasn’t just a mini-Luffy in appearance; she embodied his very essence – his unwavering optimism, his simple desires, his utter gullibility, and that unshakeable love for adventure that always, inevitably, led them into trouble. She was a carbon copy, right down to her impulsive dashes and infectious giggles. The crew knew, with a sinking feeling of inevitability, that their lives had just become even more chaotic.

Just as the younger Straw Hats were beginning to process the sheer audacity of Lanko’s mini-Luffy persona, a familiar, slightly exasperated voice cut through the air. “What in the world is going on out here? I swear, if someone broke Sanji’s favorite pan again, I’m putting them on dish duty for a month!”

Y/N stepped onto the deck, her hands on her hips, her eyes immediately scanning the chaos. She had been below deck, organizing supplies with a meticulousness that sharply contrasted with the usual Straw Hat pandemonium. Her (hair color) hair was pulled back, a few wisps escaping, and her expression, though firm, held a hint of amusement – a typical look when dealing with her chaotic crewmates.

Her gaze landed first on the unusual sight of a tiny girl perched on Luffy’s shoulders, then on the shocked faces of the rest of the crew. “Seriously, what’s all the ruckus about?” she asked, already walking closer, her usual calm demeanor slightly ruffled by the sheer volume of the commotion.

Lanko, who had been mid-giggle about the promise of meat, froze. Her wide, dark eyes, identical to Luffy's, locked onto Y/N. A gasp escaped her lips, and the nascent smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated relief.

“Mama!”

The single word ripped through the air, sharp and clear. Lanko launched herself from Luffy’s shoulders with astonishing speed, a tiny blur of black hair. She didn't hesitate, didn't even stumble, but propelled herself straight into Y/N’s arms, burying her face into her side.

“Mama?”

The question reverberated among the stunned Straw Hats. Nami’s jaw dropped. Usopp’s eyes bugged out even further. Sanji nearly dropped the serving tray he was unconsciously holding. Zoro’s perpetual smirk disappeared, replaced by genuine shock. Luffy, surprisingly, looked less surprised and more bewildered, as if wondering why his new tiny friend had suddenly abandoned him.

Y/N, caught completely off guard, instinctively wrapped her arms around the small child clinging to her. Her eyes, filled with confusion, darted from Lanko’s sobbing face to the shocked expressions of her crew, and finally, to the very familiar, very Luffy-like features of the little girl now nestled against her. A cold dread, mixed with an unshakeable sense of déjà vu, began to settle in her stomach.

“Mama!” Lanko sobbed into Y/N’s side, her tiny hands clutching Y/N’s shirt as if she were the last anchor in a storm.

Y/N, utterly bewildered, instinctively tightened her hold on the child. Her mind raced, grappling with the impossible. Mama? She wasn’t a mother. She and Luffy… they were close, yes, closer than anyone else on the crew, a bond forged in countless adventures and shared dreams. But certainly not that close. Not yet.

“What… what is going on?” Y/N asked, her voice a strained whisper as she looked at the baffled faces of her crewmates.

Nami, pale and wide-eyed, pointed a trembling finger at the little girl. “She just called you ‘Mama’!”

“And she called Luffy ‘Papa’!” Usopp squeaked, half-hiding behind Zoro. “This is insane! They look exactly alike! And she just jumped out of nowhere!”

Luffy, still standing with his arms outstretched where Lanko had been a moment ago, finally piped up. “But she called me Papa first! Why’d she leave?” he pouted, genuinely confused by Lanko’s sudden defection.

Y/N looked down at the sobbing child, who was now peeking up at her through tear-filled eyes, so painfully familiar. The same wide, innocent dark eyes as Luffy. The same messy black hair. Even the same tear-streaked, slightly grubby face. It was like looking at a miniature, female version of their captain.

“Sweetheart,” Y/N began gently, trying to keep her voice calm despite the mounting confusion. “I don’t… I don’t understand. Who are you?” She stroked Lanko’s hair, her gaze searching for some explanation in the child’s tear-soaked face.

Lanko only cried harder, clinging tighter. “It’s me, Lanko! Don’t you remember? We were playing tag, and then the bad man… and the green light…”

The green light. Y/N’s eyes flashed to Usopp. “Usopp, what was that ridiculous thing you were saying about time travel?”

Usopp gulped, taking a step back from Y/N’s intense stare. “Well, I mean, it’s just a theory! But she said ‘disappear,’ and then she called him Papa and you Mama, and she looks exactly like… well, you know!” He gestured wildly between Luffy and Lanko.

The revelation hung in the air, absurd yet undeniable. This child, Lanko, with her uncanny resemblance to Luffy, calling them ‘Mama’ and ‘Papa’… could she really be from the future? A future where Y/N and Luffy were… together? The thought was both staggering and utterly unbelievable. They were just friends, incredibly close friends, but the idea of a family… it was a leap of faith neither of them had even considered. Yet, here she was, living proof of an impossible future.

Y/N held Lanko close, her mind reeling. The child’s warmth against her, the dampness of her tears, the unmistakable face staring up at her—it was all too real to be a dream. She looked at Luffy, who was now scratching his head, a thoughtful frown on his face. He seemed to be piecing things together in his own simplistic way.

“So,” Luffy began, his voice surprisingly soft. “She’s… our kid?” He pointed first at himself, then at Y/N, then back at Lanko, as if confirming a challenging math problem.

Nami buried her face in her hands. “Luffy, don’t just accept it like that! It’s impossible! We’re not even…” She trailed off, a blush creeping onto her cheeks.

Sanji, for once speechless, just lit a cigarette and exhaled a long plume of smoke, his eyes wide. Zoro merely grunted, but even he seemed utterly baffled, his hand still instinctively on his katana.

Y/N, however, was already looking past the impossibility. She felt a strange, protective surge for the little girl in her arms. Lanko might be from an impossible future, but she was terrified and crying. “Lanko,” Y/N said, her voice gentle, “can you tell us your full name?”

Lanko sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Lanko… Lanko Monkey.”

The name hung in the air, a definitive, undeniable connection. Monkey. Luffy’s surname.

Luffy’s eyes widened even further, then a slow, wide grin stretched across his face. “Shishishi! My name! She’s got my name!” He clapped his hands together, suddenly beaming. The gravity of the situation, the impossible time travel, the sheer improbability of it all, seemed to completely bypass him. He was just excited about having a mini-him.

Y/N, on the other hand, felt a blush creep up her neck. Lanko Monkey. Their daughter. The thought, once unthinkable, now felt oddly… warm. She looked at Luffy, whose eyes were now sparkling with an adventurous glee that only Lanko seemed to share.

“So, you’re really from the future, Lanko?” Usopp ventured, cautiously approaching. “And Luffy’s… your dad? And Y/N’s… your mom?” He still sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Lanko nodded earnestly, her tears drying. “Uh-huh! Papa’s the Pirate King! And Mama helps him! And we have lots of adventures and eat lots of meat!” She seemed to have forgotten her earlier terror, now fully embracing the wonder of explaining her life.

The crew stared, dumbfounded. The Pirate King. Luffy. It was their dream, their ultimate goal, but hearing it spoken so casually by a child who was apparently their captain’s own flesh and blood… it made the dream feel incredibly, tangibly close. And the fact that Y/N was by his side, his partner, his wife, the mother of his child… that was a revelation all its own.

“The Pirate King…” Robin murmured, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “It seems our future is quite… interesting.”

Y/N tightened her embrace on Lanko, a mix of shock, fear, and a burgeoning sense of wonder swirling within her. This little girl, their daughter, was a living, breathing paradox. How would they get her back? And what did her sudden appearance mean for their own present?

“So, you’re really from the future, Lanko?” Usopp pressed, his voice still a shaky mix of disbelief and morbid curiosity. “And Luffy’s… your dad? And Y/N’s… your mom?”

Lanko nodded vigorously, her eyes sparkling with innocent conviction. “Uh-huh! Papa’s the Pirate King! And Mama helps him! And we have lots of adventures and eat lots of meat!” She then looked up at Y/N with wide, earnest eyes. “Are we gonna have meat now, Mama? I’m hungry from time traveling!”

Y/N let out a small, bewildered laugh, a sound that was half amusement, half sheer bewilderment. “Time traveling hunger, huh?” She looked at the rest of the crew, who were still processing this bombshell.

Luffy, meanwhile, had been silently absorbing Lanko’s explanation, a thoughtful expression on his face. Then, his face broke into his signature wide, unshakeable grin. “Shishishi! That makes sense! I really like Y/N!” He declared, completely oblivious to the blushing that immediately stained Y/N’s cheeks and the collective groan from the rest of the crew.

“Luffy, you idiot!” Nami spluttered, burying her face in her hands. Sanji’s eyebrow twitched, and even Zoro looked like he wanted to facepalm.

Y/N felt her heart do a strange little flip. He really liked her. Hearing it so casually, so innocently, from his younger self, after holding their future daughter… it was overwhelming.

“So, you’re just… accepting this, Luffy?” Robin asked, a small smile playing on her lips, clearly amused by the captain’s straightforward, utterly naive acceptance of the impossible.

“Why not?” Luffy tilted his head. “She looks just like me! And she likes meat! And she says Y/N’s her mama, and I like Y/N a lot, so that’s good!” He beamed, as if solving a particularly tricky puzzle with remarkable ease. For Luffy, the most complex paradoxes were often resolved by the simplest, most emotionally driven logic.

The crew exchanged resigned glances. There was no reasoning with him when he got like this. Their captain, the man who would be King of the Pirates, was currently too busy marveling at the existence of his future daughter to even consider the mind-boggling implications of time travel or his own future romantic entanglements.

Y/N, still holding Lanko, could only shake her head, a soft smile playing on her lips despite the chaos. It seemed their immediate future involved not only figuring out how to get a six-year-old time traveler back to her own time, but also navigating the very interesting (and now very public) revelation of their own potential future.

Y/N took a deep breath, pushing down the swirling maelstrom of confusion and embarrassment. The future, their relationship, time travel… it was all too much to process right now. Her gaze softened as she looked down at the tiny, hopeful face buried against her. Lanko was here, now, and she was scared and hungry. That was the only reality that mattered at this very moment.

A new side of Y/N emerged, a warmth that had always been present but carefully guarded, now blossoming without restraint. The wall she often kept around herself, a shield against the unpredictable chaos of the Grand Line, seemed to crumble entirely. Her touch became gentler, her voice infused with a tenderness the crew rarely heard from her.

“I bet you’re hungry,” Y/N murmured, brushing a stray strand of black hair from Lanko’s forehead. “If you have Luf— your father’s appetite, you must be absolutely starving.” She caught herself before saying Luffy’s name, the implication of the “father” too raw, too sudden for now. “Let’s go get you something good to eat, hm? Doesn’t that sound good, sweetheart?” Her thumb gently stroked Lanko’s cheek.

Lanko’s eyes, wide and still a little teary, lit up like tiny lanterns. “Meat?” she whispered, a familiar refrain.

Y/N smiled, a soft, genuine smile that reached her eyes. “Yes, sweetheart. Plenty of meat.” She looked up at Sanji, whose usually lovestruck expression was now one of profound awe. “Sanji, could you whip up something special for our… guest?”

Sanji, snapping out of his stupor, puffed out his chest. “Of course, Y/N-chan! Anything for such a cute little lady!” He dashed back into the galley, his usual theatrics slightly muted by the shocking revelation.

The rest of the crew watched, stunned. They had known Y/N as capable, intelligent, resilient, and fiercely loyal. But this raw, instinctive warmth, this immediate, undeniable motherly tenderness… it was a side of her they had never witnessed. It was as if, confronted with an impossible truth, she had simply bypassed the logic and embraced the heart of the matter. Luffy, ever oblivious to the deeper emotional currents, just cheered, “Shishishi! Meat!” and followed them, completely satisfied with this unexpected addition to their crew.

The Straw Hats watched, a silent tableau of surprise. Nami’s mouth was still agape, Sanji had forgotten his cooking, and even Zoro’s usual indifference had cracked. They had always known Y/N was compassionate, especially with Chopper, but this was different. This was a raw, unfiltered maternal instinct, a protective tenderness that stripped away all her usual guardedness. It was a rare, beautiful display of a side of her they’d never truly seen.

As Y/N walked towards the galley, Lanko nestled securely in her arms, Luffy naturally fell into step beside them. He didn’t question it, didn’t even seem to notice the shift in the crew’s demeanor. He was just doing what felt natural. And as the crew watched them go – the little girl identical to Luffy clinging to Y/N, Luffy himself radiating a simple, contented joy by Y/N’s side – the pieces started to click into place.

They had always been exceptionally close. During battles, Luffy was always by Y/N’s side, his rubbery limbs a whirlwind of protection. And Y/N, with her sharp mind and quick reflexes, was always there to cover his blind spots, to anticipate his impulsive moves. After a skirmish, Luffy was inevitably the first to check on Y/N, his goofy grin replaced by genuine concern, and Y/N would, in turn, subtly assess him, her touch gentle as she checked for scrapes. They had seen the small things, the lingering glances, the comfortable silences, the way they instinctively moved in sync. But seeing Lanko call them "Mama" and "Papa," and witnessing Y/N’s immediate, undeniable embrace of that role, combined with Luffy’s simple, heartfelt “I really like Y/N!”… it wasn’t just closeness. It was love. A quiet, deeply rooted love that had been there all along, blossoming subtly in the background of their grand adventures, and now, revealed in the most impossible way, by a child from a future they never knew they were building.

The crew, having witnessed Y/N’s instant transformation into a doting mother, exchanged glances filled with a potent mix of astonishment and dawning comprehension. The easy camaraderie between Luffy and Y/N had always been evident, a comforting presence on their ship. But the casual revelation, the sheer, undeniable proof of a future built together… it cast their entire relationship in a new light.

Nami, ever the observer of human nature, watched as Y/N gently coaxed a smile from Lanko, her movements fluid and tender. She saw the way Luffy, seemingly oblivious to the emotional magnitude of the moment, still instinctively hovered near Y/N, as if drawn by an invisible thread. It wasn't just about fighting side-by-side or sharing laughs. It was a silent language, a profound connection that had always been there, just below the surface of their adventurous lives.

“They really… they really love each other,” Nami whispered, almost to herself, the words heavy with revelation.

Usopp, who had recovered from his initial shock, nodded slowly. “I guess we just… never really thought about it. Luffy’s always been so focused on being Pirate King, and Y/N’s always been so… Y/N. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?” He recalled countless moments: Y/N patching up Luffy’s ridiculous injuries with a soft exasperation, Luffy sharing his most treasured meat with her, the way their eyes would always find each other in a crowd.

Sanji, leaning against the galley doorframe, let out a long sigh, a bittersweet smile on his face. “Ah, Y/N-chan… always so graceful, so kind. And now… a mother.” He ran a hand through his hair. Even his ingrained chivalry, usually so overt, had taken a back seat to the genuine emotional impact of the scene. The image of the future Pirate King and the woman he admired as parents, a real family, was profoundly moving.

Zoro, for once, didn’t comment or snicker. He simply watched the trio disappear into the galley, his singular eye narrowed in thought. He had always trusted Luffy’s instincts implicitly, and Luffy’s instinct was clearly to keep Y/N by his side. If this little girl was the result, then it was just another part of the chaotic, yet ultimately incredible, journey they were on.

Robin's soft chuckle broke the contemplative silence. "It seems the tides of destiny run deeper than we often perceive." She looked at her crewmates, her usual calm radiating a quiet understanding. "A family built not just on shared dreams and adventures, but on genuine affection and unwavering support. It truly is a beautiful thing."

The realization settled over the Straw Hats like a warm blanket. They had always been a family, bound by loyalty and shared purpose. But now, with Lanko’s sudden appearance, they understood the true depth of the bond between their captain and their friend. It was more than just comradeship; it was a love story unfolding right before their eyes, a testament to the powerful, unforeseen currents of the Grand Line.

The sudden, earth-shattering realization hit Usopp first, a lightbulb igniting above his head so brightly it almost outshone the Grand Line sun. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking with excitement. “If Lanko’s from the future… she knows everything!”

Like a ripple effect, the same thought spread through the rest of the Straw Hats. Their dreams, their goals, the very answers to the questions that had driven them across the seas – they were all embodied in this six-year-old girl.

A frantic rush ensued as the entire crew stampeded towards the galley. Inside, the comforting aroma of sizzling meat filled the air as Y/N, her sleeves rolled up, was meticulously browning a large cut, while Lanko sat perched on a stool, her small legs swinging, eyes fixated on the delicious offering. Luffy, predictably, was already drooling beside her.

“ is the All Blue real?!” Sanji was the first to burst in, his eyes wide and earnest, completely forgetting his duties at the stove.

“How many Berries do we have in the future, Lanko?! Are we rich beyond imagination?!” Nami demanded, her eyes practically gleaming with avarice as she pushed past Sanji.

Zoro shoved Nami aside. “Hey, brat! Am I the world’s greatest swordsman?! Did I beat that hawk-eyed bastard?!”

“Is my brave warrior of the sea story true?! Did I really become a great hero and fight giant monsters?!” Usopp yelled, waving his arms wildly.

Chopper, bouncing on the balls of his hooves, cried, “Did I cure all diseases?! Am I the best doctor in the world?!”

“How’s the Sunny looking?! Is she still SUPER?! Did we build any new weapons?!” Franky roared, already making a dramatic pose.

Robin’s voice, though calmer, was no less intense. “Were we able to find all the Poneglyphs? Did we uncover the truth of the Void Century?!”

Lanko, who had just been about to reach for a piece of perfectly cooked meat, froze. Her eyes darted from one shouting face to another, a tiny, overwhelmed figure caught in a storm of impossible questions. She tried to speak, her mouth opening, but before she could utter a single word, another question, louder and more insistent, cut her off. Her lower lip began to tremble, and her dark eyes welled up with fresh tears.

“Stop it!” Y/N’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and commanding. She instinctively stepped in front of Lanko, shielding the child with her body. Her eyes blazed with a fierce protectiveness the crew had rarely seen directed at them. “Look at her! You’re overwhelming her!”

Luffy, who had been momentarily distracted by the commotion, finally registered Lanko’s distress. His cheerful grin vanished, replaced by a dark, angry scowl. “Hey! Don’t make Lanko cry!” he bellowed, his voice suddenly infused with a chilling, authoritative tone that brooked no argument. His arm stretched, rubbery and menacing, acting as another barrier between the questioning crew and the trembling child. “If you make my daughter cry, I’ll kick all your asses!”

The kitchen fell silent, the boisterous energy of moments before replaced by a sudden, unnerving stillness. The Straw Hats, accustomed to Luffy’s unpredictable nature, were nonetheless stunned by the raw intensity of his anger. This wasn’t his usual playful indignation; this was the chilling, unwavering fury of a father defending his child. His eyes, usually so full of innocent wonder, were now dark and sharp, mirroring the serious glint in Zoro’s usually half-closed one.

Y/N, still shielding Lanko, nodded in agreement, her own protective instincts flaring. “He’s right,” she stated, her voice low and steady. “She’s a scared little girl in a strange place, not an encyclopedia for your ambitions. Give her some space.” She ran a soothing hand over Lanko's trembling back.

Lanko, sensing her parents' unwavering protection, sniffled and peeked out from behind Y/N’s leg, her big eyes wide with a lingering fear that slowly began to recede.

Nami, taken aback by Luffy’s sudden shift in demeanor, slowly lowered her hands. “We didn’t mean to upset her, Luffy,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “We were just… surprised.”

“Yeah, we just got a little excited,” Usopp added, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. He hadn’t actually intended to scare the kid.

Luffy’s rubbery arm slowly retracted, but his gaze remained fixed on his crew, a clear warning in his eyes. He then knelt beside Y/N, gently patting Lanko’s head. “See? No more questions now,” he reassured her, his voice immediately softening. “Just meat.”

Sanji, feeling the tension dissipate, quickly regained his composure. “Right! Meat for the little lady!” He returned to the stove with renewed vigor, determined to create a culinary masterpiece that would soothe the startled child.

Y/N gave Lanko a comforting squeeze. “That’s right, sweetheart. Just meat for now.” She looked at the chastened crew, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. They might be world-renowned pirates with grand dreams, but when it came to a crying child, especially their captain's child, even the most formidable adventurers had to back down. The future could wait; Lanko’s comfort was the only priority.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, a peaceful quiet settled over the Thousand Sunny. The earlier chaos had given way to the gentle hum of the ship at sea. Inside the galley, a makeshift feast had been prepared, with Sanji pulling out all the stops for their unexpected guest. Lanko, her initial fear long gone, was now happily stuffed with meat, her infectious giggles filling the space as Luffy regaled her with exaggerated tales of his adventures, making sound effects that only he seemed to understand.

Y/N watched them, a soft smile on her face. Her hand, almost unconsciously, rested on Lanko's back. The crew, too, had relaxed. Nami was showing Lanko how to draw a crude map of the galley, Chopper was offering her candy, and Usopp was attempting to impress her with a perfectly aimed rubber-band shot at a stray crumb. Even Zoro, usually aloof, had a subtle, almost imperceptible curve to his lips as he watched the scene. Brook played a soft, soothing melody on his violin, and Franky was quietly tinkering with a new invention, occasionally glancing up with a "SUPER!" whenever Lanko laughed.

It was a perfectly ordinary night for the Straw Hats, made extraordinary by the tiny, future-version of their captain. For a few hours, the questions of time travel and paradoxes were forgotten, replaced by the simple warmth of shared food and companionship. Lanko, nestled between Luffy and Y/N on the bench, yawned widely, her eyes drooping.

"Tired, sweetheart?" Y/N murmured, stroking her hair.

Lanko nodded, leaning into Y/N's side, a contented sigh escaping her lips. "It's been a long day, Mama," she mumbled, her words slurring with sleepiness.

Suddenly, a faint, sickly green shimmer appeared around Lanko. It was barely noticeable at first, a subtle distortion in the air around her. Luffy, sensing something, stopped mid-sentence. Y/N felt a strange vibration emanating from the child in her arms.

Then, the shimmer intensified. Lanko gasped, a tiny, choked sound. "Mama... Papa... I feel... weird!" Her small hand reached out, her fingers beginning to glow with the same eerie green light they had seen earlier.

Before anyone could react, Lanko’s form began to waver. Her edges blurred, and her body seemed to lose its solidity. Specks of her started to detach, swirling away like emerald dust motes in the air. A horrifying realization dawned on Y/N: she wasn't just glowing; she was devolving. Turning into green dust.

The chilling sight of Lanko dissolving into shimmering green dust sent a fresh wave of panic through the galley. Luffy, his eyes wide with alarm, instinctively reached out, but his hand passed straight through her shoulder as if she were made of smoke.

"Lanko!" he cried, his voice laced with desperation.

Y/N, however, felt a sudden, profound understanding. This wasn't another attack; this was Lanko being pulled back. Pulled back to her own time, to the future. A bittersweet pang hit her heart. She knelt, embracing the fading form as best she could, the green motes of light swirling around them both.

"She's going back," Y/N whispered, her voice thick with emotion, her eyes already tearing up. "She's going home."

Lanko, her tiny face flickering like a candle flame, looked up at Y/N, then at Luffy, her eyes wide and suddenly understanding. “Mama… Papa…” she whispered, her voice faint, almost inaudible.

Luffy, grasping the painful truth, knelt down too, his earlier anger replaced by a profound sadness. He reached out again, this time not trying to grab her, but simply touching the swirling green light that was his daughter. "Lanko," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, "Don't cry."

Y/N pulled Lanko into one last, tight hug, the warmth of the child quickly dissipating. "Be brave, sweetheart," she choked out, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. "We'll see you in the future. We promise."

Luffy, his face a mixture of sorrow and his usual unshakeable resolve, offered his signature wide, if slightly watery, grin. "Shishishi! Go have more adventures, Lanko! We'll catch up to you! In the future!"

With one final, faint spark, Lanko vanished completely, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and the heavy silence of the galley. The green dust motes shimmered for a moment longer, then faded into nothingness. The Straw Hats stood in stunned silence, their dreams of future revelations replaced by the raw emotion of a farewell to a child they had known for mere hours, yet loved instantly. They had just sent their future back to where it belonged, knowing that one day, they would indeed meet her again.

The battle had raged on the deck of the Thousand Sunny, but a new, terrifying intensity had fueled the Straw Hats after Lanko’s disappearance. Luffy and Y/N, in particular, fought with a savage fury that chilled even their own crewmates. The pirate who had sent Lanko away, the wielder of the Toki Toki no Mi, found himself the sole focus of the Pirate King’s boundless rage and his Queen’s icy precision.

Now, as the other enemy pirates lay defeated or fled in terror, a gruesome sight awaited the Straw Hats. The deck where the devil fruit user had stood was a bloodied testament to Luffy and Y/N's wrath. The man lay broken, utterly annihilated, his body a pulped mess of limbs and gore. He was headless, a grim testament to the force of Luffy’s final, enraged blow.

Suddenly, a shimmer of familiar green light erupted from the very spot where Lanko had vanished. It coalesced rapidly, and then, in a blink, a small, familiar figure solidified.

“Lanko!” Y/N gasped, her voice raw with relief and a fresh wave of fear.

Luffy, his chest heaving, his face still contorted with a primal rage, saw her. His eyes, seconds ago filled with murderous intent, softened instantly. Without a word, Zoro and Sanji moved in unison, quickly positioning themselves to block Lanko’s view of the gruesome scene.

Y/N rushed forward, scooping the little girl into her arms. Lanko was trembling, wide-eyed, clearly disoriented but unharmed. “Mama! Papa!” she cried, clutching Y/N tightly.

“We’ve got you, sweetheart,” Y/N whispered, her voice thick with emotion, pressing Lanko’s face into her shoulder to shield her from the sight of the pirate’s demise.

Luffy was there in an instant, his large hand gently stroking Lanko’s back. “You’re back,” he murmured, his anger dissipating like mist in the morning sun, replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief.

They quickly ushered Lanko away from the carnage, back towards the comparative safety of the Sunny’s interior, leaving the gruesome aftermath behind. The future was back, and the cost of her brief, terrifying absence was starkly evident on the deck. The Straw Hats knew one thing with absolute certainty: they would never let anything like this happen to her again.

[hpiiker]

R.E.M || HP²⁵ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ☁️

:: HPIIKER’S PROFILE || my inbox is open! 📨

:: kinda fluffy, kinda smutty, kinda warm & kinda all over the place! just a headcanon of streamer!you x hasan piker being cute and all, during your time off and on stream⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

:: inspired by the song, R.E.M by ariana grande ｡𖦹°‧

— chat loves it when you walk into hasan’s streams, wether that’s for kaya, hasan or to retrieve something that you left behind. hasan would 100000000% be sitting there with such a shit-eating grin with you walking around him, wether you’re making conversation with him or not lmfao. or complete blindsided by how stunning you look !!!!

— we all know his love languages are acts of service and quality time!! this himbo LOVVVVES feeling all warm n fuzzy inside whenever he’s next to you or spending any second with you. wether that’s irl streaming, date night, being in the same room, or bed🙂‍↔️

— austin would be over the MOON about you two, he’s a proud gay uncle 🙂‍↕️. same with valkyrae, she’s such a happy person for you. there’s so many moments whenever you’re on valkyrae’s stream. she’s loves hearing you talk about how much you’re in love with hasan. she’s would be grinning so much and would be constantly saying, “you guys are so cute!”, or “i’m so proud of you and you guys!” she would say in the most sincere and kindest tone ever 💛

— i can imagine a moment where you two are on a getaway holiday, it’s currently the evening, the sun is setting and it feels so warm and light outside on the beach.

you guys were the last people to be on the beach all day, everyone else around you guys were packing up their items and heading back to their hotel rooms. you slowly arise from your sunbed, after falling asleep in the sun for a while. well, on the other hand, there’s hasan… laying on his front. sand stuck to sole of his feet from taking regular dips in the sea, his freckles making more of a vast appearances scattered across face, along with a beautiful bronze fade across his skin from being tanned in the sun for so long.

you could hear a few light snores every few minutes coming from him, you love how comfortable and warm he is around your presence. after few minutes passed, you pushed yourself off your sun-bed and took a few steps to hasan’s bed and you quietly bent you knees to be at his level, while gently kissing his hair to slowly wake him up to see if hasan wanted to take another dip in the sea to cool off.

as you gave him a small smooch, he turned his head side to side, waking up in a warm but confused trance. until he saw your face and instantly turned his body around to sit up straight, “yeah sure, sweetheart!” he said in a delightful expression. as he moved his body up against your’s, he engulfed you into the most coziest, affable hug ever. looking down at you with the most intense and pure smile painted upon his lips. after you two stood there for a few seconds in his melted atmosphere, hasan took a step back to let you lead the way towards the sea. hasan catches up with reaching his hands to rest around you shoulder. as the two you were making your way towards the sea, hasan is instantly captivated by you glistening in the sun. he lightly smiles to himself, “i don’t think you realize how much i dislike the sea…” hasan stated in a worried but playful tone. “we’re only going hips deep, well, you’re going hips deep. i’m going fully in” you replied playfully. after hasan was finally adjusting to the cold temperatures of the sea. hasan is in a deep trance, he completely sweeps you off your feet and smothers you in kisses, up and around chest to the top of your head. he’s drops your legs while holding you upper body, burying his prickly beard into your neck. he definitely doesn’t want to leave this place.

— jesus, my eyes hurt after typing all of that LMFAOOO

— he loves cooking for you, wether that’s literally him cooking his chicken and rice…

— i can imagine another scenario where it’s his basketball stream for raising money for palestine. there’s a moment in background of you messing about with him shooting hoops. you’re obviously shorter than him and your trying to “distract” him with jumping in front of him and he’s just absolutely laughing to himself with how stupid you’re trying to distract him😭. “good try, i can still get my hoops in… *he’s stated as he gets another hoops count higher, see?” while spreading out his arms, making an impressed smile at you. you just stood there, in disbelief… after he runs after the ball. hasan comes swing back around with his arm, embracing you into a quick snuggle, kissing up and down your neck to your collorbone while smiling.

— there’s SO MANY minuscule moments whenever it’s late at night, etched into each other’s souls.

— you, kaya, and hasan falling asleep on the settee together for the night

— you, hasan and kaya going for a early, misty, cold, winter’s morning walks

— you’re just simply standing there while he cups your face and kisses your face all over

— late night cooking/baking together

— you and hasan rocking side to side together, in a long and warm hug. you two kissing every few minutes while your kids are sitting, watching through the stair’s platform bannisters, all screaming “stop kissingggg!!” they all giggled in unison <33 “you kids, don’t realize how lucky i am!” you turn your head back to hasan , knowing where the night was gonna end to…

— WE’RE GETTING SMUTTY AND DIRTY IN HEREEEE

— he’s a SUCKER for thigh riding him, he’s love with you moans and groan while firmly gripping onto your hips. moving them forward and backwards, speeding up and then slowly down to get the ultimate results with you.

— you’ve been cooked for, fed for, danced for, thin white candles are lit, dotting around your guys’ bedroom, ambient lighting, window cracked enough for the musk of sex to edged up into the bedroom’s air but enough for the fresh air to dilute back in. hasan carries you, in his arms, towards the bedroom. of course he’s dominating your care with him closing the bedroom door, propping you up on the bed, kissing and touching you. all while, he’s unraveling your clothes and tossing them towards the bedroom’s armchair. he slowly lowers himself down to your hot, achy pool of arousment. “spread them legs-“ without hesitation, you slowly pull your legs apart revealing your pussy, ready to be devoured.

— to be honest, he’s love with you and would be anything and do anything to have sex with you… it’s not like he already does…

— if your ask him to have sex with you or him to simply finger you or eat you out. there not damn hesitation 😭

— he loves it when it’s late night where you’re horny but still sleepy, you’re rubbing up and down on him, he’s* consensually! carefully and slowly drags you in between his legs. he’s pulled off your underwear, showing a pulsing, hot, achy pussy ready to be pleased by him. it start with him playing with you boobs and nipples, massaging them and softly squeezing them to test out your strength against his hands, hasan lower his hands more. his long, thick fingers are tracing up and down to cause more of a rift between your lips, he dips the tips of his fingertips to add more lubricant towards the clit as he slowly speeds up and slows down rubbing your clit in a circular motion. after he’s stimulated your clit with it pulsing up and down cause a contraction with your g spot as you moan drastically into his neck and ear. hasan drags his middle and index fingers into you, you could feel him cold wedding band against your clit, reminding you of theses moment of why you married this sex symbol.

[humaling]

Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick came back a different man. after weeks of silence and indifference, you find a locket in his cot—a reminder that maybe not everything is lost.

warnings: very angsty!! mentions of torture, the usual hunger games

word count: 9.4k

author's note: very angsty. hopeful ending tho. i feel absolutely depressed since i was broken up with and needed a way to cope so i wrote this

How do you grieve someone who still breathes? Who still walks beside you, whose laughter drifts through the corridors like the tide, whose scent lingers in the air like salt on the breeze? How do you mourn a soul that hasn’t left—only drifted too far from shore to reach?

You search for him in the waves of memory, in the warmth that once lived in sea-green eyes now as distant as the horizon. Those eyes used to anchor you, a harbor of safety in the storm. Now they are nothing but glass—cold, unreadable, unfeeling.

You tell yourself to wait. Tides change. Currents shift. He will come back to you. But as the days melt into weeks, the shoreline erodes beneath your feet.

And in the quiet hours, when the ocean is still and your thoughts are too loud, the truth creeps in like a rising tide.

What if the man you love has already drowned?

You sit in the farthest corner of District 13’s massive cafeteria, a space large enough to hold a thousand soldiers. The wall behind you is cold and unyielding, pressing against your back like a ghost of something long gone. You feel just as hollow.

Around you, people gather in clusters, voices weaving together in conversation, laughter spilling from their lips as if there isn’t a war raging beyond these walls. As if their world hasn’t already been splintered apart.

To your right, Primrose Everdeen speaks softly, her voice carrying the weight of quiet sorrow. She tells you something about the medical bay—about Peeta—but the words barely reach you. They drift past like foam on the surface of the water, light and inconsequential, while you are caught in the undertow, dragged somewhere deeper. Somewhere darker.

Your mind is tethered to someone across the room.

Bronze hair, sea-green eyes—the color of the ocean at dawn, just before the sun touches it. The color of home.

You know what that skin feels like beneath your fingertips, warm and smooth, shifting over muscle that tenses like a pulled fishing net. You know the ridges of his scars, carved into him like the grooves of driftwood battered by relentless waves. The roughness of his palms, the gentleness of his hands—hands that once traced circles over your skin as if mapping out a place to return to.

You know he sleeps best when sprawled out, like a starfish on wet sand, limbs stretched wide to keep the nightmares at bay. That he hoards the blankets like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood. That he needs exactly five pillows when he sleeps alone, building a fragile fortress against the dark. That his fingers move with effortless precision when tying a knot, quick and deft, like a fisherman who has done it a thousand times before.

And you remember his laughter—the deep, rich timbre of it, rolling over you like the tide. You remember the way his voice drops to a lower octave when he wants something, as steady and unshakable as the ocean in a storm.

You remember everything.

And yet, right now, he feels like a stranger.

Maybe he is a stranger. Maybe that’s all he’s ever been. A ghost of someone who drowned long ago. A boy lost at sea, swept too far by currents neither of you could fight. A stranger with sea-green eyes that once cradled the sunlight and now hold nothing but the vast, endless cold of the deep.

Your heart sinks. Not breaks—it’s already done that. It shattered three weeks ago in the medical bay, splintering like a ship dashed against jagged rocks. His gaze—once warm, once yours—turned to ice. His voice—once a melody—lashed at you like saltwater in an open wound, venom laced between every syllable.

And now, whatever is left of your heart sinks further, past your ribs, past your stomach, past anything human, until it is nothing but flotsam on a restless tide.

You never thought it was possible to mourn the living. To grieve someone whose heart still beats, whose hands still move, whose voice still carries. But here you are, swallowing salt, lungs filling with something heavier than water. Wearing a jumpsuit that doesn’t fit quite right. Picking at food that tastes like sand. Sitting in a dim, lifeless room, playing babysitter.

Loss upon loss, and yet—somehow—there’s still more to lose.

~

“They’re here.”

Katniss’ voice ricochets off the walls, sharp and breathless. You snap your head up instantly, fingers freezing around the knot you were tying. She stands in the doorway, chest heaving, breath ragged like she’s been running—or like the weight of those two words is too much to bear alone.

You stare, pupils blown wide, the meaning slipping through your fingers like grains of sand before she speaks again, firmer this time.

“They’re back.”

The words crash over you like a wave, and suddenly, you’re moving.

Your body surges forward before your mind can catch up, feet pounding against the cold floors, the world narrowing to a single thought. Finnick. He’s back. He’s here. He’s alive.

Finnick is alive.

You don’t look back to see if Katniss follows. You don’t hear anything but the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart like a war drum. The world around you is a blur of gray walls and fluorescent light, too bright, too sterile, too detached from the wild chaos inside you.

You shove past people in the hall, muttering apologies you don’t really mean, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The scent of medicine and metal seeps into your lungs, and somewhere ahead, voices carry through the air—familiar, distant, pulling you forward like a rip current.

Your heart slams against your ribs, pounding like waves against jagged rocks, relentless and unforgiving. The roar of blood in your ears muffles everything else, reducing the world to a single, all-consuming thought—Finnick. Finnick, who is here. Finnick, who is alive. Finnick, who will be in your arms again, where he belongs, where he has always belonged.

You think about the words you will say when you finally reach him, when your hands find his skin, when the unbearable distance between you ceases to exist. You will tell him that you love him, that you will never leave him again, not for anything, not for anyone. You will tell him that you are sorry, that you tried, that you fought, that you did everything in your power to bring him back before they could break him. You will tell him that District 13 is no better than the Capitol, that their president is nothing but another tyrant wrapped in the illusion of revolution, that this place is suffocating, a prison disguised as salvation.

But then you see him, and everything inside you goes still.

He sits on the edge of the medical bed, his back turned to you, his shoulders hunched in a way that feels entirely wrong. The sharp curve of his spine is more pronounced, his posture heavy with something you cannot name. A nurse stands beside him, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm, but he does not move, does not acknowledge her, does not seem fully present in his own body. There is something unnatural in the way he holds himself, something that unsettles you, that makes your stomach twist in a sick, sinking way.

You try to tell yourself that this is normal, that exhaustion clings to him like seaweed tangled around an anchor, that of course he is different after everything he has endured. You tell yourself that the unease slithering through you is nothing more than hunger, that six hours without food is enough to make your body feel strange, that the nausea building inside you has nothing to do with the way his head remains bowed.

You force yourself to push the feeling down, to breathe past the doubt and the fear clawing at the back of your mind.

“Finnick.” His name leaves your lips on an exhale, soft and desperate, like the rush of air from a drowning man finally breaking the surface.

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the relief that crashes over you is instant, a tide that swallows every doubt, every hesitation, every ache you have carried since the moment he was taken. You barely register the stiffness in his movements before your body is closing the distance, arms wrapping around him, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though he might slip through your grasp if you let go. The scent of antiseptic clings to him instead of salt, the sterile air of the medical bay stripping him of the warmth you have always known, but it does not matter. He is here. He is real.

“You’re really here,” you whisper against the curve of his neck, voice breaking under the weight of emotion pressing against your ribs. “I thought—” But the words catch in your throat, lost to the sheer relief of having him in your arms again.

His body remains rigid beneath your touch, his muscles locked so tightly that you can feel the tension humming through him like a wire stretched too thin. The longer you hold him, the more you become aware of the way he does not lean into you, the way he does not return your embrace.

A frown tugs at your brows as you slowly pull back, hands settling gently on his shoulders, careful not to press too hard. Your eyes search his face, scanning every feature, trying to find something familiar, something safe, something that tells you he is still him. His jaw is set in a sharp line, his lips pressed together in a firm, unsmiling press. His brows are drawn, a deep crease forming between them, but it is not exhaustion that shapes his expression. It is not relief. It is something colder, something harder, something unrecognizable.

His eyes, the ones that once held warmth, the ones that once softened when they met yours, the ones that always carried the unspoken promise of home, are different now. The sea-green depths that used to hold so much tenderness have darkened, the waves receding, leaving nothing behind but cold, empty waters.

“Finnick?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as your thumb moves to brush against his cheek, aching to ground yourself in something, anything, that feels familiar.

The second your skin grazes his, he flinches.

The reaction is small, a brief, involuntary jerk, but it is enough to send ice flooding through your veins, enough to make the air in your lungs turn sharp and unforgiving. Your mouth parts, the words forming somewhere deep in your throat, but they never make it past your lips. What could you even say? What could you possibly say when the worst thing you have ever feared is unfolding right in front of you?

Before you can find an answer, before you can even begin to process the chasm opening between you, his hands press against your shoulders, and he pushes you away.

The force of it knocks you off balance, sending you stumbling back, feet tripping over nothing, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch yourself. The impact never comes. Someone catches you before you hit the ground, steady hands gripping your arms, but your mind barely registers the touch.

Finnick is already on his feet, his body moving with frantic, clumsy urgency as he rips the IV from his arm, the tubing snapping loose, blood welling in the space where the needle once sat. He does not seem to notice, does not seem to care.

Then he turns to you, and whatever remains of your world shatters into pieces so small, you know you will never be able to put them back together again.

There is no recognition in his gaze, no softness, no warmth, no love. There is only anger, sharp and seething, festering beneath the surface like a wound left to rot. There is only hatred, raw and consuming, filling the space where something else—something beautiful, something yours—used to be. There is only indifference, cold and unyielding, cutting through you like the tide swallowing the last breath of a drowning man.

“Finnick?” You call out again, your voice cracking as you struggle to regain your footing, your limbs trembling beneath the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. The distance between you feels vast, an ocean you cannot cross, a current too strong to fight against.

Your hands move frantically at your sides, grasping at nothing, unsure of what to do, what to say, how to make sense of what is unfolding in front of you. What do you do when the man you love—the man who once held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable—now looks at you as if you are nothing?

Finnick’s lips part, and the scoff that escapes is sharp, cruel, void of anything familiar. “Don’t act like you’re so glad to see me.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving, but it is the way his words land that truly destroys you. They slice through your heart without hesitation, leaving gashes so deep you do not know if they will ever heal. The coldness in his tone, the sheer venom laced between each syllable, is enough to send your stomach twisting violently, enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse stutter.

You shake your head, your throat tightening as you struggle to make sense of it, to piece together something—anything—that could explain why he is looking at you like you are nothing more than a stranger, an enemy, something to be loathed. “Finnick… I don’t—” The words falter on your tongue, because how do you ask why? How do you demand answers when you are too terrified to hear them?

His expression twists into something cruel, something mocking, something that makes the ground beneath you feel unsteady. “You don’t what?” he sneers, taking a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with prey. “You don’t understand? You don’t get why I wouldn’t be happy to see you?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound dripping with something bitter, something tainted. “That’s funny. You, of all people, pretending to be clueless.”

The words don’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense. He is here. He is alive. He is back. So why does it feel like you are losing him all over again?

“Finnick, please,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I did.”

His expression darkens, his eyes flashing with something unreadable before his lips curl into a smirk, but there is nothing warm about it. It is hollow, cruel, a mockery of the smiles you once knew. “You don’t know?” He scoffs again, shaking his head. “That’s rich. That’s really rich.”

You reach for him, a desperate attempt to find something familiar, something that will bring you back to the Finnick you know, the Finnick who once traced the lines of your palms like they held the universe, the Finnick who pressed sleepy kisses to your shoulder in the early hours of the morning, the Finnick who whispered that he loved you like it was the only thing that ever mattered. But the moment your fingers so much as brush his arm, he jerks away as if your touch burns him.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, thick and suffocating. “Why are you doing this?” The words are barely more than a breath, shaky and broken, but they are all you can manage.

Finnick’s jaw tightens, his hands clenched into fists at his sides before his eyes meet yours again, his gaze colder than you have ever seen it. The weight of it crashes over you like a tidal wave, dragging you under, deeper and deeper, until all you can feel is the crushing force of the words he says next.

“Because I hate you.”

Your breath catches. Your body goes still. The world around you seems to blur at the edges, fading into nothing but the space between you and him.

No.

No, he doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean that.

But there is no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of doubt, no trace of the Finnick you know beneath the loathing that twists his features.

“You left me,” he says, voice steady, but laced with something bitter, something sharp enough to cut. “You left me there to die.”

Your head shakes before you even realize it, rejection spilling from your lips as if saying the words would make them true. “No. No, I—” Your voice wavers, breaking apart at the seams, but you swallow down the panic rising in your throat. “Finnick, that’s not true. I would never—”

His laughter is quiet, mirthless, like the hollow echo of waves against a broken shore. “Liar.” He exclaims, running a hand through his hair as if the very sight of you is exhausting. “I know what we were. What you were.” His eyes darken, and the next words come like a final nail in the coffin. “You were using me.”

Your breath shudders out of you, unsteady and uneven, but the ache in your chest only worsens as he continues, unrelenting. “I was nothing more than a means to an end, wasn’t I?” His voice is eerily calm, his gaze cold and unreadable. “All of it—the whispers, the stolen moments, the way you looked at me like I was something worth saving—it was never real. You had a motive, and I was too much of a fool to see it.”

Your entire body feels like it’s trembling, but you force yourself to move, to step closer, to reach for him as if you can pull him back from whatever abyss they’ve shoved him into. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “That’s not true, and you know that.”

He flinches away from your touch. Not violently, not aggressively, but in a way that hurts even more. As if your hands on him are unbearable. As if you are unbearable.

Your heart clenches so tightly it feels like it might collapse in on itself. “Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You’re breaking my heart.”

For the briefest of moments, something flickers across his expression. Something fleeting, something fragile. But it’s gone before you can grasp onto it, swallowed by the tide of whatever poison they’ve fed him.

His lips part, but no words come, only the silence stretching between you, cold and merciless.

Tears slip down your cheeks, hot against the numbness settling into your bones. You shake your head, refusing to let this be real, refusing to accept that the boy who once held you like you were his whole world now looks at you like you are nothing more than a ghost of something he wishes he could forget.

“I would never leave you there to die.” Your voice is hoarse, raw, carved from something deeper than heartbreak.

But Finnick only looks at you like he doesn’t believe you.

Finnick exhales, slow and sharp, like he’s trying to hold something in—something dangerous, something volatile. His hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching as if itching to lash out, to grab onto something, to make this feeling stop.

“They told me everything,” he murmurs, and there’s something distant about the way he says it, like he’s reciting a fact, like he’s just now realizing the full weight of it. “How you left me in that arena. How you saved yourself and let me suffer.” His sea-green eyes bore into you, darkened with something cruel, something unbearable. “I should’ve died there. I would’ve died there if I was lucky.”

Your throat tightens. His words are salt in an open wound, stinging, burning, seeping into the rawest parts of you. You shake your head, stepping closer, reaching out despite the way he flinches. “Finnick, please. That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He won’t hear you. His voice rises, every syllable heavier than the last, suffocating in its weight. “You let them take me.” The accusation slices through the air, through you, straight to the marrow of your bones. “You let them drag me away, and now you think you can stand here and pretend like you care? Like you ever cared at all?”

“I do care,” you whisper, but it’s drowned out by the storm unraveling in front of you.

Finnick’s breathing grows unsteady, his body taut like a wire stretched too thin, fraying at the edges. His fists clench and unclench, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting something unseen, something warring inside of him. His shoulders tremble, his entire frame locked in battle with itself, with the ghosts clawing at his mind.

“Get away from me.” His voice is lower now, raw and laced with something just shy of a snarl. “I can’t—” He swallows thickly, his breath coming out harsh and uneven. “I can’t be around you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your limbs feel heavy, your skin ice-cold, but you force yourself to stand your ground. “Finnick, I’m not leaving you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, fragile and desperate. “Not now. Not ever.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something you want to believe is hesitation, but before you can reach for him again, a firm hand clasps around your upper arm.

“Come on,” a voice urges—one of the soldiers, firm but not unkind.

You try to shake them off, to dig your heels into the floor, but Finnick’s gaze stops you in your tracks. The way his expression twists, the way his body shakes as his breathing grows erratic—it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“Get her out of here,” another voice commands.

“No, wait,” you plead, struggling as the grip on your arm tightens, as another set of hands joins the first, dragging you back, forcing distance between you and him.

Finnick stumbles back, his chest heaving, his hands threading into his hair like he’s trying to rip something out of himself. His entire body quivers, like a wave cresting too high, about to break.

Your own body thrashes against the hold keeping you away from him. “Finnick, please, listen to me! It wasn’t like that! You have to believe me!”

But he isn’t looking at you anymore. He turns away, his breathing sharp, his entire frame locked in place as if afraid to move, afraid to break.

And then you’re gone—hauled through the doorway, dragged down the hall, your screams swallowed by the sterile walls of District 13.

The last thing you see before the doors shut is Finnick, hunched over, hands gripping his head, like he’s drowning in a tide he cannot escape.

~

You sat with Haymitch outside of Katniss’ room, the dim, sterile hall stretching endlessly in front of you. The air was thick with something suffocating, something you couldn’t name—grief, maybe. Or something worse.

Apparently, Peeta was in the same condition as Finnick. Hijacked. Twisted. Warped. Their minds were tampered with, their memories poisoned, their love rewritten into something unrecognizable. Snow had not only taken them—he had turned them into weapons, sharpened and honed for one singular purpose.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Finnick despised you now, or the gnawing, gut-wrenching fear that the Finnick you once knew might never come back.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your knees to your chest. Your fingers curled and uncurled, your wrists rolling to shake off the numbness, to rid yourself of the ghost of his touch—the rigidness of his body beneath your hands, the way he flinched at your presence like you were something vile, something rotten. It made your skin crawl. Not because of him. Never because of him.

Because of what they did to him.

Because of the way you made him feel.

“It’s not your fault.” Haymitch’s voice cut through the silence, rough and low, but not unkind.

You turned your head to look at him, at the wreck of a man beside you. Haymitch looked like hell—more so than usual. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but beneath it, there was something else. A deep, quiet horror. Like he had seen this before. Lived it. Survived it, but barely.

You had heard the stories. What the Capitol did to him. What he endured in his games, and after.

Your throat tightened, a bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “Should’ve been me.” Your voice was hoarse, raw from screaming, from pleading with someone who no longer wanted to hear it.

Haymitch scoffed, pulling a flask from God-knows-where, twisting it in his hands before taking a swig. “No, it shouldn’t have.” He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared ahead, gaze locked on something distant, something only he could see. “You wouldn’t have lasted long enough in there.”

Your jaw clenched, a protest forming on your tongue, but he cut you off before you could speak.

“You don’t have the mind for it. The will for it. You’d break faster than Peeta. Hell, maybe worse.” He finally turned his head, meeting your gaze, his gray eyes softer than you had ever seen them. It unsettled you more than his usual cynicism.

You sucked in a breath, tilting your head back against the cold, lifeless wall. Your eyes burned as you bit down on your lip, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape. Your heart ached, a deep, gnawing pain that felt like drowning, like being dragged under a current too strong to fight.

It was unbearable. Unyielding. You didn’t know how to deal with it. You weren’t sure you ever would.

Haymitch sighed, running a tired hand down his face before taking another sip. “It’s a process, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “But you need to hang on. For both of you.”

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, gripping the fabric so tightly it might tear. He was right. You hated that he was right.

And you hated that, despite everything, despite the venom in Finnick’s voice and the ice in his eyes, you would wait for him as long as it took.

~

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders squared, as if bracing for a fight that will never come. As if standing like this, standing strong, will keep you from falling apart.

Your gaze is fixed on Finnick’s chest, on the slow, steady rise and fall that proves he is still here, still breathing. He looks peaceful like this. Almost untouched by everything that has happened, everything that has been done to him.

But you know better.

His fingers twitch from time to time, grasping at something unseen, someone unseen. A phantom touch. A memory slipping through his grasp.

You stay where you are, unmoving, barely breathing, watching him from a distance. Is this what it will be now? Is this all you’ll have left? Watching him from afar, knowing the only time he’ll ever look peaceful is when he’s unconscious? Knowing that the moment he stirs, it’s because of the nightmares?

Something acidic rises in your throat, burning, bitter, unbearable. The taste of grief, maybe. The taste of something you cannot name, something that twists your insides and leaves you hollow. You swallow it down, but it lingers, coating your tongue, settling deep inside you.

You hate this. You hate all of it.

All you want is to be in his arms, to lay your head against his chest and pretend that the world isn’t burning above you. Pretend that nothing has changed. Pretend that he still loves you.

But you stay in the doorway, feet rooted to the cold, unforgiving ground. Watching from a distance. Because that is all you have now. This is all you have now.

Footsteps echo softly against the cold floor, breaking the silence that has settled around you like a heavy fog. The sudden sound startles you, your body tensing as you instinctively turn on your heel, your fists clenching at your sides, ready to strike if necessary. But the moment your eyes catch the familiar cascade of long auburn hair, your shoulders ease, the fight within you slipping away just as quickly as it had risen.

Annie stands a few feet away, hesitant but unwavering, a quiet understanding reflected in the softness of her expression. There’s no pity in her gaze—only recognition, as if she knows exactly what kind of storm is brewing inside you without you having to say a word. A small, tentative smile tugs at her lips, a gesture so simple yet filled with warmth.

"It’s been a while, hasn’t it?" she says, her voice gentle, lacking the weight of expectation. She isn’t here to force words from you or demand answers you don’t have the strength to give. She is simply here.

You study her for a moment, unsure how to respond, as if the simple acknowledgment of time passing feels like an admission of how much has changed. Eventually, you nod, the motion slow, measured. "Yeah, it has," you murmur, your voice carrying the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered questions.

Annie doesn’t waver, doesn’t take the hint to leave you to your silence. Instead, she steps forward, closing the space between you in a way that isn’t intrusive, only familiar. She settles beside you, mirroring your posture as she leans lightly against the wall, her presence steady and unshaken.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your gaze cautious, guarded. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t probe. She only offers a quiet reassurance that you hadn’t realized you needed.

"Relax," she murmurs, as if sensing the lingering tension coiled in your muscles. "It’s just me."

Her words should be meaningless, just a simple reassurance, but somehow, they carry weight. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tightness in your chest easing—if only just a little.

Annie doesn’t expect you to talk. She just stays, letting the silence stretch between you in a way that feels less suffocating, less lonely.

Annie stands beside you, silent at first, her fingers idly twisting at the fabric of her sleeve. The air between you is heavy, thick with unspoken words, yet neither of you rushes to break it. The weight of everything—of what’s happened, of what’s still happening—lingers between breaths, settling deep in the space where grief and exhaustion intertwine.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but steady, as if she has rehearsed the words in her mind too many times before. “They kept me locked in a room without windows.” She doesn’t look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present, lost in a memory she can’t escape. “At first, it was just isolation. No light, no sound. Just me and the walls. I don’t know how long they left me there before they started asking questions.”

You don’t say anything. You barely breathe.

“They didn’t care about me,” she continues, voice devoid of emotion, like she’s reciting something detached from herself. “They wanted Finnick. Wanted to know how much he knew, how much he’d be willing to trade for me.” Her fingers curl around the hem of her sleeve, twisting it tighter. “I told them he didn’t know anything, but they didn’t believe me. They kept saying he would talk if he knew what was happening to me. If he thought they’d kill me.”

A sick feeling crawls up your throat. You grip your arms, trying to steady yourself.

Annie exhales slowly, as if forcing the weight of those memories from her chest. “But they weren’t just trying to break him. They were breaking all of us.” Her voice tightens slightly, but she pushes on. “Johanna—she fought them at first. Wouldn’t give them what they wanted. They stripped her of everything, piece by piece, until she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, trying to steel yourself against the wave of emotions threatening to pull you under.

“And Peeta…” Annie hesitates. “I never saw him, but I heard him. Sometimes, in the halls. The way he screamed… I knew they were doing something different to him. Something worse.” She finally looks at you, her green eyes filled with something raw, something fragile yet unbreakable. “They weren’t just hurting him. They were remaking him.”

A sharp, searing pain twists in your chest.

You shake your head, trying to will away the image of Peeta trapped in the Capitol, his mind being twisted into something unrecognizable. “And Finnick?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it, your voice barely above a whisper.

Annie hesitates, and that hesitation alone is enough to make your stomach drop.

“When they realized they couldn’t break him, they made him believe something worse,” she says finally, her voice so soft it’s almost lost beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights. “They made him believe you left him there. That you abandoned him.”

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“They told him you were never really on his side. That you used him. That he was nothing more than a tool to you.” Annie shakes her head, jaw tightening.

A sharp, visceral pain shoots through your chest, so intense that for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Annie notices. “I don’t believe it,” she says quickly. “And I don’t think—deep down—he does either. But they got inside his head. They took everything he was feeling and twisted it.”

Your vision blurs as a lump lodges itself in your throat. You’ve always imagined the worst, always wondered what they must have done to him, but hearing it like this makes it real. Makes it undeniable.

Your nails dig into your arms as you force the words out, your voice barely holding together. “I would never leave him.”

Annie’s expression softens, but there’s something pained in the way she looks at you. “I know that. You know that. But Finnick… Finnick isn’t himself right now.” She hesitates before adding, “That doesn’t mean he’s lost forever.”

But what if he is? What if the Finnick you love, the Finnick who loves you, is gone?

“I should have—” Your voice breaks, and you shake your head, unable to even finish the thought.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Annie says, her voice firm despite its softness. “Nothing any of us could have done.”

But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like you failed him. Like you lost him.

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to keep the tears at bay. “I just want him back.” The words come out fragile, almost childlike. “The real him.”

Annie’s expression softens. “So do I,” she murmurs. “And I think, when all of this is over, he’ll find his way back.”

Neither of you speaks after that. There’s nothing left to say.

Instead, you both stand there, side by side, drowning in the weight of everything that’s been taken from you.

~

It has been a month since Finnick and the others were rescued. A month of waiting, of hoping, of slowly unraveling under the weight of what has been lost. Finnick and Annie were cleared after two weeks. Johanna still has one more week under observation. And Peeta—Peeta is making no progress at all.

You visit Annie and Johanna most often. It feels easier, in a way. Johanna makes jokes sharp enough to slice through your grief, her bitterness grounding you when you start to spiral. Annie doesn’t say much, but when she looks at you, there is an understanding in her gaze that makes it easier to breathe. Even in silence, she sees you. She sees the way you are trying to move forward, to convince yourself that there is still something ahead of you and not just the gaping void Finnick’s indifference has left behind.

But every conversation ends the same way. No matter how much you pretend, no matter how much you try to stitch yourself back together, you always end up right where you started—wallowing in the emptiness, drowning in the cold distance Finnick has placed between you. Every moment without him feels stretched thin, an unbearable ache that never eases. The man you love is right there, close enough to touch, but it might as well be miles. He does not look at you. He does not speak to you. And if he does, it is with an apathy that cuts deeper than any blade.

Sometimes, when the weight of it becomes too much, you visit Peeta. Maybe because you think if you can bring him back, there’s hope for Finnick too. Maybe because you need to see what the Capitol did to him—to both of them—to remind yourself that this isn’t your fault. But Peeta isn’t Peeta. He flinches when Katniss’ name is mentioned, his voice is sharp, and his words are laced with venom. And yet, all you can see is Finnick.

You see it in the way Peeta looks at Katniss like she is the enemy, the same way Finnick now looks at you. You see it in the way his hands curl into fists when she enters the room, the same way Finnick tenses whenever you are near. You see it in the way his voice is edged with something hollow, something broken, something that does not belong to him. And you remember. You remember the cold detachment in Finnick’s eyes, the way his hands no longer cradle your face but push you away, the way his words are no longer laced with warmth but with quiet, unshakable hatred.

It makes your skin crawl. Makes you want to run. Makes you want to claw at your own chest and rip out whatever it is inside you that still dares to hope. You wish this was just a nightmare, something fleeting, something you could wake up from. But there is no waking up from this. There is only time. And with every passing day, Finnick becomes less of the man you loved and more of a stranger wearing his face.

So you tell yourself that whoever came back isn’t him. That the Finnick you love is still somewhere out there, lost in the wreckage of what the Capitol did to him. That this man—the one who won’t meet your gaze, the one who does not say your name, the one who acts as if you are nothing—is an impostor. A hollow thing trying to be him. Because that is easier than accepting the truth.

Because the truth is, if Finnick is truly gone, you do not know how to keep going without him.

Maybe that’s why everything is starting to blur, the edges of the world dulling into shades of gray. Nothing feels sharp anymore, nothing feels real. You’ve stopped trying to move forward. Instead, you let the grief sink its claws into you, dragging you under, hoping—maybe even begging—that it swallows you whole. Anything to keep from waking up another day, from dragging yourself through the motions, from existing in a world where everything you do, everything you see, everything you feel is stained with the absence of him.

You speak less. See people less. The days pass without meaning, slipping through your fingers like sand. Most of your time is spent in silence, lying on the stiff mattress of your bunker, staring at the ceiling, waiting. For what, you don’t know. Maybe for Finnick. Maybe for something else. Maybe for nothing at all.

But no matter how much you try to numb yourself, no matter how much you try to pretend it doesn’t tear you apart, the truth still sits in the hollow of your chest, pressing against your ribs like a caged scream.

You don’t last like this forever. Although you wish you had. But Coin doesn’t let opportunities slip through her fingers, especially not when she sees potential. And you? You’re efficient. You know weapons, you know how to track, how to move unnoticed. That makes you useful.

So she forces you out of your bunker, shoving you into training, into preparation, until suddenly, you’re being sent out on expeditions. To hunt, to kill, to spy. It doesn’t matter. You don’t ask questions. You just get the job done. Because what else is there to do?

Of course, the others notice. Katniss has been trying to get you to talk, to tell her what Coin is making you do. You learn, unwillingly, that she’s being forced to make propaganda films to strengthen the revolution. The idea of it makes you want to laugh. What difference does a camera make when people are already dying?

But it’s Haymitch who’s the most persistent. And that surprises you.

At first, you assume it’s just boredom. He doesn’t have alcohol to drown himself in, so maybe he’s looking for something else to pass the time. But the more he seeks you out, the more you realize it’s something deeper. He watches you too closely, the way your hands stay clenched at your sides, the way you don’t sleep, the way you barely eat. He sees through you.

And he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Come on, sweetheart, we both know what she’s doing,” Haymitch mutters one day, cornering you outside the training room. “She’s using you up until there’s nothing left.”

You scoff, shouldering past him. “You say that like I have anything left to begin with.”

He doesn’t let you go so easily. His grip snags your wrist, firm but not forceful, just enough to make you pause. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” His voice is quieter now, but sharper. “You’re letting her turn you into something you don’t even recognize.”

You rip your arm free, glaring. “What do you care?”

Haymitch exhales roughly, raking a hand through his hair. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, he says, “Because I’ve been where you are. And it doesn’t end well.”

You freeze. Something tightens in your chest, but you shove it down, scoffing. “I’m not you.”

“No. You’re not,” Haymitch agrees. “But you’re on the same damn path.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You think if you throw yourself into this, if you bleed enough for the cause, it’ll make up for everything? That it’ll bring him back?”

Your stomach twists violently. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cuts in, relentless. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything? To watch the people you love get taken from you, piece by piece, until you don’t even know who you are anymore?” His jaw tightens, his eyes dark with something old and painful. “I drank myself into oblivion to cope. You? You’re letting Coin use you as a weapon, like that’s any better.”

His words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. Because you know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while now. But admitting it—saying it out loud—that’s something else entirely.

Your throat burns. “You don’t understand.”

“The hell I don’t.” Haymitch shakes his head, exasperated. “You were Mags’ girl. She would’ve died before letting you turn into this.”

Something inside you cracks at that. You whirl on him, rage and grief twisting together. “Mags is dead.”

“And so is Finnick, if you keep this up,” Haymitch snaps back. “Because when he finally does come back to himself, do you think he’s gonna recognize you? Or are you just gonna be another ghost?”

The words hit deeper than you want to admit. A cold, ugly truth settling in your bones.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because the anger, the bitterness, the grief—it’s all rising too fast, threatening to suffocate you. Haymitch sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not saying this to piss you off,” he mutters. “I’m saying it because someone has to.”

You swallow hard, looking away. “So what? You want me to stop?”

“I want you to remember who the hell you are,” Haymitch says. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna lose yourself completely. And I know for a fact Mags didn’t raise you to be some mindless soldier.”

The silence between you is heavy, filled with too many unspoken things. But for the first time in weeks, something inside you stirs. A flicker of something—doubt, regret, maybe even hope.

Haymitch doesn’t push you any further. He just exhales and steps back, giving you space to decide for yourself. “Think about it,” he says, before walking away.

And you do.

For the first time in a long time, you really do.

~

The underground bunker hums with quiet activity, a constant murmur of voices and the soft scuff of boots against the cold floors. The air feels heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of too many people forced into the same confined space. You should be paying attention, listening for updates, but none of it registers. It hasn’t in a long time. Your mind remains distant, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the dull ache of something deeper, something you don’t have the strength to name.

Your feet carry you forward without thought, drawn to a space you shouldn’t be seeking out. Finnick’s cot is just another part of the bunker, another piece of fabric stretched too thin over metal, indistinguishable from the dozens of others. And yet, you always find yourself looking for it, searching for some trace of the past, as if by sheer force of will, you might bring back what has already been lost.

The dim lighting catches on something small resting against the rumpled sheets. A glint of gold, barely noticeable but impossible to ignore. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, stopping you in your tracks before you even realize what it is.

Your fingers close around it almost on instinct, the cool metal familiar against your skin. You don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. The weight of it alone is enough to tell you that this is the same locket, the one you once traced with your fingers on nights when the world felt too vast, too cruel. The one that held a piece of you and a piece of him.

The clasp resists when you try to open it, as if the locket itself is reluctant to reveal its secret, but after a moment, it gives way. Your breath catches the moment you see what’s inside.

Your own face, captured in a moment frozen in time.

The sight of it steals the air from your lungs, a sharp ache blooming in your chest. You knew this locket, knew what it contained, but seeing it here, now, in his possession—it doesn’t make sense. If he believed what they told him, if the Capitol had truly twisted his mind against you, why would he still have this? Why would he keep something that tethered him to you?

Your fingers tighten around the locket, the edges pressing into your palm as if grounding you in reality. For the first time in weeks, doubt begins to take root, curling into something almost dangerous.

A voice breaks through the silence, low and familiar, stopping your thoughts in their tracks.

"Did anyone tell you that touching someone else’s stuff is rude?"

The words send a shock through you, and your breath stutters in your throat. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Finnick.

His tone isn’t harsh, isn’t cold or cutting like you feared it might be. It simply exists, filling the space between you in a way that makes your pulse hammer against your ribs. After everything—after weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending you don’t exist—he’s speaking to you. Acknowledging you.

Slowly, you force yourself to turn, meeting his gaze for the first time since the medical bay. The sight of him knocks the air from your lungs. He looks like himself, and yet not at all. The sharpness of his features remains, the familiar curve of his mouth, the green of his eyes—but there’s something different. The exhaustion clings to him like a second skin, his expression guarded in a way that sends a painful twist through your chest.

For a moment, neither of you move. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant noise of the bunker around you. Then, hesitantly, you lift the locket, the gold catching in the dim light as you hold it between you. His gaze flickers to it, something unreadable passing across his face.

He doesn’t snatch it away, doesn’t shove it into his pocket as if ashamed to have been caught with it. Instead, his fingers brush against the metal, slow and deliberate, before he takes it from your grasp. His thumb traces over the worn surface, lingering over the picture inside, his jaw tightening slightly as he studies it.

You watch him, heart lodged in your throat, afraid to speak and shatter whatever fragile moment has formed between you. For the first time in weeks, something shifts in the space between you—not enough to undo the damage, not enough to bring back what was lost, but enough to spark the faintest flicker of something you thought had been extinguished forever.

"Why do you have it?"

Your voice is quieter than you intended, barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. The question lingers between you, pressing against the silence, desperate for an answer. You need him to say something—anything—that tells you he’s still in there, that beneath all the hatred, all the distance, there’s still a part of him that hasn’t let you go.

Finnick’s brows knit together, his gaze still locked on the locket in his palm as if the answer might be hidden in its worn edges. His fingers tighten around it, thumb tracing the familiar grooves, but he doesn’t speak.

The silence stretches, wrapping around you like a slow-moving tide. The world around you dulls, fading into nothing but the space between you and him. It’s been so long since you’ve had this—just him, just you. Even now, when everything feels different, wrong, broken, you can’t help but reach for what you lost.

Seconds drag into eternity, but you won’t back down. You’ve spent too many weeks pretending you could survive this distance when all you really wanted was to collapse into his arms, to hear him say something that could put you back together again.

Finally, he exhales, the sound barely audible, as if he’s been holding it in for too long. "I don’t know."

His voice is rough, strained, like the words cost him something. For the briefest moment, his eyes soften, something vulnerable flashing through them before it’s gone. He closes them, his lashes brushing against his cheek, his throat moving as he swallows hard.

You watch him carefully, memorizing him all over again. As if you haven’t traced every inch of his face before. As if you don’t already know every scar, every freckle, every shift of emotion that he tries to hide.

He looks exposed beneath your gaze, like the weight of your stare is too much, like he wants to run from it.

“I’ll tell you what,” you say, voice softer than you meant it to be. His eyes open at that, locking onto yours, and for a second, your breath falters. You could drown in that gaze. You always could.

Swallowing, you force yourself to keep steady, to say what you need to say. "Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

"Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

Finnick doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just holds your gaze like he’s caught between disbelief and something else, something heavier. His fingers curl around the locket, his grip tightening for a second before loosening again.

"What truth?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like he’s daring you to say something he won’t be able to ignore.

You take a breath, steadying yourself even as your chest tightens. "That the Capitol didn’t take everything from you."

His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. "You think you know what they did to me?" His laugh is humorless, bitter, the kind that scrapes against old wounds. "You think you understand what’s in my head?"

"I don’t have to understand it to know that this—" you gesture to the locket in his hand, "—means something. That you kept it for a reason."

Finnick exhales sharply, his fingers flexing, his shoulders rising with tension. "Or maybe I just forgot to throw it away."

The words sting, sharp and cruel, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you step closer, closing the space between you. His breath hitches for just a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his body tenses, like he’s fighting something within himself.

"Then do it." Your voice is steady, a challenge. "If it doesn’t mean anything, if I don’t mean anything, then throw it away."

Finnick says nothing. His grip tightens around the locket again, but his hand doesn’t move.

Your throat feels tight, but you press on. "I know you, Finnick. I spent nights tracing your scars on your skin, and so did you. And I know that no matter what they did to you, no matter what they forced into your head, some part of you still remembers."

His breath is uneven now, his gaze flickering away, like he can’t bear to look at you.

"Tell me I don’t matter," you say, voice softer now, almost pleading. "Tell me that locket doesn’t mean anything. And I’ll leave you alone."

Finnick stares at the locket in his palm, shoulders drawn tight like he’s caught in a battle you can’t see. His fingers hover over the clasp, as if debating whether to close it, tuck it away, or crush it in his grip. But he does none of those things. Instead, he just stands there, the weight of your words pressing down on him like an anchor.

You wait, heart hammering against your ribs, but he doesn’t speak.

"Finnick." You take another step, your voice softer now, hesitant. "Please."

His jaw clenches. "You think this changes anything?"

"It changes everything," you counter. "You’ve been pretending I don’t exist, but you kept this. Why?"

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes, something that makes your stomach twist painfully. "I don’t know," he admits, and for the first time since he came back, he sounds… lost.

It guts you more than the indifference ever did.

You don’t realize you’ve reached for his hand until your fingers brush against his. His skin is warm, familiar, but he flinches like you’ve burned him. He doesn’t pull away, though. Doesn’t shove you aside like you half expect him to.

"You do know," you whisper.

His breath shudders as he finally lifts his gaze to yours. The exhaustion clings to his face, but beneath it, there’s something else—a flicker of recognition, of a battle waging inside him.

"You said if I told you that locket doesn’t mean anything, you’d leave me alone." His voice is quieter now, almost hesitant.

You nod, forcing yourself to hold steady, even as your chest tightens. "I meant it."

Finnick swallows, gaze dropping to the locket again. His thumb brushes over the worn gold, over the tiny latch that guards your picture inside. Another long silence stretches between you, the tension pulling tight, suffocating.

Then, finally—so quiet you almost miss it—he exhales, "I can’t."

Your breath catches. "Can’t what?"

His fingers tighten around the locket, his shoulders rising with a shuddering breath. "I can’t say it doesn’t mean anything."

The air between you shifts, something fragile and dangerous crackling in the space. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative and unsteady, but real.

"Then stop pretending like I don’t exist," you whisper.

Finnick’s throat bobs as he swallows. He looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, teetering between fear and familiarity. His lips part, but before he can say anything, a voice calls from across the bunker.

"Odair, let’s go!"

Finnick tenses, something closing off in his expression again. His fingers curl around the locket, hiding it from view, and just like that, the moment shatters.

You watch as he steps back, his face unreadable again. But before he turns away completely, you see it—the way his hand lingers near his pocket, the locket still clutched tight in his palm.

He doesn’t throw it away.

And this time, you let yourself believe that means something.

[inseobts]

hellow^^ can u please write where female reader is jealous with Robin after she teleported next to Law on that one episode in wano? thank you!! :>

Shambles of the Heart

law × reader

a/n: this was fun to write ngl

words count: 5.1k

tags: jealousy, fluffy, soft law, wano arc

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The dimly lit passageway beneath Wano feels both ancient and mysterious. You trail behind Robin, Law, and Sukiyaki, your footsteps echoing softly against the stone walls. The air is thick with history, each corner revealing remnants of a bygone era.

As you descend deeper, the path opens up to a vast underground cavern, revealing the submerged ruins of an ancient civilization. Robin’s eyes light up with scholarly excitement, immediately approaching the window at the end of the narrow corridor to look at the submerged city.

You can’t help but smile, watching her so absorbed. You’ve always admired Robin’s passion for uncovering history’s secrets. But then, a feeling begins to gnaw at you. You glance over at Law, who is walking beside you, hands stuffed into his pockets as usual, his expression unreadable.

Without a word, Law suddenly vanishes from your side, reappearing instantly beside Robin with a soft pop, courtesy of his Shambles ability.

Your brow furrows.

You feel your stomach twist uncomfortably, but you try to brush it off. It’s nothing, you tell yourself. They’re just really curious about ancient things. No big deal.

But then, as you look at them, you see how close they are in that narrow corridor, how their faces are so close, and the blue light of the sea filtering through the window. Their eyes are locked on the submerged city, their curiosity shared in that quiet, intimate way that makes something uncomfortable stir inside you.

Yup, this is making you incredibly jealous.

Couldn’t he wait and go there after her? The thought keeps repeating itself in your mind.

You feel a familiar heat creep up your neck. The jealousy isn’t rational, you know that. It’s just a small moment. But the way they stand there, side by side, engrossed in the same discovery, makes your chest tighten. You wish you were the one standing next to him. You wish he had walked over there with you first.

You bite your lip and try to keep your emotions in check. You turn your head, staring at the ancient walls, anything to avoid looking at the two of them.

After a long, painful moment, Robin turns back to the group. “This city is beautiful,” she says with wonder, taking one last look before stepping away from the window.

You exhale, the tension easing slightly, but you remain silent. You don’t look at Law.

Sukiyaki continues his explanation, his voice drifting in the background as you remain lost in your thoughts. You hear Law’s voice faintly asking something to Robin, but you don’t pay attention. You’re too busy trying to ignore the hollow feeling in your chest.

After a few minutes, Law glances over at you. He notices the distance between you and the rest of the group “You cold?” he asks, his tone soft, but there’s a hint of concern.

You don’t respond right away, not trusting yourself to speak. Instead, you take a step away from him and pull your coat tighter around your shoulders “No, I’m fine” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady.

He watches you for a moment, clearly sensing something is off, but doesn’t press. Instead, he turns back to the group. The rest of the walk feels awkward, and you can’t shake the feeling of being left out. Robin and Law fall into a quiet conversation, their voices too soft for you to hear. You trail behind, keeping your distance.

When you finally emerge from the underground ruins and return to the festivities above, the warmth of the Flower Capital feels suffocating after the cold, stone silence of the caverns. The vibrant energy of the crowd greets you, but you’re not in the mood to join in. You push through the throngs of people, not stopping to talk to anyone.

You spot Zoro leaning against a nearby wall, a sake bottle in hand, clearly in the middle of trying to relax after the earlier chaos. You make your way over to him, your steps quick and deliberate.

He looks at you as you approach, one eyebrow raised “What’s up?” he asks, his voice gruff but casual.

“Can I join you for a drink?” you ask, trying to sound calm, though your heart is still tight with frustration.

Zoro takes a long swig from the bottle before tossing it to you “Sure, but I’m not a bartender.”

You catch it and open the cap, feeling the familiar warmth of the alcohol. You take a deep drink, the taste sharp and bitter, but it helps clear your mind, even if just a little.

Zoro glances at you again, sizing you up “What’s bugging you?”

You shake your head, not meeting his gaze “Nothing.”

He’s not convinced, of course “You’re clearly pissed off. Who pissed you off?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you take another drink. The liquid burns its way down your throat. Finally, you speak “It’s nothing, really” you mutter, “Just… tired, you know?”

Zoro shrugs “Whatever. You’re the one with the problem. But you’re not fooling anyone.”

You roll your eyes “I’m fine, Zoro. Just… give me a little space, okay?”

He doesn’t argue, instead turning back to look at the ongoing festival. You focus on your drink, taking another sip as your mind drifts. Law’s face flashes in your mind, his voice asking if you were cold, but you quickly push the thought away. You don’t need him right now. You just need to get through the night.

Later, you feel the vibrations of footsteps approaching, the soft sound of boots against the wooden floor. You turn slightly to see Law walking through the crowd, his eyes scanning for you.

You lower your gaze, pretending not to notice. You can feel his presence, even from a distance. He stops a few feet away, hesitating.

“Hey,” he calls softly, his voice cutting through the noise of the crowd “Are you… okay?”

You don’t look up at him, just nodding slightly “I’m fine.”

He steps closer, but you take a small step back, avoiding him “You’ve been distant,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a hint of confusion and concern “What’s wrong?”

“I said I’m fine” you repeat, a little more sharply this time, hoping it will make him stop asking.

For a moment, there’s silence. Law doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t push you.

Finally, he sighs softly, his shoulders slumping just a bit “Alright… if you need me, I’ll be around.”

You don’t answer. You just take another drink, eyes trained on the distant lights of the festival.

The night stretches on, and you can feel the festival around you, but it feels distant. The laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses, they all blur into a background hum. You take another drink from the sake bottle, feeling the warm liquid settle in your stomach, but it doesn’t settle the discomfort inside you.

You can’t shake the image of Law and Robin standing together by that window, the way he teleported next to her so easily, so naturally. That small, casual moment gnaws at you, and the jealousy that stirred deep inside you now feels like a weight in your chest.

It’s not just that they were so close, but that they seemed so in sync in their shared interest. Robin, always the scholar, and Law, always serious about uncovering secrets of the world, their faces lighting up at the same things, discussing the ruins like they were the only two people who could understand the weight of history. You admire both of their passions for history, but right now, it makes you feel small. In that narrow corridor, they were a pair of like-minded souls, and you felt like an outsider.

And it hurts. You’re with Law. He’s yours. But seeing how deeply they connect over this shared interest stirs something in you that you don’t want to acknowledge. You can’t help it... it makes you feel inferior, insecure. It’s like you’re not enough for him when it comes to the things that matter most to him.

You take another drink, trying to drown the thoughts. But it’s no use. The image of Robin and Law, engrossed in conversation, their faces so close, keeps replaying in your mind. You were standing there, watching them as they practically shared the same breath, and it hurt.

Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe you’re being unreasonable. But you can’t deny the sting of seeing them so close, the way they were so absorbed in each other’s thoughts, their passion for the past so easy to share. Couldn’t he have waited for you? Couldn’t he have walked the few steps to the window like you did?

Zoro doesn’t say much after that, keeping to himself, but every now and then, he gives you a sideways glance, probably sensing you’re not fine. He knows better than to press, though. It’s one of the reasons you like drinking with him. No judgment. Just quiet company.

But then, just as you’re about to take another sip of your drink, you hear it – the familiar sound of boots against the ground. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat.

Law is standing there again, just a few steps away. You don’t turn to look at him, though you feel his presence as if it’s pressing against you. He’s silent for a long moment, his eyes lingering on you, and then he speaks in a voice softer than you’ve heard in a while.

“Can we talk?”

You don’t respond immediately. Your fingers grip the bottle tighter, your knuckles whitening as you fight the urge to snap at him. You don’t want to talk. Not yet. Not when your emotions are still raw and tangled up in confusion.

Finally, you take a deep breath and mutter without looking up, “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Law’s voice remains steady, though you can hear the faintest crack of frustration beneath the surface “There is. You’re avoiding me.”

You feel a sharp pang of guilt, but you push it aside “I’m not avoiding you” you say, but even to your own ears, the words sound hollow.

“You are.” He steps a little closer, but this time, you don’t move away. Maybe you’re too tired to put up the wall again “You’ve barely said a word since we left the ruins.”

You don’t know how to explain it. How could you put into words what’s been eating at you all night? That nagging jealousy, that sinking feeling you couldn’t quite shake. You look at him, finally meeting his gaze, but even that feels like a betrayal. You look away almost immediately.

“I just need some space” you mutter, voice low.

Law stands still for a moment, his gaze unwavering. You can feel him searching your face, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he responds “Is it because of earlier?” His words cut through the air, simple and direct.

You stiffen at the question, the knot in your stomach tightening. Your lips press into a thin line as you look up at him again “You teleported next to Robin. You didn’t even wait a second. I don’t know, maybe I just—”

Your voice falters, and you stop yourself before you can say too much. You don’t want to sound foolish, even though that’s exactly how you feel. Your heart races, but you swallow hard, pushing through the discomfort “It’s nothing.”

Law’s brows furrow, his expression softening “It’s not nothing.” He steps closer, his voice lower now “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just… wanted to see what Robin was looking at. I didn’t think it’d bother you.”

You feel a strange mix of relief and frustration. Relief because he didn’t mean anything by it, but frustration because your feelings are still messy “It’s not about that. It’s just…” You let out a sigh, feeling stupid for not being able to explain what you feel “I don’t like seeing you so close to her. You two always talk about these things I don’t understand, like it’s something only you two can appreciate.”

His expression softens at your words, but it still doesn’t quite reach your heart “I didn’t think it would upset you, but you’re right. Robin and I… we share an interest in ancient history. But that doesn’t mean I don’t value you.”

Your heart flutters a little, but you’re still caught in the cloud of doubt “It feels like you’re always in your own world when you’re with her, and I’m just left out. You two get each other, and sometimes, I feel like I don’t.”

The words spill out faster than you can stop them. You can see the confusion flicker across his face, but it’s soon replaced by concern.

“I care about you,” he says softly, his tone earnest “You’re not left out. You never are.”

You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips “Then why didn’t you walk over to the window with me, huh? Why did you have to teleport next to Robin like it was nothing? Why do you both always talk about things I don’t know anything about?”

Law’s eyes widen at the accusation, and you instantly regret it, but the words hang in the air like smoke.

“You think I don’t care about you?” he says quietly, taking another step closer “That’s not it. Robin and I… we share an interest. But I’m not with Robin. I’m with you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and the guilt begins to weigh heavier than the jealousy. You look away, unable to meet his eyes “I know. But it doesn’t stop how I feel.”

Law takes a deep breath, stepping closer still until there’s no more distance between you two “Listen to me,” he says, voice low and firm “I’m not going anywhere. And I want to share everything with you. Not Robin. You.”

You swallow hard, and there’s a long, charged silence between you two. Finally, you look up at him, your heart heavy with a mixture of insecurity and hope.

“I just need some time to get over it,” you say softly, the words coming easier now “I don’t want to feel like this, but I do. And I don’t want to mess things up with you.”

He nods slowly, his gaze steady “Take all the time you need. But I’m not going anywhere, and I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

You nod, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. It’s not resolved, not yet. But for the first time in what feels like hours, you don’t feel quite so alone in the feeling.

The cool night air stings against your skin as you step out of the tavern, the laughter from the festivities echoing distantly. The weight of your conversation with Law still lingers, but it’s less suffocating now, more manageable. You’re still uncertain about a lot of things, but there’s a quiet sense of reassurance that wasn’t there before.

Zoro is leaning against the side of the building, the ever-present bottle of sake in his hand. He gives you a lazy glance when you exit, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Everything good?” he asks, his tone casual, though there’s a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

You nod, though you’re not sure if everything is truly good. It feels like you’re still in the middle of something, but at least you’re not hiding from it anymore.

“Yeah,” you say, taking a deep breath “Just…needed to talk things out.”

Zoro doesn’t press. Instead, he takes a swig from his bottle and hands it to you without a word. You accept it and drink, the sharpness of the alcohol grounding you.

As the silence stretches on, your mind drifts back to Law. You can still feel the weight of his words, and the way he said he was there for you. He meant it. You know that much. But there’s still that lingering uncertainty in your chest, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re not enough for him when it comes to these things he shares with Robin.

But you’re trying. You’re really trying to let it go.

“So,” Zoro says, breaking the silence again, his eyes flicking toward the crowd, “what’s your plan?”

“Plan?” you repeat, furrowing your brow.

“Yeah. I’m assuming you’re not gonna stay sulking for too long.”

You let out a soft laugh “I’m not sulking.”

“Sure you’re not,” Zoro says with a grin, clearly not buying it “So, what are you gonna do? You going to talk to Law, or…?”

You take another sip from the bottle, staring off into the night. The conversation with Law had helped, but you still felt a bit too raw to face him again right now. You wanted to clear the air, but your emotions were still a tangled mess, and you weren’t sure how to approach him.

“I don’t know yet,” you say after a moment “I want to… but it’s hard. I don’t want to make him feel like he’s walking on eggshells, but I also don’t want to ignore how I’m feeling.”

Zoro chuckles, a little too knowingly “You should probably stop thinking so much. Just talk to him. You two have been together long enough, yeah? He’s not gonna bite your head off.”

You let out a soft sigh, running a hand through your hair “I know. I just… I’m afraid it’ll happen again, you know? That feeling of being left out. Like I’m not enough when it comes to the things that matter to him.”

Zoro watches you for a moment, his gaze thoughtful “You’re being an idiot.”

You blink at him, surprised by the bluntness “Excuse me?”

“Look,” he says, straightening up and taking another swig from his bottle “you’re enough. Law’s not some guy who’s gonna run off because someone else shares a hobby with him. You should know that by now.”

You open your mouth to respond but stop yourself, realizing he’s right. He’s right, and you do know that. You just didn’t want to feel like a second choice, like you were in the background while Law and Robin got lost in their shared history obsession.

Zoro shrugs “If you want to fix it, stop thinking about what Robin and Law have and focus on what you have with Law. He’s your partner. Don’t forget that.”

You nod, the weight of his words settling in. It makes sense. It’s not about what Law shares with Robin; it’s about what you share with him. And maybe you’re being a little too quick to let jealousy cloud your judgment.

“Thanks, Zoro” you murmur, feeling lighter than before. Maybe it’s time to stop avoiding the problem and face it head-on.

Zoro doesn’t respond, but he gives you a small, approving nod as you walk away. You’re not entirely sure what comes next, but you’re determined to make it right.

Back at the inn, you find Law sitting at one of the tables, a glass of sake in hand. His usual calm demeanor is there, but there’s a subtle tension in his posture, like he’s waiting for you to approach him. You take a deep breath and walk over, stopping a few steps away from him.

“Hey” you say quietly, trying to keep the nervousness from your voice.

Law looks up, his gaze softening when he sees you “Hey,” he replies, voice calm but with a hint of concern “You okay?”

You hesitate for a moment, but then, with a small sigh, you sit across from him “I’ve been thinking about things. About earlier.”

Law places his glass down, his full attention on you now “You wanna talk?”

You nod “Yeah. I think I owe you that much.”

For a few moments, you don’t say anything, just gathering your thoughts. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s full of unspoken emotions, things that both of you are still trying to process.

“I was jealous,” you admit, looking down at your hands “I don’t know why, but I felt… left out. Like I wasn’t enough when it comes to things you and Robin share. You two talk about ancient history, and it’s like you’re speaking a different language. I just feel… like I’m not part of that.”

Law is quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. You look up at him, unsure if you’ve said the right thing.

“You don’t have to be part of everything I share with Robin” he says gently, his voice low and steady “It’s not about you not being enough. It’s just that we have a shared interest in ancient history. But that doesn’t change anything between us.”

You feel a tightness in your chest loosen as he speaks, his words reassuring you “I know. I’ve been thinking about that, and I understand it now. It’s just… hard sometimes, seeing you two get so lost in something you both care about. I feel like I don’t belong in those moments.”

Law reaches across the table, placing his hand over yours “You belong with me, always. I never want you to feel left out. I’m with you.”

You feel your heart beat a little faster as you look at him, his gaze sincere and unwavering “I’m sorry for being so insecure about it. I don’t want to shut you out.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he says softly, squeezing your hand “You’re with me, and that’s all that matters. No one else matters in the way you do.”

You smile, feeling the last of the tension fade “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

He smiles back, the weight of the conversation lifting “Anytime.”

For a moment, everything feels right again. The world outside fades into the background as you and Law sit together, knowing that things may not be perfect, but you’re in this together. And that’s enough.

The night is still young, and though the festival has quieted down, there’s a lightness in the air, a sort of magic lingering after your conversation with Law. You’re both standing in the inn’s courtyard, still feeling the warmth from your words, and it seems as if the night has opened up with endless possibilities.

Law glances at you, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes “Want to go somewhere? Somewhere quiet?”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued “Quiet? What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, with a slight smirk, he steps closer to you, and before you can react, he taps his fingers against your wrist. You feel that familiar pull of his Shambles ability, and in an instant, you’re no longer standing in the courtyard but somewhere completely different.

You blink, your heart skipping a beat as you take in the breathtaking view before you.

You’re standing atop a cliff, overlooking a serene valley, the sea stretching out beneath a starry sky. The wind brushes gently against your skin, carrying the scent of salt and earth. Far off in the distance, you hear the faint sounds of fireworks echoing through the air. But more than that, you can see them, the bright bursts of color lighting up the dark sky in a dazzling display.

You turn to Law, surprised “Where are we?”

His smile softens as he watches the fireworks light up the night sky “Just somewhere I thought we could be alone, away from all the noise. I thought it’d be nice to enjoy this… just the two of us.”

Your heart swells at his words, and for a moment, the world feels still, like time has slowed just for the two of you. The sounds of the fireworks fade into the background as you focus on him. The way his eyes glisten with the soft glow of the explosions above, the faint curve of his lips as he looks at you.

“It’s beautiful” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but his gaze shifts to you, catching your eyes. For a moment, neither of you says anything, words feel unnecessary here, with the connection between you stronger than anything you could say. The sounds of the fireworks continue to boom in the distance, but it feels like you’re in your own world, a quiet, perfect bubble where nothing can touch you.

You step closer to him, your heart beating a little faster now, the quiet intimacy of the moment settling around you. You glance up at him, finding him already watching you, a look in his eyes that makes you feel seen in the most comforting way possible. You can see the care in his gaze, the understanding, and beneath that, something more, a warmth, a tenderness that makes your chest tighten with emotion.

Without thinking, you take a small step forward and rest your hand on his chest, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his coat. His hand instinctively moves to your waist, pulling you just a little closer, the space between you vanishing in a single, quiet moment.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely audible, but the gratitude in it is clear “For bringing me here. For… understanding.”

Law’s expression softens, his thumb lightly brushing the small of your back “I’ll always understand you. No matter what.”

You feel your heart race, your breath catching in your throat. This moment, with him, feels like everything you’ve ever wanted and more. It’s quiet, simple, and filled with meaning. You could stay here forever, just standing with him beneath the stars, watching the fireworks paint the sky.

“You’re not just saying that, are you?” you ask, teasing him lightly, trying to ease the fluttering in your chest.

He smirks, a playful glint returning to his eyes “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

You smile, relieved “Good.”

And just like that, the playful tension between you shifts into something deeper, something far more intimate. You lift your eyes to the fireworks again, but your attention keeps drifting back to Law. You’ve shared so much already, but it feels like this moment, right here, right now, holds something more.

Without another word, Law leans down, his lips meeting yours in a slow, tender kiss. It’s soft at first, just the gentle brush of his lips against yours, as if he’s savoring the closeness, the intimacy. You melt into him, your hands moving up to cup his face, feeling the roughness of his skin, the warmth of his breath against yours.

The fireworks burst above you, their bright colors flickering in the night sky, but all you can focus on is him, the way his hand moves to the small of your back, pulling you even closer, the way his kiss deepens as if to convey everything he’s feeling, everything you’ve just shared.

For a few moments, there’s nothing but him, nothing but the warmth between you two. The world outside disappears, and all that matters is the closeness, the feeling of being completely wrapped up in each other.

When you pull away, both of you are breathless, your hearts pounding in unison. Law looks down at you, his thumb brushing across your cheek in the gentlest of motions.

“You make it hard to think straight” he murmurs, his voice husky, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You smile back, your own heart still racing “Maybe that’s the point.”

You lean in to kiss him again, but the fireworks are still going, the sky lighting up around you, their bursts of color reflecting in his eyes. This moment feels like it could last forever. The world seems so far away, as if nothing could ever shake the peace you’ve found together.

And in the quiet after the kiss, with the fireworks still painting the sky, you realize something that you hadn’t quite understood until now, no matter the insecurities, no matter the doubts, there’s no one else you’d rather be with than him. You and Law, standing beneath the stars, are more than enough.

The fireworks continue to explode above you, casting colorful hues across the night sky, but it’s the quiet moments between you and Law that stand out the most. His touch lingers on your skin, his presence next to you like an anchor in a world that can often feel chaotic. The lingering warmth of his kiss, the softness in his eyes... it all feels like it’s just the two of you, with nothing else in the world mattering.

You pull away slightly, taking a breath, and then look up at him, your gaze steady and certain.

“You know, I never realized how much I needed this” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper “The peace. With you.”

Law’s eyes soften, a small but sincere smile curving at the corners of his lips. He leans in, brushing his forehead against yours “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve always needed you. You and me, together. Nothing else.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. There’s no need to. Everything you both wanted to say has already been shared, in the looks, in the touch, in the simple act of being close. It’s all been said, and in this quiet, peaceful moment, you realize that all the doubts and insecurities you once felt don’t matter anymore. You’ve worked through them together.

The fireworks eventually start to fade, their last bursts leaving trails of light in the sky before dying out. But the two of you remain, standing side by side, your hands still entwined, the quiet comfort of the moment settling over you like a warm blanket.

As the sky darkens even more, you find yourself leaning against him, the soft sound of his breathing calming your racing heart. You feel safe here, in his arms, with nothing but the sounds of the night and the remnants of the fireworks in the distance.

“I think I’ve had enough fireworks for tonight” you say softly, your fingers tracing small patterns on his coat.

He chuckles, a low, rich sound that makes your heart flutter “I think I’ve had enough fireworks for a lifetime. As long as you’re here.”

You look up at him, meeting his eyes, your heart full of love “I’m not going anywhere, Law.”

And in that moment, under the stars, with the last traces of the fireworks fading away, you realize that this is what you’d always wanted. No more insecurity. No more fear. Just the two of you, together, facing whatever comes next. Because together, you can handle anything.

“I love you” you say, the words feeling more real than ever before.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin gently, before he lowers his head to press a soft kiss to your forehead “I love you too.”

And as the two of you stand there, alone in the night, you know that this is only the beginning of the journey ahead. No matter what comes, you’ll face it together, just like you always should have.

[fatehbaz]

can't stop thinking like this when i see posts

"three types of animals defined by utility and simplified transactional relationship to humans. including categories of productivity, domestic companionship, or passive/threat/disgust/pest":

British and colonial American institutional and folk taxonomy of "the natural world" in the eighteenth century. The unofficial-but-still-influential way of imagining animals in "utilitarian" ways that support material accumulation and colonial "productive land" and "land improvement." Like a secularization of previously explicitly-religious "great chain of being" schema but adapted for Englightenment-era scientific cosmology that reifies racialized imaginaries of environmental space and reinforces class/racial/species hierarchies with technical expertise.

"we have to do something about the distances":

Britain and the United States in the nineteenth century trying to control the globe and conquer "frontiers" and obsessively trying to more quickly and efficiently move trade, industrial products, information, communications, administrators, indentured laborers, and imperial military across seas and vast distances to cement hegemony by utilizing technical expertise with railroad networks, sailing ships, steamships, investments in cartographic surveying, latitude/longitude establishment, canals, and elaborate systems of telegraph lines.

"they should make a big heavy machine beast that can pull tons of black iron across grasslands and such":

British Empire technicians, Canadian administrators, and their US advisers from 1900-1930-ish when the Canadian "federal government also established breeding programs designed to cross cattle with bison or yak to create a new [ultimate] range animal" with "a reserve stock of pure blood bison of the highest potency" and an "enthusiasm for stocking northern [boreal and northern Great Plains] environments with exploitable game populations" when "nothing, in fact, captured the imagination of bureaucrats and private promoters in the early twentieth century more than the idea of importing domesticated reindeer from northern Europe as a the vanguard of a settled and prosperous agricultural civilization in northern Canada." And they partially pursued the project as "a response to the success of Americans" in "assimilating" the Inuit by importing 82,000 European reindeer to Alaska by 1916: "[A]n Alaskan Bureau of Education Report proudly proclaimed [...]: 'within less than a generation, the [slur] throughout northern and western Alaska have been advanced through one entire stage of civilization.'"

And in the same decade with British administrators in Southeast Asia, when they pursued the "purchase of elephants whose labour made possible the logging and transport of this harder-to-reach teak [in Burma]. By the period between 1919 and 1924, elephants represented the largest assets owned by the biggest timber firm operating in the colony […]. This animal capital, of around three thousand creatures, represented [...] the equivalent of roughly a third of the corporation's liabilities [...]. And these elephants must have been busy. This five-year period saw half a million tons of teak exported out of the colony, the overwhelming majority of which was exported by a handful of large British-owned firms. Their ownership of these beasts of burden gave imperial trading firms a considerable advantage."

"america will be a manufacturing nation once more , We're going to build great and terrible machines, so great and terrible they carve the land they walk on, the sun will set and it will rise and the forge will still burn and the hammer will still ring true folks"

Without comment:

[Quote.] [O]n the morning of February 20, 1915, [...] Franklin K. Lane, the secretary of the Interior […] intoned to the crowd, “The seas are now but a highway before the doors of the nations […]. The greatest adventure is before us, the gigantic adventure of an advancing democracy, strong, virile, kindly, and in that advance we shall be true to the indestructible spirit of the American Pioneer.” The fair did not officially commence, however, until President Wilson […] pressed a golden key linked to an aerial tower […], whose radio waves sparked the top of the Tower of Jewels, tripped a galvanometer, and closed a relay, swinging open the doors of the Palace of Machinery, where a massive diesel engine started to rotate. […] [T]he PPIE was organized to commemorate the completion of the Panama Canal […]. As one of the many promotional pamphlets declared, "California marks the limit of the geographical progress of civilization. For unnumbered centuries the course of empire has been steadily to the west." […] One subject that received an enormous amount of time and space was […] the areas of race betterment and tropical medicine. Indeed, the fair's official poster, the "Thirteenth Labor of Hercules," [the construction of the Panama Canal] symbolized the intertwined significance of these two concerns […] that crowned San Francisco as the Jewel of the Pacific. […] The construction of the Panama Canal unfolded against the backdrop of […] the installation of American colonial rule in Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Philippines, Guam, and Hawai’i. […] In San Francisco, […] this meant the presence of artifacts such as Fountain of Energy, a strong male mounted on horseback […] crowned by figurines of “Fame” and “Valor.” Referred to by its creator as the Victor of the Canal, this sculpture symbolized “the vigor and daring of our mighty nation […].” In his address titled "The Physician as Pioneer," the president-elect of the American Academy of Medicine, Dr. [W.H.], credited the colonization of the Mississippi Valley to the discovery of quinine […]. [A]t the Pan-American Medical Congress, where its president, Dr. [C.R.] delivered a lengthy address praising the hemispheric security ensured by the 1823 Monroe Doctrine and "the combined genius of American medical scientists […]" in the Canal Zone. […] [A]s [CR]'s lecture ultimately disclosed, his understanding of Pan-American medical progress was based […] on the enlightened effects of "Aryan blood" in American lands. […] [End quote.]

Source: Alexandra Minna Stern. "Race Betterment and Tropical Medicine in Imperial San Francisco." Eugenic Nation: Faults and Frontiers of Better Breeding in Modern America. Second Edition. 2016.

[wispitty]

shanks x reader | “a new hire” {ch.1}

summary: you're the new waitress at makino’s bar. sweet, shy and just looking for a quiet place to belong to. but when the red hair pirates dock for the night, you catch the eye of their infamous captain, shanks—and somehow, one night turns into something far more than you'd prepared for. tag list: shanks/you, slow burnish, tension & tenderness, made from shanks brainrot (literally its so bad), first sight feelings, he's protective chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

Chapter 1: Warm Welcomes

The golden light of the setting sun spilled through the windows of the little seaside bar, casting a warm glow over polished wood and soft shadows. You moved behind the counter, carefully arranging plates and cleaning as you went, sleeves rolled up and hair slightly tousled from the afternoon rush. It had been about a month since Makino brought you on, and while you were starting to find your rhythm, you still felt like a small note in a song you hadn’t quite learned the melody to yet.

The front door creaked open just as you reached for a clean glass.

Boots on the floorboards. Laughter, rough and familiar. A deep voice rumbling in easy amusement. You turned, half-expecting another local—only to freeze when you saw who had stepped inside.

Shanks.

The infamous captain of the Red Hair Pirates stood in the doorway, black cloak billowing slightly from the sea breeze, his one hand casually resting on his hip. And behind him? His whole crew.

His dark eyes swept across the bar once before landing on you—lingering there, quiet and curious.

He looked older than the stories told. A few more lines around his eyes, a little more weight behind his gaze. The jagged scar over his left eye only emphasized the sharpness of his stare. And yet… the corners of his mouth pulled into a grin. Not cocky. Not even playful.

Just… warm.

“Well,” he said, voice low and smooth, “this place hasn’t changed a bit.”

Behind him, Beckman stepped in with a cigarette between his lips, giving a faint nod to the bar’s familiar walls.

Shanks tilted his head slightly, eyes still on you.

“Except that part,” he added. “I don’t remember her.”

Beckman glanced over. “New hire,” he said simply.

Shanks hummed, his grin deepening. “Is that so?”

He crossed the room slowly, shoes tapping softly on the floor, and leaned against the counter. Despite his easy posture, there was a quiet intensity to him—like the sea just before a storm, calm but impossibly vast.

You realized you hadn’t said anything. Not yet.

But when the situation catches up to you, you stiffen immediately. No matter who they are, customers just walked in. And all customers need to be greeted.

“O-Oh! Hello there! Welcome to Makino’s!”

Shanks blinked, then let out a soft chuckle at your flustered greeting. There was something disarming about it—how your voice wavered just slightly, how your hands moved quickly to set the glass down as if you’d just remembered you were holding it.

“‘Makino’s,’ huh?” he repeated, straightening up a little. “Still has a nice ring to it.”

He glanced around the room like he was taking it all in for the first time again—the weathered stools, the sun-warmed countertop, the faint scent of citrus wood polish that always lingered near the shelves. Then, his gaze returned to you, and this time it didn’t drift away.

“You must be the new waitress Makino mentioned in her last letter.” His tone was lighter now, teasing. “Said you were polite. Said you were sweet. Said you baked.”

Beckman raised an eyebrow behind him. ���She also said you shouldn’t scare her.”

“I’m not scaring her,” Shanks replied easily, then turned to you again with a half-grin. “Am I scaring you?”

“Hehe, no. Not at all. Nice to meet you, Mister Shanks.”

You can’t help but break out into a soft smile as you eye the infamously famous pirate before you. One whose reputation preceded him, but not alongside all the funny stories Makino had shared with you.

“Makino’s mentioned you before to me, too. Along with your crew.”

“Seems I’ll have to bring out the best barrels if her favorite customers are back in town.”

At that, Shanks’ grin widened—not the smug kind pirates wore when they won a fight, but the kind that slipped out when someone genuinely caught them off guard. He let out a low, appreciative laugh, and his eyes—deep and sharp, but warm—crinkled slightly at the corners.

“Well now,” he said, resting his elbow on the counter as he leaned a little closer, “if that’s your version of a welcome, I might have to start showing up more often.”

Beckman muttered something under his breath about “he already does,” before heading to his usual seat near the counter.

“Don’t mind him,” Shanks said with a wink. “He just doesn’t like when someone else gets a better smile than he does.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but to your surprise, it wasn’t unpleasant. It was… fluttery. The good kind. The dangerous kind.

You turned slightly, trying to busy your hands as you reached for the drink menu and pulled out the reserve ledger Makino kept for special requests.

“If I remember right, you prefer the—ah, twelve-year aged rum? With a splash of lime?”

He blinked, a little impressed. “So she really talked about us, huh?”

“She said if you didn’t show up with a barrel of trouble, you showed up asking for her best,” you said shyly, before your eyes flicked up. “I was told to keep an eye on the charming ones.”

“Charming?” Shanks echoed, the smile in his voice unmistakable now. “I hope you listened.”

Before you could answer, one of the younger pirates called out to you from a table, asking for a round. You nodded quickly and excused yourself, turning away to grab mugs from the shelves—but you could still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back.

As Shanks took his place near Beckman at the counter, they both settled into a comfortable space.

“New hire’s easy on the eyes, huh?”

Shanks didn’t answer at first. Instead, he watched you for a bit.

He watched you from the corner of his eye—how you laughed softly when one of the younger ones tried to flirt for an extra pour, how you steadied the tray with a careful hand, how your brows furrowed slightly when you thought no one was looking, double-checking the drink order on your notepad like you didn’t want to mess up.

There was a quiet care in your movements. Nothing flashy. Just… thoughtful.

“…Yeah,” he said at last, voice low and laced with something Beckman hadn’t heard from him in a while. “Easy on the eyes.”

Then, with a slow exhale, he added under his breath, “Too easy.”

Beckman chuckled, stretching his arms behind his back. “You’re staring, you know.”

“Am not.”

“You are. Like you forgot how to blink.”

Shanks raised an eyebrow. “I have one arm. You want me to lose that too?”

“I’d like to see you try.”

They both smirked, but Beckman didn’t push further. He knew that look on Shanks’ face well. It wasn’t just interest—it was curiosity. The kind that stuck. The kind that didn’t fade once the drinks ran dry or the ship set sail.

A few seconds later, you returned to the bar with a few empty mugs, your eyes meeting Shanks’ as you offered an amused huff, still a bit winded from running around.

He sat up straighter, gaze gentle.

“Still standing,” he teased. “That’s promising.”

You grin, shaking your head while balancing the mugs in your hands. “Goodness, you all surely know how to drink! Haha! If you’ll excuse me to wash these a second, I’ll be right back to get your orders.”

Shanks watched you disappear behind the swinging door with a quiet, lopsided smile still tugging at his lips. The clinking of glasses and the familiar hum of his crew faded into the background for a moment as he leaned back against the bar, his fingers idly tracing a water ring left behind on the wood.

Beckman eyed him sideways. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?” Shanks asked, far too innocently.

“The look-before-you-leap thing.”

Shanks huffed a small laugh. “I’m not leaping. I’m just… appreciating the service.”

Beckman scoffed. “You don’t smile like that over rum.”

“I do when it’s served with a smile like hers,” he muttered under his breath, almost surprised by his own words.

When you returned, cheeks slightly flushed from the steam rising from the wash basin and fingers damp from drying your hands on your apron, Shanks straightened ever so slightly.

“You alright back there?” he asked. “Didn’t lose any fingers in the sink war, did you?”

You let out a soft laugh as you approached, setting the clean mugs down in front of him. “Still all ten accounted for, Captain.”

He raised his brows. “Oho? Captain?”

“Well… aren’t you?” you asked with a gentle, teasing lilt. “I thought I’d be polite.”

“Careful,” he said, that playful glint returning to his eye. “You call a man ‘Captain’ with a voice like that, and he’s bound to start sailing circles around you.”

Beckman sighed. “Here we go.”

You laughed, covering your mouth just a little, and Shanks swore—for a moment—the room didn’t feel like a bar at all.

It felt like the start of something he wanted to see through.

Amidst the commotion, the sound of two doors opening rang out.

From the back door, Makino walked out, seemingly having just returned from delivering something and picking up groceries on the way.

From the front, another fresh crowd of rowdy, thirsty sailors to serve.

You quickly ran up to her, shooting her a smile while grabbing a good handful of menus.

“Welcome back! I’ll go get the new ones, you go greet old friends.”

Makino blinked at your statement for a second, her eyes sweeping over the crowded bar before landing on the unmistakable silhouette near the counter.

That familiar mess of red hair.

“Shanks,” she said warmly, already moving toward him. “I was wondering when the wind would toss you back my way.”

He turned to greet her, that roguish grin forming with genuine affection. “You really ought to bolt the windows, Makino. I might sneak in even when the doors are locked.”

They shared a hug—brief, but familiar. A silent understanding passed between them, layered with years of history and more unspoken memories than most people would ever collect in a lifetime.

Beckman tipped his head politely. “Makino.”

“Ben,” she returned with a smile. “Still keeping this one from causing too much trouble?”

Beckman gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Depends on the day.”

Behind the bar, you ducked out of their way, moving back into the wave of incoming guests, taking orders with that same soft tone and polite efficiency, weaving through the chaos like a gentle current against a tide. Shanks’s eyes followed you just for a beat—until Makino nudged him lightly with her elbow.

“She’s a good one,” she said quietly, knowingly.

Shanks glanced at her.

“She’s been helping a lot while I’ve been short-staffed. Real sweet. Bit shy.” Makino gave him a dry smile. “Not a fan of loud drunks, so behave.”

“No promises,” he said, though the smile that tugged at his lips said otherwise.

Makino leaned in a little. “She likes people who don’t just look like they’ve got stories, you know. Prefers the ones who live them.”

Shanks gave her a long look, like he wasn’t sure whether to thank her or tease her off.

But Makino was already moving down the bar, greeting familiar faces and returning to the rhythm of her tavern like she never left.

And Shanks—Shanks turned back to his drink, eyes on the rim of his mug, fingers tapping idly, even as his thoughts wandered toward you.

Eventually, the evening turned to dusk amidst the rowdy bar.

Shanks and Beckman engaged in good drinks and warm chatter, alongside Makino who joined them between serving orders.

Suddenly—

CRASH.

The crash echoed through the bar like a pebble dropped into still water. Small, but disruptive.

The chatter dipped for just a second, long enough for every head to turn toward the source of the sound. You were already moving, smile soft and apologetic as you tried to ease the moment.

“No worries,” you said gently, ducking to fetch the broom from behind the bar. “Happens all the time.”

But the snickers that followed weren’t the good-natured kind. One of the rowdier newcomers—a sailor with too much drink and too little self-restraint—elbowed his friend, nodding toward you.

“Clumsy little thing, ain’t she?” he slurred, not nearly quiet enough.

“Shame to waste a glass,” the other muttered. “But I think I’ll be the one to drop ten more if it makes her bend over like that again.”

Their laughter wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. Mean-spirited. And it crawled up your spine like ice water.

Shanks had been halfway through a sip when the sound of the crash hit, but it was the following snickers—and the look that passed between the two men—that made him stop mid-sip.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t say anything.

He just looked.

And that was worse.

Beckman didn’t need to ask. He saw it in the way Shanks’ jaw flexed slightly, the way his good hand lowered his mug to the table with the kind of silence that warned.

The men kept laughing.

Until they felt it.

That sudden stillness.

Like the shadows themselves began to stare.

Shanks rose from his seat—not fast, not dramatic. Just calm. But in a room like this, calm carried weight. The music faltered. Conversation quieted.

He took a few steps, the wooden floor creaking beneath his feet as he walked up behind the two snickering men. They only realized he was there when the warmth drained from their skin.

Shanks didn’t shout. He didn’t bare teeth or pull a weapon.

He just leaned forward slightly, voice low and steady.

“…Say it again.”

The man froze.

Shanks tilted his head, like he was asking the most casual question in the world.

“I didn’t quite catch it,” he said. “Say it again. About the waitress.”

The second man swallowed hard, his eyes darting to his empty mug like it might protect him.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t think,” Shanks corrected. “That’s your problem.”

A pause.

“Mine?” He smiled faintly. “I don’t take kindly to folks like you who make good people feel small.”

Behind the bar, broom in hand, you’d returned just in time to see the two men pale like ghosts—nodding quickly, stumbling over apologies, before practically tripping over themselves to stand and relocate.

Shanks didn’t even watch them leave.

He turned to you instead, and for a heartbeat, all the noise in the room seemed to muffle again.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now. Just for you.

You strained a smile, as reassuring of one as you could muster, as you nodded. “I’m fine, thank you.”

And quietly, “Sorry, heh. Still, um, still getting used to it.”

Shanks studied you after that left your lips.

Not the kind of look meant to make you squirm—but the kind that noticed you.

The way your fingers clutched the broom just a little tighter than they needed to be. The way your smile pulled at the corners but never quite reached your eyes. The way you stood there, trying to laugh it off for everyone else’s sake.

Trying to take up less space than you deserved.

And something in him twisted.

Not in anger—not anymore. That had passed.

This was something else.

You don’t belong in a place like this.

The thought struck him unexpectedly. Not because you were soft-spoken. Not because you were too sweet. But because, maybe, people like you deserved to live in a world that didn’t demand armor to survive it.

Beckman was watching him from his seat again, brow arched, silent as ever.

Shanks cleared his throat, straightened just a little, and let a breath out through his nose.

“Well,” he said softly, slipping his hand into his coat pocket, “you handled it better than most of us would have.”

He took a slow step toward the counter again, then paused—just close enough for you to hear him over the din of the crowd.

“If they bother you again, you let me know. I don’t mind raising the tide.”

There was something in his voice now. Not teasing. Not dramatic.

A promise.

And with that, he walked away, leaving you standing there in the golden glow of the lantern light, heart a little heavier, and a little warmer too.

Shanks sank back onto his stool with a quiet grumble and the telltale sound of the stool’s wooden legs scooting along the floor. His jaw ticked slightly, still working through the remnants of whatever emotion had taken root in his chest since that encounter. He took a sip from his drink, slower this time.

Beckman said nothing at first—just blew a soft stream of smoke out the corner of his mouth and gave his captain a long, sideways look.

“You gonna sit there and scowl at every man who notices her?”

He didn’t even bother to hide the smirk.

“I’m not scowling,” Shanks muttered.

Beckman hummed. “Then your face is just stuck like that?”

Shanks grunted. “I don’t like that look on her face. Like she’s used to brushing that kind of thing off.”

Beckman didn’t comment, just let the silence say what he knew his captain was already thinking. There were a lot of kinds of strong in the world. The kind that held a sword. And the kind that held a smile, even when people didn’t deserve it.

Before Shanks could brood too much deeper, the two sailors at the next table caught his ear.

“—I’m just sayin’, she’s the nicest person I’ve met in this whole town!”

“She smiled at me, dude. Like, actually looked at me and smiled.”

“She’s gotta have someone, right? Someone like that? No way she doesn’t.”

“I dunno, I heard Makino say she just moved here. Bet she’s single.”

The two chuckled under their breath, casting bashful glances your way as you refilled a table’s water jug, oblivious to the admiration trailing in your wake.

Shanks raised an eyebrow.

Beckman let out a quiet snort. “Looks like you’ve got competition.”

Shanks didn’t say anything at first, swirling the liquid in his mug.

Then, with a faint smirk: “They’d drown before they reached her.”

Beckman gave him a side glance. “You sure you wouldn’t?”

Shanks chuckled under his breath. “I’m already treading water, Ben. Don’t worry.”

He said it like a joke.

But his eyes drifted back to you all the same—watching the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, how your face lit up with a laugh you gave to someone else.

And for just a second, that quiet tug returned to his chest.

Damn.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as passing through another port.

[yandere-romanticaa]

He never dared to dream that he could find himself in such a position. Dreams were sacred sweetness, a nectar so addicting that one could only stick out their tongue and pray to catch some of its essence, coating their throat and soul in the process.

And yet, here he was. Sitting in a plush, velvet chair, a table filled with all sorts of shiny sweets that his poor eyes could not help but to drown in the goodness of it all. Sunday felt his heart skip a beat once he heard the person across him chuckle, the sound most likely light to any normal person but to him? It was the most delectable sound in the whole universe, richer than any chocolate, more unique than any composer could ever hope to create.

"Do you like it?" asks his little dove, a serene smile on their face as Sunday felt his wings tremble just a bit. Red dusted his cheeks, the occasional feather twitching, as if it wanted to give away just how utterly nervous he was. The sincerity in those eyes, the softness of the touch he was offered, everything about this was beyond heavenly.

And he deserved none of it.

He did not deserve to be sitting here with his heart beating with desire and want. The thorns which encased his soul made sure to leave their mark, constantly reminding him of his place. You deserve this, he would whisper to himself in the dark of the night, the vast sea of stars his only companion and witness to his seemingly eternal misery.

Just when he thought the thorns could prick him more, there came a gentle hand to ease his pain. Every time he felt himself going off the edge, he could feel your honeyed presence soothing his aching soul, telling him that he was not alone, that he did not have to be alone.

The desire to protect only blossomed even more from that moment onward.

A sinner like him had no right to beg for the sweet release of forgiveness. He had no right to ask his dove for anything and every time he tried to pull away, he would only be pushed back into the safety of their arms, caging him in the saccharine embrace.

"Stay!~" his dove would plead, their fingers toying with the edges of Sunday's soft hair.

"I love it when you're close to me Sunday!"

Oh, how was his soul supposed to handle this? How was he supposed to live his life in misery if he was constantly being allowed to have a sense of reprieve with you by his side? He could not flee nor would you let him.

It took him a while to figure out that he perhaps enjoyed this sensation. This buttery, sugary feeling in his heart, this emotion which now held the reign over his bleeding soul.

In that moment of blissful realization, Sunday had come to the conclusion that he was fully and wholly yours. As long as he could stay by your side, it did not matter if he suffered, cried or even bled. It would not matter to him if you even decided to cast him into the fire for your own gain, he would even allow you to mold him once more into the thing you wanted most.

He truly did not mind. As long as he could walk with you, watch over you and guide you on your path, Sunday was a happy man.

[loveesiren]

What about jj saving rafes gf instead of Sarah when she falls off the boat? Even though jj and Rafe hate each other

of course babes! sorry this took a while, i hope you enjoy! :)

𝕆𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕓𝕠𝕒𝕣𝕕

warnings: not proofread, language, slight angst

wc: 2.4k+

Before you were Rafe Cameron’s girl, you were a Pogue through and through. You grew up with JJ and John B, learning to boat, fish, and work hard for the things you wanted. Life was simple but full, with endless summer days spent on the water and nights filled with laughter. When Pope and Kiara joined your crew, it felt like your family was complete—especially since having Kiara around meant you finally had someone who understood what it was like to be a girl surrounded by all that chaotic, masculine energy.

But things changed when you caught the attention of Rafe Cameron. At first, it seemed impossible. A Kook and a Pogue? The idea alone was laughable. Yet, against all odds, there was something magnetic about Rafe—a spark you couldn’t ignore. And to your surprise, he felt it too. It wasn’t long before stolen glances turned into secret meetings, and those meetings turned into something deeper. But every step closer to Rafe felt like a step away from your childhood friends.

Sure, it was fine when John B started dating Sarah Cameron. But when you got with the older Cameron sibling, it was a problem. Rafe’s constant harassment didn’t help your case. Sarah was much kinder than her brother, and the Pogues saw her as someone who genuinely cared for John B. Rafe, on the other hand, had a reputation that preceded him—a volatile temper and a knack for trouble that made him nearly impossible to trust. Except when it came to you. Your presence seemed to calm the storm in his mind.

Choosing Rafe wasn’t easy. It wasn’t that you stopped caring for the Pogues. In fact, you still loved them fiercely, even if your paths had diverged. Being with Rafe meant walking a tightrope. While he harbored a burning hatred for your old crew, he knew better than to act on it—because hurting them meant risking you. And losing you was unthinkable for Rafe, who had grown to see you as the one thing anchoring him in his stormy world. But even his restraint couldn’t erase the tension. The Pogues saw your relationship as a betrayal, and you feared they’d never forgive you. 

Now, you sat alone on the edge of a boat, staring out at the vast expanse of the Atlantic as it stretched endlessly before you. The journey to Morocco wasn’t one you’d ever imagined taking. But here you were, caught between two worlds, trying desperately to keep the peace. It was your idea to bring Rafe and the Pogues together for this mission. You’d convinced Rafe to help them track down Groff, who had made off with his money, knowing it could also give JJ and Pope a chance to evade capture. Even if you weren’t close anymore, you couldn’t bear to see the people you once called family thrown behind bars.

But, as expected, not everything had gone to plan.

The Pogues didn’t trust Rafe—and for good reason. His track record spoke for itself. As soon as they got him on the boat, they tied him up in the tiny bathroom, keeping him under lock and key. You understood their logic, but that didn’t make it any easier to see your boyfriend treated like a prisoner. Worse still, they’d forbidden you from seeing him until you reached Morocco. You didn’t fight them on it. Confrontation had never been your strong suit, and besides, you knew better than to argue with JJ when his mind was made up.

So, you sat in silence, listening to the rhythmic crash of waves against the hull, the salty breeze brushing against your face. The solitude of the sea was both comforting and suffocating. It gave you time to think—about the choices you’d made, the people you’d hurt, and the fragile balance you were struggling to maintain. You wanted to believe this trip could be a turning point, a chance to bridge the gap between Rafe and the Pogues. But deep down, you knew the odds were slim. Trust was hard to rebuild, and the wounds on both sides ran deep.

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you let out a weary sigh. All you could do now was wait—for land, for answers, for the moment when everything would inevitably come to a head. Until then, the sea was your only companion, its endless expanse reflecting the tangled mess of your heart.

-

Sarah was kind. She always had been. Even after all her brother had put her through, she still cared for him enough to make sure he was fed and hydrated. She did the same for you.

“Brought you some dinner,” she said, plopping down beside you.

“Thanks,” you responded softly. You took a few bites of the sandwich she brought you before putting it aside. Your appetite had been wearing thin the entire trip.

“I think it’s stupid too,” she said, looking out at the horizon while the late sun cast bright ripples on the calm water.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “The whole Kook versus Pogue thing. Rafe’s done his fair share of bad shit, but haven’t we all? I really think he wants to help this time.”

“He does,” you said. “All he wants is to get his money back from Groff. He doesn’t care about the crown. Honest.”

“I know,” she said, offering you a soft smile. “We’ll be there soon. Try to rest.”

You pondered her words as she walked off. You weren’t overly close with Sarah. It was almost as if you and she had swapped lives. You started seeing Rafe around the same time Sarah and John B got together, and for the last three years, she’d been getting a taste of life’s adventures while you enjoyed the finer things. You loved Rafe. You were in love with him. You couldn’t imagine being without him. But you often found yourself missing the life you once lived with the Pogues.

You cringed as you swallowed one final shot of whiskey, a vice that did close to nothing to take the stress away. You tossed the bottle to the side and rolled over, closing your eyes and trying your best to relax to the soothing sounds of the ocean. Eventually, you were lulled to sleep, dreaming of Rafe. He smiled as he took you into his large arms, and you felt secure in his warm embrace.

The dream was short-lived, though, as you were thrown roughly against the hard wall of the boat. Disoriented, you struggled to find something to grip. Rain lashed against your face as the boat pitched violently from side to side.

You made your way to your feet and took in your surroundings. The storm had hit fast. You could see movement inside the helm as the Pogues scrambled to navigate the chaos and secure the boat.

“Rafe,” you whispered, your breath hitching. “Rafe!” your voice rose into a frantic scream as you stumbled toward the helm. You knew you had to find him—if he was left unsecured, he’d drown.

“Y/N, get inside!” JJ’s voice cut through the storm. You turned to see him and John B holding the door open, JJ’s hand extended toward you. You reached for him, but another violent wave threw you to the deck.

“Where’s Rafe?!” you yelled, coughing as salty seawater stung your throat.

“Kiara’s getting him!” John B shouted back.

Moments later, Rafe appeared in the doorway, drenched but alive. “Y/N!”

Relief flooded through you at the sight of him, but your joy was short-lived. A massive wave loomed on the horizon, crashing into the boat with terrifying force. You screamed as the water dragged you off the stern, the world disappearing into a churning abyss.

“Y/N!” JJ and Rafe shouted in unison.

“Rafe!” you screamed, fighting to keep your head above water. The sea clawed at you, threatening to pull you under. “Rafe! Help!”

“I’m coming, Y/N!” JJ’s voice rang out as he dove into the water after you.

“JJ, what are you doing?!” John B yelled, trying to hold Rafe back from following. “JJ, no, no, no!”

But it was too late. JJ had already disappeared beneath the waves.

“Y/N!” Rafe’s scream was raw with desperation, tears streaming down his face. John B had never seen him so unhinged, so consumed by fear.

John B pressed his hand firmly against Rafe’s chest, forcing him back inside. “Come on, man! We can’t help them if we drown too!” he yelled over the howling wind. He shoved Rafe into the cabin and slammed the door shut.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Rafe sobbed, pounding his fists against the wall. “I have to go help her! I have to find her, man!”

“Rafe!” Sarah’s voice cut through the chaos as she wrapped her arms around him. “Rafe, it’s okay! Let’s just get to land. I’m sure they’ll find their way back!” She rubbed his back as he crumpled, his sobs echoing through the small cabin.

-

The water finally calmed as you and JJ struggled onto the sand, every muscle in your body screaming with exhaustion. The cold night air bit at your skin, but the relief of solid ground beneath you was overwhelming. Collapsing onto the beach, you coughed violently, lungs burning as you fought to catch your breath.

“Are you okay?” JJ asked, his voice ragged between gasps for air.

You nodded weakly, words feeling like too much effort. After a moment, you managed to rasp, “A-Are you?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Minutes passed as you both sat in silence, trying to steady your breathing. The ocean stretched out before you, dark and infinite, illuminated only by a pale sliver of moonlight. A single tear slid down your cheek as your thoughts turned to Rafe—his face, his voice, and the uncertainty of whether you’d ever see him again.

“They’ll be okay, Y/N,” JJ said softly, his tone more reassuring than he probably felt. “At first light, we’ll head down the beach. We’ll find them.”

You nodded, swallowing back another wave of emotion. “Hey, Jayj?” Your voice was barely audible.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you murmured, gratitude lacing every syllable.

He turned to you with a tired but genuine smile. “Can’t kill a Pogue, right?”

The next thing you knew, the sun was warming your skin, its gentle rays coaxing you back to consciousness. The once-violent sea was calm now, its rhythmic waves bringing an unexpected peace. You stretched, muscles stiff and aching, before glancing toward the shore.

JJ was standing near the water, absentmindedly dragging his foot through the sand. You rose to your feet, brushing off grains of sand stuck to your damp clothes, and made your way over to him.

“Hey,” you greeted softly.

He turned, offering you a small smile. “Hey. Sleep okay?”

“Guess so,” you chuckled. “Didn’t even realize I passed out.”

“Not surprising,” JJ said with a shrug. “You were pretty wrecked.” His tone was light, but concern lingered in his eyes. “I was thinking we head up the beach toward where the boat was headed. If they made it to land, that’s where we’ll find them.”

You winced at the word if, the uncertainty slicing through your chest like a blade. “Okay,” you replied firmly. “Let’s go.”

For the next 45 minutes, the two of you trudged along the beach in silence, your shared determination a quiet bond. Every step brought a mix of hope and dread as you scanned the horizon for any sign of your loved ones.

“You know,” JJ said suddenly, breaking the silence, “they’re probably feeling the same as us—like they might never see us again.”

You shook your head, gripping tightly onto hope. “We’ll find them, Jayj. We have to.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “We will.”

A few more minutes passed before you gathered the courage to speak again. “JJ?”

He glanced at you, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Do… Do you hate me?” The question felt heavy on your tongue, dredging up years of unspoken tension.

JJ’s expression shifted, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He sighed, raking a hand through his damp hair. “No, Y/N. I don’t hate you. I don’t think I could hate you even if I wanted to.”

His words caught you off guard, and you looked down, fiddling with your hands. “It just… it felt like you did.”

JJ’s voice softened as he continued. “I was hurt. You were my best friend, and when you and Rafe got together, it felt like he stole you away. From me. From all of us.”

A tear slid down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away. “I’m sorry, Jayj. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said firmly. “All you’ve ever done was try to keep the peace. I should’ve seen that sooner. And last night, when you fell off the boat…” His voice wavered, and he looked away. “All I could think about was how I couldn’t let you die thinking I hated you. You’re my sister, Y/N. You always will be.”

Tears blurred your vision as you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him. JJ hugged you back tightly, resting his chin on your head.

“I love you, Jayj. I’ve missed you so much,” you whispered.

He pulled back, his hands on your shoulders. “We’re gonna fix this. All of it. I’ll even make an effort with Rafe if it means getting you back.”

An hour later, the sun was high in the sky when you spotted movement in the distance.

“J, is that them?” you asked breathlessly, shielding your eyes with your hand.

JJ squinted at the figures. “Let’s find out,” he said, quickening his pace.

As you got closer, the shapes grew clearer: Sarah’s golden hair, Kiara’s familiar stance, and Rafe’s unmistakable silhouette towering above the group.

“Rafe!” you cried, breaking into a run.

He turned at the sound of your voice, his eyes widening before he sprinted toward you. The moment he reached you, his arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground.

“Oh my God,” he murmured, his voice breaking as he buried his face in your neck. “I thought I lost you. I thought I’d never see you again!” He cried.

“I’m here,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. “I’m safe. JJ saved me.”

When Rafe finally pulled back, his gaze shifted to JJ, who stood a few feet away, watching the reunion. Without hesitation, Rafe approached him and pulled him into a hug.

“Thank you,” Rafe said, his voice thick with emotion.

JJ stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, clapping Rafe on the back. “Yeah, well… couldn’t let her die on my watch,” he said with a crooked smile.

As you stood there, watching the two men who meant so much to you, hope swelled in your chest. For the first time in years, you felt like things might finally be okay.

© loveesiren 2025 - do not copy, translate, transfer, or repost my work without my permission. if you find my work on sites other than through links i've provided, please notify me.

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[kdyq]

Vacation time

Ambessa Medara x Fem!reader.

Context : You convince Ambessa to take you on a been needed vacation.

Ambessa Medarda wasn’t the type to take vacations. The word itself felt unnecessary a waste of time better spent plotting her next move. But you her Darling had insisted.

“You’ve conquered empires, Ambessa,” you said your eyes sparkling with mischief. “Surely you can handle a few days by the sea without plotting the downfall of your enemies.”

Ambessa had grumbled but ultimately relented. How could she refuse the woman who could disarm her with a single look?

The ship cut smoothly through the waves, its sleek design a testament to Piltover craftsmanship. The ocean stretched endlessly around them, a sparkling expanse of blue that seemed to calm even Ambessa’s restless mind.

You stood at the bow, your hair whipping in the salty breeze. You turned and smiled as Ambessa approached her grin wide and free as though she were untouchable in this moment.

“Come here,” you said while holding out your hand.

Ambessa hesitated. She wasn’t one for a lack of seriousness and yet… the way you looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered, made her step forward. She took your hand, letting herself be pulled closer.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You asked, gesturing to the horizon.

“It’s vast,” Ambessa replied, her eyes scanning the endless waves. “I’ll give it that.”

You chuckled. “You can admit it’s beautiful, you know. I won’t tell anyone.”

Ambessa smirked, slipping an arm around your waist. “Fine. It’s beautiful. But not as beautiful as you.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into Ambessa’s side. “Flatterer.”

Your destination was a small secluded island known for its white sand beaches and lush forests. As the ship docked, Ambessa surveyed the surroundings with a tactical eye her instincts never fully at rest.

“You don’t need to assess the island for threats,” you teased taking her hand and leading her down the gangplank. “We’re here to relax not conquer.”

Ambessa raised an eyebrow. “Old habits die hard.”

You shook your head, laughing softly as you both stepped onto the warm sand. “Then it’s a good thing you have me to remind you.”

The days passed in a haze of warmth and light. They walked along the beach at sunset, the waves lapping at their feet. Ambessa, always the warrior, spent her mornings swimming in the ocean, her powerful strokes cutting through the water with ease.

You delighted in exploring the island’s hidden coves and tide pools, dragging Ambessa along despite her mock protests.

One afternoon you and Ambessa lounging were beneath the shade of a palm tree. Ambessa leaned back against the lounge chairs her legs stretched out in front of her while you rested in the other lounge chair sketching the view in a small notebook.

“Do you ever get tired of being in charge?” You asked in a soft voice.

Ambessa thought for a moment, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Sometimes. But it’s what I’m good at.”

You glanced at her a playful smile tugging at her lips. “You’re good at this too you know.”

“At what?”

“Being here. With me. Letting go even if just a little.”

Ambessa’s expression softened. “You make it easy to let go. But only because I trust you to keep me grounded.”

Your cheeks flushed as you walked over to press a kiss to Ambessa’s lips your hand lingering on the warrior’s jaw.

On your guys last night, ambessa built a small fire on the beach and you sat together, watching the stars. You leaned against Ambessa’s shoulder her fingers entwined with yours .

“Thank you for taking me here and being with me” You said. Your voice barely above a whisper.

Ambessa pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Thank you for reminding me there’s more to life than power.”

As the waves lapped gently at the shore and the stars shimmered above Ambessa allowed herself a rare moment of peace, knowing that whatever battles awaited her, she would always have this you and the sea, a sanctuary from the rest of the world.

“THE END”

A/N : I’m gonna post sevika Next 😋😋😋 just give me time I’m finishing that one up this another draft I had in my notes.