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alxtiny · 1 month

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Ad Astra per Aspera

Episode 1

Pairing: Pirate!Ateez x Navigator!reader

Genre: pirate!au, fluff, angst, maybe smut

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: blood, blunt trauma to the head, starvation, improper jokes, hate able characters

Notes: lets see if y’all can guess who is who >.<

Playlist : asleep by the smiths | the great gig in the sky by pink floyd | under the water by aurora

Series Masterlist | Episode 2 | Prologue

"Move it, slave!” a gruff voice barked behind you, “I ain't got time for yer dainty little walk," you felt the crude shove of a sword poke into your back, the dirty steel pressing through the thin fabric of your shirt like an icicle. You stumbled forward, almost tripping over the uneven planks of the dock.

"Stop poking me!" You exclaimed, spinning around to glare at your tormentor. The chains binding your arms come up to shield your body. Your eyes were bright with fury. "I told you already, I am not a slave. I am a navigator, and I am getting on your infernal ship of my own volition. Take me to your captain; I have a deal to—"

"Quit runnin' yer mouth, lass, or I'll run you through with my sword," the crewman growled, clumsily swishing his blade around, making his inexperience known. His breath reeked of stale ale and rotting teeth, a look of disgust plastered itself across your face. His sword came to rest under your chin, pushing your face up. Exasperated, you raised your hands in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright," you muttered, rolling your eyes. With a resigned sigh, you dragged yourself up the gangplank, your boots clattering against the rough wood. The unimpressive ship seemed to loom above you menacingly, its sails furled and its deck swarming with activity.

The ship’s deck was a cesspool of filth and debauchery. Men lounged about in various states of drunkenness, their eyes glazed and their movements sluggish. The stench of unwashed bodies and rancid skin mingled with the salty spray of the sea, creating a miasma that made you gag. You could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on yourself, leering and appraising, as if you were nothing more than a piece of meat.

Around you, other women were being herded aboard, their faces pale and eyes wide with fear. Some were weeping, clutching at their tattered dresses, while others stared blankly ahead, in acceptance of their fate. Your stomach churned with a mix of disgust and anger. It was a slave trader’s ship. You had been foolish, utterly foolish, to let yourself be tricked into coming here.

It had all started at the pub, a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall frequented by sailors and all that. You had been celebrating a successful voyage, your pockets heavy with the gold you had earned as a navigator. A group of men had approached you, claiming they so desperately needed your skills to guide their ship through such treacherous waters. It stoked your ego of course, you couldn’t resist.

But it had all been a lie. They had swindled you, drugged your unguarded drink, and taken you prisoner. You had awoken, bound and gagged, surrounded by the same men who now leered at you from the ship’s deck. The gold was all gone, except a few coins you had kept hidden in your boots. You clenched your fists, cursing your own naivety.

The crewman prodded at your back again, forcing you to keep moving. You glaring back at him, he laughed as if this was all just a fun game. He was a squat, greasy man with a pockmarked face, a half shaven beard and a cruel glint in his eye. His clothes were dirty and ill-fitting, and sweat dripped down the sides of his face.

"Where’s the captain?" You demanded, your voice trembling with barely contained rage. "I want to speak to him now."

The crewman snorted, a sound that was more pig than human. "You don't make demands here, lass. You do as you're told, or you'll end up in the bilge with the rats." He grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into your flesh, and dragged you towards the stern of the ship.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you were marched through the ship's dingy corridors, the air thick with the smell of salt and rotting wood. The two burly crewmen escorting you, stopped before a large, ornately carved door. One of them knocked twice, and a muffled voice from within barked for them to enter.

You were pushed into the room, stumbling over the threshold. The interior was a stark contrast to the squalor of the rest of the ship. Rich tapestries lined the walls, and the floor was covered with a plush, but stained, rug. At the far end of the room, behind a desk cluttered with a pile of maps and papers, and an even higher pile of dirty cutlery, sat the captain.

He was an unimposing figure in terms of height but made up for it in girth. His ample belly strained against the buttons of a once-white shirt now stained with the remnants of countless meals. Various condiments had left their mark, creating a painting of greasy splotches. His bald head glistened under the lamplight, a poorly matched toupee perched precariously atop his head. A smattering of fake gold jewellery adorned his fingers and neck, clinking as he moved.

The ‘captain’ looked up from his desk, a lecherous grin spreading across his bloated face. His small, beady eyes raked over you, lingering with a predatory gleam. "Well, well, what have we here?" he slurred, his voice thick with the effects of cheap alcohol.

You could barely suppress a shudder of disgust. The smell of rot and smoke wafted towards you as he rose from his chair, his movements slow and ungainly. He waddled closer, his breath heavy with the scent of decay. You took an involuntary step back, your skin crawling as he reached out to cup your chin with his pudgy fingers.

"Oh yess," he crooned, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "A rare beauty indeed. You'll fetch a pretty penny, my dear. Or perhaps... you might be of use to me in other ways." His grip tightened, and you winced as his grimy nails bit into your skin.

"I am a navigator," you said through gritted teeth, trying to keep your voice steady. "Not a commodity to be sold or used. If you have any sense, you'll let me do my job and not treat me like chattel."

The man threw back his head, a shrill laugh erupting from his throat. His greasy face twisted into a cruel grin, his yellowed teeth bared like a predator toying with its prey.

"Oh please," he scoffed, shaking his head. "A woman as a navigator? As if." He turned slightly, gesturing to the room around him, where the other men chuckled in agreement. "Women are bad luck on ships. You're lucky you're being sold, girl. With your looks, some rich man might buy you. Keep you as a little whore, maybe."

His mocking tone made your blood boil. You clenched your fists, feeling the heat rise in your chest, but you forced yourself to maintain composure. He was trying to provoke you, belittle you, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crumbling under his words.

"Bad luck? You’re the one who's unlucky," you snapped, lifting your chin defiantly. "I’ve navigated through storms worse than your ship can survive and waters darker than that stain on your shirt. Without someone like me, you'd be lucky to avoid running aground before dawn. Sell me off if you want, but it'll be your loss when you're stranded out there with nothing but your ignorance and superstitions."

His eyes darkened, the amusement in them turning cold as he stepped closer, his breath rancid against your face. He laughed again, quieter this time, but more sinister.

"You've got fire," he sneered. "But fire snuffs out quick at sea. And I don’t need some chit telling me how t’ run my ship." He tilted his head, considering you for a moment, before his lips twisted into a nasty smirk. "Tell you what. Since you're so eager to prove your worth... If you can lead me and my crew to the next port—alive—I’ll consider giving you a job."

You felt a flicker of hope, but it was quickly snuffed out by his next words.

"Not that I believe for a second you can," he continued, gesturing dismissively to one of his men. "Put her in the chart room. Give her the old maps and tools. Let's see what she can do with those rusty relics."

His men seized you roughly by the arms and dragged you down a narrow corridor. The stench of mildew filled the air as they threw open the door to a small, dimly lit room. It was more of a storage closet than a proper chart room. Tattered maps lay strewn across a dust-covered table, their edges crumbling from age. Instruments sat in a pile on the floor, as if someone threw them in and forgot about them eons ago. It was an insult to your craft.

The door slammed shut behind you, and you were left in the damp silence. You glared at the mess in front of you, wiping your hands on your pants as you surveyed the room. Some of the instruments were so worn they might not even function properly anymore.

"These fools wouldn’t know how to chart a course if their fucking lives depended on it," you muttered under your breath, grabbing the least-damaged map from the pile. Your hands shook as you unfurled it, your mind already racing to piece together what little you could.

Your eyes traced the faded lines, the names of ancient ports barely legible. But you had no choice. You needed to find a way to navigate this ship to safety—not just for yourself, but because proving them wrong had become more than just a matter of pride.

Hours passed as you pored over the charts, plotting a course that would take them through the least dangerous waters. You marked out safe harbours and potential hazards, making notes on a scrap of parchment. By the time you finished, your head was pounding and your eyes were heavy with fatigue.

You leaned back in the rickety chair, staring up at the ceiling. The ship creaked and groaned around you, the sound of waves lapping against the hull felt like a little man hammering away into your skull. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself a moment of rest. You knew that the coming days would be difficult, but you were quite determined to survive, to find a way out of this hellhole.

As the ship rocked gently on the waves, you drifted off to sleep, your dreams filled with visions of making way to faraway shores.

Over the course of the next two weeks, you poured every ounce of your skill and determination into navigating the ship through open waters and rapidly changing currents. The vast expanse of the open sea stretched out before you, a canvas of endless blue under the watchful eye of the sun and moon, and the occasional dark clouds that wept above you. You worked tirelessly, plotting courses, adjusting sails, and ensuring the ship stayed on a safe path. You had already saved them from a deadly storm and a series of hidden reefs, but despite your invaluable contributions, you were more like a prisoner than a respected navigator.

Every night, you could feel the disgusting gazes of the revolting crewmen following you around as you moved about the deck, their crude catcalls and whistles echoing through the darkness. Their words, filled with suggestive taunts and vulgarity, went on with a break. You were tired of it all. You would quicken your pace, doing your best to avoid their lustful stares, but the feeling of being watched never left you.

Not to mention your living quarters were nothing less than abysmal. You had been given a tiny, fishy-smelling cabin barely large enough to fit a untrustworthy hammock and a simple, rickety chair. The walls were damp, the paint was peeling and mould hung around rent free. The cabin had no proper bathroom, just a cracked basin for washing, and you were forced to bathe with your clothes on to preserve some semblance of privacy and dignity. The limited water you were allotted was often murky, tainted by the ship's grime and filth.

Meals were a farce. The crew seemed to take pleasure in your discomfort, providing you with nothing more than stale, dry bread, hardened fish and tepid water, barely enough to keep you alive. Your stomach grumbled constantly, a relentless gnawing hunger that left you feeling weak and light-headed. You would sit in your cramped cabin, picking at the bread, trying to muster the strength to face another day. It was a test of endurance, a form of torture that gnawed away at your resolve with each passing hour.

Despite your dire circumstances, you knew you had no choice but to obey. Your earlier demands had placed you in a dangerous position, and any hint of defiance could tilt the balance against your favour. You walked a thin line, a weak rope that even a trapeze artist would refuse.

On your sixteenth day on the ship, you woke up earlier than usual, to the soft creaking of the ship, your senses still dulled by the fitful sleep that had become your nightly routine. The confines of your smelly, damp cabin felt more oppressive each day, the weak hammock beneath you barely providing rest. You stretched your aching limbs and splashed your face with the dull water from the cracked basin, trying to shake off the persistent lethargy that clung onto you like a second skin. The stale bread left from your last meal sat untouched on the rickety chair, your stomach too nauseous to consider eating.

You were in the midst of your daily routine, preparing for another gruelling day of work, the same work you once enjoyed now seemed like an unnecessary pain. You prepared to walk out of the cabin, dreading the unwanted attention from the others, when a sudden, deafening boom echoed through the ship. The floorboards shuddered beneath your feet, and the air seemed to recoil with the force of the explosion. For a moment, you stood frozen in place, your mind struggling to process the cacophony of sounds that followed—the clamour of footsteps, the frantic shouts, and the ominous creaking of the ship as it tilted to one side, making you stumble.

Your heart raced as you heard the muffled sounds of screaming and scurrying outside your door. Panic surged through your veins, and you moved to the door, only to find it locked from the outside. You cursed under your breath, tears welling up in your eyes. The realisation that you were trapped, powerless to escape whatever chaos had engulfed the ship, sent a wave of despair crashing over you.

“Pirates! Save yourself!” someone screamed, their voice raw with terror. The slurred shrieks of the slaver captain followed, barking out orders with a frantic urgency. “Abandon ship! No first- Get me out of here!”

Your pulse quickened as you grasped the small window set high in your door. It was just out of reach. You grabbed the chair, its legs wobbly and unstable, and clambered onto it, pressing your face to the grimy glass. You could see only a narrow slice of the chaos outside, figures darting back and forth in a desperate frenzy. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mingling with the acrid smoke that drifted through the corridors.

As you strained to see more, a thud shook the door, and the chair beneath you wobbled alarmingly. You let out a strangled cry, gripping the edges of the window for balance. The sound of gunshots reverberated through the wooden walls, each one a sharp, violent punctuation in the symphony of terror. A thick, dark liquid began to seep through the crack at the bottom of the door, pooling on the floor beneath your feet. You felt your stomach churn as the realisation hit you—blood.

You screamed, a raw, primal sound that tore through your throat, and the colour drained from your face. You banged on the door, your fists bruising against the wood, but your cries were lost in the maelstrom of chaos outside.

Suddenly, a voice pierced through the din, smooth and chillingly calm. “Found a slave in here,” it called out, its tone laced with a seductive menace that made your skin crawl. You pressed your ear to the door, straining to catch a glimpse of your would-be captors, but your vision swam with tears and fear.

Before you could react, a hand slammed against the window, and the force of the impact sent your chair teetering. You lost your balance, falling hard to the floor, your head striking the rough wood with a sickening thud. Pain exploded in your skull, and your vision blurred. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, mingling with the distant sound of voices and the echo of your own screams.

The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the vague outline of a figure moving past the window, and the door being wrenched open with a splintering crack. The scent of salt and gunpowder filled your nostrils, mingling with the coppery tang of blood. The voice, with its cruel, mocking lilt, whispered one last chilling phrase as consciousness slipped away. “This one will fetch a fine price.”

The voice, gruff and edged with impatience, cut through the haze of your fading consciousness. "Yeah, first we need to fix that nasty gash in the side of her head."

Everything went black.

When you finally stirred, it felt like an eternity had passed. Your head throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache, and your limbs felt as if they were weighed down with stones. You groaned, your voice a rasping whisper for water, as you struggled to open your eyes. The light in the room was blinding, stabbing into your skull with every tiny flicker.

Slowly, painfully, you turned your head, your vision swimming in and out of focus. The room around you was dimly lit, the walls rough and shadowed. The scent of salt and damp wood filled the air, but it was the figure by your side that drew your attention. A man stood there, dressed in a white tunic splattered with dull red and brown stains. You blinked, your foggy mind trying to make sense of it all.

"Where... where am I? How long was I out?" You croaked out, your throat dry and raw.

The man turned, and for a moment, all thoughts of pain and confusion fled your mind. He was the most striking man you had ever seen, with piercing brown eyes and a rugged handsomeness that made your breath catch in your throat. His hair was tied back in a careless manner, stray strands framing his sharp features.

You let out a disbelieving chuckle, your words slipping out before you could stop yourself. "Yep, I’m dead, and there’s even an angel here to take me away."

The man's expression twisted into a snarl at your words, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. "Ain’t an angel, lass. I’m a doctor. I fixed you up, but now you’ll be sent off somewhere, I guess."

Your mind stuttered to a halt, confusion crashing over her. You’re stared at him, trying to process what he had just said. Suddenly, panic flared in your chest, and you bolted upright despite the sharp pain that tore through your body.

"Wait, what?" You gasped,your heart pounding wildly.

"You heard me," he replied, his tone flat but certain.

"But why?" you questioned, your voice trembling with both confusion and fear.

The man approached you, his demeanour calm and seemingly harmless as he carried a box filled with strange bottles and vials and a glass of water. “I dunno. My job was to patch you up, doll. The rest is up to the captain to decide.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. "Wait, captain? This is a ship—are you pirates?!" you screeched, your voice rising in panic. Instinctively, you shifted further up on the bed, clutching the sheets tightly against your chest as if they could somehow protect you from whatever horrors awaited.

The man laughed, the sound a low rumble in his chest. “What, you thought you were back in whatever noble house you came from?”

“N-no,” you stammered, the denial slipping from your lips before you could even process it. “Of course not, but… what do you want from me?”

The man sighed, a trace of weariness in the sound, before a small awkward smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Let me put some ointment on your wound,” he said, gesturing to the box he carried. “Then I’ll take you to the captain. He’ll decide your fate... don’t worry, sometimes……. he’s merciful.”

A look of horror passed over your face, the weight of his words sinking in. But as much as you wanted to fight, to resist, you knew you had no choice. One again you were trapped. With trembling hands, you released your grip on the sheet and took the glass of water he held towards you. You took a few sips before gulping it down and allowing him to come nearer.

He moved with a practised ease, gently unwrapping the gauze from around your head. You hadn’t even realised it was there, there was dull throbbing in your skull because of whatever injury you had sustained. He dabbed at the wound with a wet cloth, wiping away the dried blood, and you flinched as the cold air touched the raw skin.

When he began applying the ointment, you winced, expecting the sting of pain to worsen. But instead, a soothing coolness spread across the wound, the pain ebbing away within minutes. It was as if the discomfort had never existed.

He finished wrapping your head in fresh bandages, his hands quick and efficient. You touched the side of your head, your mouth falling open in awe when you realised there was no more pain.

"You must have magic in your hands," you murmured, your voice filled with genuine wonder. "I barely feel any pain at all."

He smiled widely at your words, a touch of pride lighting up his eyes. “No magic, lass. Just a good bit of skill.” He extended a hand to help you stand, his grip firm and steady as he guided you to your feet .

You wobbled slightly, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you, but he steadied you with ease. With a nod, he led you out of the dimly lit room, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on your chest as you headed toward whatever fate the captain had in store for you.

Stepping out of the door, you were immediately hit with a blast of hot, humid air, the salty tang of the sea filling your nostrils. The sunlight, far more intense than the dim lights of the room you had just left, assaulted your eyes, forcing you to squint against its brightness. As your eyes adjusted, you took in your surroundings, following the man down a narrow passage that led out onto the deck.

The deck was expansive, far larger than you had expected, and meticulously maintained. The dark wood beneath your feet was smooth and polished, almost gleaming in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the grimy, weathered deck of the ship you had been on before. Men moved about with a practised, almost military-like precision, their movements synchronised as they managed the sails and ropes with an efficiency that belied the chaos you had expected from a pirate crew. Voices rang out across the deck, some shouting orders, others responding with quick, sharp affirmations.

Your gaze was drawn upward to the towering mainmast, which seemed to loom over you like a giant, casting a long shadow across the deck. "We must be on the poop deck," you thought, your mind racing to make sense of the ship’s layout. Ahead of you, you could just barely make out the bowsprit extending far into the distance, the very tip of the ship. The grandeur of the ship astonished you, its size and the sheer opulence of its upkeep making you wonder just how rich these pirates must be.

The man led the way, his footsteps silent on the wooden planks as you followed closely behind, your eyes darting around to take in as much as you could. Despite the flurry of activity around you, none of the crew seemed to pay you any mind. They were too focused on their tasks to spare even a glance in your direction, as if your presence was of no consequence to them. The lack of attention should have reassured you, it was a relief from the constant surveillance you had on the slaver ship, but it only deepened the knot of anxiety twisting in your stomach.

As you reached the main deck, the man remained quiet, offering no explanation or comfort. The tension in your chest grew with each step, your heart pounding in rhythm with the ship's creaking timbers. Finally, you arrived at a small staircase that led down into another passage. This passage, in contrast to the bright sunlight above, was dark and foreboding, the walls closing in around you as you descended. The shift from light to dark was jarring, and you found yourself instinctively trying to close in on yourself, away from the shadows that seemed to press into you from all sides.

The man stopped at the end of the passage, in front of a large carved, heavy door that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. “Wait here,” he instructed, his voice curt but not unkind. He pushed the door open and slipped inside, leaving you standing alone in the darkness.

You stared at the door, your breath coming in shallow, anxious gasps. "This must be the captain’s room," you thought,your imagination running wild with all the possible horrors that could lie beyond that door. The longer you stood there, the more your nerves frayed, each second stretching out into an eternity. Your mind conjured up images of what the captain might be like—cruel, ruthless, and utterly terrifying. You could almost see his large figure and barbarous appearance.

Your heart raced, the silence around you thickening like a shroud. Every creak of the ship, every distant shout from the deck above, made you jump. You fought the urge to flee, knowing you had nowhere to go, no means of escape. All you could do was wait, your ability to overthink seemed to have reached a new level, until the door finally opened and you would come face to face with the man who held your fate in his hands.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open, and the man stepped out, his expression unreadable. He gestured for you to go inside, but you hesitated, your feet rooted to the spot. The fact that he didn’t seem to be coming in with you made your heart pound even harder in your chest. When you still didn’t move, he gave you a gentle but firm push, and before you could protest, the door was closed behind you with a resounding thud.

You stumbled into the room, your breath catching in your throat as you took in your surroundings. The space was dimly lit, casting deep shadows across the walls, but you could tell it was large, much larger than the cramped quarters you had been kept in before. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with books, maps, and various trinkets that glimmered in the low light—treasures from far-off lands, you assumed. One side of the room was dominated by a large window that offered a breathtaking view of the endless sea, the horizon glowing with the last light of the setting sun. Just how long had you been waiting.

But what truly caught your attention was the man standing in front of the window, his back turned to you. He wore a black tunic that clung to his lean frame, the edges wrapped in black bandages that extended down to his palms. His tight leather pants emphasized his sharp, angular build, and though he wasn’t very tall, he exuded an aura of power and intimidation that filled the room. His hair was striking—half black, half white, styled into a short mullet that gave him an almost otherworldly appearance. He was nothing like you had imagined.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. "H-hello?" you stuttered out, your words barely above a whisper.

The man turned slowly, revealing a face that was both haunting and mesmerising. What puzzled you most was the pair of dark sunglasses he wore, despite the fact that they were inside a dimly lit room. His lips curled into a menacing smile, one that sent a shiver down your spine. And then he spoke, his voice dripping with a honeyed malice, the same voice you had heard just before you had lost consciousness.

“Ahh, finally, the sleeping beauty is awake,” he drawled, his smile widening as he took a step toward her. His presence was suffocating, every movement deliberate and calculated. “Tell me, go ahead. Negotiate your life, beg if you must. Then we’ll see what to do with you.”

He moved to the large table in front of the window, sitting down with a casual grace that belied the danger he radiated. He propped his feet up on the table, the heavy black boots he wore catching your eye. They were stained with dark splotches of red, the sight of which made your stomach recoil.

You tried to speak, but your voice came out in stammers, very much unlike the confidence you held when you talked to the slavers. Your mind raced as you searched for something, anything, that might save you.

He lifted his sunglasses, his eyes were a striking grey, like an uncontainable storm. Suddenly the room felt even more suffocating than before.

“I said speak,” he commanded in a ruthlessly calm voice, it sent shivers down your spine. This man was something different.

You didn’t want to speak but words came out anyway, as if someone had physically forced you to. “I-I’m a navigator,” you blurted, your words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. “I can help you—I’ve guided many ships through perilous waters. I can be useful to you. Please, if you spare me, I’ll do whatever you need. I’ve helped with multiple voyages, charted courses, and avoided storms…”

Your words trailed off as the man laughed, the sound echoing in the room like a cruel mockery. His laughter was sharp, cutting through your rambling pleas and leaving you in a stunned silence. You stood there, trembling, as his mirth subsided, feeling smaller and more like an insignificant fly everytime he looked you over.

Just as you were about to try again, the door behind you creaked open. You froze, your heart lurching in your chest as you heard the sound of boots on the wooden floor. You turned slightly, your eyes widening as seven men entered the room, including the one who had patched you up earlier. They spread out behind you, their presence like a barrier between you and the door, it made your knees weak.

The room felt much smaller now, the walls closing in on you as you stood there, trapped between the intimidating captain in front of you and the intimidating crew behind you. Your mind raced, the weight of the situation crashing down on you as you realised just how dire your circumstances had become.

You looked around, your eyes darting from one man to the next, taking in their appearances and trying to read the expressions on their faces. Each one of them exuded a certain aura, something you couldn’t quite decipher. But the tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to make your skin crawl.

The man in the centre, the one you assumed to be the captain, spoke again, his voice laced with a poisonous edge. “So, tell me, what should we do with this young lady here?”

One of the men stepped forward, his height almost matching that of the captain. He had a permanent smirk on his face, a look that immediately filled you with a sense of revulsion. “I told you earlier too—we should sell her. We’ll get paid a hefty sum for a pretty face like hers.”

Your expression twisted into one of disgust, your heart beating deafeningly at the casual cruelty in his words. But before you could react, another man spoke up, this one taller and far more muscular than the others. His broad shoulders and imposing frame made him look like a man who was used to handling trouble with his fists. “Hey, I thought we didn’t do that anymore,” he said, his tone almost childlike as he pouted, clearly not taking the situation as seriously as you wished he would.

The first man, with his smirk still firmly in place, shrugged, side eyeing his friend. “I was just joking,” he said, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.

Before you could process that, a third man cut in, his voice sharp and dismissive. “It’s all a waste. Just throw her into the water for the sharks. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

Her heart dropped at the suggestion, fear gripping you tightly, but then the man who had healed you spoke up, his voice carrying a note of annoyance. “Hey, then what did I do all that healing for if she was just going to become fish food? We could have thrown her in before I wasted my time.”

The men began to bicker among themselves, their voices rising and overlapping as they argued over your fate. It was as if your life was nothing more than a trivial matter to be debated, and it felt like a cold wet blanket had been dropped on top of you.

The captain, watching the chaos unfold, chuckled to himself. With a wave of his hand, he silenced the room, his voice cutting through the noise with ease. “Now, now, boys, let’s not be hasty. She said she’s a navigator, didn’t she?” He turned his gaze back to you, his expression unreadable. “You see, our last man accidentally tipped over into the ocean, so we’re in need of a new navigator. Why don’t you give it a go? If you fail, well…” He paused, an innocent look spreading across his face, though his eyes remained cold. “Maybe you’ll end up with him.”

You stared at him, aghast at his words. The casual way he spoke of life and death, as if they were nothing more than a game. This was not a man who valued life—at least, not the lives of those he deemed beneath him. And now, your fate rested in the hands of this man who would as easily toss you overboard as he would give you a chance to prove your worth.

Your mind raced, a deadweight pressing down on you. You had no choice but to accept his offer—if it could even be called that. But deep down, you knew that this was only the beginning of a difficult journey, you had to play your cards right.

You agreed hastily, your voice trembling as you thanked him for sparing your life. The captain laughed again, a sound that was more chilling than comforting, before turning his attention away from you. "Someone, show her the way to her cell—oops, I meant room," he ordered, a wicked grin stretching across his face as he returned to the window, sunglasses coming back down, cackling all the way.

As he stared out at the darkening horizon, another man, much taller and with a gaunt appearance, followed him. His hair was stark white, and there was something about his hollow cheeks and sunken black eyes that made you shiver. He leaned in close to the captain, whispering in hushed tones, their conversation too quiet for you to hear. you could only watch as the two men exchanged words.

The rest of the men began to file out of the room slowly, their presence still made you uneasy in the back of your mind. In the end two of the tallest still stayed behind, one of them placing a firm hand on your shoulder and pushing you forward slightly. He seemed friendlier than the others, and he quickly said, "Let’s go," in a tone that was almost reassuring.

As you made your way out of the captain’s quarters, you noticed that his friend, who had stayed silent, was indifferent and least interested in you. He kept flipping a small, gleaming blade in his hand, the metallic click of the weapon opening and closing sending a wave of anxiety through you. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to stab himself—or worse, you.

The friendlier man, walking beside you, began to speak quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush as he droned on about the different parts of the ship and the engineering behind them. He spoke so fast that you could barely understand him, but at least his upbeat demeanour was a welcome change from the coldness you had faced so far. His enthusiasm, however, was lost on you; all you could think about was the blade flicking in the other man's hand and the fact that you were at the mercy of these pirates.

After what felt like an endless walk, they reached a small room, on the opposite side of the captain’s quarters and suspiciously close to the main deck. The indifferent man, his voice surprisingly deep, said, "We’re here," before pushing you inside. You barely had time to protest before he quickly closed the door and locked it with a solid click.

The cheery one spoke up from behind the door, his face appearing in the small, barred window set into it. "There’s food for you on the table, and some spare clothes in the chest near the bed. The clothes might be big, but you’ll have to make do for now. There are also spare sheets in the chest, some paper and pencils, and water, of course. The room is locked for your own safety, and if you need help, just tap loudly a few times under the flower painting over the bed—someone will come to you. Good night!" And with that, his face disappeared, leaving you alone in the room.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant sound of boots echoing down the hallway until they, too, faded into nothingness. You stood there for a moment, shaken by the events of the day, unable to move or think. It was as if your body had finally caught up with the shock of it all, and you felt the weight of your situation settle heavily on your shoulders.

Slowly, you walked over to the table and saw the surprisingly good-looking food laid out for you. A nice bowl of hot stew, some fluffy bread, and roasted meat—simple, but more appetising than anything you had eaten in days. You sat down and began to eat, savouring every bite. You hadn’t realized just how hungry you were until now, and the warmth of the food filled you with a small measure of comfort. As you ate, tears welled up in your eyes and slowly started to drip down.

After finishing your meal, you opened the chest near the bed and found a white tunic and a pair of black linen shorts. The tunic was big, but you managed to hold it together with your own belt, and though the shirts were also loose and came down to your knees, you made do with what you had. You then lay down on the bed, the soft sheets a welcome relief against your skin.

As you stared up at the ceiling, your mind raced with thoughts of the day’s events. How easily you had been spared from death, or worse, and how it all seemed almost too simple. Was it all just to scare you, or was there something deeper going on behind the scenes? The uncertainty of it all terrified you, and you felt a pang of loneliness that threatened to overwhelm you.

But as much as your thoughts tormented you, the heavy exhaustion of your body and the gentle rocking of the ship slowly pulled you into a dreamless sleep.

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dadsbongos · 8 months

Text

The Lovers

word count - 4.8 k

warnings - ENEMIES to lovers..., non-graphic deaths and violence, i humanize and objectify pav in the same breath, fem reader (referred to by "girl" bc he's the worst)

first time capitalizing a fic title in months

DAY 2. NOON.

Blood splotches decorate the cobblestone floor, already drying into maroon against the wood planks of the train cars. The droplets lighten in shade the deeper into the train you go, and eventually, you find crimson. Pure cherry ink on dark wood. Cherry rots into a blackened smudge once again on the wheel of Olivia’s wheelchair. One hand settled over the thin black rim on her right, and the other twisting a roll of bandages around her fingers. She blinks up at you, bottom lip tucked so tight between her teeth that the rosy flesh is blistering white.

“I’m really sorry,” she sighs, abandoning the spool of cloth in her lap to push up her wiry glasses, “Terribly, I am, but I don’t- “ she pauses, “I’m worried that the others would be… biased in their care…”

Your gaze flits up from Olivia’s pensive face to the blonde man spread across the train’s cushy two-seater. His midsection is wrapped with reddish blooms vining all down the white crossings, arm bound in a sling over his chest. His eyes are scrunched up, brows furrowed towards the middle of his forehead; a fitful, delirious limbo overtaking him. Occasionally, he jerks himself awake in a wide-eyed panic before the pain knocks his brain topside again.

The Bremen lieutenant would hardly be a challenge to put down in his current state. You are one of few from the contestants that Olivia feels can be trusted not to undo her hard work of keeping the soldier alive. Combine your level-headedness with your lackadaisical attitude in searching Prehevil, and you make the perfect candidate to watch over Olivia’s patient.

Unfortunately.

“If he annoys me, can I press on his wounds?”

A wild grimace overtakes Olivia’s face, “No! No, please, please do not do that.”

“Fine,” you waltz past Olivia and study the blonde’s pinched face, “Go, go. I’ll watch the traitor.”

“Thank you!” she sighs in relief before exiting the train car, calling back hurriedly, “I’ll try to come with more bandages before sundown!”

When the lieutenant is not trapped under the rolling, ruthless waves of agony, you could almost mistake him for any other man. Maybe even a handsome one: with a strong nose and symmetrical bone structure. His lips are faintly the color of roses, too. Pale and pink. Dry, though. Not nearly as luscious as pretty petals.

Golden tresses, which you are mature enough to admit are alluring. His hat was off and his hair ruffled and fanning out over the magenta seat. Skin frail and pale - you could crush his ribs if you tried. Charming in a way you’ve only known real men to be.

Certainly, though, as soon as the pig squeals - the illusion of perky flowers and honey will melt away. Scorched by the moon as the villagers outside.

Foolishly, you agree to sit around waiting for the swine to be well enough to squeal. A smarter woman would’ve put it down (especially when it's previously shown a taste for blood), but you like Olivia and her tender heart so you do no such thing.

DAY 2. NIGHT.

As thanks for not murdering Pavel as soon as she’d turned her back, Olivia brought you fresh water and dried meats from scavenged homes alongside the fresh bandages. She left again soon after swapping the bloodied cloth for fresh ones.

“Do tell me when he wakes up,” she grins up at you. As if apologetic for having you carry out a duty you’d already agreed to, “I’m sure this isn’t an easy ask. I’m sorry.”

“If I wanted to make you feel bad for asking, I wouldn’t have said yes,” you wave off the concern, “Don’t die out there, Olivia. I’d miss you too much to do my job,” you gesture vaguely towards the immobile lieutenant.

She chuckles quietly before nodding, “I’ll do my best.”

Pavel’s groans are increasing both in frequency and throatiness - he’ll wake soon, you’re sure of it. He even turns onto his side, exhaling thickly - so harsh and ragged he actually coughs up bubbles of spit. Jittering with alert, he gasps sharply and rockets upward. Snapping at his waist and swiping out wildly with his unbound arm, clawing at the musty air directly in front of him; even attempting to swing out the arm wrapped and tied around his neck.

As soon as the hair-splittingly thin burst of adrenaline fades, he hisses in pain. Cupping the covered gash in his chest before curling his uninjured arm around the other, he throws his head back and gasps again. Suffocating under the re-stretching of closing wounds and fragile muscle.

Despite his uniform, you find yourself at Pavel’s side. You brush a hand down the length of his spine before patting between his shoulder blades, your other hand soothing down his navel to press him down into the cushions. Swiping aside curls of gold, you shush his groaning and search the care bag Olivia left behind. In your palm comes a bind of tobacco and a pipe that is smooth and cold against your skin.

“Quiet, quiet,” you coo, stuffing the chamber of the pipe with the almost sickly sweet, nutty-scented tobacco before raising Pavel’s head and sitting the lip into his mouth.

His eyes are still wrinkled shut, chest beginning to sporadically pop and shrink in a struggle to suck wind through his throat.

Part of you wants to tug his hair and call him stupid, but a larger part of you is consumed with pity. Pity for a creature so entrapped with torment that he cannot remember the second most basic function of his body.

“Breathe through your nose,” you continue to run your fingers through his sweat-matted hair while striking a match against the train’s floorboards and lighting the tobacco, “Smoke slow. It will ease you.”

Pavel’s neck cranes upward and remains there, head pushing against your stroking hand as he (rather noisily) inhales through his nostrils. Then, he fills his lungs with the sting of tobacco, blowing it back out through the pursed corner of his mouth.

Once you’re confident Pavel can breathe and smoke without choking himself to death, you turn again to rattle through Olivia’s care bag for herbs. Anything to aid the physical pain before the distraction of tobacco wears off.

Eyes fluttering open, Pavel stares down at you as he lifts an arm to pull the pipe from his mouth - blowing smoke down into your face. You pinch the exposed skin of his side harshly, only letting go when he jerkily arches his back to escape your cruel fingers.

“Unbelievable,” you shake your head, “No. A Bremen pig would, of course, disrespect someone trying to heal them.”

“If you wanted me dead, I already would be.”

“I still have time.”

You unplug a glass vial the shade of elderberries and press it to Pavel’s closed lips. When he stubbornly fastens his lips tighter, you glare directly into his eyes.

“Open. Or it’s being poured over your neck.”

Pavel groans in protest, but finally opens his mouth and allows you to dump the blue liquid into his throat. He gags at the bitterness of raw, untempered pressed herbs, almost gagging until he realizes you have no intention of stopping your pour. So he chooses to swallow down the vial as quickly as it comes instead of drowning to a mere glass of blue.

When you’re tucking the emptied glass away, Pavel replaces the pipe and huffs down at you, “You’re not a very courteous nurse.”

Instead of dignifying the jab with a response, you sit up fully on your knees to scour over the lieutenant below. From his tousled hair to his bloodied and wretched uniform to his muddied boots.

You reach up and contemplate digging a thumb somewhere in the center of his bandages before thinking better of it and snatching the pipe from his lips, “You should put away your breasts.”

Inhaling the smoke, you blow it down in Pavel’s annoyed face and grin when he coughs.

He glares up at you somehow harsher than before, “I could shoot you for that. I should shoot you for that.”

“Then who would protect you from all the other people that want you dead?”

Silently, he mulls over the question. If he reaches some sort of logical conclusion, he refuses to share. Most likely, though, you’re assuming he has no such answer. Aside from you, there is Olivia, but even she could not be swayed into staying on this train longer than necessary. It could drive one mad, bound inside this narrow tube of car after car after car with the same seats and floorboards and rolling rug. So she very politely requested you to stay behind instead.

You sit down on the hard floor below you, pulling your knees to your chest and winding both arms around your legs. Pavel turns his head to the side, lips in a pout. Drinking the blue liquid earlier has revived them, at least somewhat, they are even pinker. More full. Smoother. When you’ve had enough staring there, you stare at his eyes: so gray they shine like gun metal in the flitting moonlight.

Maybe Pavel would notice you examining him if he could tear his own eyes away from where they’re lingering by the sliver of exposed skin by your ankle. Classic: boarish pig lives up to his name. His gaze crawls up your shin to your bent knees, then a little lower as if to catch a glimpse of where your thighs and rear are squished against your chest and the floor (respectively). At least you have the decency to not objectify him during your observation - not that you even could. The lieutenant is leagues more off-putting than handsome.

Once he’s gathered the guts to bore his steely gaze into your face, he grins with a half-hearted shrug, “I haven’t seen a beautiful woman not kissing the piss lord’s ass in ages.”

You ignore the pass completely, “So, the temple square?”

Pavel sighs and extends a hand, palm up and fingers splayed wide in front of your face, “A failure.”

“You don’t say,” you bypass his hand and feed the lip of the pipe directly into his mouth, pressing it against his tongue and watching him firmly tuck it between his lips before letting go, “Why try?”

Puffing from the pipe, Pavel only shakes his head while exhaling thick plumes of slate-hued smoke. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and cradles the pipe in his hand, turning it delicately to inspect the body, “Why not?”

You make a show of looking from his face to his bandaged torso before snickering, “Serious question?”

Pavel takes one final draw of the pipe before balancing it atop the wooden frame of the seat. He lays his uninjured hand gently over his torso, blinking up at the ceiling with tired, wet eyes.

“You are cruel, you know this?”

“It’s a good defense,” you grin at the man innocently, “Especially against brutalist pigwhores.”

“Targeted,” again, he pouts, “Mean. You are a mean girl.”

“Maybe that’s what you need. I think Mama was too nice to you.”

Pavel withholds the wince at your words, merely pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth and inhaling through his nose sharply. He shrugs when he really wants to bite, “You think so?”

Hopefully, he muses, he can rip out your throat when he finally snaps back.

“I do.”

“You know what I think?” you merely fold your arms, so he continues, “Nobody put the spoiled girl in her place. Now she’s a confident woman full of hot air,” he smiles, “I don’t do well with confident women like that. Make me jumpy.”

You ‘hmph’, but respond with nothing new before rising from the floor and snatching the care bag to squeeze against your chest like a child would their stuffed bear. Laying across the unoccupied, opposite seat, you turn so that you're faced away from the lieutenant.

Pavel stares at your back. He hadn’t been entirely teasing earlier - he truly hadn’t found a woman beautiful in a long while. Not that it was a problem to admit a girl was pretty, but there was always some dull ache to accompany the thought. Women riveted by his status in the Bremen army disgusted him, and women disgusted by him and his status were usually unwilling to bend to his charms. Even then, if he met a woman who was nurturing and sweet, undeterred by his enlistment, he was consumed with revenge.

Now that he’s officially gone and tried and horrendously failed, he can at least swim in the delusion that there is a chance for romance. Besides, he is in his thirties, that’s about the time when people begin settling down, right?

He reaches up for the pipe but finds that it’s gone out. No more vermillion embers to offer comfort.

“Oi,” he calls into the night. Not even crickets sing back. He shifts as if to sit up, but his entire waist flares with pain and sends him crashing back into the velvet cushions. So, he settles on raising his voice, “Hey!”

“Sleep, pig.”

“Pav.”

“Hm?”

“My name. My name is Pav,” he considers throwing the pipe at you altogether, but if the gold-encrusted bowl actually hits your skull then you’d likely leave and never return, “Call me by it.”

“Why should I?” you twist, scowling over your shoulder, “You signed up for the Bremen army, now take what comes with that in Prehevil.”

“You don’t strike me as a dull girl,” he grumbles, “So don’t pretend to be one.”

Suddenly, you’re sitting up again, the bag still clenched between both of your arms, “Do you know what the Bremen army has done to people? Has done to me?” you spit on the floor, right below where Pav rests, “Pigs! Horrible, wretched, rotten pigs!”

Pavel allows you to scream, allows you to finish, before returning, “Do you know what the Bremen army has done to me?”

He’s so quiet, he’s downright whispering. Voice husky and layered with years of buried terror and bloodlust.

“How should I care? You enlisted! Whatever they made you- !”

Now he cuts you off.

“They razed my home during the First Great War,” that once blinding sheen in gunmetal eyes is dark like obsidian, “My family. My mama,” he mocks you, “Dead. I joined to kill the Kaiser, I never wanted to be a Bremen pig. I never asked for this.”

“You came to kill the Kaiser as a lieutenant?”

“I did.”

“You must’ve known…” you swallow your words. A lieutenant to kill the commander? Even without the Kaiser’s other soldiers, Pavel wouldn’t possibly have been able to do that and get away with it. Not unless he wanted to hide out in Prehevil for the rest of his days.

“At least I will never die knowing I didn’t try,” he cackles sickly, “Great leader Kaiser spat the bullet out like it was nothing… Maybe he is some God sent back to torture us.”

“Maybe you missed,” you slump forward, elbows digging into your knees, “Couldn’t that be more likely?”

“No,” he looks at you with widened eyes, “No, no,” he shakes his head, “I don’t miss my shots.”

“If you’re sure,” you smile suddenly, shaking loose the stiffness in Pavel’s shoulders, “When you’re healed, we can try again, hm?”

“Really?” he’s shocked by the madness of your suggestion, “Did you miss the part where I said he took a bullet to the head and walked it off?”

“Apparently, we’ll die here anyway,” you shrug, yawning and fluttering back down onto the seat, “So, why not try again, Pav?”

A girl that nurtures despite his bloody uniform, and now despite his terrible need for revenge. You are as cruel as you are doting. Fiery and unfair and oh, he thinks he wants you to card your fingers in his hair again. Gentle only to him.

“As long as you don’t abandon me once you see for yourself,” Pavel can feel less burning in his chest when he breathes now, “Spat the bullet right out, I tell you.”

You shrug, “I guess I’ll die one way or another here.”

Pavel shakes his head, not bothering to tilt his head away from you as he drifts off.

…

DAY 3. MORNING.

He awakes to a great pressure around his throat. Snapping into consciousness, he finds you standing over him with shaking arms, and when he’s brave enough to follow the branches to where they’re stemmed - your hands are around his neck. Your breathing is shaky, and there’s wetness reflecting off your cheeks. Pavel claws at your wrists with his hand, twisting his body so his bottom half is hanging off the seat. Ignoring the scorching rage that sears over the fresh gash in his stomach, Pavel kicks out at you. His heeled boots dig into your gut, squishing intestines and fat and blood as he pushes you away.

Loudly, his boots thunk back against the floorboard when you’ve fallen away, throwing yourself dramatically across the opposite seat. Like a sick Europian lady from the Gilded Age, you drape over the frame with sniveling wails.

Pavel skims his fingers over where your own were clamping his throat shut as he shudders for breath. Ignoring your sobs, he shouts, “Did you hit your head or what?! Heal me, talk to me, just to end my life?! Are you- ?!”

“Enough!” you scream, voice snapping raw in the middle, completely fizzled out at the end. Wiping at the ceaseless tears gushing over your face, you scream again, “She should’ve gotten out of here! She should’ve gotten out and ran instead of… Instead of…” you cough out phlegm and despair trapped in your throat, “Instead of…”

Marina’s downcast face, moles decorating her frown as she twisted a cracked pair of Windsor glasses between her hands. She could barely look at you when she said it before handing over the glasses. I’m sorry, Marina whispered, Olivia… I just thought, maybe, you should know…

Pavel remains as he is, lumped against the back of the seat with both legs dangling onto the floor. Dried blood scraped up under his heels. He heaves for breath, watching as you cradle yourself in your arms and rock. You wither before him, babbling and wheezing and shrouded in shadow.

“What are you going on about?”

“Be quiet,” you snap, louring through puffy, red eyes and wobbly lips, “Be mournful. The woman that saved your life has died,” before Pavel can squeeze anything out from his gaping mouth, you stand and point down at him to command again, “Be nice. The war is over, and you’re not even a real lieutenant, you can show kindness when a person has died.”

He shuts his mouth. Opens it again. Shuts it. Then, finally,

“I didn’t know her.”

From the way you cross your arms and turn away, he can gather that that was the wrong thing to say.

“And yet she saved you,” your arms tighten around yourself, “She saved you, Pav… Be nice.”

You’re a sweet thing, Pavel thinks. You clearly hate him for not displaying the tenderness that you are around the woman’s death. At least at this moment, you hate him.

“I’m taking a walk,” you announce, flinging open the cabin door and slamming it behind you.

Pavel contemplates calling after you, but figures the sound of his voice could only make you stay away longer.

You’re a cruel, sweet thing.

Not even leaving the care bag closer for him to reach in and take from.

DAY 3. NOON.

When you return, the train car is silent sans the gentle hum of Pavel’s breathing. Almost reminiscent of clockwork, a well-oiled machine, his broad chest rises and falls smoothly as he’s rearranged himself sideways on the seat. With his slung arm over his chest and spare one tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow.

Having Pavel stretched out before you gives ample time for you to more thoroughly judge his physique - if you’d be able to strangle him while he’s awake. If he could fight back. If he could lift you with his pure muscle and restrain you with a single hand while the other…

Maybe, you think.

His arms are large, but not obnoxiously terrifying like the boxer. His waist is slim despite the broadness of his shoulders and chest.

Suddenly, he groans, nose twitching in his slumber. It draws your gaze up to his face. That unsettlingly symmetrical face with the strong nose bridge and soft, rosy lips.

Not to mention his flaxen hair - curled and tousled and forcefully in your sights with that Bremen hat off. And with his Bremen uniform (seemingly always) unbuttoned to his stomach, you make out his pectorals past his bandages. You make out two indentations over his heart: silvery scars.

He could almost be handsome. If he were more emotionally attuned.

You kneel by his side, swinging the care bag across the aisle and into your lap. His bleeding has visibly lessened, as only the lightest shade of pink has spread over the pale cloth. Sneaking scissors up by his soft skin, you avoid slicing him as you snip the bandages and begin unwinding them. Pulling gently so as to avoid waking the man, you successfully clear him from the restrictive cloth and assess his healing wound.

More coral pink than crimson red, now. You assume the mass improvement is thanks to the blue vial Olivia had provided. Even as the gnarly cut expands under Pavel’s breathing, it fails to start bleeding again. Which you’re grateful for since, as a precarious glance into the bag confirms, you have freshly run out of bandages. And you fear that snagging any old cloth from any old barrel could give Pavel an infection.

“What was it Alll-mer said? Pluck out your eyes if you cannot respect modesty?”

“I’m checking your wound,” you pinch his side. The skin is warm and fleshy and so, so soft between your fingertips. He whimpers and tries to evade your hand by squirming higher on the seat, “When did you wake up?”

“Not long ago,” he watches you reach into the bag and pull free another glass vial of blue liquid, “Only to see you ogling my body.”

“It’s a hideous one. Hard to look away.”

“You love to lie, mean girl?” he ‘tsk’s, “Shame. Lies are so ugly from a pretty mouth.”

“As if you would know.”

“Confident woman,” he sings to himself, grinning, “Confident, confident woman.”

Shoving the blue vial towards Pavel’s face, you square your shoulders and settle your face sternly, “Drink.”

“I liked it when you did it for me,” he opens his mouth then, refusing to break eye contact.

You comply, shifting onto your knees and pressing the chilled glass against Pavel’s lower lip; tipping it to flow into his warm mouth. He gulps down what you graciously offer, bringing his uninjured arm out from under his head and settling it over your hand around the vial. His thumb presses against your knuckles. You tangle your other hand into his hair and let the golden curls thread over your fingers. Once the vial is finished, you can’t explain it but there’s a sudden thundering in your chest. So vivid and hard in your ribs that it makes you nauseous.

Pavel blinks, lashes fluttering at you as his hand remains over yours.

Sunshine slants across his face. You see him more clearly now than this morning or last night or when he was wrought and warped with pain.

He looks pretty like this. Foul-mouthed and promiscuous and even forthright rude, but undoubtedly pretty.

His hand moves to your cheek, tenderly cupping the flesh with glass still pressed to his lips.

The thunder comes with lightning that strikes blazing fire. Heat fans through your chest and up to your forehead.

“If you want to go after the Kaiser, you should rest,” you whisper, as if speaking any louder could shatter the both of you from this moment, “We both should. Best to gather our strength before searching for him.”

Pavel shakes his head, obsessively smoothing the pad of his thumb over the apple of your cheek, “He will gut us both, cruel girl. I don’t want to see that for you. If I find him it’s alone,” he swallows thickly, “And I’m tired.”

“So,” you realize with a startled tremble that your internal combustion is affection for the former lieutenant, “you’ll stay?”

And with greater terror, you realize that you actually want to stay with him.

“I will die knowing I failed,” he sucks in a sharp breath, pressing his lips firmly before granting you sight of the rosy flesh again, “but I will have you to die with, cruel girl.”

At least even in humiliating defeat, Pavel can be loved.

“Are you scared to die, Pav?”

You’re a sweet one, he fondly recalls. Assuming he had much to live for outside his schlocky revenge scheme.

“Projecting, hm?”

You pinch his side. He lets you.

DAY 3. NIGHT.

“Now, bend it.”

Pavel hisses but manages to fully extend and curl his newly unwound arm with nothing more than a click in his elbow. He lays both hands in his lap as you bunch the bandages and sling into a ball and lay it off to the side.

“Good,” you utter softly, “You’ve healed a lot faster than I would’ve thought.”

“Right?” Pavel turns his head to stare down at you, tilting his head back, “You should sit with me.”

“You’re feeling charitable,” he scoffs at your tease, not moving to accommodate his invite, “Where should I even sit, then? You’re taking the entire seat.”

When he merely smirks, you get the idea.

“You’re gross.”

“Indulge me, cruel girl,” you rise to your feet, gnawing your bottom lip in contemplation, Pavel leans against the armrest and cinches his legs together, “Would you make a man die alone?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

But would you make Pavel die alone?

You swing a leg over his torso, careful to avoid the healing slash and straddle Pavel’s waist with both hands landing over his exposed chest. He cups your cheek again, now taking pleasure (and slight pain) in cradling your face with both hands. He hasn’t gotten to see a beautiful woman in ages, and he thinks maybe it isn’t so bad to go out staring at one.

Moonlight cascades over the both of you, so bright in the train cabin it almost burns.

“If we could still run, where would you go?” you ask.

“Where would you want me?”

“Flirt,” you’re leaning in, though, trailing a finger over his scarred chest. Your nails bite at the flesh, he grunts in disapproval, “How can I believe anything you say? You betrayed your leader. Would you shoot me, too?”

Pavel is sure you’re anything but serious in asking, but it's dangerous the way he feels compelled to answer genuinely, “Never. I’d miss your… What was it? Brutalism?”

“Enough,” the moonlight sears over where Pavel’s hands are curved around your cheeks. You lean down more until your lips brush his, “You call me rude, but you’re- “

He slices your derision short, pressing his petal soft lips against yours with a quiet, contented sigh.

Moonlight bares witness. And you cannot pull away even as the fire in your heart rages from affection to molten lava. You’re not even entirely sure you would want to.

…

Karin cannot feel her fingers as she stands in the open train car door. She’s seen many things - many terrible, awful things. Especially so in the past seventy-two hours than her entire career as a war journalist, but this may be what truly drives her mad. She can feel it - the need to retreat inside her mind and shut down completely; the need to give up hope of salvation. Maybe she can suppress it long enough to sit by that seashore, get a good view to wash out the image before her.

Wriggling on the train loveseat is a fleshy creature, almost like mushed peaches. Occasionally, pleased sighs and hums will escape one of its two smiling faces as the lumps slide and shift along the cushion. One face nuzzles closer to the other and the measly bread and meat Karin swiped from deserted kitchens lurches in her stomach.

None of the other monsters she’d encountered had been so undeniable in its previous humanity. It reminds her of the holed, broken, pliant corpses of uniformed soldiers dead in trenches, and it reminds her of the first time she ever saw a real dead body. She puked on its boot, unable to run back and spew bile elsewhere before it was spurting past her lips.

Karin’s stomach is stronger now, though. She has the time to turn and trudge on wobbly knees towards the seaside before she pukes - squirming flesh and smoldered limbs tangling in her mind.

Moonlight burns at the back of her neck as The Lovers moan and coo happily behind her.

#pav fear and hunger #pav yudin #fear and hunger x reader #pav x reader #pavel yudin x reader #fear and hunger fluff #working title to this was p(av) in v #laugh NEOW

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derekhighwaytf · 1 year

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Eli had sparked quite a reputation as a college sophomore. His infamous university-wide anti-military protests had piqued the attention of Professor Frank Marshall, an American History professor who was once a marine himself. When Eli's final essay, a biting, yet flawed case for slashing the American defense budget landed on Frank's desk, the professor felt compelled to bring him in for a heart-to-heart during office hours.

Eli, however, was as tenacious as he was stubborn. He sat across from Frank in the oak-lined office, launching into an impassioned tirade about banning military recruiters from all school campuses in America. Calmly, Frank handed Eli a faded photograph from his own youthful days in basic training at Parris Island.

Suddenly, Eli's art-trained eyes, usually tuned to distinguish the finest nuances in Van Gogh portraits, refocused into the unfiltered reality of a soldier's perspective. His delicate fingers, usually smeared with paint from making picket signs, hardened and darkened with dirt, pulsating with a strength he had never known. He tried to shake off the sensation, but it was no use; his body was being reformed, repurposed.

With each passing second, his scrawny physique began to shift, muscles emerging and hardening where there was none. His chest broadened, shoulders squared, and his twinkish form swelled into a formidable figure. He could feel his clothing tightening around him as he grew from a wiry 130 lbs to a solid, imposing 190 lbs of pure, hardened steel.

A savage hunger replaced his usual vegan diet, his body now craving meat and potatoes. His earring evaporated into thin air, and as his hand instinctively reached for it, he felt his free-flowing, untamed locks disappear too. His messy mane shrank into a sleek undercut, and then to a neat crew cut, and finally, a bare-bone induction cut, revealing a chiseled jawline and a gaze as sharp as an eagle’s. He reached up to feel his new haircut, rubbing his sandpaper head, his growing eight inch plank of wood grinding up against his camouflage uniform.

Eli tried to resist the transformation as best he could, his spirit rebelling against this sudden sense of discipline and masculinity. But every attempt was futile; he was no longer the one in control.

His memories of avant-garde performances and wine-soaked nights were replaced by grueling morning drills and punishing workout sessions. Deep down, he wanted to reach out for his paints, his brushes, but his hands instead found the photo of young Frank Marshall morphing into a snapshot of a young soldier, one of himself—no longer Eli, but Elijah. A proud American willing to do anything to protect his country. His artistic aspirations were relegated to the backburner, the space in his mind taken over by his new military identity.

Frank watched as Eli's rebellious spark was now smothered by the spirit of a Marine. Now, there was only Elijah—a paragon of strength, duty, and masculinity. Despite his desperate efforts, Eli had morphed into the one thing he had sworn never to be. His rebellious spirit was finally tamed, replaced by the steady, dutiful beat of a Marine.

#military tf #gay tf #tf story #bald #buzzcut #muscle tf #male transformation #mental change

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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months

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Tabs give me superpowers

Berliners: Otherland has added a second date (Jan 28) for my book-talk after the first one sold out - book now!

"Lifehacking" is in pretty bad odor these days, and with good reason: a once-useful catch-all for describing how to make things easier has become a pit of productivity porn, grifter hustling, and anodyne advice wreathed in superlatives and transformed into SEO-compliant listicles.

But I was there when lifehacking was born, and I'm here to tell you, it wasn't always thus. Lifehacking attained liftoff exactly 19 years and 348 days ago, on Feb 11, 2004, when Danny O'Brien presented "Life Hacks: Tech Secrets of Overprolific Alpha Geeks" at the 0'Reilly Emerging Technology Conference (aka ETCON). I was there, and I took notes:

https://craphound.com/lifehacksetcon04.txt

O'Brien's inspiration was his social circle, in which people he knew to be no smarter or better or motivated than anyone else in that group were somehow able to do much more than their peers, in some specific domain. O'Brien delved deeply into these peoples' lives and discovered that each of them had merely ("merely!") gotten very good at using one or two tools to automate things that would otherwise take up a lot of their time.

These "hacks" freed up their practitioners to focus on things that mattered more to them. They accomplished the goal set out in David Allen's Getting Things Done: to make a conscious choice about which things you are going to fail to do today, rather than defaulting to doing the things that are easy and trivial, at the expense of the things that matter, but are more complicated:

https://gettingthingsdone.com/what-is-gtd/

One trait all those lifehacks shared: everyone who created a little hack was faintly embarrassed by it, and assumed that others who learned about their tricks would find them trivial or foolish. O'Brien changed the world by showing that other people were, in fact, delighted and excited to learn about their peers' cool little tricks.

(Unfortunately, this eventually opened the floodgates of overheated posts about some miraculous hack that turned out to indeed be silly and trivial or even actively bad, but that wasn't O'Brien's fault!)

I'm one of those people whom others perceive as very "productive." There are some objective metrics on which this is true: I wrote nine books during lockdown, for example. Like the lifehackers O'Brien documented in 2004, I have lots of little hacks that aren't merely a way of getting more done – they're a way to make sure that I get the stuff that matters to me (taking care of my family and my health, and writing books) done.

A lot of these lifehacks boil down to making your life easier. There's a spot on our kitchen counter where I put e-waste. Whenever I go out to the car, I carry any e-waste out and put it in a bag in the trunk. Any time I'm near our city dump, I stop and throw the bag into their e-waste bin. This is now a habit, and habits are things you get for free: I spend zero time thinking about e-waste, which means I have more time to think about things that matter (and our e-waste still ends up in the right place).

There's other ways I use habits to make my life easier: after many years, I learned how to write every day:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/22/walking-the-plank/

For longer-form works like novels, I "leave myself a rough edge," finishing the day's work in the middle of a sentence. That way I get a few words for free the next day, meaning I never start the day's work wondering which words I'll type:

https://locusmag.com/2014/01/cory-doctorow-cheap-writing-tricks/

One of the most powerful habits I've cultivated is to have a group of daily tabs that I open in a new browser every morning. The meat of this tab group is websites I want to check in with every day, either because they don't have RSS feeds, or because I want to make sure I never miss an update.

This tab-group habit started before RSS was widespread, when most of the websites I wanted to check in on every day didn't have feeds yet, and for many years, this group was just a set of daily reads. But over the years, I started throwing things in the tab-group that I needed to stay on top of.

My daily tabs are in a folder called "unfucked rota" (they were originally in a folder called "rota," which got corrupted and had to be reconstructed in a folder I called "fucked rota," until I finally took a couple hours off and got it in good running order, hence "unfucked rota"). As I type this, "unfucked rota" contains more than a hundred websites I visit every morning, but it also contains:

The edit-history pages for four Wikipedia entries I'm watching;

Chronological feeds of my books on Amazon and Audible, to catch counterfeits as they are posted;

The parent notification portal for my kid's school;

The mileage history for the airline I flew on yesterday (I'll delete this once the flight is posted);

The credit card history for a card I reported a fraudulent charge on (I'll delete this once the refund is posted);

The sell-pages for three products that are out of stock (I'll delete these once the products are in stock and ordered);

A bookmarked newest-first Ebay search for a shirt I like that has been discontinued by the manufacturer;

The new-survey-completed pages for my last two Kickstarters;

The courier tracking page for an item being shipped sea-freight to me from Asia.

The tail end of this unfucked rota changes all the time, but as you can tell, it's got a lot of stuff that would be time-consuming to build a whole new system to track, but which has a web-page that can be easily added to a daily, habitual check-in and then removed when it's not relevant anymore.

Some of these things have email notifiers or RSS feeds, but those are too easy to lose in the noise. I generally delete email from ecommerce sites unread, since 99.99% of the messages they send me are unsolicited marketing nonsense, not the "notify me when this is back in stock" message I do want to see (same goes for my kid's school, which sends me fifty unimportant messages for every message that I must reply to).

Most of the internet is still on the web, which means it can be bookmarked, which means that it takes me one second to add it to the group of things I'm staying on top of, and one second to remove from that group. I get up in the morning, middle-click the "unfucked rota" item in my bookmarks pane, make a cup of coffee, and then sit down and race through those tabs, close-close-close.

It takes less than a second to scan a tab to see if it's changed (and if I close a tab too quickly, the ctrl-shift-T "unclose" shortcut is there in muscle-memory, another habit). The whole process takes between one and 15 minutes (depending on whether there's anything useful and new in one of those tabs).

Tabs, like lifehacks, are also in bad odor. Everyone stresses about how many tabs they have open. It's even inspired Rusty Foster's excellent newsletter, Today In Tabs:

https://www.todayintabs.com/

But this is a very different way to think about tabs. Rather than opening a window full of tabs that need your detailed, once-off attention later, this method is about using groups of tabs so that you can pay cursory, frequent attention to them.

In a world full of administrative burdens, where firms and institutions play the "sure, we'll do that, but you're going to have to track our progress" game to get out of living up to their obligations, this method is a powerful countermeasure:

https://memex.craphound.com/2015/02/02/david-graebers-the-utopia-of-rules-on-technology-stupidity-and-the-secret-joys-of-bureaucracy/

My little tab habit is so incredibly useful, such a powerful way to seize back time and power from powerful actors who impose burdens on me, that I sometimes forget how, for other people, tabs are a symptom of a life that's spiraling out of control. For me, a couple hundred tabs are a symbol of a couple hundred tasks that I'm totally on top of, a symbol of control wrestled back from others who are hostile to my interests.

This isn't how tabs were "meant" to be used, of course. It's an example of the kind of "innovation" that comes from users repurposing things in ways their designers didn't necessarily anticipate or intend.

This is what Jonathan Zittrain meant by "generative" technology back in 2008, when he published his incredibly prescient The Future of the Internet: And How To Stop It:

https://memex.craphound.com/2008/07/22/zittrains-the-future-of-the-internet-how-to-save-the-internet-from-the-internet/

For Zittrain, "generativity" was the property of some technologies that let its users generate new, useful tools and solutions for themselves (this is very different from "generative AI!")

Zittrain described how "curated" computing systems, like mobile devices that relied on apps that couldn't be adapted by their users, were dead ends for generativity. 15 years later, the dismal world of apps has proven him right:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/24/everything-not-mandatory/#is-prohibited

To the extent that "lifehacking" is about doing more, rather than being more deliberate about what you accomplish, it can be harmful. I am not immune to the failure modes of lifehacking:

https://locusmag.com/2017/11/cory-doctorow-how-to-do-everything-lifehacking-considered-harmful/

But overall, using tabs as something I close, rather than something I open, is a source of comfort and calm for me. For one thing, ripping through a group of tabs every morning means that I don't have to worry about missing something if I go too fast. I'll get another chance tomorrow:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/27/probably/

Decades ago, Dori Smith dubbed her pioneering blog her "#Backup Brain":

https://web.archive.org/web/20020120231027/http://www.backupbrain.com/

At their best, our systems – be they physical, like a spot on the counter where the e-waste goes, or digital, like a tab-group – are "congitive prostheses." They allow us to move important things from the highly contested, busy and precious space between our ears and out there into the world:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/09/the-memex-method/

Like those lifehackers that O'Brien studied for his presentation in 2004, I confess to feeling a little silly about telling you all about this. For me, this habit of decades is so ingrained that it feels trivial and obvious. And yet, when I look at people in my life struggling to stay on top of a million nagging administrative tasks that could be easily watched through a morning's flick through a tab-group, I can't help but think that maybe some of you will find a useful idea or two in my unfucked rota.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/25/today-in-tabs/#unfucked-rota

#pluralistic #productivity #life hacks #mozilla #firefox #open web #systems #getting things done #externalized memory #outboard brain #generativitiy

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haveatthee83 · 2 months

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Under My Skin (Monkey D. Luffy/Reader) 1/7

Inspo: Under My Skin by Jukebox the Ghost

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Word Count: ~8.5k

Warnings: Angst, arguing, cursing, angry Luffy, discussion of death and dead relatives, brief descriptions of violence.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Luffy was a very happy person. Plenty of people thought he might not even be capable of feeling negative emotions sometimes. All of that theorizing got swept away with the tide the day Ace had died. The heart wrenching wails of the young captain were enough to make the sea herself weep. Luffy was a real person who felt things like loss, sorrow, rage, and hate. That last one wasn’t one he felt very often if at all until years later when you came along.

You had guided his crew through your island, a large sprawling summer island with rolling sands and sunbaked stones. It constantly sent shivers of familiarity through Luffy and the crew, thinking back to Alabasta. All the Straw-Hats had their eyes glued to Luffy, making sure he was okay, but there was apparently no need, his large smile never leaving his face as he asked question after question about the area, what foods you had there, if it ever snowed, or where did you live on this massive island. You would answer as best you could, curt, little responses between small smiles. “We have all kinds of different fruits, vegetables, and fish, but we’re known for raising boar for meat.” “It only snowed once, and it practically shut down the whole island. No one knew what to do!” “I live somewhere close by; I’ll show you and make you all dinner! Make sure you have shelter for the night.”

At first, all seemed well, Luffy was constantly engaged by the land around him, taking in the sights as you brought them toward your home, but then-

“SANDSTORM!” Your voice pierced through the air as you hurriedly corralled the pirate crew into your home, slamming the door shut and grabbing a large robe of sorts, throwing it over your shoulders, “Feel free to make yourselves comfy, eat or whatever you need.” You assured, slamming the door shut, shoving a large plank of wood through the handle to keep and wind from blowing it open or off its hinges. “I’ll be right back!” You called over the wind.

The crew watched through scratched and dirty windows as you shoved a bandana over your nose and slapped a hat onto your head. An orange cowboy hat. You took it off of a hook on your porch, tightening its drawstring under your chin. The hat wasn’t particularly offensive in and of itself, of course. It was a simple, bright orange with a red banded set of goggles on the brim, which you promptly slipped off of the hat and over your eyes, their blue tinted glass glinting in the slowly suffocating sunlight. You gave the pirates a two fingered salute through your windows before sprinting toward your dune buggy right by your house, speeding off in a cloud of sand to help your town hunker down for the storm.

Logically, such a fashion choice would mean very little to someone. Logically, it might even make one laugh at the similarity, the irony. Logically, it was just a hat. But the way it was the exact shade, exact cut. The way your goggles mirrored the smiley tokens. The way your own freckles sprawled over your cheeks…there was nothing logical about it. Who the fuck did you think you were?

The Straw-Hat crew collectively held their breath, all eyes on their captain. Luffy’s smile finally cracked.

“Hey! What’s she got that for?” He exclaimed, rattling the front door’s handle, making its old hinges groan and creak.

Nami and Usopp both grabbed their captain by the shoulders, trying to pry him away from the door, “It’s just a coincidence!” Nami insisted, tugging harder,

“Nuh-uh!” Luffy called out, kicking wildly at his crew mates. “That’s Ace’s hat!”

Nami whined, “Sanji! Make some food or something and make him relax! Or else I’m knocking him out!”

Sanji didn’t even take time to swoon, getting right to work, raiding your fridge and pantry, looking mostly for some type of meat for the ravenous man who was rapidly trying to tear down your door. The cook practically chittered with glee as he found your store of the famed Boar meat, quickly making a plan in his mind as to best prepare it in such a quick fashion.

“Calm down!” Zoro chimed in trying to help calm down the out of character behavior. The swordsman whacked Luffy on the head, “You can’t do shit till she’s back, dipshit!” He hissed, palming the captain’s head like a basketball.

Luffy let out a strangled cry of anguish, flopping onto the ground, “Stupid hat.” He muttered.

Nami, Usopp, and Zoro let him fall, jumping back, the crew all looking between each other. They had left Brook and Franky on the ship, Robin was holding Chopper to her side, running a hand along his fur, trying to soothe him, Sanji was whirling away in the kitchen, and the other three were sat clueless as to what to do. How do you make someone feel better when you’ve never seen them like this?

Luffy scowled, scrambling to his feet and rushed to your living room, sticking his face against the glass of a window, leaning against the beat-up mint green couch under it. ‘Ugly couch.’ Luffy thought bitterly.

Luffy wasn’t wrong. Your furniture was a true-blue hodgepodge of different pieces you’d picked up doing odd jobs or found on the side of the road and fixed up. Nothing went together and it all had patches and noticeably repaired wooden pieces.

Luffy’s eyes drove over the sandy landscape, peeled for your shadow coming up the drive, but it wasn’t there, not yet.

The Straw-Hats all gathered in the living room minus Sanji and settled around their frowning captain.

“What should we do?” Usopp whispered to the group, sitting on an obnoxious, yellow velvet ottoman. “I haven’t seen Luffy like this in ages.” He muttered, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder to where the man sat.

Robin sighed, holding Chopper in her lap, sat on a purple, floral print wingback chair. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do.” She started, “He needs to talk to her.”

“It’s not his hat though,” Zoro mumbled, leaning next to your mud brick fireplace, “it’s just another orange cowboy hat.”

Nami nodded, legs swung over an emerald, green love seat, “Surely, he knows that?”

Robin shrugged and shook her head, “It’s just his poor mind dealing with the grief.” She suggested.

“What if she knew Ace?” Chopper whispered into the still air of the room, running everyone’s breath stale.

“We won’t know anything until she comes back.” Robin chastised the small reindeer, “Don’t go and put ideas like that out into the universe. It might make things worse.”

Luffy could hear them talking but chose to ignore it, opting to keep his gaze glued on the sand whipping past the window, fixated on a wind chime you had on your porch that slanted with the wind, a wind chime with large, round, red beads hanging from it. Luffy felt his eye twitch as he set his jaw, teeth grinding a bit.

Robin rose from her seat and set Chopper down in her place, opting to walk around your space and see what you were all about. See if you had any good books or any clues as to why you and Ace shared so many similarities.

She travelled over to a small bookcase you had. One can tell a lot about someone based on their bookshelves. The types of readings they kept, the organization, the Knick knacks shoved between hard covers. Her sharp eyes drove over the disorganized covers and broken spines, her hands tucked neatly behind her. There were all kinds of books, with many glass vases and figurines all throughout. She paused, blinking back her shock a bit when she noticed a picture in a frame on the eye level shelf. It was of you, flames wrapped around your skin, a crooked grin on your face, your head topped by that same hat. Your flames burned bright yellow, a long pole in your hand. You had soot and sweat caked to your skin. You were a glass blower. And a Devil Fruit user. With flames.

‘Oh no,’ she thought, quickly looking over her shoulder to make sure Luffy was still preoccupied. Robin looked back at your photo and sighed, acknowledging the inevitable, and left it in place, looking further. You had books of all kinds, books about navigation, astronomy, anatomy, and sailing. You had thick novels about fantasy realms and thin manuals about forges and various vehicles.

Robin’s hands instinctively reached to grab a book from the third shelf. It was worn, with cracked leather binding. The front of it was rather unassuming, bare other than a small engraving of your name at the top. Robin tentatively opened the book, the insides held together with rings, the pages strung in by hand. The first few pages held photos of you as a child, a clipping of your first haircut, your first tooth that you lost, and Robin found a soft smile spreading across her face at the sight of your young, happy face.

The next section held pictures of you as a teenager, one labeled as your first time using your flames, and you held a terrified expression as the yellow flames licked up your arms. The next page showed you glass blowing alongside an old man, the hat now sported proudly on your head, all smiles all around.

The next page made Robin pause. It was a wanted poster. Your wanted poster. Robin quirked a brow at the bounty and the photo. You were worth a cool billion, and the photo of you looked terrifying, your eye glinting through a gap of your flames, your whole body in shadow, and still you had that hat on your head. Robin didn’t have to wonder long about what you had done, the next set of pages were full of clippings from newspapers from all around the world, detailing the adventures of the formidable “Glass Dragon”. You could allegedly form your body into the components for glass and summon flames all around you, namely your breath, to melt them together and form massive glass structures, and tempered glass armor or shields around yourself.

You were in story after story for different raids on the Marines, amassing a body count, encasing entire ships in bubbles of glass, sinking others with glass cannonballs flung through their hulls. The most recent of these adventures is what raised you past the millions. You had killed a high-ranking Marine. An Admiral.

The newspapers didn’t know why you had done it, what your motives were for targeting the marines with such ferocity, but the following page cleared things up. It was a single, small clipping in the middle of the page. It was just text, didn’t even have a picture. It was a simple story about Marines taking out a small fry pirate ship. On it a crew of thirty-nine were all slaughtered. It was thought that no one survived. The article had a simple quote from the now passed Admiral, “Those animals had it coming! Any who oppose the government and turn to piracy deserve to burn.” The statement made Robin clench her teeth, but she couldn’t help but notice, right under the snippet was a handwritten note. A promise. “One survived. And you’ll all burn for it.” It said with a set of tally marks underneath, twenty-five.

Robin pursed her lips, feeling invasive, but pressed on, flipping the page again, finding a large group photo, the crew who was killed. Right front and center was you, beaming with your arms around the two people at your side. Under the photo it was simply labeled “Last family photo” with a date, only days before the date of the slaughter. Robin’s eyebrows pinched in worry, turning the page. What followed were pages and pages of pictures of the passed crew and you, all singed on the edges, but intact. “The Spotted-Salamander Crew” was what you were called, your Jolly Roger sporting freckles and wrapped in green flames.

One photo that caught the woman’s eye was one labeled ‘Captain’ with birth and death dates under it. In the photo was a young man, no more than twenty, posing for a photo with you wrapped in his arms, more like a headlock, holding the camera high above you two, tipping your hat off of your head. He looked so much like you, with many dark freckles over his cheeks. He had bright green flames licking over his shoulders. ‘Another flame user?’

“Robin!” Came a call from Nami in the living room. Finally, Robin closed the book and set it back in place, striding over to the younger woman. Nami waved Robin closer over the back of the loveseat, “Find anything?”

Robin winced, “It’s worse than we thought.”

“How?!”

“She’s a Fire Devil Fruit user.” She whispered to Nami.

Nami paled, slapping her hand against her forehead, “Please tell me Sanji’s almost done cooking!” She whined.

Sure enough, the blond cook had just finished, placing platters of pork and toppings up onto the counter along with warm corn tortillas. He had made tacos.

“Food’s ready!” he shouted, the crew quickly rushing the counter, “She had a ton of tortillas on hand, so I thought I’d roll with it.” Sanji muttered, wiping the counters down.

The cook’s eyes scanned the crew who were up and getting the food. Luffy wasn’t there. Sanji gasped, hand slapping over his mouth. The other crew members looked at him, confused until he pointed over their heads, frantically gesturing to the preoccupied pirate. “He isn’t getting food!” Sanji hissed, threading his fingers into his hair and pulled. “This isn’t good.”

All six of them shared a look, Nami urging Zoro to say something, anything to their captain. Zoro’s eyes widened and he shook his head, “I don’t know what the fuck to do!” he whispered through gritted teeth. Still, Nami insisted, gesturing again toward the stewing man. Zoro sighed, but turned around, “Luffy!” he exclaimed. Luffy didn’t even twitch, “Food’s ready. There’s meat!”

Luffy didn’t care. He felt his stomach growl and he thought the smell was amazing, but he couldn’t find it in him to get up. He felt in every fiber of his being that he needed to stay put, ready to see what your problem was when you came back.

The Straw-Hats all shook their heads and shrugged, “Let’s just eat, I’ll bring him a plate.” Robin insisted, grabbing a plate. They all did the same, with grumbles of worry and agreement. You didn’t have a dining room, so the pirate crew went back to their spots in your living room, Sanji and Zoro joining Luffy on the couch, the stretchy captain between them.

Luffy didn’t even touch the plate next to him, ignoring the soft conversation around him, barely even blinking.

Usopp scanned the room, noticing a record player next to your fireplace, a box full of vinyl records under its little table. The sniper thought, surely this might help. Luffy loved music and dancing. So, he set his food aside, finishing a bite of the juicy taco before wiping his hands on his pants and getting up, quietly stepping over to the player. He just grabbed one from the top of the pile, sliding it out of its sleeve and setting it up, gently resting the needle on its grooved surface.

Fun, rhythmic music with lots of wild drum and guitar came from the record, Usopp bouncing his head to the beat.

Luffy, on the other hand, tensed, head whipping over to stare daggers at the music player, frown deepening.

“What now?” Zoro groaned through a bite of his taco.

Luffy grit his teeth as he spoke, eyes fiery with rage, “Ace liked that song. Danced to it all the time.” He hissed. The whole room seemed to freeze, Sanji choked on a bite of his food, and Usopp frantically moved to take the needle off of the record. Luffy flopped onto the couch, sitting properly, but with crossed arms and slumped posture. “Who does she think she is? Is she trying to copy Ace or something?” Luffy grumbled, “Thinks she’s so great…”

The room dissolved into silence, the only sound was the occasional rustle of fabric when someone readjusted their posture and the whistling of the whipping wind. And that’s how the Straw-Hats sat for another twenty minutes, Luffy never once even looking at the plate of food.

Everyone flinched, Chopper shrieking as the scrape of wood on wood rang through the room. You were back. Luffy shot up, stomping over to wait for you to force your way through. When the door cracked open, you had to fight to not let it swing wildly, forcing it shut behind you. When you managed to get inside, you unraveled your robe from your body, shaking sand all over the floor before taking off your goggles and hat, shaking them out before shaking out your hair. All the while, Luffy sat patiently, an intense glare piercing through you. You, however, didn’t notice. Giggling as you let the sand fall all around you.

“Woo-ee!” you exclaimed, “Wasn’t expecting another storm like this for another month! Sorry it’s interrupting your visit!” you apologized, kicking off your boots, turning them upside down, letting a comical amount of sand accumulate under you. You noticed the uncharacteristic silence and finally looked up, eyes locking with Luffy’s enraged gaze, flinching back in response.

You eyed the pirate, brows pinched together, but continued hanging up your gear by the door, finally hanging your hat on a hook. “Can I help you?” you huffed, trying to keep it light.

Now, people also thought Luffy was a lot more innocent than he really was. He hung around Shanks, Ace was his brother, he’s a damned pirate. All of which became very clear when he opened his mouth, spitting out, “Where the fuck do you get off, lady?”

You blinked, trying to process the out of character attitude, raising your hands up, “I can’t control the weather, dude.”

Luffy shook his head and stomped up to you, reaching over your shoulder and snatching your hat off its hook, shaking it in your face, “This.” Luffy hissed, “Is my brother’s hat. You have his favorite music; you have a damned wind chime with beads just like his necklace. What’s the fuckin deal.”

You scowled, snatching your hat from Luffy’s hands, “It’s not his fucking hat! I’ve had this thing since I was twelve. My uncle gave it to me!” you snapped back holding Luffy back with your foot, keeping him from grabbing it back from you. You huffed and threw it over your neck, letting it hang behind you, “This whole island is covered in those beads, and it’s not my fault your brother has good taste!”

“Had.” Luffy grumbled, clenching his jaw.

You sighed, running your hand down your face, “Sorry, dude.” You muttered, holding your thumb and forefinger over your eyes, “What was his name?” you asked, not moving your hand.

Luffy narrowed his eyes, a fire burning in his belly, “Ace.”

You shook your head, “Don’t know him.” You insisted, dropping your hand to your side, setting your other on your hip.

“Portgas D. Ace. Firefist Ace.” Offered Nami from the living room, a mere four feet away, the whole crew watching you closely.

You blinked a few times, your mouth running dry, “Portgas is dead?” you whispered, your whole body language dropping immediately. You could almost hear a ringing in your ears, a whisper of his laughter. “You’re…Luffy, his Luffy?”

Luffy nodded, jamming a finger into your sternum, leaning in close, “How do you know him?”

You smacked his hand away, snarling out, “We were friends while I was a pirate. Got along cause of our Devil Fruits.” You stated, holding Luffy’s glare, a few of your yellow flames licking at your shoulders, “He got that necklace from me. All that music from over there is from here, my home island. He was friends with my brother too.” Luffy opened his mouth to lash out another question or accusation, he didn’t know yet, but you cut him off, “He got that hat here. From my uncle.” You insisted, getting in Luffy’s space, almost nose to nose.

“Funny, he never mentioned you.” Luffy taunted, lip curled, and fists clenched at his side.

Your eyes ran cold and Luffy saw your chin quiver, your flames all extinguishing at once, “He talked about you all the time.” You whispered, shoving past Luffy, heading toward your bookcase.

Luffy stuttered for a moment, but shook it off and followed you closely, “Why wouldn’t Ace have mentioned you?”

But you just shoved past him again, an aged leather book in your hands. “Sit.” You hissed, dragging Luffy by his ear to sit on the floor in your living room, plopping next to him in front of your coffee table, slapping the large book onto the banged up, glossy wooden surface.

Robin’s eyes widened as she recognized the book, and all of the other Straw-Hats leaned in close to get a look at what you were trying to show Luffy.

You flipped through the pages, ignoring Luffy’s gripes from beside you, slamming a hand down onto the page you were looking for. “Look.”

It was a set of pages labeled “Portgas” with multiple pictures of you, Ace, and your captain, all laughing, in multiple you three were all covered in flames. Each photo was dated and had little details in the margins like, “tried making s’mores with all of our flames, only Portgas’s tasted good.” “dork” and “always stole my hat”. There were pictures of you three on your ship, on the island, at parties, dancing. Many didn’t have you at all, just your captain and Ace.

“Portgas was older than me, so he hung out with my brother most of the time. He was like a second brother to me.” You started, a sad, faraway look in your eyes.

Robin gasped silently, a hand covering her mouth, ‘Her brother was her captain.’ She realized, flashes of words running past her eyes, namely “No survivors” and “One survived.” Luffy was about to hit a sore spot, but Robin could only look on in horror, unable to stop him.

“We all practiced using our Devil Fruits together and hung out anytime he was able to swing by the ship or by here.” You went on, ignoring Luffy’s brewing emotions next to you, “He was my brother’s best friend.”

“Not my fault your brother has good taste.” Luffy mocked, rolling his eyes. It irritated him how you acted like you had a right to mourn Ace like he did. He wasn’t your brother. He was Luffy’s brother.

“Had.” You whispered; jaw clenched.

The crew around you actively flinched, all looking at each other in a panic. All eyes on you as you rushed to your feet, mumbling about taking a shower. Robin quietly slipped away to check on you, following you down a hallway off the kitchen.

Luffy felt a white-hot shock run through him, making his heart skip a beat. He felt like he should feel bad for making you upset, for reminding you of your dead brother like you had reminded him of his, but he didn’t. He couldn’t find it in him. So, he still stewed, greedily taking in the photos in the book in front of him. Luffy couldn’t help the sting in his eyes as he stared at one particular photo. It was of Ace getting his ASCE tattoo. You were there holding his hand as your brother ran the tattoo needle over Ace’s skin, Ace had a dramatic grimace on his face, and you were right there laughing at him. All three of you were wearing matching orange hats.

“Why wouldn’t he have told me about them?” Luffy muttered, fighting back tears.

His crew all panicked again, unsure of how to continue. “Maybe it just didn’t come up?” Chopper offered, tilting his head to try and meet Luffy’s eye.

“I asked him about the hat. I asked him about all kinds of stuff that’s in this stupid book. He didn’t tell me about it.” Luffy felt the fiery pit of anger and grief bubbling inside him again, “Ace hid this stuff from me.”

Nami slid off of the loveseat she sat on and crouched down to Luffy’s level. “I’m sure he had a good reason.” She said trying to lay a comforting hand on Luffy’s arm. He snatched the limb away, making Nami startle.

“Stop being a brat.” Zoro barked, “You’re being mean.”

Luffy just set his jaw again, tapping his finger on the coffee table, “I’m fine.” He insisted, whirling away to a hallway off of the front door, trying to find somewhere to be alone.

“Let him go, marimo.” Sanji insisted, jutting an arm out to stop Zoro from rushing after him, “I think he needs to cool off.” Zoro just grumbled, settling deeper into the ugly, comfortable couch.

“I don’t know why he’s acting like this.” Robin said apologetically as you rushed around your bedroom, grabbing out clothes and a towel for your shower. “He’s never like this. I’m actually quite worried.”

You shrugged, a wry chuckle slipping from your lips. “I’m sorry I brought it out of him.”

Robin worried her bottom lip between her teeth, “I’m serious, he’s always a bouncy little ball of sunshine.”

“Grief does weird shit.” You reasoned, suddenly freezing your movements, looking far off somewhere, somewhere nowhere near the island, “Is Portgas really dead?” you whispered, clutching the shirt in your hand with a white-knuckle grip.

Robin nodded sadly, “I’m afraid so. He died protecting Luffy.”

Your knees buckled a bit, Robin rushing to catch you. You finally let the tears fall, “Did you see it?” you asked lowly, holding tight to Robin’s arm. Robin simply nodded, running a hand up and down your arm.

“Did he die smiling?” you whispered. Robin flinched back, confused, “All three of us said we’d go down in a fight, and we’d be happy about it, a no regrets kinda thing. That we’d all die with a smile.” You explained, face running wet as you let out shuddered breaths, “My brother did. I’m only alive because he protected me. He died in my arms and was smiling, trying to make me laugh before he died.”

Robin swallowed the lump in her throat, taken aback by the similarities between you and Luffy and Ace. “He did. He passed away with a smile on his face in Luffy’s arms.” She muttered back.

You sobbed, burying your face in your hands, “I’m all alone.” Robin tried to reassure you otherwise, sure you had more people in the town, but you shook your head, “I was about to go looking for Portgas because there’s no one left. I’m an orphan, my uncle raised me and my brother. He’s dead. My whole-“ you choked up, “my whole crew was killed, all I had left was hoping to find Portgas and join whatever crew he was in. Now, he’s gone too. Now I’m being hunted by the Marines and all I have is my house.” You practically spilled your guts to the older woman, leaning into her warm embrace. “I don’t want to die.”

Robin knew what it felt like to be alone, to be an enemy of the World Government, she knew what it was like to be the sole survivor of a massacre even. So, as she looked at the shaking young woman in her arms, flashes of a certain captain’s smile, echoes of her own screams rattled through her mind.

“I WANT TO LIVE!”

Her eyes stung with the threat of tears as she shushed you gently, running her fingers along your spine. Should she have asked first? Yes. Did she? No. Did she regret it? Never.

“Come with us.”

You gasped in a breath, ripping your face from your hands, “But-but your captain-!”

“Will come to his senses.” Robin hummed gently.

You wiped your face and analyzed Robin’s features, looking for any dishonesty and you found none, only gentle eyes and a soft smile. A whole new wave of emotions washed over you, new tears welling over your waterline, and you threw yourself into the woman, wrapping your arms around her neck, sobbing into the high collar of her shirt. Robin just smiled, rocking you in the embrace, gently rubbing your back.

“Thank you.” You whispered through shuttered breath, pulling away and wiping your eyes, “I would love to sail with all of you, if you’ll have me.”

Robin grinned, ushering you to your feet and guiding you toward your bathroom, whispering little bits of encouragement into your ear before leaving you alone in the room, heading back to the living room, still smiling.

You took off your hat from around your neck and set it on the counter, looking at your haggard reflection, no sound but the whistling wind and the scratch of sand against the window. Your eyes were red, face puffy. You stared for a moment at your freckles, hating how much they reminded you of your lost loved ones. You took in the dirt and soot around your face, interrupted by your tear streaks and the pattern of your goggles.

You sighed and turned on the water, letting it heat up and took off your t-shirt, looking at your shoulder in the mirror, namely your tattoo you had there. It circled the muscle of your shoulder, a simple black image of a spotted salamander with fire framing its sides. You had gotten it right after Ace had gotten his, your brother doing the inking, and you had sat much more stable than Ace did.

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you began to strip the rest of the way, walking under the rushing warm water.

“She’s coming with us.” Robin said simply, taking a seat back on the purple chair she had claimed, Chopper coming up and sitting in her lap. The other pirates all winced and voiced their confusion and disagreement, silenced by Robin raising a hand, a fierce look of command shining in her eye. “I’m not asking. I’m telling. She’s all alone with a massive bounty. Besides, she’s a glass blower, and she doesn’t even need a forge to do it. You don’t think that would ever come in handy?” she insisted, not allowing any argument. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you.”

Robin used her Devil Fruit abilities to summon a hand on the coffee table, flipping to the pages with your bounty poster, the newspaper clippings of your antics with the Marines, and finally the single clipping that told the story of your passed crew, all the while verbalizing what the group was reading.

The group had gasped at your bounty, Sanji even questioning if the picture was really you, a shiver running up his spine. They marveled at your various escapades, all falling silent when they heard about the dead Admiral, Nami asking what he did to piss you off. The little clipping with your promise and tally made them fall silent, all of them understanding. Zoro saying he’d do the same and more if anything like that happened to the Straw-Hats.

“She’s one of us, whether Luffy realizes it or not.” Robin finished, closing the book. “Now, without Ace, she’s completely alone. No family, all her friends were on that crew, and frankly she’s in danger if she stays here.” She said resolutely, holding Chopper a little tighter in her hands. “I asked, she agreed, she’s coming.”

The crew all sat back and nodded, silently running the idea through their heads. “What about Luffy?” Usopp finally asked. “He’s having problems breathing the same air as her.”

Robin shook her head, “He’s grown. He can cope.”

The other pirates all huffed out laughs, a few rolled eyes here and there. “How do we tell him?” Sanji asked.

Nami waved him off, “Let’s wait until tomorrow. Maybe we should wait until we’re like a day away from leaving.” She suggested, “But we shouldn’t tonight. We need to get Luffy to bed and reassess in the morning.”

Little verbalized agreements sounded out from the group.

Luffy found his way into a large, dark room. He groped around the wall to find a light switch, flipping it quickly when he found it. The space lit up and he saw he was in a room with a metal roof and walls. The windows were all fogged from the abuse of years of sandstorms just like this one. The room was full of colorful glass sculptures, they seemed to cover every surface, a rainbow of fragile art in all different shapes and sizes. Luffy walked up to a particular table full of clear glass bottles, a bucket of corks next to them. Each bottle was perfectly uniform, the only reason he could tell them apart was some of them had small bubbles in their surfaces.

He picked one up and looked at it closely, noting some words on the bottom of it. Luffy flipped it over and read it. “Dragon Glass Co.” Luffy glowered at the name, setting it back onto the table and continued exploring. In one area there was a table full of tools, all different types of hammers, pliers, and wrenches scattered all around. In the middle of the table was a wooden box, holes predrilled into the lid, ready for hinges. The box’s lid had a window of green glass, flame etchings on the surface.

Over the workbench sat pictures all over the wall. Pictures of you with an old man, here in this room. Pictures of you and the guy Luffy assumed was your brother goofing off and having fun. There was even a picture of Ace, an embarrassed blush all across his face as he held up a measly glass sculpture, a little orange…blob. The frame had a little plaque, “Portgas’s first time.” Luffy frowned at the double entendre, not appreciating the joke. Luffy turned away from the wall of photos and sighed, sliding down against the wall, curling up his knees into his chest.

Luffy loved his friends, loved his crew with his whole heart, but it wasn’t the same. First, he lost Sabo, then Ace, and it bored a hole into Luffy’s heart, his soul, his very being. He thought he had dealt with it well, thought he had coped like he was supposed to, but there he was, hopelessly and irrationally angry at a woman for just…being friends with his brother. Well, it was more than that to him. It ran way deeper than just that, and Luffy just couldn’t shake the thought, ‘Why didn’t Ace tell me about her? About her brother? Any of it?’ Ace told him everything, or so he thought. Ace would even tell him all kinds of little things like how he liked his eggs, how he hated wearing shirts most of the time because the seams irritated his skin and overheated him with his Devil Fruit. He’d sit and tell Luffy about girls, about his day, about life and love and death and everything in between. But he never mentioned you and it ate at Luffy, like a termite biting at a house’s foundation. ‘Why?’

You padded into the living room, hair still dripping a bit onto your bare shoulders. You had changed into a simple cropped tank top and soft, flowy pants, and still you had your hat hanging from your neck. You didn’t usually wear it around the house, but Luffy’s ranting and snatching made you protective, so it never strayed far from you. “Hey, guys.” You said, sitting next to Nami on the loveseat. “Let me know when you’re ready to turn in for the night and I’ll show you to your rooms.”

“How big is this house?” Usopp asked incredulously, “It looked kinda small from outside other than the big metal garage.”

You shrugged with a smile, “It’s compact, but there isn’t any space wasted.” You said, smile dropping a bit as you continued, “Used to have a lot more people in it.”

Zoro reached over and kicked Usopp in the knee, “Nice going.” He chided.

“It’s okay.” You assured the guilty looking sniper, “It’s just a little raw today.”

Robin’s eyes shot wide, one twitching slightly as she remembered the dates. It was the day before the three-year anniversary of the slaughter of the Spotted-Salamanders. ‘Could any of this get any worse?’

“It’s my brother’s birthday tomorrow.” You muttered, curling your knees up to your chest.

Robin almost choked, ‘I should have read those dates more carefully!’

“It’s also the day he died.” You went on. The Straw-Hats tensed in sympathetic winces, “Marines got a jump on us cause we were all celebrating on the ship. I’m sure you read the articles,” you said, gesturing to the book still on the coffee table. “Made me think twice about being your tour guide, but I thought it’d be a nice distraction.” You said with a light giggle, drawing a snort of a laugh from Zoro and making Robing bite back a chuckle.

“A beautiful woman such as yourself shouldn’t have to go through such suffering.” Sanji said, ever the flirt, eyes practically heart shaped as he stared at you.

You blinked at the man, confused, “Aren’t you like 30?” you asked flatly.

Sanji practically collapsed, “I’m twenty-one!” he whined.

You shrugged, “The facial hair threw me off, sorry.”

“Don’t worry-“ Zoro cut him off with a harsh smack to the back of the head, stopping him from continuing his flirting.

“Shup up, you perv.” He hissed, “She’s not interested.”

Sanji flung himself back up, “Like she’d be interested in you, moss head!”

“I never said that!” Zoro growled, clenching his hand into a fist.

“Cause it wouldn’t happen!” Sanji exclaimed, sticking out his tongue in mockery.

You frowned, “No fighting under my roof, or I’ll make you help me sweep out my house from the dunes when the storm stops.”

“We’ll help you do that anyhow, sweetheart.” Robin assured you, Chopper agreeing in her lap.

You bobbed your head, mulling something over, “Then I’ll make them do it with their hands.” You chided, wiggling your brows at the blanching boys. “In wet bathing suits, then you’ll really feel that sand where you don’t want to.” Making the cook and swordsman fling apart, facing away from each other on their respective ends of the couch.

Nami and Usopp spluttered out laughs, Robin only chuckling quietly.

“You two aren’t my type anyway.” You teased.

Nami perked up, “Who is?”

You kinda shrugged, “I always go for brunettes who make me laugh,” you chuckled.

Usopp’s mouth worked faster than his brain sometimes, “Did you date Ace?” his crew members immediately sending Usopp glares.

Your face dropped in pure mortification, “Portgas was older than my brother! And was gross! Do you have any idea how rank his pits could get? And he practically was my brother after a while.” You explained, nose scrunched in disgust, “I’ve seen that man make out with a fish when he got drunk,” You started, numbering out the reasons as you spoke, “I’ve had to help him run away from his angry exes on multiple occasions, cause he always was an ass boyfriend to them cause he only existed as a goofy noncommittal flirt when he got around anything with lip-gloss and boobs,” you started to laugh as you went on, enjoying the smiles all around you, “I mean, the longest relationship I saw him have was his friendship with my brother! One time my whole crew had to bail him out because he was being chased off an island because he hooked up with a mafia boss’s daughter the day of her wedding. In the church!” you exclaimed. “I’d have a better time looking for a boyfriend in Impel Down!” The room erupted into laughter; deep belly laughs as you told your stories.

“So Luffy’d be more your type?” Nami teased without thinking. Her eyes shot wide when she realized what she’d said, trying to take it back.

You grabbed her waving hands and told her it was okay, a soft chuckle rumbling through you. “I don’t really know what he’s normally like,” you started, letting Nami’s hands go, noting the heavy tension in the air, “but from what you guys keep saying, yeah, honestly.”

The Straw-Hats let out a collective sigh and relaxed back into their plush seats. “He really isn’t like this.” Chopper chimed, “He’s normally super nice and funny.”

You nodded and shrugged, “Maybe he’ll warm up to me.”

“I’m sure he will.” Chopper insisted with a yawn.

Robin smiled down at the young reindeer, “Sleepy, Little One?” Chopper tried to say no, but a big yawn interrupted him. “Mind showing us where we can get some sleep?”

You nodded and popped up out of your seat, gesturing for everyone else to do the same, “I’ll show you all at the same time.” The whole crew followed you as you walked into the hallway off of the kitchen again, walking past a few open doors to the left, one was the door of a small bedroom with two twin beds, one quite messy and obviously slept in, the other made neatly, dust settling on the headboard. The other door was of a small bathroom, “This is the only bathroom, so share. No fighting.” You said, eyeing Zoro and Sanji with a playful glare. “Feel free to use the shower, I don’t care if you use my soap and stuff.” The group then turned to the right, being met with a large, closed door. You shoved through the group and popped open the door, flipping a light switch, “You all can sleep in here.” You said, ushering the pirate crew into the large room.

It was a simple room, as were most things in your house, with a few windows around two of the walls, a glass door to the outside on one wall. The room had three bunk beds, all securely bolted to the wall and the ground, one up against a wall, the others sat parallel, two hammocks connecting each of them around the top. The room had plenty of space otherwise, taken up by bedrolls and fluffy rugs over the cool stone floor. The walls were covered in haphazardly placed hooks for coats and hats, otherwise scattered with more photos and a few, ornate glass flowers and starburst sculptures hanging from the ceiling, bathing the room in rainbows of light.

The pirate crew filed in with mouths agape in awe, an instant feeling of home filling all of their chests. “Wow,” Nami breathed out, “This is really nice.”

You had a soft smile on your face, gently holding the doorframe, “This used to be where my crew would crash between our voyages.” You said, exaggerating the last word, “My house became our little dry base of operations. Which makes sense cause my brother was the captain and I was the first mate,” you chuckled.

“You didn’t say you were first mate,” Zoro stated with a furrowed brow.

You shrugged, “Never mattered.”

“Did you make these?” Robin asked, reaching a hand up to touch a blue starburst.

“Yup! Made em with blood, sweat, and tears…and a bit of me,” you laughed at the perturbed faces of the pirates around you. “Here, watch!” you exclaimed, shooing everyone away from you in a wide berth, placing a rounded fist to your lips, blowing through the gap. The pirates all watched in curious awe as a small, molten hot balloon of glass blew out of the other end of your fist, using your free hand to cradle the glass. All the while, small yellow flames licked up your arms and flicked around your face, most of them blowing into the bubble of glass in your hand. When the glass was about the size of a coconut you took your fist away from your mouth, pinching your hand closed, grabbing the glowing glass with your free hand, both of which were glowing with heat. You quickly got to work pinching at it, pushing and pulling at its shape with ease, making it into something the Straw-Hats couldn’t quite make out yet. When you were satisfied, you held the glass out in front of you, the glow dying from your hands and the glass. When it fully cooled, the Straw-Hats were able to see that it was a small, red sculpture of Chopper! Little hat, hooves, and all! You carefully knelt down in front of the reindeer, handing it to him with care.

Chopper took it eagerly, shocked at the cold, solid feeling, “It’s me!” he exclaimed, a giddy smile on his face.

You nodded right back, a big smile on your face, “You can put it in your window and watch it make some of your room red.” Chopper excitedly handed the glass off to Robin next to him, launching you into a quick hug before a loud yawn sounded next to your ear, making you giggle. “Where do you want to sleep, Chopper?” you asked, holding him to your shoulder as you rose.

“Hammock,” he said sleepily, pointing with a hoof at the closest one. You complied quickly, placing him into the swinging fabric, tucking him into a plush pillow.

The other human pirates huddled around Robin, looking closely at the small sculpture of their little reindeer doctor, enamored with the detail.

“So cool!” Usopp whispered, poking at glass Chopper’s head.

“You guys ready to sleep?” you asked, startling the group other than Robin who had watched you walk up.

Zoro and Usopp nodded, climbing into different bunk beds with little “Good night”’s.

Sanji and the girls looked between themselves, “I don’t usually go to bed until pretty late, cause I’m prepping breakfast.” The cook said with a shrug.

You waved him off, “Don’t even think about it, I’ll make breakfast in the morning. Take an early night.” You commanded, shoving him toward one of the bunk beds. Sanji put up no fight, just awkwardly shifted under the covers, a little unsure of what to do with himself.

You then turned to the girls, curious what their reasons were.

“I refuse to sleep in the same room as that pervy cook.” Nami said simply, crossing her arms.

You just shrugged, “You can take my bed.” You suggested.

“I can’t take your bed.” She declared, the heat of embarrassment flushing her cheeks.

“I insist.” You assured, “Just don’t touch the other bed. You’ll know which one’s mine. My name’s on the headboard.” You gently shoved Nami into the hallway, turning away so she couldn’t argue, looking at Robin with a quirked brow.

“I want to make sure Luffy gets to bed first.” Robin said, guiding you by the middle of your back out of the room, flicking off the light but keeping the door open. “You head to sleep, and I’ll grab him.” She whispered.

You nodded and walked away from her, into the living room and plopped onto the beat-up couch, grabbing a blanket off the back and relaxing into one of the plush pillows you had there, resting your hat over your eyes, “Light switch is by the front door, sleep well, Robin.” You said, voice muffled by the hat over your face.

Robin smiled and went ahead and flicked off the light by producing a hand out of the wall, her night vision better than most. Robin quietly strode down the hallway Luffy had stormed off into and quickly found a single door, opening it as silently as possible.

When inside, Robin’s eyes searched the workshop, taking in all of the colors, mostly looking for a certain straw hat. Her eyes locked onto the curled-up figure of her captain, his eyes staring blankly, straight ahead.

“Captain.” She called, walking her way over to him, crouching in front of him. His eyes never moved, staring through her, “Captain, it’s time to go to sleep.” She said softly. Luffy didn’t even acknowledge her, “I’m going to give you one more chance to get up on your own, or I’m dragging you to bed kicking and screaming.” Robin stated, resting a hand on the young man’s head.

Luffy took her hand off his head, “I’m not tired.”

Robin shook her head with a smile, “It’s late, you’re usually asleep by now. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Why does she get to know all this stuff, why’d she get so much time with him?” Luffy asked, tears pricking at his eyes.

Robin’s heart pulled, “I don’t know, Luffy. These things happen, and sometimes we never know why.” She whispered, “Maybe you could ask her to tell stories about Ace, learn what she knows about him. I’m sure he’d be happy to know you two were getting along.”

A few tears fell from Luffy’s eyes, “If he would be happy we were around each other, why’d he never tell me about her?” he insisted, shoving his face into his hat.

Robin pursed her lips and sighed, “I don’t know, Luffy. But you’ll never get an answer unless you get to know her properly.” Luffy shrugged, face still hidden, “C’mon, let’s go to bed.” She urged, grabbing the young man’s hand and rising to her feet, Luffy reluctantly standing with her.

When they stood straight, Robin gently took Luffy’s hat in her hands and pushed it back onto the top of his head, exposing his watery eyes and red nose. Without a word, Robin pulled him into a hug, resting her chin on top of his head. They stayed there for a while, who knows how long, until Luffy yawned, making Robin pull back.

Silently, Luffy let the older woman guide him through the dark house into a room with windows that filtered in a bit of light, the light snores of his crewmates filling Luffy’s ears. Robin gestured to the beds and hammocks, waiting for Luffy to choose where he wanted to sleep, and he slowly trudged his way toward one of the hammocks, hoisting himself up into it. Robin followed closely, helping him settle into the covers.

When her captain was comfortable, she patted his chest and slipped toward the empty bunk bed, the boys taking over two. She cuddled under the covers, looking at the bed above her. She was drifting off to sleep, her eyes fluttering shut. That’s when they snapped open, landing on a small, white envelope tucked between the boards above her. She reached up and tugged it out of its confines, reading the envelope in the dark. It had Luffy’s name on it, and it said it was from Ace. Robin’s heart dropped into her feet as she realized what it said. She quickly shoved what she thought might be a letter into her pillowcase, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. What could be in that letter? Why was it hidden in your house if it was for Luffy?

#one piece #monkey d. luffy #one piece luffy #luffy #straw hat luffy #strawhats #straw hat pirates #fanfic #reader insert #fem reader #monkey d luffy x reader #monkey d luffy x you #enemies to friends to lovers #portgas d ace #opla #haveatthee83

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bonesxbows · 3 months

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The Other Line (Hancock x Reader)

Masterlist

There's not enough food in your stash for the both of you so you try to give what you have left to Hancock instead of yourself. He isn't having any of it though and insists you at least share, and no isn't an option with him when it comes to your wellbeing.

(WARNINGS) - choosing to starve - past body image issues mentioned

I wrote this within a few hours and idk if I'm really satisfied with it but I figured I'd publish it anyway. I swear I'm working on longer fics I just always get sidetracked lol. Shout out though to all the people leaving comments on here and on Ao3, you guys keep my motivation sky high, you have no idea how much I appreciate each and every one of them :)

A blown-out house, still sort of standing. Four walls and a roof with minor damage was considered the peak of shelters nowadays, so neither of you complained as you walked inside. You had made the executive decision to stay here for the night, although Hancock wouldn’t have argued with you either way. It was small inside, destroyed wooden planks blocked the path upstairs, leaving the two of you to what once was a modest kitchen, dining room, and living room amalgamation. You placed your gear on the table while Hancock scoped the place out. It was a ritual of his by now, double-checking every square inch to make sure it was safe.

“Grub and then bed? I’m beat, and we’ve still got a long ways to go,” you told him, checking your pip-boy to see the progress you had made on your journey. It was going well so far, but it would still be at least another day’s hike before you reached where you needed to go. He hummed to himself, satisfied that the place was now confirmed empty except for the two of you.

“You know I ain’t picky. I’ll get the blankets set up while you sort that out, okay?” he spoke it like a question but he didn’t wait for your reply before he made his way over to the couch, grabbing your bedrolls and quickly placing a soft kiss on your forehead as he passed by. As soon as he was occupied with his task he had assigned himself you checked your food supplies. The results were what you had been fearing; you were running dangerously low. You knew you should have double-checked the stores the two of you had passed on your way here. It would have delayed you a little, sure, but it was worth it over traveling on an empty stomach. It was too little too late now, it was way too dangerous to travel in the dark to scavenge more supplies. You would have to make do with what you had and then hope you could find more food on the way tomorrow.

You checked around the kitchen, not finding much. The place had already been picked mostly clean, probably by other travelers and scavvers. You were lucky to find a bottle of nuka-cola tucked in the back of the refrigerator, but that was where your luck ended. You shook it to see if bubbles still formed against the glass, checking for discoloration and mold as the liquid sloshed around. It looked okay, so you mentally added it to your stash of goods.

“Need any help?” Hancock called from behind the back of the sofa. His voice pulled you out of your head.

“No I’ve got it just…give me a second,” you told him, making up your mind and grabbing the last canned item you had in your pack along with one of the forks you always brought along with you.

“No worries sunshine, take your time,” he replied so nonchalantly, oblivious to your current supply struggles. You watched as he kicked his feet over the arm of the sofa, the toes of his boots pointing towards the ceiling. You sighed and walked over to him, canned food and bottle of nuka-cola in hand. He shifted to make room for you on the couch when he saw you round the corner.

“Here’s what we have.” you handed him the can and the fork, plopping down next to him and using the wooden part of the couch’s arm to pop the bottle cap off of your soda. He used his knife to pry the lid off of the can, digging the fork into the mystery meat inside and taking a bite. He passed the can to you once he started chewing but you just shook your head.

“Whaddaya mean ‘no’? You gotta eat sunshine.” his words were slurred from the food in his mouth but you still refused to take the can from his hands. His scarred forehead furrowed when you kept refusing.

“Hancock it’s okay, really. I’m not that hungry anyway. You go ahead and eat.” you tried to dissuade him. But he wasn’t buying it, not when he knew you too well.

“Is it another one of those days again? I’ve told you before sugar your body is perfect just the way it is. Nothin’s ever gonna change that in my mind. I’d rather ya eat and keep your strength up than-”

“It’s nothing like that Hancock.” you stopped him before he went on another rant about how much he loved you just as you are. You couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto your face though. “I’m okay, thank you though,” you told him. You could see relief flood across his face.

“So then what’s wrong?” he asked again.

“We don’t have enough supplies to be feeding two people. So I had to make a choice and fortunately for you, you fall higher up on the list of my priorities than myself. Go ahead and eat, I’ll be okay for one night.” you explained the situation to him but it looked like he had stopped listening halfway through because as soon as you finished your sentence he had a forkful of the canned meat right by your lips.

“I just said we-”

“ ‘Don’t have enough food for two people.’ Yeah, I heard ya. Tough shit, I ain’t gonna let you go hungry, even if it is for just one night. So open up.” he twirled the fork in small circles to emphasize his words. You opened your mouth to rebuttal him again but he used that opportunity to get the fork into your mouth. You scowled but obediently began chewing. He smiled, satisfied with his task accomplished. “You won’t go to bed hungry, not while I’m around and can do somethin’ about it.” he stabbed the meat again, helping himself to another forkful. You were caught speechless, even when you were done chewing, you had run out of words. You had been prepared to go to bed with an empty stomach in order to keep him happy and healthy, but at the same time, he was willing to do the same for you.

The two of you spend the rest of the night splitting the contents of the can, and at some point, you shared the nuka-cola you had found with him too. Neither of your tummies were full, but your hearts were with a new realization of just how much you cared about one another. The couch wasn’t big enough for the two of you to lay side by side, but Hancock didn’t seem to mind because as soon as the two of you had finished eating he scooped you up on top of him, lacing his arms around you to hold you close. You spent the rest of the night curled up against him, listening to his heartbeat beneath you as the two of you fell asleep. Maybe you'd be able to find more supplies tomorrow, or maybe you wouldn’t. Either way, Hancock was determined to take care of you in any way he could.

#my writings #fallout 4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fallout 4 john hancock #john hancock x reader #fallout hancock #john hancock #fallout fanfic

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mrpcreblogtime · 5 months

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Chimera Falin head canons:

Gets the little tippy taps when excited.

Wasn’t used to the new size at first which led to her being stuck in archways she tried to squeeze through and one time she collapsed an entire bridge that wasn’t able to hold her.

With the previous dragon, the harpies did not get along with it as it saw them as lesser monsters so they were skeptical of Falin. Within a 5-7 days they dubbed her matriarch of the flock and is a god mother to many of the hatchlings.

Thistle woke up from a nap to find Falin looming over him with piercing golden eyes staring down (she was making sure he was safe from harm while he slept).

Falin comes back to the resurrection spot once in a while during patrols. Watching the evidence of the past be eaten away by cleaners.

Adores seeing the dungeon rearrange itself, getting a good scope of it all from up high. Likes to focus on a single brick or plank and trace its entire journey.

Still likes to cast the dancing lights spell in dark areas even though she now has superior night vision.

Intrusive thoughts to bite herself to see if she can taste the dragon meat again.

#dungeon meshi spoilers #dungeon meshi #falin touden #chimera falin

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cozzzynook · 2 months

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Rodimus was born into a royal family. He never knew his carrier and his sire always hated him. One day his sire informs him that he is being married off to Megatron and Soundwave in order to end the war.

Rodimus is upset because he's heard all sorts of horror stories about the Decepticons growing up. He doesn't want to bond with them. His sire gets mad and he learns that his carrier was sent away after his sire found out they give birth with their tanks and that he has the same thing. He is pawning him off to the Decepticons because no one else will take him and it's either them or a brothel.

Learning his own sire thats always hated him sold him off to the Decepticons who were a notorious barbarian and wild kingdom with a history of vicious battle practices and punishments should not have been as much of a surprise as it had been.

Maybe it wasn’t the being sold off that was surprising but the way his sire emptied his tiny chamber with fire like a cleanse and stripped him to a sheer gown cheap shareware wore in the brothels he frequented since getting rid of his carrier, another surprise he had not known, was the surprise.

Being grabbed and stripped down for all to see was shameful and scarring on his processor but for his sire to say he was glad to be rid of him after spitting on his fabrics was a new low even for his sire.

“I’ve finally rid this kingdom of the last filthy tank pest and now good fortune can finally befall us with you gone. First your disease of a carrier that I rid to the wilds and later watched be torn apart by beasts when they came back for you. And now I’m finally rid of you. A stain on my bloodline and kingdom.”

He couldn’t view clearly with the smoke and coolant leaking from his optics as his sire smashed the crate closed and sent him off on a one way shipping container that would later be burned for use by the decepticon faction.

Much like himself.

He could only lay on the wooden planks and sob to himself as he realized he was on a slow shipment to his torment and death. He would suffer a fate of pain much like carrier who’d been discarded like rotten meat in such a delicate state to the literal cyber wolves.

His forehelm kissed the rough crate giving him scratches along his face plates and wood rub as tears and smoke seeped his optics. The pungent scent did little to assuage the change of city to deep wilderness and by the time he stopped mourning over a creator, the only creator, who loved him and risked their life to get to him.

He was at the outskirts of Decepticon territory where the boarding guards grabbed his crate and spoke in a foreign language his processor did not know.

The em field of confusion gave him the impression none knew he was inside and he was correct in his assumptions since most sent the offered conjunx in royal finery with their creator by their side. If he were worthy of such traditions he wouldn’t be here at all and allowed to roam the castles doing as he pleased while training to take over the thrown like the few royal families from his stories allowed their sparklings.

But that was nothing short of a sparkling tale.

This was real.

And his reality was unsealed by clawed servos a few hours later inside what seemed to be a cabin kept warm by a large fire.

He shuttered his optics closed, arms tightening around his exposed nozzles as his stabilizers hiked up to hide his exposed reproductive array. He couldn’t seize the cold shivering and chatter of his denta but he could try blocking out the horrified gasps and sounds of heavy pedes rushing off as tentacles leered above him.

He wasn’t expecting a soft blanket to cover and wrap around him. The warm, delicate, tentacles that lifted him from inside the crate and gently checked him over was also an optic opener.

Deep purple, black with hints of deep blue along with gray entered his bleary optics and the foreign language yet again reached his audials that came into focus.

He didn’t understand what they were saying to one another but he knew the field of disbelief and anger when it burst forth and presented itself in a physical manifestation of clenched servos and he was not ready to mentally handle the torture they would give him.

“Wait! I’ll make it easy! Just please don’t!”

He kept his optics down from meeting glowing red and the black visor that he couldn’t see anything past and tilted his neck cables to show submission. He was shaky in his movements as he forced himself to hold the position and lower the blanket but tentacles stopped him and the fields were hidden from his sensor net.

Rodimus couldn’t comprehend exactly what that meant or what they wanted from him since he knew he was sold for whatever they desired from him and seeing as his sire always spoke of him being nothing more than brothel material he figured his conjunx selling would basically be the same purpose.

“Mistake: anger toward sire. Intention: to have as conjunx, equal conjunx. Slave: you are not.”

The purple and deep blue mechs voice module was deceptively deep and an odd soothing capability that made Rodimus almost believe what he was saying.

“My conjunx is correct. We asked for your servo in conjunx ritus. Not to be sold and treated like this. May we know who did this to you? We shall send word to your kingdom and hunt down the scoundrels who’ve defiled and hurt you as such.”

The command and seething yet restrained emotions that swam in the other mechs vox told Rodimus this was the leader of the decepticons who lead his armies to ruin the cities and kingdoms that dare stood in his way. This was the kings conjunx who stood right by his side and conquered in equal just as he did.

This was the pair his sire sold him to.

Two mechs he couldn’t hope to defend himself from no matter the kind words they try to imply nor the care they show now…they were mechs in power just as his sire…one wrong move…

“I can freshen myself and become presentable. There is no need to worry or concern. I am fine.”

“You are most certainly not,” the king burst forth.

The purple mech held out a quiet servo to the king and took a clip step closer making Rodimus vents hitch.

“Wash racks: in need of. First aid: inside as well. Come: it will help.”

The slender mech used his tentacles to tighter around his frame and lift him further as he carried him easily to the wash racks that looked beautiful and cleaner than the rooms of his old kingdom. Not dirtied by polluted metals or filth. Carved, smoothed and crafted along with the earth and holed with warmth.

It made him less anxious as a solvent was ran and he was quietly directed to where everything was located before being given a key that locked the room from the inside and he was left in private where he stared at the closed door for a klik too long then rushed to lock it and stand with his back plates to it. Gaze searching for a way out only to stutter his vents with each realization that hit him.

He didn’t know where he was.

This could be a trick.

He could be surrounded.

His sire would not take him back.

He was all alone with no currency, no farming skills and no trade skills nor craftsmanship.

He was slagged and stuck here.

‘Frag,’ he sobbed outwardly, as he slid to the floor, balling up to hold himself just as he once did in the kingdom as a sparkling when locked in the dungeons.

‘Frag!’

He did not hear the quiet that rung out his sobs nor the promise made between two kings to destroy the rule of Rodimus’s sire who sold off his own creation when they only wanted his servo and spark after being graced with his kindness all those years ago.

#transformers #rodimus prime #megatron #soundwave #megasound #soundrod #megarod #barbarian au #royalty #royal au #transformers soundwave #transformers megatron #rodimus prime transformers #future megasoundrod #megasoundrod

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theredofoctober · 10 months

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MANNA- CHAPTER SEVEN: LAMB

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the seventh chapter in the series

---

The kitchen is a quiet chaos— Hannibal standing over the hob, his beautiful hands precise at their work, Will slouched, sulking prettily against a countertop, looking into the bottom of a wine glass.

His temper billows about the room. It's a wonder anyone can breathe through such smoke.

You hover at an anxious distance, afflicted by delectable smells and the scar of what you’ve done. Shame beats, eviscerated, under the boards of you; you chose to taunt and then to touch Will Graham, a conscious participant in this play of a poisonous home.

If your hosts were to give you but a minute apart from them you’d chastise yourself for your abasement: three stiff, sweat-inducing planks, a lap of your room, a prison yard exhaustion.

But they keep you under their eye, knowing, like a child, you’d surely run to burn your hand on the stove.

“How do you want me to be around him?” you ask, as Hannibal tastes a truffle sauce with a look of indecision. “Your Agent Crawford. He doesn’t know about us, does he?”

“As I have assured you, it is between you, Will, and I,” Dr Lecter answers. “Therefore, as far as any visitor is concerned, you remain my patient. That is all.”

How easily you are expected to step from one evanescent role to the other. Should your tongue slip, you may damn him and Will both, yet you know Hannibal is without fear as surely as though you had your fingers to his wrist, timing the pulse of his slow calm.

“And what am I to Will today?” you ask.

“A ward, of sorts, for now.”

The word conjures images of chill cells, bed pans, wilful neglect. Something Victorian in its sensibilities.

“A ward,” you repeat. “Right.”

In the peripheries of vision Will sets down his glass with an icy clink.

“Are you intending to be civilised at dinner," he asks, "or do we have to prepare for another devolution into infantile behaviour?”

You’d expected Will to be smug, glutted from his fill, but your mouth upon him has only calcified his antagonism into some crueller compound, still. He does not like that he has taken pleasure from you, is in denial of it, a steadfast separation.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” you say. “I never know what’s going to happen. Usually I’m... not myself.”

Will folds his arms in an impassable cross.

“You’re not being medicated tonight. Your actions will be your responsibility.”

The prospect of sobriety has little power to cheer. You’d rather the drooling oblivion of a dose over the chess match of having to divine the correct answer and micro-expression to every aside.

Intuiting your distress, Hannibal says, “You'll be eating from a slightly different menu to the rest of the table. Light portions, with attention to your safe foods.”

In disbelief, you take stock of the simmering pans, their contents once the meat of your routine.

“My... my safe foods,” you repeat. “But I didn’t even tell you what they were.”

What should comfort holds the sinister weight of interred dead, so familiar as to be uncanny.

“I have observed your preferences,” says Dr Lecter. “Thus, I am able to accommodate.”

He offers you a spoon to taste, which you decline.

“You’re making it easier for me to stick to my old ways,” you point out. “That doesn’t seem right. What’s going on?”

“I’m allowing you space to devote your energy to an unexpected social situation. I know they are not your strong suit, and I wish you to be relaxed. It will benefit us all.”

There is no pretence here of pure intentions; you acknowledge the respect that has been awarded to you in the absence of a lie.

“Thank you,” you say. “Could you do this... more, please?”

“If you continue to fulfil your role satisfactorily, yes.”

Hannibal glances at Will, whose breath of harsh laughter pars the conversation like a shank, short and sharp.

“You remain against her, then.”

“I don’t see that she has any genuine interest in evolving,” says Will, as though you are not there. “Just a cuckoo in an empty nest.”

The phrasing catches like a coat on brambled hedgerow. Alert, you examine your younger captor, interpreting the set of his harsh look.

“What are you to each other, really?” you ask.

“Friends,” says Will, bluntly.

The speed with which he speaks betrays a not-quite lie, a sentence with a postluding clause.

“We are aesthetes of an uncommon kind,” Dr Lecter interjects, over a pearl string of steam. “It adds dimension to our relationship few will ever perceive. In time, I expect you will.”

The kitchen, though of minimal colour—greys, black, pure, clinical white—develops a peculiar warmth. There is invitation, here, open-armed acceptance into domesticity, and whatever midnight cabal weds these two men in their brotherhood.

“I don’t think you want me,” you say, as Hannibal rinses cutlery at the sink. “I’m not interesting. I don’t talk like you. I don’t really understand art, or books, or poetry. I’m not even smart.”

Will’s head turns, the sly incline an eel from a cave mouth.

“Hannibal tells me you were academic, once. What happened?”

Seldom do you care to recollect your school days, which were lived painfully, as a mute ghost at the back of the class.

Attempts to decipher screens and pages through tears that had fallen without sound, and were, thus, philosophically inexistent. Whispers passed down through seated rows. Meetings with teachers and welfare staff on seats of poster blue plastic, your foot shaken against scuffed tiles in soothing motion.

The books and television series you’d once absorbed with eager voracity were parched of their appeal, by then. Your only reading was the secretive message boards into which you’d recessed like a forest to band with others of your starving ilk.

Such memories, and others arise to you. Your grades you can less easily recall.

“I’m only good at one thing anymore,” you say, aloud. “And I’m not allowed to do it here.”

Hannibal begins stacking washed dishes back into the cupboard, undeterred by your ceaseless denial.

“We will not chastise you for your simplicity. The palate can be developed, after all.”

“And not just for the food,” says Will. “Though that would be a start.”

“What if I embarrass you in front of Jack?” you ask; you’re losing this argument, and continue it only to prolong your defeat.

“Jack isn’t easily embarrassed,” says Dr Lecter. “Besides, he has been adequately prepared. You may rest in your room before dinner, little one. Sleep can do wonders for the appetite.”

He walks you to the kitchen door with a subtle insistence— like Will, he yearns to be alone.

Mumbling thanks that border on sincere, you make your egress via the stairs, glad to leave the kitchen and its tiers of expectation in your wake.

Passing Hannibal’s room, you find the door stood ajar. Curiosity draws you in, then, not to the bed—a symbol of tragedy—but to the conjoined bathroom, it, too, unlocked.

It is larger than your own, though similarly tiled in ivory and obsidian; there is a bathtub elevated on ornate feet, a shower walled in opaque glass, a sink with toothbrush and paste arranged like trophies, each surface of a bleached, crystalline sheen.

On the floor lies a set of scales, an oblong of clearest glass.

You had known that he would have one in the house, a man so fastidious in hygiene and health. Standing flat against one wall, you tilt your head, listening for an approach on the stairs, a change in the direction of the voices beneath.

When you are convinced of your privacy you strip of every garment and stand upon the scales, your hands braced at your sides in anticipation.

Even before the numbers flash on the mite screen you know that you’ve gained weight, have felt the itching progress of it across your hips and stomach.

The figure, as you glance down, is far higher than anticipated. Were it not imperative to be silent, you would scream.

You settle to hit yourself, instead, closed-fisted blows into your temple, left to right; only your reflection in the bathroom mirror stays your hand, a corpulent rendering of flesh.

This image has always shifted, for you, between your mental interpretation and its reality. Now they are one and the same, and you will never forgive your kidnappers for having altered your sight, as well.

Whose eyes have they given you, to make out this monster? One each of their own— you close the lids, and see the red of meat in the darkness behind them.

Later, when you return, dressed and sleep-dulled, to wait for dinner, you practice such restraint over your emotion that the effect is a noiseless hysteria. Catching sight of your face in any polished surface reveals a sickly visage, eyes bright and excitable, the skin dull, as of the grave.

Will regards you with a default scepticism, venturing no word. Hannibal, instantly perceptive, takes hold of your face in his cool hands and looks into your eyes.

“Is there something the matter?” he asks, and there is glass under the suede of his soft voice, a cutting menace.

There is a rap upon the door, and Dr Lecter steps free of you to answer. He returns shortly, followed by a man you recognise from the news, broad shouldered in a casual suit. His hair is closely cut, a trimmed goatee on a face that would have been handsome, in youth, and is presently so, though worn between the brows from the stress of his work.

“Good to see you, Will,” says Jack, shaking the younger man’s hand and pulling him into a half embrace. “You look well. Been taking care of yourself, I hope.”

Will smiles. His face is briefly pleasant, the dour mouth creasing at the corners.

“As well as I can,” he says. “The dogs keep me active.”

“Nice to hear you’re still running with the pack,” Jack replies. “How are the little rascals?”

You wait for the smalltalk to end, filing away what information sifts through that may be of note.

At last Jack turns to you, taking your hand lightly in his.

“So I finally get to meet you. Hannibal’s told me all about you, you know.”

A falsified minimum, you think.

Aloud, you ask, “He has?”

“Just enough,” says Dr Lecter. “Now, I must be temporarily rude and make myself scarce; I have unfinished work awaiting me in the kitchen.”

Jack releases your hand.

“Point taken,” he says. “Let's move this conversation to the dinner table, shall we?”

To your relief, once all are seated Jack manoeuvres the subject tactfully away to other things. The men speak of the weather—"I don’t care what anybody says; we don’t need that much rain this side of the Great Flood"—Jack’s wife—who is mortally ill, and immeasurably loved—and of mutual friends, whose names and various details you struggle to map in your ignorance of their world.

You eat with little attention to what crosses your lips; the day, in that aspect, is spoiled, and you cast it from you like a fruit’s rotten core.

Though Jack and Hannibal both attempt to include you in the chatter at points, you do not care to. There is the feeling of being presented to Jack like a shrewdly bargained for article of rare furniture; any comment from you is performance for these men to digest and enjoy, as they do all at this table.

It is Dr Lecter, however, that successfully extracts your opinion on a topic of his choosing. With an ingenuity that renders the shift in topic almost organic, he addresses his colleagues on the matter of their latest case.

“Surely our man will be on the move again,” he says, lifting a shred of lamb to his lips. “He may already be grooming his next subject.”

“He is,” says Will, flatly. “I’ve spent enough time thinking like him to know his heartbreak over losing the last one won’t last long.”

Jack raises his eyebrows, turning from one man to the other with a look that suggests he is almost as nonplussed by their union as you are.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to discuss this in front of your patient, Dr Lecter? The details of this case are particularly disturbing, as you already know. Will showed you photographs from the crime scene.”

“Indeed he did,” says Hannibal. “I will not easily forget it. However, as long as my guest resides under my roof I believe it’s only fair that she is involved in general discussion. Confidential matters of the case will, of course, be between us. But anything that is public knowledge I believe she has the right to know.”

“Fodder for Tattle Crime, you mean,” Will interjects, stabbing at his meal with spiteful vigour. “Freddie Lounds has covered these particular murders with a lurid relish. You’re aware that she’s already named the killer?"

Jack chuckles.

“'The Silicone Lover,'” he says. “It certainly lacks poetry in comparison to some of the others that are being thrown around, but it’s got that Lounds touch. It’s catchy, I’ll give her that.”

You drop your fork upon your plate with a jarring clash of steel and porcelain. Hannibal’s face stills in subtle displeasure, and you make a cringing gesture of apology, your mouth puckered at one corner.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” you say, “but... I remember reading about that case. I’ve always been kind of interested in true crime. I don’t know why. Books, documentaries, all that stuff; I’ve seen them all. But this killer— he’s in my city. Everybody’s been talking about it.”

It’s the most conversation you’ve volunteered all evening, and you sense the interest of your fellow guests open to you like a late bloom.

“I hope you’ve been taking precautions, young lady,” says Jack, bringing his knife to a pat of oozing meat until his plate is a bloody eclipse. “You’re aware you fit the profile of his victims.”

You stutter out an uncomfortable laugh.

“I... I don’t go out much. So I’ve been okay.”

Even before your captivity you’d been a recluse, dissuaded from venturing outdoors by an aversion to being perceived. Short, rushed jaunts to the store had been the sum of your travels, and it occurs to you now that you should have savoured the world beyond the house: the grumbling traffic, the turned dirt scent of rain, all of it, everything. The beautiful mundane.

“Staying indoors won’t keep the Silicone Lover from making you his paramour,” says Will, shortly, one arm flung in a mode of disdain across the back of his chair. “His targets always let him into their homes willingly, and there are no defensive wounds, suggesting he makes himself known to his victims some time before he abducts them. He always gets close enough to either drug or hit them over the head without suspicion.”

“I know,” you say. “I’ve read Tattle Crime, too.”

Will sneers.

“Of course you have. She’s a provocateur. Just your type.”

“Tell us what you know of this case, then,” Hannibal says to you, smoothly diffusing the tension. “Perhaps we will benefit from a fresh perspective, especially from an individual so closely fitting the profile of those unfortunate victims.”

He looks at Agent Crawford, seeking an unspoken permission.

“Go ahead,” says Jack. “As long as you feel up to it, that is.”

His voice softens as he speaks to you, and you think of his wife, folding slowly into the ravening void of cancer. This is a man who understands illness, and has a sensitivity for it; it comforts you, to have him here, obscured though his view of his friends.

Offering Jack a shy smile, you say, “I’ll be alright. It’s just that I don’t want to put anyone off their food.”

There is laughter around the table; even Will smirks, though the expression falls as he catches you looking. You wonder again at his distaste for you, surmising with a coolly adult rationality that he is jealous of you having come between him and his mentor.

“Well?” says Will, with the rudeness of a spoiled prince. “What’s the Lover’s modus operandi?”

You catch Jack’s dark eyes squinting a fraction, and though he says nothing you rally at the knowledge that he has not entirely succumbed to Will and Hannibal’s spell.

“The dead girls are always found in rivers around the city,” you say, “sealed inside hollowed out rubber dolls. You know the kind I mean. The killer cuts open the dolls and mutilates the women to fit them inside, then seals them back up again. Keeps them in there till they suffocate, or starve to death.

Some of the women die within hours, others a few days. They must be so scared, in so much pain. But obviously that’s what he wants. Every three months or so he does it all over again.”

“Meaning we don’t have long before he takes a seventh lover,” says Will. “Fortunately for you, staying here will protect you, to an extent. You’re too far out of the killer’s hunting range for him to take an interest.”

“Can’t keep the princess locked up in her tower forever,” says Jack, cleaning his hands on a napkin. “We'd better hurry up and catch him. Now, if you’ll all excuse me—”

He rises from his seat; a bathroom visit, you realise, and an opening to speak to him alone.

Thinking quickly, you reach for your water glass and dash it across your lap. Your hand is shaking enough for the accident to seem convincing.

Both remaining men glance up from the table, startled. Will all but rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” you say, in a grovelling squeak. “I’ll go and change, if that’s alright.”

Dr Lecter, as always, is crisply polite.

“You may go. But hurry. Our guest will expect you to return.”

For once, Will makes no comment, only returns to his food with the reverence of accepting the wafer at communion.

You pad along the corridor towards the downstairs bathroom, waiting for Jack to emerge. From what you know of Hannibal’s close relationship with the police you cannot rest your hopes of escape entirely on Agent Crawford, but you have seen the occasional teeter of trust, the unspoken perplexity with which he regards the dynamics of the household.

You may yet sway his sympathies, if you are careful. Still, you are so certain of failure that you tremble with mirth, like a drunk.

Jack steps out of the bathroom, stopping short as he notices you wincing in the shadows.

“Hey, there. Are you alright? You look a little green around the gills.”

“Agent Crawford,” you say, in a half-whisper. “I was wondering if you could help me. You know Will and Hannibal pretty well, right?”

“It’s Jack when I’m not working. And, uh, reasonably so, I’d say. Is something wrong?”

You pause, labouring over your response. To imply your wardens are the enemy will surely strike Jack as too outlandish, the mumblings of the mad.

“This treatment isn’t right for me,” you say, rather weakly. “It’s too much, and I don’t think they’re really listening to me. I miss my parents, my own room. I’m suffocating here. I was wondering if you could talk to Will and Dr Lecter. Encourage them to let me go home.”

Jack’s dark eyes soften, and he stoops slightly over you, as he might in order to speak to a small child.

“Dr Lecter told me you might ask me that. The road you’re on is a tough one, young lady, but you’ve got to stick it out. Not just for yourself, but for everybody who cares about you. Besides, I’m pretty damn sure Will and Hannibal would be disappointed to see you go home so soon.”

You turn your head into your shoulder, your neck caught in a miserable spasm.

“Will doesn’t like me at all.”

“That’s just the way he is. Prickly with just about everyone he encounters. Imagine the strain on me, having to keep him in line.”

You do laugh, then, and Jack flashes you a gap-toothed grin.

“He’ll warm up to you. Though to be honest, I don’t know why Hannibal’s getting Will involved in all this when he already has enough on his plate. Between work and those episodes of his, I don’t know if he ought to take on too many other responsibilities. But I guess Dr Lecter knows what he’s doing.”

Episodes?

You’d noticed Will’s fits of illness, a certain fragility; to hear it confirmed is a gold coin in your hand to spend in the future to come.

“I’m going to head back to the table,” says Jack. “Let’s give all this a little more time. If it doesn’t work over the next couple of months I might put a word in for you, suggest therapy sessions over inpatient treatment. But I can’t push it, kid. You’re not my patient. I can’t overstep the line, here. But I’m on your side. You keep up what you’re doing, alright?”

He leaves you there, knuckling tears from your eyes. Regretting that you hadn’t spoken the truth, in all its risk.

You go to your room, meaning only to dress. In the end you cannot resist returning to Hannibal’s scales on the way back, called by a manic self-flagellating urge to know much further weight you’ve gained from the meal.

You are not free, will never be free, are worth nothing but numbers. They've become all you are.

It’s as you’re stepping, naked, stupid with despair onto the scale that you hear a voice behind you.

“You must learn to restrain these impulses, little one.”

You turn so sharply that something strains in your neck again. Your hands strive to cover your nakedness. A futility, considering what he has seen, that he has fucked you.

“I assume that you have also spoken to Jack Crawford,” says Hannibal. “Pleading your case to be released. How naughty you have been.”

How handsome he looks, almost young, in the tasteful bathroom light. There is something like death in his sudden beauty, a void coldness.

Terror, a stake of ice from throat to cunt.

He means to kill you, if not now, then soon.

You know of only one way he might forgive so many missteps. Another course: you eat your pride.

“I didn’t mean to, Daddy,” you say. “Please don’t tell Will.”

You lower your arms, forging a sword of your vulnerability. Hannibal glances down only once, and with more amusement, then, than thirst.

“He will never know,” he says. “If you come to my room tonight. There is a lesson you must learn. It cannot wait.”

There is a tension about the residence of waiting, after Will and Jack have gone, the dry-mouthed breath before the silver lipped drop of the guillotine.

There is motion about the house, yet you feel rather than hear it; Hannibal has a way of carrying his physicality that seems to possess no weight at all. Ghoulish, his haunting of the rooms below as you sit on his bed, to await him.

You arrange yourself on the dark sheets in sacrificial mode, so ill with fear that it seems all your organs are in torsion, a helix of flesh from chest to womb.

It strikes you that you’d lain so, once, a night your father's friend, Leland Frost, had stumbled the many stairs to your room, beer the umber of his breath as he’d kissed you goodnight.

You had let him touch you, then, as you will let the devil touch you, now. As a child, as an adult, you are absolved: animals must eat, and their prey bear no fault when the hand of God steers them in the direction of hunger.

Hannibal ascends the stairs, each footfall making you jump. Stiff-backed, you turn to a sleek alarm clock on the bedside table, vowing to fix your eyes to its sympathetic face until the hour is done.

A name—yours—blackens your ear, a knell of things more wicked than death.

“Little one,” says Hannibal. “I will not hurt you. This lesson involves no corporal punishment.”

You sit up slightly, slippery in grey silk pyjamas, of whose cost you dare not think.

“Not the lights,” you say, hastily. “Or that metronome thing. I hated it.”

Dr Lecter removes his jacket, socks, and shoes, the quiet process of putting them away a careful rite, his prayer unspoken.

“To begin with,” he says, “I’d like to ask you some questions about your personal habits.”

He speaks delicately, but with an undertone of velvet sensuality that delivers you into fear you cannot resist.

“How often do you pleasure yourself, little one?”

“I don't,” you say.

The words form with such stumbling velocity that you cringe at your own lie.

Hannibal looks down at you with a sort of sorrow.

“If that is your response, then I must teach you.”

“No! I mean, don’t. I’m sorry. I do... do that. But it’s embarrassing to talk about it. I don’t want to.”

“I’m afraid you must. To be a fully-fledged adult it is important to embrace all facets of yourself, including sexuality. So, please address my question.”

Hannibal steps towards the bed, not with threat, but to pursue the lost treasure of your secret.

“Twice a week, maybe,” you admit. “At night.”

“How do you masturbate?”

You’d never expected the world from Dr Lecter. He speaks it factually, without humour, priestly severe.

“With my hands,” you say. “My fingers.”

You’d been too embarrassed to order toys to the house, which still you share with your family, the humiliation of an accidentally opened box an unimaginable discomfort.

“What do you think about as you climax, little one?” asks Hannibal, a question worse still than those before it in the nature of your answer.

You’d watch videos, often violent, peruse literature online which you hastily erased from your history, afterwards. It almost seems you beckoned in this abuse, through your interests, aroused only by cruelty, and the dark.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Different things. Nothing specific.”

Hannibal takes another step towards the bed.

“Answer again.”

Tears char your vision into soot.

“I hate you,” you say, fiercely. “More than I hate Will.”

“Because I cannot be moved in my resolve, as he can,” says Hannibal. “Will is suggestible, to an extent, whereas I am sure in my standing. It sears your ego to obey a man so entirely.”

He pads, barefoot, in a half circle around the bed, a panther uncaged.

“So,” says Dr Lecter. “Speak. What do you think of when you touch yourself?”

You open your mouth, and find yourself mute, truly incapable of speech.

Hannibal seems to understand this, however, for he does not insist again.

“Undress for me. I would like to see you demonstrate.”

Your head swings in a rattling ‘no’.

“Very well. I will attempt it.”

Again you shake your head, and in cumbersome, unlovely motions you struggle out of the pyjamas, ashamed of how clumsy you appear before him.

Naked, you sit up on your knees, covering yourself with your arms as best you can.

“Legs apart, please,” says Hannibal. “Then do as you normally would. I will merely watch.”

He reclines in one of the chairs in the room, his eyes like foreign seas, reflecting the night.

Scalded with humiliation, you bring your fingertips between your thighs and stroke in looping circles. The skin there is parched, unresponsive, unyielding; to be watched in such intimacy takes the pleasure from the act, which has always been in realms of secret sin.

“I can’t do it, Hannibal,” you say. “Nothing’s happening. I don’t feel good.”

It is the only time you’ve used his first name to his face, a trespass into familiarity you do not share.

“Is it because you don’t have access to the usual stimulating material?” he asks, ignoring your blunder.

You snap your knees shut upon your hands.

“I don’t use any.”

Hannibal takes your calves in his hands, a grip which might break.

“I know that you do. When I accepted you as my patient I made a point to visit your house, when no one was home. Your room was as I expected it to be. Juvenile, and stale aired from many days spent there alone. Your laptop was open. It wasn’t difficult to breach. Your password was the title of a book on your shelf.”

Wintergirls. Laurie Halse Anderson had been a staple of your literary youth, and it had never occurred to you that anyone might guess it.

“You didn’t clear your history as thoroughly as you believed,” says Hannibal. “I was intrigued by what I found there.”

You do not resist as he opens your legs, so limp are you in your horror.

“I— what you saw— it doesn’t mean I want this. It’s not the same.”

Hannibal blinks slowly.

“No. I would be uninterested if it was.”

He sits upright again, folding his hands in his lap. How pure they look, a harpsichordist’s tools, an illustrator’s. Evil, beautiful things.

“Begin again,” says Hannibal. “Think of Will and I. What we have done to you. Our touch. Our words. The imposition of power. The ineludible fact of your belonging to us.”

Femoral heat. Your core rings crimson bronze, and your fingers follow its kulning. You want to stop, but Hannibal’s voice alone is a hypnosis, effective even without the ticking and the lights.

“Imagine Will’s hand across your cheek. Around your throat. Envision my own.”

You make some noise, not quite a moan.

Dr Lecter lowers himself down until his breath mists your cunt, and the sensation has you writhing beneath it, maddened by the ephemeral touch of air, and needing it to finish.

He looks up, and his eyes are a reveller’s, a satyr of ancient land.

“How sweet you must taste. I have prepared your meals specifically to assure that you do.”

Your hand cycles in motion, compelled by his mystical art.

Hannibal remains over you, too close, at too great a distance.

“Stop,” he says. “That is enough.”

You are so close that the command is more craven in its dealings than Will’s palm across your face.

Your breaths are the sunken heat of a pagan sun. You burn and burn.

“Why should I give you what is so unwanted?” asks Hannibal, and pauses, as though you might beg.

Speech is inconceivable to your mind, as it is now, a concept like the colour of dying. You only sit with the head of a God between your legs, forced to such a brink that your weakness rides through you like a drug.

Eyes of night pleasure, of deathly ritual—

He laps your cunt for scarcely half a minute before you career over your edge, stacked orgasms that render you sightless with their power. You arc from the bed like an antler, a horn cry blown through your soul.

The pleasure is a stellar whiteness. You writhe up towards his tongue like a wave.

“Poor girl,” says Hannibal, as you lie piteously beneath him. “You can do nothing without me. Even this.”

#manna fic #ao3 writer #dark fic #dark!fic #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter #yandere hannibal lecter #yandere will graham #will graham #will graham x reader #noncon fic #tw noncon #tw eating disorders

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