#SWORDS through a barrel

[manticore239]

What is the return policy?

[inseobts]

Busted! (Secret Relationship)

what if the two of you are in a secret relantionship and suddenly everyone start to realize something is going on?

characters: zoro, sanji, law, koby, ace

(luffy, sabo, kid, shanks, bartolomeo)

words count: around 0.8k - 1.3k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Zoro:

The Thousand Sunny is quiet most days, but today feels especially peaceful. The crew’s scattered across the deck sunbathing, napping, playing cards, and you? You’re on a mission.

Zoro’s disappeared again.

“Where did he go this time?” you mutter, padding softly down the hallway. You’ve checked the deck, the crow’s nest, even behind the kitchen. Nothing. Then you think... of course! The training room.

Sure enough, you step inside and spot him, dead asleep on the floor, his swords lying beside him like loyal dogs. He looks peaceful, his breathing deep and even. You smile. He really can sleep anywhere.

You don’t mean to sit down next to him, but somehow, you do.

Just for a minute.

Just long enough to rest your head against his shoulder.

Next thing you know, it’s dark. The room’s dipped in shadow, the ship creaking gently. You jolt upright, a little dazed.

“Zoro—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But he just grunts, shifting a little. His shoulder doesn’t move from under your cheek.

It becomes a pattern after that.

You find him again a few days later, this time slumped in a corner of the dining room. You lie down nearby. Sleep drags you under before you can think twice. When you wake, your head is in his lap.

“You’re fine” he murmurs, when you apologize again. Like it’s no big deal. Like he’s used to you being there.

And you start to think… maybe he is.

The naps become frequent. Easy. Comfortable. You stop trying to come up with excuses. You sit beside him on the deck while the others chatter. You lean against him while he sharpens his swords. He never pulls away.

One night, you find him leaning against the wall of the storage room, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed. The moment you walk in, he straightens, just barely, but enough for you to know he was waiting.

He pulls you in without a word. A kiss. Slow, familiar. His hands are warm on your back.

“I missed you” you whisper against his collarbone.

Zoro exhales through his nose “You saw me four hours ago.”

“Still.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans his forehead against yours.

It’s sweet. Undisturbed. Until you hear footsteps and both of you freeze.

“Shhhit” you whisper, slipping away as quiet as you can.

Neither of you sees Chopper peeking from behind a barrel.

The next day, the crew is watching. Not subtly.

You notice Nami watching you with a knowing smirk. Robin sips her tea, but there’s amusement in her gaze. Sanji is glaring daggers at Zoro (okay, that’s normal), but Usopp is squinting at you both like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

You clear your throat “What?”

Usopp narrows his eyes further “You and Zoro have been acting weird.”

Your heart nearly stops.

You glance at Zoro, who doesn’t even flinch as he takes another bite of his rice “What the hell are you talking about?”

“That you two are obviously acting weird lately...” Nami finally says.

Zoro doesn’t even blink “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re eating your vegetables...” she points out.

Zoro shrugs “Coincidence.”

“You showed up early to dinner” Usopp adds, suspicious.

“Must’ve been a fluke.”

Brook, not missing a beat, says, “I saw you napping with her head on your lap again. Yohohoho~”

You wish you could melt into your chair. But Zoro? Calm as ever.

“She was tired,” he says flatly “What’s the problem?”

Luffy gasps dramatically “You’re dating!!”

Zoro sighs “We were resting.”

You stare at your plate, but a warm touch to your hand under the table grounds you.

Zoro, looking at you like the whole world could wait.

Days pass. You try to be extra careful. Less glances. Less sneaky meetings. Less…everything.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because one night, the crew catches you.

It happens so fast. One moment, you’re on watch duty, and the next, Zoro is there, dragging you into a kiss. It’s heated, his hands gripping your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair, completely lost in each other.

Then “AH-HA!!”

You jolt apart.

Usopp is pointing at you both, eyes wide with betrayal “I knew it!!”

The entire crew is gathered behind him, staring.

Luffy tilts his head “Wait, were we not supposed to know?”

Sanji is fuming “Why him?! You could do so much better, Y/N-chan!”

Robin chuckles “It was quite obvious, honestly.”

Chopper bounces excitedly “I saw them sneaking around weeks ago!”

You cover your face in embarrassment “Oh my god, it was you!”

Zoro groans, rubbing the back of his neck “Tch. Should’ve known you idiots would figure it out. You never mind your own business.”

Luffy grins “Well, at least you don’t have to sneak around anymore!”

Zoro pauses, then shrugs “Guess that’s true.” He turns to you, smirking “Means I can kiss you whenever I want now.”

Your face burns “Zoro!!”

The crew erupts in laughter (except for Sanji, he cries louder).

Secret’s out.

Now you nap by his side without hiding. You lean against him on long afternoons. You sit close at meals. Luffy teases you both constantly. Sanji mutters curses under his breath. But it’s fine.

It’s more than fine. It’s peaceful.

That night, after dinner, you find yourself heading below deck. The ship rocks gently with the sea, moonlight shining through the portholes.

You already know where you’ll find him.

He’s sitting in the training room, back against the wall, swords neatly stacked beside him. When you walk in, he glances up, but he doesn’t say anything.

You sit beside him, stretching your legs out in front of you.

“I thought I might find you here” you say.

Zoro grunts, not disagreeing.

Silence settles in. Comfortable. You shift slightly, laying your head in his lap. He doesn’t move, just lets his fingers find their way into your hair, slow and soothing.

It’s a simple thing. The kind of closeness that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

His hand runs gently over your scalp. You feel your eyes drifting shut again.

“I like this” Zoro says, voice low, almost a rumble.

You blink sleepily, your cheek still pressed to his thigh “Hm?”

“You. Sleeping like this.” He pauses “On my lap.”

Your heart flutters at the quiet honesty. You glance up at him, but he’s not looking down, he’s staring straight ahead, the barest hint of pink on his cheeks.

“I like it too” you murmur.

Zoro’s thumb brushes just behind your ear, then down the back of your neck, repeating the motion. A steady rhythm. Grounding. Careful.

His fingers slip into your hair again, and he continues tracing lazy circles on your scalp. His other hand rests lightly on your arm, as if to say, I’ve got you.

You drift off to the sound of his breathing, calm and slow.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the windows.

You wake slowly, still curled up in Zoro’s lap. His fingers are tangled gently in your hair, and his thumb brushes your temple in slow, steady passes.

You tilt your head, eyes meeting his.

“How long have you been awake?” you whisper.

Zoro smirks, eyes warm “Long enough.”

You stretch, reluctant to move.

“I’m comfortable” you mumble.

He doesn’t stop touching your hair “Good.”

“Zoro?”

“Hm?”

“I think I’m getting used to this.”

He finally looks down at you, something quiet in his expression, softness, maybe. Peace.

“Yeah,” he says “Me too.”

And you smile, because in this floating world full of chaos, monsters, and adventure… it’s the quietest moments like this that feel the most real.

── .✦ Sanji:

Sanji is always everywhere. In the kitchen. On the deck. Serving drinks. Flirting with Nami and Robin. Spinning around like the lovestruck idiot he is.

Which is exactly why no one suspects a damn thing.

No one notices how his hand brushes against yours just a little longer when he passes you a plate. No one questions why he always makes extra of your favorite dish. And no one, not even Usopp, the self-proclaimed detective, realizes that when Sanji disappears from the kitchen at night, it’s to be with you.

Like right now.

It’s past midnight, and the kitchen is dimly lit. The scent of fresh tea and something sweet lingers in the air as you lean against the counter, watching Sanji work. His sleeves are rolled up, his vest discarded, and the soft glow of the lantern makes his golden hair look even more unruly.

“You’re spoiling me” you murmur as he places a small plate in front of you a delicate pastry, still warm.

Sanji grins, wiping his hands on a towel “Of course, mon amour. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t?”

You take a bite, humming in satisfaction “Mmm. Amazing.”

His eyes soften as he leans in, resting his palms on the counter on either side of you “I can think of something even sweeter.”

Before you can respond, he captures your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. You melt into him, gripping the fabric of his shirt as his fingers gently tilt your chin up. His lips taste like mint and a hint of the dessert he just made, and you lose yourself in the warmth of him.

Then a loud BANG from outside the door.

Both of you freeze.

Sanji pulls back, glancing at the entrance “Shit—”

You practically shove him away, wiping your lips as the door swings open.

“Oi, I swear, I'm not here to see your ugly face, I need—”

Zoro stops mid-sentence, looking between the two of you. His eyes narrow.

Your heart stops.

Sanji, ever the smooth talker, immediately turns to glare at him “Moss-head, do you have no manners? Barging into my kitchen?”

Zoro scowls “Tch. Like I wanna be here. Luffy’s whining about meat, and I—” His gaze shifts back to you. Suspicious.

You force a casual smile “Uh… late-night snack?”

Zoro doesn’t look convinced. His eyes flick between the two of you once more before he grunts “Whatever. Just bring food before Luffy eats Chopper.”

He turns and leaves.

You don’t breathe until the door clicks shut. Then you glare at Sanji “We almost got caught.”

Sanji just smirks, brushing his fingers over your wrist “But we didn’t.”

You always try to act normal. You really do. But Sanji makes it so damn difficult.

He’s always sneaking glances at you across the table. Always brushing against you when he walks by. Always bringing you your favorite snacks, acting like it’s nothing.

And apparently, the crew is starting to catch on.

“You guys ever notice that Sanji doesn’t flirt with Y/N as much as he does with Nami and Robin?” Usopp suddenly asks one day.

Your spoon nearly slips from your hand.

Franky strokes his chin “Huh. Now that you mention it…”

Brook chuckles “Ohhh, that is unusual.”

Luffy, mouth full, tilts his head “But Sanji flirts with everyone.”

Zoro scoffs “Yeah. Except Y/N.”

Your stomach drops.

Sanji, who had been stirring a pot at the stove, doesn’t even flinch “I’m just being a gentleman.”

Nami raises an eyebrow “Are you, though?”

Sanji turns, flashing his usual charming smile “Of course, my dear! Why would I treat Y/N-chan any different?”

You force a nervous laugh “Right! That would be weird, huh?”

They don’t look convinced.

Robin simply sips her tea, giving you both a knowing look.

In the end, it’s Luffy who ruins everything.

One day you and Sanji are in the storage room, tucked away between crates of supplies, wrapped up in each other. His hands are in your hair, his lips teasing against yours, and the rest of the world doesn’t exist... at least until the door slams open.

“SANJI, ARE YOU IN HE—oh.”

Luffy stops. Blinks. Tilts his head.

You and Sanji are frozen in place, practically tangled together.

Luffy’s face slowly lights up “OOOOHHHH!!!”

You scramble back “L-Luffy, it’s not what it looks like—”

“YOU GUYS WERE KISSING!!”

Sanji sighs, rubbing his temples “Goddammit.”

Before you can even try to shut him up, Luffy sprints out of the room.

You stare at the door in horror “Oh no.”

“OH YES” Sanji groans, already dreading what’s about to happen.

“GUYS!!” Luffy yells at the top of his lungs “SANJI AND Y/N ARE KISSING!!”

A beat of silence. Then an explosion of multiple “WHAT?!”

Usopp “I knew something was up!!”

Franky “That’s SUPER unexpected!”

Brook “OHOHO, young love~!”

Chopper “How long has this been going on?!”

Nami “You guys really thought you were being secretive?”

Robin chuckles knowingly “Adorable.”

Zoro grinning smugly “Called it.”

Sanji groans, burying his face in his hands “Kill me now.”

You sigh, crossing your arms “Well. Secret’s out.”

Sanji straightens, huffing dramatically before flashing you a smirk “At least now I don’t have to hold back anymore, mon amour~”

He dips you backward, kissing you full on the mouth right in front of the crew.

Cue, another round of screaming.

── .✦ Law:

Dinner on the Polar Tang is always loud. Jokes, clinks of silverware, and Bepo’s laugh echo off the metal walls.

You sit between Shachi and Penguin, pretending to listen to their story about a giant sea bass they swear was “this big”, but your eyes keep drifting across the table to Law.

Your secret boyfriend. Your captain. The man who never smiles in public, but melts when you’re alone.

No one knows. Not even Bepo. You’ve kept it quiet for months. Private looks, quick touches in dark halls, and soft kisses in his room late at night.

Today, before dinner, you stopped by his quarters. Things got… heated.

“Hold still” you say, laughing as you straddle his lap, pressing kiss after kiss on his jaw, his cheek, his neck.

“You’re gonna leave marks” Law murmurs, but his hands stay firm on your hips.

“Good,” you whisper against his throat, lips painted with your favourite lipstick “Let everyone wonder who’s bold enough to kiss the Surgeon of Death.”

He smirks, but you clean him up after. Or so you think.

Now, mid-dinner, you notice it.

Right on the collar of his white shirt, just above the neck, there's a soft red smudge. Lipstick. Your lipstick.

Your eyes widen.

Shachi nudges you “Hey, is that… is there something on Captain’s shirt?”

Penguin leans forward “Yo, Captain. You spill something?”

Law blinks. Looks down “What?”

Bepo tilts his head “No, that looks like lipstick.”

Silence falls over the table. Everyone stares.

You try to act innocent, chewing your food and glancing around like you’re just as confused.

“Lipstick?” you say, blinking “Who around here even wears lipstick?”

They all look at Ikkaku.

She doesn’t even look up from her bowl “Not me,” she mutters “That's not even my color.”

Penguin raises an eyebrow “So… that means…” He turns his head slowly toward you “You’re the only one who does.”

Shachi points between you and Law “Wait… Are you two…?”

Law doesn’t say a word. He just sips his tea like nothing’s happened.

You smile, wide and unapologetic “Guess I missed a spot.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“WHAT?!” Shachi practically jumps over the table “YOU AND THE CAPTAIN?!”

“How long?!” Penguin shouts, eyes wide “Since when?! HOW DID WE NOT NOTICE?!”

Bepo stands up so fast he knocks over his stool “You’re dating the captain?!”

You raise an eyebrow “You guys okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“Don’t play innocent!” Penguin waves his spoon “You’ve been sneaking around with him! That’s our captain!”

Shachi gasps dramatically “All those times you disappeared after dinner… And that one time you came back with messy hair! I thought it was just wind!”

“Eheh, I am the wind” you say with a smirk.

Law sighs “You’re all loud.”

Bepo stares “So it’s true? You and Y/N?”

Law glances at you, then shrugs “Yeah.”

Another wave of panic.

“THE WAY HE SAID THAT!” Penguin screams.

“SO CALM—SO COOL—WHAT THE HELL!” Shachi is holding his head like it might explode.

Ikkaku finally looks up, deadpan “You’re all idiots.”

You lean into Law’s side, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Told you they’d freak.”

“Mm,” Law mutters “Still worth it.”

Bepo sniffles “I feel so betrayed… I thought we were a family.”

“We are,” you say “Just… a family with a very attractive captain who’s taken.”

“STOP,” Shachi yells “I CAN’T UNSEE IT.”

Law smirks just a little. And you can’t help it, you kiss his cheek in front of everyone, just to drive them a little more insane.

It’s been two days since The Lipstick Incident.

Two days of nonstop teasing.

“Morning, Y/N.”

“Or should we say Mrs. Surgeon of Death?”

You roll your eyes as Shachi and Penguin trail behind you like annoying seagulls.

“Captain! Can Y/N still go on missions or is she on girlfriend duty today?”

“Should we start knocking before entering the medbay now?”

Law mostly ignores them. Mostly. Except that time he dead-eyed Penguin and said, “Keep talking and I’ll switch your arms.”

The jokes died down for a few hours after that. But Bepo has become the most dramatic.

“I still can’t believe I found out at dinner like that,” he says, curled in a blanket like he’s mourning “I needed time to process.”

You plop down next to him on the couch “We didn’t mean to keep it from you. It was just… easier that way.”

He looks at you “Are you happy with him?”

You pause, then smile “Yeah. He makes me feel safe. And seen. Even if he doesn’t say much.”

Behind you, Law’s voice chimes in “I say plenty.”

You turn, surprised “You were eavesdropping?”

“It’s my ship.”

He walks over, drops a kiss on your forehead right in front of everyone. You expect chaos again, but the room is quiet.

Then Bepo grins “Okay. I approve.”

Shachi sighs “Fine. But if we ever hear weird noises from the engine room again—”

“—I will personally sedate you” Law cuts in.

The crew bursts into laughter.

Penguin raises his cup “To our captain and his secret weapon—Y/N!”

Everyone cheers. Even Ikkaku raises an eyebrow and gives you a subtle nod.

You look up at Law. He doesn’t smile much. But you see softness around the eyes, just for you.

Secret’s out. And honestly? It feels kind of nice.

── .✦ Koby:

The marine base is quiet at night, almost peaceful. You walk along the edge of the courtyard, your boots barely making a sound on the stone floor. The moon is high, casting soft light over the base. You pause near the training field and look around. No one’s there.

Good.

“Koby?” you whisper, stepping behind a storage shed.

A soft rustle comes from the shadows. Then he steps out. His hair is a little messy, his uniform jacket open.

“You’re late” he says, but he smiles.

You roll your eyes “Only by five minutes.”

Koby glances around. He takes your hand and pulls you closer into the shadow of the wall. His hand is warm. You lean into him, your heartbeat fast.

“If anyone sees us…” he says, his voice low.

“No one will,” you say quickly “They never do.”

He chuckles “We’re getting good at this.”

“You mean I’m getting good at it,” you tease “You still get nervous when someone says my name.”

“That’s because Garp keeps watching me like he knows something” Koby says, eyes wide.

You laugh “Maybe he does.”

Koby groans “Don’t say that.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek “Relax. We’re always careful.”

He smiles at you, that soft look he only gives when it’s just the two of you “I missed you.”

“I saw you this morning.”

“That doesn’t count. You were in uniform. You called me Sir.”

You smirk “Would you prefer Captain Sweetheart?”

Koby covers his face, laughing quietly “Please don’t.”

The sound of footsteps suddenly cuts the moment short.

You both freeze.

“Did you hear that?” you whisper.

Koby nods, already pulling away. You both hide behind the shed just as two lower-ranked marines walk by, talking about some drill tomorrow. They don’t see you.

Your heart pounds. When the footsteps fade, you let out a breath.

Koby looks at you, serious now “We can’t keep doing this forever.”

You know what he means. But you don’t want to think about it. Not tonight.

“Let’s just have this,” you say “Right now.”

He nods slowly, fingers brushing against yours again “Right now.”

Neither of you say the words out loud, but they’re there, floating in the silence.

This is dangerous but it’s totally worth it.

The sky looks angry today.

Wind whips through the courtyard, and the clouds hang low like they’re ready to fight someone. Fitting, considering your brain’s in a brawl with itself after what Helmeppo said the day before.

"Koby, huh?"

You can’t stop hearing it. His smirk. That I-know-something-you-don’t-want-me-to-know tone.

You march past the barracks, straight toward the supply shed, your usual spot. You pace in tight circles. The door creaks. Koby walks in, drenched from the rain already starting.

“I heard Helmeppo” he says.

You nod “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“I know. But he knows. He’s probably telling his pillow right now.”

You snort, even though your chest feels tight.

“What do we do?” you ask.

Koby looks out the cracked window “I don't think anyone would even care about what Helmeppo says, but I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

You wait.

“…What if we stop hiding?”

You blink “Just like that?”

He shrugs “We tell the truth. If we get in trouble, we get in trouble. At least it’s not lying anymore.”

You walk up to him, water dripping from the edge of the window onto your boots “You’re serious?”

He nods “You’re worth the risk.”

Before you can answer—BOOM! The door BURSTS open like it owes someone money.

There stands Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp, holding a giant sack of snacks.

“I KNEW IT!” he bellows, pointing a meat bun at both of you like it’s a pistol “I KNEW YOU TWO WERE SWAPPING LOVE NOTES INSTEAD OF LOGBOOKS!”

Your soul nearly leaves your body. Koby jumps like he just got hit by lightning.

Garp stomps inside, water puddling under his boots “You think I’m old and blind?! I see everything! The glances! The disappearing acts! The suspiciously timed bathroom breaks!”

You and Koby look at each other, stunned.

“I—uh—we weren’t—” you stammer.

Garp holds up a finger “Don’t lie! I’ve seen more romance in your sneaky hallway nods than in a whole damn soap opera!”

Koby finally finds his voice “Vice Admiral Garp, we—”

Garp grabs two rice balls from his bag and tosses them at your heads.

“About time! I was betting with Sengoku you two would crack by this month!” He slaps Koby on the back so hard he almost falls over “Make it work, kiddo. Or I’ll make you regret everything.”

He stomps back into the storm, yelling at the sky.

“I WANT A WEDDING INVITE WHEN THIS BLOOMS INTO MARINE-SANCTIONED LOVE!”

Then he’s gone.

The silence is unreal.

“…Did he just bless our relationship and threaten us at the same time?” you ask.

Koby looks dazed “I think he also gave us lunch.”

You both stare at the rice balls on the ground.

You reach for one “So… no more hiding?”

Koby grins “No more hiding.”

You nod “Good. But that wasn’t romantic. That was a jump scare.”

By the next morning, everyone knows.

You’re not sure how.

Maybe it was Garp yelling across the courtyard. Maybe it was the rice ball slap. Maybe it was the way Koby smiled at you in front of a full squad meeting like it was no big deal. But now, it’s official.

You’re walking through the halls and two marines actually wink at you.

One gives you a thumbs-up. Another whispers, “Cute couple” like this is high school.

And then there’s Helmeppo, waiting by the stairs like he’s been practicing his lines all night.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls “Look who finally stopped sneaking off like a pair of guilty raccoons.”

You roll your eyes “Don’t you have training or something?”

“Oh, I do. But this is more fun,” he says, grinning “You two really had me fooled. All those ‘Yes, sir’s and ‘Permission to speak freely’s. Cute. Very professional. Very fake.”

“I will tape your mouth shut” you say calmly.

“Spicy,” Helmeppo whistles “No wonder Koby’s in love.”

You expect Koby to stammer. To panic. To turn bright red and pretend none of this is happening.

Instead, he wraps his arm around your waist and says “Yeah. I am.”

What.

You turn to him “Who are you and what did you do with the shy marine I was dating in secret?”

He grins, a little pink in the cheeks, but steady “I’m done hiding. I like holding your hand. I like saying it.”

Helmeppo looks personally attacked “You’re gonna make me throw up.”

Koby shrugs “Go drink some water.”

You’re still trying to recover from the whiplash when Koby turns to you again, softer this time. No audience, no drama, just him.

“I missed being close to you,” he says “Even just walking next to you without pretending it means nothing. I hated pretending.”

Your heart tugs.

“I know,” you say “I did too.”

He leans in, forehead resting lightly against yours “Now I can do this.”

He kisses you. Just a short, sweet kiss. Right there in the hallway.

Someone behind you gasps. Someone else claps. It’s probably Garp. Or Helmeppo. Or both.

You laugh into Koby’s shoulder “We’re never gonna hear the end of this.”

“Good,” he says “Let them talk.”

── .✦ Ace:

It starts small.

Ace, lover of chaos and borderline inedible food, begins pushing onions off his plate.

At first, nobody says anything. Maybe he just wasn't in the mood. Maybe he’s just not feeling it today.

Then it happens again.

And again.

.........And again.

By the fourth time, Thatch is watching him like he’s trying to solve a murder.

“You good, man?”

Ace blinks, mid-push “Huh?”

“You keep banishing onions like they stole your ship or something.”

Ace shrugs “They just taste weird lately.”

Thatch narrows his eyes “You used to eat them raw.”

“Tastes change.”

“You once drank onion juice.”

“I was bored.”

“You said it ‘cleared the sinuses.’”

Ace looks up at him with a done expression “…And it did.”

Thatch is unconvinced. He stares at the sad pile of abandoned onions like they hold answers.

A few days later, Marco walks across the deck and almost trips over you.

You’re napping.

Not unusual. But you’re napping exactly like Ace. Flat on your back. Arm flopped over your face. One boot still on, one off. Dead to the world.

Marco leans down “You good?”

You snore lightly and mumble something about “I hate onions... mh”.

Marco’s eye twitches.

He walks off slowly and finds Thatch.

“We have a situation.”

Izou, Marco, Thatch, and Jozu sit in a huddle like they’re planning a heist.

Thatch slaps down a napkin with dramatic flair.

“Exhibit A: Ace has stopped eating onions.”

“Exhibit B,” Marco adds, “she naps like a dead log in the middle of the deck. Just like him.”

“Exhibit C,” Izou says, adjusting his coat, “he brushed his teeth twice in one day.”

Silence.

Jozu blinks “…What does that mean?”

Izou sighs “He’s trying not to taste bad, obviously.”

Marco nods slowly “Only one reason for all this.”

Everyone says it at once “He’s kissing someone.”

They all lean back like they’ve cracked the code.

Thatch grins wide “And we all know someone who always hated onions.”

Back on deck, you yawn and stretch, bumping into Ace as he leans on the rail.

“Morning” he says, smiling softly.

“You smell like mint” you mutter, surprised.

He leans in slightly “That a bad thing?”

You shake your head, trying not to grin “Nah. Kinda hot, actually.”

What you don’t notice is the small army of Whitebeard pirates across the deck, hiding behind barrels, crates, and a suspiciously placed sail, watching you both with the intensity of trained spies.

Thatch whispers, “Look at him. He’s glowing.”

Marco squints “Is that a love glow?”

Jozu nods “He’s never glowed before.”

Izou fans himself “My heart can’t take this.”

Thatch whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary “Observe: the rare, emotionally available Ace, brushing his teeth and avoiding onions for the sake of romance.”

Marco chuckles “Should we say something?”

Thatch shakes his head, evil smile creeping in “Not yet. Let’s have a little fun first.”

The crew knows. You just don’t know that they know. Which is why things get weird really fast.

First, Thatch starts offering you food. All the time. Which wouldn’t be strange except “Here, Y/N, extra meat, no onions. Just how you like it” he says sweetly, placing it in front of you with a wink.

You blink “Thanks…?”

He beams “Y’know. For important stuff. Like kissing for example.”

You choke “What?”

“Kissing your enemies goodbye in battle, of course. Wouldn't be cool if you smell like onions.” he says innocently “What else would I mean?”

You narrow your eyes. He walks off humming the wedding march.

Weird.

Later that day, Marco corners Ace.

“You ever think about switching toothpaste brands?”

Ace looks up from his nap spot, squinting “What?”

“I heard mint’s nice” Marco says, deadly casual.

Ace raises a brow “I already switched. Why?”

“No reason,” Marco shrugs “Just figured you’d want to impress… someone.”

“…Like who?”

Marco just walks off.

Ace stares after him, confused.

Then there’s Izou.

He appears next to you while you’re doing your hair, watching like a hawk.

“Hmm” he says thoughtfully.

“What?”

“You’ve got a new little strand tucked behind your ear. That’s new.”

You frown “So? My hair just got a bit too long.”

“Just reminds me of how Ace tucks his hair sometimes. Cute. Subtle. Copying your crush is a classic move.”

You freeze “Wh-What crush?”

He smiles slowly “Oh, I didn’t say you had one.”

You almost trip over the comb.

And don’t even get started on Jozu. He starts playing “matchmaker” out of nowhere.

“Hey Y/N, what do you think of guys with freckles?”

You pause “I mean, freckles are nice... why?”

“No reason.” He grins “You like fire powers too?”

“…You’re literally describing Ace.”

“Am I?” he says, like he’s shocked at himself.

You walk away suspicious. The crew snickers behind your back.

By the end of the week, you’re starting to get twitchy. Ace too.

“Are they acting weird?” you whisper one night as you sit beside him on deck.

“Definitely,” he says, arms behind his head “Thatch winked at me when I refused onions at dinner.”

“Marco suggested I take a nap ‘in a more open, sunny place.’” You glance at him “Sound familiar?”

Ace groans “They’re onto something.”

You whisper, “Do you think they know?”

He shrugs “They’re dumb. I think we’re safe.”

The crew, literally hiding, listening in with cups pressed to the wood.

Thatch whispers, “They think we’re dumb.”

Marco snorts “They’re in love and hiding it like toddlers under a table.”

Izou fans himself “Give it another day. Then we strike.”

It starts over breakfast.

Again, totally normal day. Birds chirping. Sun’s out. Pirates being loud. You stroll in beside Ace, acting casual. Like you didn’t kiss him good morning five minutes ago behind the barrels.

You sit down.

He sits next to you.

Everything is fine. Until Thatch slams his fork on the table and stands up dramatically.

“Okay, this has gone on long enough.”

You and Ace both freeze.

Marco leans in lazily, sipping his coffee “So. You two are dating, right?”

Your eyes go wide.

Ace doesn’t even blink.

And at the exact same time:

You: “No! Who would even date him?”

Ace: “Yeah, we’re obviously dating.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then Jozu chokes on his juice. Thatch drops his spoon. Izou wheezes like he’s been punched.

Marco just blinks “Well. That answers that.”

You turn to Ace in slow motion “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY??”

He frowns slightly “That we’re dating? What—why did you say that so disgusted?”

You hiss “Because you weren’t supposed to just admit it!”

“Why not? We’ve been caught.”

“I was trying to lie!”

Thatch is howling “Oh my god—‘Who would even date him??’ Babe, the man LITERALLY has your name carved into his pillow.”

You whip around “He WHAT?!”

Ace shrugs “Just the initials. It’s cute.”

Izou fans himself “I’m going to die. This is the best breakfast of my life.”

Marco grins “This is better than I expected”

Jozu “It’s like watching a romance novel crash into a comedy sketch.”

You bury your face in your hands “I hate this. I hate ALL of you.”

Ace pats your back gently “I think it’s going great.”

You glare at him “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course. I don’t have to sneak around anymore. I get to call you mine out loud now.”

That… makes your face heat up. You try not to smile. You fail.

Thatch yells, “THEY’RE BLUSHING. IT’S REAL.”

Ace slings his arm around your shoulders, smug and unbothered “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll survive the embarrassment.”

Izou smirks “Barely.”

Marco raises his cup “To the worst cover-up attempt in Whitebeard history.”

Everyone cheers.

You groan and slump against Ace, who kisses your temple like the traitor he is.

Soft. Smiling. Loud and proud.

And now you’re never living this down.

[carnalcrows]

EVER EVER AFTER

summary: You were supposed to marry a prince, not fall into a city full of strangers, skyscrapers, and coffee machines. But getting cursed was never part of the plan—and neither was meeting a little girl whose tired, sharp-eyed father who looked at you like you were something real. Tokyo isn’t a fairytale. But maybe, if you’re lucky, it doesn’t have to be.

pairing: robert! nanami kento x giselle! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, transdimensional travel, poisoned fruit, found family, light swordplay, reader wears enchanted formalwear, dragon lady attack (brief) unreliable narrator (even the author is confused).

word count: 5.2k (the lack of motivation is CLEARLY visible lmao)

better viewed in dark mode

The sun rose over the hills of Andalasia—or what you had always called home. A forest made of dream-soft pastels and impossible light, where the air smelled faintly of honeysuckle and every morning began with birdsong, where deer peeked from behind trees and squirrels held sewing needles with practised grace. It was perfect. Which, to you, meant it was normal.

You twirled on the cottage balcony, robe fluttering behind you, humming a half-finished melody. Bluebirds circled your head in swooping arcs. A pair of chipmunks tugged ribbons between their teeth, and a badger attempted—unsuccessfully—to thread a button onto a coat with trembling paws.

"Almost done!" you said brightly, kneeling beside the dress form shaped from hollowed bark and stitched leaves. “Prince Gojo is going to love this. Well… maybe. I mean—I hope he loves it. It’s just our wedding, after all.”

You paused, blinking, suddenly dizzy with the thought—your wedding.

The forest rustled its approval.

Of course, you’d only just met yesterday. But he’d heard your song. You’d danced on the edge of a waterfall. And when you’d fallen into Gojo’s arms—gracefully, from a cliff, as one does—it had just felt right. That had to mean something. That had to be love.

“Right?” you asked a passing bird.

It chirped something vaguely affirming.

You sighed dreamily, collapsing onto a bed of moss as the birds fluffed the hem of your suit. “A fairytale beginning. A prince. A kiss. And a happily ever after. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

But the forest didn’t hum back the way it usually did.

There was a pause—a stillness.

Then, from the trees—

A rumble.

The birds scattered. The chipmunks dropped their thread. You sat up just in time to see a troll barrel through the glade, teeth bared, claws glinting, eyes wild.

“Okay—not part of the plan!”

You scrambled upright, tripping over a ribbon, only to be yanked backwards by the collar as vines snared your feet. “Seriously—why is it always vines—?!”

Just before the creature could swipe you in half, something silver flashed through the air. A sword. A scream. A blur of white and gold.

Prince Gojo.

He looked like he’d leapt out of a painting—shirt torn, hair somehow perfect, grinning like the chaos was part of the fun.

“Darling!” he called, catching you one-armed while slashing the troll with the other. “I missed you!”

“I saw you yesterday—”

“Too long!” Gojo laughed.

And just like that, the troll was gone.

Vanquished. Heroic. Timed perfectly to the end of a crescendoing song you didn’t realise had started.

Gojo dropped the sword, cupped your face in both hands, and beamed. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we’re getting married.”

And you—still breathless, still dizzy—could only smile and nod.

Because why wouldn’t you?

You had everything you wanted.

Didn’t you?

The next morning bloomed golden and soft. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass leaves, casting patterns on the forest floor as woodland creatures bustled in preparation. Birds carried garlands of silk, chipmunks stitched last-minute adjustments on the embroidered sash, and even the badger from before had seemingly mastered buttoning techniques overnight.

You stood before the mirror, smoothing down the front of your ceremonial robes. Soft blue and ivory, lined with hand-stitched petals, every seam kissed by your own hands. It looked exactly like something you’d imagined as a child—what your future would look like. A storybook ending written in fabric.

Your reflection smiled back. But there was a weight behind it. No doubt. Just... static. A kind of quiet you hadn’t expected.

You shook it off. Today wasn’t for wondering. Today was for joy.

Outside, trumpets rang through the glade.

“Ready?” Gojo called, already astride a white horse, grinning like he was late to his own coronation. A dove landed on his shoulder. He winked at it.

You barely had time to laugh before someone stepped into your path—a stooped woman in a cloak, half-shadowed beneath a crooked hood. Her voice was like splintered wood wrapped in silk.

“Excuse me, dearie,” she said. “A moment, before your big day.”

You paused. The animals hesitated, feathers ruffling.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” you said politely, taking a half-step back.

She smiled—wide, too wide—and reached into her cloak. “Just a wedding gift.”

You didn’t see the hand until it was on your chest. You didn’t feel the ground until it was gone.

The sky twisted above you. The trees blurred, then bent, then shattered into light.

You were falling.

And falling.

And—

Your body slammed into something wet and hard. Your ears rang. Lights flashed—unnatural ones, bright and red and harsh. There were no birds. No singing. No flowers. Just the sting of pavement and a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

You groaned, rolling onto your side.

Towering buildings loomed above, steel and glass swallowing the sky.

And around you, a dozen strangers in suits and jackets walked past without even blinking.

You sat up, wide-eyed, soaked and shivering.

You weren’t in Andalasia anymore.

—

You stumbled to your feet, blinking hard against the lights. They came from everywhere—flashing boxes in the sky, windows that moved, towers made of cold silver and too much glass. The air stank of smoke and iron. The ground beneath you was not grass but something hard and grey, painted with stripes and humming faintly beneath your boots like it was alive.

A giant, glowing sign buzzed somewhere overhead in a language you couldn’t read. Another flashed to life with a jingle that made no musical sense. And still, not a single soul stopped.

People brushed past you without looking. Men in black coats talking into small glowing boxes. Girls with skirts that barely covered their knees, chewing gum and laughing too loudly. A man walked by holding a bag of something fried and orange, and no one said hello. Not even the dog he dragged behind him.

You blinked up at a traffic light.

A robot voice said something you didn’t understand.

“W-what is this place?” you breathed.

No one answered.

A car honked—an angry, blaring sound that made you spin around too fast and nearly fall again. It wasn’t a carriage. There were no horses. Just metal beasts that screamed without mouths, hurtling past in streaks of black and chrome.

“This isn’t right,” you murmured. “This isn’t real.”

You looked around wildly, hoping—praying—for a patch of trees, a trail of birdsong, anything that might lead you back. But there was only noise. Towers. People moving like they couldn’t see you.

Your throat tightened. You spun in place, chest heaving.

“Hello?” you called. “Can anyone hear me? I think—I think I’m lost!”

A businessman glanced at you briefly, eyes skimming your embroidered robes and curling shoes. He shook his head and kept walking.

You swallowed. Hard.

Your hands trembled.

And for the first time in your life, you didn’t know what to sing.

Then—

“Papa, look!” a voice cried. High-pitched. Excited.

You turned.

A little girl was tugging at a man’s sleeve, pointing directly at you. She looked about six or seven, dressed in a tiny school uniform and pink sneakers. Her pigtails bobbed as she dragged her father toward you.

Her father—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark coat and tie—stopped just short of you. His expression was… tired. Mistrustful. And unreadable.

“Please,” you said, stepping forward. “I don’t know where I am. Or how I got here. But I think I’ve been cursed.”

The girl beamed. “I told you, Papa, he’s a prince!”

The man blinked.

Then sighed.

And said, flatly, “Oh, hell no.”

The man turned as if to walk away—already fishing in his coat for what looked like a phone, his jaw tight, his whole posture radiating not my problem. You scrambled after him, nearly tripping over your own hem.

“Wait—please!” you said, voice cracking. “I don’t know where this is. I was on my way to my wedding and then a hag—well, a woman, but you know—she pushed me down a well, and now everything smells like metal and why is the sky flickering—?”

“Okay.” He stopped, hands raised. “You need to calm down.”

“I am calm!” you said, not calm at all. “This is just my very composed panic voice!”

The little girl looked up at him. “Can we keep him?”

“We’re not keeping anyone,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. He looked at you again—really looked this time. The dishevelled hair. The mud-spattered sash. The way you stood with your hands wringing in front of you, like you didn’t know what to do without a song to fill the air.

“You’re not from here,” he said slowly.

“No,” you breathed. “I’m from—” You paused. “Actually, I don’t think it exists here.”

“That makes two of us,” he muttered.

There was a long pause.

“Fine,” he said, and ran a hand down his face. “You can come with us. Just for now. Until we figure out who you are, or where you escaped from.”

You blinked. “I didn’t escape from anywhere.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

The little girl took your hand. Her fingers were warm. Grounding.

“I’m Nobara,” she said. “You’re gonna love our apartment. It has a couch. And juice.”

“That sounds…” You swallowed, trying to think of the right word. “...Comforting.”

The man sighed again, as if regretting every choice that led him to this moment.

“Kento Nanami,” he said.

You blinked up at him. “That’s a lovely name.”

“Don’t make it weird,” he replied flatly. Then turned, gesturing for you to follow.

So you did.

Because what else was there to do?

You were lost in a kingdom that didn’t believe in magic. Your prince was in another world. Your clothes were soaked. And nothing smelled like flowers anymore.

But for the first time since the fall, you felt just a little less alone.

The next morning, you tried your best to be helpful.

You folded the couch blanket into a perfect swan. You brewed tea using what you thought was a teapot—it was actually a rice cooker. You gave Nobara an elaborate forest-style braid, complete with twigs and a flower you found in the stairwell. She looked thrilled. Nanami looked... tired.

You were in the middle of sweeping the floor with a curtain rod when the doorbell rang.

Nanami opened the door and immediately tensed. The man on the other side stood tall, dressed in a tailored black coat, hair tied back with the kind of precision that said he’d never forgotten a single appointment in his life.

Suguru Geto.

He didn’t smile. “She ready?”

“She’s finishing her breakfast,” Nanami said, jaw tight.

Geto’s eyes slid past him—and landed on you.

He took in your embroidered cuffs. Your flower-pinned sash. The fact that you were still barefoot, holding a curtain rod like a staff.

There was a long pause.

“New roommate?” he asked.

“No.”

“Dating?”

“No.”

You stepped forward, cheerful. “Hello! I’m staying here until I figure out how to undo a terrible spell that may or may not have involved a cursed well and a power-hungry sorceress. Also, your daughter is delightful.”

Geto blinked.

“...Right.”

Nobara skipped into view, backpack in hand. “Dad, this is the guy who sings at the furniture.”

“Of course he is.”

Nanami handed her a lunchbox. “Back by six.”

“Don’t give me rules in front of the furniture guy,” she muttered.

Geto’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “Say goodbye, sweetheart.”

“Bye, magic prince,” she chirped. “Don’t turn into a tree.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

Nanami stared at it for a long beat.

“Your co-parenting seems… tense,” you offered.

“I’m going to lie down on the floor.”

“That’s fair.”

⋆｡°✩

Down in the subway, Toji checked the note pinned to the inside of his jacket. A crude drawing of your face. A Tokyo address, scrawled in angry cursive.

He pulled out a polished apple, turning it slowly in his hand.

“Should’ve poisoned the horse,” he muttered.

But he took a bite instead—just to test—and promptly spat it out.

“Ugh,” he grimaced. “Too early for this.”

Then he tucked the apple away.

And followed the scent of magic through the city.

The next few days blurred.

You tried to adjust. Truly, you did.

But Tokyo wasn’t a fairytale kingdom—it was loud and messy and fast in ways you couldn’t quite understand. The birds didn’t sing back. The mice refused to sew. And your songs, no matter how sweetly sung, only earned you startled stares and someone in a bear costume handing you a flyer for a karaoke bar.

Nobara took it all in stride. She made you a “Do Not Pet the Pigeons” sign after you got pecked in Ueno Park. She showed you how to use a vending machine. She explained what an elevator was only after you had screamed.

Nanami… tolerated you.

Most of the time.

He scowled when you rearranged the bookshelf into colour-coded rainbow order. He gave you a deadpan look when you introduced him to your “talking shirt” (it wasn’t talking, you just liked it). But he never made you feel stupid. Or small. Or wrong.

And sometimes—only sometimes—you caught him watching you. Like he was trying to solve something he’d forgotten how to understand.

Those were your favourite moments.

⋆｡°✩

Toji arrived on day four.

You were at the apartment alone, dancing with a mop (named Gregory) to a tune you were humming. You twirled toward the door just as the bell rang and flung it open with a smile.

The man on the other side was all shadows and scar tissue.

“Oh!” you said. “Are you a delivery—”

The world tilted.

You hit the floor hard, dazed, a sharp smell filling your nose as something was shoved under it.

“Breathe deep,” the man said, crouching beside you, voice low. “Apple extract. You’ll be out in thirty seconds.”

You blinked. “Is that supposed to be threatening?”

“I mean…” He hesitated. “Yeah?”

“Oh.” You frowned. “It just smells like cinnamon.”

He blinked back at you.

You both stared.

“…Are you immune to poison?” he asked.

“No, just—very good at holding my breath.”

Toji groaned. “Of course you are.”

You scrambled backwards across the tatami mat, brandishing Gregory like a sword. “Are you a bandit? An assassin? A disgruntled pastry chef?”

“I’m your fate.”

“That’s very dramatic.”

Toji lunged—and was immediately tackled to the ground by an eleven-year-old with a bag full of textbooks.

“GET AWAY FROM MY GUEST!” Nobara screamed, absolutely feral.

Toji wheezed. “What the hell—”

Nanami arrived thirty seconds later, briefcase in one hand, tie askew.

He took one look at the scene—Toji pinned to the floor, Nobara biting his sleeve, you holding Gregory like a knight in training—and sighed so hard you could feel it in your bones.

“I don’t even want to know,” he muttered.

Then calmly tasered Toji.

You never loved anyone more.

Toji hit the floor with a grunt, the taser still humming in Nanami’s hand like the ending chord of a very satisfying song. Nobara stood over him triumphantly, arms crossed, one knee planted on his back like a gladiator claiming her kill.

“That’s what you get for sneaking up on a magical prince,” she said, breathless but proud.

“I’m not sneaking,” Toji groaned, dazed. “I rang the doorbell. I had manners.”

Nanami sighed and stepped over the fallen assassin, loosening his tie. “I told you,” he said, eyes on you, “don’t open the door for anyone.”

“I thought he was delivering something!” you said, indignant. “He looked vaguely gift-shaped!”

“He had a knife.”

“It was sheathed!”

Toji coughed. “You guys are the weirdest hostage situation I’ve ever seen.”

Nanami turned to him. “You’re going to explain everything. In detail. And if the words ‘poisoned apple’ come up again, I swear to god—”

Toji lifted his hands weakly. “Alright, alright. Let me sit up first. Your daughter’s kneecap is in my kidney.”

“She’s not my daughter,” Nanami muttered.

“Rude,” Nobara said.

⋆｡°✩

After Toji was zip-tied to a dining chair (you were very proud of that knot, by the way), he admitted to working for “a certain powerful woman”—which, with a little pressing, turned into “Queen Meimei,” which then quickly turned into “look, I just do what I’m paid for, alright?”

“She sent you to kill me,” you said, arms folded, standing like judgment incarnate in your mismatched pyjamas.

“I mean, she said gently assassinate, but yeah.”

Nanami looked at him, stone-faced. “That’s not a real phrase.”

Toji gave him a lopsided grin. “It is in my line of work.”

“And where did you even get these apples?” Nobara asked, sniffing one suspiciously. “They look like they’ve been dipped in nail polish.”

Toji groaned and leaned back in the chair. “Look, I just need the guy to go back through the magic well, and everything’s fine. No more apples. No more death. No more me being choked out by an eleven-year-old.”

“Ten and a half,” Nobara corrected.

“I stand corrected.”

You tilted your head. “So... you’re not evil. You’re just... working retail for witches?”

Toji blinked. “Honestly? Yeah.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is insane.”

You smiled widely. “But at least now we know I am cursed! Which means if we find the well again, I can return to Andalasia and marry Saturo—Gojo. Prince Gojo.”

And just like that, the room went silent.

You didn’t notice. You were already dreaming aloud again, pacing slowly, hands gesturing at nothing. “He must be worried sick. I hope he’s okay. He’s probably searching every corner of this strange kingdom for me as we speak—”

⋆｡°✩

Gojo sneezed into a Tokyo metro map, upside-down, perched on top of a garbage truck.

“Megumi,” he muttered, “I think we’re lost again.”

The chipmunk on his shoulder did not answer.

Nanami didn’t say anything.

He just turned, walked into the kitchen, and opened the fridge with slightly more force than necessary. The door creaked like it was used to this. Like it had seen one too many magical princes show up in silk pants, talking about true love.

You stood frozen in the centre of the room, suddenly aware of how quiet it had gotten.

Toji raised a brow from the dining chair. “So. That’s awkward.”

Nobara leaned against the wall, chewing her rice cracker. “He’s jealous.”

“What?” you blinked. “Jealous of Gojo?”

She nodded sagely. “Mmhmm.”

Toji chuckled. “Yeah, buddy. He is so in love with you.”

“I—he’s not—” You faltered. “He barely even likes me.”

“He let you reorganise his bookshelf,” Nobara said.

“He cooked for you,” Toji added.

“He let you stay on the good couch.”

You blinked. “There’s a bad couch?”

Toji pointed. “You’re sitting on it.”

“Oh.”

You turned slowly, looking toward the kitchen. Nanami was still there, still pretending not to listen, still staring into the fridge like he expected it to give him emotional clarity.

You bit your lip.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird,” you said quietly.

Toji rolled his eyes. “You’re a singing forest prince. Things have been weird since you showed up.”

Nobara nodded solemnly. “He needs a push.”

“A gentle push,” you emphasised. “Not—”

She was already gone.

You heard her in the kitchen.

“Hey, Nanamin,” she said sweetly. “You still into emotionally repressed denial, or should I start calling him Dad?”

Nanami choked on his water.

You sank into the couch. “I’m going to die here.”

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, across the city, Gojo had decided that the best way to find you was to sing louder.

He stood on top of a moving float in a parade he was not invited to, throwing roses and belting ballads while Megumi tried to chew through his robe in protest.

“Where is my prince, so noble and kind—”

A child threw a soda at him.

“Rude,” he muttered. Somewhere above, a crow perched on a lamppost and cawed once, low and warning.

Back in her suite, Meimei tapped a finger to her wineglass and smiled slowly.

It was time for her to take matters into her own hands.

You stood by the window after dinner, watching the lights of the city flicker like stars fallen to earth. There was a moment, quiet and small, where it hit you all at once. The strangeness. The softness. The fact that you hadn’t sung in days and didn’t miss it like you thought you would.

Behind you, Nanami moved through the kitchen like a man on autopilot. Cleaning a plate. Drying a cup. Never looking directly at you.

“I didn’t mean to make things difficult,” you said, breaking the silence. “With Gojo. With everything.”

Nanami paused. His reflection met yours in the window, faint and ghostlike.

“You didn’t,” he said. “You just reminded me that... I used to believe in love, once.”

You turned. “You still do. You just don’t want to.”

He leaned against the counter. “Maybe.”

There was a beat.

Then—

“Are you going back to him?”

The question caught you off guard.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I was so sure, before. But now… there’s something about this world. It’s messy and loud and everything hurts more, but it’s also real. And honest. And—”

You looked at him.

He was already looking at you.

“I think I’d miss this,” you whispered. “You.”

The air thickened between you. You took a step forward. So did he.

And then—

“Formal invitation,” Nobara announced from the hallway, holding a sparkly gold envelope. “From Geto’s weird rich cousin. You’re all invited to a ball tomorrow night.”

You stared at her.

Nanami groaned.

“I already picked your outfits,” she added.

Of course she did.

⋆｡°✩

The next evening arrived faster than you expected.

The ballroom shimmered in warm gold and marble. The floor was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the chandeliers like upside-down constellations. You stepped inside in a suit that Nobara had helped tailor herself, complete with lace cuffs and a soft lavender ribbon at your collar. You hadn’t seen Kento yet, and your chest ached with how badly you wanted to.

Then he appeared.

Dark vest, gold trim, hair swept just slightly off his brow. He looked uncomfortable and perfectly composed. But when he saw you, really saw you, something softened around his eyes.

“Wow,” you breathed.

He stepped closer. “Likewise.”

There was music, low and elegant.

He offered you his hand.

And when you took it, the world fell away.

You danced like you’d known each other forever. Quiet steps. A shared rhythm. A warmth you didn’t know how to carry in words. His hand on your back. Yours at his shoulder. Eyes never leaving one another’s.

When the final note faded, he didn’t let go.

And when he walked you home through the quiet streets—through alleys lit by vending machines and the distant hum of traffic—you didn’t want to say goodbye.

So you didn’t.

You took his hand.

Led him upstairs.

And kissed him like it was the only magic you still believed in.

⋆｡°✩

He led you to the bedroom like he was afraid the spell might break. The city lights spilled in through the blinds in fractured gold, brushing along your skin when he pushed your jacket from your shoulders, slow and careful. When you reached for him, it was with both hands and everything you hadn’t said all evening.

He was warm beneath your touch. Real. No prince. No fantasy. Just him.

And you wanted him more than you’d ever wanted a fairy tale.

He kissed you as if he meant to remember every sound you made. His mouth moved slowly along your jaw, your collarbone, down the centre of your chest—each touch deliberate, tender. His hands never rushed. He made room for you to gasp, to pause, to smile between breaths. He only moved closer when you pulled him in.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered.

He touched your face like he wanted to say something back, but just couldn’t.

⋆｡°✩

Clothes slipped away quietly. The warmth between you built in slow waves—hands gliding over skin, mouths tracing every curve, breath curling soft and shaky in the quiet.

It was not hurried. It was not practised.

It just was.

Every sigh from you drew one from him. Every time you reached for him, he was already there. When he finally pressed against you fully, it wasn’t about lust—it was something deeper. A need to feel known. To be held in a way that felt like truth.

You trembled. He kissed you through it. Moved slowly. Anchored you.

The rhythm you found was soft. Gentle. Like music made without notes. It built in heat, not force. In need, not hunger. Until the world narrowed to just breath and skin and the steady echo of your name on his lips.

You let go with your head tilted back and your heart aching with how much you felt. He followed, arms wrapped around you like he didn’t want to let go. As if he were terrified you’d vanish if he blinked.

⋆｡°✩

Later, the two of you lay tangled in quiet.

His fingers trailed absent-minded patterns against your spine. You watched the light move across the ceiling and listened to the city outside. For the first time in your life, you didn’t wonder if this was a dream.

You knew it was real.

And that, somehow, was even better.

The morning came softly.

You woke with Nanami’s arm still draped across your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. The light through the curtains was a pale gold, gentle, hesitant. The kind of morning that didn’t rush you.

You didn’t move at first.

Not because you were afraid—but because you didn’t want to disturb what felt, impossibly, like peace.

When you did shift, just slightly, his grip tightened. A subtle, instinctive pull that made your chest ache in the best way.

You turned to face him.

He blinked once, slowly, then smiled the smallest, softest smile you’d ever seen on him. No walls. No filters. Just… him.

“Good morning,” you whispered.

He answered with a kiss, quiet and unhurried, like a secret passed between you.

For a few minutes, there was nothing but the rustle of sheets, the hush of breath, and the way his hand never left yours.

Until the doorbell rang. You both froze.

Nanami groaned. “Tell me that’s not your enchanted raccoon again.”

You laughed. “Megumi is a chipmunk.”

“Not better.”

You pulled on your robe as Nanami padded to the door. He opened it—

And found Toji standing on the other side, holding out a glinting red apple in the palm of his hand.

“I come bearing brunch,” Toji said. “Very specific brunch.”

Nanami frowned. “You’re supposed to be in jail.”

“I was bored.”

You stepped into the hall, hair tousled, smile still warm from sleep. “Oh! Good morning—”

“Don’t eat that,” Nanami cut in, pointing at the apple. “That’s definitely cursed.”

Toji looked wounded. “What, just because it’s glossy and red and I’m a former assassin working for a magic sociopath? Wow. Judgmental.”

You squinted at it. “Is it poisoned?”

Toji hesitated. “Maybe just a little.”

Nanami reached for the taser.

Toji backed up. “I didn’t give it to him yet! Geez. No appreciation for dramatic timing.”

⋆｡°✩

But later that evening, after laughter, after tea, after something that felt dangerously close to happiness, you stepped into the kitchen alone.

The apartment was quiet. Nanami was brushing his teeth. Nobara had passed out face-first on the couch.

And there, sitting in the fruit bowl like it belonged, was the apple.

Red. Shiny. Smelling faintly of roses and honey.

You stared at it. A whisper trailed through your thoughts.

Forget him.

Forget all of this.

One bite—and it all goes back to the way it was. The ball. The prince. The perfect fairytale ending.

You reached out. Touched the apple’s skin.

And just as your fingertips curled around it, A voice behind you said, silk-smooth and evil:

“I knew you’d choose the story over the ending.”

You turned.

Meimei stood in the doorway, all dark velvet and cold eyes.

And in that moment, you knew.

This wasn’t over.

You stepped back instinctively.

The apple clattered to the floor, rolling a few inches before coming to a stop, glinting under the overhead light like something out of a dream you no longer trusted.

Meimei smiled, slow and catlike. She looked impossibly at ease, standing in Nanami’s kitchen like she owned it. Not a wrinkle in her dress, not a hair out of place. Like she hadn’t crossed dimensions to murder you.

“Not quite the fairy tale you imagined, is it?” she said. “Too loud. Too grey. Too human.”

Your hand hovered behind you, searching for the counter. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Her eyes gleamed. “Neither should you.”

Nanami’s voice rang from down the hall. “Everything okay?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but Meimei was already moving.

Her hand struck with blinding speed, a push like wind and stone. The world lurched. You slammed back into the cabinet with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.

“You should’ve stayed in the story,” she said. “Married your prince. Let me keep my crown.”

Your vision blurred. You tried to speak—call out, cry for Nanami—but the words got lost between your heartbeat and the copper taste in your mouth.

Meimei knelt beside you, lifted the fallen apple with two fingers.

“Don’t worry,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “It’s painless. Mostly. And after midnight, no one will remember you anyway.”

You reached for her wrist.

She offered the apple.

You hesitated.

And that was all she needed.

She pressed it to your lips—gentle, deceptively so—and the moment your teeth sank in, the world tipped sideways.

The floor vanished.

Your limbs went cold.

And then everything went black.

⋆｡°✩

Nanami found you less than a minute later.

The apple was split open on the tile. Your body lay crumpled against the cabinets, motionless. Too still.

For a second—just one—he couldn’t move.

Then he was at your side. Kneeling. Shaking your shoulders. Repeating your name over and over like it was a prayer he was too late to make.

Your eyes didn’t open.

Your chest didn’t rise.

Nobara screamed from the living room. Toji cursed. Someone called Geto. But all Nanami could do was hold you—arms wrapped tight around your limp frame—while the clock on the wall ticked closer to midnight.

And nothing happened.

⋆｡°✩

They gathered at the ball.

Meimei, radiant and smug, stood on the highest balcony like a queen crowned by cruelty. Gojo arrived too late. Nobara cried so hard her nose bled.

And Nanami—quiet, steady, breaking in the worst way—pressed one final kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered, broken.

And just as the clock struck twelve—

You breathed.

Your fingers curled in his lapel.

And your eyes opened.

⋆｡°✩

Meimei screamed.

She transformed—claws, wings, teeth. A dragon in heels. She lunged for Nanami. For you.

And you, in your borrowed suit and bare feet and messy hair, picked up the nearest decorative sword and ran.

You climbed, ducked, and dodged. She followed. Fire at your heels. Wind at your back.

On the rooftop, it ended.

One wrong step. One well-timed slip.

She fell.

And you watched as the last petal of the old story turned to ash on the breeze.

⋆｡°✩

The next morning was warm.

Gojo returned to Andalasia. Geto stayed behind, promising to stop being dramatic about joint custody. Toji left Tokyo with a train ticket and a new appreciation for tasers.

You opened a small fashion studio.

And Nanami?

He stood beside you, hand in yours, watching Nobara chase pigeons down the street.

“Are you really staying?” he asked.

You looked at him.

Smiled.

“I already am.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @sooniebby @seomn

[mashtatosworld]

game, set, match

summary: a glimpse into a day at the Kwon household post the birth of your second baby

The faint smell of lavender fabric softener lingered in the air - a reminder of the several loads of baby laundry your husband had washed and folded earlier.

Tiny onesies, soft swaddles, and delicate socks were neatly stacked in baskets, ready to be packed into Angel's nursery dresser.

You sat comfortably on the oversized couch.

Beside you, your littlest baby slept soundly between two pillows, her chest rising and falling to the sound of white noise.

It had been two months since you had taken her home from the hospital and she had been nothing but an angel.

No crying, no whining, no fussing. She just slept, occasionally kicked her legs, and stared with quiet, curious intent whenever she was awake.

Maybe it was because you were first-time parents with Diva, but those newborn months had been chaos for you both. There wasn't a moment either of you weren't running around, covered in baby spit up, pulling out your own hair - or even each others.

Things were settled into comfortable bliss now though, and you sighed contently as you ran a glue stick over the back of a print-out picture.

Photo albums, memory books, and scattered polaroids were spread across the coffee table and the space beside you, your hands gently smoothing over baby photos as you worked on organising Diva and Angel's memory books.

Meanwhile, Jiyong was in full domestic mode - his hair slightly tousled, wearing sweats and a loose tee, with a dishtowel flung over his shoulder.

Armed with a vacuum cleaner, he was methodically moving through the house, pausing only briefly to lift your feet up with one hand while he vacuumed beneath them.

“Comfy?” he teased with a fond glance, shooting you a soft smile.

“Mm… very,” you hummed, as he gently set your feet back down, making sure you were comfortable.

You watched with a smile as he moved across the room, working efficiently but never missing a chance to glance over at you, his gaze warm and protective.

Of course, Diva was never far behind.

The moment Jiyong switched off the vacuum, she scampered over with her latest discovery - a feather duster she’d pulled from the cleaning closet.

“I helping!” she announced proudly, waving the duster like a sword.

Jiyong paused, eyeing her with equal parts affection and wariness.

“Okay, Princess,” he said carefully, hands on his hip, his voice gentle. “But just be - ”

Before he could finish, she was already zipping around the room, enthusiastically swiping the duster at anything and everything.

Unfortunately, the cats took notice.

Both Zoa and Iye - your chaotic and mischievous feline companions - zeroed in on the duster instantly, their eyes blazing with predatory glee.

With a synchronized battle cry, they pounced.

“NO!” Jiyong yelped in horror as the cats launched themselves at the feather duster, paws swiping madly.

Diva, completely unbothered by the feline chaos, shrieked with laughter, delighted by the attention. She whirled around, swinging the duster even more wildly, sending the cats into a full-blown frenzy.

Zoa barrelled through a stack of magazines, sending them flying. Iye, not to be outdone, leapt onto a side table, knocking over a potted plant with a loud thud.

Dirt scattered everywhere.

Jiyong, looking utterly betrayed, stood frozen for half a second before springing into action, lunging for the duster.

“Ok, ok, enough!” he huffed, snatching it from Diva’s tiny hands before the cats could shred it into oblivion.

“Appa!” Diva cried in protest, her bottom lip trembling, her eyes filling with dramatic betrayal.

The cats froze, their razor-sharp claws still mid-air, suddenly realizing their target had been stolen from them.

And with identical expressions of vengeance, they turned on Jiyong instead.

“Wait - NO - AH!” he squawked, backpedaling frantically as Zoa swatted at his ankle and Iye latched onto the hem of his sweatpants.

You were crying with laughter as you watched your poor husband get mercilessly attacked by your cats.

He stumbled backward, swiping at them with the confiscated duster, but Iye lunged again, pawing at his calf with playful but sharp precision.

“Traitors!” Jiyong cursed, glaring at the cats in disbelief.

Finally, breathless and disheveled, Jiyong pried the furious cats off him and tossed the duster onto a high shelf where neither Diva nor the cats could reach it.

He sagged slightly, rubbing his shin where Zoa had landed a particularly feisty smack.

Diva, meanwhile, stomped her tiny feet in protest, her arms crossed in defiance.

“Appa!” she pouted deeply, eyes glistening with indignant tears.

“Baby…” he groaned, running a hand down his face, already preparing for the inevitable tantrum.

But before she could ramp it up, you called out softly.

“Jia… why don’t you come help Eomma instead?” you offered sweetly, patting the spot beside you. “I'm looking at pictures of you as a baby,” you added temptingly.

Her big eyes widened in intrigue, her pout instantly forgotten. She sprinted over, her tiny legs making her trip over herself slightly in her excitement.

Jiyong let out a soft breath of relief, but the moment his back was turned, Diva snatched a handful of the biscuits from the coffee table, crumbling them in her tiny fists as she clambered into your lap.

You blinked, watching helplessly as she left a trail of crumbs on the freshly vacuumed carpet.

You glanced over at Jiyong. He paused, slowly registering the mess. His jaw tightened briefly, but he didn’t say a word. Not even a twitch.

Instead, he simply picked up the vacuum again, quietly cleaning up after her without a single complaint.

You bit back a smile, your heart fluttering at his patience.

A good father. A good husband.

Once Diva was nestled in your lap, she reached out and plucked a photo from the pile. She stared at it for a moment before grinning widely.

“Me!” she declared confidently, holding it up with bright eyes.

You blinked, then glanced down at the photo - and nearly snorted out loud.

Because no… it wasn’t Diva.

It was Jiyong - as a baby.

You stifled a giggle, turning the photo toward her.

“No, baby,” you cooed, smiling softly. “That’s Appa when he was little.”

But Diva wasn’t having it. She stubbornly shook her head, eyes narrowed.

“Nooo!” she insisted fiercely, poking the photo with her tiny finger. “That me!”

Jiyong, who had finally finished cleaning, wandered over. He carefully sat beside Angel with an exhausted sigh and held her tiny foot as he looked at the picture Diva was waving around.

He then flashed you a smirk.

The resemblance was… uncanny.

"The Kwon genes are strong."

"Mm," you rolled your eyes. "Tell me about it."

It was all you heard when people looked at Diva. And you could even see the resemblance in Angel already too.

"What about you, hmm?" Jiyong cooed as Angel shifted, and he lifted her into his arms. He planted a soft kiss to her nose. "Who will you look like?"

"Me!" Diva exclaimed, pointing at herself.

You laughed and tucked her stray baby hairs behind her ear. "Yes, most likely."

Then you snapped a photo of baby Jiyong and sent it to the Big Bang/Wives group chat.

Guess who: Jia or Ji?

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Diva eventually tired of looking through photos - mostly because you wouldn’t let her glue them directly to the living room wall - and wandered off, announcing with a dramatic sigh that she was going to check if the cats wanted to play dress up.

You let her go, returning your attention to the pretty cream books full of memories. Jiyong had settled in beside you, Angel curled into his chest now, tiny hand fisting the fabric of his shirt.

He ran his hand over her delicate, fuzzy hair. "You forget how small they are," he murmured tenderly.

You nod as you press a photo of little Diva and her father into the book. You had found Jiyong one night, crammed into her crib, legs bent and twisted at an awkward angle as she lay across him - both sleeping with their mouths slightly parted.

"It feels so quiet this time round," you added and Jiyong smiled as he inspected one of Angel's dainty nails.

"Just as tiny as our first though," he said, running his thumb over her pinky.

It was calm. Soft. The kind of memory you’d bottle if you could.

Until -

A crash.

A loud “NO ZOA!!”

And then a very distinct sound: a thud followed by high-pitched feet slapping against the hardwood floors.

Jiyong didn’t even flinch.

“She’s in the cleaning closet again,” he muttered, gently transferring Angel into your arms before rising.

Once the cats were successfully lured away with treats and Jiyong had vacuumed for the second time that day - muttering under his breath about crumbs and fur - he finally surrendered to the reality of toddler messes and sent Diva off with her iPad.

She accepted it with a pout, plopping herself down beside you with a dramatic huff.

For a while, things were peaceful again. Diva played a dress-up game on her iPad, glancing occasionally at Angel with hopeful eyes.

“Jemi,” she said brightly, tapping the screen, “Your turn! Look! You be the purple one!”

Diva waited.

“Hellooo,” she waved the tablet gently toward the baby. “Jemi, I say your turn.”

Angel let out a tiny sigh, her hand twitching in a baby dream.

Diva slowly turned toward you, deeply unimpressed. “She not playing."

You bit your lip to hide your smile, running your hand over Angel's warm back. “She will, baby. When she’s a little older.”

You were glad Diva was finally acknowledging Angel. She'd been acting like the baby didn't exist for the first few weeks until you promised her that Angel would be her best friend one day. Well, when she could at least sit up on her own...

“But I wanna play now!” she huffed, kicking her socked feet against the edge of the couch. “She don't play ever, just poops..."

You shrugged helplessly. “She’s still learning.”

“I learning fast,” Diva declared proudly.

“That’s true,” Jiyong’s voice called from down the hall, and you both looked up just as he reappeared - his arms full, eyes gleaming with mischief. “And lucky for you… Appa found something very fun.”

He held up a dusty old Wii console like he’d just discovered buried treasure. Wires dangled from his arms, and the box was halfway ripped open.

You blinked. “No.”

Jiyong grinned. “Yes.”

You gave him a long, knowing look. “There’s a reason we put that thing away.”

Diva gasped in pure awe. “What that?!” Her iPad was tossed to one side.

“It’s called a Wii, Princess,” Jiyong said proudly, kneeling to plug everything in with far too much enthusiasm. “And you’re going to love it.”

You threw your head back with a groan. “You do remember that we’re not allowed to play competitive games anymore, right? Not after Monopoly Night at Daesung’s.”

Jiyong didn’t even look at you. “You cheated.”

“You flipped the board.”

“You cheated.”

You looked to Diva, who had already made her way next to her father, bouncing in place as he handed her a controller.

“This isn't going to go well,” you sighed, standing to place Angel in her bassinet, safely out of the way.

“I win now?” she squealed.

“Only if you team up with me,” you whispered conspiratorially.

Jiyong narrowed his eyes. “She’s mine.”

“She’s mine.”

“She’s mine!”

“You wish.”

Diva blinked between the two of you, confused but loving the attention.

With the console finally set up and remotes in hand, you knelt beside her, carefully tightening the wrist strap on her tiny arm. “This is important, okay? It has to stay on. No swinging around like earlier.”

Diva nodded solemnly, taking your words very seriously. Good. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

The game booted up. Wii Tennis. Classic. Dangerous.

Round one.

The game started off innocent enough.

You and Jiyong were standing, shoulder to shoulder, with Diva stationed in front of you - remote in hand, fully convinced she was going to win somehow despite having no idea what she was doing.

The first serve was yours.

You flicked your wrist. “Ha! Ace.”

“That was a lucky shot,” Jiyong scoffed, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for the Olympic finals. “Do it again.”

You complied and watched as he missed again.

You burst out laughing. “Wow. Incredible. Truly humbling.”

“I wasn’t ready!”

“You literally told me 'do it again' and missed!”

Diva copied your laughter like a little echo, unaware of the rules but thrilled by the energy.

“Eomma win!” she chirped.

“Yes, she did!” you beamed, smug and bouncing on your heels. “Your Appa’s washed. Retired.”

Jiyong’s head snapped around. “Yah! Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Okay,” he growled, stepping closer - too close. “Let’s go.”

You served again, and this time, the match actually picked up speed. Virtual tennis balls flew across the screen. Jiyong grunted. You lunged. He swung hard. You returned it harder.

Your elbows bumped.

“Move over,” you snapped.

“You’re in my zone!”

“There’s no zones in doubles - get out of my way!"

“YOU’RE CHEATING AGAIN!”

He nudged your hip.

You shoved his shoulder.

His arm hooked around you from behind, pinning your arms to your side whilst he took his next shot and you tried to squirm out of his grasp.

Diva stood in front of the chaos, just flailing her remote like a wand, zero points but maximum effort.

Then came the moment.

A crucial point.

You lobbed the ball expertly and Jiyong went in for a dramatic backswing -

and knocked Diva over with his thigh.

Flat down. Little legs in the air. A surprised “ah!” escaping her lips as she fell back on the play mat.

You both froze, eyes wide.

Then the two of you dropped the remotes and rushed to her side. “Jia! Are you okay?”

She lay there, blinking. Then her little mouth twisted into a full Jiyong-level pout. You helped her sit up, setting aside her controller and rubbing her back but her eyes were pinned on only one person.

“Appa,” she sniffled. “Pushed me.”

Jiyong looked shattered. “No, no, no, Appa didn’t mean to, baby. I'm so sorry. It was an accident. Are you hurt? Do you want a toy? Ice cream? A new bike? A juice?”

“Appa mean to me!” Diva cried, pointing directly at Jiyong. “Appa pushed me!”

Jiyong dropped his head in sorrow. “Princess, please forgive Appa. He got too into the game. You’re so good at it, Appa just got scared.”

She said nothing. Just crossed her arms, giving him a silent glare that could rival his best moody looks.

He tried a different tactic, pressing a kiss to her cheek, patting down her messy hair. “Do you want to team up and beat Eomma next?”

Her arms stayed crossed.

“Appa,” she said coldly, “you not my fwiend anymore.”

You tried so hard not to laugh.

“Oh dear,” you teased, helping Diva back onto the couch. She then dramatically pushed her face into one of the cushions, every so often peeking to glare at Jiyong.

“Princess, please,” he begged, following her like a kicked puppy, dropping to his knees beside her. “What if I let you pick the next game? Or - wait! I’ll let you win!”

“No.”

“I’ll - I’ll put the stickers on! Wherever you want. Even on my face.”

Diva looked at him over her shoulder.

“Even… unicorn stickers?”

“Especially unicorn stickers.”

“And glitter?”

Jiyong sighed. “Bring on the glitter.”

She nodded, and suddenly Diva was beaming again - flashing her pearly little baby teeth and giving him their shared signature gummy smile.

You handed her the sticker book with a smirk. “He’s all yours, baby.”

Jiyong shot you a look as Diva reached for the sparkliest, largest unicorn sticker in the entire set.

"Jagi, I'm going to need some serious skin care after this.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

two requested prompts and i loved them so much!! thank you for sending them in <3 i will probably be reusing the wii one as i had so much fun writing this!

ff: i originally wrote this while reader was still pregnant but was too excited to post the birth fic and had to change it lol

as always, love mash xxx

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @maskedcrawford , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen

[coldfanbou]

Kinkcember 27: Public Sex

We have another one of these down. I'll probably stop at thirty. Also, Who knew she was so kinky. On another note, I just happened to have these ideas and requests for Dahyun that I really liked. This is probably the last time she appears though.

Length 2K

Dahyun X Mreader

“Let’s play a game!” The girls all knew what that meant. They looked at each other, wondering what the game would be this time. Sana always wanted to play dirty games when the group had finished off bottles of alcohol. Sana giggled as she placed the pirate on the coffee table in front of the group. “The loser has to do what the others say!” Sana didn’t care who lost; she knew she would get something out of it. The other Twice members agreed to play; it was usually fun to see what would happen. Each member took one plastic sword, putting it into the pirate’s barrel, hoping it wouldn’t pop up. Sword after sword went in, and the members were surprised they hadn’t caused the game to end yet. They looked at each other nervously, each member having one sword left. This would be the last round.

Sana went first, whining as she pushed in the sword. After the click, she was slightly disappointed to see the pirate still in the barrel. She wanted to be the loser; she knew the punished member would have the most fun. Momo went next, and the result was much the same, but she was happy not to be the loser. Mina followed, then Nayeon, Jihyo, and Chaeyoung. It came down to the final three: Dahyun, Jeongyeon, and Tzuyu. They stared nervously at the pirate. “Wait!” Sana said, having an idea of how to make it more exciting. “Everyone choose a hole, then we’ll go in order.” Sana’s idea was to have them choose now before the options become limited.  Jeongyeon, Dahyun, and Tzuyu each chose where they would put the sword, holding the tip inside and waiting. Jeongyeon went first, pushing in until she heard the click; she took a deep breath, happy it wasn’t her. Dahyun went next; the loser would be either her or Tzuyu. Pushing the sword in, she held her breath. The toy pirate popped up from the barrel as it clicked, making her the loser. Tzuyu breathed a sigh of relief as the pirate popped up. She wouldn’t be the one to get punished. 

“Dahyun, go wait in the kitchen. We have to decide your punishment.” Sana cheered, happy that the game was finally over. Dahyun hung her head as she walked to the kitchen. The others chatted about what to have the young woman do until they finally came to a decision. Once they called her back, Dahyun looked around, hoping her punishment wouldn’t be too rough. “Jihyo, do you want to tell Dahyun her punishment?”

“You should do it; it was your idea.”

“Okay! Dahyun, your punishment is you’re going to have to go outside and have sex with someone!” Sana said, clapping as she announced the punishment. “Isn’t this great you get to have sex!” Dahyun was stunned at the punishment. Truth be told, it wasn’t the worst thing, but she knew how Sana had come up with the idea. The older woman had talked to Dahyun about kinks before and knew Dahyun wanted to try public sex. “Oh! And you have to go out in this!” Sana said, pulling up a large coat and stockings. “You only get to wear this,” Sana giggled. The others laughed, seeing the outfit Dahyun would have to go out in. 

Dahyun whined as she grabbed the lack of clothes, stripped in front of the group, and put on her stockings and coat. She grumbled as she walked through the door and stepped outside the dorm. Walking into the streets, she could feel her phone vibrating as the members texted her to ask if she had found someone yet. It had just been a few minutes. It was like they expected the idol to fuck someone in front of the building. Dahyun’s plan was to go further away and find an alley that would be a more comfortable spot. Once she found one, she waited. She watched people walk by before happening to spot you. You would have to do. “Excuse me!” She called. You turned your head to the voice calling you. Seeing the young woman, you walked over before recognizing her as the idol. “Hi, I need you to do something for me.”

“What do you need?” You ask, eager to help the idol. Dahyun beckons you into the alley, going deep into it so people won’t notice the act that would happen. “Dahyun?” You call as you follow her.

“I just need something really quick.” Dahyun pauses as she turns around, moving her hand between the top of her coat, ready to reveal herself. She was getting wet thinking about what was about to happen. “I want you to fuck me. Can you help me with that?” You’re stunned at the request. You always viewed Dahyun as a pure woman, so to hear her asking for sex so blatantly was unexpected. Seeing your hesitation, Dahyun asks again, layering the lust in her voice. “I just really need a nice hard cock. Can you help me? I’m so horny.”

Dahyun opened her coat, revealing nothing underneath her jacket. Her black stockings fit tightly around her thighs. It was the only thing that she had on. She bit her bottom lip, a sly smile forming as the cold air hit her body. Dahyun's thighs were slick with her juices as she stared at you. As your eyes move from the hard pink nubs on her chest to her puffy lips, you feel your desires for the idol building. The night lights made her slick thighs glisten. She waits with bated breath for you to make a move on her. As you unconsciously reach out for her chest, she pushes it out to meet you. Your hand touches the firm mound, and as you squeeze it, Dahyunletss out a soft moan. Hearing your bias moan because of your touch gets you hard, and Dahyun notices. She slips her jacket off her shoulders, dropping it onto the ground before unbuckling your belt and pushing her hand into your pants. Wrapping her hand around your cock Dahyun licks her lips as her hand begins to move along your shaft. “Thanks for the help. I’ll make sure you feel good, too.”

Dahyun’s delicate fingers have your cock in a soft grip as she pulls it out of your pants. She glances down, sucking in a quick breath as she sees its size. “Oh, it’s so big already. You were thinking some naughty thoughts, weren’t you?” You nod, struggling to get a word out as she rubs the tip of your cock with her thumb. You would’ve never imagined Dahyun to be so  slutty, but here she was proving you wrong. Dahyun pushed herself onto you, continuing to stroke your cock as you groped her breasts, her hard nipples rubbing against your palms. You lean down and steal a kiss from Dahyun. 

You’re surprised to feel her tongue trace your lips but push for more. You explore each other’s mouths as Dahyun coats her hand in your precum. She rubs her legs together, becoming more aroused, her mind filling with thoughts of you stuffing her with your cock in the alley.  Dahyun moves one hand down to her clit, rubbing it softly as she jerks you off with her other hand. “Fuck me already,” she whimpers. 

You press Dahyun against the wall, getting behind her. You rub your cock against her cunt only for a second before ramming your length inside her; she cries out, your cock stretching out her tiny cunt. “Oh fuck!”  You don’t give her any time to adjust; her fleshy walls are squeezing tightly as you thrust deep into her cunt. Dahyun moans freely as you slam yourself against her ass, burying your cock inside her with every thrust. You grip her waist tightly, digging your nails into her pale skin. “Fuck, yes, deeper!” Dahyun moans, grimacing as her body bounces against yours, her tits swinging as another thrust makes you bottom out inside her. You move one hand to her tits, grabbing at them as you fuck the idol. 

Dahyun feels her core tightening; she leans against the wall to support herself as she feels her climax approaching. Just as she was going to say something, Dahyun felt your cum being pumped into her womb. A guttural moan escapes her lips as you trigger her climax. As Dahyun’s body shakes from her climax, you slap her ass, watching the soft flesh jiggle as she cums. You spank her again, leaving a handprint on her pale skin as you finish dumping your cum into her. Dahyun groans, moving a hand to her slit to feel your cum leaking out of her. You pull out of the idol and watch as she brings her fingers to her lips, tasting your cum for herself. The sight of the idol eating your cum turns you on and keeps you hard. 

As Dahyun looks over her shoulder to see you still hard, she smiles. Squatting before you, she takes your cock in her hand again.  You cum flows out of her cunt onto the ground as she strokes your messy cock, coating her hand with your cum. She drags her tongue along her palm, moaning as she tastes your salty cum again. “Let me clean you up. I can’t leave such a good cock messy.” Dahyun rubs your cum coated cock against her lips, staining them before she swallows the head. Dahyun moaned around your cock, bobbing her head slowly so her tongue could work around the shaft. You moan loudly, reveling in the feeling of her tongue lapping at the tip as she stops to focus on the head. You place your hand on Dahyun’s head, moving her from the tip to the base of your cock. You felt her lips against your pelvis as your cock hit the back of her throat. Dahyun doesn’t mind the roughness; she was actually enjoying the way you were treating her. As you let her go, she pops you out of her mouth, slapping her cheeks with your cock as she says, “Face fuck me. I’m all yours; treat me like the slut I am.” You’re stunned by Dahyun. You didn’t know what to do for a second but quickly settled on doing your worst to her. You would never get another chance to fuck the idol. 

You hold Dahyun’s head in place as you thrust into her mouth, plugging the hole with your cock as you keep it buried inside her throat for a few seconds before thrusting again. You enjoy every moment of her throat tightening around you. You knew you weren’t going to last long, but that didn’t matter; you were going to fuck Dahyun’s face. Dahyun’s face becomes a mess as time goes on. Saliva coats her chin as it runs down from her lips. Her make-up is ruined, mascara running down her cheeks as her eyes water. “I’m going to cum,” you groan as your thrusts turn wild. You pull out just as you cum, spurting your semen onto the idol's face. Your cum paints her face and lands on her hair. Dahyun sticks her tongue out, getting a few drops on it. She gleefully swallows them. You back up and take good luck at the messy idol. Dahyun’s body was sweaty; her hair was matted. Your cum hadn’t only stained her face but had managed to get onto her body. Cum still dripped out of her cunt. You thank Dahyun for the experience, bowing before you leave. Dahyun stayed in the same place, cleaning the cum from her body before grabbing her coat and walking back to the dorms, cum still on her face as she did so. 

The girls cheered for their members as she walked through the door. Dahyun had a tired smile on her face as she took off the coat and laid back on the couch, letting Sana clean out her cunt as she asked questions about her experience. The others pointed and laughed as they heard the story.

[mahalachives]

A Brother's Love

Request from @readerrrrrrz "I seen you opened request. I have always liked the idea of Rhys having another sister and Az being mated for years leading up to books. Kinda seeing a side of the mating bond that is centuries old vs new. Idk just idea."

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand's younger sister (another one)

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Rhys visits his youngest sister in the Town House, bringing gifts for her child and teasing her about giving him another niece or nephew to spoil.

The scent of spiced tea and freshly baked bread filled the sitting room of the Town House, mingling with the crisp autumn breeze that wafted through the open balcony doors. Rhysand lounged lazily on the chaise, one arm slung over the backrest, his violet eyes alight with mischief as he observed his very pregnant sister across from him.

"I must say, dearest sister, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be waddling about like a mother goose," Rhys drawled, sipping from his cup.

She glared at him over the rim of her own tea. "Say that again, and I’ll personally see to it that you’re the one waddling around by the end of this visit."

Rhys grinned. "Ah, the pregnancy temper. Feyre had it too, you know. Cassian nearly lost a wing after one ill-timed joke."

She rolled her eyes, leaning back against the couch with a soft groan. Her belly, round and firm beneath the soft dress she wore, gave a little shift, and she placed a protective hand over it. "This one is far more active than their sibling ever was," she murmured, exhaustion lacing her voice.

As if summoned, a small blur of dark curls and bouncing energy came barreling into the room.

"Uncle Rhys!" his nephew, Kieran shrieked, launching into Rhysand’s waiting arms.

Rhys caught them effortlessly, pressing a loud, dramatic kiss to his forehead. "Ah, my favorite troublemaker! I’ve brought you gifts—purely as a bribe to ensure I remain your favorite uncle, of course."

Kieran giggled, eyes—violet, just like his mother’s—shining with delight. "What did you bring?"

Rhys produced a small wooden figure, carved into the shape of a winged warrior, and a tiny music box that, when opened, played a soft Illyrian lullaby.

Kieran's wings fluttered with excitement.

"It’s for when your baby sibling arrives," Rhys explained. "So you can teach them about warriors and music all at once."

His sister sighed, rubbing her temple. "You’re going to spoil him rotten."

Rhys flashed her a wicked grin. "Isn’t that my job?"

Before she could argue, the front door opened, and a familiar presence filled the room. Shadows slipped through the space, dark tendrils vanishing as Azriel stepped inside, shaking off the cool evening air.

The second Kieran saw him, he scrambled out of Rhysand’s lap and bolted across the room. "Papa!"

Azriel barely had time to drop his weapons belt before scooping his little one into his arms, lifting them high above his head with a rare, soft laugh. "You’re getting heavier," he murmured, pressing a kiss to his brow before tucking him into his side.

His child clung to him, small hands grasping at the leathers of his chest. "Train me like a warrior, Papa! Like Uncle Cassian trains the Illyrians!"

Azriel’s lips twitched. "I’ll train you when you can carry a sword without tipping over."

Kieran pouted but accepted his father’s embrace nonetheless.

Azriel’s hazel eyes flicked to his mate then, instantly taking in her exhaustion, the way she cradled her belly. He crossed the room in three strides, kneeling before her without a word.

"You look tired," he murmured.

"That’s because I am," she sighed, smiling despite herself as he took one of her hands in his.

Without hesitation, Azriel lifted her legs into his lap and began to massage her aching feet, his calloused hands moving in slow, practiced strokes. She exhaled a soft moan of relief, letting her head fall back against the couch.

Rhys smirked. "Should I give you two a moment?"

She cracked an eye open to glare at him. "You’re still here?"

Kieran, still clinging to Azriel, looked up at Rhys with a mischievous grin. "Mama says you talk too much."

Azriel choked on a laugh as Rhys placed a dramatic hand over his chest. "Betrayal. From my own flesh and blood!"

"Truth," she corrected, smirking.

Azriel just shook his head, his thumb sweeping gently over the arch of her foot.

A touch so reverent, so full of quiet devotion.

Kieran snuggled into Azriel’s chest, his tiny wings drooping as sleepiness took over. "Papa smells nice," he mumbled sleepily.

Azriel’s shadows curled around them both in agreement, whispering silent lullabies.

Rhys watched the scene unfold, something warm and uncharacteristically soft settling in his chest.

His sister. His oldest friend. The family he never imagined having, yet had fought for, bled for, loved beyond words.

Rhys stood, ruffling his nephew’s dark curls before pressing a gentle kiss to his sister’s temple. "I’ll be back tomorrow," he said quietly. "Try to get some rest."

She hummed, her eyes slipping closed, safe and sound in the arms of the male who had loved her for centuries.

As Rhysand winnowed away, he left behind not just a sister, not just a family—but a home full of love, of shadows and warmth, of laughter and light.

And he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

The End.

Note: Hope you enjoyed this glimpse into their world and thank you for the request!💙✨

[drakeanddice]

Haunted by a fantasy world where "adventurer" is handled in the same way as "assassin" in John Wick. An ifykyk secondary economy running on gold coins where everyone knows each other but no one acknowledges the elephant in the room because we have manners about our weird-ass line of deadly desperate dangerous work.

Rolling into town, looking immaculate. Checking into the Inn. Not an inn, or the coaching house, or the traveler's hostel. The Inn. The one that takes my ridiculous oversized coin and says that my room is ready, and will I need to visit the Smith today? Perhaps a meeting with the Vintner? Shall I send up the Gourmand?

"Good afternoon, Master Whicke," the Smith says, putting aside the barrel scraper he's been working on to flip a switch beside the forge. Racks of tenpenny nails and trowels and hammers fold back to reveal the glittering points and edges of a score of swords and axes and spearpoints lit with the flicker of finely-tuned enchantments. "Shall we tour what's new?"

"What sort of occasion are we hosting, Master Whicke?" The Vintner asks, pocketing the coin with a sigh. "A funeral," you say.

"Ah, well perhaps something light to start, then," she says selecting a straight-walled flask that glitters with contained starlight, proof against the touch of the undead. " And something for remembrance," she plucks a small crock of something evil-smelling and phosphorescent. "And then something to really bring down the house." She gingerly selects a double ampoule of energetic looking jellies.

The Gourmand carefully runs his knife through the salted flank of a cockatrice with a pursing of the lips. "So many neglect trail rations, Master Whicke, and it is their shame. Paired with goldenwheat pancakes and carrion honey, a mouthful of cockatrice--properly seasoned of course--will keep the mummy rot at bay, even post-exposure. I have been given to indicate by the Management that your current escapade may make such information useful to you. I will of course wrap your purchases exceedingly carefully. Rot will be your constant companion in the Black Pyramid."

There's something here.

[nanamiskentos]

ACCIDENTALLY YOURS! — jujutsu kaisen

prologue. → some not so meet-cutes 😁 who said love was easy?

pairings. jjk x gn!reader choso, toji, geto, nanami, sukuna, gojo.

warnings+. no curse/jujutsu au, slightly suggestive for toji's. attempted vehicular injuries but gojo's fine w/ it as long as he gets your number. some alcohol mentions. someone has a nosebleed.

word count. 6k! song inspiration. let me in (20 cube) — enhypen

a/n. this is saur silly, and i wrote this super quickly so it's not proofread.

CHOSO KAMO ✶ just trust me bro ... ?!

there's a man in your apartment.

at first, your brain short-circuits with options. scream, call the police, throw your used dinner dishes. why not all three in rapid succession?

it's nine at night, and all you wanted was to collapse into bed with a cozy throw and a criminal minds marathon. instead, fate or your carelessness in leaving the door unlocked, has gifted you with this stranger who just walked in.

this man didn't sneak in, mind you. no, this stranger barrelled through the door, let out a soft groan as he ran into your dining table. he then muttered a soft and polite 'excuse me' before plopping himself down onto your couch like he'd paid three months of rent.

and now? he's sitting there, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed. like he's contemplating the futility of existence, or whether he left the stove on at home. you can't quite see his face yet, just the curtain of messy chestnut hair falling over it.

what you can see is that he's wearing an oversized violet sweatshirt that's swallowing him whole, and right over dark cargo pants and scuffed combat boots.

well, now what?

your heart is hammering as you edge closer, gripping a fork behind your back like it's king arthur's sword. he's muttering something, no. a name?

you lean slightly, straining to hear.

"...yuuji, when i c-catch you."

but finally, the stranger looks up at you, as if he's searching your face for this 'yuuji.'

big hazel eyes stare up at you, bleary and glassy, and his lips are pouting, pale pink and peeled raw from where teeth have gnawed into them. his cheeks are slightly flushed, and he smells faintly of cheap alcohol.

great, the strange man in your living room is also drunk. you wonder where your phone is.

"uh, hey. are you one of yuuji's friends?" and the stranger's voice is absurdly deep, but incredibly shy, "can you get him? is he in his room?"

your brows furrow, "huh, who's yuuji? what room?"

the man blinks slowly, and he hiccups. a tiny, almost cute sound — and then he frowns, "yuuji? my little brother? lives here, obviously?" he gestures broad hands around vaguely, loosely.

"no. i live here."

his wide eyes scan the room. your glossy magazine on the table, a cup of hot chocolate next to your laptop which still glows with the not-so-legal streaming site. but you can see the very moment that the stranger's face freezes, like he's just been slapped in the face, "oh."

"yeah."

the stranger groans, dragging his hands down his flushed face and this only makes his clingy strands stick up in strange places, "oh no. oh, man. i — uh, think i'm in the wrong apartment."

"you think?"

"i was just tryna' find yuuji's place," he mutters, his words slurred but earnest, "we live, like, two floors down. but it's all the same, right? like...layout-wise?"

you open your mouth to argue, then close it. technically, he’s not wrong about the layout, but that’s hardly the point. "why didn’t you check the apartment number?"

"because i’m…" he pauses, thick brows knitting together like they’re searching for answers his brain won’t provide. finally, he lands on, "tipsy. yeah, tipsy. i actually really hate drinking, by the way. it was some stupid bet with my little brother."

you lift the fork a little higher, its tines gleaming under the dim overhead light. "so you broke into my apartment."

"hey, i didn’t break in!" he protests, his voice thick with indignation that doesn’t quite match the circumstances, "your door was open."

"unlocked," you grind out, ignoring the mildly adorable pout on his flushed lips,"not an invitation."

the man has the decency to look sheepish, one hand reaching up to scratch at his neck. "uh… yeah. my bad."

his bad? that’s the best he’s got? not a sorry for terrifying you! or a sorry for making you think you’re about to feature in a criminal minds special! but before you can really get going on the lecture building on your tongue, there’s a soft thud.

you glance down. your cat, the fluffy little traitor, is rubbing affectionately against the leg of this random man, purring like an old motorbike. meanwhile, the stranger just lights up, crouching down to scratch behind your cat’s ears with absurd gentleness.

"hey, buddy," he says softly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. and damn it, he’s got dimples.

"what’s wrong with you? traitor," you hiss at your cat, who just looks far too content in the man's arms.

the stranger looks back up at you with those wide, hazel eyes, his head tilting to the side. "i’m choso, by the way."

"i didn’t ask."

"you’re holding a weapon," choso observes, eyes flicking to your hand.

"it’s a fork," you snap. "and you’re in my apartment."

"touché," he mutters, slouching back into your couch like it’s his own. he looks too tired to argue before he starts rambling, words tumbling out in uneven waves, "look, i’ll leave, okay? sorry for...uhm, being here. it’s just been a rough day, y’know? my brother — he's my little brother, he dared me to drink, and i hate drinking. then the cab driver tried to scam me, and i kinda gave up on the bet and wanted to go home. i don’t even know how i ended up here."

he waves a hand around like the universe itself is to blame for the situation.

you should still be mad. and you are. sort of. but it’s hard to stay furious when the guy in your living room is practically drowning in a sweatshirt two sizes too big, cradling your cat like it’s a lifeline. there’s something weirdly endearing about him, even if your fight-or-flight response still has a foot on the gas.

"fine," you sigh. "but if you've left anything drunk and gross on my couch, you’re coming back tomorrow to clean it."

choso’s face brightens like you just granted him parole. "i didn’t, swear i didn't, but yeah. deal. you’re cool. what’s your name?"

you hesitate, fork still in hand. "why?"

"so i know who to thank when i hopefully sober up. i’m really sorry for scaring you."

"alright, choso." you point to the door. "out. and if i catch you here again uninvited, i’m calling the cops."

he staggers to his feet, towering but unsteady, still cradling your cat. "uh, can i…"

"no," you interrupt. "put mr pickles down."

he pouts but complies, setting the cat down like he’s handling precious cargo. as he shuffles to the door, he glances back, scratching the back of his head, "thanks for not stabbing me with the fork."

"yet, choso," you deadpan.

with that, he stumbles into the hallway, and you slam the door shut before finally locking it properly this time. it’s only then that you notice the little silver bracelet lying on the couch.

maybe when he's also sober, you’ll find him two floors down. not because you’re curious about him or anything. it’s just the responsible thing to do.

probably.

TOJI FUSHIGURO ✶ got a mean laugh, huh ?

you'd just wanted a burger. greasy, cheesy, unapologetically unhealthy — a perfect antidote to a day of endless meetings and passive-aggressive emails from your annoying boss.

what you didn’t want was to make an absolute spectacle of yourself in the middle of a restaurant.

but here you were, ever the universe's favourite clown and plaything.

it started innocently enough: you’d been sitting behind him in this faux-american diner, cheap enough that it didn't break your last paycheck.

minding your business and just sitting behind some two loud-talking men, one of them broad and terrifyingly large in a too-tight black gym shirt and the kind of wide-legged pants only men with way too much confidence could pull off.

then he started making strange noises.

at first, you tried to ignore it. who were you to interfere? but then it got louder — a gruff, guttural wheezing that sounded suspiciously like a man choking on his fries. your heroic instincts (and latent secondhand embarrassment) kicked in.

what can you say? you were a natural born avenger. you didn’t think. you acted.

scrambling out of your booth, you darted behind him, arms awkwardly looping around his absurdly muscular torso. it took more than one attempt — why was he built like a human brick wall?

but you managed to start the worst heimlich maneuver known to mankind, trying to remember your hazy first aid training from high school.

"hold still, man!" you grunted, struggling for leverage, and trying not to collapse backwards. "i got this!"

except he didn’t hold still. he started laughing. loud, throaty, barking laughs that only made the situation worse.

"stop squirming, you’re gonna end up choking even more —oh my god, are you fuckin' laughing?!"

"hey, i’m —" the stranger wheezed between gasps, not choking, just laughing so hard his voice cracked, "i’m not choking!"

you froze, mortified, arms still awkwardly wrapped around his incredibly chiselled torso. "you’re...not?"

"tch, nah." his voice was deep, almost lazy, as he twisted his head back to smirk at you, sharp green eyes gleaming with amusement. "but yer' real determined. if i was choking, i’d probably survive. maybe."

you stumbled back, cheeks flaming, trying to pretend the floor might swallow you whole. trying to pretend that someone didn't pull out their phone to record you.

the expensive-looking guy sitting across from him — a man in a sharp, well-pressed brown suit who clearly didn’t belong in a place with laminated menus and sticky booths, just sipped his coffee with an air of quiet disdain.

"i always said you got an ugly-ass laugh, toji," the man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "could ya not traumatise strangers for five minutes?"

"hey, it’s not my fault i got jumped," toji said, shrugging lazily, and the motion made his shirt ride up just enough to reveal a scar slicing across his ridiculously defined abs. "not that i’m complaining. i got humped by someone gorgeous in public. call that a good day, hah."

your brain short-circuited, trying not to stare at the light dusting of hair over his abdomen, "i wasn’t - humping, oh my god, i thought you were choking! i was just trying to be be a good samaritan."

you backed away slowly, trying to act like the horrifyingly awkward scene behind you had not just happened. you didn’t even spare toji a glance, though the smugness radiating off his gorgeous, stupidly muscular frame was practically tangible.

you grabbed your milkshake, your only ally in this tragedy, and downed it with all the dignity of a medieval knight trying to poison themselves with wolfsbane. the cold, creamy sweetness slid down your throat, like you were trying to drown yourself in the sugary oblivion. which you were.

"well," you muttered bitterly, setting the empty glass down with a clink, "i'm gonna disappear from here forever. just gonna...vanish." you made the universal gesture of disappearing: both hands dramatically flailing as if you were casting an invisibility spell.

"wait, hey, give me your number!"

the voice, deep and annoyingly gravelly, floated over the booth like a warm breeze. you stopped dead in your tracks, eyes narrowing in disbelief. no way. no freaking way.

"you’re joking." you turned slowly to glance back at him, at this toji. the guy in the suit across from him — who had been watching this whole disaster unfold with the kind of expression you’d imagine someone gets when they’re asked to hold a million-dollar briefcase during a hostage situation, was now doing the mental equivalent of sinking into his booth like a man deeply embarrassed.

"swear 'm not," toji insisted, leaning back in his own seat, "what if i really do choke and i need ya to save me?"

SUGURU GETO ✶ love at first nosebleed !

you were exactly where you needed to be: right in the thick of the mosh pit at one of your favourite festivals of the year. one that you had scrounged together enough dollars for an overpriced ticket out, all perfect to spend a night out in the cool, desert night air.

the mosh pit was packed. like wall-to-wall bodies, as though you were wading through a sea of waving limbs.

without any warning, the crowd surged forward in a wave of bodies, just as the lead singer of this band threw a rose into the crowd and you squealed. throwing your arms up to steady yourself, and of course, you managed to send your elbow directly into the guy standing behind you.

at first, there's a sharp grunt of surprise, swiftly followed by a:

"hey, what the fuck!"

you turned around in a panic, your breath caught in your throat as you saw the aftermath of your unfortunate swing. oh, blood. it wasn’t just a little trickle, either. it was a full-on fountain.

the stranger's hands were pressed to his face, but you could already see the crimson streaks spilling through his fingers. and as much as your brain screamed oh my god, what have you done?, your first thought was also, holy shit, this guy is gorgeous.

tall. broad. jawline that could cut glass. his hair was jet-black, falling messily to his shoulders, and when he looked up at you, you saw it. his eyes, pretty.

they were a pale, unnatural shade of purple, sharp and disarming, the kind of thing you only saw in movies. or at least, you thought you only saw them in movies, because now you were staring into them, and the moral compass on your shoulder stomped some sense back into you.

"oh god, i’m so, so sorry," you stammer, your hands flying up in a panic. you just didn't know whether to offer him a napkin or your life savings, so you just stand there like a deer caught in headlights, doing the world’s most unhelpful impression of a living, breathing human being, "i didn’t mean to, i didn’t, oh, that's a lotta blood —"

he waves you off nonchalantly, and you immediately thought, what kind of person is so chill about being impaled in the face?

"don’t worry about it,” he said, voice smooth as butter, if a bit nasally, considering the massive nosebleed that makes you feel a bit faint. the kind of nonchalant tone that should not be coming from someone who had blood pouring from his nose like an open tap, "not your fault, really."

"i...i don’t know what to do," you mutter, your hands still flailing around awkwardly. you didn’t have a napkin, or a first aid kit, or any idea what you were doing. hell, you weren’t even sure if the guy was okay without medical attention.

"nah, seriously, chill," the man says with a chuckle, wiping his nose with the back of his hand like it was no big deal, "relax, i’m fine. it’s just blood. it happens."

just blood. just blood. you stare at him for a beat, trying to wrap your brain around the fact that he was genuinely not bothered. if you had a nosebleed like this, you’d be on the ground, crying for your mother and your entire bloodline, but here this guy was, an absolute unit of a man, all broad shoulders and muscular thighs — bleeding out in front of you, and acting like it was the most mundane thing in the world.

"are you sure?" you ask, your voice pitched too high from nerves. "i mean, i feel like — i don’t know, i feel like i should at least be doing something to... help? like, i can — oh! i can find you something!"

you start rifling through your bag in a panicked frenzy. who carries band-aids to a concert? not you. who carries tissues to a concert? definitely not you. all you could offer was a packet of gum, a half-melted candy bar, and some lip balm. great. you were the epitome of preparedness.

you frown, "fuck, i'm really so sorry, i was just kinda, -" and you wave your arms around in the air as a half-hearted impression, as he tentatively takes a step back. probably worried you're gonna bazooka his chin next, and leave him with a busted lip.

"hah, i get it," he says with a shrug, as if his nose was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, "practically an expected hazard of being in the mosh pit."

you looked at him, genuinely unsure whether he was joking or just that calm about it, "you’re really okay? i'd really rip part of my sleeve, i don't know, if that would help," but you tug the sheer fabric, "but this is kind of tough elastane. oh my god, what am i even saying?"

"eh, i’ve had worse." the stranger gives you a grin that only made the situation feel more surreal. he was smiling, smiling — despite the fact that he was actively leaking blood like he’d been in a fight with a giant squid.

damn, you kinda like your men when they look a bit unhinged.

“look, just —" he cuts you off, “i'm flattered someone this cute is flustered over me. kinda nice, hah."

your face goes scarlet. "i am not cute, i should be terrifying," you gasp, mortified. “i just broke your nose in a mosh pit, and i —"

and that’s when it clicked. your brain finally registered the fact that this guy wasn’t some random concert-goer. no, this was geto—the suguru geto, the lead guitarist of the band that was headlining the festival tonight. you’d been a fan for years, practically worshipping the man’s guitar solos and smooth stage presence. and now...now you had broken his nose.

god help you when stan twitter got their hands on you.

you stare at him, wide-eyed, and he must’ve noticed the shift in your expression because he raised a pierced brow, "oh, i see it now. you, uh, a fan?"

"uhm," you squeak, still too mortified to speak normally, and trying to lower your voice to sound chill and unbothered. but it's just not working. "of course i recognise you! you’re — geto!"

suguru geto bashfully grins, as if pleased with your sudden realisation, though the blood dripping from his nose didn’t exactly lend him the aura of mystery he was used to, "i gotta say, you’re the first person to recognise me looking like this." he pauses, glancing at his nose with a casual flick.

you let out an awkward, nervous laugh. hoping that the divine powers have some pity for you, and you actually don't mess this up further, "i’m so sorry again. i really didn’t mean to —"

"seriously,” geto said, cutting you off again, "you don’t need to keep apologising. i get it, you're real sweet." then, after a pause, he tilted his head, his purple eyes glinting. "but, hey, next time i’m on stage? i’ll make sure to look for you in the crowd. you won’t be able to miss me. i’ll be the guy with the broken nose."

and just like that, it hit you. he wasn’t just being cool about the situation. he was flirting with you. the man was literally bleeding from his face, and he was flirting with you.

you open your mouth to say something, anything — but before you could form the words, geto flashes a wink, that same mischievous grin never leaving his face, "just gonna have to go and get this looked at. manager's gonna lose his shit, but see you around, yeah?"

NANAMI KENTO ✶ is it too late to turn this plane around ?

the plane shuddered just slightly as it levelled out, and you gripped the armrest as if your life depended on it, trying to pretend that you weren't ready to hurl the contents of your empty stomach over economy class.

it didn’t help that your armrest companion, sharply dressed, annoyingly calm, and with a face that could have been carved from marble — seemed utterly unbothered by the subtle turbulence. he didn’t even glance up from his boring ass magazine.

you had been stealing glances at him since he sat down. the suit caught your attention first, impeccably tailored, so he was probably some finance guy. his tie, a speckled shade of banana yellow that somehow still looked elegant, was loosened just enough to suggest this wasn’t his first flight today, though not so much as to appear disheveled.

well, just your luck that you were seated next to someone who looked like they could be a stone-faced nordstrom model.

his face, though. well, damn! it was the face that made him hard to look away from. angular features, strong jawline, and a slight furrow in his brow that gave him a perpetually exasperated look. the kind of face that probably made people think twice before asking him for directions.

you, however, were not most people.

"so," you began, forcing your voice to sound light and casual, even though your heartbeat felt like it was trying to escape your chest. "do you think we’re supposed to hear that sound?"

he finally looked at you, glancing up from his magazine with the slow precision of someone who was already regretting their decision to acknowledge you.

"which sound?" he asks, his voice calm but carrying a hint of weariness. his blonde hair was neatly slicked back, though a single strand had rebelliously fallen onto his forehead.

"uhm, you know. that sound," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the overhead compartments as if that explained anything.

his gaze followed your hand, and his brow furrowed further, not in alarm but in what looked like mild irritation. “the plane engine or the luggage settling. perfectly normal." his tone is clipped, curt.

"are you sure? i watched a tiktok that said that there was a one in a thirteen million chance of being a plane crash. that's like...too much for me," you press, trying to ignore the mild rattle of the window.

he sighs softly, the kind of sigh that said he was already dreading the rest of the flight. "yes. i’m sure. i would not trust...short videos made by attention desparate people on the internet."

“okay, but what if it’s not normal? like, what if it’s—”

"it’s not the plane falling apart," he interrupted, his tone polite but firm. "i promise you."

you blink at him, momentarily silenced by the sheer certainty in his voice. "well, that’s reassuring, i think," you say finally, "thanks, uh…" you glanced at the seat tag clipped to his bag. "nanami kento. i mean, just nanami, right? don't wanna full name you..."

he inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the unspoken introduction, then returned to his magazine. it didn’t escape your notice that he turns the page with the kind of precision you’d expect from a surgeon.

you sit back in your seat, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that you were currently hurtling through the air in a metal tube. but the silence didn’t last long.

"so, what are you reading?" you asks, craning your neck slightly to get a better look at the magazine in his hands.

nanami hesitates, like he was debating whether to humour you or not. finally, he said, "an article on japan’s economic trends."

you blink. "oh. thrilling."

the corner of his stern mouth twitches, just barely, as if he was fighting back an amused smile, "i find it...informative."

"sure, but informative and thrilling are two very different things," you point out.

nanami turns another page, still exuding that same infuriating calm, "you seemed like you needed a distraction," he says, almost reluctantly. "would you prefer i explain it to you?"

you tilt your head, surprised by the offer. "you’d...explain the economy to me? as a distraction?"

"you were the one asking about plane sounds, and you look as though you're going to pass out. i'm not keen on doing first aid if it can be avoided," nanami says, with a tone so dry that it grates over you.

"fair point," you admit, "okay, hit me. tell me something i don’t know about japan’s economy."

he adjusts his glasses, his expression unreadable as he snaps his magazine straight in front of him, reading off the page, "the yen has been under significant pressure lately, largely due to increased government spending and concerns over inflation. it’s a precarious balance, on one hand, stimulus is necessary to sustain growth —"

nanami gives you a stern glare as you stifle back a yawn but continues, "but on the other, it weakens the currency against global competitors. the nikkei index reflects this uncertainty, fluctuating in response to external factors like american monetary policy and global market trends.”

you stared at him, trying to process the flood of information. frankly, you've never given a fuck about economics, and you had been more busy staring at his smooth lips, "so.. don’t buy yen?"

nanami's mouth twitches again, and this time you were certain it was kinder. "that’s one takeaway."

"wow," you said, leaning back in your seat, "you really know how to distract someone."

"was it helpful?" nanami asks, his tone suggesting he wasn’t entirely sure himself.

you considered that for a moment, "actually, yeah. i mean, i don’t understand half of what you just said, but it was so boring i forgot about the plane noises. uh, i hate planes. in case, you couldn't tell."

his eyes soften ever so slightly behind his glasses, "i could tell. glad to be of service."

you found yourself smiling despite your nerves. there was something unexpectedly charming about his awkward attempt to engage you, even if it involved the driest topic imaginable.

"you know," you say, "you don’t seem like the kind of guy who enjoys small talk."

"not in the slightest," nanami admits.

"so why are you humouring me?"

he glances at you, "didn't want you to throw up over my jacket."

the plane lurches, and you look at him with panicked eyes, "i wouldn't be so relaxed yet! oh, fuck, pass me that plastic bag, wouldya?"

RYOMEN SUKUNA ✶ retail's worst nightmare !

working retail was a game of holy patience, and holy fuck, you were losing.

it wasn't just the holiday rush or the fluorescent lights buzzing ominously as spotify worked through the most overplayed songs of the year.

it was him.

the man who was always camped out in your section of the store, for at least thirty minutes. for each of your shifts, rifling through stacks of neatly folded shirts like a bored bear rooting through a cooler. you watched, jaw grinding, as he unfurled yet another oversized graphic tee. flattening it against his broad frame, against the washed denim of his thick jeans. holding it up like he was considering buying it.

only to toss it back onto the table in a rumpled heap.

occasionally, he'd slide down his red headphones and you'd watch him flex wide arms, tattoos crawling out of the neckline of his shirt as he huffed.

you hated this innocuous customer. hated how ridiculously good-looking he was, in a way that screamed danger. what, with the mess of blush-pink hair and deep, russet eyes. hated how little he seemed to care about the destruction he was wreaking on your display, and most of all, you hated how he smiled whenever you sighed audibly.

making eye contact with you as he tossed yet another tee into the ruined pile.

"are you gonna keep unfolding those shirts?" you snap finally, "or are you actually planning to buy something?"

the man turns, slow and deliberate, and his gaze slides down to your name tag before sharp teeth unfurl from the corners of a rosy mouth, "relax," he drawls, "i'm just browsing."

browsing. right. you stare at the disaster zone that he's created, the meticulously folded rows of band-tees now reduced to a chaotic mound of cotton.

"this isn't a library," you shoot back, hands on your hips, "either decide or move on."

he arches a brow, clearly enjoying himself, "why so tense? isn't this your job?"

you let out a cool breath through your nose, clenching your teeth to fine dust, "yeah. my job isn't babysitting grown men who can't pick a shirt size."

the stranger blinks, pink lashes fluttering over sharp, dark eyes. as though he's genuinely considering this. then, with an absolutely maddening level of confidence, he grabs another shirt.

a hideous neon green monstrosity, with some kind of skull prints, and he shakes it out right in front of you. letting the creases fall out, dangling it like a flag of triumph.

"this one's nice, heh," he says.

"if you ruin one more folded pile, i'm gonna stuff that shirt down your big-ass neck."

his laugh is sudden and loud, echoing through the department. a couple of shoppers turn to look, but he seems to not care in the slightest, "ya can't say that to me. but you got guts, i'll give you that."

"and you’ve got about five seconds to put that shirt down before i make you refold this entire table," you shoot back.

he doesn't move. instead, he holds your gaze, clearly testing your patience. his wolf's smile was now edged with something sharper, something that dared you to follow through on your threat.

"you’re serious, aren'tcha?" he asks, almost impressed.

"deadly," you replied.

for a moment, you thought he might actually comply. but then, with the same deliberate slowness, he dropped the neon green shirt onto the pile he’d already decimated.

you stared at it. then at him. you think you're trying to pour gasoline on him, and blow him up in your mind.

"what's your name?" you ask flatly.

"sukuna."

"i hope a thousand evil little bugs descend on your house tonight, sukuna. i hope they invade your dreams so you know i'm wishing a curse upon you."

"that's kinda hot," he replies, without missing a beat and turning to leave.

"you can’t just walk away!" you called after him, but he was already halfway to the escalator, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world, and already pulling his crimson headphones back up.

you groaned, grabbing the nearest shirt to start refolding the mess he’d left behind.

then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw sukuna pause at the top of the escalator. he turned, just enough to make eye contact, and called out:

"when's your lunch break? let's go out!"

GOJO SATORU ✶ you charge my particles :D

the emergency department smelled like antiseptic and awful syringes. you were perched on the edge of a very uncomfortable chair, hands clenched in your shaking lap. staring at the guy you had, accidentally, thank you very much, run over in a parking lot.

his leg was propped up, wrapped up in plenty of gauze and a ice-pack, and he also looked oddly serene for someone with a pretty nasty, bruised up limb.

when you had first gotten there, you had been sick with guilt and worry that this poor stranger had been knocked unconscious by the rear of your car. but to your absolute bewilderment, he was actually just...sleeping? dozing off, sprawled back with a soft and peaceful smile on his face like he was just happy to catch a good snooze. the most absurd shade of ice-white hair mussed around his head.

that was, until his eyes fluttered open.

"oh my god, you're awake!" you blurted, leaning forward, with regret pouring out of you, "are you okay? does your leg hurt? what am i saying, of course it does! i am so sorry —"

he turns his head to you, blinking slowly. his eyes were a ridiculous, striking shade of blue. like glacier water caught in the sun. and then he grinned, voice still a little rough from his nap.

"hey, cutie."

you stare, utterly thrown, "excuse me?"

"what's up, gorgeous? don't worry, i forgive you for attempted vehicular manslaughter."

"good god," you muttered, "i hit his head too."

the stranger stretches his arms above his head, and you try not to track your stare to ridiculously, circus-long legs that sprawl over the crumpled sheets of the wheeled bed. way too tall, lean and far too good-looking for someone who had just been brought via ambulance to the hospital.

"it's fine, i swear," the man says, waving a scraped hand dismissively, "i needed a day off, so you did me a favour."

"a favour," you repeat, utterly incredulous, "you're in the emergency department. i backed up my car into you!"

the stranger shrugs, wincing at the stretch. and utterly unbothered by your fluttering worries, "yeah. but think 'bout it. if you hadn't hit me, i'd be stuck in a lecture hall. i don't wanna explain newtonian mechanics to a bunch of half-asleep undergrads."

you stare at him, suspiciously, "you're a professor?"

"mhm, physics."

"you don't look old enough to be a professor," and you're squinting at white lashes that ring impossibly large eyes. he looks more like a famous actor that you can't quite place, or someone's beautiful sugar baby.

no, focus.

he smirks, pale and glossy lips quirking upwards, "saying i look too good to be stuck in academia?"

"what? no," you say quickly, worried that he's gonna think you're a freak who hits on their victims, "that's not what i meant."

"you can say it," the man interrupted, still grinning, "i get it a lot. oh, satoru, you're too handsome to be explaining thermodynamics. satoru, you should be on the big screen, not teaching string theory. it's a bit of a curse."

you rub your temples, trying to block out the nonsense coming out of his fast-moving mouth, "you're kinda...weird. satoru."

"you hit me with a car," he points out cheerfully.

before you can retort, or ask him if he has private health insurance, a nurse clicks over, a clipboard in her hand as she's tapping her pen impatiently.

"mr gojo? we're ready to take you back for another x-ray? we just want to make sure that we also get a good picture at some soft tissues, so an mri as well."

your poor wallet.

"great," satoru says, and then to your utter horror, he adds, "i'll just leave my stuff with my partner, right?"

the nurse raises an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you. you feel your tongue go dry, "i'm not —" but satoru cuts you off, with a voice like silk.

"so shy, right?" and he's flashing the nurse a charming smile that makes your nose crinkle, "but i'm just so glad that they're here through this difficult situation."

the nurse looks mildly skeptical, and you can feel your face heat up as she sighs, and stares at you.

"i...yeah. gotta be there for my sugar pumpkin snookums, right?"

it's satisfying that the tips of satoru's ears turn an awful shade of pink as he glares at you now, "such a sweetheart," and he pats your hand.

the nurse seems more inclined to roll her eyes, clearly over what she assumes are the antics of a medicine-doped boyfriend, "right. let's get that leg checked out."

as she wheels him away, satoru winks at you over his shoulder, "don't go anywhere, pretty!"

what a fiend. grinning like he's having the time of his life.

[revasserium]

can i have one were zoro realises she does things bc of truama (like doesnt speak much etc)

hold me (still)

opla!zoro; 6,680 words; slow!!!!burn, fem!reader, ex-assassin!reader, straw hat!reader, general tragic backstory/trauma, fluff, hurt/comfort, bit of angst, emotionally constipated zoro, communication? what's that?, nami playing therapist bc she's the only one with 1 iota of emotional intelligence

summary: sometimes, stillness is a virtue, and others -- a tragedy. or, in which the straw hats pick up a new member and zoro is equally intrigued and weirded out by you.

a/n: well. you guys asked for slow burn and... the burn is so slow u gotta squint to see the smoke yall. but trust. the burn does get there! pls be patient!! and i tried to combine 2 dif reqs in this one fic :)

You are of the quiet sort. Just a shadow dancing in the periphery of their vision, and when they first met you, you’d told them it was your superpower, a soft, still smile slipping across your lips. Luffy had bought into it immediately, and the invitation was out his mouth before anyone could stop him.

“Come with us!”

“Oh…” your lips pressed into a thin line of consideration.

Zoro’s fingers itched towards his swords because something about you makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. But something else — something uncomfortable and strange, something very much like curiosity — seizes his chest and twists his stomach. Strange, he thinks, too strange.

“C’mon! It’ll be fun!”

And then, you’d smiled wider, and nodded, and that had been that.

It’s been three months since then, and you are still of the quiet sort, though it had receded a bit with time. What with Sanji’s gentle flirting and Usopp’s not-so-gentle stories and Nami’s bright, dry-humored companionship, you’d begun to “open up a bit”, so Luffy observed.

Zoro, for his part, has kept his distance. Because sometimes he still catches you at the bow of the ship, staring out across the midnight waters, still as a stone-carved statue. Still as a wooden beam — stiller, even.

“What’s with that?” he asks one day, strolling up to Nami as she traces a fine line over a new map she’s working on.

“Hm?” is her very eloquent response.

Zoro ticks his tongue against his teeth and casts his eyes about the ship, finding them drawn to the shape of you, up at the bow again, reading in the shade of the tangerine trees. Nothing moves except for the wind as it whisps through your hair and the slow scanning of your eyes as it skates across the page.

“New girl,” Zoro says, crossing his arms as Nami finally looks up at him and then off towards you.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Zoro lets out a puff of breath, unfolding his arms to glare at Nami. He finds her grinning a lopsided grin as she clicks shut her compass and puts down her pen. She leans a hip on the barrel she’d been drawing on and folds her own arms.

“Oh, you like her.”

“I’m weirded out by her. ‘S not the same thing,” Zoro snaps, but when he tries to leave, Nami blocks him with an arm and pins him with a sharp, leveling look.

“No, no, no — we’re gonna work this through.”

“No thanks, I’m good.”

“Uh-uh, you still owe me after that round of drinks the other night — remember when you bet you could drink more than me?”

Zoro narrows his eyes, “I did drink more than you.”

Nami’s grin is gleeful, “No, you didn’t. You had to be dragged back to your room after clogging up the toilet. Or do I need to show you the evidence —”

“Alright — fuck, fine. But really? This is what you’re gonna waste your favor on? You could’ve asked me to —” Zoro gestures around vaguely, “clean the bilge or something.”

Nami shrugs, looking almost too pleased, “Nope! This is what I wanna use my favor for. And, really, you think a bit of bilge water is gonna gross me out? C’mon.”

Zoro heaves a sigh and leans back against the main mast, closing his eyes.

“Fine then. Go.”

Nami sits back on the edge of the barrel.

“No, you go. Admit that you like the new girl.”

“I don’t.” He doesn’t open his eyes.

“I’ve seen you staring at her. We’ve all seen you staring at her.”

“What, that a crime now?”

Nami fights the urge to roll her eyes, “No, but I’ve never seen you try so hard to avoid someone before.”

Zoro lets out a bark of laughter, hard and mirthless, “Yeah, so that must mean I like her.”

Nami cocks her head, “It means you feel something towards her. And I’d suggest you figure it out.”

“And how’d you propose I do that?”

Nami once again waves in your direction, “Go. Talk. To her.”

Zoro lets out another breath, eyes scanning across the ship, anywhere but towards where you’re still sitting and reading, finger flipping a page in a perfect, smooth, singular motion.

And Zoro’s not blind. Blunt though he may be at times and careless as he is about most material things, he can still appreciate beauty when he sees it. And you — there’s no denying that you’re beautiful. Your strange stillness aside, when you do move, it’s with a dancer’s lissome grace, fluid lines, not a single movement wasted. When you smile, it seems to light you up from the inside, and your words, though soft, carries the well-worn weight of river stones, glittering beneath the clear, spring stream of your voice.

There’s a sharpness in your eyes, a straightness to your spine, a way of carrying yourself as if you’re afraid that one wrong move might shatter you and the entire world around you.

Sometimes when he sees you, he wonders at the hands that had sculpted you this way. He wonders at your life before they’d picked you up in Loguetown, when you’d oh-so-silently slipped up the execution platform and helped Luffy down, all the while staying free of Smoker’s watchful gaze.

The few times he’s seen you fight, he can’t help wondering if you’ve eaten some kind of devil fruit as well. No human could be so fast as that. Or be so quiet. But then again, he’d fought Kuro, and they’d seen stranger things. Still, he marvels at the way you flicker in and out of sight, slipping around the edges of battle like a dark, haunting thing, and men would drop like flies beneath your quick, quiet hands. With nary a sound or shout before their eyes roll back and their breathing is no more.

On the instances when Sanji had asked about your past, your eyes had gone misty and dark, unfocused. You’d gone still, freezing for so long that Usopp would cough just to fill the silence. And then slowly, ever so slowly, you’d turn back towards them with a small, sad smile and say:

“There’s… not much to talk about. I grew up somewhere far away, where if you didn’t keep quiet and still, bad things would happen to you. And then when those bad things happened, if you weren’t quick — the quickest of all, you’d die.”

Bad things, huh? Zoro thinks as he makes his way towards you, a hand resting on the hilt of his swords. He comes to a stop next to you and leans against one of the white planters, casually peering over your shoulder at the book in your hands.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then, Zoro clears his throat and forces himself to speak.

“Is it good?”

It takes you a second, but eventually, you turn towards him.

“The book? Yeah, I suppose.”

“Not exactly a glowing review.”

You laugh, a soft, breathy little thing as you look back down at the page.

“It's about a girl who falls into an enchanted sleep, and a prince who wakes her up with a kiss.”

“Must’ve been one hell of a kiss.”

“Yes, and one hell of a prince.”

Zoro finds himself chuckling, his shoulders loosening as he takes another breath.

“And then what?” he asks.

“And then… he asks her to marry him.”

You run your fingers along the page, smoothing your palm over the ink and parchment. Zoro watches you, wondering, always wondering.

“What’s she say?” and it’s then that he notices his own voice, hushed and low, barely a whisper.

You look back up at him and smile a smile a sphynx would have been proud of.

“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten there yet.”

Zoro takes a breath, and the breath tastes distinctly different than all the breaths he’d taken before it. As if the world takes the breath with him, and some fundamental truth had shifted on the exhale.

The moment breaks, as moments are wont to do, when Sanji calls out for lunch and Zoro jerks out of his almost-reverie. You slowly close your book and rise to your feet, turning back to smile at him.

“C’mon, it’s lunchtime.”

Zoro nods and follows you into the kitchen, where Luffy and Usopp are already digging in, and Nami is pouring herself a drink. She spots the pair of you and catches Zoro’s eyes. A grin ticks at the edge of her lips but before she can say anything, you’re accosted by Sanji sweeping into a deep, flourishing bow, and ushering you towards the table, where he’d set your place in a manner fit for a princess.

“Where’s my setup?” Zoro asks as he drops into the seat next to you, cocking an eyebrow. Sanji shoots him an unimpressed look.

“I’m surprised you can use a fork and knife, moss-head. Just be grateful and eat up.”

Zoro scoffs but digs in nonetheless.

When next they dock, it’s on a rare, peaceful island — an island of light and books and learning, where the air smells of salt and ink and drying parchment, of unwritten words and untold stories. But it smells of a stillness too, and Zoro knows without having to ask that you’d like it here.

And you do.

He’s never seen you smile so much, never seen you so vibrant and full of life. You chat and laugh and read with a voracious hunger, and he finds himself drawn to this new, warm, moving side of you. He finds himself, more often than not, by your side, even when neither of you speak. And he basks in the comfort of the quiet that permeates the air when it’s just the two of you — him hanging in the hammock on deck, you reading by his side.

But now, there’s the soft tapping of your foot, the shuffle of pages when you flip forward to see what’s coming next, and of course the ever-present shush of the ocean as it washes against the Merry’s side.

The Log Pose needs two weeks to properly calibrate to the next island, so they’ve got time to kill.

On the fifth night, over dinner and drinks, Luffy asks the question that everyone’s been thinking since the day they’d all met you —

“So. Why’re you so still all the time? Not that it’s weird or anything — well, actually — it kind of is, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m just asking cause I'm curious!”

You look up from your half-finished wine but Zoro feels it happening, like the hush of a fan blade slicing through air, the gasp before a porcelain vase tips over and shatters. You stop. You stare. You’re frozen in every sense of the word. And he’s known you for long enough to know that you only go still as a reflex, only reach for it as a shield. Against what? He doesn’t quite know.

“It’s… something of a long story,” you say, your voice low and hoarse.

Luffy grins, smacking his lips as he sucks the meat off a chicken leg, “We’ve got tons of time! Right?” he looks around as if for validation, but everyone’s eyes are caught on you and your unnatural stillness.

Zoro shifts slightly in the seat next to you, opening his stance and turning towards you.

“Could do with a good story.”

Your eyes flash in his direction and he offers you the barest hint of a smile.

You relax, ever so slightly, drifting back in your seat, your glass cupped in the palms of your hands. And then, you begin to speak, your voice smooth and lilting, your words washing over them like the faint lull of the tides.

“When I was three, my father sold me for a barrel of beer.”

A dull clack echoes around the room and everyone turns to see Sanji hurriedly righting the thick stein he’s knocked over. Thankfully, it’d been empty.

“Sorry — I just — what?” he sounds furious but Usopp lays a hand across his arm and shakes his head.

You take a deep breath and continue, your voice oddly emotionless as you say, “The man who bought me took me to an island. It was… a dark place. A quiet place. I only learned its name after I escaped — an island called Elysium.”

Nami gasps before clapping her hands over her mouth.

“I’ve just — I’ve heard of that place before, but I thought… I thought it was just a made-up place.”

Luffy swallows hard, frowning, “What’s it like?”

Nami’s eyes flicker between you and Luffy, “Supposedly… it’s the home island for… for the most feared group of assassins in all the seas combined.”

Usopp’s eyebrows jerk up, “The most feared?”

A faint smile seeps across your lips like blood.

“Yes. The Shadows that Live.”

Everyone turns to look at you. Luffy picks up another drumstick.

“Whoa… cool name!”

Zoro hums, “I’ve heard of them before — but mostly, it was just an old wive’s tale about… shadow assassins who hunt in the dark. Mercenaries for hire. But… no one’s ever seen one before.”

“Because… once you see one, you’ll never live to tell the tale,” you say, your eyes now downcast and fixed on the glass in your hands.

“Then…” Usopp’s voice is soft, “What about… you?”

“I… I ran away.”

Silence greets you. But after a moment, Luffy spits out a bit of bone and uses it to pick at the space between his teeth, his eyes round.

“Wow! You must be pretty good to run away from an island full of shadow assassins!”

You almost laugh, his boundless trust hitting you like a punch to the stomach.

“So…” Sanji lets out a puff of silvery smoke, “the staying still thing… that’s just part of your training, yeah?”

You nod, “Something like that.”

Someday, you think, you’ll tell them about the hellscape that was Elysium island, of the long echoing halls, dark and still and silent. Of the mechanical beasts that hunted by sound and movement alone. Someday, you’ll let them know about the poisoned pomegranate seeds that they feed all the “recruits” to keep them hazy, of how you’d kept six of them suspended in your mouth and spat them all out when you’d finally made it far enough from the island to allow yourself to breathe.

“And… are these shadow assassins gonna come after us?” Nami asks, her voice careful and light.

You purse your lips, “I… I don’t know.”

Nami sighs, but a moment later, she moves to refill her drink with a slight shrug, “Well, just one more enemy to add to our growing list. Soon, we’re gonna have to post a sign-up sheet.”

At this, everyone laughs, and the tension snaps like a wounded spring.

Luffy burps loudly, patting his stomach, “I’m not worried — I mean, if you were able to run away from them once, that means you’re stronger than them, right?”

You pause, your hand hovering over the wine bottle. Zoro gently reaches over and refills your glass for you. You shift back into movement, casting him a small smile and taking a sip. The wine is cool and tangy as it hits the back of your throat. You breathe, and the world keeps spinning.

“I… I’m not sure — I’ve never fought… any of… them… before.”

“Guess we’ll find out if they try to come for you then — but you’ve got us now!” Luffy says, reaching for an apple and chomping into it, “ — Sho… you duon gotta wourry —” he licks his lips as he takes another huge bite before tossing the core towards the waste bin, “We’ve got your back!”

Nami makes a disgusted face, “Don’t talk with your mouth full, ugh.”

Sanji chuckles, tapping out his cigarette, “Yeah Luffy, mind your manners.” But his voice is full of laughter and you find yourself relaxing into the sway of the night, the swing of conversation. Beside you, Zoro refills his own glass and leans over to clink it against yours.

You turn, but he only raises his glass before taking a sip.

You mirror his movement, cradling the cup to your chest when you finish.

Later, he finds you by the tangerine trees, ghosting your fingers over their lush green leaves, dark enough to look black in the evening light.

“Hey.”

You turn, “Hi.”

Zoro sighs and looks out over the darkened waves, the moonlight refracted into a million shattered bits of sky.

“Luffy’s right, y’know.”

“What about?” you ask, joining him by the railings. The night air is cool and crisp. Behind you both, the island oozes with lamplight and laughter. Even from here, you can hear the joy, the peace that permeates the air here. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, you think, to stay here forever.

“If they come for you,” Zoro says, “we’ll have your back.”

You let out a small chuckle, looking down at your hands, “I know.”

“So,” he turns towards you, his earrings glinting in beneath the scimitar moon, “you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

You lick your lips, and instinctively, you reach for the stillness. All the days and weeks and months with the people around you have softened you, and for that, you know you should be thankful. Still, old habits die hard, and you have to clench your fists and dig your nails into your own palms to keep from freezing completely.

You take a shivering breath and force it out again.

“Fear’s a hard habit to break.”

At this, Zoro grunts, though it sounds something like consent. The moment stretches, long and soft and taffy-sweet.

He turns back towards the sea, “Yeah,” he says, and then —

“But we can take it slow.”

You swallow hard, passed the broken shards of forgotten words lodged in your throat (you find that they all somehow taste like thank you), and you nod. Warmth tickles your cheeks and you wonder why he’s said we instead of you — and later, lying in your bed at night, staring at the moon-slatted ceiling, you wonder if he was really talking about fear or if it was something else entirely.

You don’t get a lick of sleep that night.

The next few days pass in a light, repetitive blur. You and Zoro are sent on a few short shopping trips in the city, and you’re glad for something to do that involves movement. Shocking how quickly the body adapts once the weight it’d been holding on to is lifted.

You are still quiet, and he, the same; but the silence has shifted around you, and whereas before it’d been solid and steady, it’s now thrumming and charged with some unspoken energy.

Neither of you are blind to it; nor, it seems, is the rest of the crew.

Sanji’s taken to openly teasing Zoro about being with you all the time, complaining loudly that he can’t get a word in edgewise because Zoro refuses to leave you alone. Nami keeps on trying to drag you out for “girl's day” shopping trips, hinting at all the cute clothes you could get and how “green really suits your skin tone, y’know?”

Luffy and Usopp for their part, both just grin whenever they see you together — Luffy stoked at the fact that you seem more happy and talkative, Usopp gleeful at the way Zoro always seems so much softer when he’s next to you.

You’ve taken to watching him when he trains, sitting in the shade of the tangerine trees, a cold drink in your hand as Zoro runs through his katas. You content yourself with watching him flow through the movements, one and then another, and then another after that. He contents himself with your presence, knowing that you’re here, feeling your eyes as they skate down the length of his back or the width of his shoulders.

It’s a peaceful sort of companionship, even if it is living on borrowed time.

When you all wave the little island goodbye, it’s with heavy hearts and tearful smiles. It had treated you well, and you think you’d miss it. But adventure is as adventure does — it calls, beckoning to those with wandering hearts to listen.

The first week back at sea is a strange one, full of a ringing nostalgia. As if you’re simultaneously coming home and leaving one at the same time. Everyone is a bit quiet, except for Luffy, of course, who literally bounces off the freshly waxed planks, humming to himself as he sits on top of the great ram’s figurehead.

“Is he ever still?” you ask one day, sometime in the second week.

To which Zoro makes a sound between a scoff and a laugh, “You’ve been here a while. What’d you think?”

You sigh softly and tear your eyes away from the bright, shivering ball of energy that is your captain towards the far horizon. A sliver of uncertainty twines through you and your breath slows. Zoro glances at you, now long since attuned to your subtle shifts in movement and stillness. He narrows his eyes.

“What is it?”

You shake yourself back into the moment, forcing a smile.

“Nothing. I think…” your words fade as the feeling twists in you again, knife-sharp and stinging. You clear your throat and reach up to brush away a strand of hair. Skin grazes skin as Zoro’s hand meets yours in the same gesture and you both freeze — hands held up, his finger caught against the bend of your cheekbone, your fingers curling over his.

Time slows, slackens around the pair of you, and the moment stays, suspended in space — garnet dark and perfect.

Neither of you dare to breathe. It’s then that you realize how close Zoro is — close enough for you to see the entire ocean reflected in his eyes: big and dark and so endless it nearly unmoors you. Close enough for you to feel the warmth of his skin; his body, emanating heat. You’d often wondered, in the long hours of watching him train, at the glistening copper of his skin and the light-kissed quality, if the sun himself favored Zoro as well.

Like this, it’s easy to believe that beneath his skin, there pulsed something like sunlight.

“Look! It’s an island! It’s an island!”

And just like that, the moment shatters. Time slips back into motion and you pull away from each other, breathless, with warm cheeks and thundering hearts, feeling somehow lightning-touched and static-ridden.

You take half a step back, reaching up to press a hand to your mouth as if to stop something from tumbling through. But what? You can’t really say.

Zoro tips back as well, whipping around to help Usopp and Sanji with the sails as Luffy continues to holler, waving his hat. On the horizon, you see it looming — the silhouette of an island. You lower your palm from your lips to your heart and wonder what kind of island it will be.

Deserted — seems to be the answer when you all make landfall. The island is quiet, but the occasional chirp and cricket staves off your nerves as you all wander cautiously about the beach, squinting into the dense forest that seems to encompass the whole of the island.

“Looks like a good place to camp for the night!” Luffy says, grinning as he plops down on the sand.

Sanji nods, dusting off his hands, “We’ll need some wood for a fire, but I reckon I can whip up some grilled fish from the fresh catch.”

You wrap your arms around yourself and look around, glancing back at the darkening horizon.

“Something the matter?” Zoro’s voice is soft as he helps you carry some of the camping supplies from the ship.

“No… yes… I —” you look up at him, pursing your lips, “I don’t know. I’ve just… this island is…”

Zoro looks around, his dark eyes scanning the thick swath of forest just beyond the beach, “Too quiet?”

You let out a tiny laugh, “Yeah, something like that.”

He nods, “Don’t worry, I’m — we’re here.”

And he leaves it at that, hoisting a stack of wood over his shoulders and going to help Nami with the fire. You watch him with a smile, wondering what on earth you’d done to deserve this level of caring, this magnitude of kindness. Soon, dinner is had and drinks are shared and laughter is spilled like so many silver coins over the white sand beach. The lull of the evening takes over you all, and before long, Luffy and Usopp are slumped over each other, snoring loudly.

You stare into the depths of the fire and try to tamp down the growing dread festering inside your bones. All those years of holding still, of breathing and listening and feeling — you shake yourself — no, not all stillness is a bad thing. Not all silences are made the same.

“You’re doing it again,” Zoro’s voice almost makes you jump. Instead, you turn, finding him next to you as he nurses a half-drunk bottle of wine in his hands. He doesn’t look at you, but there’s a loose grin hinged across his lips.

“Sorry,” you say, ducking your head, feeling a now familiar heat creep into your cheeks that has nothing to do with the dwindling bonfire.

“Don’t be,” Zoro takes another drink, “But I told you… you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“I know… and I’ve said before —”

“Fear’s a hard habit to break,” Zoro echoes back at you, finally glancing over and catching your eye.

You breathe out, looking down at your own hands, “Yeah… but I’m trying.”

You both fall silent, and for a while, the only sounds are the crackle of the dying flames, the shush of the ocean waves, and the occasional snores from the rest of your crew. It’s late — later than you realized.

“Do you… want me to grab a book for you?”

You smile, “No, I don’t think it’s bright enough.”

“I could restoke the fire.”

“No, it’s — it’s okay.”

“Alright.”

A bird coos the distance.

“Why don’t you tell me a story?” you ask, turning to look at Zoro proper, shifting till your body is facing him.

In the faint light, you can see the edge of his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“You’re asking the wrong guy — you should wait till the Great Captain Usopp’s awake.”

“Yeah, but I want to hear one from you.”

Zoro sighs, his eyes fixed on the last of the flickering flames. He takes another swig of wine before he starts to speak, his voice low and a bit stilted, but he pushes on. He tells you about his childhood, the village he’d trained in, the doujou in the middle of the wood, his friend who he’d never beat — not even once.

He tells you about he early mornings and the late nights, and how the world had seemed large enough to conquer.

“… And then… there came a morning when she didn’t show up… and sensei came and told me that there’d been an accident.”

His voice almost breaks then, and your eyes catch on the shining white hilt of the Wadou Ichimonji — his thumb pressing against the guard, running along it’s hard metal edge.

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

Zoro shrugs, “Don’t be.”

You nod, “Still.”

Zoro slates you a lopsided smirk, “So. Now you know my tragic backstory too.”

You laugh, leaning back to cast your eyes up towards the sky, “And you know mine — it’s almost like we’re friends or something.”

Zoro lets out a long breath, “Yeah… or something.”

There’s a tightness to his voice that makes your skin tingle and it takes everything you have not to look over at him, to try and see if he’s looking at you, watching you the way you’d imagined him to be. You fancy you can feel his gaze on your face, but you close your eyes instead.

You let yourself fall into the warm haze of sleep, and for a while you drift there, your mind sifting through shards of memories and slivers of sound, casting them against the backs of your eyelids as you slowly slide into the darkness of dreams.

You wake up to a gasping stillness — the silence pressing in on your eardrums like thumbs, the darkness around you so complete it’s almost a solid thing. You freeze, your breath hissing to a halt inside you. Then distantly, ever so distantly, you hear the sounds of battle — metal clashing against metal, the hard thud of boots against flesh. You shake your head and reach up to clap your hands over your ears and only then do your senses return to you, snapping back as if you’d been abruptly shunted back into your earthly body.

“Gum Gum — Pistol!”

“Seize her!”

You whip into movement, fast as a flash, dashing away, hoping against hope that it would draw your attackers far enough from your crewmates.

“No one… ever… leaves us…”

The voice is serpentine and susurrus, sinking into your skin like sharpened teeth, but before it can reach you, it’s cut short by a bright flash of silver.

You gasp, whirling around, reaching for the nearest pulse, instinct taking over as you sink your fingers into muscle and flesh. The rush of blood thrumming beneath your fingertips comes too easy, even as a familiar scent accosts you. A moment later, your hands are being pinned above you, and thick, rough bark is digging into your wrists as Zoro stands before you, a sword in one hand, the other holding you still.

His eyes are a little wild and a lot worried. There’s a ring of red rawness around his neck, thin trickles of blood trailing along his jugular, disappearing into the wide scoop neck of his shirt.

“Hey, look at me.”

You nearly whimper, struggling against him, fear still coursing through you like a drug but Zoro is strong enough to keep you held. Behind him, you can see the rest of the crew fending off several shadowy figures, Usopp waving a torch, screaming at the top of his lungs, Luffy whooping as he whacks another figure with his fist.

“Z-Zoro?”

“Yeah, it’s me — eyes up here.”

You swallow in a breath, and then another, and you feel the bright thrum of urgency leave you as your body slowly falls slack. And then you’re slipping, and he’s looping an arm around you to keep you upright.

“Th-they’re here — they —”

“They’re gone — we got rid of them — hey.”

Zoro takes you by the shoulders and gives you a gentle shake. Finally, your eyes catch on his and your gaze holds. You see yourself reflected in them, stark and terrified, but alive — somehow alive.

“They’re gone,” he says, his voice soft and low by your ear, his arm still wrapped around your middle. Shivers wrack your body as you bury your face in his shoulder. He smells of steel and skin and the metallic tang of blood. It’s then that you remember — the wounds on the sides of his neck. The marks in the shape of your hands —

You jerk back and feel a sticky wetness against your cheek.

“Zoro, I hurt you!”

At this, he scoffs, pulling back far enough to flash you a look.

“This is nothing. C’mon.”

He offers you a hand, and after a second you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. Wordlessly, he presses his palm to the small of your back, his arm extended to keep you steady as you both make your way back towards camp.

“Phew! That was a workout!” Luffy is saying just as you both reach the outskirts of the now-darkened bonfire. Sanji is pulling out a cigarette, striking a match, and first lighting the end before tossing it into the remains of the firewood, fanning it up into a slow flame.

Nami and Usopp both look a bit shaken, but none worse for the wear.

They all pivot to look at you.

You go still against Zoro’s side, uncertainty flooding through you. Faintly, you feel Zoro’s fingers as they press into the bend of your waist, solid and steady.

Then, Usopp coughs, “C’mon y’all — the Shadows that Live? Psh! More like — the Shadows that Fled, am I right? Yeah? Didya see the way I sent ‘em runnin’ with my brand new fire-powered explosion rounds?”

Nami chuckles and Sanji follows suit, shaking his head and letting out a thin wisp of smoke. Luffy’s grins at you, pumping a fist in the air, clapping his right shoulder.

“See? Told you we’d have your back! We are your crew, after all!”

Weakness seeps into your limbs as you nod, hot pin-pricks of tears itching at your lower lashes. You lower your head and rub at your eyes before looking back up again with a smile. Sanji grimaces as he looks over Zoro.

“Got something on your neck, mate.”

Zoro glares but you glance over and feel your stomach twist with guilt.

“Sorry… I can clean that up for you. They’re not deep but they do need to be bandaged up.”

Zoro wipes down his sword before sheathing it and motioning towards the ship. Behind you, you can hear Nami yawning and saying something about catching up on some more sleep and Sanji reassuring her about having the last watch anyway.

The kitchen is still dark, but the dusty dawn sweeps against the far horizon and neither of you bother to turn the lights on. You carefully set the first aid kit on the kitchen counter and collect the supplies as Zoro leans back against the edge and folds his arms. You work in near silence, reaching up to first wipe the thin threads of drying blood before tending to the tiny, crescent-shaped puncture wounds.

You press an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against one of them and feel Zoro wince.

“Sorry.”

“I’m fine.”

You bite your lips, “If this had been a bit deeper or a few inches over —”

“But it wasn’t. So it’s fine.”

You don’t look up at him but you can feel his eyes on you. Your movements are fluid and sure; you’d clearly done this before.

“Hey, look at me.”

You freeze, eyes slowly gliding up the planes and divots of his neck, slipping up the line of his jaw, so sharp it might’ve been turned on a diamond cutter’s lathe. Your breath hitches as you finally meet his eyes, and there’s a dark, knowing glint behind them that makes your stomach flip.

“I’m fine.”

And for the second time in a handful of hours, you’re caught by the realization of your closeness — only a breath of space between you. There’s a crimp at the corner of his mouth that looks dangerously like a smile and then you’re tipping forward, a thumb reaching up to trace the line of his bottom lip once —

The movement acts like a trigger, and suddenly, he is leaning in and the breath of space disappears.

For all your life of stillness, you thought you’d learned to appreciate the depths and widths of movement. But nothing could’ve prepared you for this — for the push and pull of lips on lips, for the force and friction of skin against skin. For the gasp and hiss, for the breath and kiss.

For the feeling of his large palm as it settles along the swallow’s-nest bend of your neck, the way his thumb runs along your jaw like tracing the guard of his beloved sword, tilting your mouth towards him. For the way your heart might flutter like a tiny, caged bird, or the way you might feel his heart thumping like a fist from his chest to yours.

For the way his voice rolls over your name like a ship at sea; for the way it would shake your body from your bones and leave you more liquid than solid in his arms. For how you never used to think your story would be a love story, but then you realize that every story is a love story if caught in the right moment, in the right light.

And here, breaking apart from Zoro, with a thick, stolen streak of lemon-yellow sunlight leaking in from the kitchen window — that’s exactly what it feels like.

“Oh,” is all you have the strength to say.

Zoro, in all his solid brilliance and quiet audacity, laughs.

You taste the smile on your own lips before you realize you’re smiling. But when you try to bury your face in his neck, he winces slightly as you brush his still-fresh wounds.

“Crap, I forgot about these.”

Zoro chuckles as you hurry to press a few small bandages to the wounds.

“It’s okay. So did I.”

You finish dressing his wounds in silence, though this silence is markedly different from every other silence that had ever existed between you. There’s ease and tension, both, and when you’re finally finished, Zoro takes both your hands in his.

“So…” you say, unsure suddenly of where to look.

Zoro’s laugh is just as soft, just as uncertain.

“So.”

You try to look out the window, but by now, the dawning sun is so bright that it temporarily blinds you and you jerk back. Zoro smiles, reaching up to run his thumbs along your closed eyelids before dropping them to hook around your wrists again.

“Do you… wanna talk about it?” he asks, quiet as always.

You purse your lips and let your lashes flutter open. You find him watching you. Heat crests up your shoulders and into your cheeks, and suddenly, the exhaustion of the night before saps at your limbs. You sigh.

“Right now? Not really.”

“Yeah, neither do I,” he says, sounding as relieved as you feel.

You bite your lips and cast your gaze shyly across his face, your bird-wing heartbeat still flapping in your chest. You fight the urge to go still, to reach for that shield that has always protected you before. Faintly, you feel Zoro’s thumbs tracing circles along the insides of your wrists.

“Can I ask for something else, though?”

“What is it?”

You reach up a finger, nudging one of his golden earrings. You don’t miss the way he shivers, or the way his breath quickens in his chest.

“Kiss me again.”

Zoro grins, tugging you towards him, leaning into the curve of your palm as he does.

And does.

And does again.

reqs are: temporarily closed

but feedback is much loved and appreciated!!!

[surielstea]

Blade Bound

Based on a request!

Pairing: Cassian x Pregnant!Reader

Summary: Cassian walks his wife home, and then some.

Warnings: Pregnancy | Slightest bit of angst

3k words.

The glow of the forge warmed my cheeks as I flicked my mask up, wiping at the thin sheen of sweat on my brow. My eyes scanned the steel daggers in front of me, the heat of the fire still making the blades gleam red-hot. The rhythmic hum of hammers meeting steel and the hiss of blades meeting water filled the air—a sound I'd grown to love. This was my sanctuary, my space.

I was so focused on the metal that I nearly missed the soft creak of the workshop door. Nearly.

My head lifted, the sound cutting through the symphony of my work. My lips curled into a grin as I saw the tall figure step into the dim light of my forge, wings peaking over his broad shoulders. "You didn't tell me you were coming, Cass," I called out, my voice teasing but warm.

Cassian stood there, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he shoved his hands into his pockets. His hazel eyes glinted in the firelight, and the sight made my stomach do the slightest flip. "Hey, love," he said, his voice low and rich, his grin deepening as he took in what I was working on.

I turned my attention back to the sword in my hand, its unfinished hilt still warm against my gloves. "You come to give me a hand?" I asked hopefully, plunging the glowing blade into the barrel of cool water. Steam rose in a furious hiss, curling around us like a phantom.

"You know I'm terrible at making the weapons, much better at wielding them." He grumbled, approaching the countertop and drumming his fingers along it.

"Correction," I said as I removed the blade from the water. "You're terrible at the fine details. But you're great at the grunt work."

Cassian huffed, but I could see the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he tried not to smile. "You married me for my muscles, didn't you?"

"Partially," I admitted, sliding the unsharpened sword back into its mold. "Why are you here then? I thought you had a meeting with Rhys." I pulled my mask fully off and ran a hand through my hair, shaking out the strands that clung to my skin.

"He called it early," he said, stepping past the counter, his large frame seeming to take up all the available space in the room. He leaned casually against the workbench, his arms crossed, but there was something about the way his gaze lingered on me that made the air between us feel charged. "Besides, I didn't come here for weapons tonight."

I quirked an eyebrow at him, already knowing where this was going. "Oh?" I leaned back against the anvil, folding my arms across my chest to mirror him. "And here I thought you couldn't resist testing out my new blades."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and it sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. "Don't get me wrong—your work is as flawless as ever," he said, his gaze flicking briefly to the daggers on the bench before returning to me. "But I came here to walk you home."

His words hung in the air, soft yet firm, and I found myself momentarily caught in the intensity of his stare. "Home?" I asked, tilting my head. "Cassian, I'm fine. Just a few more hours and I'll—"

"You've been at this all day," he interrupted, his tone gentle but insistent as he pushed off the bench and stepped closer. He reached out, his rough, calloused hand brushing a stray streak of soot from my cheek. "Take a break. It's getting late."

I huffed a laugh, though my cheeks flushed at the tenderness of his touch. "The weapons won't forge themselves, you know."

"They'll still be here tomorrow," he said, his fingers lingering near my face before he dropped his hand back to his side. His voice softened as he added, "You won't do anyone any good if you work yourself to exhaustion."

There was no arguing with Cassian when he used that tone—the one that was equal parts concerned and endearing. He knew I could hold my own, but he also knew exactly when to step in and remind me to take care of myself.

I sighed, the tension in my shoulders easing under his steady gaze. "Alright, General," I said with mock seriousness, pulling off my apron and hanging it on the peg beside me. "What do you propose we do instead?"

His grin turned roguish, his hazel eyes lighting up with mischief. "I told you I want to walk you home, maybe take the long way just to stare at the stars a little longer. You've been cooped up in here all day—I think some fresh air would do you good."

"A walk?" I teased, though I couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips. "You're practically courting me."

His laugh was deep and infectious, rolling through my workshop like a melody meant only for me. "We've been married for centuries," he shot back, his expression softening as he looked at me, his grin a mixture of teasing and devotion. "So trust me when I tell you—you're worth courting."

The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard, freezing me in place for a beat too long. Cassian, with all his swagger and bravado, stood in the middle of my cluttered workshop, looking at me as though I were the only thing holding his world together.

I cleared my throat, shaking off the warmth unfurling in my chest. "Alright, you win," I relented, grabbing a rag to wipe my hands clean, but the skin remained stained with charcoal and soot. My voice came out steady, even if my heart wasn't. "Let me grab my coat."

I turned toward the rack, but before I could untie my apron, I felt the familiar warmth of his hand at my waist. He loosened the knot with an ease born of centuries together, slipping the apron over my head with careful precision. His touch lingered, just long enough for the air to thrum between us.

"Take your time," he murmured dryly, his voice a low rumble.

When I glanced back at him, he was watching me with that quiet intensity he so rarely let show—like the chaos of the world had stilled, leaving just us in the glow of it. For all his fire and fury, Cassian had this way of grounding me, of reminding me of the steady flame that burned beneath the warrior exterior.

I leaned in, brushing my lips against his in a soft kiss.

His grin was as wicked as it was endearing. "Save that for tonight," he said, pulling back just enough to tease.

I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged at my lips. Rising onto my toes, I pecked him again. "Fine, fine," I huffed, waving him off as I grabbed my coat from the hook, swapping it with my apron.

Reaching for a small glass case on the workbench, I handed it to him. "These are for Az," I said. "He requested them—something about restocking the nursery." I arched a brow, skepticism dripping from my tone. "Can you tell me why Azriel needs daggers in our child's room?"

Cassian's grin turned sheepish as he shrugged. "He likes to be prepared."

"Prepared for what? A rogue teddy bear attack?"

"Hey, I don't question his methods. I have yet to find one around the house, and it seems to keep him happy so I let him."

I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Cass, we're going to have a child. Daggers hidden anywhere in the house isn't exactly baby-proof."

"I'll talk to him," he promised, holding his free hand up in surrender.

I sighed. "I suppose if I haven't found any yet, he's hiding them well. Just make sure he keeps them out of reach, okay?"

"Of course, love. No need to worry."

I gave him a long look, trying to decide if he was genuinely serious or just placating me. Probably a bit of both.

"Alright," I muttered, sliding my arms into my coat. "Let's get out of here before I start overthinking the entire safety protocol of our house."

Cassian chuckled, tucking the case of daggers under his arm. As we stepped out into the crisp night air, he slung his other arm around my shoulders, tugging me close. The world felt lighter with him beside me, the stars above brighter somehow.

The walk back to our house was comfortable, Cassian's hand never leaving the small of my back as we made our way through the city. It was late, far past sundown but Velaris was alive as always, the streets bustling with fae chatting, laughing, and living as though it wasn't nearing midnight.

When we reached the house, Cassian held the door open for me, his teasing grin softening into something quieter. "I'll drop these off with Az. You head up—unless you want to supervise the handoff?"

I snorted, shrugging off my coat. "I trust you to make sure he doesn't immediately shove one under the crib mattress."

"Funny. That's the first place he'd hide one."

"Cassian!"

He laughed, planting a kiss on my forehead before disappearing down the hall. I climbed the stairs, my steps slowing as I passed the nursery. The room was still a work in progress the walls half painted and the dresser dissembled, but the crib stood at the center, its dark wood gleaming in the moonlight.

I stepped inside, running a hand along the curved edge. The weight of everything settled on me in that moment—the good and the terrifying. A child. Our child. I could already feel my heart making room for them, expanding in ways I hadn't thought possible.

The sound of footsteps drew my attention. Cassian appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. "You're worried," he said softly.

I nodded. "It's, a lot. Everything's going to change."

He stepped inside, closing the distance between us in a few strides. His hands found my waist, grounding me in that effortless way of his. "You're not in this alone, you know. We're a team. And if anyone dares to mess with our family, well—" His grin turned wicked. "We've got Az's nursery daggers for that."

I laughed despite myself, leaning into his chest. "We're going to be fine, aren't we?"

"Better than fine," he promised, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. "I promise."

And in his arms, I believed him.

Cassian's arms tightened around me, his warmth sinking into my skin as I breathed him in. For all his teasing and chaos, he always had this way of making me feel steady—of reminding me I wasn't just a blacksmith pounding out weapons in a forge, but someone who mattered to him, to our court, and now to the tiny life growing within me.

After a long moment, I sighed and stepped back, my hand lingering on his chest. "Speaking of Az's daggers, you'd think the Spymaster would have a little more patience," I muttered. "I'm running out of ways to make his blades sharper, lighter, or deadlier. At this point, I'm half-convinced he's just trying to keep me busy." I drone, thinking of the recent orders he's been making for no real reason.

Cassian chuckled, his hand drifting to rest on my belly, a gesture so absentminded and natural it made my heart clench. "Azriel keeps you busy because he's secretly terrified you'll run out of projects and get bored. And we all know what happens when you get bored."

"Oh?" I cocked a brow, crossing my arms over my chest. "And what exactly happens, General?"

"You invent something," he said solemnly, though the sparkle in his hazel eyes betrayed him. "Something new. Something terrifying. Something that usually involves explosions or blades that even Rhys has to veto before you can patent them and start selling to Lord Devlon."

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "I've only had two experiments blow up in my face this year."

"Three," he corrected, a teasing grin spreading across his face. "Don't think I've forgotten about that flaming sword incident last spring."

"That wasn't an explosion!" I shot back, pointing a finger at his chest. "It was a controlled combustion—completely intentional, I might add. You're the one who decided to put it down on a wood surface."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through the quiet nursery. "It only burned down a countertop before we got the fire out. No harm, no foul."

I gave him a playful shove, but the warmth in my chest wouldn't go away. For as much as I loved the forge—the smell of molten steel, the rhythm of hammer against anvil, the satisfaction of shaping something raw into something powerful—moments like this reminded me why I'd taken the risk of opening my workshop in Velaris in the first place.

"Do you ever regret it?" I asked after a minute, my voice softer now.

Cassian tilted his head, his expression shifting to one of curiosity. "Regret what?"

"Falling for someone like me," I said, gesturing vaguely toward the soot still staining my hands, despite my earlier attempt to clean them. "Someone who spends most of her days covered in ash and sweat, hammering out weapons instead of wearing gowns and sipping wine like a proper lady."

He stared at me for a long moment, his golden eyes unreadable. Then he reached out, taking my hands in his. His thumbs brushed over the calluses on my palms, the rough patches I'd earned from years at the forge.

"I've never regretted a damn thing about you," he said, his voice low and fierce. "Not the ash, not the sweat, not the fact that you could probably forge a better sword than all the Illyrian smiths combined. And definitely not the fact that you're about to be the best mother in Prythian."

My throat tightened, and I blinked quickly, trying to keep my emotions in check. "You're just saying that because you like getting the first pick of my weapons," I muttered, my voice breaking on the last word.

Cassian grinned, pulling me closer. "True." He smirks. "I love well-crafted steel. But I love you more."

I leaned my forehead against his chest, letting his steady heartbeat calm the storm inside me. After a moment, I pulled back, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my face.

"Well, in that case," I said, my tone lightening, "I suppose I could work on a few more of those experimental blades for you. Maybe even something you'd actually be able to wield without slicing off your own hand."

"You'd patch me up." He says confidently.

I rolled my eyes, but the smile tugging at my lips refused to fade. "Come on," I said, taking his hand. "It's late, and if we don't get some sleep, you'll end up snoring in the training room tomorrow."

We left the nursery behind, the soft glow of starlight spilling through the hallways of the house. The quiet was soothing, the faint hum of magic in the walls a reminder of the safety we'd built here. Cassian's thumb traced absentminded circles over the back of my hand as we walked, his touch grounding me in a way that words never could.

When we reached our bedroom, I let go of his hand to start unbuttoning my coat. Cassian, ever the helpful mate, came up behind me and slid the coat off my shoulders, brushing his lips against the nape of my neck as he did.

"Careful," I warned, though my voice lacked any real bite. "You keep that up, and neither of us will be getting any sleep tonight."

His chuckle was low and rough, sending a pleasant shiver down my spine. "Noted," he murmured, hanging my coat on the nearby rack.

I crossed to the dresser, pulling out one of his old, oversized shirts to sleep in. As I tugged it over my head, I caught Cassian watching me from where he stood by the bed, his hazel eyes dark and unreadable.

"What?" I asked, tugging the hem of the shirt into place.

"Nothing," he said, though the softness in his voice told me otherwise. "Just, you're beautiful."

My cheeks warmed, but I rolled my eyes, trying to deflect the compliment. "You're just trying to butter me up so I'll make you another sword tomorrow."

"Maybe," he admitted with a grin. "But it doesn't make it any less true."

I shook my head, pulling back the covers on the bed and climbing in. Cassian followed, sliding in beside me with a contented sigh. He stretched an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

I rested my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me into a sense of peace I hadn't felt all day. His fingers traced lazy patterns along my arm, and for a while, we lay there in comfortable silence, the weight of the day melting away.

"Do you ever think about the future?" I asked quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Every day," he replied, his tone just as soft.

"What do you see?"

He was quiet for a moment, as though he were choosing his words carefully. "I see us," he said finally. "You, me, and the little one. Maybe a couple more, if you're feeling ambitious."

I laughed softly, the sound muffled against his chest. "Ambitious is one word for it."

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Whatever the future holds, I know one thing for sure."

"What's that?"

His arms tightened around me, his voice filled with unshakable certainty. "I'll love you and fight for you—always."

I closed my eyes, letting his words wrap around me like a warm blanket. "Always," I echoed, my voice heavy with sleep.

Cassian shifted, pulling the covers up around us before settling back down. His warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest were the last things I felt as I drifted off, safe in the knowledge that no matter what tomorrow brought, we'd face it together.

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[babuchahabichuela]

⚔️ MISERICORDE WRAPPED ⚔️ This year you…

Read 53283 LINES 📖

Ate GOAT CHEESE 2 times 🧀

THREW UP 25457 times 🤮

Had 12 VISIONS 👁

PRAYED 10833 times 🛐

Drank 50 BARRELS OF SHERRY 🍷

Walked 85 KILOMETRES through the TUNNELS 🚶🏻‍♀️

Brandished your SWORD 4 times ⚔️

Kissed 0 WOMEN 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

[gav-san]

Soul Shanked 4/4

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Soul Shanked Masterlist

Chapter Title: A Man Worth Hitting (and Maybe Loving) Length: 10 K+

FINISHED

Previous

(Looking for a Beckman epilogue ;)

Taglist: @wontknowbetter, @sleepydang @flav1a0 @pleasantkittenpersona @heartsforseo + For all the baddies who helped protest this weekend.

The scent of salt and canvas was the first thing to pull you from sleep.

It didn’t belong.

Neither did the creaking of wood beneath your back, nor the low murmur of male voices drifting from beyond the wall. You stirred slowly, awareness returning like the tide. Thick, uncertain, then all at once.

The hammock was too firm. The sheets smelled like sun and steel. There was sea movement.

This room wasn’t yours.

You sat up abruptly.

It was a ship’s cabin, small but clean and well-kept. Morning light spilled through a single porthole, casting a soft glow over the tangled blankets.

Someone had left a folded nightgown on the chair beside the hammock. It was yours, freshly washed.

There was also a tray with a cup of tea, still faintly warm and scented with lemon. Thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

You moved to the window.

Outside, a red flag flapped in the wind, bearing a familiar Jolly Roger.

And not a speck of land in sight. 

Your stomach dropped.

Shanks.

You were on his ship.

Shanks had kidnapped you.

He stolen you.

You were now a heist item.

You swung your legs over the hammock's edge, breath shallow, fury waking faster than your balance. You cussed him out in at least three languages, two of them fluently, one of them mostly just creative growling.

Shanks had taken you from Amazon Lily without so much as a little goodbye, while you were sleeping. 

Like some overconfident pirate raccoon with a romantic streak and no impulse control.

You stood, wobbling slightly, and scanned the room again, and yep, still kidnapped on a ship. And very few places to hide the murder weapon that you were going to need in about five minutes.

The throb of your soulmark indicated the distance of the victim.

You stormed up the stairs barefoot, hair wild, heart racing, slamming open the hatch. Sunlight crashed against you like a wave, making you wince. It takes a minute to adjust. Dozens of eyes turned to you, men of every size and color, pausing mid-task. A few adjusted their grips on swords, but most just stared at the sight.

A woman. You. On the Red Force.

Barefoot. Disheveled. Murder in your gaze.

And then, him.

Shanks was leaning against a barrel by the door, a wine bottle in one hand and his shirt half-unbuttoned, flapping dramatically in the sea breeze. He was laughing at something one of his crewmates had said.

Until he saw your face.

He stopped cold.

Then, without a word, he turned and casually walked to the other side of the deck, like that would help.

He was absolutely in deep shit, and he knew it.

“Thought I felt a tug,” he called, flashing that grin that filled the entire damn sky. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You growled.

Shanks looked like a man who hadn’t slept, hadn’t regretted it, and wasn’t planning to. That only made it worse.

He was using his crew as a human shield.

It didn’t work.

You crossed the deck in six thunderous strides and slapped the bottle clean out of his hand. It hit the railing and somersaulted overboard with a perfectly timed, mocking plunk.

Dozens of pirates paused.

Some froze mid-coil, rope in hand. Others looked up from polishing blades or shifting barrels. A tall, dark-haired man with a pipe between his teeth raised an eyebrow. Another, younger, let out a low whistle.

You stood there barefoot, in a rumpled linen nightshirt, radiating fury.

“…Oh,” said the man with the pipe behind you. “She’s awake.”

“I can explain,” Shanks said, wearing a smile that was far too sorry and far too late.

“Can you?” You snapped. “Because I’m forming a pretty solid theory. It involves sleeping powder, a pirate abduction, and you losing your damn mind!”

Behind you, someone coughed. Another voice murmured, “Dibs on his sword if she kills him.”

“Crew not helping, thanks,” Shanks muttered, not taking his eyes off you.

You took one dangerous step forward.

He flinched.

You pointed at him, trembling with barely-contained fury.

“You said you wouldn’t take me unless I chose to go!”

“I did,” Shanks said, hands up in mock surrender. “But I’m a pirate. And no illegal substances were involved. And, you didn’t complain—”

“You knocked me out!” you shouted. “That implies a very clear lack of consent!”

“I resettled you.”

“You—!” You gestured wildly at the whole crew. “Pirates!”

He had the audacity to grin. “I’ve said that before, sweetheart.”

“Another lie– because you also said you cared!” Your voice cracked. Tears blurred your vision, hot and frustrated.

Immediately, the crew began backing away. Even the bold ones.

Shanks looked like he’d just been told his favorite bar burned down, and he’d lit the match himself.

He stepped in, slow and careful, voice dipping low enough to curl around your breath.

“I did listen,” he said gently. “You said you weren’t ready.” He paused. “I was just… preventing any potential Love Sickness complications—”

You reeled back, eyes scanning for something that could be turned into a weapon. Your furious retreat ended with your foot smacking into a wooden pole. A pole that had been oh-so-helpfully nudged directly into your path by the pipe smoker. The only man on deck bold enough not to retreat.

He remained exactly where he was, calmly puffing like this was his favorite tavern drama.

“Really, Benn?” Shanks snapped, eyes narrowing. “This is Mutiny.”

“You earned it, Captain,” Benn replied without blinking. “Frankly, I held back.”

“Pay attention.” You growled at him. “I’ll acquaint you with the meaning of mutiny.”

Shanks started circling. Lazy steps. Loose hips. That infuriating grin playing at the corners of his mouth like this was all foreplay.

“I made an executive romantic decision.” Shanks smiled, cocky as hell. “You’ll thank me by month three.”

You kept your weapon raised, turning with him. The tension between you wound tighter, like a drawn bowstring ready to snap.

“Sure you want to do this?” he murmured, flicking his hair out of his face with infuriating ease. “We’ve been getting along so well—”

“Until you kidnapped me.”

“We can talk this through—”

“You can shut up and die.”

Behind you, Benn exhaled a long drag of smoke, already stepping out of the way as steel met steel with a clean, ringing clash. Sparks kissed the deck.

Shanks parried without effort, the impact sliding down his blade. His stance was solid. Shockingly so for a man who’d been flirting seconds earlier. His grin didn’t vanish, but it changed. Sharpened.

Less teasing now. More… intent.

“You always this dramatic when someone offers you breakfast?” he asked, deflecting another strike like it was nothing.

You didn’t answer. You weren’t trying to kill him. Not really. But he needed to feel it. The fury. The betrayal. The heartbreak wrapped in a nightshirt.

He twisted mid-parry, spun low, and when your foot slipped—just barely—he stepped in. Fast. Clean. Close enough to catch your wrist. He didn’t hurt you, didn’t disarm you. Just stopped you. Gently.

The grin was gone now.

“One year.”

His voice had changed, and it was anchored now, steady in a way that made the fight feel foolish in hindsight.

“That’s all I’m asking. One year to show you what it means to be wanted, not owned. To be chosen. Every day. No pressure. No tricks.” A pause. “You can keep the pole.”

You didn’t pull away. Not yet. The weapon hung between you like a held breath. His grip was warm. Solid. Unflinching.

“And after that?” you asked, voice low. Eyes narrowing.

Shanks met your gaze without flinching.

“If you still want to run, I’ll give you the map.”

You hissed through your teeth.

“Captain,” a calm, drawling voice cut in. “Should I assume she’s staying, then?”

You turned to find the broad-shouldered man with the weathered face, pipe in hand, and the patient expression of someone who had survived hundreds of truly idiotic plans… and fully intended to survive this one too.

“Right!” Shanks said, instantly chipper again, clapping his hands. “Crew introductions. Love, meet the maniacs.”

“You call me love again and I’ll gut you,” you muttered.

“Noted,” Shanks said brightly. “Affection pending formal approval.”

“Shut up.”

“See?” He turned to the crew, beaming. “She’s fitting in already.”

Laughter rippled across the deck. They clearly knew their captain well.

“This,” Shanks said, gesturing to the pipe-smoking man, “is Benn Beckman. My first mate. He keeps me alive.”

Benn gave you a nod, deadpan. “Nice aim with the wine bottle.”

Before you could respond, Shanks pointed upward. “And that one in the crow’s nest is Lucky Roux.”

A plump man waved cheerfully from above, chewing on a drumstick the size of your forearm.

“Don’t race him to a meal,” Shanks added. “You’ll lose. Possibly a hand.”

You stared at the man in the crow’s nest, still mid-chew and grinning like a happy menace. You distinctly remembered him being referred to as “the big one with meat.” A potential ally, you decided grimly. Possibly even a good one. Everyone underestimated the food-motivated.

“Yasopp’s the sniper.” A wiry man with sharp eyes and a cocky grin winked at you from near the rigging. “He’s also convinced he’s the best looking on board.”

“Because I am,” Yasopp called. “Got proof if you want it!”

“You’re married,” Shanks reminded him.

“Exactly.”

Shanks rolled his eyes and kept going. “Then there’s Limejuice, Bonk Punch, and Monster—he’s the monkey. Don’t challenge him. You will lose.”

You blinked. The monkey bared its teeth in a smile. Or a threat.

“And that’s Hongo,” Shanks added, nodding toward a serious-looking man with glasses. “Our ship’s doctor.”

Hongo gave you a polite nod. “I hope you won’t need my services. But knowing the captain, you probably will.”

“And that’s the core crew,” Shanks said breezily. “The rest come and go.”

He turned back to you, eyes steady.

“Except you. You’re staying.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I can,” Shanks said softly. “Because if you really wanted to leave, you’d already be threatening to jump overboard.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

You clasped your arms, letting the pipe smack the floor. Your eyes promised that you would find a way to swim home once you weren’t leashed to this degenerate.

“You’re angry, very understandable,” He grinned, “But you are also a woman of science. Aren’t you curious about us? Or even the world?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Words piled up in your throat but refused to cooperate. Shanks didn’t press. Didn’t smirk. Just watched you, something achingly gentle in his gaze.

“Give me a year,” he said softly. “You don’t have to love me. You don’t have to kiss me. But let me try.”

Behind you, Benn muttered under his breath, “Should’ve just courted her like a normal lunatic.”

Yasopp leaned against a beam with all the smug energy of a man watching a play he didn’t pay for. “This is so much better than shore leave.”

Lucky Roux let out a delighted laugh. “Can we call her First Lady of the Red Force? Do we bow? Should we bow?”

Shanks held up a hand without looking away from you. “No one lays a finger on her. No jokes. No bets. No dumb hazing rituals. Got it?”

A dramatic chorus of groans and exaggerated sighs rose from around the ship.

“You’re ruining morale, Captain,” Yasopp called.

“You’re ruining my chances of not getting stabbed,” Shanks shot back, still not looking away.

“What about respectfully basking in her wrath?” Limejuice called out from somewhere near the ropes.

Shanks glanced sideways. “Up to her.”

Benn Beckman, Shanks’ long-suffering first mate, sauntered forward with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who routinely explained catastrophes before his morning coffee.

You already respected him.

Not because he looked dangerous, though he did. Not because he carried himself like a man who knew exactly how many seconds it would take to end a fight. But because he radiated the quiet patience of someone who had spent years cleaning up after Shanks and had not once committed murder.

That took strength. Possibly sainthood.

You weren’t sure if he was brave, tired, or both. Either way, you respected it.

“Captain’s made his bed,” Benn said. “He’s volunteered for the stabbing. We’re just here for the fallout.”

You stared at him. “And you’re all just… calm about this? I could slit your throats in your sleep.”

From the rigging, the man with goggles and a lopsided grin cheerfully piped up, “It’s free entertainment.”

“Not helping, Lucky,” Shanks muttered.

“You brought her here,” Benn reminded him. “You’re lucky the bottle was all she threw.”

Lucky Roux raised his drumstick like a toast. “To survival!”

You crossed your arms, chin tilted just enough to be defiant.

Shanks hesitated, just for a heartbeat. His smile shifted, softening into something real, something almost reverent.

“Think of it as an extended vacation,” he said, voice low. “With the most competent crew on the Grand Line.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“And, if after a year you still hate me,” he went on, more serious now, “I’ll sail you straight back to Amazon Lily. No tricks. No bargaining. I’ll drop anchor offshore and row you there myself.”

He paused.

“I’ll even let Hancock hit me. Straight in the family jewels.”

That got a collective oof from the crew.

You studied him. Really looked at him.

This was the man who’d stolen you away in the middle of the night. Who flirted like breathing, fought like dancing, and apparently had no survival instincts when it came to women with weapons.

His crew, usually rowdy and irreverent, stood deathly still. No muttering, no comments. Just a wall of eyes, waiting to see if their captain lived or died.

Your fingers twitched once at your side.

The wind stirred your nightshirt like a flag before battle.

“Well,” you said coolly. “I hope your arm is strong. Because if I hate you by the end of this, I’m making you swim back.”

The crew erupted.

Cheers, laughter, someone blew a damn horn.

Shanks just grinned like a man who’d won everything, even though you’d just threatened to kill him again.

“And,” you added coolly, “I want my space. And weapons. Preferably sharpened. And alphabetized.”

A ripple of approval moved through the crew like gossip at a tavern.

One pirate muttered, “She’s got standards. I like her.”

You turned on your heel and stomped toward the stairs, the nightshirt billowing behind you like the robes of a vengeful sea goddess recently inconvenienced by love.

But not before muttering, just loud enough for the entire deck to hear.

“One year. Then I’m leaving. And I’m taking the alcohol.”

A stunned silence.

Then a single gasp.

“Not the rum,” someone whispered, truly horrified.

Shanks watched you go, looking mildly lovesick and extremely doomed.

“She’s gonna make me earn every minute, isn’t she?” he whispered, more in awe than fear.

Benn took a long drag of his pipe, exhaled slowly, and gave the faintest smirk, like he’d seen this coming from ten nautical miles away.

“Oh, you poor bastard,” he said. “You’ve never been happier.”

Shanks just grinned like a man watching his own ship sail toward a storm he couldn’t wait to drown in.

The Den Den Mushi rang once.

Twice.

Shanks answered it, whistling a jaunty tune as he flipped the receiver open.

The snail immediately contorted into the furious visage of Boa Hancock, her hair flaring like divine judgment incarnate.

“RETURN HER THIS INSTANT OR I WILL FLAY YOU WITH MY EYES.”

“Morning, Hancock,” Shanks said pleasantly, like she hadn’t just threatened ocular murder.

The Den Den Mushi trembled with her fury.

Behind him, Benn Beckman sighed and started counting silently, probably how long until Shanks got another bounty.

Or turned into stone.

Or both.

“You abducted an Amazon Warrioress,” Hancock seethed through gritted teeth. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Offered her breakfast?” Shanks offered, still infuriatingly calm.

“She is not a collectible!”

“Agreed,” he said easily. “She’s more of a limited-edition, one-of-a-kind treasure.”

Benn paused his count, rubbed his face, and muttered, “And there it is. The sound of warships mobilizing.”

“Do not speak of her that way!” Hancock snarled, voice rising like a divine curse. “I swear on every stone statue in my garden—I will crush your bones into sand!”

Shanks, sipping his coffee like this was a brunch chat, added cheerfully, “By the way, she’s fine. I brought fruit.” Behind him, the crew waved like idiots. One held up a basket of mangoes with both hands, grinning proudly.

“Supporting local business and stuff—”

“YOU STOLE HER!” The Den Den Mushi screamed in Hancock’s voice.

“Borrowed,” Shanks said, calm as sea glass.

“I WILL BURN YOU!”

Unbothered, Shanks held the receiver toward you. “Want to say hi?”

You took it with shaking hands, staring at the snail like it might explode.

Your voice cracked out, high and appalled, “I was peacefully dreaming, and he Haki-napped me! I was ASLEEP, Boa!”

There was a beat of silence. 

“HE WHAT?!” Hancock shrieked. The Den Den Mushi’s little body lifted off the table from the sheer force of her rage.

Shanks winced slightly and took a small step behind Benn, who did not move. Benn simply took a longer, steadier drag of his pipe and exhaled like a man watching a very slow avalanche hit a town he warned six times.

“Hancock, listen—” You started.

“No! I knew it. I knew he was trouble! I said he looked like a man who would kidnap someone and call it ‘romance’!”

Shanks muttered under his breath, “It is romantic. There’s fruit.”

“He Haki-napped you!” Hancock hissed. “That’s not even a word!”

“I know!” you cried, still holding the Den Den Mushi. “I had plans! I was going to wake up, have tea, and not be on a pirate ship!”

“Did you tell him no?”

“I didn’t tell him yes!”

“That counts!” Hancock bellowed. “We are launching the warships.”

“Oh god,” Benn sighed.

“Wait, wait—” Shanks stepped forward, hands raised like he was surrendering to a very stylish firing squad. “Look, I get it. In hindsight, there may have been some mild miscommunication.”

“You drugged her!”

“Haki,” he said quickly. “Just haki! Very… localized. Gentle. Nap-like!”

“You Haki-napped an Amazon Warrioress!” Hancock shouted again. “The audacity! The daring!” The Den Den Mushi turned briefly purple with fury. “You’re lucky I don’t turn your entire crew into a decorative stone garden and auction off their limbs!”

Someone behind you whispered, “She’d probably get a good price, too.”

You elbowed them in the gut without looking.

The Den Den Mushi didn’t speak right away. Hancock’s silence was somehow louder than her screaming had been.

“…Are you hurt?” she asked at last, voice low and tight.

“No.”

A beat. Then, softer—dangerous.

“Has he touched you?”

You paused.

“…Define ‘touched,’” you said carefully.

Behind you, Shanks—who had been smugly sipping his coffee—choked mid-sip. Benn slowly lowered his pipe like a man preparing to witness a public execution.

The Den Den Mushi twitched. Hancock’s eye narrowed into a slit of volcanic murder.

“Red-Hair.” Hancock’s voice was flat enough to shatter stone.

He coughed. “To clarify—I caught her wrist. In a moment of extreme tension. Respectfully. With consent-ish. It was very gentle.”

Benn closed his eyes like he was updating Shanks’ last will and testament in his head.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

“Temporarily,” Hancock muttered. “I consider that a diplomatic courtesy on your end.”

Behind you, Shanks whispered, “Honestly? That’s progress.” 

You hissed, dragging a hand down your face. “Stop talking.”

Another added, “Do we send thank-you fruit or—?”

Benn didn’t look back. He just mouthed, “Not. Helping.”

“I hate men,” Hancock snapped.

“Get in line,” you muttered. “However, you can’t chase an Emperor of the Sea to the New World for one woman. The optics would be terrible.”

The Den Den Mushi twitched, Hancock silent on the other end.

“…Then I’ll say it’s for diplomatic retribution.” Her voice was calm now. Too calm. “I’ll sink his ship, retrieve you, and leave a formal apology carved into his bones. That’s balanced.”

“Very balanced,” you deadpanned.

Behind you, someone whispered, “I think I love her.”

“Not helping,” Benn growled over your shoulder.

Shanks cleared his throat. “Well, if we’re negotiating, can I request it be a non-lethal carving?”

“Silence, pirate,” Hancock snapped. “Your voice irritates the heavens.”

The snail snapped back into focus, Hancock seething.

“Put her back on.”

You hesitated.

“Now.”

You raised it slowly. “Yes?”

Hancock leaned in so close that the Den Den Mushi’s eye twitched.

“If you want out, say the word. We will come for you.”

You glanced at Shanks.

Messy. Barefoot. Coffee in hand. Hair mussed. Trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly.

Then, at the basket of fruit, proudly held aloft like an apology you hadn’t asked for.

Then at Benn, already pouring rum into his morning tea with the practiced ease of a man who’d seen too much and planned to see it drunk.

Then back at Shanks.

Still barefoot. Still sleep-rumpled. Still smiling like he hadn’t just committed high-seas romantic piracy and called it a love letter.

You sighed like someone accepting an unfortunate cruise.

“…give me one year. Against my better judgment. Against your better judgment. Against several international laws. If I don’t strangle him with a rigging rope by then, we’ll reevaluate.”

Shanks smirked.

Unapologetically.

Boa let wind escape from behind her teeth.

“Smile again, and I will test the structural integrity of this ship with your skull.”

Shanks raised his coffee like a toast. “Noted, Commander.”

You brought the Den Den Mushi closer, eyes narrowing with the fury of a woman two seconds away from turning that snail into a long-distance missile.

“I’ll check in once a week. I’ll keep my weapons sharp. He knows the rules. He doesn’t have another arm to spare. He will behave.”

Behind you, Shanks gave a jaunty little salute with his one remaining arm, still beaming like a man personally blessed by the Sea Devil and thrilled about it.

The Den Den Mushi squinted in disgust.

“…He’s smiling again,” Hancock growled.

You didn’t even look. “He does that. I’m working on it.”

“Doing amazing, sweetheart.”

Benn muttered behind him, “There’s still time to dive overboard.”

“One year, Red-Haired.” Hancock’s last words crackled through the line, low and lethal.

Click.

The Den Den Mushi slumped in your hand, traumatized.

Shanks looked at you with a grin that was far too soft for someone who had just been threatened with dismemberment by a war goddess.

“…She likes me.”

You didn't know what to say when Shanks offered you the captain’s quarters.

You’d expected a spare hammock. Maybe a curtain. Something tucked behind crates or below deck, out of the way. Functional. Temporary.

Instead, you stepped into a room that felt nothing like a pirate ship and everything like a quiet, stolen promise.

Polished wood floors gleamed beneath your bare feet. A thick rug softened your steps, hand-woven and dyed in warm reds and golds that reminded you, uncomfortably, of home.

A basin sat in the corner, steam still curling up from the surface. The water was warm. Fragrant oils floated on top, the scent barely clinging to the air: Jasmine, sandalwood, and something that smelled like the temple gardens at dusk. Someone had prepared it carefully.

There were books. Dozens, maybe more, stacked haphazardly on the desk and in crates beneath it; maps, journals, and worn adventure novels with cracked spines. A saber hung on the wall, sheathed but sharp, the kind meant for both show and threat.

And then your eyes landed on the chair.

His coat was there.

Black, worn, and unmistakably his. The lining caught the light, deep red, almost blood-colored. It looked like it had been casually tossed over the back of the chair, but you could tell he had placed it there deliberately.

You turned to the doorway, eyes narrowing.

Shanks stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you with the lazy amusement of a man who had just set something on fire and was waiting to see if anyone noticed.

He grinned.

“This is our—” he started.

Your glare cut him off.

He cleared his throat, trying again with exaggerated innocence. “Your room.”

Your eyes didn’t budge.

He scratched the back of his neck, ruffling his already wild hair, clearly pleased with himself anyway.

“You’re my soulmate,” he said, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world. “You get the bed.”

He nodded toward it. The bed was large, neatly made, and looked entirely too inviting. It had soft linens, a heavy quilt, and extra pillows; not a pirate-standard bedspread.

Your brow arched. “…But it’s your bed.”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “Ours. Pending approval.”

There was that grin again. The one that made you want to throw something and maybe kiss him later, in that exact order.

You stared at him.

At the way he leaned in the doorway like he hadn’t just abducted you in your sleep. The way he smiled like this was some kind of romantic gesture instead of full-blown high-seas emotional hostage-taking.

You stepped closer to the bed. Pressed your hand into the mattress.

It was disgustingly soft.

You hated how nice it felt. How clean the linens were. How it smelled faintly, not like sweat or seawater, but like citrus and something warm and familiar you refused to identify as him.

You turned back to him slowly, arms crossed.

“Do all your kidnapped guests get luxury accommodations?” you said, voice like a blade, “Or am I just lucky?”

Shanks lifted a shoulder in a lazy half-shrug. “You’re the first. And I’m very motivated not to disappoint you.”

Behind you, the tea on the side table was still faintly steaming. Mocking you. You picked up the cup and took a long, scalding sip, never breaking eye contact.

He leaned a little farther into the doorway, arm resting on his lip.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“You’re sleeping on the floor, aren’t you?” You muttered. 

“Technically,” He said, pointing to the wall just outside the door, “I’m sleeping outside, down the hall.”

“The soulmark won’t stretch.”

“It will if your willing to adjust the bed. I measured.”

He flashed a grin. “Nine feet, eleven inches. Give or take a smile.”

You sighed. 

“If you keep getting tugged, and would rather take your chances,” he said lightly, “I can have one of the crew set up a cot, or I’ll sleep in the chair. Won’t even snore.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Okay. I’ll try not to snore.”

You stared at him for another long moment.

Then you walked over, picked up his coat, and shoved it into his chest. Hard.

He caught it with a startled laugh. You pointed at the door.

“One year,” you said coldly. “You’re not sharing anything but your guilt.”

He clutched the coat dramatically over his heart like a war widow.

“Understood.”

Then shut the door in his face.

And locked it.

The click was satisfying. Final. Necessary.

You stood there for a moment, hand still on the knob, listening for footsteps. He didn’t move. You could feel him smiling on the other side of the door like an idiot dog who thought that counted as progress.

Eventually, you heard him walk away.

You tried to sleep that night.

Tried to ignore the steady creak of the ship’s hull as it rocked through the water, the muffled shuffle of boots on the deck above, the occasional low murmur of voices as the crew kept their watch.

You tried not to listen for his voice among them. Or wonder if he was still awake.

The bed was too soft.

Too warm.

And no matter how many times you flipped the pillow, his scent lingered. Smoke and citrus. Salt and something sweet that made your throat tighten and your heart furious.

You buried your face in the cool side and growled into it.

This wasn’t comfort. This was tactical psychological warfare because even the damn sheets smelled smug.

Most of all, you tried to ignore the sound of his voice.

Soft.

Quiet.

Humming.

You froze.

Then—words. Low and familiar.

A lullaby.

Not a sea shanty. Not a pirate’s tune meant for long nights and loud drinks.

No, this was something else.

A song from your childhood. The one the temple matriarch used to hum when the storms were bad and the walls shook with wind. The one sung in quiet corners and safe arms. A song no outsider should know.

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t perfect. The words faltered at the edges, pronounced just wrong enough to sting, but it was unmistakable.

You sat up slowly, sheets forgotten, heart thudding in your chest.

You crossed the room before you realized you were moving. Slid to the floor. Pressed your ear close.

And lay flat against the floorboards.

Through the narrow gap beneath the door, you saw Shanks.

Sitting with his back to the wall, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up, elbow resting on his knee. His head was tilted toward the stars, eyes half-closed, humming like it was just for himself.

He wasn’t performing.

He wasn’t waiting for you to react, likely thinking you were asleep. He was just… bringing you home in the only way he knew how. And for the first time since waking on this ship, something in your chest ached that you couldn’t pretend was just anger.

You blinked hard, jaw tight.

Swallowed once. Then again.

Without a word, you crawled back into bed. Pulled the blanket up to your chin like it could shield you from whatever this was.

You didn’t open the door. You didn’t speak. You didn’t hum back. But your soulmark burned warm against your skin all night. 

The two weeks ended quietly. No flash of light. No sudden ache. Just… stillness. You felt it the moment it lifted. Like someone had loosened a cord around your chest, letting air return to your lungs in full for the first time.

You looked at him.

Shanks was sitting across from you on the deck, one leg drawn up, lazily carving something into the edge of a crate with a small blade. Focused. Calm. The sun caught in his hair.

The mark on his chest still glowed faintly.

You tested it, took a step away. No burn. No tug. No warning.

You were free.

You could leave. Now. Walk off this ship, never look back, never feel his presence like a flame under your skin again. Dive into the water and just sink, if it seemed the best way to avoid a conversation.

Shanks didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t indicate if he’d known this moment would come. As if he were willing to let you go before asking you to stay.

Your chest tightened.

Freedom wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.

You didn’t jump into the sea, to your own disappointment.

Over the next hour, you kept waiting for him to shift. To drift.

To finally start reclaiming his space, his ship, and his crew, and act like an Emperor of the Seas. The version of him that probably existed before the soulmark. Loud, loose, insufferably magnetic. The man who stole you like a pirate and smiled like it was a gift.

He still brought you tea. Still leaned against the same post while you read. Still handed you your sword each morning with that maddening tenderness, like you were something sacred and breakable, not a girl who’d nearly stabbed him on arrival.

He stayed close.

Quietly. Without comment. Without expectation.

And it was worse than anything else he could’ve done.

So, later, as the sea stretched black and endless around you, as the stars blinked faintly overhead and the air turned cool against your skin, you sat at the edge of the deck and finally asked it.

Softly. Carefully. Like the words might break apart in your mouth.

“You know you don’t have to stay this close anymore… right?”

He looked up from where he sat just a few feet away, one arm resting over his bent knee, a half-finished carving still in his hands.

He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t tease. Shanks turned to face you fully. The wood forgotten. The sea wind lifted his hair just slightly as it passed between you.

“I know.”

The words settled between you like an anchor.

You looked down at your hands, picking at a hangnail you hadn’t noticed until now.

A beat passed. Then another.

The waves rocked against the hull, steady and slow.

He was quiet for a moment. Not the kind of silence that meant he didn’t know the answer, but the kind where he was weighing whether you were ready to hear it.

Then he set the carving down beside him. The motion was quiet and deliberate, like laying something fragile to rest.

He sat a little straighter, eyes steady, voice low.

“I don’t stay close because of the bond.”

You looked up.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t asking for anything. He just watched you with the open calm of someone laying down their sword. Not surrendering, just offering it.

“I stay because I love you.”

The words didn’t echo. They didn’t need to.

They fell between you with no drama. No hesitation. No pressure.

Just the truth.

Raw and unguarded. Offered like a blade held flat between two hands. Sharp if you chose to take it, but never forced.

You blinked once, then again. Something behind your ribs twisted painfully, like a rope pulling taut. You hated how warm your face felt. Hated how your throat closed up. How much worse this was than any flirtation, grin, or stolen moment of kindness.

Because this wasn’t a line, this wasn’t a game.

This was real.

You dropped your gaze back to the ocean, its dark surface rippling beneath the stars. Somewhere far off, a gull called. The waves lapped quietly at the hull.

You drew in a breath.

And then, softer than you meant it, barely above a whisper, “…I like it better when your annoying.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the barest flicker of a smile tug at his lips. He didn’t speak. He didn’t laugh. He just stayed beside you. Not touching. Not pushing. Just there.

You said nothing. You couldn’t.

The bond might have faded.

But something else had grown in its place. You could still feel it, pressing behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. No title. No claim. No magic.

Just a man, admitting a truth like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Close enough to feel safe.Far enough to let you breathe.

You just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, not bound anymore. But still not drifting apart.

And life continued.

Life aboard Red Force was unlike anything you had ever experienced.

Men.

Everywhere.

Loud, laughing, brawny, bearded men. Some sharpening blades, some hauling ropes, one balancing an entire keg on one shoulder like a sack of flour. You braced for barking, chest-beating, or a surprise duel to assert dominance.

Instead, one of them handed you a peach.

You blinked. 

“You… speak?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The man nodded.

You narrowed your eyes. “Coherently.”

“Y-yes?” He looked slightly alarmed. “Most days?”

“With manners?”

Another nervous nod.

Behind you, Shanks strolled up like he was on a morning walk, hands in his pockets, grinning. “They’re trained.”

You turned, eyes wide. “They don’t throw things? Or grunt? Or compare—”

You gestured vaguely around your hips. “—spear sizes?”

From behind a crate, Yasopp shouted helpfully, “Only on Sundays!”

Shanks waved him off. “Don’t listen to Yasopp. He was raised by birds.”

You turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in.

“They’re… capable. And… clean-ish?”

Shanks looked delighted. “You sound dissatisfied.”

“I just assumed the average man’s brain was like… a moist sponge. Held together by aggression and meat.”

Someone dropped a barrel in the background, and another muttered, “Fair.”

You were still reeling as you passed through the middeck later. Rows of hammocks, spare boots tucked neatly to the side, a small shrine made entirely of snacks (Lucky Roo’s, apparently), and not a single visible injury caused by stupidity.

Curiosity got the better of you.

You pulled aside one of the younger crewmates, a sharp-eyed gunner named Lee, and whispered, “Okay. Tell me the truth. Is it actually true men have a vulnerable spot—”

A hand settled gently on your shoulder.

You froze.

Shanks, smiling like he’d just caught you cheating at cards. “I love that you’re curious.”

The man-child fled at the speed of dignity.

You folded your arms, looking put-out. “He was revealing man-secrets to me—”

Shanks stepped closer, voice warm and entirely too amused. “Sure. But maybe… don’t ask the crew about their bits.”

“I wasn’t—!”

“They’re sensitive. Private. Possibly haunted.”

You gave him a look. “I wasn’t asking for a tour.”

He leaned in slightly, the absolute nerve of the man. “Still. If you do want to discuss any parts that twitch, rise, or have ceremonial value—”

He paused, watching your jaw drop.

“—please let me be your guide.”

You gawked. “That is not cultural diplomacy.”

He winked. “It is if I use respectful language. And a chart.”

You stormed off in a flurry of indignation and stolen laundry, determined never to speak to him again. Later that day, a peach appeared beside your lunch tray. Tucked under it: a folded sketch labeled

“FOR STUDY – Figure 1: The Twitching Sword and Other Male Myths”

You stared at it. You stared at him.

Shanks had stolen the Karma Kuju scroll.

And then you threw the peach—and the chart—overboard.

Shanks caught your eye across the deck, looked scandalized, and called out:

“That was educational!”

You didn’t answer.

But that night, when you passed Lucky Roux and he offered you another peach, you muttered:

“…I’ll take it. But if it has a diagram, I swear to god I will set something on fire.”

The Red Force was many things: a warship, a sanctuary, a floating tavern when necessary. But above all, it was loud.

You learned this within days of being reluctantly relocated.

It was not the kind of ship that barked orders and marched in lockstep. No, this was a vessel crewed by grown men with terrifying weapon skills and the social decorum of overgrown children who had collectively decided chaos was a lifestyle choice. This also translated into their fashion.

They applauded your tantrums.

They cheered loudest when you insulted Shanks. You weren’t sure if they actually liked him.

They bet on how long you’d last without punching someone.

And somehow, you stayed.

And you fell into a routine. 

You became used to the crew of the Red Force.

Mostly.

One morning, you tied your shirt to a line strung between two masts because someone had to clean your laundry, and it wasn’t going to be Shanks. You did it peacefully, rationally, with the air of a woman who just wanted dry clothes and some semblance of dignity.

Then Limejuice wandered by, squinted at it.

“Think it’d make a good sail patch if it catches wind.”

Before you could stop him, he yeeted it skyward.

It fluttered like a surrender flag and smacked Shanks directly in the face as he emerged from below deck.

He peeled it off with a blink, looked at the shirt, then at you, and said with infuriating calm, “If you wanted me to wear something of yours, sweetheart, you could’ve just said so.”

You vowed to drown him in his sleep.

He winked.

Shanks offered to cook to make amends.

“Romantic gesture,” he declared. “Very domestic. Very husband-coded.”

“Man-creature coded.” You hissed.

You didn’t trust it.

You were right not to.

Twenty minutes later, the galley was an apocalyptic battlefield. Spices had been weaponized. Smoke curled out from under the door. Yasopp was weeping. A single seagull lay unconscious on the windowsill.

Shanks emerged, eyebrows singed.

“So, uh. Turns out I can’t cook.”

You sat beside him on the upper deck, covered in flour, watching the smoke plume skyward.

“I noticed.”

“Still,” he said, nudging your knee. “We technically made dinner together. That’s relationship stuff.”

You didn’t respond. But you didn't push him off when he rested his head against your shoulder and muttered something about needing a fireproof cookbook.

Later that week, Benn Beckman dragged Shanks aside with the slow, weary patience of someone who’d seen this exact situation unravel dozens of times.

You paused near the mast and listened.

“She is not one of the tavern girls, Captain.”

“I know that.”

“She has a brain. And knives. And principles. Stop flirting like a drunk raccoon.”

“I like drunk raccoons.”

“You are one.”

A silence.

“Benn,” Shanks said, solemnly. “I think I’m in real trouble.”

“We all are,” Benn muttered, lighting his pipe. “But mostly you.”

There were other moments, quieter ones. Rare things, like pearls in sand.

Like when you woke up from a dream, unfamiliar stars above, the sea humming soft beneath the board, and found him sitting nearby, eyes fixed on the horizon, his hand resting next to yours.

He didn’t know you were awake.

He just watched the sea, wind in his hair, hand outstretched like he was reaching for something sacred.

“She’s not mine,” he murmured. “Not yet. But gods, I want her to stay.”

Your breath caught.

You closed your eyes and pretended to still be asleep. The next morning, there was a peach beside your breakfast plate. No note. Just a single, perfect fruit.

You didn’t throw it overboard this time.

You ate it quietly, cheeks warm, and didn’t speak of it.

Life on the Red Force wasn’t simple.

But it was full.

Of noise. Of absurdity. Of terrible singing and better wine. Of men who made room for your presence without hesitation.

And of one red-haired pirate who was trying to become the kind of man worth choosing.

You didn’t miss home.

That’s what you told yourself.

You didn’t miss the palace baths, the temple bells at dawn, the scent of wildflowers braided into your hair by hands you trusted.

You didn’t miss your sisters.

You certainly didn’t miss their habit of fussing over your appearance, brushing your hair while gossiping about trade envoys and cursed scrolls. 

You were fine. Absolutely fine. A big girl in all respects.

Right up until the third morning on the Red Force, when you couldn’t untangle the braid you slept in and snapped:

“Do all men shed like lions?!”

Shanks leaned against the doorframe of your quarters, arms crossed, head tilted.

“Want help?”

“You are one-handed.” You blinked. “And you want to do my hair?”

He shrugged, wiggling his fingers. “I’ve got one very good hand for it. Used to braid my fellow cabin boy’s hair during long voyages. Therapeutic.”

You squinted. “That’s a lie.”

He stepped closer, gently plucked the comb from your hand, and said,

“You trust me to sail through storms with you, but not brush your hair?”

“I don’t trust you with anything soft,” you muttered. “You’d probably flirt with the brush.”

But you sat anyway. Grumbling. Like a martyr.

“Only if it has good bristles.”

You laughed and conceded. It became… a thing.

A quiet thing, one you didn’t ask for. He never announced it. No grand declarations. No smug commentary.

Just routine.

Each morning, after you washed your face and settled into your corner of the cabin, he’d appear, comb in hand. That stupid, serene expression on his face like this was regular. Like he was normal, like he hadn’t abducted you, charmed half your fury into submission, and now somehow declared himself your personal hairstylist by divine pirate law.

He never said anything cutting. Depending on the day, just knelt or stood behind you and then he’d start combing with slow, careful strokes like you were made of spun glass and threats.

At first, it was infuriating, unnerving, and intimate in a way that battle and banter could never be.

His breath on your neck, the way he’d bring your hair to his mouth if he needed to hold it a certain way. You’ve told him to stop. Twice. He pretends he can’t hear without both arms.

He just hums.

Softly. Casually. Whatever song was stuck in his head or stolen from your past. Sometimes he hummed low, thoughtful melodies that blended with the creak of the ship and the soft splash of waves against the hull. Sometimes he tapped lightly on your shoulder when he needed an extra hand, like he trusted you to help him with your own hair.

And eventually, you stopped telling him to leave.

Mostly because you knew he wouldn’t.

But also because he was careful. Always.

Not a single pull. Not a single wince. Just the rhythmic sound of the comb through your hair and the quiet steadiness of his presence.

It was the kind of attention that didn’t ask for anything back.

Which made it worse.

So you sat there each morning, pretending it didn’t mean anything. And he stood behind you, pretending he didn’t already know it did.

He was careful with the tangles. Gentle with the knots. He never tugged, never rushed. He moved with the quiet focus you’d only ever seen in people handling something sacred.

He never looked at you through the mirror unless you met his eyes first.

And when he tied the final ribbon, or looped a braid through your crown, he’d step back, tilt his head slightly, and say with maddening warmth,

“There. Ready to conquer something?”

At first, you told yourself it was practical.

You had no sisters here. No one tends to the small things. No one to fuss or remind you of the rituals that tethered you to who you were.

This was just convenience.

It was efficient.

But then he started leaving small things by your basin.

A carved wooden pin you’d admired once while walking through a port town, tucked beside your brush without a word. A softer comb, better suited for your hair. A ribbon in Kuja clan colors, dyed just right, wrapped in cloth like an offering.

And once, a sprig of your favorite flower. Not from this region. Not from this ship. Something you’d mentioned in passing, only once, on a sleepless night beneath the stars. You found it lying gently on your towel the next morning. Still dewy. Still fragrant.

You turned on him then, suspicious, unmoored.

“What is this?” you asked, voice sharper than you meant.

He looked up from his journal, relaxed, unaffected.

His answer came simply.

“Because you deserve to feel as lovely as you are.”

You hated how your heart stuttered.

How your fingers clenched uselessly around the flower.

How part of you wanted to throw it at him, and the other part wanted to press it between the pages of a book and carry it for the rest of your life.

One evening, you sat with your hair loose, brushing it absently.

The air was soft and salty, heavy with the warmth of late light. Lanterns glowed gold across the wooden walls, and the hum of the crew had long faded into quiet. Only the sea remained, and the sound of bristles moving slowly through your hair.

Shanks passed behind you, his footsteps easy, his presence unmistakable. He stopped.

You did not turn, but you felt him watching. Something unreadable lingered in his silence.

“Want help?”

You kept your eyes forward. “You did it this morning.”

There was a pause. Then the sound of him stepping closer, the creak of old wood beneath his feet, and his voice, lower now.

“That was for you,” he said, the words brushing close. “This one is just because I like touching you.”

You went still. The kind of still that lived deep in your chest. Then, without a word, you held the brush out to him. He took it gently, with a care that said he understood exactly what you were giving him.

He settled behind you, quiet as dusk. One leg folded, the other stretched lazily beside him, familiar and close.

His fingers moved with steady purpose. The brush passed through your hair in long, patient strokes. He touched you like he was listening, like your silence told him everything he needed to know.

The tension in your shoulders eased before you realized it had. The rhythm of his hands made the air feel softer and safer.

Your soulmark began to glow. Faint, warm, steady. A slow burn just beneath your skin.

You noticed his love in the little things.

The way he didn’t speak when you lit incense by the railing that first morning. He just stood nearby, quiet, eyes on the horizon as the smoke curled skyward, as if the act belonged to a world he wasn’t part of, but one he was willing to protect.

The way he offered your cup during meals with both hands. Not casually, not thoughtlessly. He set it in front of you with a softness that suggested he knew it mattered, even if he never asked why.

The way he never stepped too close when you were angry. He hovered at the edge of your reach, waiting, watching, giving you space to burn. But he was there when sadness settled into your shoulders and silence stretched too long. Just close enough. Not touching. Just there.

And when he braided your hair, he didn’t ask if he was doing it right. He didn’t fumble, joke, or make it performative.

He just did it.

One-handed, slow and steady, with the same rhythm your sisters used. Fingers threading through strands like memory. He looped, twisted, and tucked with a reverence you had not expected from anyone outside the island. Let alone him.

At first, you told yourself it was a coincidence.

A fluke.

But then came the bow. Not the kind of bow pirates used, careless and exaggerated.

No, this was different. Controlled. Intentional. The kind your elders taught you to return before crossing into sacred ground. The kind reserved for gods, shrines, and quiet places where your voice did not belong.

He did it without hesitation, without needing to be told.

You stared at him.

“…Where did you learn that?”

He glanced up from the satchel he had been packing, then straightened with a shrug.

“This place is sacred now you’re in it.”

Simple. Like it was obvious.

He never touched your shoulder when guiding you, even in chaos or haste. His fingers always found your wrist instead; the touchpoint of trust in your culture. The place a warrior offers freely to those they deem safe.

You never told him that.

But he knew.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You let it sit there, unspoken. Let it build, day by day, in the rituals he never named but honored all the same. In the small choices. In the way he had stopped trying to belong to your world and started making space for it on his ship. He was so much more than the man who stole you from your home. He had learned you. Without demand. Without claiming. He had listened. And somewhere along the way, you had stopped trying not to be heard.

One night, long after the others had gone below deck, you sat together in silence.

The stars spread wide above you, sharp and cold in the black sky. The sea was calm for once, rolling in slow, deep breaths. He sat beside you, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed somewhere far ahead.

You watched him for a long moment, the breeze brushing your cheek like a question.

Then you whispered it.

“You learned all this on purpose… didn’t you? While you were at the Amazon Lily.”

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t blink. Just smiled.

Soft. Quiet. Eyes on the sea.

“I wanted to learn you.”

Not your title.

Not your power.

You.

And somehow, that quiet confession undid something in you that nothing else had.

Because he hadn’t said it like a prize. Or a strategy. Or a clever line.

He had said it like a vow.

The Red Force cut through the sea like it belonged to it. Like the water had parted just to let it pass.

You stood on the deck, arms crossed, wrapped tightly in one of the crew’s coats. You had refused the blanket Shanks offered, on principle. The coat was scratchy and a little too big, but it didn’t smell like him. That was the essential element.

The wind tugged your hair into knots. Your soul mark pulsed gently beneath your glove. It was warm, steady, and insufferable.

And you were livid.

Not just because he’d taken you while you were asleep, like a romantic idiot with no concept of boundaries. Not because he had done anything that typically provoked your ire.

But because he left.

“Where is he?” you muttered, eyes scanning the horizon like he might be foolish enough to stroll back mid-storm.

Benn Beckman looked up from his map table with the ease of a man who had heard every tone of fury known to mankind. He barely glanced over.

“Meeting with a rival crew. They crossed into our territory.”

You blinked. “So he just leaves us here?!”

Benn didn’t even look up.

“You mean he left you here?”

Your jaw locked. He went back to his charts.

“He left you where you’d be safe.”

“That’s not the same,” you snapped. “He didn’t even ask—”

Benn raised a brow, eyes still on the map. “You care that much?”

The question hit like a slap.

Not cruel. Not loud. Just… true.

You froze.

Then scowled. Harder. Sharper. As if you could hide behind it. As if fury could keep you from unraveling under something as quiet as truth.

Your silence was enough.

Benn sighed. The kind of sigh that came from knowing too much and saying too little. He reached for his mug and took a slow sip, like he was rationing his patience one swallow at a time.

“He’s not trying to trick you,” he said. “He’s not off charming some tavern girl or vanishing to avoid you.” His tone stayed even. Measured. Not pleading. Just honest.

“He’s giving you space. That’s all.” He said calmly, “Which, for him, is progress.”

You didn’t reply.

You turned away instead, fists balled in the sleeves of the borrowed coat, the fabric coarse and unfamiliar against your skin.

The wind pulled at your hair like it had something to say, but it said nothing useful; Just the salt and cold and quiet.

It didn’t take your anger with it.

It only left you with the weight of your own breathing. And the maddening, persistent heat of your soulmark, pulsing steadily under your glove like it knew something you refused to admit.

Later, in the privacy of your cabin, you stood for a long moment in front of the coat rack.

The borrowed coat hung heavy on your shoulders.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t groan, roll your eyes, or make a dramatic scene removing it. 

You just reached for his.

It was warmer.

Softer.

It smelled like salt and citrus and something that made your throat tighten.

You put it on without a word.

And Benn, who had seen the whole thing from where he leaned outside the door, mercifully kept his mouth shut.

Because he knew a surrender when he saw one.

Even if it came in the form of a stolen coat.

You stormed to the bow of the ship, muttering under your breath in three languages and inventing a fourth out of spite. The wind snapped at the sleeves. His sleeves. The damn coat fit too well.

Too warm. Too steady. Too his.

Hours passed.

You didn’t move much.

Just sat on a crate near the railing, hunched like a stormcloud, soulmark faintly warm under your glove. Not burning. Just there.

Persistent. Irritating. Smug.

You glared at the moon like it owed you a personal apology.

And then, you heard him.

Before you saw him.

Boots on wood. Familiar. Steady.

Laughter. Easy and low, like a man returning from a brawl he enjoyed.

The clink of a sake jug.

And his voice. Low. Casual. Amazed.

“Sweetheart, is that my coat?”

You didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer.

He was close enough now to lean against the railing beside you, and of course, he did.

You didn’t look at him. You stared out at the water like it had better answers than he ever would. He waited. Patient. Annoyingly quiet.

His hand brushed your shoulder, and you couldn’t help the way you stood straighter, back tingling.

“Looks good on you,” he said, gently, like he wasn’t trying to win anything. Just… telling the truth.

You shifted, not enough to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

“Don’t read into it,” you muttered.

“I never do,” he lied, eyes dancing.

Your soulmark flared a little warmer. You adjusted the collar to hide your face from the moonlight. He grinned into the night air like he’d just been handed treasure.

You didn’t turn around.

“I considered throwing myself overboard.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I like boats.”

“You like me.”

You turned then, slow and lethal, eyes blazing.

“Don’t start.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but stepped closer anyway. The soft kind of close. Careful. Intentional.

“I had to check the borders,” he said, voice lower now. “Someone crossed into my waters.”

“And you couldn’t just tell me?” You turned him before you could stop. The coat swayed around your legs, heavy with warmth you refused to acknowledge. 

Your faces were the closest you’d ever dared.

“I woke up and you were gone. I thought—” You stopped short. Swallowed it. “I thought—.”

His expression shifted. Just a little.

He gave you that soft, infuriating look. The one that made your soulmark glow and your fury spike all at once.

“I thought if I explained,” he said carefully, “you’d try to talk me out of it.”

You stared at him. Furious. Hurt.

Silent.

“Would you have?” he asked, quieter.

You clenched your jaw. Looked away.

“I don’t ask for your permission,” you snapped. “But I deserve your trust.”

“You have it,” he said. “All of it.”

The words hung in the air like they might fall apart if you breathed too loudly.

You said nothing. You just crossed your arms, the coat sleeves slipping past your wrists.

He smiled, smaller now. Real.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” he said. “I just wanted to keep you safe.”

Your soulmark pulsed warm under your glove. Unhelpful. Unwelcome. Steady.

“I wouldn’t have tried to stop you,” you said tightly.

“You would,” he replied, voice soft. “Because you care.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. And it scares you.”

You stood, fists clenched at your sides, breath quickening.

“It doesn’t scare me.”

“Yes, it does,” he whispered. “Because if it didn’t… You wouldn’t understand why I had to go.”

And that was the part that hurt the most.

You did understand.

You understood perfectly. Every reason. Every instinct. Every shadow of duty behind his decision.

And that made you angrier than anything else.

Because understanding him meant forgiving him, which meant this was already more than it should be.

You looked away.

He stepped forward, crossing the invisible line you’d both silently honored for days. Close enough for the mark to hum gently between you. Close enough to feel the heat where your souls still reached.

“I always come back.”

Your voice cracked before you could stop it.

“Stop being like this.”

“Like what?”

You grit your teeth. “Like someone I could fall in love with.”

He didn’t smile.

Not this time.

His expression softened slightly, and he reached up, fingers brushing his chest where your name still glowed.

“It’s only fair we match.”

You did not notice how close he had gotten.

Not at first.

You had been talking about nothing, really. The stars. The wind. Something one of the crew shouted earlier that made you laugh harder than you meant to.

He smiled when you laughed.

Not a flirtatious smile.

Not smug.

Just warm.

Like someone who had been waiting a long time to see you happy.

When you turned back to him, you were already closer than before.

There was no soulmark burning.

No fate tugging.

No divine push.

Just you. Just him. Still close.

His hand shifted slightly between you. Not reaching. Not coaxing. Just there. Still. Waiting.

You looked at it. Then at him.

He did not ask.

He did not move.

And when you leaned forward, heart hammering, you were unsure if you would brush his cheek or shove him into the sea.

But your lips met his.

And the world held its breath.

It was not urgent or desperate. It was soft. Intentional.

You kissed him like a question.

And he answered it gently, like it had always been his to answer.

His hand rose, careful and reverent, cupping your cheek like he could not believe you were real. Like he would have to earn this moment all over again if he blinked.

When you pulled back, you did not go far.

Your breath mingled as your foreheads touched.

Neither of you spoke.

There was no smirking. No teasing. No clever lines.

Just him. Steady like the tide.

“Not because I am weak,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “Because I’d choose you, even without fate.”

.

.

.

When you were nine, you ‘learned’ what a man was. Years later, you finally met a real one.

Red-haired Shanks.

Charming.

Clean.

Beautiful red hair.

Nice hands.

Didn’t scream. Didn’t grunt. Didn’t conquer anyone that day.

Smiled at you like you were something sacred.

You can forgive yourself for adopting this man-creature.

[sleepymarimo]

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫.

summary: one time zoro pushes your affections away and another time when he begrudgingly accepts them. pairing: zoro x gn!reader cw: none, zoro being a cutie and confused about soft feelings an: just some fluff bc I have a headache and I wanna give him a hug :( wc: 1.2k

it seemed like zoro had always let the oddest things to happen to him.

he’d let chopper climb atop his head, tiny hooves brushing through strands of moss green hair. when the reindeer’s soft fur tickled the skin of his cheeks, he didn’t blink.

he’d let usopp cling to him in fear, idly looking around with a bored expression as the sniper tugged at his hakama or pushed him right toward whatever threat lay before them.

the list goes on and on, the ever stoic swordsman never really putting in the effort to actively resist his crew mates or the occasional curious animal.

with that in mind, you figured that you’d be able to get away with some gestures of your own.

after a particularly rough battle, you’d been so utterly happy that your arms wrapped around the rugged swordsman, squeezing him tight.

you blame it on the adrenaline, not those pesky feelings of yours that you refuse to acknowledge.

it was an innocent embrace, imbued with nothing but affection and glee, yet that didn’t stop him from tensing at your touch.

the next thing you remember is being pushed away, gently but firmly, and feeling dumbfounded.

“the hell are you doing?” he had roughly questioned, brushing off your much-too-sweet touches from his person.

uncomfortable.

he was uncomfortable and he hated it, not particularly fond of feeling so vulnerable from something as simple as a damn hug.

looking between him and your still awkwardly stretched out arms, you come to a sort of realization.

zoro didn’t just let things happen to him. no, he allowed them. every touch and tug and pinch was permitted, actively decided upon by the marimo.

that fiasco was almost a whole week ago, the thousand sunny now barreling through the rolling waves of the sea in the hopes of reaching a winter island.

even as the air became colder, the clouds darker, you continued to simmer.

unjustifiable annoyance creeps into your brain just thinking about how he pushed you away, your cheeks burning with embarrassment and hurt alike.

he didn’t feel that bad.

the swordsman had boundaries, which was understandable, set in place for the sake of self-preservation.

that small flip his heart did when he felt you hug him? the boiling heat that clawed up from his chest to his cheeks and to the tips of his ears? absolutely not.

he didn’t want to deal with that, especially after a fight and with the rest of the crew watching.

it took time for you to adjust your actions, to maneuver around the barriers he’d set in place for himself.

being the stubborn little thing you were, you decided to throw yourself into the jaws of the tiger once more.

you try your luck on a brumal morning, a light frost already starting to form on the deck. it seems like the water is still, the sea easily parting as the ship effortlessly glides on its surface.

the observation deck is your destination, where you’re sure the marimo will be.

and indeed he is, outwardly unaffected by the biting cold.

meticulous as ever, at least when it comes to his craft, he sits on a mat and polishes his blades. shoulders relaxed, but eyes sharp, he goes about his task with precision.

he knows you’ve just entered the observation room, thinking that a nod of his head and a small grunt is enough of a greeting.

the scent of steel and polish hang in the air as he continues, figuring that you’d come in to grab something.

he doesn’t expect to be what you want. what else was he good for besides swinging a damn sword around?

you mask your nerves and step inside, taking brisk steps towards the swordsman. it’s now or never, you think, quick to take a seat behind him on the mat.

with slow and gentle movements, you situate yourself into your preferred position.

your chest presses into his back, the rough material of his shirt not enough to keep you from resting your cheek there.

your inner thighs hug his outer ones, the firmness of the muscle beneath forcing you to hold back a shudder. sealing the deal, you loosely wrap your arms around his midsection.

“good morning.” you mumble, speaking to him as if he were a deer about to bolt.

silence is what you get in return and you wish you could peer into that thick skull of his to see what he was thinking.

warm.

that’s how zoro feels at first, before something akin to discomfort starts to gnaw away at him.

his hands come to a stop, his head lifting as he stared ahead and processed just what the hell you were doing.

there’s a split second of stillness- a period of time where he decides if he wants to revel in your touch or bask in his solitude for a moment longer.

it feels like eons pass before the tension is broken, fizzling into nothing as if it didn’t exist in the first place.

his hands resume their task of polishing his prized swords. the muscles in his body relax and everything else suddenly melts away.

he grants you permission.

he allows it.

“morning.” he grumbles back, speaking with an air of nonchalance that contrasted with how fast his mind was racing.

it’s a delicate balance, as frail as the thin layer of ice starting to form on the glass windows.

you know now more than ever to hold off on the banter and teasing, unless you wanted to get bucked off.

taking what you’ve been given, you’re content enough with releasing a deep breath and letting the rise and fall of his back lull you into a light doze.

time seems to pass slower in this world, in this little pocket of tranquility which exists only for the two of you.

when you finally decide to loosen your grip and pull away, he lets out a noise equivalent to a growl.

he’s almost offended.

one of his hands holds your wrist in place, his grip firm. he’s never been good at displaying tenderness, his words unintentionally gruff. “oi, where are ya goin’?”

he releases your arm, almost daring you to defy him. his muscles relax once more, calloused hands resuming the tedious task of polishing steel as he picks up his next sword.

his tone is softer, spoken as a mumble as if he was afraid of saying too much. “just stay a little longer.”

the request has you momentarily astonished, eyes widening a tad before you got a grip on yourself. your arms settle back around his waist, a pleasant buzz spreading in your chest and down to your toes.

you were well aware that this was a rare opportunity, one that you could not and would not pass up.

so, you let out a sigh and rest your cheek on his back once more.

his aura seems to encapsulate you, making you feel safe and at ease.

he’s satisfied with your reaction, how you effortlessly unwind and how your breaths even out.

once again, he’s warm.

zoro decides that he can spend hours just like this.

for the crew, he could always be a demon. for you? he wouldn't mind being a bit more human.

[phantasm-ae]

GUYS HELP! i wanna find a book so bad but idk if anyone has written one like this 😭 so like i wanna find a why choose romance (or dark) with a f!mc that’s a pirate captain or the daughter or a pirate and really badass and the m!mc’s that are like princes or like dukes or something like that. it just seems like a really good idea to me but idk 😭😭

(or maybe if someone does a fic abt this idea with f!reader x poly!141 where they’re royalty and all in a poly relationship and she’s the badass pirate captain, so kinda like Pirates of the Caribbean movies 👀)

AAAAA i love love love this... okay okayyy. I added my own twist RAAAA. I hopee you likee thiss

cw: smut, suggestive writing, afab reader x poly141, pirate queen afab reader x poly141, the boys are like... royal here, this is just a short btw AAA

HEADCANON: When you and your pirate crew loot what seems like a standard Royal Navy cargo ship, you take two Royal Navy Guards: MacTavish and Garrick in as prisoner. What starts as strategic ransom turns into something messier, sweatier, and far more entangled than you'd planned. And just when you think it can’t get any more chaotic, the rest of the bloody Royal Guard bellows in --Admiral Price and Prince Riley -- track their missing boys down and wind up entangled in your already unholy mess. Now it’s poly141, too many heated glances, and a dangerously crowded bed. You should’ve sunk the ship.

PAIRING: poly141 x fem reader

It all began when you and your crewmen of the Crimson Marauder looted a royal navy cargo ship. The usual haul -- none too far from the ordinary -- having done this more than you would like to admit in your lifetime. Sacking fat crates of supplies, pilfering robs of silver, a handful of rainbowy spices, lugs of gunpowder, dried meats, and... yellow? gold? gold-yellow-fringed? fabrics meant for some highborn boony wedding, you supposed.

The Fidelity -- you cackled as Roach, your first mate -- voiced it aloud after spotting the grimy and wry thing bobbing all stainless and impeccant on the cyanic open tide.

Brandishing one to three stripes of yellow ochre and black on its sails -- an English ship. Fucking fantastic.

The Fidelity sailed like it had something to prove -- and something to hide. You squinted through Roach's spyglass as he handed the rusty thing in your grasp. The cool metal felt lighter than usual. Almost like the inanimate thing also carried the weight of how breezy the entire situation would unfold.

The wind tugged at your coat, the salty bite of sea spray clinging to your lips like a stifled giggle held back. A cargo ship dressed like a warbird. Flashy. Pretentious. Stupid.

The deck was spotless though, you could give them that. But... too spotless.

Officers moved with precise, military grace, their coats crisp despite the salt air. You caught glimpses of gilded buttons gleaming under the sun, and the unmistakable glint of medals pinned to chests.

You sneered. Royalty, through and through.

“She’s trying to look mean,” Roach muttered, still perched beside you with his boot resting atop the coil of an idle harpoon line. Smirking as he rolled up his sleeves and watched you only hum in agreement.

A hand already up in the air, finger twirling to signal the crew -- a silent command born of years of rough waves and rougher men. A subtle indication to hull their arses ready and steady. Cannons assuredly poised and propped, gunpowder dried and eager among flintlocks and barrels, and swords sharp and burnished under the fierce sun -- ready to taste blood.

You grinned. “Let’s find out if she bites.”

She didn’t.

No thunderous roar, no volley of cannon fire. Instead, the Fidelity slipped through the waves with unnerving calm -- almost too calm. Like a cat waiting to pounce, silent and calculating. The boarding was quick and cruel. You and your crew descended like crows on a bloated carcass. Lazy, familiar, facile. Benign and an amenable picking at that.

Splinters flew, ropes sang, blades met flesh. The Fidelity’s crew folded like linen though. All gnawed and mauled. Some already bruised, bleeding, or too wounded to even lift a hilt. All cantakerous and pathetic skins of blood and flesh. Most surrendered before your boots even hit the deck.

A few tried to be brave.

Bravery bored you. And you made sure to show your appreciation for such dullness and malaise with the sharp arc of your sword. Often suppressing an eyeroll and a yawn whenever you cleaved through their defenses like slicing through rotten wood. Your blade whispered as it swept -- swift, precise, and utterly merciless. Each strike a lesson in futility, a reminder that resistance was pointless. You didn’t need to kill them all -- just enough to remind them that its either they were wasting gunpowder or human capital. Either way, you could almost groan at how stubborn the brave little muskets were. You could at least give them that much for your admiration and pleasantries.

As the rest surrendered, the few wounded, and the majority all bled out and holed through on the deck, you could almost let out a breath of relief once you kicked open the captain’s quarters to find velvet-wrapped crates of untouched tea, ink jars sealed in wax, scrolls with the royal seal.... sloppily disguised as merchant records. Contraband disguised as tribute. Smuggled goods, and worse, correspondence. Oh shady shady, you tsked at the sight.

But it wasn’t until Roach called down from the brig that things truly got interesting.

“Captain! You’ll want to see this.”

The two of them were a mess of bruises and bad attitude. One sat with his back pressed to the wall, blood drying across his brow in a jagged halo, wrists shackled, and a cocky grin half-swallowed in pain. Electric blue eyes glossed over in either pain or exhaustion. Watching you in keen interest. Humming a bit in curiosity as you catch the way his gaze darts quickly from the supple roundness of your chest and back up to your face. Almost guilty and shodden. You scoffed though. Not entirely amused.

The other knelt beside him, posture defensive, calculating gaze unmoved by the sight of you. Brown puppy dog eyes and silken chestnut skin. Coarse and roughed gloves painted in what seemed like the other one's blood. Trying to patch it all up as much as he can with scants of his threadbare handkerchief and scarves. Both wore shredded navy coats -- rank patches barely hanging on.

Officers, you chalked it up. Too polished for simple sailors that was for sure. And too fucking stubborn for common prisoners you concluded by the way the wounded one still tried to reach for his sword despite probably about to lose an arm.

Handsome though. But no one really asked.

“Names?” you asked coolly, circling them like meat you weren’t sure you wanted. Palming the hilt of your sword as you catch Roach quirking his lip up in tittered humour.

The bloody one smiled. “Weel... Depends. Ye plannin' tae kiss or kill us?”

You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”

“Aye. I hear that more'n I ought tae”

Roach leaned in and whispered, “That’s MacTavish. The other one’s Garrick. They’re not just navy -- they’re Royal Guard.”

You raised an eyebrow, weighing the value of keeping two highborn pests onboard versus the headache they promised. Royal Guard meant influence, connections, a hefty ransom if you played your cards right. A nice little thicket of cloisters of coins and more spices if you could tick off that Royal Navy Admiral Price good enough. A smart play, in theory. Very very smart play.

It wasn’t until two weeks of the asshats on board that you realized that, in bloody practice? The theory -- your brilliant, ransom-laced, gold-glinting theory -- was fucking falling apart at the seams.

It was like adopting two particularly handsome raccoons with a taste for violence, zero spatial awareness, and the uncanny ability to charm their way into places they had no fucking business being.

You kept them shackled at first, locked in the brig and kept a good two decks away from your charts, your crew, your liquor, and your patience. And yet, somehow -- somehow -- they were still everywhere.

Jesus H. Christ.

What started as just filling in for two of your deck-men who got the scabies turned into a bloody nightmare.

Garrick with his stupid puppy eyes and his “Captain, I can help, just tell me what needs doing” and MacTavish with that grin, that smirk, and that incessant way of sidling into your space like he owned it.

They followed you.

Literally.

Kyle -- you learnt his name after MacTavish yelped it during a mock brawl on deck, pinned beneath the man’s thighs and shouting, “Fuckin’ hell, Kyle!” with such vigor and vocal intimacy it left half the crew blushing and the other half holding back laughter. And you didn’t even ask. Didn’t have to. The name stuck to him like wet salt. Kyle “Oh-Kyle” Garrick, the Royal Guard turned public ship spectacle.

SOOO "Oh-Kyle", despite every ounce of his well-bred, tight-buttoned composure, had an uncanny way of making himself indispensable. One day he was teaching your quartermaster proper naval coordinates like your crew didn’t pride themselves on controlled chaos and instinct; the next, he was calmly untangling three months' worth of misfiled logbooks like he had lived in your cabin longer than you had. He had the gall -- the fucking gall -- to reorganize your maps. Alphabetically.

You should’ve shot him then.

MacTavish, on the other hand, was a hurricane in human form. Somehow both endearing and insufferable, always a little too close to your elbow, always a little too fond of winking. You caught him once juggling stolen lemons below deck with three of your men like it was a fucking circus. Another time, you found him shirtless, scrubbing the deck with Roach and humming something that sounded suspiciously like a love song -- off-key, of course. When you scolded him for “fraternizing,” he just grinned and said, “Captain, I’m fraternizing with the timber.”

You thought about throwing him overboard. Repeatedly.

And yet. And yet.

They grew on your crew like barnacles. Roach started calling "Oh-Kyle" sir as a joke. Then stopped joking. One of your youngest recruits claimed he wanted to “be like MacTavish when he grew up.” That nearly gave you a stroke. Even the parrot -- traitorous feathered bastard -- preferred their shoulders over yours. And well.... you just had to admit -- they were somewhat truly easy on the eyes.

Infuriatingly. Obnoxiously. Royal-blood-would-boil-if-they-knew hot.

You tried not to see it. Gods above, you tried. But there it was -- in the stupid curl of Kyle’s smile when he fiddled with your maps like he wasn't a prisoner, like he belonged there. In the way MacTavish grunted through training drills, shirt tossed over his shoulder, sweat beading on his neck in a way that should’ve been illegal on royal personnel. In the way they both looked at you -- not with fear, but with that same infuriating little gleam, like they were waiting for you to break first.

You told yourself it was fine. Normal even. A healthy appreciation for enemy assets. You were still in control. Still had the upper hand. Right?....

Right??

It wasn't until you woke one morning to find both of them asleep in your quarters after a drunken menage à trois that you started to suspect -- maybe you never even had so much as a lifted finger on these incensing broods.

Or at least it was probably misplaced somewhere between Johnny's mouth on your cunt, suckling your achy and engorged clit like it was something syrupy and saturnine at the end of a raid -- finally learning his name after screaming it hoarse after he took you from the side where your swore you felt and saw God in between his cock's brutal thrusting and his canine and saccharine mouth on your tits -- and Kyle's fingers tangled in your hair, paired with his mocking and patronizing coos everytime you hiccuped and sobbed out your release from just his fingers or his tongue alone. Both of them taking to your bed and pussy like it was a battlefield they fully intended to conquer, together.

You blinked hard at the ceiling. Blinked again. Because maybe if you stared long enough, the water damage above you would split open and swallow you whole. Mercifully. Quietly. Preferably before Johnny could start stirring again.

Because that? That was definitely his bloody thigh. Still slung across your hips like you were a prize he’d claimed in the name of King and country. One of his arms tucked under your neck. And Kyle -- Oh-Kyle -- was on your other side, shirtless, snoring lightly with his face mashed against your shoulder and a hand, scandalously, still cupped over your breast like it belonged there.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You nearly stabbed them then and there again. But if it wasn't for the lazy grin starting to spread across Johnny's face at the mere shift of your warm skin against his own. His achy and reddening tip starting to chub up and leak pre-cum once more near the tender slit of your vagina or Kyle's fingers starting to tighten possessively over the pinkening nipple of your breast, you vowed that yeah sure, Jan, they would have hung from the hull to the mast.

At first you thought they were only fattening up the plot to escape, betray, and pilfer all your loot in a single wink. Royal Guard and all -- maybe they were trying to gauge the layout of your ship, cozying up to the temperament of your crew and you. And maybe... just maybe you’d wake up to Garrick slitting your throat after Johnny had you too drunk or too well-fucked to notice the blade sliding home -- booning over your men's favor and Johnny flipping your charts while humming sea shanties to a possible mutiny.

But no.

As morning after morning passed, your sex and thighs either plugged up or leaking with their mixed spend, and throat remained blissfully uncut. Your loot untouched. Your maps unspoiled. No mysterious disappearances. No hidden daggers. Just Kyle’s goddamn smile when he handed you coffee like a bloody deckhand, and Johnny's stupid humming while he patched sails or helped Roach scrub dried salt from the gunwale.

They were... helping.

Contributing.

Loyal.

Kyle started bringing you crates before you even asked for them. Memorized your rum preference and the exact way you liked your charts folded. Once, he even punched a crewmate for calling you “boss” instead of “Captain.” (You didn’t stop him.) And Johnny -- Johnny saved your life during a skirmish with a Portuguese cutter, dragging your bloodied body across the deck with fire in his eyes like the thought of losing you was the real mutiny.

Barking orders like a man possessed for Roach to move his arse, tearing fabric with his teeth to stop your bleeding, cradled your face in his palms after like he didn’t give a damn who saw. Like you were his to lose. Like he’d rather sink the whole ship than let that happen.

And after?

Well. After that, their devotion?? got even more.... creative....

Johnny took to sleeping outside your quarters. Said it was to “keep watch,” but you’d catch him shirtless most nights knowing you couldn't resist the flutter of his pec to his arm, cleaning your boots or sharpening your cutlass with that infuriating grin -- daring you to say he wasn’t being useful. You slapped him hard after sucking his dick though.

Kyle, on the other hand, started sneaking into your cabin under the excuse of "nightly reports." But the reports always came with warm hands, eager and sinewy fingers, warmy mouth licking and suckling the fat of your tit just right. Kissing you like he knew it was already dangerous -- like he knew you could gut him then and there, and still didn’t care.

You tried to hold the line.

You really did.

But the line started to blur the night Kyle dropped to his knees in the glow of your lantern and promised you his loyalty with his mouth, not words. Or the night Johnny pressed you against your map table and growled that if you wanted him to leave, you’d have to use your blade -- and when you reached for it, he only grinned wider and said, “Didn’t say I wouldn’t like that, hen.”

Bastards. Both of them.

It was beginning to disturb you, how they didn’t run.

How they stayed.

How they smiled when you issued and quipped out your own orders. How Johnny’s hand always lingered just a little too long at your lower back. How Kyle’s eyes softened when you laughed -- gods forbid you ever laughed around them again.

You cornered them once in your quarters, after a few too many drinks and even more pent-up suspicion. Shirt half-open, your bustier falling loose, and hair mussed, sword already drawn, lip curled in your best don’t-fuck-with-me snarl.

“I know what you’re doing,” you growled.

Johnny raised an eyebrow, head rising from the softness of your thigh. Kissing and licking the fresh bruise near your pussy almost as a sign of penance. “Do ye now?”

“You’re seducing me,” you spat. “Turning the crew. Planning something. You want something.”

Kyle blinked, utterly unbothered, even as your blade hovered an inch from his chest. “Aye,” he said, voice maddeningly casual. “Want you. Thought that part was obvious.”

And Johnny, the bastard, just grinned. “No' everything’s a ploy, Captain. Sometimes we just like what we see.”

You hated them.

You hated them and the way they kept unraveling your world with grins and glances and too much damn charm.

And worse -- worse -- you were beginning to hate how much you were starting to not mind.

So when you finally received the letter -- an official, wax-sealed declaration from Admiral Price himself, stamped with all the pomp and entitlement of the Royal fucking Navy -- you didn't even flinch.

“To the Captain currently harboring His Majesty’s property --” (Already starting off strong.) “-- you are hereby summoned to discuss terms of retrieval and recompense. Failure to comply will be considered an act of war.”

You stared at the letter.

Then at Kyle, who was kneeling to rub balm over the burn on your calf, his touch gentle, eyes wandering glossed over in arousal and fervor at your smooth smooth skin. The sight of your skirt riding high up your thigh making him groan like a man lost and found.

Then at Johnny, who had the audacity to be asleep in your bed, your actual bed, one leg slung over your pillows like he owned the place -- snoring softly, lips parted in a way that made you both want to kiss him and suffocate him.

You crumpled the letter and tossed it into the sea.

They didn’t ask after.

Didn’t flinch either.

Just stayed.

Admiral Johnathan Price arrived three days later though with all the dramatics of a man used to being obeyed. Making you perk an eyebrow in both amusement and bemusement at someone being able to track the Maurauder down in such short notice.

He stepped onto your deck with a slight gait, hands clasped behind his back, beard bristling in the wind, and that narrowed, assessing glare already cutting through your defenses. Tired, dangerous, and somehow still chewing on a cigar like he had time for leisure as his eyes -- slow, calculated, and practiced-- examined the thick coarse of your helm, the masts, sails, and to the soft spill of your breasts from your corset as if you wouldn't notice.

It wasn't until the second part of his rendezvous that you tilted your head a bit in both surprise and confusion, watching the Royal Crown Prince himself, Simon fucking Riley -- sauntering beside Admiral Price like he wasn’t wearing half the Empire’s weight across his shoulders.

You recognized him after a beat. After a flicker of memory -- the dull glint of coin passed through a storm market in Tortuga, a trader laughing as he slapped the copper piece into your palm.

“Rare, that one,” he’d said. “Crown mint. Got the prince’s face on it. Rumor says he’s a ghost -- never speaks, never smiles.”

At the time, you’d laughed. Called it superstition. Tossed the coin into your boot for luck. Now, watching the exact silhouette from the coin move -- cut across your entresol like he already owned it -- your blood cooled.

Same jaw. Same sharp, still grace. Same stare that could unmake a person without ever lifting a blade.

Prince Simon Riley alright.

The masked royal ghost.

He didn’t speak, not right away. Just stood beside Price like a looming specter, face hidden behind that infamous black cloth over his mouth, arms folded like a damn statue. Judging. Watching.

Sizing you up.

Price, however, didn’t bother with greetings. Opting instead to go straight to the bloody point.

“So,” he said coolly, “how long have you been fucking my men?”

You stared.

Kyle choked.

Johnny cackled.

“Is that how the Navy opens all its diplomatic engagements now?” you snapped.

“Only when diplomacy’s already been thoroughly compromised,” Price said dryly, taking in Johnny’s open shirt, your bite mark on his neck, and Kyle’s bare feet. “Jesus.”

You ignore him. Eyes narrowed instead on the royal-born covered in black from collar to boots. “Didn’t know the Navy brought along crown jewels on recovery missions,” you said coolly, voice like cut glass. “Planning to bribe me or blind me?”

Price didn’t blink at that. A slight quirk of his lip as he stood up straighter by the Prince's side. “He volunteered.”

“Royalty doesn’t volunteer.” You stepped forward, ignoring the faint, cursed jolt that rolled through you as Riley turned to face you directly.

His eyes -- visible through the mask -- were pale. Distant. And focused on you like you were the first breath after drowning.

“He does,” Price said, voice low. “When he’s invested.”

That made your brow arch.

“And what exactly is His Majesty invested in?” you asked, gaze flicking pointedly between the four of them -- at Johnny and Kyle, the main bloody problem in the first place, the reason your ship had gone soft with affection and discipline all at once.

Riley finally spoke. Voice deep. Even. And terrifyingly soft.

“You.”

....... huh?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“You can have them,” you said, pointing to the two smug bastards behind you. Ready to hand them over if it meant that you can let these bastards fuck off to whatever port in some highland or springy-marsh just so you could get your life back. Because what the fuck was that? What the fuck was this? A fucking harem on water? A fucking sick bloody joke on some carribbean fantasy??

Christ. You're probably still stuck on that one cave out in the port of Tiago and this was still an illusion. “Take them. Take them for all I care and get the fuck out of my ship and off my waters”

But neither any of them moved. Not the Admiral nor Kyle. Shit. Not even Spooky the Parrot resting on the sails.

Kyle only stepped closer. Johnny wrapped an arm around your waist. And the Prince and the Admiral watched it all, quiet, almost amused.

“Told ye, hen. Yer' irresistible.”

“At this point it’s just a matter of who gets to stay in your bed, don't you think?”

You almost choked.

Yeah. You were gonna need a drink.

Or a mutiny.

Possibly both.

“I should have hanged you both,” you muttered as Price hummed softly in amusement and Prince Riley’s masked quirked up from a smirk at your response — eyes oh so slowly tracing every outline granted from the loose bodice of your shirt to the open front of your blouse. Gritting your teeth, already calculating how far you could jump off the side of your own ship without breaking something vital.

Yeah.

You should have hanged them both. Goddamnit

masterlist

[scarsnfevers]

Nothing Happend. (18+)

"I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one." – "You must be thirsty." – "You're saying I'm wrong?"

synopsis: salt clung to your skin like a memory, the ocean's breath whispering secrets against your neck as the sun bled gold over the endless horizon. You wandered through the unpredictable tides of pirates and promises, each wave pulling you deeper into something you couldn’t quite name. And then there was him—sharp-eyed, carrying storms in his bones and ghosts in his gaze. You never meant to fall into his orbit. But here, aboard a ship caught between dreams and danger, you learned that some hearts don’t beat—they burn.

pairing: zoro!chan x crewmember!reader (mentions of jeongin as luffy, changbin as usopp and jisung as sanji)

genre: smut, nostalgia, semi strangers to lovers

warnings: mature/strong language, alcohol use, heavy smut, fingering, unprotected sex, dom. Chan, various positions, he just can't get enough of you

word count: 6,9k

!minors do not interact!

The sun was a molten coin suspended in a sky of polished brass, its light rippling over the crests of the waves in glittering shatters. The Going Merry groaned softly beneath your boots, the ship’s timbers shifting like a slumbering creature stirred by the sea’s slow breath. You leaned against the starboard railing, fingertips brushing worn wood, eyes narrowed against the blinding glint of sunlight on water.

You’d stopped trying to count the days at sea. The horizon had long since lost its shape—just an endless smear of blue on blue. But today… today felt different. The wind had changed. Subtly. Not in strength, but in mood. As though it whispered secrets just out of reach.

Behind you, the canvas sails fluttered like wings. Above, gulls circled—though you hadn’t seen land in days. That in itself was strange. Too strange to ignore. You tasted the salt in the air, sharper than usual. Brighter. Almost… seasoned.

A low thud echoed across the deck.

Boots.

You didn’t need to look. You knew that gait by now. Steady, measured, unhurried—as if time itself slowed to keep pace with him.

“Still staring at nothing?” Chan’s voice was dry, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. It was the kind of tone that made people listen closer, not louder. You glanced over your shoulder. He stood a few paces behind you, arms crossed, one hip tilted lazily against a barrel. The wind tousled strands of green hair across his forehead, casting shadows over his eyes. “Maybe it’s not nothing,” you said. He tilted his head, gaze shifting out over the water. “Doesn’t look like much.” “Exactly.”

A beat. Then he pushed off the barrel, slow and fluid, moving beside you. Together, you stared into the horizon—where, now that you looked more carefully, something was beginning to take shape.

It was faint. Faint enough that if you blinked, it might vanish. But it was there. A blur of color too vivid for open ocean. Not an island. Not a ship. Something in between.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Do you see that?”

Chan didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled absently around the hilt of one of his swords, the leather wrapping dark against his hand. You saw his eyes sharpen, his shoulders still. Watching. Calculating. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I see it.” “What do you think it is?” “No idea. But it shouldn’t be there.” He wasn’t wrong. There was no reason for a structure that bright, that… designed to exist out here. This part of the sea was supposed to be empty—open waters, unbroken tides, scattered wind currents and little else. But now the silhouette was growing. Slowly. Rising like a hallucination from the foam.

Somewhere behind you, a door slammed open.

“GUYS! GUYS!”

You turned just in time to see Jeongin—burst onto the deck, straw hat barely hanging on as the wind whipped through his hair. His eyes were wide with something halfway between excitement and curiosity. “Do you see that?!” he cried, spinning on his heel mid-run and pointing dramatically out toward the strange formation.

“We’re looking right at it,” you called back.

“It’s a floating—thing! It looks like a—like a—like a giant fish!” Jeongin grinned so wide it almost looked painful. “Are we going there?! Are we stopping?! Please tell me we’re stopping!” “You don’t even know what it is,” Changbin muttered from somewhere up near the bow. He had one foot propped on the rail and his slingshot looped around his wrist, though his posture was more cautious than usual.

“But what if it’s got food?” Jeongin argued.

That made everyone pause.

Food.

Your stomach twisted a little at the thought. Rations had been thin lately. Even your own cooking experiments had devolved into heated debates about whether boiled seaweed counted as “creative cuisine.” “...It does smell like something,” you murmured.

Now that you were closer, it was undeniable. The scent drifted through the air like a siren’s call: sizzling oil, roasted garlic, sweet smoke, grilled meat. And something else—lemon? Orange zest? Citrus notes dancing on the wind. “Is that... rosemary?” you added, blinking at how absurdly good it smelled.

Jeongin’s eyes widened. “Is that a yes?! Are we going?!” Chan grunted. “Doesn’t mean it’s safe.” “Come on, Chan.” Jeongin stepped up beside him, tipping his head back so his hat fell to his shoulders. “We can’t not check it out. What if it’s some kind of rare sea chef palace?” “Or a floating death trap,” Chan replied flatly.

“You always say that.”

“And one day I’ll be right.”

You held up a hand before they could start another verbal sparring match. “Look, we need food. We need a break. Whatever that place is, it’s the first sign of anything we’ve seen in days. We at least sail closer.”

No one argued.

The Going Merry creaked beneath the shift of wind, as if it, too, was ready to rest. The sails billowed, adjusting course. Water churned beneath the keel as the ship angled toward the strange floating structure now looming larger with each heartbeat.

As you approached, the full absurdity of the building came into view. It was shaped like a fish. A massive one—its mouth agape, its scales glinting in iridescent hues of blue, red, and gold. Architectural flourishes spiraled along its back like stylized fins. Windows blinked like curious eyes, and painted signs in languages you didn’t recognize swirled across the hull. Music—live, chaotic, jazzy—poured from the upper decks, mixed with bursts of laughter and shouting. The whole thing floated on a platform held aloft by massive pontoons, bobbing gently on the waves like it belonged there. Like it owned the sea.

A waiter in a pink uniform leaned over the railing above and waved nonchalantly with a white cloth. You stared up at him, speechless. “This is real,” you said under your breath. “Yup,” Jeongin chirped. “And it smells like steak. I’m going.” The gangplank extended with a satisfying clunk, attaching itself automatically to a small boarding dock that had unfolded from the lower deck. Someone on the fish-building had clearly been expecting guests.

Or just didn’t care who showed up.

Jeongin was first off the ship, practically skipping. Changbin followed reluctantly, muttering something about “bad vibes” and “trap music.” You turned toward Chan. He hadn’t moved. His jaw was tight, brow furrowed. You recognized the look—the one that meant he was watching everything. Calculating escape routes, analyzing risks, memorizing exits.

You stepped closer. “We’ll keep an eye out. Together.”

His eyes flicked to you. For just a second, something softened in them. Then he nodded once.nTogether, you stepped off the Going Merry.

The dock felt strange under your feet—solid, but too smooth. Too clean. The music was louder here. Clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, the sizzling of something being seared. The scent hit you like a wave—so rich your mouth watered involuntarily.

You climbed the curved entry steps, hands brushing a banister shaped like a fish spine. The doors before you swung open not with magic or machinery, but with the welcoming chaos of a place alive. And then, framed in gold script above the arch, you saw it. The name. Baratie. It shimmered in the fading sunlight like an invitation.

Or a warning.

The moment you stepped through the archway into the Baratie, the noise hit you like a wall. Laughter, loud and unfiltered. Glasses clinking. A woman’s voice shrieking with delight. Silverware against porcelain. Someone was arguing about a stolen lobster. Somewhere in the back, a piano tripped over a jazz melody that felt half-drunk but dangerously alive.

The space stretched wide and theatrical, ringed in color and opulence that shouldn’t have belonged on the sea. Deep cherrywood beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling. Lanterns swayed on chains, their golden light bathing the room in warmth and the illusion of grounded comfort. Crimson velvet curtains framed windows you hadn’t noticed from outside. Every table was mismatched and deliberate—like the owners had collected them from shipwrecks and royal chambers alike.

It smelled like heaven. Like garlic butter and roast duck and citrus and sea salt and secrets you weren’t supposed to taste.bThe hostess barely spared you a glance. "Sit where you want. No brawling, no yelling, and if you break a chair, you bought it." Jeongin was already halfway across the floor, heading for a circular booth tucked against a curved wall, arms spread like he was claiming territory. Changbin rolled his eyes but followed. You and Chan moved slower.

His eyes scanned everything. Not just the people—though there were plenty. Pirates, rich merchants, fishmen, drifters, dreamers. But also the exits, the corners, the way shadows fell in places too carefully. It was second nature by now. He didn't trust easy.

You didn't either.

Still, the booth was semi-secluded. Good lines of sight. And the table was already set with gleaming cutlery and folded napkins shaped like roses. You slid in beside Changbin. Chan took the end, back to the wall. Always.

"Okay," Jeongin breathed, practically bouncing. "Tell me we get to eat everything." "That depends," you said. "On how much money you actually have." He blinked. "I thought you had the money." "I thought you did."

A beat of silence. Chan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

You were just about to start debating whether stealing utensils could be considered compensation when a voice cut across the space. Not loud. Not demanding. But effortless. Smooth as aged whiskey over ice. "Evening, gentlemen. Lady." You turned—and saw him.

Tall. Slim. Blond hair curled behind his ears in soft waves, his black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows with the casual elegance of someone who knew he looked good. A pristine white apron tied around his waist. One hand rested on his hip; the other held a small notepad he didn’t seem to need. Eyes like honey and heat.

"Welcome to the Baratie. My name is Jisung and I'm your waiter for the evening." Jeongin leaned forward instantly. "Do you have meat?!" The waiter arched an eyebrow. "We do. Though it comes in many forms. Be specific or you’ll end up with sweetbreads." "Steak! Big steak. With butter. And garlic. And..." He squinted, sniffing. "Is that rosemary I smell?" Jisung smirked. "Good nose. Yes, rosemary." "Then I want that!" Jisung scribbled something lazily into the notepad. Then his gaze flicked to Changbin.

"For you, sir?" Changbin crossed his arms. "Do you have anything... normal?" "Define normal."

"Like... a sandwich."

"We have duck confit with citrus marmalade on toasted rye."

"...Sure."

Another scribble.

Jisung leaned over the table with a charming—if slightly smug—smile, pen poised above his notepad. “And for you?” he asked, glancing at Chan. “Something strong, I bet.” Chan didn’t even blink. “Whiskey. Neat.”

Then he turned to you. He met your gaze, his eyes softening slightly. "And for the lady?" You tilted your head slightly, the candlelight catching in your eyes as you matched his gaze. Steady. Unbothered.

"Chef's recommendation," you said. His smile curled slowly, like warm caramel drawing across cool porcelain. Not cocky—just a little too confident. "Ah," he said, voice smooth. "Adventurous. I like that."

He took a slow step closer, his notepad lowering to his side. His eyes flicked from your face to your lips and back again—not subtle, but calculated. He rested one hand lightly on the table’s edge, leaning in just enough to drop his voice into something that felt private, velvet-wrapped.

"If you ever get tired of spice," he said, “I make a dessert that’s not on the menu. Sweet, rich… unforgettable.”

It hung there. The invitation wrapped in sugar and charm. He knew exactly what he was doing. You arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" you said lightly, voice dry as salt. "Do you serve it with flattery and disappointment on the side?" The line landed like a well-aimed dagger—swift, elegant, and without venom. His smirk faltered—just a flicker—and then he laughed, soft and surprised. "Touché," he said, scribbling your order without missing a beat. "I’ll stick to the specials, then." "Good idea," you murmured. He turned smoothly, striding away with a grace that said he’d recover quickly—but you'd definitely unsettled him more than he'd expected.

There was a beat of silence at the table.

Then—

"Pfft—wow," Changbin snorted, pressing his fist to his mouth. "Absolutely brutal."

"Did you see his face?" Jeongin leaned in, eyes wide. "He looked like you kicked his puppy." Chan exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes. He tilted his head toward you with something between admiration and mischief. "Didn't even flinch. Impressive." You could feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck, rising beneath your collar. You reached for your water glass and took a slow sip, if only to stall the blooming flush in your cheeks.

"I didn’t mean to embarrass him," you said finally, lips twitching despite yourself. "It just… came out." "Please," Changbin said. "You didn’t embarrass him. You educated him." "Yeah," Jeongin added, grinning. "Lesson one: Don’t flirt with someone who can outwit you before the appetizers arrive." You sighed “Can we all just agree I handled it with dignity?” "You roasted him with dignity," Chan said, voice dry. "With style," Changbin added.

You groaned softly, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. It bubbled out of you before you could stop it, half-laughter, half-resignation.

"Gods," you muttered. "I hate you all."

"No you don’t," Chan said without looking at you.

And maybe you didn’t. Maybe, right here in this ridiculous floating restaurant filled with chaos and charm, you felt something you hadn’t in a while. Something that tasted dangerously close to home.

The last of the plates were cleared, leaving behind only wine-splashed linens and the distant murmur of satisfied guests. The scent of garlic, seared meat, and something faintly citrusy still clung to the air, stubborn as saltwater. Around you, the Baratie was beginning to hum again with the rhythm of the sea—a place never quite quiet, never fully still.

Jeongin had started entertaining himself by trying to stack the bread rolls on top of one another, with Changbin offering loud, mostly unhelpful commentary. You watched them for a moment, the simple joy of it pulling a smile to your lips.

"Think we’ve earned a drink?" Chan’s voice was soft beside you, quieter than the clatter around the dining floor. You turned slightly in your seat. He was watching you, elbow resting on the edge of the table, his fingers absently toying with a toothpick. His eyes were calm, but the way his brow tilted just a little upward gave him that look—thoughtful, focused, like he saw more than he said. You nodded. "Definitely."

He stood without fanfare, waiting just long enough for you to rise before the two of you slipped away from the others. Neither Jeongin nor Changbin paid you much mind, too engrossed in an increasingly unstable bread tower. The air grew cooler as you stepped outside. A light breeze drifted across the deck, carrying the scent of open water and something faintly floral from the lanterns hanging overhead. The sky above was ink-dark, streaked with the faint shimmer of stars, and the soft creak of the ship beneath your boots reminded you just how far you were from land.

Chan didn’t speak right away. He led you up the winding stair to the upper deck, where the night was quieter, the noise of the dining floor muffled beneath your feet. There was a narrow balcony railing along the edge, the perfect place to lean, watch, breathe. He gestured to a small table tucked beneath a faded lantern. Two wooden chairs stood opposite each other. He waited until you sat, then took the seat directly across from you.

He disappeared briefly into a corner bar station still manned by a yawning server. A few exchanged words, a small grin, then he returned with two short glasses, liquid glinting amber in the low light. He handed you one. "Careful. It's stronger than it looks." You clinked your glass gently to his. "Cheers." The first sip burned pleasantly, warmth threading down your throat and spreading outward, slow and sure. You exhaled and let your gaze drift over the ocean.

"So," you said after a moment. "Be honest. Did you think we'd make it this far?" Chan chuckled softly, his voice low and even. "I thought we’d make it somewhere. I just didn’t expect it to feel like... this." "Like what?" He paused, rolling the drink gently between his palms. "Like something I don’t want to lose." That made you glance over. He wasn’t looking at you, not quite, but there was something in his expression—an openness, rare and unguarded. The kind that made you sit a little stiller, listen a little closer.

"You don’t say things like that lightly," you said. "No," he agreed. "I don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like space being made—for thought, for meaning. The wind tugged gently at a strand of your hair. You took another sip. "You’re different up here," you murmured. "Quieter." He smiled faintly. "You're just noticing that now?" You shrugged. "I think... it's easy to forget you're watching. You blend in until you don’t. And then it’s like you see everything."

Chan tilted his head. "That’s a nice way of saying I make people nervous." You laughed, shaking your head. "No. It’s a nice way of saying you’re not easy to fool." That made his lips twitch. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His eyes stayed on the water, but his voice had softened, losing that edge of tension it so often carried.

"You held your own tonight. With the waiter." You gave a small groan. "Don’t remind me." "Why not? It was kind of impressive." "It was mortifying." "You didn’t look mortified." You sighed. "That’s because I’ve mastered the art of internal screaming." Chan chuckled, the sound like gravel shifting underfoot—warm, grounded. He glanced at you finally, eyes catching the lantern light. "You don’t let people push you around," he said. "I like that." You looked down at your drink, unsure what to say to that. So he added, more quietly: "It means I don’t have to worry about you the same way."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass. "But you still worry," you said. He nodded. No denial.

You let the truth of that sit between you a while. The sea stretched endlessly beyond the railing, soft waves lapping against the hull. Somewhere below, laughter echoed faintly. A violin began to play from the main floor, its notes drifting upward, fragile and wandering.

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on the table. "Do you ever miss it?" "What?" "Stillness." He was quiet a moment longer than you expected. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But I think I’d miss this more." You nodded slowly, understanding curling in your chest like smoke.

When he shifted in his seat, his boot nudged lightly against yours under the table—subtle, but deliberate. You didn’t move away. The stars above blinked down, distant and watchful. You sat there, eye to eye, the sea in front of you and something quieter—gentler—settling in the space between your breaths.

The sea had softened with the setting sun, waves turning to gentle laps against the hull of the floating restaurant. From where you sat across from Chan, the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses from the dining area below drifted up to the upper deck. Lanterns swung lazily overhead, their warm golden glow throwing flickers of light across Chan’s face, dancing over the faint scar on his cheekbone and the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The table between you strewn with the remnants of your drinks—half-finished glasses of something spiced and warm, perfect for easing into the calm of night. Chan leaned back with the air of someone who rarely let himself relax, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, eyes gleaming beneath the fringe of his green-streaked hair.

“You ever play a drinking game?” he asked casually, but there was a glint of mischief behind the question.

You tilted your head, amused. “Is that your idea of a date?” His smirk widened. “Only if I win.” You raised an eyebrow. “And what do you get if you do?” Chan chuckled, low and quiet. “Maybe I’ll figure that out later. For now, it’s just about knowing you better.”

You watched him for a moment, the way his fingers tapped idly against his glass, the gentle way he looked at you—like he wasn’t really seeing the busy deck or the crew laughing below, but just you. The thought sent a small flutter through your chest. He leaned forward slightly, voice softening. “What are you carrying around that’s so heavy?”

You glanced down, the question brushing a little too close to places you hadn’t shown anyone. Your fingers curled around your drink. “You have no idea.” Chan’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “I bet I do. I bet I know more about you than you do about me.”

A small laugh escaped you, the tension breaking just slightly. “Yeah, right. You’re an open book.” “Care to prove it?” he said, straightening in his seat. “I guess something about you, you drink. You guess something about me, I drink.” You smirked. “Go ahead. Tell me all about myself.”

Chan took a moment, his gaze wandering as if he were replaying moments in his head. Then, “I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one.” You let the smile curl slowly on your lips, shaking your head as you lifted your glass. “You must be thirsty.” He blinked. “You’re saying I’m wrong?”

“I grew up in a small village. Barely a village. Just a handful of houses in the center of a tangerine grove. Drink.” Chan lifting his glass in mock defeat. “Alright, alright.” He took a sip, letting the flavor linger before setting it down. “Your turn.”

The wind brushed past, carrying the scent of salt and citrus from somewhere below. You studied him for a beat, narrowing your eyes like you were peeling back layers he didn’t realize he had. “Okay,” you said. “But I had you read all the way back in Orange Town.” You leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the table. “I’ll bet you didn’t have any friends as a kid.”

Something in Chan’s expression faltered—not entirely, just a flicker of something behind the eyes. He hesitated. “I had friends,” he said quietly. “Swords don’t count,” you said with a wry grin. He huffed a laugh, then looked away for a second, letting his fingers trace the rim of his glass. “I had one friend.”

That surprised you. Not because you didn’t believe him—but because of how he said it. The weight behind those words wasn’t light. There was a history there, buried like the bones of a shipwreck. You reached for your own glass. “Hell, one more than I had.” The two of you drank, a soft silence settling in afterward.

You let your gaze wander for a moment, over the edge of the ship, where the ocean glistened like melted starlight. The breeze carried the occasional burst of music from inside the restaurant, soft piano chords and the muted thrum of voices. But none of it quite reached you—not really. Not with Chan across the table, watching you like he was reading lines in a book only he could understand.

“Your friend,” you said eventually. “Still around?” Chan’s jaw tightened just slightly. “No. Not anymore.”

You didn’t push. The look in his eyes said the story was too old and too painful to spill just yet. Maybe not ever. Still, the quiet hung between you like a thread, fragile but real. He cleared his throat, trying to soften the mood. “Alright. My turn again.” You gestured grandly. “Take your best shot.” Chan’s lips twitched. “You were the type of kid who stole books from libraries. Probably had a whole stash hidden under your bed.” You laughed, the sound startling even yourself. “Okay, yeah. That’s not fair. That’s cheating.” He held up both hands. “Does that mean I’m right?” You sighed, then took a slow drink. “Maybe.” Chan grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

It went on like that for a while—quiet guesses and quieter truths. Sometimes you were right, sometimes he was. The drinks weren’t strong, but the warmth built slowly, buzzing beneath your skin. It wasn’t just the alcohol, though.

It was him.

The way he leaned forward when you spoke, elbows braced, chin resting on his hand like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The way he laughed when you teased him, soft and a little self-deprecating. The way his eyes softened whenever you let a truth slip through the cracks.

The sky darkened gradually, the stars beginning to pepper the heavens. From your seat, you could see the moon rising over the horizon, casting a shimmer over the water. The kind of view that would’ve felt too big, too distant to touch—if not for the boy sitting across from you.

“I think,” you murmured, letting your fingers trail lazily around the rim of your empty glass, “that I should head back to the Merry.” Chan looked at you, his hand wrapped around the final shot—amber liquid catching a flicker of golden light. “You want company?” he asked, voice casual, but there was a thread of softness beneath it. Not insistence. Just the unspoken echo of I'd like to.

You met his eyes. Steady. Warm. “Sure,” you replied with a nod, the corner of your mouth curving. “You’re buying the last round, anyway.”

He smiled at that, tipping the shot back with a practiced motion. The glass clicked against the table with finality. The night air outside was cooler than you expected, salty and fresh from the sea, curling through your hair and coaxing a slight shiver from you as the two of you stepped away from the Baratie’s glow. The path to the dock was quiet—just the gentle lap of water and the distant echo of laughter from somewhere inside the floating restaurant. Your footsteps on the wood were slow, unhurried. Neither of you spoke at first. It wasn’t awkward silence. Just… comfortable.

You glanced at him, the way his arms swung slightly at his sides, the breeze ruffling through his green hair. He looked almost peaceful. “I think you cheated,” you said suddenly, turning your head just enough for him to catch your grin. “No way you guessed the book thing.” Chan’s brows lifted in mock offense. “Cheated? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent reader of people.” “Oh, sure,” you said, snorting. “Master of observation." “You said I was an open book,” he shot back. “Clearly, I’m just better at keeping things to myself.” You rolled your eyes, bumping your shoulder against his. “Next time, maybe I’ll bring books and test you properly.” He chuckled, a low sound in his chest, and for a moment, you just walked.

The Merry was quiet when you reached her, the familiar silhouette of the ship nestled at the dock like a waiting friend. Jeongin and Changbin were nowhere to be seen—still at the Baratie, most likely, or off exploring some corner of the floating restaurant. Chan didn’t seem surprised by the absence, and neither did you. You climbed aboard easily, the gangplank creaking gently under your steps. The ship rocked just enough to remind you she was alive. As you made your way across the deck, you felt your balance sway a little more than it should have—alcohol and sea motion conspiring to trip you up. You caught yourself quickly, laughing under your breath.

“Remind me not to drink with you again,” you said, half over your shoulder. “Oh, come on,” Chan teased, following closely. “We had fun.” “Dangerous kind of fun,” you replied, your voice light. “The kind that ends with someone falling overboard.” “Good thing I’m an excellent swimmer.” “Are you?” He grinned. “Guess you’ll have to push me in sometime and find out.” You snorted, shaking your head. “Tempting.”

“You ever think about it?” Chan asked eventually, voice low. “How weird it is… that we all ended up here. You, me, Jeongin… even Changbin.” Jeongin’s laugh rang out somewhere from the corners of the Baratie, bright and boyish. Changbin’s voice followed, loud and familiar. “All the time,” you admitted. Chan nodded slowly, then looked back at you. “You don’t seem like you’re running anymore.” The words landed somewhere deep.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out at the sea, felt the breeze brush your cheek, tasted the bittersweet flavor on your tongue. “Maybe,” you said. “Maybe I’m finally just… heading somewhere instead.” He smiled at that, soft and proud.

Your feet brought you to the hallway where the crew’s cabins were tucked away, the lanterns flickering gently against the wooden walls. The soft creak of the ship filled the silence, accompanied by your slowed footsteps as you came to a stop in front of your door. You turned, leaning slightly against the frame. Chan stood just a pace away, his arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable in the soft glow of the lantern. But his eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “For walking me back.” Chan tilted his head a little. “Of course.” The air between you shifted. Not tense. Just—charged. Like a breath held too long. Like the world around you had gone a little quieter, waiting.

“I didn’t expect this,” you admitted, almost more to the shadows than to him. “This?” he echoed. “This.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Us. Talking. Laughing. Drinking stupid games on a floating restaurant.” He smiled slowly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

And then, just barely, he took a step forward. Only half of one, really, but you noticed it. The flicker in his eyes wasn’t just reflection. “Should probably say good night,” you murmured. “You should,” he agreed.

But neither of you moved.

The creak of the wood. The soft hum of waves. The warmth of that final drink lingering in your veins. You couldn’t quite breathe. Not properly. And still, his eyes stayed on yours.

Like maybe he couldn’t either.

Another quiet moment passed. Then he said, almost too casually, “You know, I’m glad you’re here.” You met his eyes. There wasn’t any teasing in them now—just something honest. Something real.

“Me too,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

You closed the distance, your hand finding his collar before he could answer. Your lips brushed his — once, then again, firmer, as if daring him to pull back. He didn’t. Chan stood frozen for half a second, breath caught in his throat. But then his hand came up, gently curling around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. And when he kissed you back, it wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

A sound escaped the back of his throat — something like a sigh and something like a growl — and he moved forward, pressing you back until your spine met the wooden wall. His body aligned with yours in a way that felt too easy, too right. Chans other hand landed on your waist, holding you like he was afraid you might vanish.

The wall was cool against your back, but his mouth was warm. Chan's kiss deepened with every passing breath, with the kind of quiet desperation you hadn’t seen in him before. You felt it in the way his fingertips brushed over your cheek, down your arm, anchoring himself in your presence.

When you parted for air, both of you stood there for a moment — dazed, breathing hard, the space between you charged and trembling. Chan leaned his forehead against yours. “You sure about this?” he asked, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. You didn’t hesitate. “Are you?” His answer came not in words, but in the way his hand found the door behind you, pushing it open. The cabin swallowed you both, lanternlight casting flickers of amber across the modest room. It smelled faintly of salt and citrus, your coat slung across a chair in the corner, and the mattress soft against the far wall beckoning like something out of a half-remembered dream. But you didn’t reach for it yet.

Instead, you kissed him again — slower this time, more deliberate. His hands traced the curve of your back, steady and sure, and your own found the hem of his shirt. The cloth slid upward, your knuckles brushing the warm skin beneath. You felt him shiver under your touch, and it sent a matching wave through your spine. Piece by piece, clothing fell away — a glove, a belt, the fabric of the day shed like the weight of old armor. Each movement was unhurried, reverent, like unwrapping something sacred.

Your eyes searched his, and in the flickering glow of the lantern, you saw the storm of emotions raging there: want and wariness, hope and hunger. Chan's mouth was hot and demanding, but his touch remained tender, almost reverent.

His fingers brushed your bare shoulder with a feather-light touch, and even that sent sparks flaring under your skin. His eyes drank you in, as though he was trying to memorize every curve, every shade of want on your face. Chan hovered, his lips just above yours, breath mingling, warm and trembling with restraint. You closed the distance, pressing your mouth to his — a silent command, a desperate plea. The kiss deepened instantly, all softness turning to heat, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before slipping inside, tasting, exploring.

Hands roamed. Eager now, hungry. His palms spanned the curve of your waist, your hips, your thighs — he held you like a man who had been starving, who now sat before a feast and didn’t know where to begin. He laid you back with slow insistence, your skin sliding against cool sheets, his body hovering above you like a storm about to break. Your legs parted willingly, thighs cradling Chan's hips as his hand slipped between your bodies. Fingers explored you — warm, calloused, precise — sliding down your belly, brushing over the sensitive bundle of nerves with practiced ease. You gasped, your hips arching instinctively into his touch. He groaned against your throat, voice thick with need. “You’re already so wet.”

You answered with a moan, your hands fisting the sheets as he circled your clit, slow and rhythmic, coaxing pleasure out of you with devastating patience. His fingers slid lower, found you open, ready. He pressed one inside, then another, curling them just right — watching your face as you writhed beneath him, as your thighs shook and your breath quickened. “You like that,” Chan murmured, voice rough, reverent. “Gods, look at you…”

Your body sang under his touch, pleasure blooming fast and hot. He kept working you, steady and sure, until the heat coiled tight and unbearable. You moaned his name as your climax crested and broke — sudden and overwhelming. Your body trembled beneath him, thighs clamping around his wrist as your back arched and a strangled cry tore from your lips.

He didn’t stop right away — his fingers slowed but stayed inside you, drawing out every aftershock with gentle, teasing strokes. Your breath stuttered. You whimpered, already sensitive, already aching in a different way now. When Chan finally pulled his hand back, his fingers glistened with you. He brought them to his mouth and sucked one clean, watching you the whole time. “Beautiful,” he murmured. He kissed his way down your body, lips warm and slow — your breast, your stomach, the inside of your thigh — until he was kneeling between your legs, hard and ready. He didn’t wait long. The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, and you reached down, guided him to where you wanted him.

“Please,” you whispered. “I need you.”

With a low growl, he pushed into you in one slow, controlled stroke. Your breath caught. Chan was thick, stretching you inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His eyes fluttered shut, a groan rumbling from his chest. “You feel so good,” he muttered against your skin.

He began to move, slow at first — a steady, deliberate rhythm that pushed the air from your lungs. Your body welcomed him, still tender and sensitive from your climax, each thrust sending soft ripples of pleasure across already-spent nerves. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your nails grazing his back as his pace built gradually — deeper, harder, more insistent.

The bed creaked beneath you. The sound of skin against skin, his labored breath, your soft moans filled the space like music.

Then he pulled out without warning.

You gasped, blinking up at him — but Chan flipped you easily onto your stomach and coaxed you up onto your knees. One strong hand gripped your hip, the other steadied himself as he slid back into you from behind, filling you again in one deep, powerful stroke. You cried out, fingers curling into the sheets as he set a harder rhythm now, his thrusts fast and unforgiving, each one hitting deep. Your body rocked beneath him. Chan's hand slid up your spine, then tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat.

“You feel incredible,” he growled, biting softly at your neck. “I could lose myself in you.” His pace became relentless — his need taking over, raw and feral. You moaned for him, pleasure still humming low in your belly, a steady throb of sensitivity without the pressure of another peak. Your limbs trembled from the intensity, from the ache Chan left in his wake. He grunted your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and then he was coming — with a deep, broken moan and one last thrust that pushed you both to the edge.

He collapsed over your back, panting, chest heaving against your spine. For a moment, all was still. The only sound was the rush of your breathing, the beat of your hearts in sync.

Then, carefully, he withdrew. The absence of him left you hollow and sore in the best way.

Chan didn’t go far — just shifted to his back, dragging you with him until you were sprawled across his chest. His cock, still slick and flushed, twitched against your thigh, already beginning to harden again. “You’re insatiable,” you murmured against his throat. “So are you,” he said with a wicked smile, flipping you over in one smooth motion. Now you were straddling him. You grinned, reached down between your bodies, and slid him back inside you — slow and deliberate, savoring the stretch and fullness, the way his hands gripped your hips and his head tipped back.

You began to move — not chasing another climax, but simply because it felt too good to stop. Your hips rolled lazily, taking him deep, grinding down in slow, teasing circles. Chan groaned, his hands sliding up to your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your breath hitched. “Fuck… you feel like heaven.”

You rode him like worship, like ceremony. Hips rolling, rhythm steady, letting the sensation build with every pass. His fingers slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped at the touch, hips stuttering. His eyes darkened with heat. “Don’t stop. You’re perfect like this.” You didn’t. You moved harder now, skin slapping against his, your breath rising in ragged pants. You weren’t chasing a climax, not yet—it was all about the movement, the slick heat, the way you were joined so deeply.

Then he sat up without warning, his arm around your waist pulling you against his chest. Chan's mouth found your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder—kissing, nipping, tasting. You wrapped your arms around him as he thrust up into you, your legs tightening around his hips. Each movement was deeper like this, more intimate. You felt every inch of him. When your pace began to falter, your thighs trembling from the effort, Chan gently reversed your positions. You expected him to take you from behind again—but instead, he guided you onto your side, facing him.

Spooning had its tenderness, but this—this was different. You lifted your top leg slightly as he slid into you from the side. The angle was unexpected, exquisite. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders. "Better?" he asked, voice dark velvet against your mouth. "Yes," you whispered. It was slow, languid, but deeper than anything before. He held your gaze as he moved, one arm curled beneath your neck, the other hand gripping your thigh, guiding your leg higher over his hip. He was fully inside you, filling you perfectly, every thrust pressing against your most sensitive place.

You were surrounded by him—his breath on your skin, his body wrapped around yours, his length buried deep. The rhythm was slower now, almost torturously so. But it built with maddening precision. Chan kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, your cheekbone, never looking away. Your moans were swallowed in his mouth, and you felt yourself unraveling—every thrust driving you closer to that edge again. “You feel so good,” he whispered against your lips. “So tight and warm."

But just when the crescendo seemed imminent, Chan pulled back slightly, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Turn with me," he murmured. He guided your leg further upward and gently rolled, until you were partially on your back, his body angled above you. With one swift movement, he hooked your leg over his shoulder, bending you open for him. Then he moved. Faster. Rougher.

The shift was jarring and breathtaking. Every thrust now hit with precision, deep and unrelenting, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your cries turned guttural, your hands gripping the sheets—or him—anything to keep you grounded. He groaned as he watched you unravel. "You take me so well... every time." You could only gasp, head tossing back as the rhythm pushed you beyond the edge of control. Chan leaned down slightly, the new angle making it even more intense, his chest grazing your breast, his mouth finding your jaw, your throat, whispering filthy praise against your skin.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful like this,” he rasped. “Falling apart on my cock.” You felt the coiling heat in your belly begin to burn white-hot. Your muscles tensed, thighs shaking, the orgasm rising like a storm on the horizon. “Let go,” he whispered against your ear. “Come for me, love.” And you did.

The climax rolled through you in waves—deeper than before, slower, drawn out like silk unraveling. Your whole body tensed, then shuddered with release, and you sobbed his name into his mouth.

Chan kissed you through it, slowing just enough to let you feel every pulse, every aftershock. And only when you relaxed, body heavy and trembling in his arms, did he allow himself to chase his own end. A few more thrusts—urgent now, almost desperate—and he groaned, his release catching him hard. Chan held you tightly, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed to yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you. Nothing else mattered.

He didn’t pull away right away—just stayed there, buried inside you, wrapped around you, the rhythm of his breath matching yours.

Finally, when the trembling slowed and your hearts found their pace again, he brushed a kiss to your brow. “Stay here tonight,” you whispered. Chan looked at you, body still humming. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.” He smiled, the look in his eyes was something different now—softer, almost reverent.

And then he kissed you again—unhurried, like the sea brushing the shore, as if time itself had decided to wait a little longer.

Not an end. Just the hush before the next wave.

[veinsfullofstars]

💝🧠 for metadede?

You got it, anon! Let's see...

6. 💝 What is each person’s love language (words of affirmation, acts of service, giving gifts, quality time, and physical touch)?

23. 🧠 What is one headcanon that you have about your ship/one headcanon that’s related to your ship in any way? What would they say is their partner’s best and worst quality/qualities (a physical feature, something they do, something they stand for, etc.)?

How about we ask them?

Dedede: "Oh Nova, where do I even begin with that one? Stubborn little so-and-so… thinks he’s so smart, knows everythin’ about anythin’, like he can solve all his problems by swingin’ a sword at ‘em or bein’ all mysterious about it. Peh! And he says I’m the one with the ego problem. Oh, and don’t get me started on tryna convince him he’s wrong about somethin’! He’ll go from cold shoulder to volcanic fury in a heartbeat, and won’t even apologize for it! I tell you, the grudges that man can hold are legendary, and that is not a compliment…

… He’s got drive, though, I’ll give ‘im that. When he stands for somethin', he stands for it, no matter what. Not even a storm could move him from what he believes is right. Heck, he is the storm, haha! And, man, seein’ him when he’s like that… so strong and brave, oh, so brave. Ain’t nothin’ that scares him, and if there was, well shoot, he’d just about fight it anyway. ‘Specially if it’s to protect the folks he cares about…

Plus, he’s got the cutest darn baby face under that mask, simply adorable, and it is a crime-and-a-half that he hides it from everyone, ha ha ha!"

Meta Knight: *sigh* "He’s… a lot of things, that man. Impulsive, selfish, lazy, not to mention far too quick to forgive those who have wronged him - honestly, how anyone saw fit to put a crown on his head is beyond me. Hmph. Probably why he put it there himself in the end. Just one of his many whims, didn’t even bother to think it through before barreling right in, leaving everyone else to pick up the pieces in his wake, like always…

… That isn’t to say he doesn’t care, though. Quite the contrary. He cares so much about his kingdom - his home - as well as the people within it. Lazy or not, he will fight for them, protect them with his life if need be. Even the Fountain knows this. He’s strong, a truly impressive fighter in his own right, one I am honored to stand beside. More than that, though… he’s kind, passionate, smarter than most give him credit for, and, yes… a capable leader when he puts his mind to it.

He also, er… ahem. He also gives, uh, really good hugs, so."

Sketch started 03/22/25, finished 03/28/25. | Kirby Ship Ask Game (made by @/sweetandglovelyart) and alternate questions | Childhood Friends AU Masterpost