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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 2 months

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Let me breathe for you (part 2)

Merman!Shanks x reader. This is part two of two, part one is here!

*****

And you don’t forget the disappointment, at least in the next four months, a length of time during which you go on with your life, trying to feel satisfied and happy with what you have (succeeding, for the most part) and to forget your meeting with the merman (failing miserably).

Part of you feels the urge to return to the beach every day, and spend all day there, even sleeping in the grotto, in the absurd, shameful hope he might return, to leave a new message or to apologise for not waiting for you. You order yourself to resist, since you don’t want to waste the rest of your years waiting for something that has an infinitesimal probability to happen, but on the other hand you don’t want the memory of the merman to keep you from one of your favourite places; in the end, you decide to keep frequenting the beach as often as you did beforehand, no more nor less, and when you do you can’t help hoping to see him, even if just an azure tail fin peeking among the waves, or the shadow of a bright red head disappearing under the surface, or to find a new message written on the ground in the grotto.

You never do.

In time, resentment gives way to resignation; you know in your heart you will never see the merman again, since it would be extremely dangerous for him to return and wait for you at the beach, and you have no idea what his life in the depth of the sea is like, but you feel confident, for some reason, he will never forget you, what you shared and what you have done for him, just like you will forever carry the memories of that day in your heart. It is not enough, not by a long shot; but it does make you feel content, at least a little.

Your sister, on her part, must have noticed how quiet and melancholic you became for a few weeks; having suspected you had a new paramour, who you had gone meeting on that morning, she probably thinks the two of you have parted ways, but never asks questions, something for which you are more than grateful. There is not much of your life you haven’t shared with her, but you have promised the merman you wouldn’t tell anyone about your meeting, and you are determined to keep your word. You could tell your sister you had met a castaway, and grown fond of him as you took care of his wound and helped him hide from the, er, pirates who were chasing him, fond enough you couldn’t help feeling dejected when he left without saying goodbye; she would understand, and it wouldn’t be a lie, all things considered. But you don’t, reluctant to share that precious memory even with the person you love most in the world, and in time things go back the way they were before, which reassures your sister you have gotten over whatever pain you have suffered and all is well again.

Which is; even though something has changed in you, a new feeling that has entered your life and that for a while you can’t even give a name to. It is not exactly sadness, or discontent; you like your life, with the family you love and your work, a source of great satisfaction and joy, but for the first time, during your walks on the beach or even just as you look out of the window of your bedroom, you look at the sea and feel… what? Boredom? Restlessness? The curiosity to know the peoples and the lands beyond it, not just by hearsay or reading the paper, but with your own eyes, living what until now you have only known indirectly?

You can’t, obviously; you know of more young men and women whose thirst for adventure led them to set sail towards exotic lands than you can count, but you are not that sort of person, you are an adult, with a job and responsibilities, and you are sadly aware that many of those thrill-seekers travellers never return home, even when someone needs and is waiting for them. So many times you have blamed him in your heart for what he did; how could you do the same mistake, especially now that your sister needs your help caring for her family? A life on the sea is not for you, no matter how exciting it would be.

A life on the sea… and under the sea, that is where your merman lives, and what you would also like to explore, the depths that none of your people have ever seen and lived to tell about it, that are said to hide fabulous treasures and be inhabited by creatures beyond your wildest imagination, like the one who had bitten his arm of. How lovely it would be to see it, to have your friend guide you in exploring the most mysterious parts of the ocean, perhaps after some merfolk magic had transformed your legs into a long, sea-blue tail…

Oh, stop it, (name). It can never happen; it won’t happen, and ignoring this will only make you miserable. Just be happy with what you have.

And so, months pass; word of mouth earns you a few important clients from a nearby town, and their commissions, including a wedding dress you spend a whole month working on, allow you to put aside a discrete amount of money that could be enough for a deposit if you ever decided to go live on your own… or to buy a ticket towards a far away land. No matter how satisfied and content you are with your life, for the first time you do feel the desire, if not exactly the need, to leave, and explore the world beyond the small island you call home; it would be more than a little hypocritical of you to leave for an adventure around the world, given all the years you have spent blaming him for having done the same, and all the resentment you have felt ever since you saw his ship departing, never to return, but after all this is your life, something you are answerable to no one about, and doesn’t one have the right to change their mind after so many years? After all you shouldn’t necessarily risk your life sailing to uncharted waters or visiting lawless islands, you could simply treat yourself to a long holiday and then return, safe and sound, to the safety of your own home, your horizons expanded and your thirst for knowledge sated…

You don’t share your… doubts -it’s still too early to call them projects- with your sister, but she knows you too well not to perceive you are thinking deeply about something, and one evening, as you are both sitting at the kitchen table, you busy mending a tiny shirt your older nephew has torn playing and she writing a letter, your sister tries to gently push you in what she thinks is the right direction.

“I met a client of yours today; he mentioned that a friend of his, the captain of a merchant vessel, is looking for a nursemaid for his son.” she casually, too casually, mentions without lifting her eyes from the paper “He’d be away for at least six months, and the pay would be more than generous.”

Silence.

“You should propose yourself, (name); I am sure mr…”

“I am a seamstress, not a nursemaid.” you point out, still focused on your stitches; you know roughhousing is normal for children your nephew’s age, but did he really have to choose the day his mother had him wear his best shirt to challenge his friends to a fight to the death? “Even a dry one.”

“I don’t think the child is that young; and you have been a mother to my boys as much as I have, you are more than experienced enough. (name)...”

“No.”

“It would do you a world of good. See new places, meet new people…”

“I am perfectly content with the places and people I know already.” you retort, more brusquely than you are used to when you talk to her; you immediately regret it, but it’s too late to stop the words from pouring out “Not to mention I already have a job, and a long list of commissions. I can’t very well leave everything to go gallivanting around the sea.”

Your sister softly points out that if you accepted the nursemaid job now you’d still have time to finish the jobs you have already accepted before having to depart with your new master, and she doubts you’d have lost many clients if -I mean, when- you ever decided to return.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Don’t be daft, (name); you know we have no words to thank you for all the help you give us with the house and the children. But… but there is more to life than this.” she says as she takes your hands in hers; she forces you to look at her, and her eyes, as earnest and kind as you remember his being, are enough to make you feel about to cry “I know my life is here, with my husband and my children, and I am satisfied with it; I have never wanted differently. But you… I know you have been restless for a while -no, don’t try to deny it, I’m your sister, I know your heart- and I also think… if you remain, it is less because you are actually satisfied with your life here, and more because…”

“Don’t say it.”

“... because of dad. I know you are still angry with him for leaving us, and I’m not saying you are wrong, but you don’t have children, and we would be all right…”

“You can’t know it!”

You have shouted, loud enough to wake the children, who are still young enough to valiantly resist any attempt to put them to bed before they decide it is time, but you don’t care, because you are angry, yes, you are furious, still with your father and right now a little bit with her as well. “What if something happens to them while the two of you are at work, and I’m not there to protect them? What if your husband loses his job while I’m away, and you can’t support the family on your own? Father left us when we needed him the most; we were still so young, he was everything we had, and he preferred his travels to us!”

“But we are not children anymore.” your sister quietly points out; the loss of your father was perhaps even harder on her than it was on you, considering she was the older and she felt responsible for you, but she never felt any resentment towards him, which is why, perhaps, you have felt enough for both “We are adults, old enough to make our own choices. (name)... you know how much we appreciate and rely on you, but we’re not going to end up in the streets just because you leave; no meteorite is going to fall on the house, killing us all, as soon as you look the other way.”

You frown. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

“I am not and you know it. I just don’t want you to waste your life…”

“I am not wasting my life. I don’t want to leave; I’m happy here. Adventures and danger, that is not my thing; it wasn’t father’s thing either, since it ended up killing him.” you conclude sadly; you are justifying yourself, and that makes you even angrier, because you have done nothing wrong, dammit! What is so wrong with wanting a safe, predictable life? “I am not refraining from leaving because I hated our father for doing that; I am just learning from his mistakes, like the mature person I like to think I am. I know you are trying to help me…”

“I am; (name), if only you gave yourself a chance…”

“... and I am grateful, but I’d really like it if we could stop talking about it, and never do it again. Please?”

Your sister nods, clearly saddened to have upset you; you kiss her on the cheek, to reassure her you’re no longer angry, and return to your chair, and your mending, while your sister finishes writing and letter and then leaves you alone.

The last, lingering warmth of summer gives way to the arrival of a rigid autumn, the quickly worsening weather and shorter days making you feel vaguely melancholic, no matter how pretty the trees in their fall colours are, and how pleasant the evenings spent around the fire at home drinking your sister’s famous mulled cider. You’ll be happier when winter comes; abundant snowfalls that are quite common on your island, and you’re never too old to play snowballs with your nephews and go skating on the frozen lake.

Today you wake up early as usual, lingering in the warmth of your bed only for a moment before rising to begin your day. Sent the children to school, you prepare to visit a client’s house to drop off two skirts you had tightened at the waist for her, and to take measurements for another dress; the lady in question is among your hardest to please clients, but she always pays generously, and you are determined to do a good job. You retrieve your gloves and heavy coat from the wardrobe, and as you reach the front door you notice a white envelope on the mat, clearly fallen from the mailbox: it contains a very elegant invitation, printed on good quality paper and addressed to you, for a party scheduled for next week… a party given by mr. Dracule Mihawk, one of the notables of the town.

Well, this is surprising, you reflect as you place the invitation in your bag, careful not to damage it; both the fact that mr. Mihawk is hosting a party, given his famously reserved, almost antisocial personality, and his decision to invite you. He is one of your most faithful clients, considering all the times he has had you buy precious fabrics to make elegant suits and coats, and he does often compliment your abilities as a seamstress and embroiderer, but the two of you never had a relationship beyond what is strictly required by his patronage.

Still, a party invitation is not something to disdain, especially when you haven’t attended one in months; you’ll ask your sister to accompany you, if her husband can take care of the children for the evening, and while a week is too short a time to make a new dress from scratch, you’ll have plenty of time to make sure you are both suitably attired. There was some velvet you had, left over from a commission, you could use to embellish your best dress, and she owns a shawl that would be perfect if only you decorated it with beads or a fringe…

Feeling in high spirits, you finally leave for your client’s house, shivering in the cold under the quickly darkening sky; an hour later, having taken care of your first errand, you are walking towards the market to buy a few things before your next appointment when something enters your field of sight only for a moment… and you stop.

The building you are walking next to is an art shop, with paintings and other art objects on sale, pretty but devoid of any real value for the most part; you have never paid much attention to it, but suddenly you feel unable to move, and to look away from a painting in the window… a marine landscape, with a merman in the foreground.

“Do you like it, (name)?” the shop owner, a former schoolmate of your sister’s, asks from the door; an easy enough question to answer, but still you struggle to talk, still focused on the painting.

“I… yes, it’s very pretty. Is it yours?”

“Not that one; another shop was closing and I bought some of their stuff in bulk. I have no idea who painted it, but it has been on that window for weeks and no one even glanced at it; perhaps a marine scene is a boring subject, given the fact we live on an island.”

“Hmm…”

The painting is clearly not a masterpiece worthy to be displayed in a museum, even someone who has never cared for art like you can tell, but it does have an unassuming, simple beauty to it. The roaring sea is painted in all of its dangerous magnificence, all shades of blue used to represent the high combers rising from the surface, sprays of foam covering the iron-grey sky. And in front of that chaotic backdrop, relaxed and almost detached as he contemplates the turmoil behind him, there is a merman, his gaze lifted as if in challenge, lying on the beach. He has two perfectly normal arms, one propped behind him and one abandoned in his lap in a vaguely sensual pose, and his hair is blonde instead of red; but his long tail, stretched in front of him, is exactly the same blue-green of that of your friend, brighter than the vast expanse in front of him, and while you can’t see his face, you are sure the merman in the painting is smiling, the sort of open, brave and amused smile you still carry in your heart to this day, five months after your first and only meeting, and that you know you’ll never forget, no matter how sad and disappointed you felt when he left without saying good-bye. The merman is not afraid of the storm, and why should he be? The sea is his home; no matter how violent the current, or high the waves, he’ll always find his way back, even if he swam at the other side of the ocean.

How you wish it would be the same for you. And maybe it would, but you’re too scared to find out.

You awake from that daydream, both wishful thinking and fond memory, only when a shiver passes through your body; the day is chilly, and you still have many errands to run before returning home, to warm yourself in front of the fire.

Still, you don’t let the cold distract you. “How much?”

“Sorry?”

“This painting, with the… stormy sea. How much does it cost?”

The shop owner, who had lost any hope to sell the painting, asks for a more than reasonable but still significant price, that you nonetheless readily pay, before leaving the shop with your purchase under your arm. That night you gently decline your brother-in-law’s help, and hang the painting on the wall of your room, placed so that it is the first thing you see after opening your eyes in the morning, and the last before falling asleep; looking at it, and remembering the unexpected meeting with the same creature immortalised on canvas, does make you feel vaguely melancholic, but you also remember how happy and excited you felt that day, and that is what matters the most.

A week passes, and finally it is the evening of the party at Mihawk’s residence, just a few minutes walk from your home; your brother-in-law is not working tonight, which allows you and your sister to go out and have fun. You have renovated both your best dress and hers, and you must admit you both look very good, enough to attend what will undoubtedly be a very exclusive gathering.

“I still can’t understand why Mihawk invited me.” you mention as the two of you walk arm in arm down the walkway of the stately villa, festively decorated for the occasion; lit torches illuminate the garden, and judging from the sweet music wafting from the inside of the building the orchestra has already been put to work “I mean, I’ve known him for years and I know he appreciates my creations, but I doubt he also invited his gardner, or the man who painted his walls.”

“Well, perhaps it’s because he cares more about his clothes than about plants or the state of his walls.” your sister suggests; she stops to wave to a couple of acquaintances walking in the opposite direction, and then smiles “Or perhaps he cares… about you.”

The mere idea makes you laugh; you have met Mihawk often enough not to be intimidated by his severe attitude -not too much, at least- but you never had reason to suspect he is interested in you. “That’s absolutely preposterous.”

“No, it’s not. He’s unmarried, you’re unmarried, and a party would be the perfect occasion to move from a strictly professional relationship to a more intimate one. After we thank him for the invitation I’ll make sure to leave you alone with him.”

“Don’t you dare…”

The sound of peaceful chatters fills the air; waiters in uniform move among the guests, offering flutes and refreshments. Some women’s dresses are much more elegant than your and your sister’s, but you feel no embarrassment, determined to simply enjoy the evening without feeling out of place or outshined.

Mihawk is standing by the villa’s open double doors, welcoming the guests as they arrive; he seems vaguely bored, which makes you wonder why he hosted the party in the first place, but his yellow eyes, so similar to those of a bird of prey, immediately fix on you, as if he had waited for your arrival, as if he considered it important for some reason. What is happening?, you wonder; Mihawk is not in love with you, you are sure of it, you doubt he actually cares about you beyond your abilities with needle and thread, and you cannot begin to comprehend why he wanted you at his party.

“Good evening, mr. Dracule; thank you for inviting us.”

“Miss (name); miss (sister’s name). Welcome, thank you for coming.” he answers, polite but dispassionate as usual, with a small bow of his head; he is wearing an elegant black suit with red and yellow roses embroidered on the sleeves and the sides, a suit you are responsible for creating; the fact that he decided to wear for an important occasion makes you quite proud. You are about to excuse yourself and mingle with the other guests, but Mihawk is quicker and “Miss (name), may I have a moment of your time?” he asks.

You can feel, rather than see, your sister smiling broadly next to you, as if she expects Mihawk to take advantage of that moment of privacy to ask for your hand.

“Of course.” you answer, perfectly aware you have no polite way to refuse, and let the host’s hand at the small of your back guide you along an empty corridor; whatever reason Mihawk had to want you at his party you’re going to find out in a minute, and the prospect doesn’t exactly scare you, but for some reason you can’t help feeling tense…

Mihawk remains silent until you reach a room, a small library empty except for one person, and as soon as that person turns to look at you, a strangled cry escapes your lips.

“You!”

“Hello, (name).” the merman answers, his smile as open and happy as you remember it to be, albeit with a touch of uncertainty it didn’t have during your first meeting “I wasn’t sure you… remembered me…”

Of course, because you have met so many creatures half-man and half-fish in your life you could get confused. Before you can utter a reply, Mihawk attracts your attention with a discreet cough. “I’ll take my leave.” he announces, and the merman nods, understanding evident between the two of them.

“Thank you, my friend.”

You remain still, and silent, until the master of the house has left, closing the door behind him; as soon as you are alone, you march towards the merman, already sure it is him, no matter how inexplicable his presence on dry land is, but eager to take a closer look. He lets you observe him, patiently waiting without speaking, smiling softly as you can’t stop staring at his legs.

His legs. Long and strong, perfectly proportioned, clad in a pair of dark brown trousers, normal black shoes on his feet. It is clearly him, you would be ready to bet everything you own, your very soul, on it; how could you ever forget that smile, and that bright red hair? Still, the creature in front of you is clearly human, and you are completely stunned, afraid to discover this is only a dream you will soon wake from feeling more lonely and dejected than ever, but despite the turmoil in your heart, the most intense, overwhelming emotion in your heart is joy, pure and simple elation, because you missed him so much, and seeing him again, even though perhaps simply in a dream, is enough to make you happy…

“It is me, (name).” he gently murmurs in the end, taking your hand in his; you let him, but at the same time you glare menacingly, determined not to let him go unpunished.

“I know it’s you. I also know you had… if not exactly promised, made me believe I would still find you there at the grotto the morning after we met; I arrived at dawn with the food and the bandages for you, and stood there gawping! I was worried for you, you know? I feared those fishermen had found you and taken you away!”

The merman -the man, now, you assume- listens to your complaints without arguing, looking at least properly chastised.

“I’m sorry I hurt you; especially after everything you had done to help and protect me.” he murmurs in the end; you can feel his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand, a perhaps not fully conscious gesture that fills your heart with a tenderness you order yourself not to give in - yet; as your sister can attest, you don’t forgive easily “I did want to wait for you, but… my friends found me shortly before you were due to arrive, and convinced me it was safer for both if I left and returned home.”

“Hmm…”

“This is why - well, this is one of the reasons why I asked Mihawk to invite you; I wanted to talk to you, and tell you how sorry I am.”

You sigh, aware of his sincerity, and of the fact you are so happy to see him again you have already forgotten your resentment. “I guess you had good intentions, at least. Are… are you alright? Your wound, I mean.”

Another smile. Darn it, how could you stay crossed with him?! “I am perfectly healthy, thank you. My doctor said your stitches were very well made, especially for a person who had received no medical training.”

“That is good to hear. I…” you sigh, feeling a sudden, unexplained shiness enveloping you “I don’t even know your name.”

“You’re right; how rude of me. I am Shanks.” he says with an elegant bow; when he brings your hand to his mouth, you can feel his breath on your fingers “Captain Shanks of the Red Force, at your service.”

The name suits him. You quickly learn that Shanks’ ship is a merchant vessel, and that they plan to remain in town until spring; Mihawk is an old friend of his, and decided to host the party to introduce him and his crewmates to the town.

“He must be very fond of you, then.” you mention, thinking how usually reserved and solitary your client and host is.

“He is, even though he’s also very good at hiding it.”

Shanks smiles. “You must have even more questions than on our first meeting.” he mentions gently, and you nod, admitting the need to know is so intense you feel ready to burst.

“Maybe… maybe we could walk in the garden as we talk.” Shanks suggests, and for a moment he seems the shy one, as if afraid his proposal could be misinterpreted - or worse, refused “I’ll tell you all I can, I promise, but this is not the sort of talk you can have among so many people.”

You could remain in the library, since you doubt any of the invitees would feel the need for a book as they converse pleasantly and sip champagne; but a walk in the garden is a much more pleasant option.

“I’d really like that.”

You leave the room together; your sister, standing by the buffet table with a few people she’s acquainted with, meets your gaze just in time to see Shanks offering you his arm, and you accepting it gladly.

“Here you are, (name); I saw Mihawk on his own, but I see you already found company.” she mentions with the sort of meaningful look only two sisters can share, as she looks at Shanks with interest “Who is your friend?”

“This is Shanks; Shanks, this is my sister.” you quickly introduce them, happy to see two people you are so fond of meeting each other.

“Such a pleasure.” he politely greets her with another of those lovely, disarming smiles of his “I am sorry I stole (name) from you.”

“It’s not a problem, (name) is old enough to go where she pleases. Have you… just met or…?”

“Actually we first became acquainted a few months back.” Shanks explains “(name) was walking on a beach out of town when he found me; a group of bandits had assaulted me and left me for dead. Hadn’t it been for her help, I may not be here today. We had agreed to meet on the next morning, so that I could thank her in full and she could make sure I was well looked after, but I let my friends convince me we better depart immediately. I just arrived in town, so I wanted to apologise to her.”

“I see.” your sister murmurs; she has listened intently to Shanks’ explanation, and when her gaze shifts on you, you know she’s thinking back to that night, when seeing you singing happily to yourself made her wonder whether you had a new gentleman friend, and to how heartbroken you had looked returning home on the next morning, after the person you had gone to meet hadn’t come. She now knows that person is Shanks, and she must also have a thousand questions to ask you, but wisely decides to wait for a more appropriate moment. Is everything alright?, she asks you without the need to utter a word, as it has always been between the two of you, and you smile in return, which is enough to satisfy her.

You and Shanks spend a few minutes with your sister, who then lets the two of you go, winking at you behind her shoulder.

“She must love you very much.” Shanks mentions as the two of you reach the gardens, away from the small, noisy crowd that fills the villa; a few people you walk past turn to look at you, openly staring at the stump of his arm visible under his black cape, but Shanks doesn’t seem to notice “I think she was ready to pounce on me, if she only had the impression I was bothering you.”

Imagining the scene makes you giggle. Despite the chill of the evening, you expected more of the attendees would have chosen to walk in the gardens, but that solitude is perfect for you and your companion, since it leaves you free to talk without fear of being heard. Shanks waits for you to sit on a bench under a large tree before taking a seat beside you.

“What are you?” you ask half a moment later; you perceive the question could be considered rude, but you can’t help yourself. You have waited for this moment for five months!

Shanks laughs softly, amused rather than offended. “You don’t beat about the bush, do you?” he asks “Well, I am a merman; but I am also a human. I can shift between the two forms as I want, my legs transforming into a tail and vice-versa.”

“I see.” you answer numbly, struggling to come to terms with yet another revelation due to the amazing, astonishing man next to you. Ever since you met him you have felt your world expanding, as well your desire to know it beyond the reassuring walls of your tiny and predictable existence, and it scares you… and it makes you happy, just like he does “I had never heard about anything like this - like you. I mean, there are legends and stories about mermaids and mermen, but I never heard of a creature capable of transforming like you do.”

“It’s a fact we tend to keep secret, as well as that of our very existence.”

“There are others like you?”

It is the sort of question Shanks had gently refused to answer on your first meeting, given the fact every information about his kind he shared could put him in danger, but his hesitation seems to have disappeared.

“A few; not many, unfortunately, as far as I know, even though as you can imagine there is no complete census.”

“Is… everyone in your family like you?”

“I guess. My… nature must be hereditary, but I am a foundling, and have never met my parents or other relatives, so I can’t be fully sure.”

He smiles at you, as if to reassure you that loneliness is not a heavy weight to carry. “You never told anyone you had met me, have you?”

“Of course not.”

“As I expected. I… I have thought about you often, you know?” Shanks murmurs, taking your hand once more; his is bigger, calloused as was to be expected from a sailor, but his touch is gentle, almost reverent… as if he was holding something precious, something he didn’t hope he would experience again “I felt terrible for having left you there. I hoped…”

“Yes?”

“... nothing. That time, when we met, I was here in town to visit Mihawk; we have been friends for a long time, even though I doubt he would call us such. When I returned a few days ago, planning to stay a while, I asked him if he knew someone with your name, and when he told me he’s a client of yours I asked him to invite you to the party.”

“All of it just to apologise?” you ask with a smile that Shanks returns, vaguely embarrassed.

“To be honest, I really wanted to see you again.”

“Then I’m glad you came back, because I wanted to see you too.”

Neither feels the need to speak as you enjoy the quiet and privacy of the gardens, your hand in his; stand-mounted torches diffuse a warm, soft light, intense enough to reflect the bright red of Shanks’ hair. You’re not enjoying the party much, not the music nor the buffet, but you don’t care, and you couldn’t wish for a better company.

“I envy you, you know?” you murmur softly after a while, your gaze low on your feet “You are a sea captain; I imagine you have travelled extensively.”

“I have. I still do; I don’t think I have ever had a proper house on land since I was six years old. My ship is a merchant vessel, sturdy enough to face the most violent storms; I travel all over the world, and I am paid to do it. Who is more fortunate than I am?”

The pride and happiness evident in Shanks’ voice makes you smile - a bit wistfully.

“You are fortunate. As a merman you can explore the oceans, as a human you can walk on land. You are the master of both worlds, in a sense. You can do whatever you want.”

“Well, I don’t have wings, which means I can’t fly, but otherwise yes, I do have wider horizons than most creatures.” Shanks admits; he looks at you, his hand still gently caressing yours - a touch that is not inherently sensual, but could easily become so “Don’t you like your life? Mihawk says you are an excellent seamstress, with clients even in the nearby towns.”

“It’s true; and I have much to be grateful for, just…”

You sigh, at first unable to put into words something you have never had the courage to address even in the privacy of your heart. “My father was an explorer; he didn’t have a house in a town or on an island, but he travelled far and wide, to map uncharted lands, act as an informal ambassador on behalf of this or that lord, or write a report on some untraveled region’s flora or fauna. He saw a different dawn almost every day; I don’t think he ever slept in the same bed for more than a week. And then he came here, on the way to some other place and only planning to stay until the town’s shipwrights repaired his ship, he met my mother, who worked in the port’s best tavern, and five days later he put my sister in her.”

“So he stayed.”

“He stayed, and he married her; he missed his life, the adventure, the excitement, but he loved my mother, and while he probably felt duty-bound to do the right thing for her and the baby, I think he was happy, at least for a while. Three years later I came along; he was a good father, he loved us and he worked hard for us, even though I know he was frustrated with a boring office job, and regretted having had to abandon his dreams and aspirations for this little town, and a little life. I don’t remember he ever held it against us, but after all it was only eight years; perhaps in time he would have come to hate us all.”

An outburst of laughter reaches your ears from inside the villa; apparently someone, probably not the host, has just recounted a very amusing story. You sigh, feeling suddenly melancholic and, even worse, foolish. “I’m sorry, this is not the sort of thing one should discuss at a party…”

Shanks’ hand squeezes yours gently. “Go on.” he invites you, and for a moment you love him for it.

“One day, completely out of the blue, my mother fell sick, fainting in the kitchen as she prepared dinner; she never properly woke up again. My father called for the best doctors of the region, he stood by her side day and night begging her not to abandon him, but all of it was in vain; a violent fever took her away in a matter of days. We all mourned her; my father cried for days, and my sister and I slept in the same bed for months. He tried his best to take care of us, but he couldn’t; not because he didn’t know how to cook or couldn’t prepare us for school. The truth is… the truth is he had not chosen, but accepted, that sort of life for her, and now that she had gone, he couldn’t see a reason to stay. Not even us.”

It is painful to say it out loud; it is terribly humiliating, but the worst thing is another: the fact that even now, so many years later, you can’t fully hate him for it.

“So he left. Our grandparents were too old to take care of us, so he paid another couple to move in the house and act as our tutors, and made sure we would also be looked after financially; he promised he would come back, and he did, twice, first after eight months, and then after a year. And then he left again, to sail towards some distant land where a fabulous treasure was supposed to be held, and he never returned. He died at sea, and we were left alone. I mean, we were not thrown in the streets, my sister and I; our tutors were good people, and he had left us the house and a little capital. But what we wanted, what we needed desperately, was a father; he knew, he had to know, and he ran away to the other end of the world.”

Shanks sighs; he has listened intently to your story, and has perceived you don’t need to be consoled, just… understood. Heard. “Sometimes people cannot deny their own nature; it is sad, and difficult to accept, but that is the truth.” he murmurs; he turns towards you, his brown eyes finding yours as your knees meet “I am sure your father loved you very much; but if his destiny, his nature, was to travel the world, staying would have made him miserable. Look at me: I am both a merman and a human; whatever shape I assume at a given moment, I’m still both, and I’m fully conscious of the other part still present inside me. I’m not saying your father did the right thing, or that he shouldn’t have decided otherwise because you and your sister needed him; but perhaps the choice wasn’t fully his to begin with.”

It is a sensible explanation, that you contemplate for a while, offering your face to the light of the torches, their warmth caressing your skin; in the end, you realise with a sigh, it doesn’t really matter whether you are able to make peace with your father or keep resenting him until your last breath, since he’s gone and you’re old enough to take care of yourself. Still, there are times you wish you could find some forgiveness for him, and for yourself as well, in your heart; in other moments, you feel as if letting go of that resentment you have felt since you were barely old enough to understand your emotions, would mean letting yourself be abandoned for the second time…

“Sometimes I also wish I could leave.” you confess; you sound hypocritical to your own ears, but you feel Shanks won’t blame you for it… that he’ll understand how conflicted you feel, and ashamed of yourself for it “I have a good life here, a job I enjoy and a family I love, but I wish I could explore the world beyond what I have known since I was born, because I know there is more to life than taking care of my nephews or embroidering a wedding dress, no matter how satisfying those things are.”

Shanks smiles. “You could do it. You have no children of your own, and you could pay your ticket on a cruise ship.”

“I know; and I know my sister and her husband could manage without me, but… I can’t find the courage to leave; the truth is… I don’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps, and I know it’s stupid, because I can’t let the actions of a dead man dictate how I live my life, but…”

“But perhaps this is your nature; to feel yourself torn between two realities, the desire for home and the thirst for knowledge, without fully belonging to either.” Shanks mentions, and smiles “We are similar in that regard, you and I.”

“We are.”

Another moment of pleasant, intimate silence follows; you are wondering whether the man next to you will decide to leave your hand to put his arm around your shoulders -and, in case he’s deliberately refraining from doing that, what you can do to subtly communicate you would not find it inappropriate, quite the opposite in fact- when suddenly Shanks turns to you and “Would you like to dance?” he asks.

“You mean here?”

“Why not? We can hear the music, and at least we won’t have to worry we might bump into the other couples. I am quite steady on my feet, even though I spend half my time with a tail… and I only have an arm to hold you.”

You find yourself giggling. “I’d really like that.”

And so you dance, alone as the soft notes coming from the villa’s ballroom envelop you, your eyes in his, Shanks’ arm circling your waist while you rest your arms on his shoulders. His body is solid against yours, and pleasantly warm in the chill of the night; the desire to kiss him, for him to kiss you, is intense enough to make you tremble. You feel happy with Shanks, happier than you have ever felt in a long time, and you don’t want him to leave again, after such a short time, not unless he promises he will return…

“You know, if you ever wanted to leave, at least for a while… I could help you.” Shanks murmurs after a while; you can feel his heart beating, slightly faster than normal, against yours “I do have a ship, after all.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly tense; suddenly hopeful, as you gently sway together “I mean, you would really… take me with you? I thought yours was a merchant vessel.”

“It is, and we don’t usually take passengers, but… yours would be a special case. To be honest, I had tried to… test the waters, a while ago; didn’t Mihawk tell you of someone who was looking for a nursemaid for a child?”

“That was you?!” you exclaim, dumbfounded “My sister mentioned something… she didn’t tell me it was Mihawk who had told her, but on the other hand, I didn’t know he was your friend until tonight…”

“Of course not; I just wanted to know if you’d be… well, willing to do it. Travel for a while, take care of a child you are not related to.”

“But you are?”

“Related to him, you mean? No; as far as I know, I have no children. Luffy is… well, it’s a long story; he has no family worthy of the name and you could say I have adopted him, even though I couldn’t get rid of him would probably be a more accurate description.”

Shanks smiles, the affection clear in his voice; suddenly he’s holding you a bit tighter than before.

“He’s the child you sacrificed your arm for, isn’t he?”

“He is; it’s not a pretty story, but if you want I’ll tell you about it. He needs discipline, but he’s a good kid, barely older than your nephews; maybe you’ll like living on a ship for a while, and you could return home whenever you want.”

He suddenly spins you around, forcing you to grab his shoulders in order not to fall; for a moment your body is pressed to his, and you just know he did it deliberately.

“Are you offering me a job, captain Shanks?” you inquire, and now you’re smiling as well.

“I am, miss (last name). Would you be interested?”

You are. Very interested.

“I am. Just… let me think about it for a while.”

“I’m staying in town until spring, or until Mihawk chases me off. You have all the time.”

“Good.”

You sigh happily as you rest your cheek against Shanks’ shoulder, feeling yourself fluctuating between excitement and peace, the precious moment you’re living now and the promise for the future. Once more, poised between two worlds; and perhaps, richer for this.

“May I ask you a question? When you… shift; is it painful?” you inquire, and he needs a moment to consider it.

“Painful, no; a bit weird, perhaps, like an itch on my legs or tail, but by now I am used to it. And I guess it would look… weird, to someone who has never experienced it.”

“I’d be curious to see it.” you reflect; a moment later a completely inappropriate image fills your mind, and you thank God the torches’ light is faint enough Shanks can’t see you blush “I mean… it’s something so… unusual…”

“That’s a good way to put it, yes.”

The music stops, and you as well. “Are you cold?” Shanks murmurs gently, and you shake your head, since while you are a little chilly, you are not ready to return inside, where everyone else is, ending the magical moment the two of you are living together.

“There is another thing I’d like to do.” you admit, earning a curious look from the red-haired man in front of you, still holding you tight.

“That is?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy. Or, even worse, completely shameless.”

Shanks gently points out that as a ship captain, he has probably seen more impropriety in a year than you in your whole life. He’s probably not wrong, but even if he weren’t you wouldn’t mind; there is something in Shanks that makes you feel at ease, whatever you may say or do, perhaps because he is not the judging sort, or maybe because there is something special between the two of you and you see no point in denying it. And so, you whisper your indecent proposal in his ear, and a minute later you’re walking away from the villa, hand in hand, towards the little beach that saw you meet for the first time. It is quite a long walk, that you enjoy under the moon, away from the town; you had already noticed Shanks keeps a short sword hidden under his cape, a sign that even the life of the captain of a merchant vessel is not devoid of risk, but you would feel safe all the same, as if just for that night, destiny had decided no evil would befall you. You cut through the fields, Shanks’s sturdy boots and your delicate dancing shoes leaving a line of footsteps behind them; the air is still around you, the promise of a well-kept secret. Neither speaks, but you can feel Shanks’ eyes on you, his ardent dark eyes making you feel more conscious of your body than you have ever been.

And finally the beach opens in front of you, the moon reflecting on the calm waters enclosed by sand and rocks. The quiet murmuring of the backwash barely stirs the silence surrounding you; it feels as if you and Shanks were the only two people for miles all around, maybe even the only man and woman left in the world; an overwhelming thought, that nonetheless doesn’t upset you, because it’s impossible to feel lonely when you’re in good company.

“So… shall we?” you ask Shanks, and he nods, but for the first time there is a trace of tension in his smile, and he has just taken off his boots, and left his cloak and sword on a nearby rock, when he stops, his arm wrapped around his torso as if to protect himself against an impending danger.

“Are you alright?” you as softly “You don’t have to do this, if it… upsets you.”

“I do want to do it.” he reassures you; his fingers brush against your cheek, the beauty of Shanks’ smile visible even in the almost complete darkness of the night “Sweet (name)... how lucky I am that day you were the one who found me. It’s just… you are the first person I have ever shared my secret with; if someone else were to find out - no, it’s alright, I know you’d never tell. But all my life, I’ve been warned about letting people know… of the dangers of being hunted and killed and exploited. It’s an… instinct of self-preservation, in a sense.”

“I understand.” you reassure him, feeling a little guilty; how could you not think Shanks’ situation was different from yours, and he had much more to fear than being assaulted or robbed at knifepoint? “If you want we can simply…”

“This is fine; just… give me a second…”

He smiles at you and, all too aware of your eyes on him, he starts undressing; soon, his clothes lie abandoned in a pile on the sand, the shadows of the night painting Shanks’ tan skin of all the shades of black and grey. Your gazes meet, and he winks, not exactly grandstanding but making no effort to hide his nudity either, and serenely walks to the shore, and he dives; his long legs disappear under the surface and when he re-emerges, the merman’s long tail raises a spray of water behind it, the soft light of the moon playing on the blue-green scales.

The beauty of that scene -the beauty of him, human or merman or whatever he is- is enough to move you to tears.

“I thought you said you wanted to go for a swim!” Shanks calls to you, happily waving his hand “Have you changed your mind? The water is not that cold!”

If there is a thing you are not… completely unhappy you have inherited from your late father, it's the fact that you never back down from a challenge, no matter how friendly. So, without answering, you begin getting rid of your own clothes, the dress you spent so long admiring yourself in falling to the ground as you slip out of it, and then it’s the turn of your stockings and in the end your mid-thigh-high underdress is the the sole thing you’re still wearing as you walk to the shoreline. You shiver as you feel the cold water lapping at your ankles and then your calves, but Shanks is only a few feet away, waiting for you, effortlessly keeping himself afloat; you swim to him, and a moment later he is holding you by the waist once more, your legs instinctively wrapping around his body as your arms find purchase on his shoulders; the water’s cold but protective embrace surrounds you, and when Shanks’ lips finally press against yours, his kiss reverent and hungry and full of promise, you feel as if you were making love to the sea itself.

“I won’t leave again; not without telling you.” Shanks murmurs, your kisses chasing each other; he can’t caress you, since his only arm is still wrapped around you, but judging by the sounds he makes as he sucks on the side of his neck, he likes the way you are touching him “You have… hmmm… my word.”

“I’ll remind you of it.” you answer, and grin “And even if you did, I promise I’ll run after you.”

You laugh together, and “My sweet (name)” Shanks murmurs “Let me breathe for you.”

His mouth has claimed yours in a new kiss when both of your heads disappear under the surface.

TAGGING @luuffyswife and @alucardsdaddyissues. Hope you like this!

#OPLA #One Piece #One Piece Live Action #Shanks #Red-Haired Shanks #Shanks x reader #Red-Haired Shanks x reader #Peter Gadiot #Bellona's stuff

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iamthedukeofurl · 2 days

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Fantasy High Junior Year Spoilers Okay imagine this You are a young musician in Solace, your agent tells you that you've got a record deal with a really great label: Bottomless Pit Records. They're the ones that put out "Dawn of Justice". You're told to show up at their studio to record. So, the directions say to go to Elmville, Alright, but the address is for the most haunted mansion you've ever seen, It's falling apart, and there's a werewolf in bunny slippers and a bathrobe reading a newspaper on the porch. You ask if this is Bottomless Pit Records, he says that it's not, but you're in the right place, he directs you upstairs and shouts for someone named Aelwyn, saying that there's a guest for the studio. An elf woman emerges from a room, actively using prestidigitation to clean cat fur off herself, she proceeds to say horribly cruel things about your shoes, your hair, and your choice of instrument before instructing you to follow her through a seemingly random doorway. You are now in a library, but you can smell salt air, feel the floor swaying underneath you, and hear drunken pirate songs outside. The mean elf directs you to another doorway. as you walk through the library, a young woman with flaming wings and eyes asks if you are on your way to the studio, and if so, to carry a message for her paramour. You are handed a scroll. You are informed by the flaming woman that any who attempt to read the scroll will be blasted with scorching flames. You ask if she means anybody but the intended recipient, she looks confused and says that building such an exception into the spell would be both less secure and unnecessary. You decide not to get involved and step through the door labeled "Bottomless Pit Records". Your nose is assailed with the scent of brimstone and sulfur. The screams of the wretched damned assail your ears. A Bone Devil with a beard and sunglasses greets you and takes you through the infernal halls into a recording studio. You show him the scroll and he takes it, saying he'll give it to the boss when she's done recording her podcast. A horrible blood-imp asks if you want a drink. The Bone Devil, who calls himself "Rip", says you don't and tells you to go get yourself set up so they can test the equipment. You recall that the invitation to Bottomless Pit Records did say "There's a place for you in hell"

#fantasy high #fhjy #aelwyn abernant #jawbone o'shaughnessey #ayda aguefort #rip the bone devil roadie #wretchrot

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shibaraki · 2 years

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MASTERLIST | PART I | PART II | PART III

CHAPTER SYNOPSIS: He was bestowed the name Katsuki. Where your people feared and cursed him, spoke of him as if he were all but a beast, Varene revered him as the symbol of victory. Tales of a gold crowned son who entered the world with the roar of a dragon. The gaping chasm between the two of you predated your marriage. Everything had been determined the moment you were born a woman.

TAGS: AFAB FEM reader (a half sib todoroki; she/her pronouns used; ‘princess’ ‘your grace’ ‘your majesty’), dragon king bakugo, sheltered reader, worldbuilding, miscommunication, oc dragons and draconic language, canon typical abuse (todoroki family), magic and bloodline abilities, marriages of convenience, kidnapping (reader kept in a small space), descriptions of blood and injury, pirate aizawa shouta (+ crew), bounty hunter shinsou hitoshi

WC: 15k

You are dipped in twilight. Swaddled in the late night chill and a silk robe, the soft hair on your arms rears. The candlelight had long been extinguished after you had retired to bed, but sleep escaped you. It was too quiet, too cold in a bed so large and so empty.

Months have passed since you were wedded to the renowned dragon king, Bakugo Katsuki, and there is yet for any sense of belonging to take root between the two of you. Or so it feels.

The sky is clear, a vast black canvas dotted with distant stars. You are alone again and Varene still does not feel like home.

You supposed that this solitude was far better than being back in Yiryn. Though you missed your mother and siblings desperately, it was difficult not to favour a country that did not scorn you. Born to King Enji’s paramour in a final, desperate effort for a suitable heir, your mother had been sought out due to Rei’s presumed inability to carry any more Todoroki children. One too frail, one a woman, one without fire. Stress and fear proved unfavourable conditions for carrying a babe. It’s that hostility which forced her first child, your eldest brother Touya, to arrive prematurely.

And just as Rei had been wedded to him for her abilities with ice, your mother had been chosen due to the blood that ran thick in her veins. Drachian's blood. Had luck been on your side you’d have been born with a natural affinity for communing with dragons, Draconic language engraved into your marrow, and your sire’s rather useful resistance to high heat. Put together, they were appealing traits to the Todoroki clan, who passed on the ability to wield fire through generations, and were seeking a connection to the ancient beasts after having lost their own a century ago.

Following your conception, it had not been known that the Queen, Rei, too was pregnant. Five months into your mothers gestation, the court became aware of another son growing handsomely beneath Rei’s many layers of skirt and trim. The Queen never begrudged your existence, only pleased to know her own youngest wouldn’t be alone. You were told the two women would often stand side by side, if only to press the swell of their bellies together, to keep you both close. You were raised alongside Shouto, and often nested together in the same crib during infancy. Given the choice, you might’ve remained inseparable.

While the same could not be said for your father, the siblings never treated you unequally. Touya had been particularly fond of you and frequently sought your company, a stark contrast to the obvious distaste for his youngest brother. You still think of him often. It became clear that Touya found comfort in the parts of you that reflected him. Unwanted. Unskilled. Born into failure. Draconic never shaped on your tongue, no matter how hard you tried. Another spurned child to bond with.

Like mother like daughter, you were fated to be another last resort. Gruelling tests and training throughout childhood proved you were unable to strengthen the Todoroki line, and so King Enji declared your only use to Yiryn was as a means of rebuilding an old, long weathered bridge with Varene.

The two countries once shared a rich history and culture, strained by war, famine and gold. The divide had worsened with every generation that passed. Even in the true Kingdom of Dragons, natural born Draconic speakers were far and few. Which is why Enji’s offer to them was most generous — suspiciously so. Marriage to a Todoroki princess, a Drachian carrier, that may produce Draconic speaking heirs.

The agreements passed without fanfare, and your illegitimacy proved to be of no consequence, as bastards are not recognised in Varene. All children were equally deserving. You found the sentiment incredibly loving. While it worked in his favour, your father had still privately branded them savages.

Being betrothed to the Dragon King had not been of your choosing, but you endeavoured to make the best of it. A chance to truly be connected to your ancestors, to know your culture outside of altered textbooks and poorly kept archives. In many ways you thought you’d been freed from your fathers clutches.

The celebrations went ahead in the tender green of spring, and at the beginning you had no complaints. You found your husband undoubtedly handsome — otherworldly, even. A broad chest painted in striking patterns of black, highlighting the thick scars he had won during the war. His shoulders were thick, like his arms, and covered by a grand red cape lined in fur that settled in the earth beneath his feet. His expression had been piercing, and you recall just how insecure you felt under his scrutiny. Eyes alight. The longer you looked the more you saw the flames dancing in his irises.

He was bestowed the name Katsuki. Where your peoples feared and cursed him, spoke of him as if he were all but a beast, Varene revered him as the symbol of victory. Tales of a gold crowned son who entered the world with the roar of a dragon. The gaping chasm between the two of you predated your marriage. Everything had been determined the moment you were born a woman.

You were taught to expect aggression from him the night of your wedding, and to practice submission from the moment you came of age. Sex was duty. Yet on that night he had touched you in ways you could not have imagined. Even now, in his absence, you can feel the hot impression of those fingers at your waist. Amidst the bliss you’d forgotten that his hands could conjure fire, too.

Katsuki had shaped your flesh around him, burrowed into you as if he was made to find home there. Like he belonged there. Lay aside — the kissing is what bewitched you. The careful manner in which he cradled your face, plucking his titles from your mouth. It felt like taking claim.

“My name,” he’d said. “Don’t fuckin’ call me ‘your highness’ or ‘my king’ in our marriage bed”.

When coiled so tightly beneath him, it was as if his weight was the only thing holding your seams together. You felt your body fall apart under his touch three times that night; three times more than you’d expected.

For all that, the next morning his side of the bed had been cold. And it remained cold every morning that followed.

Katsuki confused you like no other. He deigned to show you any other part of his life, and so you never asked. Presumably, You were not invited to sit in on his councils, you were not given permission to see his dragons, you were not to be without consort. The weeks he is absent — seemingly for no reason other than to avoid you — are spent in the gardens, or the stables, or ambling the winding corridors of a castle you might never truly be familiar with. You were a wife of convenience to be kept in the far wing of the castle, safe and ignorant.

Yet you remained well treated and feted. There are drapes of satin and silk lining your wardrobes, sheer fabrics and trains spilling out into the room. Jewels, chains and hairpins decorate the large vanity tucked against the corner of the room, ready for your ladies in waiting to pluck up each morning. Flowers are often left, as the season is ripe for bloom, and they imbue your quarters with the scent of summer's end.

Whenever your paths crossed he would address you warmly, in his own way, and he handled you gently if ever he joined you in bed. Katsuki likes to kiss you. Caught in the tender, rose petal press. To your lips, the curve of your shoulder, your breasts, your sex. Like clockwork, as the day breaks, it's as if he becomes indifferent to you. The linens on his side of the bed will be smooth, corners perfectly tucked, and so you’ll temper the hurt with humourless jokes that perhaps your husband really was like a beast from a storybook; commonly told to you as a child, the man who answered the moons call and transformed into a wolf. He was known across the realms as a dragon — perhaps the moon spoke riddles to him, too.

Love. Did you even know what it looked like? Could this unending, sombre ache have been it all along?

His political ambassador and closest confidant, Midoriya Izuku, has attempted to assuage you only once. It must’ve shown on your face. “Kacchan is just difficult,” the smile he gave you had been sincere, but a little sad. “He might not’ve been born with a Draconic tongue, but sometimes it can feel like his words and actions are speaking different languages”.

You paid heed, but in the weeks that passed your efforts were fruitless. Every day saw new people of different ilk pass through the grounds. The sights and sounds toiled away at your envy until it spread through your chest like flame to dry crop. You could understand the shackles placed upon you if you were not in a country that prided itself on freedom.

Sinking further over the balcony ledge, your body deflates with a sigh. Chatty cicadas and distant eldritch rumblings echo across the castle grounds, drawing your attention to the colossal structure built at the precipice of the castle grounds. Despite only ever seeing them from afar, the dragon's calls are but another bird’s song to you now. It draws an enigmatic, bone-deep instinct to the surface of your being that you cannot place.

Another screech. To anyone elses ear it would not sound any different, but you feel it prickling at the back of your neck. Words you’ve never heard and yet you understand. A zip along the length of your spine as you straighten, breath held in an effort to listen more closely. The moment of concentration is broken by the door to your quarters opening, wooden panels groaning in complaint. Startled, you turn on your heel.

Beneath the doorway, Katsuki stands bathed in a muted glow. The torches lining the corridors flicker dimly by the hour, their wicks burnt down to wax and casting a subtle, blonde halo around his head. You stare back at him, a solid silhouette, the lines and curves of your body visible beneath your gown as the moon shines through its fabric.

The tension breaks when he asks, “Why’re you still up?”

You refuse the urge to pull your robe close to your chest, knowing there was not much left to the imagination beneath the sheer cloth. Fingers wrung, your wedding ring is cool between your knuckles. “Couldn’t sleep. My thoughts are a little too loud tonight”.

He approaches you slowly, taking the time to observe you. With each step forward there is a resounding thud, wearing only his dark, loose fitted trousers and heavy leather boots. On his journey he begins to remove the various bracelets and rings from his person, reaching to unclasp the reformed dragon tooth from his earlobe and discarding them all atop your vanity.

The heat emanating from his body is stark amidst the cold night. You don’t move when he enters your space, a rough hand cupping your cheek. His tongue clicks in displeasure as the pad of his thumb strokes across your cheek, “Fuck. You’ll catch your death if you stay out here. Get in bed”.

“I can hardly feel it,” your muttering goes unheard and he unceremoniously pulls you into the room, crowding you against his front as both arms reach behind to lock the doors. Smoke fills your throat, a sweet tang of explosive magic sticking to the roof of your mouth. He remains still for a long moment, chin dipping to rest atop your crown.

“I’ll get in bed if you join me”.

You watch the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest as he huffs. “Just rest. I’m going to bathe first, s’gonna take a while”.

The smell lingers on your robe even after he steps away. Too strong to be from something innocent. Only now do you realise what you are tasting is mixed with blood. Glancing to his forearms, you see the skin there is darker. Dry streaks of brown, like he had tried to wipe most of it off before coming here.

“Are you okay? Did something happen—?!”

Katsuki turns away from you, rubbing at his inner wrist. Flecks of blood break off and litter the floor. He hums, “S’fine. Endraen’s nestlings hatched tonight and she wouldn’t let anyone near her”.

You can hear the unfettered pride in his voice. Like a true brother. To your knowledge, Endraen had been awaiting offspring for a while now. Many of her previous clutches were infertile, and their numbers had dwindled from six or seven to only four. It must be why she’s so vocal tonight. You wondered if she was speaking to her young ones, or warding off the others in the pit.

“That’s amazing, Katsuki,” in your excitement you grasp his bicep, sinking into his side with a grin. “How many, can I ask? Are they all well? Is she ?”

The corner of his mouth lifts amidst your rambling. “She’s doing good with ‘em so far. Got three outta four, two males and one female,” he breathes, in following his line of sight you see the blood has flaked away to make obvious numerous small bites lining his forearm. He clenches his hand as if to make sure he could still feel it, and the corded muscles shift, “Feisty little fuckers”.

You allay the urge to touch him and trace the weeping circle of baby teeth embedded into his skin. A wave of nervousness washes through you, hesitating before you ask, “Would I be able to go meet them?”

His nose wrinkles like your question left a bad taste on his tongue. “You’re my wife,” he answers plainly, “so you’re welcome to come and go as you please”.

You're uncertain whether it is his offhanded tone or the answer itself that irritates you. It was blatantly untrue. “Am I?” you mutter.

The regret is immediate and you feel him tense in your grip, his skin heated. You peer up at him, anticipation prickling. The specks of moonlight filling the bedroom refract in his eyes, smouldering. “Fuck is that supposed to mean?”

You think of all the days spent watching the grounds. Finding the highest window just to better the view. People of all ilk, loud and cheery, gesticulating as they speak. Simply coming and going, as they please, as he had said. Lacking was the stiff lip and rigidity you’d grown up with. So unlike the traditional rules of your own home, you’d been told that anyone could be anything in Varene if they so wished.

“What I mean is I feel as if I am the only one in this kingdom that is shackled,” you quietly argued. “Even your dragons are able to roam freely while I am hidden away in my quarters”.

A litany of emotions pass over Katsuki’s face as you speak. Disbelief, anger, confusion, regret. He replies through gritted teeth, “I have never told you to squirrel yourself away in our bedchambers”.

“No one has told me otherwise, either!”

“I am not your bastard of a father—!” you regain your balance as he abruptly tears away from you, and instinctively cower. A sharp inhale. The air in the room is hotter, ballooning in your lungs. Through the dark, his palms are emitting a golden glow.

“Oi,” he murmurs with a low, soothing cadence. Similar to the way you’ve witnessed him comfort Endraen’s. Still, it’s awkward in his mouth, lacking confidence. “You’re a grown adult. You don’t need my permission to do anything here. If that’s the reason you’ve been actin’ all skittish then you can quit it”.

Your eyes have adjusted, and you can see his jaw clench as he scowls. An intense sense of dejection emerges. He doesn’t understand. “But you’re my king—“

“I’m your husband ,” his voice raises again in momentary frustration, but as quick as it came, the anger dissipates. Shoulders sagged, he suddenly looks as tired as you feel.

“Just… fuck. We can talk about this tomorrow. It’s late”.

And then he’s slipping into the bathroom, careful to shut the door. It clicks quietly, leaving you in silence once more. He doesn’t understand.

You walk backwards towards the edge of the mattress with a heavy gait. There is blood drying on your fingers, cinching tightly like a second skin. Leaning against the bedpost, the pressure that had been building steadily behind your eyes finally bursts, and you let yourself cry.

Echoes of water as it ripples against the basin, distant yet loud in your ears as you suppress a sob. The chasm between you and Katsuki only grows more apparent as the days pass. Drilled into you from infancy — a king, a father, a husband. They are all the same thing.

He doesn’t understand.

Another's distorted cry spikes through your chest. Again, a voice not your own is clear in your mind. You startle to your feet, casting a hesitant glance back and forth from the balcony to the bathroom. “I am… permitted to come and go as I please,” you whisper resolutely, the material of your gown gathered into your fists.

It felt like a call for help. Virlym. Thief.

The fall from the balcony had not been too far, though you felt the impact still aching in your heels. Your skin frissons in the tepid air, thin robe pulled close to your chest. To be seen so scantily clad by anyone other than your husband would be more than inappropriate, but you close your ears to the anxiety before it can dissuade you.

Desperate, the voice in your head becomes louder as the distance lessens.

Getting lost in your search is an impossibility. The pit is a grand structure beside the castle, almost rivalling it in size and width. The entrance itself is a colossal, gaping opening, like the mouth of a cave. It dwarfs you.

What you know of the pit is from storybook and myth. It is a naturally occurring abyss, a wide, deep fissure in the earth that never ends. Dragons have migrated to Varene for millennia to mate, breed and nest, or simply to rest in their final years as they become too large, too old to fly. Their journeys would begin and end here; in the pit there are an untold number of caves dug into the cliff face, uneven rock and minerals providing perches and shelves. Dark and unreachable by human hand.

When the first chosen King discovered its existence he sought to protect it, and in return was gifted the opportunity to learn their ancient language. As the relationship between man and beast bloomed, only then was it discovered that people in a specific bloodline could be born with a Draconic tongue. They knew the language from birth, like a newborn fawn that instinctively knows how to walk.

You felt akin to a fawn yourself as you entered the maw, tiptoeing down the throat into the belly, seemingly larger on the inside than it is on the out. It is oddly bereft of guards, and not a keeper in sight. Nervous, you twist the wedding ring on your finger. There’s a foreign sense of magic present — the air is heavy, carrying a distinct metallic taste that itches as you inhale. You can feel it sink into your stomach.

The gravel crunches beneath your feet, uncomfortably sharp. Every step taken is louder than the other. You keep your breathing shallow, straining your ears to hear for any sign of life. Deeper and deeper, the smog of magic grows thick. There is no light, your vision obstructed by a sage tinted mist.

“Fuck! They’re heavy, why do I have to carry them all?” you freeze at the sharp voice, three shadowy silhouettes skulking towards you, the middle figure notably bulkier than the others. “I thought— Ah! I thought you said they were babies ”.

Someone hisses with anger, “They are. Now shut the fuck up! We don’t know when they’ll be coming back…”

The realisation slowly dawns. Advancing towards you are three men, cloaked and hooded. On the right is responsible for the metallic taste; he is the caster, outstretched and radiating, viridian runes etched into the palms of his hands. On the left another wields a long, well-worn mageblade, swinging lazily at his side without a care.

Amber eyes meet your own, wide and unblinking. A tremor wracks your body, breathes coming uncontrollably quick. The man in the middle. Wrapped around his torso in cloth and leather are two newborn dragons. All limp, limbs hung and bodies contorted, having been stuffed into the makeshift carrier.

“Oh? Looky here,” before you can react, the tip of the mageblade is tucked firmly against your jugular. “This is rather unexpected, Princess”.

At the back of your mind, you’d known the second you saw the blade. The design originated in Yiryn centuries ago, imbued with rare magic nullifying abilities that were eagerly sought after by neighbouring countries. Pinned to the collar of the man’s hood is a small brooch in the shape of a gourd canteen. You were sure, if given the opportunity to look closer, you’d find intricate flaming feathers engraved into the metal.

An organisation separate from his king's guard and bannermen. Unknown to the public and created to carry out his lawless and immoral whims — three of your fathers one hundred firebirds.

“What— what is your business here?”

Despite the effort, your voice shakes as you speak, the steel pressing closer until it breaks the surface of your skin. He laughs, ungainly on his feet.

“I could ask that of you. If memory serves me right, you used to be a good girl. But here you are—“ his eyes drag over your thinly clothed body, features twisting into a sneer, “—barely dressed and roaming around at night. That beastly king has rubbed off on you”.

“Hachi. Roku is damn near outta juice, so stop fuckin’ playin’ around,” the middle trespasser rumbles a warning, shifting the weight of the young strapped to his chest. Endraen’s young. Your heart splinters at the sight, fury stirring gut-deep. Impulse rears and it spurs you into action as you grab the sword's edge, incognisant to the sting across your palm.

Hachi continues in fits of laughter, stepping back with the force of your shove like it were inconsequential to him. The sound ricochets hauntingly through the cave, intermingling with your strained bursts of anger.

“Take them back to their mother, you—!”

The caster, Roku, lifts his hand and aims it at your head. The runes dance across his skin with a life of their own, luminescent and bright. In their glow you finally get a glimpse of him.

“We need to go. If you want me to sedate her it’ll require my focus to shift from the pit and they’re already waking up as we speak. Make a decision!”

Rather than a monster, he was remarkably unremarkable. Plain faced, a pale man you couldn’t pick in a crowd. His invisibility frightened you in ways you couldn’t understand. And it begged the question, how long had these men truly been here?

“...Even if we kill ‘er we’ll need to take the body…”

In the thick of your thoughts, Hachi knocks the hilt of his blade to your temple, startling you backwards. Knocked off balance, a sharp pain radiates through your left ankle, and he uses the advantage to completely restrain you. You yelp, losing strength. There’s no mercy in how he handles you. Arms pulled so far back you fear they’ll displace, numbness seeps into your fingers. “Kats—!”

Cut off, a grimy hand forcibly covers your mouth. Blunt nails sink into the swell of your cheek, and your cries are muffled as you struggle away from the hot breath on your ear. “None of that. Though I doubt that bastard’ll come searchin’ for a halfbreed like you,” he rasps.

His grip is too tight, keeping your jaw locked shut. Your breaths come ragged short, fingers clawing weakly at his forearm. A cold, wet sensation trickles down the side of your face, right where you’d been struck.

At that moment, a resonant growl reverberates through the earth beneath your feet. The soft hair on your arms lift, a divorced, bone-deep rage unfurling in your soul. It hurts — so hot that it’s cold, swelling in your throat. Intuitively, you know this feeling does not belong to you.

Endraen is waking. And so are the young, snuffling uncomfortably in their slings. They croak, a fragile little sound, and the roar grows louder. Their carrier curses.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! We’re leaving. You’ll need to haul us all to the safe house, there’s no way we’re not getting caught—”

“—You can’t be serious. Spatial magic stinks to high hell! They’ll be able to track us immediately!”

Pain courses through you as they try to yell over the noise, head hanging limp between your shoulders. Barely conscious, Hachi drags you forward. Roku, and the quiet man’s code you are yet to yet, are tucked side by side. He’s hushing the dragons, struggling with their weight.

You spare a glance further down into the pits, tears lining your eyes as they become heavy. An unassuming, small speck of light is beginning to form through the far distant fog. Desperate, you reach inwards to pluck at the fragments of your ancestors, thoughts calling out to Endraen in hopes that she’ll hear you; knuckles rubbing together to roll the wedding ring on your finger down to the tip, you let it fall into the dirt.

What was a pinprick begins to expand and glow, the air around you distorting in unrestrained heat. With a blistering roar, the light suddenly bursts forth. You’re forced between them, their arms interlocking to cage you as Roku bellows, recounting a spell in a language you cannot understand. The flames propel forwards at great speed, incandescent white. A mothers raucous fury. Closer now, your skin becomes uncomfortably tight, too small to fit around your bones, every breath a blistering sting in your oesophagus.

Please, your consciousness wanes. Don’t let Katsuki blame himself for this.

Somebody screams, and the ground is abruptly pulled from beneath your feet. Gravity escapes you. There’s a long moment of suspension and your body is in a freefall, an unnatural swoop through your stomach as your senses are thrown into alarm.

When you land the heat is ripped from your lungs and replaced with petrichor. Three men encase your body, the spells impact creating a gust of wind that disturbs the canopy of trees above, showering you in stray drops of old rain.

Your knees buckle into the damp grass. Roku stumbles away into the brush and vomits.

The safe house is five miles from the southern shoreline and surrounded by pungent scurvy grass, advantageous for disguising the smell of magic. Ninety three from the castle grounds. One hundred and fifty kilometres between you and your husband. You’re thrown into a room made of brick and mortar, tracking daylight through a single window by the ceiling barely the width of your shoulders. There’s a small cot lined up against the wall. In the corner, a lamplight and a bucket.

Your only relief is that the dragons are confined with you. During their first few days it would be normal to be kept in the pits, so the lack of light and room causes no issues in the beginning. They’re playful and rambunctious; most of the time is spent roughhousing, scenting the air or sleeping. When the sun is at its highest, their distinct colouring becomes visible. A marigold like their mother, and another the colour of ripe apricot. Nameless still, you wondered if their third sibling was alright.

In the absence of any weapon or opportunity to run, you fall back onto what has always served you most. Listening. There’s satisfaction in hearing them panic, kept on edge by this faux peace as the days pass. Bit by bit you piece the storyline together — a surreptitious ‘merchant’ by the name of Stendhal awaits the arrival of two abducted nestlings by the waters of Leilisle to transport them across to Reyath, a neighbouring continent.

Allies of King Enji would be there to receive them and train them for a number of years before returning to Yiryn, where they would be miraculously discovered, hidden away on Todoroki lands for the first time in over one hundred years — a magnificent gift from the Gods.

But King Enji knew nothing of dragons. They were not mares with gentle dispositions who could accept any rider, but hard headed creatures with a penchant for solitude. More importantly, the formative experiences that followed hatching greatly shaped their ability to bond with and trust humans. Tearing them from their mother would only hinder his plans.

You supposed it shouldn’t surprise you that your father knew nothing of nurturing, either.

Your presence is the biggest point of contention. Neither man knows what to do with you. Amidst their bickering outside your barricaded door, you learn the third man’s moniker. Shichi. He’s the one to bring you food and water — a plate stale and barebones, just enough to keep you afloat — and he’s the one to hunt beasties for the young. The wet slap of blood meeting tile. Hares and rabbits, mostly. You might never scrub the sound from your memory; but the dragons feasted and fought. Flesh stretched between pointed teeth, pulling apart til it thins like taffy and one corpse becomes two halves.

The days blur as you wait for the impending departure, blending into one long existence. You think of Katsuki. His handsome face, how his hair would splay gold across the pillow, the way his eyes always seemed brighter in the early dawn. You recall with fondness how his nose would wrinkle if you stared too long, like he’d tasted something bitter.

Maybe he prefers that you’re gone, now. Should they never find you, he’d be free to wed another of his own choosing — someone he loves. The possibility of escape seems dim, but you toy with it to pass the hours. In the event that you did get away, you distantly wonder if it’d even be worth going back.

Marigold and Apricot banish those thoughts as they come. They seem to be in tune to your emotional state, a fact that grows evermore blatant in such close quarters. Crying meant a snout shoved into your cheek, a torrid heat billowing through your dirtied robe as the infant chuffs. There is a stain trailing across the floorboards from where raw flesh has been dragged in their efforts to feed you.

“We must name you properly,” you mumble, stroking a hand down the length of their necks. Dragon scales, you discover, evolve with age. Shaped like petals, laying staggered and overlapping. A newborn’s skin is delicate like tissue paper, but already it is beginning to feel like dry leather.

They’re small, but only in comparison to how mountainous they would eventually become. The size of a lynx, if you had to guess. Though marigold is slightly bigger, her muzzle thicker and a wider arrowhead tail, as was common for female dragons.

“A dragon's name can inspire fear, valor, legends…” you push as hard as you can at her muzzle as she chomps carefully at your fingers, her powerful jaw closing with a resounding click. It’s enough to drive her back, and she trills happily. “Something that sounds regal might fit you best”.

A pitched, haunting whine builds in her brother's throat. He butts against your shoulder, and you endure the dull ache. That’ll bruise. “…Yours maybe a little more personable. Goofy”.

He snuffs unhappily.

“Gallant, then”.

Your playful bubble is burst by an unexpected slam, the door swinging open and bouncing on its hinges. The nestlings scatter, intertwining around one another where they’re hidden in the far corner of the room. Apricot gives a pitiful screech of complaint to the intruder.

Light floods in, forcing your eyes shut as you flinch. The familiar, hefty footfalls of Shichi draw them open, squinted to adjust. A plate is slid across the floor towards you. Two bread rolls. You’ve barely enough energy to lift yourself from the threadbare nest of blankets you’d created for yourself and the young, but the ache in your stomach is becoming painful.

“Make sure to finish all of it,” you pause, the crust cold against your lips as you wait. “We’re leaving for the dock tonight”.

You bite. It practically falls apart between teeth, dry and sour on your tongue. He advances, stepping further in and closing the door behind him. “We’re in the clear for now. Those giant winged rats completely missed us, and it seems he’s stopped looking for ya”.

Marigold hisses as if she understood, and Shichi stomps in her direction like a wild bull. Domineering her. He enjoys having power over such respected creatures. You’d like to see him do the same in a few months' time, when her hydrogen glands have developed.

You don’t interrupt as he speaks, knowing how he relished talking about himself. Tired as you are, it’s easier to let him be and tune it out. The bread is hard to swallow, sticking to the back of your throat, and you’re cold in the dragons’ absence as you eat.

Your interest piqued at the mention of entering Varene.

“—so much fuckin’ simpler entering a country than it is gettin’ out”.

You swallow thickly and interrupt him. “How… how did you get in?”

Shichi hums offhandedly, slumping back against the wall opposite. “Well. Your wedding was a pretty grand affair, wasn’it?” he meets your eyes, a quiet cruelty there. “People from all over travelled into the capital to celebrate. Us three blokes slipped across wi’ no problem”.

“You’ve… you were in Varene for six months?”

“These things take time,” a chill runs the length of your spine as he grins, kicking off the wet brick as he straightens up. “You should know that better than anyone, given the state of your marriage”.

Fuck you. If your position weren’t so precarious you might’ve spat it at him. Sensing your anger, the Apricot infant rears his head from beneath his sister's wing and screeches.

Orlit.

Shichi snarls and the sister loosens her jaw in a clear, purposeful warning that stops him in his tracks. Strings of saliva stretch and snap between her teeth, tongue flattening to reveal the swells in the back of her throat; you knew they were duds. He did not.

Amadea.

You’re led from the safehouse as the sky begins to bruise. Roku forces the nestlings into a deep sleep and throws an uncomfortable black cloak over your form, roughly pulling the hood over your head until you’re entirely shadowed. Heavy, open weave and coarse in texture like burlap, it scratches your skin tender.

At the very least, the length protects your calves from the nettled flora as Hachi drags you towards the clearing. There awaits a haggard carriage pulled by a chestnut mare, a method common for transporting goods and fruits. Unsuspecting. A dirt road spools out before you, shielded by the forest's overhang and winding onwards into the night, disappearing into solid darkness.

A rasped voice, lips moving against the shell of your ear that you try to run from, “Don’t get your hopes up. No one’s looking anymore. Not here, and certainly not on the bottom of the ocean”.

You shudder. Whether it is the late night air or the reality of what is about to happen, you can’t be sure.

There are piles of boxes stacked in the back, some full to the brim and coverless, others are locked securely. In the back is another, noticeably larger than the rest. You’ve seconds to process the implications as you’re thrown into it, back slamming against the floor of the wooden chest, breath knocked from your lungs.

Orlit and Amadea are forced into the space left, pressed up behind the crook of your knees and over your legs. There’s no room to stretch, your limbs bent even as you reach the far end of the box. Splaying your hands flat to the runes painted into the panelling, your eyes widen as panic wracks your body.

“Wait—!” Hachi shuts the lid with force, rocking the carriage on its axles. A final click. The sudden momentum slides you up, head thudding painfully against reinforced wood, and so you attempt to hunch into yourself.

There is no telling how much time passes. Perspiration clings to the nape of your neck, flinching involuntarily as everything begins to move. Ephemeral flecks of moonlight pierce through as the canopy shifts above. Your fingers curl, clawing fruitlessly and feeling the timber splinter. You bang against it until your knuckles are raw, splitting open on the surface. The dragons are entirely boneless, leaning the entirety of their weight onto you and shrinking the space even further.

You squeeze your eyes shut, finding solace in the darkness behind them. If you focus enough, you can shape the darkness until it looks like your marriage bed. No longer does it seep into your skin, gradually closing in. constricting and consuming. This is home. This is home. Lungs bloating with held breath, time and time again you reflexively gasp, struggling to allay the panic as the metallic tang dries out your tongue.

Katsuki sits on the edge — on his side of the mattress, still untouched — and leans over. A rough hand cupping your jaw. Slightly clammy, the breeze from the balcony behind him imbued with ash. You would often ball up into yourself like a pill bug as you slept, seeking comfort in a bed that always felt too big.

The memory smites your heart. He isn’t looking anymore, insecurity whispers. You cannot bring yourself to believe it. Whether it be denial or hope, in your soul you knew Katsuki to be stubborn. He mightn’t have fallen in love with you but he treated you well and respected you. You were his wife, and tucked into the nook behind your knees are his niece and nephew. You could only imagine him pursuing the abductors to the ends of the earth.

Yet Shichi’s cocksure smirk flashes through your mind, the image of him slumped back with his shoulders sagged. For the first time ever, he’d seemed truly relaxed. Assured. Because he was confident that it was true.

Recurring daylight provides little assistance in finding the runes, barely enough to cast a shadow. You need to rely on touch, seeking out the smooth texture of the paint. They sting the pads of your fingers as you trace them, vying to keep yourself grounded. There are two, each entirely different. While reading them was an impossibility — even in light; magic was a language you were never fluent with — you were willing to bet on one keeping the dragons sedated, and the other some sort of cloaking spell.

You arrive at the docks, lower abdomen bloated and stomach twisting in vivid hunger. Best guess is,two days have passed. Cursing at the men to let you out to relieve yourself and drink something had only engorged their spite. They intended to weigh your ankles and throw you overboard, so it would be naive to think they’d have any hospitable inclination toward you. The dragons, at the very least, needed to feed. Loss of nutrition at such an early stage could stunt their development, or worse, lead to death.

When the chest is opened again the moon is at its brightest, full and dancing along the ocean's surface. You hiss, flinching away from it as your eyes struggle to adjust, and are dragged unceremoniously by the collar out onto the ground, incognisant to pain.

“Get up,” and you’re lifted again by the throat like a stringless puppet. There is no sensation as your feet touch the ground, knees immediately buckling under your weight. Hachi sighs, dropping you carelessly. You choke on the dirt as it plumes around you.

“Massage your legs. Blood’ll flow back eventually,” he rocks forward into the balls of his feet, leaning to lift the hem of your skirt. You skitter, desperate to hide your naked skin, and hastily throw a handful of earth at him.

It misses with the weak, pendulous swing of your arm. “Don’t fucking touch me,” you croak.

“Oi, oi, calm down Majesty,” he releases the fabric, holding both hands out in mock surrender, “was just checkin’ if you’d turned blue”.

An incessant, pin pricking sensation crawls the length of your legs as phantom turns solid. You grip at your thighs, flesh bursting through the gaps between your fingers, and gasp through the pain. It’s as if you’re growing a new limb all together.

You take a moment to process the surroundings. The air is crisp, the smell of brine rolling in on the waves. Scanning the length of the horizons, your eyes fall onto the dock, dilapidated with sections embellished in thick barnacle build up and vacant aside from a single ship. The hull has high sides, bow and stern both fortified, left entirely unguarded. No longer in use by the common folk, it provides the perfect spot for smuggling goods in and out of Varene.

Behind you, the carriage is hidden at the edge of the treeline. The cicadas are chirping here, too. Shichi releases a strained groan as he carries a dragon over each shoulder, boots slipping along the loose gravel. Amadea’s wings stretch, a sign that she is slowly waking, and bat him in the face.

“Shit— Hurry it up!”

The chest you’d inhabited is dragged towards the shoreline. Roku mutters under his breath as he straightens up, pointedly glaring at his peer as he pulls a small knife from the breast of his coat. Glinting in the moonlight, he runs the blade diagonally across his left palm without so much as a flinch, a familiar viridian glow spiralling up towards the wound.

As you’d suspected, once he has tucked the knife away Roku gathers the blood seeping down his forearm and kneels to repaint the runes with it. “Stop fuckin’ hovering over me. Put them down over there and get the meat out to keep them occupied while we wait for Stendhal”.

Orlit is thrown down beside you, and you rush to cushion his snout in the fall. Amadea lands unsteady on her feet, stretching her wings further to keep her balance in the initial drop, before sinking against your thigh. You stroke the crown of her skull, gently plucking at the horns either side. Their scales are already duller. If it had been just you that was taken, then running might be a possibility. But you cannot leave them behind, and trying to make it back to the city on foot with three men specialising in stealth seemed useless.

You stare longingly at the treeline, but you stay. Shichi throws a skinned carcass at your knees, the wet slap of flesh echoing into the night as rot perforates the air. Neither nestling moves. Setting your own discomfort aside, you pull the viscous sinew apart piece by piece, pressing it against their muzzle to help them eat.

Day breaks with the rising tide. Your hunger is sated with more insipid bread before you’re forced back into the box, into compliance, bloodied symbols suitably dried to the wood. You do not go without a fight, digging your heels into the dirt and letting the full weight of your body sag. But if Shichi can bear the weight of two dragons, yours is inconsequential. Misshapen, bruising ovals mark your arms, tender spots of skin littering the plane of your back.

The last thing you see is Hachi heading to greet a silhouette in the far distance, veering precariously over the edge of the deck with a hand entangled in the shroud. For reasons unknown to you, the firebirds do not want Stendhal to see you until you’re far into Leilisle’s abyss. You rock back and forth as the chest is thrown haphazardly, breathing in measured seconds to quell the anxiety building in your gut so you can focus.

But there is nothing to gauge. No conversation, no mood or atmosphere. You’re plunged into a heavy silence that fills your lungs like water. Your shouts go unheard. This time, as your fist comes into contact with the runes, it sparks violently. A fleeting, excruciating pain shoots along your forearm, before the sensation numbs.

Stendhal discovers you late into the second day, as Shichi opens the box for the first time. A large, haunting man, wrapped in tattered fabrics the colour of blood. He’s all sharp edges, face gaunt and sunken, yet alight with disdain. Fear grips you at the sight of him, rabbit's heart beating right out of your ribs. You stare up at him dazedly, but only when you’re lifted into a seating position does he meet your eyes.

Shichi doesn’t even blink, much less flinch, as Stendhal tucks the edge of a blade to his jugular. “This is what you’ve got me smuggling?” he snarls, tone serrated like the weapon he wields. The wound left is no deeper than a paper cut, but it weeps all the same. “You told me it was just some rare beastie nestlings”.

A rough hand grips your jaw, nonplussed. You tear at it as your mouth is forced open, the edge of a cup pressed to your lips. The water is forced down your throat, spilling over your chin and saturating your cloak. You swallow, eyes squeezing shut as you smother the urge to choke. Shichi releases a long suffering sigh.

“Can you honestly say that if you’d known about our precious Lady here,” the grip on your jaw tightens, his strength forcing your head to the side, plainly showing your face to Stendhal, “That you wouldn’t have killed us and sold her off yourself?”

“I would have told you to go fuck yourself,” the jagged blade presses deeper with his anger, “it takes two weeks to get to Reyath! Were you just going to have her wither away in there, you oaf?”

“Wouldn’t matter either way ‘cause we’re sinking her halfway across,” Shichi replies. He visibly swallows, throat contracting as the stream of blood seeps into his collar. “She’s of no consequence to us or the King”.

Reality stings — the truth is a skin you cannot take off. His fingertips bruise your cheeks, nails bitten and dirty. Any effort to twist away from him proves futile; like a snake, his hands will continue to constrict the more you struggle. Stendhal watches on without sympathy, a flat displeasure woven into his expression. He regards you as an inconvenience, you realise. It’s a look you’ve seen many times.

“Keep her out of my sight,” he says with finality, retracting the katana. He reaches overhead, slipping it into the strap at his back. “I will not be made an accomplice in this”.

Shichi nods, “You had no knowledge of it”.

And true to their word, you do not see Stendhal again. You’re kept in the underbelly, presumably, given small glances in the days that follow. You are checked on once every morning to ensure the dragons are fed through their disorientation — a job that falls to you, observing as their wings stretch becomes your only source of relief. The ache that spreads through your hips has dulled remarkably. Contorted to fit the confines of the box, your blood struggled to reach your limbs. Numbness proceeds the pain. That, you can handle. It’s the vertigo that keeps you from sleeping.

Should your eyes fall closed, your body is struck with an alarming spinning sensation, nausea worsening when your panic grows. So you fix your gaze on the paper thin cracks in the wood, drawing slow breath and tasting the salty sea air as it seeps through. Gone are the comforts of your imagination. Katsuki’s voice distorts, asphyxiating it as you hoard your clutch of memories in tightly held fists, scared of what might happen if you let go.

How long have you been missing, now? Almost two weeks? Near enough three?

“…Fuck…They’re sailing towards…!”

The sudden urgency holds your attention. You blink away the dryness, tongue sticking heavily to the roof of your mouth. It hurts to swallow, and as you grimace the skin on your lip begins to split.

“They’re pirates?”

You hear Stendhal’s voice above you. There’s an uncomfortable grit to it, grating on your ears like his throat had been lined with rottenstone. “Technically. Though you’d best be wary, ‘cause they’re altruistic bastards,” you flinch backwards, head meeting reinforced timber as a raucous thud impacts the outside of the box. “S’pathetic. Pretending like they’re heroes,” he spits.

“Fuckin— careful with the goods, Stendhal. Don’t disrupt the enchantment or those things’ll wake up”.

A scoff. “The enchantment is the last thing you’ll have to worry about if those fakes ask for a peek. Eraser doesn’t fuck around with trafficking”.

You hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. What you could infer from the muffled exchange is that someone was coming — another ship, likely sailing the same course. And hope for escape was contingent on their curiosity.

“It doesn’t matter. The cunt can check, I’ll make sure he won’t see a damn thing in there”.

Stendhal barks an abrupt laugh, his next words too muffled for you to hear. The distance grows and the conversation steadily quietens, laden footsteps marching further away from you.

“…What kind of a name is Eraser anyway…”

The hull groans then, rolling over a strong wave. Your centre of gravity is displaced and you feel another bout of nausea. Amadea and Orlit are still sleeping deeply, but you’ve noticed their consciousness surfacing now and then as the magic wanes. You wonder what it was that Roku used as a conduit for his spells, if he used one at all.

Some hereditary types could rely on the wielder as a conduit, like Katsuki’s or your brothers’, eventually draining their own energy. Rare, but not impossible, and it would explain the inconsistency. If so, these runes were likely painted in his own blood.

You grimace, wiping your fingers against the facsimile burlap around your shoulders. Nails catch on a stray thread, and you pull so hard it makes a ladder. The only benefit in having little to no circulation is that being numb means you can no longer feel its itch.

The minutes stretch. When you hear thunderous feet rushing across the deck, stumbling down the stairwell, it comes unexpectedly. You hadn’t heard any disruption in the ocean around you, nor any indication of an approaching threat. Your captors are yelling, their curses overlapping, and you can taste the magic surrounding you as it briefly strengthens.

“Get the fuck off our…!”

Their demands suddenly rasp and thin, lost with breath. Another can be heard over all the noise. They've an oddly melodious cadence, speaking his words like they were lyrics from a song. “Hey hey! If there’s nothing to worry about then why not just let Eraser have a peek, ya dig?”

A snarl, the unmistakable sounds of a tousle. “Hachi, would ya calm down? It’s just as he said,” Roku instructs, emphasising his words as if he were speaking between the lines, “we’ve got nothin’ to worry about”.

Nervous, you reach down to pet Orlit’s scaled skin, stroking the space between his brow bone with your thumb. There is no certainty that these pirates would help you — it's entirely possible they’ll take all three of you for more heinous purposes. Dragonhide is sold abroad for barrels of gold, and you’re under no illusion about the riches your own body could procure.

The chest is yet again unlocked. Your body pulls taut and you cower, muscles clenched with bated breath as you’re drenched in sunlight. Above you is a man in a washed out white shirt, open at the collar where the laces fall loosely. There’s a sabre tucked into the belt of his trousers, the broad handguard protruding at his hip. Dark hair slips forward to curtain his face as he bends to search the box, and from behind them are irises gleaming iridescent red.

To your surprise, they meet your own, piercing right through the enchantment. The pirate's disinterested expression immediately hardens at the sight of you, jaw visibly tightening where his teeth grit. His gaze drags toward the far end of the chest, finding the nestlings unconscious. Intuitively, you know to stay quiet; there’ll be more trouble if the others are alerted. Instead you watch as he fights to maintain composure. The exposed skin of his chest, covered in dark tufts of hair, expands with a deep inhale. He rolls his shoulders loose.

“See?” Roku goads. “All good”.

Eraser straightens his back, and you realise how tall he is. Broad. The type of man you do not want to disappoint. “Yeah,” he turns, gesturing with his hand as he speaks. You feel the baritone of his voice low in your belly. “It’s just cotton linens. Looks like moleskin and velveteen”.

“Velveteen? Well shit, Stendhal. Care to spare any..?”

Stendhal fumes, “Don’t involve me in your Robin Hood bullshit, Mic. I’m paid to move the goods, not to protect it or to sell it”.

The opposite hand motions to you, a signal to wait. One last glance from the corner of his eye, he gently shuts the chest without locking it. Your heart beats in your throat, and you contort yourself to press an ear to the wood, if only to hear your own fate.

There’s barely a scuffle. You might not have realised anything happened, had the magic not abruptly receded around you, copper dissipating and the air steadily replaced with sea salt. A distorted mewl builds in Amadea’s chest, her paws spread and claws extending as she stretches. The heat of her body drastically rises with consciousness, warm like the sun against your legs.

When it next opens, there’s another boy. A man, you should say. You avert your gaze from his own bare skin, chest visible in a loose black vest buttoned only to his sternum. He’s braced over you, violet hair in disarray and lean arms in plain view and decorated in scar tissue; most prominently a slash on his bicep, raised and pink as it curves around his muscle.

Squinting, the shadows beneath his eyes deepen, along with his voice. “I can’t see through the veil yet so I don’t know where you’re at but,” cautiously, he offers his hand into the unknown, “we aren’t here to hurt you”.

Swallowing against the staccato beat of your heart in your throat, you unfurl a hand from where it is curled like a cat's paw and take his. His breath hitches, lithe fingers grazing against the naked skin where your wedding ring should be. Palms kiss, he clasps firmly, helping you up and out of the box.

You see the moment your identity registers with him. He stalls, recognising you. Eyes widening, lips parted to quietly say, “Shit. You’re…”

“The nestlings are in there too,” you interrupt, the words rasping uncomfortably in your throat after days of silence, “please. I can’t carry them on my own”.

“Shit,” he repeats. You’re barely upright, awkward on your feet with the gait of a newborn deer. He hesitates for a split second before steadying you at the hip, warmth seeping through the cloak. “Okay. Okay,” he murmurs, sparing a desperate glance over his shoulder toward the steps. “Oi! One of you get over here—”

Another descends, lankier than the rest. The daylight leaking in from above circles his head like a halo, bejewelling the beautiful blonde braid pleated over his shoulder. There are a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose, strangely tinted. He skips the final step with a jump, landing loudly in his thick boots.

The man assesses the two of you from over the tinted lenses, lingering on your face. “What’s the problem kiddos?”

His fingers twitch impatiently as he spares you a quick glance, drawing awareness to just how close you are. “Need your help manoeuvring the nestlings. Her Maj— she can barely walk”.

You’re comforted by his efforts to conceal your identity, and amused that he’d instinctively fall back onto the use of proper titles. It revealed to you that, presumably, he’d either lived in Varene or visited often enough to be knowledgeable of you.

Hands cupped around his mouth to direct the sound of his voice towards the main deck, the blonde man bellows startlingly loud, “Yo! Shadow!”

The hand at your hip slides further at your abrupt flinch, arm wrapping around the small of your back. So different to the molten heat of your husband. His proximity plucks at your centre of gravity, a deeply cold sensation spreading throughout your chest. Vulnerability, and then an immediate feeling of shame.

“Forgive me for overstepping, Majesty,” he tells you under his breath, his face blooming a pale pink as he keeps his eyes locked firmly on his crewmate. “Use me for support and it’ll be over quickly”.

On your periphery, another appears fashioning a long black cloak not unlike your own, the train streaming down the steps like water, but you’re apathetic to their presence. You focus your energy on getting out of the box. Your tomb. Feeling returns to the tips of your toes, pleading with your mind to let them wiggle. Wires are still crossed, nerves dulled. You can bear weight on one leg but not the other, so as he’d suggested you brace against an unfamiliar chest for leverage, limbless as you try to bend the knee to slip over the open edge.

Bare feet meet damp wood. The knots and bumps scratch at your sole, and the hood hanging at your back is pulled over your head for discretion's sake. Gradually, you find yourself being led towards the upper deck. Whispers of disorientation, loss and anxiety on the edge of your consciousness.

The chambers in your heart cinch in a way you cannot ignore as the unmistakable sound of Amadea’s distress reaches your ears. Roku’s spell has worn off, and the nestlings are left confused by your absence. Frightened. Orlit croons. You whip around in the strangers embrace, gripped by a fierce protectiveness for them. “Don’t!” both men pause, one either end of the chest, but they do not lower.

Now that you’re looking, you see the newcomer draped in black is wearing a mask — unsettling eyes meet yours through two open round holes, the lower half of his face covered by what resembles a large beak.

You exhale, forcing some authority into your words. “Don’t take them from me”.

“Alright,” the slender blond concedes. He comes across warmly and easygoing, such a contrast to the venomous tone you’d heard him used upon first boarding the ship. Nodding towards ‘Shadow’, they start to shuffle the wooden chest over to where you stand at the foot of the steps.

“Let’s all go up together,” he smiles down at you, dipping to see you beneath the hood. “What’s your name by the way, kid? I’m Mic, but friends call me Yamada, and that lad behind ya is called Mimic”.

Mimic, Mic, Shadow. He knows, and yet he still asks. You aren’t sure why that makes you so happy. When you give your own name, he rolls it around his teeth, testing the syllables. Shadow bows his head in acknowledgment, beak tucking to sternum, but he doesn’t speak.

The breeze sinks its teeth into you, and you shrink into Mimic’s embrace. A cacophony floods your senses — waves lapping up the starboard, wind rushing across the surface and sending a spray of water onto the deck. Casting a great shadow is a double masted ship, wide sails billowing a ruckus, dwarfing the merchant's boat where it has sidled up on the left. Cutting across the cavern between the two is a wide, lengthy plank of wood.

Above it all, familiar, enraged voices. Tied together, back to back, you find the three firebirds struggling against rope. Looming over them is the dark haired man, the one who saw through the spell. One hand lazily swings the mageblade, his wrist twisting fluidly, while the other is fisted tightly into Roku’s scalp, head dragged up to force eye contact. You note that the runes in his arms have vanished.

“That scary guy is called Eraser,” Mic relays to you as he follows your line of sight, straining at the weight of the nestlings as he readjusts his grip, “or Aizawa, since you might be with us a while”.

Aizawa, you ponder. That name sounds incredibly familiar to you.

“Should you really be giving his name out like that?” Mimic murmurs, turning you away from your assailants and taking course toward the makeshift bridge. Mic barks a laugh, totally unrestrained. If the sudden shouting was anything to go by, you’d say Hachi had now become aware of your departure. The mission slipping like sand through their fingers.

“It’s fine. You know he doesn’t care about people knowing. The little lady isn’t gonna tattle, are ya?” Mic grins. “Just focus on getting everyone aboard. Make sure you find something clean for her to wear while the rest of the crew finishes up”.

Passing over the untamed oceans with bated breath, you feel as if you are outside of yourself. The drop is great, the depths ever greater. Overhead are wires, ropes and chains, men hanging like spiders from the shrouds and watching as you climb aboard the ship. They are all distinctly individual, yet working in synchrony. It isn’t a crew with a uniform, no memorable feature in their clothing or weaponry that might tie them to a specific band of pirates. Misfits, each and every one of them, all at home together.

You’re taken into the captain's quarters below the helm, spanning the width of the stern with a large set of windows overlooking the horizon. The first thing you see upon entering is the rounded voyage table, a clear centrepiece in the room; but more eye-catching are the shelves and bookcases draped in navy velvet curtains, storing leather bound books and rinky-dink treasures.

Mic and Shadow set the chest on the floor, lowering their heads into a subtle bow as they depart. Mimic gestures towards a bed tucked away into an alcove for more privacy as he ambles over to a set of drawers, jiggling the handle as it refuses to open. Inside are cotton shirts and dark pants, not unlike the clothing their captain wore.

He hesitates in handing them to you, instead bending to lay them across the mattress. “I’ll go find you something to eat after, so feel free to get changed into something more comfortable,” he says, an awkward demeanour about him, “I’ll… make sure to knock”.

“Okay,” you rasp, “thank you… Mimic?”

He nods, backing away in hesitance steps before retreating to the deck, closing the door soundly behind him. Amadea is the first to exit the chest in their absence, clumsily scurrying ahead to hide beneath the bed frame. Leaden with exhaustion, you collapse beside the clothing and rub the fabric between your fingers, feeling the phantom ring between your knuckles. Only then do you notice the crest embroidered into the sleeve cuff.

Aizawa. A clan originating in Yiryn that, long ago, wielded the ability to nullify all magics — the original creators of the mageblades. The last of their line were thought to have died out decades ago after attempting to flee the country over political differences, which had ended in violence. It would certainly explain why he could see through the cloaking spell.

If this was a descendant of the Aizawa’s, then did their hospitality mean you were safe, or were you perhaps a pig for them to fatten? An opportunity for vengeance?

You changed into the new clothes with haste and eyes kept firmly on the door. Dread knotted in your belly, tightening at every noise that passes, but nobody enters. The shirt is loose, sleeves hung comically over your hands, and the collar continues to slip forward bearing cleavage no matter how often you readjust it.

The pants are easier. You tighten the waist with string and roll the legs up mid calf, wincing at the bracelet of bruises swelling around your ankle that you soon cover with thick socks made to cushion leather boots. For the first time in weeks, the soles of your feet do not protest when laid flat.

These clothes hang awkwardly on your frame, so far removed from the soft silks, flowing skirts and tulle. You wring your hands together restlessly. The nakedness of your left ring finger is still stark. “Orlit,” with a short trill, his head lifts from inside the open chest once you call for him, bleary eyed as he surveys the surroundings. You push your discarded clothes across the bed and pat the space they once occupied, “come here”.

He listens. More and more, the nestlings have behaved in a way that indicates human understanding. Or rather, understanding of you . It puts to question all those years of your fathers berating, of the disappointment and abuse levied towards you because it was presumed you had inherited no affinity for Draconic.

With no concept of personal space, Orlit scrambles onto the bed and collapses into your lap. You wince at the sound of linens being torn beneath his claws, and watch as his limbs stretch. Feeling the hot huff of breath against your thigh, you can sense that he’s relieved by the extra space.

Pressure firm but careful in handling the hide you massage the leathery membrane stretched across thin bone, pleased to see they’d grown again, wings almost longer than the length of his body in just a few weeks. If he were at home with his birth mother, Orlit would very likely be nearing the age that’d see him pushed into the pit to fly. Another month or so, you estimate.

Amadea remains hidden for an unsettlingly long time. Known for being slightly more confident than her brother, you’d expected the roles to be reversed. Leaning over the edge to peer beneath the bed frame, you whisper her name and she responds with a long cry, so forlorn that your throat tightens.

L'gra. Fear.

How can I make this better? you want to ask. What can I do?

There’s regret that you did not observe how the pit keepers handled young dragons or ask your husband more prying questions. Katsuki wasn’t of Drachian blood, but it has never truly been synonymous with the royal bloodline. Kings are chosen in Varene. Yet, despite his inability to commune with his dragons the ancient way, he still deeply understood them. They were a mirror reflection of him. They enjoyed his brazen, loving nature. He was a flame you were drawn to, rather than a fire you fled from.

It makes you wonder how he would handle this situation — would he know how to soothe them?

Your thoughts drift to your mother then, your mawkish memory of her associated closely with the helplessness you feel in this moment. You wonder if she endured it too. If she cried as you wailed in fits of discomfort, turning away every comfort she offered, hating herself for it. You couldn’t tell her what you needed, not as a babe.

Not even now, as an adult.

“We’re going to be okay,” you lamented. If you closed your eyes, you could picture your younger self hiding beneath the bed with her. “I’ll do better. I’ll protect you”.

Mimic returns with a tentative knock on the door. Even after giving verbal permission to enter, he’s slow to open it. You watch, bemused, as he steps into the room with eyes kept to the floor.

“I’m clothed, Mimic. You’re fine to look”.

The muscles in his jaw clench, ears shifting beneath his unkempt violet hair, thick and trimmed shorter at the front, yet longer at the back. You notice the lobe is pierced with a silver hoop, and the shell is cuffed. Both pieces of jewellery are linked by a short, delicate chain.

“…The dragons?”

You smile nervously, glancing down to where Orlit is resting on your thigh, and Amadea atop your foot. “They’re calm. You’d know if they weren’t”.

He huffs a short laugh, more disbelief than amusement, and meets your gaze. From behind his back, he pulls out a sea biscuit. It’s colourless and round with the appearance of a sand dollar. “We have pickled vegetables and fruit, but I figured you might want to start small. S’bad to agitate your stomach”.

You take it, turning it between your fingers. You do not tell him that you’re sick of starchy food, bitterness already gathering on your tongue at the thought of tasting something so dry. When you don’t immediately devour it, his eyes narrow. “You need to eat something. I know those dickheads barely fed you,” he insists.

In silent acquiescence, you bring the biscuit to your mouth to take a performative bite. At the very least, it isn’t stale. Much softer, melting pleasantly on your palate. Amadea lifts her head at the sound of chewing, blinking expectantly at you. Swallowing the mouthful, you ask, “Is there anything for them to eat, too?”

Mimic scratches idly at the side of his cheek. “Wasn’t sure what they should be eating, since they’re nestlings. Gotta admit, I know next to nothing about dragons aside from the fact that they’re scary as all hell,” he replies. “We have fresh fish. Salted meat in the stores, too”.

“Either is fine but the fresh meat will probably be better,” you do not tell him how eventually, their stomachs will be strong enough to digest almost anything. Bone and rock, even certain metals, if they’re desperate. He nods, and as he turns to leave, “—again, thank you, Mimic”.

An abrupt halt in his step. Hand hovering on the door knob, he glances back at you. “Hitoshi,” he says. “My name’s Shinsou Hitoshi. Call me whichever you want”.

Hitoshi remains weary. You get the feeling he doesn’t know how to behave around you, but still graciously brings back what he promised. The dragons are ensnared by the pungent smell of brine as soon as it enters the room. A bag of fresh fish is thrown unceremoniously across the room, spilling out the opening of the sack onto the floor. He doesn’t stay long, driven away by the burst of violence between the two as they bicker over who gets what. You stay in place, knowing better than to pull them apart.

It wasn’t true anger. They were mostly playing, establishing a natural hierarchy. At this size, it wasn’t too much of a threat — yet. Katsuki used to recount with fondness about the bloodshed that sometimes followed a dragon feeding, especially amongst the larger females. “Endraen always wins though,” he’d told you with a grin. Sincere pride, not an inkling of arrogance. “That’s my fuckin’ girl”.

You’re left alone, for the most part. You supposed the crew were giving you privacy, or time to adjust. But it pushes you to the razor's edge of ambivalence, and impatience eventually urges you towards leaving the secluded quarters.

With the nestlings satiated, curled up in a bundle of torn up bed sheets that you hope will not be missed, you pluck up the courage to head out onto the deck. The instinct to be light footed and careful reminds you of the nights you would sneak across the palace grounds in Yiryn to see your siblings after a particularly rough meeting with Enji, skin still blistering.

Surprisingly, not one person stops you on the way. No questions as to where you were going, or what you were doing. Instead you receive numerous solemn nods, and the odd unpracticed bow in greeting. Word had spread.

Measured in steps, the distance between the door and the edge of the deck wasn’t all too great. The sea is calm, almost a cradle. She holds the ship in the depths of her palms and the wind spurs it forwards. So blue and clear, you can hardly decipher where the horizon begins.

Shouto would have loved it.

Aizawa is disturbingly quiet as he settles beside you, forearms resting against the deck and alcohol in hand. He is somehow one of the most intimidating men you’ve ever met, all the while having little to no presence. There is no immediate exchange of words, only your slow and purposeful breaths.

Dark eyes briefly flicker over your form. Aizawa pulls the bottle from his mouth with a resounding pop, leaving behind a sheen of rum, and tilts it forward. “Here,” he murmurs.

“Thanks,” you reach out, fingers wrapping around the bottle's neck and grazing his own. He’s warm, rough skinned. Neither of you comment on it, his gaze fixed pointedly on your expression as you bring the finish to your lips.

The aroma is rich, sweet like overly ripe bananas. You tip back, feeling it dry and bitter on your tongue. There are hints of vanilla and brown sugar, a sting to your throat that begs you to cough. You hear a quiet laugh.

“Too strong?”

Your expression twists, “It’s good. But it burns”.

“That’s why it’s good,” he smirks. “Seasick?”

You exhale, handing the bottle back. “Just thinking about my siblings. They only know of the ocean from picture books and maps”.

The dark hair that previously curtained his face has now been tucked away beneath the confines of a patterned cloth tied around his forehead, two loose tassels hanging by his temple. He’s pale for a seaman. It tells of his dedication to being a hermit. “They waiting for you back home?”

Your chin dips as you swallow, teeth sinking into the flesh of your inner cheek. The memory of the firebird brooch on your kidnappers' lapels flashes unbidden through your mind. Reflexively, you have begun to fiddle with the phantom ring on your finger. Aizawa cannot know that there is no home to go back to. It is a reality that wears you thin.

“No,” is your reply. Silence follows. Nervously, you glance towards him and find he is already right looking back at you. When he meets your gaze there’s an understanding there that you hadn’t expected.

“Is that why you haven’t asked where we’re taking you?”

Did it really matter?

“Could I ask you something?” — he nods, and the tassels bounce against his crown — “Do you resent me for what happened to your relatives?”

You’re shocked to hear him scoff. “Nothing happened to my clan, kid. They weren’t happy in Yiryn and they left before your—” he pauses to think, taking another swig as he does “—before your great great grandfather could imprison the last of them. Even if I did hold animosity toward the Todoroki name, you are far from at fault”.

“Our books say members were persecuted for treason and run out amidst political infighting. That’s why we have so few mageblades left…”

“There are few mageblades left because my previous relatives took most of their weaponry and fled with it,” he says, aimlessly passing his thumb over the top of his bottle, making a quiet sound with the trapped air. “King Enmei planned to use them in a surprise incursion along the East Varene border, despite having signed the peace treaty”.

Gracelessly, your only reply is “Oh”.

True, you had known not to trust most of the historical texts in the Todoroki library; but knowing that and hearing it are two different things. You recall the older blade he’d taken from Hachi. “It must be nice, then. To have a piece of your heritage back with you”.

He shrugs, though not unkindly. You feel a kinship with him that you hadn’t expected. That comfortability leads you to ask, “Do you ever feel like you don’t belong anywhere?”

A deep sigh. “Maybe at one time, yes,” Aizawa rubs idly at the scruff along his jaw and casts his eye toward the endless horizon. “Though that is fundamentally untrue”.

“Why?” you feel yourself grin, playful as you lean against the edge of the deck. “Do you belong to the oceans now?”

He huffs shortly, and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “No,” the hull rolls smoothly over a passing wave, sliding you into his side. Warmth seeps through the loose cotton of his shirt sleeves. Accepting the closeness, he nudges your arm to emphasise his point, “I belong to myself now”.

You think about your body being a home. About the sun rising and setting between skeletal window panes, of the child you outgrew that sleeps in an alcove carved into your sternum. How on worse nights, cowering away from the boom of Enji’s voice and embraced by Touya’s bandaged arms with Shouto curled at your side, you would retreat into yourself. For as long as you could remember, that was the only safe place you had.

At what point had that stopped being true, you wonder; at what point did the voice in your head become your fathers? The memories are diluted, and jaded, your own wants muddied by his footprints. There was a reason you stopped stepping inside of yourself.

“Oddly philosophical for a pirate,” you muse, pushing the thoughts aside. Aizawa huffs.

“Not a pirate. Now I'm just a man with a boat,” he turns at an angle, peering over his shoulder towards his crewmates' antics, “...and a soft spot for strays”.

You look alongside him to find the group of men huddled together, playing a game you couldn’t name if asked. They have two sets of dice in the bottom of a cup, shaken and thrown across the circle. On some numbers they cheer, on others they groan. Yamada, you recognise, is proudly gregarious, and off to the side Shadow and Hitoshi have paired off to watch in their own bubble of amusement.

“All I can say is, what you perceive isn’t always the whole truth,” he pulls your attention back, and you drink from the bottle as he offers it once more. This time, you swallow it smoothly, and the burn is pleasant. “Reality is often subjective. So don’t assume you aren’t wanted, or that you don’t belong, if it’s from the confines of your own head”.

You inhale, the sea salt bloats your lungs. Your body rolls with the rock of the ship as the ocean's temperament begins to change. Far off in the expanse of clear sky, there are bruising cumulonimbus clouds bleeding into blue. How befitting.

Aizawa continues through your silence. “We can take you to Varene after we get to the Valcana isles, if that’s what you want. We won’t be voyaging out again for a few weeks, so you have time to think about it”.

“You aren’t going to drag me back for whatever reward they’re offering?” you blurted, the concept of choice still so foreign. A stone of guilt sinks through your stomach as his expression pinches, a little hard to decipher.

“I’m no bounty hunter. I want you to make that decision yourself,” then his brow quirks, the distaste softening into quiet amusement, “Hitoshi is, though. He’ll know more than I do”.

You’re informed it’ll take another day and a half to reach the Isles of Valcana — a cluster of mountainous jewels in the middle of Leilisle, covered in lush green. It was renowned as a rest stop amongst all seamen, sailors, merchants and pirates alike. The population is a small one; only around six thousand people inhabited the main island, while the less accessible ones were largely left to nature.

The opportunity to question Hitoshi doesn’t present itself until the following morning, when the ship is mostly bereft. Many of the motley crew are resting, strung around the upper and lower decks as they sleep through their wicked hangovers.

It’s as good a time as any to let the nestlings stretch. You’d been assured that no one on the ship had ill intent toward either of you — in fact, Aizawa even allowed you to stay overnight in his quarters. “Don’t worry about this guy,” Mic had told you, the frame of his glasses slipping haphazardly down his nose, “he can fall asleep practically anywhere”.

Still early, you see the sun rising gently above the seam of the horizon and painting the ocean's surface a glorious expanse of orange and pink. Time always moves forward. You’re reminded of how vast the world is, and how infinitesimal you are in it.

Despite their freedom, the nestlings stick to your side. Amadea rumbles, a sound made in the depths of her chest, and you push playfully against her snout when she nuzzles at your elbow. You have set up camp below the foremast, right by the ship’s edge. Reaching out over the sea is the figure of a bare chested woman, her extended hand rising and falling with the waves.

The air is tepid, almost a caress. Your fingers work clumsily on a spare piece of rope you'd cut from a spool on Aizawa’s bookshelf. Knots weren’t something you knew from memory, but you had a vague image of what a bowline should look like.

You huff, examining the twists and turns. It definitely did not look like this.

Charmingly, he starts with, “You’re kinda bad at that, huh?”

Startled, you look up to see Hitoshi approaching with slow wading steps, like his boots were full of water. His eyes are where his true feelings lie, narrowed to focus on the nestlings by your knees.

Amadea remains at your side, full from her breakfast. Orlit, however, is becoming braver with every hour that passes. The food burns through him quicker, body moving with bubbling energy as he starts forward. “Orlit,” you call out in warning. It doesn’t reach him.

You knew intuitively that it was pure curiosity. Orlit had seen Hitoshi bring the food before, and thus recognised his voice. But the bounty hunter could only exercise caution, stumbling back and steadying himself with the rig.

“ Orlit ,” you repeat authoritatively. The nestling stops.

“Don’t worry,” you try your best to show Hitoshi a reassuring smile. “He means you no harm, they just associate you with food”.

A scoff, grip briefly tightening on the shroud as if preparing to jump up. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” he says, choosing to come closer anyway. The male dragon stays his place, even ducking his head coyly in what you’re sure is an apology.

His earring glints in the light as Hitoshi lowers himself onto his haunches, slow to settle with his legs crossed. The apprehension can’t be blamed. Amadea watches him like a hawk the entire way. “What’re you trying to make?”

“I was just playing around. It’s supposed to be a bowline knot,” you tell him, lips thinning as he laughs under his breath. He reaches across, pausing abruptly at Amadea’s grunt, and you relinquish your grip to give it over.

As he fashions the knot himself, it’s hard to keep track of his practiced hands. “The rabbit comes out of the hole, goes around back of the tree, and then jumps back into the hole,” he mutters rhythmically, a triumphant gleam in his eye as he brandishes the perfect bowline, waving it between the two of you. “Did you never learn that song as a kid?”

“No,” your admittance has you feeling somewhat abashed. “I wasn’t allowed to listen to much music as a child”.

Hitoshi’s expression sours as he loosens the rope, “Well you’ll hear plenty from these losers to make up for it”. You smile when his anger softens at the mention of his crew, shuffling forward on your knees when you’re beckoned forward. “C’mon, I’ll show you how to do it”.

And he does, reciting the common ditty for you once more as he guides your fingers with the working end, or as you know it now, the rabbit. Then he covers your fist with his own, and you both pull together tightly, creating a bowline much like the one he’d shown you.

“Thank you Hitoshi,” you breathe, smiling down at the knot, feeling pleased with yourself. He inhales sharply and quickly retracts his hand as if you had burned him, rubbing it down the front of his vest.

Whatever thoughts had been brewing in Hitoshi’s mind are abruptly interrupted as Orlit lunges forward to take the rope between his molars. You release your grip before your arm is pulled from the socket, watching on fondly as he begins to shake it left and right like a pup.

Keeping your eyes on the young dragon while he gallivants across the deck, it’s as good a time as any to bring up what Aizawa had mentioned the day prior. “I heard that you’re a bounty hunter,” you needled, hoping it’d be leading enough.

It isn’t. “I am,” he concedes, picking at the seam of his boot.

“Then, don’t you want to hand me back over to Varene?”

The air around you changes slightly as the wind picks up. Hitoshi leans forward, almost curing into himself as he rests an elbow atop his knee, “Dunno. I heard you aren’t sure you want to go back home in the first place,” he returns, mouth quirked. “Trouble in paradise?”

It’s clear that he’s teasing, which is why you give your best effort in keeping the surge of defensiveness for your husband from showing on your face. You want to cling onto the building equilibrium for a little longer.

Habitually, you pinch the flesh on your ring finger. Weeks have passed and still you feel a vulnerable nakedness without it. Before you’re able to reply, you hear a regretful murmur of, “Sorry”.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you tell him, leaning back as Amadea lifts her neck, arching to stretch her wings. “It’s nice having people treat me as an equal”.

Orlit trills, calling out to his sister. It echoes over the waves as they lap against the hull, the sway strumming at your centre of gravity. “How much is on my head?”

“Enough to see me through two lifetimes without struggle. Not counting the nestlings,” he replies. “Your father is offering about the same. Word has it tensions are worsening between the two, and he’s laying blame on Varene for your disappearance”.

Regardless of your growing kinship with Hitoshi, there are still things you know aren’t for his ears. King Enji feigning anger, and having orchestrated the taking of the nestlings, is one of those things. The knowledge that where you could not mend a bridge, you were now being the tool to demolish it entirely, sits like lead in your chest.

Return to Varene with the truth, and war will surely erupt; you may only be further separated from your siblings, and your mother. Return to Yiryn with the nestlings and you’ll likely never see them, or Katsuki, ever again.

Suddenly, it is hard to speak past the swell in your throat.

Sensing your discomfort, Hitoshi mercifully drops the subject. Instead he lays out their plan for the day ahead. In a few short hours you’ll be at the port. With the markets thriving past noon, it’s decided you and the nestlings will remain in Aizawa’s quarters until dark, when it’ll be much safer to move you.

While the isles have quite a laissez-faire approach in order to provide a neutral place for people from all corners of the world, it was a fact that few sailors from both Varene and Yiryn could be passing through. Hiding you was simple enough, the nestlings were a little harder to explain away.

“We have a good idea of where you can stay for a bit,” Hitoshi explains offhandedly, staring at Orlit. Throughout the conversation, the young dragon had crept closer and closer, pressing himself to the floor in a show of surrender.

You felt his intent. The word is meaningful, cloying on your tongue. Thurirl — I’m not a threat. Orlit wanted to befriend the bounty hunter. This human’s hair is bright, and he brings good food. Such is a dragon's way of thinking. It’s unbearably cute.

“I don’t have any form of payment right now,” you reply, worrying the flesh of your bottom lip between your teeth; mostly an effort to fight a smile. Remaining quiet so as not to disrupt the moment, you watch his hand reach toward Orlits snout.

Every muscle in Hitoshi’s arm is visibly tense, like a spring coiled tight and ready to leap. Feelings of anticipation and excitement thrum through your veins, strong enough for you to appreciate how much the nestling is truly restraining himself as this new friend strokes over his head.

“You won’t need to pay. Eraser will take care of it,” he continues to speak as you protest, “believe me. He’s just like that. If you leave any payment you’ll find it back in your pocket without knowing how it got there”.

You laugh, “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience”.

“Something like that—”

“Hey, hey kiddos! Up and attem’,” Mic’s distinct voice shouts across the ship, startling you both apart. “We’re almost home!”

You aren’t aware of how long this journey had been for the crew, where they’d come from or with what purpose, but their muffled cheers from below deck tell you it has been long enough.

You, too, couldn’t wait to stand on solid ground.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader

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silkendandelion · 4 months

Text

Say My Name (This Time I Will Answer)

A One Piece fanfiction (completed, one-shot), Gift Fic for Mirage In The Desert reaching 2,500 hits on ao3!!

ao3 link

Sir Crocodile x OC (male) Words: 7.6k Genre: Smut, fluff, romance, angst, bottom Crocodile

Rated: Explicit for sexual content, no external warnings apply

In Mirage In The Desert, Crocodile fantasized about a world where he and River met under different circumstances, one conducive to a love they could nurture. So I wrote it. In a world where he never lost his hand, and remained both a swordsman and a pirate captain, he hires a man off a random dock on some unknown island, one who proclaims he’s on pilgrimage from a Paradise island, and is looking for work. Can be read as x reader because River is not described nearly as in depth as the original fic. It can also be read alone from MITD, but might not be appreciated the same way.

Thank you for all of your continued support, and please enjoy 💙 it was so fun to work with Croc and River again, and this one is a personal favorite. Sweet, romantic, soft Crocodile, moonlit swimming, and lots of sauce 💝 have fun you guys

~*~

For all of Crocodile’s love of gold, and the flash of truth in the eyes of his opponents as the arc of his blade reaches it’s apogee, the sea was his first. His greatest paramour, a punishing lover that shouts and thrashes as much as she laves his skin with warm foam, cleansed of lesser men’s blood and graced by a crown of coral while she whispers:

My king.

So he procured a ship. To be close to her, to see a better, wider world than the one he knew, one overflowing with gold and power. He fled his home country on a stolen carrack worthy of his ambition, and filled her with a crew that was appropriately dangerous, loyal enough, who called her La Forza Dorato.

Today, years later and under such a bright sun, he wanted to be nowhere else.

“Captain!” A young crew member called to him, where he stood on the pier. He had already forgotten this one’s name. “Your list is exhausted, Sir. We sail on your command.”

“Immediately.” With only his word, they bustled to begin loosing the sails, and he remained on the dock long enough to light his cigar. His left thumb flicked open the solid gold lighter with a bright ping, while his right shielded it from the passing wind.

Thwip, thwip. But it only sparked. He clicked his teeth, about to bark out an order for one of the crew to hop down and buy lighter oil before they departed, until a man spoke up beside him.

“Need a light?”

An elegant hand with a calloused forefinger offered him a flame, attached to a man younger than himself but certainly not a boy by the creases along his eyes. Strikingly violet eyes among tan skin and dark, expressive brows that matched the mane of thick, black hair draped down his back, pulled neatly into a leather hair cord. Crocodile’s gaze flickered from the silver lighter to the twin swords on his hip, both the same shade of moonlight.

“Thank you,” he replied, polite but curt, and head bowed to accept.

“Is this your ship?” The stranger turned to his boat, wandering nearly onto the ramp until the crew gathered to block him, ready to defend.

“Oh—have I overstepped?” He chuckled nervously—handsomely, Crocodile hesitated to admit—and he nodded to his pirates to relax.

“Only fools wander onto a pirate ship of their own free will. Or stupidity.”

“I assure you, it’s foolishness, really,” the stranger explained. “I’m on pilgrimage from a Paradise island. If you have work for me, I promise to work hard.”

The crew grumbled in a ripple of protests, unimpressed by his fine-tailored clothes and sturdy boots, worthy of an adventure, sure, but only barely broken in. On that, Crocodile agreed, hesitant to entertain any self-proclaimed mercenary who, despite the hand-me-down rucksack slung over his shoulder, smelled of expensive perfume when the wind picked up his long hair.

“Are those swords just for show? Or do you claim to be a professional?” He pulled back his cape with his left hand to show the rapier on his own hip, a golden blade with a spiral hilt, too heavy to be a dress sword and proportionate to his tall, wide body.

“Why don’t you find out? Or are you just the captain?”

Crocodile had killed mouthier fools for less lip, but the mirth in those eyes, dancing among purple firelight and hinting of mischief, made him want to find out. He took a long drag off his cigar to keep from smiling, though it nearly turned into a scowl when the stranger spotted his decision—and had the audacity to grin at him.

Careful, beautiful stranger. Looking at men like that tends to make promises I doubt you could keep.

“You will refer to me as such.”

“Yes, captain,” replied the stranger with a deep, flourishing bow. “River Joel Faustina, at your service.”

“Shall I call you River?”

“Please,” he replied, beaming like his new captain had committed some incredible deed by merely offering him employment. Conditional upon his performance, of which pretty smiles held exactly zero weight. Crocodile rolled his eyes as he gestured for them to board, at the same time his crew were already scattering to enact his anticipated command.

“Let’s go!”

~*~

Crocodile ruled his ship the way he governed his heart: loyalty must be earned, obedience is non-negotiable, and failure often proved to be a fatal mistake. As to why the fool was still alive, even he didn’t know.

Perhaps he found his perseverance endearing, determined to haul sails and throw freight with the brawniest of his crew no matter how it reddened his fingers, his fine clothes beginning to fray with the strain of manual labor. Perhaps it was because Crocodile often forgot himself, unabashedly studying his newest sailor piling all of his hair to the top of his head between orders, and clicking his teeth that he was never wise enough to begin with his hair up. Surely, the ditsy stranger had to know how the loose pieces stuck to his neck in sweat-soaked petals, how the pieces curling around his chin in the humidity were capable to cause insanity.

He suspected a long plot, one where the stranger knew exactly the picture he painted when he stood by the railing to wring his shirt dry, the long line of his back tempting Crocodile to press fingerprints into his skin, until he was love drunk and bewitched, too warm and drowsy to prevent the robbery of more than just his jewels. That in mind, he respected the stranger’s dedication to his scheme, putting in long hours day after day, from his calculated “good morning, captain” at first light, to sending him dark eyes across the fire of the evening, and further flaunting himself across his captain’s restless dreams.

“I don’t like him,” Crocodile declared to no one.

For as long as he’s sailed, Crocodile always ate last, preferring to eat alone, and only after he deemed the day well and truly finished, the sun long gone. Despite his singular statement, containing it’s own beginning and end, the crewmate who poured his ale felt the need to reply. For tonight, on this subject, he would allow it.

“No one does. But, he does as he’s told. So how much can any of us complain?” They shrugged.

“He can’t be trusted.”

“I wonder where he goes every night, when he sneaks out of his bunk like none of us have ears.”

The clatter of Crocodile’s fork to his plate caused the startled crewmate to flinch. A coat of sweat began to dot their pallid skin, as they watched him slowly replace his fork to the napkin. “When would I have learned of these nightly occurrences, if I had not spoken?”

“I-immediately, captain, as—” They swallowed around their tight throat. “The moment I knew what it was the brat was uh—up to.”

”We’ll never know then.”

Crocodile’s rings caught the candlelight in a deadly flash, the promise of a permanent end to their business as he wrenched the crewmate up by his shirt.

“WAIT! You can’t—DON’T—”

A door opening elsewhere startled them both to silence, the cabin perfectly still while they both listened to it close, and the joining patter of feet on the deck. He tossed the man away, suddenly uncaring to enforce his own rules, to the grateful pounding of the frightened crewman’s heart.

“Get out,” he said simply, eyes and ears still trained to the almost imperceptible noise of footsteps.

The man scrambled to leave him alone, dashing off to go through the door they had heard open, while Crocodile ventured the opposite way to the deck. Empty, he believed at first, awash with moonlight and the white noise of the endless sea, enough to rock the ship but not to wake the crew in their beds. Against the railing, he spotted him, the sneak, his face turned to the damp wind, and… standing there?

He waited long breaths for him to reveal a snail phone, communicate to his handler he was getting close to his target, or mark notes in a pocket journal about his plot to fell the rising pirate before he became too powerful—but he only stood there. Basking in the moon, catching spray on his cheeks and gazing out at the sea like he was in love with her too.

Perhaps there was no plot after all, and his newest sailor was simply a fool. Nothing more. For now, there in the dark, damp and awed, he knew only one truth: that he found him beautiful.

~*~

Did he know his captain watched him walk the deck every night? Wondering what he scribbled about in his journal, a salt-stained book with it’s leather worn soft? Does he know he captivates me?

“It’s poetry,” he answered when questioned one morning at breakfast. The pirates at his elbows leaned to see the pages better, and the stranger had little mind to cover up or pretend to be embarrassed.

“What’s a man like you doing out on these seas?” Another one asked.

“I’ve come to see the world,” was his simple reply. “Find a new home, maybe find love.”

From the doorway of the galley, Crocodile blew smoke from his mouth, an olfactory announcement of his presence. The stranger was the only one to raise his head and meet his guarded, golden stare. “You’re a fool for that too.”

He rumbled some warning to the crew about other ship’s in the area, determined to appear indifferent to the stranger’s show of vulnerability, like he hadn’t fled to the sea for the same.

~*~

That night, as Crocodile sat beside the window in his quarters, smoking and thumbing a book without absorbing the pages, he wondered why the fool was late. 18 minutes, according to the golden watch in his pocket.

Tch, he clicked around his cigar, and was about to pour himself a drink when he heard the crew quarter’s door opening.

“A night for star gazing, eh?” He said quietly to no one, seeing the stranger come to the deck without a book or his pen. The night was perfect for such, their ship drifting aimlessly on a glass sea, the air warm and sky clear. His thoughts drifted back to the dark liquor on his desk. Would tonight be the time he went to him with two glasses and a hope fluttering around his insides? He seized the crystal glasses before he lost his nerve, grabbed the neck of the bottle, but—

The sight of endless skin outside the window froze him where he stood.

Once-fine linen pooled around bare feet, and the stranger stepped from their puddle to approach the railing, the night bathing the entirety of his skin a dark, deep blue.

“What is he—wait! Fool!” Crocodile ran from his quarters too late to catch him, just in time to watch him dive over the railing and down into the warm water. Bubbles preceded his resurfacing, among a gasp of delight and a handsome, shamelessly giddy smile.

“What are you doing?” Crocodile scolded down at him, quietly lest the crew wake and his voyeurism be revealed completely. “Are you insane?”

“Oh! Hello, captain,” the stranger replied, wading happily like he wasn’t being glared at by his highest superior. “Would you like to join me?”

“Get back up here—that’s an order. Storms can roll in at a moment’s notice.”

“Sky’s clear, captain. It’s only you and me,” he said, paddling onto his back to show him the planes of his body, chest barely breaking the surface and modesty only partially maintained by the black, shadowed water.

“Do you have any idea the kinds of animals that live in these deep waters?”

Dark eyes find his, and the mesmerized sway of his mind suddenly feels too much like falling over the railing. “I’ll protect you, captain.”

Absurd. Impudent. Brat. Crocodile cursed him repeatedly as he yanked at his clothes. But, with every article he tossed to the deck, his annoyance dimmed, soothed by the promise of warm seawater and a welcoming soul. He dove over the railing, the water parting for his large body in a burst of bubbles that tickled along his skin with the melodious laughter above him. Coming up for air promised the sight of the tempter up close, dotted on every inch of his skin with droplets of diamond—but he found he was gone.

“… Where—,” he gasped, startled at the brush of skin against his legs, and a dark shape darting beneath the rippled surface. What could easily be an expert swimmer or fish revealed itself as a man some meters away when the stranger reappeared. Beneath his wet lashes, he found his own yearning reflected back at him, alongside the same glimmer he saw at the docks all those weeks ago. The one that promised to either transform or drown him.

“If you catch me, you can kiss me,” promised the stranger.

They dove beneath the waves, and Crocodile soon realized he chased a native of the sea, as fast as any animal, breaking the moon beams that shone down through the water with the strong arc of his body to remain just out of his reach. He tumbled over the net of his hands with ease, exciting bubbles around them with his need to tease, to tighten his nimble limbs around the struggling thump of Crocodile’s vulnerable heart.

But Crocodile was also born to the sea, a predator of his own environment, and asking him to give chase was a simple request, as effortless as the yield of the stranger—this siren’s body when he folds into the hands that ensnare him. First, by the gentle grasp around his ankle, then sliding up the length of his legs to hold him in the wrap of his arms. With his delicate organs separated from the predator’s wide palms by only smooth skin dotted with moles, he offered Crocodile the air in his lungs, the warmth of his blood rising to his face as they finally catch their breath.

“Caught you.”

Under the compounding heat of his gaze, the water felt suddenly cool. Their limbs remained intertwined as he realized the only reason he held this creature of the sea—a man with a name, he reminded himself—in his hands, able to feel the thump of his pulse and the puff of his breath across both their lips was because he swam into his net of his own free will. Were he to deem his captain unworthy to touch him, he would have swam to the bottom and drowned him.

Yet here he floated, soft and beguiling, like he might dissolve into foam if Crocodile didn’t kiss him right this moment.

The slam of a door on deck flinched them apart, and Crocodile covered him with his body, despite them both bare, able to be seen completely if only the ripples calmed. Incoherent, sleepy grumbling floated down, among the sound of a zipper.

“How rude. Hey—” River called when a big hand clamped over his mouth, barely heard over the sound of liquid over another part of the railing they couldn’t see. Crocodile kicked them towards the netting along the side of the ship, quiet enough the sailor must have believed them to be fish, and left them alone to wander back to the cabin.

Among the silence, Crocodile realized with devastating clarity, lips still tingling where they had nearly touched, that he could not bring himself to continue.

Nevermind the moment being shattered by a weak bladder, their focus had been elsewhere long enough for Crocodile’s doubt to creep back into his edges. Cold, sour doubt, the worry about his worthiness of love, and wondering if River could smell his weakness. Wondering if he would still want him if he knew the fragility of his heart. Unbecoming, he believed, of a dangerous, cruel, and ruthlessly resourceful pirate. To remain apart was to protect his most vital asset: himself.

“… You should be in bed,” he said quietly.

“But—”

“That’s an order. River.” He couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, not when he might see the breaking of his own heart reflected back at him.

“Yes, captain.”

River climbed the net first, crestfallen, and Crocodile could not even bring himself to admire the back of him as he shed water and fumbled back into his clothes. He took no delight in going back to his quarters, clothes in hand, to lie down alone. Damp hands scrubbed down his face, reaching for a cigar to soothe the sting of his self-inflicted isolation. A punishment? For what, the imagined sins inflicted upon him by people he had already killed?

No, he thought as he flicked open the lighter. For my own weakness. That I replaced the chains of the dead with my own shackles. He does not deserve their weight, and neither do I.

Smoke wafted to the ceiling in lazy plumes, filling his lungs with the blanket of a hard decision.

The next time I hold him, he will have to decide: be mine, or find a new captain.

~*~

“No breakfast today, captain?” A crewmate asked when they were called to fetch his neglected tray and an empty carafe.

“How long until we reach the next island?” Crocodile asked instead.

“Day after tomorrow, captain. Our supplies will hold, despite how much that flimsy swordsman eats.”

He spun his cigar over the ash tray, tired, unseeing eyes scanning the correspondence and notes sprawled across his desk. “Perhaps… he will not be with us much longer.”

“Anything else, captain?”

“That will be all.”

Once his door clicked closed, the silence all but clawed at his nerves. He placed a record on his gramophone, finding comfort in the little band inside the tin speaker, and the weight of his rapier in his left hand. A few practice strokes, precise, gentlemanly, sharp in every way he was also. Were he to lose his hand, his ability to fight, he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t kill him, or worse perhaps, leave him alive.

He wondered if River could love a version of him without his sword, a man who would surely crawl from bloody ashes refusing to die, one who no longer cared to smother his rage. After all, even whole he was still that man. To love someone, to be theirs and keep them, was to love both who they are and who they could become.

A knock at his cabin door tells him the sun had set while he was in his head, the entire day lost to his sword strokes and spinning thoughts. The turning of the knob without his permission tells him exactly who stands on the other side, and River slips between the door and the frame to encroach on his habitat with little care for how he might be received. It clicks shut behind him, at the same time Crocodile’s scolding dies on his tongue.

He stands in night clothes Crocodile had never seen on him, a long linen shirt fluttering around his calves, his body bared as if he were nude by the glowing orange of the lamp light behind him, while his hair and limbs drip seawater onto the floor in gentle patters. The cloth soaks through where it touches his skin, framing goosebumps and tight nipples that perked up on the walk from warm water to the cool, dry cabin.

“Are you going to send me away? Captain?” His quiet voice startled Crocodile from his ogling.

“Why?” He manages with a dry mouth after a moment, and River opens his mouth to reply but he was not finished. “Why do you torment me? What do you want?”

“How do you not know? Can’t you see me?”

The slam of Crocodile’s palms on the short bureau behind River startles them both, caging him between corded arms that strain his dress shirt. He dips, poised to rumble the penultimate question against the warm skin of his neck where his pulse flutters against his lips. Between his legs, Crocodile’s knee keeps him spread, vulnerable, at the mercy of his crazed musings, and squirming as the furniture digs into the give where his rear meets his thighs.

But his question goes unasked. So he decides, as he stands close enough to see his own burning want reflected back in blown pupils, feel the impatient quiver of him against his body, that whatever his answer might be, he needed this night first. One night to begin a lifetime of bliss, or a special, singular night to carry him through.

“River.”

“Yes, captain?” His pink tongue flicks out to wet his dry, bitten lips.

“No. None of that,” he growls in the space between them before surging forward to lock their mouths together, tongues sliding as he grips the back of his thighs to hoist him onto the bureau. Both of them grab and yank at the bottom of River’s shift, hoisting it up to pool in the bend of his thighs so he can cage Crocodile’s waist between his thighs the way he himself is trapped between the hard planes of his body and the wall.

“Captain, we—”

A jeweled hand grabs his jaw, thumb digging into the joint, and keeps them impossibly close to let every letter of his order vibrate in his blushing throat. “Say my name.”

The blushes rises to flood his cheeks, a challenge if Crocodile had ever seen one, to turn his entire body pink to match. “But you said when we first met—I mean, someone will hear us.”

“They would not come through that door even if they believed you were being murdered. Don’t tell me you are shy?” River’s answer comes as an unabashed moan, Crocodile’s reward for sucking hot kisses into the junction of his neck and shoulder while wide, greedy hands knead and pull at the flesh of his hips to drag their erections together through their clothes.

“The man who came to my quarters in nothing but a shift has no right to be shy.”

He hauls him into his arms but does not move to the bed, instead setting him down on the table where his dinner had lain only hours before. The sigh of anticipation that stutters from River’s chest urges him to continue talking, to keep working his body with his voice. All burgeoning promise and smoke, the one that has him leaking into the crumpled mess of his shift with thoughts of Crocodile using those big hands to yank him back into his stroke on every single piece of furniture in the room.

“With the ease you stripped yourself bare to jump into the sea, I do not believe the moon can see any more of you than it already has.” Crocodile’s words were punctuated by shoving his shift up to his chest with one hand, bearing all of him to his hungry gaze as his other hand pulled open the buttons on his shirt. He yanked his belt open to give himself some modicum of relief, sighing hot when thinner hands slipped themselves into his trousers to stroke the clothed outline of his cock. Relief indeed—but tonight, he had no patience for mischief.

”What if someone had seen you?” He reached passed him for the oil (the same bottle he had used to maintain his rapier earlier in the night), and the scent of cloves drifted up from where he hastily slicked his hand. Long, thick fingers briefly massaged the skin behind River’s sack, down over nearly the entire cleft of him until he pressed one inside.

“Or did you want to be seen?”

To the pounding of his heart in his ears, and the rhythmic flex of River’s hands on his shift as he obediently keeps it lifted out of the way, he bullies in a second finger. For all his intent to stay still and let his lover adjust, be tended to, River’s hips squirmed in restless circles, tempting Crocodile to be mean to him with the little moans that puff from his kiss-bitten lips. But, for them to collide in a wave that swallows them both, he needed to hear from those lips he was wanted, even if the answer came ripped from River’s throat in the wail of his ecstasy.

“Answer me.” His fingers continued to drag over sensitive walls, pulling out just to shove back in again, again, pressing to his spot on every entry with an insistent curl. “Did you want to be seen? Eh? Would just anyone do?”

“N-no, I never—they wouldn’t,” he stammered out, his breath stolen by the lightning bolts of pleasure beneath his navel that lit up his entire body. A plea laid across his tongue, ready to be sprung but Crocodile’s fingertips refused to let him breathe enough to confess, like they were intent to keep him drunk and babbling until he could no longer recall excuses.

“O-only you. Only you, Captain, wanted y-you to see me. See me, fuck me—” A loud moan chopped off his words, loud enough to wake someone if not for Crocodile smothering his lips with a wet kiss, sucking on his tongue as he swallowed the cry caused by a third, thick finger. He consumed his sounds with a greed he hadn’t realized he could have for anything but gold, possessed to wring River’s body of every heaving breath and take them selfishly into his own lungs—

Until he had everything he could give.

River’s body rattled, toes curled hard enough to hurt as he wrenched his lips back on a ragged gasp, hips bucking into Crocodile’s soaked palm until he broke on the choked, shameless cry of his captain’s name. He moaned his crest to the ceiling, legs beginning to shake when those fingers refused to stop pistoning inside him. Crocodile almost regretted being so aggressive, but seeing those violet eyes shine with tears, lips equally glossy with drool as he called his name for the entire sea to hear—he wanted to reward him with blinding, wracking pleasure until he could recall no other words.

In the sudden quiet, he reached to soothe him, brushing his palms down his sides and hauling him into his arms to bring him down slow. For a long moment, there was only the sound of slowing breaths, their matched heartbeats pounding against the other’s ribs, until River’s eyes finally peeled open at the beckon of his voice.

“Did I break you?”

His answer came as a surge of energy in a desperate kiss, arms flung around his neck and a mournful sound pressed between his lips. Even through the tears, his eyes shone wetter than before, prompting Crocodile to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake.

“You made me come. Didn’t you—don’t you want me? To be inside me?”

The tight squeeze of his hands on River’s quivering waist dries those tears awfully quick.

“What kind of men have you allowed to touch you, that you would think one is enough?”

He isn’t prepared to watch storm clouds roll into his eyes at his question, elegant hands suddenly gripping into his shirt to shove him back from between his legs. For a shorter man, he carried a strength Crocodile had yet to witness in action, now aimed at himself as he wrestled them down onto the bed to perch above his hips in a tall line that spoke of some kind of pride.

In his miles of moonlit skin he saw it: the threat to be drowned by a man he didn’t fully understand. Yet, it only made Crocodile want more, grabbing for a life preserver in the strong thighs draped over him, and watching River toss his shift somewhere into the dark.

“I’m tired of your questions. Your assumptions to know me, what I’ve done with my body.” Above him, his gaze, the weight of his brow sat open and startingly sober. Among the storm, he found another emotion, the precursor to love, so close to honesty, and yet Crocodile could not identify it as devotion because he had never seen it before aimed at him.

“From the day I came aboard this ship, I never pretended to want anyone else, never hid my intentions. I only ever screamed them if you would bother to look.” He swallowed around his resolve. “You don’t believe me, that I want you? I will show you.”

For all of Crocodile’s hard-nosed affection, his growled demands and confident fingers, the immovable line of him lies willingly supine under the smaller man, long legs parting for him to crawl off his hips and down between his knees.

He looks perfect this way, they think about the other, meaning the way River pulls his endless, black hair to the top of his head with the leather from his wrist, and Crocodile’s wide chest beginning to rise and fall faster, the muscles in his strong jaw clenching and releasing with anticipation River can see plain in the heavy, tight line of his cock against his hip.

The shock of a hot mouth against his tip makes him hiss, soothed by wet kisses along every inch of him that is revealed by River’s hands slowly peeling down his trousers. Momentarily, River ponders undressing him completely so they match, but finds he enjoys too much the sight of Crocodile half undone, shirt bearing his solid torso and lower-half exposed only down to the tops of his thighs. Perfectly disheveled, begging to be consumed, bared perfectly for the moon to see all of him too. Hard evidence it was River’s hands that destroyed him, who cared to reform him.

A telling bead of precum, worked up by River’s ardent staring, tempts him to taste, swipe the tang of him away and lead him between his soft, inviting lips. Crocodile’s answer is a long moan squeezed up from his chest by the squeeze of the throat around him, and betrays exactly how much he’s enjoying himself. His stoic face is unused to being scrunched in bliss by a feverish mouth taking him down to the root with just a few, determined swallows. River takes a moment to hold him there, nose pressed against the dark, neat hair on his pubic bone, for what Crocodile believes to be a breath-stealing, head-spinning eternity—until it’s gone too soon.

He thinks he might lose his temper when that mouth pulls off completely to speak to him.

“You are so much more than I imagined. Oh,” River panted into his skin. Red, slick lips mouth up to his flushed tip to suckle and demand for more precum until it rips a haggard groan from his chest, and Crocodile gives a flushed, pissy scowl, one that demands he stop fucking around.

It hardly frightens the man between his legs, not when Crocodile’s hair has fallen from his meticulous style in damp strands over his cheeks to match the shine of sweat on his forehead. Between his knees, the heat of him nearly steams where River breathes over his sack to roll them around on his tongue too.

Crocodile wants to complain about the crawl they’ve fallen into, demand he pick up the pace, but before he can arrange thoughts on his tongue he’s rewarded by those lips slipping back over him. They fall into an easy rhythm, one that slides hot and tormentingly slow over the entire length of him with every complete bob of River’s head.

A soft, yielding “fuck” flutters out above him, anxious thighs brushing his ears, and River takes the moment to admire the crimson flush creeping into the valleys of Crocodile’s chest, the bob of his swallow around an unguarded groan. Big, sword-calloused hands cradling the curve of his skull are their own reward, as are the little, muffled moans he lets vibrate along the cock in his throat, tempting those hands to squeeze into the roots of his hair.

Crocodile puffs out a quiet chuckle, needing it to be mean but the lack of air in his lungs is a powerful enemy. “Look at you. So haughty and spitting a moment ago. How quickly you’ve become docile for me,” he says, deep in his chest as his jeweled thumb smears a drop of drool away from River’s lip, across his cheek.

Is that how it appears, captain?

River’s eyes flick open, dark as the depths of the ocean that housed creatures more dangerous than either of them, and promising to ruin him on his own pride. They steal the rest of his breath, trading air for lightning in his veins, all while never ceasing the steady rhythm of his head. One of River’s hands, the one that had contented itself to rub over the firm planes of Crocodile’s abs while he pleasured him—suddenly slipped away.

But, Crocodile hardly had the mind to count limbs, not when a tongue prods the hole in his tip, massaging his foreskin and coaxing his eyes to close, assuring him he was the one in control. A pretty thought, pretty as the man who knows the truth, the one collecting his own precum to nudge behind his balls, lower, lower still, and massage over Crocodile’s hole.

His eyes fly open, face suddenly as red as his chest, shooting up to his elbows like River can’t feel him getting even harder against his tongue. “You little—brat—”

“Push me away, then.” That mouth, that smirking mouth lay open to let his cock slap on his glossy tongue. “I’m a swordsman too, certainly no waif, but you and I both know I didn’t lay you down on this bed against your will. If I’ve overstepped—stop me. Tell me to stop, Crocodile, if those rippling muscles have suddenly failed you.”

The pleased chuckle he breathes over the tip of his cock coincides with Crocodile’s surrendering sigh, and the impossibly long line of him falls back to the pillows with the dizzying slide of River’s finger inside him.

“Add another, hurry up—”

“Ah,” he tuts at him. “I will treat you with the care you showed me. Even if you didn’t wait very long at all,” River chuckled again, and Crocodile’s teeth clicking in annoyance turns a huff of pleasure when he gets his request.

He wants to be infuriated at the impudent swordsman for pushing him down and taking liberties with his body, but he can’t feel anything beyond the eager, searing heat that keeps swallowing his semblance of thoughts through his cock, and the expert, clever fingers massaging his inner walls so thoroughly.

River holds back a teasing comment about “who’s docile now” as he opens his eyes to admire him through the tears pooling on his lashes. For all River’s calm voice spoke of control, he knows neither of them can deny their body’s reaction, from his wet cheeks at his throat being filled dutifully over and over, to his hard cock between his legs that throbs as Crocodile writhes on his fingers, long legs restless against the sheets as his sturdy body shakes and cock swells in his throat. Such the cycle continues.

Below him, Crocodile melts on the simmering heat filling his body, threatening to burst from his cock and yet it doesn’t, can’t, as it’s held back by the distracting hand leaving fingerprints on his insides, all over his swelling prostate. He’s in a loop of pleasure, riding higher to a place he hasn’t seen in so long, so out of his reach from atop his throne. And yet here he was, moaning, gasping for air on the sticky, devoted affection of the man who came to his quarters and presented himself first.

The barrage on his senses retreats suddenly, and Crocodile nearly begs for the high, wounded sound he made to remain their secret. Luckily, River looks to have no intention to tease him as he wipes his lips clean with his arm, using his slippery hand to stroke over his own cock. By the glow of the oil lamp, Crocodile can see all four of his fingers shining, but recalls no pain when they had entered him. And they must have, if the openness of his hole is to be believed, felt by a quick touch of his own fingers.

“Why did you stop?” He rasps into the humid air between them.

River answers by leaning over him, hair mostly fallen from it’s quick style, pupils blown as they keep him pinned to the pillows, all while his greedy hands knead at Crocodile’s strong thighs. “Do you believe I want you now?”

Crocodile means to fire back some quick-witted, biting retort, until his thighs are hoisted up, baring his hole and held aloft by deceptively strong arms.

“I’m sorry you haven’t come yet… Would you believe that I want you if I had let you come in my mouth, showed your seed to you on my tongue before I swallowed it?”

“You are…” Crocodile growled out, golden eyes equally blown as his hands grabbed at the sheets. “A cruel, impudent little thing.”

The calloused hands on his thighs flex. “Cruelty recognizes itself, Crocodile, and I think you need better proof of my intentions.”

“I believe you.”

His ragged gasp as he breathed in, so unlike the Crocodile that strangled control from every aspect of his life down to his pleasure, desperate and—if River was anymore bold—vulnerable, had them both snapping to each other's gaze. For a moment, only the sound of the ocean outside filled the warm room.

“I believe that you want me, and I want you. Beautiful River, handsome poet, I want you, so—” Any more words were swallowed by the moan in his chest as River surged forward, bracing his hands beside his ribs and pressing his cock inside in one firm thrust.

River’s hips meeting his stretched rim comes with Crocodile’s big hands on his body, one in his hopelessly lost hair bun, the other on his lower back to feel his muscles clench and twist. “Come on, you wanted to show me proof. Or is this pretty face the extent of you? Your pretty cock—”

He’s interrupted by the throw of his hips, an honest moan worked up from both of them when River grabs at the mattress for leverage to work Crocodile’s body harder than his fingers could ever hope.

“I am more than this pretty face,” he pants over him, one hand leaving the bed to grip his thigh and spread him wide to bury himself even deeper. “More than the swords at your disposal. I will ruin your body, your soul.”

Crocodile’s head, also hopelessly mused from it’s style, presses to the pillow with the force of his hard, steady strokes. Quiet, panting moans leave his lips in rising succession. He touches River’s bicep where one of his arms keeps him braced, fingertips scratching him gently in a way that might have been reserved for admiration if not for the drop of drool that escaped his clenched teeth. Breathing is so hard suddenly, when he can easily look down to see the poet’s pretty cock disappear inside him, his own lying neglected and useless in a puddle of it’s own pre against his stomach.

He can’t help but be impatient, especially after being denied his orgasm down River’s throat, and reaches down to stroke himself off. His breath rises again, shorter, more labored as River shifts his knees to match his attention to Crocodile’s prostate with his wrist’s efficient, choppy rolls.

“That’s it, come on. Come for me,” River coaxes him, voice rising, whining and urgent like he was the one approaching orgasm and it flings Crocodile over the edge with a punch to his diaphragm that comes out as a deep, cracked groan. His vision blurs for long moments, white and crackling at the edges, until he comes back to himself to realize the rhythmic thumping against his flank has not ceased. River’s still at it, dragging him out of the dredges of over-sensitivity and back on the road to another, stronger orgasm.

Perhaps he will drown him anyway.

“I’m sorry it look so long for you to come, but I—,” River swallows around his dry mouth, “I will make you come again, I promise.”

“You stupid poet, you beautiful—” His words hold no bite as they wheeze from his wet lips, choking on air when River threads his elbows behind his knees to spread him wider, impossibly so as he leans over him to capture his lips.

He feels himself blush to be pressed completely open, River’s soft thighs rubbing against the skin of his hips to fuck him slower, deeper than he had before, the length of his cock dragging against Crocodile’s most sensitive places for the entirety of his stroke. It made kissing nearly impossible, not when the overworked neurons in his brain are firing off at a rapid pace and his body has begun to melt into the sheets.

“Kiss me, please, I need you,” River whimpered against his tongue, like he didn’t have him folded in half, moaning on his cock and golden eyes dripping tears down his temples and into his hair. Crocodile seized him to bring them chest to chest, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripped on his rear to press the shape of his rings into his heated skin. Dizziness crept into his vision, he knew he was flying too high, only able to wrestle a few words from his vocabulary beyond the fluttering in his chest and the boiling just beneath his skin.

“Mine, all mine. Always,” he panted, his glassy eyes causing River to wonder if he meant him or his cock. The lightning in his belly begged it was the former.

“Yes, yours. No one else’s. Only you, captain, it’s always been you,” He moaned out, nearly a sob as Crocodile’s head flopped uselessly to the pillow. In the fog of his cooked consciousness, he still felt River’s forehead press to his temple, mouth hot near his ear, begging his words to be heard clear and coherent among the humid air between them.

“I’m yours, Crocodile, only yours for as long as I live.” The rhythm of his thrusts wavered as Crocodile’s mouth dropped open, dumbfounded to feel him swell even harder inside him, right against his sweet spot. “Command me, fuck me, use me as you wish.”

The storm rising beneath his ribs burst suddenly, flooding his body to the tips of his fingers and toes, his internal muscles squeezing unbidden, and they both call each other’s name over the ocean rushing in their ears. To Crocodile, it felt so different from the orgasm he had impatiently wrung from himself earlier, hand stripping his cock while he allowed River to sweeten the deal with his dutiful stroke. But this, this, River was in control of his pleasure, fucking it deep from within the most molten parts of his core and pushing him impossibly higher with every hungry, obedient thrust.

The sweet, keening moan above him is a treat, along with the last pleas of stuttering hips pumping him deep with a liquid heat that sweeps his insides to the corners of his soul. An apology, he thinks, for the ache in his hips as River finally lets his legs fall to the side.

He contemplates scolding him, picking the pieces of his pride off the floor to remind the other man he did not have permission to come inside him, until a muted thump to the mattress captures his attention first. Beside him, River lies bathed in moonlight, wearing his sated flush like a silk chemise, and decidedly too endearing to shout at. He sighed at length, supposing he earned it, after coaxing him to come twice on his cock and hard enough the second time to hit his own face with his seed.

But who would he be if he didn’t complain a little?

“Ugh. You come into my room, make a mess of me and my bed. I don’t suppose you intend to clean up after yourself, do you?”

“Shall I use my tongue? It will only take a moment.” River jumped up to lean over him, beginning to suckle the semen off his abdomen with a happy hum, to Crocodile’s flustered outrage.

“Outrageous, mischievous—hrn.” A strangled sound fell from his tired lips when the tongue moved to lap at his hole, interrupted by Crocodile’s firm hand in the roots of his hair. He dragged him back up for a kiss, tasting himself in their shared sigh, and a fond calm settled over them as they parted with a wet sound, not unlike the waves after a storm.

Crocodile anchored his stare by the firm grip on the back of his neck. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Every word.” River answered without hesitation, and let their foreheads gently thump together. “Do with me as you wish. Forever.”

“Promises like that, to a man like me, are liable to breed hatred eventually. You will come to resent me.”

“No, I won’t. Not this time.”

He wants to ask him what he means, why his gaze is so calm, as if he’s come home from a long journey. Maybe he’ll ask him one day. But not now, when their skin is so warm where their sides brush, and the ocean outside is quiet.

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silverinkbottle · 5 months

Text

Catch and Release Pt.2

Summary: So begins the ‘formal’ negotiations between Warlord and Paramour

Content Warning:NSFW 18+.

Tags: Fluff and Smut. Marking. General sexual content warning.

A/N: Highly recommend reading Pt.1 on my master list

Chapter 1 <-

Chapter 3 ->

Tag List: If you would like to notified of future updates to this series just DM me so I can throw ya here for a tag.

@togenabi

This feeling was strange for you. The uncomfortable flutter of ‘butterflies’ in your stomach as your fingertips smoothed over the white clasp buttons of the silk shirt. The excess of fabric trailed over your body as the soft material brushed against your lower thighs. Your heart sped up a tick as sunlight drifted lazily through the room’s vast balcony window, casting its rays against the material. It was almost sheer in the right angle as you laughed quietly under your breath as you clicked the buttons closed till your collarbone. Still, it wasn’t much of a shirt as the material slid down to your shoulders in a pseudo blouse.

There was a gentle knock on the bedroom door as Bathroy’s eyebrow rose in a silent question of your choice of dressing. Still, she kept quiet as ringed fingers trussed up the excessive lacing of your boots. Her sharp nails idly pulled at one of the ties as she looked up at you with poorly concealed impatience, teeth sinking into her lower lip as if her words would fly without thought. As you waved off her with your hand, a sigh of your own escaped you as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Was it too much? A touch dramatic?

“Is it too much?” You asked with hesitation as you fidgeted with one of black ribbons tying back the excessive fabric of your right sleeve. An ear-splitting squeal made you wince as Bathroy fluttered about you prattling on about nonsensical topics that were easy to tune out. All except for one, the origin of the shirt.

“I just can’t believe you would be so daring to ask for such a token. Especially before-”

“I didn’t ask.” You cut her off with a sharp retort, provoking further teasing as Bathroy smoothed out an errant crease of the shirt. Her brilliant smile was impossible to ignore as you could feel your own lips starting to curve.

“So, you stole from a Warlord, perhaps the World Government will raise your bounty. Such a bold display of piracy. That doesn’t explain-”

“Port. Hungover. End of discussion.” Your words were pointed, but it wasn’t malicious. No, it was because just the mere mention of the forever tainted wine made a cruel whisper of headache brush through the very depths of your skull. Miserable was the apt word for both you and Mihawk’s condition after that night of drinking. For once it wasn’t you silently pining for him to stay in your bed longer, it was for eternal darkness as Mihawk thoughtlessly threw open the curtains, allowing the bright sun in. Departing your chambers with a mere brush against bedraggled hair as you had curled deeper into your sheets. Your reward for your lush behavior, a day long hangover and a consolation prize that you quickly stashed in your wardrobe. A shirt.

The very article of clothing hadn’t seen the light of day until the very early hours of the morning today. Your demands for it to be washed, dried and presentable sent whatever unfortunate soul with laundry duty scrambling. Gossip was doubtlessly ablaze as the fine material could only belong to one soul. Followed by further fuel to the inferno as you discussed the affairs of the night before. To go public with such information would put more targets on you and the crew’s backs. You wouldn’t judge them for requesting a leave of absence or perhaps the proposal of disbanding the ship all together. All these gentle words came to a stuttering halt as Joan had let out a heavy sigh before muttering under her breath about losing a bet.

Pirates. Fucking pirates, looking to make coin in anyway possible. Yet instead of anger, laughter echoed through your chambers for a good fifteen minutes. You desperately reached for that warm feeling as you could feel your nerves begin to eat away at you. Bolting your polished boots to the floor before you lightly stumbled forward with Bathroy’s gentle shove. The warmth of her hands could be felt against the thin fabric as she wrapped an arm around your waist, ushering you forward from the chamber.

There was a sharp hiss of alarm as you were roughly tugged up onto the upper deck by Joan’s strong grip. Nearly catching yourself on the last step of the stairwell, you forced yourself to bite back your temper as your 1st Mate always had her reasons. Nearly missing the start of a duel was one of them as a hushed silence fell over the crew. Aside from the few notable clinks of coins exchanging hands for last minute bets. Perhaps you would put a ban of gambling for a short time. Your ship’s view was clear , in dead sights of the duel grounds. For a few seconds, it was like even the waves of the docks were rendered mute as there was a clear ring of swords being drawn. Two, Ronoro Zoro had two blades out as you had heard rumors of his supposed fighting style.

“You gotta be fucking with me.” Joan hissed as she roughly shoved aside a snickering crew member as Mihawk returned with a response of his own. The hidden blade around his neck against two swords.

“He’s..toying..with him..” You muttered as Joan hopelessly pressed her forehead against the railing. Evidently she had bet wrong as you sympathetically patted her shoulder. There were further stifled curses and whispers as the duel continued. If it could even be called that, Mihawk's footwork looked like a dance compared to Zoro’s bold attacks. Your nails sank deeper into the woodwork as the tips of the blades caught deadcenter against the small knife. Followed by the blunt display of strength as Zoro was easily pushed back with a single swipe.

Your breath caught in your throat as you could almost taste the tension in the air as the duel was drawing to a close. An introduction of Zoro’s third blade provoking a first display of Yoru, as the sentimental notes of antiseptic oils drifted over your nose. A gasp slipped from your lips as the final move of the duel was over in a second. Shattered metal, a compliment, and a defiant upstart with an unknown fate. That is, if the green-haired swordsman survived as the tainted notes of copper filled the air, his fallen form was hastily concealed by his concerned crewmates.

“Alright you LOT in the corner trying to scurry like a couple of filthy rats, PAY UP. I won the bet fair and square.” Joan’s booming voice pulled your attention from the front to the back as she looked seconds away from throttling a sheepish looking lineman. It wasn’t just the small group exchanging coins, no, you couldn’t help but huff as several winners and losers made themselves known. Not all bets with defined terms as squabbling broke out between two crew members over the exact start and end of the duel. Which in turn encouraged further disputes of terms and conditions as you wearily ran a hand over your face.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t accept duels so publicly. At least not without the condition that I earn a forty percent cut from any winnings..” Mihawk’s voice was gentle and warm against your ear. Flickers of amusement in it as the winner’s presence had rendered your bickering crew silent. It was better than any threats of punishment as you cleared your throat, lest you lose face to gossip.

“Now that all you jackasses have had your daily dose of entertainment, get back to work”! Your voice was steady in barking out the order while under the surface you could feel your nerves prickle.

“I was being serious.” Mihawk muttered as he fell in step with you. His head tipping in a silent question as he took in your all too familiar attire. You slapped away his curious hand lightly pulling at one ribbon on your sleeve as you reached the darkened staircase leading below deck glancing over your shoulder at Mihawk’s look of realization.

“As was I. I won’t have you distracting those layabouts after I..-” Your cool words felt strangled in your throat as you took a clumsy step backwards missing the solid wood step entirely. Strong arms easily caught you about your waist as you braced your hands against Mihawk’s shoulders lest you look like a rag-doll dangling mid air. Mihawk’s rare hint of a smile was all you needed for your cheeks to heat and stutter out a simple answer.

“Before I demand a tally of all the gambling that took place last night and today about-”

“Last night? Now what sort of stories have you-” Mihawk’s question was cut off by your hand gently covering his mouth.

“It doesn’t matter. Now, DOWN.” Your soft words turned into a barked command as you didn’t need further rumors swirling on the vessel. How Mihawk made you soft and pliable to suggestions. To allow yourself to be used as a commodity to make money without giving you your own cut. No,it wouldn’t stand. Yet, for now you stood on your own two feet as you stalked down the wooden vessel, eager for the quiet sanctuary that were your personal quarters.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice those gouge marks in the railing. Worried weren’t you?” Mihawk teased fondly as you puffed up with embarrassment, but kept venom behind painted lips as you stalked to the overstuffed seat in front of your dresser.

Your skin prickled as you could feel amber eyes watch each of your actions. The gentle tug of the brush through your hair, the soft click of metallic hoops against wood as you removed your earrings. The curl of your fingertips as you pull at the silken shirt collar.

Far larger calloused fingertips brushed along the length of your throat, dipping over the curve of your collarbone. Before stopping at the first buttoned clasp, drifting away from it to lightly tug at an errant strand of hair in a quiet scolding as you rolled your eyes.

“Dare I ask how-”

“Port.”

“Ah, the Port.” Mihawk mused as you took the smallest bit of satisfaction in seeing him wince at the phantom pain. Despite his bravado, you knew that he hadn’t been enjoying the morning after that disaster. Gentle fingers pulled at the two sets of ribbons about your elbows as you allowed the material to engulf your hands. However, the gentle affection was over all too quickly as you did your best to conceal your disappointment.

“Now don’t pout, Dove.” Mihawk chided as he brushed a calloused thumb over your lower lip before retreating to one of the overstuffed armchairs in front of the small heater. Soon an all too familiar scent drifted through the cabin of Mihawks’ cleaning oils and the gentle rasp of cloth against the blade. Elegant, he made it look so flawlessly simple as droplets of crimson liquid saturated the cloth, particles of miniscule blood from his opponent. Faint want brushed over your mind as you watched the process. Knowing the very hands reverently caring for the sword would be soon on your very body.

“A bath. I think it would be apt, Dove.” Mihawk’s low voice roused you from your staring as you sheepishly rang one of the alert bells tied to lower crew’s quarters. The muffled giggles and frantic whispers weren’t welcome as tittering women carried in the large brass claw-foot tub, followed by buckets of steaming water. Even lingering to fluff the plush towels laid gently on your bed as your glare could have killed them with their constant back and forth glances from yourself to Mihawk.

“I’m going to throttle Bathroy, I mean it this time.” You hissed as you didn’t even bother looking back at the departing staff. No, you could perfectly hear their muffled gasps when Mihawk stripped himself of his coat, allowing the leatherwork to hit the floor without a hint of shame. The delicate perfumes on your desk rattled from your fist hitting its surface as that sent the gossips skittering from the room. Scurrying after the interlopers your fist rapped loudly against the solid door as panicked whispers and retreating footsteps followed after. Eavesdroppers. The loud click of the door locking from your key felt all too loud in your ears, but it didn’t compare to the distinct noise of water splashing.

For once, Mihawk looked as relaxed as he did in a dead sleep, sighing under his breath from the warm water. You almost felt guilty lightly plucking his hat off his head as his expression turned from indulgent to curious as you gracefully knelt behind him. A small collection of shampoos and the like were prized on a ship like yours, your private stock wasn’t skimming on the luxury. His pleased groan sent tingles through your entire body as you lathered in the liquid into soft black hair. It wasn’t just lust that brushed over you, no it was a deeper satisfaction to provide something that Mihawk didn’t know he wanted. Comfort. Selfish, indulgent comfort in a hot bath and a bit of pampering.

“Remind me next time you are on a tear, to bring up a bath.” You whispered against the tip of his left ear as your nails rubbed deeper against his sensitive scalp.

A faint chuckle slipped from Mihawk as he lazily glanced at you before sinking into your rougher touch. If it were possible, the man would have been purring. Minutes passed by as the tinted notes of oil swirled with the floral ones of the products. The tranquil atmosphere was disrupted with a single direct question.

“Aren’t you joining me?”

It wasn’t an order or request, it was somewhere in between that. An expectation as your hands went still at the words. You jolted back as warm droplets fell against the bare skin of your neck as Mihawk’s wet fingers snapped open the first button of the stolen shirt.

“What are you doing.” Your words came out far too pitched for your liking. Embarrassment scorched your entire being at your startled response. Your flush worsened under Mihawk’s keen gaze as he tilted his head in that familiar manner against the brass bath’s side.

“Stealing back my shirt.”

“Can’t that wait?” You protested faintly as you quickly fled to the other side of the bath, perching on the edge. Your fingers curled over the top button as if it would fall from your frame without it. However, that didn’t stop its’ dangling sleeve from being pulled by Mihawk’s lighting fast grip.

Your pitched hiss of protest was quickly subdued by warm water enveloping your face and form. Bolting up from the water, you couldn’t help but glower as Mihawk’s amused chuckle. He had managed to get you in the bath on his terms.

Now here you were standing in front of him as his hand slowly pushed up the soaked fabric against your thigh. You did your best to keep your expression neutral even as his hand curled over your hip bone. His want was evident as you watched his gaze flicker over the near transparent fabric clinging to your skin. The tightening of his grip when your hands undid the first three buttons of the shirt. The swell of your breasts on display as your pointer finger curled over the fourth button.

“I could easily find a tailor for those troublesome buttons” Mihawk purred as your stomach dropped at the words.

“Now who is being impatient” You retorted as you tried to ignore the vivid image blooming in your mind. The phantom touch of a rougher act of clothes ripping. The roguish display of lust and possession.

“I can find a tailor” Mihawk corrected as his left hand slid under the soaked fabric over your lower abdomen, provoking goosebumps over your skin. You could feel your heartbeat all the faster as the last three pearl-like buttons sent small ripples through the warm water

The wet fabric hit the floor beside the bath with a loud slapping sound as your legs couldn’t help but tighten as Mihawk’s calloused fingertips moved upward. His thumb brushing under your left breast as you were quick to intercept the exploration. Cradling his hand in yours, your lips brushed over the thumb briefly before sharply nipping at it.

Mihawk was quick to pull his hand away with an amused hum. It was all too easy for you to cage yourself around him, skin on skin within seconds. You could his abdomen tightened from a sharper intake of breath as your breasts brushed against his chest. His hard cock felt like velvet against your stomach as your hips met. The faintest whimper from your lips at first contact as Mihawk’s nipped thumb brushed over your cheek.

Now the terms were even as you couldn’t help but smile in triumph when you felt him twitch against you.

“Whatever am I going to do with you?” Mihawk muttered as you curled against his chest. Watching the slow melting color of amber shift darker with each second. Each ‘accidental’ movement of your hips against his trapped cock.

“Make me your paramour. Obviously.” You teased as your lips skirted over his beard. Mere centimeters from your lips on his as you were blessed by the hint of smile. His forehead pressed against yours for a few seconds before the tender moment was disrupted.

A loud squeal escaped your lips as cold air enveloped your body instead of warm water within a blink of the eye. Mihawk easily lifted you out of the bath by your waist. Thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as you tried to preserve what little dignity you had left by not wiggling about. The world at was a tilt as you braced your hands against the middle of Mihawk’s back to lift yourself up. This new angle did give you an opportunity to try to slip from the tight grip as you could see the edge of your crimson bedspread.

Your escape attempt was stifled as Mihawk’s free hand ran down your spine soothingly. A rare impatient sigh slipped from his lips as if he could feel your brooding glare which at the moment was directed at a nearby painting.

“Down. Now” You hissed as a sigh was his only answer, but he did as you requested, lightly setting you down on your own two feet. You could almost call his faint scowl as a pout as you hastily wrapped a prepared towel around yourself.

“Is that really-“

“I can’t stand damp sheets, you know that-“

“But stained sex -“

“Fine. Yes. Fine.” You deadpanned as you tossed the spare towel to him. The offending material hit the sulking swordsman in the face as he reluctantly brushed it over his throat.

“Thank you.” Your words were shot over your shoulder as you lightly lifted the lid of the jar on your beside table. The metallic lid chimed briefly as it was set down on the table’s surface. Inside the jar was a clear, gel-like liquid that easily enveloped your pointer and index finger. The concoction easily spread over your fingers as anticipation built up in your guts.

Your nerves prickled at each movement as you were well-aware of Mihawk’s gaze. The almost cloud-like plush of the mattress under your knees as you settled yourself in the center of the bed. Your knees spread boldly as free hand curled into the comforter, while you couldn’t help but shudder at the first cool touch of the gel against your sex.

It was all too easy for your first finger to slip inside your cunt. The smallest sigh as you tried to curl the finger against its walls. Your cheeks burned as you glanced over your shoulder to Mihawk’s thunderstruck expression. Your knees threatened to buckle as your searching finger brushed over your spot in combination with the visual of Mihawk’s hard cock. A faint clear liquid dripping from the swollen head.

Strong hands curled around your ankles as you were pulled backward to the edge of the bed. Your sex clenched around your fingers as you reluctantly removed them. Both lube and arousal slipped down your fingers as Mihawk blinked blankly as you waggled the digits reflexively in the cool air. Like a predator triggered by the movement of prey, it was that simple action that seemed to reboot his brain.

“Wait-“ Your weak protest shifted into a muffled moan as your face brushed against the soft sheets. Mihawk’s knuckles slowly brushed over your spinal column as you couldn’t help but dig your nails into the soft fabric. Full, full, full, your wired brain seemed to flood with overstimulation as Mihawk’s cock slid into you inch by inch.

For a few moments, there was a strange calm over the room. A fragile little bit of heaven as both parties sighed in contentment. Right. It felt right as you couldn’t help but clench down in delight. A hiss slipped from Mihawk as he leaned down. His movement sent his cock deeper inside you as you couldn’t help but shudder at the action.

“Don’t clench.” Mihawk hissed as his lips caressed over the tips of your ear. Your response was a muffled jumble of words against the sheets as you did your best to comply. His pace was gentle and slow as your nails curled into the sheets with each thrust.

As if he was trying to make the encounter like some sort of starry’ eyed virgin’s dream. A faint flicker of mischief drifted into your hazy mind as you tightened around the head of his cock for a moment as he almost pulled out. His body jostled against yours in surprise as he breathed harshly against the back of your neck. Trying to control himself as you grinned against the bed.

“Don’t clench, dove. It’s going to-“

“Ruin the moment? Mihawk, I’m not-“

Your cheeky response was swiftly silenced as you couldn’t help but shudder from the new position. Now, Mihawk’s left hand gripped over your waist, as you were hovering over his cock. His right hand lightly held your face as his nose brushed against your throat. Teeth nipping at your vibrating vocal cords as you cried out when he thrust into you once more.

Your hips met in the same relaxed pace. All under Mihawk’s tight grip as you whimpered impatiently, wanting more than a slow pace. It was fruitless to try to respond as you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his chuckle.

“I told you to not clench. Now look at the consequences” Mihawk rumbled against your throat. His lips brushing the edge of your own, another teasing gesture that further deepened your discontent. You wanted to fuck. You needed to fuck after a month long dry spell. Not be treated like a dainty doll.

“Mihawk.”

“Hm?” There was an edge of mocking in response as his fingers lightly tapped against your pouting expression.

“More.” There was a trickle of shame at your weakness as your tone could be defined as begging. Even in a single word, as you reluctantly waved the metaphorical white flag. He won this round as you gave into your baser desires.

“Open.” His fingers grazed over your lips as your wet tongue curled around his gentle intrusion. It was all too easy for you to sink into the pool of lust. Openly panting as sticky saliva dripped off Mihawk’s fingers, leaving cool trail down your stomach. Before stopping above that desperate bundle of twitching nerves.

“Please, please, please” Your begging pitched in tempo as your words echoed in the quiet room. A choked whine slipped from your mouth as dots of pleasure sparked in your vision. Within minutes it was like disjointed pleasure was smothering you on all sides. The slower pace of Mihawk’s thrusts in contrast with the sharper time of his fingers.

A slow burning coal licked at your insides as your whimpers turned to quieted gasps. Your thighs trembled with weak restraint as you tried to push back your orgasm. Anything to keep the pleasure building as you couldn’t help but give a broken sob of ecstasy with a touch of the sensitive bud. The world went silent around you like you floating in the warm bath once again. The caressing pleasure wrapping up your body in its’ web.

The plush cushioning of the pillow cradled your head as soft lips kissed each breast. Calloused fingertips stroking your face as your dilated gaze met Mihawk’s warmth. His eyes were like pools in a still pond, seemingly endless but one single movement could disrupt its tranquil beauty. Your hands curled into his dark hair to pull him closer. An almost girlish sigh fell from you as your lips met for the first time in a long while. Your heart thudding all the louder when your chest met his. As if the organ wanted to join with his own.

Kissing Mihawk was a rare event as you relished the quieter moments like this. Even if you never dare speak of it aloud. That he loved your kiss best when you were floating post orgasm, as if you tasted all the sweeter to him. His tongue swept into your mouth as your legs spread once more. Wanting, no needing him inside you in all ways.

The kiss ended with your surprised moan as Mihawk’s cock slid between your soaked sex. Now you welcomed the relaxed pace as his pleased sighs mingled with his lips against your collarbone. Relishing you with his affection in a gentle manner. Now it was a balancing act as his kiss mingled with light bites.

“You’re going to leave marks” You chided lazily as Mihawk’s hips stilled at your remark. There was something different in his gaze that sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. Your befuddlement turned to cool realization. What would it matter if a Warlord left marks on a Paramour? Gossip hounds would be left starving from the obvious claim. That you weren’t some hidden little secret treasure, but out in the open like a gleaming gem.

“Mihawk, what happened to NOT ruining the moment.” You protested faintly as your hips were hastily propped underneath a pillow. Your legs thrown over Mihawk’s shoulders as his dark gaze could have drowned you. You have gladly accepted such a fate as he set a far harsher pace. His mouth crushed into yours as your moans were drowned out.

Claimed, prized, wanted all these adjectives bounced around your hormone addled mind.

“Fuck!” His teeth sank into the side of your throat as tears twinkled in the corner of your eyes. Pain and pleasure blurring together as hot heat swept over your core. Your dripping cunt gripped his cock as you shuddered through another orgasm. Panting against Mihawk’s mouth as you could feel hot cum threaten to drip out with each pulse of muscle.

“I know.” Mihawk mused quietly as he licked at the harsh bruise starting to form on skin. Your hands lazily stroked through damp locks as his body laid atop of yours. Strangely the normal irritation of such close contact post sex didn’t come. Instead it was a gentle warmth, a fluttering little thing. Not like the butterflies of this morning, but some entirely new unknown species.

“Don’t.” Your word came out a whine of protest as the familiar pressure of his cock left. Your legs unconsciously shut as you could feel the warm sticky liquid of sex seep out onto your heated skin. My heart dropped for a brief second as you watched Mihawk swing his legs out of the crumpled bedding.

‘He’s leaving you. Why act so surprised?’ That cruel whisper in the back of your mind swatted at those unknown butterflies. Like a cat battering a bird with an injured wing. The sadistic amusement of your reality. That a title like Paramour could be merely a minor accessory instead something more.

“Are you sulking?” Mihawk’s warm tone ripped you from your sullen thoughts. He was back! Your heart leapt as you did your best to keep your quiet smile to yourself. His touch was gentle as he carefully spread your legs, settling between them on his knees. Fingers curled over your calves with admiration at your cozy display. Your cheeks flushed from emotion, the bruising on your throat. Gentle reminders here and there on your skin from the friction of your bodies.

The gentle warmth against your inner thighs was far different than from earlier. A wet cloth gently wiping away fluids and sweat. Treating your sex as gently as he would Yoru after a fight.

“Stay for three days” Your request came out in a sudden rush of words. Almost childishly hopefully as the gentle touch of the cloth stilled. Mihawk glancing up as if he too was surprised at the request.

“Pardon?” His head tilted in that questioning manner as he leaned closer to your flushed expression. The damp cloth left forgotten on the bed as you impatiently threw it off the sheets.

“Really you think I would be okay with a damp-“ Your rant was cut off by his lips gently pressing against yours. The unexpected affection sent you back into the pillows as you returned the kiss. A slow and warm moment between lovers. True lovers.

“Now, what is it you want. Aside from your strange fixation with keeping your bed water-free” Mihawk sighed as he curled into your touch as your nails grazed his cheek.

“I want you to stay for three days. As a condition for becoming your Paramour.” Your voice was firm and business-like as if he was a mere merchant instead of the lover after a round of rousing sex.

His fingers tapped at the mark on your throat in a rhythmic pattern. Sending little flickers of pain and pleasure through you as if it was a difficult request to contemplate.

“Three days?”

“Yes.”

“You want to stay in bed for three days, dove? I think you won’t be able to walk. “ Mihawk teased as your blush darkened at the unexpected implications of your request.

“I didn’t mean like-“

His gentle kiss cut off your words as you tried to figure out the right explanation. Yet, for some reason it was like your brain stalled when Mihawk kissed you like this. Warm, gentle, protective as if nothing could go wrong with the dangerous world you lived in. He sighed pressing his forehead against yours.

“I’ll stay. If I can, Garp needs to know about his little wildcard..” Mihawk admitted with an edge of amusement. You rolled your eyes as you could all but see the gears turning. As much as Mihawk tried to be ‘above’ it, he still had that natural excitement of piracy. A chance for a new adventure. Potential newcomers to stir up the lackluster East Blue.

“And what of the swordsman? Think he will make it?” You asked as there was a flicker of curiously in Mihawk’s eyes.

“What do you think?” Mihawk retorted

“I don’t know swordplay. All I saw was cleaved muscle and blood. You are the self-proclaimed expert.” You responded as Mihawk chuckled at your rookie understanding. Childishly huffing you waited for his response as he seemed to mull it over for a moment.

“I imagine, if his will is strong enough. If not, I imagine his wildcard of a captain will be surpassing your bounty in no time..”

You blanched at the mention of your bounty. You hadn’t given the rudimentary document a thought in years. It wasn’t as if you were an ‘active’ pirate in the traditional sense. There wasn’t a need. Mihawk’s face brushed against your own, sensing you discomfort from the concept.

“Something red.”

The words were a mere muttering under Mihawk’s breath as you hissed in surprise as his fingers grazed over the love bite. Applying the smallest bit of pressure before quickly withdrawing his hand as you tried to bite him.

“Mihawk.” Your voice dropped low in warning as his arms spread on either side of your head. Blocking any possible retreat as anticipation curled up your spine as his lips brushed over the top of your head. Slowly making his way down your form as your fingers sank into his scalp. Lightly tugging his head upward as his darkened gaze blinked up at you.

“Bell for your thoughts. Shit, why-“

Your question was punctured by Mihawk’s bite against your right hip bone. Sucking at the skin before repeating the action on the other side. Marking his territory with an obvious display as you impatiently pulled once more.

“I want you in red in your next bounty” Mihawk responded slowly before you cried out as his affections fell onto your clit.

Three days could you survive three days of this?

You were sore. Sated, but sore as you accidentally rubbed your marked throat against the plush pillow. Every single twitch of your body against the silken sheets sent a new sensation over your body. Courtesy of the multiple love bites over your form given by the lax form of your lover. It was almost a shame that you didn’t leave your mark on him in any fashion. The thought hadn’t occurred to you in the midst of your passions. Until now as you examined your manicure nails with faint interest.

Your arms curled around Mihawk’s back, nails positioned underneath his pectorals. Your face pressed against his firm back, feeling each gentle inhale and exhale. It was almost enough to make you fall back to sleep as you shook your head to push back the drowsy thoughts. No, you had a goal to accomplish. You pressed your lips to back of his neck, teeth grazing his shoulder blade as your nails tapped against his chest.

“Let’s rethink that thought. Shall we Dove?” Mihawk scolded as you shrank away in surprise from the address. He had to have been asleep. His heartbeat was so quiet so like when he slept.

“You were awake?” You huffed as Mihawk rolled over to face you, stroking your face as he did his best to hide his amusement. The telltale twitch of his mouth was a dead giveaway as you scrambled atop of him.

“You’re toying with me. Really now?” You growled as you held down Mihawk’s wrists with force. You didn’t need him poking and prodding your markings after hours of making them. It was too vain for you to glance at yourself in the distant dresser. The primal satisfaction of each little bruised section of skin all while you had one of the notorious Warlords of the Sea under your form. Willfully submitting your light grip even as you teasingly rolled your hips.

“Dove.” Mihawk warned as you leaned down close. A mere breath apart as you smiled a coy smile. He wanted this arrangement and he was going to learn you weren’t going to be some passive little play thing. You never had been.

The stuttered ring of a Transponder Snail broke the intimate moment as Mihawk tried to wave you off him. It was an easy act of defiance to grip your knees tighter.

“Behave.” Mihawk whispered as he sat up to grab the small transponder snail headpiece from the dresser. There was the smallest sound of a click as you both cringed away from the excessively loud voice that boomed out of it.

“Hawkeyes, report. Now” Gruff, deep and demanding. Tilting your head to the side in a silent question, Mihawk rolled his eyes in obvious annoyance. Yet, kept his harsh tongue behind his teeth.

So. This was infamous Vice Admiral Garp. He had a reputation even amongst pirates like Mihawk. After all, he was the one who captured the last King of the Pirates. Something told you that his bark was as worse as his bite if provoked .

“It’s a bit early for my taste.” Mihawk tutted as his left hand brushed over your left nipple. Willing it into a stiff peak as you bit down your lower lip. It was too early for military affairs and his expected duties, but for sex? No. His hardening cock against your stomach was an obvious display.

Your nails grazed the reddened flesh as your lips ticked as a devious idea began floated by. Only for the haze of lust to be disrupted by a loud demand of the impatient admiral

“Report. Now. I don’t give a damn about your beauty sleep. Maybe you’ll wreak another fleet for good measure!”

There was a sudden click as the call was ended. The amorous mood throughly ruined by reality of the world. That despite his notoriety, he did have some minor obligations to the powers that be. Your nails tapped against his sullen expression as you pressed your lips to his chastely before clambering off him.

Stalking over to your wardrobe, you hastily threw open the double doors before gesturing to the varied outfits with a ‘ta-dah’. Mihawk lazily propped himself up on his elbow before blinking once.

“You said you wanted my next bounty outfit to be red. I just..figured..you could choose an example..and I could..” Your voice trailed off sheepishly. Mihawk’s laughter bounced around your chambers. The irritating phone call a mere thought as you pulled out the first dress with dramatic flair of fabric.

You could make this work. Right?

#opla x reader #opla mihawk #opla #opla fanfiction #one piece fanfiction #one piece x reader #silverinkwrites #fluff and smut

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queendomkey · 19 days

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Guilty as Sin? addresses the idea of emotional cheating, about longing for someone outside their current relationship. The speaker describes being in bored in her relationship, and fantasizing about a guy that she is texting* while her lover likely does the same**.

*In my romantic pirate heart, they're pen pals paramours as opposed to texting troublemakers. He "sent" her Downtown Lights, which could easily be read as being sent a streaming link, but I want to believe he sent her a burned tape. **As I've previously said, The Tortured Poets Department is an album in conversation with itself. The mutual emotional infidelity is only really implied by the speaker's questioning her right to be upset within Guilty as Sin? but is made clearer in other places throughout the album. Whether you allow other songs to affect your reading of the song is wholly up to you..

Diversion aside, I think the song touches on this theme very well, and I trust my fellow Department members will provide insights on the song's preferred reading in today's meeting.

In the reception theory of reader responses, a preferred reading is the audience understanding and agreeing with the author's (or producer, or lyricist, etc. ) intended vision for their media. Reception theory also says that readers can take oppositional and negotiated readings. Oppositional readings reject the author's stance entirely, while a negotiated reading may agree in part or whole, but still have their own "take" on the media.

Guilty as Sin? is intended to be about emotional infidelity. For the past few days, I have been analyzing the songs through their preferred reading. Today, I would like to destroy all of that, and present to you my Oppositional Reading of Guilty as Sin?

I know, very well, that the reading I am about to present is not Swift's intent, and indeed, I may be a koi swimming against the river's current. This post is not meant to be me saying that the song is my reading. I am within opposition to the text.

(I guess that technically makes this a negotiated reading? semantics—)

I am about to commit the cardinal sin of reading queer themes into a straight author's work. Crucify me if you please, but do so with the context that I acknowledged that this reading is not "canonical," to continue being biblical about it.

To reiterate, because this is the "how dare you say we piss on the poor" website. I do not believe that my reading is the intended reading of Guilty as Sin?

So:

When reading queer themes into straight work, I feel it is impossible to not draw from personal experience. This post is about Guilty as Sin? but it is also about me. It is about what growing up queer in the rural American southeast is like. It's hard to detangle those things.

I present to the department: A case for Guilty as Sin? as a song of queer longing. Half analysis, half personal essay.

On the surface, I feel this reading can be very simple. When the whole refrain is how can I be guilty as sin? and hegemonic Christian society deems queer love, queer living as sinful, the connection doesn't feel like that hard of a jump. The song travels through its religious theming, through the shame, through hushing yourself with the idea that thoughts don't count. The speaker works through those pains and repressions, so that she can come to the revelation:

What if the way you hold me is actually what's holy?

What initially got me thinking about this song in a gay way was one of the opening lyrics. ( Well, no, what initially got me thinking this was listening to it as I was writing fiction, but hush. )

This cage was once just fine.

As a bisexual woman, there was once a time where I really, truly, thought to myself that I would never come out. It was fine, to be honest. I still like men, so I just had to pray that my one big love was a man. That way, I could protect myself from my family’s imagined negative reactions. I don't think this is a unique experience, either. Particularly in the south, we hold ourselves in for the comfort of others, and our own safety.

I cannot speak for everyone, but I feel like that fear of rejection is common amongst the people I know. It leads to caging our feelings; locking bits of ourselves away from those who once knew us so closely, in order to preserve their original vision of us. As perfect, straight sons and daughters, as kids who would grow into the molds set forth. And for a while, we can hold together like this, the cage is fine.

But parrots pluck their feathers when kept under lock and key, and so too do we.

I dream of cracking locks, throwing my life to the wolves or the ocean rocks.

Doesn't it feel like that? The first time you consider telling a parent, or any loved one, that you're not what they imagined. Like you could be dashing your chances at life. The image brings to mind that of suicide, of a “I can no longer live like this.” People thrown to the rocks do not survive impact, and often are disfigured, beyond recognition. It's such a visceral image for a song filled with longing.

This song is textually about emotional infidelity, obviously, but I think it can also be about the longing we hold for the "unallowed." How we can both feel such beautiful love and hideous shame about the same thoughts. Repression is a funny thing, to smother the want can only make it come back harder, stronger.

What if I roll the stone away? They're gonna crucify me anyways.

I said that the Christian imagery is part of what made me think of the song as queer, and I stand by it. A lot of queer art deals with the trauma of religion; the idea of being guilty for the way you simply are, for the way you feel, naturally, drives one to consider the opposite. What if our way of being is holy. I'm particularly brought to mind Fipsi Seilern’s Portrait of Virgin Xtravaganzah (and the portraiture's subject - Virgin X - by extension.)

The connection is not hard to make; masturbation, the song’s main premise, is seen as sinful, as is infidelity. And so, too, is being gay. They are shamed the same way in conservative Christian society, as if they are of the same level.

In a way, it's very Christian of me to take a religiously charged song about emotional infidelity and make it about same gender attraction. On the level of infractions to the Christian hegemony, same gender attraction may be worse, truly, than infidelity. That to touch another man or another woman is worse of a crime, than to betray the trust of your opposite gendered partner.

Y'know, as a kid, I used to get nosebleeds every time I entered my family's church. It was high in the mountains of Tennessee, and I was prone to them anyways. It was my first experience with the hemming and hawing of Christian southern women, tsk'ing at me. I think we stopped going when I was like, ten, partially because of it.

And I look back now, and think about all these things I have learned since then. The pain that Christian dogmatism, that bigotry has caused, to me and the communities I love so dearly. Still causes, in the name of saving our souls, or more likely, extermination.

And think about bleeding every time I crossed the threshold into holy ground.

Does that make us all guilty as sin?

Nah. Any guilt we feel is only a consequence of the spoon fed hatred, and certainly no fault of our own.

( It is interesting, that this reading absolves the narrator of the song, where the original text is more ambiguous as to the level of infraction that the Speaker has committed. The answer to "How can I be guilty as sin?" here is more clear, especially to this specific audience. Swift's modern demographics trend towards young, leftist, and AFAB. Additionally, there's probably a whole essay in that idea itself, how queer people are treated with the same ostracism as adulterers. Going further, why are these "sins," a state of being and a social infraction, grouped with far greater transgressions in the Christian consciousness. Were I not a Biology student, that idea alone would be an excellent thesis topic. )

A defense of the idea of Queering Straight Songs:

When my family drove up the mountain to church, I listened to my Fearless disc on a pink Sony brand CD player in the back seat. How often are our first imaginings of queer love to straight media? Through characters or through idealized versions of us or through the music we're allowed, we find ways to feel queer love like sidewalk dandelions. Some call them weeds, but we all know they're flowers, beautiful and beloved, capable of coming back year after year.

We live in an age where queer stories and queer art are so visible, where we can look at Queering the Map and see all the places we are. And will continue to be. And have always been.

I think, in a way, claiming this song about straight infidelity as queer longing is almost a full circle moment, for me. In a time where queer liberties are at risk, we are still so loud and visible. It's nice, in a way, that I don't have to do this.

There are so many wonderful songs about this same longing, about locking your feelings up and bottling them away, by queer artists, even in this same genre. I don't have to stretch to see myself in these songs. They're radio play, they're opening Coachella.

( Also, protect small queer art. Protect bad queer art, too, while we're at it. We are so lucky that so much of queer lives are available at our fingertips, but without archival and protection, it can also be lost. )

I wouldn't say queer people are braver than we've ever been - that's a disservice to the people before us. We have ages of proof that this music, this art, has existed, and repressing it cannot stop it. We aren't any braver than our ancestors, just more widely seen, and more widely heard. Queer music, thanks to the internet, and thanks to wide, social pressure, is louder than ever.

But that doesn't mean we still can't queer the straight music we love too. This entire post (essay, can I call it an essay?) is about reception theory and seeing yourself in the other's work. It's a time honored tradition to make a song about yourself, to make it gay - I played Lover on violin at a lesbian couple's wedding, and my uncles danced at their wedding to Endless Love by Diana Ross.

I leave you with a final story, based on my favorite lyric.

What if he's written 'mine' on my upper thigh, only in my mind?

This line, in particular, made me feel many things, a rush of nostalgia and warmth. I've claimed many celebrities to be my bi awakening, but the first time I remember being attracted to a girl was at the Speak Now tour. She was a bit older than me, maybe 14, and sat across the aisle. Mid-show, she helped me write my favorite lyrics on my arm in the pitch black of Bridgestone Arena. I had seen the lyrics on Taylor's arm and got so excited about the idea, but my mother didn't have a sharpie. She did. In sort of loopy handwriting, she put, "You made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter" down my right arm.

With purple glitter glinting off tanned, grinning cheeks, with her Speak Now glowstick hovering over my arm, I don't remember her name, or even if I asked for it. But she was so kind, crinkling eyes black as obsidian, twinkling the stage lights in their reflection, and made me realize exactly why that lyric resonated with me so deeply. How it was what I wanted to be in the future.

And I could see my future with her, or him, or them. And it is impossible to untangle Swift's music from that.

It's all empathy, all the way down. The kind of empathy that, I am not sorry to be corny and say it, Taylor Swift's music begs you to have. To take these songs that are very much written from her perspective, and see our own experiences mirrored through them, that's what her music asks. To see that we are not all that different, and to connect. How rare and mundane human connection, how we rip out our souls to achieve it. Swift's talked about it extensively, the catharsis of spilling ink, putting pen to paper and voice to recording all in effort to be seen.

I think that's the big motif: I feel seen by Guilty as Sin?, I felt seen back then listening to these CDs. That's the sorcery of storytelling. As an adult, who is so comfortable in her bisexuality that I flaunt it, I still like to do these oppositional readings, to see myself in songs not made about me.

And that's why Guilty as Sin? is, to me, a queer longing kind of song. Even if it isn't.

#taylor swift #ttpdminutes #Guilty As Sin?#this one got away from me #anyways this one goes out to my repressed queers it gets better. i promise you it gets so much better.#religion tw #tw christianity #brief mention of suicide #mentions of homophobia #man i realize this aint even ABT the song anymore.#but it would be too on the nose with the theme of this essay if i DIDN'T say these thoughts #queer every song you love. its good for you i promise.#long post

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thisisnotthenerd · 1 month

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The Legend Lore Database

This is another use of the Legend Lore spell. All information herein is only that of legendary importance.

[a more complete database. i took some artistic liberties. see here for the updating document]

Legendary Individuals

Deities / Deific Entities

Ankarna

Infernal Deity of Fire, Rage and Conquest

Formerly the Giant Deity of Summer, Justice and the Harvest, Patron of the Giantkin of the Mountains of Chaos

Sister to Ruvina, Giant Deity of Winter and Sorrow

Spouse of Cassandra, Sylvan Deity of Mystery, Magic, and the Night

Cassandra / Nightmare King

Sylvan Deity of Mystery, Magic, and the Night, Patron of the Tribes of Sylvaire

Formerly the Nightmare King, the King of the Dark Dreaming, Rí Aisling Olc

Raised from their Undead form by the Blessed Saint Kristen Applebees

Sibling of Galicaea, Elven Goddess of the Moon, and Sol, Human God of the Sun

Spouse of Ankarna, Infernal Deity of Fire, Rage and Conquest

Stark Father of Baron from the Baronies

Eidolons

Seven Sisters, Elemental Spirits of the Universe and Hands of the Gods

From Eldest to Youngest

Chronoa, Eidolon of Time, of the Astral and Ethereal Planes

Terra, Eidolon of Earth, of the Elemental Plane of Earth

Pyrria, Eidolon of Fire, of the Elemental Plane of Fire

Nera, Eidolon of Water, of the Elemental Plane of Water

Zefira, Eidolon of Air, of the Elemental Plane of Air

Anima, Eidolon of Life, the Beginning of All Things

Talura, Eidolon of Death, the Ending of All Things

Trapped in Enchanted Mirrors created by Logran Soulforger, of which the only way out was Infinity

Galicaea / Lida

Elven Deity of the Moon, Patron of the Elves of Fallinel

Patron of Lycanthropes in her aspect as Lida

Sister of Sol, Human God of the Sun, and Cassandra, Sylvan Deity of Mystery, Magic, and the Night

Struck her Sister from memory by way of the Sylvarian Heresy

Helio

Human God of Corn

Son of Sol, Human God of the Sun, and a mortal woman

Followed by the Cult of the Harvestmen, who sought the Apocalypse through perditional contradoxy

Jane Wren

Pirate Goddess of New Horizons, Freedom, and Adventure

She who stands atop the Ramble, overlooking the City of Leviathan

Kahaerin

The Storm King, the Wrathful Primordial of Storms

Perpetually in search of his lost Daughter

Logran Soulforger

Dwarven God of the Forge, He who Makes the World

Created the Enchanted Mirrors to capture the Eidolons in Finite Form, While Leaving Escape in Infinity

Did not Commune with his Followers after the Capture of the Eidolons, until Ostentatia Wallace, Prophet of the Forge, Joined him in his Workshop

Night Yorb

Speak Not of the Night Yorb

The Manta Ray of Darkness, they who would herald an age of darkness through a slow apocalypse

Currently Sealed by the Solar Lasso in the Hangvan

Ollie

Rad Dwarven God of Shredding, Patron of Skateboarders

Ruvina

Giant Deity of Winter and Sorrow, Patron of the Giantkin of the Mountains of Chaos

Sister of Ankarna, Infernal Deity of Fire, Rage, and Conquest

Sol

Human God of the Sun, Patron of the Humans of Highcourt and Solace

Father of Helio, Human God of Corn

Once ousted from his position by Arthur Aguefort, who proceeded to never leave his office and shit in a corner

Umberlee

Goddess of the Deep Sea, Patron of that which lies in the briny depths

Punisher of Sinners who Enter Her Waters

Prohibits artifacts which control the weather

NPCs

Aelwyn Abernant

She who assassinated the first Elven Oracle, Eleminthindriel

She who sank the Harpy, Flagship of the Fleet of Kalvaxus

She who determined the second Elven Oracle, Adaine Abernant

Caused the initiation of war between the nations of Solace and Fallinel

She who dispelled the Nightmare King’s Plague of the Shadow Cat

Acting Mistress of the Compass Points Library, in lieu of Ayda Aguefort

Arthur Aguefort

Founder and Principal of the Aguefort Adventuring Academy

He who caused the Sun to Fall

Paramour of the Last Phoenix

Former Paramour of the previous Elven Oracle, Eleminthindriel

Founder of the School of Chronomancy

Father of Ayda Aguefort

Asha Hammerheart

Saint and Cleric of Logran Soulforger

One of the Three Pilgrims to the Temple to the Earth Defiant

Ayda Aguefort

The Mistress of the Compass Points LIbrary, Quartermaster of the Knowledge of Leviathan

Paramour of Figueroth the Infaethable, the Archdevil of Rebellion, the Dark Mistress of the Bottomless Pit

Creator of Adaine’s Furious Fist

Bakur / Athenriel

Infernal Servant of Ankarna, the Deity of Fire, Rage, and Conquest

Formerly Athenriel of the Faeth Lineage

Former Owner of the Armor of Pride

Cathilda “The Black” Ceili

Legendary Pirate, the Widow in Black, whose daggers flash with death and destruction

Crewmember aboard the Hangman

Elder of the Ramble, who defended Leviathan amidst the wrath of the Storm King

Chungledown Bim

Legendary Mouth-Shitter

Archnemesis of Fabian Aramais Seacaster

Survivor of Captain James Whitclaw's attack on the Cult of Bill Seacaster

Braved the Forest of the Nightmare King alone and escaped unscathed

Highest-level Warlock of the Cult of Bill Seacaster

Court of Elders

Leaders of the Tribes of Sylvaire and the Great Unicorn

Destroyed the Name of the Goddess of Mystery in the Sylvarian Heresy, in league with clerics of Galicaea

Eleminthindriel

The First Elven Oracle, succeeded by Adaine Abernant

Member of the First Council of Chosen

She who prophesied the second rise and fall of Kalvaxus

Garthy O’Brien

Prodigious Descendant of Zajiri Celestials

Impresario of the Gold Gardens, Leviathan’s hub for pleasure and sanctuary

The Curse Breaker who fought the effects of the King of the Dark Dreaming

Child of Ayda Aguefort

Guardian of Ayda Aguefort

Name contains an anagram for the Night Yorb

Gilear Faeth

The Chosen One

Current eldest male descendant of the lineage of Athenriel

Penultimate Inheritor of the Curse of the Armor of Pride

He who stopped three Apocalypses with wishes from a Puppy

Gorthalax the Insatiable

Prince of the Nine Hells and former ruler of the Bottomless Pit

Formerly Gorthiel, the Seraph of Eating the Right Amount of Food / Temperance

Father of Figueroth the Infaethable, Archdevil of Rebellion and Dark Mistress of the Bottomless Pit

Grafmy Rootdrinker

The Druidic Leader who pushed back the Curse of the Nightmare King on the Forest of Sylvaire

Hallariel Seacaster née Lomenelda

The Greatest Fencer to Ever Live

Daughter of Telemaine Lomenelda, Heir to Kei Lumennura

Widow of William “Old Bill” Seacaster, the Scourge of the Nine Hells

Jamina Joy

The Bosun of Leviathan

She who keeps the City afloat

She who contains a Wish for the Welfare of Leviathan

Kalina

The Shadow Cat

Right Hand of the Nightmare King

Familiar of Cassandra

The Cursed Plague of the King of the Dark Dreaming

Kalvaxus

Former Emperor of the Red Waste

Allied with the Nightmare King and the Undead of the Necronomikron

Prophesied to rise once more at the word of Elven Oracle Eleminthindriel

When Kalvaxus once again beholds his glittering treasure And seven maidens once more are chained at the mouth of his lair When war befalls the realm And a king and queen are crowned anew in Solace Then will the Emperor of the Red Waste be released from bondage His destruction will know no bounds The sun shall fall from the Heavens And the world as we know it shall perish forever

Former Vice Principal of the Aguefort Adventuring Academy

Currently the Goldenrod, the Infernal Vessel of William “Old Bill” Seacaster

Karl Cleaver

Legendary Adventurer and Member of the Pact of Kyburus

Of the Cleaver lineage of Adventurers

Kora Ironbrow

Saint and Cleric of Logran Soulforger

One of the Three Pilgrims to the Temple to the Earth Defiant

Lydia Barkrock

She who sealed Bakur in her body with rage and rage alone

The Curse of the Armor of Pride was used to excise Bakur from her body

Nuathera

The Awakened Familiar of Grafmy Rootdrinker

Leader of the Town of Arborly and Protector of the Border of Sylvaire

Octavio Costello Gainglynn

He who sailed off the edge of the World and into the Heavens

Paramour of the Solar Zarael

Pok Gukgak

Premier Agent of the Lower Planar Reconnaissance Task Force of the Plane of Bytopia

He who brought the Plague of the Shadow Cat to the nation of Solace

The first Solesian to be slayed by Kalvaxus personally in centuries

Father of Riz Gukgak, Slayer of Kalvaxus

Telemaine Lomenelda

The Greatest Elven Swordsmith, who forged Fandrangor and the Sword of Sight

Lord of Kei Lumennura, the Guardian of Elven Teens

Tectonya Karkovnya

Superintendent of the Larger Solesian School District

Legendary Wizard and Scholar of the Eidolons

She who stole the Legendarium Extrordia

Tracker O’Shaughnessy

She who dispelled the Nightmare King’s Curse on Sylvaire, the Forest of the Nightmare King

She who dispelled the Nightmare King’s Tree

Reformer of the Faith of Galicaea, Leader of Wolfsong, the Lupine Cleric of Lida

The Vulture King

Father to all Vultures, King of the Vulture Dimension

He whose body became the Royal Artifacts of the Vulture Dimension

William “Old Bill” Seacaster

He who struck down the Pirate King and Hung his Head in Gibbety Square

Captain of the Hangman

Married to Hallariel Lomenelda, the Greatest Fencer to Ever Live

Current Captain of the Infernal Wastes, Scourge of the Nine Hells

Captain of the Goldenrod, the Infernal Vessel carved from the body of Kalvaxus, Emperor of the Red Waste

Yvonna of the Sundering Hills

Saint and Cleric of Logran Soulforger

One of the Three Pilgrims to the Temple to the Earth Defiant

Zaphriel

Spirit of Endless Sky Towards Late Afternoon on a Day at the Beach with Your Feet in the Warm Sand, Just Being Chill as Hell

The Possessing Spirit of the Hangvan

PCs

Adaine Abernant:

The Second Elven Oracle, preceded by Eleminthindriel

Established the right of the Elven Oracle to be paid, via dance battle

Patron of the Oracle of Dance Fabian Aramais Seacaster

Current wielder of the Sword of Sight, Sword of the Elven Oracle

She who invoked the name of Ankarna and broke Obliviati Mori

She who sealed Bakur with the power of the Curse of the Armor of Pride

Creator of Ayda’s Comprehend Subtext

Kristen Applebees:

The Chosen of Helio, God of Corn

The Creator of Yes!/Yes?

She who Resurrected Herself

She who dispelled the Nightmare King’s Coin

She who destroyed the Crown of the Nightmare King

The Blessed Saint of Cassandra, Deity of Mystery, Night and Magic

Figueroth Faeth:

Mortal daughter of Gorthalax the Insatiable, Prince of the Nine Hells and former ruler of the Bottomless Pit

Current Archdevil of Rebellion, Figueroth the Infaethable, the Dark Mistress of the Bottomless Pit

Paramour of Ayda Aguefort, the Mistress of the Compass Points Library

Last of the Faeth Lineage to bear the Curse of the Armor of Pride

Currently holds dominion over the infernal domain of Ankarna, Goddess of Fire, Rage, and Conquest, due to the creation of Dawn of Justice, a song so metal it could claim an infernal domain

Riz Gukgak:

Fifth of the World of Spyre to summon the Night Yorb to the Material Plane

He who slayed the Dragon Kalvaxus, Emperor of the Red Waste

First living member of the Lower Planar Reconnaissance Task Force

The Investigator who Found the Prophesied Seven Maidens

Fabian Aramais Seacaster:

Mortal son of William "Old Bill" Seacaster, Legendary Pirate and the Current Captain of the Infernal Wastes, Scourge of the Nine Hells and Hallariel Lomenelda, the Greatest Fencer to Ever Live

Grandson of Telemaine Lomenelda, Swordsmith of the Elven Kings

He who killed William "Old Bill" Seacaster

Current wielder of Fandrangor, Sword of the North Star

Dance Champion of the Elven Oracle, the Oracle of Dance

Maximum Legend at the Aguefort Adventuring Academy

Gorgug Thistlespring:

He who discovered the Plague of the Shadow Cat

Creator of the Solar Lasso used to seal the Night Yorb into his personal vehicle, the Hangvan

Creator of the Barbificer Specialty, the first in the World of Spyre to combine barbarian rage and artificer spellcasting

The Greatest Wizard of Our Age, as titled by Ayda Aguefort, Mistress of the Compass Points Library

Danielle Barkstock:

Blessed of Anima, Eidolon of Life

She who assumed the form and gave voice to the Empress Anima, Eidolon of Life

One of Seven Maidens Chained at the Mouth of the Lair of Kalvaxus, the Emperor of the Red Waste

Katja Cleaver

Blessed of Terra, Eidolon of Earth

Daughter of Karl Cleaver, of the Cleaver lineage of adventurers

Friend to Horses, Rider of Cinnamon

Slayer of Jana Cleaver

One of Seven Maidens Chained at the Mouth of the Lair of Kalvaxus, the Emperor of the Red Waste

Zelda Donovan

Blessed of Zefira, Eidolon of Air

Battle Dancer of the Donovan Lineage, who was possessed by the god of wine and ecstasy in bacchanal

One of Seven Maidens Chained at the Mouth of the Lair of Kalvaxus, the Emperor of the Red Waste

Antiope Jones

Blessed of Chronoa, Eidolon of Time

She who killed Charity Blythe

Daughter of Athena and Hector Jones, of the Jones lineage of adventurers

Leader of the Reform of the Ministry of Adventure

One of Seven Maidens Chained at the Mouth of the Lair of Kalvaxus, the Emperor of the Red Waste

Penny Luckstone

Blessed of Nera, Eidolon of Water

She who revealed the Society of Shadows one of

Seven Maidens Chained at the Mouth of the Lair of Kalvaxus, the Emperor of the Red Waste

Sam Nightingale:

Blessed of Talura, Eidolon of Death, the Ending of All Things

She who released Talura upon Spyre for the first time in millennia

She who guided Talura to infinite form

One of Seven Maidens Chained at the Mouth of the Lair of Kalvaxus, the Emperor of the Red Waste

Ostentatia Wallace:

The first forge cleric to Commune with Logran Soulforger in millennia

Prophet of Logran Soulforger

Designer for the Gods

Blessed of Pyrria, Eidolon of Fire

One of Seven Maidens Chained at the Mouth of the Lair of Kalvaxus, the Emperor of the Red Waste

Barbarella Sasparilla Gainglynn

The Goddess of the Gold Gardens

Daughter of Octavio Costello Gainglynn and Zarael

She who struck down the Storm-Druid Alamaria

Myrtle (the Bitch)

The Priestess of Storms, Devout of Umberlee, the Sinker of Ships and Collector of the Treasures of the Deep

Jack Brakkow

Unlucky Jack, he who escaped the Bilge only to sink in the depths of betrayal

The Captain of the Late Bloomer, whose crew haunts the mast kept at his side always

Legendary Adventuring Parties

The Bad Kids (Adventuring Party):

Members: Adaine Abernant, Kristen Applebees, Figueroth Faeth, Riz Gukgak, Fabian Aramais Seacaster, Gorgug Thistlespring

Slayed Daybreak, leader of the Harvestmen, and averted the apocalypse of perditional contradoxy

Defeated Kalvaxus, Emperor of the Red Waste

Defeated Occularia, Queen of Sight

Defeated Captain James Whitclaw, the archnemesis of William “Old Bill” Seacaster and prevented the crowning of a new Pirate King

Demolished the Elven prison, Calethriel Tower

Defeated the Nightmare King, the King of the Dark Dreaming

Defeated the Cult of the Night Yorb

Defeated the Night Yorb

The Sole Survivors of the Sundering of the Synod of Spyre

The first adventuring party in living memory to survive the Last Stand-ard Exam

The Buccaneer Buddies (Adventuring Party)

Members: Sunny Biscotto, Jack Brakkow, Barbarella Sasparilla Gainglynn, Cheese Stormcrank, Marcid the Typhoon, Myrtle the Bitch

Prevented the Summoning of William Seacaster for the destruction of Leviathan

Saved Leviathan from Destruction at the hands of Langley Sheffield-Harrington, Clive Mardres, the Storm-Druid Alamaria, and the Crescent Moon Trading Company

Averted the Wrath of the Storm King by disrupting the ritual of Alamaria and returning the Daughter of Storms to the briny depths

The Seven / The Maidens (Adventuring Party)

Members: Danielle Barkstock, Katja Cleaver, Zelda Donovan, Antiope Jones, Penny Luckstone, Sam Nightingale, Ostentatia Wallace

The Seven Maidens Chained at the Mouth of the Lair of Kalvaxus, the Emperor of the Red Waste

Eliminated the Cult of Kalvaxus as vengeance for their capture

Cleansed the Temple of the Earth Defiant of the mutated monstrosities

Commandeered the Rombosa, the Pleasure Barge of Talcidimir Tallbreeze and kidnapped hundreds of nobles from the Baronies

Averted Project Reset, an effort by the Ministry of Adventure to cause world-ending disasters

Defeated Talura, Eidolon of Death, the Ending of All Things, by channeling the spirits of the Eidolons

Legendary Items

Sword of Sight

The Sword of the Elven Oracle, forged by the legendary swordsmith Telemaine Lomenelda

Currently owned by the Elven Oracle Adaine Abernant

Fandrangor

The Sword of the North Star, forged by the legendary swordsmith Telemaine Lomenelda and gifted to the Elven King Thristwin Eversong

Currently owned by Fabian Aramais Seacaster

The Armors of Sin

Seven Suits of Infernal Armor, each forged by a different Infernal Being and associated with the Sins assigned to them by name

Armor of Gluttony - Armor Carved of White Bone, armed with a massive spiked net. Chosen Armor of Gorthalax the Insatiable.

Armor of Pride - Armor of Gleaming gold, armed with a Golden Halberd

Armor gifted from Ankarna to her follower Athenriel. After Athenriel took on the form of Bakur, the armor passed through his lineage patrilineally until it was gifted to Gorthalax the Insatiable.

The curse of the armor transferred to the eldest male descendants of the lineage with the death of each previous holder of the curse. The most recent of these was Gilear Faeth. Upon reunification with the line of Athenriel, the curse was left in a flux state, until it was taken on by the Dark Mistress and Archdevil of the Bottomless Pit, Figueroth the Infaethable.

The Curse was broken and sealed in the Sword of Sight, and later used to remove the containment of Bakur from the body of Lydia Barkrock

Armor of Lust - Armor of Jet Black Leather, stitched together with a zipper over the mouth.

Armor of Envy - Armor formed of Pure Mirror

Armor of Wrath - Armor of Bleeding Iron, armed with two double-sided flails/scourges.

Armor of Greed

Armor of Sloth

Owned by Gorthalax the Insatiable and kept in the Bottomless Pit until stolen by the Scourge of the Nine Hells, Bill Seacaster.

The Transubstantiations of the Nightmare King

Four symbols of the Unnamed Goddess’ power, converted into four curses which spread the power of the King of the Dark Dreaming

The Coin, a curse placed on the hoard of Kalvaxus that allowed the Nightmare King to possess those who had knowledge of their wealth’s origin (Dragon Madness). This curse came from the trans-substantiation of the spellbook of the Unnamed Goddess, now known as Cassandra. DIspelled by the Blessed Saint Kristen Applebees.

The Plague, a curse placed on the familiar of the Unnamed Goddess, Kalina the Shadow Cat. This curse converted Kalina into a plague that manifested as various illusionary powers, with additional strength within the borders of Sylvaire. Dispelled by Aelwyn Abernant.

The Curse, a curse that bound celestials who attempted to enter the Nightmare King’s Forest and utilized their energies to power the mycelium web of trans-substantiations. This curse originated from the cottage of the Unnamed Goddess. Dispelled by Tracker O’Shaughnessy.

The Tree, a curse on the arcane focus of the Unnamed Goddess, a broomstick which became the Tree at the center of Sylvaire. This curse altered the shape of the Forest to suit the fears of those who entered–the more confident a traveler was in their path, the further they traveled from the center of the Forest. Dispelled by Tracker O’Shaughnessy.

The Crown of the Nightmare King

The last remnant of the Nightmare King after the Fall of Kalvaxus

A talisman capable of anchoring an extraplanar being to a world as if they were native to that plane

The Source of a great deal of power for the other trans-substantiations

Powerfully Cursed for mortal beings. Singular Curse broken by Garthy O’Brien

Dispelled by the Blessed Saint Kristen Applebees, through her Honest Worship of Doubt and her Resurrection of the Goddess Cassandra

The Daughter of Storms

Marble Relief that contains the soul of the daughter of Kahaerin, the Storm King, who calls the wrath of storms when it is brought above the surface of the deep sea

The Legendarium Extrordia

Divinatory Artifact that tracks the classification and progression of quests in the world of Spyre

Watches and Wards

Protective Ward created by the Elven Oracle Eleminthindriel, that prevents harmful summonings and conjurations on the grounds of the Aguefort Adventuring Academy

Only removable from the Aguefort Adventuring Academy Library by Arthur Aguefort and the Elven Oracle. Removed by Elven Oracle Adaine Abernant

#dimension 20 #dimension 20 spoilers #fantasy high #fantasy high sophomore year #pirates of leviathan #the seven #fantasy high junior year #the bad kids #buccaneer buddies #the seven maidens #long post #legend lore #dimension 20 meta

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forpiratereasons · 11 months

Text

meeting stede bonnet

a slow meandering through June. prompt ten: magic

day 1 | day 2 | day 3 | day 4 | day 5 | day 6 | day 7 | day 8 | day 9 | day 10

(i have so many thoughts about writing coming out fic for a canon in which the lack of coming out is The Point. for today it's just: my own coming out needed the words, and especially now, my words have power. i'm here, i'm queer. i'm going to live beautifully.)

Some part of Stede had wondered if it would really make a difference. Coming out.

In most ways, it didn’t. Stede still got up in the mornings and he still put on the shirts and trousers he liked best, and sure, maybe he had been fairly extravagant in his fashion before, but he had not suddenly gotten more or less so.

He still spend his days at the bookshop, helping customers, trying to keep Lucius from doing anything too scandalous in the stacks with his current paramour.

He still had an ongoing feud with a seagull that both he and the bird were trying to hide from the bird’s—caretaker? person?—and he still liked old reruns of pirate documentaries and his back still ached sometimes at night.

And he found—he may have just put the words in the right order, spoken them aloud to the world and himself—but he’d known. He’d maybe always known.

But in the ways it did—in the ways that changed—oh, it was like magic.

Picking out a pride pin to match his outfit. Smiling at men holding hands on the pavement. Lucius, grabbing a copy of Glamour’s 100 Hottest Men and asking Stede to weigh in. Frenchie, offering to do a queer crystal reading.

Even Roach, sliding a handful of pamphlets across the counter to him one morning, saying, “We meant it, Captain. Be safe.” STI testing. PrEP. A list of locations for free condoms.

After living a life on the outside, Stede felt suddenly like he’d been let in. Like the last puzzle pieces of his life were just settling into place.

Magic.

“Was it like that for you?” Stede asked Ed, sitting on their bench over a lunch hour destined, again, to run long. “When you came out.”

Though their shops were only a few doors down from each other, it was still a pleasant surprise when he’d stepped out to see the familiar swath of hair, the familiar leather trousers, standing in line again for hot dogs.

Ed thought about this for a while, rubbing a thumb over the back of Stede’s hand where they were resting together on the bench.

“I don’t think I ever did come out,” he said finally. “I think it just was—I like who I like, I am who I am.” He glanced at Stede. “I like you.”

Stede knew that, obviously. He blushed anyway.

“Lucky me. And lucky for you, I quite like you.”

“Oh, you quite like me, now we’re getting fancy. Am I what you expected?”

Ed said it with a bit of a laugh, like it didn’t matter, but his eyes were dark and serious. His chin dipped toward his chest, almost like he meant to hide in his beard, shy.

“Expected, goodness, no,” Stede said, matching that bit of laugh as he chased Ed’s hand across the bench, squeezing it tight. “I didn’t expect anything, if I’m honest. I definitely didn’t expect to find someone so—so—”

“So rough around the edges?”

“So easy,” Stede corrected, gently. “It’s never been easy for me—other people, I mean. I’ve spent a long time trying to mold myself into something else, trying to be what other people expected me to be.”

Even now, Ed was easy. Easy to tell this to, easy to confess this. Ed, looking at him sidelong, giving him attention but also space. Ed’s hand in his, more comfortable now.

“Suppose that’s why I waited so long,” Stede went on. “To come out. And why everything feels like it’s falling together.”

“You’re being yourself, now.”

“I’m trying to be. Trying to be comfortable in my own skin.” He squeezed Ed’s hand again. “The way you are.”

Stede grinned over at Ed, but Ed didn’t quite smile back. A half-smile, maybe; a smile that was afraid to let Stede down. Stede saw it because he knew what it was, to smile that kind of smile.

“I like that,” Ed was saying. “Sounds good—really getting into it, deciding who to be, how to be. Not sure I’m the best example of it, mate, but you—you deserve that, Stede.”

“You do too,” Stede said softly.

Ed smiled again, that half-smile. Patted Stede’s hand, heaved himself up from the bench. The lunch hour was finally coming to its close.

“Yeah,” he said, looking away. “Guess we’ll see.”

#darcy writes pirates #ofmd #gentlebeard

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hattafan2593 · 1 year

Text

Buggy x Reader Fic Part 2

Part 1

--------------------------

It took several weeks before you could gather all the ammo you'd need. Poor Buggy was an absolute nervous wreck almost all the time now, even more so than usual. Mihawk and Crocodile were determined to abuse him over every little thing, whether it was actually his fault or not. And while Buggy's devil fruit power and natural healing ability meant the cuts and bruises never lasted for more than a day, it was clearly beginning to take a toll on his mind.

You'd sooth and comfort him as best you could, but there was only so much you could do. Between his vindictive 'subordinates' constantly breathing down his neck, his followers not giving him a moment's peace and making the situation worse with their well-meaning but unwanted acts of devotion, and the rest of his so-called crew avoiding him at every turn, Buggy was mentally stretched thin.

Something had to give, and soon.

Finally, though, you managed to gather enough to spring into action.

That night, you snuck out of the tent and went to the meeting spot.

This bullshit was ending tonight.

You were admitted nervous as you slowly paced the inside the tent.

You weren't sure if Crocodile and Mihawk would even show up, or if they'd send minions in their place.

You'd never interacted with Daz Bones personally, but from what you saw, his loyalty to Crocodile was as strong as yours was to Buggy's. You respected that about him, but it could prove troublesome if you wanted your plan to succeed.

You knew that there was a very good chance that you'd fail. At best, they'd take it out on Buggy. At worst, they'd kill you both.

But you had to try. For the pirate captain you swore your fealty to, and for the man you loved with your very heart and soul.

Finally though, the two ex-warlords stepped into the tent. Crocodile looked as smug as ever, and Mihawk looked bored.

I bowed slightly. "Thank you for coming, gentleman. I appreciate you taking time out of your no doubt busy schedules to meet with me."

Crocodile took a puff of his cigar and looked down at me condescendingly. "I must admit, I was rather curious over why the clown's little...paramour wanted to meet with us." He smirked as if he found the whole thing amusing.

Mihawk folded his arms. "As you said, we are busy. So we would appreciate if you got to the point of this meeting so we can be on our way."

You nodded, then reached into your jacket and pulled out two letters. You held them out for them to take.

Crocodile quirked and eyebrow. "That's it? You called us out here just to give us letters? You could've just gotten Daz or one of those other fools to handle this."

You shook your head. "These contain very sensitive information. I thought it would be best to give it you personally."

Crocodile placed the cigar in his mouth and took his letter with his free hand. Mihawk stared at you for a moment, then took his. "Well thank you, I guess. We'll be sure to look over them."

As they turned to leave, I called out, "I think...it would be in your best interests to read those now."

The two men stopped, then shared a look. Slowly, they opened the letters and read the contents.

Crocodile's face morphed into one of fury. He glared murderously at you. "What the hell is this?"

Mihawk's face was also angry, but mostly he just seemed annoyed.

You folded your arms. "It's amazing, the things you get to experience as a field agent. The places you see, the people you meet. Not too long ago, I came across a quaint little island. As well as the island's Queen."

Crocodile's eyes widened as he realized where you were going with this. "Long story short, we became acquainted, and they ended up owing me one, and boy, did they have a lot to say about you."

You looked over to Mihawk. "I think it goes without saying that I have similar dirt on you, Hawk-Eye."

He scoffed. "Typical. That little worm can't fight his own battles, so he sent his little-"

"Buggy has nothing to do with this. This was all me." I declared, scowling. "You two messed with what's mine, and I frankly, will not stand for it."

You looked both of them dead in the eye. "The way you two have been treating Buggy? That stops now. I couldn't give a rat's ass about what you two have planned going forward, but you will stop taking your frustrations out on him."

Mihawk raised an eyebrow. "You're quite confident, simply handing over your trump card to us." He waved the letter slightly.

You rolled your eyes. "Please. You think I'd just give that to you if I didn't already have several copies in my possession? Final warning. Leave Buggy alone or your dirty laundry get aired."

While Mihawk and you were talking, Crocodile was getting progressively more and more angry. His lips pulled back into a snarl, and his letter was crumpled in his fist.

Suddenly he was towering over you. He grabbed you by the throat and lifted you a foot off the ground. His golden hook hovered dangerously close to your face.

"And what if we decide to just kill you, right here and now?" he hissed.

Despite your heart thudding loudly in your chest, outwardly you remained calm. You gripped his wrist with both hands but otherwise didn't struggle.

With what little air you had, you declared, "Then you'll quickly find evidence of your past - along with pictures - spread to every person on this island, this Blue, and beyond. Soon there won't be a corner of the world that doesn't know your dirty little secrets."

Crocodile's grip tightened. "You're bluffing!"

You gasped out a laugh. "Maybe. Maybe not. Go ahead, Crocoboy. Flip that coin."

For several seconds you stared into Crocodile's hate filled eyes as he growled at you. Black spots started to appear in your vision.

Then...a sigh. "It looks like our hands are well and truly tied, Crocodile. Very well. We'll play your way. For now."

Crocodile narrowed his eyes, then unceremoniously dropped you to the floor. You stood up and rubbed at your throat.

"I'm glad you're able to see things my way, gentleman." You croaked out, voice hoarse from being choked. "Have a pleasant evening."

You made your way towards the exit, when you heard, "Why?"

You didn't turn around as Crocodile continued. "Why go through all this trouble for someone so pathetic? What do you even see in him?"

You paused. This wasn't the first time someone questioned your attraction to the clown pirate and it probably wouldn't be the last. But honestly, you thought that Crocodile and Mihawk just didn't understand relationships period. The idea that someone would put their lives on the line to protect someone they care about without gaining anything in return...such a thing was foreign to them.

You almost pitied them. Almost.

"You don't have to understand our relationship, Crocodile. All you need to know is that your fates are now tied directly to Buggy's. If he goes down, you go down with him."

You turned your head to coldly look back at them. "You two chose to leave Buggy as head of this company, and that's exactly what you got. And as his subordinates, it's time that you learned your place."

And with that, you exited the tent.

To be concluded....

#hattafan2593 #one piece #buggy the clown #sir crocodile #dracule mihawk #cross guild #reader insert #gender neutral reader #buggy x reader #spoilers for chapter 1058 #buggy pirates #second person pov #@medieval-raccoon

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run-me-through-but-not-like-that · 1 year

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Thank you so much for all the beautiful fics, I love your writing!

Hope I'm not bothering you with this request but could you write Izzy x Calico Jack x Reader? Even something nsfw if you feel like it. Maybe they had known each other for years because Reader works in Nassau 🤔 whatever you want, I'm sure I'll love it!

(Sorry for my writing, English isn't my first language)

Thank you for an excuse to write Izzy x reader x Jack!

Paramour in Nassau (NSFW)

Word Count: 5177

When Calico Jack Rackham sauntered back aboard the Revenge a couple of weeks ago, the crew wasn’t sure how to feel about it. Buttons obviously wanted him dead and ended up with half of the crew holding him back while Frenchie hurried to hide his fangs.

Of course, when he first appeared, he and Edward had a full out brawl in the middle of the deck, ending up with various cuts and bruises by the time Izzy was chastising them and snapping at them to separate. Then it was like nothing happened, Ed and Jack were friends again, much to Stede’s dismay.

Thankfully, Jack wasn’t as unbearable as he was when the crew last met him, since he wasn’t there to get Ed off of the ship and sell Stede out to the British. Jack seemed more interested in following Izzy around like a shadow than partying with Edward, a confusing but welcome turn of events. He was even helping out around the ship, Izzy and Stede agreed on the first thing ever, that Jack would need to work to stay aboard the ship.

Jack had been aboard for a couple of weeks and had made himself at home, and there was no sign of him leaving anytime soon. eseseAs the Revenge steadily approached the republic of pirates, Izzy stood by the railing, watching the island take form in the distance and slowly approach.

Large hands clasped over his shoulders from behind, giving him a small shake. “Nassau, Iz…” Izzy could hear the smirk in Jack’s voice, the almost giddy excitement.

“Fucking hell,” Izzy grumbled but still found himself smiling a little.

He couldn’t lie, he was looking forward to the visit just as much as Jack was. They hadn’t been to Nassau since the duel with Bonnet and plotting with the British, and that hadn’t exactly been the most fun visit. But they were going back now, they would be there soon.

“What’s in Nassau?” Lucius appeared out of the blue, a habit that he was getting increasingly comfortable with much to Izzy’s irritation. “It was not fun last time I was there,” he recalled, possibly expecting one of them (most likely Jack) to ask for further details.

Neither of them did.

“Mind your own business, Spriggs,” Izzy huffed, smile disappearing immediately.

“Iz and me have a bit of a paramour in Nassau,” Jack told him with a proud grin, rubbing firm small circles into the back of Izzy’s shoulders with his thumbs.

“A paramour, really?” Izzy raised an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder at Jack, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Jack laughed, digging deeper into Izzy’s shoulders, forcing the smaller man to hold back a small groan. He would not let that slip in front of Lucius Spriggs of all people.

“Learnt it from Steve. Did I use it right?” Jack asked, letting his hands drop from his shoulders when Izzy shrugged them off and turned to face him and Lucius.

“God, I sure hope you did,” the scribe grinned, looking just as excited now, maybe even more so. “So…a shared paramour…are we all going to be able to watch a fight for their hand? Oh, I bet on Izzy!”

“Really?” Jack huffed, pouting while Izzy smirked.

“He’s scrappy,” Lucius shrugged.

Izzy rolled his eyes, assuring him that, “there won’t be a fight.”

“Confident or giving up?” Lucius questioned, seemingly both teasing and serious.

Jack laughed again, throwing an arm around Izzy’s shoulders. “What Iz means is that our little paramour wouldn’t be satisfied with just one man.”

Lucius looked between the two men until he was satisfied that Jack wasn’t just pulling his leg. “...holy shit, really?” His grin grew even wider. “Really, Izzy?” He wanted every little detail.

Izzy knew that his face was heating up under the interrogation, with how excited and suggestively the scribe was looking at him. “Why do you look so excited about this?” he asked petulantly.

“...I knew about the two of you but a third?...that’s tasty.” Lucius couldn’t help but reevaluate everything he thought he knew about Izzy Hands. Now he was rethinking the whole ‘we don’t own each other’ conversation he had with the older man. What did his relationship look like? How long had he been involved with Jack? How long had either of them been with their other mysterious partner?

“I fucking hate you,” Izzy muttered, unable to feel too angry when Jack gave him another little shake and squeezed him closer to his side.

“Can I meet them?” Lucius asked, eyes bright and hopefully.

“Absolutely not,” Izzy scoffed. Why was this man always involving himself in everyone else’s business?

Lucius looked between them both again, looking more curious this time. He was still always taken back when Izzy allowed Jack to touch him like that in public, all casual and affectionate. “And the two of you…they have an interesting taste…”

“Fuck off,” Izzy sneered.

Jack frowned a little this time as well. “What’s that mean?” He wasn’t sure if he should be offended but he was ready to defend the honour of both his partners.

Lucius shrugged before smirking. “Just interesting…kinda hot, though.”

Jack was grinning again, grip on Izzy tightening. “It’s really fucking hot,” he agreed.

“Jack,” Izzy said his name in that stern way he does when he needs Jack to pay attention.

“Yeah?”

Lucius was also always a little taken by that, the way Jack’s expression would change when his gaze turned to Izzy. Becoming all soft and attentive.

“Shut the fuck up,” Izzy grumbled.

“Yes, sir,” Jack beamed, shooting Lucius a playful wink.

Once the Revenge was docked and Izzy’s duties were carried out, he let Jack drag him towards Spanish Jackie’s. Normally, Izzy would feel a little lighter while he was in Nassau, but the fact that Lucius and Black Pete were so obviously following them was pissing him off.

“Are you even allowed in Jackie’s?” Izzy called to the two men following behind him and Jack.

Lucius and Pete scampered forward until they were walking beside the other duo. “Stede was barred. Technically, I wasn’t,” Lucius explained.

“Uh-huh, I’m not saving your ass if she wants your nose,” Izzy shrugged.

Lucius gulped but steeled himself as Pete took hold of his hand. He thought it was worth the risk.

When the four of them walked into Jackies, they headed to the bar, Lucius and Pete sitting a few stools down from them when Izzy threatened them to leave them alone.

The man behind the bar handed Jack and Izzy their drinks seconds before Jackie walked out of the backroom. Lucius purposely kept his head down and shuffled closer to Pete’s side, but kept his attention on the unexpected couple a few seats down the bar.

“Fucking hell, you two,” Jackie adressed them, warningly.

“Good to see you too, Jackie,” Jack smiled, wide and a little goofy. Like he was purposely trying to piss her off. “Don’t worry, I have my safe entry pass,” he flinged an arm around Izzy.

The three of them had come to an agreement a long time ago, Jack was only allowed inside Jackie’s when he was with Izzy. The shorter man would be responsible for keeping him on enough of a leash to keep Jackie pleased.

Jackie eyed them both before rolling her eyes. “They’re picking up a delivery, they’ll be back soon. Behave,” she informed them.

“Thanks, Jackie,” Izzy gave her a small nod.

Jackie just shook her head at them before continuing through the bar.

You moved through Jackie’s with a practised ease, crate in your hands. You headed straight for the bar, handing the delivery to one of Jackie’s husbands who was tending the bar. “Was told to drop it off with you.”

Jackie’s husband took the crate. “Probably the good liquor Jackie likes,” he hummed.

“Well, she usually had pretty good taste,” you joked, shooting him a playful wink.

He huffed a small laugh as he left to put the delivery somewhere safe. You lent against the bar, thinking you should probably buy yourself a drink for your troubles before heading out again.

“Work more important than us, baby?”

You let out a little surprised gasp at the familiar voice, a smile taking over your face when you turned to see both Jack Rackham and Izzy Hands standing from their seats.

“Izzy! Jack!”

Jack caught you in an embrace when you rushed to them, lifting your feet off of the ground and spinning you around just for some dramatic flare. Just enough to have Izzy shaking his head at the two of you. Once Jack placed you back on your feet, you turned to Izzy and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Both of you in the same place, it must be my lucky day,” you couldn’t suppress your smile as you took the two of them in. It had been so long since you saw either of them, even longer since you saw both of them together. You were very committed to not counting their last visit to Nassau since Izzy always invited members of the British Navy.

“Has been a while, hasn’t it?” Jack was smiling right back, teeth on show.

“Too long,” Izzy agreed. His smile was a little more subdued but just as sincere.

Jack must have noticed that too because he gently gripped the back of his neck in his hand. “Aww, always so sentimental,” he teased.

“Fuck off, like you aren’t worse,” Izzy huffed, pushing his hand away. Jack just rolled his eyes fondly.

“I missed you both,” you confessed, planting more kisses on their cheeks.

“We missed you too, sweetheart,” Jack snaked his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest.

“How long are you in port for?” They never stayed for too long, it was just part of the job, but you always hoped they’d give you some extra good news from time to time.

“A couple of days,” Izzy said as you took his hand, pulling him a few steps closer to the two of you.

It wasn’t the best answer he could give you but it was enough.

“We’ll have to make the most of what we got, then,” you shrugged, earning another smile from Izzy and a pleased little groan from Jack.

Lucius watched with wide eyes and his mouth slightly agape as Jack and Izzy left Jackie’s with the mysterious person. He had never seen anyone so happy to see either of the men, not Jack to see Izzy, not even Ed to see Jack that first time on the Revenge. Then again, he had never seen Izzy so happy to see somebody, actually properly smiling. It was almost a little unsettling, but also a little nice.

Lucius and Pete looked at each other, Pete mouthing ‘oh my god’ before they turned back to their drinks. Izzy and Jack really were seeing somebody in Nassau, and it looked kinda serious…

Your men walked on either side of you as you led them through the streets of Nassau, leading them to the less violent side of the town. They followed you up to the familiar apartment above a dusty bookstore that was definitely a front for something else, something you hadn’t actually figured out yet.

As soon as you were through the door to your little home, Jack was on you. He had you pressed against the nearest wall, his mouth capturing yours in a deep and characteristically messy kiss. You couldn’t find it in yourself to complain, clutching at his shoulders to keep him close and to keep yourself standing upright.

Izzy shook his head, smiling to himself, as he was tasked with shutting the door. Jack was not known for his patience but Izzy couldn’t blame him, he had missed you just as much, he just prided himself on having a sensible amount of self restraint.

Once the door was securely closed, Izzy grabbed Jack by the back of his shirt and tore him away from you.

“God, I fucking missed you both so much,” you panted, letting your hands fall away from Jack as he stumbled away, muttering his complaints.

You barely got to move away from the wall before Izzy was in front of you. You slipped a hand into Izzy’s hair, fingers curling and tugging gently. Izzy whined at the slight sting, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Promise me we’ll never go so long without seeing each other again,” you whispered against his lips. “I promise,” Izzy whispered right back.

“Not going to let it go this long ever again,” Jack came up to the side of you both, a hand against your back and another at the nape of Izzy’s neck. “Can’t be away from my sweethearts for that long.”

Jack could be a difficult man to properly understand, never really letting anyone see his true self. He was an arrogant jokester but also a total sweetheart, at least when it came to the people he actually gave a damn about. Even when he was looking at you both with that dopey smile.

“Shut the fuck up, Jack,” Izzy mumbled but there was clear fondness in his tone.

“You’re such a softy,” you teased Jack, playfully fiddling with the edge of his moustache.

Izzy rolled his eyes while Jack just beamed at you. Jack wrapped an arm firmly around your waist and pulled you close, something hard pressing against your hip. “Nothing soft about me right now, baby,” he said against your ear.

Izzy groaned at the terrible joke but you gave a little laugh. “Can you just get his mouth busy or something so he stops talking?” Izzy pleaded with you.

You smirked, grabbing him by his cravat and planting a kiss on his lips. “Well, give me a hand, will you?”

You had to be the one with the cognition to pull them both to your bedroom, laughing as Jack threw off most of his clothes on the way, tossing them around your apartment until he was just in his pants.

Jack huffed a little, being the most undressed out of the three of you. He was quick to set his mind to stripping you both down.

“You wear way too many layers, babydoll,” Jack taunted Izzy, pressing up behind him and gripping his hips.

“It is a lot of black and leather for the caribbean,” you agreed, rubbing your hands over his chest.

“It’s practical. Doesn’t have to be comfortable,” Izzy rolled his eyes, hands finding your waist.

“Kinda hot though,” you hummed, popping open the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Those tight leather pants,” Jack pressed a little closer, nipping at Izzy’s ear. “Cute little ass.”

“Fucking hell,” Izzy groaned, unconsciously pushing his hips back against Jack’s while tugging you closer.

Jack groaned against his ear. As much as you both loved how sweet and pliant Izzy could get when the right type of attention was showered upon him, both men had come to your apartment with the attention of spoiling you. They had the last couple weeks to reconnect, missing their missing piece. They had you back and intended on showing you just that.

“It is adorable,” you smirked, slipping a hand around to squeeze his ass.

Izzy grumbled to himself but made no protest as you and Jack stripped him of his waistcoat, cravat, and shirt.

You stepped away to place his ring and cravat down safely on your vanity before hands were grabbing at you again. You were pulled back into the centre of the room and manoeuvred until you were between the two men.

They worked in tandem, quickly having your shirt pulled over your head and thrown somewhere over Jack’s shoulder. Izzy was already stroking calloused hands over your abdomen and unlacing your pants.

The only reason it took so long to get your pants off of you was because the two men kept turning you around to take turns kissing you. Finally though, Izzy had your pants properly unlaced and Jack was on his knees, tugging them down your legs and helping you step out of them.

Finally, after far too long of being apart, you were all back together and undressed. Large hands on your hips spun you around to face Jack again, you only got a second to see his beaming grin before he had hoisted you off of your feet.

You yelped, clinging to his shoulders and wrapping your legs around your waist. You didn’t complain though, nuzzling against his jaw and nipping at his neck as he carried you over to the bed.

Jack dropped you down onto the bed, the mattress being at least good enough quality for you to bounce a little when you landed. Jack was standing over you, teeth on show, as Izzy climbed onto the bed and crawled over your body.

“I’m beginning to think you’re teaming up on me,” you accused, sighing pleasurably as Izzy kissed down your neck, his facial hair pleasantly scratching against your skin.

“We’ve missed you!” Jack thought that was plenty enough reason to gang up on you just a little, they both just wanted to get their hands on you after so long.

“Yeah,” Izzy lifted his head to look at you. “Let us spoil you a little.” And, well, how could you say no to that when he was looking at you like you were the only damn thing that mattered.

“Hell yeah, I get to be in the middle,” you joked. Well, half joked. You really were thrilled by the prospect of once again being sandwiched between the two men.

“Damn right you do, baby,” Jack laughed.

“I’m ready,” you announced dramatically, flopping back on the bed with your arms and legs spread.

“You two are as bad as each other,” Izzy tutted from above you.

“Take that back,” you tilted your chin down to glare at him.

Izzy could only chuckle fondly to himself before kissing you. He had missed that light, warm feeling he felt when he was around the two of you. You wrapped him up in your arms immediately, kissing him soundly, like you never wanted to forget what he tasted like.

Jack took a moment to just admire the sight the two of you made, bodies flushed together. He was one lucky bastard and he knew it. The mattress dipped slightly as he knelt up on the bed, pressing up behind Izzy.

“You two having fun?” Jack asked, resting his chin on Izzy’s shoulder.

“Feeling left out?” Izzy mused as he pulled away from your lips, turning his head slightly to see Jack out the corner of his eye.

“Thought I got to be in the middle?” you pouted.

Jack’s chuckle vibrated through him as he slapped a sloppy kiss on Izzy’s cheek and slapped his ass. “Go sit against the headboard, babygirl.”

Izzy rolled his eyes at the pet name, even though it managed to make him blush every time, giving you another kiss before extracting himself from between you both. Neither of you made it easy for him, you couldn’t stop touching him and Jack was still plastered to his back despite being the one who told him to move in the first place.

Jack grabbed you by the legs and pulled you down the bed so that your thighs were sitting on top of his. You couldn’t help but laugh fondly through your surprised shout, he was always so impatient.

Doing as he was told, Izzy sat back against the headboard comfortably, legs outstretched in front of himself.

Jack lent down to capture your mouth with his own, the kiss a desperate mess of lips and tongues. Jack always kissed like that, completely uninhibited, with his entire being.

You barely got a chance to breathe when he pulled back, already flipping you over onto your belly. You cursed quietly to yourself as you landed with a tiny bounce.

You swore you could hear Jack chuckling softly behind you as he tapped your hip. You got the message, lifting yourself up onto your hands and knees before inching forward. As you moved closer, Izzy parted his legs so that you could settle between them.

You smiled up at him, sure your lips were swollen and bitten and your face was flushed. Much like his own.

He gave you a small smile of his own as he took hold of your chin, keeping you still as he kissed you again. You gasped into his mouth as Jack ran a calloused hand up the inside of your thigh. You hadn’t dared let yourself dwell on your last meeting with them both, or lament how much time had passed since you could be touched by them, but now it felt like an eternity since you had felt their touches or shared their kisses. It was almost too much but at the same time it wasn’t enough at all.

You could feel the larger man warm and heavy against your ass, and it had you squirming.

“Eager?” Izzy cocked an eyebrow at you.

“Getting impatient. You’re both taking too long,” you taunted breathlessly.

Jack retorted by rutting against you. Once. Twice. Making you feel even more needy for him. “Won’t make you wait any longer then, sweetheart,” he promised.

You snuck one more kiss from Izzy before lowering yourself onto your elbows, nuzzling against his hip before moving further down to kiss and nip and suck marks into the inside of his thighs.

Behind you, Jack continued to tease, but you set your mind to doing the same to Izzy. Licking a broad stripe over him, making him gasp.

You smiled to yourself at the response before giving it your all, nose nested against coarse hairs, feeling utterly pleased with yourself when he choked on his breath and gripped your shoulder.

“There we go. Give them a nice little distraction,” Jack cooed behind you.

“Fuck, ah, off,” Izzy gasped back at him, not as menacingly as he might have liked.

“Ready?” Jack asked, directed at you now as he gave your hips a squeeze and angled them better.

You nodded the best you could, purposely pushing closer into Izzy to hear his breath hitch.

Then, without any more warning or fanfare, Jack pushed in. He entered you with one fluid thrust, slower than you expected from him. You gasped and moaned at the feeling of him filling you, making Izzy moan in turn.

Jack folded over you, his body blanketing yours, and pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades. “Yeah, been way too fucking long,” his breath was warm against your already flushed skin.

You removed your mouth from Izzy with a lewd, wet sound. “You’re fucking telling me,” you panted into his thigh.

Jack kissed the back of your neck quickly, searing the skin like a brand, before pulling back and slamming his hips back against your ass.

Izzy cradled the back of your skull as you got your both back on him, making sure to look up at him through your lashes in the way you knew had his stomach twisting with desire.

You lost yourself in the sensation of being pulled back and forth between the two men, of the two pairs of hands on you, clutching and caressing. Your body rocked between them both like you were made for it, giving and taking in equal measure. The feeling of warm bodies pressing together and the sound of heavy breathing.

You could hear Jack’s low moans behind you and you could just imagine him tipping his head back, eyes fluttering shut as he dug his fingers into your hips and waist. Izzy was panting above you, gaze flickering between you and Jack like he couldn’t quite decide which to focus on. When his gaze dipped down to where you were connected, he groaned low in his throat. From his position he couldn’t quite see Jack repeatedly entering you but he could make out just enough to have him twitching against your mouth.

“Fuck, looks like you’re treating Iz real nice,” Jack rumbled, having the perfect view of the two of you. The slope of your back to where your head rested in Izzy’s lap. “Best show in the Caribbean here and I’ve got the best seat,” he rambled, punctuating his words with jolts of the hips.

Jack was always the most vocal in bed. He loved hearing the sounds he could get you and Izzy to make but he always talked the most. At first you had thought that he had just liked the sound of his own voice but now you knew that he wasn’t as conscious of it as you first thought he was. He just said whatever came to mind, not caring much about what it was.

“Look so fucking pretty, the two of you. Fuck. Feel so good, I’ve got you.”

Izzy began to rock against your face and you knew he was close. He was always so careful to take what he was given when you went down on him like this, even when you assured him that you wanted him to take what he needed instead. He always lost that control when his orgasm was close.

“Think you can come with him, baby?” Jack asked, seeing the same signs as you.

You just nodded the best you could but the way you clenched around him gave him more of an answer than your actual response. Jack groaned and cursed at the feeling, his own thrusts faltering and jolting a few times.

Izzy came first, on hand clutching a pillow and the other on the back of your head, just touching, not holding. You followed right after him, making sure to savour the taste of him on your tongue first. You came with a cry of their names, possibly mashed together incoherently, you weren’t sure but Izzy was petting your head lazily as you muffled your sounds with his thigh.

Jack managed to hold out for a few more trusts, riding you through your high before pressing his hips flush with your ass, groaning his own release.

The room was filled with heavy breathing as the three of you caught your breath, Izzy muttering something about being too old for all of this excitement but not complaining about the sweaty press of your three bodies.

With a few tired groans and complaints, the three of you slowly manoeuvred yourselves into a more comfortable position. Jack lay in the centre of the bed with both of you on either side of him, your heads laying on his chest.

Your dalliances usually ended like this, both of you cradled to each side of Jack. His arms wrapped around you both to hold you close, you and Izzy touching hands over Jack’s stomach. He was just that little bit bigger, that little bit broader, and really fucking warm. He made a surprisingly good pillow and he liked being pressed between you both.

You closed your eyes and smiled softly to yourself, feeling Jack running fingertips against your arm and shoulder while Izzy played with your hand. You had slept in this very bed so often, alone. It was nice to have them both by your side again.

Once enough time had passed for Jack to deem conversation appropriate, he spoke. He never could stay quiet for too long, especially when something was on his mind.

“Eddie talked about me signing on with you lot properly,” Jack said up to the ceiling.

You just allowed yourself to drift comfortably, assuming he was talking more directly to Izzy. “Bonnet was alright with that?” Izzy asked, voice a little gruffer than usual.

“Yep. I have been on good behaviour.”

“And you’re going to do it?”

You listened to their voices, just happy to hear them. It didn’t really matter what they were talking about, you liked listening.

“Might do. Might stick around…if you want me too.” You could hear the vulnerability in Jack’s voice and frowned a little when Izzy didn’t answer straight away, likely due to his own vulnerability rather than dismissal.

“Fucking hell, your pillow talk kinda sucks,” you mumbled into Jack’s chest.

“I’m trying to get to something!” Jack huffed, jostling you and Izzy a little.

“Then get to it,” Izzy grumbled at him.

“Right so, if I sign on with Eddie and Stebe, then me and Iz will be sailing together…” You lifted your head to look at him properly when you realised he was talking more to you now. “...so if you sign up with Eddie and Stefe…”

“...are you serious?”

Jack gave a guilty little smile at your question, though you didn’t sound angry with him, just surprised, an edge of seriousness to your tone.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Izzy demanded, lifting himself up to look down at Jack.

“I just thought about it!” Jack defended himself.

You sat up a little, hearing Jack’s grumbled protest, to look between them both properly. “Do you…both want me there?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” Jack scoffed.

“And you, Izzy? That’s something you’d want?” you turned to the other man for his answer.

“...yeah. ‘Course, I would,” Izzy shrugged, trying to play it off as unimportant, like it didn’t matter what he wanted. “Thought you were kinda happy here, though.”

“I’m content here. It’s…not perfect but it’s enough for me,” you responded honestly. You had a comfortable little life here but…but they were always so far away from you and if they were serious…“I would be a whole lot happier being wherever the two of you are though,” you confessed.

“Fuck yeah,” Jack launched himself up and pulled you into a messy kiss. You giggled against his mouth, kissing him back, laughing more when he flipped you onto your back and pressed you down into the mattress.

Izzy huffed at being thrown off but recovered quickly, moving to your side as Jack sank down between your legs, trailing kisses down your body the whole way. He hooked your legs over his shoulders and got his mouth on you, making you twitch a little with overstimulation.

“You’re sure?” Izzy asked, quiet and serious, as he cupped your face in his hand, forcing you to look at him. He wanted to make sure he didn’t see any hesitation or uncertainty.

“More than sure. No more waiting for moments like this,” you promised, placing your hand over his.

“No more waiting,” Izzy agreed, kissing you like he needed it to breathe.

Jack popped his head up from between your legs, grinning and his moustache obscenely damp. “Gonna have to get a bigger bed though,” he commented.

“I know a carpenter that could probably do it,” you grinned back down at him, combing fingers through his hair.

“Love when you have all the answers, babe,” Jack winked before dipping his head back down.

Izzy chuckled and shook his head at the two of you. When Jack pulled a moan from you, Izzy silenced you with his mouth again, greedily swallowing any sounds you made.

#israel hands x reader #izzy hands x reader #calico jack x reader #jack rackham x reader #ofmd x reader

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