#Captain Fire Balls

[xeavy]

We are evolving ♻️🔥

[feroluce]

Sampo's jobs usually involve either business or smuggling, but he prides himself on his wide variety of skill sets. He's the one and only Sampo Koski, after all! You name it (and pay him for it), he can do it! Which is how he gets drafted by Natasha to help out in the daycare/orphanage one day. Gepard goes down to the Underground to see the leader of Wildfire about some official business, and instead he runs into Sampo with:

One baby strapped to his chest,

Another baby strapped to his back,

A toddler carefully balanced on his hip,

And a little kid clutched around each leg, whining for Sampo to start walking again because they wanna hitch a ride.

Sampo: Well, well! If it isn't our- Er... You alright, friend?

Gepard: OTL (I AM GOING TO DEFY BIOLOGY-)

[mustasekittens]

ashes, ashes 🥀

alt (aka the original vision) + ref | this was mean to be more of an interpretation rather than a screenshot redraw/study so take it as u will. this ep was devastating and i might draw something based on the finale,,,however that turns out

[void-of-the-moon]

Fuck you trans your cookie run characters

They are all canon in my mind you cang convince me other wise

[lightning-squad]

streams over, the quests are stupid, anyways here's that tier list of which OPM character likes what manga genre based off of yesterday's stream and stupid quest lmfao, I think Gearsper and Tatsu are the only two that show up twice bc why not, feel free to tell me to fix what character should go where

Edit: man I feel like Genji would also like horror

Edit 2: I just realized Child Emperor isn’t in here??? He’d go in Sci-Fi/Mech

[jelly-drawz-n-gamez]

Birthday art for an online friend of mine! (It’s very late but shhh at least it’s finished now)

Every few months he cycles through one of these five “moods” (that’s what he calls them) where he hyperfixates and does things relating to that fandom. I think it’s pretty cool how he can just choose one and stick with it for the whole duration, I can’t really do that lol

[im-not-buying-it-ether]

Marvelous Bats tidbit #3

Billy has a few aliases and fake names he has used, something any part time radio personality host, part time superhero, and full time menace of a child should have a fair amount of.

Joesph Williams is the name he always used when police caught him. Be it shoplifting in his homeless days to get through the month trying not to starve, being caught place a child shouldn’t be during the school day, or the one time he broke into a patrol car. Joesph Williams was the name he gave so he didn’t build a juvenile record on his real name, it as close enough to the real thing without being it for billy to easily remember.

The Whiz kid, famous boy reporter in the after school hours for Whiz Radio with Marvelously provided safety tips for the average Fawcettizen dealing with mundane magical issues or coming into their own (the close proximity to The Rocks entrance and the near weekly exposure to magic has a lot of it surfacing in Fawcett) Everything from why you absolutely shouldn’t summon and Hellhound to leave your enemies a flayed corpse and basic protection spells for the next time the Monster Society of Evil rears their ugly heads. Billy loves being the Whiz Kid, people actually listen to him talk magic and its the one time all his magical study as magics champion gets recognized since Captain Marvel doesn’t always need spells to punch a bad guy into prison.

Captain Marvel, the guy the whole world knows. The symbol of pure and perfect heroism Billy always saw in his heroes and try’s to emulate the best he can, never curses or has a mean word to say. Always there to save the day and comfort the people he’s saved when they’re frightened, doing his absolute very best to be the hero he’d love as a kid and the hero he needed every time “Do Good And Good Will Follow” never seemed to work for little orphan Billy.

[revolutionaryjackelving]

THANK YOU FOR THE DAYS: Steven Attewell, In Memoriam.

My tribute to @racefortheironthrone, aka Steven Attewell. Thank you for the days.

[be-xkyy]

Tw: unprotected sex, rough sex, jealousy, mild abuse, insults, reader bimbo.

Yandere bf! Jock who is the star captain of the school's football team.

He is truly the golden boy.

With his gorgeous smile, blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair. He is surrounded by girls constantly, beautiful girls but he only has eyes for his dumb cute cheerleader girlfriend, YOU.

Always sucking his dick before a game letting him film you as he cums all over your face, pumping his cock until ropes of thick cum paint your face ruining your makeup and staining your hair, he rubs his cock against your shiny lips.

“Ugh– that was so good– what do you say sweetie?”

“Thanks for cumming on my face daddy~”

He smiles when he sees you cheering him on during the game jumping up and down, he licks his lips when he sees your cute little ass and tits bouncing in that tight uniform, you wiggle your pom poms vigorously and blow him a kiss when you see him looking at you. So fucking sweet.

The one who fucks you in the empty locker room after every game, fucking you sweetly when he wins, sucking on your tits, leaving kisses and bites all over your neck as his cock buries deep inside you, he murmurs sweet nothings against your ear.

“Such a pretty girl– so sexy when she cheers on her man”

“God your pussy wants some attention, should I rub it? Of course she wants to fuck– she begs me to rub it”

“I'm gonna give you the best orgasm of your life babe, you'll be full of my cum until next week– Ha”

Oh... but when the team loses he's completely different.

Like now.

He drags you down the halls walking straight to the locker room pushing you inside roughly ignoring your whimper of pain as he locks the door, you rub your arm and try to talk to him “Baby that hurts–”

“Shut the fuck up bitch! What the fuck was that out there?! Were you flirting with the captain of the other team?!”

His voice is filled with anger, he looks at you with furious eyes and you try to back away when he gets closer which seems to annoy him more, he grabs you by the arms pushing you face down on the bench and growls against your hatred.

“Answer me fuck! What the fuck were you doing talking to him? Do you want to bounce on his dick just because he won? Huh?!”

“No! I just wanted to be nice–”.

“Liar! Shit you want to drive me crazy, is that it?! I'm not an idiot I know what I see!”

He yells at you not even letting you finish, he pulls down your extra shorts and panties hard scratching your legs, his hand quickly pulls out his cock the vein running through it is swollen and the weeping tip is red.

“I'm gonna fuck you until you come to your senses you stupid girl. There's no one like me! I'm the only one who would want a girl as dumb as you!”

With that he rams you in all the way, his cock touching your cervix and his balls slapping against your ass, he fucks you mercilessly as his hands squeeze your ass cheeks his fingers dig into your skin tomorrow you'll have bruises.

“Silly girl, acting like a whore... like she doesn't have her man watching her”

Annoyed murmurs escape his lips as he pounds into you like an animal in heat, you let out high pitched moans hiding your face in your arms, he fucks you like he wants to rearrange your insides. Your eyes roll back with each thrust that abuses your G-spot.

“Who’s the only one for you? Come on tell me who’s fucking you so good?”

He asks between gasps and grunts clearly getting close to the edge, your dumb brain takes a while to understand his question not being able to think of anything else but his cock deep inside your pussy, you reply between moans.

“You! You’re the only one for my daddy! You, you, you!”

“Good girl, at least you’re smart about something~”

Your walls clench at his words and you squeeze your eyes shut, your skin is hot and you feel fire in your veins, the orgasm is approaching and your toes curl as you cum your love juices wet his cock.

He growls as your walls clench tightly around his throbbing cock and as his body tenses with the impending orgasm he pulls out of your pussy pumping furiously as he explodes, covering your ass and back with his hot cum that stains your top.

“Shit— that was great, that's a nice pussy you have baby”

He says as he smears his cum all over your back and ass with his fingers and you hum tiredly but happily, the moment interrupted when someone tries to open the closed door, the handle turning vigorously.

“What are you doing in there? Open the door right now!”

Damn it, it's the coach...

[chibinasuu]

Ace x Reader ― reunion; kisses

part of the cozy holidays event

🎁 ― anonymous tags: sfw, childhood friends to lovers, GN!reader, no use of y/n

“You saved my little brother’s life. He never stops talking about you.” 

Portgas D. Ace took off his hat and bowed slightly to the Captain of the Red Hair Pirates, “I just wanted to thank you in person.” 

You didn’t expect to see him here, of all places. 

He had not seen you yet, hidden among the onlookers. Your heart was hammering in a ferocious beat – it had been since the moment you saw that familiar wide-brimmed orange hat, that silky black hair, that freckled face, that cheesy smile.

God, you missed him.

He wasn’t the lanky boy you knew anymore. He was a bit taller now, and his hair was longer than it was the last time you saw him. He was also… bigger. It was hard to see underneath that cloak he was wearing, but you were sure he had put on some muscles. 

You wanted to call out to him, to surge forward and hold him, but you held yourself back out of respect for this monumental exchange between the Super Rookie and the Emperor. 

Shanks’ frown turned into a wide grin, his laughter echoing in the dark cave, “You’re Luffy’s brother? I didn’t know he had one!”

Suddenly, Shanks turned and called out your name, “You know this guy? You used to hang around Luffy too, right?”

The crowd of Red Hair Pirates parted to let you through, and Ace’s eyes widened in disbelief as he finally noticed you. His lips formed your name though no sound came out, shell-shocked at this happenstance that was just too good to be true. 

“Is that really you?” He said when he finally found his voice. 

You felt tears of joy threatening to spill out as you grinned, “It is!”

You were practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you looked up at Shanks, your eyes silently asking for permission. 

Shanks sighed, smiling and giving you a nod in Ace’s direction, “Go ahead.”

You thanked him before running toward Ace and launching yourself into his arms. He caught you firmly, laughing while spinning you around a few times before setting you down gently.

“I can’t believe it’s actually you!” He exclaimed breathlessly, “What? How? What happened since I left Dawn Island?”

You opened your mouth to explain, but before you could get any word out, Shanks interrupted with a shouted order to his crew, “Prepare a feast!”

“You’re welcome here," he told Ace, giving him a friendly pat on the back. "Tell me all about your adventures.”

As the Red Hair Pirates and the Spade Pirates partied the night away, exchanging stories over shared bottles of sake, Ace found you among the crowd and dragged you outside into the quiet night.

Away from the noise, you suddenly became very much aware of Ace’s warmer-than-average hand holding your cold one. 

He found a wide, flat rock near the cave’s entrance and swiftly removed his cloak. He wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath, and you briefly – and hopefully subtly – glanced at his newly exposed torso.

Yep, he had definitely put more muscles on. 

He laid his cloak on top of the rock and sat down, patting the space next to him.

“Aren’t you cold?” You asked as you plopped down beside him.

Ace lit the tip of his index finger on fire in answer.

“Right,” you chuckled, “Sorry. Stupid question.”

“So, how did you end up with an Emperor of the Sea?”

That’s Ace, you thought. Always straight to the point. 

“Not long after you set off to sea, I booked a passage to Loguetown. I was planning to find work with some traveling merchants there, but I was attacked by a bunch of nasty pirates who wanted to rob me.” 

Ace’s brows furrowed in concern, but you continued on with your story, “Shanks happened to be in town on some business, and he saved me. He recognized me as the kid who used to play with Luffy in Windmill Village and took me in. I’ve been sailing with his crew ever since.”

“Not officially part of the crew though, I’m just tagging along.” You quickly clarified, “Being in an Emperor’s crew was never part of my plan. Shanks is just kind enough to let me stay in his ship until I figure out what’s next.”

Truthfully, you didn’t know (and didn’t want to think about) what was next.

At first, you just wanted to be a merchant – open your own business and travel island to island in the East. 

You didn’t even know why you took up on Shanks’ offer to sail with him in the first place. 

Seeing Ace again, however, had opened a tiny door in the deepest part of your heart, out of which a voice whispered that maybe, it was because you knew that going into the Grand Line was the only way you could even have the slightest chance of ever meeting Ace again. 

But whatever the reason, you had now gotten a taste of the Grand Line – of piracy and the thrill of the adventure. You weren’t sure you could go back to the little corner of the world that was the East Blue. 

Not wanting to dwell on that much longer, you turned the conversation to the man sitting beside you, “Well, how have you been? You’re a big-name pirate now! A captain of your own crew!”

“Yeah, they’re a great bunch.” He chuckled as he started telling you about his crew. He told you about how he met his first mate, Masked Deuce, who you briefly met earlier. He told you about all of his adventures, right from the moment he left Dawn Island until how he got here, at this moment. 

At the end of his story, he just stared at you silently. You shrunk bashfully as he drank you in, slowly taking inventory of what had or had not changed since you last saw each other. 

Finally, he simply said, “I really missed you.” 

You could see your breath as you let it out into the cold air, “I missed you too, Ace.”

He took your hand, stroking his thumb gently across your knuckles. He struggled with his next words, hesitating on whether or not he should say it.

“I think about that night a lot, you know.”

A shaky breath left your mouth as the memories flashed through your mind.

Of his hands, his touch, his lips.

You remembered how he had finally kissed you for the first time on that night before he set out to sea on his seventeenth birthday. How you had yelled at him because how dare he kiss you now when he’d be gone tomorrow. How you had kissed him back anyway. How he had pressed his lips to yours again and again and again until the sun rose, with a promise that he’d see you again someday. 

You looked away, unable to meet his fiery eyes as you admitted, “Me too.” 

Ace took your chin between his fingers, guiding your gaze back to him. 

When you met his eyes again, they were mere inches away from yours. 

The hand on your chin moved to cup your cheek. You didn’t realize you were also leaning in toward him – drawn by an irresistible need to be closer – until your nose bumped his. 

He was so close that you could count the freckles dotted across his face.

The rapid beat of your heart consumed your being. Your thoughts were filled with him, and only him. 

Ace sighed out your name desperately, his lips nearly brushing yours, “Can I–?“

“Yes.”

You couldn’t tell if it was you or him who finally closed the minuscule distance between you, but you couldn’t care less. You couldn’t care about anything else when his lips were on yours, filled with all of the longing and pent-up desire that only grew more intense the longer you were apart. 

His lips were as soft as you remembered, but they moved more surely, more confidently, than the last time you kissed, on that night that seemed so long ago. 

Your hand roamed his defined abs, up to his chest, before settling at the back of his neck. Ace’s arms circled your waist, dragging you in until you were practically sitting on his lap. 

The cold winter night just urged you to get closer and closer – to press your body against his and bask in the rising temperature of his bare skin. 

You gasped as his tongue flicked out to tease you, and he took advantage of your parted lips to deepen the kiss. 

You were drunk on the taste of him, sweeter and more potent than the most expensive sake you’ve ever had. 

The need for air had you panting slightly as you pulled back, sweat dotting your brows. 

“You’re so hot, Ace.” 

“Yeah?” He claimed your lips again in a short but heated kiss, “You think so?”

“No,” You said, abruptly pulling away from him, “I mean you’re literally hot.” 

He jumped up as if woken up from a trance, quickly moving away from you. It was then that you noticed that the sleeve of your coat had started catching on fire. 

Ace frantically stripped the coat off you and plunged it into the snow, but his fire had done its damage. You looked pitifully at the unsalvageable scorched sleeve. Guess you needed a new coat. 

“S-sorry!” Ace’s whole face, no, even his neck and torso, were bright red, “Sometimes that happens when I’m too, uh… excited.”

You laughed, burying your burning face in your hands, secretly pleased that you could get the mighty Fire Fist so worked up that he briefly lost control of his powers. 

“C’mere, Hotstuff.” You beckoned him closer, “You ruined my coat, now you gotta keep me warm.”

He sat back down, immediately enveloping your body with his. You sighed in pleasure as you settled into his warm embrace, laying your head on his chest. 

You never wanted to let go.

You sat together like that for minutes, or maybe hours. No words were exchanged, but it was a comfortable silence, broken only by the rustle of the trees and the whistle of the winds.

After what felt like an eternity, Ace’s arms tightened around you, “Come with me.”

You swore your heart stopped for a second there. 

“Join my crew. Or don’t. You can just stay on my ship – I don’t care as long as you’re by my side.” Ace ranted in one breath, his anxiety on full display as he awaited your answer. 

“Ace,” you finally said, “It’s not that simple.” 

“Why can’t it be that simple?” He said softly, letting his forehead fall against yours, “I don’t think I can stand being apart from you again.”

You closed your eyes as you sighed, already feeling your walls cracking, but still refusing to let them crumble completely, “Let me think about it.”

He nodded, “I leave tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting for you at the coast.” 

Ace draped his cloak on you, and you thanked him with one last peck on his lips. You walked towards the encampment of the Red Hair Pirates, hugging the cloak tighter to fight the freezing winds. It smelled like him. 

You let yourself imagine what it would be like to sail on Ace’s ship – to have him by your side at all times. To discover new islands and have adventures with him. To fall asleep next to him and wake him up with kisses. 

You realized that the decision had been made by your heart all along, ever since the moment you saw him, even before he extended his offer. You were a fool to think that your brain had any say in this at all.

Your feet had unwittingly carried you to Shanks’ tent, and you knew what you had to do.

“Shanks?” You called, “You awake?”

A groan from inside the tent told you that he was at least conscious. There was no telling how many barrels of alcohol he had consumed at the party. 

“Come in,” he croaked.

Shanks took one look at you and sighed. 

The Captain looked quite disheveled, but was surprisingly coherent when he said, “You’re going with him, aren’t you?” 

“Are you using future sight on me?!” 

He eyed your mussed-up hair and swollen lips, “Darling, I didn’t need to.”

You felt your face heat up in embarrassment as Shanks chuckled.

“I saw how you looked at him, kid,” he added on a more serious note, “And I saw how he looked at you.” 

“I think I might love him, Shanks.” You said, surprising yourself. Your voice was barely audible even in the quiet tent. 

“I mean, I used to have a massive crush on him back when we were teenagers. But, seeing him again… it’s like everything just clicked.”

Shanks just nodded in understanding, “So this is it, isn’t it? Your ‘next’.” 

“I think it is.”

“Go. Be with him.” His eyes were soft as he smiled at you, “Be happy. You deserve it.”

You crushed him in a hug, “Thanks for everything, Shanks.”

You choked up as you felt his one arm tighten around your back.

It was not easy, packing up everything and saying goodbye to the crew that has become your family these past few years. 

But as you trudged toward the coast, you felt your heart growing bigger, making room for a new home, a new family, and a new adventure. 

For the first time, instead of dread, you felt excited for what would come next.

a/n: this event was supposed to be max 1k drabbles, but alas, i was carried away (again). this was my first time writing for ace, and i actually felt quite happy with how this turned out! i hope you all enjoyed it and pleeease let me hear your thoughts in the comments or tags <3

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ main event page || event masterlist ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

↳ main masterlist

[p0orbaby]

could you maybe write some pregnant smut with either alexia or leah please and thank youuu 🤭

this isn’t at all what you asked for because my mind went blank… but i wanted to give you something. a follow up may be on the horizon

rich!reader, postpartum sex ban, let’s gooo

-

You are experiencing what can only be described as an emergency.

Not a life-threatening emergency, no. Not in the conventional sense. There is no fire. No armed robbery. No medical professionals are needed.

And yet—despite the complete absence of immediate danger—you are suffering. You are in crisis.

Because it has been six weeks since you have been able to have sex.

Six weeks.

Forty-two days.

One thousand and eight hours.

You do the maths frequently. It brings you no comfort.

Because your wife—your unreasonably attractive, infuriatingly smug wife—has been making it worse.

You don’t think she’s doing it on purpose. But then again, you also didn’t think you were the kind of person who could be undone by the mere existence of another human being, and yet—

Here you are.

Postpartum. Horny. Not okay.

Your last shred of dignity clings to the edge of a cliff, gripping so desperately you might cry.

And then, because the universe hates you, you are forced to endure the absolute worst possible setting for your suffering: a Champions League match.

Barcelona vs Lyon. Quarter-finals. Home leg. A packed stadium. Your baby in your lap. Your wife on the pitch.

It is the worst possible arrangement of things.

Because Alexia, captain, leader, heartbeat of the team, is also—unfortunately—a menace to your well-being.

She is everywhere. Commanding. Dominating. Bossing the midfield. Calling for the ball. Intercepting play. Creating chances.

And she is sweaty.

She is so sweaty.

Her shirt clings to her back. Her thighs glisten under the floodlights. She is locked in, sharp, a threat. She pulls her shorts up—a little habit she has before every free kick—and your stomach drops to your knees.

You are not okay.

You have not been okay for weeks.

You shift slightly in your seat, trying to focus on anything else. You fail spectacularly.

Isabel, blessedly oblivious to your suffering, sleeps peacefully against your chest, one tiny hand curled into a fist against your shirt. She has not known suffering a day in her life.

And then—because life is cruel—Alexia scores.

The entire stadium erupts.

She roars, fist in the air, running to the corner flag, chased by teammates.

And you—seated in the most privileged of all possible seats—are struck with the deep, undeniable realisation that you have never been more attracted to anyone in your entire life.

Which is a problem.

Because you are in a box, surrounded by people.

Important people.

The president of the club is to your left. His wife is beside him, clutching his arm, thrilled, eyes wide. Across from you, executives are clapping. Your in-laws—who insisted on coming—are beaming.

And yet—all you can think about is how badly you want to jump your wife in front of all of them.

You clench your jaw. Adjust your grip on the baby. Breathe through your nose. Try to survive.

Twenty minutes later, Barcelona win.

The final whistle goes. The team celebrates. Cheers. Applause. The smell of fresh beer being flung into the air in the stands.

And then—the worst possible thing happens.

Alexia jogs off the pitch.

Your body, betraying you completely, tenses in anticipation.

You know what’s coming.

You have seen this play out a thousand times before.

Ten minutes later, the door swings open.

You brace yourself.

And then she walks in.

And you—like a complete idiot—forget how to breathe.

Because she is fresh from the shower.

She is in a navy tracksuit. The zip is low. Her hair is still wet, damp against her skin.

She smells like soap.

Like her.

And she knows.

She sees the way you tense. She sees the way your grip tightens on the baby. She knows exactly what she is doing to you.

And then—because she hates you—she leans down and kisses Isabel’s forehead.

Soft. Gentle. Devastating.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

She sits down next to you. So casual. So smug. She touches your thigh, her fingers barely brushing against the fabric, like she isn’t completely destroying you.

And then—to make things worse—she focuses entirely on the baby.

You stare at her.

You cannot handle this.

She hums softly under her breath, rubbing small circles into Isabel’s back. Her fingers move so lightly, so effortlessly, and your stomach flips.

Your entire body is on fire.

She adjusts the blanket. Fixes a tiny sock. Makes a soft, affectionate noise.

And you—you actually whimper.

She laughs.

The kind of laugh that makes you want to throw yourself into the sea.

She leans in slightly, voice low, amused, calculated.

“Three more days.”

Your eyes slam shut.

You are in actual, physical pain.

Seventy-two hours.

You might not survive.

God help you.

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 4]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 7.2k

Summary: It is very, incredibly important not to get attached to someone who will no doubt be leaving you high and dry to die stranded on an island any day now—be they man or fish. And you are definitely, definitely following that rule. For sure.

🌶️ Obligatory Warning for Mild Spice

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

The next morning, there was a conch shell set beside the familiar offering of half-mauled fish.

The insides were a shining, pearlescent pink—smooth and sleek. You picked it up curiously and turned it over in your palms. You’d never seen such a complete one before. Normally they were at least a bit dinged, cracked here or there along the thin edges. But this one was practically perfect. It sat heavy and warm in your palm, and you brushed a finger along the rough ridges.

You looked up and the Siren was lounging at the shoreline, waiting expectantly.

“Thank you,” you said. “It’s really pretty.”

He preened, the fins along the side of his head fluttering wide and colorful. You huffed, amused, and set the shell neatly at the forefront of your slowly accumulating corner of Things. You’d rebuilt the little shanty shelter that he’d had his seagull minions pick apart into useless nonsense that first day together, and it wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep some of the sun off your shoulders at the height of the afternoon and would probably (maybe) hold up under a bit of rain. And that pleasantly cozy hovel of yours was where you’d been keeping your Stuff. The best sticks for poking at the fire, a rock that you’d found with a dip in the middle that made it sort of, almost a bowl if you squinted hard enough, bunches of drying beach grasses that you’d been tediously twining together into bits of rope and other nonsense. That sort of thing.

You placed the conch shell on the roof of it, prodding at it with the tips of your fingers until it sat just so. Like a figurehead on a ship. The crown jewel on your little mess of ferns and driftwood.

“What do you think?” you asked, turning back to the Siren. “Really brings the room together, huh?”

He puffed something under his breath and rolled those amethyst eyes of his, but there was a curl to his lips that looked far more amused than irritated.

You trudged back over and plopped beside him in the sand, the soft, low roll of the waves playing against your toes.

“Today feels like it’s going to be gross again,” you sighed, squinting up at the sun overhead in distaste. The big ball of glowing fire had barely crawled its way over the horizon and already it felt like the world was beginning to steam.

The Siren curled his claws around your ankle and tugged.

You arched a brow at him and he pushed his stupidly, perfectly shaped ones up right back. Like he was positive that he could out stink-face you with ease.

“It’s too early to swim,” you complained.

He tugged again.

“I can’t be in the water that long. You’re going to turn me into a prune.”

He said something back, mouth quirking in irritation, and you focused hard on the shape of it. His expression smoothed with that familiar, near-eerie perception of his and he was reaching forward to dig his free fingers into the sand at your hip.

‘Don’t know what that is.’

“It’s like a—” you frowned, waving your hand around your head. “Y’know. A fruit, that’s gone pruney. A prune.”

He looked at you like you were the dumbest human he’d ever met, and to be fair you very well could have been. You doubted it was an extensive list. And even if it was, you tended to have a proclivity for landing near the top of those illustrious sorts of rankings either way. At least that’s what your Captain saw fit to remind you ad nauseum.

So, like the very mature and intellectually competent person that you were, you kicked a mess of seawater right into his face. And then the Siren was screaming something silent and mad that had all the goosebumps on your arms popping up to say hello, and he was dragging you into the shallows ass first. You skidded along the wet sand and landed in the white surf with a laugh that you had to swallow real fast. Because if you drowned in three inches of water just because you couldn’t manage to not choke to death on a giggle fit, you’d never forgive yourself.

.

.

That night, you were lounging by the fire with a belly full of seared snapper and the Siren curled just as contentedly only a few feet away. His fins were splayed out across the damp sands, and you couldn’t help but compare them yet again to some of the finest, spun silks you’d ever seen. Even when they’d been pinched and shredded beneath the prickly teeth of your ropes, they’d still been lovely. But now that they were near-fully-healed, the spread of them was truly impressive.

And they were. Almost healed, that is. You could barely make out the trailing, scar-puckered lines of even the biggest tears anymore. Which was good! Great, even. Because that meant he’d be able to begin his journey home soon, didn’t it? And then at least one of you would manage to get away from this barren mess of rocks and sand.

There was a thump against your thighs that had you jolting back into focus, and you looked down to see a pair of familiar, gem-cut irises staring back in the dark.

The Siren was glaring up at you like there was a Purpose to his sudden loss of personal boundaries, and you blinked down at him in confusion. After a long moment of nothing but your silent gawking, his brow started to pinch and the skin around his eyes went tight with irritation. The fins along his ears rippled like a pissy cat raising its hackles in preparation to lunge, and you cautiously placed a hand against the edge of one. The grumpy fluttering stopped all at once, and if you were a touch more sun-poisoned you would say that those delicate, purple pins relaxed against your palm. Either way, you were clearly on the right track. So you let your fingers trail down towards his temples, and then to the salt-curled waves of his hair. His eyes slipped closed with a pleasant rumble that you could feel all along your skin, and you puffed in half-hearted irritation. Prickly, fussy, bastard man.

You weren’t really sure what he wanted, but for now the gentle scratch of your nails against his scalp seemed to do the trick. After a few cycles of lazy petting, you let your fingers catch in some of the softer, pale hair beneath his fins. It was a bit tangled—possibly from all that frilly posturing of his—and you carefully began picking apart the small knots there one by one. Once those were cleared away, you found yourself with little else to do but sit and play with the newly freed waves of lavender-tipped gold. You tucked one strand over the next, twisting the familiar pattern of a simple braid beneath your palms.

“Deuce grew his hair out at one point,” you chattered idly as you wove those silky locks together beneath your fingers. “That’s someone from my ship, by the way. Deuce. Anyways. He thought it’d make him look more rugged, or whatever. But he just ended up looking like some rogue, sea elf, and everyone was teasing him about how he’d gone for ‘windswept sailor’ and ended up with ‘foppish, little lordling.’ So he chopped it all off again.”

The Siren hummed, and you could feel it against the pads of your fingers.

“Which was a real shame,” you continued. “Because obviously I spent all that time learning to braid it, but also because it actually looked pretty nice—OUCH! What is your problem—"

You yanked your hand away from his sharp teeth and cradled your smarting fingers to your chest. Because the stupid fish had bitten you! Not hard, or anything. Just a little nip. But it’d still hurt. If less as a genuine injury and more as a sting to your pride.

The Siren spat something quick and harsh under his breath, turning up his nose like you’d been the one to err here, and not his wandering fangs.

“What?” you huffed, reaching out to flick at those purple fins in irritation. They twitched against the side of his head to smack at your fingers. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I not allowed to call anyone else pretty, your highness?”

The Siren rolled his eyes with a look that screamed ‘well, duh,’ and you forced your irritation to override the little, bursting bubble of fondness in your chest. So silly, so silly. This ridiculously primped fish of yours.

“Well, too bad,” you grouched, tugging at the end of that half-bound braid. “Just because you win ‘most attractive specimen on the island’ doesn’t mean you get to tell me to pretend I’m blind on top of being deaf. Let me have something, you prick.” And it wasn’t like it was much of a competition—seeing as the entrants were you, him, and the octopus (if you were being generous). Less of a contest and more of a merciful slaughter, perhaps. A kindness that you were even allowed to share the same stage at all.

The Siren muttered something low and amused under his breath, the amethyst in his irises twinkling with the crackling, orange light of the embers beside you. He reached up to twist his claws along your palm and snatch the hand he’d so viciously nipped—bringing it down to eyelevel to observe it more closely in the dim glow of the fire. There was a steady trickle of blood bubbling up along your thumb. Honestly, not much worse than a papercut. Nevertheless, his brow quirked at the soft trail of red and his gaze jumped up to yours with a pointed sort of curiosity.

“What were you expecting to happen? Humans are fragile,” you huffed. “At least more than you are. It’s not like I have scales or things to keep me safe.”

His mouth tucked down on a frown, and his tail swept irritably back and forth through the sand.

“What? It’s not like you didn’t know that,” you tried, awkward. Because he ate stupid, little flesh bags like you for breakfast. Surely he ought to be well aware that there wasn’t much there. Just skin, and muscle, and all the gory, gooey bits beneath. Just like how you knew what it felt like to bite into a piece of bread, or the crunch of an apple. Solid enough to survive in its own right, but something that would give beneath your teeth easily enough that calling it anything other than ‘delicate’ would have been a gross exaggeration.

He turned your palm this way and that, brow pinching down more and more with each fresh prick of crimson. His tail beat against the sand and his talons curled up and away from your skin—like he was worried just touching your fragile, little, egg-shell of an exterior would burst it.

“It’s fine,” you blurted out, still far too confuddled over his progressive panic. You pulled your hand away from his claws and popped your finger in your mouth. “See?” you garbled around the faint taste of copper. And then pulled it out with a pop to show him the slowing trickle. “Totally fine. Just a scratch.”

The Siren watched that little bubble of red with all the vigilance of a hawk eyeing its super, and then he was snatching your wrist back between his talons and dragging your hand down towards his own mouth. And oh my God, this was it. He’d finally decided to eat you after all. What was it? Had your oh-so-breakable human foibles finally pushed him over the edge? Or was it the blood? Were Sirens like sharks? Driven to hungry frenzy by the very scent of your—

There was a gentle, wet warmth along your skin and you blinked through your hysteric descent into adrenaline-manic-mania to see the Siren carefully cleaning the blood along your cut, just as you had only moments before—his tongue running smooth lines along the teeny wound until the sore skin was tingling and spotless. Granted, his endeavors were carried out with a great deal more delicacy than your earlier example of just shoving your whole finger into your mouth like a gremlin, but…

“Uhm—” you spluttered, too gobsmacked to come up with much else. “You—ah—you don’t have to—uh—"

The Siren grumped something at you that you could feel the shape of against your palm, and then returned to diligently wiping away each new drop as it appeared. It was a strange sort of sensation. Not bristly like a cat’s tongue, but certainly not all human. There was a sting to it—something hot and prickly. Poison, maybe? Or… something. Whatever it was, it had the hair on the back of your neck rising to attention and a shiver working along your shoulders. He kept at, silent and meticulous, until finally—finally—the bleeding slowed to a stop. He hummed and turned your palm this way and that, looking over the drying nick in your skin like an artist admiring their work.

Once he was content with whatever it was he’d been searching for, he tucked your hand back along the fins at the side of his head and butted up against your palm in as blatant of a ‘get back to work’ as you’d ever seen.

You swallowed the weird mess of something that had clawed its way up to tangle your tongue and dug your nails back against his scalp just to give yourself something to do other than—than—

“I hope you don’t expect me to do that for you,” you babbled, still far too out of your head with What In The Fuck Was That to do much but gawk like an absolute imbecile at the fact that he’d actually, factually, just—

The Siren rolled his eyes and reached over to drag the point of his talon along the sand at your hip.

‘No need. Already healed.’

You barked out a startled laugh and tugged at the ends of his hair. Your fingers caught at the edge of the braid you’d been weaving, loosening one of the twining sections, and he was hissing and swatting your hands back into place—poking around with his dark claws at the little end you’d fussed with until it was exactly how it had been. And then was dragging your hands back to the half-woven bulk of it with a pointed snarl that was clearly an order to finish what you started, human. Or else.

“Okay, okay, jeesh. I’m on it.”

The Siren trilled low and rumbling under his breath, and beneath the weight of your palm it almost felt like the steady drone of a cat’s purr. Warm, and pleasant, and comfortable in a way you couldn’t quite place. The thin strands of chain-twined-rope you’d woven to make his necklace pressed into your thighs with a scratchy tickle, and the pretty piece of sea glass at its end reflected the low light of the fire in a kaleidoscope of purples. His fins flicked against your fingers in a steady tempo, and when you gave in and pinched one he was rolling onto his side to shove the full weight of himself into your lap. You whined, and bitched, and complained about suffocation, and the stupid bastard of a fish just smacked his tail indignantly against the wet sand and draped over you even more.

Seven, he was such a nightmare. And you were going to miss him so, so much.

.

.

The next day passed in much the same way as the one before, and the day after that, and the day after that. And as pleasant as it was, you couldn’t help but feel like the headsman's axe was hanging over your neck. Always there—just a breadth away from falling.

You were fixing your Siren’s hair—redoing that braid of his that he insisted you tuck into his golden locks each and every morning—and normally he was quite responsive to your prattling. Flicking you with his fins and curling his tail along your ankles as you rambled. A silent, steady way of expressing his interest when you couldn’t hear his own responses in return. But today he was… distant. Amethyst eyes locked on the grand expanse of the ocean before you with a forlorn sort of expression on his face. The water was still and quiet today, with sunlight bouncing off the low, rolling waves in a pretty glimmer like the glow off his own, shining scales.

You trailed off, fingers falling from his finished braid to twist in your lap. And he just kept staring. Fins half-pricked along the side of his head and gaze heavy with focus.

You swallowed around the tightness in your chest and forced a smile. You hopped to your feet with a merry, little bounce and reached down to pat him on the shoulder.

“It seems like a nice day for a swim,” you said, and ignored how you could feel your nerves eating through the words. The wobble of them in your throat.

The Siren startled, as much as someone as grandly majestic as he could really do such a thing, and turned your way with a fondly exacerbated huff. He held up a hand, like he was expecting to drag you along with him into the lulling tide, and you shooed away his fingers. His brow pinched and his mouth turned down at the corners.

“For you, I mean,” you clarified. Like your blatant stepping away from the water’s edge wasn’t an obvious rejection in its own right. You turned back out towards the ocean beyond your little cove. “Your fins are doing a lot better, aren’t they? You could probably stretch them a bit, right? With how smooth the waters are today.”

He hummed, considerate, gaze skirting out to track your own. You swallowed around another ball of prickling ice in your throat and kept your grin buoyant and encouraging.

And then he turned back and offered you his hand again.

You frowned, confused. “I can’t follow you out there.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned forward to dig his talons into the damp sand.

‘I will swim with you.’

A pause, where he reached out to poke at your ankle with a pointed jab, jab, jab before finishing off with a—

‘Like always. Stupid.’

“Oh, yeah? Well, I won’t be so stupid when you ditch me halfway out and I drown in the riptide,” you harrumphed and his eyes narrowed grumpily.

He dragged his claws through the sand in short, angry jerks.

‘Won’t leave.’

“Uh-huh,” you drawled, swallowing stiffly again when that curl of awful something tightened behind your ribs. Hoping you could manage to choke it down. It sat heavy and unpleasant on the back of your tongue, like food gone off.

He underlined the ‘won’t’ with hard, pissy strokes.

“How about this,” you tried, because man oh man, you couldn’t do this. It was going to turn you into a ridiculously weepy, clingy mess if he kept talking (writing?) like this. “Prove that your fins work well enough to keep you up and alive before I risk it. And then we can go from there.”

The Siren huffed, sending the longer ends of his hair flipping out to the sides. But those gem-cut eyes of his kept flicking out to sea, and you could see the tip of his tail twitching back and forth—like he was itching to just leap forward and swim. The fins along his ears pricked up again, and then he was turning his nose up at you with some petulant comment under his breath and diving forward into the surf. He smacked his tail down with a splash!, drenching you in a mess of salt and seafoam. You spat, and hacked, and scrubbed the water from your eyes.

“Great way to prove you won’t try and drown me!” you called, hands cupped over your mouth and still spluttering around lingering saltwater. He reared up quick enough to swipe another wave your way before slipping back under, and you laughed through the spray of mist.

You settled yourself back in the sand, ankles crossed and chin pillowed in your knees, and watched the shadow of him dance just beneath the surface—starting in his familiar, looping circles before slowly venturing towards the mouth of the cove. He paced along the breakwater, pectoral fins cresting above the waves to glint bright and sleek in the light of the morning. And then he was darting forward with a great beat of his tail, spraying salt behind him as he dove towards the depths. You waited, anxious, as one moment faded to the next, and then—finally—there was a burst of frothing bubbles as he broke the surface with a great, curling leap—fins flared wide like the wings of a great bird and scales shining like jewels. It was nearly effortless, how he crested over the water. Diving back down in a mess of spitting mists with a flick of those long, trailing fins. He leapt up again, twisting in the air to crash down on his back and it almost looked like he was dancing. You could see the white flash of his grin even from all the way where you were sat. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him so happy. Truly, a sight worthy of every grand tale you’d heard of the Sirens of the Sea.

He circled the mouth of the bay at least a dozen times more—fast, and wild, and breaching the waves in a burst of seafoam like he was trying to give every pod of dolphins out there a run for their money. Gradually, he began to lose steam, and those grand leaps melted into soft curls of his tail in the tide. And honestly, this was the part where you expected him to sink beneath the surface and glide off into the sunset. You braced yourself for it—for the moment that golden head of his would vanish beneath the water and never pop back up again—but instead he bobbed closer.

The Siren rolled in with the waves, panting, and flushed, and looking like someone coming off of a marathon. The muscles all along his torso were jittery with the strain of it, and he looked positively exhausted. Ecstatic beyond compare, but exhausted. He slipped up the damp shore with wobbly arms and came to a stop at your side before very gracelessly and rudely flopping the entirety of his sopping wet bulk onto your person and squashing you into the muck.

You squawked, rightfully indignant, and he just puffed against your neck and let his tail smack harder against your flailing legs.

“You’re going to crush me!” you wailed, shoving at his shoulder.

He rolled his eyes and curled his fins along your hips—spreading himself out in the sands like your complaints held no merit whatsoever. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, and the rabbit-fast thump-thump-thump of his heart. His skin was so warm. You could even feel the heat of it off his scales, which you hadn’t even thought was possible. Weren’t all fishy, scaly things supposed to be cold? Slimy, and gross, and like poking a wet blob of some unmentionable gunk scraped off the hull of a ship? Instead it was just… smooth. Glass-polish sleek and all warm muscle twined along your much, much smaller self.

You cleared your throat and turned to blow a frustrated raspberry against the sand.

“You do realize if you break all my bones that there isn’t going to be anyone to cook your stupid fish for you anymore.”

The Siren grumbled something against your shoulder that almost felt like the breathy puff of a laugh, and then he was collapsing all over again with a sigh that ruffled all the soft, short hairs at the nape of your neck. He scrubbed his cheek against the curve of your throat and you froze. Because it almost felt like—was he purring?

A deep, low, tremulous thing that you could feel rumbling against your skin. Like laying a hand against a mast strung too tight in a storm. Or maybe more like that one time you’d found a stray cat lounging in the sun by the docks—the sweet, old thing chirping softly beneath your palm in a lulling drone that tickled all the way up your arm.  

The Siren’s purr wasn’t quite like either of those things, but perhaps a mix of the two. Dangerous but warm, powerful but cosseted. More predator than pet, and, well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? And honestly, it was pretty nice. A language you could feel rather than hear, something just for you.

So you let yourself relax beneath the weight of his scaly bulk with a sigh that wasn’t quite as aggrieved as you would have liked, and his tail twisted another loop around your calves. His fins spread around the pair of you like a roll of fine silks, and while the texture wasn’t exactly soft, they were delicate enough not to feel suffocating or coarse either. Sleek and cool to the touch, and maybe the thickness of canvas. And there were just so many of them. Long, and trailing, and ruffled along the edges like the folds of a fine-boned fan. Your weird, purple blanket. If Riddle ever found out you’d been using a Siren as bed linens, he’d probably have an aneurism and scrub you in one of the scullery buckets for a week straight.

It was stupidly easy to fall asleep like that—wrapped up in lavender and plum, with the thrum of his heart next to yours. You napped all through the afternoon, and only woke up once the sun had set over the horizon.

You blinked awake to stars in the sky and a strange, scratchy sensation at your hip.

The Siren had apparently finished up whatever little bout of insanity that had made him think you’d be the perfect impromptu pillow. He hadn’t gone far—or even anywhere at all really—but he was propped up at the hip now instead of crushing you into the shore. His hand was resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, right over the origin of that bizarre, ticklish feeling. You blinked again to clear the salt and sleep-grit from your eyes, and realized it was his talons. Not ripping, or tearing, or rending. Just very, very carefully tracing a set of shapes into your skin. The same three symbols, over and over. Up, and down, and up, and curled.

He traced those shapes again, and again, and again. It was almost—you’d think it was letters, if not for the strange, swirling pop of them. Almost like the words he’d written in his own language all those days ago. His claw dragged along the skin there in the faintest prickle, leaving slowly growing streaks of red in their wake with each repetition. You opened your mouth, ready to ask him what exactly he was so painstakingly etching into your hip, and paused.

You’d realized over the past however many weeks you’d been marooned on this little crescent of sand and stone that maybe Sirens weren’t all you’d thought them to be. And that maybe you really didn’t know much about them at all. Something about the slow, cautious way that his claws were tracking along your skin made you think that this was another of those things that you just didn’t get. And going by how quiet he was, how stalwart and careful he was being not to let the knife-sharp curves of those talons dig too deep or do anything other than trace back and forth, and back and forth, it might be something… Something important. Or at the very least something that you had no business bothering him about.

Least of all if he’d be leaving any day now.

So you tossed your head back on a very loud, very dramatic yawn and used the ensuing stretch to gently swat his hands away.

He didn’t look put out by your ridiculous show of flopping around and scooching out of his grip, so that was good at least. You sat up and rubbed at your eyes, and he just kept staring. Kept to his place in the soft, wet sand not a foot away and eyes sharp in the lowlight of the evening.

“Well,” you chuffed on another yawn. “I’m starving. Dinner?”

The Siren rolled his eyes and dipped his chin in what could perhaps generously be classified as a nod. He reached up to flick at the mused braid in his hair with a pointed scowl—twisted and tangled from the salt of the sea and his earlier rambunctious tomfoolery. You sighed, overly put upon, and hefted your way to your feet.

“Yes, yes. And I’ll fix your stupid hair.”

Another nod, this one far more pleased, and the Siren settled himself neatly back into the low roll of the waves to watch you work.

.

.

The next morning when you clawed your way back into consciousness, the Siren was already awake and staring off into the distance.

The fins along his head were pricked in that same, focused way from before that made you think of a hound dog catching a scent. There was a strange sort of energy about him—not quite nervous, but certainly not anything comfortably at ease either. Unsettled. Jittery. The end of his tail flicked against the sand, and the fins along his spine curled and arched to an unsung tempo.

You followed the path of his leer and didn’t see much of anything yourself. Just an endless stretch of blue in all directions with the occasional white crack of a wave breaking along its surface.

His tail smacked at the muck again and you felt something tight and stupidly, stupidly selfish curl in your stomach.

You swallowed it down, just like you’d said you would. Because you’d meant it when you’d told him he deserved his happy ending, and you weren’t going to let the rotten, nervous thing growing in your guts stop him from having that. Not that you could even if you wanted to, but it was the principle.

“…are you going to swim again today?” you asked, and one of those fins swiveled in your direction. You came to stand at his side and curled your toes in the sand to keep yourself steady. “You should, you know. To make sure everything is really all fixed.”

The Siren tore his gaze away from the sea to cant his head at you with a sharp, suspicious narrowing of his eyes.

You held your hands up in defense. “I’m just saying. You want to be able to go home, don’t you? Back to your pod?”

He frowned, tight, but his glare flickered back out to the mouth of the bay like he couldn’t help himself.

After a long, long moment, he reached out and dug his claws into the sand.

‘Not safe yet.’

You arched a brow. “Oh, come on. I’m sure it’s fine. If anyone could make it back, it’d be you.”

He turned back your way and arched a brow, looking entirely unconvinced.

You huffed and crossed your arms. “Don’t get all modest now. You’re the most obnoxiously proud person I’ve ever met—fish or otherwise. I’m sure you can do anything you set your mind to.”

His brow pinched again, and there was something almost like worry sparking in those amethyst eyes of his.

“Look—” you said, reaching out to plant a palm against his shoulder. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always just come right back here, okay? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

You weren’t going to think about how nice that sounded, and how absolutely, bitterly selfish it was to hope that he’d turn right back around and head back. You weren’t.

The Siren’s brow pinched and he turned back to the open water, fins rippling against his sides and mouth twisted down at the corners.

You tugged at the braid in his hair.

“Don’t make me tie you back up again just so I can drag you out.”

He scoffed and spat something at you that looked like it was properly bitchy, and it had your lips quirking on a smirk. But prissiness or no, he’d started to let himself slip down against the surf, to lull deeper into the shallows and flare his fins at his sides for balance rather than a show of irritation.

You swallowed the last, lingering bite of dread at the back of your throat and offered him a winning smile.

The Siren huffed, and right before he sunk all the way into the water, he set his talons by your feet and scribbled—

‘Do not do anything stupid.’

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved off. “Sure.”

He underlined the ‘do not’ with a harsh sneer that could have made paint curl and the fiercest of generals quake in their boots, and you burst into peals of too-fond laughter.

“Okay, okay. I promise. Swear.”

He nodded, firm, and finally—finally—sunk beneath the surface with a grand, sweeping beat of his tail.

He circled the whole of the bay once, twice, thrice, and then set out past the breakwater with another of those bounding leaps that looked like something straight out of a painting.

You sat and watched the rolling waves until the sun was high in the sky, and then long after it had begun its creeping descent. Fat and sluggish over the horizon, dripping gold along the water like the strokes of a paintbrush. Until there were no shadows in the tide, no purple fins popping up from beneath the surface to smack at your ankles. There hadn’t been for hours now. The glint of his tail had slowly grown further and further away, and you’d been staring out at nothing for longer than not.

You stood with a sigh, legs wobbly and prickling with static as you stretched out of your scrunched up crouch.

You moved towards your little shanty hut and carefully readjusted the conch at its helm so that it sat just so. You stepped back with a soft nod and began your familiar trek towards the other side of the island, dutifully ignoring the stutter in your steps and that tight, miserable something twisting in your guts that you refused to name.

It was fine. He’d be home soon, surely. With his pod—his family. Which was what you’d wanted. And now… well, you had to go catch some dinner for you and your octopus. And there was no use waiting around.

.

.

You fucking sucked at fishing.

Which was a lesson learned with miserable, sopping wet consequences. You sat in front of your stupid fire, ringing out your stupid, soaked shirt, and sneezing in the chill of the night air. You’d never been responsible for hauling in food on The Rose Queen, and the Siren had basically been feeding your stranded ass from day one (whether intentional or otherwise). And so now here you were. Fishless, friendless, and freezing.

You sighed, miserable, and carefully made your way back to the familiar, little tidepool in the crags. You knelt down by the teeny pool of water there and the octopus inside was immediately scurrying for cover. When no tasty treats rained down overhead like the gift of some benevolent god, it slowly creeped its way out from beneath the stones with a trudging sort of paddling you wanted to call pouty.

“Sorry, little guy,” you huffed. “I don’t have anything for you today.”

You reached forward and the octopus panicked—trying to flee so fast that the poor thing wound up twisting itself in knots. Its stubby tentacles curled and flailed uselessly in its puddle, and you tutted in sympathy. You scooped the blob into your palms and immediately four sets of tentacles were curling around your fingers like a lifeline. Its little suckers pulled at your skin with sticky smacks as it tried to burrow away into your skin. And Sevens—OW! What the Hell!

“Chill, chill!” you squawked, trying to wrangle the thing more securely into your hands and stop it from pinching the flesh clear off your bones. “I’m just—would you—look, I don’t want to drop you, okay? So would you just—"

The octopus screamed, and you didn’t even think that was possible. You could feel the sharp, yowling vibrations of it all along your fingers and a few of the gulls nesting along the rocks took off into the air with a harried flurry of feathers and scrabbling claws. Their wings thwacked the back of your head and you swatted them away with a shrill scream of your own. Why did everything on this stupid island have to be a no good, dramatic, serenading, piece of shi—

“Fine!” you shrieked, feeling your molars ache with it. “Begone!”

And hurled the thing as far as you could over the edge of the rocky shore. It landed in the water with a lackluster plop of fat bubbles and immediately darted away like a prisoner fleeing captivity. And not, you know, the benevolent hand of the very lovely pirate who had been feeding and caring for it all these weeks.

You kicked angrily at a mess of pebbles, and then swore loud and furious when all it did was scuff up your toes and prick bruises into your heels.

You trudged back to your stupid, little hovel and collapsed miserably into the sand.

Here you were, trying to be noble, and kind, and give all of these ridiculous sea creatures the second chance at life that you would never have. And what did you get for it? An empty stomach, an aching heart, and gravel in your fucking feet—

“Well,” you chattered to yourself. Pleasantly poisonous and tendons jumping in your jaw, “I suppose at least it can’t get much worse.”

Which should have been the universe’s signal to do something truly petty. The skies opening overhead in a torrential downpour. Your little, stick home collapsing under the sheer weight of your patheticness. A crab scuttling up from the depths just to pinch your toes. Something like that.   

Instead, there was a gentle breeze that tickled your cheeks and coaxed you into looking out over the horizon.

There was something there—something in the distance that you couldn’t quite make out from where you were curled up suffering in the sand. You sniffled past angry tears and scrubbed the back of your hand over your nose, and then let that touch of wind guide you forward on wobbly legs.  You had to climb all the way up the salt-slick rocks to get a good look at it. But there it was. Not too far at all actually.

A ship.

Large, and wooden, and cresting through the low rolling waves with all the ease of the monstrous vessel it looked to be. There was a silver insignia emblazoned on its side, but it was still too far away to make out the particulars. But you didn’t care, because it was a ship. An actual, factual ship.

You waved your hands high over your head and shouted at the top of your lungs.

And holy shit, holy shit—maybe the universe didn’t actually hate your poor guts. Maybe there’d be a happy ending to this whole thing after all.

You watched in the distance as an anchor dropped, and you had to stop yourself from tumbling off your rocky perch in your excitement. One of the small dinghies was lowered into the water and a gaggle of crew climbed down to man it. Slowly but surely, that little boat grew closer, and you sprinted down to the shoreline to meet it.

A man with short, dark hair climbed over the side and met you halfway. His eyes were soft, and brown, and kind, and he offered you a warm smile when you nearly tumbled straight into him in your haste—catching a hand around your arms and helping keep you upright.

He said something polite that you assumed was the usual sort of greeting and intrigue into how exactly you’d managed to find yourself in this state of affairs, and you hastily made to explain your situation as you always did.

‘Thank you—I can’t hear, but I can write and read—And I—’

Your train of thought cut off sharply, and your rambling explanations with it. The brunette was already nodding your way in sympathy and rattling off instructions to his crew. They were all decked out in slightly differing variations of the same, white and navy uniform. With golden buttons and sashes glinting in the low light and silver pendants pinned to their breast pockets. Your doe-eyed savior turned back your way and offered you his arm with another of those sap sweet smiles that lit his cheeks in a merry, rosy pink.

You hesitated, throat bobbing around something tight and cold that curdled along the back of your tongue.

Twining songbirds, wings frozen in flight as they soared up towards an endless sky.

The intricate, little emblem stared back at you proudly from its place on his chest, and you couldn’t help but think of the Siren who’d only just left your cove a few hours before.

‘Not safe,’ he’d demanded, dragging you away from the wreck so frantically you’d nearly drowned from it. ‘Not safe.’

The brunette’s smile wavered at your hesitance, and he wrapped his hand around yours to tug you into the boat.

You climbed in on wobbly legs, because—what else were you supposed to do? Stay stranded on this little patch of sand and stone until you starved to death or went mad from loneliness? Run? From sailors with swords on their belts as long as your arm? To hide on an island that you could traverse in its entirety in a half hour or less? You were always one to happily snatch up the weird and wonderful opportunities life could present to you and run them into the ground, but now… What else was there?

You were settled against one of the small, wooden benches and the brunette shucked off his jacket to drape over your shoulders and the silver songbirds glinted in the low light. He offered you another of those warm, warm smiles before turning to call an order to his crew.

You sighed, miserable, and slouched against the siding—fingers dangling down to brush along the surface of the water.

‘Do not do anything stupid,’ your Siren had said.

And you’d really been hoping to last more than twenty-four-freaking-hours before inevitably breaking that promise, but it seemed the universe really was out to get you after all.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[worstgenerationloser]

Could you please do ace, shanks and benn defending their f s/o from a misogynistic man? I had to face one at work and he gave me the absolute ICK

,, Rushing to your aid! ''

Ace, Shanks, and Beckman x F! Reader.

Summary... how would your boyfriend defend you from a misogynistic man?

Contains... misogyny, mentions of harassment, depictions of bloody violence, and some slight fluff!

A/N: IM SORRY YOU HAD TO DEAL WITH THAT ANON💕 I hope since you sent in this ask the men have left you alone! If not I'll ward them away myself!! 🤺🤺

Portgas D. Ace

Ace doesn't register it completely, so at first he's confused on why this man is talking to you as if you were a baby (mostly because he's a dumbass)

Now, even if he wasn't aware the man was being misogynistic at first, he's still rushing towards you because there's literally a weird man talking to you the way you would to a little kid, and you definitely looked angry enough to tear off his head.

"Woah, what's happening here?" Instinctively and natural as breathing, his arm slips around your shoulders and his fingers move to gently graze your arm in an attempt to console you.

He doesn't like showing his temper much, but when people precious to him are involved, his angry heart bursts into flames. When the man speaks, his jaw drops out of pure disbelief. According to him, he was mansplaining how pirates operate to you. Which is weird, because Ace knows that you're definitely well versed in pirates... Considering you're his girlfriend.

He wanted to diffuse the situation, but it seems like this random needed a reality check.

"Hm... Good to know, but I'm sure it's irrelevant to her." His smile is wide and joyous, but the ominous shadow looming over his face is anything but.

"But she's clueless!", the man rambles on and bumbles about like a headless chicken, before he turns back to get one good look at Ace. Then it clicks in his pea-sized brain that maybe you know a bit more about pirates than him.

Ace looks a little scary when he's mad, you discover . But mostly cute.

"My girlfriend doesn't need to explain her knowledge to some random asshole who couldn't make a lasting impact on her life if he tried, you're way below her, buddy."

With gritted teeth, Ace tries to not light fire to the whole town, but only you seem to notice his body is literally smoking hot.

According to Ace, the guy ran a little too slow, and that's how he ended up naked covered in burn marks! The marines didn't believe him, though, and you two were left to flee.

"Can you believe the balls on that guy? It's not like you're unknown, either. Portgas D. Ace's kickass girlfriend! It's got a nice ring to it, eh?"

He nudges you a little too hard and sends you flying into a bush, but you appreciate the cute moments with him no matter how brief.

Red-Haired Shanks

Shanks learned many things during his time in the Roger Pirates, but one thing really stuck with him throughout the years. He can tolerate being spat on and kicked around, if his crew sees it as a threat then he's not gonna stop them from doing whatever it is they're planning, but he's not gonna ask them to go out of their way to deal with it.

But when someone disrespects his crew, and especially you?

Oh, he's pissed.

You think he doesn't realize at first, but he's keeping a very close eye on you two. He tries to keep his ass planted firmly into his chair per Beckman's request. Beckman is the mature one, and he's almost never wrong in the astute observations he makes. Despite this, Shanks has no self control and he's lobbing himself towards the bar where you sit.

Beckman shakes his head disapprovingly at his captain, because unlike him, Beck knows you can handle yourself.

The man in question harassing you seems to be a small time criminal with a bounty of 50,000... That doesn't deter Shanks, it might have egged him on even more because who does he think he is harassing you?

By the time Shanks has made his way to you, your harasser seems to have taken it upon himself to demean you for your appearance, pulling out all the classics like "bitch" "whore" , and "slut" to name a few. Shanks, of course, finds absolutely no amusement in this. I'm sure you can guess what happened next.

Your harasser tries to argue and degrade you a little more when Shanks steps up, not realizing how silent the bar has suddenly become. He didn't even realize the hundreds of eyes disappearing from him, not wanting to watch things unfold.

"You're drunk, I'll give you that one." Shanks barks out a laugh like he finds it funny, but up close you can see that gleam in his eyes.

Well... it's not like you could stop him anyways.

But you really wish he left the bar standing, at least. It certainly isn't doing good for his reputation as an emperor of the seas.

When Beckman scolds him as if he were a child on deck, he laughs like he'll forget about it in a day or two. But everyone knows Shanks will be doing it all over again in a heartbeat. He holds you extra close that night, trying to make sure your heart isn't tainted by the venomous words spat.

"I don't want anybody, big name or small, disrespecting people I hold dear to me."

His words are sweet while he whispers to you in bed... he's an odd man, but he's yours.

Benn Beckman

Two words. Broken. Bones.

Beckman does not play around with his girl, at all. He'll bash in heads day and night if someone even looks at you the wrong way, but he restrains himself because he's not a jealous young man anymore, so he likes to think.

Regarding everything else, he's cool as a cucumber, he prefers to let things wash over by themselves and only offers advice if he senses things will go astray. (as previously mentioned)

You're his girl, and a damn beautiful one, so he isn't surprised when some people try and scope you out, the same happens to him with many women, so why be so hypocritical about it? His heart is locked inside of yours for the rest of his life whether you want him or not, so he knows you won't run off with another no matter how much Shanks jokes about it.

If they're a little persistent, he might walk up to you and give you a few kisses so they get the message. But this man was definitely not "a little persistent."

Beck doesn't have a second to think of what he should do when he hears the utterances of vile comments slip from this man's mouth after you turned him down, because he's already right next to you quicker than his own head can wrap around. He's big, tall and scary, enough so to make someone shake with just a look.

"A grown man like yourself should know that ain't no way to talk to a lady." His voice is low, and he's talking nice and slow for your harassers ears only.

Beck heard it all, him hitting on you in an unceremonious way, all the way to demeaning you when you rejected him, spouting the same chewed up rhetoric that is "women are only good for bearing children" and whatnot. He can't let that pass no matter how capable you may be of handling it yourself.

"And what are you gonna do about it?" The man's words were proven to be a bad move before his lips could rest against eachother.

Following that, there was quite a sight. Somehow Beckman managed to twist the poor guy into some kind of abstract form of art, all bloody and fucked up with no more teeth left.

And of course he ushered you away after wiping his hands clean enough for you, because he's a gentleman, he didn't do it for himself, it was for you!

"M'sorry you had to see that, sugar." His whispers fill your head while he has you resting your head on his chest hours later, a few giggles coming from outside your bedroom door. Guess who?

"You know I won't let nobody disrespect you like that. You aren't mad, are you baby?" Beckman is a real sweet talker, so it's not like you could be even if you tried.

Plus, he looks super hot fighting.

END.

Likes and Reblogs are appreciated! ❤️If possible, leave a comment too!

[stxrbxster]

You won’t do it, no balls (like curly).

Jimmy x co captain Y/N smut, or head cannons NSFW and SFW. Anyways you ate your last Jimmy fic!

Jimmy Headcanons ! (NSFW & SFW)

c/w - jimmy being jimmy

a/n - thinking abt doin headcannons for all of the mouthwashing crew.... lmk if that would be something you guys would wanna see... also sorry about this being so short.

wc - 408

(image not mine)

Safe For Work Headcanons !

huge on pda! always has a hand on your waist or the small off your back or an arm around you. not really in a cutesy "i love my partner so much i need everyone to know how much i love them" way but more in a "i need to keep my dog on a leash" kind of way.

contrary to popular belief, i think he is actually very well groomed. he thinks very highly of himself so i think it would only make sense that he wants to make himself appear extremely put together.

uses cremo's 'bourbon vanilla' bodywash and their ' spice and black vanilla' cologne.

love language is definitely acts of service or gift giving.

he hates telling you that he loves you because it makes him feel like you have a level of control over him and he can't stand it. however, he is constantly doing things for you.

your car needs repairs? he's under the hood. you need help moving something? he's doing it by himself and will NOT let you help.

smokes camel crushes. used to use chewing tabaco because pony express doesn't allow cigarettes onto the ship due to them being fire hazards, but stopped after realizing you could taste it in his mouth. now he just uses nicotine patches while on the ship.

listens to divorced dad rock. think hinder, theory of a deadman, my darkest days.

much bigger fan of cats than he is of dogs.

Not Safe For Work Headcanons !

slightly above average dick size, not huge though. quite girthy, though.

not a fan of you riding him, he says it doesn't feel as good as missionary or doggy but in reality it makes him feel emasculated having you on top of in a 'position of power'.

a huge sadist (shocker). he's constantly spanking or hitting or pulling hair.

LOVES making you cry during sex. whether its from overstimulation or just straight pain, it doesn't matter.

really big on choking too.

not very big on bondage or restraining you. he likes to feel you grabbing at him and writhing around under him. it gives him a huge ego boost to know that he doesn't have to tie you down to keep you from squirming away.

bites and leaves hickeys frequently. he enjoys the thought of there being physical marks on your body that show that you're his.

very vocal in bed. he's not necessarily *loud* perse but he talks and groans a ton.

[wonderjanga]

Warfare

You see, Marvel’s mentioned the Wisdom of Solomon before. The JL never really thought much about it. As a result, the JL just thinks Marvel has all these… interesting ideas but just never says anything about them. Though, there are a couple times the ideas are actually voiced. (They don’t know Billy is just parroting whatever Solomon or occasionally another God with tell him)

Like the time Batman and Marvel got stranded on a planet that was stuck in the middle of war. They were promised

Rebel Leader: “Do either of you have any ideas to bring to the table?”

Batman: “No. Marvel?”

Marvel: “Huh? Oh uh… well I could magic a plague into the water near them. You said they’re using it for their water source, right? Then, when they’re weak, we can go around and take them out.” *sounds hesitant*

Batman: “Hmm… That could be a good idea, but what sort of plague are we talking about?”

Marvel: “Cholera.”

Batman: “What.”

Marvel: “Cholera.”

Batman: “Marvel, that’s fatal.”

Marvel: “Oh.”

Batman: “Yeah.”

*silence*

Marvel: “Well, if we’re quick, it we can get to them before they die.”

Batman: *stares for a bit, holding back a sigh* “We don’t even know if Cholera will affect their biology the same way it does humans.”

Rebel Leader: “What is this Cholera?”

Batman: “It’s a deadly waterborne disease.”

Rebel Leader: “I see… And you’re unsure whether it will work with our physiology… might I propose a different disease?”

So yes, biological warfare, that’s our first thing. Batman proceeded to spend a lot of time convincing the Rebel Leader not to nearly kill an entire group of people with their version of Cholera.

Then there was the time Bruce and Marvel were working together and got held up in a shootout at a lab.

Marvel: *looking at the various chemicals in the lab* “Gosh, I remember my first exposure to chlorine gas.” *getting nostalgic* (He’s from the 1940s in this one, guys)

Batman: “You’ve been exposed to chlorine gas?”

Marvel: “Yeah, and let me tell you, those dang Nazis were horrified when it didn’t work on me. Don’t worry though, we’re gonna be making mustard gas instead.”

Batman: “Captain, we are not doing that.”

Marvel: “Why? We have all the available ingredients.”

Batman: “Marvel.” *puts a hand on his shoulder* “Mustard gas can be fatal.”

Marvel: “Oh.”

Batman: “Yeah.”

*silence*

Marvel: “My bad.”

*more silence*

Batman: “Is this why you always let others plan?”

Marvel: “Are you gonna look at me weird if I say yes?”

Batman: “Hn.” (Translation: Yes, but it won’t be visible through my cowl)

This incident checks chemical warfare off the list. Bruce is now concerned as to why most of Marvel’s ideas are either nearly fatal or just fatal.

Then there was the time Marvel went undercover with Bruce Wayne, not Batman for whatever reason. They then got attacked by pirates while on a ship trying to gather information about some supervillain.

Bruce and Marvel: *taken cover under a table while the pirates fire cannon balls at them*

Bruce: “Any ideas?” *peaks over the cover only for a cannonball to whiz right past his head*

Marvel: “I think I have one. So here’s what I’m thinking. I take out their mast, steal all their oars, and then push them out to sea and let them drift wherever.

Bruce: “That’s… Intense. Wouldn’t they starve if you just let them drift?”

Marvel: “I guess. If they’re not saved, I mean.”

Bruce: *stares with the most deadpan face* “How about I come up with a plan instead?”

Marvel: “You got it boss.”

And last but not least, the physical warfare.

By the way, Billy doesn’t know Bruce is the Bat. No, no, no, he just thinks the guy is someone Batman wants him to work with. He was a little surprised to see the dude act all brooding like Mr. Batman when he had heard from others that he was a party boy. Oh well, not his business. Meanwhile, Bruce doesn’t know Marvel thinks he’s just interacting with a capable civilian.

That last part was inspired by @helps-the-writing-brain-go’s reblog of this post. Thanks for letting me write with your idea :)

[imyourbratzdoll]

I crave a good fluffy fic with wolverine, his wife is a badass and when someone threatens him she loses her shit and kicks their ass🫡 with so much disrespect.

hey baby, I'm so sorry for taking so long! I hope you enjoy what I did, it's a bit more violent than you probably wanted.

summary - a dumb 'bad guy' lures you and your husband out, things take an escalated turn when he threatens your husband.

warning - SUPER violent, like extreme level probably, swearing, mentions of sex, dude talks of touching what's his but nothing triggering, dick and balls suffer rip.

18+ only please, the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips

You couldn’t believe this guy, he was really threatening your husband right in front of you. Thinking he was all tough because he could throw fire or some shit? You didn’t know what he could do, except talk a lot of shit. That was probably his power. What was his name again? Captain Talks Shit? Shits A lot? Little Fucker? Who cares, all you care about right now is that he’s threatening your man. 

You walk out of the shadows, having heard enough because honestly. Why do the bad guys always talk for so long? Have none of them realised or picked up from past bad guys mistakes? It was tiring and a waste of your time because you and Logan could’ve been gone by now, screwing each other silly, probably somewhere extremely risky. But, noooo. You had to listen to this jackass.

“Listen, dick licker. If you don’t stop threatening my fucking husband. I’m going to rip your arm off and beat you with it.” You growl, moving to stand in front of Logan. (Sure, he would have protected himself and it may look weak to the other guy that a woman is standing in front of an extremely large man, in more ways than one, wink wink. But you happen to know that this turns your husband on and who are you to deny him his fantasies?)

“Is that a threat?” Captain Dipshit sneers.

“Did it sound like a fucking compliment, Princess?” You watch as he eyes you, sizing you up and in his mind he’s probably thinking ‘yeah, I can take this chick.’ You hope his ego deflates before you kill him.

“Listen, Babe. This is between us men, now why don’t you run along and go make us a sandwich or something. Maybe put on some cute lingerie and wait for me in the bedroom ‘cause once I’m done with your husband here. You’ll be creamin’ around me.”

Logan shakes his head, stepping way back. He remembered when he accidentally said something similar and he was in a coma for a whole month, not even his fast healing could help him. 

It was like a switch turning on, the beast that lived within you had been released from its cage and not even God could save this man now. You stalked towards him, he still smirked thinking he was safe. You jump, wrapping your legs around his neck and twisting, bringing him down using a move your good friend Natasha had taught you. You move swiftly while he is down, sending a harsh kick to his face, hearing the satisfying crack of his nose and possibly jaw breaking. You grab him by his hair and lift him, a large grin covering your face as you bring him eye level with you. 

“You wanna repeat that, Princess?” You bring him closer, whispering in his ear. “How bout you go make me a sandwich, put on a cute set and I’ll bash your dick in with a baseball bat. How do ya like the sound of that? Cause I love it.” 

He struggles within your grip, trying to swing at you but with your other hand that isn’t gripping his hair. You snap his arms, relishing in the sound of bones breaking. His screams echo the warehouse, dumbarse had lured us in here without a backup plan or backup. 

You let go of your grip on his hair, immediately switching to gripping his throat instead. “You don’t like my plan, Princess? Rethinking the whole thing? Cause ya already pissed me off by threatening the man I love, but then you had the balls to say THAT? Tell me, Princess. Just between us girls. Did mummy not give you any hugs as a kid? Cause how did you think this was gonna go? You could’ve ‘killed’ the Wolverine, but he wouldn’t have stayed dead. No. But if he heard you touching me, touching what’s HIS. He would’ve torn you to shreds, but slowly. Very slowly. It’s what makes me love him.” You pat the man’s cheek, grinning as he winces. 

“How bout an apology and I won’t kill you.”

“F–fuck you.” He spits at you, SPITS. Not even clear fucking spit, this shit has blood in it. You lift your hand, wiping the spit with the back of it and then onto his clothes. 

Your face screwed up. “Well, that was stupid.” With quick movements, you throw him, watching him crash into a wall so hard that it leaves a dent. Your hand reaches out and a bat flies into it. “You’re not wearing that cute set and I don’t have a sandwich, but this will do.” He tries to shuffle away, his eyes wide. You stalk toward him and swing, smashing his dick and balls with one hit. Think Superman merged with Hulk strength, how do you think his twig and berries did?

A scream rips out of his mouth before his eyes roll back and he falls backwards. You frown and poke him with your bat. “Hey mista, you dead?” You look at Logan, “Bitch passed out.” He shakes his head at the pout on your lips. 

He walks over and places a kiss on your head, “C’mon, let’s go home now or better yet. You ready to do something real risky, Sweets.” Your eyes light up.

“Do you mean…?!”

Logan nods, smirking. “I’ll finally let you fuck me while I drive.” Your squeals escape as you jump into his arms, smothering his face with kisses.

“OH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! You’re the best husband a woman could ask for!” And with that, Logan carries you out as you stare at him dreamily.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.