#Fiber and Fabric Protection

[lacewise]

According to Harris Tweed themselves, it’s all handwoven in private houses (and according to other sources this is required by law). If that’s true it can’t be machine woven (machinery would be too bulky for a private residence). Any chance you’re thinking of the foot operated treadle looms as machinery or is there other reason to say the manufacturing method has changed?

(In case anyone is wondering the sources confirm they do use a variety of Scottish wool for the tweed.)

Also trademark protections for crafts in the European Union—including fabrics—will have an application process opening up in December next year.

I’m not surprised he didn’t know because, while the legislation was proposed in 2020, there was not a lot of media or professional coverage until November 2023, weeks after it passed. Hopefully, it finally puts to bed a contentious European discussion about “how and when to protect crafts”.

(I only know about the GICI rollout because I have been trying to research this topic since 2021 because a bunch of hinky things are going on around European craft conventions and consumerism.)

The answer to "What the h*ck goes on on those islands to the North and West of mainland Scotland?" by Derek Guy @/dieworkwear on twitter [x]

[fabricfringe]

From sweat-resistant linen to UV-blocking Tencel™, explore the top scientifically proven fabrics that keep you cool and protected during scorching summer days....

[pomegranate-eater]

Phainon has a dream. cw: fingering, public sexual acts in the field, afab reader, fluff.

“You’re breathtaking when you’re like this…” Phainon murmurs against your ear. The voice comes from behind you, while you feel yourself drown into his broad chest your back is rested against. You both swim, actually; in the field of wheat, as it is the place where no one can disturb you two. It was just a few joys ago that the tunic of yours was bunched up and your garments pulled to the side. Now the legs that trap you from both sides are the only barrier concealing your below-waist nudity, after Phainon has stolen you to rest with him amidst the sunny land.

Except, said voice and nature are not all of the audible sounds in the open — the way his hand between your thighs lazily plays with your outsides and insides forces your wetness to be stirred in teasing to register for ears smacks. It’s all you can wrap your mind about besides how those fingers do you extraordinarily well — two are thrusting and curling in your soaked and constricting walls, while the heel of his palm rested on your mound keeps hitting your bud repeatedly. The arm draped across your front also allows you little escape, while the other makes sure to hold at least one of your shaky and sensitive limbs from closing.

“Phainon…” you whimper, needy yet wary... if not agitated from your desperation for release, as well. Your unadjusted gaze keeps the duty of taking in your surroundings to be on guard against any possible viewers. While the body wants to reach the highest of pleasures, the mind screams you are scared of this closeness disappearing too soon.

The calm sea that peeks through the golden crops feeds your tongue with salty air, the shuffle of wheat lulls you further into his manipulation, the house you two live in is in piece, and the familiar warmth of your lover leads you to believe you are still safe — nothing has changed, but the tension he's been building up lingers. Gathering wheat into your hands is all that you can do in order to ground yourself.

“Shh… I’ve told you, it’s just the two of us here. It’s my secret spot- or should I say, it's ours now,” he reassures with a loving laugh buried in and reverberating across nape, endeared by your vulnerability. As if to reward you for your patience with his slowness and bravery to be so exposed for him in the world’s rawness, his fingers hasten their pace and dig deeper into your body.

You moan — barely, as you remain prudent — and he smiles. “Feels wonderful, doesn’t it?” You nod, the back of your head against pressing tighter his shoulder when a nevralgic spot is grazed inside; as much as this question isn’t about this hedonistic comfort being the only possible truth.

You can feel your sweet release hanging and threatening to erupt between your legs, nestled under his eager hand, and he at once encourages you to let go. “It’s alright. I won’t deny you anymore…” it’s a soft promise made with a kiss as soft, right below your ear.

“So you do admit you were teasing me?” you manage to say amidst your whines and muffled groans, almost angry you had to endure his playfulness; but you’re not really mad at him, as you could never truly be that about your Phainon.

“Would you scold me if I said it’s more about prolonging our moment, even if you are not being given all that you want?” the way he speaks is gentle and you are incapable of reprimanding his approach. “Each chance is too precious to be ending soon.”

“Not if you finally…” your breathless reply is interrupted. Or rather, you deliver a clear answer as you finally finish on his fingers. It is him who’s cautious this time, the other hand quickly clamping your mouth. It’s a shame he has to be robbed of his name on your lips, but he’s not done with you yet to be letting other villagers know you’re hiding with him here.

The next thing you know, you’re on your back, the wheat's fibers poking and tickling your skin from below your fabrics. He’s protective, as the land is softened with a hand under your head.

“Will you allow me to have my own share of feeling wonderful?” That mischievous hand next rubs you between your folds, electrifies what’s already overwhelmed, and as your head tilts back with one more pleasure, all you could think about is how much more you want.

When you nod, he’s quick to be selfish himself, bottoms shoved down in a blink of an eye. Phainon is letting you know how much he needs you, and you appreciate that by wrapping your legs around his hips, entrapping your lover so he shall never leave.

“You’re beautiful. I can’t believe you’re here with me. Please, don’t you ever look away from me,” his desperate words are not a plea, but a wish you feel obligated to fulfill. You don’t look away from him now, and you want to maintain that promise in every future sense. Even as you feel the hot and hard intrusion and your hips taunted with a tight grip, your eyes abide faithfully to his ocean and reverent ones.

One thrust inside and the sole saltiness on your tongue is now his happy tears.

[theartingace]

Been working on some centaur clothes, exploring more options- especially for my much more clothing-focused Mountain Culture and Merchants And then for funzies DRESS-UP DOLL and way too much chatter!

First a couple Runner outfits - first the average casual harness most Runners would wear around home base, allows family members to rider comfortably at any time but more importantly the make and decorations are personal and declare group affiliations. Wearing no harness or at least a girthband basically says you are unridable or unaffiliated with a herd. Second image is an above-average armored battle harness- front end is plated for protection while charging, back end harness is all about additional contact points and stability for the rider to hook a foot in for their acrobatics.

Next, a comparison between Mountain robes and Merchant robes! The first, Mountain robes are heavy expertly woven rugs with lots of fiber decorations and fur and wool linings to keep comfy in their alpine homes- our model is quite a bit lankier than the usual Mountain folk so he gets less coverage but he'll stay cozy regardless. Second is the more svelt Merchant Trader robes! These are more light and loose linen fabrics, meant to block the sun in their more Mediterranean climate and more importantly- show wealth and status. Wrapped legs are common and almost entirely decorative.

And lastly: some assorted armors- this would be an EXTREMELY uncommon sight in my own headworld as the interactions between the metallurgy-rich eastern human kingdoms and the centaurs is usually pretty tense or business oriented at BEST and hostile to exploitative at worst so the chances of them crafting such large difficult pieces of fitted armor for any of them would be rare one-offs at most. But it's still fun to think about!

[translunaryanimus]

A Nhâchchech [Naak'kek] hunter shows off typical daywear. The Nhâchchech (weaver) culture is the most prominent culture of the northern polar regions. The Nhâchchech are also sometimes called the Eshtchchonh [Eshtk'kon], or 'pattern folk/pattern people' due to their brightly patterned outfits. Ssereâch [Sareaat], a hunter, displays typical daywear for teens and adults. Garb is conveniently labeled for our sake. More in depth description under the cut.

Ssereâch is wearing a Ghelâmach, a Nhêdchchonh, a pair of Mhshêchchonh, Dhlesfa and Dhlepach, and a Ssamhnhâl. She also wears Ffâpecha and a few Bhearpaf as accessories. A Ghelâmach [Gelaamat] is the skinned, tanned pelt of one or several polar Ghelâ turned into a warm, insulating cloak. Perfect for colder environemnts. Traditionally Ghelâmach are handmade and use real fur, but faux fur dupes can be found in tourist heavy polar cities. Ssereâch's Ghelâmach is split into two parts, with a more typical overcape 'mach' and a separate waist wrapped section sometimes referred to as a Shochghelâ [Shotgelaa], Ghelâ skirt, when worn apart from the mach. Together though, the two piece ensemble is collectively called a Ghelâmach. A Nhêdchchonh [needk'kon], literally 'pattern shirt', is common upper wear following the same vein as Mhshêchchonh. The patterns of a Nhêdchchonh are typically reserved for the collar, sleeves, and bottom border as opposed to trailing up the entire side of the fabric as is common for Mhshêchchonh. The bright blue color of the body fabric is due to the dye of an aquatic plant rather morbidly called Fôlachemhêsh [Fulatemeesh], "Blood Root". This name comes from the plant's tendency to 'bleed' a vibrant blue sap that heavily resembles Chenesht blood when wet, and when dry, can be boiled down to make a liquid pigment.

Mhshêchchonh [msheek'kon], literally 'pattern pants', are common legwear for polar cultures. Their patterned bands traditionally contain information about the individual wearing them such as name, job, and family but can also contain folk stories, poems, or legends, though purely decorative patterns have come into style among younger generations. Ssereâch's Mhshêchchonha have purely decorative patterns.

The patterned borders of Nhêdchchonha and Mhshêchchonha are woven either through the loom weaving method or the more typical card weaving method and made of dyed sinews, braided plant fibers, or spun fur. They can take months to years to complete depending on the complexity of the pattern. Dhle [Dle] is the common word for any sort of hand or foot covering, typically translated as either 'boot' or 'glove' depending on the context for its use. The Dle being worn here are Dhlesfa [Open Dle] on the forelimbs and Dhlepach [Closed Dle] on the hindlimbs. Dhle were near exclusively worn by the Nhâchchech culture prior to the Three Beasts War and the subsequent cultural merger that led to global leaps in technological advancement. Their once niche use as protective coverings from harsh elements became common use as comfortable footwear for walking along the artificial sidewalk pavements and streets of most modern cities.

Ssamhnhâl [Samnal] literally translates to 'bone glasses' [ssamh - glass, nhâl - bone]. Ssamhnhâl are carved from bone and serve as eye protectant from winter storms or harsh light gleaming off of the snow. The primary eyes look through horizontal slits in the bone, while the secondary eyes are shielded by a carved in 'flap' that they can look under or over. Ssereâch's Ssamhnhâl is carved with decorative patterns as well.

Ffâpecha [Faapeta], or 'twin rings', are a common decorative accessory among teens used to show their devotion to one another. Each ring is made of carved bone and sealed together by animal sinews mashed into glue once they've been linked, and typically have the first name or family name of their beloved carved into one, and their own name into the other. Ffâpecha have long been a source of drama and contention among especially young teens, and broken or cracked sets can often be found littered around the grounds of majority teen camps. Bhearpaf [bearpaf/bearpaw] is the general term for any good luck charm taken from an animal and worn on the hunter's person. Bhearpaf literally translates to 'blessing' or 'lucky charm', but is quite often misinterpreted as the english term 'bear paw' when speaking to humans. Shortening the word to Bhear (gift) has not helped the jokes, and has instead spawned a new tradition of gifting carvings, drawings, or anything with images or patterns of earth bears to your chenesht friends during birthdays or other gift-giving holidays.

[melancholymetropolis]

Hey :) I was just wondering if you’ll be continuing the Stack x black reader fic. Your writing is immaculate by the way. I understand if you’re unable to as you might be busy.

“As you wish, sweetheart," Bill replied with a kiss.

I let myself melt into his embrace. Blindly, I followed his gentle guidance to our bed. The back of my knees hit the plush duvet, and I slowly lowered my rear upon it. It was then that Bill broke our kiss. He dropped to his knees without a second thought. His hands were pushing the nightie up my legs before I could blink. He placed hot kisses on my bare thighs earning moans from me.

One strong hand was placed on stomach, Bill pushed my body towards the bed until my back was flat against it. 

"Just relax, baby," he says, dragging his tongue over my covered folds. "I got you."

No matter how long we've been together, or how many times he puts his head between my legs, William will always reassure me. Always tell me that he has me. He'll keep me safe. He'll make me feel real good. Bill doesn't need to say this, his actions speaks for themselves. It feels good that he does, though. Showed me that my safety was his first priority. My vulnerability was protected. His love was a divine shield. 

I could always count on him, even in the pits of hell. William Chow will be by my side. A self appointed guardian.

His tongue dragged across the covered damp folds, before his nose pressed against the seat of my panties. Bill inhaled deeply, kneading my thighs tenderly. "How much do you want me, baby?"

"So much, my love," I purred, adjusting my position so I'm resting on my elbows. "Are you gonna make me feel good?"

"Of course, darling," he replied, moving my damp panties to the side. "I'm gonna make you scream."

His soft lips found my pearl instantly and gave it a gentle suck. My legs twitched and my breath hitched. Bill releases the bud. His hot tongue slithers down my slit until the bunched up underwear. Groaning in frustration, he lifted his head from my warm center and took hold of the underwear. I lifted my hips from the bed and allowed him to yank the fabric down my legs. His mouth was back on my heat before I could blink. Lapping and licking in feverish succession.

My back started to arch from the mattress as his fingers found my entrance. They sunk in the leaky crevice slowly. A throaty moan poured from me as they immediately hooked upward. My fingers gripped the bedsheets fiercely, as my toes curled upon his back. My mouth released hot short breaths as the pressure took over every fiber of my being. 

"Baby, please. . . please," the words left my lips before I consciously knew what I said. 

I had no idea what I was begging for and why. Please don't stop? Please keep going? Bill didn't need me to remind him of my needs. He anticipated them. He knew my body just as well as I did. Knew when to drive me wild. When to keep me wanting more. Or, when to give me everything in quick succession. Surrendering it all to me before any second thoughts. It had been one of those nights. The need to burn off the Stack debacle so great it had to happen quickly. Our passion is like gasoline on an abandoned fire. We needed to show each other just how much we loved one another. How active and ferocious that love was. No one could come between us, not even a past lover. 

He had nothing on my husband.

The climax fell upon me like a bucket of water. Shocking and intense. My eyes squeezed shut as my grip on the sheets intensified as the wave of pleasure drove me over. My hips bucked against his lips as hot pants left my lips. 

“Oh God. . . Bill,” I slurred, tossing my head to the side. “Don’t stop. . .”

And he didn’t. The pleasure was intense, but soothing. It was consistent and relentless. Just like my husband. 

After the second wave spilled from me, Bill started kissing up my curly mound and plush stomach. He lifted the nightgown up along the way. Once he reached my breasts, Bill sucked in a breath. He stared at them, still covered in satin. He licked his lips, wanting nothing other than to have them in his mouth.  I lifted my back from the bed and continued to raise the dress over my head. His mouth was back on me the moment I tossed the dress to the side. The searing kiss on my lips was almost startling— his need was stronger than I’d ever seen it. My hands blindly reached for his waistband. I could feel the firmness of his member and it gave me shivers all over. 

William Chow was big.

Almost as long as a standard ruler with a decent amount of girth. 

I always cursed the gods for giving him the condition. It was almost like they were taunting me. Dangling the beautifully curved, veined shaft in my face. Knowing that I will not be able to enjoy it completely. Knowing I couldn’t do every filthy thing that crossed my mind the moment I first saw it. Couldn’t ride it like a stallion, in fear that I might break my husband further. I couldn’t suck on it like a lollipop, since it would take too much effort to get my desired result. Couldn’t stick it between my breasts and lick the tip. Couldn’t tie him up and palm it until he spilled. Couldn’t have Bill bend me over the counter and fuck me like the world was ending. Couldn’t take every inch of him and utter “I love you” while looking into his eyes. 

Bill pulled back just a little bit to shove his pants off, exposing the glistening glory. He was harder than I had ever seen. Veins pulsing on the side. Slit oozing and red. He looked absolutely delectable. I ran my eyes over his member again and noticed something. . . different. His heavy balls were not hanging freely as they usually were— they were lifted. A subtle glint caught my eye the closer I looked at the abnormality. 

“What did you. . . ?” I trailed off, raising my eyes to meet his. 

“I found a book about ancient pleasure methods recently and had a leather smith fashion me something called a ‘cock ring’,” Bill replied, climbing on the bed. Massive body hovering over my plump one. “It is supposed to help erections last for upward of an hour, depending on how tight it is.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” I said with a worried expression on my face.

Bill’s face softens at my words. A mixture of adoration and sadness sank into his brown eyes. The realization that my love was far greater than my need for erotic pleasure made his heartache. My husband leans forward and takes my chin between his fingers. He looked into my eyes with such heavy lust that I almost forgot where we were. 

“I tested it a few times this week,” he purred, pressing kisses to my face. “And it works like a charm.”

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief and blinked slowly. “Does is . . . hurt at all?”

“Nope,” he replied, lips hovering over mine. “It feels fucking amazing.”

The following liplock was breathtaking. His tongue pushed into my mouth, just as he rested body between my legs. His pelvis was perfectly lined up with my warmth. Bill rolled his hips as his tongue explored my mouth intimately. The feel of his hard member against my womanhood was slowly driving me insane. To feel its capabilities after years of oral and finger play was a relief. A goddamn blessing. The need to be filled by him was growing by the second and my legs opened wider to accept more of his body. 

My back was flat against the mattress and my legs were in the air before I realized what was happening. Bill had positioned the head of his member to my heat and started to push into me. I sucked in a breath and held it. Inch by glorious inch I took his cock into my dampened center. Moaning and groaning at the beautiful stretch. My husband watched his disappearing cock in utter disbelief. We had never made it this far. He was never hard long enough for him to fill me completely. That night was the first night I took all of him and it took a little while to adjust. But, Bill was happy to wait as long as I needed. Like the saint he was.

He started to gently rock against me. His movements were hesitant and delayed. It was almost as if he were waiting for his cock to soften at any given moment. When it hadn’t, after two minutes of straight humping, Bill’s focus turned to me. He took both my wrists in his palm and pinned them above my head. He hooked his arm under my thigh and widened my legs a little more. Pushing himself deeper into me. The assertive nature was a surprise since he was usually a love-sick puppy in bed. I was the one in charge most days, as he always prioritized my comfort. However, with the improvement of his equipment, it seemed the roles were beginning to reverse. I wasn’t upset about it, quite the opposite.

Gradually, the hesitant thrusts increased in speed and power. The headboard was probably gonna leave a dent with how hard it was hitting the wall. My lower half was glued to the mattress as my breasts bounced against my chest. My eyes were tightly shut and my head tossed to the side. The moans leaving my body were one of an animal. They were brutal, hoarse, and downright unsexy to my ears. But, they meant the world to Bill. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

Without a word, Bill raised my legs higher. Instead, of being settled at his sides, he lifted my knees from the bed and pressed them into the mattress. Spreading me wide open in the process, which pushed his cock even deeper inside of me. The same force was returned along with the speed. I felt my toes curl begin to on their own and my moans grew quieter. The pleasure was so good, that I couldn’t bring myself to vocalize it. I didn’t have the energy. I could feel my pulse around him, and my walls grew slicker. My eyes rolled back as I gripped the sheets harder— effectively ripping them from the bed. 

“There we go,” Bill cooed. “That’s the face I was looking for. Are you gonna come me, darling?”

“Yes. . .” I moaned softly. “I’m so close, baby.”

The pristine movements of his hips began to falter and his breath slowly became jagged. He was close as well, but I knew he wouldn’t vocalize it. He wanted me to enjoy every second of this moment. It was the first time we had physically ever been this close and it made my heart sing. It almost felt like our Honeymoon night, when we both had something to prove. For me, it was gratitude and affection. For Bill, it was the dedication to our little family. 

But, that wasn’t the first time he proved his worth to me.

Madeline had been six months at the time, and I was still in the throws of grief from my past relationship with Stack. She was looking more and more like him every day. Then, add the letters and flowers that kept arriving at my door every few weeks from him. I couldn’t read them, I knew they would make me feel even worse. But, for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to burn them. Bill was a saint during that period of my life. He, practically, moved into my small house back then. Visiting every day before heading to work and every night before heading home. He always made sure that I bathed and ate. Practically spoon-feeding me oatmeal and stuffing bread in my mouth. He would change Madeline’s diapers and wash the soiled ones while I rested. Hang them out to dry overnight and fold them up in the morning. At that point, he was just Uncle Billy, the name gave himself. 

He became Daddy when Madeline had a fever. The weather had left the house cold some nights, and we had run out of firewood. Seven-month-old Maddy had started to burn up and I couldn’t handle it. I tried everything from cool rags on her forehead to spoons of broth throughout the day. Her temperature would not go down. I knew I couldn’t go to Annie— the sight of a sick baby would be too much for her. Just when I was about to pack Maddy in a basket and run into town, Bill came stumbling in. He had bags of lemons, ginger, rosemary and potatoes. Bill cut the potato into small cubes and placed them on her feet with socks. Then, he brewed some herbs with his items. He fed the tea to Maddy and changed her head clothe routinely. Within the hour, her temperature went down and she was sleeping soundlessly. 

I had asked him why he came back so early and how he knew what to do. 

He had gone to Annie for me.

I felt like you needed us with you.

We were married the following month. 

The orgasm washed over the both of us like a wave. Drenching us completely in its essence. I could feel Bill’s hips pause and twitch against my lower half. His member was throbbing within my snug walls as his release filled me. 

“Fuck. . . yes. . . . Take all of it,” he growled, messily pumping into me. “Come on, sweetheart. Give Daddy another baby.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll give you twins,” I smirked. 

The smile that found Bill’s face almost split his face in two. “Is that a promise?”

---------------------------------------

a/n: before you jump me, just know that I was BUSY. Ya girl is working full-time and attends night school. I was burnt out, almost completely. but we're getting better. slow progress is still progress y'all.

so, this is a soft return.

as usually, let me know if you wannabe on the taglist. leave a comment/ask for what you would like to see in the future.

Part IV Masterlist

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Taglist

@lov4gor3 @marley1773 @thegreatlibraryofalex @beverly-991 @depressedandhornyfl @rollingraypurrr @mea-bby @heyyimmisunderstood @harleycativy @childishgambinaax @mskirara @bishhhitsaurion @daughterofapollo-7 @thickianaaaa @capswife @hrlzy @melodyofmbaku @skywalker0809 @asterizee @nooooonooooonooooo @jackierose902109 @wabi-sabi1090 @rolemodelshit @naebae14 @christinabae @thedondada05 @simpingfor-wakasa @lovesickbwnny @brattyfics @saintsir4n @abriefnirvana @tforpresz @sinflowersugar @kinkythotsthoughts @heyyimmisunderstood @daughterofapollo-7 @gweelczz @darkskinchristiandiorpostergirl @sinnersappreciation @depressedandhornyfl @bxrbie1 @simpingfor-wakasa @honestlyurslol @woodle-isbae @iceyyycapsicle @pinkpantheris @thesmutconnoisseur @artsenthusiastk7 @nbanenefrmdao @nightwitchlurker @woahthatshitfat @azazel-nyx @pr3ttyfac3jaelyn @jollof12345 @zomqiez @holdyuhmuda

[trivia-yandere]

craving for yandere jungkook police officer

this has me thinking about twisted jungkook & how he abuses his power against you in the sake of “protecting” you.

like after pulling you over & fucking you against your car, he’s obviously noticing the way you pull away from him, so he decides to do what any other old friend would do - track you. yandere police officer jungkook who would have his fellow policemen take turns on looking after you when he couldn’t, assuring that you made it to & from work or school safely.

yandere police officer jungkook who would show up randomly when you were out with your friends, but almost never approached you. you notice him almost immediately and your mood switches to one that is anxious.

yandere police officer jungkook who decided that he’s done giving you space. you act as thiugh you don’t need him - especially when you have a car. so, he has it vandalized, anonymously of course. thugs always needed money, right? yandere police officer jungkook who is first on the scene when you call in for vandalism. he’s so upset that you swear he was going to pop a blood vessel - but deep down he’s excited because now you need him again. he offers you rides to and from work and school in his police cruiser.

yandere police officer jungkook who, during one night, asks if you hated him. he had made his way into your home and lingered in the doorway as you watch him with wide eyes. “you can’t hate me for something we both did” was what he told you - it was what he was going to stand on.

yandere police officer jungkook who, when your brother is working over night, makes his way into your home unannounced again. he follows the sound of your music coming from your bedroom and watches from your crack door as you dry your naked body, fresh from the shower.

yandere police officer jungkook who was so sure that you were getting so pretty for him, that he almosts opens the door to your bedroom. that was before he hears your phone sound and you answer it. on speaker was a man’s voice. yandere police officer jungkook who manages to sneak out your home and follow you to your date - where you wear the tightest skirt he’s seen on you.

yandere police officer jungkook who is enraged when he finds the mans hands on your waist as you leave the date - so much so that he wants to drive his own cruiser into the side of his car, but doesn’t because you would be harmed. So instead, he opts to cash in on a favor he needed return from a fellow officer. yandere police officer jungkook who receives a call from you not even 10 minutes later. you’re crying and pleading for him to come - that your “friend” was currently being beaten by an officer for “resisting arrest”. jungkook wants to laugh at how easy it was to fabricate a warrant for an arrest on anyone - even an innocent man.

yandere police officer jungkook who comforts you when the man is dragged away and forced into the back of a police cruiser, bloodied and bruised. “that man, y/n…had been wanted for a while.” he told you. “who knows what he wouldve done if alone with you.” yandere police officer jungkook who now has you all to himself. he’s there to comfort you when you need it, even allowing you to see confidential documents of men in your area. the abusers, the rapists - everything so you’d see how dangerous this world truly is.

yandere police officer jungkook who isnt afraid to initiate the sex anymore - even when you do look uncomfortable initially. he holds you, tells you that he loves you with all his heart. he tells you that he’ll always protect you with every fiber of his being.

yandere police officer jungkook who is obsessed with fucking you in the back of his police cruiser. Having your face in the leather seats while your ass in the air, his cock plunging in & out of you at such a punishing rate. yandere police officer jungkook who fucks you wherever - whenever. he doesnt care if you’re on your way to work. he’ll fuck you in the back of the cruiser and give you a personal police escort so that you wouldnt get into too much trouble.

yandere police officer jungkook who finds it endearing that you no longer entertain other men. you’re far too frightened with the thought of going home with a psycho now - especially when jungkook shows you just how many predators are in the area. after all, who is safer for you? a random man with unknown intentions or him, a police officer you’ve known for longer than a decade?

[cedarmoonzz]

Hello! I was wondering if I could request a small continuing to your Ford fic? I really enjoyed it and tugged my heart strings. I love you work so much and if your able to do that without any issue, I'd love that!😭💜

yes! i love that six fingered cartoon dilf with every fiber of my being!

once more to see you •｡ꪆৎ ˚

continuation of: between the bars followed by: slow like honey

fandom: gravity falls

ship: ford x reader

content: angst, stanford's poor attempt at comfort lol

summary: when your fiancé’s episodes of paranoia spiral out of control, you come to a difficult realization.

You’ve always seen yourself as someone grounded in logic. Pragmatic to the bone, you’ve relied on reason and science to navigate life, finding comfort in facts and the concrete reality they bring. But lately, that sense of security has started to unravel. 

The cabin was frigid, its icy air wrapping around you like a shroud, seeping into your very bones despite your efforts to ward off the chill. The socks you wore—a secret purchase made without Stanford’s knowledge—offered little warmth, though they  greatly softened the sound of your steps as you quietly drifted from the bedroom to the kitchen, then to the closet, nursing your third cup of coffee that night. Each breath you took was quick, shallow, as if the cold air was stealing it away. As you finally settled at the desolate kitchen table, a wry thought flickered in your mind: could the layers of plywood and fiberglass beneath you truly muffle the frantic beating of your heart, hiding it from your fiancé’s ever-watchful ear? In your own, the rhythm pounded, echoing like a circle of drums, impossibly loud in the oppressive stillness of the cabin.

Stanford’s paranoia didn’t burst into your lives all at once; it crept in quietly, almost imperceptibly, like a shadow growing longer at dusk. It all began when he developed a peculiar fascination with triangles—a simple, geometric shape that, in his hands, took on a life of its own. He transformed the cabin, once a place of warmth and refuge, into a gallery of trigonometric stained glass, each piece more elaborate, more intricate than the last. At first, you found it endearing, even charming, and you laughed it off as just another of his harmless quirks. You told yourself it was just Stanford being Stanford, his brilliant mind forever chasing new ideas.

But as the days turned into weeks, the triangles began to multiply. Their sharp, precise edges cast strange, fragmented light across your home, turning familiar spaces into something alien, almost unrecognizable. You began to notice how the once-welcoming cabin now felt distorted, its atmosphere thick with an unspoken tension. And yet, you didn’t see it for what it was—not at first. You didn’t want to see it. You told yourself it was just the glass, just the way the light hit it, just the way Stanford was channeling his creativity. You ignored the way your stomach twisted with unease, dismissed the creeping dread that settled in your bones.

You shook your head, trying to banish the haunting thoughts that swirled in your mind. There was no time to dwell on what had already happened; what mattered now was moving forward. Rising from your seat, you made your way to the bedroom you and Ford once shared, a space now overshadowed by his office chair, which had become his sanctuary. You reached into the closet, your fingers brushing against the familiar fabric of your thick army jacket. The worn texture offered a rare comfort, a tangible reminder of a time before everything had shifted. As you fumbled through the pockets, your hand closed around a pack of cigarettes—an old habit you had left behind during your second year of graduate school. A fleeting wave of nostalgia washed over you, mingled with regret for the time lost. You slipped the pack back into your pocket and donned the jacket, its sturdy fabric promising some semblance of protection against the biting night winds and the snow that still whirled outside the closed window.

Your gaze then fell upon your boots, left carelessly on the closet floor, caked in mud from past forest excursions with Stanford. You reached down, lifting them with a mixture of sentiment and practicality. With the boots in hand, you carefully descended the stairs, each step deliberate to avoid the creaking floorboards. At the kitchen door, you set the boots down and slipped them on, their familiar weight grounding you in the present. Quietly, you opened the door, the chill of the night air meeting you as you stepped into the darkness, ready to face whatever lay beyond.

You stood on the porch of your home, clad in baggy sweatpants, an oversized coat, and your old brown army boots. The cold night air wrapped around you, but the weight of the familiar clothing offered a small measure of comfort. You instinctively reached into your pocket, a gesture that felt oddly nostalgic, like reconnecting with a part of yourself that had been missing. Pulling out a cigarette, you brought it to your lips, and then you fumbled into your other pocket, searching for a long-abandoned lighter. Your fingers brushed against the cold metal as you hoped to find one still with fluid.

After a moment of fishing, you finally found it. With a deep breath, you shut your eyes, the cigarette resting between your fingers as you brought the lighter to your face. The small flame flickered to life, illuminating your face in the darkness as you lit your former vice. You’d given up smoking years ago, recognizing it as a bad coping mechanism, though it had always managed to calm your nerves better than any of the so-called remedies Stanford had suggested—yoga, green tea, or otherwise. Stanford had never missed an opportunity to chide you about it, yet in moments like these, when the world felt overwhelming and uncertain, the familiar warmth of the smoke provided a fleeting solace, a small rebellion against the chaos of your thoughts.

You couldn’t shake the image of your fiancé from your mind. The one person you had always relied on as your rock, your steadfast partner in all things logical and real, now seemed a stranger. He had become obsessed, shining a flashlight into your eyes, searching for something hidden in the depths of your pupils. Each time that harsh beam flickers across your eyes, it chips away at your sense of reality, leaving you to wonder if his strange behavior is a sign of something far darker lurking beneath the surface. The familiar comfort of the cigarette seemed almost to mock the confusion and dread that now defined your days, as if trying to find stability in a world that had become increasingly alien.

“[Y/n].” Ford’s voice sliced through your reverie, its suddenness filling you with an indescribable anxiety. The feeling was sharp and unsettling, a gnawing presence that you couldn't quite classify as rational or otherwise. It wrapped around you like a cold fog, clouding your thoughts and intensifying the sense of disorientation that had already taken root.

He stood behind you in the doorway, the light from behind casting a soft, almost ethereal glow around him. From this angle, you might have thought he looked perfect, a vision of calm and composure that seemed untouched by the chaos of your shared reality. The gentle halo of light made him appear almost otherworldly, a serene figure caught in a moment of stillness.

Yet, his appearance betrayed a different story. His hair was frantic and messy, a wild tangle of curls that seemed to reflect his inner turmoil. The bags under his eyes had deepened, etched by sleepless nights and relentless stress. Despite the disarray, there was a softness in his gaze, a look of tenderness you had missed with all your heart. It was a fleeting reminder of the warmth and affection that once defined your relationship, now overshadowed by the encroaching distance and disquiet that had come to dominate your lives.

You had tried so damn hard to stay quiet, to remain out of his way. You'd let him overwork himself to the bone if that’s what he wanted, even though it felt like a slow erosion of everything you once knew. You’d had the argument too many times to care by now, the words always seeming to fall on deaf ears. All you wanted was to avoid the inevitable confrontation, to give him space, even as his obsessive behavior grew ever more unsettling. 

"Stanford," was all you said in response, your voice barely more than a whisper. You lifted the cigarette from your lips, the smoke pooling around you like a hazy veil. As you exhaled, you cast a glance up the staircase, the familiar sight offering no answers, only a silent reminder of the space between you both.

“You’ve started smoking again,” he observed, his tone carrying a note of quiet surprise. The statement lingered in the air, the drifting smoke accentuating the distance between you. It was as if the sight of the cigarette in your hand was a reflection of the changes he could no longer ignore.

“Didn’t think you’d notice.”

The cigarette met your lips once more. You took a long drag, the smoke filling your lungs as your eyes remained locked with his. In that moment, it felt as if time itself had frozen, leaving you both suspended in the delicate space between old familiarity and the evolving distance that now defined your relationship.

“Of course I would,” he said, his voice carrying a soft tinge of regret.

You dropped the cigarette into the snow, watching as it hissed and sizzled against the cold ground. With a decisive step, you crushed it underfoot, pressing it into the snow for good measure. The smoldering embers were quickly extinguished, leaving only a faint trace of smoke lingering in the frosty air.

“Sorry,” was all you could manage to utter, the word feeling woefully inadequate in the weight of the moment. It hung between you, a simple apology for the complexities that neither of you could fully address.

“It’s cold. You’ll catch your death out here,” he muttered, his voice laced with a blend of concern and weariness. He stepped aside from the doorway, making way for you with a gentle gesture. The warmth from inside seemed to beckon, a stark contrast to the frigid night air.

You looked into his eyes, and he stared back, the moment stretching between you as if everything else had come to a halt. The world outside faded into a blur as snapshots of your relationship flickered through your mind—moments of laughter, shared dreams, and fleeting happiness. With each memory, you found yourself questioning what had gone wrong, what could have been different, and what measures you might have taken to alter the course of events.

In the midst of that frozen silence, a question slipped from your lips before you could even stop yourself: “Ford, are you still in love with me?” The words hung in the air, unexpected and raw, their weight adding a new layer of complexity to the already tense moment.

His head snapped towards you, eyes widening with a shock that seemed to crystallize in the cold night air. His gaze pierced into yours with a fierce intensity, as if your question had struck a chord deep within him. His eyebrows knit together in a furrow of confusion and apprehension, while his mouth tightened into a thin, resolute line. The change in his demeanor was palpable; his posture straightened as though he were bracing himself for a storm.

With a determined stride, he marched to stand beside you in the snow, the door to the house slamming shut behind him with a resonant thud that echoed through the night. The two of you stood together, the moonlight casting a ghostly glow upon the snow, which reflected a bluish light that danced across the scene. The snow-covered ground sparkled faintly, but the surrounding darkness clung to you both like a shroud.

He stared down at you as you stared at your feet, standing only an arm's length away, the proximity intimate and charged. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the soft shushing of dormant branches swaying in the wind, their gentle rustling mingling with the quiet stillness of the night. The cold air wrapped around you both, creating a palpable silence that stretched between you, broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind through the snow-laden trees.

His hand reached out, fingers closing gently around your chin. With a deliberate motion, he angled your gaze upward, drawing your eyes away from the snowy expanse at your feet and into his. The touch was firm yet tender, guiding your focus to the depth of his own eyes. It was just like he used to do moments before he pressed his lips against yours.

Your eyes met his, and in that brief, suspended moment, you saw the glistening, unshed tears pooling in his gaze. They shimmered in pale light of the moon, their potential to fall betraying the fragile veneer of his composure. The raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes was a stark contrast to his usual facade, revealing a depth of sorrow and vulnerability that seemed to unravel the very essence of his being.

“Don’t you ever ask that again,” his voice cracked, the words trembling as they escaped his lips. He leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours, the closeness both intimate and overwhelming. In that tender contact, you felt a deep ache, missing his touch more than you had admitted to yourself. The warmth of his skin against yours, the vulnerability that he seldom showed, was a poignant reminder of what you had longed for but also feared.

Your breath caught in your throat, the tightness nearly choking you as emotions surged within, rendering you on the brink of tears. Frustration twisted inside you, mingling with a deep-seated ache as you grappled with having surrendered so effortlessly to the solace of his presence. The warmth of Ford’s touch, so familiar and comforting, had shattered your defenses with an almost unbearable intimacy.

In that raw, exposed moment, you recognized a profound truth: you loved Ford with a depth that went beyond reason. You understood him completely, and you would remain steadfast by his side. Even if it meant losing yourself in the process, he would always draw you in. It was a certainty you could not escape.

[theambitiouswoman]

Clothing has frequencies

Clothing, like everything in the universe, carries frequencies that affect your energy. Different materials, colors & production methods influence your mood & your well being.

High vibrational fabrics:

1. Silk: (10,000+ Hz)

Known for its luxurious feel, silk is considered one of the highest vibrational fabrics. It helps keep spiritual & emotional balance, while also being breathable and moisture absorbing.

2. Linen: (5,000 Hz)

Linen is known for its healing & grounding properties. It regulates energy flow and enhance your overall well being making it one of the most beneficial fabrics to wear.

3. Hemp: (5,000 Hz)

Hemp, a strong natural fiber, known for grounding and durability. It vibrates at a frequency similar to linen, enhancing stability & balance.

4. Wool: (5,000 Hz)

Wool is valued for its warmth and grounding energy. It has a protective frequency, which helps to maintain balance, particularly in colder climates.

5. Cotton: (100-500 Hz)

While not as high as silk or linen, cotton is still considered a high vibrational fabric. It promotes comfort and balance. Organic cotton is has an even higher frequency due to its natural cultivation.

6. Cashmere: (5,000 Hz)

Like wool, cashmere is known for warmth and luxury, offering a high vibration associated with comfort & peace.

Low vibrational fabrics:

1. Polyester: (15-70 Hz)

Polyester, being synthetic, is believed to have a very low vibrational frequency, which can block the natural flow of energy through the body. It causes emotional or physical discomfort over time and its production involves harsh chemicals contributing to low vibrational energy.

2. Acrylic: (15-70 Hz)

Another synthetic material that is associated with a low frequency that may lead to feelings of disconnection or imbalance.

3. Nylon: (30-70 Hz)

Often found in activewear, nylon has a low vibrational frequency and feels out of sync with the body’s natural energy flow.

4. Rayon: (30-70 Hz)

Rayon is also considered low vibrational because of the chemicals used in its production. It doesn’t offer the same energetic benefits as natural fibers.

How low vibrational clothing affects energy:

Blocks natural energy Flow: Synthetics like polyester can trap heat, moisture, and energy, blocking the natural flow through your body, which may lead to imbalance or discomfort.

Negative manufacturing practices: The production of low-vibrational fabrics often involves environmental harm and poor working conditions, which may carry negative energy that can affect the wearer.

Disrupts skin earth connection: Natural fibers like linen and cotton are thought to maintain a connection with the Earth’s energy, while synthetics can disrupt this connection, leading to a sense of disconnection.

Holds onto energies: Synthetic fabrics don’t breathe well and can hold onto negative energy from the environment or wearer, making you feel energetically weighed down over time.

Choosing high vibrational, natural fabrics can help improve your mood & energy flow, while low vibration synthetics will lead to you feeling disconnected and imbalanced.

[marzipanandminutiae]

giant bags of thread collected by old ladies over their lifetimes and never used, then donated to antique shops or sold on FB Marketplace, save me

image source

protect and preserve me, immense ziplock bags full of 50 years' "oh but I have to have the EXACT SHADE of this fabric even though I'll never use 300 yards of thread!"

("Marzi why not buy new thread?" 99% of it is plastic and finding more than a handful of colors in cotton thread is incredibly rare in brick-and-mortar stores. let alone thread in fibers besides polyester and cotton, or buttonhole twist)

("come on, now, Marzi- THREAD can't possibly make you sweat more or catch fire and stick to your skin while burning, and isn't that your reasoning for using only natural-fiber fabrics?" listen. Irrational Brain Like When Zero Plastic. don't @ me)

[insidekatmind]

Movie~William Saliba

Wearning: +18,smut

Request: yes!

You find yourself in a quiet corner of the living room, in an atmosphere that seems suspended in time. Sitting comfortably on William’s lap, your gaze is lost in the flickering glow of the screen, while the soft light gently caresses his face.

As the movie unfolds in the background, you realize that it isn’t the plot that captures your attention, but the intensity of his stare. With his eyes fixed on you, he seems almost to search your features for the story of every emotion you’ve shared. Every moment, every breath becomes a silent hymn to the passion that binds you.

You feel the warmth of his body against yours, a presence that envelops you and makes you resonate in unison. Your heart beats faster, heightening the tension of that intimate moment: the intermittent light from the movie plays with the shadows on his face, accentuating the desire and tenderness of the instant. Your mind spirals into a whirlwind of thoughts, while your souls seem to communicate without words, engaging in a dialogue of intense glances and silences laden with meaning.

In that precise moment, the external world fades away. The only reality that matters is your closeness, the way his gaze manages to tell stories of intimacy and passion, as if every detail of your encounter were destined to be a secret kept only between the two of you.

You smile sweetly and kiss his lips.The smile on your face is an invitation that he gladly accepts. As your lips meet in a kiss, a shiver of electric excitement runs through his body. His response is immediate: he pulls you closer, his arms encircling you protectively, as if to make sure you don’t disappear into thin air.His breathing quickens, his heart starts to beat in a faster rhythm. Between his lips, he murmurs your name softly, as if it were an invocation.

The kiss deepens, becoming more passionate and impatient. Your bodies press against each other, trying to melt into a single entity. His eyes remain open for a few seconds, as if to memorize the features of your face in that intimate moment of union.His tongue traces the contour of your lips, seeking the entrance, asking permission to explore the sweetest secret of your mouth. His hand climbs up your back, drawing you closer and closer into his embrace.A soft moan escapes your lips, almost involuntary, and seems to fuel the fire of desire even more powerfully. He takes your lower lip between his teeth, teasing it lightly, then captures your upper lip in a more pronounced bite, as if to claim them as his own.

His mouth leaves your lips and begins to travel down your neck. His breath brushes your sensitive skin, causing a trail of gooseflesh as his lips leave kisses like fiery footprints, tracing the path of your jugular vein.You can feel him shiver when a gasp of pleasure escapes you. His teeth graze your skin, lightly marking it. The caresses of his lips become more possessive, and with them, his desire to dominate seems to grow.

His hands begin to rove over your body, like a sculptor trying to memorize every curve and contour through touch. One of his hands comes to rest on your hip, holding you in place, while the other continues to wander, stroking your thighs, climbing up under the fabric to feel the softness of your skin.His touch is electric, arousing every fiber of your being, awakening sensations that were dormant until now. Every movement of his lips and palms seems designed to tease, to tantalize, to excite and drive you crazy.

Your moan and the way you tug at his hair trigger an intense response in him, making his body tremble with arousal. The sound of his nickname on your lips ignites a wave of heat within him, and he responds by drawing you even closer, making you feel his physical desire.He whispers in your ear, his voice hoarse and sensual, “Say it again… I want to hear you say it again.”

The tone of his voice is enough to send a shiver down your spine, fueling the fire that burns within you. You can feel the hardness of his body pressing against yours, evidence of the effect your words have on him.“Baby… “ You repeat, this time louder, letting the affection sound through your trembling voice.

William takes off your shirt, leaving you in just your bra.His attention turns to your chest, as he starts to kiss it gently. Every touch of his lips is a tribute to your skin, leaving a trail of kisses that makes your senses tingle with pleasure. You can feel his breath warm, against your sensitive skin, sending a wave of heat through your body.His hands begin to explore your shoulders, massaging them with a firm and possessive touch, as if he wanted to mark every millimeter as his territory.

His kisses become more intense. His teeth graze your skin, biting softly. When he arrives at your neck, he presses his lips against the sensitive area, leaving a mark. A sigh of pleasure escapes from your lips, and your body responds involuntarily, arching in search of more of his touch.

“Please I want more” you whisper rubbing yourself against his erection.

A soft moan escapes from his lips at your movement, his body reacts immediately to your touch. He can hardly contain himself, feeling your body against his, his mind clouded with desire.He looks at you, eyes filled with an unbearable hunger. “More… I'll give you all you want... and more than you can imagine.”His hands come to caress your curves, his fingers tracing the line of your waist, then moving lower, towards your hips, holding you tight against him.

His touch is feverish, his breathing heavy with anticipation. Every muscle in his body looks like it's ready to break free, but he controls himself, letting the tension grow. He whispers your name, almost as a supplication, as he presses his lips to your skin, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

As William gently places you on the couch, a wave of excitement washes over you. His hands slide down your legs, each touch electrifying and possessive.

He gently takes off your jeans and starts kissing you.

His kisses follow, starting at your knees, moving slowly upwards towards your thighs. With every kiss, his touch seems to become more intense, more passionate. His lips trace the contour of your skin, their path a sequence of hot caresses that leave you trembling. He lingers on the inside of your thigh, teasing with his lips and teeth. It's as if he wants to mark you, to make it clear to whom your body belongs. His hands rest on your hips, holding you in place with a possessive grip, just like his gaze that locks into yours.

William's fingers tease the fabric of your panties. You can feel the intensity of his gaze as he slowly pulls them down, the anticipation building to an almost unbearable level. He doesn't break away from your gaze even for a moment, and you can read an expression of desire, hunger, and possession in his eyes.

William's fingers tease the fabric of your panties. You can feel the intensity of his gaze as he slowly pulls them down, the anticipation building to an almost unbearable level. He doesn't break away from your gaze even for a moment, and you can read an expression of desire, hunger, and possession in his eyes.He sees the stain on your underwear and smiles. "Already wet for me, my love?" William whispers, putting your underwear in his sweatpants pocket.

His words make your cheeks go flush with a mix of excitement and embarrassment. But even more powerful than the effect of his words is the way he's looking at you, the desire so palpable in his gaze that leaves no room for doubt. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his body pressing against yours.You're not about to deny it, so you reply in a slightly breathy voice, “Yes... only for you.”

William smiles and begins to kiss your pussy softly. Every kiss he delivers is like a caress, soft and gentle, each one making you shiver with pleasure. The warmth of his breath against your skin increases the sensation, and you arch your back slightly, closing your eyes and letting yourself get lost in the his sensations.

You gasp softly and he begins to put his tongue inside you and starts licking it. His tongue works deftly, exploring every fold and contour, creating waves of heat that wash over your core. He responds to your gasps, adjusting the rhythm and pressure to your reactions, as if he were playing an instrument that only he knows how to play.Each move he makes is like a delicious torture.

"William" groan.William smiles against your skin, relishing in the sound of his name on your lips. Hearing you groan his name like that sends a shiver of desire and power through his body, a confirmation that he makes you feel this way.

His tongue speeds up, the pressure and movement becoming more insistent, determined to drive you to the edge of pleasure. He wants to give you the sensations, to hear you moan and gasp and call his name.His hands start to grip your thighs. His fingers dig into your skin lightly, as if to keep you in place. And in that moment, you feel possessed, claimed, wanted.William's goal is to push you over the edge, to make you lose control completely, and he seems to be close to achieving it. He knows exactly how to push your buttons, how to draw out your moans and your gasps. It's like he's in total control of your body, and knows it perfectly.

You moaned, saying an unintelligible word. Your eyes were rolled up at how he was giving you pleasure. His tongue continues to work on you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. You're so lost in the pleasure he's giving you that you can't even form a coherent thought, let alone words. Each moan and pant coming from your lips is a mark of how much you're enjoying this, and he takes it all in, drinking in the sounds you're making like a man dying of thirst.The moment he's waiting for is getting closer and closer, the tension rising between you, and he wants nothing more than to take you over.

Your body tenses up, the sensations becoming almost unbearable. You're hanging on a thread of pleasure, caught between wanting more and being unable to take it, your moans becoming louder and more urgent.

William senses that you're close, and his movements become more intense. He wants to drive you to the edge, to make you lose yourself completely. His hands continue to grip your thighs, holding you in place, as his tongue works in perfect harmony with your body.

"So good, so fucking good" groan loudly.

Hearing you moan and curse, he's driven on by the sound of your pleasure. It's like music to his ears, a clear signal that he's doing everything right, that he's giving you everything you want. His eyes are fixated on you with an intense gaze, watching every nuance of your face, every quiver of your trembling body.His actions become more urgent, more insistent. He wants to push you over the edge, to make you lose yourself completely in the sensations he's giving you.

“Baby, I’m coming,” you whispered between your teeth as you clung to his hair.

“Come for me, love.” he said in a low and dark voice, his eyes locked with yours. It was like a command more than a request, like he knew you didn’t have any other choice.

His movements became more intense, more demanding, as if he knew exactly what you needed to reach your climax. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was clinging to you, and you knew he wanted you to let go.

The sounds you make are loud, unrestrained. You're so close, he can feel it, and he wants nothing more than to take you there, to give you the release you need. His body is tense, his mind focused on your pleasure, and he's waiting for the moment when you'll tip over, completely undone.

You moaned and came on his face with your legs shaking. William takes in the sight of you like a man who's just found sustenance after days of hunger. He leans back, his breathing heavy, and wipes his chin with a slow smirk on his lips. You can see the satisfaction in his eyes, and the way he's looking at you, you know he's not done yet.

He moves up to you, his body pressing against you, and whispers in your ear, "I'm not finished with you yet."

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 5,218 Pairing: Negan Smith x Fem!Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria, after the war, Negan is imprisoned Warnings: language, Negan's mouth, violence, injury, fear and anxiety, frightening scenarios, Soft!Negan, Protective!Negan Summary: Negan has to figure out how to defend you when he's locked in his cell. A/N: This is the second to last chapter of this series!

Dante only laughed and walked over to the chair, scooping up your ring of keys off the seat. “Were you trying for these?” he asked, jingling them at Negan.

Negan stared back, a heavy shadow falling over his face. “Yeah,” he nodded. “I was.”

The silver of the keys glinted in Dante’s hand. Negan’s heart was pounding.

“Close, but not quite,” Dante said, pocketing them. His attention returned to you on the ground. Negan drifted along the bars to stand beside you as the doctor advanced. He crouched down and gently touched your face in a final attempt to wake you, but you didn’t stir. His eyes, narrowed and intense, landed on Dante again. If he could have burned a hole in that fucker’s face with his eyes, he would have been dead twenty times over. But Dante didn’t seem to notice.

The doctor stood over you completely still for a long moment. His expression and the feeling in the room, almost pulsing with tension, was unnerving. At length, he bent down and took hold of your ankles, dragging you away from Negan’s cell. Negan’s stomach churned as your head slipped off the blanket he’d tucked underneath it. The fabric was stained a deep, dark crimson. There was a bloody smear left on the floor where the wound from hitting the cell bars dragged along the cold concrete as Dante moved you.

“Hey—” Negan barked, gripping onto the bars with white knuckles. “What the fuck is going on?”

Dante straightened up and stared down at you before rubbing a hand over his mouth as if he was contemplating what to do. Then he looked up at Negan and smiled. He bent over you again and this time he rolled you onto your back. Your head lolled to the side like a rag doll and Negan’s stomach twisted again.

Dante stood over you, staring down again in a way that had Negan’s skin crawling. “It’s almost a shame,” he said, sighing as he bent over you again. “She’s pretty easy on the eyes.”

Negan felt his entire body, every fiber of himself revolting as Dante suddenly latched his hands around your neck violently and began to compress them, squeezing. He was shaking with the effort. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing?!” Negan roared. In just a few seconds, which felt excruciatingly long, Negan saw you begin to stir and he realized that you’d woken up. Your brain, suddenly aware that you weren’t pulling in any oxygen, had kicked you into survival mode, probably dumping adrenaline and all kinds of chemicals into your bloodstream to wake you up. “Hey!” Negan yelled again, a vain attempt to distract Dante.

You came to and began to struggle beneath his grip. Your boots slid against the concrete frantically and kicked as you writhed around, trying to get any purchase on the floor to get up, to reposition yourself to fight. But he was over you and had control. You clawed at his hands and arms, trying to pry him off your neck. Your eyes were wide and panicked and your face was turning red and then purple. You reached up in an attempt to scratch his face, to get his eyes, to do anything but Dante pulled back, avoiding your groping fingers. He lifted you slightly off the ground and then slammed you down onto the concrete, jarring you. The back of your head hit the floor hard. He did it again and again as you tried to fight. Your attempts got weaker and weaker, and all the while Negan was yelling, trying to distract Dante, trying to get him to let go. He was completely helpless, powerless to do anything, watching you die right in front of him, out of reach.

A few more moments and you were struggling to stay conscious again. Your face went from red to purple. Negan watched in horror, helpless, as you went limp again with Dante’s hands still around your neck. He looked around for something to use to throw but his scant cell had nothing that could even remotely be used as a weapon. Finally, his eyes landed on the tennis ball beside his boot. He stuck his arm through the bars and threw it as hard as he could at the side of Dante’s head. It struck him and bounced off. “Hey! Dr. Kevorkian!” Negan roared. To his surprise, Dante turned and looked at him slowly, and his hands lifted off you, still shaking slightly from the strain of throttling and fighting you.

You, however, stayed completely still, unconscious on the floor. The marks on your neck, raw and crimson and somehow looking almost bruised already, glared up at Negan. His heart felt like it was about to explode in his chest. Blind panic was threatening to overwhelm him. He had to get a hold of himself. He had to, if he hoped to save you. He drew in a deep breath and forced his mind to quiet. Think. Think. How the fuck could he deal with this fucker when he was locked up?

Dante straightened up, out of breath from the effort of you fighting him, and he stared right at Negan.

“You mind telling me what in the ever-loving holy fucking hell is happening right now?” Negan asked, forcing his voice to not betray his true fear and panic.

Dante wiped a dot of saliva from the corner of his mouth and stared down at you again beneath him for a moment, his chest heaving. Then, he looked back at Negan.

“I’m gonna kill this bitch. Slowly,” he breathed. “And then I’m gonna kill you. And I’m gonna tell everyone you did it, and I had to put you down,” he said, smiling. “Oh, sure, everyone will be real sad to lose Y/N here. She is a member of the council after all… but who the fuck is going to be care that you’re dead? I’ll say I tried to stop you but I was too late. And if people weren’t already divided over Michonne keeping you alive, how do you think they’re going to feel after this?” He laughed again. “No one will trust Michonne’s judgement anymore. Daryl will be broken to lose one of his closest family members. The council will dissolve. It’ll be a real shame what happens to Alexandria after that… And I’ll be here still, chipping away at it, helping it along.”

Calm. He had to stay calm. Negan gathered himself and then smirked at Dante through the bars. “That’s your plan?” he asked, throwing in a low chuckle as he stretched his tall frame out, leaning with his forearm against the bars just over his head, trying hard to look carefree. “I mean—you can try to kill me. That’s the first flaw in your grand scheme. I didn’t end up in here for playing fucking nice. I used to bash people’s heads in with a bat but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle myself without sweet little Lucille perched on my shoulder,” Negan said lazily. “Now, your second problem—” he started, watching carefully for Dante’s reaction. He smiled when he saw a flash of curiosity on Dante’s face. “—is that you have not known these fuckers anywhere near as long as I have. If you think you’re going to murder me and Y/N’s fine ass here, plant your little seeds of doubt, and water them with just a sprinkling of grief and come strolling home to a garden bursting with blooms of anger and division… I’ve got some bad fucking news for you, friend. That is not enough to get these people to tear this place apart from the inside out. Trust me, I’ve tried! Exhibit A: my goddamn current situation! When shit gets hard, these fuckers circle the goddamn wagons and somehow come back swinging. They are like a bad case of herpes. As soon as you think they’re gone, poof! They’re back! Trust me, it is fucking annoying, thing but they are resilient as fuck! It’s gonna take a little more than one bad inmate to tear this place down.”

Dante actually seemed to be listening intently. Negan felt some smug satisfaction that when he needed to switch it on, he could still switch it on… He hazarded a glance back at you lying on the floor behind Dante. You were unmoving, but breathing. He could see your chest rising and falling shallowly.

“So, let me guess. You’re going to tell me not to murder Y/N,” Dante said suddenly, suspicious.

Negan pulled a face and shrugged. “No, no, by all means, murder Y/N! Hell, I’ll fuckin’ help you! You think I’ve got any kind of warm and fuzzy feelings toward anyone here? They destroyed my fucking home, my community. I was king of my castle and having a grand old time. They’ve kept me locked up like an animal in here for six fucking years. And Y/N here is my most recent jailor. I can’t take a piss without asking her permission… Besides, you have to kill her now anyway because she woke up and saw you choking the life out of her... But I think the next part of the plan needs some adjustment.”

Dante glanced back at you, making sure you weren’t coming around again. He knew you were still alive. He was a doctor after all. It took time to strangle someone. As much as six minutes sometimes… and he knew you had begun to breathe again as soon as he lifted his hands. But he wanted to kill you slow. He liked the power, the fear, the control of it. He wanted you to suffer. He felt all of you, every one of you with your bloated egos deserved it.

Negan whistled a low two-toned note to get Dante’s attention again. “You still with me, doc?” he asked, smiling. Dante met his eyes again, so Negan went on. “I can help you. I think we can help each other. We kill Y/N here, and I help you make her disappear. A missing member of the council is a mighty fine distraction, don’t you think? I mean, hell—they’ll be sending search parties out to all ends of the earth looking for her. Spreading themselves thin… Meanwhile, on the home front, two determined assholes chipping away at Alexandria from the inside is better than one,” he smiled. “I’ve got plenty of reasons to want to see this place fall, and if that’s your goal then I’m fuckin’ in.”

“Why do I need you at all? I could kill her and make her disappear myself,” he retorted.

Negan shrugged and nodded. “Sure. If you think you can carry her corpse outta here and conceal it all on your own without anyone noticing something is amiss. Carrying a dead body isn’t exactly easy peasy lemon squeezy, especially when you’re on the clock. It sure as shit would be easier and faster with two people. We can probably get this shit done before the rest of Alexandria even wakes up. But,” he held his hands up and shrugged, “your call. If you’d rather fight her and then risk someone walking in while you fight me—because I promise you, I will not go down easily—that’s your choice. But I think there’s a way for this whole thing to work out the best for the both of us and I’m happy to get onboard.”

Dante stared at him. Negan could almost see the working of his mind. He hoped that his expression wasn’t giving away the sheer panic he was barely suppressing. If Dante didn’t buy in… you were dead and he was powerless to stop it.

But to his relief, the next moment. Dante reached into the pocket of his white coat and Negan heard the keys metallic tinkling as he closed a hand around them.

Negan grinned and clicked his tongue. “I knew you were smart,” he said, leaning on the bars again.

Dante approached and began fitting each key into the lock until he found the right one. It turned with a heavy scraping and thud as the bolt retracted. Dante stepped back and Negan grinned as he pushed the cell door open to sweet, sweet freedom.

Dante was standing over you again, his eyes focused on your face. The ring of keys was still clutched in his hand. Negan came to stand slightly behind him to the side and also looked down at your sprawled form. “Are you doing the job or am I?” Negan asked, rubbing his thumb over his lower lip.

Dante glanced sideways at him and stored the keys in his pocket again. “She’s mine,” he said.

Negan affected a low laugh. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” he said. Dante seemed to like that little comment, even while inside Negan felt sick, sick with rage, sick with the words he had to say, sick with how pale you looked lying still on the floor...

Dante bent over you and wrapped his hands around your throat again, squeezing, his hands shaking with effort. You came to again within seconds and started to fight, but your efforts were weak and you looked like you were trying to move through molasses. You managed to dig a fingernail into Dante’s wrist and thick blood drops dripped down onto you, staining your shirt.

Enraged, Dante drew back a hand and backhanded you across the face, still holding you down hard by your neck with the other, crushing you into the floor so you couldn’t escape him.

Those moments felt like an eternity passing as Negan waited until Dante was distracted enough for him to intervene. His eyes fell on the metal tray that had fallen off the chair to the floor and he hurriedly seized it, pulled it back and bashed Dante across the back of the head with it. The doctor let go of you and fell to the side on his hands and knees. “Breakfast is served, shitdick,” Negan growled. He tossed the tray down and it rang out on the concrete. He seized Dante by his white coat with two hands and hurled him to the side farther away from you, propelling his head into the cinderblock wall. Miraculously, he was still conscious when he fell to the ground. Negan hurriedly wound up and kicked him hard in the ribs. Dante gasped and curled over on his side from the force of Negan’s boot ramming into his ribs and stomach.

Negan’s eyes were dark with rage as he leaned over Dante again and gripped the front of his shirt, dragging him to his feet and shoving him back against the wall so hard his head slammed into it again and all the air left his lungs in a forced sound. “You’re a real fucking piece of shit, you know that? Can’t even take someone on in a fair fight without drugging them first,” he growled. “I fucking hate cowards. And I hate little shitdick cowards who hurt women for no goddamned good reason even more. Your teeny tiny itsy bitsy little balls are showing… Me on the other hand, my giant nut sack is made of Kevlar and I am not afraid of a man-on-man cage match. Shitty for you, because this one, you have fucking lost.” With that, he drew back a fist and punched Dante across the face and he kept hitting him, over and over, until the man went limp. Negan let go and his body crumpled like a wet towel.

Negan stood over him for a brief moment to make sure he was truly knocked out and then he rushed to your side, hitting his knees hard on the concrete at he fell to the ground beside you frantically. He cupped your face, noticing that you now had a split lip and red mark from Dante hitting you across the face. “Y/N? Come on. Open your eyes, doll. Come on, look at me!” Negan lifted you slightly, supporting your head and neck and gently shaking you, pulling you against him. He felt a warm, wet spot soaking his sleeve where the back of your head was resting against his arm. “Shit… You’ve got to wake up, darlin’!” He stroked the back of his fingers lightly over your cheek. “You’re gonna be okay. You’re okay…”

He stroked your hair gently, running his fingers through the silky strands, searching your face for any sign that you were rousing, but he saw none. The marks on your neck were terrifyingly dark. He could see that your skin was dotted with broken blood vessels. “Okay. Okay…” he breathed, looking around frantically. “Alright. I’m gonna get you some help,” he murmured to you. He set you down gently, cushioning your head again with the wool blanket. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead and he felt completely shaky, unsure if it was still from pure rage or the come down of adrenaline.

He stood and returned to Dante where he was slumped on the floor against the bottom of the wall. He rifled through the pockets of his white coat until he found the keys and then dragged him by his ankles into the jail cell, leaving him carelessly lying on the cold concrete.

“Enjoy your new home, shitstain,” Negan muttered as he locked the cell door, pocketing the keys. He rushed back to you and lifted you as carefully as he could. “Alright, darlin’. Just you and me now. Come on. You’re gonna be fine…” he breathed. He managed to get the outside door open with you in his arms and burst out into the sunshine.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Negan sat slumped in the folding chair beside you, absently running a hand over the stubble on his face. His eyes flickered back to you in the bed over and over again as anxiety ran through him like poison. You were going to wake up and be fine, he kept telling himself, but the wait was excruciating.

The marks on your neck glared back at him. Siddiq had stitched the split in your lower lip and your head wounds with the most delicate stitches he could, but the sight of them still made Negan’s blood boil.

Suddenly, you began to stir just a little on the pillow and Negan snapped upright, leaning forward and waiting to see your eyes open. You fought with your heavy eyelids but finally you blinked awake. It took a moment before you got your bearings and noticed him beside you.

“Negan,” you said softly. Your voice sounded gritty and thin, as if you had a bad sore throat.

Negan smiled at you, all the way up to the corners of his eyes, a soft one. “Hey, doll,” he said, clasping his hands between his bent knees as he sat forward on the edge of his seat.

You pulled in a few deep breaths and swallowed with some effort. Your throat felt raw and your head was pounding, but you were alive. “I thought I was dead,” you mused aloud. The smile on Negan’s face faded and he reached out and grabbed your hand gently, pressing it between his. You looked down at the contact as electricity seemed to crackle over your skin from his touch. It distracted you from the pain throbbing through your face and skull for a moment.

“Close. Too fucking close. But not on my watch, darlin’,” he said seriously.

“Dante—he—I went to get my hand checked and he—he dosed me with something—”

“I know,” he interrupted you. “But you don’t have to worry about him anymore. Daryl’s dealing with him right now, otherwise he’d be here too. He’s been driving me fucking nuts pacing the room and scowling,” Negan joked.

“What happened to—” Your voice cracked and Negan stopped you.

“Shh,” he soothed you. “If it hurts, don’t talk, doll,” he said, his brow knit.

You paused, your eyes flickering between his bright hazel ones. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” you retorted immediately, breaking into the tiniest touch of a smile, but quickly stopping as it tugged at your stitches.

Negan rubbed your hand between his, his thumb gliding softly over the silky skin on the back of your hand. He chuckled. “There she is,” he said. He smoothed some stray strands of hair away from your face. “You’re alright,” he said.

“Negan,” you said again, and he let the sound of his name leaving your lips again wash over him. It dredged up an upwelling of emotion and he blinked at the glassiness overtaking his vision. “What—what happened? How’d you—?”

“Ahh, don’t worry about that. Just rest. Everything is alright,” he said.

Your eyes flickered over his face and he sighed because he knew you weren’t going to let it go. He pressed your hand between his again. “You don’t remember anything?” Some part of him seized up with fear that perhaps you had heard the kind of things he’d had to say to get Dante to trust him. But you shook your head. That was a relief… the words had tasted bitter and nauseating as he’d spoken them, and the last thing he wanted was for you to have heard them, perhaps internalized them.

“Not really. Just—I remember—waking up with his hands around my neck,” you said vaguely. “I remember trying to fight him off but it was like I was swimming through quicksand and then… like being dragged under dark water...” The hoarseness in your voice had Negan’s chest aching.

He nodded. “Yeah… I—got him to unlock my cell. Took some convincing… I had to say some fucked up shit to make it happen. Acted like we were allies,” he explained. “And then when I had the chance—I beat the fuck out of him,” he growled. You watched his face darken with the memory and you gulped.

Negan met your eyes and watched as tears began to fill them. He gently clasped your face with one hand, running his fingers through your hair with the other. “Hey—doll—you’re okay. You’re okay,” he said softly. He shook his head. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, but it’s all over.”

You sniffled and could feel your bottom lip quivering as you tried not to allow yourself to cry harder. You could only speak in a whisper this time, emotion constraining your voice. “Thank you,” you managed, your eyes flickering between Negan’s, looking golden and maybe even a little glassy too as he leaned over you and stroked your hair.

“You don’t have a thing to thank me for, darlin’,” Negan said emphatically. “I’m just glad I was there to take care of—”

There was the sudden sound of someone clearing their throat near the doorway and you looked over to see Daryl standing there. Negan fell back from you and sank down into his chair again, his fingers drifting away, grieving the growing space as it enlarged and left him feeling a little hollow.

You sniffled and smiled at Daryl as his face grew less stern, seeing you awake. He came straight to your bedside and sank down on the edge. He grabbed your hand in his and gave it a friendly squeeze, his blue eyes traveling over you, hitching on your injuries.

“Negan,” he drawled, not taking his eyes off you. “Wait outside a minute,” he said.

Negan got up without arguing and headed to the door, but he stopped at the threshold and looked back at you in the bed one more time before he stepped into the hallway.

Daryl sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “How ya feelin’?”

You gulped and shrugged a little. “Okay. Sore. Tired. My head is pounding.”

Daryl nodded. His eyes were continually drawn to the marks on your throat, red and raw but quickly darkening into bruises.

“Negan said you were with—with him,” you said.

Daryl nodded. “Yeah. I was. He’s locked up. Negan beat the shit out of him. I think his jaw is broken. Probably some ribs too. Fucker’s face and eyes are all swelled up. Looks like he got into it with a goddamn bee hive.”

You nodded and pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Good,” you whispered.

“Look, if ya need some time, just lemme know. But I wanted to ask ya some questions,” Daryl said. “Ya need anything? Water? Ya warm enough?”

“No, I’m good. Ask me. It’s okay.”

Daryl nodded. “What do you remember about that morning? Negan said Dante drugged ya.”

You nodded. “He must have, because I felt completely fine before I went into the clinic. I went to get my hand checked out; from that gash I got on the run? Siddiq wasn’t there so Dante looked at it and then he gave me two pills. He said they were painkillers and would help with the swelling around the cut and the pain I was having. He was pretty insistent about me taking them. Then, I went to the pantry and prepared some food to take to Negan. I brought it down and then we were talking at his cell door and everything just started to go… strange and cloudy. And then I must have passed out?”

Daryl nodded. “Yeah. Negan said ya just sunk into unconsciousness right in front of him. Ya hit yer head on the cell bars on the way down. And then it wasn’t long before Dante came walking in.”

A struck look hit you. “Right. He asked me what my plans for the day were. I told him I had to bring Negan breakfast, so he would have known I was there.”

“Yeah, or he coulda followed ya anyway. It was pretty early. Hardly anybody was up yet. Woulda been easy for him to keep his distance and watch ya. Fuckin’ creep…” he growled.

“Did—did you ask him why he attacked me?”

Daryl sighed heavily and nodded, his eyes flickering between yours. “Yeah. But he ain’t talkin’. He told Negan some things though.” Daryl considered you for a moment before he went on. “Ya sure yer ready to hear all this?”

“Please,” you asked softly, and Daryl relented.

“Negan said after you were unconscious and Dante came in, he started attacking you. You came to and started fighting back but eventually—uhh…” Daryl was having a hard time recounting it because of the swell of emotions rising in him. He wanted to march back to the cell and end Dante with his bare hands every time he looked at your injuries. He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and then went on. “You passed out again. Negan somehow got his attention and he let go of you. Negan said he talked his way out of the cell. Guess I dun disbelieve that. Fucker always could fuckin’ talk. Gettin’ him to shut up is the problem.”

You let out a small laugh and smiled at that, and Daryl’s worry eased a little. “True,” you agreed.

“Then, he waited for an opportunity and—it was over. After he got Dante into the cell and locked up, he came runnin’ out on the street yellin’ for help with you in his arms.” Daryl hung his head for a moment and had to steel himself as he remembered the scene. “Fuck, for a second I thought ya were—we all thought—”

You squeezed Daryl’s hand and he looked back up at you and his expression relaxed. “What did he tell Negan about why?”

Daryl shook his head. “He said, basically, he wants Alexandria destroyed. He picked you because yer on the council. It coulda been any of us. But why he wants Alexandria gone? Don’t know. Doesn’t matter. It ain’t happenin’.”

There was a thick pause as you turned over this information in your mind and you finally sighed and looked back up at Daryl. “Negan saved my life,” you said.

Daryl nodded. “Yeah. He did. For once, ‘m glad Negan was around. And I never thought I’d say that.”

You nodded and gave Daryl a weary smile. “I noticed you didn’t have him handcuffed or anything,” you said with some surprise.

“He ain’t goin’ anywhere. He’s refused to leave ya for a second. Bit annoyin’ actually… when I was tryin’ to question him. But there’s a guard at the door to the clinic. Ain’t nobody gettin’ in, and Negan ain’t gettin’ out.”

“What’s going to happen to Dante now?” you asked, a flush of anxiety washing over you like a dunk into hot water.

“Dun worry about that. Just rest. We’ll sort everything out when yer on yer feet, alrigh’? Ya sure ya dun need anything?” Daryl could see that you were fading toward sleep again. You shook your head. “Alright. If ya need somethin’, just holler, okay? I’m gonna be just down the hall talkin’ to Siddiq and Michonne.” You agreed and Daryl whistled. “Hey! Negan!” Negan appeared in the doorway looking anxious, but Daryl only tilted his head back toward the empty chair at your side and stood up. “Yer back on duty,” he drawled. He fixed a long stare on Negan as he made his way around your bed and sunk down in the chair again, but there was no tension in it for once. In fact, Daryl was almost looking at him with something like respect. Almost. Daryl took his leave.

Negan laced his fingers together and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His eyes were searching your face and you stared back at him through bright eyes with heavy lids. “What’s the verdict?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Am I still on Daryl’s shit list?” he joked, cocking an eyebrow up.

You laughed a little. “I think you will always be on Daryl’s shit list, Negan.”

He reached for your hand, his eyes still smiling at the corners. “Am I on your shit list, Y/N?” he asked softly, closing your hand in his so gently you thought you were imagining it at first, but you looked down at the contact between the two of you and saw your skin against his. It felt surprisingly right, easy.

Your voice was raw and strained, but your answer brought a wider smile to Negan’s face. “No.”

“Thank fuckin’ God,” he said, and then he did something you didn’t expect and he lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the gentle curve of the back of your fingers. “Sleep now, doll. I’ll be right here.”

You shut your eyes and drifted off.

[2b4st4r]

hiya! i have a request and you can choose if you do it or not but here it is.

I’m not sure if you write song fics, but if you do, could you create a fic based on the song lyrics that include: “It's filthy, disgusting, so ugly. I'm sure I'm ugly, disgusting, and filthy for sure”? In the story, the reader could have a Devil Fruit that embodies ‘disgusting’ qualities, or maybe the reader is just insane and does things that most people would consider disgusting. This idea has been stuck in my mind for weeks! By the way, it’s a Straw Hat x reader fic.

Echos of Starlight and Shadow.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Strawhat pirates x celestial dragon blood!Reader ⊹ ࣪ ˖

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₊˚⊹ ᰔ Words: 15,523

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Warnings: Child abuse, self loathing, self destructive behaviors, emotional trauma/distress, abduction, violence, verbal abuse, ptsd and hinted female reader.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A/N: this is COMPLETELY a little off then the request and i’m sorry about that but i tried!!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The sun beat down, a familiar warmth on your skin that you barely registered. Another day on the Thousand Sunny, another day spent deflecting compliments and offers of help from your new crewmates. You’d joined the Straw Hats a few months ago, and while you fiercely protected them, throwing yourself into the fray to shield Usopp from a stray attack or pushing Sanji out of the path of a falling mast, you remained an enigma. They'd seen your battle prowess, your unwavering loyalty in a fight, but they hadn't seen you.

"Hey, Y/N! Want to try some of my new super spicy ramen?" Luffy called, his grin infectious.

"No thanks, Luffy," you replied, your voice flat, your eyes already scanning the horizon for any hint of trouble. You’d learned to anticipate the smallest gestures, the extended hands offering help or comfort, and you’d mastered the art of subtly sidestepping them. When Zoro had once tried to bandage a cut on your arm after a skirmish, you'd snatched your arm away so quickly he'd stumbled back, a flicker of surprise in his perpetually stoic eyes. You’d mumbled something about doing it yourself, about not needing help, as if accepting a simple band-aid was a sign of weakness.

Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, you were below deck, the gentle rocking of the ship a familiar lullaby that usually brought you a fragile peace. But tonight, peace was a luxury you couldn't afford. The cold sweat began to prickle your skin even before your eyes flew open, your breath catching in your throat. Your hands, clenched into fists, trembled. No. Not again.

The images flashed behind your eyelids: the opulent chambers, the sickeningly sweet scent of perfume and power, the screams that echoed not in your ears, but deep within your bones. Your blood, the very thing that flowed through your veins, felt like a poison. It was held in such high esteem by some, revered, almost worshipped. But to you, every single drop was a reminder, a brand of shame and guilt that seared your soul. You felt disgusting, tainted. The pain of too many, caused by your blood, their lives extinguished, their futures stolen. You were a Celestial Dragon, and the weight of that truth, that inescapable lineage, crushed you under its immense, suffocating weight. You wanted to rip the skin from your body, to escape the very essence of who you were, to shed the blood you hated with every fiber of your being.

The nightmare clung to you, a cold, clammy shroud even as the first rays of dawn pierced the porthole. You swung your legs out of the hammock, the rough fabric scratching your skin, a welcome distraction from the phantom screams in your mind. This was your life now: a constant battle against the shadows of your past.

Your earliest memories weren't of sun-drenched gardens or laughter, but of hushed whispers and the clink of chains. Born into a world of unimaginable wealth and suffocating privilege, you were an anomaly. Your mother, a pure-blood Celestial Dragon, saw you as a stain, a constant reminder of her fleeting, forbidden liaison with your father – a man she considered barely more than a commoner, a distant relative of some minor noble house. You were a half-breed, an embarrassment hidden away in the most secluded wings of the massive, garish manor.

While your full-blood siblings were paraded in opulent gowns and tailored suits, attending lavish banquets and endless tea parties, you were subjected to a different kind of education. From the moment you could hold a quill, you were tutored in the art of manipulation, the subtle power of fear. You were taught to observe, to identify weaknesses, to exploit them without a flicker of emotion. "A true Celestial Dragon," your mother's chillingly calm voice would echo, "shows no weakness. They command obedience, not affection."

You remember the first time you were forced to "discipline" a servant. You were barely seven, your small hand trembling as an ornate, silver-tipped cane was pressed into it. The servant, a young woman who had accidentally spilled tea on one of your mother's prized tapestries, knelt before you, her eyes wide with terror. Your mother stood beside you, her hand on the small of your back, a silent, chilling pressure. "Show her, darling," she'd purred, "the consequences of insubordination." You’d closed your eyes, tears pricking, but the cane had fallen, a dull thud against flesh, and a whimper that would haunt your dreams for years to come. You learned quickly that disobedience, even hesitation, brought harsher punishments, not for you, but for the unfortunate soul you were meant to break. The fear in their eyes, the silent pleas for mercy you were forbidden to acknowledge, became a twisted form of currency, a testament to your growing, unwanted power.

You were trained to be a tool, a weapon to be wielded in the subtle, brutal politics of the Celestial Dragons. You saw your half-siblings use their authority to ruin lives on a whim – ordering the destruction of entire villages for a perceived slight, or condemning innocent people to slavery simply because they found their faces displeasing. You, however, were assigned more delicate tasks. You were the "enforcer," the one sent to "persuade" troublesome nobles to fall in line, to ensure the flow of tributes remained uninterrupted, to silence any whispers of dissent before they could grow into a roar. You became adept at it, a master of veiled threats and calculated cruelty, your heart a frozen knot in your chest. The disgust you felt for yourself grew with every act, every obedient nod, every time you saw the fear you instilled reflected in another’s eyes.

The night you ran, the sky was a canvas of bruised purples and blacks, a storm brewing in the distance, mirroring the turmoil in your soul. You were sixteen, and the weight of your gilded cage had become unbearable. You’d just returned from a “mission” – silencing a family of scholars who dared to question the World Government's narrative. Their cries, their pleas, their terrified faces were burned into your memory, a festering wound that refused to heal.

You moved through the sprawling manor like a ghost, every shadow a potential hiding place, every creak of the floorboards a drumbeat against your ribs. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird desperate for flight. You carried nothing but a small satchel containing a handful of berries and a worn, leather-bound book you'd stolen from the manor's vast library – a collection of ancient fables, stories of heroism and kindness, a stark contrast to the darkness that defined your reality.

You reached the outermost wall, a towering edifice of polished stone designed to keep the world out, and you in. You scaled it with a practiced ease born of desperation, your hands raw against the cold, unforgiving surface. At the top, you paused, looking back at the glittering monstrosity of your prison, the lights twinkling like malevolent eyes in the distance. A bitter taste filled your mouth. This was where you had been born, where your blood had been celebrated, and where your soul had been slowly, methodically poisoned.

With a ragged breath, you jumped. The fall was jarring, landing hard on the rough ground outside. You scrambled to your feet, not daring to look back, not daring to hesitate. You ran, the distant roar of the ocean beckoning you, a promise of something different, something free. You didn't know where you were going, only that you had to escape the gilded cage, escape the shame that clung to your skin, escape the very blood that flowed in your veins. You ran until your lungs burned, until your legs ached, until the grand manor was nothing but a faint glimmer on the horizon, swallowed by the rising storm and the vast, indifferent ocean.

You landed hard, a jolt of pain shooting up your legs, but you barely registered it. The need to put distance between yourself and that life was a primal scream in your chest. You ran, driven by an instinct for survival you hadn’t known you possessed. The storm that had been brewing unleashed itself, rain lashing down, plastering your hair to your face, blurring the path ahead. Each step was a desperate prayer, a silent plea for freedom.

Just as the manor lights faded into the rain-swept darkness, a shadow detached itself from the gloom ahead. Your breath hitched. Standing before you, a silhouette against the flashes of lightning, was your mother. Her usually immaculate clothes were ruffled by the wind, her perfect coiffure slightly askew, but her eyes, even in the dim light, burned with a cold fury that would forever be etched into your memory.

"Leaving so soon, darling?" Her voice, usually so controlled, was laced with a chilling mockery. A long, slender knife, its blade reflecting the lightning, appeared in her hand. You had seen her use it before – not for combat, but for lessons. "You disappoint me. I thought I had taught you better than to abandon your duty."

You stumbled back, fear, cold and sharp, piercing through your desperation. You had never defied her openly, never directly challenged her authority. This was uncharted territory. You turned to run, but she was faster, a blur of motion in the downpour. The knife arced, a silver streak against the dark sky, and a searing pain exploded across your left cheek. You cried out, a guttural sound torn from your throat, as something wet and warm gushed down your face. You brought a hand up, feeling the deep, ragged slice from your temple down to your jawline.

"A reminder, my dear," she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper in your ear, "of where you belong. You can never truly escape your blood."

The world tilted. You tasted iron, the metallic tang of your own blood mixing with the rain. But even through the pain and the shock, a surge of defiant anger, hot and fierce, ignited within you. You twisted, a desperate, animalistic lunge, and connected with something solid – her shoulder. It wasn't elegant, it wasn't planned, but it was enough. She stumbled back, momentarily thrown off balance, and in that fleeting second, you ran. You didn't look back, didn't dare to. The wound on your face burned, a constant, throbbing testament to your escape, a badge of your defiance. You ran until your legs gave out, until the sound of the ocean was a roar in your ears, until the world dissolved into a black abyss of pain and exhaustion.

The years that followed were a blur of cold nights and stolen moments of peace. You lived on the fringes, a phantom flitting between forgotten towns and isolated islands. Your scar, a jagged line marring your left cheek, was a constant companion, a stark reminder of your past and the woman who had carved it there. It made people stare, made them whisper, made them keep their distance. Which was fine by you. Distance was safety.

You honed your skills out of necessity. You learned to hunt, to navigate by the stars, to fight not with the calculated cruelty you had been taught, but with a desperate ferocity born of survival. You rarely spoke, preferring the silence, the quiet company of your own thoughts – though those thoughts were often a torment. The nightmares of your childhood, the faces of those you had hurt, the chilling words of your mother, they all pursued you, relentless specters.

You picked up odd jobs, never staying in one place too long. You were a skilled hand, capable of surprising feats of strength and agility, but you never allowed anyone to get too close. Friendships were a luxury you couldn't afford, an Achilles' heel that could expose you, pull you back into the life you had so desperately fled. Every kind gesture was met with suspicion, every offer of help with a guarded refusal. Trust was a foreign concept, something you had learned to associate only with betrayal and pain.

You saw pirates, heard their raucous laughter, their tales of adventure, but you kept your distance. They seemed too free, too open, too… everything you weren’t. You were a creature of shadows, scarred inside and out, constantly battling the pervasive sense of shame and guilt that clung to you like a second skin.

Then, one day, on a small, unassuming island, you saw them. A straw-hatted captain with an insatiable appetite, a swordsman who slept more than he walked, a bright-eyed navigator with a knack for weather, a long-nosed liar with a heart of gold, and a chef with twirling eyebrows and an even greater passion for women. The Straw Hat Pirates. They were loud, chaotic, and utterly disarming.

You saw them fight, saw their loyalty to each other, their unwavering belief in dreams. You saw Luffy laugh with a carefree abandon you hadn't witnessed in anyone before. You tried to stay away, to maintain your usual detached observation, but circumstances, and their inexplicable persistence, pulled you in. A shared battle, a moment of unexpected camaraderie, and suddenly, you were one of them.

You stood on the deck of the Thousand Sunny, the salt spray on your face, the wind in your hair. They had accepted you, quirks and all, without question. They didn't pry about your past, didn't recoil from your scar. Yet, despite their warmth, a deep-seated feeling of being an imposter festered within you. You, with your blood-stained past, your hands that had caused so much pain, you didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve their kindness, their trust, their unwavering belief. Every smile directed your way, every offer of food, every casual touch, felt like a spotlight on your hidden darkness. You were a wolf in sheep's clothing, a predator among innocents, and the secret of your Celestial Dragon blood burned like a brand on your soul. You were surrounded by light, and you felt like you brought only shadows.

The Thousand Sunny cut through the azure waves, a bright speck against the vast ocean. On deck, the usual lively chatter filled the air, a familiar symphony that normally brought a subtle calm to your restless mind. Today, however, it only amplified the discordant hum of your anxiety.

Luffy, Usopp, and Franky were gathered near the figurehead, their voices a boisterous chorus as they discussed the approaching island. "I heard they have the best metal there, suuuper shiny!" Franky boomed, striking a pose.

"And probably some really scary monsters too!" Usopp added, already picturing a dramatic escape.

"Meat! I bet they have giant, delicious meat!" Luffy cheered, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

You watched them from your usual perch by the ship's railing, a knot tightening in your stomach. The island they spoke of, still a distant blur on the horizon, was known for its exorbitantly rich resources, a magnet for the world's elite. Which meant, inevitably, it was a favored haunt of Celestial Dragons.

Your fingers unconsciously traced the jagged line of the scar on your left cheek, a phantom burn blossoming beneath your touch. The familiar litany of self-loathing began to echo in your mind, a cruel whisper you couldn't silence. I'm filthy. Disgusting. So ugly, I'm sure. Every breath felt tainted, every inch of your skin a canvas of your unforgivable past. You were the very thing they, the Straw Hats, despised. You were the darkness masquerading in their light, and the thought made your stomach churn.

A shadow fell over you, and you tensed, your hand instinctively dropping from your face.

"A beautiful day, isn't it, Y/N?" Robin's calm voice drifted to you. She stood beside you, her gaze sweeping over the horizon before settling on you, those intelligent blue eyes surprisingly warm. "The reports indicate this island is quite diverse, culturally. It might be an interesting place to find some ancient texts."

You gave a noncommittal hum, your gaze fixed on the approaching landmass. You appreciated Robin's quiet demeanor, her ability to simply be without demanding anything in return. But even with her, the guard remained firmly in place. You were a master of polite deflection, a seasoned veteran of keeping people at arm's length.

"Are you looking forward to it?" she prompted gently, her voice devoid of any prying.

"It's an island," you replied, your tone flat, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact for a moment before letting your gaze drift back to the sea. You could feel the unspoken question in her presence, the gentle curiosity. She saw more than most, you knew that. But what she saw, what she might eventually uncover, was a truth you couldn't bear for her, or any of them, to know.

You didn't deserve their easy camaraderie, their genuine laughter, their fierce protectiveness. You were an imposter, a hidden monster in their midst. Their care, their inexplicable love for you, felt like a burden you could never repay, a precious gift you were too filthy to hold. The thought made you want to shrink away, to disappear into the depths of the ocean and drown the shame that clung to every fiber of your being.

The rhythmic churning of the waves against the hull was a mocking serenade as the island loomed larger, its jagged peaks and lush greenery slowly resolving into distinct features. Every gust of wind seemed to carry the faint, nauseating scent of opulence and decay that you associated with the Celestial Dragons. The air thickened, heavy with an invisible weight that pressed down on your chest, making each breath a conscious effort.

You couldn't endure another moment of Robin’s perceptive gaze, or the cheerful obliviousness of the others. The gentle hum of their excitement felt like nails on a chalkboard, grating against the raw nerves of your escalating dread. Without a word, without even a glance in Robin’s direction, you turned and walked away, your footsteps quick and decisive. You needed space, silence, anything to stem the rising tide of panic.

You found a secluded spot below deck, tucked away in a shadowed corner of the storage room, the scent of canvas and sea salt a faint comfort. You slid down to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest, your arms wrapping around yourself in a desperate attempt to contain the turmoil within. Your breath hitched, coming in short, ragged gasps. The walls of the ship seemed to press in, the darkness of the room amplifying the horrors playing out behind your closed eyelids.

Filthy. Disgusting. The blood… all that pain…

The whisper became a roar in your mind, drowning out the gentle creaks and groans of the ship. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage, desperate to escape. You felt sweat prickle your skin, cold and clammy, even as a phantom heat spread across your scar. It burned, throbbed, a physical manifestation of the shame that festered deep within you. You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, digging your nails into your arms, anything to anchor yourself, to pull yourself back from the edge of the abyss. This was your legacy, carved into your very being, a stain that could never be washed away. You were an abomination, and the thought of facing those who shared your cursed blood, those who embodied everything you despised, made your stomach lurch.

Just as the wave of panic threatened to consume you entirely, a voice cut through the haze, clear and sharp.

"Alright everyone! We're only a few minutes out!" Nami's cheerful call echoed through the ship, a vibrant contrast to your internal storm.

The sound, unexpected and insistent, was like a splash of cold water. It jolted you, pulling you back, however reluctantly, from the precipice of your fear. A few minutes. That was all you had. The panic didn't vanish, but it receded, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve. You couldn't afford to be paralyzed by your past now. Not when your crew, your found family, was about to step onto hostile ground.

You pushed yourself to your feet, your muscles stiff, your mind still reeling from the sudden onslaught of your demons. You took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the tremor from your hands. The scar on your face felt like it was throbbing, a constant reminder, but you pushed the self-loathing back, burying it deep beneath layers of controlled composure. You were a Straw Hat now. You had a role to play. And no matter how much you felt like a fraud, a monster hiding among angels, you would protect them. You had to.

You straightened your clothes, ran a hand through your hair, and took one last fortifying breath. The time for hiding, for wallowing in your own internal torment, was over. The island awaited. And with it, whatever fresh hell the Celestial Dragons would bring. You were ready, or at least, you would pretend to be.

The Thousand Sunny dropped anchor with a familiar splash, its silhouette a proud declaration against the vibrant green of the island. The gangplank creaked as it lowered, a gateway to whatever awaited them. You took a steadying breath, the scent of exotic flora and damp earth filling your lungs, mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of your own anxiety.

"Alright, everyone! Let's explore!" Luffy's shout was, as always, the signal for immediate chaos. He was already halfway down the gangplank, a blur of enthusiasm.

You followed, your movements practiced and precise, a stark contrast to the boisterous energy around you. Luffy, Zoro, Nami, Sanji, Usopp, Chopper, Robin, Franky, and Jinbe fanned out, their collective excitement palpable. Brook, ever the gentleman, opted to stay behind and guard the ship.

"Hey, Y/N! What do you think we'll find first? Treasure? Or a giant insect monster?" Usopp called out, his voice a mixture of bravado and feigned terror as he gestured wildly.

You offered a barely perceptible shrug, your eyes scanning the dense foliage that pressed in on either side of the path they were taking. "Perhaps both," you murmured, your voice low, almost lost in the rustle of leaves. You didn't elaborate, didn't offer a theory or a playful retort. Engaging meant opening up, and that was a line you rigidly held.

Sanji, ever the attentive one, twirled slightly as he walked beside you. "Careful on these paths, Y/N-chan," he purred, his cigarette bobbing. "Wouldn't want you to trip." His hand hovered, ready to steady you, but you subtly shifted your weight, maintaining just enough distance to prevent any contact.

"I'm fine, Cook-san," you stated, your gaze fixed ahead. You knew his intentions were kind, genuinely so, and that was precisely why it pricked at the raw edges of your guilt. You didn't deserve his solicitude, his gallant protectiveness.

Chopper, trotting a little behind, piped up, "Do you think there are any rare herbs here, Y/N? You're good at spotting things!" He always looked to you for your keen observational skills, something you had honed out of necessity in your past life.

"Possibly," you replied, your eyes still sweeping the undergrowth, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of the danger you expected. You offered no further insight, no shared enthusiasm for his medical curiosities. It was easier to remain an enigma, a puzzle they couldn't solve, than to reveal the horrifying pieces of your true self.

Even Robin, ever so perceptive, approached you as you paused to look up at a towering, ancient tree. "This species is fascinating," she mused, her voice soft. "It reminds me of a tree mentioned in some ancient texts I've read. Perhaps you've encountered something similar?"

You glanced at her, your expression unreadable. You had. In the vast, forgotten libraries of your childhood prison, you had pored over countless forbidden texts, seeking knowledge that might somehow negate the darkness of your existence. But you wouldn't share that. "It's just a tree," you said dismissively, turning away before she could press further.

The others continued their lively banter, their laughter echoing through the vibrant jungle. You walked among them, a silent sentinel, ever vigilant, ever detached. They tried, you knew. They tried to bridge the gap, to coax you out of your self-imposed solitude. But every kind word, every extended hand, every moment of shared joy only reinforced the screaming truth in your mind: you were an anomaly, a burden, a walking lie. And the closer they got, the greater the risk that your true, disgusting nature would be revealed.

The jungle gave way to a sprawling town, unlike any you’d encountered on your journey with the Straw Hats. This wasn't the ramshackle charm of a pirate haven or the bustling energy of a commercial port. This was a place of polished stone and shimmering glass, of meticulously manicured gardens and wide, clean avenues. Carriages drawn by exotic, plumed beasts glided silently past, their occupants shrouded behind tinted windows. Statues of stern-faced figures adorned every plaza, their gazes seemingly judging all who passed. It reeked of wealth, power, and an unspoken, oppressive order.

Your eyes, however, weren't drawn to the artistry or the opulence. They darted, restless and hyper-focused, across every detail. You scanned the faces of the pedestrians – the impeccably dressed merchants, the uniformed guards, the servants with their downcast eyes. You peered into the open doorways of grand establishments, searching for a flash of pristine white, the tell-tale bubble of a helmet, or the unmistakable, arrogant swagger of someone who believed themselves above all others. Your own blood, the very thing you abhorred, was what you desperately sought – or rather, sought to avoid. Every shadow seemed to hold the potential for a grotesque reunion, every distant laughter a chilling echo of your past. Your fingers twitched, tracing the phantom burn of your scar.

"This place certainly looks different from Sabaody," Jinbe remarked, his deep voice calm beside you. He walked with a measured pace, his eyes taking in the surroundings with a quiet wisdom. He didn't pry, but his presence was a steadying force, a silent acknowledgment of the undercurrent of unease he must sense radiating from you.

You hummed in agreement, your head still on a swivel. "Too clean," you muttered, your gaze lingering on a group of finely dressed individuals disappearing into a particularly imposing building. They carried themselves with an air of ingrained superiority that made your stomach clench.

"Indeed," Jinbe said, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Prosperity often casts long shadows. Are you looking for anything specific?" His question was direct, yet gentle, a subtle invitation to open up without pressure.

You shook your head, though your eyes continued their relentless scan. "Just observing," you replied, your voice tight. How could you tell him you were looking for the very people who embodied everything you hated about yourself? How could you admit that you were terrified of encountering the mirror image of your own shame? The very thought made your throat seize. You felt like a coiled spring, wound impossibly tight, every nerve screaming in anticipation of a confrontation you dreaded. The others, lost in their wonder at the town's grandeur, remained oblivious, and that, perhaps, was a mercy. For now.

The murmur of the bustling town began to shift, a subtle ripple through the well-dressed crowd that caught your attention instantly. It wasn't a sudden roar, but a crescendo of hushed whispers, a collective bowing of heads, and then, the sound that sent an icy tendril of dread coiling around your heart: a rhythmic clapping. Not applause, but a slow, deliberate cadence, growing louder with each beat, accompanied by the urgent, almost frantic cries of "Make way! Make way for the Heavenly Dragon!"

Your entire body tensed, every muscle coiling like a spring. You knew this sound. You knew this ritual. You had been on the other side of it, not as an observer, but as the one for whom the way was made, the one for whom hands clapped in forced reverence. The very air around you seemed to grow cold, suffocating, as the memories flooded back – the sickeningly sweet incense, the obsequious smiles, the absolute power you once commanded, a power you despised with every fiber of your being.

Beside you, you felt Jinbe stiffen, his massive frame subtly tightening. His expression, usually so composed, hardened, a deep-seated anger flickering in his eyes. He, too, had a history with these monsters, a history steeped in the suffering of his own people. A silent, shared understanding passed between you, a grim acknowledgment of the approaching horror.

Luffy, surprisingly, was the first to react, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What's all the fuss about?" he mumbled, craning his neck to see over the crowd.

Usopp, ever the nervous one, started to sweat. "Something big is coming! I've got a bad feeling about this, guys!"

Nami, pragmatic as ever, narrowed her eyes. "This isn't a parade. People look terrified."

Sanji lit a fresh cigarette, a plume of smoke obscuring his scowl. "Disgusting," he muttered, his voice low, his contempt for the World Nobles well-known.

Chopper whimpered, instinctively pressing closer to Franky, who simply stared, his mechanical eye whirring softly, processing the unusual display. Robin's expression remained calm, but her eyes, sharp and intelligent, were fixed on the approaching spectacle, a flicker of something akin to grim understanding passing through them.

Then, the crowd parted, like a foul tide receding. And there, carried on the backs of terrified servants, on a palanquin adorned with grotesque golden figures, was her.

Your breath caught in your throat, a silent scream tearing through your mind. It was your mother. Her face, perfectly unblemished, framed by an absurdly elaborate headdress, held the same haughty disdain you remembered. A cruel smirk played on her lips as she gazed down at the bowing townsfolk. She hadn't aged a day.

And beside her, walking with an arrogant stride, a smaller, equally ornate palanquin carried a figure you knew just as well. It was your brother, his face a younger, harsher replica of your mother's, his eyes holding the same cold, entitled gleam.

The sight of them, so sudden, so undeniably real, was a punch to the gut. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The scar on your face burned, an unbearable ache that threatened to consume you. You were here. They were here. And the blood that tied you to them, the blood you hated, felt like a literal weight dragging you down into the very hell you had fled.

The world blurred, the vibrant colors of the town dissolving into a sickening kaleidoscope around you. Your mother. Your brother. Their faces, once etched in the deepest, most tormented corners of your nightmares, were now terrifyingly real, illuminated by the harsh light of midday. Every fiber of your being screamed to flee, to disappear, to become invisible.

With a jolt, you pulled yourself out of the paralyzing trance, the instinct for self-preservation, honed through years of solitary survival, kicking in. Your eyes darted, searching frantically for cover, for any shadow that could swallow you whole. You instinctively moved, a frantic, desperate shuffle into the denser part of the bowing crowd, trying to melt into the sea of averted gazes and trembling forms.

But it was too late.

Even from her elevated perch, amidst the self-important fanfare, your mother's gaze, sharp and predatory, cut through the throng. Her eyes, those cold, calculating orbs, locked onto yours for a fraction of a second. A flicker of recognition, a subtle, almost imperceptible widening, touched her features – a terrifying mix of surprise and pure, unadulterated contempt. Then, a chilling smile, slow and deliberate, spread across her lips. It wasn't a smile of welcome, but of a hunter spotting her prey.

Your brother, following her line of sight, also saw you. His arrogant sneer twisted into a look of smug satisfaction, like a child who had found a lost toy he intended to break.

"There! The traitor! Seize her!" Your mother's voice, though not a shout, carried with the undeniable authority that commanded immediate, unthinking obedience. Her finger, adorned with grotesque, oversized rings, pointed directly at you.

Before the bewildered citizens could even process the command, two hulking figures, clad in the pristine white of World Government agents, detached themselves from the procession with terrifying speed. Their movements were swift, practiced, clearly anticipating such an order from their Celestial Dragon masters. The clapping of the citizens faltered, then died out completely, replaced by a terrified silence. The townsfolk, faces pale with fear, began to back away, creating a widening circle around you, abandoning you to your fate.

"Y/N!" Luffy's voice, sharp with concern, cut through the sudden hush. He, Zoro, and Sanji, their faces etched with confusion turning rapidly to anger, surged forward.

But the agents were upon you in an instant. Powerful hands clamped down on your arms, iron vises that bit into your flesh. You struggled, a desperate, frantic fight, thrashing against their grip with all your might. This wasn't a fight you could win, not with these men, not when your mind was screaming a million desperate warnings.

"Let her go!" Zoro roared, his hand already on the hilt of Wado Ichimonji. Sanji launched himself forward, a fiery kick aimed at one of the agents.

"Don't!" Your voice, raw and raspy, tore from your throat, cutting through the escalating tension. It was a single, desperate word, laced with an urgency that made the Straw Hats pause, even in their fury. "Don't interfere!"

Your eyes met Luffy's, wide with shock and a dawning understanding. You shook your head almost imperceptibly, a silent, pleading warning. They didn't know. They couldn't know. If they fought now, if they drew attention to themselves, if they revealed their connection to you, their freedom would be forfeit. Your past was a contagion, and you couldn't, wouldn't, allow it to infect them.

The agents, taking advantage of your momentary distraction, hauled you forward, their grip tightening, dragging you towards the waiting palanquin, towards your mother, towards the terrifying specter of your former life. The metallic tang of your own blood, from where their grip had broken skin, filled your mouth. And as you were pulled away, you saw the triumphant, venomous gleam in your mother's eyes. You were theirs again.

The agents dragged you forward, their grip unbreakable, pulling you closer to the monstrous opulence of your mother’s palanquin. The bubble helmets, pristine and gleaming in the sun, were undeniable proof of their identity, confirming the chilling reality of your capture. Your heart pounded against your ribs, a desperate drumbeat of dread.

"Well, well, if it isn't my dearest daughter," your mother purred, her voice dripping with an icy sweetness that was far more terrifying than any shout. She leaned forward, her eyes, magnified by the bubble, raking over your struggling form with a look of pure, unadulterated disdain. "Still clinging to that unsightly mark, I see. A constant reminder of your wretched attempt at freedom." Her gaze lingered on your scar, a cruel mockery.

Beside her, your brother, his face a smug mask of superiority, let out a short, sharp laugh. "Look at her, Mother. So disheveled. So… common. She always did lack proper grace." He gestured with a dismissive wave. "Just as filthy, disgusting, so ugly, I'm sure. Always has been. Ugly, disgusting, and filthy for sure." His words, the very echoes of your own deepest insecurities, struck you with the force of a physical blow. The shame, the self-loathing you had carried for so long, now had a voice, broadcast for the world to hear.

You strained against the agents' hold, a guttural sound of frustration and fury escaping your throat. You didn't care about the insults; they were meaningless compared to the threat of discovery.

The Straw Hats, witnessing the scene unfold, were a mixture of bewildered shock and growing fury. They saw the bubbles, recognized the abhorrent symbols of the World Nobles, and their instincts screamed to intervene. But your desperate plea, "Don't interfere!" still hung in the air, a confusing, restraining command.

Luffy’s rubbery face contorted in a rare display of conflicted emotion. His fists clenched, ready to strike, but your words held him back. "Y/N… what are they talking about?" he muttered, his voice unusually quiet, his eyes wide with a question he couldn't form.

Zoro, his hand still on his sword, snarled. "She's being taken by a World Noble! We have to do something!" His loyalty was absolute, but your command, delivered with such raw desperation, was baffling.

Nami's jaw was tight, her eyes blazing with indignation at the arrogant display of power. "They're just taking her? What right do they have?!"

Sanji, for once, was speechless with rage, a vein throbbing in his temple as he watched your struggle. Franky’s robotic eyes narrowed, his gears whirring softly, processing the injustice. Chopper whimpered, clutching Robin's leg, sensing the deep distress radiating from you.

Robin, however, watched with a quiet intensity, her gaze moving between your mother, your brother, and then to you, a flicker of understanding beginning to dawn in her perceptive eyes. She noticed the way your mother looked at your scar, the way your brother echoed your own inner torments.

Jinbe, his expression grim, stepped forward slightly, his massive hands clenched. He understood the unspoken threat, the power these people wielded, and the impossible position you were in. He respected your choice, even if it tore at him to stand by.

"Take her to the secondary interrogation chambers," your mother commanded, her gaze never leaving yours, a cruel triumph shining in her eyes. "She clearly needs to be reminded of her place. And fetch a cleaner. She's soiled the palanquin simply by being near it."

The agents hauled you more roughly now, dragging you towards a smaller, less ornate carriage that waited nearby. You twisted your head, your eyes locking with the bewildered, angry faces of your crew. You couldn't speak, couldn't explain. All you could do was meet their gaze, hoping against hope that they would understand, that they would trust you, even as you were being dragged away by the very monsters you claimed to despise.

The last thing you saw before the carriage door slammed shut was Luffy, his face contorted in a furious, confused grimace, his hand finally reaching out, futilely, into the empty air where you had just been.

The carriage lurched forward, rattling over the pristine cobblestones. Inside, the opulent interior, cushioned with plush velvet, felt more like a padded cell than a conveyance. You were slumped between the two agents, their silent, imposing presence a constant reminder of your captivity. Across from you, in the suffocating grandeur of the small space, sat your mother and brother, their gazes fixed on you with an unnerving intensity.

"Such a pity, isn't it, daughter?" your mother began, her voice a low, silken hiss that scraped against your raw nerves. "To be so thoroughly misguided. After all the effort I put into your… education." She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, her disdain palpable. "Running away to live like a commoner. It's truly a stain upon our name."

Your jaw was tight, muscles aching from the effort of holding back the torrent of rage and shame. You kept your eyes fixed on a distant point beyond the tinted window, refusing to acknowledge their presence, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Every fiber of your being screamed in silent defiance.

"Don't ignore Mother," your brother chided, his tone condescending. "Such disrespect is precisely why you've turned out so… unrefined." He gestured vaguely at your simple clothes, at the dust clinging to your form from your frantic escape attempts. "Honestly, I hardly recognize you. You barely look like you belong in polite society."

A spark, hot and bitter, ignited within you. You finally turned your head, your eyes, cold and defiant, locking onto your mother's. The familiar, self-deprecating litany had just been thrown in your face by your brother, and a perverse desire to turn their own weapons against them, however futile, clawed its way to the surface.

"Polite society?" you murmured, your voice raspy but laced with a cutting edge. You let your gaze drift pointedly to your mother, then back to your brother, a subtle, mocking sneer touching your lips. "Yes, I suppose my existence is quite the blemish, isn't it? A constant reminder of your… lapse in judgment, Mother. Getting together with someone beneath you, someone so common. A true disgrace to the celestial bloodline, wouldn't you say?" You paused, letting the words hang in the air, a silent accusation. "Such a shame, wasn't it? The very way I was made. A disgusting little secret."

The serene mask on your mother's face fractured. Her eyes narrowed, a cold fury replacing her earlier disdain. Your brother, for once, looked genuinely taken aback, his smug expression replaced by a flash of impotent rage. You had hit a nerve, a raw, festering wound they had long sought to hide. The brief, almost imperceptible flinch from your mother, however quickly masked, was a small, fleeting victory in the suffocating confines of the carriage. It was a dark, dangerous game you were playing, but at least, for a moment, you had chipped away at their impenetrable facade.

The vibrant hues of the town seemed to dim, the cheerful atmosphere suddenly discordant and unsettling. The place that had moments ago promised adventure now felt like a trap, its polished surfaces reflecting back their own bewildered, furious faces. The silence that had fallen after the carriage containing you rattled away was heavy, suffocating.

Luffy stood rooted to the spot, his usual boundless energy replaced by a stillness that was far more unsettling than any of his outbursts. His eyes, usually so clear and bright, were clouded with confusion and a nascent rage. "Y/N… what was that?" he mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. "Celestial Dragons? And… and her mother?" The words felt alien, impossible, a betrayal of everything he thought he knew. You, who always threw yourself in front of danger for them, who helped without question but never let anyone in—you, a Celestial Dragon? It simply didn't compute.

Zoro, his hand still hovering over his sword, let out a low growl. "They just took her. And she told us not to interfere. What the hell was that, Jinbe?" His patience, usually thin, was completely worn through by the baffling turn of events.

Jinbe's face was grim, a deep frown etched between his brows. He looked at the retreating carriage, then back at the bewildered crew, a heavy sigh escaping him. "That was a Celestial Dragon, alright. That was her mother, and her brother. They called her a 'traitor'." His voice was heavy with a sorrowful understanding. "And what they said about her… they meant it as an insult, but it means she's one of them. By blood."

The revelation hung in the air, a poisonous gas.

Nami gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "A… a Celestial Dragon? But… that's impossible! Y/N hates them! She protects everyone!" The very idea seemed to contradict every action you had ever taken, every quiet defiance you had shown against tyranny. The image of the people in the bubbles, the symbol of everything despicable in the world, now linked irrevocably to your name, was a bitter pill to swallow.

Sanji swore, a string of curses falling from his lips. He spun, kicking a nearby pebble with unnecessary force. "That's why she always kept us at arm's length, isn't it? Why she never let anyone get close! She must have been hiding it!" His initial anger at your capture was now laced with a painful sense of betrayal, a feeling of being misled by someone he had come to deeply care for.

Usopp slumped, his shoulders drooping. "So… she's one of them? The bad guys?" His voice was small, tinged with a child's disappointment. The world had just become a lot more complicated, and terrifying.

Chopper, his eyes wide with fear and confusion, looked between his crewmates, trying to make sense of the tangled emotions. "But… Y/N wouldn't hurt anyone! She helps! She's our friend!" His innocent trust was struggling against the harsh reality.

Franky ran a hand over his metal scalp, his usual boisterous demeanor subdued. "So, she's got that rotten blood in her veins, huh? That's… super unexpected." He wrestled with the implications, the ingrained revulsion for World Nobles clashing with his experiences with you.

Robin, however, remained calm, her gaze piercing. "It explains her guarded nature," she stated, her voice quiet but firm. "Her refusal to accept help, her constant vigilance. And what they said about her… 'filthy,' 'disgusting,' 'ugly.' Those are the very words she seems to believe about herself, aren't they?" Her eyes narrowed, a profound sadness entering them. "She carries the shame of her lineage, and it's clear she hates it more than anyone else."

Luffy finally lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over his distraught crewmates. The confusion was slowly giving way to something else—a fierce, unyielding determination. "I don't care who her family is," he declared, his voice regaining its usual booming quality, though now edged with a dangerous resolve. "She's our nakama. And they just took our nakama."

The weight of the truth was heavy, a dark cloud settling over the Straw Hats. You, their quiet, guarded, fiercely protective crewmate, were tied to the very monsters they despised. It was a truth they were just beginning to unravel, a complex tangle of past and present that would challenge everything they believed. But one thing was clear: you were in trouble, and they weren't about to leave you.

The vibrant hues of the town seemed to dim, the cheerful atmosphere suddenly discordant and unsettling. The place that had moments ago promised adventure now felt like a trap, its polished surfaces reflecting back their own bewildered, furious faces. The silence that had fallen after the carriage containing you rattled away was heavy, suffocating.

Luffy stood rooted to the spot, his usual boundless energy replaced by a stillness that was far more unsettling than any of his outbursts. His eyes, usually so clear and bright, were clouded with confusion and a nascent rage. "Y/N… what was that?" he mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. "Celestial Dragons? And… and her mother?" The words felt alien, impossible, a betrayal of everything he thought he knew. You, who always threw yourself in front of danger for them, who helped without question but never let anyone in—you, a Celestial Dragon? It simply didn't compute.

Zoro, his hand still hovering over his sword, let out a low growl. "They just took her. And she told us not to interfere. What the hell was that, Jinbe?" His patience, usually thin, was completely worn through by the baffling turn of events.

Jinbe's face was grim, a deep frown etched between his brows. He looked at the retreating carriage, then back at the bewildered crew, a heavy sigh escaping him. "That was a Celestial Dragon, alright. And the one with the bubble helmet... that was her mother, and her brother. They called her a 'traitor'." His voice was heavy with a sorrowful understanding. "And what they said about her… they meant it as an insult, but it means she's one of them. By blood."

The revelation hung in the air, a poisonous gas.

The Unthinkable Truth

Nami gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "A… a Celestial Dragon? But… that's impossible! Y/N hates them! She protects everyone!" The very idea seemed to contradict every action you had ever taken, every quiet defiance you had shown against tyranny. The image of the people in the bubbles, the symbol of everything despicable in the world, now linked irrevocably to your name, was a bitter pill to swallow.

Sanji swore, a string of curses falling from his lips. He spun, kicking a nearby pebble with unnecessary force. "That's why she always kept us at arm's length, isn't it? Why she never let anyone get close! She must have been hiding it!" His initial anger at your capture was now laced with a painful sense of betrayal, a feeling of being misled by someone he had come to deeply care for.

Usopp slumped, his shoulders drooping. "So… she's one of them? The bad guys?" His voice was small, tinged with a child's disappointment. The world had just become a lot more complicated, and terrifying.

Chopper, his eyes wide with fear and confusion, looked between his crewmates, trying to make sense of the tangled emotions. "But… Y/N wouldn't hurt anyone! She helps! She's our friend!" His innocent trust was struggling against the harsh reality.

Franky ran a hand over his metal scalp, his usual boisterous demeanor subdued. "So, she's got that rotten blood in her veins, huh? That's… super unexpected." He wrestled with the implications, the ingrained revulsion for World Nobles clashing with his experiences with you.

Robin, however, remained calm, her gaze piercing. "It explains her guarded nature," she stated, her voice quiet but firm. "Her refusal to accept help, her constant vigilance. And what they said about her… 'filthy,' 'disgusting,' 'ugly.' Those are the very words she seems to believe about herself, aren't they?" Her eyes narrowed, a profound sadness entering them. "She carries the shame of her lineage, and it's clear she hates it more than anyone else."

Luffy finally lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over his distraught crewmates. The confusion was slowly giving way to something else—a fierce, unyielding determination. "I don't care who her family is," he declared, his voice regaining its usual booming quality, though now edged with a dangerous resolve. "She's our nakama. And they just took our nakama."

The weight of the truth was heavy, a dark cloud settling over the Straw Hats. You, their quiet, guarded, fiercely protective crewmate, were tied to the very monsters they despised. It was a truth they were just beginning to unravel, a complex tangle of past and present that would challenge everything they believed. But one thing was clear: you were in trouble, and they weren't about to leave you.

The air in the interrogation chamber was thick and stagnant, reeking of old dust and the faint, metallic tang of fear. The ornate, oppressive decor of the World Noble manor was even more pronounced here, a mockery of luxury designed to break the spirit. You were shackled, not with rough iron, but with finely crafted, polished steel cuffs that bit into your wrists and ankles, securing you to a heavy, unmoving chair in the center of the room. The silence was absolute, save for the rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the distant recesses of the building.

Your mother stood before you, her pristine white robes a stark contrast to the shadowy room. Your brother, a smirk still plastered on his face, leaned against a nearby wall, his arms crossed, watching with casual amusement. There were no World Government agents, no guards within sight. This was a family affair, a private act of reclamation and punishment.

"Do you understand now, my dear?" your mother's voice cut through the silence, devoid of the earlier feigned sweetness. It was pure, unadulterated coldness. "You may run, you may hide, but you will always be found. You carry our blood, a brand that cannot be erased." She gestured with a dismissive flick of her wrist towards your scarred face. "That little act of defiance was foolish. It only served to mark you further, to remind you of the consequences of straying from your true path."

You stared straight ahead, refusing to meet her gaze, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing your fear. The shame was a burning coal in your gut, but beneath it, a cold, hard anger began to simmer. They had no right. No right to touch the lives you had chosen, no right to pull you back into this gilded hell.

"Still silent?" your brother sneered, pushing himself off the wall and approaching you. He crouched down, his face uncomfortably close to yours, his breath warm and cloying. "Such a disappointment. We had such high hopes for you. A useful tool, a loyal weapon. Instead, you became... this." He reached out, his manicured finger tracing the line of your scar, a touch that made your skin crawl. "So filthy, disgusting, so ugly, I'm sure. You truly believe you could escape who you are? Escape us?"

The words, the familiar, self-inflicted wounds now spoken by them, ignited a furious spark. You finally looked at your brother, your eyes blazing with an intensity that surprised even him.

"You speak of filth?" your voice was hoarse, but laced with a venomous contempt that cut through the silence. "You, who command others to suffer without a second thought? You, who bask in the agony of the innocent? That is true filth. Not me." You tugged against your shackles, the metal groaning softly. "And I would rather be 'ugly' and 'disgusting' in my freedom than a beautiful, gilded monster like you."

Your brother recoiled slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes before it morphed into rage. He raised a hand, poised to strike you, but your mother's voice, sharper and colder, stopped him.

"Enough, son. Violence is for lesser beings. We break them with the mind, not just the body." She stepped closer, her silhouette looming over you. "You have forgotten your training, Y/N. The art of persuasion. The value of obedience. But fear not, we have ample time to reacquaint you with your duties. We will remind you of who you are, what you are. And by the time we are finished, you will beg to serve."

Her words were a chilling promise, a testament to the tortures of mind and spirit she had inflicted upon you since childhood. You closed your eyes, a single tear tracing a path through the dust on your cheek, not of despair, but of a fierce, desperate resolve. They might break your body, but they would never again own your soul.

The air in the interrogation chamber grew heavy, the silence punctuated only by your own strained breaths and the ghost of your mother’s chilling promise. She and your brother eventually left, their footsteps fading into the oppressive quiet, leaving you alone in the dim light. The steel cuffs bit into your wrists, a constant, dull ache that grounded you in the horrifying reality of your situation.

You closed your eyes, not in surrender, but in an attempt to reassert control over the swirling chaos in your mind. The self-loathing, the internalized insults – filthy, disgusting, ugly – tried to resurface, whispered by the voices of your captors. But something was different now. The raw fury you’d felt in the carriage, the defiance that had allowed you to lash out, still simmered. It was a tiny, fragile flame, but it was there, flickering against the overwhelming darkness.

You pictured the Straw Hats: Luffy’s unyielding belief, Zoro’s fierce loyalty, Sanji’s protective anger, Nami’s sharp indignation, Usopp’s worried gaze, Chopper’s innocent trust, Franky’s silent concern, Robin’s quiet understanding, and Jinbe’s solemn resolve. They didn't know your past. They didn't know the full extent of the horror that coursed through your veins. Yet, they had been ready to fight for you. Your desperate plea not to interfere echoed in your mind, a decision born of protecting them from the taint of your origins. You wouldn't let your shame, your cursed blood, drag them into this particular hell.

A new resolve hardened within you. You might be shackled, but your spirit was not. You would not break. You would not let them win. You had escaped them once, and you would do it again. Not just for yourself, but for the crew who, despite all your efforts to keep them out, had somehow found their way into the guarded corners of your heart.

Meanwhile, back in the lavish, yet now unsettling, town square, the Straw Hats stood in a bewildered, furious huddle. The carriage carrying you had vanished, leaving an echoing silence and a profound sense of injustice.

"This is insane!" Nami seethed, slamming her fist into her palm. "They just took her! And she told us not to interfere!" Her logical mind struggled to reconcile your apparent command with the blatant abduction.

"I don't care what she said!" Luffy declared, his voice rumbling with an uncharacteristic depth of anger. His fists were clenched, his body trembling slightly with suppressed power. "They took our nakama! And if she's a World Noble, then she's a good one, because she hates those other guys! We're getting her back!" His simple, unwavering loyalty cut through the confusion. To him, you were their friend, and friends didn't abandon friends.

Zoro drew one of his swords a few inches from its sheath, the subtle rasp of metal a dangerous sound. "She fought for us countless times. She covered our backs. We don't leave family behind. Especially not when they're being taken by those arrogant bastards." His eyes, usually half-lidded, were sharp and focused.

Sanji’s cigarette hung forgotten from his lips, his face contorted in a dark scowl. "If those pig-faced nobles have laid a single hand on Y/N-chan, they'll regret the day they were born!" He exhaled a cloud of furious smoke.

Chopper, tears welling in his eyes, looked up at Jinbe. "Jinbe, what do we do? We have to save her!"

Jinbe nodded, his expression solemn. "Her command not to interfere suggests she believes our direct confrontation would put us in even greater danger, perhaps exposing something about her past. But that does not mean we do nothing." He looked out at the opulent buildings, his eyes scanning them with an experienced gaze. "Celestial Dragons usually operate out of heavily guarded compounds or specific government facilities on islands they frequent. This wealth suggests a strong presence."

Robin stepped forward, her voice calm and analytical, cutting through the rising tide of emotion. "She called them 'her blood,' and they confirmed it. And the things they said... 'filthy,' 'disgusting,' 'ugly.' She told herself those very words earlier today. She carries immense shame for her lineage, enough to hide it from us. This isn't just an abduction; it's a reassertion of power over someone who tried to escape." Her eyes met Luffy's. "We need a plan, Captain. A careful one. One that understands the depth of what we're up against, and why Y/N acted as she did."

Luffy’s gaze hardened, his playful demeanor completely gone. "Alright, Robin. What's the plan? We're breaking in. And we're bringing Y/N home."

The cold steel of the shackles was a physical manifestation of the invisible chains that had bound you your entire life. Alone in the oppressive silence of the chamber, with only the rhythmic throb of your scar for company, the facade you’d maintained for so long began to crack. Your earlier defiance, that fleeting spark of anger, dwindled, leaving behind the familiar, suffocating weight of guilt.

You closed your eyes, but there was no escape from the relentless replays in your mind. Images flashed, vivid and merciless: the terrified eyes of the servant you’d struck as a child, the silent pleas of the scholars whose lives you’d helped extinguish, the fear you had instilled in countless others. Each memory was a fresh cut, tearing at the already tattered edges of your soul. Your hands, clenched into fists even in their bound state, felt filthy. Every beat of your heart pumped the very blood you despised, a constant reminder of the atrocities committed in its name, the pain it had inflicted.

I am disgusting. The thought, an old, familiar torment, resonated deep within you. So ugly, I'm sure. Not just your scar, but every inch of your skin felt tainted, a canvas bearing the invisible marks of your lineage. How could you ever stand beside them again – Luffy, with his pure, unshakeable dreams; Zoro, with his unwavering honor; Nami, with her fierce spirit; Sanji, with his chivalrous heart? They were light, and you were a creature of the deepest shadows, brought into existence by the very evil they fought against.

The shame was a physical ache, a tightening in your chest that made it hard to breathe. You didn't deserve their kindness, their concern, their incredible belief that you were worthy of being their nakama. Every act of protectiveness you had shown them, every time you had thrown yourself in danger, felt like a desperate, futile attempt to atone, to wash away the indelible stain of your origins. But the more you tried, the deeper the guilt settled, because how could a monster truly atone for being born into such a lineage?

You hated every drop of your blood, every fiber of your being that connected you to them. The whispers of your mother and brother in the carriage – "filthy, disgusting, so ugly, I'm sure" – echoed in the silence, not as insults from them, but as the undeniable truth of yourself. You were a fraud, an imposter among the genuinely good, and the crushing weight of that realization threatened to consume you entirely.

Hours bled into an eternity in the suffocating silence of the interrogation chamber. Each tick of an unseen clock felt like a hammer blow against your skull, amplifying the relentless whispers of self-loathing. You were cold, hungry, and utterly drained, the last embers of defiance threatening to extinguish under the crushing weight of your past. Your mother and brother had returned briefly, their words like venom, twisting the knife of your guilt deeper with every uttered syllable. They didn't need to physically harm you; their psychological torture, a familiar method from your childhood, was far more effective.

Just as the despair threatened to swallow you whole, a distant, muffled explosion rattled the very foundations of the building. It was followed by another, closer this time, a resounding crash that vibrated through the floor. Your head snapped up, eyes wide. It wasn't the precise, controlled destruction of World Government agents, nor the subtle incursions of assassins. This was something else entirely.

Then, a sound that, against all logic, made a fragile, desperate hope bloom in your chest: a familiar, boisterous, utterly unmistakable roar.

"GUM-GUM… PISTOL!"

The wall of the chamber, thick and seemingly impenetrable, erupted in a shower of dust and debris. Sunlight, blinding after the oppressive dimness, streamed into the room.

Standing in the newly formed gaping hole, silhouetted against the bright light, was Luffy. His face was set in a furious scowl, his straw hat slightly askew. He looked less like a rescuer and more like an avenging deity. Behind him, the chaotic symphony of the Straw Hats' invasion was in full swing:

"Any perverted Nobles around here?!" Sanji's enraged voice echoed, followed by the distinctive sound of a powerful kick.

"YOW! Breaking and entering is SUUUPER!" Franky's booming laugh accompanied the shattering of another wall.

"Don't forget the loot, Nami! We need to make these scum pay!" Usopp shrieked, followed by the whizz of a Pop Green.

"One hundred and eight POUND PHOENIX!" Zoro's voice was a low growl, punctuated by the metallic clang of swords clashing.

Chopper, in his Guard Point, rumbled, "Leave Y/N alone, you bullies!"

Robin's calm voice drifted in, "Fleur: Wing." followed by the sounds of multiple bodies being effortlessly flung aside.

They weren't trying to be subtle. They weren't hiding their presence. They were loud. They were chaotic. And they were here.

Your mother and brother, who had just re-entered the chamber, froze, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and outrage. "What in the name of the World Nobles?!" your mother shrieked, her composure utterly shattered. "Who dares to desecrate our property?!"

Luffy’s gaze swept over the room, instantly finding you, shackled to the chair. His eyes, usually full of mirth, were burning with a fierce, unyielding anger you had rarely seen directed at anything but a truly despicable foe. "You guys!" he roared, pointing at your mother and brother. "You're the ones who took our nakama! Get ready to face the Straw Hat Pirates!"

Before your mother or brother could even react, Luffy stretched his arm, wrapping it around your chair and pulling you, chair and all, free from the floor with a mighty yank. The steel shackle snapped under the force, a small, triumphant ping in the chaos. He landed lightly beside you, his arm still around the chair, shielding you with his body.

"Y/N!" he exclaimed, his scowl softening to a wide, relieved grin as he saw your face. "We came to get you!"

You stared at him, tears pricking your eyes. They had come. Despite everything, despite the Celestial Dragon blood, despite your desperate plea for them to stay away, they had burst through the walls, loud and unapologetic, to save you. The shame was still there, a heavy cloak, but beneath it, a tiny, unfamiliar warmth began to spread through your chest. For the first time in your life, you felt truly, undeniably, saved.

The dust settled, the silence that followed Luffy's defiant roar broken only by the rapid thumping of your own heart. You were free from the shackles, but still paralyzed by a different kind of chain – the utter shame and terror of your past laid bare before the very people you sought to protect. Luffy still shielded you, his arm a solid, reassuring presence around the broken chair, but his gaze, and the gazes of the entire crew now flooding into the shattered chamber, were fixed on your mother and brother.

Your mother, momentarily stunned by the sudden, brutal intrusion, recovered with chilling speed. A venomous smile, cold and sharp as glass, stretched across her lips. Her eyes, magnified by the bubble helmet, raked over the Straw Hats, dismissing them as mere rabble before settling back on Luffy, then on you.

"Well, well," she purred, her voice carrying an unnatural calm that sliced through the tension. "It seems my wayward daughter has found herself some rather… enthusiastic new playthings. How utterly disappointing. And here I thought she was learning to appreciate a more refined form of entertainment." Her words dripped with condescension.

Your brother, regaining his composure, sneered. "These are the pirates she's been gallivanting with? So utterly common. Does she tell them her little secrets, Mother?" He stepped forward, his eyes fixed on you, a cruel glint in their depths. "Does she tell them what she really is? What she was trained to do?"

The Straw Hats bristled, their anger palpable. Zoro's hand tightened on his sword. Sanji's eyes narrowed dangerously. Nami's face was a mask of fury.

Then, your mother’s gaze sharpened, her eyes piercing each member of the crew as she began to speak, her voice slow, deliberate, each word a poisoned dart aimed directly at their hearts, at their deeply held values.

"Do these... heroes of yours, Y/N," she began, a sneer twisting her perfect features, "know about the blood on your hands? Do they know about the executioner you were? The 'family business' you were so proficient in?" Her gaze swept over Luffy, then Zoro, lingering on Robin. "Do they know that while they prattle on about justice and freedom, my dear daughter was busy slaughtering innocents?"

The words hung in the air, cold and sharp, freezing the Straw Hats in their tracks. Luffy’s defiant stance wavered, his eyes wide with incomprehension. Zoro's hand froze on his sword hilt, his usual fierce glare replaced by a stunned confusion. Nami's angry gasp turned into a choked whimper. Usopp's face went white, his jaw slack. Sanji’s cigarette fell from his mouth, unnoticed. Chopper began to tremble, burying his face in Robin's side. Franky’s whirring stopped dead.

Your mother continued, her voice gaining a mocking cadence, playing them like a cruel instrument. "Oh, yes. My Y/N here was very good at it. A true prodigy. We sent her to 'resolve' disputes, to ensure 'obedience.' Meaning, of course," she paused, savoring the horror dawning on their faces, "she ensured the complete and utter annihilation of anyone who dared to defy the World Nobles. Entire families. Entire villages. All at her command. All to prevent the spread of dissent."

Her eyes, filled with a triumphant malice, fixed on you. "She carried out our will, unflinchingly. She put them down like dogs. Didn't you, Y/N? You broke them. You silenced them. You ensured their screams never reached the ears of anyone who might care."

The silence in the chamber became deafening, broken only by your own ragged breathing. Their faces – their horrified, disbelieving faces – reflected the absolute truth of her words. The trust, the kindness, the acceptance they had so freely given you, shattered before your very eyes. You had tried to keep it hidden, tried to bear the burden alone, but now, the deepest, most monstrous parts of your past were laid bare.

The guilt, the shame, the utter disgust in yourself, became a crushing, unbearable weight. You had tried to be worthy of them, to be clean, but your past, your very blood, had betrayed you. And in their shocked, frozen silence, you saw not just confusion, but the dawning realization of the monster you truly were. The tears that finally escaped your eyes were hot, burning tracks, not for your captivity, but for the irrevocable loss of the innocence you knew you had stolen from them.

The world spun, the present dissolving into a horrifying echo of the past. Your mother's venomous words, describing you as an "executioner," ripped open a wound you had desperately tried to keep scabbed over. The interrogation chamber, the Straw Hats, your mother and brother – all faded into a chilling, vivid flashback.

You were ten. Your mother’s hand, cold and unyielding, rested on your shoulder, guiding you. Before you knelt a child, no older than yourself, eyes wide with terror, trembling uncontrollably. They had been caught trying to share forbidden knowledge, a simple, innocent act of rebellion. Your mother’s voice, a soft, dangerous whisper in your ear, had commanded you to make an example. "Show them, darling, the price of defiance. Show them the weight of our authority." The ornate, ceremonial blade felt impossibly heavy in your small hand. You had closed your eyes, tears streaming down your face, even as you obeyed, a muffled gasp, then silence, forever staining your hands, your soul. The memory was a festering wound, a testament to the innocence you'd been forced to extinguish, both theirs and your own.

The world snapped back into focus, the acrid scent of ozone and dust filling your nostrils. The piercing screams of your mother and brother now filled the air, laced with genuine terror, a stark contrast to their earlier arrogance. Their faces, contorted in shock, were smeared with dust and trickles of blood. They lay amidst the rubble, unconscious, knocked out cold by the Straw Hats.

You were no longer alone, no longer a prisoner. Strong, familiar arms were wrapped around you, pulling you gently from the remains of the shattered chair. It was Luffy, his face smudged with dirt but his eyes shining with an unwavering determination. He held you carefully, his rubbery limbs adapting to your shaking form.

Around you, the rest of the crew were a whirlwind of triumphant chaos. Zoro was wiping blood from his sword, a grim satisfaction on his face. Sanji was delivering a final, emphatic kick to one of the unconscious agents. Franky cheered, his metallic arms raised in victory. Usopp was doing a frantic victory dance, yelling about his "heroic" contribution. Chopper, in his Human Point, carefully examined the unconscious Celestial Dragons, a tiny frown of disgust on his snout.

"Y/N! Are you okay?!" Luffy asked, his voice full of concern, his grip firm yet gentle.

You could barely process his words, your mind reeling, trapped between the horror of your past and the overwhelming, undeserved reality of your rescue. "No! Wait! You can't… you can't take me!" Your voice was raw, a desperate whisper. You twisted in his arms, trying to pull away, to free yourself, not from their grasp, but from the horrifying realization that they were doing this for you, the monster.

"What are you talking about, Y/N?" Nami exclaimed, her earlier anger at your abduction now replaced by concern as she approached, her eyes scanning you for injuries. "We just saved you!"

"Bring me back!" you pleaded, your voice rising, bordering on a frantic sob. The words tumbled out, unbidden, fueled by a lifetime of self-loathing. "I'm filthy! Disgusting! So ugly, I'm sure! I don't deserve this! I don't deserve to be free!" You felt the scalding hot tears stream down your face, blurring your vision. "I don't deserve you! I'm a blight! My blood… it's tainted! I'm a killer! Just leave me! Please, leave me!"

You wrestled against Luffy's hold, desperate to be returned to the chains, to the 'justice' you felt you deserved. The very notion of their kindness, their unyielding acceptance after hearing the truth, was a torment worse than any physical pain. You were a monster in their midst, and the thought that they might still care for you after your mother’s revelations was unbearable.

Your desperate pleas, laced with self-loathing, hung heavy in the air, echoing amidst the rubble of the shattered chamber. You thrashed in Luffy’s arms, pleading to be left, to be returned to the very chains they had just broken. The words "I'm filthy! Disgusting! So ugly, I'm sure! I don't deserve this! I don't deserve to be free!" tore at their hearts, a stark contrast to the fierce, protective warrior they knew.

Luffy's grip tightened, his usually bright eyes now clouded with a raw, almost painful determination. He shook his head, a firm, immediate rejection of your self-condemnation. "No!" he roared, his voice cutting through your frantic sobs. "That's not you, Y/N! You're our nakama! And we don't leave nakama behind! Not ever!" His rubbery hand, strong and unwavering, reached up to cup your tear-stained face, gently forcing you to look at him. His gaze held no judgment, only an overwhelming, stubborn belief in you.

Zoro, though still reeling from your mother’s revelations, sheathed his sword with a decisive click. He stepped closer, his voice gruff but firm. "Shut up, Y/N. You think we came all this way just to listen to you talk nonsense? You're with us now. That's all there is to it." His words, blunt and to the point, held an undeniable undercurrent of acceptance.

Nami, her initial shock turning to fierce protectiveness, rushed forward. She reached out, grasping one of your hands, her grip surprisingly strong. "Don't you dare say that! We don't care where you came from! We care about who you are now! And who you are now is our friend!" Her eyes, usually calculating, now shone with genuine warmth and indignation on your behalf.

Sanji appeared beside her, his face a storm of conflicting emotions – anguish for your pain, and fury at the ones who had instilled it. "Y/N-chan," he said, his voice unusually soft, devoid of its usual flirtatious lilt. "Please don't talk like that about yourself. You are not filthy. You are not disgusting. You are our beautiful, strong Y/N-chan, and no one, especially not those pigs, gets to tell you otherwise!"

Usopp, still trembling slightly, found his voice. "Yeah! You always protect us! You're super brave! You can't just… just give up now!" His usual exaggerations were replaced by a sincere plea.

Chopper, tears streaming down his small, furry face, buried his head against Luffy’s leg, unable to articulate his distress but radiating pure, unconditional concern.

Robin stepped forward, her calm demeanor a steadying force amidst the chaos. Her eyes, filled with profound understanding, met yours. "Y/N," she said, her voice a gentle balm. "The past does not define who you are in the present. What they forced you to do... that was not you. It was a cage. You broke free. And we are here because we see you, not your blood, not your history. We see our friend."

Franky, wiping a stray tear from his metallic eye, managed a strained grin. "Yeah, Y/N! You're SUPER! No more crying! Let's get out of this crummy place!" His booming voice, for once, was a comforting rumble.

Jinbe placed a large, gentle hand on your shoulder, his gaze deep and understanding. "Child," he said, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. "Shame is a heavy burden, but it is not one you must carry alone. Your will, your actions with us, show us who you truly are. Not the person they tried to make you."

Their words, their unwavering belief, were like a lifeline thrown into the dark abyss of your self-condemnation. You still felt raw, exposed, every nerve ending screaming with the deep-seated loathing of your own blood. But looking into their faces, seeing their collective denial of your "filth," their fierce rejection of your "ugliness," something shifted within you. It didn't erase the past, didn't make the shame vanish. But in their eyes, you saw something you hadn't dared to dream of: a glimmer of acceptance, a love so unconditional, it dared to challenge the very core of your deepest, darkest beliefs.

The path back to the Thousand Sunny was a blur of motion and sound. Luffy still held you, his arm wrapped firmly around you, essentially carrying you as the crew moved with practiced efficiency. They smashed through any remaining resistance, their fury a tangible force against the stunned World Government agents and the terrified, scattering townsfolk. The chaos of their entry was mirrored by the swift, powerful storm of their exit.

You were vaguely aware of Zoro covering their flank, his swords a deadly blur. Sanji kicked agents aside with precise, enraged movements. Nami navigated the shortest route, her shouts guiding them through the bewildered crowds. Usopp and Franky created diversions, explosions and bizarre contraptions distracting anyone who dared to stand in their way. Chopper darted around, making sure no one was left behind. Robin’s hands sprouted, effortlessly disabling any remaining threats. Jinbe moved with quiet power, clearing their path with unyielding force.

You, however, felt a profound, bone-deep exhaustion settle over you. The adrenaline that had fueled your defiance, the raw emotion of your breakdown, had completely drained you. Your body felt heavy, each limb a leaden weight. The prolonged terror of the interrogation, the mental and emotional torment from your mother and brother, had taken their toll. Your sobbing had left your throat raw, your eyes burning, and your head throbbing with a dull ache. You were weak, physically and emotionally spent, a hollow shell. The world blurred around you, the sounds of battle fading into a distant hum. You leaned into Luffy’s warmth, too weary to resist, too broken to care about your usual need for distance.

Finally, the familiar sight of the Thousand Sunny appeared through the chaos. Brook, standing guard at the railing, let out a relieved, if somewhat confused, "Yohohoho! You're back! And quite the ruckus you made!"

Luffy didn't slow, bounding onto the deck with you still in his arms. The sudden quiet of the ship, after the pandemonium of the town, was almost jarring. He gently set you down on the soft grass of the deck, steadying you as your legs threatened to give out.

"Y/N!" Brook exclaimed, his empty eye sockets conveying concern as he saw your disheveled state, your tear-streaked face, and the lingering terror in your eyes. "Are you alright, my dear? What happened?"

You tried to speak, to offer some reassurance, but your voice was a dry, raspy whisper. Your body trembled uncontrollably, the aftermath of the intense emotional and physical strain. Every muscle ached, every nerve ending felt raw and exposed. The warmth of the sun on your skin, the gentle sway of the ship, should have been comforting, but you were too exhausted, too utterly spent to feel anything but the profound emptiness left by your recent ordeal.

The crew gathered around you, their faces etched with concern, their earlier anger now replaced by a quiet worry. They didn't push, didn't demand answers. They simply watched you, their presence a silent, unwavering testament to their commitment. You had been rescued, brought back from the darkness of your past, but the journey had stripped you bare, leaving you exposed and vulnerable, perhaps for the very first time.

The gentle rocking of the Thousand Sunny was a stark contrast to the violent tremors that still ran through your body. You lay curled on the grass of the deck, a thin blanket draped over you by Chopper, who hovered nearby, his small face etched with worry. The immediate rush of adrenaline had completely evaporated, leaving you feeling hollowed out, utterly spent. Every muscle ached, a testament to the internal battle you'd just fought, and lost, within yourself.

The crew moved around you, their actions muted, respectful of the fragile peace that had settled after the storm. You could hear the soft swish of Zoro cleaning his swords, the clinking of Sanji preparing food in the galley, the quiet murmurs of Nami and Robin speaking at the railing. Their presence, so recently a source of profound fear and shame, was now… different. Not comforting, not yet, but a steadying anchor in the turbulent sea of your own mind.

The raw edges of your scar throbbed, a constant reminder of the physical and emotional wounds. You remembered your mother’s cutting words, echoing your own self-condemnation: "filthy, disgusting, so ugly, I'm sure." The profound shame of your lineage, the guilt of your past actions, still clung to you like a shroud. You were an executioner, a tool of the very evil they fought. How could they look at you now, knowing that, and not see a monster?

You tried to push the thoughts away, to find the deep, isolated corner you usually retreated to, but the exhaustion was too profound. Your body felt like it was made of lead, every breath a monumental effort. The tears had finally stopped, leaving your eyes dry and burning, a dull ache behind your temples. You were adrift, caught between the terrifying clarity of your past and the bewildering, undeserved kindness of your present.

Luffy knelt beside you, his presence a comforting warmth you couldn't quite bring yourself to pull away from. He didn't speak, simply rested a large, calloused hand on your arm, a silent gesture of solidarity. It wasn't pity you saw in his eyes, but a deep, unwavering acceptance that defied all logic.

After a moment, Robin approached, carrying a cup of warm, steaming liquid. "Here, Y/N," she murmured, her voice soft, empathetic. "It might help." She didn't press when you hesitated, simply held it out until you, with trembling hands, managed to take it. The herbal scent was soothing, a small comfort.

You took a tentative sip, the warmth spreading through your chilled body. You knew they were trying to give you space, to let you recover, but the unspoken questions hung in the air between you. They had seen your mother, heard her chilling words. They knew, now. Or at least, they knew enough to piece together the terrifying truth.

You risked a glance at Jinbe, who stood a little apart, his gaze serene but understanding. He, more than anyone, knew the weight of such a past, the complexities of fighting against one's own identity. In his eyes, you saw no condemnation, only a shared, silent burden.

The silence on the deck was profound, filled with unspoken truths and the fragile beginnings of a different kind of understanding. The Straw Hats weren't just a crew; they were a force of nature that had shattered the walls of your emotional prison, revealing the raw, bleeding wounds beneath. And now, you had to face the daunting task of healing, of learning to live with a past that refused to stay buried, and with a future you never thought you deserved.

The silence on the deck of the Thousand Sunny stretched, thick with unspoken questions and the profound weight of your secret. The gentle sway of the ship, meant to be calming, only amplified the turbulent storm within you. You lay there, shivering despite the blanket, the raw aftermath of your emotional breakdown leaving you utterly exposed. The shame and guilt, momentarily pushed aside by the sheer force of their rescue, now roared back with a vengeance.

A raw, broken sob tore from your throat, startling even yourself. You squeezed your eyes shut, but the tears, hot and relentless, streamed down your temples and into your hair.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," you choked out, the words a fractured whisper, barely audible even in the quiet of the deck. Your voice was raspy, broken from earlier screams and sobs. "I'm so sorry… for being so filthy."

Another sob ripped through you, rattling your weakened frame. "I'm disgusting," you continued, the words a self-inflicted lash. "My blood… it's tainted. It's… it's poison." Your hands, still trembling, clenched into impotent fists, nails digging into your palms. "All those lives… I… I caused so much pain. So much suffering." The image of the child's terrified eyes, the scholars' pleas, flashed behind your eyelids, sharp and agonizing. "I'm an executioner. I did it. I… I took them. Because they told me to. Because I was too weak to stop."

You curled tighter into yourself, a pathetic, sobbing mess. "This is what they broke in to save?" you thought, the self-loathing a bitter taste in your mouth. "A crying, pathetic mess who deserves to be chained. Who deserves to burn. I caused the pain, and now I'm crying. How utterly pathetic."

The Straw Hats, who had stood silently, listening to your raw, agonizing confession, did not flinch. There was no judgment in their eyes, no recoil, only an overwhelming wave of something you couldn't comprehend: unconditional acceptance.

Luffy, without a word, simply tightened his arm around you, pulling you gently but firmly against his side. His warmth, his solid presence, was a stark contrast to the cold void of your despair. He rested his chin on your head, holding you close as you wept, his simple act of unwavering physical comfort speaking volumes.

Zoro crossed his arms, his gaze intense but surprisingly soft. "Shut up, Y/N," he said again, his voice gruff, yet devoid of any harshness. "Everyone has a past. Doesn't mean it defines who you are now." It wasn't forgiveness he offered, but a simple statement of fact, a challenge to your self-condemnation.

Nami knelt beside you, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She reached out, gently rubbing your back. "What they did to you," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion, "that wasn't your fault, Y/N. You were a child. They forced you. Don't you dare blame yourself for their evil."

Sanji stepped forward, his eyes blazing with fury—not at you, but at the unseen architects of your suffering. "Those bastards brainwashed you, Y/N-chan! They twisted your mind! You're suffering because of their cruelty, not your own!"

Usopp looked away, his own eyes wet, unable to meet your gaze directly but his voice firm. "You're our nakama! You help us! You fight for us! That's what matters!"

Chopper, trembling, climbed onto your lap, burying his face against your chest. You could feel his small, furry body shaking, but he clung to you, a silent, unwavering comfort.

Robin knelt on your other side, her hand gently resting on your hair. "The darkness they forced upon you is not a reflection of your true self, Y/N," she said, her voice a soothing balm. "Your efforts to protect us, your determination to escape them, that is the truth of who you are. And we see it."

Franky sniffled loudly, dramatically wiping a tear from his eye. "Yeah! You're crying about it, aren't you?! That means you feel bad! That means you're SUPER good inside!" His logic, though simplistic, was undeniably earnest.

Jinbe approached, his large, kind hand resting on your back, a silent anchor. "Regret is a heavy burden, child," he said, his voice a deep, resonant hum. "But it is also a sign of a good heart. The fact that you feel this pain, this shame, means you are not the monster they tried to make you. You are one of us."

You lay there, a sobbing mess, surrounded by the warmth of their presence, enveloped by their words. Their acceptance, so profound, so utterly undeserved in your mind, cracked something open within you. The guilt still gnawed, but for the first time, a faint, fragile seed of hope began to stir in the desolate landscape of your heart. You were still Y/N, the one with the cursed blood, the tainted past, but now, you were also Y/N, held by those who refused to let you drown in your own shame.

The days that followed your rescue were a strange, fragile dance on the Thousand Sunny. The immediate, agonizing shame of your past being revealed still clung to you, a heavy cloak you wished you could shed. Yet, beneath it, a new, tentative warmth began to bloom – the inexplicable, unwavering acceptance of the Straw Hats.

You still woke in cold sweats some nights, the nightmares of your childhood, the faces of those you had hurt, as vivid as ever. But now, when you jolted awake, trembling and breathless, there was a difference. Sometimes, a soft snore from the hammock above reminded you of Usopp's presence. Sometimes, the gentle creak of the ship's timbers was a strangely comforting lullaby. And sometimes, a small, furry head would appear at the edge of your hammock, Chopper's worried eyes silently asking if you were okay. You wouldn't always respond, but you no longer felt the desperate need to hide your distress, to suffer in absolute solitude.

Your interactions with the crew, though still cautious, began to shift. You no longer flinched quite as violently when Luffy clapped a hand on your shoulder, or when Sanji offered you a specially prepared snack. His flirtations, once a source of mild annoyance, now felt like a strangely comforting constant, a sign of his continued, uncritical care. When Nami asked for your opinion on a navigation route, you found yourself offering genuine input, rather than a terse, dismissive shrug. You even allowed Zoro to win a few more of your sparring matches, though you still gave him a run for his money. The quiet understanding in Robin's gaze no longer felt like an intrusion, but a shared silent knowledge, a bond forged in unspoken pain.

You were still guarded, the ingrained habits of a lifetime of self-preservation too deep to simply vanish. You wouldn't volunteer information about your past, and the topic remained largely unspoken among the crew, a silent agreement to let you heal at your own pace. But the walls around your heart, once impenetrable fortresses, now had small, hairline cracks.

Over the next few weeks, small changes began to accumulate. You found yourself lingering on deck more often, not just scanning the horizon, but observing the easy camaraderie of your crewmates. You watched Franky tinker with the Sunny, his booming laughter a surprisingly soothing sound. You found yourself listening more closely to Brook's melancholic songs, a shared appreciation for the beauty of music replacing your usual detachment. Even the stoic presence of Jinbe felt less like a reminder of shared burdens and more like a pillar of strength.

There were still moments when the self-loathing would resurface, a cold tide of "filthy, disgusting, ugly" washing over you. You'd catch a glimpse of your scar in a reflection and feel the familiar surge of shame. But now, the voices of your crew, their unwavering denials of those self-inflicted wounds, resonated louder. They saw past the bloodline, past the forced actions, past the scar, to the person you were now.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, you found yourself sitting on the railing, watching the waves. Chopper quietly approached, his small hooves pattering softly on the deck. He didn't say anything, simply hopped onto the railing beside you and leaned his head gently against your arm. You didn't flinch. Instead, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, you reached out a hand and gently stroked his fur. It was a small gesture, almost nothing, but for you, it was a chasm crossed.

You were still Y/N, the one with the cursed blood and the indelible past. But now, you were also Y/N, a member of the Straw Hat Pirates, slowly, painfully, learning what it meant to be truly seen, truly accepted, and truly free. The path to healing was long, but you were no longer walking it alone.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Fashion History

to try to include in your poem/story (pt. 2/3)

Exomis - a short, asymmetrical wrap garment pinned at the left shoulder, worn by men in Ancient Greece

Eye of Horus - or Wedjat eye, is an ancient Egyptian symbol that represents the eye of the falcon-headed god Horus and symbolizes healing and regeneration and was often worn for protection

Faience - a man-made ceramic material that was often used in ancient Egypt to make jewelry and devotional objects; it is usually a blue color

Falling Band - a flat and broad white collar often with lace on the edges, worn by men and women in the 17th century

Fibula - served as a pin to both hold garments together and to show status of those with prestige or power within society; was popular in Greek culture

Fichu - a triangular shawl, usually worn by women, draped over the shoulders and crossed or fastened in the front

Fontange - a linen cap with layers of lace and ribbon, worn flat and pinned to the back of the head

French Hood - a rounded headdress for women that was popular in the 16th century (from 1540)

Frock Coat - a collared man’s coat worn through the eighteenth to the twentieth century; rose to prominence mainly in the nineteenth century, especially Victorian England; characterized as a knee-length overcoat, buttoned down to the waist, that drapes over the lower half of the body like a skirt

Frogging - ornamental braid or cording that can function as a garment closure, or be solely decorative

Gabled Hood - a woman’s headdress that is wired to create a point at the top of the head and has fabric that drapes from the back of the head

Gigot Sleeve - a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist; also called leg-of-mutton sleeve

Guipure Lace - a type of continuous bobbin lace made without a mesh ground; its motifs are connected by bridges or plaits

Himation - a rectangular cloak wrapped around the body and thrown over the left shoulder worn by the ancient Greeks

Huipilli/Huipil - a woven rectangular shirt worn by women in Central America beginning in ancient times

Jerkin - a close-fitting men’s jacket, often worn for warmth, sometimes without sleeves; worn over a doublet in the 16th and 17th centuries

Justaucorps - a long-sleeved, knee-length coat worn by men after 1666 and throughout the 18th century

Kaftan - (also caftan) is an ancient garment, which originated in ancient Persia but then spread across Central and Western Asia; a kind of robe or tunic that was worn by both men and women

Katazome (stencil printing) - a traditional Japanese method for printing designs onto fabric using a stencil and paste-resist dyes

Kaunakes - one of the earliest forms of clothing; made from goat or sheep’s wool and meant to be worn around the waist like a skirt, it is recognizable by its fringe detailing

Kente - a Ghanaian strip woven textile that has striped patterns and bright colors with corresponding meanings

Knickerbockers - or “knickers” are full or baggy trousers gathered at the knee or just below and usually fastened with either a button or buckle; were initially worn by men in the late 19th century and gradually became part of women’s fashion; the garment was usually worn as sportswear and became especially popular among golfers and female cyclists, hence the term “pedal pushers”

Kohl - a black material made out of minerals such as galena and used for eyeliner and eye protection in ancient Egypt

Labret - a type of lip-piercing worn by various cultures to indicate wealth, prosperity and beauty

Love Lock - a lock of hair from the nape of the neck hanging over the chest to show romantic attachment; it was a popular hairstyle between 1590-1650

Lurex - a shiny synthetic fiber made of aluminum-coated plastic with a glittering metallic sheen

Mantua - a jacket-like bodice with pulled back overskirt that bustled in the back, often in elaborately patterned fabric, first worn in the 17th century

Medici Collar - a collar that stands upright on the back of the neck and opens in the front; this type of ruff was introduced to France by Marie de’ Medici in the 16th century, taking her name two centuries later

Moccasins - a type of soft animal skin shoe that were worn by Indians in North America

Muff - a tubular padded covering of fur or fabric, into which both hands are placed for warmth

Mule - a backless shoe

Muslin - a simple plain-weave textile made out of cotton and available in varying weights and finishes; historically, there were also varieties of muslin in silk and wool

Needle Lace -often known as “needlepoint lace”; is a term referring to the technique in which the lace is made of entirely needle work; it developed in the 15th century and then became very popular throughout the 16th century

Nemes Headdress - starched, striped linen headdress that draped on the shoulders and had a tail at center back worn only by royals in ancient Egypt

Panes/Paning - a method of decoration using long parallel strips of fabric arranged to reveal a contrasting fabric underneath that was fashionable from the 15th-17th centuries

Panniers - an under-structure used in eighteenth-century fashion that created a shape wide at the sides and flat at the front and back

Pantalettes - (also referred to as pantaloons) are loose, pants-like undergarments that covered women’s lower halves in the late 18th and early 19th century

Particolored - the combination of different colors within the same garment along the vertical axis

Passementerie - an additional accent or embellishment in silk or metallic threads, such as an embroidered braid, tassel or fringe

Pattens - wooden-soled platform over-shoes, which were commonly worn from the 14th century to the 18th century

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Fashion History ⚜ Word Lists

[regnumveritatis]

Quotes in common speech related to Arsinoe Athenide, peeress of sagacity, patron of the family as well as the neglected/forgotten.

1) Crocus and Mulberries: a term used for couples or things paired in general that no assumes will go well together but they do. This stems from the crocus being Lord Hermes sacred flower since it was created from the body of his dead lover whom the flower is named after and how the flower was associated with joy and cheerfulness whereas the mulberry that represented dedication and endurance was the garden plant sacred to Arsinoe. Despite them being completely different types of plants they not only grew well together but also helped mutually for weaving/textiles since crocus was used to make saffron which apart from being a spice was also highly sought after for dying clothes and mulberries were primarily cultivated for silkworms, with their leaves serving as the sole food source for the silkworm. So in that sense Hermes and Arsinoe together make richly dyed silk.

2) Watch out for the octopus: in reference to how in the courting challenge for Arsinoe set by Athena, Hermes sent his sacred animal the hawk to steal an object but the hawk lost to the octopus that stole it under their nose. It's basically an 'expect the unexpected' or 'be ready for anything' type of quote.

3) As pleasing as coral: A phrase meaning you've given a gift that will be treasured forever. In ancient Greece, coral was used as a medicine for sterility as well as protection from evil and the sea. Those living near the sea often used dried coral to pay tribute to Poseidon so by that logic he'd totally agree when people start using it to carve statues of his little girl. The first one is said to have been made by the Greek hero Perseus (named after Perseleia). According to the legend Perseus, after killing Medusa, goes to wash his hands in the sea and the drops of the Gorgon's blood (which had the power to petrify men), depositing on marine plants, create coral red. The hero saw the new material when looking for driftwood to carve a tribute towards Lady Loyalty in gratitude for her help slaying Medusa and cut off a piece thinking it might be useful in his journey. Perseus carved it into a figure of Lady Reason because the carmine reminded him of the goddess's vibrant red hair and left it for her at the altar. The goddess was so pleased by the gift she blessed Perseus' bloodline to never lose their wits and wore coral around her neck the rest of her days.

4) Laugh not at nettles: A quote telling us to look past the first impression and work with the tools at hand instead of dismissing them. Whilst often seen as a weed in modern times nettles were actually fiercely valued in ancient times because they provided a cheap and durable source of fibers that were often twisted into rope, sails and clothing. (Unfortunately the romans later consecrated the plant to Mars because its fabric was used to make legionnaire uniforms). Arsinoe taught the mortals to create the first sails and ropes out of nettles in answer to their pleas to have a means to fix their ship to go home after greedy merchants raised the prices leaving them incapable of buying rope or material to mend the wind sails. When the goddess arrived disguised as a kindly beggar pointing to the wild stinging nettles growing at the creeks and said this would be their sails the sailors laughed at the idea until they saw how the beggar turned into lady Arsinoe and showed them the process of turning nettles into fiber they promptly used for their vessels. They begged forgiveness and offered sacrifices that appeased the goddess, then they discovered fruits packed in nettle leaves retain their bloom and freshness because the figs they'd wrapped in the leaves for extra rations did not spoil.

5) When the otter tames the hare: A more polite say of saying 'It's never going to happen'. This alludes to how hares and otters are not happy in domestic settings as well as their patron gods since for the ancient greeks neither Arsinoe or Hermes would let themselves be 'domesticated' in the meek little tradwife way even if they did get married cause they were often exploring, working and changing the mortal world rather than staying at Olympus.

[farfromstrange]

Fictober Day 12: Rainy Days

Fictober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Prompt: Rainy Days (🌼)

Summary: When it rains, you and Matt like to cuddle.

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship

Word Count: ~750

A/n: I’m a bit behind with these fics, I’m sorry. But here’s day 12!

Read Me On AO3!

His heart beats steadily against your ear where it rests against his chest. His fingers trace your spine under the sweater you stole from him, and every so often, he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

He wants to consume you.

The rain rages outside, pattering against the window and the roof above. Every time thunder strikes, it sounds as though the building is falling apart. Matt holds you a little tighter then.

To him, the sound is rather soothing. It drowns out the noise of the city, the honking of cars, and the screaming of pedestrians who have never heard of the concept of peace. In a way, rain wraps him in a foggy blanket that protects him from the rest of the world. The real storm is the constant attack on his senses, threatening to tear him apart at the seams most days. 

Though not just the rain fills him with a sense of solace. When you’re lying on his chest, your heart beats directly through his skin. He feels you in every fiber of his being. The sound fills his ears, flowing through his bloodstream into his weary soul. His heart takes on a new rhythm, and he finds himself closer than ever to what he can only describe as calm. You taught him what calm can feel like. Now, he’s addicted to it. 

No thoughts racing through his head, no responsibilities to chase—it’s just you and him and the rain over New York City.

You shift slightly, slinging your leg over his in an attempt to get impossibly closer. “You’re warm,” you mutter, muffled through his shirt.

Matt chuckles. “So you keep telling me,” he says. 

“I just wanna…” You lift the fabric enough to slide your head under it.

His abs tense when the cold air brushes his sensitive skin, but that is quickly remedied by the feeling of your hot, minty breath. 

“What’re you doing?” He raises an eyebrow as you shuffle further underneath his shirt until your head pokes at his neckline. 

You give a little focused grunt, forcing your head through the small opening. 

“Told you,” you say. “It’s too cold outside.”

Matt doesn’t know what to say. You’re all over him. You’re inside of him, even. His arms tighten around you, impossibly so, and he pulls your head to rest in the crook of his neck. You’re right where you want to be. Where you’re supposed to be. Where you were made to be. 

He takes another whiff of your scent. God, he thinks, you are a drug. A dangerously addictive and all-consuming drug and his heart is weak; he is so weak for you he would do anything to make you happy. He would do anything just to feel you like this for the rest of his life with the rain, the sweaters, and the chamomile tea. 

“Koala bear,” he murmurs. 

Your chest rumbles with a chuckle of your own. “Human furnace.”

“At least I’m always warm.”

“Are you complaining?” you ask. “‘Cause I can get out.”

At even the slightest attempt to break free from the prison you’ve got yourself into, his fingers dig into your hips, and he pulls you back down against him. “Don’t,” Matt says, as stern as ever. “Stay.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

You lift your head, almost bumping him as you do. “For what?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Loving me? Choosing me? Staying with me? I don’t–”

You cut him off. “You don’t have to say it,” you say. “You show it to me plenty.”

In the way he holds you, the way he kisses you, and the way he knows you. He gets you flowers when you’ve had a bad day. He cooks you dinner even after a long day at work, and he comes home in the middle of the night bloody and bruised but alive. That is all that matters to you. 

Another kiss lands on the crown of your head. “I love you,” he says. 

Matt wraps you in his arms with nowhere to go, and he’s determined to keep you there until the rain stops. Until the rain stops and the world comes back crashing in. Until reality and time can no longer be ignored as mere social constructs. 

There is no one he would rather weather storms with than you, even if that means sacrificing his shirts to make space for you. When it comes to you, Matt thinks, personal space is overrated, anyway. 

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