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camels-pen · 2 months ago

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cinnamon brew (being here with you)

Summary:

“At the end of my shift?” Usopp asked, opening his blanket to Sanji as he settled next to him. Usopp pulled the blanket around them both, leaving his arm around Sanji’s shoulder. Sanji already smelled of tobacco despite the early hour. “Hmm, I dunno…” Sanji rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.” He held out a steaming mug; chipped and yellow with little ducks on it. It reminded me of you, Usopp explained once. Sanji ended up passed out for the better part of an hour. Usopp chuckled at the memory.

Sanji visits Usopp on night watch.

(hiiii everyone!! this is my Zine Piece for Caffeine Rush: a coffee and tea speed run zine, which is run by @bycmykae! Please check out the full zine!)

(Thank you to Ellory for betaing this piece! <3)

Ao3 Link

The ocean’s waves bobbed gently in the night, a lulling rhythm to those who lived atop her waters. The small pitter pattering of rain against the window was her crooning song. A hint of salt in the air, her own kiss goodnight.

And oh, how Usopp yearned to listen.

Instead, the harsh scratching of his pencil did its best to keep him awake, alert. Kept his mind thinking and blood flowing in the cold night. Ready for any threat that might come after them in this terrifying and exciting New World. Looking for anything—

Usopp’s chin bumped his chest and he startled with a snort. His eyes blinked open to a rough drawing of a bed and a man with messy bangs, his pencil having shakily trailed down the page where his hand now rested on his hip.

He shook his head, giving his cheeks a few pats before pulling the blanket around his shoulders tighter. It wouldn’t be long before Sanji started breakfast and the early risers made their way to the galley.

Then he’d be off the hook.

There was a knock at the hatch door. Sanji poked his head through, catching Usopp’s eye with a smile. “Coffee?” he asked, holding up a tray.

Sanji rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.” He held out a steaming mug; chipped and yellow with little ducks on it. It reminded me of you, Usopp explained once. Sanji ended up passed out for the better part of an hour. Usopp chuckled at the memory.

He accepted the drink, letting the warmth from the ceramic ward off the chill in his fingers. The steam drifted up, brushing past his face in a gentle caress. Freshly brewed with a lingering cinnamon scent. Usopp took a deep, satisfied breath.

“It’s great,” Usopp said, eyelids drooping to half mast.

Sanji laughed, short and sweet. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

Usopp hummed, sleep beckoning louder now that the cold was falling away. “I’ve got a nose for these things, you know.”

“Do you?”

“I do.” Usopp nodded. “I’ve been a judge for countless coffee contests along the Grand Line.”

“Really now?” Sanji rested his head on Usopp’s shoulder, his own blue mug set between his thighs.

“Of course. It’s been certified and everything.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I’ve judged the best of the best without tasting a single drop, so I can say with certainty that yours—” He took another deep breath, breathing in the steam, the warmth, the love. “Yours is the best of them all, Sanji.”

Sanji shifted on his shoulder, hiding his face. Usopp caught the red on the tip of his ear. “Trying to butter me up so I bring more next time?”

A dramatic gasp and a hand to his chest. “Me? Never.”

“Well, if you’re not gonna drink it…” Sanji reached for Usopp’s mug.

Usopp pulled it close to his chest. “Just because I don’t have to drink it doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

Sanji huffed a laugh. He leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to Usopp's nose. “Enjoy.”

And what more invitation did he need?

Usopp brought the mug to his lips, the first sip filling his tongue with warm, rich, cinnamon coffee. Bitter with a hint of sweetness and, as he swallowed, a lingering taste of vanilla on the back of his tongue. A pleasant line of heat travelled down his throat, warming his chest and settling in his stomach with a happy sigh. Usopp practically melted into the bench cushions, his ponytail bumping against the window.

“That good, huh?”

Wordlessly, Usopp nodded.

“Enough to make you speechless, even. I must be a miracle worker.”

Usopp spared a small slap to Sanji’s thigh. “Ruining it.”

“Says you. It makes mine taste all the better.”

Usopp’s eyes fluttered open to Sanji’s mug, now half empty. He hadn’t even taken a second sip yet.

“I can bring my mug down later—” Sanji’s head returned to Usopp’s shoulder. “Sanji?”

Sanji shifted, leaning more into Usopp’s side, nuzzling into his neck. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

“What about breakfast?”

“Did prep last night; it won’t take long to make.”

A nonchalant visit planned hours in advance. A fond smile grew on Usopp’s lips.

As if knowing he was caught, Sanji added, “I planned for today’s breakfast earlier this week.” Like that helped his case. “It just ended up a happy coincidence.”

Usopp hummed around another sip. Pausing to enjoy the heavenly taste on his tongue. “So you haven’t been looking forward to this since dinner?”

The night watch schedule was pinned to the wall in the boy’s dorm and Sanji made a habit of checking it every evening. Usopp had caught him more than once, apron on and using a ladle as a pointer.

“I didn’t say that. But if you want me to go…” he said, joking. There was an underlying truth to it, hidden behind his words. A fear of having overstepped.

“And get rid of my personal heater? No way.” Usopp curled his arm tighter around Sanji’s shoulder. “Give it up, you’re stuck here.”

Sanji chuckled, the force of it jostling Usopp as well. “I’d better make myself comfy then.” As if he weren’t practically laying on Usopp already. Not that Usopp was complaining.

Dawn broke over his shoulder, painting Sanji’s hair in a lovely golden glow. The soft notes of Brook’s violin drifted up, the first to rise after Sanji. The room was probably alight with thin slivers of the sunrise, the wooden walls a beautiful gradient of browns and bits of dust in the air glowing like little fairies dancing about. A familiar sight, but not the one he was looking at.

Sanji’s soft smile, his finger circling the rim of his mug, his body loose and relaxed.

Usopp reached to brush his bangs away, revealing Sanji’s other eye. Sanji’s finger paused as he watched, smile unbothered. A special privilege given only to Usopp, one that never stopped overwhelming him with a sort of love he could never express in words.

Usopp pressed a lingering, soft kiss to hair dyed gold. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered. As if any louder would break a rule etched into the very making of the world. As if Sanji might disappear again.

Sanji returned the favour, turning to press a kiss to the fabric of his long sleeve. “I’m glad I am too,” he whispered back, twining their fingers together.

Usopp took a third sip before setting his mug aside. Framed by the rising sun and with a warm drink in his belly, Usopp rested his head atop Sanji’s and closed his eyes, basking in the presence of his partner.

#one piece #usopp #sanji #sanuso #zine piece #caffeine rush #nemo the writing ho #!!!!!! im so excited i can finally post this!

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villainscomplex · 2 months ago

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Reverence

OUGH.... posting zine pieces part 2. this one was for the @bpfineartzine Also on: AO3

There’s something about cathedrals that makes Yotasuke feel impossibly small.

It’s something to do with the architecture, surely; the way the roof arches endlessly overhead and makes the entire building look larger than life. At the same time, it’s nearly suffocating inside, the weight of thousands of years of existence coming down at the doorway. If he’s being honest, Yotasuke doesn’t know why he keeps agreeing to go along with Yatora and his last-second whims. They’re university students now, adults in every sense of the word, but here he is, loitering at the entryway of the Holy Resurrection Cathedral while Yatora wanders in with wonder in his eyes.

In a way, he supposes, he owes Yatora. The other man ceaselessly drags him out of his shell, relentlessly pushes him out of his comfort zone, and challenges him at every turn. It forces Yotasuke to stop and think about his perception of things. That, perhaps, is why he agrees when Yatora calls, asking him to tag along.

The cathedral is in Tokyo, so the ride over isn’t long. Yatora dozes off, and his hair is still mussed from where it was pressed against the window when they get to the doors. Yotasuke fixes his stare on the strands, smooth where they’re pressed flat above his ear. The right thing to do, he considers, might be to tell Yatora to fix it. He doesn’t.

They pay their donation at the door and receive candles to light inside. When they enter the cathedral, the room ahead is nearly empty. This is when the feeling strikes Yotasuke; when the doors shut behind them and the oppressive weight of the room comes crashing down. Yotasuke takes in the red carpets, the blue of the stained glass windows, the alternating dark and light of the paintings lining the walls. There are no pews like he anticipated, only rows of brown chairs with crosses carved into the backs.

Yatora comes to a halt near the center of the room, his head turned up. Overhead, the domed ceiling yawns widely, reaching out with a grand chandelier.

A personal project, Yatora had called it. Yotasuke doesn’t know why he chose a cathedral of all places for a personal project, nor does he know what this project entails. All that he knows is that it feels like he has thousands of eyes upon him now. Every painting, every statue, every window watches him.

“It’s beautiful,” Yatora’s voice comes out, barely a breathless whisper.

It’s terrifying, Yotasuke thinks. He doesn’t understand architecture or religion. But what he does understand is that existing in this place makes him feel infinitesimal, merely a fleck in the course of the universe. Yatora moves, and Yotasuke follows.

Yatora has his sketchbook in hand, but he keeps it clutched close to his chest like he’s forgotten he’s holding it to begin with. He crosses over to the furthest wall, taking in the rows of paintings. Yotasuke stands where a priest would, turning to look out on the church. There’s only a few other people in the room, murmuring together near the doorway. They look as if they’ve had their time and are prepared to leave. Yotasuke is sure there must be someone leading other tours here somewhere, but if there is, they’re nowhere to be seen.

“Yaguchi-san,” he asks without looking back. “Do you believe in a god?”

He doesn’t need to look to know Yatora is listening. He hears the shuffle of shoes and assumes it’s Yatora turning to look at him. There’s a beat of silence that follows, and then Yatora steps past him, walking to sit in the first chair on the first row. He gazes up at Yotasuke, still standing at the pulpit.

“I think there’s something out there,” he replies after considering it. “I don’t know what’s correct, but we can’t possibly be alone, right? It can’t just be a coincidence we were created.”

Yotasuke makes a noncommittal sound. There are theories, of course, of the how and the why. The Big Bang. God. Gods, plural. In the end, there’s no way of knowing what the truth is until the day they die. The distinctive scratch of pencil on paper draws his attention, and he glances back once more. Yatora has dropped his head, sketchbook propped up on his knees as he hunches over it.

“I don’t know,” Yatora continues without glancing up. “I think believing in something is just comforting. It gives us purpose, I guess. Like we were all put here in this specific lifetime for a reason, meant to be who we are and meet the people we care about. I don’t know about fate and destiny and all that, but it couldn’t just be a fluke that I was able to meet everyone. I think we were meant to be friends.”

Yatora pauses in his sketching, glancing up to catch Yotasuke’s gaze. The blond smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he laughs awkwardly, “that sounds kind of strange, I guess.”

Yotasuke dwells on this for a moment. He doesn’t know where he’d be if it hadn’t been for Yatora entering his life when he had. By now, he surely would have quit art entirely. It had been his sole purpose for his whole life, and he can’t imagine where he would be if he had quit. These days, he’s coming to terms with his feelings more often, but he still doesn’t quite know who he is outside of art. It’s a process, certainly.

But he doesn’t think Yatora is wrong, not really. Yotasuke doesn’t know about belief, but he does quietly think that he was meant to meet people like Yatora. At first, he’d been resistant to the idea of a friendship between them, and though he won’t admit it, these days he doesn’t think he can imagine his life without any of them.

“No,” he finally replies quietly, not intending to say it at all, “it doesn’t sound strange.”

I get it, he thinks, but he leaves that much unspoken.

Yatora gives him a strange, near indecipherable look. For a moment, they hold each other’s gaze, and then Yotasuke turns away once more, breaking first under the intensity of Yatora’s golden-eyed stare. After a moment, he hears the sound of Yatora’s sketching resume. He doesn’t look to see what the other man is drawing, focusing on the line of paintings along the wall again. Despite their light backgrounds, the paintings themselves are dark against the brilliant gold and white of the architecture, almost frightening in their intensity.

Belief, Yatora had said.

Yotasuke can’t claim to be an expert on Christianity, much less religion as a whole, but he’s witnessed the unyielding belief some of them hold. He walks the line of paintings slowly, taking in the details of the carefully crafted faces, the depictions of stories he doesn’t know. He wonders if the artist had painted these with that same belief in his heart. Perhaps it had been someone eager to express their feelings on the subject, but maybe it had simply been a commission by someone entirely indifferent.

Still, it makes him feel something.

It’s this, perhaps, that keeps drawing people back. In the same way that he keeps coming back to art, people keep coming back to religion, to their god, whichever one it may be. He thinks about Yatora calling it comforting, rolls it around in his mind contemplatively. He isn’t sure how comforting the idea of all-powerful being watching over them is, knowing all of the things that happen in the world, wondering why that being wouldn’t put a stop to them, but he supposes there’s a part of him that understands it. It’s easier than the idea that it’s just them in a big, empty universe.

He drops his gaze from the paintings, shoving his free hand into his jacket pocket as he turns around to leave the pulpit. During the holy days, he’s sure this building is packed. A place like this probably isn’t meant to be viewed this way, empty and haunting, the weight of its purpose hanging over their heads. Yotasuke knows he won’t come again, but he can’t help but wonder what it’s like when the cathedral is full of life. He’s never gone to a Christian church, but he’s heard how they are, seen videos of what they look like with the masses of people and their hands raised in worship.

Yatora is still hunched over his sketchbook, nearly bent in two. It’s an almost comical sight, the sketchbook balanced on one leg and his candle tucked up between his stomach and thigh, but Yotasuke finds himself watching anyway. It’s a fervency of its own, the way art is Yatora’s god, and he’s merely a disciple passing on its word. It’d been that unadulterated passion with no real skill to back it up that had pissed Yotasuke off when they’d first met. For the first time, he’d felt genuinely threatened, and he hadn’t known how to deal with it. These days, he almost finds solace in it, knowing that even he still has a passion for art somewhere in him.

Belief and worship, passion and reverence—none of those feelings were so far detached from one another.

“I think I’ve got it,” Yatora speaks so suddenly that Yotasuke jumps a little.

The blond looks up, a mixture of determination and contentment swirling in his eyes. He grabs his sketchbook and stands, sending his candle tumbling to the floor. They both watch it roll across the crimson of the carpets. The tips of Yatora’s ears burn just as red.

“Right,” he says, like he’d only just remembered it existed.

Yotasuke hides a smile. “Let’s light them before we go.”

Yatora scrambles for the candle, and Yotasuke steps around him to make his way to the rows of firelight from other visitors. He finds a less lit area, setting his candle down among them, and Yatora joins him. Without a word, they both light the wicks, watching the flames spring to life, two more pinpricks of light against the brilliant backdrop. Yotasuke puts both of his hands in his pockets, watching the wax melt.

“Thanks for coming, Yotasuke-kun,” Yatora murmurs, his gaze fixed on the two fires, sitting side by side among the countless others.

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Yotasuke confesses.

“What about you?” Yatora asks.

He looks up from his candle, turning his gaze on Yotasuke once more. Behind him, the stained glass approximation of Jesus himself stands with his arms spread, wide and welcoming and blue.

“What about me?”

“You asked me, but I didn’t ask in return. Do you believe in a God?”

Another group enters through the doors at the front, led by one of the guides that Yatora and Yotasuke had turned down after they’d made their donation to get in. He hears their voices, but not the words they’re saying. Yatora is still watching him, gaze unwavering, eyes unrelenting and curious.

Yotasuke straightens up, leaving his lit candle among the many others. They’ll be extinguished by nighttime, taken out of the way for the groups that come in tomorrow, and the day after that. Still, it feels like they’ve left some sort of mark here, their own personal immortality. Yotasuke doesn’t think he believes in a god, but he thinks there are things here that could only be the work of something outside of their understanding.

“I wonder,” he murmurs at last.

Yotasuke doesn’t think he believes in a god, but as he watches the light filter through the stained glass, dyeing Yatora blue, he thinks that perhaps, in the wake of everything, there could be one after all. As they make their way back towards the door, Yotasuke looks up, gaze flitting over the still flattened strands of Yatora’s hair. He reaches up and fixes them himself.

“It was messed up from the train,” he says in lieu of a real answer.

It isn’t what he really wants to say, but Yatora smiles like he knows.

#blue period #takahashi yotasuke #yaguchi yatora #yatoyota #yotasuke takahashi #yatora yaguchi

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aktyzine · 11 months ago

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₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆CHOCOLATE EXCHANGE⋆★

Happy Valentine's Day from the ECLIPSE team! Thank you for your continued support of the zine! Please view the accompanying fanfiction below!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It feels almost silly to be wearing something so formal only to hang out at crase café. Toya went to the lengths of renting out the entire café space just for the two of them.

However, Toya left instructions for Akito to follow with a change of clothes.

Akito finds the prepared suit far too stuffy, but he would endure it for Toya. After placing his purchased box of espresso chocolate truffles on the table, Akito stirs in his seat with antsy hands.

It’s not long before Toya enters the cafe. The familiar ring causes Akito to perk up and offer Toya an awkward wave. Toya’s outfit matches Akito’s in motif and color, but he wears a hat on his head and his box of chocolates seems to be close enough as a professional’s.

Knowing Toya, though, it’s definitely homemade. Akito regrets that he didn’t make his chocolate by himself, but there’s always White Day next month.

Toya sits in the seat across from Akito and beams at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Akito. I can’t express my gratitude enough in words, but I always want you to know how important you are to me. Please accept this.” He holds his box up to Akito.

“You’re always so formal,” Akito laughs, but he takes it almost too eagerly. “Thanks, Toya. These homemade?”

“Yes, but please be assured that they are in prime condition.” Toya nods with a reassuring smile.

“Truthfully, it’s thanks to KAITO-san and the others for helping me make the best chocolate for the best partner, but think of it as a collective effort on everyone’s part.”

“Geez, now you make me feel lame that I just bought you some from the store…”

Akito clears his throat, trying his best to maintain eye contact. “Well, it’s still from a fancy chocolate store, so I guess that makes up for it.”

“Of course it does, Akito.” Toya smiles as Akito takes his chocolate. Akito slides his store bought box over to Toya in exchange. On the count of three, both of them tug at the ribbon and unravel their respective gift boxes. Eyes on both sides glint at the contents.

“Just checking, but…” Akito begins as he picks up one of the pieces of chocolate in his hand.

He rotates it between two fingers, inspecting it and all of its details. He takes a bite of it, letting the chocolate and orange filling melt onto his tongue. “Are these obligatory chocolates?”

Toya picks up a chocolate of his own, nodding at the aroma and reveling in the cocoa powder dusting his finger tips. “Akito, you know those aren’t obligatory chocolates. Unless you mean…?”

“Of course not! True feelings and all… well, thanks, Toya. This is super good.”

Akito finishes it off and licks his fingers. “I’ll return the favor on White Day… a whole lot more. Watch out.”

“Me too, Akito. I’ll make sure to make something even better.” Toya nods with some sort of new resolve in his eyes.

Akito shakes his head with a huff. “Just buy something, seriously. I can’t let you show me up next time…”

Toya laughs, popping his truffle into his mouth. After a thoughtful chew and a hum of delight, Toya smiles. “No promises.”

⋆｡°✩ THE END ⋆｡°✩

#akitoya #akty #project sekai #akitouya

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hinataoc · 8 months ago

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It's finally time to share my fic for @shatteredestiny-zine aka Dark Road Zine! I had quite the time figuring out what to write about for this zine. There's so much to explore! It's a part of the fandom I don't think is focused on enough, so this was the perfect opportunity to dive into it.

The entire team was just lovely and there are so many incredible fics and artworks throughout the zine that explore each of the characters. I personally chose to explore none other than Luxu. He's an intriguing one and I've always wondered how his possession powers worked. So that's what I decided to focus on!

Each writer also had an artist or two creating illustrations for their pieces! One of the artists for my story was the lovely @amyhayanora <3 Which I have the permission to share alongside the story! She found the soul of the piece and laid it bare. The combined Stations of Awakening and the desaturation on Bragi's half, it captured the atmosphere perfectly.

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Cycle of Existence (1911 words) by CurryFury13 Summary: Luxu stands amongst the gravestones of his fallen 'friends'. It's not the first time he's been in this position, nor will it be the last. The cycle of his existence continues… There's just one last loose end to tie up before he moves on.

----

Lightning pulsed through the thick clouds, flashing with strikes of whites and blues against the heavy gray. Rumbling thunder followed, roaring with unrestrained fury. It reverberated between the rows of tombstones, echoing and carrying across the cemetery like a wail. Luxu stood on a worn path, silent and listening. He wore a thick black coat. It was long, encapsulating, and concealed his identity beneath a hood that shrouded even his eyes from the world around him. Sharp rain bounced off the leather of his coat, spattering to the cobbled ground below.

He remained perfectly still while the whistling wind billowed the bottom of his coat. His gaze went from one gravestone to the next, reading the freshly etched names—Hermod, Urd, Vor… Bragi. He paused at the final name and for the first time since arriving he let out a noise—a single, breathless scoff that was lost in the wailing of the storm.

With a single motion, he pushed back his hood. Rain darkened his auburn hair, sticking it to his cheeks. He leaned his head up towards the clouds, welcoming the storm and closing his eyes. Another life, there and gone again.

“There…” he said softly. “One last time.”

“So that’s it then?” A voice asked from inside his mind, fleeting as if a stray thought.

Luxu’s brow raised at the voice, though he wasn’t surprised. With a flick of his wrist wisps of darkness sprouted from the ground. Blues and purples surrounded him, concealing the storm. Then everything went quiet. Luxu took in the silence, letting out a breath before opening his eyes. Stained glass spread out beneath his feet, brilliantly glowing from an ethereal light beneath it. Soft, yet vibrant hues splashed over Luxu’s coat, creating a shimmering kaleidoscope across the leather. He paid no mind to the light display, however. It was a familiar sight—too familiar sometimes.

He recalled the Master of Masters referring to it as a Station of Awakening—a physical representation of a heart. Or two, in Luxu’s case. Deep fissures webbed down the center of the intricate stained glass, each half depicting a different heart. One belonged to Luxu, the other to whichever hapless host Luxu decided to prey upon that century. At least, that was how his first host, Brain, had put it.

“Guess it’s about time you move on to the next victim, huh?” The same voice from before asked.

Luxu looked towards the other station. Its colors were fading. White cracks leaked over the faces depicted across it. Bragi sat in the center of it. He was kneeling, disheveled, his skin pasty white compared to the warmth it had in the outside world… when Luxu wore his face.

Bragi’s tired eyes didn’t even feign Luxu a glance. He stared at the glass, his thin fingertip tracing the veiny white cracks beneath him.

In return Luxu crossed his arms and scoffed in a playful way he often recalled the Master of Masters doing to him. “Now you don’t have to go saying it like that. Last I checked, I did you a favor.”

A pained laugh shook Bragi’s shoulders. “Fair enough… Still, you didn’t answer my question.”

The sharp edge of Luxu’s smirk dipped and he looked at Bragi, studying him. Seeing him now reminded him of when he’d first chosen Bragi as his carrier, host, whatever anyone wanted to call it. A sick boy — lost, forgotten, nearly on his deathbed. No one would have noticed him dying. Luxu liked to tell himself he gave him another chance at life. Brought him along for an adventure he never would have had the chance to go on otherwise. But it all ended the same way it always did. Back where they started.

Luxu turned away. He gazed out at the stirring cosmos beyond their Stations. “Gotta move on at some point.”

Silence was all he got in reply.

The silence stretched. Their breaths filled the quiet, Luxu’s long and even, Bragi’s labored and hoarse. Luxu’s grip tightened along his arms. The wait never got easier —w aiting for life to fade. He should have been using the time to find another host, but he didn’t move. It ate at him, nagging at the back of his mind as he watched the floating colors against the black emptiness around them. He needed to go, move on, but hearing Bragi’s slowing breaths… leaving didn’t seem right just yet.

He peeked over his shoulder and Bragi’s eyes averted to his fading Station. Luxu watched him for a moment, seeing the furrowed brows as Bragi’s finger repeatedly scratched the glass beneath him.

Luxu looked back to the cosmos. “You gonna say it or are you planning on stewing?”

Glass cracked, sounding like twinkling chimes as thin fissures webbed from where Bragi rested. Bragi swallowed thickly. “Why didn’t you do anything…?”

“Why didn’t I —what exactly?” Luxu asked, feeling Bragi’s glare against his back.

“You knew what Baldr was doing,” Bragi clarified, his voice trembling. “Why didn’t you save…?” His voice trailed off and he sucked in a breath. “I thought they were our friends.”

As if…

The thought immediately crossed Luxu’s mind and he winced. Over the years, losing friends didn’t carry the sting it used to. He looked up, even though the same cosmos awaited him in what should have been the sky.

“Figured by now you’d know the drill,” Luxu said finally. “Can’t draw too much attention, can’t interfere. I’m just here to watch.”

Silence stretched after his words fell to fading echoes. An entire minute passed before Bragi spoke again, “I guess I thought they’d be the exception.”

A scoff escaped Luxu before he could catch it. “You make one exception and suddenly everyone begs to be the next.”

“Speaking from experience?” Bragi asked.

Luxu chuckled and turned around. The cracks in Bragi’s Station were already thicker and spreading. He walked towards the center fissure, where their Stations met together; it was wider than before. Luxu traced his foot along it, watching loose shards fall away into the abyss below.

“It’s been quite the ride, hasn’t it?” Luxu asked.

Bragi watched Luxu for a moment, then looked away.

Blowing out a breath, Luxu straightened out his coat. “Well, I suppose the hunt begins.”

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

Even at night, the flowers in Radiant Garden were vibrant with color. Luxu walked amongst them, his attention on the towering castle in the garden’s center, rather than admiring the beauty around him. He stopped at the bottom of a stairwell that led right up to the main gates, but he didn’t move any further.

“This is the place,” Luxu whispered.

“ Are you sure?” Bragi’s voice asked weakly inside his mind.

Luxu smirked. “Word has it there’s a crazy old scientist in there studying hearts. And he’s got a whole lot of apprentices in there helping.” He turned around and disappeared into the garden, finding a shrouded corner to settle into. “So yeah, I’m sure.”

Bragi didn’t reply right away. A warm breeze whistled through the trees, swaying the flowers and twirling the occasional petal in the air. Luxu leaned back against a tree trunk, crossing his arms and watching the castle. “Now we wait and find the right person for the job.”

“ You seem excited about this…” Bragi muttered.

Luxu shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re about to ruin someone’s life,” Bragi started to say before breaking into a cough.

“Did I ruin yours?” Luxu asked.

He half expected the silence he got in response. Looking around from his hiding spot, he scanned over the garden and the castle grounds. Two burly men stood guard at the gates, lances firmly in their hands. A giggling couple waltzed along the outskirts of the garden, hands held and the rest of the world invisible to them.

Then Luxu saw him.

A man sat alone on a bench, hands linked between his knees as he stared up at the castle. He kept to himself so much that upon first glance, Luxu hadn’t noticed him. Luxu smirked, a familiar fire igniting in his chest. With a flick of his wrist, darkness wisped around him and his black coat transformed into Bragi’s clothes. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of the familiar blue hoodie and came out from the darkness.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked as he approached the bench.

The man startled, his brown eyes darting over to Luxu. He ran his fingers through his black hair and cleared his throat, scooting over.

“Thanks.” Luxu smiled and sat beside him.

He gazed up at the castle and leaned back in his seat. The man watched him for a moment before looking back to the castle as well.

“Pretty incredible, isn’t it?” Luxu asked.

The man nodded but didn’t reply.

Luxu continued, “You ever thought about seeing what’s inside?”

The man looked at Luxu from the corner of his eyes, then back to the castle. His brows knitted together before he answered, “I hope to soon.”

“What do you think is in there?” Luxu slightly turned towards him.

Straightening, the man said. “The sort of things you couldn’t comprehend.”

Luxu chuckled. “Is that right?” He turned to face forward and leaned far back in his seat. “Well, maybe I’ll just have to get in there and find out for myself.”

“Maybe you will,” the man replied.

“Luxu… ” Bragi said weakly.

Luxu blew out a breath and abruptly got up. “Nice talking with you.”

The man watched him leave with an arched brow and small wave of his fingers. Luxu waved back with more of a salute, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness. Once out of sight, wisps of darkness surrounded him and he reappeared in his Station.

To his surprise, he found Bragi standing. The color from Bragi’s Station was nearly grayed out completely. Entire sections of the glass were missing, leaving Bragi a single shard to stand on. Luxu met him in the center, both of them standing on their respective Stations. Bragi swayed side to side, and gradually lifted his sullen eyes to Luxu.

“This is it… isn’t it?” Bragi asked with a hoarse whisper, unable to hold Luxu’s gaze.

“Seems like it,” Luxu replied, studying him. “You ready?”

Bragi’s brows knitted together and he looked around. Luxu’s Station was brighter than before, pulsing with power and anticipation of the next heart. And there was Bragi’s… shattered and gray, about to be lifeless. Bragi let out a shaking breath.

“Yeah… it’s time,” he said softly. His eyes flickered towards Luxu, then away again. “This is the last chance I’ll get to say it… Thank you…”

“Thank you?” Luxu repeated.

“For giving me a second chance.” Bragi’s entire body shivered, more shards of glass falling away beneath him. “The years with the others, my friends, I…” His voice trailed off and he abruptly looked directly at Luxu with a determined glint in his eyes. “Don’t forget.”

“About you?” Lucu asked.

“About all of us,” Bragi corrected him, standing firm and tall for the last time. “Xehanort, Eraqus, Hermod, Urd, Vor, even Baldur. I don’t care how long you keep this up and cheat death. Don’t forget about us.”

Luxu stared back at him, rendered speechless for a moment. A faint warmth washed over his Station, a warmth he’d forgotten. Swallowing, Luxu placed his hand on Bragi’s shoulder. The corners of Bragi’s mouth curved into a subtle smile and Luxu chuckled. “As if I ever could.”

#kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts fanfic #dark road

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otdiaftg · 1 year ago

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The King's Men - Chapter Three

Day: Friday, January 5th Time: 11:10 PM EST

Kevin kept making inroads into the drinks. Andrew watched the crowd and sipped his drink at a snail's pace. Neil didn't know what to say to either of them, so he made himself busy. He traded the remaining full glasses on the tray for the empty ones littering the table and headed to the bar. Roland took it from him as soon as he was able. Neil folded his arms on the bar counter and watched Roland mix the next batch. "So Andrew finally gave in, huh?" Roland said. "That looks pretty bad." Neil almost reached for his face, but Roland was looking at his wrists. Neil's new shirt was long-sleeved, but it was made of a thin material meant to breathe easy in a packed club. The ends had slid up his forearms a bit when he folded his arms. He tugged the hems back down, knowing it was too late to hide the half-healed lacerations. As he did so he realized that rumble in Roland's words was all checked laughter. Roland gave an apologetic grin when Neil frowned up at him. "I'd wondered if being clean would cure that hands-off rule of his. Makes sense it wouldn't, now that we know about..." Roland shook his head and visibly forced his anger back. "I don't know whether to say 'thanks' for easing my curiosity or 'sorry' that sobriety has obviously exacerbated the problem. Just so you know, they make padded cuffs. You should look into them." "The problem," Neil echoed, lost. "What hands-off rule?" Roland looked startled, then confused. "You don't know? But then..." "I got these in a fight," Neil said. "Why would Andrew do this to me?" "Uh, you don't know," Roland said again, not a question anymore but a backpedal out of the conversation. "You know what, let's just forget I said anything. No, really," he said when Neil opened his mouth to argue. "Hey, here. Your drinks are done. I've gotta check on the rest of my customers." He vanished before Neil could get more than a "What" out. Neil stared after him, but there were no answers here.

Art used with permission by Smokesontheroof. Thank you so much @smokesontheroof

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writingnocturne · 1 month ago

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.⋆｡ﾟ 2024 Writing Wrap-Up! ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

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˚₊‧⁺˖ Top fic of 2024 overall...

Our Little Secret

Twilight Princess | Canon-Compliant Zelink | Telma POV | Rated T | 2,791 Words

Subscriptions: 1

Kudos: 97

Comment Threads: 7

Bookmarks: 26

This is the most Kudos I've gotten on a fic ever! It's always the low-effort TP Zelink one shuts... I'm still quite happy people enjoyed it, though! I never wrote Telma before this and it was a blast.

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See more of this year's stats below!

˖⁺‧₊˚ Top fics of 2024 by Kudos!

Our Little Secret | 97 | TP

Telma is going through the motions of running her tavern, as usual, and finds a familiar customer. This familiar customer, however, has brought an unexpected guest… And she just can’t figure them out!

Oats | 57 | BOTW

Link surprises Zelda with something familiar.

Remnant | 54 | TOTK

Link is instructed to step aside from the Ganondorf investigation temporarily. Unbeknownst to him, someone else is drawn to the same place he intends to visit.

First Snow | 49 | BOTW

Hateno Village is known for its string of snowstorms every winter. Its newest resident, Princess Zelda, anticipates the first one she's seen in a long time.

The Setting Sun | 38 | OOT/TP

Link and Zelda have at last defeated Ganondorf. With this, a lingering memory in their soul may finally move on and live anew.

˖⁺‧₊˚ Top by hits:

Forget Me Not | 809

Even when adventure and war comes to an end, some are unable to find peace. Link sets out on the sea in hopes of grasping it; but the fleeting dreams of a life he never lived only served as a vibrantly-colored mirror.

˖⁺‧₊˚ Top by comment threads:

The Princess's Heart | 805

A fairytale told in Hyrule, set in a forgotten age of the golden queendom. Passed by word of mouth from queen to princess, it is a tale of sacrificial love, hope, and determination.

Our Little Secret | 648

Listed above.

The Princess's Heart | 46

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˖⁺‧₊˚ Top by comment threads:

The Princess's Heart | 37,230

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˖⁺‧₊˚ Fics I wish would have done better:

Dearly Departed

Zelda contemplates her stolen mortality.

Dreaming of You | Across Time Zine

As the sun sets over Koholint Island, Link wonders if it rises over Hyrule. Marin reminds him of someone he knows, and she finds that "someone" is still on his mind.

Promise

Misfortune dooms the fates of a goddess and her first love.

Still Life

Link and Zelda head out to Lake Hylia.

˚₊‧⁺˖ Latest fic, unaccounted for:

Spin for Style!

Echoes of Wisdom | Canon-Compliant Zelink | Link POV | Rated G | 3,911 Words

Zelda has taken to roaming Hyrule to help all of those formerly affected by the rifts, but she's found the royal vestments to be getting worn… She seeks Link's help on finding something new until she can get them fixed!

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⋆｡ﾟ☁︎ ｡⋆ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ °｡ ⋆ ｡ﾟ. ﾟ｡⋆ My Ao3 .⋆ ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ ☁︎ ｡⋆

• ▪︎ • ▪︎ • ▪︎ • ▪︎ • ▪︎ • ▪︎ • ▪︎ • ▪︎ • ▪︎ • ▪︎ • ▪︎ ☾ Overall 2024 Stats:

This year has been a little more hectic than I would have liked (I got a lot more ideas than I did motivation to execute them), but I know I've improved over the past year for sure! I've received so many positive words over the past year (especially the past couple of months), and it's been a huge help. :) Thank you to those who have been reading my work and helping me improve! ♡

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Be on the lookout for The Mage's Lantern: Chapter 7!

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forestfairyunicorn · 1 year ago

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Huge thanks to @maireadralph for organizing yet another Zine event, and for this art piece, it was made to tribute my first ever Entrapdak fic, made just after season 4 aired.

Since the fic in the link is user-restricted, here is also the c/p for enjoyment

Rebooting: LUVD

forestfairyunicorn

Summary:

Post Season 4 ending. Spoilers in effect! Entrapta rescued "Hordak", but is it him? Inspired by my favourite Wall-E ending scene

“Hor-DAK!!!”

Entrapta’s voice cracked on the last syllable as she stared at the clone’s blank eyes, hands on his arms.

Physically, it was him. She recovered him from Prime’s other clones, she and the others got him back to her lab. She single-handedly, --she alone!-- got his armor running smoothly, the crystal back in his armor, deep purple amid dark grey.

He’s awake.

But not the same person.

He didn’t even recognize Imp. The little one was on Emily, silently crying and staring at Entrapta.

The clone repeated again, “I am Horde Alpha 24601. I live and serve Horde Prime. Who are you.”

The scientist just laughed. Watery, fighting tears. “A scientist and a failure, that’s what I am. And I don’t give up. I shouldn’t give up.”

She looked at him, tears shining. “You were cast out for being less than perfect. You were my lab partner.”

Entrapta leaned her head on his chest, directly below the crystal. “You were my friend. I believed that. I believed that imperfections are beautiful. I still do.” She whispered the last part as she moved away. Her hands moved down his arms, slowly leaving them, then stopped.

She felt something grip them. The clone’s hands held her fingers, gently, and increasing pressure. He whispered something. Entrapta glanced at his face, her eyes alight.

“You…are not…a f-failure.” The clone blinked twice, breathed twice, ears flicking up and down. He blinked again. Saw Entrapta.

Saw. Her.

He gasped, ears down, eyes widened, a tinge of red seeping in. “Entrapta?” he whispered softly.

“Hordak.” Entrapta grinned, tears flowing. Normally she’d have her mask down, but she can’t look away at this miracle.

Science has yet to explain miracles, but for now, she’ll believe in it.

His legs buckled, and he started to kneel. Entrapta guided him down, with her hair as support.

Both of them on their knees, hands grasping each other, until finally they came together at a hug. Soft laughter, incredulous, tears flowing freely.

“I,” Hordak spoke hoarsely. “I don’t remember much before.”

“That’s okay,” Entrapta nuzzled, “The crystal acts as a backup and a power source. Ingenious First Ones tech. Only flaw is that it has to be connected to you for memory logging and such.”

“Thank you,” Hordak moved to look into her eyes, oh her eyes, how he missed them. Her. “Please, tell me everything.”

She held his hand to her face, leaning into his touch. “It will take a long time, lab partner. And I’ll make a better one.”

He shook his head, a claw touching the crystal. “Imperfections are beautiful. We have time. I want to spend time, with you. If you’ll have me.”

Entrapta nodded, leaning forward. “Yes. We’re lab partners.”

Imp and Emily came closer, and Hordak smiled at Imp. That gesture unleashed Imp as he bounded at Hordak, screeching and chittering and rubbing his head against him. Emily wobbled closer, beeping joyously.

None of them registered the group when they came into the area. Overlapping voices. Shouts of “Yay! WOAH! What the heck? HEY! Go! Go go go go go!”

“Wait, are they kissing?” That was Scorpia. “GUYS LET’S LEAVE THEM ALONE, THEY’RE KISSING.”

At the corner of his eye, Hordak saw one of them double back to watch them, only for a large red claw to yank the figure back.

He doesn’t care one bit. He’s too busy staring into Entrapta’s eyes, and sighing at the wonders of this feeling, of love.

He is loved. So much.

#entrapdak #forry's art #entrapdak zine #spop

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mamamittens · 11 months ago

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And I Knew Your Name

@newscoozines

Here's my individual piece for the soulmate AU zine!

My AO3 version!

Gol D. Roger/Portgas D. Rouge

Soulmate AU: Enemy and Lover name on opposing wrists.

Word Count: 2,560

There was a thick black band on his wrist. Only one.

Usually, this was meant to signify loss. To cover up a fated name was to hide from fate itself in grief. That wasn’t quite Roger’s aim, though. If he wasn’t so worried that somehow that fucking name would appear somewhere less hidden he’d have cut off his own arm to be rid of it. It was an insult that they even darkened his skin with their dedicated letters.

He'd hide this until his dying breath if need be. Something Reyleigh would often roll his eyes at over Roger’s dramatics. But Roger was often called dramatic so that was hardly anything new. He was a self-proclaimed ‘simple man’. With few, albeit passionate, interests.

Adventure.

The sea.

His crew.

A good fight that set his blood alight and made his bones ache from the force—as rare as such a thing was these days. It made him nostalgic for his early days at sea where a true challenge was around every corner. He wouldn’t trade away any of it though. His only true heading that distant point on the horizon. The One Piece.

His name would be legend. Echoing well into a new age and if he was a very lucky man, into the ears of…

He rubbed his thumb over the delicate scrawl across his right wrist. The one not covered with a band. Hidden for a slightly different reason behind long sleeves.

If word got out who’s name was on his wrist, the Marines would hunt them down mercilessly. Though he knew in his heart that anyone who he’d have the honor of bearing their name could very well take care of themselves, he was a romantic at heart.

He wanted to see them in person first. Happen across their path.

The Voice of the Sea laughing as he felt his pulse race under his thumb.

Soon~

Gol D. Roger grinned.

He could feel it in his blood.

Although… given how vague the Sea could be, he didn’t expect soon to be so… well, soon.

Scarcely a week later, in fact. In a dingy bar on a tiny, terrorized island.

His crew was boisterous as always while the staff scrambled to accommodate them. He’d leave a good tip and spare himself the lashing Reyleigh would give him otherwise. They were hardly hurting for money and the people here could use it.

A bottle fell, shattering as Roger winced under the withering glare of his best friend and first mate. Quickly leaning down to scoop up the glass before the barmaid cut her shoes on it or tripped. He’d never hear the end of it then.

Roger sensed more than felt the edge of a blade touch the crown of his head, trimming a few hairs from the barest brush.

Reyleigh levelled his gun as Roger grinned.

“Oh? And to whom do I owe the pleasure~?” Roger nearly purred in amusement, impressed despite himself. His eyes flickering up to leather boots too small for a man.

Interest piqued, Roger followed the line polished leather over toned calves to just shy of practical shorts with many pockets. A flash of pale thighs visible from his vantage point. Puffy white shirt that bared slender arms with a generous bust. The woman kept her bladed staff level at his head, but his mind was far away from the possible danger his hair was in.

Pink. Her hair was the first, pale blush of dawn at sea with eyes the color of deep red coral. Expression deeply unamused and more than a little annoyed. Freckles splashed across her cheeks in a way that begged for his hands to see if they were flecks of sunlight to be brushed away. She looked like she knew exactly who he was and didn’t give a shit.

The world sang a note of sweet triumph and he knew her name like he knew the call of the Sea.

Deeper than the waves and beyond the cut of the horizon. Deceptively delicate in a way that invited him to touch while challenging him on the right to try.

He waited, breathless like the sea before a hurricane. Already forgetting the question while knowing the answer. But he wanted to hear it.

Needed to hear it.

To bear witness to the moment her voice carried in this dank little bar in the middle of nowhere like a revolution.

“Portgas D. Rouge. Bounty Hunter.” Her voice did indeed carry. Firm like adam wood and carving a space in his soul to last forever.

Roger nearly swooned, his knee touching the ground in reflex as he feverishly wondered if begging would earn him more words or just a look of disgust.

He was willing to risk it for a chance.

“You can take me anytime.” Roger breathed, the moment broken by Reyleigh groaning in disgust. A firm boot kicking his back jerking a grunt from him. “Anywhere.”

Another, much more pointed kick he ignored. He meant what he said.

Rouge—oh, what better name than the color in his veins? Racing in with every beat of his heart?—seemed equally disgusted with him. But her eyes were on him and him alone, so Roger counted that as a success.

He stood suddenly, power he didn’t realize he could still call his own helping him rise to his feet. Blade cautiously moving out of the way as Rouge eyed him with suspicion.

“What game are you playing, pirate?” She sneered, her lovely features twisting and pulling him closer. Taunting him to touch, or if he dared, taste. That would likely end with a blade in his gut but for even a heartbeat of time the price seemed fitting.

He travelled the Blues and saw so much beauty. It was only fair that he paid extra to hold it in his hands.

Roger rotated his wrist, sleeve pulling back as he bared her mark with a proud smile.

“Whatever game leads me to you, love.” Roger sighed, watching as she glanced at his wrist in confusion. Her eyes widened and for a moment she seemed to recognize her own handwriting.

But then she snorted, setting aside her weapon to flash bare wrists—both of them—at him.

“You’re full of shit!”

Disappointed, Roger pouted. He’d been hoping to one day see his name across a wrist he wouldn’t shatter in fury. But he supposed it was only fitting.

Like the Sea, Roger had no claim to Rouge herself. But she’d always have a claim to him. He’s always loved things he couldn’t keep.

Roger reflexively reached out to grasp her hands and she pulled back with a snarl. His lips quirked as he sighed, reminded of the sharp snap of waves on the hull of Oro Jackson. Deadly and filled with promise if he stepped foolishly.

But he was doomed to be a fool his whole life, so he found the steps familiar and with no shame.

He pulled back his hand and looked Rouge in the eyes.

“This is already more than I could ever ask for.” Roger reassured her, lifting up his wrist to brush his lips over the curve of her name.

Rouge flushed as though she could feel it and it took everything inside him to not surge forward and embrace her. To show her for just a moment in time how humbled he was to bear her name.

It didn’t matter that her wrists were bare. He’d been marked as hers from birth and that was a greater blessing than he could have ever wished for.

“Ewwww!”

“Gross!” His youngest boys hissed from well within the protective circle of his crew. Roger chuckled, glancing back at them with a wink.

They were still so young… they’d understand one day.

“Get a room, captain!” Reyleigh complained, nursing a beer.

Roger huffed at that one.

“Oh, she’d never let me!” Roger mourned. “I’m blessed to yearn from afar like the mountains calling to the depths of the sea. Maybe if I’m lucky she’ll deign to drown me.”

Several of his crew members screwed up their faces in disgust.

“Look at what you’ve done! You’ve mortified the poor girl and all she wanted to do was turn you in for money!” Crocus laughed, Roger’s head whipping around to find only the flash of Rouge’s silhouette as she left the door. His heart fell as tears pricked his eyes.

Still, he didn’t despair long. Couldn’t even if his crew wasn’t teasing him mercilessly.

Soon! Again~! Again~! The winds laughed from the crack under the door.

--*--

Rouge huffed, pulling her jacket in close as a cold breeze whipped across the cliffs. She’d been in the business since she was a young girl surrounded by pirates so stupid they’d drown in a puddle. They were a plague just about everywhere they went and she felt a curl of satisfaction in her heart every time she dragged more in. Even if they were barely worth the cost of rope to tie them up with.

She’d always been that way. Stubborn and burning. Her home island always tutting about her lack of order and propriety. When she was a kid, the others would tease her about her temper. About her pink hair too soft for someone with such a rough mouth. Taunt her with assurances that her wrists were blank because she’d always make enemies but never anyone of note.

Her ma said it’s because even the Sea knows when it’s beat—realizing before she even drew breath that deciding who her little rose bud loved and hated was futile.

And judging by the shit show in the bar only a month prior, Rouge decided that it was a good call to leave her skin blank.

If there was anything she was certain of, it’s that the scruffy pirate fool was closer to her mortal enemy than any lover she’d ever claim.

“If I’d known I’d be blessed in such a way, I would have brought an offering for the Sea.” A soft, husky voice reverently spoke. Rouge jolted, looking behind her to find it was that damn pirate again. His eyes just as wide as the last time she saw him, face open like she was the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

Her glare did nothing but delight him and Rouge tried not to think about how striking he looked in the golden light. The sun and sea had been remarkably kind to him, as had a life of piracy. Broad and strong with tan skin, he looked like he was ready to weather any storm. But his eyes looked like he was ready to fall to his knees at her word.

It was irritating and weak… but Rouge couldn’t help but think it strange.

She’d been stared at before. Leered upon like she was a delicate flower inviting their touch.

But she’d never been looked at with such open admiration. Like she was a storm breaking across the horizon with the fury of a hurricane and he had no desire to find safe harbor.

Gol D. Roger looked like he would die happy crushed under the waves and lost forever.

Still, he was irritating.

“Do you need something?” Rouge hissed, dismissing her train of thought swiftly before he noticed and was suddenly encouraged to continue his bullshit.

“Always. But I’d be a foolish man to not relish the chance to beg—if you’d have me.” Roger walked closer slowly, coming to a stop by her side, his eyes reluctant to leave her.

“Have you no pride? I thought that was something you pirates killed for.” Rouge huffed, rolling her eyes. Was she supposed to be impressed as how quickly he intended to fall at her feet?

“Arguably, I have too much pride. But there’s no shame in being man enough to know want.” He protested.

“You’re just saying that because of some ink. I bet you wouldn’t be saying any of that if your wrists were bare.” Rouge shivered a little as the cold wind swept by them, though the edge was less with Roger taking the brunt of it.

“If I didn’t have your name on my wrist, I would have fallen to my knees when you introduced yourself. I needed to prepare myself for when I finally heard you say it. I think I still might fall to my knees, actually. What other response could I have to such wonder?” Roger admitted candidly and Rouge wondered if the man was capable of feeling shame or this bizarre lustful worship of a women he’s barely spoken to.

“Do you really think I’m going to swoon when you talk like that?” Rouge asked despite herself.

“Of course not… I can dream of it though.”

“Dream smaller.”

He laughed, loudly and with his whole chest for a long moment. Finally, he calmed, wiping his face with a large grin under his black moustache.

“I’ve always been told I’m too ambitious for my own good!” Roger barked. “But I meant what I said. This is more than I could ever ask for. Every sailor get used to admiring the stars from a distance.” He said, looking at her with a fondness she couldn’t understand.

“What do the stars have to do with anything?” Rouge couldn’t help but ask, her gaze caught in his as the world fell quiet. Even that devilishly cold breeze falling still.

“The first thing you learn to use when sailing is the stars. You’ll never touch them. You won’t even see them all the time. But they’re always there and they burn.” Roger whispered fiercely, “If I thought there was a chance, I’d gladly burn at your hands. Your touch would scorch my bones until there was nothing left but dust. Carve out everything that’s yours and—if you deign to—throw the rest to the Sea. I could rest at the bottom in peace having known your embrace.”

Rouge, not for the first time, felt flushed at his words. So bold and shameless, she’d never guess he was a pirate menace if she didn’t already own his bounty poster.

“I-I still intend to turn you in for the money.” Rouge hissed, turning away sharply. Already aware it was too late to hide her fierce blush.

A rough, calloused hand grasped her own gently. Just enough to stop her, fingertips tracing over her delicate wrist as he pulled her back. She looked at him in shock and embarrassment. He lifted her knuckles to his lips and kissed them chastely.

“Or I could just buy you dinner?” Roger suggested, his breath curling over the back of her hand.

Her wrists were bare, not that some ink would tell her what to do.

He was a pirate and she, a bounty hunter.

But Roger… looked at her like she was beauty and death wrapped in one. Aware and covetous of her thorns. He was an idiot but strong. Passionate.

He may look at her like a man beholding a squall bearing down on his sails until they were shreds. But she was the one left breathless.

“That can be arranged.”

At her soft words, he lit up like the sun. Rouge had never been soft, but that was alright. Roger was soft enough for the both of them.

#one piece #roger x rouge #gol d roger #portgas d rouge #soulmate au

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chenziee · 1 year ago

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Of Pumpkin Pies and Whipped Cream

Another of my @opdilfzine fics! You can find this one in the digital add-on :D You can still grab a digital copy of the zine, aftersales are open until the end of August! <3

[ Read on AO3 | Ko-Fi ]

—————

It wasn’t often that Dracule Mihawk’s transponder snail would ring but when it did… It was a sure sign of a headache coming.

He wasn’t sure why he should even bother answering when he knew there would only be pointless chatter to be heard but even so, he somehow always found his hand gripping the receiver anyway.

“What is it now, Red Hair?” he sighed instead of a proper greeting.

“Oh, come on, I don’t even get a hello?” the man on the other side of the connection whined.

“No.”

The snail gasped dramatically in response to the curt reply, making Mihawk roll his eyes. And to think this was one of the most powerful people in the world. Ridiculous.

“You’re so mean to me.” Red Hair let out a long-suffering sigh but Mihawk could just hear the shit eating grin that was playing on the man’s lips even without looking at his snail. “How do I even deal with you? I should get paid for still keeping you company.”

Mihawk knew he shouldn’t have picked up.

“I’m hanging up,” he said bluntly, already reaching over to place the receiver back on the snail.

Immediately, the transponder snail’s face twisted with panic, mirroring Red Hair’s expression as the man started fumbling for words. “Wait! I’m sorry! Don’t hang up, please!” he cried, his voice begging.

Despite himself, Mihawk felt the corners of his lips twitching upwards the tiniest bit. It was strange; the man was loud, annoying, and bothersome, interrupting Mihawk’s peaceful and quiet days with a disturbing regularity and yet, Mihawk could never bring himself to tell him to leave him alone.

If he were to be honest… he’d have to admit that he would even sometimes miss his loud laughter, his stupid grins, and his idiotic stories and even more idiotic ideas. Even the ones that led to Mihawk having to literally drag the man to the Red Force after he would drunkenly whine and cry about how he was so proud of Straw Hat Luffy for hours and forcing Mihawk to throw him at Beckmann. After all, any captain was the first mate’s problem.

Or that one time when Mihawk had to break into a Navy prison to get Shanks out of there after he got arrested for eating without paying—he still had no idea how the marines in that town hadn’t recognised the Emperor.

For some reason, he missed all of that sometimes.

He would never accept Shanks’ lack of appreciation for good wine though.

“What did you call for anyway?” Mihawk sighed finally, leaning back into his chair.

“Just missed your sweet and kind voice,” Red Hair replied cheekily. “How are the kids?”

Mihawk groaned. “Don’t talk about them as if they’re mine. They just ended up here.”

“But you let them stay!” Shanks argued and Mihawk could just imagine the man reaching over to poke his shoulder.

As if Mihawk had a choice in that matter. Coming home from the war just to find two brats squatting in his goddamned castle, uninvited, with no means of getting the hell off the island after apparently getting launched through the air half-way across the globe—how could he have just kicked them out?

Not to mention he had tried. He gave Roronoa a boat. He gave him directions. He even gave him some food.

All that effort, only for him to come right back after making a full circle around the dead forest.

He would really rather let the kid stay than have to lead him by the hand like a toddler all the way to the coast—or more likely, chaperone him all the way to the next island. He held no illusions about Roronoa’s ability to follow a log pose by now.

“So? How are they doing?” Red Hair prompted after a moment.

Finally, Mihawk let his head fall back, his eyes shutting momentarily as he took a deep breath. “They’re fine. Roronoa’s still got a ways to go but it’s funny watching him struggle. Perona’s at least helping with the fields if nothing else.”

“I still can’t believe the dreaded Hawk Eyes, the strongest swordsman, likes gardening,” Shanks said with a laugh. “You need to let me try eating some of your crops one of these days.”

Mihawk chose to ignore the wink the transponder snail gave him. “You can have one of the fifty pumpkin pies Perona made.”

There was a pause before the snail raised both its eyebrows, the scar across its left eye shifting. “Fifty,” Shanks repeated flatly.

“It was a rich crop.” Mihawk shrugged. “They’re actually decent.”

“Will you add whipped cream and feed them to me?” Shanks asked eagerly.

A beat passed.

“Gacha.”

—————

Mihawk wasn’t expecting to hear from Shanks again for weeks after hanging up on him. They didn’t talk often in the first place but, more than that, the Emperor of the Sea could be nothing short of a brat. It wouldn’t have been the first time for him to get all sulky, going so far as to refuse to even enter the same sea Mihawk was in. This would usually end with Beckmann or Roux unable to handle the whining any longer and just dialling Mihawk’s snail number themselves and forcing their captain to just talk to the reason he was upset.

So, when the man himself appeared on his doorstep late at night only a day later, bottle of wine in hand and a smirk on his lips, saying Mihawk was surprised would be an understatement.

“You said something about pumpkin pie and whipped cream?” he asked with a wink, tilting his head to the side as he gazed at Mihawk with a cheeky spark in his eyes.

Mihawk stared blankly at the man for a moment. What the hell was he saying? Or what was he even doing on Kuraigana Island—or even just in Paradise, for that matter?

“I said nothing about whipped cream,” he responded finally, voice perfectly flat.

“Might as well have.” Shanks just waved his hand dismissively before forcing his way through the door past Mihawk as if the castle belonged to him.

Mihawk didn’t even care anymore.

With a deep sigh, he closed the door and followed after the red haired menace. It was only mildly disturbing how well Shanks navigated the complicated hallways of the castle—the very same hallways that Roronoa still struggled with after a whole year of living there. Had he really visited this place enough times to flawlessly lead the way three floors up, all the way to the cosy little lounge next to Mihawk’s room, chattering away about stupid stuff the whole time?

Thinking back… maybe he had.

Although he certainly hadn’t come invited, not even once.

“Shoes off the couch,” Mihawk ordered as soon as Shanks threw himself on the expensive piece of furniture as if it were a bed.

“Says the guy who puts his feet on the table wherever he’s invited,” Shanks grumbled—but still took his shoes off.

Mihawk huffed, putting a bottle of West Blue sake on the coffee table in front of Shanks before pouring himself some of the wine Red Hair had brought, then settled into his own chair. “So? That one is mine and I will not tolerate your disgusting, dirty boots on it.”

“Hypocrite,” Shanks said, sticking his tongue out at Mihawk.

The man only rolled his eyes; there was no point in even gracing that with a response. So, instead, he simply swirled the wine in his glass, then took his first sip as he relaxed and leaned back in his chair. If nothing else, he had to admit that Red Hair knew his alcohol; it was good wine. The colour was a beautiful red like garnet, its bouquet had fruity undertones, like cherry and raspberry. It had a smooth, rich flavour, lingering on the tongue for a moment but not overpowering—perfectly balanced.

“Are you just going to ignore me?” Shanks whined when Mihawk didn’t say anything.

“Why are you here anyway, Red Hair?” Mihawk asked instead of answering.

There was a moment of silence, silence that made Mihawk crack one of his eyes open to look at the man lounging on his couch like he belonged there. Mihawk clicked his tongue at the thought—the very notion was ridiculous.

Instead of dwelling on it, Mihawk took in the expression Red Hair was making right then. He was looking back at Mihawk, a wide, seemingly goofy smile playing on his lips… yet his eyes were serious, as serious as they were whenever someone would threaten one of the Emperor’s friends. Mihawk wasn’t sure what it meant.

But then, Red Hair opened his mouth to finally reply, “I was summoned by the promise of being hand fed pumpkin pie by my darling Hawk Eyes.”

“Again, I said nothing about hand feeding you. Are you a toddler?” Mihawk sighed.

“Yes.” There wasn’t a single hint of hesitation in Red Hair’s voice and Mihawk had to bite his cheek to keep his lips from curling into a smile.

“Then go back to your ship, I’m not your nanny,” Mihawk replied, keeping his voice carefully measured.

At that, Shanks gasped dramatically… and Mihawk knew what he was going to say before he so much as opened his mouth to do so. “You’re so mean to me! Meanie!”

There it was.

“I’m going to cut off your other arm and leave you to bleed out.”

“Ouch,” Shanks said before he burst out laughing. “We were just coming from the East Blue so we were close anyway.”

Mihawk was quiet for a moment, simply regarding the man sprawled on his couch; he took in how relaxed he seemed, more relaxed than the world ever saw him. And yet, his gaze was heavy, the deep scar over his left eye standing out in the dim light the same way it did ten, twelve years ago when it was fresh; when Shanks was just a young man who was barely coming to power. When Mihawk barely knew him.

But now, he knew the Emperor. And he knew him well enough to know when he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

"Whatever, it's not like I care," Mihawk dismissed.

“You’re terrible,” Shanks whined. “You’re seriously going to force me to admit I missed my boyfriend? My strong and handsome and oh-so-caring boyfriend?” Boyfriend?

Biting back a snort, Mihawk raised an eyebrow. “I did not ask, much less force you to admit anything,” he deadpanned.

“You just won’t admit you missed me too, will you?” Shanks sighed.

“What a pointless question. If you already know the answer, why do you bother asking?” Mihawk asked in response.

“Let me dream, you ass,” Shanks grumbled, closing his eyes for a moment before a grin took over his face once more.

Mihawk watched impassively while Shanks put his feet on the ground and sat up slowly, giving Mihawk that annoying look of his; the look that balanced on the edge between deathly serious and playful, and that always preceded something getting broken—a plate at best, Shanks’ last existing arm at worst.

And when Shanks stood up, not taking his eyes off Mihawk only to bump into the coffee table… Mihawk could only hope nothing too expensive was going to fall victim to the Emperor and his stupid ideas. So, he simply raised an eyebrow while Shanks cursed quietly, shooting a quick glare at the offending piece of furniture before his eyes turned to his lover—or boyfriend, apparently—with new-found determination.

It took only a moment for Shanks to stand right in front of Mihawk’s chair, staring down at him while Mihawk blinked at him slowly, blankly, one leg thrown over the other as he took a deliberately slow sip of his wine. Waiting for Shanks to make a move, daring him to do anything he might regret.

Like pissing Mihawk off. Or—

Before Mihawk could even finish the thought, Shanks reached out with purpose, his fingers closing around the wine glass in Mihawk’s hand, pulling it away… and Mihawk let him.

He watched in mild amusement as Shanks brought it to his own lips, taking a sip—one large enough to be considered a gulp and if it was in any other situation, Mihawk would have been offended by the disrespect paid to such good wine. As it was however, he could only smile the smallest bit at the sight of Red Hair licking his lips appreciatively.

“I have to say, I picked a really good one. And I don’t even drink wine,” he said with a small laugh.

“It’s certainly better than the swill you brought last time. Couldn’t have even been called wine,” Mihawk noted. “More like someone dumped a bag of sugar into grape juice. If the people who created that insult of a drink even knew what grapes were.”

“Oh, shut up,” Shank hissed, his face twisting in fake annoyance.

And Mihawk… couldn’t stop the chuckle that bubbled out of his chest at the sight.

Immediately, Shanks’ expression brightened, a victorious spark in his eyes as if he had just won a hard life-and-death battle and Mihawk rolled his eyes. He seriously could be such a child. Why did he deal with him at all?

He supposed it was one of those things that would never make sense… and Mihawk wasn’t sure he even wanted it to make sense.

He didn’t fight it when Shanks’ knee forced its way onto Mihawk’s chair, wedging itself in between Mihaw’s thigh and the armrest; the man himself leaned forward, towering over Mihawk and caging him in place. It was funny, how natural feeling his warmth against him felt—were it anyone else, Mihawk’s skin would be crawling but with this man, this absolute menace on the world and Mihawk’s life… he didn’t mind it at all.

Instead, he welcomed it.

He welcomed the warmth. He welcomed the weight on his legs—he wasn’t even sure when he had uncrossed them to accommodate the man who had decided to crawl into his lap as if he were a cat. He even welcomed the way his hands automatically came to rest on the sides of Red Hair’s thighs, thumbs rubbing circles into the fabric of his pants.

And he welcomed the lips now hovering so close to his own.

Mihawk huffed in amusement; he could only imagine how the world would react to seeing the mighty Emperor of the Sea like this—sitting in his lap, basically begging for his touch, his lips. Too bad he was the only one who would ever see him this way.

It only took a split second for their lips to connect, the kiss hungry and desperate, as if they were trying to make up for the almost three months of separation in that single touch. They moved against each other with practised ease, Shanks’ lips stretching into a smile against Mihawk’s mouth. Despite himself… the gesture made Mihawk want to smile as well.

He let his hands wander, sliding up and down the man’s thighs before moving up, slipping underneath his loose and wrinkled dress shirt until he touched bare skin.

Shanks shivered under his touch, but seemingly determined not to lose, he let his tongue run slowly over Mihawk’s mouth, his teeth scraping lightly over his bottom lip—teasing, without deepening the kiss. Not pulling away even the slightest bit, Shanks started shuffling then, searching blindly with his hand behind himself—until something shattered.

And once Shanks’ hand came to rest against his cheek, the fingers stroking his skin gently before sliding into his hair… Mihawk was reminded of the wine glass that was—had been—in Shanks’ hand, now most likely lying broken into pieces with red wine spilling all over his expensive white fur carpet.

“You’re cleaning that up,” Mihawk said flatly against Shanks’ lips.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” Shanks muttered, his breath caressing Mihawk’s cheek while his fingers curled in Mihawk’s hair to scratch his scalp gently, sending shivers of pleasure down the swordsman’s spine.

Gulping heavily to keep his voice level, Mihawk repeated, “You’re cleaning that up.”

“Fine. Tomorrow. But now shut up,” Red Hair hissed before he moved forward once more—only to bite Mihawk’s bottom lip in retaliation.

As if he had any right to retaliate after ruining the fucking carpet.

Mihawk was going to make sure it was either spotless by the time the menace left, or paid for in equal value with whatever means.

But right now, with said menace licking and sucking on his neck, he couldn’t say he cared. Right now, he only cared about those lips, the fingers tangled in his hair, and the soft skin of Shanks’ sides that seemed to be burning under Mihawk’s touch… and Shank's sweet, almost delicate moans as he pulled himself closer to grind against him.

Moans so quiet that Mihawk could barely make them out—meant for his ears only.

And he was going to make sure he got enough of all of them, enough of Shanks tonight to make up for all the time they had spent apart.

—————

Zoro’s morning started just like any other. He woke up at 7 AM, got dressed and brushed his teeth, then it was straight to his usual twenty minute run around the island. After getting back two hours later, it was time for a quick shower—he didn’t see the point when he knew he was just going get sweaty again later but Perona could get fucking unbearable otherwise. She’d end up complaining endlessly about his sweaty brow, and even being on the same island with someone so ‘smelly’ and ‘disgusting’. He would really rather take a pointless shower than deal with one minute of that so he begrudgingly made his way to the bathroom before he could finally head to the kitchen for breakfast.

He wasn’t surprised to find Perona already sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of pancakes and a steaming cup of tea in front of her, the stupid ugly bear of hers sitting securely on her lap. Hawk Eyes was exactly where Zoro had expected him—standing at the stove, making the pancakes that Perona was happily shoving into her mouth as if they were the best meal she had ever eaten.

Zoro had to wonder just what kind of food the woman used to eat while at Thriller Bark. Sure, Hawk Eyes was a decent cook but nowhere as good as Curly. Zoro wasn’t sure if that said more about Perona's culinary experiences or Curly… but Zoro would be damned if he so much as admitted he might have possibly maybe kind of missed the asshole’s cooking.

Whatever.

“Good morning.” Zoro yawned, grabbing a pancake off of Perona’s plate as he passed by.

“Hey! Get your own!” Perona yelled instead of returning the greeting.

Hawk Eyes sighed, flipping the fresh pancake he was making. “Grab your own plate or you’re not getting any, Roronoa.”

Shoving the rest of the stolen pancake into his mouth, Zoro rolled his eyes, passing by Hawk Eyes to get some water since he was still being unjustly forced to live without alcohol. Soon, he would earn his right to have a goddamned beer, though. He’s almost got it, he was going to turn his blades black for sure. Any day now.

“Any sake in that fridge?” came an unfamiliar voice from behind him.

Zoro frowned, turning his head to the side to look over his shoulder to look at the man standing behind him—his red hair and that scar looked vaguely familiar but Zoro couldn’t for the life of him place that face. He was tall, his uncovered chest sported powerful, well defined muscles, his very presence making it obvious he was strong, much stronger than Zoro despite his missing left arm… but it wasn’t like that had ever stopped him.

“You talk about alcohol in front of me one more time and I’m going to cut you,” Zoro growled, full of annoyance as he slammed the fridge door shut.

“Scary,” the man laughed loudly before side stepping Zoro to get to the fridge.

Zoro simply rolled his eyes, deciding it wasn’t worth it getting mad over not being taken seriously. It was too damn early for that. So, instead, he walked away, taking a plate of Hawk Eyes’ pancakes before dropping into his designated chair opposite of Perona.

“So where are all the pumpkin pies I was promised?” the stranger asked then.

“Pantry,” Hawk Eyes replied absentmindedly while he poured hot water into a mug.

Perona’s eyes widened. “Are you giving out my pies for free?!” she asked, scandalised.

“Thank god. I’ve had enough pumpkin to last me till the next life,” Zoro muttered.

“Excuse me?!” Perona hissed, turning to glare at him instead.

Zoro simply ignored her, turning his attention back to his pancakes; they were sweet and he hated sweet things… but it was still worlds better than having to eat pumpkin pie for breakfast for the third time that week.

“Would you rather I throw them out, Ghost Girl?” Hawk Eyes asked flatly, making Perona puff up… before she deflated, begrudgingly admitting the man had a point.

The red haired man laughed loudly again. “So domestic. What a sweet little family.”

“Shut the hell up, Red Hair.” Hawk Eyes shot back, obviously not amused by the remark.

“Sorry sorry,” the man apologised… yet his voice was still shaking with laughter when he walked off to drop into a chair next to Zoro at the table as if it were a normal Sunday.

It was only once Perona had to slap the man’s hand away from her plate that something seemed to click in her mind and she froze. She didn’t move at all for a long while, simply staring at the stranger who was trying to steal her breakfast exactly the same way Zoro had earlier… until her mouth fell open and she slammed her hands at the table as she shot up from her chair.

“Shanks?!” she screeched. “‘Red Hair’ Shanks?!”

The man blinked, obviously taken aback by the sudden development. “Uh yeah?” he tried uncertainly.

“Oh my god,” she said, her hands flying up to slap at her cheeks; maybe trying to get herself to wake up from a dream.

Zoro, on the other hand, tilted his head to the side as he looked at Perona, then the red haired man, then at Perona again. Shanks. Why did that sound familiar?

Wait.

“Shanks as in the Emperor?” he asked, voice full of disbelief even to his own ears.

At that, Shanks laughed. It was a full-blown, unrestrained laughter, one that reminded Zoro of his own captain. But Luffy wasn’t there; instead, one of the strongest, most powerful people in the world was sitting next to him, laughing so hard he could barely breathe while Zoro and Perona just sat there, staring at him like he was a mirage—or maybe a hallucination.

Maybe those stupid pumpkin pies had gone bad sooner than they had thought and now they were all suffering from food poisoning? That honestly seemed more plausible that an Emperor of the Sea sitting in their fucking kitchen.

“What is ‘Red Hair’ Shanks doing in our kitchen?! Why?! What’s going on?!” Perona rattled off, seemingly on the verge of hysterics.

“Stop screaming, Ghost Girl,” Hawk Eyes said with annoyance as he approached them. “This is my kitchen, be glad I didn’t kick you out. Here, your coffee,” he added, putting a steaming mug in front of the fucking Emperor of the Sea.

Or more like milk with a splash of coffee. Disgusting.

A soft smile spread on Shanks’ face at that. “Thanks, love,” he said, catching Mihawk’s wrist before he could walk away—

And Zoro and Perona could only watch with wide eyes as Shanks let go of Mihawk’s hand only to continue further up the man’s arm, moving gently over the thin fabric of his shirt until he touched bare skin. But Shanks didn’t stop there—he let his hand move higher still, his fingers sliding behind Mihawk’s neck and tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, closer… until their lips connected.

It was a chaste kiss, almost innocent—if not for the familiarity of it, and the unspoken intimacy that made even Zoro blush.

Zoro could swear it took a full hour before the two pulled away, Hawk Eyes clicking his tongue in annoyance even while the corner of his lips twitched upwards.

As he stared at the two of them, suddenly he started noticing more. There was a suspicious dark bruise on Hawk Eyes’ neck just below his ear. The angry red scratches on Shanks’ back that he had previously thought were barely healed scars now looked closer to claw marks. And was that an actual bite mark on the Emperor’s shoulder?

As if that wasn’t bad enough, his eyes then caught something white contrasting against Shanks’ red hair and he frowned, squinting slightly at the Emperor. Was that whipped cream behind his ear?

No.

Nope. Absolutely not.

Zoro decided he didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to know about it. Didn’t want to see it. If he closed his eyes, if he just didn’t look…

It simply wasn’t happening.

But then, Perona’s distressed voice echoed around the kitchen again. “What the hell is going on?” she asked. When Zoro glanced at her, she looked like she was about to stab the two old men with her tea spoon just to get out of this situation.

Zoro couldn’t blame her.

“You see,” Red Hair started, “when two people love each other very much—”

“AHHHHHH! Negative Hollow!!” Perona screamed before Shanks could get another word in.

Zoro would be lying if he said watching the mighty, powerful Emperor of the Sea slump onto the table lifelessly, mumbling something about shrimps and plankton wasn’t satisfying—if completely surreal—but he didn’t even have the mind to appreciate it. He had learnt more about Hawk Eyes than he ever wanted to in the last two minutes and he wondered if there was a way to erase his memory.

As he robotically stood and left the kitchen without a word, heading for another ten minute run which would hopefully last a few hours—long enough to clear his head—he nostalgically thought back to the time when the worst of his problems was Nami threatening to double the interest on his loan if he dared to sleep through another snow storm.

Just one more year, he thought.

Just one more year and he could go on to pretend that had never seen 'Red Hair' Shanks in his life, ever, and certainty hadn't seen him half-naked, with a lazy just-fucked grin on his face in their fucking kitchen.

He could only hope there would never be a repeat of this morning—for the sake of his own sanity and limited ability to erase things from his memory.

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gali-la · 8 months ago

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Hi! I've allowed myself to sneak into your inbox to ask about the Wip Title Tag Game 😊 it sounds so fun! Could you tell us a little more about Crocorosi Cross Guild Canon divergence AU, please? Thank you 💖

You can tag me back if you'd like!

Omg hello!! Thank you for the ask, I’m so excited about this one <3

So this was originally a pitch for a zine! I'm actually glad it didn't get picked, in the end, because I can make it long and plotty now.

my pitch was this: cora washes up wherever the cross guild is operating because stupid things like that happen. its one piece. and croc's the one who finds him (he has memory loss) and tries to find out who the hell he is and what he's doing there. problem is he's also croc's type (a less annoying doflamingo) and he's very. innocent and a little dumb and croc cant find it in himself to hate this dumbass that is awed by every dumb trick of buggy's and mihawk's big sword EXCEPT he gets jealous... a lot of tension and emotion suppression and possible angst... 👀

I haven't gotten too far writing it either but here is a little peek into it so far:

“...What is that?” Crocodile ignored the idiot’s question, but not because he wasn’t quite sure about what the thing before them was either. Obviously. The thing in question seemed to be a soggy mass of some sort of glossy black material. Shapeless, unmoving and way too big to be the washed-up carcass of any animal. It had appeared earlier that morning, on the south side of the island, and of course, all of the idiot clown’s little weakling parasites had come running to tell them all about it. As if Crocodile cared, or, even, had a moment to spare to go investigate whatever it was. Still, somehow, Crocodile found himself down at the south side of the beach, staring at what was probably just some washed-up jetsam. It was certainly ugly enough—who in good conscience would own such a horrendous thing? To his right, Mihawk peered down at the black mess with an eerie, creepy gaze, not unlike a bird. Maybe the weirdest bird known to man, but the way he tilted his head as he studied it was definitely bird-like. He didn’t look like he was going to do anything about it, though, and the blue-haired moron peeking cowardishly over their shoulders certainly wasn’t, either, so Crocodile took the initiative and nudged it with the tip of an expensive leather shoe.

#one piece #one piece fanfic #cross guild #crocorosi #wip title tag game #tag game

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objectheadzine · 1 year ago

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WELCOME TO THE 10TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE OBJECT HEAD ZINE!

2 months left!

In celebration, the 2024's edition will be a Grab Bag - draw whatever object head you like (so long as it fits the guidelines, see below). In Lieu of a theme, all submissions MUST HAVE ASHLEY (the megaphone mascot) in the piece! Feel free to make him as large or as small as you want in the composition. He can be hanging out with your characters or he can be on a flyer, just so long he's somewhere in the picture! Reference of all his outfits can be found here. But don't feel like you're restricted to his previous outfits. Feel free to dress him up in anything you'd like. Content is also free for whatever! You want to date the lil man? Go for it! You want to tease or go on the attack? Also fine! Ignore him and let him live his life? Sure thing.

ALL submissions will be accepted as long as they fit guidelines and each person has a limit of up to 3 submissions. Submit your pieces to the zine email objectheadzine(@)hotmail(.)com along with the email/website/name you’d like to be credited as. (Feel free to omit emails if that is more comfortable). When you’ve finished your piece(s), you are allowed to post them to your blogs as long as you link back to the zine blog! This will be a DIGITAL ZINE ONLY and will be available free upon completion (donation optional).

The guidelines are as follow:

Illustration-quality works in either digital or traditional mediums. Both colour and b/w acceptable; background required. *BG can be as simple as a pattern or colour block! Avoid utilizing a camera to submit your images, please use a scanner.

The default size will be 6″x9″, 300 dpi (1800px x 2700px) but feel free to go larger or smaller, so long as it follows those proportions. Please work in a vertical format.

For consistency’s sake, keep faces to a minimum (You can have eye(s) or you can have mouth(s) but don’t have both in a humanoid arrangement.)

Ashley, the megaphone head mascot, must be included in your piece. He can be small in the picture or a large factor but he must be included. When submitting, if he is not obvious, please point him out to me. References are found here.

Please go for original characters (or fanart of your friend’s characters) and not so much established object heads (e.g. the popcorn and soda heads from No More).

If you want to include humans, that’s fine as well but keep the ratio of people to object heads 1:1.

Content should be at most PG-13: Romance is fine but after-hours business should not be implied, Blood is fine but no gore. In the end, use your common sense.

Feel free to draw a comic or just an illustration! A comic counts as one submission.

Some facts about Ashley that could help with your piece: He's 5'2", he's of Chinese nationality, he's a TV show host, he's a bubbly, happy-go-lucky kind of guy and he has a Samyoed dog named Cotton!

Note that if a submission does not meet the above guidelines, I will either reject your submission or suggest improvements that would help your piece fulfill them. Please email me at objectheadzine(@)hotmail(.)com if you have any further questions and I’ll do my best to reply promptly. If you do not receive a message from me within a few days, please send it again. Final pieces submitted should be either in PNG or a one layer PSD file format.

Want to share your piece as you're working on them? Come on over to the Object Head Zine discord!

THE DUE DATE FOR SUBMISSIONS IS NOVEMBER 9TH.

#object head #object heads #object head zine #objecthead #objectheads #objectheadzine

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angel-with-a-pipette · 2 years ago

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A Splash of Color

(art by @amyhayanora)

Summary:

After having been restored to her own body, it was time for Naminé to find a permanent home. Somewhere she belonged. Somewhere she felt safe and wanted. There was a place like this and a person very eager to see her again.

Rating: General

Genre: Romance

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Disney/Square Enix.

This story has been written as part of the Rokunami zine in 2022 ❤

Thank you so much to the zine mods, the project was a pleasure to take part in and it was absolutely worth it! ❤ 10/10 would do it again

Another big thank you goes to @amyhayanora who I was lucky to collaborate with and who ended up drawing the beautiful banner to this story ❤

The Leftover sales are open for another week! Please check it out at http://rokunamizine.bigcartel.com !!

Please enjoy!

To say that Naminé was nervous was an understatement. Her heart pounded, her lip trembled and her stomach fluttered when she finally came to a stop in front of the Old Mansion. The place she might be calling home from now on.

"What are you afraid of?"

Ansem the Wise, who was accompanying her on her way, looked at her inquiringly, but Naminé just shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know," she murmured, but she knew very well. Rejection . What if they had changed their minds about letting her live with them?

“They are very happy to welcome you to their home,” Ansem the Wise tried reassuring her, and despite her mostly negative experience with the man, she felt touched by the recent kindness he’d shown her. "Any friend of Sora's can't help but be open to other hearts. And I know Roxas especially is very eager to see you again."

Color rose into Naminé's cheeks, and she tried to hide it behind her braid that rested over her right shoulder, very well aware of the amused smile that had appeared on Ansem the Wise’s face.

"I hope so."

"Well then, are you ready?"

No . "Yes," she said anyway, and Ansem the Wise stepped forward to ring the doorbell.

Even though it took merely a minute or two for the doors to open, to Naminé, it felt like hours. She clutched the small potted plant in her arms harder against her chest as she dug her white sneakers into the dirt path.

Maybe nobody was home? Maybe they decided they didn't want her to live with them after all? Maybe—?

And then, finally , the double doors opened and revealed the blond-haired boy Naminé had been longing to meet again the most.

"Axel, if you forgot your keys again , I swear I'll—" he started grumbling, but as his gaze wandered from her light denim overall skirt and white shirt up to her face, recognition kicked in, and his expression turned from surprised to flustered.

“Naminé?”

“Hello, Roxas,” Naminé replied and allowed herself a small, relieved smile. Time seemed to stand still as the two of them gazed into each other’s eyes.

“Hello, Roxas,” Ansem the Wise greeted Roxas as well, who Roxas acknowledged with a nod before turning back to Naminé.

“I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow.”

“Is it a bad time?”

“No no no, not at all!" Roxas frantically waved his arms around. "It’s just that I would’ve come to the train station to meet you.” He took a step back and looked up at Ansem the Wise. “Please, come in.”

Ansem the Wise shook his head and waved Roxas off. “I simply came to see Naminé off. I hope you’ll all get along well together. Good luck.” He turned to leave, but Naminé stopped him.

“Lord Ansem? Thank you. For everything.”

"You're very welcome, my dear. Take care. You’re always welcome to visit Radiant Garden. All of you are."

He walked off in the direction of the woods, arms behind his back, and Naminé followed Roxas inside, past the heavy doors into the big foyer. There, Roxas seemed a little lost for a second, and Naminé took the opportunity to examine him more closely. Even though Roxas ran a hand through his hair and smoothed down a couple of strands, they sprang back up into their signature windswept look immediately. He looked healthy, too—the dark bags underneath his eyes that Naminé saw in his memories before were completely gone, and it seemed like he’d grown a few inches since the last time she’d seen him.

All in all, he looked happy with that slight grin on his lips as his ocean blue eyes met hers.

Naminé's cheeks grew warm.

"Sorry about that!" he told her sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his head. "I was a little taken off guard for a second there. Can I take your backpack?"

"It's okay, it's not heavy at all. But you can take this." Naminé handed him the plant and added, "This is a gift, for all of you, for letting me move in. It’s a Calathea, and it symbolizes a new beginning.”

"That's perfect for us,” Roxas replied with a smile. “Isa and Axel aren't really into that stuff, but Xion will love it. Thank you."

“Speaking of which, are they home?”

"Isa and Axel are at work. I know, I know! Who would’ve thought Axel had it in him, right? And Olette invited Xion over so she can share some of her old clothes with her for the time being.” Naminé saw him bite his lip. “How’s your situation?”

“I’m good. I’m smaller than Kairi, so she offered me a ton of clothes she can’t fit into anymore.”

“Is she okay?”

“She tries to be.”

Roxas nodded, and Naminé was very glad that he didn’t push the topic further.

"Let me give you a little tour of the house,” he said. “As you can see, we turned the foyer into our living room. The couches are secondhand, but we cleaned them all up and they're really comfortable." He wriggled his way through the couches and coffee table to a small, inconspicuous side table near the garden doors.

"And look, we just found the perfect spot for our little Calendula!"

"Calathea!" With her hand covering her lower face, Naminé started to giggle at Roxas’s disarming grin as he just shrugged at her correction before leading her through the rest of the house. At the end, there were only two rooms left for Naminé to see.

"And this is my room." He reached past her to turn the doorknob and push the door open. “Sorry, it’s still a little messy, I just finished painting the walls.”

Curious, Naminé stepped closer to the door and looked inside. Indeed, a few buckets and cans of paint were still standing next to one of the surprisingly dark blue walls, but the color worked well with the black furniture and light sheets and curtains.

“It’s cozy,” she reassured him when her eyes caught an empty stand next to a beanbag in the corner of the room. “You have a guitar?”

“Not yet,” Roxas explained as he rubbed his neck. “I found this stand in the library, I assume it was a violin stand beforehand. Either way, I want to buy one, one day. I hate admitting it, but I was always kind of jealous of Demyx's sitar.”

“That sounds nice. Having a dream to look forward to.”

Naminé smiled sadly. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, what she looked forward to. As of now, she seemed to live aimlessly, just watching the days go by.

"You can find one, too. You just need some time and a place to think about it. Which reminds me—" he pulled his door closed and turned around, to the door opposite his.

"This is your room."

"It’s the White Room."

Not waiting for a reply, Naminé walked past him and opened the door herself. As always, the evening sun's rays filtered in through the delicate white curtain as it danced in the wind.

“Is this okay?” Roxas asked. “I know you might not have the best memories of this room.”

“This room wasn't so bad, you know?” Naminé replied, and after dropping off her backpack next to the bed, she walked across the room to the wide windows to peer through the curtains. “I’ve always liked the view from here. I loved drawing the animals in the woods in my free time.”

She turned back to Roxas. “And it was in this room that we finally got to talk for a few minutes. Even if it was mostly through a hologram of me.”

“This is where you told me the truth,” Roxas remembered now and Naminé nodded. “You promised we would meet again.”

“And we did.”

Naminé smiled and looked around the room before sighing.

“What’s the matter?”

“The room wasn’t so bad, but it always felt cold with its white walls and white furniture. With my pale skin, blond hair and white skirt, I blended right in. Like I didn’t exist. And I didn’t.”

“But now you do,” Roxas emphasized, “and with a little bit of color, the room will soon feel much more inviting. Gimme a sec!”

Naminé cocked her head, but before she could ask Roxas what he meant, he had sprinted out of the room and returned just as quickly, this time with some paint, a paint roller and paintbrush in hand.

“How about a splash of color on your walls?” he asked her as he opened the bucket of white paint, then a can of dark blue paint. “We could paint one or two of your walls in any shade of blue you want. We don’t have any other colors at home currently—”

“Blue is fine! I really like pastel blue.”

Roxas grinned and handed Naminé the can. Together, they mixed the right shade and after taping off the floor and side walls, they started to paint. It didn’t take long for Naminé to hum happily as she was painting and soon, Roxas joined in. They grinned and smiled at each other as they attacked the white of the wall.

“Oh no,” Naminé murmured as she looked down at a small dresser closest to the wall they were painting. She tried to remove the paint with her finger, but it only spread over the white surface.

“What’s wrong?”

“The paint splashed on the dresser.”

Roxas climbed down the ladder he had propped up against the wall and looked at the dresser, then at Naminé, then back at the dresser before taking his wet paint roll and rolling it over the top of the dresser.

“Roxas!”

“You wanted more color in your life, so why don't we paint more than just your wall?”

"But—"

Before Naminé was able to react, Roxas scooped up some paint from the paint roller and bopped her nose. She stared at him speechless, trying to process what had just happened, and it seemed like Roxas had also just now realized what he’d done.

"Naminé? I—I'm sorry, I didn't think—"

Neither did Naminé, apparently, because this time, she was the one who dipped her finger into the paint bucket and quickly drew a line across Roxas's cheek, leaving him dumbfounded and her giggling.

"Oh, it is on ," he teased and chased her around as she tried to escape his wet paintbrush with a squeak.

At the end of the day, Naminé and Roxas flopped down on her bed, covered in splashes of blue, muscles sore from laughing and giggling, but proud of having finished painting the wall, her dresser and a few side stools for plants.

“I’ll be right back,” Roxas promised after a few minutes and dashed outside while Naminé sat up and looked over her room. She couldn’t help but smile—it really felt a lot more homey with this little change, and she got to make a new memory with Roxas while doing this.

Naminé pressed her hands against her warm cheeks when Roxas returned.

"I lied when I said we've been living off of pizza. We've also been living off of these ."

“Sea-salt ice cream?” Naminé asked him with a grin as she took the bar he offered her and inspected it closely.

“Yep! Our fridge is filled to the brim with these. House rule.”

Naminé giggled and under the watchful eyes of Roxas, she took her first bite of the ice cream bar.

“So?” He bounced up and down on the bed like an excited puppy, and it was at that moment that Naminé decided to play a little prank on him. “What do you think?”

“It’s salty. And sweet.”

“Yes!”

“It’s disgusting.”

Color drained from Roxas’s face and he gasped, completely in shock. “What?”

“I’m just kidding! It’s delicious, thank you.”

Roxas puffed his cheeks out and nudged her playfully. “You gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry!” Naminé giggled and soon, Roxas chimed in until enough of his ice cream bar melted that it dripped on his pants, which only resulted in the both of them giggling harder.

In the end, they calmed down, and with her heart pounding out of her chest, Naminé leaned her head against Roxas’s shoulder. He stiffened under her touch and she considered sitting up straight again, but then she felt him rest his head on her own and she suddenly felt warm all over.

“Roxas? Thank you for making me feel at home.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

#Rokunami #Roxas #Naminé #Rokunami Zine #KH #Kingdom Hearts

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hermannsthumb · 2 years ago

Note

Hello! For the summer prompts, if you feel the inspiration, I'd love to see "sunburn" and "mosquito" combined please! 💜

2. Sunburn + 29. Mosquitos

from summer prompt memes here

i'm at the beach for a little bit, so i am in a beachy mood and wanted to send these guys off to one too!! been so busy with zine stuff that I haven't had time to write a silly fic in a while, so here's a short one :-)

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“This is fun, isn’t it?” Newt says.

Hermann, swathed under a large sunhat and a loose terrycloth button-down, peers out at the ocean with an expression that Newt might call, generously, vague skepticism, and ungenerously outright distaste. But the crease in his brow smooths out as he turns his attention towards Newt, and he quirks up the corner of his mouth. Not exactly a smile from anyone but Hermann. “Er, yes,” he says. “It’s very—hot. But lovely,” he adds quickly. “Very—hot, and lovely.”

Newt hasn’t been to the beach—for non-work related reasons, which is to say a beach that isn’t crawling in, like, enough xenobiological radiation to kill him under ten minutes without the proper PPE—in what must be almost fifteen years at this point, back since the days when he used to crouch for hours over tide pools and scribble barely-legible notes in a composition book before he had to hustle back off to campus for class. Baby’s first field journal. The Pacific coasts are still very much a gamble for a fun day out, but they’re chilling outside DC for the week while they’re traded between nearby universities and fancy banquet halls to get their hands shaken and backs patted or whatever, and by God (Newt decided) he was going to take Hermann on a good, proper beach date if it killed him. Metaphorically. Hopefully not actually with kaiju blue poisoning, because that would suck.

Whether through the lingering effects of their drift or Hermann just being fluent in Newtonian mannerisms at this point, he picked up on Newt’s ulterior motives for insisting on getting a jeep from the car rental place pretty much immediately. He was at least surprisingly chill about it all: all he did was tell Newt, calmly, that he’ll need to stop off at a department store for the proper attire, and that Newt might want to consider a motel room as well so they don’t have to spend seven hours on the road in one day, both of which were pretty reasonable requests. Newt was just planning on swimming in boxers. Not like anyone but Hermann would be able to tell the difference.

They hit miserable traffic on the world’s most terrifying bridge while the A/C sputtered tragically at them (Newt is so asking for a partial refund, it’s July man, come on), and Hermann stared out the window at the ocean a long drop below without making a peep while Newt tried to awkwardly fill the silence with anything that came to his head. Mostly about how much fun they were going to have. They shelled out ten bucks for parking at the public access beach and even more money to rent a tattered umbrella, and the beach was just enough on the wrong side of practically empty that it set both of them on edge (though Newt could tell Hermann was trying to hide it). People are still a little wary of setting foot within fifteen miles of an ocean.

It's romantic, Newt told Hermann, and he tried to rub sunblock on his shoulders sensually, but accidentally jabbed his thumb in the wrong way and made Hermann full-body recoil away from him. I can handle that, he told Newt tersely, but he gave Newt a small thank-you kiss anyway as he wrestled the bottle away from him. The umbrella doesn’t work—too many metal prongs broken with age or over-use. Newt wonders if they dug it out of the bottom of the pile or something. Not wanting to risk getting impaled by a spoke, they ended up closing it and just hoping the sunblock does the job right.

“You’re hot and lovely,” Newt tries, lamely.

Hermann doesn’t acknowledge Newt’s half-assed flirting beyond a small sigh. Newt can’t blame him. Hermann lifts the brim of his hat, peering at a fly that’s just landed on Newt’s calf, and Newt winces a second later when it bites him. "Fuck," he says, and slaps at it. It buzzes away angrily to Hermann’s ankle, presumably to bite him too, so Newt leans forward to valiantly shoo it again. Hermann looks down at him in mingled annoyance and fondness. “Biting flies,” Newt sighs. “Forgot about these bastards.” Benefits of living in various UN-sanctioned basements for ten-odd years, weird bugs that like to cause you bodily harm are a rare occurrence.

“Newton, ah,” Hermann says, adjusting the brim of the hat against a sudden gust of slightly fishy sea-breeze, “how long did you want to stay out here? On the beach, I mean?”

“As long as you want, dude,” Newt says. It’s date-day, and when they drive back they’ll be consumed by their lectures and suits and making good impressions again, so he wants to enjoy himself for as long as possible. More specifically he wants Hermann to enjoy himself for as long as possible. Then again—he’s hot and a little on the sting-y side of tanned, and he’s pretty sure he just saw a mosquito settling on Hermann’s shoulder. “Why, did you want to leave?”

He sounds pathetically hopeful and immediately feels guilty about it. He hyped this up to Hermann so much, he’s not gonna ruin the guy’s fun. “No, no,” Hermann says. “Of course not. I’m having—er—a wonderful time.” He begins to scratch absently at his shoulder. There’s a small bump rising up from what looks like a gnarly patch of sunburn.

“Cool,” Newt says.

“Bit buggy though, isn’t it?” Hermann says. He scratches at another mosquito bite on his ankle.

“It’s not too bad!” Newt says. “I can deal with it.”

“If you're sure,” Hermann says.

They pack the rented jeep up around sunset when the public beach blessedly closes at last. Newt drops the busted umbrella twice on the dunes on the hike back to the parking lot, and Hermann (who’s clutching on to Newt so he doesn’t lose his footing on the uneven ground) finally loses his sunhat for good when he tries to bend down to help Newt the second time: it’s caught in the wind and blown out to sea. They watch sadly as a wave swallows it. “I’ll buy you another one,” Newt says.

They sit in silence in the jeep for a few minutes when Newt starts it, enjoying the A/C (however weak it is) after a day spent in the thick humidity. Hermann’s bony shoulders and fine cheekbones are lobster-red. He’s scratching absently at his thigh. It’s the first time Newt’s ever seen the guy in shorts, and he can’t even enjoy it through the uncomfortable haze of guilt. “Newton,” Hermann finally sighs. “I very much appreciate your, er, enthusiasm for the day, but—” He touches the back of his red neck, wincing, and cranks the A/C up a notch. “—perhaps next time, we might just see a film, or go for dinner?”

“Oh, my God,” Newt says. He sags in the driver’s seat. “Fucking yes, please. That was awful.” It’s cruel to rip them from the comfort of their underground lab and drop them back into the elements of, like, the great outdoors without some build-up, even if this was in fact all Newt’s doing. Like a zoo putting a penguin in a lion habitat or something. Except Newt was the one to tell them to do it.

“It was terrible,” Hermann agrees.

“Why the hell didn’t you say something?!” Historically Hermann has never, ever had a problem bitching at Newt about even the slightest inconvenience or perceived annoyance.

“You went to all that trouble,” Hermann says, “and I was trying to be—” He grits his teeth. “Nice.”

“Gross, dude,” Newt says. “Don’t ever do that again.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #saturnvalleycoffee

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villainscomplex · 2 months ago

Text

Odds and Ends

Forgot to post my piece for the One Piece Grandline Gunsmoke zine over on twitter... my bad.

if you were wondering if i was off my bartocav shit? the answer is no <3

Also on: AO3

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Days prior to their first encounter, Bartolomeo catches wind of the stranger in town.

His companion leans into his space, wild hair sticking out from beneath his hat. He’s grinning his gap-toothed grin, breath heavy with the stench of alcohol. He’s known Gambia as long as he’s been in this town, and the man never changes. That said, most things around here stay the same, so the news of a stranger spreads as quick as wildfire.

It piques Bartolomeo’s interest immediately. He lifts his gaze, and the silent acknowledgment is enough to keep Gambia going.

“Apparently, he’s stickin’ out somethin’ fierce,” the other man continues. “Ain’t nothin’ like the rest’a us. The real prissy type from what I’ve heard, but he’s goin’ around asking questions. Somethin’ about the gold river.”

The people around these parts know better than to go snooping around. The town is packed full of outlaws, and one wrong move could be a bullet in your head. People come and go, but they’re all the same at the end of the day, claws sharp and guns loaded.

“Must be real slow,” Bartolomeo remarks, grinning wickedly. “Makes ‘em an easy target.”

“That’s yer plottin’ face,” Gambia looks vaguely concerned. “What’re ya planning this time? Ain’t we got enough trouble without ya startin’ more?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Bartolomeo laughs, reaching over to slap Gambia’s shoulder.

His companion looks a little nervous, but he doesn’t question any further, sinking back into his seat.

The gold river. That’s a name Bartolomeo is far too familiar with.

He kicks his boots up on the table, stretching up so far that his chair tips back. The bar is perpetually filled with noise from the rowdy bunches that call the town home, temporarily or not.

That had been days ago, and Bartolomeo has been keeping an eye out for this supposed stranger. He’s just starting to think the guy skipped town or finally got what was coming to him when the bell over the saloon’s wooden doors jingles loudly. The hinges creak loudly, but it isn’t the sound that draws the attention of Bartolomeo, among others.

Bartolomeo understands why people were saying the man sticks out. His efforts at blending in are mediocre at best, clothes still visibly higher class than the majority of them can boast. It’s the rest of him that really gives him away, face clean and hair falling in silken, golden waves over his shoulders. He’s got the top two buttons of his shirt loose and a clean black hat tipped down on his head.

Blue eyes skip across the crowd. They’ve gone silent, gazes sharp and hands dipping down to waists as they assess the threat in their midst. The blond man has the sense to drop his gaze at the very least, heeled boots clicking across the rickety wooden floor as he crosses straight to the bar. He’s got this irritated little twist to his lips as he slides into one of the stools, leaning in over the counter.

Bartolomeo grins crookedly. Even the way the other man walks is distinctive, back straight and steps forward and sure. He’s making an effort to blend in, but it’s shit enough that even Bartolomeo notices. He slings one arm over the back of his chair, settling in to continue watching the stranger unabashedly, uncaring if he’s caught. Conversations begin again, but they’re quieter now, and the other outlaws continue to side-eye the stranger.

“Excuse me,” the blond murmurs, tipping his head at the barmaid.

When she crosses to him, his voice drops just enough that Bartolomeo can’t hear him anymore, but whatever he says makes the woman look a little more nervous.

“I ain’t heard of nothin’ like that, sir,” she tells him, slipping away to refill drinks at another table.

The blond opens his mouth to call after her, but he catches some unfriendly gazes and seems to think better of it. Bartolomeo finally sits up from his slump and rises up. The screech of his chair draws the blond’s gaze, alongside a few others, but Bartolomeo ignores them as he sidles over to the stranger.

The other man scrutinizes him, crosses one leg over the other, and then immediately uncrosses them like it had been subconscious. Bartolomeo spins him around in his stool so they’re both facing the bar again, slinging his arm over the blond’s shoulders.

“Listen,” Bartolomeo leans in, but his grin isn’t too friendly, “most’a us have already heard about ya, so let’s be real clear. Yer a stranger here, and we don’t take too well to ya. Let’s just say blending in ain’t your strong spot.”

The blond glowers at him as Bartolomeo slides into the seat beside him but doesn’t let him go.

“Well,” Bartolomeo pats the man’s arm expectantly, “got a name?”

Blue eyes, sharp like twin flints of flame, flick to him. “What do you want to know for?”

“‘Cause I hear yer goin’ around pokin’ your nose where it don’t belong,” he drawls. “People round here don’t take too well to nosy passersby.”

“I’m just passing through,” the blond snips back, unexpectedly more fierce than Bartolomeo had given him credit for.

“Yer real funny,” Bartolomeo remarks, leaning onto his elbow against the counter.

The blond screws up his face into something resembling distaste, sliding off his stool and out of Bartolomeo’s space. He looks irritated, undoubtedly still wanting to seek out what he’d come for, but coming to the realization that nobody here is willing to lend him a hand. Bartolomeo waves the woman at the bar back over, and she pours him a cup without him needing to ask. The blond eyes her, but she scurries away again before he can open his mouth.

“Well,” the other man huffs out a breath, “this has been helpful. Goodbye.”

He turns on his heel and gets two steps closer to the door before Bartolomeo turns on his stool, leaning back against the bar top with his drink in one hand.

“I know where it is, by the way,” he drawls out, “the gold river, I mean.”

The blond starts, halting mid-step. His head turns, just slightly, but it’s enough that Bartolomeo knows he’s listening.

“It’s a death wish ‘ta go alone,” he continues. “I could help ya get there. Might be a shot of surviving with two of us.”

The stranger fixes him with a stony stare. His lips draw up in a scowl, but he doesn’t dignify Bartolomeo with a response. Bartolomeo watches him continue out the entrance, heels clicking against the wood. His grin widens, all teeth.

“I give him a day,” he says to himself, turning back to the bar.

His prediction is off, but only by a few hours. Sure enough, the next evening sees the blond man marching back into the bar, wearing the expression of someone trying to salvage his pride. Bartolomeo watches his approach with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Changed yer mind?”

“Do you really know how to get there or are you just screwing with me?” He demands.

“Nice to meet ya, too,” he retorts. “Yer new name is gonna be ‘Stranger’ at this rate.”

The blond looks like he’s beginning to regret the decision to come back, gaze darting to the door like he’s gauging if this is worth it. Bartolomeo will admit that it probably won’t be, but he’s going to have fun either way.

“Course I do,” he continues. “Been there plenty. It’s a real dangerous trip though, so my help ain’t free.”

There’s a long moment where the two of them simply stare each other down, each waiting for the other to break first. Finally, Bartolomeo nudges out the chair across from him with his foot, knocking it against the blond’s leg. The man scoffs, yanks it out, and drops into it with his arms folded over his chest.

“Cavendish,” the man relents. “Was that so hard?” Bartolomeo snarks. “Bartolomeo.”

“What’s your price?” Cavendish asks impatiently, crossing one leg over the other and then thinking better of it again.

Bartolomeo’s observance is here and there, but Cavendish is obvious enough about hiding his habits that they’re easy to spot. He definitely isn’t from any place like this with that sort of posture, manners, and attitude.

“I’ll help ya get there, but in return, I want a share of the prize yer chasin’,” Bartolomeo tells him. “After that, we go our separate ways and never hafta deal with each other again. Sound like a deal?”

He sticks his hand out across the table. Cavendish eyes it for a moment, gaze flitting over soot-stained fingertips. Finally, he sighs, grabbing the other man’s hand and shaking.

“Fine,” he scowls, “I’ll play your game for now. Try to cross me and it’ll be your last.”

Bartolomeo barks out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? Pretty boy’s got teeth. Good ‘ta know.”

Their partnership is temporary, but Bartolomeo thinks he’s going to enjoy it while it lasts. Cavendish doesn’t seem as pleased about it, but he’s visibly resigned himself to this, so he wipes his hand against his pant leg and leans back a little as Bartolomeo leans in, dropping his voice to discuss their plans.

He doesn’t drill the blond on his origins or what he’s looking for at the gold river, but he’s got no interest in talking about himself either, so it’s only fair this way. If the man is trying to get to known gang territory, he must be desperate, and Bartolomeo’s got some business of his own in the same direction he’s been meaning to wrap up.

Their soft conversation is lost to the volume of the packed bar, but a plan formulates slowly. Bartolomeo isn’t the planning type of guy, but this will work for now.

Cavendish leaves first. He’s still an eyesore in the town, so when the sky begins to grow dark, he slips out of the bar. Bartolomeo watches him vanish around the corner and downs the rest of his drink. Once the sun sinks entirely behind the horizon, he slides his boots off the table and rises, stretching languidly as he makes his way out of the saloon.

Since they’ve established Cavendish doesn’t exactly blend in here, it’s Bartolomeo’s job to secure their transport. He isn’t exactly a subtle-looking figure either, but he walks the walk, so most people don’t glance twice.

On the eastern side of town, the land opens up into a range. Bartolomeo knows of the man who owns the area, but he also knows there are always horses running around inside the fences. He leaps over the wooden posts, staying low to avoid being spotted as he creeps further in.

His luck holds out, presenting him with two horses strapped up to the fence side. Their saddles are still on, but Bartolomeo can’t tell if they just came back from riding or are preparing to leave. Either way, this might be his only chance, so he crosses toward them. Both of the animals look nervous when he approaches, but they don’t cry out as he unties them, taking both back toward the opposite gate.

“Oi!”

Bartolomeo curses, picking up his pace. A gunshot echoes behind him as he throws the gate open and leaps onto the back of the larger of the two horses, barely managing to adjust himself in the saddle before they’re taking off out of town. The shouting fades behind him as he struggles on the saddle, but it’s only a matter of time before they continue their pursuit.

Cavendish steps out of hiding as he approaches the agreed-upon spot, taking the reins of the other horse from Bartolomeo’s hands. He barely has his foot in the stirrup before the yelling picks up again, and he wheels around to glare at Bartolomeo.

“You got caught?” Cavendish demands.

“Get on the horse,” Bartolomeo snaps back, clutching his horse’s reins as the creature shuffles nervously.

The blond glowers, swinging onto the other horse. The two take off into the night, pursued by the sound of a few angry men. Cavendish pulls ahead easily, Bartolomeo trailing a few feet behind as he sways on the saddle, struggling to keep up with the horse’s movements. A bullet whizzes past his ear, startling the horse.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cavendish demands from up ahead.

“It ain’t listenin’ to me!” Bartolomeo barks back, fighting to stay on the saddle as the creature rears up.

The horse whips around sharply, successfully dislodging its rider. Bartolomeo grunts as he hits the dirt, rolling to avoid getting crushed as the horse takes off back toward town. He can see the outlines of their pursuers as one breaks off to catch the runaway, but he isn’t going to give them the chance to catch up. Bartolomeo wheels around on his heel and starts running.

Cavendish makes a sound of frustration ahead of him. He doesn’t appear to be having any problems with his horse, Bartolomeo notes, as the blond wheels around and starts back toward the outlaw. He flies past Bartolomeo, and then whips around again, coming straight for him.

“What are you doing?!” Bartolomeo demands, backpedaling in an attempt to get out of the horse’s path.

“Get on!”

Cavendish reaches out a hand as he flies past, and Bartolomeo grabs it without thinking. He jumps, and Cavendish shouts as he yanks him up over the horse’s back. Bartolomeo isn’t even sitting properly, draped behind the blond on his stomach, but Cavendish picks up the pace regardless.

“If I’d known you were such a terrible rider, I wouldn’t have suggested horses!”

“I am not a terrible rider,” Bartolomeo grunts, and then he nearly has the wind knocked out of him by a particularly hard step. “Let me sit properly, at least!”

“Get over it!”

By some miracle–a miracle, truly–they get away.

Having lost their pursuers, presumably hours later by how dark it is, the two continued to travel up until the sun is well over the horizon, rapidly heating the sand around them. It’s only then that they seek shelter, finding it in the form of an overhang of rocky shade by a pathetic creek. It’s a death wish to be caught out in the middle of the desert in the middle of the day, so it’s safest to take a break during the peak daylight hours and continue once it starts getting cooler at the end of the evening.

Bartolomeo slides gratefully and unceremoniously off the back of the horse, the soreness in his legs visible in his gait.

“What made you such a good rider?” Bartolomeo huffs as he inspects his chest from his new spot in the dirt. “Ya ain’t even got a horse of yer own.”

He’s certain he’s going to bruise after their rough getaway ride. It won’t be the worst he’s ever had, but he’s still going to complain about it. Cavendish cinches the horse’s reins around the scraggly tree growing up against the stacks of rocky terrain they’ve picked to rest at.

“I do have a horse,” Cavendish informs him, “he just isn’t with me right now.”

“Left ‘im at home, huh?”

The blond’s gaze flits away, focusing out across the path ahead. “Something like that.”

He’s hiding something. Bartolomeo had figured as much from the get-go, but Cavendish constantly deflects anything that could even give something small away. He isn’t sure what personal connection his horse has to do with his story, but Bartolomeo decides he’s bored of prying anyway. It’s enough, though. He sees the way Cavendish runs his palm down the length of the stolen horse’s face, and then he turns away.

Bartolomeo doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but then he’s waking up to the sound of Cavendish shifting around. The sun is beginning to sink beneath the horizon, bringing cooler air slowly with it. He parts his jaws in a wide yawn, stretching until he earns a satisfying crackle through his shoulders. Cavendish makes a face, but he doesn’t comment on Bartolomeo’s manners, even though he visibly wants to.

The blond unties the horse. “Are you finally awake? It’s time to go.”

Bartolomeo huffs in his direction, but he gets back to his feet, dusting off the back of his long coat in a futile attempt to get rid of some of the newly acquired dirt. Sure enough, it doesn’t work very well, but he thinks the effort is what matters. Cavendish hops back on the horse’s back, giving Bartolomeo a chance to properly get adjusted this time before he takes off.

Over the next two days, it becomes clear that with one horse down, travel is noticeably slower. Bartolomeo isn’t miraculously better at riding, and Cavendish doesn’t magically have infinite patience.

“This isn’t working,” Cavendish snaps first.

“Well,” Bartolomeo scoffs, “good thing ya won’t need to worry about it much longer, then. We won’t be able ‘ta even bring the damn horse much further.”

Cavendish glances back, giving him a nasty look. “What the hell do you mean?”

Bartolomeo jabs a finger up ahead. “We gotta cross those mountains. Between the railroads and the animals, a horse ain’t survivin’ there.”

The blond catches him with a sharp smack to the side, deft and practiced despite currently holding the horse’s reins. Bartolomeo scowls back at him, hand flying to cover the aching spot. For someone as skinny as Cavendish is built, he smacks hard as hell.

“Oi!” He snaps. “The hell was that for?” “For not saying that sooner!”

“It wasn’t necessary until now!”

“Oh, so you were just planning to abandon both horses the entire time?”

“I ain’t heartless! There’s a town just before the mountain footpath begins!” Bartolomeo snaps back. “Are ya happy now, princess?”

Evidently, the reply satisfies him. Cavendish snorts and whips around to face the path ahead again. Bartolomeo is dreading this journey more and more, but it’s far too late to turn back now. He probably can’t go back to that town, even if he wanted to, but it had been fun while it lasted.

They reach the town just before sunrise. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Given they’re both technically outlaws, this is the best time to leave the horse and rush through the town to the mountains. It would be easier to find a place to rest there once they knew they were out of danger.

Bartolomeo slides off of the animal’s back, staggering when his feet hit the ground. Cavendish dismounts with considerably more grace, securing the horse to a post near the town entrance, where someone would spot it quickly once the sun came up. The route through the town is faster than circling around it, so it’s best to bite the bullet now and risk it to rush through. Bartolomeo takes the lead, and Cavendish trails a step behind him, blue eyes hooded beneath the shade of his hat.

Their luck holds out this time, and they make it through without incident, clearing the last half of the town just as people begin to rouse for early chores. Bartolomeo peers up at the mountain footpath. This is the most time-consuming part of the trip, and they’re on foot to make it worse.

Cavendish is obviously anxious to get to the gold river, so they’re going to have to find a faster way to cross. Bartolomeo knows a way, but he gets the feeling Cavendish isn’t going to like it very much.

Sure enough, it’s the following day when Cavendish finally vents his frustrations.

“This isn’t going to work!” He throws his arms up. “It’ll take days to cross at this rate.”

“Well,” Bartolomeo finally approaches the subject, “there is a faster way, but it ain’t gonna be easy or fun. Might kill ya, actually.”

Cavendish eyes him. Bartolomeo grins, all teeth.

When they arrive at the tracks, Cavendish puts his foot down. He crosses his arms over his chest, glances both ways, and then whips around to glare at Bartolomeo.

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, ya wanted a faster way. This is the better option.”

The train sounds in the distance, and Cavendish glances back.

“Let me get this straight,” Cavendish puts one hand up, “you want us to risk our lives jumping onto some rickety, moving train?”

“S’that or keep goin’ on foot, yeah. It’ll probably be fine.” The sound of the train grows closer. “Better make yer choice now, princess. We gotta start running soon if we’re gonna get on without losin’ something.”

Cavendish tears his hat off, frustrated. “If we die, I’m going to haunt you in the afterlife.”

Bartolomeo doesn’t think he could have come up with a more effective threat. He’s not sure he could deal with Cavendish for the entirety of the afterlife, however long that may be. Cavendish puts his hat back on and takes off along the tracks, Bartolomeo in close pursuit. The train rounds the corner behind them, swaying along as it speeds up the tracks. It’s coming fast, but not so fast that Bartolomeo thinks they’ll have too big of an issue getting on. Cavendish pulls a few paces ahead of him as the train blows by them.

Bartolomeo waits until it’s about halfway past him and glances back for his opportunity to board. He sees it coming up with the next car, a handle sticking out just low enough for him to catch. As soon as it nears him, he snags it and hauls himself up. Ahead of him, Cavendish hasn’t boarded yet, but he spots Bartolomeo as the other boards. Even without words, the two exchange a nod. Bartolomeo grins, making sure he’s secured before he stretches out, holding his hand out to the other man.

Cavendish catches it with a shout, leaving the ground as he jumps for it, his other hand clutching onto his hat. Bartolomeo throws the entirety of his body weight back, staggering into the body of the car and hauling Cavendish in with him. Both hit the ground in a heap, gasping at the exertion, and then Cavendish laughs, loud and breathless.

“We did it,” he manages, eyes wide and hair windblown. “I thought I was going to lose an arm.” Startled by the laughter still, Bartolomeo only has the capacity to blink back at him. He’s a little out of breath, between pulling a grown man onto a train and then having the air knocked clean out of him by the weight of the same person falling onto him. Cavendish has the sense to roll off of him first, sitting up to fix his hair and clothes.

“I told ya it would be fine,” Bartolomeo says, matter-of-factly, once he gathers his bearings. “That wasn’t so bad.”

For once, Cavendish cracks a smile. “I’ll give you this one. I suppose it wasn’t awful. It was almost fun.”

Well, Bartolomeo isn’t expecting the confession, but another sharp grin cuts across his features. He’s starting to think Cavendish isn’t as big of a stickler as he’d initially thought. He’s prissy, but there’s a daring guy somewhere deep down in there.

Bartolomeo stays on his back, splayed out across the floor of the train car as it bumps beneath him. It isn’t going to be the most comfortable trip, but it’s leagues better than the hike they would have had otherwise. Cavendish shifts to lean up against the wall, kicking Bartolomeo’s leg with his foot. Bartolomeo gives him a side-eye.

“Listen, I’m only going to say this once, and if you mock me I’ll push you off the train.” Cavendish jabs a finger at him.

Bartolomeo does not doubt him.

Cavendish sighs, turning his gaze away. “Thank you. For helping me.”

Bartolomeo cackles, turning over to face the blond. “Listen,” he says, “I got my own agenda too. I’m sure ya know that. I helped ya for my own reasons, but it’s still been fun.”

“I know that,” Cavendish scoffs. “I could tell you were the selfish type from the get-go. Even so, I’m sucking up my pride for this, so just accept it.”

Bartolomeo glances him over, but Cavendish refuses to meet his gaze. Finally, he lays back down, closing his eyes.

“Okay,” he concedes, “yer welcome, then. Now, I’m gonna sleep while we can.”

Cavendish’s gaze flits over to him just before Bartolomeo closes his eyes, but the blond remains silent. As Bartolomeo sleeps, the train carries them through the night and across the mountainous terrain. He doesn’t dream, but there are a few times when a particularly harsh bump rouses him briefly enough for a glance around. At some point, it seems Cavendish doses off too, head dropping to the side, and his hat resting in his lap.

When he really wakes, it’s from Cavendish shaking him.

“We’re out of the mountains,” the blond tells him, “get up. We have to get off soon, right?”

“Hope yer good at breaking falls,” Bartolomeo mumbles, sitting up with another wide yawn.

This isn’t Bartolomeo’s first rodeo, but he’s sure it will be entertaining to see Cavendish leap from a moving train. Gazing out of the train car, Bartolomeo takes in the familiar surroundings. It’s been a while since he’s come this way, for good reason, but it’s probably about time to settle that anyway. It’s not the type of thing he intended to drag anyone into, but he’d warned Cavendish from the start. He’d promised to get him to the river, and even from here, he can see the distinctive shine of it beneath the early sun.

Once they get there, they can go their own ways, and Bartolomeo will sort out his own mess from there. That will be that.

He pointedly ignores the little twinge in his chest.

Cavendish comes up beside him, hanging onto the side of the opening. “That’s it, isn’t it? The river.”

“Sure is,” Bartolomeo confirms. “Yer almost there.”

Out of the corner of his eye, almost imperceptibly, Cavendish frowns. Bartolomeo doesn’t have time to think about that now–it’s their stop. He takes a few steps back and then gets a running start for the opening in the car. Cavendish shouts as Bartolomeo leaps out into the open air, hitting the ground into a roll that sends a shock up his shoulder, but leaves him mostly unharmed.

“You’re insane!” Cavendish’s voice is nearly swept away by the wind.

Nonetheless, Bartolomeo watches him disappear deeper into the train car. He takes the running leap, flinging himself into open air with his coat spiraling around him. Despite his prior statement, he looks almost thrilled, hair whipping past his face as he twists to catch himself in a roll. It’s the clumsiest thing Bartolomeo has seen from him thus far, but it serves its purpose. The train speeds on ahead, leaving the two of them in the dust.

Bartolomeo joins him further up the hill, and together, they make the final trek to the river. “Oi,” Bartolomeo says as they grow near, “there’s somethin’ else ya should know. I meant it when I said these parts were dangerous. There’s a g–”

Sharp, cackling laughter slices through the air, cutting him off. Bartolomeo’s countenance turns steely as he turns to face the owner of that hyena laugh. Bellamy grins back at him, all teeth and vicious promise.

“Long time no see, Bartolomeo.” The man sneers. “Thought you’d never come around.”

“Gang.” Bartolomeo finishes between his teeth.

“Oh,” Cavendish exhales beside him. “This was your unfinished business.”

Bartolomeo’s hand settles on the pistol at his waist. “Best we part ways now.”

Cavendish hesitates. “You better not die.”

“Aw,” Bartolomeo grins lopsidedly at him. “Are ya worried about me?”

Cavendish doesn’t admit it, but his expression gives him away. “We started this together. We’re finishing it together.”

“Gold’s all gone!” Bellamy calls out mockingly. “That’s what you’re here for, right? You’re months too late.”

Cavendish turns, fixing Bellamy with a stony glare. Bartolomeo realizes, with a start, that he has never seen Cavendish’s anger, harsh and chilling. If looks could kill, Bellamy would have dropped then and there. Even Bellamy visibly hesitates in the steely blue stare.

“I’ll get what I came here for,” Cavendish snarls. “You just watch.”

“This is between you and me, hyena!” Bartolomeo moves forward. “Let’s finish this, here and now. Ten paces.”

Bellamy’s hand goes to his own pistol. “You must have a death wish.” Bartolomeo grins. “We’ll see.”

He circles around, crossing to stand across from Bellamy. All he can do now is hope his aim is true; otherwise, Cavendish will be finishing this journey alone. It’s ten paces, and they finish this. He counts them.

Ten, and Bartolomeo turns, draws his gun, and pulls the trigger.

Pain lances through his shoulder. He drops his gun, staggering back as he clutches the wound. Still, through his pain-blurred haze, he sees red bloom across Bellamy’s chest, and the man drops like a rock. He probably isn’t dead–Bartolomeo doubts it, but this is still his victory. It’s over. He turns to Cavendish, making a motion like he’s tipping a hat.

“Guess yer stuck with me after all, huh?”

The blond looks relieved. Bartolomeo can’t help but feel the same.

Cavendish helps him tend to the wound, tearing off a piece of his own coat to stop the blood flow. He sticks close to Bartolomeo’s side as they cross towards the compound at the side of the river. They’re lucky–Bellamy’s lackeys aren’t here. As long as they get out soon, they might survive this yet.

“You’re insane,” Cavendish says again as he shoulders open the door, peering around to make sure they’re really alone.

“I’m starting to think ya like that,” Bartolomeo barks out a pained laugh. “What’re ya gonna do now? Bellamy ain’t a liar; gold’s probably gone.”

Cavendish lowers him into one of the seats in the room, but his gaze isn’t on Bartolomeo. It’s fixed on something across the room, glinting in the faint light. He crosses towards it, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. It looks like a jewel - an old one, from what Bartolomeo can tell, but clearly well cared for.

“It was never about the gold,” Cavendish breathes. “Bellamy’s gang robbed my hometown. They took two things from me–this heirloom, and my horse.”

Bartolomeo can’t help it; he laughs. Somehow, this makes sense. Cavendish is some rich boy posing as a cowboy to get his things back. The pieces slot together seamlessly.

“Guess that’s it, then, huh?” He asks, leaning back. “We both got what we came for.”

“Farul is probably outside,” Cavendish says in lieu of a response, turning the jewel over in his hand, and closing his fingers over it. “I should get him and go home.”

It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Bartolomeo gazes back at him in the dim light of the building. He’s not much of a people person, but even he can tell that they’re both thinking the same thing.

“We had fun, didn’t we?” Cavendish asks, looking up.

“It ain’t gotta end, ya know,” Bartolomeo holds his gaze. “There’s always another adventure. Ya just gotta say the word, Cav.”

“Don’t leave,” the words come spilling out. “Go on more adventures with me.”

Bartolomeo grins in that wolfish way of his. He’s never considered himself a people person, much less a partner person. But he does want to continue adventuring with this annoying spitfire of a man, even if he’s sure it’ll drive him crazy down the road. That’s a risk he’s willing to take. He staggers to his feet, facing Cavendish.

“Where to?”

#bartolomeo #cavendish #one piece #bartocav #grandline gunsmoke #my writing #op bartolomeo #op cavendish #bartolomeo the cannibal #cavendish of the white horse

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