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syndrossi · 22 days ago

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Regret AU: Part 10

A 3,000 word chonker in which Daemon and Willam have much to discuss...

x~x~x

Willam was forced to recount his introduction to the twins, his discovery of the dye in Raymar’s hair, their encounter with the Volantene “toymakers,” the dragons’ hatching, and his own failed rescue attempt, at least thrice—with frequent interruptions by Prince Daemon to demand details. Although it was tempting to weave the tale in such a way to place his house in a more favorable light, Willam hewed as close to the truth as possible, and was frank about own conclusions and suspicions.

It was very likely that Rhea was the boys’ mother, Willam had admitted. From the boys clinging to her and repeatedly calling her “mama,” to the near-instant hatching of the dragon eggs—to say nothing of Rhea herself disappearing to the Royce summer estate with Elys and Corwyn Redfort at the time of the pregnancy—there seemed no other explanation. Perhaps bastard-born Targaryen children could hatch dragons as well, but Willam had heard no accounts of it.

Nor was he foolish enough to accuse the prince of dishonoring Rhea with her own sister, though Willam could believe it. Elys had always been possessed of a romantic heart, one that could have been swayed by the promise of a prince’s love. And it went without saying that Daemon himself did not hesitate to spit upon the marriage bed. It had been difficult to listen to the prince’s foul-mouthed tirades against Rhea; all the more so because Willam could not defend her without further risking ire upon their house.

He loves the children, at least. Willam had betrayed his house to give his little cousins a chance to know their father, and he had prayed often since that he had chosen correctly. That in doing so, he had given them a gift: a life where they would be loved and cherished, rather than grow up knowing the heartache of orphanhood. Watching Daemon Targaryen hug his children as though they were all that mattered and seeing his tears flow freely—that had allayed his fears at last.

As for the fate of his house…there were far more immediate concerns.

“There are at least fifty men aboard trained at arms,” Willam said. “Another two hundred sailors. Selboru, the man I spoke of before, is the captain and Volantene in charge. All seem to answer to the warlock, Denyno, though there is tension between him and Selboru.”

The one occasion Willam had found himself in their presence, the Volantene captain’s distrust of the warlock had been apparent.

“Denyno himself is not of Volantis,” Willam continued. “The toymaker, Felydas, says he is one of many warlocks who hail from a small island off the southern coast called Asikos. Any who approach by sea without the warlocks’ blessing are crashed upon the rocks.”

Judging by his lack of recognition, Daemon had not heard of the warlock’s island of origin either. “Tell me of the candle he uses to work his sorcery.”

“He brought it here once, seeking something from the children, I think.”

Daemon’s perturbed expression mirrored Willam’s own reaction at the time.

“It is not made of wax, but rather a red, smooth stone twisted into a spiral. I would call it dragonglass, yet I have never seen any of that color. When lit, it casts an eerie flame that leeches all color from one’s sight. It feels—” Wrong. He had felt nothing but unease until it had gone. “Strange. The children seemed entranced by it, but the young dragons grew agitated in its presence. They tried to attack the warlock, which is why they are caged once more.”

The prince turned toward the children’s bed, hands flexing at his side. “What did he do to my sons?”

“I do not know, my prince,” Willam said. “The warlock said nothing. He merely observed. They gazed into the flame for no more than a minute before the hatchlings intervened. After, the children seemed confused for a moment, and then upset about their dragons being caged, but they were soon back to their play.”

For Willam, the candle had prickled his warrior instincts. He had longed for Lamentation, helpless in the presence of an unseen threat that he could not protect his charges from.

“Nor do you know what sorcery was worked upon me,” Daemon said.

Willam shook his head. “I do not. I saw the glow of the candle, but that was all. I can only guess that it worked as it did with the children: you were drawn into a trance of some kind, and they were able to separate you from your dragon.”

Their sorcery is designed to ensnare dragonriders. That seemed the most logical explanation. Felydas had confided to him that he too merely found the candle disconcerting.

“The warlock must die first, then,” the prince growled.

“I agree,” Willam said, “but he is well-guarded at all times. We will require more than mere surprise to ensure our success.”

Willam would likely get but one chance. If they failed, the Volantenes would almost certainly strive to keep Prince Daemon in good health, but they would not hesitate to cut him down. Without Willam, it would be all too easy for the Volantenes to keep their royal prisoners subdued.

What they needed were weapons, but the Volantenes had been very cautious. Willam introducing himself by cutting down a dozen of them accounted for some of it, but a significant portion was discipline. They have been on our shores for years. Felydas had let slip that they had spent three years in Gulltown. For such a bold venture, with such a promising reward, they would have sent only their best.

“The ship’s arrival in Pentos may be our best opportunity,” Willam said. “Before you set off in search, did you send word to the magisters?”

The clench of Daemon’s jaw was answer enough. “I sent word to the king and Driftmark. I was not certain the ship would stop at Pentos.”

In the chaos and frenzy of the moment, it would have been easy to overlook sending a raven to one of the Free Cities. But he knew better than to say as much, even though the prince clearly blamed himself for the lapse.

“Do you think the magisters will intervene if we make our presence known?” Willam asked.

“With the Triarchy weakened, they will not want to see a Volantene resurgence. They know that if Tyrosh and Myr were to fall, Volantis would turn her sights north eventually.”

When Prince Daemon does not return, someone will send word to Pentos. It might be too late by then, however. By the time the prince’s absence grew long enough to no longer be explained by a search, they might be several days’ travel from Pentos. But the king may send other dragonriders in search.

And the warlock might be rid of them just as before. Willam did not know the limits of his power. Pentos truly was the one place where merely drawing attention would be nearly as effective as escape itself.

“Perhaps we can use the dragons somehow.”

Daemon gave him a sharp look. “What do you mean?”

“They have made dragonflame before.”

The prince’s eyes narrowed. “That cannot be.” He stepped over to their cage and crouched there, gazing within at the sleeping hatchlings. “They are too young.”

“I have seen it with my own eyes,” Willam said. “It was when the warlock brought his candle within.”

Daemon extended a hand into the cage, and Willam had to bite back a warning, reminding himself that the young hatchlings would likely respond more favorably to a Targaryen prodding them awake. And indeed, although young Qelebrys let out a tiny hiss, it faded as she blinked away her sleep to focus her gaze upon the prince, seeming as fascinated by him as the toddlers had been earlier.

“Qelebrys,” Daemon said softly. “Dracarys.”

Her head reared back, chest puffing up, and the prince barely snatched his hand away in time as a pale silver flame emerged from the hatchling’s open jaw. Her teeth clicked shut, and she looked expectantly toward Daemon, who hesitated only briefly before extending his hand once more to offer her a caress, Valyrian spilling softly from his lips, fluid where the Volantene sailors’ Valyrian was harsh.

Despite the dragons and strange sorcery, it was often easy to forget his cousins’ Targaryen nature. Prince Daemon, however, still clad in dragonriding leathers as he knelt before a dragon the size of a half-grown cat, his short silver-blond hair catching the torchlight like flame, looked so perfectly at ease that Willam could not help but be reminded how commonplace dragons were to the royal house.

This is what Volantis wants. Not dragons alone, which could never be tamed by common men, but riders who could command them as easily as breathing. Knowing it was one thing, but seeing it another thing altogether. And Willam would never have thought of Prince Daemon as capable of being tamed by another, as tempestuous and proud as the prince’s nature was, but he had seen him with his sons. I must protect them from such a fate.

“I have not heard of hatchlings so young able to produce dragonflame,” the prince said, switching back to the common tongue.

He then coaxed Shadow awake, but unlike his more cooperative clutchmate, he regarded Daemon’s command with suspicion, choosing to ignore it.

“I feared as much,” Daemon said, giving the hatchling a small stroke before withdrawing his hand. “I do not know if it is wise to teach Baelon the command.”

Willam nearly choked at the thought. “I would agree, my prince.”

“We must not be far from Pentos now,” Daemon mused. “With favorable winds, I would say no more than a day from where I caught up with the ship, though they were not favorable at the time.”

It had been eight hours since, and judging by the constant, repetitive shouts in Valyrian rising from the lower deck, where the rowers sat, the winds were still not with the Volantenes. It did not leave much time to prepare, but then, there was not very much to prepare.

“A fire at the docks would draw the most attention,” Willam said. It was also the safest course of action, rather than trying to set the ship aflame while still on it. “But they will keep the hatchlings caged, as they did when loading them onto the ship.” And the cages themselves were metal, rather than wood. “How far can their flame reach?”

Daemon bared his teeth in a bloodthirsty smile. “Let us see.”

The prince knocked upon the cabin door, drawing a query in Valyrian from the other side that he answered in kind. After a few minutes, a plate of raw meat was presented.

“They prefer it cooked,” Willam said.

Daemon raised a brow. “If that is so, then they shall need to cook it themselves.”

The prince returned to the cage, kneeling once more, and the hatchlings flapped their wings eagerly at the sight of the plate. He tossed one scrap into the center of the cage, only to draw a stare of betrayed disappointment from Qelebrys once she reached the morsel and found it raw.

“Dracarys, Qelebrys,” Daemon chided her.

Her gout of dragonflame grazed the top of the morsel, causing it to sizzle instantly, and the hatchling’s wings flung back in startlement. She seemed to recognize that she had been the cause of it, and after an uncertain look at Daemon, who urged her again, she aimed her flame at the meat itself. The heat was enough to make the metal at the bottom of the cage glow briefly, cooking the bottom. It took a few gouts over several seconds, but the meat was well charred by the end and the hatchling swallowed it whole.

Shadow was making mournful noises from his cage. Without waiting for a command, he unleashed his own dragonflame, which appeared turquoise in the dim light, upon the scrap the Daemon threw toward him.

The prince began placing morsels further and further from the hatchlings. Qelebrys was patient, willing to wait for the command before attempting to cook her meat, which allowed them to determine that her flame could reach from one corner of the cage to the other, nearly four times the length of the hatchling’s own body. A small piece of the cabin floor caught flame, but they quickly stamped it out, leaving just a faint blackened mark behind.

Shadow meanwhile quickly closed on each of his treats, cooking them right in front of him before settling onto the warmed metal to wait for the next.

“Who named them?” Daemon asked once the plate was empty.

“The boys,” Willam said. “I assume that Qelebrys is Valyrian?”

“She-of-the-starry-night-sky,” the prince said, stealing a surprised glance toward Raymar. “When I was their age, my father said that I was determined to name my own dragon Ātsiāzma.” At Willam’s blank look, he translated. “Big Tooth.”

“That sounds more like a Jon name,” Willam said, amused.

The prince’s smile stuttered, as though halfway through he remembered he was speaking to a Royce. “I would not know as well as you,” he said, voice cooling. “And his name is Baelon.”

“My apologies, my prince.”

The other man’s demeanor had shifted to what Rhea would have witheringly called “spoilt prince.” In the past, Willam would have chuckled in agreement, but as he studied him, the set of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes spoke instead of a seething hurt. Proud the prince was, without a doubt, but his pain at being a stranger to his own sons was an honest one.

“I have known them not even a fortnight,” Willam said. “Their yearning for love was as great as their loss, and I was their closest kin who remained. You have already won their hearts.”

His cousins had met their nurse Lora at the same time as Willam, and she had been unable to soothe them to sleep. They had known Daemon for mere hours and demanded songs of him precisely as they would have demanded stories of Willam.

Distrust had settled over the prince’s face again, however, as though he believed that he were merely flattering or humoring him. “I grow weary,” Daemon said. “If we are to have success, I must be rested for our arrival.”

“As you say,” Willam said, inclining his head.

It was simple enough to request another bed, which a pair of Volantenes suspended from another set of hooks in the cabin, nearer the door. The commotion did wake the children, but they were convinced to return to sleep after a bribery of kisses and the Valyrian lullaby the prince had sung for them twice already.

There were ample washcloths, which the prince used to wipe sweat and grime from his face first, then his neck. It was a wonder that Targaryen dragonriders did not burn more with all their time spent in the sun, Willam mused. They were not pale, as northerners were, but neither did they have the swarthier complexion that spared Dornishmen to the south the worst of the sun’s rays. And yet after spending two years beneath the unrelenting skies of the Stepstones, Prince Daemon could be mistaken for someone who had spent the entire time within the walls of Runestone.

The children do not burn. Is that so of all Targaryens? Does that protect them from the heat of the sun as well?

Willam hurriedly averted his gaze as Daemon stripped fully to wipe down the rest of his body, though a glaze of exhaustion had settled over the prince now. He is but a few years older than me. Rhea was so much older that he had always thought of her husband as near to her in age, but he and Willam were in fact nearer.

Prince Daemon had been seven-and-ten when he had wed Rhea. To Willam, who had been fourteen, that had seemed a man grown, but he truly would have been a spoiled young prince, just out of boyhood. Knowing Rhea as he did now, he knew how that would have grated upon her, for she was just as proud.

Could it have ever worked between them? The prince Willam had observed today was not the monster his cousin oft railed about. Had she been too proud, too stubborn to change her heart, once set? Would Daemon have whored his way through town had he found love in his wife?

The possibility haunted him as he climbed up into his bed, that his house’s doom could have been so easily averted. That his little cousins could have grown up with both a mother and a father, for he could not see a future now where they would be allowed to know Rhea.

“Ser Willam,” Daemon called out, his voice hushed so as not to wake the children.

He sat up carefully so as not to set the bed to swinging. “Yes, my prince?”

Daemon was staring up at the ceiling rather than at him. “You claim to have cut down a dozen of their men.”

“It is no claim,” Willam said mildly.

“Why then did they allow you to live?”

“They did not wish to upset the children.” That had been plain enough. The Volantenes wished to be seen as saviors and benefactors, and killing the boys’ kin while kidnapping them would have made that far more difficult. Willam settled onto his back once more to smile wryly at the ceiling. “And for all their able-bodied sailors and warriors, they had not thought to bring a nurse.”

No reply came. When Willam sat up once more, he saw that the prince’s eyes were closed, and by the slow rise of his chest, he was already asleep. For all that Willam tried to match his swiftness, however, his thoughts kept drifting back to the warlock’s looming visit, almost certainly with the dragonglass candle. It is a thing of evil. I do not want it near any of them.

And yet he was a knight without a sword. A protector without a shield. All he had at his disposal to protect them were his wits and words, and he could only pray that they would be enough.

x~x~x

Okay, okay, ONE MORE PART after this before I go back to Resonant because I really want to write their meeting with Denyno in the morning...

#resonant 'verse regret au #resonant 'verse ficlets

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velvetvisionsaurora · 4 months ago

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Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

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Masterlist

Chapter 4

Echoes of Memory

Morning light filtered through the small porthole of Ella's cabin, waking her from the deepest sleep she'd experienced in years. For a disorienting moment, she couldn't place where she was—the gentle rocking motion familiar yet the comfort of the bed entirely foreign. Then yesterday's events crashed back: the auction, the astronomical bid, the pirate captain with intense eyes who had purchased her freedom rather than her person.

She rose quickly, years of conditioning making her anxious about being caught sleeping late. Slave habits died hard, if they died at all. The clean clothes provided yesterday were supplemented by new garments on the small desk—practical attire suitable for ship life rather than the restrictive clothing typically given to female captives. Another unexpected consideration.

Ella ran her fingers over the fabric, allowing herself a small smile at its softness. Fifteen years of coarse cloth against her skin made this simple comfort feel like extraordinary luxury. On impulse, she twirled once, feeling the fabric swish around her legs, before catching herself with a startled laugh. Such frivolous movement had been dangerous in Blackwell's household, where any sign of spirit invited unwanted attention.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Breakfast will be served on deck in ten minutes," came Wooyoung's cheerful voice through the door. "Captain's orders—he wants to begin the interviews with a full stomach and fresh air."

"Thank you," she replied, relieved to hear no impatience in his tone despite her oversleeping. "I'll be ready."

"No rush! Pirates aren't exactly known for punctuality." His laughter faded as he moved away down the corridor.

The casual kindness continued to unsettle her. Fifteen years of captivity had taught her to expect hidden motives behind every gentle word, calculating strategy behind every apparent consideration. Yet something in Wooyoung's genuine warmth defied her practiced cynicism.

As she dressed and prepared herself, Ella deliberately loosened some of her usual rigid control. If she truly was free, perhaps she could begin allowing small pieces of herself to emerge from behind the protective walls she'd constructed. Not complete vulnerability—never that—but tiny openings to test the atmosphere of this strange new world.

She whispered her nightly ritual once more, like a talisman against the day's uncertainties: "Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy."

The ATEEZ's main deck bustled with morning activity when Ella emerged from below. Sailors moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting sails to catch the favorable wind that had carried them well away from Halazia's harbor overnight. The black sails, now fully unfurled against the clear sky, gave the vessel an ominous silhouette that belied the cheerful calls and occasional laughter of its crew.

She paused momentarily, breathing deeply of the clean sea air—another simple pleasure denied during years of confinement. The vastness of ocean and sky created a sensation of expanding possibility that made her heart beat faster.

"There you are!" Wooyoung waved from a small table set near the stern, where Captain Hongjoong and Quartermaster Seonghwa were already seated. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost."

"The ship is... larger than it appears from shore," she replied, a partial truth to explain her hesitation. In reality, she had been cataloging escape routes and defensive positions—habitual survival behavior she couldn't switch off despite her apparent freedom.

As she approached the table, a sudden gust of wind caught her hair, loosening strands from her severe bun. Instead of immediately securing them as she normally would, Ella let them dance momentarily around her face, enjoying the sensation of wind against her skin.

Captain Hongjoong rose slightly as she approached—a courtesy normally reserved for ladies of quality, not former slaves. The gesture caught her off-guard, another unexpected consideration that made her wary even as part of her responded to the simple dignity it afforded her.

"I trust you slept well?" he inquired as she took the seat indicated.

"Very well, thank you." Better than she had in years, though she kept this admission to herself. The soft bed and absence of fear had combined to produce a depth of rest she'd forgotten was possible.

The breakfast spread surprised her—fresh bread, preserved fruits, even small portions of smoked fish. Wooyoung placed a cup of steaming tea before her with flourish.

"My special blend," he said with a wink. "Secret ingredients."

As she took a cautious sip, the flavor struck her with unexpected force—cardamom, cinnamon, and something else she couldn't quite identify. A flash of memory surfaced: a small boy with bright eyes crushing spices between stones, whispering that he was "making magic" while she watched with fascination.

"It's wonderful," she said, letting genuine pleasure show in her expression. "Like drinking sunlight."

Wooyoung's eyes widened slightly at her poetic description before his face split into a delighted grin. "Exactly! That's exactly what I've always thought but could never explain." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "The secret is a pinch of saffron—criminally expensive but worth every coin."

His enthusiasm was contagious, and Ella found herself smiling in response—a real smile that reached her eyes rather than the carefully calibrated expression she typically maintained. "Then I'm honored by your generosity," she replied, taking another appreciative sip.

Wooyoung beamed with pleasure before settling into his own seat. "The captain says you're going to help us understand Blackwell's operation. You'll find no more attentive audience—we've been tracking him for years."

"Years?" Ella asked, genuine curiosity breaking through her caution. "Why focus on one particular slave trader among so many?"

A subtle tension rippled through the three men, brief but unmistakable. Captain Hongjoong's expression remained carefully neutral as he replied.

"The Southern Trade Company represents everything we oppose. Their methods are particularly brutal, their influence unusually extensive. Dismantling their operation would significantly disrupt the slave trade throughout the region."

The explanation was logical, yet something in his tone suggested personal motivation beyond strategic objectives. Ella filed this observation away for later consideration.

"I'll share what I know," she offered, "though my perspective was necessarily limited. Slaves aren't privy to business operations."

"You'd be surprised how much one can observe from the shadows," Seonghwa countered, his elegant features arranged in perfect composure. "Those who own others often forget they have eyes and ears."

The assessment was accurate. Throughout her captivity, Ella had cultivated the art of invisibility while remaining acutely aware of her surroundings. Over time, she'd pieced together considerable knowledge about Blackwell's business practices, ship movements, and trade connections. The question was how much of this information to share, and how quickly.

"Perhaps we could begin with the basic structure of Blackwell's organization," Hongjoong suggested, seamlessly shifting into the interview portion of their breakfast. "His key lieutenants, primary trading routes, largest holdings."

The topic was safe enough—factual information without personal disclosure. Ella organized her thoughts, then began a methodical description of Blackwell's company structure. As she spoke, she noticed Seonghwa making precise notes in a small leather-bound book, his handwriting remarkably neat despite the ship's gentle rolling.

"His primary residence is a fortified estate ten miles inland from Halazia's eastern district," she explained. "The property includes holding facilities for 'premium merchandise' before auction."

A muscle tightened in Hongjoong's jaw at this clinical terminology, though she was merely quoting Blackwell's own words. His controlled reaction revealed genuine moral outrage beneath his carefully maintained composure.

"You should see his private garden, though," she added, allowing a hint of sardonic humor to color her tone. "He's terribly proud of his imported roses—fusses over them more than any human in his possession. Once spent an entire dinner describing the precise soil composition required for blue-tinted blooms."

Wooyoung snorted into his tea, while Seonghwa's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. Even Hongjoong's serious expression lightened momentarily.

"Priorities of a true gentleman," the captain remarked dryly, his tone matching her ironic delivery.

The small moment of shared humor loosened something in Ella's chest—a tight knot of tension she hadn't fully recognized until it began to unravel. Humor had been another luxury denied under Blackwell's ownership, where laughter could be interpreted as insolence.

"The estate is guarded by approximately thirty men at any given time," she continued, finding her voice flowing more naturally. "Blackwell himself travels frequently between his three main bases of operation—Halazia, Port Westerly, and the southern islands."

"His flagship is the Meridian," Hongjoong noted. "Fast brigantine, heavily armed but disguised as a merchant vessel. We've tracked it through southern waters but never engaged directly."

Ella nodded. "He typically travels with a small fleet—the Meridian plus two escort vessels crewed by his most loyal officers." She hesitated, then added with a touch of mischief, "Though 'loyal' might be overstating matters. His first mate, Coleman, has been skimming profits for years. Blackwell suspects but can't prove it, which makes their interactions rather entertaining to observe."

Seonghwa's eyebrow arched with interest. "Internal discord is always useful information."

"Coleman maintains a separate ledger," Ella elaborated, warming to her subject. "Keeps it hidden beneath a loose floorboard in his cabin—not particularly imaginative, but effective enough. If one were inclined toward mischief, that ledger would make excellent leverage."

"One might indeed be so inclined," Wooyoung remarked with a conspiratorial grin that reminded her painfully of a young boy planning kitchen raids for forbidden treats.

The conversation continued in this vein through breakfast—professional exchange of information increasingly colored by Ella's personal observations and occasional flashes of wit. She found herself relaxing into the interaction despite her habitual caution, drawn by the evident appreciation these men showed for both her knowledge and her perspective.

As they finished eating, a sailor approached with a message for the captain. After a brief exchange, Hongjoong turned back to the table.

"Duty calls. Seonghwa, please continue our discussion with Ella in the chart room. I'll join you shortly." He rose, offering her a slight bow. "Your insights are invaluable. Thank you for your candor."

As he departed, Seonghwa gathered his notes with meticulous precision. "The chart room will be more comfortable for an extended conversation. If you're amenable?"

"Of course," she agreed, rising to follow him.

"I'll bring fresh tea!" Wooyoung called after them, already clearing the breakfast dishes with efficient movements.

As Ella followed Seonghwa below decks, she noticed how crew members they passed showed the quartermaster respect without fear—a stark contrast to the enforced deference she'd witnessed in Blackwell's organization. The ATEEZ might be feared by enemies, but its own crew operated with evident loyalty rather than intimidation.

The chart room proved to be a spacious cabin dominated by a large table where navigational maps were secured beneath a sheet of clear glass. Various instruments lined the walls—sextants, compasses, and measuring tools arranged in perfect order. The space reminded her of a meticulous scholar's study rather than a pirate's workplace.

"Please, sit," Seonghwa indicated a chair positioned to view both the maps and the doorway—a courtesy that acknowledged her need for situational awareness.

As they settled into a more detailed discussion of Blackwell's trading routes, Ella found herself unexpectedly relaxing. The quartermaster's precise questions were clearly designed to extract maximum useful information, yet there was nothing threatening in his approach. He simply presented problems, absorbed her responses, and occasionally made annotations on the appropriate maps.

Their conversation flowed with surprising ease. When she mentioned a particular cove Blackwell used for clandestine transfers, Seonghwa immediately located it on the chart, adding small marks to indicate patrol patterns based on her description. His memory was exceptional—he never needed her to repeat information, and quickly integrated new details with existing knowledge.

During a brief pause while Seonghwa adjusted a map, Ella found herself absently rearranging the navigation tools near her edge of the table, aligning them in perfect parallel lines. Catching herself in this unconscious action, she glanced up to find Seonghwa watching her with an unreadable expression.

"Sorry," she said, gesturing to the tools. "Force of habit."

To her surprise, his lips curved in a small but genuine smile. "No apology necessary. They're now in their proper positions."

The simple acknowledgment of shared precision struck a chord of recognition so powerful that Ella had to look away momentarily. When she glanced back, Seonghwa had returned to his maps, the brief connection seemingly forgotten though its effects lingered in her awareness.

"You have a remarkably ordered mind," he observed after another period of productive discussion. "Most witnesses struggle to provide such coherent intelligence."

The compliment, delivered without flattery, caught her off guard. "Observation was necessary for survival," she replied simply.

Seonghwa's gaze met hers with unexpected intensity. "Yes. It often is."

Something in his tone suggested personal understanding rather than theoretical knowledge. Before she could respond, Wooyoung arrived with the promised tea service, his entrance dispelling the moment of connection.

"Special delivery!" he announced, setting down a tray laden with not just tea but small honey cakes. "Brain work requires sustenance."

"We're conducting serious intelligence gathering, not hosting a social gathering," Seonghwa remarked, though without genuine irritation.

"Intelligence flows better with honey cakes," Wooyoung countered, setting cups before them. "Even quartermaster brains need sweetening occasionally."

Their familiar bickering triggered another wave of déjà vu so powerful that Ella had to focus on the teacup before her to maintain composure. Something about their dynamic, the precise way Seonghwa's eyebrow arched in response to Wooyoung's teasing, resonated with half-forgotten memories.

Unable to resist the temptation, she picked up a honey cake and deliberately broke it in half before eating—a small childhood habit she'd maintained whenever possible. Wooyoung's eyes widened fractionally, his gaze following the movement of her hands with curious intensity.

"Too large to eat in one bite," she explained with a light shrug, though the justification felt strangely important to offer.

"Exactly!" Wooyoung exclaimed with disproportionate enthusiasm. "That's exactly how they should be eaten. I always break mine in half too."

It was a small thing—trivial really—yet the shared preference created an unexpected sense of connection. Ella found herself smiling again, the expression becoming less foreign with each occurrence.

"Will you be continuing the interview?" Wooyoung asked, clearly hoping to join them.

"Actually," Seonghwa replied, glancing at the chronometer on the wall, "we've covered considerable ground already. Perhaps Ella would appreciate seeing more of the ship? A tour might provide context for our discussions."

"An excellent idea!" Wooyoung agreed enthusiastically. "Though the galley is currently off-limits—mid-morning bread preparation makes for poor sightseeing."

"Perhaps Yunho could serve as guide," Seonghwa suggested. "As boatswain, he can provide the most comprehensive overview of ship operations."

The proposal seemed casual, but Ella sensed underlying purpose. Were they deliberately cycling her through different officers, each assessing her from their unique perspective? Or was there another motive for ensuring she spent time with each of them?

"I would welcome a tour," she agreed, curious to observe more of the ship's operations. Knowledge of her surroundings was always valuable, regardless of intent.

Wooyoung departed to locate Yunho, leaving Ella briefly alone with Seonghwa. The quartermaster organized his notes with methodical precision, each page aligned perfectly before being secured in a leather folio.

"Thank you for your assistance," he said formally. "Your knowledge of Blackwell's operation is impressively detailed."

"I merely observed what was before me."

"Few develop such clarity of perception, even when survival depends upon it." His tone remained neutral, but something in his eyes suggested deeper meaning. "Perception requires both intelligence and courage."

Before she could formulate a response, the door opened to admit Yunho's tall frame. The boatswain's gentle smile immediately lightened the atmosphere.

"I hear you're interested in ship operations," he said, ducking slightly as he entered the low-ceilinged room. "I'd be happy to show you around, if you'd like."

"Thank you," Ella replied, rising from her seat. "I appreciate the opportunity."

Seonghwa nodded acknowledgment as they departed, already returning to his annotations on the charts. His focused dedication to task reminded her of another careful boy who had created safety through meticulous planning—a memory she pushed aside as she followed Yunho into the corridor.

The boatswain moved with surprising grace for his size, adjusting his stride to accommodate her shorter legs without making the consideration obvious. As they emerged onto the main deck, he gestured broadly at the ship surrounding them.

"The ATEEZ is a modified brigantine—fast enough to outrun larger vessels, maneuverable enough to navigate shallow waters, but with sufficient firepower to defend herself when necessary," he explained, pride evident in his voice. "We've made considerable alterations to her original design over the years."

Ella followed as he conducted a comprehensive tour of the vessel, from bow to stern. Yunho explained each area's function with clear enthusiasm, introducing crew members they encountered with casual warmth that revealed the ship's strong community bonds. Throughout, he displayed not just technical knowledge but genuine love for the vessel and its operations.

"The rigging system is custom designed," he explained, pointing to the complex arrangement of ropes and pulleys above them. "We can adjust sail configuration more quickly than standard vessels, giving us advantage in pursuit or evasion."

"You designed this?" she asked, genuinely impressed by the ingenious system.

A slight flush colored his cheeks. "With Mingi's help. He created the pulley mechanisms that make it work."

"It's brilliant," she said sincerely, then added with playful challenge, "Though I wonder how it performs in squall conditions with rapid wind shifts."

Yunho's eyes lit up at the technical question. "That's where the secondary stabilizing lines come in," he explained, pointing to a supplementary rigging arrangement. "They allow for quick rebalancing without compromising structural integrity."

"Clever," she acknowledged, then surprised herself by adding, "I'd love to see it in action sometime."

"Are you familiar with sailing mechanics?" he asked, evident curiosity in his tone.

The question required careful navigation. Her knowledge came primarily from observation aboard various vessels during her captivity, but explaining this might reveal more of her history than she wished to share.

"I've observed various ships in operation," she replied, a truthful if incomplete explanation. "The principles fascinate me, though my understanding is purely theoretical."

Yunho nodded acceptance of this answer. "Theory and practice often differ at sea. The elements have little respect for human calculations."

"Nature rarely does," she agreed. "Though humans can adapt if they're clever enough."

"And humble enough," he added with unexpected wisdom. "Pride makes poor companions with waves and wind."

The observation, delivered without pretension, reminded her of starlit conversations long ago—a tall boy explaining natural elements with reverent wonder rather than technical mastery. The memory created an ache of recognition she couldn't fully suppress.

As they continued their tour, the sun climbed higher in the sky, its warmth pleasant against Ella's skin after years of limited access to fresh air and daylight. The vastness of the ocean surrounding them stirred complex emotions—freedom and opportunity mixed with awareness of isolation and dependency.

"The crow's nest provides the best view," Yunho remarked, following her gaze upward. "Would you like to see?"

The invitation surprised her—access to high vantage points was rarely granted to captives, given the tactical advantage height provided. Yet another reminder that her status aboard this vessel was fundamentally different from her previous existence.

"Is it permitted?" she asked cautiously.

"Of course. You're not a prisoner here." His gentle assertion held no condescension, just simple truth. "Though the climb can be challenging for those unaccustomed to ship rigging."

"I'd like to try," she decided, the prospect of expansive visibility appealing to instincts honed by years of restricted movement and sight lines.

Yunho nodded approval. "I'll follow behind—not because I doubt your capability, but safety protocols apply to everyone aboard."

His consideration—acknowledging her agency while maintaining practical safety—struck another chord of familiarity. She followed his instructions for navigating the rigging, finding her body remembered climbing skills she hadn't used in years. The physical exertion felt surprisingly good, muscles engaging in movements long denied.

When they reached the small platform high above the deck, the view stole her breath. Endless blue stretched in all directions, the horizon a perfect circle unbroken by land. The ATEEZ's black sails billowed below them, crew members reduced to small figures moving with coordinated purpose across the deck.

"It's magnificent," she admitted, the word inadequate for the expanse of freedom before her.

"I've always found peace up here," Yunho said quietly, settling beside her with respectful distance. "The stars at night are even more spectacular—no city lights to dim their brilliance."

Unable to resist the childlike impulse, she closed her eyes and spread her arms slightly, letting the wind flow around her body in a sensation of near-flight.

When she opened her eyes, she caught Yunho watching her with a soft expression that vanished quickly into his usual gentle smile. "It's the closest we get to flying," he remarked, as if understanding her unspoken thought.

"Better than flying," she replied. "Birds don't appreciate what they have."

Yunho laughed, the sound carrying freely in the open air. "I've never thought of it that way. Poor ungrateful birds, taking flight for granted."

His laughter was contagious, and Ella found herself joining in—genuine mirth bubbling up from a place she'd thought long silenced. The sound of her own laughter startled her almost as much as the sensation itself, unfamiliar after years of careful restraint.

"You mentioned the stars," she said once their laughter subsided. "Are they particularly clear from here?"

Yunho's expression brightened with genuine enthusiasm. "Extraordinarily so. On cloudless nights, the sky becomes a canopy of light—constellations so vivid they seem close enough to touch."

"I've always loved the stars," Ella admitted, the confession slipping out before she could reconsider. "During my years with Blackwell, my bedroom had a small window high in the wall. Too small for escape, but perfect for viewing a small patch of night sky. I taught myself the constellations from that limited view—piecing them together night after night like a puzzle."

The personal revelation surprised her as much as it seemed to surprise Yunho, whose expression reflected both interest and compassion.

"Self-taught astronomy under such conditions," he remarked softly. "That shows remarkable determination."

Ella shrugged, momentarily embarrassed by her openness. "It gave me something beyond my immediate circumstances—something vast and constant that couldn't be owned or controlled."

"The stars have been sailors' companions for thousands of years for similar reasons," Yunho agreed. "They offer direction when all else is chaos."

Impulsively, she pointed toward a particular section of sky. "Is that where Orion would be visible at night?"

"Yes, exactly!" Yunho's face lit with even greater enthusiasm. "You do know your stars. He's not visible now in daylight, but he guards that quadrant after sunset. How did you determine his position?"

"Hemisphere and season," she explained, warming to the subject despite her usual caution. "And I remember he travels with his loyal hound, Canis Major, who carries the brightest star in our sky."

"Sirius," Yunho confirmed, his expression reflecting delighted surprise at finding an unexpected fellow enthusiast. "The Dog Star."

For several minutes, they discussed the constellations visible from their current position, Ella sharing her self-taught knowledge while Yunho contributed the practical applications used in navigation. It was the most unguarded conversation she'd engaged in for years—a subject that connected to her deepest self yet revealed nothing dangerous about her history or identity.

"Would you be interested in seeing them properly tonight?" Yunho suggested. "Weather permitting, of course. The night watch wouldn't mind company in the crow's nest for an hour."

The invitation represented more than simple stargazing—it was an offer of trust, an acknowledgment of her as a person with interests and desires rather than merely a source of intelligence about Blackwell. Ella found herself nodding before prudence could intervene.

"I'd like that very much," she replied, surprised by her own sincerity.

They remained in the crow's nest for several more comfortable minutes, the silence between them lacking the tension Ella had grown accustomed to in most human interactions. Eventually, Yunho gestured toward the deck below.

"We should continue our tour. The captain will want to resume interviews this afternoon."

As they descended, Ella found herself wondering at the ease she felt in Yunho's presence. His gentle manner and straightforward communication created space for relaxation she rarely permitted herself. It was dangerous—comfort led to complacency, and complacency to vulnerability—yet the familiar quality of his kindness resonated with something deep within her.

Back on deck, Yunho led her toward the bow, where several crew members were engaged in maintenance work. As they approached, Ella spotted a figure she recognized instantly—Mingi's broad shoulders and focused attention unmistakable as he inspected a section of railing.

The master gunner looked up at their approach, his dark eyes meeting hers briefly before shifting away. Unlike the captain's searching gaze or Wooyoung's open curiosity, Mingi's glance contained something deeper—a wary recognition that suggested he, too, experienced the strange resonance she felt in their presence.

"Mingi's checking the gun port mechanisms," Yunho explained. "We modified the design to conceal our firepower from distant observation."

"Clever," she acknowledged, studying the seamless integration of practical function and deceptive appearance. "Most merchant vessels wouldn't recognize the threat until within range."

"Exactly," Yunho confirmed. "Though we prefer to avoid conflict when possible. The modifications simply ensure favorable terms when negotiation fails."

As he spoke, Mingi completed his inspection and straightened, acknowledging them with a slight nod. His movements held the careful precision she'd noticed yesterday—a man constantly aware of his size and strength, moderating both to avoid intimidation.

"Is everything functional?" Yunho asked his friend.

"Yes," Mingi replied, his deep voice soft despite its resonance. "Port-side mechanism needs minor adjustment."

"I can assist after the tour," Yunho offered.

Mingi nodded agreement, his eyes flickering briefly to Ella before returning to Yunho. Something unspoken passed between them—a communication developed through years of friendship and collaboration.

"The forecastle next?" Yunho suggested, apparently understanding whatever silent message had been conveyed.

"Actually," Ella interjected, curiosity overcoming caution, "I'd be interested in learning more about the gun ports, if permitted. The design seems uniquely practical."

Both men looked momentarily surprised by her interest. Mingi recovered first, giving another slight nod that might have been approval.

"I can demonstrate," he offered, the words emerging with careful deliberation.

Yunho smiled, as if pleased by this development. "Excellent. No one understands the mechanisms better than their designer. I'll check in with the captain and return shortly."

With that diplomatic withdrawal, Ella found herself alone with the taciturn gunner—a situation that triggered both wariness and that same inexplicable sense of familiarity. Mingi led her to the nearest gun port, his movements unhurried but efficient.

"External appearance," he began, indicating the seemingly solid hull planking. "Conceals armed capability."

He pressed a recessed panel, revealing a cleverly disguised latch mechanism. With smooth precision, the "solid" section of hull swung inward, exposing a medium-caliber cannon mounted on a specially designed track.

"Rotation and elevation adjustable," he explained, demonstrating with minimal movement how the weapon could be positioned for various targeting scenarios. "Quick deployment essential in confrontation."

His explanation was technical but clear, each word carefully chosen and precisely delivered. The efficiency of his communication reflected both respect for her intelligence and his own preference for verbal economy.

"The counterweight system is ingenious," she observed, noting how the heavy cannon could be moved with relatively little physical effort. "Your design?"

He nodded once, a flicker of quiet pride crossing his features before disappearing behind his usual reserved expression.

Ella studied the mechanism with genuine curiosity. Unlike the stars, which had provided solace during her captivity, weapons systems represented knowledge she'd never had opportunity or reason to acquire. Yet she found herself intrigued by the practical ingenuity represented in Mingi's design.

"How do you synchronize the firing sequence if multiple ports are deployed simultaneously?" she asked, genuinely curious about the operational logistics.

The question seemed to surprise him. Mingi studied her for a moment, as if reassessing his understanding of who she was and what she knew.

"Coordinated signaling," he explained, then indicated a series of speaking tubes and bell-pull mechanisms integrated into the gun port housing. "Precise timing essential for maximum effect."

His explanation remained concise but thorough, respecting her question without condescension. Unlike mathematics, which would have required formal education she clearly couldn't have received as a slave, weapons operation represented practical knowledge that might reasonably be acquired through observation.

Ella found herself engaging in the technical discussion with unexpected interest. Though she lacked the theoretical foundation to fully understand the underlying principles, she could appreciate the elegant functionality of the design.

Finding herself genuinely curious, Ella leaned forward to examine a particular gear mechanism. "This compensates for lateral motion?"

Mingi nodded, then surprised her by gently adjusting her viewpoint with a light touch on her shoulder, directing her attention to a secondary system. "Additional stabilization."

The brief contact lasted only a moment, but Ella noticed how quickly he withdrew his hand afterward, as if concerned about overstepping. His caution touched something in her—this powerful man so careful not to frighten or impose.

On impulse, she pointed to a small carved symbol nearly hidden within the mechanical housing. "Is that your maker's mark?"

Mingi's eyes widened slightly before he nodded, something vulnerable flashing across his usually stoic features.

"It's beautiful," she said sincerely, studying the simple but elegant design. "Functional components shouldn't sacrifice aesthetic consideration."

The observation drew what might have been the ghost of a smile—a subtle softening around his eyes that transformed his face momentarily.

As they continued examining the gun port mechanisms, Ella found herself relaxing into the interaction despite its technical nature. Though she couldn't match Mingi's expertise, her genuine interest seemed to encourage him to demonstrate aspects of the system he might otherwise have omitted.

"Designed for minimal crew," he explained at one point, showing how a single operator could manage functions that typically required multiple gunners. "Efficiency important with limited personnel."

"That's remarkably practical," she acknowledged. "Most naval vessels require three or four men per cannon."

"Necessity drives innovation," he replied with unexpected eloquence.

"You've clearly given great thought to these systems," Ella observed. "Have you designed other mechanisms for the ship?"

This question seemed to please him, though his expression remained reserved. With slightly more animation than he'd shown previously, Mingi led her to several additional innovation points throughout the nearby section—hatches with counterbalanced opening mechanisms, specialized tool storage integrated into structural elements, even water collection systems that utilized the ship's natural drainage patterns.

Each design reflected the same core principles: efficiency, functionality, and elegant simplicity. Though Mingi's explanations remained concise, his evident pride in the work revealed a depth of passion that transcended his reserved demeanor.

"Your work is extraordinary," Ella said sincerely as they concluded the impromptu tour. "You've created an integrated system where every component serves multiple purposes."

Mingi ducked his head slightly at the praise, uncomfortable with direct acknowledgment yet clearly pleased by her genuine appreciation. "Practical necessities," he murmured, though the faint color in his cheeks betrayed his satisfaction.

Before she could respond further, Yunho returned, accompanied by the captain.

"I see Mingi's revealed our secret weapons," Hongjoong remarked, his tone light though his eyes watchful as always.

"The design is exceptional," Ella replied truthfully. "Both practical and deceptive."

"Mingi's mechanical genius extends beyond weapons systems," the captain acknowledged, giving his gunner rare public credit. "Much of what makes the ATEEZ unique comes from his innovations."

The quiet man ducked his head slightly at this praise, discomfort with attention evident in his posture. Hongjoong seemed to recognize this, smoothly shifting focus.

"If you've concluded your tour, perhaps we could continue our discussion from this morning? There are several aspects of Blackwell's operation I'd like to explore further."

"Of course," Ella agreed, recognizing the request as politely phrased command.

As she prepared to follow the captain, a sudden impulse made her turn back to Mingi. "Thank you for the explanation. Your work is... remarkable."

Mingi met her eyes directly for the first time, holding her gaze for a breathtaking moment before offering a single nod of acknowledgment. The brief connection felt strangely significant, as if some important message had passed between them without words.

As she followed the captain toward his quarters, she glanced back to see Mingi and Yunho already absorbed in discussion of the port-side mechanism that needed adjustment. Their comfortable partnership spoke of years of mutual trust and understanding—another echo of something half-remembered from a time before captivity had taught her the danger of such bonds.

The morning's interactions had left her with conflicting impressions. The

The morning's interactions had left her with conflicting impressions. The ATEEZ's officers treated her with consistent respect and consideration, yet she sensed underlying currents beyond their stated interest in Blackwell's operations. Their coordinated movement through her day—breakfast with Hongjoong and Seonghwa, then Seonghwa alone, followed by Yunho's tour and Mingi's technical explanation—suggested deliberate strategy rather than coincidental scheduling.

Were they testing her? Evaluating her responses to different approaches? Or was there something else behind their careful attention?

As she entered the captain's cabin for the afternoon interview, Ella reinforced her mental guards. Whatever game was being played aboard the ATEEZ, she would maintain her vigilance until she understood the true stakes and players involved. Freedom—real freedom—required more than physical escape from captivity. It demanded clarity about the forces surrounding her and the nature of her place among them.

Yet beneath this caution, something else stirred—a sense of recognition that transcended logical explanation. Something about these five men resonated with her most deeply held memories, echoing from a time before Blackwell, before slavery had defined her existence.

Like fragments of a forgotten dream, these echoes teased at the edges of consciousness, suggesting connections she couldn't yet fully comprehend or trust. For now, she would watch and wait, gathering her own intelligence while providing theirs, until the truth—whatever it might be—emerged from the shadows of memory and time.

But perhaps, she admitted to herself as she took the seat offered by the captain, she could allow small moments of her true self to emerge from behind her protective walls. Testing the waters of this strange new freedom one ripple at a time.

From his position on the quarterdeck, Hongjoong observed Ella's departure from the gun port demonstration, noting the subtle change in her posture following her conversation with Mingi. Something in the interaction had affected her—a slight relaxation of the constant vigilance she maintained, perhaps, or a moment of genuine engagement beyond calculated cooperation.

More striking was the transformation he'd witnessed throughout the morning—small but significant shifts in her demeanor with each officer. With Seonghwa, she'd displayed unexpected humor and methodical thinking. With Yunho, she'd shown curiosity and even momentary playfulness in the crow's nest. With Mingi, she'd revealed genuine interest in mechanical systems that had drawn the reticent gunner into extended explanation.

"Well?" he asked as Seonghwa approached, the quartermaster's arrival precisely timed as always.

"She has exceptional knowledge of Blackwell's organization," Seonghwa reported. "Details that would be difficult to fabricate or misremember. Her understanding of shipping routes and security protocols is particularly comprehensive."

"And your impression beyond the information provided?"

Seonghwa considered carefully before responding. "She organizes information with remarkable clarity. Methodical, precise, attentive to detail in ways that suggest trained observation rather than casual awareness."

"She arranged the papers on the chart table," he added after a moment, his voice lowering slightly. "In perfect right angles. Exactly as I would have done."

The implication hung between them, neither man giving voice to the hope that continued to build despite their cautious restraint.

"Yunho reports she expressed specific interest in celestial navigation," Hongjoong noted. "Self-taught astronomy, she claimed—learned through a window in her quarters under Blackwell."

"Wooyoung is convinced she recognized the cardamom tea," Seonghwa added. "He claims she had the same reaction to his spiced honey cakes that she did fifteen years ago—though I reminded him that confirmation bias affects perception."

"And breaking them in half before eating," Hongjoong mused. "Wooyoung mentioned that specifically."

Seonghwa nodded, the gesture acknowledging significance without confirming conclusion. "Small behaviors that could be coincidental."

"Or could be memory fragments," Hongjoong countered. "Habits that survived when explicit memories were suppressed."

The quartermaster inclined his head slightly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. His caution balanced Hongjoong's growing conviction—a partnership dynamic established through years of shared decision-making.

"We proceed as planned," Hongjoong decided. "Systematic exposure to familiar elements without direct confrontation. If she is y/n, there must be reasons for her concealment. We'll respect that until she chooses otherwise."

"And if she isn't?" Seonghwa asked, voicing the question that haunted them all.

Hongjoong's hand moved unconsciously to the inner pocket where Mr. Hugs had traveled for fifteen years—now empty, the teddy bear secured in his sea chest until certainty was established.

"Then we've gained valuable intelligence about our primary target while freeing someone who deserved liberation," he replied firmly. "Either outcome justifies our investment."

As Ella appeared on deck, moving toward his cabin for their scheduled interview, Hongjoong observed the subtle but significant changes in her demeanor since yesterday—her posture slightly more relaxed, her interactions with crew members less guarded, occasional genuine expressions breaking through her careful composure. Small changes that nonetheless suggested growing comfort despite continued caution.

"Time will reveal truth," he murmured, more to himself than Seonghwa. "One way or another."

But deep within, in the quiet spaces where the captain's mask occasionally slipped, Hongjoong nursed the growing hope that they had finally, improbably, fulfilled the blood oath that had defined their lives since childhood. That the treasure he had sworn to protect had somehow found her way back to them against impossible odds.

The afternoon interview proved less formally structured than Ella had anticipated. Rather than continuing the systematic interrogation from their morning session, Hongjoong guided the conversation toward more nuanced aspects of Blackwell's operation—the power dynamics within his organization, the patterns in his decision-making, the vulnerabilities in his security protocols.

"You mentioned Coleman's separate accounting," the captain noted, referencing her breakfast revelation. "How extensive is this embezzlement?"

"Substantial enough to purchase a modest estate in the southern islands," Ella replied. "He's been methodically diverting funds for at least five years, primarily from the less documented transactions."

"Which Blackwell suspects but hasn't confirmed?"

"Correct. He knows the numbers don't align but can't identify the specific discrepancies. Coleman is careful to spread his theft across multiple accounts, never taking enough from any single source to trigger obvious concern."

Hongjoong nodded thoughtfully, clearly integrating this information into some larger strategic framework. "And the relationship between them?"

"Strained but functional," Ella explained. "Blackwell values Coleman's competence while distrusting his integrity—a common paradox in his organization. He surrounds himself with people effective enough to be valuable but corrupt enough to be controlled through their own misdeeds."

"A sound strategy for someone in his position," Hongjoong observed.

"But ultimately self-defeating," Ella countered. "It creates an organization of people seeking advantage rather than serving common purpose. In crisis, such bonds fracture quickly."

The captain's eyebrow raised slightly at this analysis. "You've given this considerable thought."

Ella shrugged, trying to appear casual despite the significance of her observation. "When your survival depends on predicting how power will shift, you learn to identify structural weaknesses."

"A valuable skill," Hongjoong acknowledged, his tone suggesting genuine respect rather than mere courtesy.

The conversation continued in this manner for over an hour—Hongjoong probing specific aspects of Blackwell's operation while Ella provided increasingly nuanced insights. Unlike the morning session, which had focused primarily on factual information, this discussion ventured into more interpretive territory, revealing Ella's understanding of the psychological and organizational dynamics underlying Blackwell's business practices.

Throughout, she maintained careful boundaries around her personal experiences, sharing analytical observations without disclosing how this knowledge had been acquired. To her surprise, Hongjoong respected these limitations, never pressing for details about her specific position within Blackwell's household or the treatment she had endured.

This restraint reinforced her growing impression that these pirates operated according to principles beyond mere self-interest. Their opposition to slavery appeared principled rather than opportunistic—a moral stance rather than a convenient justification for profit-seeking violence.

As the interview concluded, Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, studying her with that same searching gaze she'd noticed during their first encounter. "Your insights are extraordinarily valuable," he said finally. "Not just the factual information, but your understanding of Blackwell's organizational weaknesses."

"I hope it proves useful in your campaign against him," she replied neutrally.

"It already has," he assured her. "You've confirmed several strategic vulnerabilities we suspected and identified others we hadn't recognized."

He rose, signaling the end of their session. "You're free to move about the ship as you wish, within reasonable safety parameters. Dinner will be served in the officers' mess at sunset. Until then, your time is your own."

The casual grant of freedom—temporary and limited though it might be—caught Ella off guard. "Thank you," she managed, rising from her own seat. "That's... generous."

"It's not generosity," Hongjoong replied, echoing Wooyoung's breakfast statement. "It's recognition of your status as a free person rather than property."

Before she could formulate a response to this matter-of-fact declaration, a knock at the door announced Seonghwa's arrival with additional maps for the captain's review. Ella took the opportunity to make her exit, mind already considering how best to use this unexpected period of independence.

As she emerged onto the main deck, the afternoon sun warm against her skin, Ella experienced a momentary sense of disorientation. Freedom to choose her own actions, even within the confined context of a ship at sea, represented luxury so unfamiliar it bordered on overwhelming. What did one do with unfettered hours after fifteen years of regimented existence?

The answer came with surprising clarity: she would watch the ocean. During her captivity, horizons had been her most consistent deprivation—views blocked by walls, windows, or the constant press of supervisory presence. Now, with permission to move freely and an endless horizon surrounding her, she could indulge the simple pleasure of unobstructed sight lines.

Finding a relatively quiet section of railing, Ella positioned herself to observe both the open sea and the ship's operations. The dual focus served both her immediate desire for expansive views and her habitual need for situational awareness. From this vantage point, she could track crew movements while appearing to simply enjoy the scenery.

For nearly an hour, she remained in this contemplative state, absorbing the ship's rhythms while allowing her mind to process the day's interactions. The ATEEZ operated with remarkable efficiency—crew members moving purposefully through their tasks with minimal supervision yet evident coordination. Unlike Blackwell's household, where fear motivated performance, these sailors appeared driven by competence and mutual respect.

More puzzling were her own reactions to the ship's officers. Their familiar yet unfamiliar presence continued to trigger emotional echoes she couldn't fully explain. The easy banter between Seonghwa and Wooyoung, Yunho's gentle instruction, Mingi's quiet competence, Hongjoong's careful leadership—all resonated with memories just beyond conscious reach.

"Enjoying the view?"

The voice startled her from her reverie. Ella turned to find Wooyoung approaching, his characteristic smile brightening his features.

"Very much," she acknowledged. "It's... liberating."

"The endless horizon?" he asked, joining her at the railing. "Or the lack of walls?"

The perceptive question revealed unexpected insight beneath his playful demeanor. "Both," she admitted. "Though I hadn't consciously distinguished between them."

"The sea offers many forms of freedom," he replied, his tone unusually philosophical. "Absence of confinement is only the most obvious."

For several minutes, they stood in comfortable silence, watching the sun's gradual descent toward the western horizon. The moment felt strangely significant—shared contemplation without purpose beyond present experience.

"I'm heading to the galley to begin dinner preparations," Wooyoung said eventually. "Would you like to join me? I could use an extra pair of hands, and cooking offers its own kind of freedom."

The invitation surprised her, though perhaps it shouldn't have. Wooyoung had been the most openly welcoming of the officers, his warmth seemingly uncomplicated by whatever undercurrents flowed between the others.

"I'm not much of a cook," she warned. "Blackwell's household had professional kitchen staff."

"All the more reason to learn," he countered cheerfully. "Everyone should know how to prepare at least one delicious meal. It's a fundamental life skill, like swimming or lying convincingly to customs officials."

The casual inclusion of deception among essential capabilities startled a laugh from her. "Is that part of your official duties as ship's cook?"

"Cook and intelligence officer," he corrected with exaggerated dignity. "The roles complement each other beautifully. People reveal all sorts of secrets when they're enjoying good food."

"Is that your strategy with me?" she asked, only half-joking. "Culinary interrogation?"

Wooyoung's expression shifted to one of mock offense. "I would never! Well, not with honey cakes at least. Those are sacred."

His theatrical indignation drew another laugh from her—genuine amusement that felt increasingly natural with each occurrence. "In that case, I accept your invitation. Though I can't promise culinary competence."

"Enthusiasm counts more than expertise," he assured her, leading the way below decks. "And you already have the most important qualification."

"Which is?"

"You break honey cakes correctly," he replied with complete seriousness. "That demonstrates fundamental good judgment."

The galley proved more spacious than she had expected, with clear organization and surprisingly modern equipment. Various cooking implements hung from overhead racks, while ingredients were stored in labeled containers secured against the ship's movement. The space reflected the same attention to practical efficiency she'd observed throughout the vessel.

"Welcome to my domain," Wooyoung announced with theatrical flourish. "Less glamorous than the captain's quarters but infinitely more satisfying to the senses."

Under his cheerful guidance, Ella found herself drawn into collaborative food preparation—chopping vegetables, measuring spices, stirring simmering pots. Wooyoung's instruction proved surprisingly effective, his explanations clear despite his apparent haphazard approach.

"The secret to good cooking is confidence," he declared, demonstrating a technique for quickly dicing onions. "Ingredients can smell fear. They only behave for those who approach them with authority."

"Is that official culinary science?" she asked, attempting to mimic his rapid knife work with considerably less skill.

"Absolutely," he confirmed with complete conviction. "Passed down through generations of fearless cooks facing rebellious vegetation."

His playful absurdity created an atmosphere where mistakes became opportunities for humor rather than sources of anxiety. When Ella accidentally added too much salt to a sauce, Wooyoung immediately incorporated the error into a revised recipe, declaring it "fortuitously enhanced" rather than ruined.

This forgiving approach gradually eroded her habitual cautiousness. By the time they began preparing dessert—a simple fruit compote with spiced syrup—Ella found herself suggesting modifications to the recipe without first calculating potential negative consequences.

"Cinnamon might complement the apples," she ventured, then added more boldly, "And perhaps a touch of that cardamom from breakfast?"

Wooyoung's face lit with disproportionate delight. "Exactly what I was thinking! Great minds clearly think alike about spice combinations."

As he reached for the suggested ingredients, Ella noticed him exchanging a brief glance with someone behind her. Turning, she discovered Hongjoong standing in the galley doorway, observing their interaction with unreadable expression.

"Captain," Wooyoung acknowledged, his tone maintaining its cheerfulness despite the sudden tension in his posture. "We're preparing a feast worthy of your most distinguished guest."

"So I see," Hongjoong replied, his eyes moving from Wooyoung to Ella and back again. "I apologize for the interruption. Please continue."

As he departed, Ella noticed how Wooyoung's shoulders relaxed incrementally, though his smile never wavered. The brief exchange suggested complexity beneath the surface of the officers' interactions—dynamics invisible to outsiders yet deeply significant to those involved.

"The captain doesn't cook?" she asked, keeping her tone casual despite her curiosity.

"Tragically, no," Wooyoung replied, resuming his food preparation with characteristic animation. "His talents lie elsewhere, though he appreciates good food with appropriate reverence."

"And the others?"

"Seonghwa can cook but insists on measuring everything with scientific precision—beautiful results but painfully methodical process. Yunho manages basic sustenance but lacks creative flair. And Mingi..."

He paused, a fond smile crossing his features. "Mingi actually has natural talent but gets uncomfortable with praise, so he pretends incompetence to avoid being drafted into kitchen duty."

This casual insight into the gunner's character caught Ella's attention. "He dislikes attention that much?"

"He prefers his work to speak for itself," Wooyoung explained, his typical humor giving way to thoughtful assessment. "Recognition makes him self-conscious, though he deserves it more than most."

The observation aligned with her own impressions of Mingi—his evident discomfort when Hongjoong had praised his mechanical innovations, the way he deflected attention even while taking evident pride in his work. These characteristics seemed unlikely to be recent developments; they spoke of deeply ingrained personality traits rather than temporary circumstances.

As they completed dinner preparations, delivering steaming dishes to the officers' mess where the others had begun to gather, Ella found herself studying each man with renewed attentiveness. Their individualized mannerisms, their established dynamics, the subtle ways they accommodated each other's strengths and sensitivities—all suggested relationships developed over years rather than months.

These were not men who had recently formed alliance for convenience or profit. They functioned as a cohesive unit built on profound mutual understanding and trust. Such bonds required time to develop, particularly among people shaped by the harshness of pirate existence.

When had their journeys intersected? How had five such different personalities forged such seamless collaboration? And why did their presence trigger such persistent sense of familiarity in her own consciousness?

As they settled around the dinner table—the same configuration as the previous evening, with Hongjoong at the head, Seonghwa to his right, and the others arranged accordingly—Ella found herself watching their interactions with new intentness. Something connected these men beyond current circumstance, something that predated their present roles and responsibilities.

"The compote was Ella's inspiration," Wooyoung announced as dessert was served. "Specifically, the spice combination."

All eyes turned briefly toward her, reactions varying from Seonghwa's raised eyebrow to Yunho's warm smile. Most interesting was Hongjoong's response—a flash of something that might have been recognition quickly masked by polite acknowledgment.

"It's excellent," the captain noted, his voice carefully neutral. "You have good instincts for flavor harmony."

"Wooyoung deserves the credit," she demurred. "I merely suggested; he executed."

"Creative collaboration," Yunho offered, his gentle voice carrying surprising authority. "Often produces results neither party could achieve alone."

"Like our rigging system," Mingi added unexpectedly, the rare voluntary contribution drawing momentary surprise from his companions.

"Exactly," Yunho agreed, evident pleasure in his expression. "Or Seonghwa and Hongjoong's navigation innovations."

The conversation shifted naturally to other examples of collaborative success aboard the ATEEZ, revealing an organizational culture that valued combined expertise over individual achievement. Throughout, Ella observed how easily these men communicated, their interactions reflecting years of shared experience and mutual understanding.

As the meal concluded and the officers began discussing watch schedules and navigational matters, Ella found herself stifling a yawn. The day's activities—physical, intellectual, and emotional—had drained her more thoroughly than she'd realized.

"You should rest," Seonghwa observed, his attention to detail apparently extending to others' well-being. "Today has been demanding."

"I'm fine," she began automatically, then caught herself. In Blackwell's household, acknowledging fatigue invited exploitation of perceived weakness. Here, such calculation seemed unnecessary. "But perhaps you're right," she amended. "It has been an eventful day."

"Wooyoung and I will handle cleanup," Yunho offered. "You've done more than your share in food preparation."

"And I promised you stargazing," he added with a gentle smile. "Though perhaps tomorrow night would be better, when you're properly rested."

The considerate rescheduling touched her unexpectedly. Throughout her captivity, her preferences and physical limits had been irrelevant to those with power over her. This simple acknowledgment of her needs—without exploitation or judgment—represented novel respect for her humanity.

"Thank you," she said simply. "Tomorrow night would be perfect."

As she rose to depart, Hongjoong addressed her directly. "We'll continue our discussion of Blackwell's operations tomorrow morning, if you're amenable. There are several strategic aspects I'd like to explore further."

"Of course, Captain," she agreed, recognizing the return to their formal arrangement. Whatever moments of casual interaction had occurred today, the underlying purpose of her presence remained clear: she was valuable primarily for her knowledge of their target.

Yet as she made her way to her cabin, nodding acknowledgment to crew members she passed, Ella found herself questioning this straightforward assessment. If information about Blackwell was their sole objective, why the careful consideration of her comfort? Why the grant of relative freedom within the ship? Why the personal interactions beyond formal interrogation?

The paradox troubled her as she prepared for sleep, removing her shoes and outer clothing but maintaining sufficient attire for quick movement if necessary. Fifteen years of captivity had taught her never to be completely vulnerable, even during rest. Yet for the first time in memory, she felt secure enough to consider genuine relaxation rather than merely strategic recuperation.

As she settled onto the small but comfortable bed, Ella whispered her nightly ritual—the five names that had sustained her through fifteen years of survival: "Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy."

Tonight, the childish nicknames carried new resonance, echoing with the day's experiences aboard the ATEEZ. The careful, strategic captain with his searching gaze. The methodical quartermaster with his precise movements. The cheerful cook with his playful instruction. The gentle boatswain with his star knowledge. The quiet gunner with his eloquent designs.

Five men, five boys, five names preserved through fifteen years of determined recitation.

Coincidence? Or something more significant?

Ella drifted toward sleep with these questions circling through her consciousness, no closer to certainty than when the day began. Yet something had shifted within her—a cautious openness to possibility that transcended her habitual suspicion.

Tomorrow would bring further interaction, additional observation, more opportunities to assess the true nature of her situation aboard the ATEEZ. For tonight, she would allow herself the luxury of dreamless sleep, secure in the knowledge that whatever game was being played, she remained an active participant rather than merely a pawn.

In the quiet darkness of her cabin, with the gentle rocking of the ship beneath her and the vast starlit sky above, Ella surrendered to rest more complete than she had known since childhood.

#ateez fanfic #ateez pirate au #ateez x reader #hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #jeong yunho #mingi x reader #seonghwa x reader #song mingi #wooyoung #ateez angst

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velaris-fic-repository · 1 month ago

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What the Tides Bring In Part 7

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

TW: Discussions of grief, survivor’s guilt, and the deaths of loved ones

Rhys looked up from his desk to watch you stride into his office. He found himself smiling as you swaggered in, a means of walking earned from centuries aboard sailing vessels.

He’d known how long you’ve lived in Velaris under Azriel’s watchful but friendly eye. However, Rhys could not deny that in the wake of your taking up of the Harbormaster position, you’ve blended seamlessly into the city. As if a purpose was all you’d been waiting for.

You were still a sailor from Summer and it was baked into every inch of you and was reflected in your attire. Vests, billowy white shirts, belts, flowing sashes, sturdy boots, and the tricorn Cassian found for you as a joke that you actually loved and wore from time to time. However, while your style remained the same, Night Court colors and fabrics blended into it rather quickly.

You vests and small sleeveless jackets started being made of weaved shiny silks, your trousers and boots became ever so slightly darker and your colors as a whole became those you could’ve pulled straight from the views of sunsets over the ocean, or the night sky reflected on its surface. Deep purples, beautiful dark teals, orange to pink gradients. The occasional slightly familiar shade of sapphire blue. What’s more, you appeared to notice these changes too, and embraced them. Your choice of dress being a nautical flag of its own for the court you found yourself at home in.

It did Rhysand’s heart a world of good to see someone he’d come to see as a friend, find their home in the city that was his pride and joy.

Those vests though, he thought quietly, were going to be a problem for you in the coming months. He’d already seen you stubbornly shiver with the changing temperatures, adamantly refusing Azriel’s offered jacket to his brother’s quiet concern.

There was something to the two of you, he’d thought, and that did his heart good too.

“Oh good, you aren’t busy,” you said by way of greeting.

“Actually I was,” he laughed, “but go ahead.”

You smirk mirrored his for a moment as you dropped your papers on his desk. A map of the harbor, a series of letters and what looked like building blueprints. You launched into a speech about the needs of the less magically gifted sailors in the city, how coming back into port from the bay was difficult at night with the enchantments in place protecting the city.

“They have a hard time finding their way in. I’ve talked with Amren already, we think we’ve found a way to build a lighthouse.”

“A lighthouse?”

“A magic lighthouse. Amren seems to think if we register the ships with spelled anchor stones, the lighthouse’s light can be visible by those on board while remaining hidden from any unfriendly sailors. This way it’ll be safer for less gifted captains to avoid running aground on the way back in without jeopardizing Velaris.”

The door to the office shut behind another person as Rhys perused the citizen letters - addressed to you - the blueprints, the Sidra depth chart and Amren’s notes.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Azriel said, staring at you, “how long have you been working on this?”

“Nonstop for,” you paused, thinking and counting on your fingers, “about two weeks.”

Azriel finally looked at you, and the bags under your eyes. You didn’t look tired, but you certainly hadn’t slept in a while. He frowned at you.

Busy, one of his shadows whispered to him, but there was an edge of suspicion to its tone that echoed his own. You had been busy. You’d been busy for a while. This was not the first time Azriel had caught you in such a state. You did more work than your predecessor ever had. You weren’t just busy. You were constantly busy, and showed no signs of slowing down.

Rhys put the papers down, “looks good, if you think it’s something our citizens need, by all means get started!”

“Thank you,” you said, smiling at him and Azriel as you picked up your papers. You winked and gave a mock salute before leaving for your next appointment in the city.

The boys started at the spot you had vacated by the door for a moment.

“So, Az, how’d your mission go?” Rhys prompted.

Azriel didn’t look at him, too busy staring after you. “I’ll tell you later. There’s something I need to do.”

Then he was gone without another word, going so far as to winnow out of the office instead.

You were startled almost instantaneously by nearly colliding with Azriel in the hallway. You shouted in alarm, dropping your files on the ground as you stumbled. More proof to Azriel at your lack of sleep. He’d never known you to lose your balance, ever. He caught you before you fell to the ground, your papers scattered around the two of you.

“Fuck, Az! Don’t scare me like that!”

“Are you alright?” he asked you, but his tone indicated he was speaking about more than just this little fright he’d accidentally put you through.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Act like you’re okay when you’re not.”

You deigned not to respond as you crouched down to pick up the papers dropped. Azriel crouched and did the same, picking up more of them quickly and holding on to them.

“Azriel,” you said, clearly not in the mood for this. When Azriel didn’t give you the papers or change facial expressions, you smiled at him. “Azriel, I’m fine honest. Just busy, that’s all.”

A little shadow by his ear whispered, liar.

Azriel said nothing, simply reached over and grabbed your shoulder - comforting but firm - and winnowed the two of you.

You emerged in your apartment. Azriel walked to your little dining room table that sat across the room from your bed. He placed your papers on it, then turned, leaning against it. His body a wall between you and your work. He motioned behind you to your bed.

“Sit.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “And if I say no?”

“Then we’ll be here awhile.”

“This is my apartment Azriel, I have work to do.”

“So do I.”

“Then why don’t we both get on to it?”

“Because you aren’t sleeping.”

“I’m sleeping just fine.”

Liar.

Your collective volumes began to increase.

“Sit down, we’re having this conversation whether you like it or not.”

“Is this an interrogation, Az?”

“If you let it be.”

“Az, just give me my blueprints.”

“Not until you tell me why.”

“Why what?!”

“WHY YOU’RE RUNNING YOURSELF INTO THE GROUND LIKE THIS!”

“BECAUSE!”

“WHY?!”

“BECAUSE IF I’M NOT DOING EVERYTHING I CAN HERE, THEN WHY DID I SURVIVE?!”

Azriel stilled. So did you.

You stumbled backward into your bed, your body shuddering into a seated position. Your breaths were shaky with the revelation, one you hadn’t acknowledged until it flew from your mouth.

Tears welled in your eyes as you stared up at Azriel. Because you didn’t know what to do, you stuttered, “I don’t… What… Why did I live when the rest of them are gone?”

Azriel remembered forever ago, when he first met you in that cell he’d held you. One of his shadows had whispered of your guilt and sadness.

Azriel stepped slowly closer to you, kneeling in front of you. He wasn’t sure why he did it quite like that. He wanted to comfort you, of course he did. But there was something stronger to this, like he was being pulled to you, like there were no other options for him to take. His heart ached, tears threatened at the edges of his vision, but he held firm.

For you he would hold firm. He’d be your anchor. He’d haul you the depths of this.

“That’s not how survival works,” he’d said, holding your hands in his.

“It’s how I feel,” you sniffled.

“The Cauldron does not make value judgements for who lives and dies. You don’t have to make up for the loss of those dear to you,” Azriel paused, finding another thought. “I’ve seen war. I’ve seen death. There is no rhyme or reason to why friends and family is taken from us.”

He shuddered through a few memories but pushed forward, “but I do know that those who are gone, wherever they are, want more than anything for us to live. To keep living and to be happy.”

“Easier said than done,” you said with an aching chest, leaning in to Azriel’s hand as it raised to cup your cheek.

“Life is not easy,” Azriel said. “Grief is not easy. But you do not have to make it worse by grinding yourself to dust. I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier. I’m sorry you’ve chosen this path alone. You aren’t alone. Your sailors care about you. The Circle cares about you. I care about you.”

You sniffled. You didn’t pull at the bond this time, you didn’t have the strength for it. But his words did help you, immeasurably.

“I know this won’t be easy, but, don’t torture yourself, please. Talk to me. Be with us. Slow down. The holidays are coming up, anyway. Please,” he pleaded.

“…okay,” you said after a moment, eyes still haunted but accepting, “I’ll try.”

That night, the two of you went out on the Sidra on a rowboat. Once you were as far out as the two of you could get, you lit four floating candles. Red for Sorley. Pink for Aviva. Turquoise for Auri. And a gray one for Petra. You said words for each of them and set the candles out to see with thank yous for everything the four of them had been to you. Azriel stayed with you, and hand on your shoulder, the whole time. On the dock far behind you, the rest of the Inner Circle watched, commiserating.

The Inner Circle, as you came to learn that evening and in late night conversations after that, was a family strengthened by holding each other up and understanding each other’s pain.

You had lost your seafaring family and would carry them with you always, but you would not let your grief stop you from living. Azriel had been right. You knew exactly what each of them would’ve said to you if they’d seen you like you’d been. They would never have wanted that for you.

They’d have shoved you into the open arms of this new family the first chance they’d got. They’d have wanted you to be happy.

You were still a workaholic leading up to the holidays, but you’d promised Azriel - under a sarcastic ‘penalty of death’ - to slow your momentum after the Solstice break.

Azriel seemed like a little boy to you with how excited he seemed for the holiday this year. He’d invited you to spend the holiday with the Inner Circle up in their cabin, a family tradition. Given your ever growing closeness with the group, it filled you up with those familial feelings you’d been sorely missing. You’d been honored to attend.

That is, until you experienced your first mountain winter.

You’d reluctantly put on warmer clothes. A jacket, fur lined pants and boots, three scarves, gloves with actually finished fingers, a fuzzy hat.

All that and you were still visibly shivering.

Cassian pointed at you and laughed.

“Laugh it up Cass-sian,” you grumbled through chattering teeth, “I’m sh-sure this is hilari-ious-s. I wasn’t built for this sh-shit.”

“Stop teasing her!” Mor shouted as she trudged up the hill through the snow.

“But it’s so much fun!” Cassian cackled.

“Cass, s-say shit again, and I’ll be making snowballs from your balls-s.”

Cassian snickered but didn’t say anything else.

A large, warm presence enveloped you from behind.

“Relax,” Azriel said, walking as he hugged you from behind, bringing his wings around you, “we’re almost there. You’ll be out of the cold soon.”

You breathed a dramatic sigh of relief, leaning back against him.

He chuckled in response, “and here I thought we’d make a snowbird of you yet.”

“Once a seagull, always a seagull,” you quipped.

“Look at him!” Cassian said, loudly from Rhys’s side, “Going soft before the snowball fight, Azzie?”

Rhys’s grin was feline in nature.

“Me walking a freezing female through the snow holds no bearing on my ability to kick your asses,” Azriel said matter-of-factly, earning some laughs from you despite the chill.

“Enough! Enough!” Mor called from the cabin door, “none of that talk right now, that’s tomorrow! I will not listen to you three trash talk each other longer than I have to! Save it for tomorrow!” With that she stepped inside, holding her hand out for you. You gladly took her hand, comically rolling your eyes with her over the Illyrian antics behind you.

Solstice night was wonderful, full of laughs, warm food, and family.

“Finally a thoughtful gift!” Mor shouted after opening your gift to her, sneering her words comically at the boys.

“I could always return that dress, cousin,” Rhys joked.

“No way, fuck off,” she replied.

A few presents later, you handed a small box to Cassian. “This one’s from me.”

He grinned and tore at the package like a child. He screamed like one too when a rubbery spider bounced out of the tightly packed box and bounced twice on the floor.

“Hey! Not funny!”

You cackled on the ground by Azriel’s seat on the couch, clutching your sides. Azriel stared down at you fondly, in a way Mor and Rhys clocked but you hadn’t. The cousins shared a look across the small seating room as your laughter petered out.

“I think it’s hilarious, Cass, I don’t know what you mean.”

Cassian did not move closer to the motionless toy spider on the floor, but narrowed his eyes at you. “I’m remembering this for your birthday.”

“Good thing I haven’t told you when that is yet. But seriously,” you said, holding up another present, “this is the real one.”

Cassian took the box like it might explode but eventually opened it to find a beautiful cutlass inside.

“In case you ever want to try your hand at the weapons where I come from,” you said with a smile. Cassian eagerly returned it.

Finally, it came time for Azriel to give you his gift. He handed you the box and smiled.

“Hope you like it.”

You opened the box to find a vest jacket like the ones you usually wore everyday when the weather was warm. Its fabric was a very familiar color blue but had small patches of brown fur sewn around the edges of the jacket. There was a layer of soft beige cotton sewn on the inside as well. It would be warmer than the others you owned, but not by much due to its lack of sleeves.

“It’s beautiful, Azriel,” you said, because it was.

“Try it on,” he urged.

You’d taken off your outer layers as soon as the sentient house began to warm for you, so you shucked off the small jacket you’d been wearing in favor of this one.

The effect was immediate. The jacket warmed your whole upper body like you’d taken the hearth fire and placed it in your chest.

You sent shocked eyes up at Azriel, who smiled. You tore out of the cabin quickly, standing outside in the snow for a moment to confirm your suspicions.

Without your warm layers, you’d be sure to freeze outside this deep in the mountains, but you didn’t feel a lick of cold. It was like standing in Summer’s sun in the middle of winter. You ran back inside shortly after.

“I knew how upset you were at the need to change your wardrobe, so I did some digging. I found someone who could enchant a garment for me and had the piece made,” Azriel explained as soon as you returned to the sitting room with everyone.

“I love it!” you said, hugging the thing even closer to you and giddily spinning in a circle. Your smile was blinding and the whole room smiled with you.

It was one of the biggest shows of joy they’d all seen from you, especially in the wake of your recently addressed grief.

“Interesting choice of color, brother,” Rhys communicated mentally.

Azriel didn’t hear him, not really. Because watching you that happy, that overjoyed over something he gave you…

There had been little bits and pieces. Clues strewn throughout the time he’d known you. He’d either been too stupid to see it, or had subconsciously pushed the thoughts away.

There was no denying it as he watched you now. His thoughts, the ones Rhys could not help but read as the shock of it cut Azriel’s shields to ribbons, were solely focused on you. Beautiful, joyous, mischievous, incredible you.

His…

His mate.

“Oh shit.”

A/N: He figured the thing out!

There’s probably one more part of this left and then a cute little epilogue after this!

I sincerely hope you guys are enjoying this because I’m having a great time writing it! As always your thoughts are appreciated and if you want to join the tag list, please let me know!

I really appreciate y’all sticking around with me on this one and enjoying all my shorter form fics in the meantime!

Series Taglist: @rcarbo1 @shylahstarzz @tele86 @bubybubsters @willowpains @breemitch15 @96jnie @polli05927 @starsidesigh @i-am-infinite @ashjade19 @lilah-asteria

#acotar x reader #azriel x reader #tw: survivors guilt #tw: grief #azriel #acotar #azriel acotar

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year ago

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Shipping Out

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader Warnings: Drinking, smoking, public sex, smut. Word count: ~1.5k

Summary: Just trust me on this one, and read all the way to the end.

Author's note: A little birthday treat for @bottlesandbarricades. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The pub is crowded and noisy, the humidity of the air making her carefully coiffed curls cling to the back of her neck with perspiration. It’s not often that she frequents this side of Manchester, but the change of scenery is a refreshing switch of pace to the monotony of everyday life. Laughter, music and the clinking of glasses is preferable to the whir of the factory sewing machines.

She taps her red lacquered nails against the wood of the bar, wrinkling her nose at the stickiness of the wooden surface beneath her palm. If the frequency with which it’s wiped down is any indication of the attentiveness of the barkeep then she’s in for a long wait for a drink.

Sighing, she fishes her cigarette case from her handbag, flipping it open and plucking one out. No sooner has she placed it between her lips than a hand is clicking a flame to life before the end of it, turning it a glowing cherry red. She casts her gaze upwards through the steady plume of smoke, met by twinkling blue eyes and a cocky smirk, as the chivalrous stranger deposits his lighter back into his trouser pocket and regards her with a tip of his head.

“Thanks,” she says with an easy smile, taking the smoke between her fingers and exhaling a tight line of vapour up towards the ceiling.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies with a wink. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this then?”

God, that’s a terrible line.

She bites back a laugh, and decides to humour him. “Trying to get a drink, service in here is awful though.”

He purses his lips, eyes raking over her from head to toe, before nodding. “Can’t be having that.” Slapping a hand against the bartop, he calls out, “Oi! My lady friend and I are dying of thirst over here! Anyone serving?”

She raises her eyebrows in disbelief, but doesn’t have to wait long until a middle aged, irritated looking woman makes her way around the corner to the pair of them and grumpily takes their order. She’s long since finished her cigarette by the time the glasses are placed heavily down in front of them.

He doesn’t even ask what she wants to drink; she ends up with a gin and tonic, while he has a pint. It’s what she would have ordered anyway, but the bold presumption unsettles her regardless.

Sipping her drink, she relishes in the way the fizzy bitterness envelopes her tongue as she takes in what he’s wearing; navy blue slacks and a matching long sleeved smock, with a white striped collar.

“Shouldn’t you be on a boat somewhere, sailor?”

He grins, setting his glass down on a dog eared beer mat. “Just so happens I’ve been given a night of shore leave. I ship out again tomorrow.”

“Lucky me,” she says with a coy smile.

“If you play your cards right you might be.”

There’s that smirk again. She watches as he takes out a packet of Lucky Strike, perching one between his lips before offering one to her. She gratefully accepts, and he’s quick to light it for her, before doing the same to his own.

Every table is full, but she doesn’t mind, she’s content just to prop up the bar with him, ignoring the ache of her feet as they lapse into effortless conversation. He’s handsome, if a little overeager and she pays rapt attention as he entertains her with stories of his time aboard the HMS Exeter.

She’s on her third gin and tonic of the evening when he leans in to whisper to her.

“So, I might not see another woman for months after tonight. You gonna help me make it one to remember?”

Feeling her cheeks heat up, she giggles softly. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find a way for you to thank me for my loyal service to our country,” he tells her, taking her hand and leading her out of the pub.

Allowing the gin to fuel her confidence, before she can change her mind, she lets him guide her outside. Even met with the sobering chill of the night air, she offers up no protest when he pulls her into the ginnel, the brickwork biting into her back as he pushes her up against the wall and captures her lips with her.

It’s a messy kiss, moist and desperate with need. He tastes of beer and tobacco as she welcomes his tongue against her own with parted lips, her fingertips sliding over the breadth of his shoulders and up into the cropped softness of his sandy coloured hair.

Pressing tighter against her, he groans appreciatively, mouth moving from hers to travel a path across her jaw and down her neck, as his hands find their way up her skirt. One teases the top of her stocking while the other presses against her clothed core, making her gasp.

His touch is hurried, not as thorough as she’d like, yet she feels a growing stickiness between her thighs regardless. The warmth of his fingers and lips against her makes her feel desired, and she is lightheaded, almost giddy, to see the effect she’s having on him.

Instinctively, she parts her legs wider as he dips beneath her knicker elastic, stroking eagerly through her folds.

“Christ, you’re soaked,” he rasps against the shell of her ear, “bet you’d let me fuck you right here, if I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

She bites her bottom lip, stifling her quiet whimper as his strokes against her cause her to throb. “Please…”

“Since you asked nicely…” He pulls back, blue eyes dark with intent as he makes quick work of unbuckling his belt, lowering his trousers and briefs just enough to free his erection.

Even in the darkness of the alleyway she can see that he’s thick and heavy, and he pumps lazily at himself, while his free hand reaches into his pocket.

“Leave that,” she tells him, as she spots the foil of the sheath wrapper.

He raises an eyebrow, pursing his lips as he stares at her. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

That’s all the confirmation he needs, slipping the packet away and surging forward. He pulls her underwear to the side, grasping the base of himself and pushes forcefully into her in one motion.

The movement knocks all the air from her lungs. Though she is wet, the public nature of their tryst leaves little time for him to prepare her fully, the luxury of time is not on their side, but in their desperation neither one of them cares. It stings, the fullness of him pushing against her, but it’s a pleasurable hurt.

Her breaths leave her mouth in shallow pants as he pistons his hips into her, lifting one of her legs to hook her thigh around his hip. She wraps her arms around his neck, clinging to him as he rocks into her, his forehead pushed up against hers.

“Filthy slut,” he grits out, “bet you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-yeah…” she whines, feeling his fingers press tighter into the meat of her thigh.

His brow furrows, and he grunts, his pace becoming sloppy and erratic. While the ache builds steadily inside of her, she worries he’ll finish before she does. The thought is fleeting, and as though he’s read her mind, the hand not gripping her thigh slips between them, fingers rubbing tight circles against her bud. She clenches around him, the added stimulation serving to intensify the tightening in her lower belly.

“That’s it,” he mutters, “come on.”

He pulsates inside of her, knocking against a spot that makes her tip over the edge suddenly, and she lets out a choked cry, a rolling wave of weightlessness travelling from her head to her toes. Her walls spasm around him and he pushes himself in to the hilt, a groan of relief escaping him as he spills himself inside of her.

They stay like that for a few moments, both catching their breath as their bodies relax. He grins as he pulls back slightly, before leaning in to pepper her face with soft, playful kisses.

“Tommy!” She huffs a laugh, swatting at his shoulder.

He slips out of her, stepping back to tuck himself away and fasten his belt. “Thought we weren’t supposed to be using our names? Part of the fun was pretending we don’t know each other.”

She scoffs, putting her gusset back into place as she feels his spend start to drip out of her, and smooths her skirt back down. “Think you ruined that when you ordered my drink without asking what I wanted. A stranger wouldn’t know I like gin and tonic!”

Tom rolls his eyes and chuckles, offering his arm for her to take. “Right, right. Well, I’ll remember for next time. Whatever you need for me to fulfill your fantasies.”

“Right now, my only fantasy is being at home in bed. That pub is horrible,” she tells him as they begin to walk down the street arm in arm.

“You wanted the uniform. I wasn’t gonna take us somewhere someone we know would see and take the piss.”

She laughs, gripping his arm tighter as she looks up at him. “Was fun though, wasn’t it?”

He gazes down at her with hooded eyes as they continue to walk. “I’ve had worse nights.”

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#tom bennett x reader #tom bennett smut #tom bennett fan fiction #tom bennett x you #tom bennett x y/n #tom bennett imagine #tom bennett #ewan mitchell #tom bennett fanfiction #tom bennett fanfic #tom bennett fan fic #tom bennett world on fire #world on fire tom bennett #world on fire #world on fire fan fiction #world on fire fanfiction #world on fire fanfic #world on fire fan fic

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scarletttries · 1 year ago

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Roronoa Zoro Falling In Love Headcanons (One Piece)

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro (Live Action One Piece) x Reader

Rating: Fluff

Word Count: 1.6k

Author's Note: After lacking a bit of inspiration recently I just finished watching the live action One PIece on Netflix and am completely obsessed, especially with Zoro! So here a few little headcanons for him, and I might do a part two of relationship headcanons too. Also requests are now open for any of the one piece characters so send them in! 💗☺️

- Oh Zoro. Truly the epitome of a heart of gold hiding behind a sarcastic, borderline cold, facade. A man who pretends to be affected by nothing, despite having so much space inside him for friendship and devotion.

- Chances are he'd first come across you when he and Luffy are docked in another new town. Maybe you're a pirate whose name he's heard in passing and considers trying to capture for the bounty. Maybe you're someone who just loves and helps out the small seaside village you live in, trying to make a few Berry from the ships passing through. Maybe you're the next key step to reaching Monkey's dream of finding the piece. Whatever he expects to find when your paths cross, it certainly isn't you.

- Before he even knows you're the person he's looking for, one look at you and he knows you're important. Like you exist in a slightly brighter light than everyone else he's ever met before, and he's not sure if he should shield his eyes or if he can't bear to look away. He stops dead in his tracks at the sight of you, the first glimpse enough to have his heart pounding in his chest like it never has before. Luffy watches his usually stern friend let his mouth fall open in silence, baffled by his actions until Nami leans over and whispers to him. Zoro can't hear exactly what she says but he hears the word 'crush' and feels his stomach churn at the thought. He wants to run, but he's unsure whether he wants to go towards or away from you. He grips his white katana as a panicked instinct when finally you glance up and send a friendly smile to the eclectic group of pirates standing, staring at you.

- Luffy can tell before you ever say a word that you're good and kind, and destined to be aboard the Merry as a part of his crew. Zoro can't bring himself to do anything but loom over his captain as he makes a sales pitch. The part of his brain that likes to be in control hopes that you're busy and tied down, that you'll reject Luffy's offer and he'll never feel as shaken and desperate as he does in this moment again. A much bigger part of him knows that he won't survive if you say 'no'. Like without you he might never dream again, doomed to spend the rest of his days sailing aimlessly, searching for the same rush he feels every time you look up at him over his friends straw hat. Thankfully Monkey rarely asks someone to join his crew that he isn't certain will eventually say yes. And so you do, accepting it's time to try a new path and join this strange group of good-hearted sailors, hoping for a new shot at your dreams.

- Monkey, Sanji and Usopp are all friendly from the get-go. They can't wait to share stories of their journey so far, and make sure you feel as safe and at home on the ship as they do. Nami takes a bit longer to open up to you, but when she does you can understand why, and while her friendship is harder to earn, it feels all the more solid for it. And then there's Zoro.

- You notice that whenever you all walk into a room, he'll always take the position or chair next to you, awkwardly stepping in front of Sanji on more than one occasion, or forcing himself into a tight spot rather than create distance between the two of you. He doesn't often strike up conversation first, but when you ask him something about himself he always looks very relieved and happy to have something to talk to you about. If the group has to split up he'll always stick by your side, taking the role of keeping you safe to heart. Your unspoken bodyguard. It gets to the point that the crew adjust to leaving a spot next to you for him to settle into, and never asking him to go out without you. All the while Nami takes great joy in speculating on his behaviour with you, and teasing Zoro for his complete inability to act like a normal human being. Sanji has to lay off his harmless flirting with you after he notices the daggers Zoro's shooting at him, and he's sure one night at a bar he heard him start to draw his sword when he put a hand on your leg.

- It doesn't take many conversations with Zoro, or many chats with Luffy who spends a lot of his time telling you about how wonderful and impressive Zoro is, for you to start finding his strange behavior more than a little flattering. The tall, talented swordsman can't help but soften under your gaze, and you feel yourself slowly leaning closer to him every time he settles at your side, before long finding yourself practically draped against him when the group find themselves at some gaudy bar on the outskirts of a marine base, failing to keep a low profile. Usopp insists on dragging you onto the dancefloor, and thankfully Nami asks Zoro to come dance with her before he has to either sit without you, or volunteer to dance of his own volition. Despite his athleticism, of course he's a terrible dancer, all uncoordinated movements and awkward energy as he fails to copy Usopp's charismatic moves. Taking pity on him, you take his hand in yours, letting him hold you closer as the rest of the group seem to fade in the crowd behind you having seen more than enough of his desperate longing to stick around for this. As Sanji and Usopp slink off to find another drink, Nami and Luffy can't resist keeping just in view so they can watch on as they finally see Zoro smile widely and let his guard down, relaxing against you as the pair of you sway. Nami wants to make a bet on if Zoro finally gets the nerve to say something about his feelings, but after a few months of being her closest friend she decides to just root for you both instead, trying to pull Luffy just far enough away to give you two some much needed privacy.

- As you feel his arms encircle you, a soft sway in his hips that matches yours, his mouth drops open and closed a few times over. It's always hard for him to find the right thing to say to you, but when he has you this close, with your eyes sparkling up at him, it's almost impossible to even think. It's all consuming living on the same ship, his heart jumping in his chest every time someone enters his cabin in case it's you, his feet taking him to stand outside your quarters almost every day just willing himself to knock on the door and finally put words to his devoted actions. He couldn't fight his longing to be near you for even a day, and watching you open up to him and start to inch closer yourself, he can't help but hope that you might be feeling just a drop of the ocean of affection he navigates for you. His eyes focus intensely on yours as he tries again to speak, stumbling over the word 'I' a few times before resigning himself to silence for another night.

- You could see the conflict of fear and hope in his eyes, the man of few words clearly straining to explain things his training had never left room for. He was trying, and you were sure you knew what he was going to say, but you didn't think you could be the one to articulate it for him. That didn't mean you couldn't give him a bit of encouragement.

- Trailing your hands over his arms to settle on his shoulders, you stepped flush with his body, the extra contact enough to stop his gentle sway and turn his whole frame rigid. With the softest smile you could muster you leaned up onto your tiptoes, giving him a moment to pull away before letting your lips press softly to his. It was just for a second. A mere moment of soft, sweet, contact. The kind Zoro had never even let himself imagine because it felt so far out of reach for him. But it happened, and it was perfect. A wide grin spread over his face at your action, finally feeling like he might be able to share his life with someone other than the ghost he carried with him on his hip.

"WAHHOOOOOO!YES YES YES!"" A deafening cheer echoed through the bar, shaking the light fixtures and turning every single head towards your ecstatic captain. Nami looked mortified as Luffy continued to punch the air in celebration of his first mate finally achieving a dream a little less violent than he'd first set out for, his joy for his friend all consuming and without an ounce of tact.

"Luffy! Stop it! We'll leave you to it." Nami had to physically drag him away as you heard the unfamiliar sound of Zoro laughing to himself, the grin across his cheeks only spreading as his focus returned to you. Leaning back in to find your lips again, he whispered,

"What Luffy said."

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see-arcane · 1 year ago

Text

Well.

Here I am again.

In-between half a dozen other projects, the writing exercise that was supposed to be a light distraction has taken off without me. Once more, a very vampiric flavor of horror. But this time it’s so close to the Dracula source material that it’s living in it like an accursed undead poison. Or the bedeviled solicitor who first wrote on that horror in the first place.

That’s what Harker is. Those who have read Dracula before will know that, being a novel built of diary entries and sundry documents, the narrative is boiled down to what events the characters bother to record. Of special note is how the opening and closing protagonist of the book, Jonathan Harker, becomes progressively curter in his descriptions as certain grim events pile up.

So much so that he pointedly avoids recording the bulk of his two month-long captivity in Castle Dracula. And whatever it was that happened to him between the castle and his stay with the nuns. And just what exactly happened to him upon realizing what happened on the 3rd of October. Among a hundred other little omissions a reader only detects by the vacuum they’ve left as the entries of other characters sketch around them. Artful as Mr. Harker may be when in a descriptive mood, vital as his words are for the whole of the story, he’s shockingly silent on huge gaps of time and very significant occurrences within them.

Which bothers the hell out of me. Especially when there’s roughly a jillion elaborations and inventions made from swiveling the perspective to (Suddenly in love with Dark Sexprince Dracula~) Mina or (Very Definite Vampire Expert Badass Actionman) Van Helsing or (Ohhh, I’m so misunderstood, those babies and sailors and assorted murdered chattel had it coming and those human heroes were just stuffy cliché Victorians who were so meeean to meee) Dracula or (Actually pretty cool?) depictions of the nightmare aboard the Demeter. And yet we’ve got nothing for Jonathan? Not one single spinoff dedicated to filling in the blanks between journal pages?

It can’t stand. Not for another Dracula Season. So, I’m a-scribbling.

Whether this winds up as a proper book or not, I figured said scribbling has gotten big enough that it was time to carve out a piece to share. Hope you guys enjoy the read and any future updates.

You can read the Chapter 1 Teaser via:

Tumblr

PDF

Author site

(And remember, I already have a book published if you want to read about some modern gothic undead horrors! The Vampyres is a short and sinister read with its own preview sample to comb through. Hope you’ll have a look.)

#everyone pray for my hands #my tunnels are this close to carpaling #Harker #horror #c.r. kane #my writing #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily #jonathan harker

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novaursa · 3 months ago

Note

Love your stories! I had a request.

Could you please do a Euron/YN story? I'm thinking maybe Y/N could be a captive aboard the Silence.

Another request: please make this story as unhinged and dark as possible. I know that's your specialty.

She Who Sleeps Beneath

- Summary: Euron believes he captured a god, but the truth is, you are something far more terrible.

- Pairing: reader/Euron Greyjoy

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (all flags are up for this one)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: You let me off the leash and I went rabid.

The deck of Silence reeked of blood, salt, and madness. You hung there like a fallen angel—if angels ever came from the black abysses beneath the world—naked and slick with brine, eyes too wide, too still, too ancient for the form they now wore. A girl, they thought. A girl no older than fifteen summers, skin like cold wax, hair clinging to your shoulders in tendrils like kelp. But you were no girl. No thing so simple. You watched them with that eerie stillness, as if you could already see the meat peeling from their bones.

Euron Greyjoy stood over you, barefoot on the red-slick planks, his lips parted in something between a grin and a religious trance. His good eye blazed with sea-glass hunger. The other, the black one, was a void, a maw, an open mouth with no throat. His robes were stained with salt and old gore, his teeth sharp from too many dreams of gnawing on the divine. You smelled it on him—madness, rot, old blood, and something older, something deeper.

He had hunted you for ten years.

Ten years of storms and slaughter, of necromancers flayed on his deck for answers, of sailors thrown screaming into the sea with bells tied to their ankles so he could hear the deep sing back. Ten years chasing whispers, wet footprints on stone, sightings of a girl in glassy waters, ships swallowed whole in perfect silence.

And now you were here. Lashed in chains made from weirwood roots and black iron, soaked in oils scoured from drowned priests and unborn calves. Your eyes blinked once. Slowly. He shuddered.

“She’s mine,” Euron whispered, turning to his crew with arms spread wide. “Do you hear it? Do you feel it?” He laughed, a hideous, choking sound. “She’s the womb of gods! The mother of tides and ruin. I will crawl inside her and be reborn. I will tear sons from her belly that will drink the stars dry.”

The crew didn’t answer. Most didn’t dare meet your gaze. One of the thralls muttered a prayer before Euron silenced him with a knife through the throat.

“They don’t understand,” he crooned, dropping to his knees before you. He cupped your face like you were something delicate, a relic pulled from a drowned city. “But I do. I’ve seen you in my dreams. You walked through the weeping tunnels beneath the world. You tore kings in half with your teeth. You laid with leviathans, and birthed monsters that swallowed continents.” His breath was foul, his words reverent.

You said nothing. Your lips were blue, faintly cracked, and you blinked again.

Inside, you imagined the taste of his tongue.

You imagined how he would scream when you split his ribs open and wore his lungs like wings. You had done it before. Long ago, in a different form, before the world remembered sunlight. Your mind slithered through time like a serpent through ruins, tasting his flesh already. He thought he’d won. But you knew better. You’d let him find you. You’d let him drag you aboard this rotting ark, because now you were close.

Close enough to smell the iron in his blood.

“I’ll fill her with god-seed,” Euron declared, rising now, arms shaking with the strength of his madness. “Every night. Every tide. Until her belly swells and bursts with children. They will climb from her screaming like stormspawn. They’ll walk on water. They’ll tear down the gods of men.”

One of his lieutenants—Qarlen, you remembered, a thick-necked man with red boils on his arms—spoke then, voice unsure. “She don’t look like she can bear no babes, Captain. She looks like a child.”

Euron turned slowly. “Do you question me?” His voice was quiet, terrifying.

Qarlen took a step back. “No, Captain. Just… she ain’t natural.”

“Exactly,” Euron whispered. “That’s the point.” He turned back to you and pressed his forehead to yours, trembling. “You’re not of this world. You’re from the dark before time. You’re the end of all things. You’re mine.”

Your eyes flicked down to his throat. You knew where his arteries pulsed. You fantasized about puncturing them with your nails. Or your teeth. Or the ridged mandibles that slumbered beneath your tongue. For now, you waited. Let him think you weak. Let him feel victorious.

Let him feed you.

He kissed your forehead. You barely felt it.

“I’ll keep you beneath,” he said. “In the hold. Where the bones sing. And when the moon’s high, I’ll come down and pray. I’ll anoint your belly with blood and salt. You’ll give me a kingdom of horrors, won’t you, my love?”

You smiled. Just barely.

One day, you would eat him alive. You would peel his skin and wear it long enough to whisper madness into every ear that had ever heard his name. You would sing his death-song in a voice of knives and drown this ship in his screams.

But for now, you closed your eyes and let him dream.

The hold of Silence was a womb of black and brine, thick with the reek of mildew, blood, and the slow rot of things too long kept in the dark. No torch burned there. Only the phosphorescent glow of barnacles smeared across old hull planks, casting a sickly, pulsing light that seemed to breathe. You lay upon a slab of driftwood and rusted chains, cold as stone, your skin still glistening with sea-slick and salt.

Above you loomed Euron.

He was shirtless, glistening with sweat, eye wild and unblinking, and every breath he took shuddered like a man possessed. His voice was a rasp, thick with reverence and lust.

“You’ll remember this,” he whispered, as if speaking to a goddess. “You’ll carry me inside you, the way the sea carries the bones of drowned kings. You were made for this.”

You didn’t answer. You watched him with those still, glassy eyes—empty of resistance, of emotion, of anything resembling fear. It pleased him.

He tore what little covered you and pressed himself to your cool flesh, trembling with desire and terror. You were pliant beneath him, as silent as the dead, your breath shallow, body unmoving save for the gentle rise and fall of your chest. He didn’t notice the way your pupils dilated—long, vertical slits slicing through the black of your eyes like cracks in reality. He didn't see how your mouth twitched, just slightly, as if remembering how to split wide.

His hands roamed your skin as he whispered profanities and prayers in the same breath, groaning your name—though he did not know it. He called you Womb of the Abyss, Bride of Leviathans, Mother of the Next World.

And then it was done.

Euron collapsed atop you, breath ragged, lips pressed against your neck as he muttered a lullaby you did not understand. “You are mine. You are mine. My queen of horrors. My whore of the deep. My vessel…”

You did not move.

Until you did.

Something shifted beneath your flesh.

Your hands—small and pale—snapped shut around his wrists with a strength that no child should possess. He tensed, startled, but before his mouth could form a question, your head turned toward him. Slowly. Inhumanly. Your lips peeled back in something that could not be called a smile.

There were too many teeth.

The skin on your face rippled, peeled, tore—and something inside unfurled.

Euron screamed.

It was a wet, helpless sound, sharp with panic and disbelief. He tried to pull back, but your body had opened like a blooming flower, your limbs lengthening, black carapace gleaming beneath tearing flesh. Bone cracked as your arms split at the elbows, long fingers stretching into jagged claws. Your chest split down the middle with a sickening wet pop, revealing a slick, chitinous maw, and your tongue uncoiled like a whip of muscle and hooks.

“You were inside me,” you said, but the voice was not yours. It was before you. A thousand voices murmured beneath it—dripping, wet, writhing things. “Now I will be inside you.”

He tried to scream again, but your tongue lashed around his throat and pulled him down.

You bit into his face first.

The eye—the real one—popped between your jaws. The black one, the void, you sucked from the socket like marrow from a bone. He thrashed, blood spilling in great pulsing waves, staining the planks with steaming crimson. You tore his chest open next, ribs cracking like splintering ice. His heart was a hot, twitching thing between your teeth.

He died gurgling your name.

You chewed.

When it was over, what remained of Euron Greyjoy was a mess of bone and pulp strewn across the floor of his own ship, dragged into a rough spiral by your claws—a mark left by your kind long ago, older than speech, older than gods. You stood in the wreck of your human skin, the shape of you now monstrous—taller, lithe, slick with mucous and blood. Your body gleamed with armored plates and sinew. Four eyes blinked across your face. The mandibles twitched.

And you breathed.

Climbing the steps, you emerged into the moonlight, glistening and grotesque.

The crew froze. Every man on deck stared at you. Some dropped to their knees in horror, others backed away until they fell overboard. None moved to stop you.

You walked through them without fear. Their terror was thick, savory, and you basked in it. A few dared to speak your name, to whisper of monsters and old stories, but no one followed as you reached the edge of the deck.

You looked back once. The wind blew through your hair—what little remained of it—and your jaw distended with a hiss that silenced every mouth.

Then you leapt.

You hit the water without a sound, and the sea accepted you like a mother reclaiming her child.

And Silence was truly silent at last.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #fire and blood #a song of ice and fire #house of the dragon #got #got/asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #house greyjoy #euron greyjoy #euron x reader #euron x you #euron x y/n #x reader

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 1 year ago

Text

Wary Sailor Pt. 2 | Matthew Joy x fem!reader

summary: Second Mate Matthew Joy goes out on a whale hunt and even after a successful chase, he can't seem to feel satisfied. Something's weighing heavily on his mind. While alone in the harpoon boat, trouble comes to call.

warnings: Aiming a gun at someone, talk of violence, smut, oral (F receiving), penetration, dubious consent (weird circumstances), unprotected sex, Matthew's abandonment issues lol.

word count: 2763k+

Tucumcari- Goodnight, Texas 🎶

Lady May- Tyler Childers 🎵

Note: The lyrics that I included are from the old whaling song Maid of Amsterdam.

*Pt. 3 (and maybe 4???) coming soon!

The men were deployed into the smaller whaling boats, each boat armed with a harpoon and dense cord. Matthew stood at the back of his boat to steer it away from the ship, navigating the aggravated water. He forced himself to think about the whales, keeping his mind inside the boat… but the girl’s eyes appeared like stars in the corner of his vision at all times.

“Joy!” One of the rowers was yelling at him, snapping him out of his trance. “Joy, focus! Don’t go soft on us all of a sudden, eh?”

Matthew grimaced as the grisly sailor chuckled. He steered them out to open water, following the Captain's boat as per his orders. While he couldn’t see their bodies in the water, Matthew could hear the loud vibrations of sound the Sperm whales made as they spoke to one another. He could also hear Owen yelling out commands to his men. The harpoonist prepared his weapon. Matthew directed his man to do the same.

“Steady now!” He advised his men as they waited for movement below the surface. Striking the whale was simple compared to the rest of the exhausting process. Matthew just planned on keeping his men alive but whale oil was also a necessity that he was willing to sacrifice for. He wasn’t a greedy man by any means, he’d lived in poverty all his life. His life was whaling and he didn’t spend much time off the ocean, the stillness made him restless.

“There she blows!” A man yelled and Matthew peered over the edge as the side of his boat rose out of the water, stuck on the back of an adolescent whale. As he looked over, the distinct silhouette of a woman wavered beneath the surface. Choosing to ignore it, Matthew swung the boat over to allow the harpooner to cast his weapon.

“Go, go, go!” He barked, spit flying from his mouth as he waved the man on. The harpoon sailed through the sky, landed in the water like a seabird, and missed. The whale diverted away from Matthew’s boat and found itself trapped beside Owen’s. The mother whale broke the surface nearby, distracting the men to the real prize. Matthew steered his boat away as the other men helped reel in the harpoon’s cord. The harpooner aimed and threw.

…

It was evening when the whale was secured by chains to the deck of the ship. The whale was so large she had to rest in two different places, one on the ship’s deck and the other in Matthew’s boat. The men aboard wrapped rags around their noses to cover the smell. Matthew just grimaced and rubbed the sockets of his eyes. The darkening landscape helped relieve some of his headache. The other men were already aboard the Essex, only he was left to watch over the end of the whale, saving it from sharks and other predators. He could hear the men singing as they did their work, scraping the fat from the inside of a giant. He hummed along to the song they were singing together.

A roving, a roving

Since roving's been my ru-i-in

I'll go no more a roving

With you fair maid!

Movement in the water drew his mind away from the song. Ripples expanded across the surface where something had just been. Matthew drew his rifle from the floorboards and checked the chamber for bullets. He watched the surface carefully for the distinct fins of sharks.

I put my hand upon her thigh

Mark well what I do say!

I put my hand upon her thigh

She said young man ‘That’s rather high’

I'll go no more a roving with you fair maid!

Matthew cocked the gun and aimed it at the dark water around his boat. The men’s singing seemed to dissipate with the seriousness of his situation. Sharks could be both dangerous and damaging. The scent of whale blood always drew them in, sending them into a frenzy where they could throw themselves against the side of the boat, risking damage. They were a nuisance to Matthew and he didn’t mind shooting them when necessary. The boat rocked in the waves and he steadied himself.

“Are you going to use that on me, Matthew Joy?” The voice behind him startled a gasp from his lips. He swung the rifle around, aiming it at the same face he’d seen hours before.

“You…” he whispered, keeping his rifle trained on her throat. Her eyes were the same green as before, only this time he could see them more clearly. The sun had fully set but colors remained in the sky above her head, bloody purples and such. He couldn’t see her body below the water but he saw that her shoulders were bare save the scattered pearls stuck to her skin like freckles.

“Are you going to shoot me?” She whispered back, her face inches from the barrel of the rifle. He licked his lips before speaking.

“Where… where did you go? You disappeared…” he muttered darkly, flicking his eyes up to the deck where his crewmates continued to work. He was alone with the girl.

“I had to see what you were like,” she offered a small smile. Matthew adjusted the way he held the gun, still aimed at her.

“You asked me if I believed in Sirens…” Matthew remembered warily, his eyes trailing over the pearls across her chest. Her dark hair rested behind her shoulders, down her back.

“Do you?” She asked and reached up her hands slowly, holding the edge of the small boat. He stared at her, his breath clouding the metal scope on his gun.

“Is that what you are?” He asked finally and the girl smiled once again.

“Is it quite shocking?” She teased and bit her lip timidly.

“Well… yes,” Matthew exhaled and raised his eyebrow, “I thought they were only in stories. They weren’t real… Why didn’t you sing?”

The girl cocked her head to the side. The air felt heavy between them as he waited for her response. His body was confused and frightened, something he’d rarely felt before. His instinct and desire clashed, strengthening the opposing forces within him.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she answered honestly, “we sing to kill.”

Matthew lowered his gun and nodded, breathless.

“You had legs. You didn’t look… ” He ran a shaky hand through his hair and ran his hand over his mouth. He could see the top of her fin break through the water. It was a beautiful silver color and her scales were shiny and iridescent.

“I wanted to see how you would treat me. I disguised myself as a human girl and you treated me gently.”

“What do you want from me? You had to keep me alive for some reason,” Matthew sat down on a plank of seating and rubbed the waterducts of his eyes.

“Nothing more than just to know you. I’ve watched your crew from the sea for weeks. You are a good, kind man.”

Matthew looked up from between his fingers and exhaled slowly, lowering his guard only slightly.

“Then what does this mean? How do you want to… know me?” He furrowed his brow and sat back once again on the plank of wood. Her hands tipped the boat slightly so that she could come a little closer to the sailor.

“Come closer, please…” she whispered and rose onto her elbows, her face a few inches from Matthew’s. Matthew stared at her lips, rosey pink and plump. She smelled like sea salt and clean things. Ever so slowly, Matthew closed the distance between them, his eyes staying on her lips.

“Y/N…” He tried to restrain himself as he whispered but eventually, as she stared up at him with her beautiful curtained eyes, he kissed her. It had been years since he’d actually kissed a woman. Kissing was so different than fucking. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed it, the softness of it. Her hands inched up his blouse, beneath his overcoat, grabbing at his lapels. His hands found the sharp edges of her jaw, meeting her mouth with a more fervent kiss. She tasted lightly of salt, like seaspray against rocks. He devoured her flavor as though it were precious, forbidden. He twisted his fingers into her hair that felt dry despite being in the water, moaning against her lips.

“In what other ways do you want to know me?” He muttered against her lips, his eyes closed. Her fingers ran over his neck, down to the dip between his collarbones.

“I want to know every part of you,” she smiled and moved away, allowing the light from the deck to illuminate her figure below him in the water. Matthew hid a choked sigh as his eyes trailed over her body below the waves. Her body was decorated with pearls and scraps of white cloth. Instead of a tail, she now had two legs that beat the water to keep her afloat.

“Will you take me into your boat?” She asked softly and Matthew nearly forgot to respond, caught in a state of disbelief. He cleared his throat and scooped his hands beneath her arms, pulling her into the boat in one movement. Standing above him on two legs, she looked even more beautiful than she had hours earlier. He could see the buds of her nipples through the white fabric, surrounded by pearls and strands of seaweed. Her cunt was hidden behind a swath of wet fabric but he could still see the dark shape of pubic hair. He looked back up at her face, his lips having fallen apart in amazement. The Siren laughed softly and carded her fingers through his hair, pulling his head back slightly as she did.

“Lay me down,” she requested and smiled when he immediately wrapped his hands around her waist and flipped her over where she could lie flat on the bottom of the harpoon boat. The planks were far enough away to give him space to kneel above her. He supported himself above her, studying the contours of her body, plump and full. She twisted her fingers through his hair again and pulled him close so she could whisper in his ear.

“Now make love to me, Matthew Joy.”

…

He was already hard when she cupped her hand against his pants. It had been a while since he’d slept with a woman after months at sea. His body ached as badly as if he were a teenage boy again, not an aging man. He was throbbing as he moved the fabric on her cunt aside and lowered his head between her thighs. Looking up at her, he ran his tongue against her, tasting her. She hummed and shook with nerves.

A roving, a roving

Since roving's been my ru-i-in

I'll go no more a roving

With you fair maid!

Feeling emboldened by her reaction, Matthew licked her again and rubbed his nose against her clit. She was wet against his tongue and he licked his lips greedily. His cock started to throb as she whimpered and moaned beneath his mouth. Her hand pulled tightly at his hair but he loved the pain and worked his mouth harder into her cunt.

“Now, please now!” She begged him as she started to shake with pleasure. Taking the hint, Matthew undid his trousers and pushed them down to his knees. His face was still wet with her precum as he pulled out his cock and inserted himself quickly. She spasmed around him, her hands moving to grip the sides of the boat for leverage. His thighs clenched as he thrusted into her, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head. He leaned closer to her chest and rocked into her neck as he fucked her.

“Oh you don’t know how long it’s been, love,” he sighed against her neck. “Is it ok?”

She nodded emphatically and pulled him closer by the back of his jacket, moving him deeper inside her. They both gasped out. He pulled his face away to watch her, still fucking her.

“Beautiful. Pretty pretty creature you are,” he praised her as he trailed a finger down her cheek. Her thighs bounced against his as he pulled her legs around his waist. The boat shook around them. He slipped his tongue around the mound of her breast beneath the cloth, making more moans escape the girl’s mouth. He slipped the fabric aside with one finger and looking up to watch her face, he pressed his mouth around a nipple and sucked. Immediately, her body pulled into his, her back arching off the curved bottom.

I'll go no more a roving

With you fair maid!

“Matthew…” she gasped as her muscles tightened and her bare feet flexed. He rolled his tongue around her nipple while his hand moved to hold her neck lightly, supporting her head. She cried out silently, her eyes screwed shut as if she were in pain. He dragged his tongue along her sternum to her neck and sucked at the flesh there. Her breathing evened out and she pulled his face to hers once again.

“Do what you want with me. Get what you need from me,” the seriousness of her command sent a spasm of pleasure into his cock, still inside her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I want you to use me,” she whispered and spread her legs farther. Matthew looked at her for a second before smiling.

“Fuck, love. I think I’ll fall in love with you,” he chuckled softly and brushed his hand across her cheek.

“And so what if you do, sailor? Hasn’t everyone else done the same at some point?”

Matthew raised an eyebrow and kissed her, dragging her hands out above her head. Pressing her hands down into the boat, he began to thrust slowly into her, his hips still rebounding off of her pelvis.

“You’re going to stay right here, Y/N. I don’t want to lose you again.”

The girl smiled and broke into a moan as he shortened his thrusts, keeping himself as far inside her as he could. He went slowly so he could feel the orgasm clearly as it came over him, making his cock feel swollen with seed. Her hips shook wildly as she began to lose control over her orgasms. He watched her orgasm and released a wave of contractions around him. Smiling, he finally began to speed up as she whimpered beneath him.

“Fuck, yes… fuck… yes!” He muttered breathlessly as he felt his cock start to twitch before his orgasm. She tightened around him, pulling him deeper and drawing a guttural groan from his throat. His shoulders shook with effort as he allowed his orgasm to explode, cumming inside the girl and sending waves of relief through his system. He pulled out slowly and kissed down her stomach, savoring the heat of her skin against his lips. She caught her breath as he lapped at her swollen cunt. She was still shaking from her orgasms and whined when his tongue overstimulated her. He cleaned her out and nibbled at the skin on the inside of her thighs.

“It’s time for me to go.”

Matthew looked up at her and furrowed his brow, “so soon?”

The girl nodded and sat up to face him.

“I’ll be back, I promise.” She smiled shyly and rubbed her nose against his.

“Where do you go… I mean where do you go while we’re aboard?” He stumbled over his words, still catching his breath.

“Here,” she offered no further clarification as Matthew gave her a questioning look. She pressed her hand against his cheek and laughed.

“Don’t worry about where I go, sailor. The sea is my home.”

Matthew kissed her hastily as he redid his pants and pulled his suspender straps back over his shoulders. She stood and kissed him once more before she stepped over the edge and dropped into the water. In seconds she was resurfacing with her silver tail.

“Let me ask you one thing,” Matthew stopped her before he could leave, “are you real? Was that real?” He gestured to the bottom of the boat and the girl laughed brightly.

“Be wary, sailor. You might just lose your mind."

Matthew nodded and watched as she backed away and dove into the dark water beyond the reflection of light from the deck. Moments later, a whistle sounded and he was called to return to the ship. Forcing himself to look away from the place where the girl disappeared, he felt the familiar material of his old coat that he had wrapped around the girl earlier on the plank beside him, folded and damp.

...

End of Pt. 2!

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ghostlysoaps · 1 month ago

Text

A cradle for these weary bones

cw: canon typical violence, presumed death

It’s raining. Thick, heavy sheets of water that stick the clothes to his skin and transform the metal grating to a slick nightmare under his boots. The ship rocking underfoot doesn’t help his efforts of keeping himself upright. Not when it takes more than their short time aboard to find his sea legs.

Ghost is a step ahead of him. The L403A1-AIW rifle in his hands held fast with its sight swivelling. No corner or crevice is left untouched by his deadened stare. Efficient in a way Soap is steadily catching up to. He has his callsign for a reason, but Ghost is a being near supernatural in his ability to find clusters of hidden hostiles. And he hunts best in the dark.

The cargo is what they��d been sent to secure and so far their approach had been swift and merciless – cradled by the black sky, its absent moon and equally as despondent sea. Gunfire rings loud over the torrent of rain hitting the deck where it does its best to drown out the distant thunder to the far west. Flashes of muzzles firing light up the night like pinpricks of fireworks. There’s traffic over comms as they sweep further towards the heart of the ship, where they’ll slink into its depths to find a treasure of illegal goods.

They make contact before then.

Bullets smatter into the metal stairs they duck behind and Ghost relays the information calmly. A nod, a gesture, and then he engages, moving forward as Soap lays down cover. He gets one of the shadowed men before he’s forced to pull back. Saw them jerk and drop in a spray of red and grey. Ghost’s voice whispers in his ear and Soap advances at his hushed call, safe in the knowledge that his lieutenant has his back.

Their advance continues in bursts of motion. One step, two, fourteen, until they’re the only ones left standing.

Soap breathes hard. With a nod and a grin, adrenaline flowing freely, they keep moving. Ghost taking point, his sleet-gray eyes sliding off of him like condensation down a glass.

It’s supposed to be clear by the time he’s able to take in a full breath. Their team of eight, Soap and Ghost alongside six men from the Portuguese Rapid Reaction Brigade, having combed through the inside of the metal hull twice over. Nothing but shipping containers and corpses left. Ghost is a little ways off, standing close to the ship’s bridge, while he reports on their progress. A crew of seasoned sailors are to be deployed. Bootnecks. As it stands, they’re stranded until the vessel is out of international waters and the dawning squall has died down.

In the time since drop-off, the winds have picked up significantly. The roiling waves hammer against rusted steel, kicking the ship to-and-fro as if it were a ball in the hands of overeager children. If they’re lucky, as is rarely the case, it’ll move on swiftly. The lighting has, at least, moved further down the horizon and the rumble of thunder is but a dull murmur.

Distracted by another slash of light bleeding into several more, he fails to see the creeping shadow in time. It drops from a level above them. Fast. Aiming to get close. The whites of their eyes are visible in the dull glow of the lanterns lining the ship’s walls. Opened wide and locked on target. By the time his rifle is up, a warning past his lips, the figure is upon him. Ghost.

Three consecutive, deafening bangs. The gun’s barrel wedged into the gaps between vest and soft, squishy bits of flesh. When Johnny squeezes the trigger, reactionary though aimed true, the momentum they’d had carries and Ghost, disoriented, stumbles back under the added weight, right up to, and over, a warped piece of railing.

Johnny shouts his name.

He hauls himself to the edge where nothing but darkness greets him. The creak of metal and pattering of rain had stolen the sound of splashing and the surface is absent of a pale mask. Of anything other than seafoam and thrashing waves.

Lieutenant Paredes yanks him back by his bitch strap. Away from the edge he might’ve thrown himself over had he possessed an inkling less sense. Wild-eyed he rips the satellite phone from its pouch and jabs his fingers into the buttons with more violence than the act requires. Paredes’ expression is grim. He sends three of his men away – too little, too late. Raw, animal instinct claws at him without an outlet and while this call isn’t his burden to make, Soap refuses to allow anyone else to interfere whether they’re of a higher rank or not.

Price listens to his clipped update. Laswell and him are overseeing this particular operation, as well as two more to be carried out simultaneously in order to cripple a supply line of Makarov’s. The truth drips bitter into his ear when his demands for them to send aerial support are met with callous truth. They can’t. Not with the winds as they are and Soap would merely doom himself to the same fate should he attempt a rescue for a man who, by his own admission, is likely out of more blood than he can spare.

Soap rages inside but nothing other than a void “copy,” is said.

Compartamentalising is a necessary skill for any keen soldier to have, and Soap is one of their best.

- - - - -

The rubber boat forges on. Catching every wave like a punch to the gut and each aftershock rattles through Soap’s bones. Unphased, he keeps his sights on the rapidly approaching shoreline. Bathed in the pale light of the moon since the clouds had cracked open an hour or so ago. Shattered the sky like glass for its light to shine on through. The rain has ceased for the moment and the wind, though it hasn’t sighed its last, is mellow in comparison. It’s as if the world itself is holding its breath. As if it is offering a moment’s silence for a man who’d given so much to it in hopes of making it better.

None of his fellow men speak. Stuck in their own heads, grappling with the reminder of mortality, or in solidarity with Johnny and the loss he’d suffered. He doesn’t know and has no intention of asking. The joking around from the previous evening is a distant memory. The morning is not a long way off but years must have passed between then and now.

He's tired.

Searching the rocky shores, Soap’s gaze catches on a pale visage. It glides leisurely, aethereal, along the water’s edge, illuminated by the moon. Featureless due to the distance.

“Tell me ah’m nae goin’ insane,” Soap says, the words sparking through the comms when he presses the button on them.

Jannik, one of the squad’s many corporals, frowns at him but dutifully follows his hand when he points to the anomaly. Mila does too, and sucks in an audible breath which she lets out around a quiet; “Que porra é essa?”

Soap doesn’t speak Portuguese, related to Spanish as it may be, so the lively debate flies mostly over his head. The boat shudders as it changes course and Soap tilts his head in question, desperate for a distraction and brimming with tense energy now that it seems he has one. Paredes frowns but when he catches sight of Soap’s inquisitive expression gives an apologetic grimace of a smile. “There shouldn’t be any civilians this far out. Nothing in the direction they’re walking but military property. And in case it’s a– hm–” he trails off. “Well… we should direct them towards the nearest town at least, if they’re sane enough to understand. Strange time of day for a walk, no?”

“Yeah,” Soap offers, readying himself to spring into action.

The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end by the time they’re close enough to see the person better. Sticking out against the drab colours of the evening like a pearlescent moth in a dark room. Pale as an exsanguined corpse. Tall and familiar. Treading easily through the swell lapping against the shore, each footprint erased with the ebb and flow of water – indistinguishable from a mirage or figment of Soap’s fractured mind.

Frantically, Soap searches for a stark scar he remembers seeing once. Lodged deep in the skin of his lower back – looping around to his hip. Twisted and gnarled like the bark of a fern. And it is there, the tail-end of it showing as the man turns towards them, his dark eyes following their progress with bloodless lips stretched in a slight smirk. Through them another recognisable scar, running from lower cheek to chin and bisecting thin lips in the process. Lips Soap could recognise from a lineup of five, ten, an infinite number of men given the time he’s spent staring at them.

He throws himself off the boat as soon as he’s able, rabidly thoughtless, nearly falling flat on his face tripping over his own feet, to the clamoring warnings of his team, their grasping hands failing to drag him back.

Soap barely halts before he slams into Ghost, skidding in the wet sand, waterclogged gloves slapping against his sternum, down to the left side of his chest where he remembers unyielding metal pressed. It’s unmarred by fresh injury. Lacks the bleeding punctures a bullet wound would cause and rivers of red weeping down his body to pool at his feet. “What in the bleedin’ fuck Lt?” he wheezes.

“Johnny,” Ghost rasps. His skin is somewhat damp, Soap realises once he has the wherewithal to yank his gloves off. Soap can feel his muscles jump, then settle, under the flat of his palms – surely unused to the touch of another. His hair, windswept and stiff from salt, is nearly as white as his anemic flesh. The scars on his body, keloids and hypertrophic alike, appear grey in the dim light of the moon. But he’s warm enough under Soap’s hands, his heart beats, his lungs expand with every drawn breath. Pupil-wide eyes sweep over John’s pathetic scrambling as if amused, as if he thinks Soap should have known better than to believe him dead, though they harden when Ghost’s chin rises to stare beyond Soap’s shoulder. It borders on the surreal, being granted the privilege to watch the way his jaw flexes as he grits his teeth uninhibited by fabric. “At ease, Lieutenant Paredes. I’d rather not have swimmed all the way here for nothing.”

Johnny hears a faint question in stuttered portuguese through the rush in his ears. He pays it no mind. The tips of his fingers dimple skin as his mind struggles to comprehend what it knows to be true and reconcile it with reality.

“You were shot.”

Ghost tilts his head down again. Blinks slowly. Sharklike gaze pinning him like a needle through a butterfly. “No,” he says, syllables drawn out. “You got him before that.”

“Ah kno’ damn well what I saw, ya dobber!”

“It’s not what you saw that matters, Soap. It’s what you heard. And from what I remember the thunder was loud back then.”

“Nae,” he denies. It hadn’t been, had it? He turns enough to catch the group’s eyes. Most of them look paler than Ghost. Rookie-green despite their combined years served falling just shy of a century.

“It happened very fast,” Jannik says, unsure, looking to his ilk for backup, too good a soldier to inch backwards though it looks like he wants to.

“What matters is you’re here, and alive,” Paredes says, motioning brusquely for them to return to the boat, his rifle lowered and loose in his grasp, thick brows pinched. “It is a miracle that you’re standing at all, and walking even more so. Come–” he beckons, “–the climate can’t be doing you any favours.”

Soap reluctantly detaches from his lieutenant. Nude as a new life thrust into the world with not so much as a bruise on him. The imprints of Soap's fingers are already fading. It doesn't make sense. None of it. His head spins alongside his thoughts and Ghost, the cunt, doesn't do anything but stare in silence.

“Trust me, Sergeant,” Ghost murmurs.

Soap nods. Averts his gaze to the horizon. To the ploy of a calm sea – fickle as memories can be. A nagging sensation eats away at him. It nestles and makes home for itself right at the back of his skull alongside too many questions left unanswered. Too many observations disregarded over their years together. Each and every one of them is the piece of a puzzle John cannot picture.

“Wha’ happened to yer clothes?” he asks absentmindedly, scratching the straps of his vest open so he can offer Ghost his pullover.

“Too heavy.”

“Ah bet. Must've been yer knickers weighing ye doon,” Soap quips. Then, quieter, for no one's ears but his own and with a last stolen glance to where Ghost sweeps the sodden, black fabric around his hips for a modicum of modesty: “Surely wasnae tha’ weapon ye'r slinging aboot.”

“Sergeant.”

“Ah’m jus’ sayin’... if ye need someone t'help ye hold i–”

Ghost scuffs him in order to push him forward. “I'll chalk tha’ one up to shock,” he says magnanimously while Johnny cackles, borderline in hysterics. It wobbles precariously, the lilt of his laughter, and he hastily swallows it down before it can do a one-eighty degree turn.

He ignores the shared glances in front of him and the way people toss weary looks his way. What good will he’d managed to garner is rapidly fizzling out under his unhinged unravelling. But Ghost’s warmth bleeds into him, his body an immovable rock in churning waters, and that is really all that matters to him. His lieutenant, his friend, safe. Alive and able to fight another day.

- - - - -

When he gets the sweater back it smells of seaweed and brine and he realises, as he presses it tight to his nose, that it smells just like Ghost.

#if you see me posting this in june no you don't #it's still may in my heart #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #call of duty #ghostly writes stuff

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gav-san · 2 years ago

Text

A Vintage Bouquet Chapter 1

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

A Vintage Bouquet Masterlist

Chapter Title: The Weight of Silk Length: 8.5 K+

The Grand Line was a place of wonder—riotous, cruel, and ripe with pleasures for those bold or mad enough to chase them. One only needed to find the right island to satisfy a craving: drink, bloodshed, sin.

Of course, that often meant they never did.

For the Grand Line was also a graveyard of fools, where death stalked closer than dreams. Still, a rare few lived unchallenged. Untouchable.

Dracule Mihawk was among them.

The air on Isla de Palma was thick with sugar and heat, overripe fruit, salt-heavy breezes, and flowers blooming like they were showing off. Mihawk had barely stepped off the ornate Marine vessel before the Celestial Dragon aboard the second ship began screeching for a palanquin.

Mihawk didn’t respond. He simply turned and walked the opposite direction.

Let the pampered tyrant find someone else to carry him.

For all its decadent rot, the island was stunning. Towering palms shaded coral-stone roads. Bright parasols swayed overhead. Market stalls overflowed with gold-stitched silks, candied hibiscus, and dark sugar wrapped in palm leaves.

Mihawk had no interest in any of it.

He had come for the wine.

The port’s largest tavern wasn’t hard to find, an open-walled building made of sea-worn timber, with a massive whale’s rib hung overhead like a threat or a joke. Sailors and smugglers sweated through linen shirts, tossing dice between drinks. Behind the bar, a dozen barrels stood like kings, each marked with the vintners’ crest of Isla de Palma.

Mihawk entered like a shadow cast in daylight. Conversations slowed. Dice stilled.

The bartender, a broad man with sun-darkened skin and a grin missing three teeth,nodded with caution. “We’ve got the ’89 mango reserve, or plum-fermented palm spirit. Sweet or spicy?”

“The plumb.”

The man nodded. Mihawk took the best seat in the house, boots on the table, shaded from the sun, a glass of pale wine catching the slanting light. He sipped, slow and critical. A chair creaked beside him.

“What a treat,” said a voice too tired to care if it was welcome. “A Warlord, gracing our humble Ciudad Blanca.”

Vice Admiral Jacobson dragged out the chair, slumping into it like a man who hadn’t slept in days. His Marine coat hung open in the heat, collar stained, expression set somewhere between sunburned disdain and exhausted indifference.

Mihawk didn’t move. Didn’t remove his boots. He sipped again, slow. Unbothered.

“You rarely visit our seas during this season,” Jacobson said. “Our best grapes aren’t harvested for another two months.”

Golden eyes flicked toward him. No greeting. But Mihawk didn’t ignore him either. Not yet. The wine was the goal, and patience, when it came to vintners, often yielded better results than force.

“My cellars were raided,” Mihawk muttered, thinking of a certain red-haired freeloader. “I’m resupplying. I’d prefer to leave with something drinkable.”

Jacobson perked up like a hound offered scraps. “Then try mine,” he offered. “I value honest feedback. Even if it bruises.”

A new glass, dark purple, was poured. Mihawk watched, then tasted.

He sat up slowly. Deliberately. The sound of Yoru settling beside him hit the floorboards like judgment.

“Too sour. The barrel was cheap. The aging rushed.”

Jacobson winced. “You don’t hold back, do you?”

He signaled again. The bartender returned with a tiny vial of pale white. Just a thimble poured.

Expensive.

Mihawk raised it. Swirled. Tasted.

This, this was something else.

Bright. Layered. Sharp as a drawn sword. He let it linger.

“It’ll do,” he said, setting the glass down with care. “Your island is forgettable. This isn’t.”

Jacobson grinned. “That comes from the monastery. The girls do most of the labor, noble daughters sent to ‘build character.’ Best-kept secret on the island.”

Mihawk hummed.

“One of them’s been making quite a name,” Jacobson added, leaning in. “Ever hear of House Gabriella?”

Mihawk stilled.

House Gabriella. A once-noble vintner line. Fallen, like so many, to the Celestial Dragons’ appetite. But their wines… he remembered. A volcanic-aged blend served during a duel-turned-banquet in Kano. Unforgettable. A fire on the tongue.

And the merchant woman, sharp of wit, sharper of wine, who bragged endlessly about her daughter.

A firebrand, she’d said.

“She’s the one behind the Palma Red,” Jacobson went on. “Gossip says she was matched for marriage then burned the entire vineyard in protest. What’s left is convent-kept. They only bottle a few now. The best vintage on the island.”

“That,” Mihawk said, rising, “will do.”

A few men choked on their drinks.

The bartender went pale. One sailor muttered, “Convent-kept, mate. No one touches that.”

Jacobson sighed. “The Sisters don’t sell. That wine’s saved for the Celestial Dragons. You’d need a miracle just to see the label.”

Mihawk stared at the plum wine in front of him. Took one more sip.

Set it down with scorn.

“That is an insult,” he said, “to both plums and spirits.”

Jacobson chuckled. “Then what’ll you do? Pray?”

Mihawk’s smile was thin. “I find,” he said, rising smoothly, “that doors open when I knock.”

He tossed a few beli on the counter, not for the drink, but the hint, and strode out into the heat, black coat trailing like a shadow.

“You really going to all this trouble for wine?” Jacobson called after him.

Mihawk didn’t turn.

“I’m a pirate,” he said. “Not a savage.”

He meandered, taking his time walking the city, barely bothering to look anywhere besides his goal; the Convent

The convent stood like a crown on the island’s northern cliffs, walled off from the indulgent ruin of the port. Its white walls gleamed in the sun, pristine and silent. Mihawk walked the uphill road with the ease of a man who never considered the possibility of being turned away. Yoru trailed behind, carving thin lines in the clay.

Children picking hibiscus fled at the sight of him. One goat passed out.

At the gate, the Sisters had already mobilized, flustered like hens spotting a fox.

“State your business,” snapped the foremost, a thin, sharp-nosed woman with righteous rage and a rosary gripped like a cudgel.

Mihawk’s gaze slid lazily over her.

“I’m here for the wine.”

She blinked. Then stiffened with offense.

“The Blessed Vintage of Palma is not for sale,” the Sister snapped, fingers tightening on her rosary. “It is consecrated for the Holy Guard and gifted only to the virtuous patrons of the World Government. The soil it’s grown in is sacred—”

“Then tell your superior,” Mihawk said flatly, “that Dracule Mihawk is here.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

His name landed like a drawn sword, silent, sharp, undeniable.

The Sister blanched. Her mouth opened, then shut. Behind her, one of the younger acolytes dropped a basket of hibiscus.

Mihawk didn’t move. Just waited. Unimpressed.

“…Of course,” the woman said tightly, bowing stiffly. “At once.”

She turned and disappeared through the iron gate, the rosary swinging furiously at her hip. The remaining sisters and novices tried very hard not to look at him. One failed and earned the full weight of Mihawk’s bored stare. She promptly pretended to be extremely interested in a wall.

The silence of the convent crept back in, but now it bristled.

And Mihawk stood alone beneath the sun, arms crossed, Yoru glinting lazily at his back, wondering if this was the sort of place that would dare serve him tea while they stalled for a decision.

He hoped not. He hated tea.

White sheets fluttered in the cool sea breeze, the crisp air of the coastal evening smoothing out their final wrinkles. You folded one carefully, the linen still warm from the sun, and tucked it into the wicker basket beside you before turning to the last row swaying gently on the line.

But your eyes wandered, willful things that they were, past the stone walls of the Nunnery Annex and down the hill toward the gleaming white sprawl of Ciudade Blanca. The city sparkled like a pearl on the Isla de Palma, flaunting its grandeur for every visitor who approached by sea.

Between the monastery and that shimmering paradise lay what used to be your pride and joy, a vineyard that once burst with rich, vibrant grapes, begging for your attention.

Now it was nothing but ash.

You could still appreciate the architectural beauty of the city’s facade, but the memory of blackened vines made you smirk. Drink that, you thought bitterly. They could punish you, but they couldn't take the hours you’d bled into your wine. They could sell you, sure. But they couldn’t take your legacy.

Pilgrims’ voices echoed through the carved cutouts in the tall wall, glimpsing you like a goldfish in a too-small bowl. The monastery's walls were more for show than shelter, monuments to the wealth of its patrons. Even as a child, you’d known it.

It was the most popular destination on Isla Palma, after all. Where else could a Celestial Dragon vacation, drink exceptional wine, and shop for a third wife?

You’d seen too many travelers—some gentle, most not—passing through. Adventurers. Free people.

Located in the West Blue, Ciudade Blanca attracted a steady tide of seafarers, Marines, merchants, wanderers. Some were pirates pretending to be sailors. You heard them long before you saw them, climbing the stairs to the pristine monastery.

Despite your veil and the tight bun beneath your coif and wimple, little could hide the fire in your eyes or the sharp twist of your mouth.

On laundry rotation or other errands outside the walls, you were often catcalled, harassed, even confronted by devout followers of the church.

All because no one would taste the "monastery’s" prized wine again.

You’d made sure of that when you set fire to the while operation.

The bishop had only manages to save a few bottles, prioritizing them over other nuns.

You yanked a sheet from the line, and winced as it tore. Damn. Mother Superior would be furious. She already suspected you of sneaking food, of not being grateful for the “honor” of marriage.

“A good marriage,” she often reminded you, “is all a peasant girl should aspire to.”

That wasn’t a suggestion. It was a warning. You were nearing the end of your shelf life.

You’d been sent letters. Proposals. Portraits. But the words blurred, and bile rose each time you tried to choose.

Choose, you foolish girl. Choose!

Your body stiffened. Shoulders squared. Knees locked. You resisted the urge to collapse right there among the laundry.

Sweat trickled down your back as you imagined a future shackled to one of those greasy men. Wealthy, maybe, but not kind. Some had gold teeth. Some had no teeth. All of them reminded you of him.

Your father.

Not a title earned, but one thrust upon a man who lived like royalty in Mary Geoise, his power cemented by his Celestial Dragon bloodline.

You hadn’t seen him in years. You hoped you never would again.

He considered you a swan in a gilded cage, beautiful, bred, and meant for sale. His Den Den Mushi calls were filled with orders, reminders, and threats.

Your ‘dowry’, he claimed, was enough to overlook your poor manners.

Burning the rectory had shut him up. The suitors stopped writing. The bishop’s pride burned with his wine.

But even that couldn't last forever.

Your success only made the monastery more profitable. Girls like you were raised to draw in coin, not blessings.

The bell in the city rang. One less hour to escape.

You longed to rip every sheet down, to scream.

Your mother had been a captain, a wild, independent force of nature. She sailed her own ship, read you stories in hammocks, and fed you rare sweets between wine deliveries to the West Blue. Her crew, all former Marines, taught you about the trade. She taught you how to fight.

You preferred swords to daggers.

Her only mistake was loving your father.

At nine, things began to fall apart.

By eleven, he tried to steal her fleet.

By thirteen, she found out about the affairs.

And on your sixteenth birthday, she and her entire crew were murdered at sea by pirates.

You survived only because you'd been forced to stay with him.

He praised the heavens.

You mourned.

A week later, he introduced you to his other wives—three of them. Your mother had been one of four. And now, you were to be sold off like they were.

Your anger boiled. You tried to run. But before you could touch your inheritance, he locked it, and you, away.

The Celestial Dragons didn’t need courts.

There was nothing you could do.

You tore your gaze away from the city, breathing deep. If you didn’t control yourself, you’d be scrubbing chamber pots for a month. But each day, the anger tightened its grip around your ribs.

Breathe.

“Sister Gabriella, my beloved!”

Your stomach dropped.

You knew that voice.

Tallo, one of the town drunks.

A drunken silhouette wobbled on the wall’s edge, waving like a fool.

“My sweet thing!”

You turned and scowled. He was half-dangling over the balustrade, brown-haired, buck-toothed, and grinning drunkenly.

“Why haven’t you replied to my proposal?” he slurred.

“Go home, Tallo,” you said flatly. “Your wife works too hard for you to spend her money at the tavern.”

“She means nothing! Let’s run away together!”

You liked Mary Jones. Pity she’d been stuck with him. Arranged marriage. Children who looked suspiciously like the neighbor.

You lifted your shoe, just in case.

“Tallo Jones, don’t you dare!”

Mother Superior’s voice cracked like a whip. Relief washed over you as she leaned out a window, giving him the verbal flaying he deserved.

But

Tallo wasn’t known for sense. He tried to jump. Your shoe flew. It hit him squarely in the head, and he tumbled backward into the street.

You waved goodbye.

The Mother burst through the door, and you quickly hid the torn sheet.

“That man is disgusting! And you, must you flaunt yourself so?”

You didn’t argue. Not today.

Just then, the Abbot flung the door open, colliding with her bulk.

“He’s coming!”

“Jones again?”

“Not the boy!” he cried, eyes shining. “Your fiancé! He’s been chosen!”

You froze.

“Pardon?”

You barely heard them. Your ears rang.

Your father had promised your mother you would choose your husband. It was written.

You stumbled back, then turned and fled.

Down the courtyard. Past the chapel. Into the citrus grove.

You collapsed onto a bench, barefoot now, eyeing the consequence of your impulsive throw. You’d have to beg the gate guard for your shoe.

Or…

You glanced at the bolted side gate near the grove. If you were quick—

Thud.

You turned, startled.

There, lying on fresh earth and far from any tree, was your shoe.

You ran to the gate, peering through the narrow cutout, and caught only a glimpse of a dark coat disappearing around the corner.

And somehow, that simple act sent a flutter through your stomach.

You hesitated, ready to call out—

“Girl!”

You snapped back as Mother Superior rounded the corner.

You shoved on the shoe just in time.

“Quit hiding! Your father wishes to speak with you!”

If there was anything that could make this miserable, sweat-slicked day worse, it was getting a call from your father.

The convent’s Den Den Mushi was old, molasses-slow in its speech, and still somehow managed to convey his disdain with startling clarity. The moment it opened its heavy-lidded eyes and furrowed its little brow, you braced yourself.

“Do us both a favor, you,” your father said, his voice clipped and cold, “and be on your best behavior.”

“Father—” you tried, but he cut you off like a blade through silk.

“—While you may not want to be married, you, there is no other respectable path for your future. I promise you, there are much worse suitors who would not care one whit for your consent.”

Your jaw tightened.

“Father—”

“Pirates, even,” he said dryly.

You froze.

He’d said it like a joke. Offhand, like a threat with lace gloves. But the chill that crept up your spine told you otherwise.

“Be a good girl, my dear,” he continued, tone smoothing into something more false and saccharine. “I mean, anything is better than one of those Doflamingo boys. I’ve heard that Donquixote is little better than a brute. He’s been sniffing around the idea of a noble bride, apparently. Calls me every other day. Has the money, if not the bloodline. No real title since that little incident, but persistent.”

Your stomach twisted. Surely he wouldn’t. Surely your father wouldn’t sell you off to a fallen noble-turned-warlord just to settle debts or gain political favor. Not Doflamingo. Not that monster.

But you didn’t dare call his bluff. Not after last time.

You had learned better than to challenge his cruelty outright—especially when it came gift-wrapped in calm, transactional threats. If you pushed him, he’d only make it worse.

“You’ll be a darling, won’t you?” he drawled, satisfied. “Go make pretty eyes at that nice new fiancé. Walk away with a ring. It’s not as if you have anything better to do.”

You stared at the snail, heart cold.

“…Yes, Father,” you said softly.

The convent gates opened for him.

Not easily, but then again, Mihawk had never needed permission so much as presence. He walked with the deliberate silence of a storm choosing when to strike. The Sister on gate duty stammered something about scheduling and security. He ignored her.

The interior cloister was hushed and fragrant, haunted by incense and scandal. Marble saints watched from every arch. Veiled girls scurried like soft-footed ghosts in the periphery, pretending not to stare at the man in black who carried a blade fit for kingslaying.

The Mother Superior met him in the wine cloisters, her robe pressed but her composure fraying at the seams. She led him through the cool stone halls with a forced grace, her words fluttering around him like pale moths.

“We are honored, of course, my lord, deeply honored that you chose to visit our convent, Warlord. Most esteemed guests request our stock to be shipped, but your presence… ah, brings rare insight upon our souls.”

Mihawk said nothing. His eye flicked from rack to rack. Empty.

Worse, the air smelled wrong. Bitter. Acrid.

They passed a barrel split down the middle, charred black, with wax melted into the floor like spilled blood.

He stopped walking.

The Mother Superior hesitated. “There was… an accident,” she said too quickly. “A fire. Most unfortunate. Our stock, our precious vintages, they were mostly lost. But we still have some, yes, a few bottles—”

He turned his gaze on her.

It was not unkind. It was not cruel. But it was cutting.

“You had an accident?” He questioned flatly. “The burn patterns here indicate sabotage.”

The words echoed down the corridor like a verdict.

The Mother wrung her hands.

“There is—” she hesitated. “There is a girl. One of our... more difficult charges. She knows where the remaining bottles are. Or so she claims. But she is not currently... fit for polite company. Will be married off soon.”

Mihawk raised a brow.

“Oh curious,” he murmured, “You entrust an arsonist to be married.”

The title arsonist rolled like cinnamon across his tongue. He wondered if she’d flinch he used it to the girl’s face. She would deserve a slap for making this difficult for him.

Mihawk stepped closer to the old barrel, ran a gloved finger over the ash, then tasted it against the air. Oak. Fire. Guilt.

The Mother’s face turned dark, but she didn’t contradict him.

The remaining bottle was brought with trembling hands.

A Sister retrieved it from the cellar’s coldest vault, the wax seal cracked and smoke-stained. Dust still clung to its neck like funeral lace. It was presented in a small silver cup, modest, as befitting a holy place, though the act felt like feeding a god from a beggar’s bowl.

The silver cup was offered with a strained smile and trembling hands.

The Mother Superior, ever the picture of sanctity and strained composure, lifted the bottle from its velvet-lined case with a reverence usually reserved for relics. Her fingers hesitated just slightly at the neck, smoke-stained and singed at the wax seal, like it had barely survived a funeral pyre.

“Please,” she said, her voice too smooth, too practiced, “Accept this with our deepest apologies for the… inconvenience.”

As if it would satisfy him. She had subdued the threat, disciplined the rogue, and offered the last fruit of the vineyard as a peace offering.

She poured carefully, the crimson liquid catching what little light dared to creep into the stone-vaulted room. It was dark, nearly black at the center, rich, slow, coiling in the cup like silk poured through blood.

Mihawk accepted it in silence. He did not toast. He did not bless. He simply tasted.

And then the silence changed.

Not the polite silence of restrained conversation, nor the holy hush of marble corridors, but a dangerous stillness, like the moment the sea draws breath before it rears up to swallow a ship whole.

The Palma Red was exceptional.

But more than that, it was angry.

It tasted of rebellion, scorched earth, bruised fruit, and something else beneath it: deliberate preservation. It was a last stand in a bottle. This was not a wine that survived the fire. This was a wine someone hid from it.

He let the taste linger on his tongue like a secret.

“Your arsonist made this one?”

The older woman looked as though she was ready to see the last of him.

“Yes.”

“With wine as good as this, I doubt your arsonist didn’t set some aside. This would fetch a fair price to any connoisseur.”

The Mother Superior gave him a look, like he had told her that the moon was made of cheese, and she hadn’t noticed it.

“I doubt the girl is capable of thinking that far-thinking.” She said unconvincingly.

“Well then,” He retorted coolly, “Then she’s the only thing in this building worth speaking to.”

The Mother looked scandalized. “She’s… the sister Gabriella is serving in isolation, a period of penance before her upcoming marriage.”

Mihawk smiled, just slightly.

“Regardless, I’d like to look at the grounds here, after I sample your wares.” He wanted to see the face that made the best wine he had sampled in years.

The Superior Mother looked like she wanted to punt him back to the tavern.

“I’ll find you an escort.” She ground out.

It clings with the kind of heat that clings like silk but stings like nettles. You kneel in the garden again, skirts heavy with dew, pruning basil with a knife so dull you’d have better luck chewing the stems off. Your hands are rough with calluses from too many punishments, but your mind, sharp and restless, buzzes with gossip.

Sister Alma, who has never understood the mechanics of a proper whisper, had been babbling during dawn chores. You didn’t need to lean in. She’s as subtle as a church bell.

"—a swordsman, they said! In black, with eyes like a hawk and a weapon taller than the bishop’s altar. From the Grand Line, no less!"

"Oh saints preserve us, not one of those men—"

“The Mother gave him some, for free! One of the last bottles!”

"They say he drank from the holy cellars and didn’t flinch."

"Worse—he smiled."

You bite your grin into the curve of your shoulder. Your face remains serene, composed, perfectly penitent. As a girl in disgrace, that’s your armor. But inside?

Inside, you're already plotting.

A swordsman.

Not a noble, not a frothing glutton with soft hands and a harder ego. Not one of those powdered fops who drink fine wine just to pretend they understand it.

This one tasted it. And understood it.

And that’s enough to make him dangerous. Enough to make him interesting.

The garden peace breaks like a cheap glass.

“Oi!”

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to. The slurred, leering voice belongs to Tallo, one of the town’s less-than-illustrious sons, always drunk before noon, always mean when ignored.

“Come on, sister Saint!” he bellows from beyond the convent gate, wine bottle clanging against the bars. “You think you’re too good for us now? That fire didn’t make you holy, just stupid! I’ll show you a real match!”

The other sisters hiss from the cloister shade. Sister Carmelita crosses herself so furiously you swear her rosary sparks. Two novices begin to cry.

You keep pruning basil. Slow. Steady. One leaf at a time.

Your mouth is tight. Your heart isn’t.

Tallo Jones keeps jeering. Crude, sour, and getting louder.

You've ignored worse. You’ve endured worse. But today?

Today it’s harder.

Maybe it’s the way the other girls flinch.

Maybe it’s how the world goes quiet around you, like even the earth is holding its breath.

Listening.

You immediately noticed the man who moved through the convent like he belonged there, though he most certainly did not.

There was no chaperone, no escort, just steady footsteps and unapologetic silence, the echo of his boots peeling off old stone walls like punctuation marks. His greatcoat flowed behind him, his hat untouched by the sea heat, and his sword trailing a quiet promise with every step.

Undoubtedly, the swordsman.

The sound carried strangely in places like this, off marble, moss, and old, devout bones, and he had heard it.

Tallos’s voice. Loud. Slurred. Out of place.

The kind of sound that grated against the peace of sacred ground.

The swordsman didn’t speed up. Didn’t alter his gait.

He simply… adjusted.

Through an arched passage and into a courtyard overgrown with dew-slick vines and soft basil scent, he followed the noise until it unfolded before him.

Tallo was pressed against the far side of the garden gate, red-cheeked and puffed with cheap courage. He reeked of spoiled wine and spite, waving a bottle like a banner of relevance. He overlooked the swordsman at first. Too busy shouting. Too busy performing for a crowd that wasn’t there.

Then he turned.

And stopped.

The man now approaching wore black the way a storm wore thunder. His coat was long and fine but worn with disregard. His hat cast a long shadow, though the sun was high. The sword at his side gleamed, not ostentatious but absolute.

His shaded eyes locked onto Tallo with the chill curiosity of a falcon watching a small, foolish rodent crawl toward its claws.

“Get out of the way,” He said. No bite. No snarl. Just a statement.

Tallo blinked, slow and stupid. “Who the hell are—”

He didn’t finish.

The man didn’t raise a fist. Didn’t reach for his blade. Just stepped forward, smooth and silent, and let his hand snap once like a disapproving whip.

Tallo flew.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically.

His body lifted, limbs flailing, and soared clean over the waist-high garden wall, landing in the flowerbed with a wet crunch and a breathless yelp. The kind that settles after a story ends.

A second later, he groaned and then stumbled away, wheezing.

The man never broke stride.

He didn’t look toward the garden. Didn’t acknowledge the startled gasps. Just kept walking, the breeze tugging at his coat like even the wind was trying to keep up.

But through the lattice of green, you were watching.

You had risen from your crouch without realizing. A single basil stem still clutched between your fingers, forgotten.

That was a man.

The hawk-eyed stranger moved like a storm held in check, wearing black like a warning. His great curved sword was slung across his back like it belonged to a god of war and not a man. The blade looked capable of cleaving through stone, silence, and souls still clinging to the dead.

Walking through the cloister garden with the quiet confidence of someone who had never once needed permission for anything in his life.

His stride was unhurried. Unbothered. The gravel path barely crunched beneath his boots. Not one of the Sisters stopped him. Not one dared.

You didn’t breathe.

Because he wasn’t headed toward the chapel, the guest wing, or the wine cellar where your father hoped to chain your future with a marriage contract.

You were almost sure he was headed in a direction the Mother Superior had not planned for.

The isolation garden.

Technically, where you were supposed to be, save Sister Alma’s tender heart.

You crouched behind the herb trellis like a woman debating her own damnation, cowl askew.

This was, without question, a terrible idea.

Bargaining with a stranger—a man, no less—who had just sent another man flying like laundry in a storm, who walked through holy ground like it was a hallway in his own house, who carried a sword that could split your convent and your pride down the middle—

It was reckless. Desperate.

Unbecoming of a noble daughter, even a disgraced one.

But then again, so was burning a vineyard.

You pressed your hand to your skirts, grounding yourself in the dampness of dew and earth. Cold reality. You had no options. Not if your father’s threats were real. Not if a marriage to some frothing, gold-laced brute like Donquixote Doflamingo was truly being entertained.

You’d been raised to negotiate dowries, not freedom.

And yet, here you were, considering the unthinkable: bribing a stranger for help.

Someone who got rid of a drunk cat-calling a nun had to be okay, right?

Man moved closer, casting a shadow across the basil. You could smell the sea on him. And something older. Metal. Smoke. Stillness sharpened into a man.

This was a terrible idea.

But terrible ideas, it seemed, were all you had left.

You step through the archway, bare feet brushing the grass, your skirts whispering like secrets. The garden is cloaked in a hush so thick it feels like the moment before thunder. It’s heavy, lush, waiting to be ruined. Mist clings to the ground, dew catching your hem like a clumsy suitor. This path wasn’t meant for you. That’s probably why it feels so perfect.

He’s already there.

You spot him instantly: seated beneath the ivy-strangled pergola like a portrait someone abandoned halfway through—too striking to destroy, too dangerous to frame. His black coat pools behind him in regal folds, too elegant for a pirate, too wild for a noble, dark as old sin. Yoru rests beside him in the grass, massive and silent, like a monument left in the wrong era. The tea at his elbow sits untouched, steaming long since vanished.

His eyes—golden, gleaming, otherworldly—track the koi pond like he’s memorizing the color of stillness.

You tilt your head. Smile slightly.

Ah. The convent tried to give him tea. Brave.

You speak up, uninvited—because if permission mattered, you wouldn’t be here.

“I see you’ve met our tea. It’s brewed with equal parts guilt and jasmine.”

No answer at first. Just the flick of a glance—sharp, golden, like a coin flipped in judgment.

“Tastes like shame pretending to be perfume,” he replies, tone dry enough to cure meat.

You smile wider. “Fitting, then. For this place.”

You approach without hurry. You wear your disgrace like a medal, your morning like a crown.

“The Sisters say you’ve unsettled the wine cellar, the Mother Superior, and three girls on vows. Impressive.”

“I wasn’t trying.”

“Clearly. You’re dressed like a storm. And storms never knock.”

His gaze lingers now, steady and unblinking. You feel it settle in your lungs—sharp, assessing, not quite cruel.

“You’re not one of the meek,” he says.

You drop into a too-elegant curtsy, skirts whispering. “Sister Gabriella.”

He doesn’t return the courtesy. You didn’t expect him to.

You sit across from him on the low bench, folding your hands primly over your knees. As if this is just another polite tea hour. As if your father’s voice isn’t still echoing in your skull, threatening you with marriage proposals and pirates in the same breath.

Then, lightly:

“Do you know what it’s like to be bred, bottled, and labeled for someone else’s table?”

He watches you.

“To be aged and watched and shelved until someone with enough coin pops the cork and calls it love?”

Still nothing. No softness. No interruption.

“I prefer my wine without a sob story.”

You blink. “You’re sharp.”

“And you,” he says, returning his gaze to the pond, “are naive.”

You lean forward, eyes bright. “If you’re here to collect penance, I’d prefer you do it shirtless.”

“You’re not the first girl to flirt with me in a garden,” he replies, deadpan. “The last one married a bishop out of guilt.”

“And what did you do to her?”

“I stared. Just like this.”

He turns his head. And looks.

Really looks.

It’s not lecherous. It’s not even particularly amused.

It’s surgical.

You almost flinch. His eyes aren’t just gold—they’re ringed, like a target. You have the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that if he looked at you long enough, you’d start confessing things you hadn’t done.

You bite the inside of your cheek. You breathe once.

Then you set down your best line like a poker chip.

“Very well, swordsman. I concede you may have the fiercest gaze in the sea. But why bring it to a convent?”

“I’m not in the habit of explaining myself to sisters in habits,” he replies without so much as a blink.

“So it was the wine?” you guess, half-testing, half-teasing.

He doesn’t answer. But the pause is long enough to make you grin.

“If you stayed for another taste, I’m afraid I’ve burned the menu.”

This time, he stands.

It’s deliberate. A performance with no audience but you. His shadow cuts across your lap like a sword stroke.

“So, you’re the arsonist turned bride.”

You meet his gaze evenly.

He steps past you, slow, unhurried. Not dismissive, just inevitable.

As he walks, he tosses it over his shoulder, sharp as a hook:

“You look like you still read fairytales before bed. Did your little fire soothe your pride?”

You rise, arms crossing. “I have good reason for my pride. Do you have one for your poor manners?”

A ghost of a smirk plays at the edge of his mouth. Almost.

“I’m a pirate, girl. Not a gentleman.”

You stiffen. That word isn’t spoken here. Not by the Sisters. Not by your father. Not in this sanctified garden where myth and scandal are supposed to stay buried beneath the lilies.

But it fits him. Too well.

He keeps walking, hands tucked behind his back like he owns the path.

“If you plan on conning pirates, convent girl of House Gabriella,” he calls, “you’ll need more than a scorched vineyard and a pretty stare.”

“I’ve got more than that,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself.

He half-turns. Smiles just enough to curdle your stomach.

“Then take care,” he says, low and casual, “lest you lose it. You’re being watched.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why bother warning me?”

“Because,” he replies, cool and amused, “I’d rather bargain with you.”

Your heart stumbles. “You’ll help me?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. But something about the tilt of his head makes you feel like he’s laughing somewhere inside.

“I’ll consider it—if you bring me something convincing.”

“And where do I bring it?”

He doesn’t pause as he throws the words back:

“The Leviathan. Tonight. Don’t be late.”

“In town?” You gape. “That’s a—”

But he’s gone.

You stay in the garden, barefoot in the grass, spine straight, heart thundering like it’s found a second rhythm.

Somewhere beyond the convent walls, the sea lifts its head.

Of course, a pirate would make you risk everything before promising anything.

The convent bell rang once, sharp, distant, and cold as judgment.

You didn’t flinch. You were already moving.

Barefoot and swift, you glided through the stone corridors like a ghost given purpose. No veil. No sound. Your hair was loose, wild from sleep, or something more permanent. The stolen key, lifted days ago from the rusting hook in the tool shed, bit into your palm with familiar teeth. But your thoughts burned hotter than the fires you’d already set. And your hands didn’t shake.

You didn’t know why he’d warned you.

Maybe it was mercy. Maybe amusement. Maybe something crueler, like curiosity.

But he hadn’t told the Mother. He hadn’t sounded the alarm.

He’d just looked at you. Like a question worth betting for.

And now you had a sliver of time to become the answer.

The hiding place had been chosen with the care of desperation.

Not the chapel cellars—they’d already been searched, sanctified, and swept. Not the vaulted storage rooms or the priest’s forgotten quarters. No, you knew better.

You went to the oldest part of the convent, the crumbling nursery wing, abandoned save for dust and wasps. Beneath the long-dead bell tower, past a half-rotted dresser and behind a warped floorboard beneath a false iron grate, there it was.

You’d found it as a child during some punishment or another, crying and sticky with stolen figs. It had felt like a secret then.

Now it was a lifeline.

Your hands moved fast, practiced. Pry the board. Reach into the dark.

Fingers brushed wax-sealed glass.

You pulled the bottle free.

Dark red. No label. Still cool from the Earth.

The crate of wine.

The last one. Yours. Hidden and hoarded for a moment just like this.

You wrapped it in your old cloak and darted toward the east gate.

Less than an hour. That’s all you had—before the Sisters checked the dormitories, before the garden bell summoned you back to smile and weed like nothing had ever burned.

It was reckless. It cost you two favors and a vial of ink so rare it shimmered. But just before dawn, you slipped out the back gate like breath through teeth.

The town reeked of salt, yeast, and cheap prayers.

You kept to the shadows. Behind fishnets. Beneath carts. Past drowsy cats and slower men.

The bottle was clutched tight to your ribs, and your heartbeat lived in your throat.

You asked three people, your voice low and shaped like a secret:

“The Leviathan?”

The third pointed with a toothpick, barely glancing up.

There, between a candle shop and a shuttered grocer.

A sagging, two-story inn that looked like it was trying not to exist.

The Leviathan’s Elbow.

A filthy little inn for a man so refined, but you knew it wasn’t chosen for charm. It was private. Forgotten. A place for whispers and bad liquor.

He must’ve known you’d come. He wanted to see if you’d risk it.

The innkeeper didn’t blink when you arrived. He barely looked up, just nodded once, like this had all been expected.

You spotted the swordsman instantly.

He was seated at a splintered corner table, elbow propped, long fingers curled loosely around a chipped clay cup filled with something that dared to call itself rum. You guessed he'd taken one sip from the way his jaw was set. Maybe two. It had offended him deeply.

A half-drowned musician wheezed tuneless notes on a flute in the corner. Someone upstairs was screaming about sardines. The rum tasted like salt and regret. His blade leaned against the wall beside him, untouched.

He didn’t look up when you entered.

But he said, calmly:

“You’re early.”

You stood in the doorway, heart thudding, breath fast. Your cloak was wrapped tightly around your arms, the bottle still warm beneath it.

“I had to crawl through the dead foundations of the convent to get this,” you said, breathless. “It was the only window I had.”

He glanced up. Just once. His gaze swept over you.

“You came alone.”

You smirked, sharp. “Were you expecting a choir?”

“No. But a friend might’ve made your cause less tragic.”

You crossed the room without waiting for an invitation—four bold steps—and set the bottle between you. Dusty. Sealed in wax. Unlabeled.

It landed like a statement.

He looked at it as if it had insulted his ancestry.

“Tell me you have more than this pittance,” He purred, voice low and dangerous.

You lifted your chin. “I don’t trust you enough to say.”

“So you do have more,” He stated. Not a question. A truth.

Your jaw clenched.

“You wouldn’t have risked your skin for one bottle,” he mused. “You’ve got a stash. Let me guess, under the nursery floor? Or maybe the old baptismal basin?” A faint smirk. “Girls like you enjoy irony.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“And what kind of girl is that?”

“A convent bride with a taste for dramatics,” he replied, dry as bone.

The words hit like a slap.

You straightened. The hood slid back further. Your voice turned cold.

“I’m not a bride,” you said, fire burning beneath each syllable. “And the convent isn’t my beginning. It’s my cage.”

You dropped your cloak just enough to let him see the edge of your hands—blackened at the fingertips, calloused, raw.

“I’m the daughter of House Gabriella, of the West Vineholds. My mother taught me how to prune a vine before I learned to write. Our name was stamped on every bottle of Camellia red that left this island for a decade.” You tapped the wine. “That secret vintage you’re sipping? That was me.”

His gaze shifted. Not narrowed. Just heavier.

“I blended the barrels. Managed the soil. Oversaw the aging. Not the Sisters. Not my father. Me.”

You inhaled sharply. Steady.

“So yes, I burned it. Because they tried to sell me with it.”

Another pause. Another long look.

“That’s quite the speech,” he said finally. “Passion. Legacy. Revenge.”

He spun the bottle once. The wax caught the candlelight.

“But your touching story bores me.”

The silence that followed was thick. Measuring. Not hostile, but close.

He leaned back, attention shifting from the bottle to you.

“Most girls wouldn’t risk their necks to bargain with a man who called them naïve.”

You met his gaze without flinching. “Most men wouldn’t wait in a piss-soaked inn to see if a girl with soot on her hands and no freedom might prove him wrong.”

That almost earned a smile.

He reached for the bottle.

“Sit,” he said simply. “I’ll decide what you’re worth after the first pour.”

You slid into the seat opposite him, cloak still tight around your frame. Your braid was damp with sweat and sea mist. The hood slipped back just enough to reveal sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. You knew it wasn’t enough to hide.

He didn’t pour right away. Just turned the bottle slowly, fingers brushing over the wax seal as if reading a fortune in the dust.

You didn’t blink.

He poured one measure into the clay cup. Swirled. Sniffed. Sipped.

The silence afterward was not disappointment.

It was calculation.

He set the cup down.

“I’ve met noble girls who cry when their corset frays. And pirates who think vinegar’s a fine year.”

He looked at you again, gaze steady.

“You’re better than both.”

You blinked. Just once.

The cup sat empty between you, the scent of the wine lingering like an accusation. You observed him, unsure whether you’d passed some test or just been enrolled in a new one.

You swallowed.

“And in exchange?”

“I’ll offer you something,” he said. “Not payment. Not protection. A passage.”

Your brows lifted. “A… passage?”

“My personal escort. Something none other has dared dream to have,” he said, “Far enough from here that no one will recognize your mantilla.”

You stared at him. Flat. Disbelieving.

“That’s it?”

He tilted his head. “Did you expect roses?”

“I expected something with dignity,” you snapped. “You offer me the honor of fleeing like a bootlegger? I thought—” Your lip curled. “You’re clearly not a common man. I thought you’d offer something worthy of a proper escape.”

That got a reaction. His gaze sharpened, gold flickering like a drawn blade.

“I’m not a suitor,” he said, voice like steel. “And I’m certainly no gentleman.”

“Clearly.”

He stepped closer, quiet and lethal.

“I’m a pirate.”

The word hit the floor like a blade point.

“I’m aware.” You fold your arms.

“I don’t sweep girls from bad marriages with lace and lullabies. I offer danger. I offer hard routes and sharp rewards. If you want safety, stay. Marry who they pick.”

You lifted your chin.

“I don’t want safety. I want out.”

He considered you. A long, knowing pause.

He stood slowly, movements precise. Set the cup aside like a verdict.

“You’ll give me the rest of the wine,” He drawled. “And I’ll help.”

“You’ll get two and a bottle from the secret stash. My personal reserve.” You pushed back, arms crossed.

A slow smile spread across his face. “Now we’re bartering.”

“I don’t do charity,” he said. “But I appreciate a good investment. Three-Fourths.”

You clicked your tongue.

“One bottle, and you stop calling me a convent girl.” You said, irritated.

Honest to god, he looked close to a chuckle.

“You’ve got spirit, rabbit,” he murmured, voice almost a purr. “I like that. It’ll make the voyage more... entertaining. Half, and I’ll let you know my name.”

You paused, surprised he was conceding that much when he clearly held enough power to do as he pleased.

“Fine.” You stepped even closer. “Do we have a deal?”

He held out a hand. “Deal.”

You shook it—and for a moment, he didn’t let go.

“You have one day,” he said. “Should be enough for the girl who burned her cage and walked away with smoke on her skin.”

“Then earn it. Bring me the rest of the wine. The real stock. I’ll take you with me. Not as cargo—” he leaned in slightly—“but as someone worth the space.”

You scoffed. “It’s heavy. I’m being watched.”

He smirked.

Your mouth twisted. “You’re enjoying this.”

He gave the barest shrug. “I’m interested. Don’t confuse that for patience.”

You turned on your heel, cloak swirling. But he called out one more time:

“Convent girl.”

You froze.

He turned toward the door, as if to nod you out.

Then, he smirked over his shoulder as if it cost him nothing. “Try not to get caught on the way back in. I’m not in the habit of staging rescues.”

A beat.

Your hand tightened at your side.

“And if I did get caught?” you asked, voice calm but low.

“That would be your mistake to answer for.”

Another pause.

The silence between you bristled like a warning. Mihawk tilted his head slightly. “Then I suppose I’d be forced to think about decimating half the coast out of obligation. But you’d still owe me for the inconvenience.”

You blinked at him.

Like slaughter and salvation were two sides of the same dull coin. A matter of inconvenience.

His words hung between you like a guillotine suspended mid-swing.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched the curve of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the glint of something unreadable in those golden eyes.

Finally, your lips curled. Dry. Controlled.

“Noted, swordsman.”

“Mihawk.”

“Pardon?” You say, and he sighs.

“My name, convent girl-” He waved away your irritated look. “Don’t protest; you don’t get any benefits until you bring me my wine.”

He smirked, if it could be called that. A fraction of expression, sharp as it was fleeting.

Not kind. Not warm. But pleased. Dangerous.

“Good girl.”

And then you were gone.

Not with fear clinging to your back, but something worse. Something weightless and volatile, pounding through your blood like a storm tide.

Something that tasted like freedom.

You returned to the convent just as the sun broke the sea, painting the stone walls in rust and gold. Your cloak clung to your skin, damp with salt spray and dew. The stench of The Leviathan’s Elbow—cheap rum, old smoke, sea rot—still laced the hem of your skirt like a bruise you couldn’t hide.

You slipped through the servants’ path. The rusted gate greeted your hand like an old accomplice.

No one saw you.

Except for a cat on the sill. Watching. Blinking slowly, like it knew.

The silence that followed you in wasn’t peace. It was weight. Guilt-shaped. Too clean. Too late.

When you reached your cell, the morning bell began to toll.

You didn’t sleep. You didn’t change. You planned.

The day passed like a dagger beneath silk.

There were dress fittings. Too many. The gown was gauzy and gold-threaded, choking you with its sweetness. The veil weighed more than a chain. The seamstresses chattered. The Sisters cooed.

You stood still, arms raised, a figure carved from marble. Blank-eyed. Burning.

“Hold still,” one Sister chided gently, tugging at the bodice.

“Blessed girl,” another breathed. “How far you’ve come.”

You smiled. Just enough. Nodded. Just enough. Your mind wasn’t there.

It was with the man who said, You want silk? Marry the man they chose.

You imagined setting the veil alight. Watched the fire catch in your mind’s eye, ribbons curling into black lace. Instead, you calculated. How fast could you move the crate? How long would the tunnel remain unwatched? Not long. But long enough.

You’d been lifting barrels since you were ten. You could manage one last run if your bones didn’t betray you.

That evening, you entertained your betrothed.

Lord Vinsaro was bloated on wine and self-importance. His breath was sugared rot. His hands never stopped moving—pale fingers like sausage casings brushing too close, too often.

He talked about politics like he understood it. Bragged about vineyards he never touched. Laughed when he said you’d “look sweet in a cage.”

You filled his cup. Twice. Smiled like you’d been trained to. When he asked if you were pleased with the match, you smiled softly.

“If suffering brings salvation, I must be nearly divine.”

He chuckled, taking it for praise.

You didn’t correct him.

Across the room, the Mother Superior watched.

Something wasn’t right. She could feel it in her bones. You were too calm. Your gaze didn’t wander. Your temper didn’t flicker.

The Bishop disagreed.

“She’s finally repented,” he said with smug certainty, thumbing his rosary like a man proud of his leash. “She sees this match for the blessing it is.”

“She’s waiting,” the Mother murmured. “Suspicious brat.”

“For what?” the Bishop asked.

She didn’t answer.

But her eyes moved, slow and sharp, to the bell tower.

That night, in your cell, you knelt.

The cloak was bundled behind you. A flask tucked near your side. Your breath was even, but your pulse roared like surf in your ears.

One day. That’s what he gave you.

And dawn was coming fast.

The wine was waiting. And so was the sea.

#fanfic #romance #op #onepiece #one piece #dracule mihawk #hawkeye mihawk #mihawk x reader #If you have the imagination #it’s just fanfic folks

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velaris-fic-repository · 6 days ago

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What the Tide Brings In: Epilogue

Part 1 | Part 8

On yet another beautiful evening in Velaris, golden hues of sunset shifting into the gorgeous shade of purple night, you placed one final heavy wooden crate on the deck of an awaiting ship. Nudging it into place with a push of your foot, you glanced over your shoulder, “Is this everything, then?”

The merchant you were assisting glanced between you, the ship, and the manifest in his hands. He looked up, finally at ease, and smiled.

“Yes, Madam Harbormaster, that should be all.”

You snorted a little, crossing over the gangplank to the dock as easy as breathing. “I thought I told everyone that first names were fine.”

“Apologies ma’am,” the merchant responded.

You playfully rolled your eyes, procuring a stamp from your pocket. You held your hand out for the manifest in his hands and, once given it, placed a turquoise inked image of the Night Court crest on the page, handing it back shortly after.

“This is for you, we have ours back at the office already.”

“Thank you, miss.”

A roguish grin crossed your face, “Just doing my job, sir. Fair winds and steady currents to you. The city of Velaris awaits your crew’s return.”

You smiled and waved to the crew aboard and received one final thank you from its captain before the ship made ready to leave. You stood on the dock and watched them go, weaving wind through your hands just as they crossed the final stretch of the harbor and sent an extra bit of wind to fill their sails.

Did you need to take such a personal touch to each and every vessel going out? No. The sailors of Velaris were always very capable. However, the events that brought you here seventy some years ago always hung in the back of your mind. So, if you took a little extra care in those under your charge, Prythian could sue you. Especially after fifty years of stunted trade…

Before you could be caught in that headspace for too long, you glanced up at the clock tower, smiling at the time, and made your way easily through Velaris’s docks. You nodded at couples on their early evening strolls, waved to the proprietors of the harborside restaurants as they opened their doors for the dinner crowds, and saluted to sailors you both did and did not know.

Your trajectory to the end of the docks was halted as you nearly collided with a few young ones racing around with wooden swords. Your sure footing kept you stable as you stopped just out of the children’s range of play.

A chorus of pirate-y exclamations sounded from the faelings as they hacked and slashed lightly at each other. The smallest girl among the pack teetered at the edge of the dock, wobbling to gain her balance again. You sighed with relief as she caught her footing again, but your eyes widened when you noticed she had dropped her sword in the process. Surging forward, you willed the wind to hold the wooden toy aloft just before it hit the water. You raised your arm, willing the pocket of air you commanded to float the sword to your hand as the children watched in awe.

You held the sword for a moment, inspecting it. You moved it around, feeling the heft and balance of it as if it were one of your own.

You smiled down at the children, mischief in your eyes, “did somebody lose this?”

The little girl who’d dropped it raced forward, holding her little hand out, “thanks miss!”

“Anytime little one,” you said, handing the sword back to her and affectionately ruffling her hair. You leaned in conspiratorially, the way you found nearly every child enjoyed, as if you were about to share with them the greatest secret known to Faekind. “You may want to hold it like this,” you said, mimicking the grip in the air for her and her friends to see. “That’s how a real pirate would do it.”

The little kids looked up at you in quiet surprise, so you added with a wink, “I would know.”

“Teaching the children piracy, Harbormaster,” came a voice behind you, “whatever will the High Lord think?”

“You see children, even pirates have to handle responsibilities from time to time. Don’t stay out too late,” you cautioned, “I know all your mothers.”

The kids pealed off with wide smiles as you turned to your second in command, Evander.

“So, what have you come to bother me about this time,” you said with a humor filled sigh.

Evander fondly rolled his eyes, shuffling the papers in his hands, “I just came to ask if there was anything you needed. I know you have a dinner tonight.”

“Thoughtful,” you said, motioning for the papers. You combed through the reports momentarily. “All the ships still leaving this evening have checked in with me. You know which ones they are? Good. We should be fine. Have you heard from the lighthouse keepers?”

“Their shifts are still going according to schedule, no complaints outside of the usual.”

“Old males,” you said with a fond shake of your head, “the other ports? Any news from them?”

“All present, accounted for and running smoothly.”

You allowed yourself a moment to mull over your next question and Evander, though he seemed to sense what it was, waited until you voiced it.

“You haven’t heard of any Hyberian vessels have you?”

“None, ma’am. If they’ve been through the area or near any of our shores, they are adept at concealing themselves.”

You huffed in frustration, face scrunched up and foot tapping the wood of the dock.

“What are they up to,” you thought aloud, then turned back to Evander, “you realize you aren’t to-“

“-Tell anyone else about this, yes, I understand. I appreciate the trust you have placed in me to have asked me to look at all.”

You sighed, “thank you, Evander.”

“Certainly,” he said easily, “though I’m not sure why you don’t leave him to the business of looking into those things specifically. He and his network have surely been looking into this avenue too.”

“He’s my mate, Evander,” you said with a fond smile, “if I can take a burden off his shoulders, I’ll do it.” Your smile turned wicked. “Speaking of, how is your Desmond?”

Evander’s pale skin began to pink around his cheeks and ears. “He, uhh, he’s fine.”

“I’m sure that’s one word you’d use to describe him,” you purred.

Evander made an affronted little noise, something like a squawk, but he stayed where he was at.

“I’m joking Evander, lighten up-“

“-when are you not?”

“Exactly,” you answered with a wink before softening, “I do apologize that I won’t be able to make the ceremony.”

“You’ve more than paid for it,” Evander said, tacking on a shortened version of your name. You smiled at the familiarity. “Speaking of which, we do plan to pay you back for that. It was far too generous a contribution.”

You snorted, “After all you do to put up with me? I’d say it wasn’t enough.” Another squawk from Evander prompted you to add, “Besides, the way Rhys pays me, it’s nothing. I still have to buy you both wedding presents.”

“No, you don’t.”

Movement from the street above the sunken walkways of the pier prompted both of you to glance upwards.

“Speak of the devil,” you snickered watching the very High Lord whose name you’d evoked walking alongside none other than Feyre Archeron, the curse breaker. Rhysand stopped their walk, allowing the former human to take in Velaris’s harbor. Faintly, you wondered what she saw, if she’d fallen in love with it the same way you had.

You smiled, raising your hand in greeting to your - considered - brother-in-law and Feyre, along with several other sailors and dockworkers. Feyre seemed ever so slightly bewildered by the public attention, but Rhys’s eyes found yours. You smiled and lowered your shields, an open invitation.

“What?” Rhys thought in your direction.

“Having fun showing her around?” You teased.

“Very funny,” Rhys thought back irritably.

You laughed out loud, a seagull’s laugh, full and obnoxious. In response, Rhys gently corralled Feyre for a continued tour of the city, stubbornly ignoring you on the docks behind him.

“Something tells me dinner is going to be interesting this evening,” you said, mostly to yourself. You turned to Evander, “Everything should be running smoothly for the remainder of the evening. You know when all the ships are meant to leave.”

“And you know that I am perfectly capable of seeing everything off for the rest of the night, should you wish to go early,” Evander said gently.

“I have a few reports left to fill out,” you began.

“Which,” Evander cut in, “I have taken the liberty of doing and are in that stack you have there.”

You scoffed, earning a “workaholic,” whispered not at all under Evander’s breath.

“I am not,” you protested, though a grin was on your face.

“Right,” Evander said, “and I am straighter than a ruler. There’s nothing left for you to do. Besides…” He pointed to a space on the deck behind you, where boots thudded against the wood and massive Illyrian wings flexed upon landing. “I believe your ride is here.”

It didn’t matter how many days, years, or decades went by for you. Seeing him, seeing your mate and husband of nearly eighty years still instilled the same blistering, bubbling feeling inside of you. As if no time had passed at all. It was like all of your senses honed in on him. A dagger sharpened to its finest point. The world fell away as shadows bounded over to you, shifting around your feet like dogs.

Love, they whispered in that limited way of theirs. Missed you.

You smiled up at their master, whose thoughts they’d shared with you. The Shadowsinger’s face was not known for overtness. Azriel did not often show his emotions on his face in public. That was, until you. Looking at you elicited a sticky sweet lovesick expression. One that was surely mirrored on your own face.

Evander coughed behind you. “Harbormaster,” he said with a salute and a smile, shooing you away with a hand.

You laughed and left him, walking as if pulled to your mate.

You wrapped your arms around Azriel’s neck and kissed his jaw. You stared down at the chain around his neck, holding a ring fashioned to visually imitate an ocean sunset. It was usually tucked under his leathers, so even though you knew it was there - always there - your heart swelled whenever you got to see it. Your own wedding ring, affixed to its own chain around your neck did not look the same. Yours was made from an onyx colored metal bent in wispy shapes with a small sapphire fixed into it. Given the nature of your respective jobs, it made sense for both of you to keep the rings off your fingers. Azriel had confided in you one late evening that he liked it better like this. When you asked him why, he’d simply said that the rings were closer to your hearts this way. He’d nearly drowned in kisses for the sentiment.

You kissed Azriel’s jaw again but found he had continued staring in the direction of your retreating second, the male flitting about the dock like a hummingbird, ensuring that all evening activity continued to run smoothly.

“Az,” you said, snapping your fingers in his face. When his intense hazel gaze returned to you, softening ever so slightly, you asked, “you still with me?”

“I-“

“You remember that Evander is engaged to be married, correct?” You asked. “To a male?”

Azriel flushed. You didn’t need words to read him, never had.

“I’ve never understood why so many random males bother you but Rhys and Cass do not.”

“They’re family,” Azriel responded simply, still not letting you go, “they know better.”

You snorted, “they do not! They tease you all the time. Besides, every male I work with knows just how firmly off the market I am, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t still want to protect what’s mine,” he said with a sly air of humor. You knew he meant it though, saw in his eyes that he was just a hair’s breadth away from reminding you of just how territorial you got over him in turn. And how much he loved it.

You flushed a little as well over his own protectiveness, as you said, “Oh, careful! Can’t have you getting riled up before dinner, Rhys made us promise to be on our best behaviors.”

Azriel laughed, “You don’t have a best behavior.”

You laughed as well. “He really ought to have reconsidered inviting Cass and I to this. I’ve already gotten a head start on the teasing.”

“Well,” Azriel said, holding his arms out open for you, “I suppose we’d better get you up there, wouldn’t want Cassian to catch up.”

That earned him a searing kiss and the same dazzling smile he’d fallen in love with.

You let him scoop you up and in a wingbeat your mated pair soared through the air of Velaris, another pair yet to be still traipsing through the streets below you. All of you headed to the same place.

Dinner at the House of Wind, with your family and your freshly returned, freshly coming back to himself, brother-in-law. And the female you had very reasonable grounds to believe just might be his mate. Rhys wouldn’t tell you, not in a million years, but Mor seemed incredibly excited by this dinner. If such fateful entanglements turned out to be true, you’d do everything you could to help them. If not to ease the darkness that perpetually existed behind those violet eyes, but to ensure these two people - one of whom you’d yet to meet but seemed lovely - were able to feel even a portion of what you had felt everyday for nearly eight decades now. Feyre, if even just for the part she played in returning your family to you, deserved to feel welcome in Velaris, as you had all those years ago.

Azriel, likely sensing your feelings through the bond that kept the two of you upright these past fifty years, held you closer as he flew up to the house. Whatever Rhys needed, the two of you would be at his disposal, and with any luck, you make a new friend out of this too.

A/N: Hooray! Thanks to all who went on this little journey with me, I loved writing this fic and am so glad so many of you enjoyed it! I may, in the future, write more little scenes for this series in line with canon events as some mini bonus content but the series itself is wrapped up with a nice little bow here!

Series Taglist: @rcarbo1 @shylahstarzz @tele86 @bubybubsters @willowpains @breemitch15 @96jnie @polli05927 @starsidesigh @i-am-infinite @ashjade19 @lilah-asteria @lexi-in-wonderland @oldernotwiser26

#azriel x reader #acotar x reader #azriel #acotar #azriel acotar #x reader fic #acomaf #a court of mist and fury

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merakilii · 5 months ago

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Bound by the Tide / Pirate AU

Part six: The enemy of my enemy other parts

pairing: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x fem!reader

words: 5.2k

tags: Sword fighting. blood and gore AFAB reader. pirate captain Mactavish and reader. the British Navy, including CPT Price and LT Riley. rivals to lovers

The walk back to the ship is brisk, the jungle around you alive with the hum of insects and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Mactavish leads the way, his steps purposeful as he carves a path through the dense foliage. The ruins and their secrets linger in your mind, the tantalizing promise of something larger, something just out of reach.

But then you hear it.

A shout. Muffled at first, distant, but unmistakable. Your body tenses, and you glance at Mactavish, whose sharp gaze snaps to the direction of the noise. Another yell follows, louder this time, and your heart sinks as you catch the faint edge of panic in the voice.

"Trouble," he mutters, his tone dark as he takes off on a run.

You follow close behind, your boots pounding against the uneven ground as the shouting grows louder. The sound of distant gunfire cracks through the humid air, sharp and jarring, and your pulse quickens.

The jungle thins as you approach the shoreline, the foliage giving way to a chaotic scene. The ship, the Highland Flame, is anchored just offshore, but beside it looms a larger vessel, its hull painted in stark navy blue. A flag flutters from its mast, the insignia all too familiar: the Union Jack, fringed with a sigil you've seen before.

The British Navy.

You stop dead in your tracks, your breath catching as the weight of the sight crashes down on you.

Mactavish is already moving, his hand on the hilt of his sword as he strides onto the dock. The rest of the crew is scattered, some still on the shore, others aboard the ship, their movements frantic as the Navy sailors swarm the deck of the Flame.

"They've boarded us," Mactavish growls, his jaw tight as he surveys the area. His eyes narrow as he catches sight of a familiar figure standing at the helm of the Navy vessel.

"Riley," you mutter, the name like a curse.

Lieutenant Simon Riley stands tall, his presence commanding as he oversees the operation. He's a broad-shouldered man, his uniform immaculate save for the scarf that covers the lower half of his face. His eyes are sharp and calculating, and even from a distance, you can see the smugness in his stance.

The sight of him sends a cold wave of dread through you. Riley. A name that's haunted you for years. A man who once stood on the deck of the Black Siren, barking orders as his cannons tore through her hull. A man who had sworn to hunt you down until your name was nothing but a footnote in the annals of piracy.

Your hand instinctively goes to the hilt of your sword, but before you can move, Mactavish catches your arm.

"Don't," he says sharply, his eyes fixed on the ship. "Not yet."

You want to argue, to charge in and fight, but something in his tone keeps you still.

The chaos reaches a crescendo as the two of you board the Highland Flame. Navy sailors are everywhere, their muskets trained on the crew, who have been forced to stand down. Gary and Kyle are near the bow, their hands raised in surrender, while Nova is on her knees, her dagger lying discarded at her side, and two guards pinned Stone down as he groaned in protest.

And then you see him.

Riley strides across the deck with the air of a man who has already won. His dark eyes sweep over the crew before landing on you, and he stops short, his posture shifting as a faint hum escapes him.

"Well, isn't this a surprise," he says, his voice low and mocking as he steps closer. "I wasn't expecting to find you here, of all places."

You don't respond, your body tense as his gaze lingers on you.

"Captain MacTavish," he continues, his tone laced with mockery as he turns to Mactavish. "And here I thought you were a man of principle. A pirate, yes, but one with standards. Yet I find you harbouring her, a traitor to her own ship, her own crew. Makes me wonder if you've gone soft."

Mactavish doesn't flinch, his smirk returning as he steps forward. "Soft?" he repeats, his tone light but edged with steel. "Hardly, Lieutenant. I simply know an opportunity when I see one."

Riley's eyes narrow, and before you can react, he pulls a flintlock from his belt, the barrel trained squarely on your head. He moves quickly, grabbing you and dragging you in front of him, your body shielding him from the rest of the crew.

Your breath catches as the cold metal presses against your temple.

"Two of the most infamous pirates in the Isles, right here in one place. And one of them already in my hands. Feels like a celebration."

The crew shifts uneasily, their gazes darting between you, Mactavish, and Riley. Mactavish's smirk doesn't falter, though his eyes darken.

"Now, now," Riley taunts. "Let's not do anything rash. Wouldn't want to spill her brains all over your nice, clean deck, would we?"

You grit your teeth, glaring at him over your shoulder. "Still hiding behind guns and orders, I see."

He tightens his grip, the flintlock digging into your skin. "Still mouthy. Though I must admit, didn't think I'd find you playing first mate to this pirate."

He glances at Mactavish coldly, continuing. "Tell you what, Captain. I'll make it easy for you. Hand over your ship, your treasure, and your crew, and I might just let her live. Though, judging by the way you've been acting, I wouldn't be surprised if you'd rather see her gone."

Mactavish's smirk deepens, but there's a sharpness in his gaze now, a storm brewing behind his easy demeanour. He raises his hands in mock surrender, his tone deceptively light as he says, "Ye know what, Lieutenant? Ye've got a point. Maybe I have gone soft. Learned me lesson long ago, thanks to ye."

You freeze, the words slicing through you like a blade.

"Take her. She's all yours. Call it a peace offer, aye?"

The world stops.

You stare at him, your heart pounding as the weight of his words sinks in. The betrayal feels like a punch to the gut, the air knocked from your lungs as you struggle to comprehend.

"John," you breathe, the name slipping out before you can stop it.

His grin falters for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he schools his expression. "Sorry, hen," he says lightly, though his tone feels brittle. "But business is business."

Riley chuckles, triumphant, as he tightens his grip on you. "Maybe you're not as foolish as I thought."

And as the moment stretches, you can't help but wonder if you've misjudged everything, or if the man you thought you knew was never real at all.

The words echo in your ears, louder than the faint shouts of the crew or the creak of the ship beneath your feet.

Take her. She's all yours.

Riley's grip tightens as he presses the flintlock harder against your temple, but the sting of cold metal is nothing compared to the searing heat of betrayal coursing through you. You feel it like a brand, burning in your chest, your gut, your throat.

The man who had pulled you from the wreckage of your ship. The man who had fought beside you, laughed with you, challenged you at every turn. The man who had dared to stand so close, to needle at your walls until they cracked.

You had let yourself think, for one fleeting, foolish moment, that he might be something other than a rival. And now?

Now he had turned you over without so much as a second thought.

Riley's smug voice cut through the haze of your rage. "See, this is the problem with pirates, no loyalty, no backbone. You're nothing to him, you know. Just another pawn in his little game."

You snarl, twisting in his grip, but he's ready for it, his arm tightening around you as he yanks you back. The movement sends a jolt of pain through your shoulder, but you barely register it, too consumed by the fire blazing in your chest.

Your eyes lock on Mactavish, and the sight of him standing there, hands raised, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face, sends your fury boiling over.

"You bastard!" you spit, your voice raw with anger. "You think this is funny? You think I'll just let you—"

"Lass," he interrupts, his tone still maddeningly calm, though his eyes flicker with something darker. "Ye're out o' yer depth here. Let it go."

"Let it go?" you repeat, your voice rising as you lunge forward, only to be dragged back by Riley. "You think I'll let you walk away from this? I'll kill you, MacTavish. You're a dead man!"

His smirk falters, just for a second, but it's enough. Enough to know that your words hit their mark, even if they don't show it.

"Not today, ye won't."

You groan in frustration, your fury spilling out in a desperate attempt to break free. Riley jerks you back again.

"Settle down," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You're making it worse for yourself."

"Shut up," you snap, glaring at him over your shoulder. "You don't get to tell me anything."

Riley grunts as he begins to pull you toward the edge of the ship. "Keep talking, sweetheart. It'll make it all the more satisfying when I throw you in a cell."

The gangplank connecting the two ships sways beneath your feet as Riley drags you aboard the Navy vessel. The cheers of his men ring out around you, their voices mingling with the distant crash of the waves.

You don't look back. You can't.

Because if you do, you'll see him standing there, and you're not sure if you'll break down or break free.

You should've killed him. Right there on the spot. You should've lunged at him, sunk your blade into his traitorous heart and watched as the life drained from his eyes.

But you hadn't.

And now, as the deck of the Navy ship rises to meet you, the reality of your situation sinks in. You're caught. Caged.

The rage bubbling in your chest begins to twist, to warp into something sharper, colder. You don't have the luxury of breaking now. Not here. Not when every sailor on this damned ship is watching you, waiting for you to stumble.

Riley throws you forward, and you stumble, barely catching yourself on the railing. He's humming, that low, cruel sound that grates against your nerves like broken glass.

"Didn't think I'd see the day," he says, stepping in front of you. "The infamous pirate captain brought to heel. And by your own kind, no less. Poetic."

You straighten, your glare cutting through him like a blade. "You've always been good at talking, Riley. Shame you're so bad at fighting."

The grin beneath his scarf widens, his eyes narrowing. "Still have that fire in you, I see. Good. Makes it more fun when I snuff it out."

You take a step forward, your fists clenching, but the sound of muskets cocking around you stops you short.

You grit your teeth, your rage simmering just beneath the surface. Every fibre of your being screams at you to fight, to claw your way out of this, to make them pay for every second of your humiliation.

But you can't. Not yet.

Instead, you square your shoulders, lifting your chin as you meet Riley's gaze head-on. "Do what you want," you say coldly. "But don't think for a second that this is over."

He chuckles, shaking his head as he steps closer. "Oh, I don't doubt it. Welcome aboard, Captain."

And as the crew cheers around you, their voices ringing in your ears like a death knell.

Mactavish will pay for this betrayal with blood.

The cell is dark, damp, and unbearably silent save for the occasional groan of the ship as it cuts through the waves. You sit on the cold, filthy floor, your knees drawn up, arms resting heavily on them. The rusted iron bars cast shadows against the walls, a cruel mockery of the chains you feel pressing into your soul.

Once a captain, you think bitterly. Once a force to be reckoned with, a storm in your own right, and now... this. A prisoner. A prize for the Navy to parade around before they toss you into a hole so deep you'll forget the sun ever existed.

You clench your fists so tightly your nails dig into your palms, but it does nothing to stem the tide of fury roaring through you. You can't stop thinking about his face, smiling, smirking, mocking, as he handed you over to Riley like a sack of stolen goods.

Take her. She's all yours.

The words replay in your mind like a curse, each repetition slicing deeper. You feel the burn of rage rising in your chest, clawing at your throat, threatening to spill out in a scream that would rattle the whole ship. How dare he? How could he?

Pirates didn't bow to the Navy. They didn't give them the satisfaction of winning. And Mactavish, that arrogant bastard, had done it without a second thought.

Or had he?

Your breath catches, and you grit your teeth, furious at yourself for even entertaining the idea. You'd seen the look in his eyes. You'd seen him hesitate before that damnable smirk returned. What had that meant? Was it regret? Was it guilt?

Or was it all part of his game?

Your chest tightens, your thoughts spiralling into a storm of anger and hurt that you can't untangle. You want him dead. No, you need him dead.

And yet, there's another name tangled in your rage.

A shadow falls across your cell, and you lift your head to find Lieutenant Riley standing there, his arms crossed and his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

"You look pathetic."

You glare at him, but the iron bars between you stop the venom in your gaze from reaching him.

"What are you doing here?" you mutter.

He chuckles, stepping closer until he's just out of your reach. "Thought I'd pay you a visit. Check on our esteemed guest. S'not every day I get to see a pirate captain brought so low."

"I'm not a captain anymore," you spit, the admission tasting like bile on your tongue.

"No," he agrees. "You're not. You're nothing now. Just another corpse waiting to rot in one of our fine cells."

"Where's your captain, Riley?" you sneer. "Hiding behind his desk while you play guard dog?"

You see a flicker of something in his eyes, annoyance, perhaps, or maybe pride stung by the truth in your words.

"Careful," he says, his tone low and dangerous as he takes another step closer. "You're not in a position to insult anyone, least of all me."

You push yourself to your feet, the chains rattling as you move closer to the bars. "Why don't you come in here and make me regret it?" you snarl, your voice sharp enough to cut.

He laughs, the sound cruel and grating as he shakes his head. "Always were a feisty one. That's why they sent me to deal with you, you know. Because no one else had the stomach for it."

"Deal with me?" you repeat, your voice rising as the anger bubbles over. "You couldn't even catch me without turning my ship into a pyre. You're a coward, Riley. Always have been."

"You should choose your words carefully," he says quietly. "I'm the only thing standing between you and the gallows."

"And I'll still find a way to drag you down with me," you snap, your hands gripping the bars so tightly your knuckles turn white.

For a moment, the two of you are locked in a silent battle, the air between you crackling with tension.

Then, slowly, Riley steps forward until he's just inches from the bars. He tilts his head, studying you like a hunter sizing up his prey.

"You know," he says, his voice soft and taunting, "I almost feel sorry for you. Almost. But then I remember how many men you've killed, how many ships you've sunk, and I think, why not add one more name to the list? Just one little pirate who thought she could outwit the Navy."

You lunge at him, your anger snapping like a taut rope. Your hands shoot through the bars, grabbing the front of his coat and yanking him forward.

The movement startles him, his eyes widening as he stumbles against the iron. For a moment, you think you've won, that you'll rip him through the bars and tear him apart with your bare hands if you have to.

But the chains around your wrists pull you back, and Riley recovers quickly, huffing out as he yanks himself free.

"Still got some fight in you," he says, his voice dripping with amusement as he straightens his coat. "Makes it more satisfying when I break you."

And with that, he turns and strides away.

You sink back to your knees, your hands trembling as the rage surges and ebbs, leaving behind a raw, aching void.

The hours bleed into one another, the faint sway of the ship the only marker of time passing. The walls of your cell feel closer with each breath, the shadows stretching and shifting as the light filtering through the small porthole fades into night.

You haven't moved since Riley left, your body still tense from the exchange, your mind a storm of thoughts. Anger burns hot and unrelenting in your chest, but beneath it, another feeling festers, a gnawing determination that keeps you upright, keeps you thinking, planning.

You can't stay here. You won't.

The first step of escape is patience, and you've had a lifetime of learning it. Every click of boots on the deck above, every shouted order, every faint creak of wood feeds into the map you're building in your mind. You listen carefully, piecing together the rhythm of the ship and the crew, the way they move and breathe around you.

In a couple of days, you note that a single Navy guard passes your cell every fifteen minutes, their steps brisk but measured. The sound of keys jingling hangs faintly in the air as they approach, grows louder as they pause near your door, then fades as they move on.

You lean back against the wall, your fingers flexing against the cold metal of the chains around your wrists. The iron feels weaker than it should, rusted, poorly maintained. The Navy, for all its pomp and bluster, seems to have cut corners where it counts.

When the footsteps return again, you let your body go slack, your head lolling forward as if you've fallen unconscious. The guard pauses longer this time, the faint creak of leather and metal indicating they're leaning in closer.

"What's this, then?"

Their voice is muffled, disinterested. You don't move. You slow your breathing, your shoulders sagging just enough to sell the illusion.

The door creaks open.

It's a mistake, a small one, born of arrogance, but it's all you need.

The guard steps inside cautiously, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. You hear the faint rattle of his keys as he leans down, his hand reaching out to shake your shoulder.

You move faster than thought.

Your chains swing out, the rusted links holding just long enough to wrap around his neck. You yank hard, pulling him off balance, and he stumbles forward with a strangled gasp. His hand claws at the chain, but you don't let up, your grip tightening as you press your knee into his chest, forcing him to the ground.

It doesn't take long.

When his body goes limp beneath you, you let the chains fall away, your breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. Your wrists ache, the metal biting into your skin, but the keys in your hand are a balm to every wound.

You waste no time.

The chains lock clicks open with a satisfying finality, and you step out into the corridor. The air feels different here, thicker, oppressive, the faint scent of seawater mingling with oil and gunpowder. The faint hum of the ship's crew carries through the wooden walls, a constant reminder that your escape is far from over.

The corridor stretches before you, dimly lit by the flicker of lanterns hanging from iron hooks on the walls. Each step you took felt like you were walking a tightrope, your bare feet whispering against the wooden planks as you moved. The ship creaks around you, its old bones groaning with each gentle sway, a sound that would've been comforting once, with The Siren, Maybe even The Flame.

But now it only reminds you of where you are: deep in the belly of the beast.

The weight of the keys in your hand feels solid, grounding. You grip them tightly, the faint clink of metal muffled by your palm as you move toward the next corner.

A shadow passes against the faint light ahead, a sailor patrolling the corridor.

Your breath slows, your body moving instinctively into the shadows. You crouch low, every muscle coiled as you watch his boots draw closer. He's humming softly to himself, some shanty you've heard before.

When he turns the corner, you're already moving.

Your hand shoots out, grabbing the front of his uniform and yanking him toward you. He doesn't have time to cry out before you slam him against the wall, your other hand clamping over his mouth as your forearm presses against his throat. His eyes bulge, panic flaring as he struggles, but your grip is unrelenting.

You don't stop until his body goes limp.

His sword, sheathed at his hip, is yours now. You slide it free, the blade gleaming faintly in the lantern light as you test its weight. It's heavier than you're used to, the balance slightly off, but it will do.

The keys clatter softly to the floor as you let them drop, their purpose served. The blade is what matters now.

The corridors are a maze of wood and shadows. You know better than to move too quickly; haste makes noise, and noise draws attention.

Another sailor appears as you round the next corner. He doesn't see you at first, his attention focused on the lantern he's adjusting on the wall.

Your blade is silent as it arcs through the air.

The faint gasp that escapes his lips is muffled by the rush of blood in your ears, your focus narrowing to the feel of the hilt in your hand, the resistance as the blade meets its mark. He crumples to the floor without a sound, his lifeless body slumping against the wall.

You pause, your breath steadying as you take in the sight.

This is what it takes, you remind yourself. This is what survival looks like.

The deck looms ahead, the faint rush of the sea growing louder as you ascend the narrow staircase. The blade in your hand feels like an extension of yourself now, its weight familiar.

The first sailor on deck doesn't even see you coming. You're on him before he can turn, your blade slicing through the air with a brutality that sends him sprawling.

You crouch low, your body a shadow as you move across the deck. The Navy sailors are scattered, their attention divided between their duties and the calm of the sea.

It's their complacency that will be their undoing.

One by one, you take them down, your movements swift and precise. A knife stolen from one belt finds its way into another man's throat. A boot to the back sends a sailor tumbling overboard, his startled cry swallowed by the waves.

Your heart pounds, but your mind is clear, your focus sharp.

Keep moving. Keep moving.

You spot the tenders along the port side, their small frames bobbing gently against the ship's hull. Freedom, so close you can taste it.

You slip past the last of the sailors, their backs turned as they haul crates across the deck. Your hands move quickly, untying the ropes that hold the tender in place. The wood creaks softly as you prepare to lower it into the water.

And then, the cold press of a flintlock against the back of your head freezes you in place.

"Going somewhere?" comes a gruff, familiar voice.

Your breath catches, your hands tightening on the rope as Riley steps closer, his presence looming behind you.

"Drop the sword," he says, his tone flat, commanding.

You don't move, your grip on the hilt tightening as your mind races.

"Don't be stupid," he snaps, pressing the barrel harder against your skull. "You think I won't pull the trigger?"

"Maybe," you bite out. "But you'd lose your precious prize, wouldn't you? What would your captain think of that?"

"Self-defence. You've already got enough blood on your hands, don't you?"

The words sting, but you don't let them show.

Instead, you take a slow breath, your fingers twitching against the rope. "You think you've got me cornered," you say, your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. "But you don't know me, Riley. Not really."

His silence is telling, and you use it.

With a sudden burst of movement, you twist to the side, your body moving faster than thought. The flintlock goes off, the deafening crack splitting the air as the shot sails harmlessly into the night.

Your sword flashes, the blade catching the moonlight as you swing it toward him. Riley stumbles back, barely avoiding the strike, his face twisted in anger and disbelief.

"You're dead," he growls, drawing his own blade.

"Not yet," you reply, your voice a low snarl as you ready yourself for the fight.

The deck around you seems to fade, narrowing to just this, the clash of steel, the rush of adrenaline, and the burning need to win.

Because this time, you won't let them take you.

The clash of steel reverberates through the night as you and Riley circle each other on the deck, the ship swaying beneath your feet. His blade is steady, his movements calculated, but your fury fuels you, pushing your strikes harder and faster. Sparks fly as your swords meet, the scrape of metal against metal ringing out like a war cry.

"Reckless," Riley growls, his face scarf fluttering in the sea breeze as he lunges forward. "That's what makes this so damn easy."

You twist to the side, his blade slicing through the air where you stood a moment ago. "Reckless enough to survive," you snap back, your sword arcing toward him. He parries it with a grunt, his strength meeting yours in a clash that jars your arms.

The other sailors are beginning to notice, their shouts breaking through the tension of your fight. Footsteps pound against the deck as they rush toward you, the glint of their drawn blades catching in the moonlight.

Your heart sinks, but you don't stop. You can't stop.

Riley's strikes grow more aggressive as the crew closes in, his blade driving you back step by step. The sharp edge of the railing digs into your spine, and for a fleeting moment, you think it's over.

But then you see your chance.

As Riley lunges again, you drop low, twisting your body to the side and sweeping your leg out. He stumbles, his balance faltering, and you take advantage of the opening. Your blade slices across his arm, drawing a sharp hiss of pain as he reels back.

"Get her!" he barks, his voice a whip cracking through the chaos.

The crew surges toward you, their numbers overwhelming. You swing your sword with everything you have, cutting down one sailor, then another, but they just keep coming. A hand grabs your arm, yanking you back, and you whirl around, your elbow driving into the man's face. He crumples, but another takes his place.

You fight like a cornered animal, every swing of your blade, every kick, every punch driven by desperation. But there are too many of them.

One grabs your wrist, wrenching your sword from your hand. Another slams into you from the side, sending you sprawling to the deck. Your head snaps back against the wood, pain flaring as your vision blurs.

Hands grip your arms, your legs, pinning you down as you thrash and yell, your voice hoarse with the effort.

"Hold her down."

You grit your teeth, your muscles straining as you fight against the weight of the men holding you. For a moment, you think about giving up, about saving your strength for later, but the thought of surrender twists in your gut like a knife.

And then–

An explosion.

A cannonball rips through the air, its roar deafening as it slams into the Navy ship's hull. The deck shudders beneath you, the force of the impact sending a tremor through the wood.

The sailors freeze, their grips loosening as they look around in confusion. Another cannonball follows, tearing through the rigging above, and panic erupts.

It's your chance.

You wrench free of their grasp, shoving one man back with a burst of strength you didn't know you had. Your hand finds the hilt of your sword, and you swing it in a wide arc, forcing the men to back off as you stagger to your feet.

You glance toward the sea and see it, a ship emerging from the darkness, its sails billowing like wings. The faint glow of lanterns illuminates its deck, and even from here, you recognize the shape of its hull, the lines of its masts.

The Highland Flame.

Your heart lurches, but you don't have time to think about what it means. Another cannonball crashes into the Navy ship, and Riley snaps his attention back to you, his eyes narrowing.

"Focus on the pirate ship!" he barks at his men. "Leave her to me!"

You take a step back as he advances, his blade glinting in the moonlight. "You're not going anywhere."

You lunge forward, your blade meeting his with a resounding clash. The fight is brutal, each strike driven by desperation and rage. Riley's strength is formidable, but you're faster, your movements fueled by the sheer will to escape.

The ship rocks violently as the cannons continue to fire, the battle between the Navy and the pirates raging around you. The air is thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder, the shouts of men, and the thunderous crash of cannonballs splintering wood.

You break free from Riley's grip once, dodging his blade and darting toward the edge of the deck. But he's on you again in an instant, his hand grabbing your arm and yanking you back.

"Not so fast," he snarls, his grip like iron.

You twist, your elbow slamming into his ribs, and he lets out a grunt of pain. His hold loosens just enough for you to slip free, and you run, your boots pounding against the deck as you make for the railing.

"Get back here!" he roars, his footsteps heavy behind you.

You don't stop. You don't look back.

The edge of the deck rises before you, and you don't hesitate. You leap, the cold night air rushing past you before the sea swallows you whole.

The water hits you like a wall, its icy grip stealing the breath from your lungs. You kick hard, your body instinctively fighting against the pull of the waves as you break the surface, gasping for air.

Above, the battle rages on, the flashes of cannon fire lighting up the night like distant lightning.

You don't wait to see if Riley follows. You swim, each stroke pulling you further from the ship, from the fight, from everything that would see you dragged back into chains.

The cold bites at your skin, the salt stinging your wounds, you don't stop, you can't, but your body seems to have given up on you.

#cod mw2 #cod #acnh #johnny mactavish #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #pirate au

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thesharktanksdriver · 2 years ago

Text

Red Burning Stars (Platonic)

Y’all asked for Shanks you have received. Since everyone was asking for him I decided to make his part of Determination it’s own thing. I’m thinking of doing something like this for other characters as well

Also Uta is canon in this cause I really like her and I said so

Hope y’all pick up a bit on my foreshadowing of shit. It’ll eventually be explained (not now tho cause I’m evil muhahahahhahaha)

Part 1 Part 2

Tagged: @peachsuka28 @emptynessinmyworld @badluckinfrench @j-s-l-m @tigerfang-rage @madokamagicaa @rymtea

From the moment that you had stepped aboard the Oro Jackson shanks had knew he wanted to be friends with you

It was an instantaneous affect

One that deepened and got worse the moment he locked eyes with you across the large ship

Your calm and kind eyes connecting with his own

He felt as if in that moment time had froze, it was just him and you on that ship alone

A tugging feeling in his very soul calling out to him

Telling him to approach

To say something to this stranger that had somehow caught his attention in a way no other had ever done

It’s an odd feeling to look back on in retrospect since he’d never felt it again or with anyone else

Especially considering he’d heard some typically describe what he felt as something akin to a romantic connection with someone

Hell, when he had explained the phenomenon to Reyleigh the first mate had assumed it was a crush until Shanks repeatedly told him it wasn’t like that

But no, he knew from the start it wasn’t a silly crush or love outside of that of platonic

It was more like…a calling from something greater than him saying that the two of you were meant to be allies

Telling him that the two of you were meant to meet

Meant to befriend one another

Like fire and gunpowder

Or a sailor and the sea

Two forces that are meant to be combined together

Naturally creating something new in the process

He doesn’t understand it now and sure as hell didn’t as a kid

But back then he didn’t question it much

Not when he was Solely focussed on that feeling

That call from the universe guiding him towards you through the crowds of men

Past Buggy who’s yelling at him for leaving all of a sudden from whatever they were doing before you were invited aboard

He felt like he was being pulled on a lead

Mindlessly following without a single thought in his head other than he had to meet you

Had to do something at least

And when he stumbles his way into Rogers office as you sat down on a cushioned chair

Turning around to meet his brown eyes once again

Shanks feels a wide smile stretch across his face as if it were rubber

“I’m Shanks! Wanna be friends!?” It stumbles out his mouth excitedly as does his jagged breaths. He whips out his hand, outstretched towards you as you stare at it for a moment in surprise. A bit of worry coats his face, shit he probably came off to strong-

Suddenly he feels your hand in his, gently shaking it. “Sure, I’m y/n by the way”. He nods, his smile getting wider. “Do you usually forget to ask for people’s names when you try to befriend them?”

“Nope, only you so far”

“I must be special then”

The entire time as that happened Roger watched on with a large grin

Practically kicking his feet beneath his desk out of enthusiasm

Despite being a grown man his captain was able to match his and Buggy’s childlike spirit

It’s perhaps because of that he was able to understand the connection the most

Not chocking it up to a crush or puppy love

It was something more akin to Nakama

Something the pirate king had felt when meeting some of his crew

He just knew they had to be friends

To be apart of his crew

Admittedly it take awhile for Buggy to warm up to you compared to Shanks’s instantaneous pace

But eventually the three of you fall into a comforting balance of personality

Whilst he and Buggy are rambunctious and rather impulsive your the opponent

Your a calm force, you think before you do and help them find a solution with more opportunities

If your combined force together is a hurricane then your the eye of it

The calm within the storm

It’s what the rest of the crew begin to affectionately call your trio

Even Roger begins to use it when referring to you all

Much to Buggy’s displeasure

He doesn’t mind though, unlike his friend shanks finds amusement in the nickname

One that he thinks actually fits the three of you quite nicely

Meanwhile you don’t think much of it

Instead just thinking of it as a the crew poking some light fun

Speaking of your role in the trio

You make sure neither of them get killed

Usually cause of both Buggy’s and his stupid plans of playing pranks or stealing more food from the kitchen instead of just asking

Both of which become much more successful that they aren’t arguing over said plan and screwing up

Now their Fort is stocked with cheese and as many sweets they could plunder

So much so that the cooks are now on edge as someone sets up a diversion for the other two to strike

It’s fun

A whole lot of fun that he realizes up until now you had seemingly missed

Admittedly he nor Buggy know much about you

Hell, none of the crew besides seemingly their captain knows anything

But honestly he’s fine with that

Their not entitled to that knowledge unless you deem them so

All that he’s focused on is the moment

The fun times he shared with you and Buggy

Nights spent out atop the crows nest looking up towards the stars

You explain that each has a story behind them all

Every island and their cultures have given them stories and formed differences constellations

It’s fascinating to him

Perhaps not Buggy who opts to go to bed

But as you both sit there, legs kicking back and forth while sitting on the ledge

It leaves him listening with eager ears

Engraining the new knowledge into his mind

It’s not just constellations that he listens about, it’s basically anything that you talk about

The others besides Rayleigh and Roger no one seems to notice how much you’d be seen despite your age

It’s odd but he notices

Especially as you sometimes mumble about how much you missed acting like a kid

Acting your age

It worries him

But he focuses on making you happy

Showing you the wonders of the life here

Stealing more food

Playing tag with Roger who can’t help but join much to everyone’s amusement

Outings on islands you sometimes recognize that usually end with the three of you raiding an ice cream shop

Sharing the spoils of stealing toys gotten from a few stores he might’ve yoinked them from

Times where he and Buggy protectively would start fights when other pirates at bats would try to pick on you

Roger would always laugh, calling them big brothers and mother hens

But of them would deny it even if they both knew deep down they saw you as a younger sibling

And that you did the same likewise

It was something unspoken but there that they all unconsciously and silently acknowledged

It came naturally as well

The two of them fretting over you when you got too close to the edge of the ship or did something reckless enough that even he and Buggy thought it was too dangerous

And that’s saying something

Their both really worried about that

You put your safety behind others

And whilst that might be fine in some cases in yours it’s dangerous

Really dangerous

There had been times he narrowly saved your life without you even knowing

A wild animal sneaking up from the brush

An enemy pirate almost swinging his sword at your neck

It bothers everyone on the crew how many close calls there were

Almost unnaturally so

But it makes him on edge even more when his captain has a look in his eye

One of unspoken sorrow and worry

Roger was a man who ran head first into danger

Someone who never considered the consequences before diving into the lions den

Never showing fear or hesitation for his actions

Only doing so when it came to the safety of his crew

And even then he knew they would be fine

They all had each other to rely on

But that look in his eyes directed towards you was something he’d never seen

Buggy tries to ease Shanks’s worried in his own…Buggy way

While he appreciates the effort not much can ease the tension in his shoulders

Roger never looked that worried

And that init of itself was scary

And it’s even more so when it’s directed at someone Shanks had dearly cared for

Rogers death comes as quick and painful as a shot to the chest

Burning white hot pain encompassing his entire form

Buggy and him got into a fight and when their separate ways

The crew disbanded

No one but Roger knows where you disappeared off to

He just said you were doing him a favour and like a whisper in the wind you were gone

Almost as if you were never there to begin with

The memories and small mementos show you were there though

Not a figment of his imagination

Not a cruel mirage

You were real, he knows that

Yet everything feels like a blur

Grief tinges his vision and mind like a filter over his perception of the world

For a long while he’s hopeless

Wishing and hoping to find someone

To perhaps find you once more

To find stability again

His dream lost and shattered

His life is very much the same

Yet after a long while he rebuilt himself

Began building his own crew

Finding and making stability once more as he sailed the seas both you and Roger loved with a whole heart

Many a nights he spends drinking and partying but occasionally finding a quiet corner for a moment

Staring up towards the night sky you taught him about

He always pours one out for the dead and lost of his former crew

A sign of respect for the people he might not meet again yet wishes to reunite with one day

In death or in life it doesn’t matter to him

Just one day meeting once more

You included

Though you had never formally joined the crew everyone had accepted you there with open hearts

Him definitely included

God he hopes your alright

That despite your terrible track record of danger and lack of self awareness you were alive

You’d be quite grown up by now

Maybe you found an island and settled down

He doubts that thought

You were much too like Roger and him

Souls called and nurtured by the sea and thrill of adventure

Never leaving her waves until possibly being drowned in her salty cold embrace

But that’s what makes him think that perhaps you hadn’t though

That perhaps instead you had died

The thought leaves him sick

So much so that when it happens he braces himself again the railing

Fingernails digging into the wood as his Haki flairs up

Seeping from his form and through the cracks of his cheery facade

Ben always notices

Pulling him back to the party and into his normal self

Handing him a fresh pint of beer with a knowing look

Shanks always gives him a thankful nod

Then going back to drinking with his crew

His first mate already knows of his history

Of why he’s wracked with grief and when no one’s looking stares off at the night sky

He’s never confused when Shanks returns to the party with an empty bottle yet doesn’t seem any drunker

Lucky and Yassop sometimes notice but don’t push him nor Ben on the topic

It’s better that way

Shanks would rather not air out old dusty laundry of his past anyways

Especially not when he had to keep morale up

Cause if his crew saw he was down in the dumps they’d follow suite

Caring too much about his sake to back down in doing something

It’s admirable

It reminds him of the good old days of the Oro Jackson

The way in which the crew would cheer you up when you were lost in thought

A glazed look of sorrow over your eyes they all desperately wanted to wash away

Because you were a kid

Because you were a friend

Because you were a part of their Nakama

Because you were his little sibling

No blood was shared between either of your veins yet the kinship of family was there anyways

He misses it

He misses a lot of things from the past but that’s one thing he especially longs for

Even if for just a moment he’d like to see you smile once more

Perhaps even hug you again and let himself cry

….yeah that sounded nice

Rumours on the sea spread fast and wide but are always dubious in nature and reality

It’s something you learn quick whilst on the seas

Especially when your as seasoned as he was in that retrospect

He’s spent his entire life on some sort of boat

being found by Roger in a treasure chest and being taken in by the entire crew

He was quite literally raised by the seas

It’s why when he hears rumours of a travelling child on the ocean going from place to place it doesn’t initially make him hopeful

It in fact makes him kinda melancholy

He can’t help it, not when he still wonders about you

Maybe that was your kid or something, he wouldn’t be surprised

But either way that wasn’t his business

Or at least that’s what he tells himself despite keeping an extra eye out for any small raft on the sea

A small desperate part of himself clinging to some sort of hope

That maybe it somehow was you despite the fact you’d be a grown adult

That after all this time of wondering and praying to whatever god had listened you were alive somehow

That the child more precious than any treasure he befriend all those years ago who he cared for as if they were his sibling was still out there

While at piers he tries to find what he’d imagined to be your grown up face in the crowds

Tries to find the rickety old dingy you called your loyal stead

And comes up empty handed as the whispers of the child on the raft continue to spill into his ears

At this point it’s either pointless fodder or a plain lie that leaves him disappointed

Ben pats his back as takes a sip of his drink, guzzling it down with ease as his men party around him

….and then someone enters the bar

He doesn’t care to turn around, not when he’s in a sour mood

Doesn’t care to bat an eye to the newcomer who sits themself down next to him on the only other empty barstool on account that no one wanted to be near a grumpy drunk emperor

Yet this either brave of foolish soul dares to do so

He’ll give them that, they either have balls of steel or a death wish since he really isn’t in the mood for bullshit right now-

“Huh?, what happened to Rogers hat? Did you give it away or something?”

Shanks goes still as the sound of your very familiar voice enters through his ears

He goes ridged and his emperors Haki lashes out

A few men drop to the floor as the attention turns to him and the small figure who sits looking up at him

Shanks slowly turns and faces someone he had missed for a long time now

There you sat

As young as ever, looking like you haven’t aged a day despite the fact it’s been well over a decade and now nearing a second decade

You still have Rogers coat but now it’s adorned with several trinkets and charms along with the fact you seemed to have gained more souvenirs from other pirate friends (much to his chagrin)

Your eyes are still innocent yet have the spark of something ancient in them

Chubby cheeks pulled up into a look of confusion at his agape reaction

He accidentally spits the beer out his mouth into Ben’s face

His right hand man can’t even seem to be mad when your looking up at the red haired man with a small grin at his expression

“Never thought you’d waste beer like that. Not when you’d beg Rayleigh and then sneak a sip from the mugs of people passed out”

Not even a word after that can come out your mouth before your in his arms

This feels unreal to him

Like a cruel dream he’s gonna wake up from

He’s preparing himself for it yet it doesn’t seem to happen

Your still in his arms

Your still you

He’s still him

His crew is watching gobsmacked and confused as tears begin to like his eyes

Him, red haired Shanks crying for the first time in years let alone at some small bar with a random kid he’s hugging

Maybe they think he’s so drunk that he’s imagining you as Uta or Luffy

But no

Your you

And perhaps that’s the one thing that makes this feel like some sort of fever Dream

He’ll give his captain credit where it’s due, he could’ve never imagined Roger keeping a secret let alone several important ones

Though Shank supposed that Roger was a man of his word, he’d rather cut off an arm rather than go back on a promise he made

And that extended to keeping something a secret

But he had to admit of all possibilities as to why you haven’t aged a single day this was the one he dreaded the most

He was hoping for some mad science experiment or just a weird devil fruit

But this was much worse

Immortality

Many people want it, but like a monkeys paw every blessing comes with a curse

And you had seen the extents of what it could bring to not only you but those you had gotten close to

The mental horror of watching someone you were close to die not knowing they would appear across the world moments later

And then having to grapple with the fact they had traumatized that person now with the possibility of meeting them again in the future

It sounded torturous

But it also now explained the fact as to why you were already hardened to the sea back then

Already seeing it’s worse storms and foes

It’s why your eyes despite their innocence are hallowed out, empty of life sometimes as you stared out towards the sea you loved

Why they always seemed older than what you looked

It’s cause you were technically older, just stuck physically and mentally as a child

One who had braved the seas for both its treasures and tortures

Content in wanting to explore and see all that could be seen, experience everything there was

It is fascinating as it is horrifying

He can’t imagine what you had been through up till now

Who you had met on your journeys

that explains why you’d always tell cryptic stories about people you’ve met that now looking back sound suspiciously like big mom and Kaido

Speaking of which that probably means their trying to look for you still

….god this did not turn out to be what he expected nor wanted

He takes a sip of his beer as his crew can’t also help but be exasperated from how nonchalant you are about all of this

As if dying repeatedly isn’t a big deal

Nor is meeting future emperors and Yonko’s who were definitely affected by your time with them

If he hears that you befriended Doflamingo or something then he’s officially done

With all these things coming to light though he can’t help the small grin that made its way onto his face

You weren’t exactly ok (at least mentally speaking) but you were alive

The greatest blessing that came with your immortality was that you were alive

He can’t help but continue to hold you close

You don’t mind, you had seemingly missed his presence over the years

Even if your time on his ship will be but a blip in your long life he knows you’ll remember it

You have that feeling as well

Every night with them is a party of sorts

Shanks had always been one who enjoyed a festival’s atmosphere so it’s no surprise that each night with his crew is an experience

They drink, laugh and dance with one another

Singing songs familiar to you and your years at sea

Even one that they now realize was made for you

The undying star in the sky that leads sailors to wonders untold

A spark of determination lit in their souls when the star moves across the sky to a new horizon

A lot of old stories and rumours at sea make sense now on the fact that your probably connected to them

But what’s perhaps the most funny thing about all that is the world government knows about you but doesn’t have a clear enough picture to try and pursue you

Photos are always blurry or downright incomprehensible, descriptions are muddied and vary

The people who met you refuse to tell even a pep of what you looked like

They can imagine it’s driving them mad

Especially Sengoku who has been tasked to find you for years now

And for a time you were right under his nose without even knowing

They all get a good cackle out of that

Imagining the old man’s face when he does eventually realize

It would probably take a big public event for that to happen though

Something you’d probably inevitably crash for whatever reason

So until then your relatively safe from marine pursuit

But even when that does inevitably happen you’ll have a good portion of the pirating world at your side

Him and his crew included

Like all those years ago on the Oro Jackson you work your ways into the crews hearts

A relatively quick process that somehow happens with everyone you meet

Yet it’s something that has yielded you much more power than you know of

Hell, your probably the most safe person on the sea not accounting your devil fruit ability on account of somehow getting on everyone’s good sides

How you did this he and his crew don’t know but it’s certainly something their suspecting is due to your devil fruit

Or you just have some uncanny ability in literally having the power of friendship or something

Either way their not writing it off as other just quite yet

Not when their all too caught up in your stories or insisting on teaching you blackjack

You don’t tell them you already know how to play, especially since you use that to win their desserts

Shanks just laughs, especially as they all sulk at “being beaten by a kid” momentarily forgetting your older than all of them

Whilst Shanks is both happy and ecstatic of finding you again he can’t help but feel melancholy

He swears he sees his old crew mates while lucky Rox and Yassop toss you around like a hot potato

His mind playing tricks as Ben messes up your hair just as Rayleigh did

Whenever this happens you seem to know

Always ending up at his side, going to a quiet part of the ship for a moment of peace where he can breath

In its there you both truly talk

You both catch up with what’s happened over the years

After the crew disbanded he was aimless

The fight with buggy

Him raising Uta with his crew before eventually leaving her for her own safety despite the fact it still kills him on the inside

The young boy who ate a fruit he was transporting for the world government, the reason why he doesn’t have Rogers hat anymore and why he’s missing an arm

It’s all a lot to process

Yet it’s even more when you tell him what’s happened on your end

The other pirates you’d met, the marines, becoming and dying as a slave

The pain

The loss

Everything

He can’t help but just sit there for a few solid minutes

Processing everything

And then comes the guilt

Tears

If he had tried harder to find you none of that would’ve happened

If he had done better

If he-

Your small hands shake him from his stupor as you place them gently on his tear stained cheeks

Here he was, an emperor crying as a child comforted him

Yet as he does it feels natural

Like back when he had a nightmare when he was a young teen and you talked with him to help distract from it all

The times that despite being your self appointed “older brother” he’d rely on you for advice

He crumbles in your gentle hands yet he does not care

Because when shanks is with you he knows he’s not the cabin boy of the Oro Jackson

He’s not red haired Shanks, the fierce-some emperor of the sea

He’s not shanks, the bastard child of some celestial dragon who was abandoned at birth in a treasure chest

He’s not the father who left his daughter out of both love and fear for her safety and wellbeing

He’s not the party animal who’s constantly drunk despite his power

To you Shanks is just Shanks

The man encompassed by the colour red

Rage

Stress

Love

Passion

And most importantly of all Determination

For once in a very long while he feels the stress fall from his shoulders

As much as he loves his crew and the sea he feels a heavy burden of responsibility on his chest out of love for them

But like a switch it melts away

He feels a bit guilty that he’s the one crying when your the one who went through so much pain

But when he sees your gentle smile he knows you don’t mind

A soft look of ‘its ok’ and ‘you can cry’

And so he does

So much so that his eyes turn red from irritation

It’s inevitable that you leave

He knows that when it comes to you yet he can’t help but feel sad

And notice something slightly different this time around

When on the Oro Jackson you’d leave from time to time

Staying for good portions of times before leaving for awhile and somehow always making your way back

You never once hesitated to leave

Back then they had all accepted it

Knowing you’d come back eventually, so much so that they’d plan parties in advance

But now as you prepare to leave it’s different

Your tired

It’s easy for him to tell since he’s known you for a good portion of time

Though your smile is as good as a mask as ever he sees the cracks

The way you don’t look at the sea like the way you once did

He can’t blame you

But it worries him

A part of him wants to offer you a place here permanently but that in some sense would be cruel

He can’t will himself to take advantage of your exhaustion to essentially trap you here

The sea is meant to be a place of freedom and would not shackle you like others once did

He won’t guilt you into this when he knows you’d stay out of guilt

He may be selfish but he isn’t selfish enough to do that

Not when all he wants is for you to be happy

So he prepares to let go

Knowing you’d meet again

But not before he throws you the biggest party they’ve had in a long while

Stacks of food are prepared

So many Desserts to the point big mom would have to stop and take a break from eating

Enough booze to create a running river

Streamers and confetti decorating the ship in all the colours of the rainbow

Songs sung loudly as the few who knew how to play instruments strummed away

Mihawk even showing up much to his surprise because he apparently already met you once before

Not surprised at that fact but Moreso on how that stubborn asshole gives you a small well made sword

One obviously custom made and designed for you with it’s whole star design

Neither of you elaborate how you both met

Both giving each other a silent stare before turning to him with shit eating grins saying that “that story is for another day”

It leaves his a bit huffy but he’s secretly happy that it seems the two of you are both well acquainted

Even more so that you finally have something to defend yourself with for once

God knows the amount of times he and buggy had tried to convince you to bring some sort of weapon only for them to say you’d be fine and then save you at the last minute from being stabbed

It seems Mihawk shared this same sentiment since he nearly jumps out of his skin when you start mock sword fighting with Ben and his second hand man gets the death eye of the century

It’s good though, especially as you sing with the crowd of drunks who are either happily joining in for the party or sadly joining in remembering this is a goodbye party

Your hoisted and thrown playfully in the air screaming the lyrics of shanties

Given a few sips of alcohol behind Ben’s and Mihawk’s backs (Shanks is guilty of this as well)

At some point someone decides fireworks are a good idea and almost set the ship on fire

It all works out though as sparks scatter in the sky

Fluttering down until fizzling out

All the while you watch on from the crows nest beside him

Everyone else down below watching and dancing

Mihawk nearby enjoying the lively atmosphere

It’s nice

Yet as he wishes for this moment can last forever he knows it can’t

The reminder of this is when you begin to speak once mor e

Shattering the silence he wishes to keep as to have the moment last longer

To not be reminded of the imminent departure from his ship that this entire party is about

Your words aren’t that bad yet it fills him with solace

You tell him you’ll keep your eye out for a kid in a straw hat

It’s probably inevitable you run into Luffy at some point

Knowing him you’ll probably even join him on some grand adventure

The kid Is a supernova waiting to happen and you seem to have an affinity for finding them

You also promise to check up on Uta for him if your given the chance

Meeting her when she was only a baby when he had found her in a treasure chest just as Roger had with him

For the first few months of her life you helped him raise her

The young toddler even eventually naming you her Auncle

The whole crew got a laugh out of that

As did he

But now as you say that it just reminders him you’ll be leaving again

He doesn’t have the courage to look you in the eyes until he looks up at the stars

They burn brightly in the sky

Golden light thousands of miles away yet still brilliant in their glow

And it’s there looking at those stars he’s reminded of the day you climbed aboard the Oro Jackson

The spark of determination in him to be your friend

…..determination

He remembers now why he had felt that calling all those years ago

The world government had been vague in why the fruit you ate was so important

Naturally Shanks attributed that to the nature of immortality that came with it

But it seems there was more to it than meets the eye

Whenever you had met someone you ended up being a catalyst to their determination towards something

And perhaps that was more powerful that immortality itself

Being the spark that can change someone’s entire life course

It’s no wonder why they wanted this fruit

One that would most definitely play into enlisting more powerful forces and lighting the fuse to their souls that would have them walk to the ends of the earth to accomplish it

It’s like with the gum-gum fruit that they had him try to deliver

But now thinking about it perhaps that one as well has some sort of other purpose they needed it for

Not if he has any say in it though

Shanks is a selfish pirate at heart and nothing comes between him and protecting his treasures

Whether that be a boy in a straw hat, a girl with half white and red hair or a child always floating at sea with stars in their eyes

He will fight tooth and nail to keep them safe

Cause selfishness is something taught to him by his captain

Protect what you love no matter the cost

Protect their freedom and your own,

Be determined to take the stand in liberation

Red is the colour of his hair and it encompasses his soul

Shanks’s hands are dyed that colour as well; the colour of blood and love.

He will continue to stain it that colour to protect what he’s passionate about with vigorous anger if the world government so much breaths in any of their directions

#platonic #shanks x reader #shanks #one piece x reader #one piece #determination!

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