#between the devil and the sea chapter 8

[the-kr8tor]

Stem the Tide

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 5.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW injury, TW death, CW vomit mention.

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

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CHAPTER 8 >>> CHAPTER 9

There's water in your lungs.

Hobie's injuries scream at him to stop swimming, but he doesn't, not until he swims you to safety. He has you placed on a piece of the revenge, a shattered part of it, all splintered wood and sharp edges that dig into his skin.

The storm has subsided, the sea monsters went back into the water, the thought should ease him but he'd rather have the beasts within eyesight if possible. The sky is still dark and blue, the sun is just about waking up to the carnage floating on the depths.

His other half is paddling away from the trenches where the creatures could lie in wait. Eyes gradually searching for his crew but his main priority is you. You who haven't opened your eyes, you who haven't breathed nor moved. He worries, grief calling for him once again.

The fear of losing you is the only thing keeping him moving.

His arms ache as he tries to restart your heart. Pounding and pushing into your chest, doing his best not to crack any of your ribs. Chapped lips breathing life into you, inflating your lungs, chest heaving up but you don't expel the water. He ignores the freezing water; it's almost as cold as your skin, still it burns him with every touch he gives you.

You haven't breathed on your own for a long while.

He curses himself, wishes that he got to you faster but with all the jaws coming towards him he had to dodge in the water and with all the strong currents he let you drown. Fuck, why wasn't I fast enough? He thinks, guilt chewing him.

“C’mon, Scuttlebutt. Fuckin' breathe.”

Hobie sees land ahead so he paddles faster.

He sucks in air, then blows into your icy mouth. Pumping and pushing, his muscles are threatening to give out.

“Not you,” tears brimming in his eyes, the sun peeks in the horizon, illuminating your lifeless face. “Please, not you too.”

A large wave almost sweeps the two of you off the raft, he protects you with his own battered body. The wave helped, the makeshift raft beaching on the sandy shores of the unknown island.

He pounds his palms continuously on your chest. Thump, thump, thump. The sound echoes in his ears like death knells.

Nothing.

Your lips are turning an unnatural shade. He doesn't focus on it, instead Hobie leans in, breathing into you once again, moving his head down, he listens intently for a sign of your heart beating.

He can't even hear a faint beating.

“Fuck!” He continues the cycle, palms compressing on your chest, mouth giving you air straight from within him. “Open your goddamn eyes!”

Hobie yells your name, full of anguish and denial. He won't give up because if it was you in his shoes, you wouldn't have.

His sobs wracked his body, yet he does it again and again and again. He can't even look at your face anymore because if he fails, he doesn't want to remember your lifeless face, instead he'd want to remember you smiling, smiling at his crew, smiling at whatever joke Pav said, smiling at him.

He'll do anything to see it again. The crew can't lose you.

He can't lose you,

“No!” In his desperation, he hammers his fist harshly on your chest.

Nothing.

He does it again. Thrashing and drumming.

Nothing.

Hobie closes his eyes, leaning down to breathe life into you one last time. He's tired, too tired to continue. Lips lingering on yours, he holds onto you tight, refusing to let go.

You wake up to lips pressing on yours and salty water rising quickly from your lungs.

Gasping and coughing, you feel calloused fingers push your body to the side as you vomit out all the water. Eyes stinging, hands digging into the sand.

You hear relieved laughter behind you, hand gripping to your shoulder, the other rubbing gently on your back.

Spitting the last salty water out of your body, you fall back on the wooden raft, eyes adjusting to the sunlight. Hobie greets you with a tired smile, fatigued yet he still finds it in himself to grin from ear to ear.

The sun blankets behind him, bathing him in its light, piercings shining, and like fate's practical joke, there's a halo behind his head.

“Please don't tell me we both died and now we both ended up in the same place.” You joke with a hoarse voice. Tongue still tasting salt. “I can barely handle you while alive and now I have to be with you even in death?”

He laughs, the sound louder than the waves on the shore. “That's the first thing you say after almost dying? Miles is right, you use humour as a crutch.” with a shaking hand, he cups your cheek, laying his forehead against your own, resisting the urge to lay his head above your chest to listen to your heartbeat, just to make sure he isn't hallucinating.

You exhale against his face, breath fanning his eyelashes, it's enough proof that death has decided to give him reprieve.

“We're not dead?” You close your eyes, savoring his presence. Hands clasped around his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

He's not dead.

“No,” he leans away, relief under his sigh. “We're alive.”

You chuckle, ghosting your thumb across the gashes on his cheek. “You did good.”

Hobie shakes his head with a smile, rolling on his back, he falls on the sand softly, arms spread out. The once white sand turns into a shade of pink under him, reminding you of his injuries.

“I did good.” Eyes closed, hand reaching towards your side, he grasps your blouse in his palm like you'd fade away if he lets go of you for even a second. The cloth is warm on his skin, realizing that you're injured.

Your cough and groan was enough to ignite his adrenaline once again.

With a hand, you stop him from moving frantically. You inhale a sharp breath, “We need a fire going.” Sitting up on your own, shivering from the cold. He observes with his hands hovering over you.

“Alright, just stay here, I'll light it.”

“No, let me help.” Your wheezing says otherwise.

Hobie grasps your chin, lifting it to face him. Your skin is on fire, he smiles at life coming back to your body. “You drowned,” he doesn't want to say the other word or it might come true. “I think that trumps over a couple of stab wounds.”

“A couple?!” You blink in surprise. “Hobie—”

“Just a few slashes. Stay here, don't cause trouble, trouble. Captain's orders.”

“You're so fucking annoying.” You flop down on the raft, gripping your weeping wound, teeth chattering.

“You could say ‘thank you’ for once.” he teases in an attempt to bring back normalcy. Staring at your sand crusted hair, seafoam draped around you, he's glad he didn't give up in saving you just for him to get a glimpse of this view.

You stare at him through wet lashes, a small pout on your warming lips. “I'm losing blood, captain.”

The simple sentence gets him to clamp up, face suddenly serious.

“Bring me a coconut!” You yell, pout replaced with a small smile. You hide your wincing with a bite of your lip, drawing blood. Looking at him upside down, he has his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

“You're insufferable.” He quotes you before immediately jogging over towards the tropical forest behind you.

“And I, you.” You whisper into nothingness, touching your lips with the pads of your fingers.

—

The fire cackles next to you, the flames dance in your vision just like the fire that devoured the revenge. Smoke fills your lungs again, you cover your nose with your arm, eyes closed, trying to forget what happened. What you did.

Hobie holds a circular pendant tied to a stick, the metal glows red hot, the engraving of a wave twirls as he moves it closer to you.

You clutch the back of your head, it still stings when you press down, at least you're not freezing and wet anymore thanks to the fire next to you.

“How do I do this?” He asks, eyes flicking to your pained face.

“Just place the metal on top of my wound for a few seconds then take it off immediately. I don't want a piece of metal in me.” Your voice is muffled by your arm.

“Show me.”

Lifting up your blouse, you hiss, fabric sticking to the angry wound, revealing where the bullet pierced you. “He nicked me so there's no bullet to take out.”

“Less work for us then. Ready?”

“Yes, just use the plain side. I don't want it to leave a mark.”

“Bad news, scuttlebutt. It'll leave a mark.”

“Not what I meant. The wave, I don't want it to leave a shape.”

“I know.” Without warning, he places the bare side of the pendant on your wound. Skin sizzling, you bite into your arm, yells tamped down. Other hand gripping into his elbow. It's an unimaginable pain, you can't believe Hobie survived through two of these.

He flings it away, careful not to add to your pain. “You alright?”

You heave, a tear escaping from your eye. “I guess I deserved that.” Looking at him through half lidded eyes, he gives you a weak smile.

“You would've flinched.”

“You're right, I would've flinched. At least I'm honest about it.” You let the air kiss your searing skin. Letting your head fall on the tree trunk behind you, He watches you like you're already dead. “It was a joke, Hobie—”

“What happened to you? Below deck?” He shakes his head, glaring at your neck. You instinctively hide it under your hand, it's still tender to the touch.

“Had a run in with a very bad man. I got him though…” you nudge him with your foot. “I'm—” you can't find the right words. “I'm sorry about the ship, I had to defend myself, I didn't know the fire would—”

“The ship was already gone the moment Mathias found us.” Those grey eyes look at you intensely, remnants of the storm still leave traces behind them. “Don't apologize, you got him, that's all that matters.”

“I burned him alive, Hobie.” You blurt it out, confessing your sins. “I shot a man. I–I don't…It matters that I did that.”

He sits closer, leaving the searing metal next to him on the fire. Holding your knee, he tentatively touches your hand before he reaches for it fully. Skin meeting skin, hand holding yours, the same grey eyes soften for you.

“Let it matter then. But don't let it in, don't let them try to kill you a second time. Bury their bodies if you have to but don't mourn them.”

“Can we do that? Bury them? Not metaphorically, even without the bodies.”

“Yes, if you want to. I'll help you dig.”

You nod, gliding your thumb along the ridges of his hand. After a beat, you swallow a lump in your dry throat. “I can still hear his screams.” avoiding his eyes, you look down at the grains of sand, your tears leave patches of darker soil in its wake.

Hobie squeezes your hand. “I'll quiet it down for you.”

“How?” you look at him, eyes questioning, eyes weeping.

“I'll talk over it, make you listen to something else other than the screaming.”

You give him a tight lipped smile, forced, tears threatening to fall. You can't ignore their faces anymore. “Finn, Ned and—”

“We'll bury them too, and we'll mourn them. They deserve that much.”

“They deserve more, Hobie. Much more.” he pulls you in, seeking comfort from each other. Arms enveloping you. You let him take you in, his scent replacing the smoke clinging to your lungs.

“They do,” Mindful of each other's injuries, you lay your head on his uninjured shoulder, face buried on the crook of his neck. He does the same, nose kissing your skin. “they deserve better.”

He finds that his arms are molded to fit you.

“The others? Do you know they're alright?”

“I saw them escape, that's all I know.” You lean away, looking at him with worry. “We'll find them, but knowing Gwen they'll find us first, yeah?” he cups your jaw. “We'll get out of here, I promise.”

“I'll hold you to that.” You nod, leaving his warmth, back landing on the wood, letting yourself fall back to your old ways.

Hobie still has his hands shaped to fit you. “We have to survive first.” He taps your shoe. “Do mine next.” He lifts up his shirt, showing you all the angry gashes like a prized trophy. “Then our scars will truly match.”

—

Shoes discarded on the sand, you wade through the seafoam with Hobie. The sun glares, puffy clouds shielding you from the heat. A breeze passes by, seagulls squawk above.

“We could eat those.” He pipes up, kicking something under the sand.

“The sand?”

“The birds, thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” Leaning down, he grabs something red buried in the sand. “Help me with this.”

You stretch your shoulders, careful of your own injuries. Copying his stance, you both pull. “How do we even catch one?”

“Pistol, a spear or a trap.” He does all the work of pulling while you're still aching. His injuries still hurt but he'd rather do all the work than let you strain yourself. “Trust me, after eating fish for three days straight, you'd beg for something else to eat.”

“You think we'll be stuck here for three days?” you tug in sync, pulling it with all your strength.

“Maybe more—” he scoffs, finally hauling the fabric out. “It's our sail. Bloody hilarious.” the crimson lay half buried in the sand, tattered.

Ned would hate seeing it like this.

You trace the stitching around the edges, remembering how his expert hands once weaved around it.

“Oi” he brushes his knuckles on your hand to get your attention. You feel his broken skin briefly. “We could use this as our roof.”

“Mm-hmm, you do that and I'll continue searching around the shore. Maybe my satchel got washed up too” you let go of the cloth, already walking away.

“Nah, I'll come with.” He bunches up the sail in his arms, drowning his entire body in red.

Crimson like the eyes of the beast.

You shake your head, giving him a faint smile. “We can't stay together the entire time we're here. We'd drive each other crazy.”

Hobie catches up to you, wide strides and long legs sauntering over to your side. “Good thing I'm already bonkers.” he passes by you, looking over his shoulders to see your wide eyes looking at him. “Hurry up before the sun sets.”

You shake your head, jogging to walk by his side. “I bet in three days we'd start killing each other.”

He snorts. “I beg to differ.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

After a minute of walking along the beach, you find a washed up crate. Hobie opens it with the butt of his gun, punching a hole straight through. You pray that it's medical supplies or at least food.

He laughs, clutching his side, leaning on the box. Beckoning your confused self, he drapes his arm around your shoulder, showing you the contents.

You blink confused at the brown bricks. “Is this tea?”

He continues to chuckle like he heard an inside joke that you're not privy to. Taking one in his hand, he weighs it, surprised that it wasn't damaged by the sea water, he thanks whoever packed it well.

Opening the packaging, he brings it close to your nose. “Here.”

You flinch back, burnt skin tugging on your side. “What the hell! I'm not smelling that!”

He laughs louder, you wonder if his injuries ache too. “Just smell it and tell me what you think it is.”

“No! What if it's solid shit?”

“It's not! Solid shit? Really?” His broken lips hurt as he smiles wider. “Do you not trust me?”

You suck in your teeth, “fine, if this is shit I'm drowning myself.” With apprehension, you lean forward to sniff. “Is that?” You sniff again, this time with a laugh. “Holy shit!”

“It's bloody chocolate.” You grab his hand, smelling the sweet treat. “Guess you got your wish. An entire crate of ‘em too.”

“I can't fucking believe that it hasn't melted yet!” He hands you the entire bar and you grin. You both guessed that one of the navy ships was carrying it. “We only need a crate full of alcohol and we're good.”

Hobie clasps your arm, “We can stay here forever if we do find one.”

“Fuck off.” You say in between laughs. “I'm not staying here forever—” your smile falters, fear enters your body.

“What?” He turns around, following your line of sight.

A body, there's a body washed up on the shore. It's draped in a blue uniform and seaweed, seagulls land near it, tentatively pecking.

“Stay here.” He murmurs, draping the sail on top of the crate. You grasp his hand before he leaves your side. “Y/N, stay here.”

“No, what if he's still alive?” you hold on to him tighter.

He nods, eyes roaming your tensed face, your shoulders are straight, eyes staying on the body. “Alright, but walk behind me, yeah?”

You nod.

With every step, your fear encapsulates you further down to your feet, the warmth on your soles keeps you alert. Yet, your hand stays on the cold hilt of your dagger.

Hobie kicks the corpse, it stays unmoving. A group of crabs start to scavenge the body, pinching and taking skin.

“He's dead. No need to worry.” He looks at you over his shoulder, glancing at your tight grip on the dagger.

“What if we're not the only ones here?” your breath shudders at the thought.

“I'll sweep the island—”

“We'll sweep the island.”

He doesn't protest, knowing you won't take no for an answer. “Fine, just—” grabbing your hands, he fixes your hold on the dagger, guiding your fingers around the hilt. You freeze on the spot. “There, better.” He tugs at the weapon, it doesn't budge in your hold. “Now they can't take it from you. Don't let them take it away from you.”

“I won't, I promise.”

—

The island is small, smaller than you thought it would be. Green foliage and tropical trees cover half of the island. Dry leaves crunch under your foot, critters slither and chatter under the tall grass, making you conscious of where you land your feet. The rays of the sun peek behind the tree tops. Exotic sounding birds sing above the branches, their rainbow feathers fly overhead, leaving a breeze to flutter against your cheeks.

You almost run into Hobie when he stops abruptly. He whistles out, reaching blindly behind him to grasp your hand.

“Come on.”

Surprisingly enough, you don't let go, locking your fingers around his, letting the warmth course through your skin.

You hear rushing water.

“We're fuckin' lucky.” He pauses, watching you peek from behind to see what's in front.

You're in awe at the small waterfall, misty water cascading like unfurled silk; it splashes cool water down into a plunge pool. Before you know it, Hobie's stripping down to his knickers.

“Woah! A bit of a warning!” You cover your eyes quickly.

He hoots before you hear a loud splash.

Hobie calls your name, you can hear his smile from how he utters it.

“It's fresh water! We can drink this!” He yells over the sound of the waterfall.

“I'm not drinking your bath water!” You still avoid him, glancing all over the place except for where he swims.

“The water isn't stagnant! It's clean! Come over here!”

“No!”

“I'm not fuckin' naked, Y/N! Just fuckin' come here.”

With a stomp of your foot and a click of your tongue, you glance at him, avoiding staring at his bottom half.

“Someone else could still be here, Hobie and you're relaxing!”

“No one's here, trust me. We've swept the entire place, there's no one here. Jus’ us” He floats and you immediately look away. Laughing, he lets the water wash over him.

“Well I'm glad you're having fun!” You say sarcastically. “But I'll walk around so you don't get stabbed in the water.”

“I can finally teach you how to swim! Get in!” He teases, knowing you won't actually swim with him while he's practically in his birthday suit.

“Nope!” You walk away but still staying close to him. “Maybe when you're not naked I'll reconsider!”

“Suit yourself! Wait!” You pause, “Stay close, yeah?”

Nodding, you wave with the dagger.

You walk around the area, avoiding colorful flowers that you're too afraid to touch. Hands grazing the top of the tall grass, you gasp when a familiar plant catches your sight.

“What?!” You hear Hobie shout, “you alright?!”

“I'm fine!” You yell back. “Keep floating like a turd!”

He laughs, a second later you hear splashing.

—

You sit on the banks of the pool, tired muscles sagging into the dirt, your pockets are full of medicinal herbs. You're just glad you found the right plants that can help to stave off infection. If only you had a mortar and pestle then it'll help with digesting the bitterness better.

Drawing swirling patterns on the dirt with your dagger, you don't look at him, only flicking your eyes to see if he hasn't drowned from napping in the water. He floats aimlessly, skin glistening under the sun, toned chest and scars in full display. You huff, moving your eyes away from his body. Yet your mind wonders where he got them, it's better to think about it than letting your mind wander back to what happened on the revenge and your almost death.

The slight sting of your injuries helps keep you awake at least.

“You hungry?” You almost jump when he suddenly appears on the edge of the pool, arms tucked under his chin, grey eyes looking expectantly at you.

“A little. You?”

“Starving. We're gonna need to make a shelter soon.” Hobie twists in place, head resting on the ground, face staring up at the afternoon sky.

You scooch closer, he smiles when your upside down face fills his vision. “Do you know where we are?”

“No, I'm guessing we're in one of the thousand islands. We were near it when we—Just be glad that we didn't land on a cannibal island.”

“There's no such thing.” He reaches up, wiping the sweat off your brow. “Right?” you almost lean into his touch.

“We got attacked by a bloody sea monster, ‘m sure there's an island somewhere with cannibals.”

“True.” You shrug, trying not to remember what the beasts look like or even sound like. “Did you piss your pants too when they came up from the water?” Teasing, you fall into relaxation with him.

“No, I shat myself.” You laugh loudly. Hobie thinks he has the best seat in the house. “Can't fuckin' believe they're real.” He can't believe you're real.

“Still feels like a dream. Someone has to know those things exist.” The sun illuminates the side of your face, lighting up your features. He can't help but reach up again with the same excuse to wipe your face. “Thanks, I'm sweating a lot.”

“Really? I haven't noticed.” You roll your eyes. “Maybe if you take a dip then—”

“Nope.” To his dismay, you move away from his view. “Come on, fishman, we need to get started on shelter.”

“I just said that.” He stands up, groaning along the way, you look away. “and really? Fishman? That the best you can do, stinky?”

“Stinky?” You cross your arms on your chest, hearing clothes shuffle behind you. “What are you five?”

“Could say the same thing to you,” his face suddenly appears on your shoulder. You yelp, groaning comically, briskly walking away in annoyance. “Wrong way, scuttlebutt.”

You turn heel, trudging in a different direction while he chuckles.

—

Standing in knee deep sea water, the sun beaming down, soft sand under your toes and your stomach growling to be fed, you stand near Hobie whose trousers are folded up to his knees. The water laps at your legs, warm enough to be comfortable but cool enough to keep you in the water. Tiny fish weave around your legs, their fins brushing your skin.

“There!” you point too fast that you pull a muscle but you pay it no mind when Hobie misses the fish again with his makeshift spear.

“Fuck!” The spear is sticking out of the sand, Hobie who is equally starving kicks the water, it splashes all over your blouse.

Great, you're hungry and wet.

You huff loudly, frustrated like the man next to you. “I'm hungry.”

“I know.” He says flatly. Taking out the spear, he aims again.

The fish wiggle in the water like it's mocking Hobie.

“Maybe we can survive eating chocolates and coconut for the rest of our days?” You wipe the sweat off the back of your neck. “Or I can start catching some crabs.”

“Fuck this!” He yells, drawing his gun, he shoots at the fish, the bullet hits the water like a tiny cannonball, splashing you again.

It's a bullseye.

You scream when he grabs the still bleeding fish. Hobie smiles wildly, yelling triumphantly.

You both jump up and down in the water giddily.

—

The fire roars in front of you, your dinner needs some seasoning but it's better than sleeping hungry with only chocolate to fill your stomach. Times like this you miss Finn's cooking, and him.

Hobie looks at you through the fire, he's thinking of the same thing. Wishing that he wasn't.

“What kind of fish is this?” you break the quiet to stop your thoughts.

“The edible kind.”

“You have no idea do you?” Narrowing your eyes at him, you scoff.

“Fuck if I know.” Hobie shrugs, scrunching his nose.

“You're a pirate.” You stop chewing.

“Yes and? I'm not a bloody fisherman.”

“I thought you'd know, because you're in the sea most of the time.”

“Fishing was James’ job not mine.”

“Kinda wishing James was here then.” You murmur but he still hears.

“Give me your bloody fish, you ungrateful bastard.” he reaches towards you and in turn you pull your fish away from him.

“No!” he chuckles at your reaction, shaking his head before silence drapes over the peace you've both created.

You keep munching on the plain mystery fish. Hobie was kind enough to catch (shoot) another fish so you don't have to share one. It's flaky in your hands, now you smell like sweat, blood and fish. The greatest smell combination in the world.

You chew, “I need new clothes.” and a bath but you'll never admit it to Hobie.

“That bloke has some,” he points with his chin at the dead body, laying further at the beach.

“Ew, I'd rather stay in these.” You grimace, looking down at the tattered and singed cloth that's holding on to its last leg.

“I don't mind that, I can actually see your elbows from here.” he smirks, trying to look flirty but with him chomping on a fish head it ended up looking more hilarious than cute.

“My elbows? Oh you pervert.” Yet there's heat behind your cheeks even when his own cheek is covered in fish scales. “Should we bury him?” you change the subject.

“We should or it'll stink,” he flicks his grey eyes at you, the simple act wakes up the butterflies in your stomach, or maybe that's the fish. “like you.”

“I don't stink” a lie of course.

Hobie laughs into his half eaten fish. “I can smell you from here.”

“No you don't, that's the fish!”

“What's the difference?”

You flick a fin at him, it hits him on his head, sticking to his hair. Laughing, you take another bite, something hard almost breaks your tooth. You stop giggling, spitting out a round metallic thing.

Realization hits you, Hobie peeks at your hand,

His sudden loud guffaw makes you throw the bullet at him. He dodges it, still laughing hard and with a fish fin stuck to his hair.

“This is why fishermen don't shoot at fish!” You end up cackling too, finding his laughter contagious. “I almost bit into it!”

He guffaws louder, hiding his face and you get a full view of the fin on his hair. You shake your head, standing up to sit next to his shaking form.

“Stop moving! Let me get that thing off.” You grab it, throwing it into the fire.

His laughter subsides, staring at you with those stormy eyes. He sniffs, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to say something that could hurt or for him to say something that would make you leave. But you don't and he stays silent. Just reveling in each other's presence.

You read his expression, his lips still hidden under his hand but his eyes say everything. You don't want to ruin the night but you have to tell him or it'll eat at you, not letting you sleep and you ending up looking at him with pity and grief. You don't want that, you want to continue to look at him like you've recently found out from Miles, with reverence and fondness that's out of your reach.

“I'm sorry.” Your words don't hurt him but your expression brings a pang in his heart. “About…everything.”

“‘s not your fault.” Grief knocks on his door and he refuses to answer. “Nothin' to be sorry about.”

“Feels like it is.”

“You're not the one who killed them.” Grief tries to barge in on him, he blocks the door, still refusing to let it in. “There's nothin' to forgive.”

“Still, I'd like to apologize. They were good men.” Against your own better judgment, you take his hand, he doesn't flinch away, even twisting his hand to hold yours properly.

“Do you want to say goodbye? To them?” he murmurs like he isn't sure of it himself.

Hobie refuses to let it in, not again, not in front of you.

“Yes, but we'll do it once you're ready.” You whisper to him like the world could hear his secret.

Hobie sighs. Heart aching, he doesn't want to say goodbye, if it was up to him he'd never—

“Hobie?” You call his name softly, “If you need help with silencing the screams,” a shaky breath escapes you. “I'm here.”

He frowns, seeing her face and not yours for a brief second. Changing tune, he takes his hand away. “Thanks.” It's your turn to frown.

You inhale, “I'll go grab us some water for uh cleaning our wounds. I'll clean them before bed.” Walking away, you leave him alone with his thoughts, he hopes you turn back around, but you don't.

—

Hobie takes first watch, torso exposed to the sea wind, letting it calm the searing pain of his injuries. He observes for any boats or ships on the horizon, even hoping for a box full of medical supplies to wash ashore.

He rubs his heavy eyes, it's supposed to be your turn but he lets you sleep in, after everything he'd let you rest as long as you need to. Looking over his shoulder, the simple act makes him wince. He stares at your sleeping face, calm and angelic under the warmth of the fire, and he can't help but feel jealous. You're situated under the shabby shelter, protected by the red sail that's fluttering in the breeze. Foot twitching, you scrunch up your nose in your sleep,

Chuckling, he turns back around to face the beach.

There's still nothing but seagulls flying above the water and crabs digging into the sand.

Yawning, he shakes his head wildly to keep awake. So he decides to walk around the beach, stretching his throbbing muscles.

As Hobie kicks the sand between his toes, he finds himself standing next to the navy man's corpse. He stares at the lifeless eyes, lips blue, skin so pale it blends in with the sand. The crabs still eat the remains, pinching and taking bits. He scoffs, knuckles shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms.

He doesn't deserve to be buried, Hobie thinks. And he definitely doesn't need her pity. So he takes the man's legs, slowly dragging it down to the shore until it floats. The rush of waves wakes him up, cold water dousing his lower half. Hobie pushes it away roughly, letting the tides take it, letting the sea claim it like it has claimed his friends.

He watches it slowly drift away, yet his anger doesn't subside. The fire in him is still burning ever brighter. He mentally promises the crew he lost that he'll avenge them. That he'll get Mathias, even if it kills him.

Your screams bring him back to reality. Bolting away, wading through the water, the sand hinders his sprinting, he quickly runs to your side.

“Oi, oi!” Hobie watches your terrified face morph into relief when you see him. “What's wrong? Crab in your knickers?” He stops his joking when tears slide to your cheeks, your entire body is shaking. His chest heaves at your sobbing. Voice cracking when he utters your name, Hobie lets you breathe, holding on to your shoulders firmly.

You stare at him through the tears. “I–I dreamt that you left me here.” His façade breaks into two. “And I w–woke up and you weren't here. I thought—”

“I would never. I won't leave.” You continue to weep so he holds you, not to make you stop but to help steady you through it. He'd hold onto you every minute of every day if he has to.

It's frightening how well you two fit together, limbs tangled around one another. Like a pair of wings, one cannot fly without the other. And that terrifies you through the embrace.

“I'm s-sorry, I really thought.” You find your place atop his chest, face buried on his skin, his scars kissing your cheeks. Hands gripping to the small of his back, your nails almost digging.

“‘m here, ’m not leaving you, promise.” Hobie intends to keep it, not for your sake but for his.

[eternalmoonlight18]

Please Please Please (Don't Prove 'Em Right) Chapter 8

Trafaglar Law x afab Female!Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter warnings: descriptions of violence

Summary:

You are the Heart Pirates' beloved cook and sniper. However, you were also an insufferable troublemaker who always seemed to get on Law's nerves. He swears he's going to get rid of you one day, but as much as he hates it, why does he find you fascinating? Was it because you reminded him of someone he was greatly fond of?

As your relationship with Law grows, he only hopes you don't fucking embarrass him. After all, he has an image to uphold as one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea.

This story starts off as short stories between (Y/N), Law and the Heart Pirates, then picks up into the One Piece canon timeline, starting from Punk Hazard. This is a slow-burn Law x Female Reader story!

Updates every Monday!

Cross-posted in Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57651295/chapters/146705491

Chapter 8: So Close Yet So Far

Chapter summary: While facing off against Vergo and trying to destroy the SMILE factory, you finally display your newfound devil fruit powers. After the battle, Law opens up to you, and the two of you get closer than ever before.

A/N: y'all are going to hate Luffy for this one lol

I also created a taglist. Let me know if you want to be a part of it!

wc: 3k

You grinned as you caressed the sniper rifle in your hands. It's been a while since you were able to fight, and you were so excited to be back on the field. You found your new-found Devil Fruit powers to be very useful, Since you were able to be completely silent, you took advantage of the powers, and you were able to sneak around the laboratory and take out every enemy you saw in the distance. It was perfect; no one could detect you because you moved in silence.

Law told you to assist the Strawhats in fighting Monet and Caesar while he went after Vergo, who had his heart in his hands. However, you figured that your brother and his crew were able to fend off on their own, so you decided to sneak away and look for your captain.

You loaded the sniper and wore it on your back. With a pistol in hand, you snuck into the SAD production room in hopes of finding Law there. However, you weren't alone. A gunshot rang as you saw Caesar's men nearing behind you. Caesar's men managed to follow you and tried to shoot you down. However, you were nimble enough that you scurried your way to one of the huge tankards in the room and hid yourself as you prepared your sniper for assault.

Crouching down on the cold floor, you perched the weapon and positioned yourself. You watched the henchmen spread out and check their surroundings. An eery smile graced your lips as your index finger lightly brushed on the trigger.

One by one, the men collapsed, and no one saw it coming. There was no gunshot sound, only the sound of bodies dropping to the floor echoed throughout the vicinity of the production room.

Once you finish them off, you make your way further down the room until you see a man with white hair lying on the floor and a tall, muscular man looming over him. You hide behind a nearby tankard once more and peek out to see the commotion.

Your eyes focused on the fallen figure. It was Smoker.

A soundless gasp escaped your mouth. You quickly set your sniper down again and positioned yourself, aiming the barrel of the gun at the individual who you assumed beat down the Vice Admiral. However, before you could pull the trigger, a pair of black shoes made their way towards your target. As you glanced up, you saw a familiar man with a floor-long coat.

Smoke started to surround the area while the man continued to look at the fallen Smoker. "You should've been stronger, Smoker." he reprimanded. "It's over."

Smoker let out a gravelly laugh as he commanded his body to turn into Smoke once more. The smoke trailed its way around Smoker and toward Law.

The individual turned around and faced your captain. You knew that face; it was Vergo.

The smoke slowly cleared out, and in Law's hands was his heart. You grinned. Smoker was able to get Law's heart back.

"Thank you for getting my heart back, Smoker." the warlord thanked the Marine.

"Just beat his ass for me, Trafalgar." Smoker grunted while his lungs coughed up.

You decided to take the chance while everyone was distracted and aimed your rifle towards Vergo once more. With no hesitation, you pulled the trigger and silently shot the man in the shoulder as a warning.

Vergo let out a grunt of pain. He looked to his right shoulder and saw that he was shot.

"Who shot me?" he sneered.

Law and Smoker looked puzzled. Vergo has been shot, but there was no gunshot sound. The three men stood still as they tried to hear if someone else was in the room. They were met with eery silence.

You hid yourself once more and loaded your rifle. Although your powers took sound away from you, you couldn't help but move quietly out of instinct.

"Someone's hiding behind that tankard," Vergo announced. You felt his gaze piercing through you even though you were hiding.

"Aw, shit." you thought. "This dude has Observation Haki." Getting up from the ground, you decided that it was time for you to leave since Law was able to get his heart back. Sneaking around another tankard, you ran towards the exit of the room. However, you were stopped by a fist that appeared out of nowhere and connected with your face.

You soundlessly stumble out into the open and crash back fist onto the ground. Your rifle flies out of your hand and lands several feet away from you. Smoker's eyes widen as he sees you lying on the floor.

"Hey, isn't that (Y/n)? he questions.

As soon as your name is brought up, Law whips his head around and starts to clench Kikoku's handle hard once he sees you lying on the floor.

"(Y/n)-ya! Why are you here?!" he booms as he quickly makes his way towards you.

You painfully twist your neck and see your captain's quick stride toward you.

"Don't come near me!" you tried to scream, but you forgot that your powers were still in effect, which resulted in you soundlessly mouthing out words. Law froze once he saw that your voice was absent.

"What happened to your voice?" he lowly questioned. You saw that his grey pupils started wavering as he watched you slowly sit up.

Time seemed to slow down for Law he glanced at your lips and saw your mouth the word 'silence.' With the snap of your fingers, all sound returned to you. Letting out a huge sigh, you groan as the pain from Vergo's punch grew by the second. You cradled the cheek that was impacted and started to stand yourself up from the ground.

Trafalgar Law couldn't move. He couldn't bring himself to speak or react to what he had just witnessed. The last time he saw those powers being used was when his saviour was shot to death by his brother. Decades later, those same powers appeared to him once more, but this time, it was someone else using them.

It was you.

"You're distracted!" Vergo boomed as he suddenly swung his bamboo staff at Law. The impact sent the tattooed doctor flying across the room and landed him next to Smoker.

You managed to stand yourself up and tried to limp your way towards your rifle. You were unaware that Vergo was behind you and making his way towards you. Coating his entire body and staff with Armament Haki, he lifted his staff and prepared to strike you from behind.

"(Y/n)!! Behind you!" Smoker yelled out towards you.

You turned around, and time seemed to slow down around you. Your eyes widened in fear as you see the staff slowly make its way toward the side of your head. You closed your eyes and waited for the impact.

But it never came.

A small breeze grazed your face, and you suddenly found yourself sitting next to Smoker. A huge sigh of relief escaped your lungs as you realized what happened.

Your beloved captain shambled your positions at the last minute.

Vergo grunted in surprise as he found himself facing Law once more. Kikoku barricaded against his bamboo staff. Shifting his weight forward, the bamboo staff slid against the blade of the sword as it smashed into the ground.

Law took several steps back, his eyes not faltering from Vergo's figure.

"You brat, do you want a reminder of how I pummelled you as a kid?" he sneered. Readying himself, he shot himself from the ground and flew headfirst towards Law.

Law calmly readied his blade as Vergo sped towards him. With a dark gleam in his eyes, he wordlessly sliced through the undercover Marine's body and cleanly cut him in half. A few seconds passed by before you felt a tremor. Glancing up, your eyes popped out of your head as you saw the entire building was cut in half.

"WHAT THE FUCK!!!" you screamed. The cold air immediately hits your lungs as the entire facility flies off. The gas being held in the giant tankards started to escape into the air.

Panic started to seep into your system. Adrenaline rushed through your veins as you shot up from the ground, completely ignoring the fact that your entire was in pain. You started to run out as fast as you could, but as you took a step forward, your feet landed on a small pool of blood (possibly Smoker's), and you found yourself falling back to the ground. This time, you fell forward head first.

The last thing you heard before you hit the ground was Law shouting your name.

You immediately black out.

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

The first thing you felt was your head pounding. You felt consciousness come back as you felt like you were being gently rocked back and forth. Your senses started to awaken as you faintly smelt roasted meat. Cracking your eyes open, you were greeted with a blinding bright light and a brown ceiling.

You weren't in Punk Hazard anymore. You let out a huge sigh of relief. You were finally out of that cold wasteland that you called home for the last few weeks.

Glancing your head to the left, you couldn't help but smile when you saw a sunlit window. You get up from the bed you were lying in, make your way toward the window, and peered out. It was a bright and sunny day, and it seemed that you were back in the seas on someone's ship. The blue sea water glistened as waves gently rolled by.

While you were gazing out the window, you heard the door gently open and close with a small click.

"So you're finally awake." a low voice murmured.

You turn around to see Law standing and holding a glass of water. He still had his coat on, but he was missing his signature hat. His legs made their way toward you, and he reached out to hand you the glass of water. You wordlessly accept the gesture and drink from it.

Placing the drink down at the nearby bedside table, you sat down at the edge of the bed. Your captain mirrored your actions.

"So, how long was I out for this time?" you joked as you faced the tattooed doctor to your right.

"This time? Only 6 hours," he said.

"I see," you muttered back.

The atmosphere suddenly felt heavy and awkward. A pregnant silence prolonged as the two of you refused to speak up. The only things that could be heard were the soft rocking of the ship and the small sound of waves that seeped through the walls.

"So, when were you going to tell me about your Devil Fruit powers (Y/n)-ya?" Law asked, finally breaking the silence.

You shyly glance up and give out a small smile. "To be honest with you, captain, I forgot to tell you about it during our stay at Punk Hazard. Are you mad at me for not telling you sooner?" you weakly asked.

"No, I'm not," he answered back. "But, the fruit you ate...the powers you have...it's a shock to me. Do you know which fruit you ate?

You shook your head.

"The Nagi Nagi no mi. Grants you the ability of silence. You became a Soundless Human." he continued.

You let out a small laugh. "A Soundless Human huh? Seems ironic, I'm the opposite of soundless." you joked.

Law gave you a small yet sad smile. Concern started to fill your being as you realized he was being vulnerable to you.

"Do...do you have a history with this fruit? Someone you knew?" you slowly asked.

The tattooed doctor leaned back further into the bed and sighed. He faced away from you and looked towards the window before he spoke up again. "You've probably heard of the name Corazon by now."

You remained silent before he continued. "Corazon was...his real name was Rosinante. Donquixote Rosinante."

As you heard the Donxiquote name, your eyes widened. "Donxiquote? As in, Donquixote Doflamingo?" you asked.

"Yes, he was Doflamingo's brother. I used to work for Doflamingo as a child. I wanted to kill, so he took me in. I had so much hatred for the world after my entire town and family were killed. Doflamingo took advantage of my vulnerable state. I was sick with White Lead disease, but his brother saved me." he spoke.

You leaned and rested your head on his shoulder. You felt him deeply sigh as he continued to tell his story.

"Corazon was the original Nagi Nagi no mi user I knew of. He pretended to be mute through his powers, and it allowed him to be undercover. He was a Marine tasked to take down his brother. His original assignment was to make sure Doflamingo was taken care of, but..." he paused. "But he prioritized my freedom and my cure from sickness in the end." he quietly finished.

You sat in silence, pondering about the story Law just told you. For the first time, he has told you his story, and you couldn't help but feel empathy for him. You reached out to hold his hand, which was lying flat on the mattress. Law glanced down as he felt your warm hand envelop his.

"Thank you, captain, for telling me about you. I'm honoured, really honoured, that you trust me enough to know this." you finally spoke up. You looked at his face and beamed a small smile. Your eyes gently crinkled as you made small circles with your thumb as it ghosted his inner palm.

"For what it's worth, I swear that I'll use Corazon's powers the way he wanted it to be used. It's funny I'm a sniper who specializes in quiet and distant combat. It's almost like I was meant to have it." you laughed, trying to bring the mood up.

"I believe you were meant to have it (Y/n)-ya," Law whispered.

Your chest started to tighten as your captain gazed into your eyes. A new expression filled his eyes: warmth and endearment.

"Y-you think so?" you squeaked as shuffling your feet on the bed.

The doctor slowly brought up his tattooed right hand and cupped your left cheek. His thumb gently caressed your soft skin as he brought his forehead against yours and closed his eyes. The unexpected close contact caused your heart to exhilarate and your body to heat up as you felt a blush coming in.

"You mean the world to me." Law confessed as his Adam's apple bobbed up nervously. "For you to have Cora-san's fruit, I believe that you were sent my way for a reason."

"W-what do you mean?" you softly whispered. The amount of raw emotion Law was displaying felt overwhelming. You could feel his angst and his care for you radiate through his body and words.

He pulled away from your face and opened his eyes to look at you once more. With both of his hands cradling each side of your face, you felt his hot breath against yours as he leaned in.

"You stupid girl." he breathed. "Do you want me to spell it out for you?"

A light whine escaped your throat as you shut your eyes out of embarrassment. You couldn't believe what was happening. You heard Law's throatily chuckle as you felt him inch close to your face. His lips were now ghosting over yours as you felt his hot breath mingle with yours. Bringing up your hands to his sides, you squeezed his coat as a signal for him to go forward. You swear you felt his soft lips just graze against yours until-

"HEY TRAFFY! WHY ARE YOU EATING MY SISTER?" a familiar voice hollered as the door swung open and banged the wall.

You felt Law stiffen as he halted. You let go of your grip and felt your entire body freeze in fear.

The two of you turned your heads to see Luffy huffing like a wild bull with steam comically escaping his ears.

The amorous mood of the room dispersed and was now replaced with a murderous aura. Never in your life have you had a real intent to murder your younger brother until now. Your soft eyes were now replaced with a fiery glare as you shot up from the mattress and stomped your way toward your younger brother.

"LUFFY, YOU INCONSIDERABLE BASTARD!" you screamed as you wrung your brother's neck in fury.

"I'm sorry! What did I do?!" he choked as he flailed around to get away from your grip.

Paying no mind to the crew that was now gathering around since they heard you scream, you dragged your brother by the neck as his rubber body flopped on the wooden ship floor. Law and the Strawhats watched you in horror as you hauled the poor man up the stairs with threats of throwing him overboard and into the sea, spilling out your tongue.

Once you and Luffy disappeared onto the deck, the crew turned their heads to see Law, head in his hands and sighing loudly.

"Hey, what happened here?" Sanji inquired.

"Nothing," Law muttered. His neck started to turn red as he shot up from the bed and made his way past the Strawhats and up to the deck.

"What perfect timing." he thought to himself, "I don't know how I'm going to face her now."

Meanwhile, Robin put her hand on her cheek and smiled. "I think I know what happened." she coolly said.

"What is it? What happened?" Chopper asked as he started to pester the older woman.

It took two seconds for the rest of the crew to figure out why you were unbelievably mad at their captain.

"Oh, Luffy, that idiot can never read the room." Nami sighed as a smile graced her lips.

Zoro and Sanji tilted their heads in confusion. "I'm just as lost as Chopper. What happened Nami-san? Robin-chan?" Sanji asked.

Robin giggled. "I think it's going to be an interesting few weeks while we travel to Dressrosa." she simply answered.

------

cockblocked by your own brother lol

-----

TAGLIST:

@hopelesslover06 @shakysif @eyes-ofhell @letmereadchristonabike @bi-narystars @valval08 @urbisexualfriend @emmaiscool22 @deathsmajestysworld @sp1ng @kitsunechan707 @orange-milky @whore-of-many-hot-men

[darkspellmaster]

Master Post for A Phantomhive in Night Raven College or one Hell of a Twisted Tale

So If you're looking for the story, Here is the master post with all the Chapters broken up in to groups. I hope this helps, and also if you want to skip over say the Long Halloween, you can.

Main Arcs are linked, All Vignettes are in-between Chapters.

Summary:

Ciel Phantomhive, the Queen's Watchdog, has seen some serious situations in his short life, and always had control over them, but he never once believed he would find himself in a world where all his skills and charms would be useless to him. Now, tossed through a gateway to a Twisted world where magic abounds, can the young Earl Phantomhive manage to survive going to Night Raven College, and unravel the mystery of why he was set there, and how to get back home.

A, mostly, Cannon Compliant, crossover of Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji and Twisted Wonderland.

Chapters (Only Beginning and Endings)

Welcome to the Villain's World Ciel

Chapter 1 / Chapter 6

The Rose Red Tyrant

Chapter 8 / Chapter 24

The Usurper of the Wilds

Chapter 25 / Chapter 46

The Phantom Bride

Chapter 47 / Chapter 57

Halloween is Coming

Chapter 58 / Chapter 61

Halloween: Terror is Trending

Chapter 65 / Chapter 130

Halloween: Spectral Soirée

Chapter 131 / Chapter 156

Merchant of the Depths

Chapter 157 / ?????

Chapter 165:Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, A Deal with a Devil

Chapter 166: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Splashing Encounter

Chapter 167: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Scheming

Chapter 168: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Water-logged Misfortune

Chapter 169: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Shocking

Chapter 170: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Marred

Chapter 171: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Advantageous

Chapter 172: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Brainstorming

Chapter 173: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Dastardly Heist.

Chapter 174: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Gone Fishing

Chapter 175: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Jousting with a Kraken

Chapter 176: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Lonely Pot

Chapter 177: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Packing and Unpacking

Chapter 178: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Late Night Conversations

Chapter 179: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Interventions

Chapter 180: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Enter Dream World

Chapter 181: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, First Time Riding

Chapter 182: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, It’s a Small World

Chapter 183: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Everything Goes Up And Down

Chapter 184: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Learning to Steer

Chapter 185: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Screamin’ in Space.

Chapter 186: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Traversing the High Seas

Chapter 187: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Tally Ho

Chapter 188: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Sunset Screaming

Latest Chapter

Chapter 189: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Goalie

Chapter 190: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Shooting for a Picture Perfect Dance

Chapter 191: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Game, Set, Whack that Mole

Chapter 192: Merchant of the Depths–That Butler, Spun out.

Have questions, just shoot me an ask. Happy to answer it.

Discord for those interested in it.

[agent-cupcake]

Flashbang

Chapter 6 - Howl

Spotify Playlist / All Chapters / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 /Chapter 7/ Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 pt.1 / Chapter 9 pt.2 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Pairing: One Piece Live Action Buggy x f! Reader

Synopsis: A night of several firsts.

Warnings: Explicit smut, violence/death, dub/noncon, consensual drug use

Word Count: 13.5k

Notes: What do you get when you cross a mentally ill reader with a society that abandons her and treats her like trash? I'll tell ya what you get! You get whatcha fuckin deserve [weird culty clown porn]

“Now I wait as love and fate Echo from your lungs Do you, do you, do you want me, babe?”

xxx

A blood red sun set upon the sea, shining a single golden spotlight across the water as pirates rallied for the Final Call. Not even the wind could cut through the kinetic mist of untapped aggression. The pirate ship was a powder keg of violent energy and artistic ego, pressure building and building for this very moment. The crew was ready and the tides were right and the prey was chosen. All they needed was for the curtain to raise.

When the bell finally rang, it would be a lit match into an oil drum. 

Not that you stayed around to appreciate any of it. You were safely stowed below long before the first cannon was fired. Like everything else on the ship, the brig had once been a neat, utilitarian holding cell. Time had worn the wood and metal, lending it a creepy, haunted atmosphere, the cramped space a graveyard of abandoned props. The scent of rust and aging wood and thick salty stale rot was borderline suffocating, the air holding you in a shivering cold vice. 

All you could do was pull your jacket closer, trying to get as comfortable as possible on top of one of the many prop chests. It was claustrophobically slotted between a barrel filled with batons and a drum that had a violent gash through the top, but it was one of the only places in the room where you couldn’t see your distorted reflection in the cracked funhouse mirror. 

Even though everyone assured you it would be an easy victory, even though you had seen Captain Buggy’s Devil Fruit ability, and even though you had witnessed the chaos of the assault on Barley Village, you worried for the crew. You didn’t know how to pray, or even what higher power might protect pirates, but you closed your eyes and hoped very fervently that your new friends and your captain would be fine.

Anything else was unthinkable.

After that, there wasn’t anything to do other than hunker down and endure the night. You thought that since you had seen the violence in Barley Village, that you wouldn’t be as affected by it now, especially since you couldn’t see anything. You thought that you were ready for the shockwave impact of cannons. You thought that it would be okay because you were stronger now. 

Maybe, on some level, that was true, but when you heard and felt that first boom your body responded with the unrestrained panic of a wild animal. If you hadn’t peed before you hid away, you would have pissed yourself in pure terror. All at once, your breathing became fast and shallow, your heart pounding in your chest, a cold sweat coating your body. Then there was another boom. And another BOOM and muscles you weren’t aware of until that moment began to tense and quiver, your lungs seizing as if in the throes of hysterical weeping, dragging in air only to regurgitate with a spasming violence. 

It was fine. It was nothing like that day. It was fine. Why would you even think of it now? It was fine. It was entirely different. It was fine.

It was fine and yet your body curled up into a ball with your arms around your head and chin tucked against your knees, your eye wide yet dry, your mouth gaping, opening and closing in a desperate attempt to suck in some air. Your brain was on fire and the only thing you could think was that you were going to die. It was as if your body didn’t belong to you, like it had a will of its own, feelings of its own, because you couldn’t understand the reaction, it didn’t make sense. 

As the assault above worked its way down, your lantern frantically swung back and forth in a smear of flame. The metal creaked unhappily, the ship complaining all around you like an unhappy beast. Part of the strategy, you knew, was to limit cannon fire. They didn’t want to destroy the ship they hoped to commandeer. But even after it seemed like all shots had been fired, your body refused to relax. Down here, you had no idea what was happening above. No idea if Captain Buggy was okay, or Crina, or Cabaji, or Pippa, or Marty. You wouldn’t know for a while. Possibly hours. 

If it weren’t for your state of hyperarousal, you might not have noticed the sound from above. A noise, and a scuffling, and then something that might have been footsteps. Was that the hatch opening? 

You held very still, listening intently. Those were footsteps. You weren’t alone. Why? It wouldn’t make sense for anybody to come down here. Not unless something happened. There were plenty of worst case scenarios that could bring somebody down here. 

Covering your face with your arm to stem the ragged gasp of your body trying to get air, you checked to make sure you had the knife Marty had given to you safely in your pocket. You didn’t know what you would do with it, but having a weapon was better than nothing.  

A man jumped down from the steep ladder with a grunt, landing hard. He stood in the shadows, making it hard to parse details, but you had a feeling. A very bad feeling. 

Then, in a moment of true and genuine surrealism, he called your name. Your real name, the one you hadn’t heard since you boarded the ship. He picked his way over to the brig’s holding cell, but the door was too rusty to close, and the inside was filled with more props. You could see him in the funhouse mirror, his image distorted into a creepy facsimile of a human being, his face stretched out and limbs grotesquely skinny. 

You didn’t move, half hoping you would be obscured by the amount of clutter that surrounded you. 

He stepped back, looking around until his eyes met yours. And still, you didn’t move, you could hardly believe it was real.  

“Easy now, I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said, stepping into the light with his hands up. “I’m looking for a girl. A hostage. Real short, one eye.” 

You didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just looked up at him. Your mind screamed run, but your limbs locked up.

The man squinted, leaning forward to get a better look. “Holy shit, it’s you, isn’t it?” 

A little spasm made your body jerk awkwardly, a burst of energy from the part of your mind that wanted to escape.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, holding up his hands to show that they were empty. “I’m here to save you from these freaks.” Your silence made him frown, some of the warmth fading from his voice. “We have to move fast, while they’re all distracted.” He came even closer, reaching out to grab you. 

“No!” you cried, recoiling. “I’m not… I’m not going with you. I don’t need to be rescued.” 

His eyes narrowed, you could practically hear the gears turning in his head. “You’re not their hostage, are you.” 

“No,” you said, once again checking your pocket for the knife, squeezing it so tight that the metal indented your skin. “I won’t go.” 

“Look,” he said, his voice hardening. “Your dad’s offering a lot of money for your safe return, so you’re going to come with me. Is that going to be a problem?” 

“You can’t make me go with you, I won’t,” you said, shrinking back. You were essentially cornered, but you were also closer to the ladder than he was. If you could scramble up and close the hatch, you could find a place to hide. 

“I want you to know that if it were up to me, I’d let it be,” he told you. “But you’ll have to figure that out with your dad.” 

With a burst of energy you didn’t know you had, you sprung up and practically fell off of the chest, scrambling towards the ladder. 

He swore, grabbing you by the arm to jerk you backwards before striking your face. With your momentum broken and then flipped, you couldn’t adjust, going down hard and hitting the floor without feeling much of anything, just the mindless, deafening fire burning up your entire face. You were blind, your right eye streaming, seeing nothing except dark. The man hauled you off of the floor, grabbing your arms to painfully twist them. Your left shoulder socket screamed with red hot pain. That soundly snuffed out any will you had to fight. 

“I’m going to… To wrap you up. Try not to hyperventilate,” he advised, his words muffled beneath the sharp ringing in your ears. You realized that you weren’t blind, you had crashed into the light and shattered it when you fell. The man did as promised, covering you with a sheath of coarse fabric. It smelled dusty and a little rotten, it was probably one of the prop curtains. You didn’t have time to struggle before he threw you onto his shoulder, knocking the wind out of you all over again. 

Blood rushed down into your pounding head, mixing with the potent disorientation of being struck. It pulsed against the burning flesh of your cheek, you could practically feel the swelling. You knew you needed to escape, but if he dropped you while climbing to the upper deck, you could seriously injure yourself. And what good would it do? There was no way you could escape, you would only invite more pain. Maybe some people got used to it. They could take beatings and bear the pain with their teeth grit, but that wasn’t you. Already your head hurt so bad you worried you were going to vomit, your face burned, your left shoulder screamed, and your breathing was dangerously unsteady, muffled and hot in the cocoon of dusty fabric. The pain you felt now was nothing compared to what it could be, you knew that profoundly, and you couldn’t handle that.  

Think. 

You had to think. 

When you gingerly raised your right arm to check, you found that your knife had stayed in your pocket through the ordeal. You couldn’t be stupid about using it. The blade wasn’t long enough to do much damage, the most you could hope for was that it’d give you a chance. 

Even muffled by the curtain and pierced by the sharp ringing in your ears, the sound of the battle was deafening when he reached the upper deck. Your final night in Barley Village had given you a hint of violence’s atonal song, but when the man carried you out of the hatch, it hit with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Screaming, shouting, clanging, popping shots, howling like animals. 

Your kidnapper’s grip on you tightened, although you were less inclined than ever to struggle, your body seizing up in response to the cacophony, withering in fear. You wanted it to stop, you wanted to get out of the noise, to escape to where it was quiet. Not outside quiet, but the inside kind. You could feel it creeping up with its anesthetic-like haze, your mind’s best attempt to protect you from the fear and the pain and the horror. 

No, you couldn’t withdraw. You had to be brave. You would not let him take you back to your dad. You could not let him take you away from Captain Buggy. 

Figuring out where you were was too difficult when there was so much noise and activity. He would be taking you to the Jolly Boats, wouldn’t he? That was the only way to escape. You needed to act while you were around people, where you could escape into the chaos. Better to take your chances amidst a brawl than let him get you onto that boat.

Slowly, you reached into your pocket and found the knife. Moving as little as possible, you worked your arm back down to hang forward. Fumbling blindly, you felt for the notch to flip the blade out, nearly dropping the weapon in the process. But you got it, readjusting the handle to hold it in your fist. Wrapped up like you were, there wasn’t much space for you to get good leverage or hit especially hard, but it was all you had. Biting into the loose fabric of your jacket to keep yourself from vomiting, you slammed your fist into your kidnapper’s back blade first. You imagined Buggy behind you, pulling your hand out to thrust it back in, helping you just like he had on that day. Once, twice, three times and then the man practically threw you off of him with some expletive that you were pretty sure ended in bitch. 

For a second you were falling blindly, wrapped in a suffocating shroud. Then the deck caught the bend of your spine, your momentum rolling you away into a painful sprawl. You fought wildly to free yourself of the fabric, your panicked limbs thrashing desperately. 

“You fucking—you stabbed me?” The man shouted incredulously. You shucked off the dusty cocoon finally, sour bile dribbling out of your mouth as your body finally relented to the stress. You choked and coughed it out, unable to do anything else with the massive jolt of sensory overload. You thought the fighting was loud and frightening from within your curtain cocoon, but it was nothing compared to finding yourself on the deck in the midst of a true hostile takeover. 

The man was right above you when he stopped in his tracks, something emerging from his chest. He looked down at it in surprise, but the blade pulled out just as quickly. He pressed his hand against the stab wound as blood began to gush out, looking more like ink than anything else. 

Before he could do anything, he was stabbed again, the sword sticking through his chest and out the back of his hand. When it pulled up and out, his body followed it. He hit the deck with a heavy thump, his body spasming as it tried to expel the blood in his lungs. Behind him stood your vengeful guardian angel. Cabaji lowered his sword, his expression unchanged as he stalked past your would-be kidnapper.

“Are you alright?” he asked when he was close enough for you to hear him. You stared up at him blankly, unable to comprehend the question. 

The man on deck in front of you wasn’t dead. Even as he choked on his own blood, he went for his weapon. Scowling, Cabaji pushed him down with his foot and finished him off, carving a bright red smile across his neck. The man dropped, his eyes open and empty. 

Cabaji sheathed his sword and offered you a hand. You took it and stood weightlessly, your head as light as a balloon. The world spun, blinking out of reality before it slammed back into you all over again, you were made of lead. Were you crying? Or just sobbing? You realized right then that your hands were shaking violently. The entire world shook and trembled. 

“You can’t stay up here,” Cabaji told you.

You nodded, agreeing because you knew you should.

“Stay close to me,” Cabaji told you. You nodded again, clinging to his back. Cabaji didn’t stop you from holding onto his scarf, practically burying your face in it, ignoring everything else as he guided you across the deck. Every muscle in your body strained with tension, the scent of blood and smoke and gunpowder choking you, the howling of men and explosions and steel only barely piercing past the ringing in your ears.

From what it looked like when you dared to look, the fight was very one-sided. The Buggy Pirates had overwhelmed the other ship with their noise and number. You passed beneath a screaming, thrashing woman who hung from the rigging, it looked like she had climbed up in an attempt to escape and gotten tangled up. Somebody had thrown one of the powder bombs at her, painting her in red. Richie the lion had joined the fray, looking every bit the beast you feared. Bodies littered the deck, their inky blood reflecting the colors flashing in the sky. And the pirates, people you knew, rejoiced in it, cackling and dancing and killing with a reckless joyousness you couldn’t fathom.

A surprise party. As in, the other ship must have been surprised by the vicious crowd of circus performers throwing a party on their ship. 

It was grotesque. Unnatural. You didn’t belong here, it didn’t make any sense that you were. It didn’t make sense. 

When Cabaji stopped at the quarterdeck hatch leading down the officer’s quarters, you nearly fell against him. He opened it up, stepping aside to usher you through. It was on unsteady feet that you stepped down onto the ladder, and with clumsier hands that fumbled. You hit the floor hard on your tailbone. There was no pain. Cabaji jumped down next to you, once again holding out a hand to hoist you back onto your feet. 

“Go into the captain’s cabin and lock the door.”

With the battle muffled, your deafening heartbeat took its place. You nodded, swallowing hard to pop your ears. “Yes,” you said. “Yes, sir.” 

Before he could ascend the ladder again, you grabbed his hand, looking him in the eye with a sudden, vivid flash of hyper reality, every detail of the ship and the man in front of you viscerally present.

“Thank you, Cabaji.”

Although his severe expression remained, you thought you felt him squeeze your hand in passing reassurance before swinging around to rejoin the chaos above. 

The trip back to the captain’s cabin was just that—a trip. After locking the door, you stumbled your way past the antechamber where you would normally wait and into Captain Buggy’s bedroom. For a long moment, you stood there looking at Buggy’s bed which you had neatly made earlier that day. His desk, littered with a familiar mess. 

This was real. All of it. 

Doubling over with a hard punch of nausea, you rushed to the bathroom, barely getting the lid up before you threw up everything in your stomach. Supper had been a while ago, there wasn’t much to expel other than acid, but your body violently convulsed in rounds as if to get rid of something more, something worse. Trying to rid itself of the sickness that nestled right into your bloody, corrupted insides, desperate to cleanse itself of the sticky rot that thickened your blood and made your head ache. 

But that relief never came. 

When you were so emptied out inside that your body couldn’t justify even dry heaving, you stood up and flushed the toilet. Moving slowly, lethargically, you grabbed the nearest liquid—a bottle of disinfecting alcohol Buggy used to wash his pierced ear—to rinse your mouth. It tasted foul and felt worse, but it removed the taste of vomit from your tongue. 

With slow, stumbling steps, you went into the bedroom and poured yourself a cup of water, drinking until you couldn’t take any more and then-

And then what? 

You stared at the worn down edge of his desk and even though you weren’t moving, couldn’t even feel yourself shaking anymore, the world was collapsing around you. It felt like that one time you fell out of one of the buildings northside, that hook like drag from behind your bellybutton as gravity got a hold of you, the terror that came moments before the agony of crashing onto the ground. 

Not knowing what else to do, you huddled in the corner. Not on the bed, but behind it. Hiding. 

You wanted to shut it all off, to retreat into the inside quiet like usual, to go where the world couldn’t touch you. There was too much pain and horror. Too many thoughts you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking. You did not belong here. You wanted to go home. 

That pathetic thought broke through the fragile composure you’d maintained and you curled up into yourself, crying openly. You didn’t want to be here anymore, it was scary and violent and loud. You wanted to go home.

Pressing a clammy, trembling hand to your cheek, you could almost feel your dad’s touch imprinted on the skin, burned there as surely as a brand. 

You closed your eye and it was as if you were in the familiar old sitting room with the overstuffed upholstery and fire that burned so brightly yet never seemed to put off any heat. That night, the last night before he left, dad called you to sit at his feet, appraising you with tired, bleary eyes. At the height of his fury, he looked more vicious god than man, towering above you with lightless pupils and a blank expression. Now he looked old and worn out. His days at sea had carved a million little creases into his face, the leathery flesh sagging off the bone from one too many emptied liquor bottles. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said as he stroked your cheek. “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

“I know, daddy.”  

“My sweet little girl.” His words slurred together like they always did when he was in an affectionate mood. “You are, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, daddy.” 

“You’ll be good now, won’t you? You won’t misbehave while I’m gone?” 

What you wanted to remember was agreement. A bland ‘yes’ that you didn’t mean because of course you were going to run away. But that’s not what happened. That’s not what you said that night.

“Please don’t go,” you begged. That part of the memory was the most important because you understood it now. If he had stayed, you wouldn’t have left. You would have died in that house if he was there to keep you with him. Because you didn’t want to leave, not really. But you knew you couldn’t stay, either. You had to at least try to get out. But dad stroked your cheek and told you he would be back in a blink, that you wouldn’t have time to miss him. 

You saw him off the next morning, your shoulders heavy with the knowledge of what you were about to do. What you had to do. 

Destiny, fate, a bad joke—you didn’t know what to call it. Inevitability, maybe. Now you were here.

Your own hand dropped from your cheek, falling limp to the floor beside you as that memory fell away, replaced with another. 

“If he doesn’t kill you, your dad will. Do you really think you’ll ever be able to hide from him?” Randall said that right before you cut him—cut him a huge red smile—and he was right. That’s what this was. 

What happened tonight had been a deliberate attempt to kidnap you, to get away while everybody was distracted by the raid. Maybe your dad would be able to guess which merchant ships the Buggy Pirates would raid based on the stolen maps. Maybe he sent messages out to a few mercenary types, people who would be on board to protect the goods anyway, people who wouldn’t mind abandoning their crew for a bigger payout. Maybe this was just the most rotten confluence of bad luck and coincidence. 

The execution was overshadowed by the far more intimidating message of it all. He would never let you go, not you, not his sweet little girl. 

There was no quiet, not inside or out. The thrashing, raving thing within you screamed, and you did too. A ragged and terrible scream that ripped up the inside of your throat. It was pathetic and ugly. More than anything, it hurt.

Even if you went back to him, he would know what you had done. He would know that you weren’t his little girl anymore, that you were tarnished. One life burned for another you could never have. No matter what you thought or told yourself, you weren’t a pirate. You were a fake. A coward.

And there was nothing you could do. Not now, not anymore. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. 

For the first time since boarding the ship, you thought about what led you to this point. Really thought about it. The sneaking, the hiding, being strung up and threatened, the cage. Standing behind Randall with a stranger at your back, a knife in your hand, a blade to the neck of a man you had loved nearly all of your life, a man who never loved you. Screaming. Blood dripping down your wrist.

Murderer.

There were moments in your life that you thought were too much. You stopped crying, stopped shaking, stopped breathing, and knew, knew with absolute certainty, that you could not handle any more. Then time continued to march on, pulling you right along with it, and there was nothing other than your suffering, it was without end, and you wanted to die—more, you wanted to never have existed in the first place.

Those moments didn’t come when dad beat you, or when he screamed at you, or after losing mom, or because of what happened to your eye, or seeing Randall marry another girl. Pain and fear and sadness were immediate. Pain and fear and sadness, no matter how intolerable, made sense. At least you weren’t alone, at least you had a tether—even one that was barbed and electrified. 

True misery, the kind that made you want to claw your way out of your skin and rip out your still-beating heart, was a solitary experience. It came when the cellar door closed and you heard the lock turn. When your desperate pleas and apologies and cries were met with silence because nobody was close enough to hear them. Those dark hours you spent curled up on the stone floor shivering, listening to your wheezing breath shudder in and out of your lungs. When the quiet didn’t come and you realized the enormity of imprisonment. It wasn’t that you were trapped in the dark, dank cellar with rats, or in a house with your angry dad, or in a town where everybody thought you were a freak. Hell was realizing that you were trapped within yourself, with the monstrous creature who lived in your head, the one that hated you so bitterly. Was that you? You without any mask at all, exposed and plain and wretched and a murderer.  

It was too much. You could not handle it.

But there was nothing else. No one else. And you only had yourself to blame. 

There was something Randall used to tell you. He’d laugh good-naturedly and say you’ve really stepped in it now. You could hear him now, as clearly as if he were right next to you. 

You’ve really stepped in it now.

You heard the door unlock and open from the other room. The sound jolted you stiff, a gasp leaving your sore throat. 

“Honey, I’m hoooome,” Buggy called, shutting the door. Hearing that it was him made your shoulders relax a little. Did that mean the fighting was over? “Babydoll, are you here? Cabaji told me you were naughty and he had to put you in time out.”

“I’m back here,” you called on autopilot, your voice cracking.

You had no idea what happened now, or what you were meant to do. There was nothing you could do to hide the fact that you had been crying, no matter how much you wiped your face. Bracing yourself for anything, you got to your feet. Standing up so fast made you dizzy, and suddenly you felt quite aware of how ridiculous it all was. Pathetic. A pirate wouldn’t cower in the corner of a room crying like a child. A grown woman wouldn’t do that. 

You reached up to pull down your bandana, only to poke your left eye. It must have come undone sometime during the attempted kidnapping. You lost your knife too. That hurt worse than losing your bandana, nearly prompting you to start crying all over again. 

“Where oh where has my baby gone,” Buggy began to sing as he walked through the other room. “Oh, where, oh, where can she be? She whines so sweet, like a bitch in heat—” He reached the open doorway, smiling as soon as he saw you. “Oh, there you are. I didn’t wake you up, did I?” 

“No, sir,” you said, your head bowed to hide your splotchy red face.

“What were you doing?” 

You sniffled. “Nothing, sir.” 

“Aw, did the big scawy fight make you cwy?” Buggy asked. You shook your head fast, unwilling to trust that your voice wouldn’t break if you spoke. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s okay to be scared your first time. Even I was a little freaked out during my first big raid.” 

You dared to look up, your eyebrows furrowed. “Really?” 

“No,” he said, laughing as if the thought itself were too ridiculous to entertain. “Can you imagine me being scared?” 

He took his gloves off, tossing them aside. Buggy had lost his hat and coat and his clothes were splattered with blood and colorful powder and who knows what else, but he wasn’t wounded. He was fine, and he was in good spirits. That was good. 

“You know,” Buggy finally said to break the silence, “if you want me to keep you around, you’re gonna have to suck it up and put on your big girl pants. Nobody likes a crybaby.” 

“I know,” you said softly, self loathing making your chest swell, sitting heavily on your heart and lungs like a tumor. “I’m sorry, sir.”  

“God, you’re so… so pitiful,” Buggy said. “Yeah, no. That’s not gonna do it for me tonight. We’re drinking.”

You side-eyed his collection of bottles. The sweet liquor he had shared that first night was an outlier, most of what Buggy drank was much harder and more abrasive. Even the smell made your stomach turn, you had no idea how he could handle it. “I’m okay,” you said, wiping your eye again. 

“Oh, right. Poor little baby can’t handle her liquor. Don’t worry, Captain Buggy has just what you need. I scored this a month ago at a club owned by this Saydon guy.” He walked over to the armoire, shuffling around the clutter before finding a bottle. “He’s a thieving sack of shit without an original bone in his body, but I had a good time fleecing his stupid customers. This,” he held up the bottle as he turned and approached you, “is the good shit, straight from some rich guy’s personal stash. I was going to sell it, but I’m willing to sacrifice a few berry to cheer up my pathetic little charity case.”

You swallowed hard at the offer, looking from his smile to the bottle. Thick red glass and a real paper label, although the text was illegible. 

“Let me pour you some so we can skip to the part where you’re not making me miserable and we can celebrate my brave and triumphant victory.”

“Okay,” you said. It was fine, probably some type of opiate. Your dad had given you that sort of thing to help you stave off the hysteria before. It would be nicer than feeling like this, wrung out and hiccupping in the pitiful clutches of despair. 

“Gotta be careful not to overdo it. Hey, you wanna eyeball this for me?” Buggy asked, laughing as he measured out the tincture and added some water. Seeing your lack of smile as he handed you the cup, he sighed dramatically and grabbed one of the bottles from his desk. “A toast to the flawless victory won tonight by the most fearsome captain in all of the East Blue.”

“To Captain Buggy,” you said. Buggy drew back the bottle, giving you a sharp look. Sluggish as your brain was, it took an excruciatingly long few seconds to realize what he wanted. “To Captain Buggy, the future King of the Pirates... and-and the best man I’ve ever known,” you tried again.

“Eh… I’ll take it,” he allowed with a shrug, tapping his bottle to your cup.

The drink was as terrible as you expected, but the taste of bitter medicine was still better than hard liquor. Buggy clearly didn’t feel the same, downing a mouthful without even wincing before unceremoniously collapsing onto the end of his bed. You ran a hand over your face. Red, hot, and a little swollen. You knew you looked rough, probably about as bad as you felt. 

“You weren’t this weepy last time,” Buggy said. “You weren’t worried about me, were you?” 

“Of course I was,” you said, frowning. “I was worried about all of you. I… I don’t know what I would do without you, Captain Buggy. I’m sorry, I’m…” You shook your head, trying to clear it somewhat. “It’s silly.” 

“Yeah it is. Those idiots wouldn’t be able to hurt me even if I was doused in seawater and blindfolded,” Buggy said, rolling his eyes and leaning back on his elbows. “It was so easy, barely even worth bragging about. After I killed like ten of his men, the captain came out with this huge sword—clearly compensating for something. I let him get a good swing in right through the middle, and you should have seen his eyes when I put myself back together. His reaction was even better than yours. I’m pretty sure he shit himself.”

“And everyone else?” you asked.

“Yeah, they did fine too,” he said flippantly. “Frankly, it was boring. For me, at least. I could probably have taken them down all by myself.” He sighed dramatically. “But, hey, it was a good learning experience for my freaks.” 

You nodded, dropping down to your knees to take his boots like always.

Buggy capped the bottle and buried it in the sheets, pulling something out of his pants pocket. You glanced up to see him messing with something wrapped in thin foil wrapping before forcing yourself to focus on the nightly ritual of wrestling his boots off. They were splattered in blood, a fact you only realized when some of it smeared onto your hands.

“I found these in his office,” Buggy said after you got the first boot off. “Salted caramels. They’re a bitch to get out of your teeth, but-” Buggy popped one in his mouth, moaning loudly at the taste, “sooo good. Want one?” 

You were more concerned with the unabashedly vulgar moan than you were with the candy, it took you a second to remember the question. 

“Oh, um. Yes,” you finally said. “Yes, please.” 

“Okay, but don’t tell anyone that I’m playing favorites,” Buggy said as he unwrapped another, sitting up to hold it out. When you tried to take it, he pulled away. “Ah, ah, ah. Open wide, babydoll.” 

You frowned, realizing that he meant to feed it to you. “Why?” 

“Look at your hands! Have you got any idea how nasty blood is? Come on, say ahhh.” 

You sat up to take it with your mouth, he pulled it back at the last second, your lips closing around empty air. 

“Oh, you almost got it,” Buggy teased. “Try again.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Captain Buggy, why…?”  

“I’m teaching you a valuable lesson. If you really want something, you have to work for it.” He held the chunk of caramel up again, within reach. Once again, you tried to eat it, but he pulled it away again. “So close,” he taunted. Every time you leaned closer, Buggy pulled it away, scooting further up the bed to keep it just out of reach, laughing the whole time. It forced you to crawl up, bracing yourself on the edge of the bed to chase the prize. Once you thought you really had it, uncomfortably hovering above him, he looked you in the eye and popped the candy into his mouth. “Guess you didn’t want it that bad,” Buggy said with a big grin, the words gummed up as he chewed. 

Flushing with embarrassment, you sat back onto your knees. 

“You know,” Buggy said, sitting up. “I had a dog once that did the exact same trick. It wasn’t as good as when you do it, although he was a lot better at actually getting the treat.” Foil crinkled and, this time, he pressed the caramel directly against your lips, pushing until you accepted it. You were too caught off guard by the way he’d put it into your mouth to do anything other than automatically chew and swallow, barely tasting anything. “See?” he asked. “Delicious, right?” 

“Yeah,” you belatedly agreed, the word coming out on autopilot.

“I can’t stand having sticky fingers,” Buggy said, tapping his tacky fingertips together with a frown. “Be a good little puppy and lick them clean for me.” 

You blinked, laughing dizzily in disbelief before you fully comprehended what he said. “What?”

“It’s what dogs do, isn’t it?” Buggy asked, wagging his fingers in front of your face. 

“You mean it?” you asked, hoping that he was just playing with you. 

“Yes, I do,” he said slowly, condescendingly. “It can’t be that much more embarrassing than doing tricks, right?” 

 So it was just another game. An embarrassing one. It felt dirty, like something you shouldn’t have been doing. But maybe that was in your head. Maybe Buggy didn’t see it that way. It was fine. Avoiding looking up, you opened your mouth for him. He said to lick them clean, but it was more practical to close your lips and suck until there were no more traces of caramel stickiness on his skin. 

“And Cabaji says you’re dead weight,” Buggy said, satisfied. Pulling his fingers out of your mouth with a slick pop, he leaned back again, grabbing the bottle from the sheets to take another drink. 

“Cabaji says that?” you asked, confused. You and Cabaji were, well, not friends. But he saved you. When you thanked him, he squeezed your hand. Hadn’t he? When you tried to think of it, the whole night floated somewhere distant, far beyond the warm bubble of this room, there was a chance you made that part up. 

“Are you ever gonna finish up down there?” Buggy asked as if he hadn’t heard you, raising his remaining boot. Somehow, you’d forgotten that removing his boots was the reason you were on the floor to begin with. Trying to shake your head clear, you braced yourself to get his boot off. It took more effort than it probably should have. Your limbs had loosened, your head light like a balloon. When it came free, you tipped backwards, thumping down on the floor. There was no pain. 

Buggy laughed. Surprised at first, then louder, a big belly laugh.  

You sat up, dazed and frowning. Your expression only made him laugh harder. When his amusement settled somewhat, he managed to speak. “You okay?”

“It’s not that funny,” you said.

“You know when you see a kid trying their little heart out to do something, but they keep failing because they’re so small and stupid? It’s like that,” Buggy said. “Watching you struggle with everything you try to do is half the reason I keep you around.”

Frowning with all of the indignant strength you could muster, you got your legs beneath yourself, using the edge of his desk to stand. Although it had probably been more of a gradual process you were simply unaware of—that would explain your lack of concern with his antics—it was only when you were upright that you fully realized the impact of the medicine. 

Woah. 

Breathing deeply, you followed the motions of getting a rag to clean up your hands, surprised at how lethargically you moved, how warm your skin felt. Annoyed, you pushed off your jacket, relaxing when its weight was gone from your shoulders. 

You mumbled an apology, something about the room being too warm, turning to look at Buggy. The air felt so nice brushing against your bare skin, like warm little whispers all over your arms and legs.

“Hey, kiddo, you’re lookin’ kinda flushed,” Buggy said. “I didn’t give you too much, did I?”

You blinked slowly, caught off guard by the way his pale skin glowed in the warm lamplight, the way it highlighted the shadows beneath his cheekbones. “What?”

“Come here,” he said, holding his hand out to you. 

It wasn’t a long distance, a few feet at most, but your legs weren’t steady at all. You let go of the desk and almost immediately tipped forward. 

“Sheesh,” Buggy said with a laugh, catching you before you fell. “I didn’t expect you to throw yourself at me.”

“Sorry,” you said distantly, trying to get your bearings. The melty lightheaded feeling had your head spinning, reality shifting on its axis before snapping back into place. 

“It’s not like it's the first time,” Buggy joked, grinning. Standing like this, your hands on his shoulders, you were so close. His breath smelled like whiskey and caramel and his makeup had faded and smeared after the fight. You wanted to be closer, to feel his bare skin against yours. That would be so nice, wouldn’t it? He was warm and solid and-

You looked around, overcome with the absurdity of the situation. How long had you been in here? The air was warm and too close, and your bandana was gone when you nervously tried to pull it down. 

“Sorry, um… What?” you asked with a confused smile, trying to focus your thoughts. “I… can’t think…” 

“It’s not like I keep you around for your brains,” Buggy told you. He sounded a little drunk, smiling that boyish grin you usually only saw in the morning. “Why don’t you sit down? We’re still celebrating.” 

“What about your… your makeup?” you asked, trying to find a familiar point to tether yourself with. 

“What about yours?” Buggy asked, running his thumb over your cheek. “It’s smeared all over your face. You look like a one-eyed racoon.” 

“Oh, I… I forgot,” you said, running a finger under your eye. It came away smeared with black makeup. “I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t mind it,” Buggy said, “Actually, you look kinda cute like this—all cried out and red and pathetic. I don’t know why, but there’s something about that sad look you get that really turns me on. Is that weird?”

A beat too late, your eye widened in surprise, your shoulders raising defensively. “You can’t say that.” 

“Why not?”  

“Because…” You floundered, searching for the right words. The other night when you were drunk, the alcohol made your thoughts scatter, difficult to interpret. This drug was different, it eased away the edges. Too many words and a very soft world in which to speak them. That was confusing, just for a different reason. “Because it’s not true,” you finally said, almost proud to have remembered what you meant to say. “You’re just trying to embarrass me.” 

Buggy laughed. “I don’t have to make shit up to embarrass you. Half the time you spare me the trouble and do it yourself.” 

You frowned, your eyebrows furrowing. 

“Don’t worry,” he said soothingly, “I’m into it.”

You looked at him for a second before laughing nervously, a little tremor working down your spine. “Captain Buggy, I, um…” 

“Don’t you trust me?” he cooed in an overly saccharine tone. 

“Yes, I do.” 

“You’re not afraid I’m trying to pressure you into something, are you? It’s not like there’s anything wrong with sitting together. I bet you sat on your dad’s lap all the time,” Buggy said as he pulled you towards him, scooting back to make more room for you to sit. 

“Not… like this,” you said, your nervous smile straining as you tried to twist sideways to sit with your legs across his lap because that was the normal, safe way. Sitting with your legs straddling his hips was entirely different and wrong. “Isn’t this… awkward for you?” 

“Not at all. Make yourself comfortable.” You tried to hold your weight off of him, one foot on the floor, but he reached around to hook a hand around your thigh, forcing you fully onto the bed and onto his lap. “Yeah, just like-” Buggy’s words cut off with a groan when you tilted forward, a sound that made you tense up, very, very aware of his hips between your thighs. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, trying to squirm away. “Did I hurt you? I can… move…”

“No, don’t,” Buggy said, his hold on your hips tightening. “It’s, uh…” He exhaled harshly. “Fuck. I swear I never even thought this sorta thing was hot before now… Like, sure, I guess it’s a little charming when girls get coy and act like they’re innocent, but, I don’t know, it’s so played out. But then the real deal comes around and suddenly I get the appeal. I really get it.” 

You giggled at that. It wasn’t funny, you weren’t sure why you would find it amusing. “Shhh,” you said as seriously as you could. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?” Buggy asked, raising his eyebrows. “Have you ever even kissed anybody?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, I have.”

“Riiiight, that shithead from the other day. But he abandoned you, didn’t he? Broke your poor little heart all because he couldn’t imagine looking at your busted eye while fucking you.” Buggy’s hand raised to cradle your head, his thumb tracing the scar beneath your left eye. “Well, personally, I think it’s hot that you’re just as damaged on the outside as you are on the inside.”

“No,” you told him, shaking your head with more vigor than was warranted when you weren’t sure what, exactly, you were protesting. 

“Between you and me,” Buggy continued, leaning even closer to speak in a conspiratorial tone, “last time I was jacking off, all I could think about was how adorable it is. Your eyes just scream ‘rape me’ which is weird because only one of them works, and believe me, it makes it pretty damn difficult when you spend so much time on your knees. God, would you even know what was going on if I popped a boner while you were down there? I’m chubbed up half the time and you don’t seem to get it.”

That crossed a line you hadn’t been aware of, and he said it so easily. So casually. The words dripped hot poison into your core, pulling a dark shiver down your spine and an unexpected sound from your mouth. You didn’t mean it, you never really did, but your mind was drifting above the clouds, leaving your body to try and sort out the feelings he so effortlessly dragged out of you. As soon as your reaction registered, you clasped both hands over your mouth with enough force to almost send you tumbling backwards, but Buggy pulled you back, laughing.  

“What was that?” 

“I… didn’t mean to,” you said, but he probably couldn’t hear through your hands.

“No, seriously. Do you practice these sounds ahead of time, or do they just happen?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, releasing your mouth. “I…” When you squirmed in discomfort, his hips rolled to meet it, grinding directly between your legs. You squeezed your eye shut, just trying to breathe. The drug made your body relax, but it relaxed too much, dragging you down with the heaviness of your flesh. A bubble of sound left you, something like a sob or a laugh or a hiccup. “Why are you doing this?” 

“Because it’s fun and, more importantly, because I want to,” Buggy said in a matter-of-fact way. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shook your head again, refusing to look at him as if that would buy you some time so you could find an answer. 

“Hey, your captain asked you a question.” 

“I… don’t know…” you told him, fleetingly meeting his eye in an attempt to convey your inner conflict, to make him understand what you felt.

Buggy made a harsh sound of frustration, his eyes rolling up to stare at the ceiling. “Yeah, that’s not really an answer. The last thing I need right now is you waking up tomorrow and crying molestation or some bullshit.”

“I wouldn’t,” you told him. “I don’t want you to-to stop, but… I-I don’t know what… or-or how, I…”

“Ah, I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?” he said in a softer tone, looking back down to meet your eye, smiling and petting your hair. “I mean what is the first rule of storytelling?” 

You frowned, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. 

“Show,” Buggy answered for you, his hand sneaking around to hold the back of your head, “don’t tell.” 

It wasn’t a kiss, not at first. At first it was just hot and wet because you didn’t understand what was going on. You knew you were supposed to open your mouth, so you did, but you couldn’t comprehend anything other than the vulgar assault of tongue and teeth. He tasted like salt and caramel and liquor and greasepaint. It was strange to feel his nose pressing against your cheek and the drag of his stubble against your skin.

Then something clicked, your body taking over while your mind faltered behind. With the drug swimming in your system, everything felt at least a little good. The heaviness inside of you was also raw, stimulating warmth, a sort of buzzing wherever the two of you touched. Kissing Buggy felt even better. Being kissed, letting him guide you. It was filthy and messy and a little gross to feel his tongue in your mouth, but it was animalistically hot. 

When his hand pushed under your shirt, it tickled enough to make you laugh, squirming in his lap. He groaned hungrily right into your mouth, his hips grinding up against you. With one arm wrapped around you to keep your head in place, the other pushed your undershirt up and out of the way to palm your breasts. The limited exploration you had done with your body had given you the impression that you were indifferent to feeling anything other than disgust and shame, but the sensation of him rolling your nipple between two rough fingers zipped down your spine like electricity. 

Even muffled by his mouth, you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning and whimpering, from helplessly pressing yourself against him for more. He said you hadn’t noticed when he was hard before, but you were pretty sure that’s what you were feeling right then, that it was his erection hot and hard between your legs. 

Leaving both nipples hard and painfully sensitive, his hand slipped down to wiggle under the waistband of your shorts. Bad. Bad. Wrong. Very wrong. You pulled away with a harsh gasp, trying to squirm away from that hand. 

“Hey, no, it’s okay. I’m just gonna check real quick to see if you’re wet,” Buggy said to console you. His makeup was smeared from the kiss, and his eyes were round and excited. “It’s not weird, I’m just trying to figure out where we’re at with the whole consent thing, okay?” 

“Okay,” you mumbled, even if you had no idea what one had to do with the other. The angle was awkward, especially when he had to navigate beneath the confines of your shorts, but his searching fingers found your clothed pussy pretty quickly. His touch shocked you as physically as a jolt of electricity. Even through your panties, there was a foreign intensity to the pressure. More intense, maybe, was the look in his eyes. You expected amusement, but there was none. Stripped of the jokes and the teasing and the smile and the crass comments, he was somebody who wanted. Wanted you.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Buggy said, his fingers curling, pushing the fabric of your panties between your folds, and you choked back an embarrassing whimper, your hips unintentionally bucking forward.

“I don’t think this is… I’m really, really sorry, I…” you stammered out, stumbling over your excuses and apologies and anything at all that would get you out of this. “I mean, we shouldn’t, it’s probably not-”

“Shut up,” Buggy told you sharply. “Here I thought I should take things slow so you didn’t feel too bad about it afterwards, but you’re fuckin’ soaked.”

“No, it… ‘s not-”

“No?” he cut in, easily shutting you up with another curl of his fingers. “So what am I feeling right now. Did’ya piss yourself or something?” 

“I didn’t! It’s just…” Hard to think. Hard to talk. Hard to figure out what you wanted. Hard to know what was happening, what he expected. You laughed a little, hoping that he would too, and that this would be a joke, but he didn’t. You broke, shaking your head and whining. “It’s too… too embarrassing.” 

“For you, maybe. I mean, jeez, talk about desperate. You really want me, huh?”

“I… I don’t know if… I shouldn’t.”

“God, it’s like pulling teeth,” Buggy said, pulling his hand out from between your legs. “Wait, there’s an idea. Should I go get the pliers? Will that get me a straight answer out of you?”

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on anything other than the zapping memory of his hand down your shorts. If you didn’t want something, you already would have left, your body wouldn’t be singing and surging to get more of his touch. But you couldn’t say that you wanted to go further either because you could not imagine or conceptualize that happening. More than anything, you didn’t want to be alone. You didn’t want to disappoint him. The idea of being touched drove you wild, but there was a sickness in your stomach that was only getting worse. 

“Listen, babydoll,” Buggy told you, his voice lowering, steady like he was talking to a frightened animal. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, but I’m really hard right now so I’m gonna come. You can either stay here and come with me or get the hell out of here.” As much as you could feel Buggy trying to maintain composure, it wasn’t working.

You closed your eye, trying to think, just to scrape together a single coherent thought that would help you figure out what to do, but instead you thought of the warehouse. The air stank of wet rot and ocean air and old metal. “New girl,” Buggy had called, snapping to beckon you closer. Randall knelt on the ground. Pathetic and powerless, groaning in pain. You obliged then, rushing to Buggy’s side, your feet crunching on the broken glass and chunks of old building. Buggy didn’t look angry, not like you feared he would. Instead, he smiled. It was a mean smile, a frightening one. But a smile all the same, a gruesome expression meant to set you at ease, and maybe to keep himself composed. “Are you ready for your big moment?”

“So, uh,” Buggy, the real one, the one sitting beneath you watching with expectant eyes, said, licking his lips, “which is it?”

There was only one answer, there had only ever been one. You didn’t know. These things, your choices, weren’t for you to make. So you didn’t know. Not then and not now. Instead, you took the knife he offered and asked for him to show you how. Instead, you pressed yourself closer to him, hoping that he would decide, desperate for him to choose for you. Buggy moaned, his hips rolling upward to meet yours. He caught himself quickly, practically growling in frustration. 

“Fuck… Stop,” Buggy told you in a rough voice, grabbing you by the back of the hair to force you still. “I need you to tell me what you want. Out loud. Right now, so it's on the record.”

“I want,” you told him in a weak voice, stopping there as you tried to find the right words.

“Yeah?” He prompted you.

“I want…” The words sounded so far away, like it wasn’t really you speaking them at all, as if you were trying to guess the right answer. “I want you, Captain Buggy. Anything you want, I’m yours.” 

“Finally!” Buggy said with a hoarse laugh, shaking you back and forth. “See how easy it is when you allow yourself to be honest?”

Easy. It was easy, of course it was easy, of course you wanted to give him whatever he wanted, especially if it was you. Anything, anything, everything. Buggy grabbed you by the hips to spin you around, dropping you onto the bed. You landed on your back and bounced twice, dizzy from the sudden shift. Buggy was already kneeling between your legs by the time you blinked your vision clear, roughly getting out of his pants. 

“Since we’re being honest now, I’ll tell you something too—I’m glad this is your first time,” Buggy told you, flinging off his shirt before getting you out of yours. He didn’t undress you with any grace, pulling your shirt and undershirt off in a twisted bundle of fabric, leaving you half naked to his manic, hungry eyes. “Opening night is special,” he continued, licking his lips. “It’s something that nobody has ever seen before. Sure, it lacks the polish of later shows, but there’s beauty in that. It’s real, it’s raw. This, right now, is your debut, babydoll. I wanna see you come. Once, maybe twice just to start because then I’m going to fuck you and that…” Buggy laughed, pulling off one boot and tossing it behind himself with a thump before taking the other. You sat up, trying to cover your chest, only to be knocked back down when he grabbed the waistband of your shorts and underwear to pull them down your thighs, curling your legs up to shake you out of them. “It might hurt, after all of this teasing I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself back. But that’s good. You want it to hurt, it should hurt—pain is how good art is made.”

Before you could respond to that, he descended upon you. Not a kiss this time. At least, not a kiss on the lips. While his fingers trailed up your thigh, his mouth latched on your neck. The same moment he found your entrance, his teeth dug into your sensitive skin. When he began to suck, his fingers trailed upward to land on your clit.

You might have wailed, if only you had enough air in your lungs to do so. He only got a sharp, pathetic whine and more nervous giggling, your hips jumping up into his hand. Somewhere inside of your swimming mind, there was a thought. A spark of one, a bit of consciousness that had no real conclusion before it bubbled out of your mouth in a string of stuttered “I…I…I…”  while your hands gripped desperately at his shoulders. He kept rubbing your clit and you knew, logically, that it would feel better if you stayed still, but you couldn’t. 

Buggy pulled away from your neck with a slick pop. “Can you…fuckin’...can you settle down? I can’t do this with you trying to buck me off.” 

You meant to tell him that it wasn’t your fault, that you couldn’t keep still, but the only response your drugged brain could manage was a nervous smile and hiccup. Making a sound of frustration, Buggy sat up and grabbed you by the waist to pull you down, his forearm settling across your pelvis to keep your hips flat. With his weight pinning down one leg and your other shoved aside by a not so gentle slap, you couldn’t go anywhere. So you whined, giving up and covering your face with your hands instead. 

Buggy laughed. “Don’t act so pathetic, I know you love this. You're sooo sensitive," he said, lazily pushing a finger into your pussy before dragging it out. Letting his fingers glide between your folds with an agonizingly light touch, drawing little circles over your swollen clit. Again and again and again and- "I’m barely doing anything and you're practically having a seizure down there." 

You whimpered, squirming beneath him to no avail. He had your hips completely immobilized. Buggy laughed again, slowly sinking his fingers into your pussy. Two of them now. Two calloused fingers to press deep into you, to seek out the spongy spot as they curled and thrust in and out. Slow, painfully slow. There was nothing you could do about it. Push at his shoulders with shaking hands, arch your back to nowhere, shake your head back and forth like it mattered, like he cared. You tried to laugh like he did, needed to diffuse some of the scorching tension, but the sound was breathy and high pitched and it wasn’t funny, it was torture. 

Buggy’s fingers finally broke the slow pace to practically slam into you, and it sounded disgusting. Wet, harsh. You couldn’t stop shaking, and there wasn’t enough air, your lungs were being collapsed by the weight of the drug. Despite that, despite everything, your pussy squeezed his fingers, only getting wetter the rougher he got. The noises you made, the mewling and the whining and the moaning, were practically innocent compared to the loud squelching of each thrust.  

“It sounds like I’m plunging a fuckin’ toilet,” Buggy said, laughing.

You pressed your palms against your eyes as if that would hide you, caught between humiliation and need. “I’m s-ss-sorry,” you babbled. “It’s… gross… I’m sorry, please just… Stop, it’s—”

“Stop?” he repeated. “Is that what you just said? You’re giving me orders now?” He slowed down, only to add another finger. The frantic rise of tension had your heels digging into his bed, your hands unable to decide if you wanted to cover your face or claw at the sheets. 

“No! No, no no—” What were you even denying at this point? It was all incoherent anyway, and you knew you didn’t actually mean it.

“Do you know when I’m gonna stop?” Buggy asked. “After you come all over my hand. So quit yer yappin’ and hurry it up.”

Your whimper was barely audible, but it was one of resignation. He was right, the slick squelching sounds really did conjure the worst imagery. But, somehow, not even that killed your building orgasm. Neither did the musky smell, or the gross feeling of your sweat soaking into his bedding. It was all just sex and, right then, it was hot. You couldn’t focus on anything other than the tightening coil in your core, not even the man fucking you with three fingers, going hard enough to hurt, hooking and curling with each thrust to grind them against the spongy spot inside of you. The only thing that mattered was the pleasure that sat on the very tip of your tongue and how badly you needed it. To please him, to end this embarrassing torment, to stop inconveniencing him. You had no idea if it was what you wanted but, one way or another, your body would expel the foam in your head, the need in your belly. Come or throw up or scream. 

With a choked yelp, you came. Your back arched, your body fighting against Buggy’s hold. You had one hand across your face while the other desperately clawed at the sheets and you wanted to fuck yourself on his fingers, to meet them with each thrust, but you couldn’t move your hips. All you could do was take what you were given, endure the helplessness, the sticky waves of pleasure. 

And then it was over, just hot air and sweat.

There was a sense that you were not yourself, like you had been unbound from your existence as a person. But also one that stitched you into your hot, heavy skin so tightly that you knew you could not ever be somebody else. The lucidity of the feeling killed your desire, you needed a break. You needed to breathe. 

“No more,” you told him, trying to squirm away, to grab his hand. “Please, I… Please, no more.” 

“That was it? Seriously?” Buggy asked, incredulously amused. His fingers did slow down, stroking your g-spot in a way that made you twitch uncontrollably. “You just came?” 

“I’m sorry,” you said breathlessly, covering your face with your trembling hands.

Buggy laughed in delight. “No, it was,” he said, finally pulling his fingers out and taking his weight off of you, “weirdly adorable. I was just joking about the puppy thing earlier, but you’re kind of proving my point. Girls usually, you know, moan. Or scream or something, I don’t know. What is it, do you think? The daddy issues? Or is it ‘cause I’m the first guy to make you come? Don’t get me wrong, I liked it, it was fuckin’ hot, but now I’m curious. Do you think you can moan like a normal girl at all, or are you just gonna keep whining the whole time?”

“I, um… I-I don’t,” were the only words you could muster as you stared at him, completely still. For a couple of seconds you had fooled yourself into thinking you had escaped the red stained-glass fog of the drug, but the vulgarity drew you right back in, enveloping you in its humid dusk.  

Buggy grinned, a mad expression. “Guess we’ll find out.” 

When he pulled off his underwear, you didn’t know if it was okay for you to look or not, your eye flicking nervously from his smile to the pale expanse of his torso, following the trail of hair that led down, and down. His cock bobbed up the moment it was free. It was more intimidating of a sight than you thought it would be, giving you that uncanny sense of vertigo, like staring down a very high cliff into some unknown abyss. This was wrong. Buggy clearly had no such reservations, spitting into his hand to stroke his dick as he loomed above you. 

“You’ve got me in a romantic mood, you can stay just like that,” Buggy said as he crowded you further up the bed. You stared up at him, stiff and too nervous to move. He frowned. “Okay, well I didn’t mean literally just like that, you’re gonna have to make some room for me.” He gave you a second before huffing in irritation, rolling his eyes. “Fuckin’ virgins.”  

Buggy grabbed you, hauling you up the bed to drop you unceremoniously into the pillows. You squeaked, trying to hold onto him while he hiked your legs up his waist. Breathing was difficult, all of the air smelled like Buggy and sex and you were so, so aware of the way it pressed slowly out of your chest. He released your right leg to grab his cock, slicking it between your folds. That made you gasp sharply, your fingers digging into his back. 

“Are you trying to scratch me?” Buggy asked, amused but distracted as kept nudging his dick between your folds, his hips rolling forward when it caught on your entrance. 

“I… I’m… No-hh—I-I-” Any part of your mind that was still functioning was focused entirely on the pressure of his cock as he pushed forward again, pressing it a little deeper. 

“I don’t mind it,” Buggy told you, “but fair’s fair.” He punctuated that word with a harder thrust, pushing his cock past the initial resistance of your entrance. Your eye widened, a sound of surprise practically punched out of your body with the shock of it. His fingers had not at all prepared you for what it would feel like. The insistence. The weight. Buggy smiled, watching your face as his hips rolled forward. 

This time, you whined, squeezing your eye shut and digging your fingers into his back, your pussy unintentionally tightening around him which only made the discomfort that much worse, but you couldn’t force your body to relax and you honestly didn’t know if you were trying to push him out or pull him deeper.

“No, look—look at me,” Buggy demanded hoarsely, hiking your right leg back up his waist, not moving until you met his demand. You let out a shuddering breath and opened your eye, looking up at him through tear coated lashes. His eyes were familiar to you, but not like this. In the dim light, all that remained was their devious sparkle, his hunger, his all-consuming lust. You tried to keep your expression composed, to hide your embarrassing reactions, but it was all in vain. The leverage made it easier for him to rock his hips forward, his cock driving deeper, and your expression crumpled as you cried out, you couldn’t help yourself. 

The intimacy Buggy demanded of you while splitting you apart became intolerable. You tried to rear back, your back arching beneath him, but Buggy grabbed your jaw to keep you from looking away, to keep you from hiding. You tried to tell him that it was too much, too heavy, too big, too overwhelming, but you couldn’t find the words before he was already thrusting forward again, filling you more and more, his entire body covering yours, his eyes devouring your reactions. He watched with parted lips, his eyebrows raised in some sort of needful appeal. It felt so cruel, but Buggy didn’t look at you cruelly.

It was too much to bear, let alone understand. Giving up on begging him to slow down, you tried to push at his abdomen. Buggy wasn't bothered by it, or by the scrape of your nails along his back, it was like he didn’t even notice.

“Cap-tain,” you whined, the word broken in your mouth, squished from the grip he had on your jaw. When he moved, you could feel how you were shaking beneath him, around him, your heartbeat thumping hot blood between your legs. The pressure was intense, unfamiliar. You whimpered, your back restlessly arching, your free hand clawing at his shoulder. “I… It's… Too much…”

“Yeah?” Buggy asked, managing a smile before that became another moan. “You’re so fuckin’... Fuck.” 

It was impossible to not respond to the overt sound of his pleasure, your pussy clenching around him, soaking his cock. It sounded filthy. You opened your mouth to say something and, like he’d been waiting for it, Buggy released your jaw, his hand resting beneath your chin to push your face up so he could kiss you instead. His tongue in your mouth was just as invasive as his cock in your pussy, it felt more like he was trying to eat you, to devour you, leaving you no space to breathe or think or react. You could feel every grunt and groan, feel the way he reacted to every little sound you made. 

There was no refinement to it, no mercy, no thought given to anything other than animal instinct and need. Buggy was barely even pulling out, grinding himself into you as deep as possible over and over and over and it was maddening because he wasn’t slamming his cock into you the way he had with his fingers and that should have been easier to take, but there was no release, just more and again. 

When he pulled away from the kiss, giving you a few moments to catch your breath, you threw your head back to keep him from kissing you again, worried that you’d pass out from the lack of air. Buggy groaned in irritation, punishing you with a hard thrust. And then another, and another. Skin slapping and squelching and your confused yelps of pleasure or pain.

“I-I—I can’t, I…” Your nails dug into his back, his shoulders, not to make him stop or even slow down, but because you had no other way to express what you felt. “Too much, i’ss—”

Buggy grunted, grabbing your legs again to pull them back up, changing the angle. The surprise zip of pleasure struck hard, making you moan loudly and openly, your wide eye meeting his. Buggy’s lips twitched almost like a smile, a little look of victory at getting such an unabashedly slutty reaction from you. You couldn’t take it back, and he knew he had an advantage, exploiting it with every thrust. 

“Come on,” Buggy said, his voice labored and heavy. “Admit it… You love this. You wanted me to fuck you from… from the day we met. You’re a freak.”

“Captain… Buggy please,” you begged, whining his name desperately in a voice that sounded so unlike your own. None of you really felt familiar, not your voice or your body or the sensations. Maybe it was someone else and you were only along for the ride, that would explain why you lacked any and all control over your body, why you could feel the torturous build of pleasure in your core in spite of the discomfort or fear or uncertainty, why you had been driven to true delirium from the way his cock ground against your walls like his fingers had, another point of excess stimulation on top of the overwhelming fullness. You could feel your pussy squeeze around him, feel the fresh wave of slick arousal that coated his cock, spilling out around the seams. You had no control, there was nothing for you to do but hang on and accept what had become helplessness in its purest form.

Buggy laughed, a hoarse, mean sound that stuttered with each thrust before leveling into a moan. You couldn’t help but whimper in turn, your hips moving to meet each rocking thrust, your thighs trembling with how hard they were clamped around his waist. If you let go, you worried that you’d never stop falling, that you would be lost because there was nothing else. 

“Buggy,” you whined. “Buggy, I…”

He groaned low, grabbing your hand to hold it with your fingers entwined, pinning it by your head. By now you were chest to chest, both of you sweaty enough to be slick, your breathing dangerously unsteady, lungs puffing the sweltering air. He was kissing you, but every part of your functional mind that still worked was focused on coming. Buggy didn’t seem to mind your preoccupation, content to kiss your open mouth, content to swallow all of your moans. You didn’t think it was physically possible to be closer to another human being, you could feel his heart beating within your own heavy ribcage, feel the rush of his blood through your veins. There was nothing left of you without him.

So, then, you couldn’t do anything else, there was no choice, just that anxious need, some wild feeling that you’d scream if you couldn’t come. After teetering so close for a frightening few seconds, that was the thought that tipped you over the edge, your body tensing and seizing beneath him, disturbing your synchronization as your pussy spasmed around him, your hands holding onto his back in a death grip, pleasure rippling through you, stoked over and over again by the relentless weight of his cock. When you were done whimpering and whining and writhing your way through your orgasm, your body going limp beneath him, Buggy released you from the kiss. You saw a thick strand of saliva pop between you as he pulled away. 

“Did you just… come?” he asked breathlessly, incredulously.

You nodded, gasping for air, your glassy eye swirling with moving colors, your hazy mind unable to focus on anything while he was still inside you. 

“Guess that answers that question then,” Buggy muttered. Laughing as he began fucking you again, laughing and then moaning, his thrusts less targeted and more indulgent. All he had to do was get his hand on your jaw to remind you to look at his eyes. It made you choke, whimpering as the wake of your orgasm faded into overstimulation all over again. The intensity of too much combined with the trembling pleasure-pain, all of it twisted and hazy red, a world filtered and scattered, intangibly delicious but also anxious and frightening. 

Buggy fucked into you selfishly now, his hands digging bruises into your thighs, his thrusts jarringly rough and without any rhythm you understood. But the sounds he made, you liked those. They were almost pained, rising in pitch as he got closer. Lustful appetite in its most crude and feverish form. 

“Buggy,” you whined, scrambling to hold onto him, to mitigate the violence of his desire. “Buggy, please-” 

He moaned loudly, crushing you, claiming you with his open mouth on yours, all teeth and tongue and hunger. Using you, sparing you no soft affection when he came, burying his cock as deep as possible for those final few sporadic thrusts. 

You thought you could feel it, feel his cock twitch inside of you, but maybe it was just your imagination. How could you feel anything other than the steady throbbing between your legs? 

Buggy groaned, breathing hard. A second later, he pulled out and flopping onto his back beside you, either missing or ignoring your wince of pain. You covered your face with your hands, willing the world to fall away. You couldn’t understand it anyway, what was the point?

“I was thinking of a more appropriate title for your job,” Buggy said between ragged breaths. “I get worried that-that people might expect too much from you. So I was thinking something like Buggy the Clown’s Cocksleeve or—or the Flashy Fool’s Fucktoy. But just now, it came to me-” He snapped his fingers. “Captain Buggy’s Cock Puppet.” He turned his head to look at you, grinning. “Eh?” 

A hard shiver worked down your spine. “That’s gross,” you muttered.

He huffed, annoyed by your answer. “It’s pretty bold to act like a prude when you were creaming all over my dick a couple minutes ago.”

You groaned, covering your face again. 

“We’ll work on that,” Buggy said, sitting up. You opened your eye, watching him roll his neck and arms, his shoulders popping. His hair was a mess, a lot of it had come loose, he had to fight against the hair tie to get it out, swearing at it before the thing snapped and he threw it somewhere to the side. You were too sleepy and dazed to care that you were staring at him, admiring him. You did admire him, even if he said things you wished he wouldn’t, or did things you didn’t like. You admired him as your captain. And he was beautiful. 

Buggy rolled off the bed. He wore his nudity without a shred of shame. You watched as he poured himself a big cup of water from the jug, downing it all in a steady stream of gulps.  

“Thirsty?” he asked, shooting you a look over his shoulder. 

You pushed your hair off of your sweaty face, the world spinning spectacularly as you sat up, and nodded. He filled the cup again as you crawled to the edge of the bed, wincing at the sharp pain between your legs, the wet mess coating your thighs.

“Drink up, you were leaking pretty bad from both ends tonight,” Buggy joked as he helped hold the cup steady in your shaking hands. You hummed, not really caring about his words because the water was the best thing you had ever tasted in your entire life, and it felt even better on your dry tongue and throat. He took it when you were done and you wiped your mouth, an anxious question forming in your mind. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to leave or not.

But you weren’t sure if you could move, either. Maybe you would just stay there forever. That didn’t sound too bad.  

Buggy turned off the lights and threw himself onto the bed, uncaring that he was lying in the mess the two of you had made or that he was sweaty and grimy.

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

What were you doing? Why were you here? What had you done? “I… um-”

“Yeah, I don’t actually care,” Buggy said through a yawn. “It’s been a long day and I’m wiped. Get up here.”

It took a moment for you to follow the simple order, but you managed to crawl up the bed. Rather than suffer your nervous attempts to find a spot that wouldn’t disturb him, Buggy grabbed you, pulling you against him like a child with a toy. He was hot and sweaty and the amount of weight he put on you wasn’t exactly comfortable, but you didn’t dare move—you didn’t want to move. His skin smelled like greasepaint and musk and sweat and gunpowder and leather and you drank it in, accepting your discomfort because it was Buggy. 

In the swampish dark left behind in the red heat of passion, and especially in his arms, you thought about the affection you felt when you looked at him. It was only natural that you would love Buggy. Not as a lover, but as anybody would love their captain. To serve him as you had sworn, your love had to be absolute. But then you wondered what he felt for you. It would be too much and much too soon to ask for love, but surely there was something. 

You, with a shocking amount of clarity given the fogged state of your mind, decided that you would ask him and accept whatever answer he gave. Emboldened by that resolution, you looked at him. 

Buggy was already asleep.

[the-real-treasure]

Treasure Treasure!

An OPLA Sanji x Reader

Master List Here

Previous Chapter: Big Big Top Troubles and the Risks of Show Business

Chapter Five: Sweet Syrupy Lies

Summary : A sinking ship leads the crew to an island where liars mean well and pale girls are fed strange stories, and stranger soup.

Trigger Warnings: Threats and descriptions of violence, scars, swearing, threatening language and behaviour, Reader's Devil Fruit power is overwhelming and overstimulating, graphic descriptions of sensory overload and overstimulation, selfharm caused by scratching, blood, body mutilation? Sort of? Word Count: 8, 100 **Edited: 16/09/24**

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Your arms were itchy.

Under the long sleeves of your aqua jacket and the clean cream top you had changed into under it, stretching up your arms past the end point of the wrapped bandages on your hands, they were itching again.

The deep, carved imprint of chain links, the grooves creating deep ravines around your arms from wrists to your elbows, scarring around your upper arm and across the expanse of back between your shoulders.

If you were lucky, it was just the scarring on your fingers and hands that itched, the old hard skin hidden away under wraps of fabric dry and cracking with the heat and salt of sea travel, but today you weren’t lucky.

Nami was perched at the prow of the boat, map unfurled across her knee and glasses on her face. With her and Luffy out here and Zoro inside, there was no where private, no where secluded enough for you to tear off the fabric driving you to sensory mania and bathe yourself in cool water and ointments to relieve the feeling for a while, like Sanji and Zeff would encourage.

So instead you stood, sweat on your forehead and dripping down your back and you scratched.

You were drawing blood.

But you scratched.

"Hey Nami! Nami, Y/n! Look!" Luffy called from beside you, pulling you out of the fevered itching of your skin.

"What?" Standing from his crouched position beside you, he pulls up a huge swathe of black fabric he had been decorating, supposedly under your supervision as "an expert tailor" since you know how to use a needle and thread. Explaining your passion for embroidery to him had been a mistake as you looked at his work, the incredibly lopsided skull wearing an oddly shaped hat at a jaunty angle left much to be desired.

"It's ready!" He cheered from behind the mangled fabric.

"And what is it?" You took in a deep breath and squeezed your eyes closed. The skin on your arms was screaming.

"Please tell me it's not-"

"Our Jolly Roger." You groaned and dropped your face into your hands. "Every pirate crew has to have one. And now we do!"

"If that's what you were doing," you yanked the length of fabric from his hands and inspect the stitching around the edge of the skull, tutting as you pull loose the weakly sewn threads, "you could have just let me handle it. This is..." you look up, eyes meeting his hopeful grin, "it could use some work, you should've asked me."

"Nah. You seemed like you needed a minute for yourself there." He gave your arm a gently poke, where blood had seeped through the fabric just below your shoulder. He keeps surprising you, this captain of yours.

"We're not a crew, and you are not hanging that on my boat."

"You know where you could have hung it."

Nami's eyes roll. "I swear if you say 'my boat, the Guppy,'" her voice turns nasily as she mocks the beginning of your sentence.

"You see the Guppy,"

"Y/n I swear, your boat was not that much better!" she sighs, "And it wouldn't have been much of a pirate ship either, so there would be no point in hanging any Jolly Rogers."

"More of a pirate vessel than this one."

"Zoro!" Luffy called as the swordsman finally left the small cabin, "Zoro, check it out." Zoro stares at the flag for a moment before he smacks his lips together.

"That's unique. Nami, I think the toilet's busted." Nami stared at him reproachfully.

"We don't have a toilet."

"Oh." Zoro turned away from her again. "Well, then something back there's leaking."

"WHAT?!" She jumped up and rushed into the cabin, returning moments later and storming towards Zoro in anger. "We're taking in water. What did you do?"

Hearing the state of the ship, you grab Luffy by the arm and scramble up on to the cabin's roof with him.

"I didn't do anything, what are you two doing now?"

"The way you're clanging those swords around, you must have broken something."

"Maybe if you're such a good thief, maybe you should've stolen a better boat."

"I don't care who did or didn't do whatever, our crew is half made up of Devil Fruit users who, need I remind you both, don't do well in sea water?"

"Guys, guys guys. Ok, crew meeting." Luffy let his torso hang down towards the pair arguing as you clung on to the back of his shirt, eyes sweeping the deck for any sign of sea water that wasn't already there.

"Not a crew." the two chimed together, turning to him anyway.

"We're gonna need a better ship to make it to the Grand Line. A real pirate ship. Not this holey ship, not the Guppy," his head swivelled 180 degrees to look at you as you opened your mouth to let out an indignant "She could make it!", "A ship, worthy of the Straw Hat Crew."

"Wait." Nami interrupted his impassioned speech. "Straw Hat Crew? Really?"

"Yeah! I thought it had a nice ring to it."

"'Demon' had a nice ring to it, headgear? Not scary." Luffy shrugged at the green haired swordsman.

"Who says pirates have to be scary?" The pair look around in confusion as Luffy let's you pull him upright and hops easily down to the main deck, leaving you perched above the trio. "The point is, we need a new ship. So, where do we get one?" Nami sighs and pulls open her map journal, searching around for a moment before answering.

"Our closest bet is the Gecko Islands. We can probably make it there before our ship sinks. Ditch this one and get a better one."

"Good. With a working toilet." Luffy tapped his finger towards Nami happily.

"Great job, navigator." Nami frowned as he lifted the flag from the deck.

"You're still not hanging that on my ship." Luffy smiles at her before clambering back on to the cabin roof beside you. He plonks down on the wood as you stare out to the horizon behind you, pulling the flag into his lap to inspect the threads you had tugged loose in your inspection.

"Hey Y/n.." He mumbled thoughtfully as he looked over his lopsided design.

"Yea?"

"Do you think," he sighs quietly, joining your observation of the wake of your boat in the sea, "that everyone has a dream? Or a wish or whatever you call it?" You hummed.

"Yeah, I would think so, though it might be different then what they think, or they might not even know."

"What about everything?" You turned your head to face him. He shrugged at you. "Like, I don't know..."

"A boat?" You finished his question for him, a smile slowly spreading across both your faces, the itching on your skin long forgotten. "What did you have in mind?"

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"You got to be kidding me." You stood looking over the bulletin board in the small square of Syrup Village, staring at the wanted posted of Buggy, where underneath his name it read 15 million. "That clown was worth 15 million Berry." Zoro was quietly fuming. "We should've stuffed his head in a bag and brought it with us."

"What Marine would pay you that bounty anyway?" Luffy was laying with his back on the ground, legs stretched up the wall, looking up at you and Zoro. He giggled. "You're kind of a wanted man yourself now." Zoro grunted in unhappy agreement.

"Didn't think of that." And, not for the first time, you wondered if word of your actions had reached Baratie yet. If Sanji and Zeff were arguing about what happened to you, if Patty had successfully rescued your beloved baby blue Guppy from the docks at Shells Town. If that fucking merchant had done his job and got that order shipped out yet.

Luffy rolled himself upright and stood. "All the more reason to get to the Grand Line. Fresh start!"

Your chains itched. You resist the urge to drag your nails down your arms or try and scrub your skin off.

"Right." Luffy turned to the returning Nami happily.

"Hey! You got us a ship?"

"Working on it. Did you push the sloop out to sea like I told you?"

"Yeah! No Marines are gonna be following us here." Nami and Zoro eyed each other.

"Well, we're not gonna be here very long. Turns out Syrup Village is known for their ship building. Lots of options!" Luffy grinned.

"Well, what are we waiting for then?" Luffy happily took of in, what you assume, is the wrong direction, Nami quickly following behind. Your pace is more leisurely as Zoro rips the wanted poster off the wall and scrunched it into a ball.

"Stupid clown.

Your quartet traipse through the shipyard, casting critical eyes over the hollowed out hulls and local craftsmen doing their work. At Luffy's request, you keep your sixth sense peeled, hoping some glimmer of want would ripple across the yard and pull you in the right direction.

"Look at 'em all!" He glances back at you, and you shake your head. Just the normal everyday deepest wishes of desperation and desire, like normal. No heart wrenching yearning for the sea, not yet.

"How much do these even cost?" Zoro asks from beside you.

"If you have to ask, you can't afford it."

"Okay, so we need to get one with a very, very impressive figurehead. At least two," he counts on his fingers quickly, "no, no three masts! And a really high crow's nest. Y/n is keeping an ear out for what we need, so we follow their que and we'll work from there!"

Nami shakes her head at your and Luffy's new shared delusion. "We are not gonna be able to sail a ship anywhere near that size. There's only four of us." Luffy's smile doesn't fade.

"Four of us, right now!"

"Well, unless you can find another weird, desperate soul to help us." Something echoes through you gently, the whisper reminiscent of your time aboard the Orbit.

"Speak for yourself." Zoro grunts. You push past him and Nami, falling into step with your captain a moment before your pace pulls you past him too. Nami's hand grabs at the fabric of your sleeve as you start to pull ahead.

"Listen, we are going to need something a little less flashy if we wanna sneak out of here." Her words pull both you and Luffy to a stop.

"You want to steal a ship?" She scoffs at the pair of you.

"How else did you expect us to get one?"

"I don't know. But we can't steal one."

"What kind of pirate are you?"

"One who knows the value of 1) a ship and 2) what he wants!" Luffy nods along with your words.

"A ship is not just a ship-"

"It's our home!"

"-it's a part of our crew! We need to find the perfect one. And we're gonna get it the right way."

"Okay, pitch that to the salesman. I'm sure that'll win him over." Luffy smiles at her understanding.

"Exactly!" And he takes off again, heading closer to the main docks. She turns from watching him go to meet your eyes, aqua and gold staring almost through her.

"No one and nothing does well in a role they're forced into," you whisper. "That's not something I'll let happen, not on this crew." And you turn, following behind your captain as he bobs between boats.

(Please please please)

You continues through the maze of boats and ships, darting past builders and workmen, as the yearning for adventure, for returning to the sea ripples through you.

(Just once more, one more adventure)

Turning a final corner, your eyes rest on the joyful figure head of a beaming sheep, horns curving out and towards you. Slowing to a stop, Luffy follows and lets out a small happy sigh as his eyes meet the boat as well.

(Golden sunsets spread as far as the eye can see. Glorious crisp white peaks on cobalt waves cresting the horizon. Murky green rich with seaweed and stories)

Your chest burns with the want of the sea, it echoes through you, ripples bouncing off of you and back to the boat, going in and out and in over and over.  The more you listen, the more you realise it's not jus the boat the ripples are bouncing off. You let Luffy climb the ladder ahead of you, a quiet reverence having taken over him as he approaches the ship. The wishes thrum through the air around you, the tips of your ears tingling with the energy. The overwhelming itch on your skin fades to a dull throbbing as you both stand below the figurehead. Luffy, with extreme care, raises his hand to the chin of sheep and rests his fingers on it.

"Real beauty huh?" Luffy stares in wonder as you dart your head over the edge of the platform, looking towards the main body of the boat.

"You can talk?" A young man in a red bandana and green vest pops his head over the edge of the boat.

"No! Over here." Luffy joins you for a moment, also spotting the young man. "Yo." Luffy pushes past you to lean further past the platform.

"This ship is amazing." The man's eyes drift up the figure head as he agrees. "What can you tell me about her?"

"Caravel class, top-of-the-line. Ninety-six feet of pure luxury. Whipstaff rudder, full galley." Both your ears prick up for a moment, eyes glancing to each others with a grin. "Cannon decks fore and aft." He gives a small chef's kiss at the perfection of the craft. Luffy asks the obvious question,

"Is she fast?"

"The fastest," he replies with a grin, "Not a ship in the East Blue can keep up with this baby." Luffy smiled with glee and tapped the side of the boat.

"She's perfect."

"You can say that again." You stare at him curiously.

This boy seemed to belong more with the majority of people, with less focus or surety on his true dream, though the tingling in your ears and the fuzziness in your head of your power sends swirling echoes of the crafts' dream of crystal blue water surrounding you, but also that of a pretty, pale girl with big eyes and a big smile fluttering past your mind's eye.

"There you two are." Nami's voice calls from below you as she and Zoro arrive from the smoky air.

"Guys!" Luffy's voice is loud as it rings out beside you, crashing you back to reality, eyes flickering back into focus as the boy in the boat smiles at you warily. You had been staring, finger raised but not sure which way to point. Oops. "We found it! We found our ship. And this guy will sell it to us." The boy stutters as you and Luffy clamber back down the ladders to your crewmates current and temporary travelling companions.

"Uh, wait. Wh-what? Uh..."

"Yeah!" Luffy replies happily, "The ship, we'll take it."

"Technically, she's not for sale." You both look at him.

"Huh?"

"And technically, I'm not a salesman."

"Impressive salesmanship skills for someone who isn't a salesman and has nothing to sell." You have to give him that. He grins in reponse.

"Thanks."

"Do you even work here?" Nami asks, ignoring you.

"Of course I do. I'm Chief Technician in charge of encrustation removal and aviary waste eradication." The speed of his speech stalls your brain out for a moment, and though the title sounds impressive, something doesn't add up.

"Encru-wha?" Luffy is in the same boat.

"He scrubs barnacles and cleans bird shit." Zoro answers plainly.

"He can't help us."

"Wait-wait-wait-wait! I can help you. The owner of this ship just happens to be my closest friend in the world." Smugness layers his speech.

"Your friend owns this ship."

"Not just this one, she owns the whole shipyard. She's," turning to look at you and Luffy from the side of his eye. "rich rich." You and your captain look at each other excitedly. "I'm sure you could strike a deal with her."

Luffy slaps his legs excitedly and you and the young man mimic him immediately. "See?" Nami looks between the two of you.

"Well I guess it couldn't hurt to say hello."

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There are eyes on you. You can feel them.

"I've never seen a house this big before." You and Luffy stand side by side staring up at the mansion past the well, paved courtyard and topiary bushes. Your eyes travel across the garden, you skin itching again as you look for whoever is spying on you and your crew captain.

"Impressive right?" The boy pushes past you both and walks, backwards, towards the house. "Kaya's given me an open invitation to drop by anytime I want." There's movement in the bushes to your left, but you don't turn your head to observe it, yet. "We just have to keep an eye out for, uh, Roku. He doesn't like people wandering near his plants, ya see."

"Wow. All this for just one person?"

"And staff, I suspect. Gardeners, foreman, cooks. If she's a lady, she must have workers of some kind." You ask him.

"Yeah, she lives here with her butler and a few other staff." You hum, eyes sweeping the bushes again.

"Interesting choice, a butler for a young lady. Normally its a maid, or lady in waiting if there position is high enough." He squints at you.

"How'd you know all that?" You shrug.

"I work in a restaurant, clientele varies, so we've had some posher folk come through." He nods. Nami mutters behind you as he and Luffy flop forward over the well and look down at the depth of it.

"Money really shows you who people truly are. Most people only care about themselves and what's theirs."

"Sounds like someone I know." Zoro snides back.

"And a small staff makes for easy pickings." You glance back at them as you follow Luffy and your guide further into the garden.

"Why? Gonna rob the place blind?"

"At least a little blurry." Moving to turn back to your captain, your eyes land on a figure amongst the tall flowers, creeping steadily towards your group, short but dark silver hair peeking out from under a bucket shaped hat.

"So if you have an invitation, why are we going around the back way?" As you all climb the steps and start past the lovely lily ponds, your eyes don't wander from your stalker, the man's figure coming in and out of focus as he sticks to the shadows of the trees at the edge of the property.

"Oh, I never use the front entrance. This is a more of a VIP entrance reserved for special guests." As you hop across the giant lily pads to the other side, Zoro mutters behind you,

"This guys full of shit."

"Yeah, but as long as he get us inside the house, who cares?" Your eyes dart over to the shadows of the trees. The man's gone.

As you all are forced to a stop behind him, the boy peels around and tries to usher you all back in the other direction.

"Oops, you know, there's actually a more exclusive entrance back this way." As he speaks, a knife goes whizzing between his feet, landing in the bed of the lily pad and the (unusually sharp) prongs of a garden rake catch the strap of his bag, pulling him to a stop as it tightens around his chest.

"Going somewhere Usopp?" The voice sounds like its been gargling gravel, the stupid hat tilted low over the man's face to protect his eyes from the sun. His head lifts, and you can see the scrabbly lengths of his fringe curling around and covering both of his eyebrows, his green irises reflecting the sunlight away from slanted gold pupils.

As he straightens, pulling Usopp easily off the overcrowded lily pad and on to the grass, towering over you all easily in scruffy gardeners clothes and stinking of grass clippings. The other man, the one who threw the knife, comes stalking up behind the large man, sneering around him at the boy.

"The hell are you doing here, Usopp?" Usopp stutters nervously

"Buchi, Roku, buddies, uh, Kaya's expecting me." The maid further back lifts their mop as Roku drops his grip on the back of Usopp's bag, stepping aside as Buchi easily grabs a hold of him instead.

"Another one of your lies." He yanks Usopp forward, nearly knocking him to his knees as he struggles against the older man's grip. "You ain't welcome here and you know it."

"I know nothing of the sort," He replies with false bravado, "I'm here to give Kaya an extra-special gift." As Buchi's lips curl away from his teeth, a girls voice calls from further in the garden.

"Usopp!" You all turn to look at the girl as she approaches, arm curled into that of the tall dark butler beside her. Her skin and hair were pale, though her skin more sickly so then natural, and her pink dress, edged with frills, was lifted clear of her feet as she carefully stepped down the stone stairs towards them. "What a wonderful surprise!"

Usopp smiles smugly at Buchi for a moment before pushing off his grip, skirting past the foreboding figure of Roku as he moves towards the girl.

"Kaya! Happy birthday." She smiles sweetly at him.

"You remembered."

"Of course I did." The butler clears his throat and pushes the glasses on his face up with the palm of his hand before looking down at the boy in front of him.

"Usopp. We've had this discussion. You mustn't show up unannounced." Kaya squeezes his arm gently, pulling his attention to her.

"Nonsense, Klahadore. Have you come to tell me another story? I do love hearing about your adventures." Usopp smiled at her gently.

"I'll do you one better. I brought some of my crew." As Usopp turns, you turn with him, searching for any sign of this supposed crew as Luffy joins you in confusion.

"Is he talking about us?" You all glance at each other awkwardly as Kaya speaks.

"It's so nice to meet you. You all must stay for dinner." A smile grows on Luffy's face at the mention of food before the butler interrupts.

"Miss Kaya. It is a bit last minute. I'm afraid the kitchen hasn't prepared for any extra guests."

"Please, Klahadore. It's my birthday. Can't be too much trouble, can it?" She asked, looking up at him hopefully. Aside from Klahadore, the rest of Kaya's staff all restrain eye rolls and try to hide pulled faces.

"Of course, Miss Kaya. Anything for you." He hadn't even finished speaking before Kaya had turned to Usopp smiling happily at the prospect of them joining her for dinner.

"All right!" Luffy clapped his hands in excitement. "When do we eat?"

"You don't. Not dressed like that." Klahadore looks them up and down judgementally, nose turned up at them. "Sham, kindly show Usopp and his friends to the guest suites. You will bathe and change before dinner."

Nami smiles over at you and you join her. "A bath does sound nice."

"You're telling me!"

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Luffy stares dumbly at the ceiling of the dressing room/closet as you and Nami pick through the cloths hanging wall to wall in the large space.

"Why would anyone even need this many clothes?"

"It's not about need with these people," Nami calls back to him, "It's about want."

"What are we even supposed to wear?"

"Anything you want! When are you ever going to get the opportunity to wear things this nice?"

If you were being honest, you were struggling to find something yourself. The nicest thing you had ever owned was the knee length aqua coat, with the gold filigree embroidery edging the bottom and cuffs of the sleeves. Now you stood surrounded by lavish cloths and you were at a loss. Wrapped in a towel so big it dragged along the floor and covered you chest to toes, you had left your hair to dry in the crisp cool air of the evening. The curling expanse fell down past your shoulders, almost to your hips. The itching skin of your tattooed shoulders grated at your nervous, but the cool water and salts had soothed some of it away, though the need to scratch still lingered.

You pause your flicking through the dresses, shirts and suits as Nami emerges from behind the dressing screen. She wore a black dress with navy metallic squares and rectangles crossing the body and skirt.

"Well?" she asks, "What do you think?" Luffy looked at her confused.

"You look like Nami." With a blank face, she turns to look at you. In that moment a memory from your childhood sparks, of a girl only a few years your senior, turning away from her brothers to you with the same blank but unimpressed stare, her big eyes full of disappointment but hiding behind pink hair.

"You look gorgeous," a small smile rolls across her lips as she swishes the skirt around her legs, "but I don't know if the colour suits you. Too dark, I think."

"Yeah.." she looks down at the dress thoughtfully and turns back to go behind the dressing screen again calling out a "thanks!" as she disappeared.

You turn back to the rows and rows of cloths, flicking through more and more until one set catches your eye, just as Zoro finally enters.

"Hey Zoro!" Luffy cheered, finally given a distraction from you and Nami fussy about your outfits. "Whatcha gonna wear?"

"Something black." You don't look up as he passes by you, eyes captivated with what you had found as you pull it free of its brethren.

The suit was a darker shade then what you would normally wear, closer to a teal green than your usual aqua or seafoam shades. The waistcoat would fit well over your chest, and the high waist, wide legged trousers were in keeping with your preferred leg wear. And while it was missing a shirt, you could go without, even if the suit jacket was lighter in weight and material compared to your own coat. Shorter too. It would look good draped across your shoulders, leaving your arms free of restriction like the broad sleeved shirts and coats you liked to wear.

You moved further into the room yourself, bypassing Zoro and Luffy to reach another secluded dressing screen as Nami commented "How edgy."

"Hey, does that butler seem familiar to you guys?" You call out a "no" as you throw your towel over the partition, pulling the trousers up your legs, fabric trailing through the air as you kicked up experimentally. No pulling or tightness. Good.

"Yeah, I think he was at the last dinner party I attended." Nami sassed as you buttoned the waistcoat up your chest, the smooth material cool and soothing across your easily irritated skin. You may have to steal this. (Sorry Kaya.)

"I swear I've seen him somewhere." Listening to the clicking of his swords and scabbards, you drape the suit jacket across you shoulders and shuffle your hands into the trouser pockets. Stepping out from behind the dressing screen, you eye Nami as she reappears as well, this time in a slim fitting black dress with a sparkly sequined cardigan over the top.

"How's this?" You smile as the sparkles catch your eye.

"You look amazing Nami." She smiles bashfully as the boys make their thoughts known.

"Still Nami."

"I said I'm wearing black." You give them both deadpan stares as you stride across the room, trouser legs billowing behind you, in search of some shoes to go along with your chosen outfit.

"I hate you guys. At least someone appreciates good fashion. You look fantastic in that suit by the way." You beam up at her from where you're crouched on the floor, hoking for shoes.

"Thank you!" you reply warmly and she replies with an equally warm,

"You're welcome." Before glaring at the boys once more and going back to looking at clothes.

"I feel kinda bad for Kaya. All this stuff. All this space. It's gotta make a person feel... lonely." Your eyes catch on a pair of pointed black boots hidden behind some red silk.

"Rich people don't have the same emotions we do. This stuff doesn't make her feel lonely. It makes her feel important." Pulling out the boots, you tug the red silk dress out as well, knocking Nami's leg with your elbow and gesturing the dress towards her. She 'ooh's quietly and pulls it out fully to inspect.

"Well, Usopp likes her. And she invited us to dinner. I'm sure we can work out a way to get that ship."

"No way." Nami responds eyes trailing across the patterns on the dress you had pulled for her as you struggled the boots on to your feet as your jacket falls to the floor, "Rich people don't stay rich by giving things away." Luffy smiled at her mischievously.

"You wanna bet?" Nami stares at him, before dropping her arms to her sides.

"What are the terms?"

"I bet I can convince Kaya to give us that ship."

"And when you can't?"

"We go with your plan." You look up at him, startled by the decision. "Steal one and move on."

"Uhh, no, let's? Let's not do that?" you stutter up at them, one boot still laying on the ground. They ignore you as they shake on the deal.

"You're on." You stare at Luffy as he walks away, barely registering the fabric whipping past your head as Nami throws a black silk shirt at Zoro.

"Nice."

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You stood with Luffy and Usopp, picking at the tray of hors d'œuvres Sham carried past you. You bit into one of the miniature quiches , exploring the texture like Zeff taught you, while the boys scarfed theirs down. Your hair was partially pulled up and away from your face, curtesy of Nami corralling you before you could stick it into you usual bandana and ponytail combo and the bandages normally wound around your hands are replaced by a pair of leather gloves.

"Eggs a bit gritty for some reason." You feel eyes piercing your head, and turn slightly to spot the chef, Buchi, glaring daggers at you. You lean closer to the boys. "Might be cooked at too high a temperature."

"Mm! But they're so good."

"I know right? Reminds me of that one time I slayed a dragon, cooked it over an open flame, ate the whole thing myself. You ever had dragon?"

"Nope." He spun to look at Sham. "Do you have dragon?" She looks at him bewildered for a second.

"Afraid we're fresh out."

"Oh well. Hey Zoro!" Luffy called to the swordsman as he picked up a champagne glass. "You gotta try this!"

"I've got all I need right here."

"May I present..." Klahadore's voice echoes from the top of the stairs. "Miss Kaya." He carefully walked her down the stairs to join the rest of them, as the accountant, Merry, climbed up to meet them. You scooted out and away from the boys to stand beside Nami as the pair reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Nami, I love that dress on you!"

"Thanks."

She replied, a smile crawling up her faces at the compliment. Kaya reaches out and touches the fabric of the dress gently.

"It belonged to my mother. It was one of her favourites."

"Oh-" Nami stuttered, "I'm sorry, I-I,"

"Not at all. I'm sure she would agree it suits you splendidly." Nami's eyes darted to you for assistance in this awkward conversation and you come to her aid as well as you can.

"You look lovely tonight yourself, Miss Kaya." The girl beams at you, skin pale and washed out from sickness but still radiating joy. "You look," you hesitate for a second but finish quietly, "Happy. You look incredibly happy."

"Oh I am. I'm so glad Usopp brought you all here, it's so so good to have people around. And you look wonderful as well, the colour suits you." And you laugh, gesturing your half uneaten quiche down yourself in amusement.

"Ha! Suit, because of the colour, but also because," Nami's eyes widen at you and Kaya's smile grows mischievous, "It's what, uh, what I'm wearing, because it's a suit, it was, yes. Hm, clever." You grit your teeth in an awkward smile and stuff the rest of your hors d'œuvre into your mouth to escape taking anymore nonsense. Kaya snorts and giggles at you as Nami's eyes nearly roll into the back of her skull, and you're saved speaking anymore by Merry approaching Kaya quietly.

"Kaya, I wondered if I may have your ear. There are matters concerning the transfer of ownership of the shipyard we need to discuss."

"Merry," Klahadore cuts in, "Dear friend, it's always business with you." The sheep man sighs, "Tonight is about celebration. Shall we all move to the dining room?"

"YES!" Luffy cheers excitedly at the promise of dinner, "Oh! Oh, I'm so ready for this!" As you all move to your seats, you eye the man Roku, confused why the gardener was working at this time of night, and inside as well. His own reflective green iris meet your glowing swirling clouds of aqua and gold, both shifting and catching the candle light around you in the colours. You say nothing, but you hold eye contact as you sit, him standing with back to the wall now.

Sham moves through the dining room as the rest of you eat, carrying a tray of smoked fish. Kaya calls out to her as she passes,

"I'd love to try the fish tonight."

"I'm sorry, Miss Kaya, but that is not possible."

"Maybe just a small piece." Your eyes move up the table to them from your seat between Luffy and Nami.

"Now, you know that certain foods can affect your constitution."

"Are you allergic to any seafood, miss Kaya?" You call up the table. Your own plate sat mostly untouched in front of you, the under seasoned fish and too hard potatoes causing an echo of Zeff roar through your mind.

"No, she is not-"

"Then fish should surely help her here, there are plenty of good fats and beneficial oils and omegas in fish, and with how unseasoned it is, the flavour is hardly going to upset her stomach." You're almost sure you hear a hiss from the cook situated behind her, but you ignore it in favour of keeping eye contact with the silently fuming butler.

"And, I'm sorry you'll forgive me for querying, where did you get your expertise about food from, precisely?" The last word is hissed out through grit teeth. Nami spoke from beside you.

"They grew up and work in a restaurant. A successful one, given the stories of the patrons we've discussed." Nami eyes were narrowed at the butler.

"Yeah!" Luffy chimed helpfully with a mouthful of food, "They clean the dishes!" You screw your eyes and mouth shut as you pair of you turn to glare at your captain, who smiles shamelessly at you.

"Well." Klahadore cuts with a smug smile, "You'll forgive me for not taking the word of a dish washer over an expert medical opinion. Here, Buchi has prepared your special soup." The chef gingerly places the bowl down in front of her, shooting a glare over at you, which you returned.

"Kaya, it's your birthday. You should be able to eat what you want."

"Miss Kaya's medical condition," Klahadore once again cuts in your and Nami's pleas to allow the girl some freedom, "necessitates that I closely monitor her dietary needs."

"Does it mean you also speak for her?" Luffy raises his hand from beside you.

"I'll take her fish." Usopp gulps and tries to divert the conversation.

"Luffy, isn't there something that you wanted to talk to Kaya about?"

"Oh! Yes! Usopp told me that you own the whole shipyard." Kaya smiles slightly.

"Well, actually my parents founded the shipyard, and Merry's been running the business since... well, since they passed." Merry raises his glass to her. "But all of that's about to change. Tonight, at midnight, I will become the sole owner."

"Ah, well. That's great, because we want to buy a ship from you."

"I see! Usopp mentioned that you're sailors." The two share a small smile before Luffy opens his big mouth and ruins it.

"Nope, not sailors. We're pirates." You, very very slowly, lower your head to the table and begin to bang it against the wood surface gently. Usopp spits his drink back into his glass as both Zoro and Nami take longs sips of their own.

"This oughta be good." Kaya's eyes glance between you in confusion.

"Pirates?"

"Yep. We haven't sailed together for very long, but we have already defeated an evil clown, raided a Marine base, and taken down a captain with an axe for a hand and a nasty lieutenant." Your shoulders start to shake in quiet laughter. You couldn't help it, this is going so badly already, and you've all barely started.

"These sound a lot like your adventures, Usopp." He laughs breathlessly,

"Yeah, that's, that's crazy."

"Oh yeah! And we're just getting started." Luffy happily climbs on to his chair and stands on the table, glass in hand.

"What are you doing? Get down from there at once!" Klahadore starts to move around the table, making for Luffy, and you stand to block his way, wanting to allow your captain to at least finish his point. The butler sneers down at you, but you don't move.

"Being a pirate has been my dream for as long as I can remember. And I'm finally making it a reality." He drops his elbow to his knee, making direct eye contact with Kaya. "We're heading out to the Grand Line, where even more adventures await us. And at the end of the journey, I'm gonna find the ultimate treasure," he starts walking down the table, "the One Piece, and become King of the Pirates." Kaya stares up at him.

"You're... serious?" Taking a gulp, he pushes the still mostly full glass into Klahadore's face, breaking up the staring competition you had going on with him, though you don't sit. He growls as he takes it out of Luffy's hand. Reaching down, he takes Kaya by the shoulders gently.

"Kaya. You have a beautiful ship out there. A caravel with a sheep figurehead. It spoke to me. To us! That's the ship we need to follow our dreams. I promise you we'll take care of it. Maintain it. Treat it like any other member of our crew, because a ship is also a home." A small smile begins to form on Kaya's face before Klahadore roars out.

"That will be quite enough! I should've known Usopp would bring riffraff to our doorstep."

"Klahadore, it's okay, I-" but before she could finish her sentence, she begins to cough.

"Now look what you've done. You've upset Miss Kaya. All of you, out of this house at once!" Kaya shakes her head and wheezes out a

"No. It's late. Let them stay the night." Klahadore helps her up as she stands, shakily.

"As you wish, Miss Kaya. But they are out, first thing in the morning." And he rushes her out of the dining room, leaving you all in stunned silence.

"That went pretty well." Luffy chirps as you pull him by the shoulder off his perch on the table, shooting sidelong glares at the hovering staff who were glaring back at you. "Don't you think?"

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You follow Nami quietly as she makes her way through the dark hallways. Watching her pick up different items and feeling the weight of them in her hands before stashing them in her pillow case sack. She had changed out of her dress, but you had kept the waistcoat and trousers on, fancy pointed boots swapped for your wide toed ones instead.

"If you don't like me stealing from her, either say your piece or go back to your room, there's no point in following behind me and judging silently."

"I don't like you stealing from her, but given that I won't be returning this suit, I'm not one to talk." She stops and turns back to you, eyes trailing up your arms and shoulders, following the length of chains embedded in your skin.

"I didn't know you had tattoos. Adds to the whole 'why I thought you were a pirate' thing." She did air quotes around the words and laughed softly.

"Tattoos?" she looked at you frowning and gestured to your still bare arms, jacket abandoned. "Oh! Oh yeah, I don't-" You laugh awkwardly, "I don't know where I got these. Had them as long as I can remember." You shrugged as she looked them over, quietly stunned.

"As long as you can rememb- like even when you were a baby?" She asks, gobsmacked, and you nod thoughtfully.

"Yeah. I don't know if they are, ya know." She looks at you, "Tattoos, I mean, they're- deep, like, really deep, here feel." And without warning you grab her hand, running it up and down the chain links marred across your arm. Instead of the raised skin of an old scarred tattoo, or the smooth skin of a well healed one, the skin under the chains is sunken, like their buried deep into the flesh of your arm, leaving a gap deep and wide enough for you to easily slot your ring finger into. She gagged and pulled away quickly and you chortled at her over reaction. 

"You're right, those-" she gags softly and looks at them horrified, "Those aren't tattoos." Shaking her hand to rid herself of the feeling she turns back to her heisting, dropping a solid, probably silver candlestick in her sack. "Why are you following me then, if not to disapprove?" You hummed, peering out through the curtains to the dark gardens below.

"I don't trust that gardener. Or the maid. Or the chef. Or the butler as it happens." She smirks at you.

"So you don't trust any of them."

"Yea."

"And that means you're following me because...?"

"I know you can handle yourself, but something here feels... off. I thought maybe we should, ya know, stick together. Where we can." You shrug lamely, peering down the dark corridors as she moves further through the labyrinth of halls.

"Well, you're not wrong. I can handle myself, and unlike you," she glares down at your boots, "and those shoes, I know how to be quiet when I'm looting so maybe you should just-"

Footsteps echoing down the corridor drag both your attentions away from the small argument you had started, and in a flash you separate, assuming the other would be following behind. As she books it to the nearest door and slips inside, you twirl around and dash, as quietly as you can, down the hall from where you came, catching hold of one of the floor length curtains and wrapping yourself, perching up on to the windowsill and obscuring your shape behind it.

As the footsteps pass by, you hold your breath and watch the reflection in the glass. A tall looming figure passes, and the sound of rattling follows, the sound dragging along with a "shuff-shuff" against the carpet.

Peeking out from behind the dark fabric, you watch the figure move deeper into the darkness. It is hard to make out but the shape of the floppy dark hat atop their head cause your eyes to widen as you recognise who it is.

The gardener Roku carrying a large sack over his shoulder, with lengths of chains dragging along behind him in the darkness.

As he slips around another corner, the chain clipping the wall as he goes. There's a near silent rustling of fabric as you move beneath the curtain, carefully, carefully, unbuckling and unzipping the black boots on your feet before placing them down on the ground, toes no longer hidden under the length of the fabric. Now bare foot, you drop on to the carpet and look around.

"Nami?" You whisper into the darkness, listening for the noise of dragging chains returning. "Nami?!"

You get no response.

You suck in a deep breathe through your nose and stop. Your hands are shaking as you pull your gold bandana from the pocket of the waistcoat and try to tie it deftly around your head. The scar tissue of your skin and the leather gloves make it hard to bend your fingers, the lack of sensation and tremors from the damage done making them even harder to control.

Your arms were itchy.

Your body aches and you're tired.

You didn't eat much of the disgusting dinner, so you're hungry.

You're head is pulsing and your powers are screaming at you as energy whistles around your ears.

It's dark.

But you focus. And you follow.

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Silently, you follow Roku through the mansion, down, down, down, until he stops in the doorway of the wine cellar.

You stop as well, peering down at him from around the corner as he stands, chains coiled around his feet. He pulls off the stupid hat, revealing two pointed horns of hair, almost mimicking cat ears. One is made from a patch of bright white, a stark difference to the dark hue of grey the rest of his hair is made up off.

There's someone talking in the cellar itself, the low familiar drone alerting you to Zoro's presence. There's the "shing" of a sword being drawn and the twang of thin sheets of metal bouncing off each other before another figure in dark clothing appears in front of the gardener, hands sporting five sharp blades at the end of each figure. Damn those look cool. The shattering of glass breaks the moment as well as the bottle and you realise with a start, that this is very bad. Very bad indeed.

You're standing at the point of a bottle neck, down one Zoro, and up potentially four assailants. And you have no idea where anyone else has gone. Ignoring the scuffling from the room, you turn tail and sprint back up the stairs of the cellar, the only indication you've been heard is the thump of Roku's sack onto the ground and the loud, heavy footsteps following behind your own.

The noise echoes all around you as you make a mad dash through the halls, the gardener hot on your tail as he hisses and snarls in the darkness, voice mocking and raspy as he calls out to you.

"Here, little kitty, come here!"

"Big ol' Roku won't do you no harm!"

"We just needs you to stay very quiet for a very long time!"

"COME HERE I SAY!"

Shooting around one more corner, you spot a door ahead of you, unbarred and hopefully unlocked. As you barrel into it, you're relieved to learn you were right, the latch giving way immediately as you all but tear it from its hinges.

The cool night air stings your lungs and your skin, small sharp rocks in the gravel digging into your feet and burying themselves into your skin. You think, you hope, you pray you had escaped him as your mad dash pushes you out past the topiary bushes and glorious flowerbeds. 

Your eyes just barely spot the faint lights from the distant village before something winds around your foot and lurches you back, sending you plummeting face first into the gravel. Rolling over, you catch sight of Roku's arm outstretched, the length of chain and shockingly familiar grooves cut through his skin. With a yank, the chain on your ankle tightens and hauls you back, your skin scoured by the rocks beneath you, and, in a moment of awful, gut churning panic, you copy his motion, reeling your arm back and swing it forward.

Weight chases up your arm as the chains on your arm shift and pull and snap out of your flesh, the end of the length whipping through the air and cracking him right in the centre of his forehead. For a moment, silence rings out, and then as one.

You both release blood curdling screams.

Next Chapter: Let Sleeping Cats Die

[the-bar-sinister]

Deicide (29571 words) by VickytheSnake, thesavagesabretooth Chapters: 8/?

Summary: In the aftermath of the raid on Onigashima everything changes. The path to the One Piece is a course that can only be charted by those who agree to join together as friends and fight without taking the easy way out.

catch up here.

-

Crocodile lit a fresh cigar as Mihawk washed the blood from his face in the basin in the captains' quarters of the ship.Technically the quarters belonged to Buggy, but the two of them had been making themselves quite comfortable in it for the whole journey, and that included now as they took a moment to freshen up after the invigorating battle. 

"Well, Hawk, good enough battle for you?" he chuckled, glancing over. He pulled a long puff of smoke into his mouth and held it there. It was a good brand. The kind he'd been smoking since they'd gotten settled in the New World. He resolved to offer one to their prisoner.

“It was satisfactory.” Mihawk’s smile was predatory as the water ran crimson from his fingers as he washed up. “There were a few worthy opponents in the bunch. Enough to make up for the fools I had to cut down to reach them.” 

He strolled over and put his arms around Mihawk's shoulders, feeling safe even near the water in the heart of their cross guild ship, with their enemies in the brig, and the world's greatest swordsman in his arms. 

Crocodile chuckled again, rolling the cigar between his fingers. "I'll take 'satisfactory'. You're a difficult man to please."

Mihawk chuckled. 

“I’m aiming to stay the greatest swordsman, Crocodile. The average military grunt is too easy. That being said…there was some talent on that ship. Hampered by surprise as they were.”

He shook out his hands before drying them and his face with a towel. 

"Glad it wasn't too boring for you," Croc grinned. "There were the fair share of challenges. This is the second time I've gotten Smoker in a brig you know. He's improved a lot since then."

Mihawk tilted his head. “The second time? When was the first? Alabasta?” 

"Yep. Right before I got my ass kicked to hell and back by Straw Hat." He laughed roughly. The memory didn't sting as much now. After all, it had led to bigger and better things. "Had the two of em in the same little cage in fact. Didn't expect 'em to crawl out. Which is in fact why I'd like to go and talk to Smoker sooner rather than later."

He absolutely didn't want the man to find a way to worm his way out of the cage before he'd had a chance to give him his proposal.

Mihawk smirked thinly. “Of course, we wouldn’t want him to start rampaging about with his navy friends, would we? On your lead, Captain.” 

Crocodile nuzzled his first mate from behind before he released him. He carefully adjusted his cravat, and he grabbed the box of cigars from the shelf.

This time, things were going to go differently.

-

Crocodile stayed well clear of the sea stone cages that had been installed in the brig. There were an even half-dozen of them, guarded by underlings without devil fruit powers, and three of them were currently occupied. All three of the prisoners were in separate cages– Crocodile had been very clear about that– and each of them additionally had a sea stone lined shackle. 

Crocodile didn't even know if Smoker's second was actually a devil fruit user. He just wasn't taking any chances.

Mihawk regarded them with his hand on his chin and a cool stare from his sharp golden eyes. He hadn’t said a word since they’d walked in….but he was regarding them each seriously.

Smoker glowered at him from his cage, his mouth devoid of his usual cigar and set in a tense frown as he shifted in his shackles with the limpness expected of a man imprisoned by the weight of the sea. “Tch.”

The other woman, Rear Admiral “Black Cage” Hina…had no qualms about shouting out , however. She leaned forward in her restraints, her long, pale pink hair falling into her face as she grinned widely. 

“Hey, Alabasta’s Hero. MInd getting these restraints off me? I can show you mine, they’re a lot more fun!” 

The third woman– the one that Crocodile had less information on– just glowered at him from behind a pair of glasses.

"I'm afraid a demonstration won't be necessary at this time, Miss Hina," Crocodile purred courteously. "Perhaps we can have a conversation later. If things go well between Smoker and I."

He let his sharp gaze linger on the man he'd had in his grasp once before.

Smoker raised his eyebrow. “Unlike last time we ain’t even ‘ostensibly’ on the same side, Crocodile. Dunno what you’re expecting to get out of talkin’ with me.” 

"I'll just bet you don't." Crocodile grinned, and nodded to the guard. "Bring him out for me, and take him to the back room."

The guard, one of Buggy's 'best men'-- Crocodile thought his name was Cabbage or something– grudgingly saluted and opened the sea stone cage.

"Let's try to keep this civil for a bit, Smoker. I'd really just like to talk."

Smoker grinned grimly. “Depending on what happens to Tashigi, Hina and Drake? I might humor you. Until I run outta patience.”

He stood slowly with a look that wasn’t at all disarming. 

-

Smoker found himself in a small, barely furnished room. His sea stone cuffs were quickly locked to the back of the chair he was 'escorted' into. And a moment later, after the guard and former warlord had exchanged nods and the guard had departed, he and "Sir" Crocodile were alone.

Smoker was seething. This was the second time this man had gotten the drop on him. The second time he’d been locked up in a seastone cage. And this time he’d gotten Tashigi and Hina dragged into it.

He’d warned the World Government, the Admirals— Cross Guild may have seemed like a farce from the outside, but they were a legitimate threat. A powerhouse of Warlords and their collected power all coming together under the banner of destroying the Marines specifically.

They didn’t listen. They never did. His eyes bored into Crocodile’s, his lips tight as he snarled low under his breath. If this was another ‘Utopia’ pitch about toppling a nation he was going to go apeshit. 

Crocodile was smiling that bastard smile of his, and the heels of his boots rang out sharp on the floorboards as he swaggered around behind Smoker.

"I'm sorry I can't make you any more comfortable, considering the circumstances. I can offer a small apology, though." He took a fresh cigar from his pocket and held it in front of Smoker. It smelled like a good one, and seemed to be the twin of the one hanging from the former warlord's lip.

“Trying to buy me off with a good cigar, eh?” Smoker chuckled roughly. “...I’m dying for a smoke, so I ain’t gonna refuse but that doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to shit, understood?” 

"Obviously," Crocodile chuckled. "I wouldn't respect you if you were a man who could be bought with a damned cigar. Or a man who could be bought, period."

The pirate carefully and expertly held the cigar between Smoker's lips for him, and lit the tip of it with the end of his own. As he puffed the cherry, their faces were quite close, and he had a good look at the man who was his captor.

Crocodile wasn’t a bad looking man. Not by half. The crawling scar over his face was a mystery to Smoker, but it didn’t take away from his good looks one bit.

A shame he was a pirate. He puffed at the cigar with a low huff of breath. “Glad to hear you respect me then.” 

"Frankly, Smoker, that's why you're here and not at the bottom of the sea." Croc smiled and pulled out of his personal space, puffing on his own cigar. "You're one of the few damned marines I have anything like respect for."

Smoker raised his eyebrow with a puff of his cigarette. “That's a high honor. Probably for the best nobody took up that bounty you boys took out on me, eh?” 

"Hey, the poster might say dead or alive, but I'm not convinced the rabble could kill ya." He chuckled. "You're a hard bastard to get a hold of. Gave the crew a run for our money just now."

“And I’m glad for it.” Smoker grinned around his cigar. “See– I don’t like letting people run roughshod over my men. If we could give you a run for your money while surprised and …in the case of my Chief Petty Officer and my longtime friend…sloshed, then I’m gonna consider it a job well done.” 

"That makes two of us then," Crocodile nodded. "I'm impressed with your crew. Hell, even Mihawk seemed impressed— in his way. I'm sure your man Drake would have given us trouble too, if he hadn't been bedridden."

“Probably, without a doubt.” Smoker puffed his cigar with lidded eyes. “You've got a lotta compliments for us. Makes me wonder when the ‘but’ is coming.” 

"'But's pretty thick on the ground already, ain't it?" Crocodile huffed. He shrugged and puffed on his cigar, taking it out of his mouth for a moment and looking at it. "You did lose."

“Sure did.” Smoker gave him a grim smile around his cigar. “the boys back home should heeded my warnings about you pirates sooner.”

Crocodile leaned against the wall nearby. "Brass ain't listening to a word you say, are they?"

“Probably shouldn’t tell you this,” Smoker huffed out a long stream of smoke “...but they haven’t for months. Hell. Longer. Since fucking Dressrosa.” 

"Doesn't surprise me a bit. You've never exactly toed the line, have you? I've heard other marines call you a mad dog. Might have used the phrase on you myself." He chuckled roughly.

“I remember. Alabasta.” Smoker leered “you called me a mad dog of the Navy…and you weren’t wrong. I’m not exactly ‘mr. plays by the rules’. I follow my own justice.” 

"Not to be blunt," Crocodile said in a way that told Smoker that he should absolutely brace for him to be very blunt indeed. "How's that been working out for you?"

“As you can see, Crocodile, it’s going great. I’d say Aces, but the guy died back in Marineford for nothin’.” 

The pirate grimaced and sucked on his cigar for a moment. 

"That whole thing was a trash fire. Poor little bastard." Smoker was a little surprised by the rough, raw emotion in Crocodile's voice. Whatever it was was hard to put a name to– regret? bitterness? grief?-- but it was thick. "Yeah. That's about what I thought though. You ain't exactly climbing the ranks and changing the navy with your own brand of justice."

“The navy likes being stuck in its ways.” Smoker analyzed the emotion— it matched his own. He regretted Marineford. It was a travesty of justice. A televised trap that banked on the limits of human cruelty, too cruel even for a pirate’s execution. Ace was a pirate, he had to be caught…but that was above and beyond what Smoker could accept as ‘real justice’. That was a circus show of cruelty.

“I hit Vice Admiral, at least.” 

"Sure did," he nodded. He blew a puff of smoke out of his mouth. "Aiming for Admiral? Better question– think they'll give it to you?"

“Nope.” Smoker answered honestly with a puff off his cigar. “They've already got a new guy. Had to deal with him in Wano. He’s a real treat. You’d love him.” 

"I've heard rumors," Croc drawled. "If we get our hands on him, he and I won't be sharing cigars, I'll tell you that much."

Smoker laughed, smoke pouring from the corners of his mouth “yeah. He and I neither. He’s a real prick, Crocodile. A real Celestial Dragon bootlicker.” 

"Disgusting," Crocodile sneered, and Smoker could tell he meant it. He was quiet for a moment, and sucked in a long breath of smoke, before blowing it out again. "So. When are you going to finally cram your commission up the brass' asshole and start giving them real hell, eh?"

There it was.

He’d been expecting this pitch. Ever since Alabasta when Crocodile had leaned in with that wide and dangerous smile and asked if they were ‘allies’.

“You’re asking when I’m gonna turn pirate.” 

"Sure am," Crocodile nodded, that same dangerous smile planted on his face now.. "I check every time I see your name in the newspaper. I've been waiting to congratulate you. Gotta admit, you're a more patient man than I am."

“I’m a stubborn man, Crocodile.” Smoker grumbled “and one who ain’t the biggest fan of upstart pirates who think they can run roughshod over folks.” 

"You seem to have a high tolerance for marines and government lackeys who run roughshod over folks though," he said, blandly. "All proper and legal like."

Smoker as a matter of fact, did not. Something that’d nearly gotten him court martialed many times before. His interference in Cipher Pol business– his fury at marines who’d treated the people no better than the pirates had…

And now the business with the damned Admiral and the ever oppressive hand of the Celestial Dragons since the Reverie.

“You’d be surprised.” 

"Maybe," Crocodile said. "But you have to acknowledge that if justice and protecting people is what you want, there's so little that you can do from that side. What are you going to do if they call you in on something you really can't stomach? A buster call? guard duty for a grand hunt?"

Crocodile regarded him intensely with his dark, shrewd eyes. They were calculating yes, but far from cold. If anything the probing look that the pirate gave him was as hot as the desert sands.

He’d already narrowly avoided doing much more than hearing about the buster call on Enies Lobby. And the military had been getting more and more brazen with each passing day. More and more the ‘last resort’ seemed eager to be used.

And the hunts. The less said about them the better. They turned his stomach more than the devil fruit ever had.

“.....I’d give them a three days notice they’d never forget.” Smoker hissed smoke through his teeth. “It'd take them three damn days to clean it up.” 

"I'll bet you would," he said. Finally he gathered up the empty chair and shoved it up close to Smoker's setting down in it face to face with him. "

You let them make you admiral, it ain't something you're going to be able to avoid you know. Smoker, the marines do a good job sweet talking justice like they're getting a woman into bed, but you and I both know all they are in the end is the hound dogs of the Celestial Dragons. I know you want 'em to be something better than that. But that's the way it is."

Smoker’s eyes narrowed through the smoke from his cigar. “You don’t think I know that, Croc? Hard to miss when you got bastards like Ryokugyu running around and saying the damned quiet part out loud! The system’s fucked. I know it, you know it. My second knows it, Hina knows it. Even the damn crew knows it.” 

"So why keep playing along, damn it? Why keep pretending the plundering pirates are the problem while you're escorting tribute ships to the celestial dragons with every windows' pennies?" Crocodile demanded. "I know you don't think much of pirates— hell, I don't think much of most pirates. But in the face of the World Government? My Cross Guild is practically the fucking good guys. At least we're putting power in the hands of the people."

“Just like the Revolutionary Army, eh?” Smoker’s teeth tightened on his cigar. The worst part about this was he was right. The Reverie was the clearest sign anyone could ever see of just what the Marines were in the face of the Celestial Dragons. Marineford was the prelude, a taste of that sick and cloying corruption….the Reverie, and the vanished island in the middle of the sea?

That was a reminder. The Celestial Dragons claimed to be the gods of the world, and they acted accordingly.

The people didn’t matter to them. “There are people relying on me, Crocodile.” 

Crocodile hunched forward toward him, his arms on his knees so that they were completely face to face.

"What people, Smoker?" Crocodile asked plainly. "Who's out there relying on you and how are you planning to protect and serve them? Tell me that."

“My men. My subordinates.” Smoker grumbled low as he looked down “and I’m planning on doing whatever the hell it takes.”

The Marines were broken. Anyone with eyes could see it. He’d thought about it, time and time again…that if he’d found a pirate he could respect half as much as he respected Roger in his final moments…he’d consider trying to pursue his justice another way. 

"Do your subordinates respect you, Smoker?" Crocodile asked. The smoke from both their cigars trailed upward and mingled. "My guess is the answer is yes. Because you're a hell of a man. So tell me, do they? Would they follow you into the belly of hell?"

“They already have, and they will again.” Smoker leaned forward until his chains clinked against the back of the chair “where I go, they go.” 

Crocodile suddenly reached across and gripped his shoulder. "Then bring them with you, damn it. Join Cross Guild and damn the marines and the Celestial Dragons! You want to do good for the people? Sail with us, and put your voice on my council. Your voice on equal with us former warlords!"

Smoker grimaced as he was grabbed– but not from the contact. No…it was the war inside him. That sharp pull of justice at any cost, and the realization long found that the Marines weren't any more just than the Pirates.

Ryokugyu was the nail in the coffin of his faith in the Marines. In his faith that anything 'just' was hiding at its core. So what the hell was he doing, floating along on an unending series of punishable, unauthorized trips. What came after Wano? The rebuilt courts at New Marineford to face the music for his middle finger to authority?

He hissed sharply through his teeth “And Tashigi? Drake, Hina?” 

"Bring them!" Crocodile repeated. "If they're men and women you want at your side, I want them in Cross Guild, Smoker. We're not just looking to tear the world down and stuff our pockets– unlike the Dragons. We're not just hypocritically following a set of rules laid down by our masters like the marine brass. Your men and women fight for the world they want to see like you do, don't they? Then they'll shine in my alliance."

It was logical…and it hit Smoker right in his shaken faith in the Marines. He tensed against the chair as the rant of the Admiral played through his head.

The Inferior exist for the superior to do whatever they wish to. The world government could conduct a genocide, the decimation of a people and it would be Just, simply due to their superiority. His stomach churned, and he closed his eyes tight before he replied.

“I’ll do it. I can’t work for a bunch of pricks who think they can massacre civilians during a fucking celebration because they ain’t the same as the people pushing the buster call’s button.” 

A wide smile broke out on Crocodile's face– at once exactly the same sly, smug expression as usual and somehow at the same time quite genuinely thrilled and elated. He smacked Smoker's shoulder companionably.

"I knew you wouldn't let them keep you on the leash forever, pal. This calls for a fucking celebration!" He stood and turned, slamming his hook on the back of the door. "Cabaji!! Get a bottle of booze and get in here with the key!"

“.....” Smoker was stunned, but it only lasted a minute before leaning back on the chair with a hearty, rasping laugh. “You were excited for it. I didn’t know you cared, Crocodile.”

Crocodile laughed a throaty chuckle as he let himself down into the chair again. "Caught me. I'm sure I have a lot of surprises for you in the future. We pirates are deeper than you might think."

“Guess I’ll have plenty of time to get used to the depths you pirates can sink to then.” Smoker joked with a sharp grin. “Now that I am one.” 

-

Crocodile, last out of the room after Vice-Admiral Smoker was led out of it, flashed Mihawk a sly smile before he departed leaving him alone in the brig with the guards and the two remaining marine prisoners.

He watched them carefully, taking every detail he could into account as he slowly paced back and forth before the bars. The two of them had been clearly drunk when Cross Guild assailed the ship, quite obviously while they were deep into the cups. And yet.

And yet both fought with a ferocity that was impressive for their state, and held their own well enough to survive long enough to be locked up behind seastone bars.

The pink haired woman glared at him, baring her teeth in a grin as she whistled for him to come closer.

He didn’t comply. 

The one with dark hair watched him carefully, her arms crossed close around herself. She was flushed– she'd been flushed when she joined the battle— but was more so now after the beating he'd given her. She was a swordswoman, it seemed. Certainly not worth his time, however…

He gave them the thinnest smile he could manage as he tilted his hat downwards. “Are the accommodations to your taste?”

“Not really.” ‘Black Cage Hina’ shrugged her shoulders. “planning on selling us back to the Marines? You should know they’re not really the types to bargain with ransomers.” 

The other woman glanced over at Hina with an incredulous look on her face. She opened her mouth to say something, and then seemed to think better of it, or perhaps just hesitate. She rested her shoulders up against the bars of the cage, which made it more obvious that she was not a devil fruit user.

“Not even for the niece of an Admiral?” he asked with a raise of his eyebrow. ‘Know your Enemy’. It was a fundamental strategy for anyone who sought to live a world of strife…and Mihawk the Marine Hunter knew the marines quite well. He knew the open secret behind Hina’s rise up the ranks despite the troublemaking company she kept and her own tendencies towards open defiance of Military Protocol.

Hina went pale, and he watched her grimace uncomfortably as the question left his lips.

“Don’t worry. We’re not planning on ransoming you. My captain has another idea in mind.” Mihawk turned his gaze to the non-devil fruit user and pointed at her. “You. You were going to speak.” 

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "Not… really. I have nothing to say to pirates." She lifted her chin bravely, despite the situation. 

'Know thy enemy'. He didn't know this one, unfortunately. She didn't seem to have made a name for herself, despite her usual– if inferior– demonstrated skill with the blade. Her insignias marked her as a captain, and she seemed to be attached to Vice-Admiral Smoker.

“Not even a proper introduction?” Mihawk crossed his arms. “I know Rear Admiral HIna Borsalino’s reputation…but not you, Captain.”

“Aw, screw you.” Hina grumbled in annoyance as he used her surname. “Don’t go bothering her, Marine Hunter!” '

The dark haired woman grimaced toward Hina– perhaps at the use of the name– but then turned her defiant if drunken and bespectacled look back at Mihawk. "Marine Captain Tashigi, serving as flag-aide to Vice-Admiral Smoker."

Only one name. Not unheard of. But curious. Unlikely that she was the niece of an admiral as well.

“Tashigi, hm? I suppose I remember reports of Smoker having a subordinate.” Mihawk crossed his arms, framed by his world class blade as he turned fully towards her and leaned towards the bars. 

"And you're the famous Dracule Mihawk, right?"

“That I am. I stand as a pillar of the Cross Guild, as well as my captain’s first mate. A pleasure.”

Hina shifted to thunk against the bars, only to sink down in visible discomfort at the seastone. He smiled thinly before he turned his attention back to Tashigi.

“Heard you went back to hunting marines after you were done hunting pirates.” Hina murmured. “a real return to form.” 

"Does putting out leaflets count as hunting?" Tashigi asked. There was something like a challenge in it.

Mihawk raised his eyebrow at Tashigi, even as he heard Hina weakly snicker.

He placed his hand on the outside of the cage as his eyes bored down into Tashigi over the grim line of his mouth. 

“One cannot enact great change alone, ‘Captain Tashigi’. The leaflets are a first step in a far grander plan.” He gestured down towards them “...I still find time to have my fun as I strive to stay the world’s greatest swordsman. Fighting you both and your marines was…nostalgic. I thank you.”

“Yeah. no problem.” Hina murmured darkly, “still haven’t answered what the plan is here.” 

"I doubt he's going to tell us, Hina."

Tashigi's gaze burned back at Mihawk's– defiant despite the beating he'd handed her. He noticed, however, that one of her eyes was very slightly crossed. Perhaps that had accounted for the particular compensation he'd noticed on the battlefield.

“Interesting.” he didn’t elaborate, though he filed it away. Be it from an injury, or from an ocular abnormality…it certainly accounted for aspects of her fighting style.

He looked at Hina with a tilt of her head. “I’ll tell you a little, actually. Consider it a thanks for the decent fight.”

“Wow, you’re more generous than ya look.” Hina’s smile had turned as sharp as a blade.

“Try not to forget that,” Mihawk drawled before he gestured to the door “...we’re attempting to recruit you.”

That broke Tashigi's defiant expression. She slapped the floor of the cell as her mouth dropped open. "You're what?"

Hina sputtered, and grabbed the seastone cage in her cuffed hands before making a sick sound and falling back. “Are you insane??”

“Hardly,” Mihawk stared them down. “It's no secret I despise the Marines– but my captain and the others seem convinced that the Vice Admiral, and those he spent his time with, are people who’ll see reason when pointed towards the World Government’s sins.”

“You’re pirates!” Hina said weakly as she reeled from the seastone. “not the damn Revolutionary Army!” 

Tashigi had gone quiet. She was staring at the floor at the moment, her brow furrowed as if she was deeply in thought. Mihawk noticed her glance at Hina, and then away at the floor again.

Mihawk nodded slowly. 

“That is true. We are not the Revolutionary Army. But as men and women who had worked with the World Government for years as their Warlords, we are pirates who’ve seen the depravity of the Celestial Dragons and the moral compromises of the Marines firsthand and often.”

He leaned on the bars, his sharp eyes boring into Hina as her own brow furrowed in likely thought. “I’d be surprised if you told me you hadn’t noticed.” 

“Tch.” Hina set her jaw, “anyone with eyes can see it… But it ain’t like a pirate alliance is much different.”

It was an admission, which was a crack in the armor to exploit.

“It’s more honest.” Mihawk countered. 

"Calling piracy honest is a bold claim," Tashigi said finally, looking up again. The defiant look was still there, but it had softened, joined by something that might have been curiosity.

Mihawk chuckled sharply. “We don’t hide our crimes under layers of excuses and call it justice. Marineford was a uniquely federal atrocity. Pirates may lay siege to ports, but Cipher Pol can decimate an island and call it Justice.”

His fingers clenched against the bars. “they can slaughter a people for the sake of a few berries more in tribute to the looming Celestial Dragons.I watched that very scenario play out before my eyes as a lad. Native Hunting Competitions, authorized slavery…Buster Calls on the innocent…all barely hidden secrets held by the World Government.”

He watched Hina curl in on herself somewhat, her teeth gritting together. She knew, of course. She had to know. Between her own position, and her family’s ingrained status in the World Government, he knew it couldn’t be far from her mind.

She had to know that he was speaking the truth. 

"Ah," Tashigi's tongue clicked and she looked away. "That kind of honest…"

She hadn't deflated quite the same way that Hina had, but she was staring off at the ceiling now instead. She obviously didn't have a refutation either.

MIhawk tilted his head. “I know you marines make a big deal out of your sense of Justice. So how is your Justice faring lately?” 

Tashigi turned her head, away from him, and away from Hina as well. "You're wasting your breath on me, I'm afraid, first-mate Mihawk."

Hina sighed a soft huff of breath, raising her hands to her face with a clink of the chains. There was a sad note to the way she murmured “Tashigi…”

Mihawk watched Tashigi carefully, scrutinizing her “I see. I believe I understand. Then allow me to say this. There is purpose to be found on the sea. Many who follow a pirate’s flag claim it’s a life of freedom…and while I feel that is perhaps idealistic, there is some truth to that.” 

"First pirate honest," Tashigi murmured. "Now pirate idealism. What a time to be alive."

[cognacandlilac]

To the Depths - Part Five - NSFW

(Pirate!Silco x F!Reader) The Pirate's Waltz

AO3 - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3.1 - Part 3.2 - Part 4

Rating: Explicit/MDNI Chapter Summary: You struggle with the terms of your punishment even as you begin to win over the crew. For a moment, all is well even though you are technically a prisoner. Will the sea allow a moment of peace? Chapter Tags/Warnings: def a little nsfw but not nearly as much as other parts, nothing that hasn't been in past parts. Not beta'd bc I was too impatient to get the update posted lol *edited on 8/5 to fix mistakes that would have been caught with beta reading. There is a lesson here...*

You flee the cabin immediately without another word. Your entire body hums, rages, cries, and begs for release and you know you will not find it in that room. Something stings and burns in your chest, wrapping around your heart and squeezing tight. You’re reminded of Silco’s sea serpent tattoo but immediately shake the thought away. His body is the last thing you want to think about right now. 

Especially since the ache between your legs only grows with each step. You briefly entertain the idea of finding a dark, shadowy corner of the ship to bring the relief denied you, but that thought flies out of your mind the moment you see the crew standing idle on the deck, their faces all turned toward the short stairwell you’ve just climbed. You freeze on the last step.

Before Silco dragged you back down to the cabin, you’d passionately declared for all to hear that you were the reason they had to spend the night fighting a violent storm and why thick pools of drying blood now stain the deck. No doubt you’ve made an enemy of yourself to every single person staring at you now. 

You could return to the cabin but the thought of being enclosed with Silco is unbearable. You are caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Almost literally. 

Luckily, you aren’t trapped in your frozen state for long. Jinx darts into your field of vision, her eyes wide and frantic. 

“You look awful ,” she says, cupping your face in her dainty hands. The coolness of her skin alerts you to just how scorching your face is. No doubt flushed, too. “I hope he wasn’t too harsh with you.”

Harsh certainly isn’t the word you’d choose to describe what just happened in his cabin. “I received the punishment I deserved for my error,” You say, hoping to avoid bringing up any particulars of that punishment, not when your ass still stung in the shape of his hand. Before Jinx can ask another question, you make your way across the deck to the poor crewmate you tricked. 

“I owe you an apology.” You speak to him with the same grace and dignity you would reserve for a noble. “Tricking you wasn’t just wrong, it was cruel. If I thought for even one minute that things would turn out the way they did, I never would have done it but that does not make it acceptable.” 

You bow your head and sink into a half-curtsy. 

“Please, accept my sincerest apologies.”

The walleyed crewmember says nothing at first. Your cheeks grow red from embarrassment as you try to figure out what you ought to do next. He saves you from your discomfort when he lets out a loud, cawing laugh.

“All those fancy words for me, miss?” He guffaws. “In all me days I never thought a lady would speak so pretty to me.” He throws an arm around you in a friendly, but rough, manner and you straighten up to avoid falling over altogether. “So, am I forgiven?”

“Ya ran a bad scheme and it bit us all in the ass. We’ve all done it,” he assures her. “But it’s nice to know you aren’t too high and mighty to take the consequences.” Relief floods you as the other crewmates circle around. They give you approving nods, though you won’t go as far as to say they look upon you with trust or friendliness. 

“Surely, the Captain requested more than just an apology,” Sevika says with a suspicious glint in her eyes. 

“The apology was my own doing,” you say as you approach her. “His punishment dictates that I am to report to you. I am to clean the deck.” Her eyebrows twitch as the corners of her mouth quiver like she’s trying not to laugh. 

“I wouldn’t trust someone so soft-handed with the care of my deck but if the Captain insists…”

She trails off as she walks away. You realize you are meant to follow and hurry after her. She doesn’t offer anything by way of instruction. She tosses a bucket and a thick bristled brush towards you, which you fail to catch. The items clatter onto the floor. Your cheeks burn when you hear chuckles behind you. “Get to it,” Sevika grunts. You look at the empty bucket, noticing that it’s…well, empty. 

“Where would I find water?” As soon as the words are out of your mouth, you realize your mistake. Everyone who heard begins to laugh. 

“I think you can figure that one out on your own, princess,” Sevika smirks before heading below deck. 

Jinx appears at your side, silent as a ghost but with the energy of a toddler who has had nothing but sweets all day. 

“I rigged up a pulley system so you can fill your bucket. I’ll show you.” 

She loops her arm through yours and pulls you across the deck. You fill your bucket with saltwater and approach one of the more gruesome remnants of the morning’s violence. Your stomach heaves as you spot something that might very well be a skull fragment. 

Determined not to look foolish or weak, you get on your knees and scrub. You work diligently and without complaint, even when your arms start to ache and the wood remains stained despite your efforts. 

It isn’t the approval of the crew you want, exactly. But you are going to be trapped on this ship for two weeks. While you aren’t looking to make friends with your captors, you also don’t want to find your throat slit in a moment of anger. 

“How long are you going to keep doing that?” Jinx materializes by your side. Her braids fall into the puddle you’ve created with your scrubbing efforts. She doesn't seem to mind that she might be getting blood in her long hair. 

“Is this a trick question?”

“No.”

You lift your head to find wide blue eyes staring at you with curiosity. 

“I will keep doing this until the deck is clean.”

She barks out a laugh. “You’re never going to remove all the gross stuff with just water. Didn’t you know that?”

“I don’t often find myself in positions where I am scrubbing up gross stuff ,” you reply. “What else am I supposed to use?”

“Did Sevika not tell you?” Her brows knit together in a mix of concern and confusion. 

“Tell me what?”

Jinx studies you for a moment longer before giggling. “Oh, I get it. Sevika’s having a go at you. Don’t worry. Everyone knows you’ll work without kicking up a fuss. I’ll be right back.”

She bounds off, leaving you confused. You take a moment to give your aching arms a break. You are aware of eyes on you, though the crewmates scattered around the deck do a decent job of not staring at you directly. You know this is some kind of test, one you’re determined to pass with flying colors even if the reward is earning the respect of pirates. 

Jinx returns with a small tin. 

“Watch this.” With a grin, she opens the tin to reveal vibrant purple powder. She sprinkles a little over the blood-soaked wood. “Pour a little water on that.”

You do as she instructs. With wide eyes, you watch the water hiss and bubble. It takes on a pale purple hue as it spreads. It eats away at the blood but leaves the wood unblemished. 

“More water,” Jinx instructs. You comply. The bubbles wash away leaving behind smooth, clean wood. 

“What is that?” You ask, eyeing the purple power. 

“We’re still working on a name. I have several ideas but they always get shot down,” she says as she replaces the lid and tucks the tin into one of her many pockets. 

“We?”

“The ship’s doctor. He likes to experiment.”

“This is the same doctor you got that strange drink from before, when I was first brought aboard?” You press. 

“Yup!” Jinx beams. 

“Well, the Captain tore that drink from my hands and threw it overboard before giving me water. What was wrong with it?” You shudder at the thought of drinking a substance that is capable of dissolving blood and chunks of brain matter being served to you in a cup. 

“Nothing!” Jinx raises her hands, palms facing you. “Sometimes it has side effects, but usually it’s completely safe.”

“Usually?” You arch a brow. 

“Sometimes it makes your veins swell and glow and you can occasionally develop abnormal growths on your body,” she explains. “But that’s only if the batch is made wrong or you take way too much.” 

“None of the words coming from your mouth are bringing me comfort.”

“It’s science! It’s all about trial and error,” she shrugs. “If I thought it would hurt you I wouldn’t have given it to you.” 

Despite everything, you believe her. You haven’t seen a hint of malice in her since you were brought aboard. 

“But you still haven’t told me what it is,” you press. 

“It’s…a tool,” she says with thoughtful consideration. “Depending on how we process it, it can do a lot of things. It can be medicine and poison at the same time. It can clean wood with gentle precision but also dissolve bone. A tricky thing, it is. Truly fascinating.” 

“Interesting,” you murmur as your mind wanders to a person who possesses that same versatility. Another tricky thing. 

You see Silco’s face in your mind’s eye but quickly shake his image away. You don’t want to think about the Captain right now. You’re still cross from the way he teased you and denied you. You’re even more cross knowing how much you would have begged for your pleasure had he not chosen to punish you the way he did. “Thank you for the help. Can I have some of that powder to help me clean?”

Jinx almost seems like she’s going to agree but she holds back. “I’ll just stay with you. We can talk and I’ll sprinkle a little whenever you need it.”

“That works for me.” You offer her a warm smile, a genuine one. She smiles back and settles between two crates to keep you company as you clean. ******** Though you finish cleaning the blood and gore from the deck the very day they were spilled, Sevika isn’t shy about giving you extra tasks. She never gives you anything too difficult though you know it’s not out of consideration for you, but for the ship. 

You’ve scrubbed the deck twice a day for three days. When you aren’t scrubbing, you put your sewing skills to use mending sails. The thick material is hard to work with and the needles are little more than scraps of half-rusted metal but you make do. 

With the help of quick hands, fast learning, and the strange purple powder Jinx offers you soon have far too much idle time on your hands. 

You aren’t particularly fond of aimlessly pacing the deck. The Captain’s cabin is always open to you, but you spend as little time there as you can manage.

Despite Captain Silco’s demanding schedule, he always manages to be in the cabin whenever you are. The room is small enough as it is, but when you are in there together, the very air seems to struggle for space. You don’t speak to him. You don’t look at him unless you can help it. Yet, he never misses a chance to brush close to you. You feel his eyes on you, always. Even when you sleep. 

Sharing his bed is a necessity but you keep your limbs tucked close to you and your body curled toward the cabin wall. He never touches you, which brings both relief and unimaginable frustration.

On the third night, you lay wide awake. Your entire body hums with pressure from the release that was denied days ago. The longing never went away but tonight it’s nearly unbearable. 

You listen in the dark. Silco sleeps beside you. His breathing is deep and even. Though there is a soft glow from the ember of his ruined eye, you know he’s asleep. Slowly, very slowly, you shift onto your back. You wear only a borrowed shirt to sleep in. Your legs are left bare and your undergarments never recovered from your unexpected dip in the ocean. Tonight, it’s an advantage. 

With great care, you slowly lift the long hem of your shirt until you feel the skin of your lower belly. You part your legs only an inch or two before letting your hand slowly wander between your legs beneath the shared blankets. 

You listen intently as you move. Silco’s breathing never changes and you keep the rustling of bedsheets to a minimum. 

You find it safe to assume that Silco is a heavy sleeper. Between the winds and rocking of the ship, it would be difficult for a finicky sleeper to find peace here. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. As sound as your logic may be, logic is not what drives you at this moment. 

The sensation of your fingertips against your skin is enough to make you shiver. You freeze, silently admonishing your lack of self-control before making another attempt. You don’t need much. Just a few light, indulgent touches. Just enough to remove the biting edge of desire that has taken up permanent residence in the back of your mind since Silco bent you over his knee. The pad of a single fingertip brushes against that sensitive, soaked bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hard enough to hurt. The pain is necessary if it keeps you from making even the softest of sounds. 

You wait for a moment, listening to Silco’s breathing. When you are certain there is no change, you allow another slow drag of your fingertip. Then another. And another. Pleasure spins through your mind and soothes the needy ache you’ve carried in your core for days. 

Fragmented images from the night of the storm slip through your mind. The memory of Silco’s soft groan when you rode him so slowly sends another ripple of warmth through your body. You can recall the exact sensation of his tongue as he teased your nipples. You can feel the way he throbbed inside of you when you drove each other to maddening releases. 

Yet, somehow, you manage to keep your movements minimal, discrete, and silent. Even as your blood heats up and your heart pounds, you have enough self-control to keep yourself quiet as you relieve your desires. 

An intoxicating sense of smugness adds another layer to your pleasure. Though it was memories of Silco that fueled that pleasure, he remains asleep beside you. Completely oblivious. 

His ability to consistently underestimate you was truly something-

“What do we have here?” His velvet voice slides through the darkness and wraps around you as his hand finds yours. You’re grateful for the pitch blackness of the cabin so he cannot see the redness of your cheeks. Your mind, still caught in the haze of pleasure from your fingertip, struggles to come up with any sort of explanation. 

There is nothing you can say for yourself. You’ve been caught. 

His hand, still covering your hand, moves. He presses down on your fingers, forcing you to tease yourself. You push your hips down into the mattress to avoid the pressure of your own touch. “Oh, now you wish to follow the rules?” He taunts lightly. 

You roll so that your back is to him. You tell yourself that you remain silent because you will not sink so low as to dignify his taunts with a response. Yet, deep in your belly where that spring of desire sits tightly coiled, you know that you cannot trust your own tongue right now. If you open your mouth to slice him with scathing words, there is a chance you’ll simply end up begging for pleasure. 

Hatred blooms within the blush on your cheeks. How dare he toy with you in such a way? How dare you struggle so much to keep yourself in control around him? What happened that night, within the violence of the storm, was about control more than it was about pleasure. 

But now? You have your hand between your legs, sneaking pleasure when you’ve always been able to go without when it suited you. 

He’s made you desperate. 

You remove your hand from between your legs and tuck both arms against your chest. You clamp your thighs together and pray that the sweet ache between them fades soon. 

“If I catch you doing that again, I will not hesitate to bind your hands behind your back.” Silco’s voice comes through the darkness once more before he falls silent. You continue to say nothing. When the sun rises, you dress as quickly as you can and flee the cabin. Silco sits at his desk and you do not even have to look at him to know there is a smug smile on his mouth. Embarrassment and irritation propel you through your daily tasks in record time. It is not yet midday when you find that you have nothing to do. 

The rest of the crew mill about at a comfortable pace. They don’t seem to be in any particular rush. Jinx is nowhere to be found. You assume she’s below decks with the strange doctor you have yet to meet. Disappointment flutters in your chest. As strange as it is, your favorite parts of the past few days were when she would perch near you ask you worked, and ramble on about everything and nothing. She often jumped from topic to topic without rhyme or reason and rarely bothered to make sure you had the proper context to understand anything she said, but you enjoyed listening. She helped you keep your mind busy. 

When your mind is not busy, even for the briefest of moments, your thoughts always turn to Silco. More specifically Silcos’s hands. Or his mouth. Or his voice or his cock or his insufferable personality. Without care, it’s so easy for you to lose yourself in a whirlpool of obsessive, never-ending thoughts about that ridiculous, despicable, revolting pirate bastard. 

Prickles of pure fury ripple over your skin. With a soft snarl of annoyance, you scan the deck for Sevika. You find her near the bow, watching the calm sea. 

“I need something else to do,” you say. 

She initially seems as though she does not hear you, but you’ve come to realize that it’s part of the game she plays. She makes you wait before turning slowly and looking at you as though you’re a piece of flotsam. 

“Mend the sails,” she says. 

“They’re all mended.” Despite their somewhat worn-down appearance, the sails are of remarkable quality. Even after that vicious beast of a storm, little mending was needed. 

“And the deck?”

“As spotless as it can be with all of the wood rot.” 

“And the spare line?”

“In perfect condition. It may as well be coils of silk.” 

“How many pickled eggs are in the barrel?”

“Two-hundred and seventy-three.”

Her thick, dark brows shoot up. “You’re kidding.”

“If you want to double-check, you’re more than welcome but please give me something to do first before I throw myself overboard.” 

Several emotions fight for dominance on Sevika’s stern face. You see flashes of surprise, humor, annoyance, and perhaps a little bit of respect though that might have been a trick of the light. 

“Arlo is doing one of his big cooking hauls today,” Sevika says. “I’m sure he can use an extra set of hands.” 

You had yet to venture below deck to meet the ship’s cook and see the mess deck. Jinx preferred to eat in the open air and had taken it upon herself to bring an extra serving for you at mealtimes. 

You find the meal offerings of the Zaun’s Revenge to be, frankly, repulsive. At first, you assumed it was because your palate was used to Piltover’s fresh vegetables, vibrant spices, and choice cuts of meat. But you’d seen the way others look at their meals with disgust and longing and you knew you weren’t alone in your dislike of the cuisine. 

Of course, could you truly expect to find something tasty aboard a pirate’s ship?

Sevika does not wait for you to answer. She turns away as though you are not there and focuses her gaze on the sea once more. You wonder if she’s looking for something or simply pondering. It’s not hard to imagine that those aboard this ship have had difficult lives filled with strife. You have more than most ever will, despite your losses, and you often need to take a moment to deal with the weight of it all by gazing at a soothing view. It clears the mind. 

You make your way below deck, passing the crammed tables of the mess deck. 

Arlo isn’t difficult to find. The mess deck and the kitchen are one and the same. A heavy-set man covered in a light sheen of sweat frantically tosses…something in a wide pan over a massive flame. The air carries a scent of burnt food and vinegar. Arlo watches the pan as though he believes the contents will jump out and bite him. To be fair, that doesn’t seem impossible. 

“Hello?” You call softly, over the violent sizzle of the ill-fated meal. 

Arlo looks over his shoulder and sets the pan aside, looking relieved to do so before a stern expression overtakes his somewhat doughy features. You can’t help but notice the red tinge to his watery grey eyes, irritated by the fumes of cooking such a creation. 

“No early meals. You should know the rules by now, princess.”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “I’m not here to beg for food. Sevika suggested you might need an extra hand. She said you were doing some kind of…food haul?” While you understand what each of those words mean separately, you are unsure of the combined meaning of them in this context. 

“Aye?” He sniffs as he brings the corner of his apron up to rub at his eyes. “I like to cook big batches of things all at once and preserve them so it is easy to handle mealtimes. This lot is hard to feed.” 

“Preserve them?” You ask. “You have enough salt for such a task?” 

“Of a sort,” he says. “The good doctor below decks whipped up a preserving powder that works wonders. It tastes like nothing.” 

Arlo jerks his chin towards a bowl sitting on one of the stained, cluttered counters. The bowl is filled with a grainy substance the same vibrant shade of purple as the powder that helped you get blood out of the deck. 

“What is it?” You ask, leaning forward just a little. 

“Beats me,” Arlo shrugs. “It’s not my place to ask questions, especially not when I’m given something helpful for free.” 

“I can understand that,” you nod. “Do you need help with your food haul?” 

“I won’t say no. Can you cook?”

You hesitate for a moment. “No. But if you have a recipe I can look at, I can surely figure it out.” You’ve always been a quick learner. And so many people know how to cook so how hard can it truly be? You doubt whatever concoctions Arlo makes take much skill. 

“I don’t waste my time with recipes.”

“Then how do you cook?” You ask, unsure if you want to know the answer. 

“I do what feels right.”

What feels right often leads to grey foods that are both mushy and crunchy at the same time. 

“Did you study somewhere to become a cook?” Your training in polite conversation rears its head before you can stop it. Of course, he didn’t train anywhere. He’s a bloody pirate. 

“People are trained to be cooks?” He looks at you with utter confusion. 

“They prefer to be called chefs, but yes.”

“Ach,” he waves her off. “I’m no chef and I do not pretend to be. I just do my best to use whatever isn’t rotting or foul to keep the crew fed.”

Well, at least Arlo seems to have some sort of self-awareness. “Were you not able to gather more ingredients when we stopped at Port Fairna?” You ask. You vividly remember plenty of spice sellers and bakers lining the dirt streets. 

“No,” Arlo answers sharply. “I do not mess about with such things.”

You tilt your head in confusion. “You do not manage your own stock?”

“No.” Came another curt reply. The cook avoids your gaze, choosing instead to look at his own hands. 

You decide not to push the matter and instead, turn your attention to the shelves of the well-stocked scullery. Unfortunately, your confusion only deepens. The shelves are lined with rich spices from all over the world that look untouched. You spy garlic, onions, potatoes, carrots, and all manner of staple ingredients labeled and stored with heaps of the purple preservative. 

“What are all of these?” You ask. 

Arlo looks at the shelves you point to but quickly looks away. “Don’t know. Never seen ‘em before. Don’t know how to cook with ‘em so I don’t use them.”

“But it says what they are right on the containers,” you point out. “Surely, you’ve heard of garlic and potatoes even if you’ve never had them. Right?” 

Arlo goes quiet for a moment and you briefly wonder if you’ve made some unforgivable error in an innocent question. “Aye. Yes, I’ve heard of them but I did not know we had them.”

“But they’re labeled. Did you not label them yourself?” He controls the kitchen, does he not?

Arlo’s cheeks turn a patchy red color that is not from the fumes or heat. “No, no I didn’t. I…can’t.”

You stare in confusion before shame and embarrassment creep into your gut. “You do not know how to write?”

“Or read.”

Arlo can’t meet your gaze. He seems frozen in place. Though he is nearly the side of the large, tattooed crewmember that once pulled you from the sea, he looks like a small child. 

“Oh,” you say softly. It’s clearly a point of tenderness for Arlo. You don’t wish to upset him even more. “Well, then this seems like a perfect arrangement.”

He lifts his head and looks at you with a quizzical expression. “What?”

“I can read but I cannot cook. You can cook but cannot read. It seems like an ideal pairing to me.” You offer him a smile. 

For a brief moment, you wonder at your own actions. You’d never go out of your way to be unkind to someone who did not deserve it and you always try to do what’s right, but you know yourself. You have a temper and a spiteful streak that prevent you from ever calling yourself a nice person, though you like to think you are kind in all of the ways that matter.. Arlo is a pirate. Arlo likely knew of the plan to kidnap you and hold you for ransom. Arlo is one of Silco’s men and, therefore, cannot possibly be a good person. 

Yet, you find it easy to be nice to him. Natural, even. He doesn’t seem like a scowling, sneering member of a villainous pirate crew determined to put you through hell before returning you to your father and fiance. 

He’s just…a person. 

So is Jinx. 

You are surrounded by people. Just people. 

You shake away the thought. Yes, the crew of the Zaun’s Revenge are people but they are people who willingly follow a terrible man capable of terrible things. There are no innocent people aboard this ship and you cannot allow sentimentality and loneliness to cloud that fact. 

Still, if a little teamwork can yield some decent food, you’re willing to give it a go. 

With Arlo’s approving nod, you push into the scullery and examine what you have to work with. The stock aboard this half-rotted ship rivals your larder back home. You gather up ingredients you know work well together and read the labels to Arlo. His eyes light up with inspiration. 

“If I had known we had such things, I would have used them ages ago,” he says with an excited smile. 

“No one helped you until now?” You press. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly a helpful bunch. We handle our own responsibilities and we don’t gripe to anyone else. No one wants to be seen as a weak link in the chainmail. Weak links don’t last long. Asking for help would mean dumping some of my responsibilities on someone else’s lap. It’s just not done, you see?” 

“No, not really,” you answer. “Asking for help is not a weakness.”

“We can agree to disagree on that but let me ask you something.” Arlo took a head of garlic and began peeling and mincing the cloves with speed and precision. “When was the last time you answered a call for help?”

You open your mouth to answer but falter. You cannot remember a time you were last approached by someone in need of help. 

“Well, no one has asked me for help in recent memory so I cannot say,” you answer. 

“And that automatically means that no one around you needed help?” 

“I-” you stammer. “I don’t know.”

“I bet you live in a big, fancy house. Yeah?”

“Yes,” you say, your cheeks coloring with embarrassment as you pass a vial of dried green herbs to Arlo. 

“And lots of people get paid to be in that house and make your life easier?”

“Yes,” you repeat. 

“And you don’t think those people have struggles that you could probably help with?”

You want to say no. You want to believe that everyone working for your family is happy and content with their job as well as their personal lives but you are not that naive. 

Except…perhaps, you are. 

“I never thought about it,” you admit. 

“And they never asked because that’s not how it’s done. Their burdens are their own. My burdens are my own. It is the way of things.” 

You let his words sit heavy on your chest as you rummage through the scullery. You’re almost grateful when you smell the thick stench of rot from ingredients kept too long. You clear out everything that doesn’t look right and shove it into a bin to be disposed of later. 

You think of your lady’s maid and realize you know little about her. You do not know if she has siblings, a lover, a best friend, or even if her parents are alive. You have no idea why she applied for a position with your family. As much as you’d like to think your family are good employers, you know it’s foolish to believe her greatest joy in life is tightening your corset and brushing your hair. 

“Would this be a tasty addition?” Arlo calls, bringing you out of your thoughts as he holds up a jar of dried peppers. You read the label and wince. 

“Are spicy dishes popular among the crew?” You ask. “Just one of those would set your mouth on fire.”

“Better leave it for another day, then,” he shrugs. “I don’t want to overwhelm anyone with too many new flavors.” 

Though Arlo never had any training, his instincts as a cook come to life the moment he fully realizes just what he has to take advantage of. Vegetables are minced and sauteed quickly. You find some bone broth tucked away in the scullery. There is no shortage of fishmeat to choose from. You read the labels to Arlo who looks on in wonder. 

“I thought this was bass and this was carp,” he says, pointing to two containers of preserved fishmeat. “I never knew that was eel. It all looks so different when it’s sliced up and skinned.”

“Who does the fishing?”

“A few crewmembers have a knack for it. All of Sevika’s gadgets make her the obvious choice for skinning, deboning, and filleting,” Arlo explains. “It’s brought to me all packaged up like this.” 

It seems odd to you that the systems around food are so sloppy, especially since Silco seems to thrive on order. Upon further reflection, you realize you haven’t actually seen him eat. He left his plate untouched at the tavern. He let you eat his bread and potatoes. You saw him drink from his tankard but you cannot recall him taking a bite of his food. 

Surely, he must eat. Though he is a pirate, he’s displayed a sense of elegance and taste on more than one occasion. You simply cannot see him eating the food prepared by his illiterate cook. 

But why does it matter to you? He’s obviously eating enough to keep himself alive. Why would you care what he eats? 

You don’t care. And you don’t want to think about him. You have an important task on hand that is, truthfully, quite fun. You’ve come across many of the spices and herbs stored in the scullery during your travels. Smelling them brings pleasant memories. While you do not know how to cook, you know how to describe what things taste like. In the event Arlo knows nothing about an ingredient, you are sometimes able to provide some knowledge. It’s a strange system, but it somehow works. 

Arlo keeps your mind busy. He even teaches you how to chop a few things. Your hands are clumsy but you make it work. Within an hour, you are dutifully stirring a massive pot of fish stew. While it’s not something you’d choose for yourself, it’s an improvement on whatever Arlo made before. “It’s strange to be a cook on a pirate ship in the middle of the ocean and have access to things I never even knew existed growing up,” Arlo says, holding a potato in his hands. 

“You never had a potato until joining this crew?” You itch to ask why he joined in the first place but you allow him to reveal information about himself at his own pace. 

“Potatoes grow from the earth, yeah?” He asks. You nod. “Which means they need something in order to grow.” He gives you an expectant look. You know you’re being tested again but potatoes are a safer topic than the unknown personal lives of your staff. “Sunshine, water, and fertilizer, I presume.” 

“There is no sunshine where I come from,” Arlo says. “Water can’t be wasted on plants but even if it could, there is no earth. You can’t grow something of the earth if there is no earth for growing.” 

“Oh,” you murmur softly. “You’re from the Undercity, then?” 

“Almost all of us are,” Arlo says. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“Well, I haven’t been in a very social mood as of late. Being kidnapped tends to do that.” You offer a small smirk, which Arlo returns. 

“Fair enough,” he nods. “You seem like a decent sort for a spoiled heiress.”

“You seem like a decent sort for a pirate who can’t read.” 

Arlo barks out a laugh. “Perhaps, your ransom money will buy me a tutor.” 

You can’t help but laugh at that as you continue to stir the stew. With a little thrill of accomplishment, you realize that you’ve not only assisted in the preparation of a meal but you’ve done so without thinking of Silco for more than a few moments. He’s hardly entered your mind at all. 

Footfalls thump on the wooden stairs leading to the deck. You spot tall, well-kept boots wrapped around slender legs. 

It is as if your thoughts - or lack thereof - summoned him like some kind of devilish moth to a flame that would prefer to be left unbothered. “Ah, there you are,” Silco says as he enters the mess deck. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Working,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the stew. 

“I did not assign you to the kitchen.”

“You told me to take orders from Sevika. Sevika sent me here. Arlo and I are getting along brilliantly, aren’t we?” You look over your shoulder at the cook who glances between you and Silco with a look of panicked confusion. Eventually, his gaze stops on Silco. 

“I didn’t know you didn’t want her working in the kitchen, Captain,” he says quickly. His voice trembles with nerves and you feel anger flickering to life in your stomach. 

“I should warn you, Arlo,” Silco speaks as though the cook said nothing. “Our prisoner does not have a talent for following directions. She can be sneaky and disobedient if she believes she can get away with it.”

Your cheeks burn as you understand exactly what he means. 

Before you can stop yourself, you pull the wooden spoon from the stew and chuck it at Silco. He dodges, but barely. His good eye widens in surprise as you search for something else to launch at him. Perhaps a nice sharp butcher’s knife. Instead, you find a whisk. You throw it without hesitation. 

“Have you gone mad?” Silco snaps, dodging the second projectile. How can someone with one working eye be so good at dodging and judging distance? Although, you don’t know for certain if the ruined eye still has a vision. Could that be possible?

You let out a frustrated groan as your mind tries to give in to your curiosity about the infuriating pirate before you. 

“Oh, I see,” Silco chuckles. “You’re just upset I won’t let you cu-” 

He is silenced by a spatula spinning through the air as it hurtles toward him. He dodges once more. 

“I have plenty of things to throw at you,” you warn him. “And if I have gone mad, it’s entirely your fault so I will not feel bad if I crack your nose with a rolling pin.”

“I don’t have one of those,” Arlo murmurs softly. 

“Temper, temper,” Silco tuts before backing up toward the stairs. “Don’t let her poison me, Arlo. I don’t put it past her to try.”

Arlo gives you a concerned look as Silco vanishes. 

“Don’t worry,” you say with a bitter note in your voice. “I won’t poison anyone.”

“It’s not that, though I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “But you just threw things at the Captain. Have you lost your bleeding senses, woman?”

“Most likely.” You find another spoon to stir the stew with and continue on as though Silco did not interrupt your work. 

“Just be careful,” Arlo warns. “The Captain is not to be trifled with.”

“Neither am I.” ******** The stew is well received, but that’s not a surprise. Even if it still tastes off to you, it’s a massive improvement. The mess deck is packed with crewmembers licking their bowls clean and sniffing out second helpings. You and Arlo made enough stew to last several meals but it is all gone in the span of an hour. Arlo frets about rationing ingredients but his worries are soon put to rest from an overflow of praise. Even Sevika cracks a smile as she sips her broth. 

Silco does not eat with the crew, but that doesn’t surprise you. A spiteful part of you is glad that he will miss out on such a delightful meal. It serves him right for being so…so… Him. 

As night falls, the crew settles into a leisurely state. 

You get to work scrubbing the dirty dishes, eager to have a task that will keep you out of the Captain’s chambers for as long as possible. 

“Ach, leave it to me,” Arlo says. “You’ve done enough.”

“I don’t mind,” you protest, even though dishwashing is not an appealing task after seeing the way the pirates eat. “I should be helping.”

“Come have a drink with us,” comes the deep voice of the tattoo-covered man. After listening to the conversation during mealtimes, you gleaned that his name is Locke. 

“Oh, I-” You stammer, surprised by the invitation. A slender crewmember with dark choppy hair moves to Locke’s side. You’re fairly certain they go by Ran. 

“Come on,” they urge. “You’ve worked hard enough. And none of us have given you proper credit for taking Walley’s punishment the other day. It took nerve to speak up like that. Most of us wouldn’t have done that.” 

You look back at Arlo, who gives a nod of approval. Your gaze returns to Locke and Ran. Though they do not look as intimidating as they did when you first came aboard, you wouldn’t call their demeanors friendly, either but that’s something you’ve come to expect. Everyone on this ship comes from a rough place. It makes sense that even kindness looks abrasive in your eyes.  “Okay,” you nod. A part of your mind begins to scheme. If you can befriend some of the crew, perhaps you can pull off an escape after all. The other part of your mind is simply glad you have a reason to stay out of the Captain’s cabin. Besides, it will surely irritate Silco that his crew is being so welcoming to you. That’s a lovely bonus to this situation. 

You follow Locke and Ran to the main deck where quite a few members of the crew including Jinx and Sevika stand around a cluster of torches bound together in a damp barrel. It doesn’t seem like the safest arrangement, but you don’t say as much. You move to Jinx’s side. She beams when she sees you and throws a playful, but rough, arm over your shoulder. 

“It’s about time you started being social,” she says with a glint of mischief in her eyes. You almost want to remind her that you are a prisoner, a captive. Socializing is not a priority. You decide against it. She’s just a kid. She’s happy and she’s aware of the situation. You’ll leave well enough alone. 

“Here, princess.” Sevika presses a tin into your hand. You can smell the alcohol even though the tin is nowhere near your face. 

“What is it?” You ask. 

“The finest vintage imported from uppityland courtesy of Star Crossed Shipping,” Sevika snorts before taking a gulp of her own drink. You try not to bristle at the mention of your father’s company. 

“Seriously, what is it?” You whisper to Jinx. 

“I don’t know. I only drink coralberry juice,” she shrugs. “Nothing else is sweet enough.” 

You’ve never heard of coralberries or their juice. It’s entirely possible that Jinx is making up a random drink for the fun of it. Either way, your cup is filled with something dark and pungent. It is only when you notice that many crewmembers are watching you with curious and expectant looks that you realize they’re waiting for you to drink. They probably expect you to choke and sputter, proving that you’re too soft and fragile compared to them. 

You don’t know why the idea bothers you, but it does. You brace yourself and take a drink. 

And it is awful. 

If you had to guess, you’d say it was some kind of spiced rum but that doesn’t make the burn any easier to bear as you swallow it down. Your eyes water so much that everyone blurs together in a smudgy mess. For a moment, you think you’re going to be sick. Or that your skin is going to melt off. It’s hard to know for sure. 

Even when you swallow the liquid down and the feeling passes, your tongue feels numb. Surely, that’s nothing to worry about. Right?

You are rewarded with approving glances but never any outright praise. Not that it matters. Why would you want the praise of a bunch of pirates? Why would you want praise for choking down something that tastes like it was made in a boot? 

You shudder as you realize that it likely was made in a boot or something equally foul. 

Thankfully, attention moves away from you as everyone settles down to swap stories. Jinx pulls two crates together and urges you to sit on one. 

“Every word of these stories is utter shit, but they’re entertaining,” Jinx whispers to you. “I hope Locke tells about the time he caught a deep sea spineshark with nothing more than a stick and some fishing line.” 

You listen to the stories and Jinx’s words ring true. It quickly becomes clear that the purpose is not to share experiences, but to outdo each other with fictional feats of glory. Though, when Sevika speaks of punching a ravenous whale right in the eye, you feel as though there is a measure of truth in her words. Especially if that punch was done by her three-pronged attachment. 

“I wonder who is going shout liar first,” Jinx murmurs as her eyes scan the faces of those around her. 

“What?” You ask. 

“Eventually, someone tells a story that’s so impossible, so unbelievable, that someone else calls them a lair. Then they fight over it.” 

“Fight? As in, fight ?” You shake your head. How is this considered a fun activity? 

“Yup!” Jinx’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “It’s the best part.” 

“If you say so,” you shrug and continue to listen. 

Sure enough, a skinny sailor with sunken eyes and a permanent scowl tells a tale that is just a little bit too farfetched and it sends Locke over the edge. 

“Lair!” Locke booms, spilling some of his drink. 

“You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you in the ass,” the other sailor snarls. 

“This is going to be a boring fight,” Jinx mumbles. “No one will throw a punch at Locke and Locke is too honorable to punch someone smaller than him.”

Never in a thousand years would you have looked at Locke and thought the word honorable applies to him. But Jinx’s prediction rings true. The two sailors shout and swear at each other for a little while but they do not come to blows. 

“At least I am a decent shot,” Locke grumbles as the argument reaches its head. 

“My nan is a better shot than you are and she’s fuckin’ blind,” the other man snarls, earning a round of snickers from the rest of the crew. 

“Your nan died three years ago, you twat.”

“Yeah! And she can’t see for shit!” 

You nearly spit out your tentative sip of likely-rum at that. You try to rein in your laughter when you realize everyone else is doing the opposite, especially Jinx. 

“Bring me a rifle,” Locke snaps. “We’ll settle this now.”

“You don’t have any targets to aim for, you buffoon,” Ran quips as they drain their cup. 

“That don’t matter,” the skinny sailor says with a dismissive wave. “I’m so drunk I can see just about as well as my nan.” 

“Then how are we going to settle our little disagreement?” Locke demands. “By proxy?”

“Sure, I’ll choose a proxy to defend my honor,” the sailor scoffs. His bleary eyes scan his surroundings before his gaze lands on you. “I bet the little heiress can outshoot you.”

Locke rolls his eyes and your cheeks flush red. 

“I’ll bet my life’s earning she’s never even held a firearm before,” Locke mutters. 

“Yet she can still outshoot you,” the sailor slurs. 

Your apprehension melts away as you realize everything is said in good fun. For reasons you are unsure of, you decide to join in. 

“I’ve never held a firearm but I’m certain Locke has never danced a waltz,” you say. 

Locke levels you with a hard stare, one brow arched. “Who needs waltzing?”

“Who needs to be a good shot in alone in the middle of the ocean?” You point out. 

“Good marksmanship is very useful in piracy,” Locke says. “Waltzing is not.” 

“Waltzing requires grace, balance, self-awareness, spatial awareness, and the ability to read those around you. You don’t have only your partner to worry about but other pairs around you. Can the same be said for shooting?” 

“Yes!” Jinx exclaims. “Well, maybe not the bit about a partner but that’s all true.”

“What a load of shit,” Locke grumbles. 

“It’s true,” Sevika chimes in. Her word seems to make all the difference even if she only speaks up for the sake of her own entertainment. 

You look at Locke who still seems to be struggling with the idea that a waltz and a rifleman use the same skillset. “I propose a challenge.” 

That gets everyone’s attention. 

“If I can shoot better than Locke can waltz, I win,” you say. 

“Win what?” Locke asks. 

“Bragging rights?” You suggest. You don’t want to trade away any chores since you need them in order to avoid being alone with Silco. 

“Done,” Locke nods with a smirk. Despite his menacing appearance, he looks almost…giddy. Like he’s happy to take part in something that’s truly ridiculous. “Come take your shot.” 

You stand and approach Locke as Ran brings a rifle to him. 

“Do you have any idea how to shoot this at all?” Locke asks. 

“Nope,” you admit. 

“In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I’ll show you just enough to keep you from hurting yourself,” he says. 

“How gallant.” 

He shows you how to hold the rifle, which is far heavier than you imagined. As per instruction, you keep the barrel pointed toward the open ocean at all times. As you hold it, your arms start to tremble. Locke prepares the rifle for firing and you suspect he’s taking longer than necessary just to see you struggle. 

“If there is no target, how can we know whether I’ve made a good shot or not?” You ask. 

“Don’t worry. That won’t matter.” 

“But my part of the challenge is a test of marksmanship,” you protest only to be met with a chuckle. 

“Okay, princess. Go ahead and fire.” Locke gives you a nod and you gently tap your finger against the trigger. Aiming at the endless, empty expanse of the black ocean, you pull the trigger fully. You expect the loud boom but you do not expect to feel the entire rifle revolt against your grip, slamming into your shoulder. You stumble back with a small yelp, much to the enjoyment of the spectators around you. 

Locke tosses his head back and laughs, his shoulders shaking. 

“What the hell was that?” You stammer. Ran takes the rifle from you, freeing your hands to rub at your shoulder. 

“Recoil. To be honest, I expected to you land on your ass,” Locke chuckles.

“You might have given me some warning.”

“Where is the fun in that?” The pirate says. 

“Well, once I confirm that my shoulder hasn’t been launched from its socket, I’m going to make you waltz and we’ll see how you do,” You mutter, still testing the soreness in your arm and shoulder. “If you complete the waltz without tripping, you’ll win. Is that fair?” That seems fair to you since Locke expected the rifle’s recoil to send you to the ground. 

“Easy enough,” he agrees. 

“Good. Stand here.” You direct him to stand in front of you. “Watch my feet.”

With a phantom partner, you demonstrate the basic steps of a waltz before returning to Locke. 

“Got it?” You ask. 

“Yes,” Locke nods though he does not seem very confident. 

“Good. Remember, if you trip, I win.” You place his hands in the correct positions and do the same for yourself. He’s much taller and broader than anyone you’ve ever danced with. Your arms feel suspended in an awkward way that almost makes you laugh. 

“I don’t suppose we have any music?” 

“Depends. Can one play a waltz on the side of a barrel?” Jinx asks. 

“Likely not,” you chuckle. “It’s no matter. I will count out the beat. That won’t be too difficult for you, will it?” You taunt Locke who only nods. 

You begin to count, but nothing happens. Locke stands stock still. 

“You’re the man. You’re supposed to lead,” you prompt him. 

“Right. Naturally,” he grumbles and waits for you to begin your count. When you do, he steps forward instead of backward, trampling your foot. You hold in your laughter as you shake your head. 

“I didn’t think you’d stumble on the very first step,” you tease. “Had I known such a game would be so easy to win I would have joined the fun sooner.”

“I’ve never done any of that fancy Piltover dancing before. Let me try again,” Locke mutters. “It’s a stupid dance. It’s not that hard.”

“If you say so,” you shrug before taking up position again. You begin to count once more. To Locke’s credit, he manages two steps before stumbling, earning a round of laughter from the crew. 

“What is the meaning of this?” A voice like a burst of cold wind blew over the deck. Silco stood at the top of the stairs leading to his cabin. The laughter amongst the crew faded into nothing. Only Jinx looked unaffected by the Captain’s sudden presence. 

“A friendly challenge,” you explain. “Nothing more.”

“I can see that,” Silco says as he steps closer to the cluster of burning torches. The firelight casts his face in harsh shadows that make him look even more inhuman than he already does. “But I cannot allow the crew of the Zaun’s Revenge to look incompetent. Locke, step aside.”

“Aye, Captain.” The confusion is clear in his voice as he stumbles back. You are unable to fully hide your confusion as well, especially when Silco steps before you and takes your hand. 

“The honor of the Zaun’s Revenge is at stake. You will not leave this ship under the misbelief that no one here can execute a decent waltz.” 

Well, that’s an unexpected development. 

“Do what you are able,” you reply with a note of challenge in your voice that does not go unnoticed by your new partner. You bring your hand to rest on his shoulder as you prepare to dance. “One more thing,” he says before looking to his crew. “Walley, do you still have that old fiddle?” 

“Aye, Captain.” 

“Fetch it.”

The crewmember scurried away and quickly returned with the promised fiddle. 

“Play Across a Sea so Clear and Blue, ” Silco orders before looking down at you. “I doubt you know it but it will suffice for a waltz. Surely, you can adapt.”

“Surely,” you bristle. 

Walley beings to play his fiddle. Though you do not know the song, the time signature is well-suited for a waltz. You wait for Silco to lead you into the dance, expecting him to miscount or falter but he doesn’t. The pair of you move across the deck as though you’ve done this a hundred times before and plan to do it a hundred times more. 

You quickly adjust to each other’s movements and soon he leaves room for you to add flourishes to the simple steps, which you do without hesitation. Your movements are slow and precise. As you dance with him, you cannot help but think of how different this is from the passion you shared during the storm. Silco leads you through the dance expertly, trusting you to be a competent partner. This isn’t a show of dominance or power but a display of grace and unity. Two bodies moving as one to create something elegant and lovely. 

The song ends far too soon, as does the dance. You feel breathless even though the dance was not at all physically demanding. You’re speechless even as your body moves you through the motions of curtsying to your partner. 

Thankfully, Jinx appears at your side. She’s nearly vibrating with excitement. 

“How did you do that? You looked like you were floating!” She says, looking between you and Silco. Her question is a good one. 

Where does a pirate learn how to waltz, let alone waltz so well? 

“I…” You start only to trail off. “I need a drink.”

You move away from Silco, back to your abandoned cup. You force yourself to take a sip and you are grateful that it goes down easier this time. The alcohol settles in your belly and dulls the unwanted feelings swirling through you. 

Jinx joins you soon and within minutes, the crew is back to swapping stories and boasting as though the waltz never happened. 

Your gaze wanders to the bow. Though that part of the ship is kept in darkness, Silco’s figure is even darker and you can see him easily. 

Curiosity and something deeper that you do not wish to think about tugs at you. You do your best to ignore it for as long as you are able, but it’s like a persistent buzzing fly hovering around your head. 

With a resigned sigh, you get up and move toward the bow. No one stops you or questions you. 

You reach Silco’s side and stand quietly in the darkness for a moment. You can hear the gentle lap of the water against the ship’s hull and you can see the sparkling array of stars above, but everything else is black. 

“If you’ve come to beg for another dance, I’m afraid I will disappoint you,” Silco says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, as though he does not wish the stars to overhear him. 

“I wasn’t going to,” you say. “But I was going to ask where you learned to dance like that.”

“It does not take much to learn how to waltz,” he says. Though you cannot see his face, save for the glow of his ruined eye, you get the sense that he’s avoiding something. 

“It’s not just that,” you say. “You dance like a gentleman. You carry yourself like a gentleman. You speak like a gentleman, for the most part. Yet, you’re…”

“A pirate? A sea hound? A scoundrel? A criminal?”

“You could have stopped at pirate but yes,” you nod, earning a soft chuckle from Silco. “But even still, you’re nothing like the pirates my father has encountered.” 

“I’ll admit to that,” he says. “I am not like any other pirate roaming the seas. I have no wish to scavenge from trade ships. If I wished to fight for scraps with a thousand other desperate fools, I would have stayed in the Undercity.” 

Silco does not need to see your face to know his words have thrown you. 

“Is it more believable that a pirate can carry himself well than it is to believe a gutter rat can do the same?” 

“I have not known what to believe for several days now,” you say. “I’d be willing to believe almost anything.” 

The chuckle that leaves Silco’s throat is dry and humorless. “The Piltover Naval Academy loves bottomfeeders with a sad story.” 

Your eyes widen in the darkness. 

Of course, that makes perfect sense. He wasn’t daunted by the storm. He runs his ship with precision and discipline one would not attribute to ordinary pirates. He’s managed to instill a sense of both fear and loyalty in his crew. And those who attend the academy are taught etiquette, dance, deportment, and anything else that can shape them into shining jewels of society. 

Your mind snaps back to the day you were kidnapped, before everything went to hell. Captain Vander spoke of the academy briefly. There was a moment when a shadow fell over his features as he spoke of his past. And he knew Silco. As did Quartermaster Benzo. 

“Did you know Captain Vander?” You ask softly, unsure if you wish to know the answer or not. 

Silence stretches out between you and Silco. Even though you are within arms reach of him, you feel as though you may as well be an ocean away. 

“Yes.” His voice is soft yet somehow still harsh. Bitter but sad. 

“Were you…close?” you ask, unsure if there is a better way to phrase it. The way Captain Vander looked at Silco aboard The Hound went beyond normal anger. There was history there. 

“For a time,” Silco replies. 

You’re shocked that he gave you any kind of real answer. 

“What happened?” You press, wanting to see how far you can take your questions. 

“Professional differences,” Silco mutters. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.” 

Silco turns to look at you as silence falls once more. Though you can barely make out his features, you can see he is fighting some kind of war within himself. You are about to take the high road and apologize for prying, as the rules of polite conversation demand, when the ship suddenly heaves hard to one side. 

Unable to right yourself in time, you start to fall. Silco’s arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you to him, allowing you to use his body to steady yourself. Farther down the deck, the crew voices their confusion amongst themselves, unsettled by the sudden jolt. 

“What was that?” You ask, turning your gaze to the sky as though you expect another terrible storm to blow in out of nowhere. But the skies are perfectly clear and the wind is calm. The ocean, however, tells a different story. The faint light of the torches reaches the water closest to the ship. Instead of the calm, docile sea, the Zaun’s Revenge glided on only moments ago, the water was as violent as a bubbling cauldron. 

“Get back,” Silco urges, guiding you away from the railing. 

“What is it?” You repeat. 

Silco does not get a chance to answer. In the blink of an eye, the sea erupts. At first, you fear the ship has nudged some kind of explosive. You can think of nothing else that would explain the towering column of water rising just off the starboard bow. 

The water crashes back down to the ocean’s surface except that it doesn’t. Water rolls off the form of something huge, something that also looks like water. You blink over and over, trying to make sense of what you are seeing. 

You spot two glowing orbs that shine brilliant blue, brighter than any star in the sky. They look like glowing stones that are somehow perfectly round. Your stomach drops as the crew leaps to action around you and more torches are quickly illuminated. The glowing stones are not stones at all. 

They are eyes. 

Glowing, unnatural eyes deeply set into a massive head made entirely of living water. The head boasts a long snout. Water vapor floated like smoke from what you believe to be nostrils. Its long, curving neck ripples as the water that made up its body somehow managed to keep its shape. Its serpentine body vanishes into the sea as its proud head takes in the sight of the ship. Its watery jaw opens revealing long, sharp teeth that look deadly despite also being made of water. 

The creature let out a shriek that makes your vision go blurry for a moment. Your mind still grapples with what your eyes attempt to understand but there is one thing you know for certain. You are not safe. 

The water monster shrieks once more and dives toward the deck with open jaws. 

[silvysartfulness]

writing pattern tag game

thank you to @ameliarating for tagging me!

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 posted fics and see if there’s a pattern.

1. It was still dark when he woke up, but this dark had stars in it. (Heaven Has A Road chapter 56)

2. It's a sad thing to die alone far from home, Xiao Xingchen had told the old villager earlier, because he knew it was. (Heaven Has A Road chapter 55)

3. Bleeding out, chopped up like some badly butchered animal, Xue Yang dies in the dirt. (Under The Wheel)

4. “It's not a ghost,” Xue Yang said, sounding bored. (Heaven Has A Road chapter 54)

5. It could almost have been amusing, the way Xue Yang's moods swung wildly between almost ingratiating friendliness one moment, to glaring sullen murder at him again the next. (Heaven Has A Road chapter 53)

6. He surfaced from sleep completely ensnared in a tangle of limbs, confused for several long moments until the memories of last night clicked into place, and a wave of aching fondness made his breath catch. (Heaven Has A Road chapter 52)

7. The day had gone from crazy to something beyond surreal, and it felt like his mind had just given up and shut down halfway through, unable to really keep up anymore. (Heaven Has A Road chapter 51)

8. It was funny, in a way that actually really wasn't, how much easier flirting up a willing stranger to burn off some excess energy had been before - younger, brighter, sporting ostentatious Jin gold.... Having two arms. (Heaven Has A Road chapter 50)

9. Even in half-sleep Xue Yang could tell that the day would be unpleasantly hot and humid, and he was still a bit sore after last night's Night Hunt, but Xiao Xingchen was a comfortable enough pillow and so everything was as it should be. (Heaven Has A Road chapter 49)

10. “Jiangzai is here to see you.” (Between The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea)

I really appreciate Amelia asking me to do this with chapters as well as fics! Many Heaven chapters are 10k+ long, so could almost count as fics in their own right length-wise if you squint? 🤔😭

I think a pattern for opening lines for me is instantly establishing a mood, often by juxtapositioning concepts or words that clash or contradict, or just give a bit of emotional slap!

Xiao Xingchen knows firsthand what it’s like to die far from home. Xue Yang talks about something as extraordinary as ghosts and sounds bored. Xue Yang talking about sexy flirting and bringing up his mutilated arm in a single sentence, Song Lan wearily finding Xue Yang being friendly vs. murderous almost ‘amusing’.

Also throwing in stark phrasing like “butchered” or "dies in the dirt" or “ensnared” or other loaded words or subjects to grab the reader’s attention! Though I also really like more quietly poetic phrasing like the “this dark had stars in it”. 💚

Apparently I also like opening on a Xue Yang pov? At least looking back at these, though I do try to make a conscious effort to mix it up a bit!

Thank you so much for tagging me! I’m asking @fromaliminalspace @ebonykain @heretherebebookdragons and anyone else who wants to to join in on the fun! And if you don’t have enough/any published fics, just go with your wips! 😁

[the-kr8tor]

In Deep Water

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW vomit mention, CW Inaccurate medical procedures, CW injury, TW blood, CW violence, TW death, CW guns.

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 7 >>> CHAPTER 8

The laughter gets louder as the source of it shows itself aboard the black hellion, the fog makes way like a curtain opening to start a performance.

Hobie's grip is tight, fingers weaved around your arm, bruisingly strong. Your nails dig into his flesh as the uniformed man tilts his head to look at you, his toothy yellowing grin thrown in your direction. His powdered white wig flutters in the breeze, medals glinting off the single lamp on the bow, hands resting on the pommel of his pristine sword. The angelic figure head is a stark contrast to the devil sneering down.

The blackened wood of his ship groans as it continues to break a part of the revenge. The sails unfurled behind him, blue wings fluttering in the wind.

The angel of death has come.

“Look at what we have here.” He clicks his tongue, eyes boring a hole through your skulls, he narrows them into slits, and like a snake, he slithers as close as he can, tethering close to the edge. There's a flash of emotion in his eyes, snarling, the navy man chuckles, the mere sound makes you want to cower. “Hello little birdy, now how far did you fly to get where you are now?”

Hobie clenches his jaw, stepping over to hide you from his view. His hand never leaves yours, the dull ache from his hold says that this isn't just a nightmare.

You want to wake up even if it means losing his hold on you.

“Oh where are my manners? Mummy would whip me if she ever knew I didn't introduce myself to a lady.”

Hobie shifts his weight, ready to pounce if need be. You grab his shirt, making sure he doesn't do anything drastic. Subtly flicking your eyes to the side, you see the crew do the same. They look at you with fear in their eyes, the hunter’s gazes illuminating their contorted faces.

You can't help but let out a shuddering breath, the sound echoing around the open waters, hoping to get your cry for help to somebody who can do something, anything to get you and everyone out to safety.

“My name's Captain Mathias Bradshaw.” He drawls, thin lips curling into a smirk. “This here is my little merry band of sailors who has a bone to pick with—” pointing at Hobie with his thick finger, white cosmetic smeared on his palms. “Him. The red hydra. I forgot to greet you yet, long time no see you rapscallion.”

You hear Hobie's shallow breathing. Grey eyes thundering, a storm brewing, lightning flowing through his veins. The only reason why he doesn't let himself loose on Mathias is your touch.

“You see here, sweetheart,” The man addresses you and you only. “For the past three years your so-called captain and I have had a bit of a tiff.” He chuckles coldly. “A rivalry of sorts.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Is it still a rivalry if you're leagues above your rival?”

“No, sir.” A gruff voice says, hidden behind the mist.

Mathias turns back around. “Well, we got our answer then.”

Hobie sneakily murmurs to you. “Hide—”

“I'm not done talking!” The sudden outburst makes you jump in your skin.

“You should've been done with your senseless dialogue a long time ago.” Hobie straightens his posture, head held high, a picture of a pirate captain. “Come down here and fight like a fuckin' man, show me your flames and I'll show mine.”

The man scoffs, amusement in his green eyes. “Flames? Yours is barely a spark.”

Hobie scoffs. “Let's be done with it then. Get the closure we both want, fight me in single combat.” Mathias knits his brows, Hobie smirks. “No? Thought you were a gentleman, where's your fuckin' honour?”

A booming laugh replaces Mathias’ scowl. “I guess it died with your little red hair—”

Hobie lets go of you, drawing his gun, pointing it directly at the monster's head. The crew takes this as their cue, doing the same, pointing their weapons towards the men surrounding them.

There's hunger in his eyes, beneath the swirling grey there's a hunger waiting to be fed.

The enemy ships don't even aim their cannons at the revenge, instead they float still in the water, unmoving, the men aboard their ships smirk in your direction like you're being served to them on a silver platter. It's then you notice the sons of the sea’s ship is no more. They took the brunt of the hellion’s collision.

No longer their sails fly, their crow's nest and pieces of wood lay floating in dark waters.

Left behind, slowly drowning in the depths.

You feel droplets sliding on your cheeks, for a second you thought it's your tears. And then more and more of it comes pouring down, splashing on the wooden floorboards.

Thunder booms from a distance, lightning flashes in the sky, lighting everyone's scornful faces.

A few of Karl's men stand with Hobie, clutching their injuries. You don't see Robbie, his lack of presence makes you glare at the sneering men.

“Say her fuckin’ name.” Hobie says through gritted teeth. “After what you did— Say her name.”

“Eh.” Mathias shrugs, “I forgot.” the laughter of his men echoes in the mist.

“You fucker—!” Hobie's hand shakes despite this, he draws the golden gun, aiming it at the navy man whose smirk gets wider.

“I recognize that little blunderbuss.” He chuckles, wiggling his pointing finger, “She pointed that at my head too, you'll be unsuccessful just like she was.”

It takes every fiber inside Hobie to not just shoot and face the consequences later. But he's surrounded, his crew is surrounded, they have no chance of escaping death if he shoots. The only option he has is through single combat and to appeal to the man's ego. He's hoping the idea works.

One look over his shoulder, one glance at your trembling face and he's back to that day, the day MJ was lost. He prays that this day doesn't end the same way three years ago.

“Little dove,” Mathias’ devilish eyes roam over your trembling body. “Look at you,” he chuckles lowly, “I'd say dear ol' Hobie here got an upgrade just because this one's got her head still glued on her neck!”

Hobie almost shoots him until someone from his crew screams, their voice full of malice, venom dripping with every utterance.

“Fuck you!” Gwen exclaims, “Don't you have any honour? She's dead and you're still spitting on her watery grave! After everything you've put her through!”

“Ah! Gwen Stacy, the ballerina turned pirate. How you doin', miss Stacy? I heard your father's still down in the stables, trying to repay his debt to the crown.” he rags her on, scoffing.

“You're still defending her? She's a traitor, a navy spy. The greatest one we've ever had in fact. Her only downfall is loving a bunch of…” he sucks in his teeth, trying to find the word. “Thieves like you. Love got her head cut off and love will be your ruin too.” Flicking his eyes to you, he observes everyone's faces after his tirade.

Hobie steps between Gwen and Mathias, his guns still raised, eyes brimming with the anger of a forsaken God. Yet he remains calm, clearing his throat, standing tall.

“Mathias Bradshaw, I challenge you to single combat, a duel. I win, you let us go. You win and you get to take us all back to the capital.” Hobie's voice booms louder than the thunder above. Lightning strikes near, the water sizzles at the contact. “I know a man of your stature can't say no.”

The man in the uniform guffaws loudly, broad shoulders shaking. “Oh that's hilarious, you think you'd win against me, little pirate? Hmm?”

“Yes.” Hobie doesn't miss a beat.

Mathias smiles, “I guess this one's less messy than what I was planning. Name your terms.”

“Guns only, five bullets. You get shot three times you lose.”

“I'll add a tiny thing to your wager.” The navy man looks over to your direction, pointing his crooked finger at you. “Same terms but I get to keep your little bird.”

Hobie turns to you, wide eyes staring back at you. “No—” He's already shaking his head before you speak up.

“Deal!” You roar above the thunder storm, deciding your own fate. The rain is getting heavier, drenching your terrified self. “The captain will take your terms as long as you honour it.” Nodding to Hobie, he holsters his weapon away from you.

Mathias cackles in the background.

Gently holding on to your arm, you already know what he'll say.

“Don't. Do you know what you just agreed to?”

“I do,” you stare at his raging eyes but they're tender when he looks at you. “I know you can take him, I trust you.” Taking his hand away from your arm, you squeeze him once before pulling him towards you. “Don't play fair, because he won't.” you whisper. “Fucking obliterate him, for MJ.”

Hobie takes you in like it's the last thing he'll ever do. He imprints your touch in his mind, wanting to remember the softness of it when the bullets get too much for him to bear.

He nods slowly, still unsure of your decision. If you trust him enough to sell your soul then he'll fight to the death so you don't have to.

With one last look at you, he turns around, facing up to the man he loathes the most, wanting to just strangle him with his bare hands. Maybe he'll do just that.

For the crew.

Mathias takes his blue coat off, grinning the entire time.

For MJ.

He grabs on to a rope, rappelling off the black hellion, landing in a thunderous impact on the deck.

For you.

Now that he's leveled with your gaze, he's a lot smaller down on the deck, stout with a round belly, face painted with white lead that's currently melting in the downpour. Hobie's taller and slimmer but he makes up for it in his agility and speed. You've seen him fight but Mathias' form could be compared to Finn's build, all muscle and strength hidden behind his uniform.

You're glad this was a duel of pistols if it was any other fight Hobie could be in trouble.

A few of his men do the same, jumping off the hellion while the ones on the smaller ships stay on board but keeping their eyes peeled.

Surrounding the bloodsail pirates, the hands of Mathias' men never leave the pommels of their rapiers. Hobie clenches his jaw, now standing before the king's flame, he can't help but gaze behind the man, back to you and his crew.

Gwen goes to your side, lacing her trembling fingers through yours, Pav sidles behind you, clutching the back of your vest. Miles stands next to Gwen, holding her other hand. You see them look at eachother with a knowing glance and glimmering eyes.

Your eyes meet Hobie's, you give him a nod, eyes full of fury, and trembling lips. You mouth a ‘Bleed him dry’.

The simple act of Hobie smiling at you, makes you tear up. It's the same one he gives you after you patch him up, it's the same one when he handed you the hot chocolate. It's the same smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

You're afraid as you part with the crowd to the side of the duelists, lest you get caught in the crossfire. As the one in front, you get a good look at the enemy on the other side, all lined up perfectly like the obedient soldier men that they are. You roam your eyes to their faces, wondering how they could obey a man like Mathias.

You assume the uniformed man walking towards the duelists is Mathias' right hand man. Left eye covered in an eye patch, his hazel eyes observe you. He's carrying a large wooden box, pristine and smooth at the edges with golden locks and embellishments. He opens it with a creak, rain water landing on the wood and soaking the velvet inside.

“You're the challenger, you get the first pick.” Mathias gestures towards Hobie, all smiles like he's not about to meet the end of a bullet.

You stand on your tippy toes to take a peek inside. There are two dueling pistols, flintlocks. One white as fresh snow, one is black like the hellion.

Hobie takes his pick, pocketing what you assume is the five bullets. The black gun in his hand shines when a lightning strikes the mast of the hellion. You hear splintering wood in the distance.

He steps back in place, measuring the metal’s weight in his hand.

“Good choice.” Mathias eyes down the gun. “Death has touched that one.”

Hobie glares, baring his teeth. If only that was enough to kill the man before him.

Mathias takes the remaining gun, wiggling it in his hand. “You ready, little pirate?”

Hobie doesn't show an ounce of fear. “You're going to die today.”

“How confident, confidence alone won't help you aim straight.”

Your entire body shakes whilst they stand back to back, guns raised on their sides. They walk slowly, counting their steps.

The pouring rain doesn't help, raindrops obscuring your vision, the cold mixing in with the ice in your veins.

With every step Hobie takes,

Five

with every hit of his boots on the floorboards,

Four

your heart tries to escape,

Three

pulse hammering,

Two

threatening to give out. Afraid of what's to come. No one else dares to make a sound.

One

Standing end to end on the dock, they turn around swiftly.

After a beat, the man with the box yells. “Fire!”

Bang!

The sound echoes out in the dark, above all the rain and thunder.

Hobie hits his mark, Mathias groans, clutching his dominant shoulder. Smoke bellows out of their guns, dissolving into the rain.

Your words are repeating in Hobie's head ‘Don't play fair’ you say, then he won't play fair.

He notices his bleeding arm, looking down he sees the bullet nicked his skin, leaving an angry gash in its wake. The wood behind him gets the brunt of the bullet, the metal embedding inside, splintering a gaping hole.

You jump when Mathias laughs along the thunder. More and more lightning pierces the sky. You can taste iron in your mouth, not realizing the pain from biting the inside of your cheeks.

They reload, Mathias’ man observing with his watchful eye, making sure they both adhere to the rules; but you highly doubt he's doing it for fairness sake.

Metallic clanking, gunpowder clinking against steel, Mathias' voice enters the fray to your dismay.

“You know, you were too easy to fool.” He starts, finishing up his reload. “You never asked why I left my lieutenant in your hands and why was it so damn easy for you to get my travel documents.” Smiling, the lead on his face melts further, dripping on the floorboards, the white paint mixing in with his blood. “Just like I said, love will be your downfall.”

Hobie doesn't have enough time to squabble, instead he would let his aim talk for him.

“Twenty paces!” The eye patch man yells again.

Hobie and Mathias move forwards, getting closer and closer to each other. You want to put a stop to the duel, but you have to trust Hobie that he'll make it, that he'll win. He has to.

You dare not blink.

“Fire!”

Bang!

Hobie almost keels over, his shoulder heavily bleeds, trembling hand holding his flesh together. You see him smile underneath the pain, following his gaze, Mathias clutches his shooting hand, groaning and hissing. It looks like Hobie shot a hole right in the man's hand. The white gun lays on the bloodied floor, discarded.

Gwen's hold on you tightens, you can hear Pavitr sob quietly.

You catch Hobie's eyes. There's hope in the swirling grey, nodding, you encourage him, mouthing an ‘end it’. He seems to understand, straightening his stance, he reloads the gun as best as he can with an injured shoulder.

Mathias wheezes out a strained laugh. “I gotta hand it to you, your aim is pretty good.” He stands, grabbing his gun on the way up with his uninjured hand. “No matter how amazing your aim is, you're still bloody blind!” He screams, spit flying out of his mouth.

“My two bullets that's in you say otherwise.” Hobie tilts his head mockingly.

“No, no, no.” Mathias clicks his tongue, waving the gun wildly. “You still don't get it do you? You're not asking questions, letting everything fall into your lap, thinking God's on your side on your little revenge quest. But he's not,” he chuckles. “Sacrificing my lieutenant was the best decision I've ever made, especially knowing the fucker can absolutely sing. Loose lips sink ships, little pirate. Do remember that. Especially since you didn't seem to learn from it last time.”

Hobie's face falls, dread filling his chest.

“Bribing the governor to plant my travel documents and telling him to go unwind in a brothel for a couple of days was well worth my coin.” Mathias stretches his shoulder, reloading his pistol with bloodied hands.

He continues. “The two idiots at the gates were…well idiots, I barely had to do anything to them. The lock was a false security to make you sweat a little bit.” The king's flame proves himself. “You're blind. You've focused so much on taking me down that you didn't notice the little details. It's either that or you're also deaf, preferring not to hear your crew's concerns.”

“Not a very good attribute for a supposed captain.” he shrugs, he says his words mockingly.

“Fuck you!” Hobie aims directly at his rival's head.

It's all his fault, everything that led up to this point is his fault.

The gun trembles in his hold. Mathias looks pleased, smiling at Hobie.

“You know the rules.” Mathias sucks in his teeth. “Don't fire until lieutenant Dubois says so or I win and I get your little bird.” he looks over at you. “Oh we're gonna have so much fun together, every night, every day.” His laughter makes you want to grab the nearest knife and shove it down his throat.

You don't back down from his disgusting gaze. “If he doesn't kill you, I will.” Pavitr tries to hold you back. “And it won't be quick.” your voice shakes from sheer anger.

“I look forward to it, duchess.” Mathias spares you one last glance.

You don't notice how Hobie looks angrier than he did, he's clearly holding back. His glare alone could burn a hole through Mathias' skull. Yet he stands tall, getting a second wind; he's gonna shoot a hole in his skull instead.

His head goes a hundred knots per hour, thinking of all the what ifs. What if he just listened, what if he didn't let her stay, what if, what if, what if, the words are tattooed in his mind, clawing and biting at his psyche.

“Ten paces!”

They walk in sync, closer to each other more than ever. Pausing in place, they stare each other down, Mathias' smile never leaving his lips. Hobie's scowl gets deeper with every second that passes.

“Fire—!”

“Fuck this.” Mathias lunges in surprise, grappling Hobie.

Hobie doesn't get a chance to dodge, his gun clattering on the floor as the heavier man tackles him to the ground. The wet floors make it hard for Hobie to find leverage against Mathias who's currently choking him with his large arm.

Chaos ensues, everyone breaks the line, unsheathing their weapons, fighting, steel and skin clashing. Pistols going off left and right, but your main focus is on the two men writhing on the floor.

You hear Hobie choke so you run faster, taking a fallen dagger from a corpse, you quickly dodge people, determined to save Hobie.

“This is what happens when you let your feelings decide for you!” Mathias yells above the mayhem.

Finally making it close to them, in one swift movement, you stab Mathias on his back, crimson ebbs on his white shirt like spiderwebs. He screams, letting go of Hobie.

You don't spare him a glance as you take Hobie by his arm, dragging him below deck. Shutting the doors closed, Mathias bids you farewell with one last cackling.

Guiding him through the corridors, you hope the winding hallways help make it harder for the enemies to find you.

“Y/N.” He wheezes out.

“Don't fucking talk.” Your feet brings you to the galley. Sitting him down, he plops like a fish on the chair, head lolling to the side.

Slapping his cheek, he wakes back up with a groan. “Actually, keep talking. Stay awake, please.”

Hobie nods, “I need to go back up, I can't leave them there.” He tries to stand but your hands stop him, making him sit back down.

“You can't help in this state. Let me treat you then you can go and help.” You look in his pained eyes. “Please, at least let me help with your shoulder.” your other hand fumbles to his back, searching for an exit wound. You already know the answer when you feel the hot crimson weeping out from the puncture left behind.

You plead with your eyes.

“Alright, do what you have to do. Make it quick.” he nods, you leave his side to light a fire in the hearth, laying a metal poker on top of the hot coals. “Can I tell you a story?”

“Whatever keeps you awake.” Taking out the first aid kit from your bag, you notice your hands tremble. They never shake when you're treating someone, with your back turned away from him, you swallow down a sob.

“There was this girl, she had red hair like one of those…” he sighs, injuries aching, throat throbbing. “Apples.”

You reach his side once again, trembling fingers dipping into the wound ointment. “You have a way with words.”

He grabs your shaking hands in his, “Are you alright?”

You pause in your frantic movements, blinking rapidly. “Y-you’re the one who's bleeding right now.”

“You're shaking.”

You twist your wrists away from his touch. “I'm alright, worry about yourself and your crew.”

“You're a part of my crew”

“Shut– just…” you exhale. “Continue your story.”

Hobie nods, eyes drooping. “She just one day showed up on the docks, asking for a place.” He inhales sharply. “I needed to fill the second ship so I agreed, I let her in. I shouldn't have done it.” His eyes well up but no tears fall. “I should've turned her away but she was determined, she had the skills to stay— can you give me somethin’ for the pain? A fuckin' rum or wine, anythin’”

“No alcohol, if you want to bleed out be my guest.” You hold a cloth above his wound, pressing down to stop the bleeding as much as you can.

“Fucker!” He stomps his foot, “you can be such a little shit sometimes you know?”

You can hear the struggle upstairs. Weirdly enough, there's no sound of cannons firing.

“I know—” the ship tilts suddenly, flinging you and Hobie brutally to the side. You do your best to shield his injured self, taking the brunt of the impact, back stinging from the wall.

He lands on top of you, arms on your side, face hidden on the crook of your neck. You can feel his staggered breathing on your skin.

Bottles and pans fly towards you two. Pushing him away, you guide each other to the corner of the room, huddled together, protected by the hearth.

“Shit!” Hobie protects your head with his hand when a pot flies towards you. The ship keeps turning and tossing the both of you until it finally straightens out, you can feel how fast its going by how wild the utensils are swinging.

“Someone got hold of the helm.” He whispers, his cool hand on your tender shoulder. “We're running.” Hobie doesn't say it with pride or dejection, he utters it with embarrassment.

“That's good,” you stand up, giving him a helping hand. “We can get out—”

The unmistakable sound of a cannonball whizzes past and the ship lunges harshly on the side again. You can hear frantic yells from above.

Hobie takes your hand, “I need to get up there.”

Helping him up, you nod. “And you will, let me close that wound off and give you something for the pain and we'll go back up there.”

“Y/N, you can't—”

“We will go up there.” the fire in your eyes makes him obey. “Sit down, I'll make this quick but not painless.”

He flops down, masking the pain with a grimace. Inhaling, he continues. “I let MJ in.”

You pause for a second before taking the metal poker. “Even after seeing all the bloody signs.” He sighs. “Maybe I am blind.”

You hold his face tenderly. “You were, but you still have a chance to change that. You can still help your crew. Make it right for their sake.”

He holds the back of your neck, kneading the skin with his bloodied fingers. “I don't regret letting you stay.”

You look at him apologetically. “You will after this.” Shoving the leather pot holder in his mouth, moving aside his clothes. “Inhale” you place the hot poker directly on his bullet wound, cauterizing the gaping hole.

It sizzles, Hobie holds on to your sides tightly, bunching up the fabric in his hands. Muffled screams eaten up by the leather in his mouth.

You move the rod away once it's done. Hobie's eyes roll in the back of his head. Slapping him lightly, he wakes back up.

“Stay awake, hey. Look at me.” He stares at you through half-lidded eyes. “There you are, captain.” You smile to reassure him. He gives you a tired nod. “Now for the exit wound.”

Hobie inhales, more than ready this time around. His skin is clammy, eyes red from the brimming tears. He clenches his entire body, determined to get it over with. Twisting around in his seat, he hopes the ship doesn't rock as you push the searing metal poker on the back of his shoulder.

With a muffled yell from him, you take the tool away, letting it cool down. Moving his head with your hand, you look at him apologetically.

“I'm sorry, if I warned you first you would've flinched.”

Hobie spits the leather out of his mouth, patting your cheek with his sweaty hand, he leaves it there, stroking your skin.

“I wouldn't have flinched.” He chuckles through the searing pain.

“Of course you wouldn't.” You hold his hand that's on top of your cheek. “You did good.”

He laughs, hand leaving your skin to hold your hand instead. “Not the first time I've felt fire.”

You smile, without thinking, you lay your forehead on his as more cannonballs fly around the revenge.

“You did good too.” He whispers. Eyes closed, he leans away. “Now get me something for the pain and let's get the bastard.”

You smile, nodding to him. Taking a bottle from your bag, you rub mint oil on his upper lip, igniting his nerves, keeping him awake.

“That's the only thing I have that could help. I can't give you alcohol.”

Hobie tentatively stands up, “Maybe after this then.” He groans, slightly limping. “‘m gonna need an entire crate of ‘em.” he thinks adrenaline is enough to keep him on his feet.

He faces you, a ghost of a smile on his pained face. Hobie bends at the waist, you scramble to help him but he refuses with his hand raising to stop you. Taking something from inside his boot, he grabs a shiny and slender thing.

“Here.” Hobie hands a silver dagger to you, intricate carvings of a turtle and a sea snake looping around the glimmering handle. “Somethin’ to defend yourself.”

“Are you sure? It looks—”

“I don't mind givin’ it to you.” He closes your hand around the hilt. “Make sure this one hits his neck this time.”

“I will.” Your eyes fill with determination, adrenaline still coursing through you.

He wobbles towards the door, sparing you a smile on the way.

“Hobie,” you call after him. “Continue your story after this?”

“Only if you tell me yours.” He looks over his shoulder, giving you the same smile he always has.

You scoff with a small smile, “Maybe I will.”

“Let's fuckin’ go and be pirates then.”

—

Getting up the deck was tedious work with all the rocking and shifting from the ship and the wild waves, add that with all the cannon balls whizzing past, it was like riding an angry bull. Meeting halfway with Karl on the way there made it easier, filling your chest with hope.

“Where's Robbie?!” He frantically yells, forehead bleeding, hands gripping Hobie's vest.

“I-I don't know.” Karl's face falls. “But we'll find him, I know he got out.”

“Got out from what?” His voice trembles, “what happened, Hobie?”

Hobie holds his friend’s wrist, “I'm sorry.” Karl weeps. “Go find Robbie and your crew.” He shakes his head. “And get the hell out of here, he's after me not you.”

Karl's eyes fill with tears, flicking towards you who look on with sad eyes. “What about you and the others?”

“We'll find a way out. We always do, remember?” Hobie reassures him with a smile. “Take one of my dinghies, and row the hell out of here.” he takes Karl's hands away from his vest. “We'll see you back at the old place, yeah?”

“You fucking better, Hobart or I'll drown you myself.” Karl takes your hand briefly, nodding. “I hope I see you again, doc.”

“Me too, captain. Find Robbie.”

You part ways with Karl, praying that he finds Robbie and what remains of his men.

“Ready, trouble?” Hobie gets your attention by brushing his pinky against the back of your hand.

“I'm right behind you.”

—

It's war.

The moment Hobie opened the door to the deck you smell petrichor and blood in the air.

You get a glimpse of the battle before he could shut the doors. Bodies, both pirates and navy alike lay motionless on the floor. The sound of thunder mixes in with the pained yells, flashes of lightning illuminates the night sky and you see the faces of the dead clearly.

Two-fingers lay face first on the deck, arms bent at an angle, blood pooling from his head. Through the smoke and splintered wood, Foul screams when a sword plunges through his heart, silencing him immediately. Danny takes a bullet for Finn who promptly avenges him with his cutlass, swiftly separating the man's head from his body.

One face you were hoping was among the dead was missing. Mathias isn't on board.

Something flashes in his eyes when he looks at you. Grabbing your arm, he leans in, your heart stops.

Hobie moves past your head to press his forehead on your shoulder. Bathing in your presence, hand squeezing your skin

“Hobie?”

He smiles, moving his hand up to cup your jaw. Chuckling, he cleans his dried blood off your cheek with his thumb. “Do me a favour, Scuttlebutt?”

“What is it? We need to get up there!”

Hobie ignores you, leaning away. “Survive for me would you? Live, find your family. Promise me.” He sniffs, eyes glinting.

“What?”

“Just promise me, trouble.” He shakes you.

“Alright I promise. Can we—”

“I'm sorry.”

“What—?” Hobie pushes you hard, you fall off the steps, landing on your behind, he exits without looking back, shutting the doors closed. “What the fuck?!”

You rattle the doorknob but it's no use, he locked it on the outside. Frustrated, you try to kick in the door, hurting yourself from the hard wood.

“Fuck! Hobie!” You bang the door, peeking through the keyhole you see carnage as Hobie makes quick work of the remaining men. “Let me help!”

The sound of cannon balls going off almost deafens your eardrums. If only you had your lockpick you could open it.

Your lockpick.

It's a stretch but you still run towards your cabin, feet thudding loudly, echoing around the hallways that you've memorized.

You feel relieved after seeing your door. Shouldering it open, you frantically search for the metal on the shelves. The tip of it scratches your hand but you don't care, already bolting off towards the exit. Running off with your bag tied around you, hoping the medical kit inside is enough to treat the wounded, you hold the lockpick in your hand while you run.

Your hope dwindles with every cannon hitting the ship.

Doors whizz past, ankle stinging, the sounds of screams and gunfire makes you sprint faster.

You don't notice the blood soaked hulking man leaving Hobie's cabin.

Running into him, you stagger, tumbling down, heart falling into your stomach as he looks down at you through his nose.

“Hello there.”

Scrambling to get to your feet, you slide under his legs, stabbing his achilles heel with your lockpick. The man screams in agony, you take the opportunity to sprint like you've never ran before. You'd take running away from O’hara any day.

Your lungs scream for you to stop, but you go on as you hear thundering stomping behind you.

There's no exit and you can't run forever.

The metallic click rings behind you, rounding the corner, you barely dodge the bullet aimed at you, nicking your hip.

“Shit!” You almost fall yet you continue on, entering the library, you shut the doors behind you, locking it swiftly.

Lifting your hand away, the sight of your own blood turns your fear into fury. With your trembling hands, you unsheathe the dagger from your belt.

You have a promise to keep, and you never break a promise.

Hiding behind the armchair you always sat on, you crouch down, gripping the dagger, ready to strike like a viper in the sand.

You look back on what she taught you, “Strike fast and hit hard. Don't give them a chance to get back up.” her voice whispers it to you and you intend to follow it.

The door bursts open, splintering the wood to a thousand pieces.

“The captain wants you alive, little birdy. This doesn't have to hurt if you just come with me, eh?” You hear him chuckle lowly, blatantly lying to you.

His heavy footsteps thud closer.

You use the shadows as your guide, the oil lamp left open on the corner table does the work. For once you thank Gwen for forgetting to close the light.

“I can help with your wound. Glue your wings back together again” he whistles. “The red hydra can't help you with that but I can. I'm a surgeon you see.” Getting closer and closer, you time your strike right.

You come out of your hiding place with a battle cry. Still crouches down, “I highly doubt that!” Slicing his tendons in one quick movement. The second he falls to his knees, you stab him in the neck.

Stepping back, he chokes in his own blood. With wide eyes you flinch when he stands, seemingly unaffected but his shaking pupils say otherwise. With a garbled noise from your assailant, he reaches for you.

“What the fuck?!”

With a split second decision, you dodge his hands, moving backwards, throwing books from the shelves which bounce almost harmlessly on his head and body.

There's a loud thrumming sound outside, its warbling is almost mechanical but definitely something an animal could've made.

He heard it too, pausing in his movement for a second before he lunged towards you. With a scream, your back against the corner, he jumps you.

Your head hits the wall in an ugly crunch, seeing stars, sliding down the wall, landing on the floor, he chokes you with his bare hands. Indistinct noises escape from his mouth, your dagger nowhere to be found in his throat. His entire body hides anything in front of you, drowning your vision, filling it with your murderer. His blood drips down on your face, almost drowning you in it.

You know he's running on fumes but based on your vision fading, lungs gasping for air, you think you'd go out first before him.

Hands grazing something metallic on the floor next to you, you inch your fingers towards it. Finally finding your grip, you smack it on his head.

You've got a promise to keep after all.

He yells, the oil from the lamp spreading on his skin and clothes, engulfing him in flames.

You frantically roll away, killing the fire clinging to your clothes until there's nothing left but burned cloth.

The flames light up the entire room in orange and reds, the paper around him helps feed the fire as he tries to desperately put it out.

There's that thrumming again.

You watch on, holding your tender neck. Your face is flat, eyes reflecting the fire that's quickly eating at the man. Fabric burns on his flesh, flesh turns into charred muscle, the fire eats at that too until he falls, silence hanging in the room except for the fire cackling, ashes and flames surrounding his corpse.

You stand up, ratty shoes stepping over fire to grab the fallen dagger with a thick cloth from your bag.

For a second you stand amidst the fire.

The thrumming outside and the warmth wakes you up, flames licking at your clothes, it's heat scorching your skin, nose filling with smoke. Even with all the pain you still escape with your life, determined to keep your promise.

Running outside the former library, the cracking of splintering wood fills your ears, you instinctively dodge, backing away before the mast of the revenge falls on your head.

Shielding your face, you cower. The mast stills, sharp wood lay next to your feet. Tentatively opening your eyes, the sounds from above are clearer in your ears, all the screams and guns going off, you hear it loud and clear that you can decipher whose screams belong to whom.

The fog enters below deck through the gaping hole left by the broken mast. All the while, the smoke from the library rises up, replacing the mist.

Your exit.

You don't hesitate to climb up. Jagged edges of sharp wood rip amd snag your clothes, stabbing your skin. Finding leverage, you manage to prop yourself up on the deck, meeting face to face with a lifeless Ned.

The light in his eyes is gone, unsung music escaping from his open lips. Skin dirtied by flowing ichor.

You don't hear anything else other than skin meeting skin in a brutal dance.

“No.” You quickly jump up, leaving the fire behind you to consume, to devour what's left of the revenge. “Ned?”

Desperately feeling for a pulse, your heart wretches in your throat, saliva filling your mouth, bile rising up from your gut.

There's no pulse.

With a choked sob, you close his eyes for him. The sound of wet punching makes you turn to your side. Hobie's eyes are wild, vicious and desperate, bloodied knuckles pummeling the man under him. Skin broken, nose cracked, skull open for the world to see. Yet, Hobie doesn't stop even with the obvious signs of death. Fueled by rage, he paints the wooden floorboards with the man's brain.

It all feels sickenly real, your heart is still beating in sync with his punches but there's so much death around you that you feel like you're a part of the dead. Blood and smoke filling your senses, adrenaline slowly washed away like the tides.

You're sitting in a graveyard and nobody else has noticed.

“Hobie.”

His fists pound harshly through the man's head, splintered wood now embedded in his skin.

You apprehensively crawl towards him, your various injuries aching, blood seeping out from your hip. The chaos around you still continues on while he still doesn't stop.

“Hobie—” your fingers brush his arm, he flinches back, fist raised to knock you out. But he halts, knuckles kissing the tip of your nose, painting it with crimson.

With wide eyes, he heaves, muscles tensed, grief all over his expression. You shove your fear down, holding his raised knuckles, moving it away gently. You hold his face in your other hand, smearing the fresh ichor on his cheeks, staining your own skin.

“It's done, he's dead.” You nod, caressing his face, turning it away from the carnage below him. “Hobie,” you unclench his fist carefully, shattered bone and hair sticking to him. With a shallow breath, you let the tears flow on your cheeks. “He's dead.”

His face flashes with fury only to be triumphed over by misery. With a heavy heart, he nods.

Behind Hobie, a uniformed man raises his pistol, without a second thought, you take the golden blunderbuss from his waist, hastily aiming it directly at the man's head.

Your ears ring, the smoke from the gun blinds you for a second before you see your target fall dead with a bullet right between his eyes, blood splattering like fireworks from his head.

Hobie looks at you in surprise, taking his gun away from you carefully. Hands soft on your raised skin. He pats your cheek and you could only shake your head.

“We need to—” the ship collides with something, Hobie holds you close, covering you away from debris. With his embrace, he protects you. Scarred hand on the back of your head, face hiding in the crook of your neck. Leather, sea salt and blood invades your senses.

The hellion is once again looming over the revenge, its golden façade cracking under the damage made by Hobie's ship.

Mathias shows himself, looking worse for wear, he wobbles on two feet, clutching his injuries.

You hear footsteps around you, raising your head, eyes widening at what's left of the crew, they stand behind you and Hobie. Wiping blood off their faces, reloading their guns, sharpening their swords. The red sails of the people's revenge still fly above, more than ready to take what they're owed, no matter what it takes.

Gwen's blond hair is dipped in ruby red, hands tight around her blunderbuss. Miles wipes his face clean, stepping next to Gwen with clenched jaw. Pavitr stands directly behind you, face covered in what you hoped to be someone else's blood. He nods, reassuring you.

Yuri and James take one look at Ned, their expression alone could make you weep again. Finn, crouches down next to you, nodding wordlessly, blue eyes glossy.

Hobie exhales, with shaky legs he stands up, helping you back to your feet. Gripping your knife, you scowl at the man above.

“How cute. The power of friendship isn't enough to save you.” Mathias says through gritted teeth.

The rest of his crew arrives, there's less ships than before, proving how the bloodsail pirates is a force to be reckoned with. They have what Mathias doesn't have, giving them something worth fighting for.

Mathias nods, signaling his ship to turn their cannons towards you and your family.

You step in front of Hobie. “I have a proposition!” Yelling above the rain and metallic clanking, you push away Hobie's hand from your shoulder.

“What is it?” The man rolls his eyes, looking incredibly bored. “We can't be here all night.”

“Me,” the crew voices their concerns, Hobie takes your hand, face terrified.

You smile, “it's alright.” Whispering to him and the crew only. With tearful eyes, you turn back to the devil above. “You seem like you really want me, so fucking take me instead. Let them go.”

You feel the heat beneath your feet. The fire devours everything just a few feet below you.

They all yell your name behind you. Protests fill your ears but you choose to ignore them. You feel his calloused fingers squeeze your hand.

The man guffaws, “Holy shit! You like them that much?” He observes Hobie's contorted face.

“You like her that much?” He chuckles. “You know what? I don't even want you that much, sure, get on up here, birdy!”

There's that thrumming and warbling again. It's much clearer now that you're above, it seems like it's coming from beneath the ship.

“Come here and take me then!” The rain mixes in with your salty tears. Raising your arms, shoving everyone away, you taunt him. “But let them go or I'll plunge this dagger through your eye!”

“Christ, you're as insane as him. Perfect for eachother eh?” he sighs, gesturing for his cannons to cease. “I'm already satisfied even though a few of your men escaped from a dinghy but eh, I'm sure I'll get them soon enough. Just like how I'll get you one day, little pirate. I'm a very patient man, I'll wait three more years if I have to.”

Hobie's face is full of anguish when he swivels you around to look at him. “Don't fuckin' do this. He won't keep his word,” he flicks his eyes to Mathias, then back to you, grey eyes darker than before. “the moment you step foot on that ship he'll kill you.” his mind comes back to that fateful day.

He can't let that happen again, not to you.

You look at him softly. “I know, but I'll make it hard for him, that'll give you enough time to escape. Hobie, I have nothing else, just this.” swallowing the lump in your throat, there's heat under your eyes. Taking his hand, you squeeze it once. “Let me do this, for you and for them. You still have to get your revenge so let me do this. Don't let him win.”

“You promised.” His voice cracks.

“I don't think I can keep it now.” You flick your eyes behind him, the crew looks on with grief marring their eyes. “They're too young for this, Gwen, Pav and Miles, they deserve to live too.”

You hear the rope fall from the hellion's deck. “I'm glad I got stuck in that net even though you made me walk the plank.” chuckling through the tears, you give them your best smile to remember you by.

“Don't leave.” he pleads.

Sliding your hand away, you take one last look at them, making a sketch of their faces in your mind to remember when the inevitable happens.

“I have to go now or this won't work.”

The captain has no plan on how to fix it, how to fix everything, and he beats himself bloody for it.

Turning around, with every step you take feels heavier than the last. You make amends to her in your mind, praying that it reaches back home. You also thank her, but you don't regret running away that day.

You'll never know what lies for you up north or if there's someone there waiting for you. If there is someone, you apologize to them too.

You leave traces of yourself to the people behind you with the hope you live on through those pieces. That at least they won't forget your name.

The howling wind and rain whips at your drenched form, committing the feel of it to memory.

Grabbing the rope, you fight the urge to look behind.

“Hurry up, birdy!” Mathias cackles. “Come on then—!”

The thrumming is deafening, everything seems to freeze mid motion.

Giant mounds of flesh rise up from the water. Snake-like features curl above, rising to the heavens, cutting through the grey clouds.

You can't help but be mesmerized by the beauty of it. Iridescent scales glimmer against the lightning, cracked scales teeming in gold. the lightning bolts ricochet off their scaly skin, unharmed.

More serpents appear from the depths, towers of scaled flesh. They rain sea water from above, dripping from their massive bodies.

One curls just above the hellion, opening its eyes, revealing an entire ocean in its orbs.

You can't stop looking at it, petrified.

“Dragons.” You say in awe.

“Y/N!” Hobie races towards you. His hand brushes against your shirt, so close yet so far.

You get yanked up with the hellion, grip still frozen on the ropes. Holding on for life, the beast has curled around the ship, in your peripheral you see men jumping off, splashing down into the depths, taking their chances in the cold.

Facing the creature, they trill and thrum, crushing the hellion and the navy ships in their massive jaws and swirling flesh.

You wake up from the trance they had you in, almost losing your grip off the rope.

“No!” You screech, saving yourself, arm socket straining against your weight. Twirling the rope around your hand, you tie it just like how they taught you.

Palms burning on the hemp, looking down, you're hanging high above the revenge. You watch as the crew frantically unties a dinghy while Hobie and Finn stay behind, they're too far for you to make out what they're doing.

Your only chance is to jump in the water but you know that'll be the end of you.

Water parts for something swimming fast under the water, it moves towards the Revenge. You scream their names in an attempt to warn them.

“Gwen!” Your throat struggles from the screaming. “Brace yourselves!”

The serpent crashes on the starboard side, away from where the small boat hangs. Hobie clings to the remaining mast, knife in his hand. Heart pounding, you watch as Gwen runs towards Hobie, he yells, she shakes her head but in the end she bolts for the dinghy. You nod, hoping she saw that you forgave her.

The beast constricts around the helion, crashing the oak and its gilded carvings in its wrapped body.

You sway in the wind with the serpent’s movements, praying that the rope hangs on to the figure head. The figure head of an angel looks down at you, lifeless eyes observing your slow demise.

This is the end for you, you've never thought you'd be killed by a mythical being turned into reality but here you are, hanging on by a thread, waiting for death to come.

With one last glimpse at the revenge, you see the fire finally reaching above deck. Gwen and the others lower down on the dinghy while Hobie grabs onto a rope, cutting the knot off the steel rings, remembering James' teachings, if he keeps doing that he’ll get yanked up, and with the wild wind, it will surely be a disaster.

You yell his name in a futile attempt to stop his effort at saving you.

Finn raises something in his hands, heaving it over his shoulder.

You sharply turn your head when a snapping sound fills your ears. The hemp untangles, with the rope breaking in the middle, you close your eyes.

The sea serpent lets out a guttural scream, the sound alone sends shivers down your spine. It uncurls around the hellion and you get a glimpse of a sharp harpoon sticking out from its eye.

Falling with the hellion, the serpent's eyes turn from blue to a bloody red, bathing everything in its gaze in crimson. it's the last thing you see before you shut your eyes.

You feel a familiar arm around your middle, looking over your shoulder, you think you've already died.

“I've got you!” Hobie yells, with him carrying you and his hand grasping on the rising rope, he struggles to hold on.

So you help him, wrapping your arm behind him, you hold the rope in the other, face close to his as you two fly above the revenge, swinging and whipping uncontrollably in the storm.

The beast trills, jaw unhinging, its rows of shark like teeth in full display.

“Shit!” Hobie manipulates the rope to swing you two away from its sharp teeth.

It fails to catch you, instead it turns its attention to Finn on the deck.

“Finn! Run!” Your blood curdling scream gets his attention, yet he pays no heed.

But everyone already knows it's too late, with one last fight in him, he raises his harpoon, yelling, meeting the serpent's opened mouth halfway.

It swallows him whole.

You just stare at where Finn once stood, he leaves patches of his ichor on the floor.

The revenge sinks, fire and water engulfing Hobie's home, your home.

“Love!” The name rots in his mouth, it gets you out of your frozen state. “I—”

The last standing mast cracks and breaks apart. You lose your grip on Hobie.

And you fall once again. For a second you fly, eyes peering towards the clearing sky, with white clouds in your vision, you brace for impact.

“MJ!”

That's the last thing you hear as you fall in the depths in a harsh splash.

A/N: so sorry for the late update!! Hope you like it 🫶 (if i forgot to put any warnings on the tags please tell me)

[prolestariwrites]

Fandom: Love Between Fairy and DevilTags: Romance, Comedy, Fate, Soul matesPairings: Dongfang Qingcang/Orchid (main), Shangque/JieliCharacters: Dongfang Qingcang, Orchid/Xiyun, Shangque, Jieli, Changheng, XunfengRating: T: Teen And Up AudiencesWarnings: NoneSummary: After Dongfang receives a warning for changing fate, he doesn't think much of it until he finds himself in a world where the Cangyan Sea and Shuiyutian are ruled by Xishan. Here, hellfire is just a long-forgotten legend, and as a royal Dongfang must submit to harsh treatment. His beloved Orchid is the goddess Xiyun, a ruler who is cold and unforgiving towards the Moon people.Meanwhile, the Moon Supreme has changed into a Dongfang his family and friends do not recognize. Now timid and soft-spoken, Orchid and Shangque work together to find out what is behind the sudden change in his personality. It soon becomes clear he is Dongfang—but not their Dongfang.As Orchid and Shangque attempt to find a way to bring their Dongfang back, they also need to keep the switch a secret: which also means passing off the gentle version as their bold and decisive king. At the same time, Dongfang wrestles with the drive to free his people and put Xishan in its place. But he also needs the goddess to get back home, something that may be impossible to get if he returns to his old self.

[lilacs-in-space]

1. How many works do you have on AO3?:

9

2. What's your total AO3 word count?:

87,894

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I only write for Star Trek these days. I muddle between all of them as I tend to write for small background characters I've developed unhealthy obsessions with.

Back in my fanfiction.net days I predominantly wrote Star Trek Enterprise and Stargate Atlantis but I took a 20 year hiatus (more or less) in writing fanfic. I only really started writing again about 6 months ago because Star Trek Picard made me simultaneously so happy and so angry that my creativity just exploded back to life.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Not Your Typical Disaster Scenario (Discworld - Terry Pratchett) 

Eight Down. Yellow Bird Who Goes 'Quack!' (Discworld) 

A Way With Wordes (Discworld) 

Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring. (Star Trek: Picard, Star Trek) 

Where the falling angel meets the rising ape (12 Monkeys (TV))

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Absolutely! Nothing makes my day like receiving a comment on a fic. I always make sure to leave them on fic I enjoy too.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I think my fav kinds of endings are bittersweet rather than angsty. A lot of the time they end with lovers parting, willingly or not. Love me a 'doomed by the narrative' type.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

A Way With Wordes - it ends with a wedding announcement!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No, which given that I've written for an insanely unpopular ship once or twice, is actually a little surprising.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

My good man/woman/rogue, I only write smut these days. I used to live for fluffy friendship fics, and I like to think I still inject a lot of tenderness into my work, but I am more motivated by the idea of becoming a good erotica writer than anything else these days.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I don't. I thought about writing a 12 Monkeys/Picard crossover but never went through with it.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes. I had a bunch of Spock/McCoy poems I wrote back in 2002 reappear over a decade later on AO3 under someone else's name. Not an archive, just some guy pretending he wrote them. I honestly didn't care. They were exactly the kind of mawkish tripe you'd expect a 12 year old to write.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Back in my day, sonny, we wrote fics round robin style through hotmail.com or on the yahoo message boards. (So yes, but we're talking like 20 years ago. I don't do it anymore because I'm in too weird of a niche these days!)

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

Nebula class. Looks like a frog. I have a Nebula model on my desk that I replaced the decal of to make it the T'Kumbra!

OH, you mean like...OTP? Uh... I don't think I have one anymore? Back in the day I used to read a tremendous amount of McKay/Weir(SGA), Archer/T'Pol (Ent), and Jack/Sam (SG1) but these days I really enjoy reading about niche characters and ocs. Some of the best fics I've read this year have been oc/oc fics or obscure character(OC) and original character(oc) fics.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

You got me in between the devil and the deep blue sea - I was so taken with this idea when I started, then I got super sick and now whenever I think of working on it, I just feel tired again and don't. We'll see if I return to it.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I feel like I'm really good at setting a mood and drawing a person in with all their senses. I get a lot of comments about that.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I don't use one word where many will do. My chapters are way. too. freakin'. long.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I do this a lot, but I always put in the translations. If it's a sentence, I will place the translation after the sentence. If it's just a word, I'll put in a glossary.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Ever? Star Trek TOS and it was a Spones fic. On AO3? Discworld and it was Vimes & Vetinari.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

I am obsessed with A Perfect Match. I love delving into Romulan and Vulcan culture and exposing the similarities and dichotomies of two arrogant characters like Letant and Solok.

However, I am also very proud of Not Your Typical Disaster Scenario which I wrote based on a piece of art I found super inspiring.

If you’re reading this and want to play, I hereby tag you with no pressure. 🥳

[irenadel]

And if the devil... 6/10

Making a banner for this finally for the grand finale coming soon. Excuse to rb. Credit for the Aemond screencap goes to the wonderful Liv @barbieaemond Smut, Aemond x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

Aemond had asked in the dark of the cave still, only to get his answer under the bright, open sky. He’d asked against the damp skin of your neck, still hungry for you, for your history as much as your body.

“Your braid… what victory does it stand for?”

And it pleases him to see how pleased you are, that he had gone looking for the knowledge to ask his question. Asked Grand Maester Mellos and been directed to an old dusty tome he’d found less than useful and then to an old, equally ramshackled sea captain who had told him enough stories of the Dothraki that he had known half of them must be outrageous lies.

But this one he had cherished. This one he had asked again, after rescuing you from a reprimand by the keep steward, for your untimely disappearance. He’d asked it in the wind of the sea cliffs again, because he’d seen it whip your pale, yellow braid behind you, stark like his own Valyrian white hair was stark, against the Targaryen black coat and trousers he had lent you for the occasion.

“I will show you khalakka,” you had said with that laughter he wishes never to stop hearing, as he’d urged you back on Vhagar. “Take me to the sky.”

And there you had shown him, counting the spikes on Vhagar’s neck as you had counted each step when climbing the rigging of a ship, so you would know your way back in spite of your poor eyesight. A braid because you had ridden the poison water, and led your little khalasar to safety. All eleven cousins and aunt and cranky, useless old uncle, safely delivered to their family across the Narrow Sea.

And he had shouted back at you, foolish, beautiful girl. Bold enough to get off a dragon’s saddle and climb her up and down like a sailing vessel. He’d watched your stance low, your knees following the rhythmic, oceanic flow of Vhagar’s powerful back, the way you had learnt to jump atop a horse’s back, atop a ship’s fore yard. Always sent aloft because you had never been afraid of heights you could not see. His own coat whipping behind you as you looked back at him, daring him to leave his post at the wheel of his great beast and come pursue you among the clouds.

He keeps the course steady for the both of you then, even though he almost feels the steady pressure of your strong hands, as Vhagar surely does when you soothe her gargantuan flanks and scratch her old scales off. No fear, no hesitation.

And so at night he lets himself reign free. Peeling his own clothes off your body, as ghostly white as his, like he is undressing himself, like they are his own hands reaching back to him, for once as tender to him as to anyone. He holds back your hands with a sharp smile, even as he longs for them on his own back, soothing his own nervous flanks. And when he lets you, he feels for the first time in years, like he is finally master of himself, of you. Even if you do test him almost as often as Vhagar does.

It matters little. Every fight ends as it should have always: with your skirts over your hips and your arse in the air and his hands between your legs making you swear to obey your prince. Sometimes it’s his cock too. Sometimes, when he’s so hard it hurts, when you’ve peaked twice already and are still arguing, when he knows if he fucks you he will be as good as gone, senseless to anything but the feel of your sweet, wet cunt… then he will go on his knees and bury his face between your thighs.

And he will not know who has won that round, as he hungrily devours your folds, tongue seeking your sweet insides, lips wrapped around your pearl, his hands cupping your arse as hard and covetously as he can, sometimes one of them slipping between his own two legs, making him feel almost ashamed that he cannot eat your cunt without palming himself through his breeches.

It’s only fair, he will think at the sound of your strangled moans, it’s only fair because he’s seen you do the same, when you’ve draped him over the big chair in his rooms and you are sucking him so greedily he can barely remember his own name, let alone what whores are or are not supposed to do.

But it is a much more dangerous affair by day.

When you both have places to be, and he feels tempted to excuse your absence in the kitchens or the laundries or even Princess Helaena’s rooms because your prince needs you and no, it cannot possibly wait. And no, no other chambermaid will do.

Years of sullen humors and his relentless command over his own face serve him well when he has to stand there and purposely not watch his mother the queen instruct you on the proper state of the rooms with your thighs still sticky with his release, with his own prick still wet from you, half-hard and growing harder at the thought that even the queen cannot command you like he does.

No one can.

He gets into a fight with his sister, the first and only in his life. Because Aemond tries to have you re-assigned to his rooms and finds resistance on both fronts. You, shooting him an angry glare in front of witnesses, one he should chastise you for instead of thinking he can lick the unhappy grimace off your lips. Later, he promises himself. Helaena looking so resigned and betrayed it makes the bottom fall from under him, makes him cling to every wound to his pride, every time he has had to fight for his place and the respect it should have garnered him, makes him reach for a viciousness he cannot keep up in the face of Helaena’s soft voice and lonesome reproach.

“She was my friend first.”

The result is worse, far more dangerous… but also so much sweeter it is fatally distracting. The result brings you to ruin and it is no wonder neither of you could have seen it coming, because you are yet to know, intimately and thoroughly, how no good deed goes unpunished.

Because you tell him that if it bothers him so bloody much, he can damn well show up at his sister’s now and again. Like there isn’t enough work to go around, with two little ones and a third one on the way and a useless wine-sop for a husband.

You needn’t sweeten the deal with jabs at Aegon.

Still it takes him three days to brave Helaena’s room and the nursery.

Still when he gets there he feels himself acutely an intruder.

The jealousy returns, twofold this time, because it is so much worse to discover that neither you nor his sister need him. And that if you did, you would have found him about as useless as Aegon. Angry and too proud and too used to a place where it had been only you and him and the language you had begun speaking in tandem.

He does not know this new tongue, and he is loath to admit incompetence.

But you do not accept the excuse of ignorance from him. You do not accept the gaping distance between Aemond and Helaena, so natural to them both, set long ago, by sex and duty and inclination. You hand him little Jaehaera when you must take her twin brother into your arms because the princess needs to lay down on the couch and cannot manage with a pregnant belly and a squirming little boy. His niece (his niece) looks at him, frankly unimpressed and still sucking her thumb, and he stares back at her, trying to find his straight nose, strong chin or domed forehead anywhere in this small, living creature that carries his blood. She has nothing of him except their shared Valyrian hair and eyes, and thankfully nothing of Aegon’s either. He fiercely hopes his brother’s heirs look all Helaena and nothing like their sire and would have found in himself even more goodwill for them if Jaehaera hadn’t immediately started crying.

You pay his panic no mind, because you’ve a little prince and pregnant princess to contend with and tell him to stop being a huge lump and scaring the wee girl by looking at her like he wants to slit her throat and maybe try rocking her a little. It does not work. But when he hangs her upside down that does garner a peel of interested laughter and more is to follow when he throws her (ever so gently, ever so carefully) into a nest of pillows at the foot of the princess’s couch.

And that is the beginning of the end for all of you. Because Aemond finds himself smiling, finds himself happy, perhaps for the first time in years. And happiness makes him careless.

Happiness makes him stay overlong in his sister’s rooms. Watching her teach you a court dance in spite of the babe inside her, longing to join because he does know the steps, half-remembers them from when those things used to matter to him. Reading to the both of you from the fanciful histories of Old Valyria, him reading because Helaena’s hands and eyes are busy preserving one of her insects in glass or needlepoint and because your poor eyesight and poorer coin have precluded you from learning how to read. And Aemond tries very hard not to feel childishly victorious over all imagined rivals because when you watch him read it’s like he’s doing magic. You watch him like you watch Vhagar as she breathes fire and climbs the sky with the beat of her mighty wings. And if Aemond chooses his reading material with more care, perhaps too many passages on Queen Visenya’s sword-slender figure and pale, braided hair… well, it’s only his sister Helaena, adding another red silk thread to her embroidery of a bloodied heart, who looks at him knowingly.

You, for your part, look at him like he strung the sun and stars on the heavens.

And he is drunk on that look. He is unwary of that look. Rejoices too much in it to see his royal mother and grandfather take note of it, or the way you raise your head like a hound on the scent whenever Prince Aemond passes near. Not a lovesick girl. A lovesick girl would have been less dangerous and easier to explain away. No, you look to your prince like a devoted soldier to his beloved general, tight and drawn like an arrow ready to be let loose.

You look at him like you would die for him, like you would kill for him. You look at him like the words are ready to spill from your mouth.

Blood of my blood.

It’s about Helaena that the queen approaches him first and perhaps because it is about her and decorum and the preservation of Aegon’s dignity, Prince Aemond finds it easy to dismiss her concerns. Why shouldn’t he mind the little family that his good-for-nothing brother has chosen to abandon?

After all, you had been right about that much. Helaena had needed the support and flourished under it. Unhappy and suspicious of his presence at first, as surprisingly jealous as he himself had felt, still she opens up to the smallest kindness like a flower to the sun. And why shouldn’t he offer her more of it? Now that he knew it was in his power, now that you had shown him he could, why should he be cautious of his affection for her? 

Why shouldn’t he hold his little niece as he studied High Valyrian? Why shouldn’t all four of you come trotting to watch his weapons training? Why shouldn’t he be allowed to carry his nephew to the yard, show him how to hold a practice sword in his chubby little fists and even let him get a good whack at him with it? (And if the princess gasps and you near-snigger at little Jaeheaerys’ good aim, who would notice your brazenness except everyone?)

It is his grandfather who puts his foot down at last, calling Aemond into the Tower of the Hand.

The queen escorts him, no doubt, to ease the news for him. The matter is addressed simply and succinctly: end it, or he would end it for him. And there was a rage in his breast woken by his Lord Hand’s order, that Aemond did not know he carried within himself. A moment where he could have laid hands on his mother’s blood, where he was ready to let loose all the recriminations he had never been allowed to even acknowledge. That he had only ever done what was asked of him. That it was the Valyrian blood in his veins that let his grandfather sit where he was and speak so acidly to him. His blood and his dragon and all the rest. He had never gone whoring, never shamed himself (never behaved like Aegon) and here he was, being told off like a badly behaved child, for the crime of not being miserable.

But he was his mother’s son as much as he was a prince and he held his tongue.

Otto Hightower didn’t look up from the scroll he was writing and had simply said, “It would have been easier for you if you had picked someone beautiful. Less offensive to your prospects. As it stands, you better end it quickly before anyone else takes notice.”

He was ready to commit parricide at that moment.

His mother must have seen it in his face. She hadn’t been quick enough to stop him unsheathing his dagger and burying it in his grandfather’s scrolls, but she was still gentle enough to pry his hand off the leather grip (the one you’d made for him! braided by your own hand, leather strips bought with your own coin, dyed in the Dothraki style) of his blade. She’d pulled him back from the edge of some unspeakable horror he’d been about to unleash. Fire and his own mouth fixed in a snarl, retribution for this and every other humiliation he had ever suffered. He’d been halfway down the steps of the tower, still panting angrily, before he’d noticed his grandfather hadn’t even looked up from his work. Before he’d noticed his mother’s arms were still around him, supporting him, taking him away from yet another fit of violence that he would never have been able to take back.

Like his eye.

“My dagger,” he’d said in a daze. “She made that for me. I need to—”

His mother wasn’t angry. Or contemptuous. She just placed a hand on his chest, to stop him from going back up the steps. She looked exhausted… disappointed. Like she couldn’t have this conversation again. Like she was talking to his brother.

“This needs to stop, Aemond. Your grandfather may be unkind but he isn’t wrong. For your sake, and your sister’s and that poor wretched girl’s… you have to stop.”

He’d held back the immediate violent recoiling of his body only because he was always painfully aware of how much smaller his mother was. How much more careful he needed to be. If it had been Ser Criston, his grandfather, even the king himself he might’ve…

“I’ve done nothing worse than Aegon!”

“You’ve done nothing better either!” His mother had hissed back, with a fierce viciousness he suddenly recognized as his own. “She isn’t a bed warmer, Aemond! Don’t treat me like I’m a fool. You carry on like this is a courtship. Everyone can see it! And you with not even the decency to hide it! Gods be good but I thought you were smarter than this!”

And that stung. It stung because he had not known until that moment that his mother had ever thought him smart. He was ten years old again, too stunned by duty and pain and the grief on his mother’s face to tell her just how deep his own ran.

Still he knew he must hold the course steady for the both of you.

“I’m not ashamed of her.”

“I’m ashamed of you!” And Aemond had choked back a wounded cry, gritted his teeth to trap the sound behind them, had even managed to keep his eye defiantly dry even as he knew he was a few words from begging. Pleading with his mother not to make him do this. “Have you considered her at all? That you could cost her her position! That you could get her with child!”

And he had barely a moment to think of the ruinous implications of that, the cold weight of foreboding in his belly, before his mother was plunging on.

“I’d hoped at least she would be discreet. She always was before.”

Time stopped.

His face frozen in a grimace of pain.

His mother realized her mistake almost immediately, still a moment too late to take it back, as a hundred little pieces fell in place, creating a picture he would sooner rip his other eye out than behold.

“Before?” He’d let out, suddenly looming over the small figure of his mother, suddenly putting the whole of his will in keeping his body from trembling in rage, in the need to know, know, what he had already guessed.

And it was the tired resignation in Queen Alicent’s face that let him know, that killed whatever brief, boyish hope there had been in him that this could not be true. “Did you think you were the only prince taking advantage of the maids?”

[spiritsoulandbody]

#DailyDevotion Jesus Is The LORD On Our Side

#DailyDevotion Jesus Is The LORD On Our Side Psalm 124 "If we didn't have the LORD,” Israel should say, 2"If we didn't have the LORD when men attacked us, 3then they would have swallowed us alive when their anger blazed against us; 4then the water would have swept us away, a torrent going over us; 5then the proudly raging waters would have gone over us.” 6Praise the LORD who didn't give us up as a prey to their teeth. 7We escaped like a bird from the hunters' trap – the trap is broken and we got away. 8Our help is in the name of the LORD Who made heaven and earth. So nice they had to say it twice? Or, are they trying to drive the point home? Perhaps, it is both. We need it driven into our thick skulls that we need to have the LORD with us. Verses 3 and 4 make me think he is alluding to the victory over the Egyptians in the Red Sea. Certainly, their anger, Pharoah's in particular, blazed against the Israelites. They would have overran them had the LORD not come between the two camps. With the LORD on their side, they walked on dry land between the two walls of water. When the LORD saw the Israelites were safely on the other side, He let the Egyptians pursue the Israelites. Once there would be escape for them, the LORD brought upon them what the Egyptians intended for His people. The LORD's fury fell upon them. The torrent of water as the walls of water crashed down upon them swept the Egyptians away. Jesus is Immanuel, God with us. He is the same LORD who delivered His people as depicted here. Jesus is Immanuel in the beginning of Matthew's Gospel. He is Immanuel at the end of Matthew's Gospel--"I am with you always, even unto the end of the ages." We have the LORD with us at the beginning and at the end. Jesus has stood before our enemy as He was baptized. He stands for us as we pass through the waters of baptism in and with Him. He has brought us through the waters and by these waters He defeats our enemies, sin, death and the power of the devil. The LORD through the author of Hebrews reminds us in chapter 13:5, “'I will never leave you or desert you.' 6And so we have the courage to say: 'The Lord is my Help. I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?'" As the psalmist called for praise to the LORD who saved the Israelites from the teeth of their enemies and escaped the trap set for them because He had broken it up, so too, we are called to praise our LORD Jesus Christ who has saved us from the teeth of our enemy the devil. He, by His death on the cross, has smashed the trap of the enemy. He entered the trap and the trap could not hold Him. Through our baptism into Jesus (Rom. 6) we have become participants with Him and commune with Him in His death, burial and resurrection, in truth and in reality. The psalmist then lets us know who this LORD is. He is the maker of heaven and earth. He goes all the way back to Genesis chapter one. Our help is in His name. Paul identifies Him for us in 1 Cor. 8, "6yet we have one God, the Father: from Him comes everything, and we live for Him. And there is one Lord, Jesus Christ: He made everything, and we live by Him." The Father has given us a name to call upon as Paul says in Phil. 2, "9That is why God also exalted Him up on high and gave Him the name above every other name 10that at the name of JESUS everyone in heaven and on earth and under the earth should kneel, lland everyone should confess, “JESUS CHRIST IS LORD!” and so glorify God the Father." Let us then in every trial, trouble, tribulation, and the like call upon the name of our LORD Jesus Christ and trust that He is with us to deliver us from our enemies. Merciful God and Father, You have given us Your Son, Jesus Christ, to be LORD, to be with us as our conqueror and savior from sin, death and the power of the devil. Grant us faith to call upon Him in the day of trouble so we may be rescued by His power so we may give praise to His name. In Jesus' name we pray. Amen. Read the full article

[beri-allen]

2023 Tumblr Top 10

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can't stop thinking about that line in the wyler time loop au where tyler calls wednesday "batman". i keep imagining it in a...

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stuck between "i need to reread and reedit this wip every day, so it will be perfect when it comes out" and "if i read this wip...

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I Put a Spell on You - Chapter 4

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The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

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Stop - beriallen - Wednesday (TV 2022) [Archive of Our Own]

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wip rec: wyler edition - part 1

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last sentence tag war

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I Put a Spell on You

Created by TumblrTop10

[chocolatepot]

3, 4, 8, and 20 💕

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?

A Perfect Pair! F/F au, there's angst, there's a rescue, there's a closet reveal and then closet sex ... It has it all.

4. How many WIPs do you have right now? / 8. What project(s) are you currently working on?

Oh god ... 1) a fic where Stede is "pirate catnip" in the Kiss on the Hand series; 2) a Sweet Damsels fic from Jim's POV set after Discomfort in a Married state, about gender; 3) a dance lesson where Ed flirts with Stede (also Sweet Damsels); 4) Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, which is in limbo with the final chapter; 5) a fic about Hornberry writing salacious fiction about being Stede's prisoner; 6) one of my rare modern AUs, based on Tristan and Isolde but with a happy ending; 7) a Sweet Damsels au where Stede is a passenger on a ship that Ed raids; 8) my Reverse Big Bang fic, a very angsty reunion. And 9) my original novel, which I write like a sentence on per week at best, and 10) a queer 1920s Cinderella retelling. (And my Big Bang fic, which is just in outline form right now.

20. What’s a favorite title for a fic you’ve written?

Oh I am so bad at titles! Mine are nearly all either song lyrics from the 1930s-1950s or a key phrase from the fic itself. But I'm a big fan of Pretty and Witty and Gay, which is excessively cute.

list of questions

[vintagehellfire]

The Prowler | Eddie Munson x Reader

❦ 1/8 ☙ tw: unhealthy coping mechanisms, smut, abuse, broken families, 18+, minors DNI ❧ When reader moves to Hawkins from a small town in France after having been kicked out to live with their extended family, they lean on unhealthy coping skills. Rumours spread quickly and soon they are known as the town harlot, sleeping around to deal with their unfortunate circumstances.The Prowler, Eddie Munson, always around in some capacity, doesn't bat an eye at what people are saying, after all, he is the devil incarnate himself....[Based on Iron Maiden's self titled album]

Chapter One: The Prowler

“They’ll charge you a fiver for the main course, but you might even get some for free!” The roar of laughter drowned your thoughts, pressure filling your ears as you tried to ignore the sea of teenagers pointing their fingers at nobody else but you.

❦

The muddy boot connected with your trailer door, a sepulchral thunk echoing through the room amidst the rhythmic plunks of the pouring rain against the tin roof. It couldn’t be anybody but the Prowler. You’d spotted his head of hair in the halls of the hellhole that was known as Hawkins High. As much as you loather to admit it, he was quite the attractive character, but you couldn’t allow yourself those thoughts or feelings, no, it was best not to have them.

❦

The cruel smoke wafted from the cigarette that hung between their lips, a sigh of ecstasy, a moment of relief. Their « fix » having just left, leaving them in a ratty shirt, panties bunched on the floor of the trailer, and the ashtray on the floor. To say that the sex was anything but atrocious would have been a lie, but it was a coping strategy and one that was hard to give up. Sure cigarettes took the edge off, but they didn’t make you feel wanted and warm the way a body might, and that’s exactly the way in which (y/n) coped. Cigarettes, booze, and sex. In these moments of deep frustration, (y/n) ran a hand through their shock of dyed hair as they exhaled the poison, silently wishing the cancer sticks they smoked were menthols instead.

Not even a month passed and rumours of (y/n)’s afterschool activities were flying, and accusations were thrown left and right. Of course, only half of them were true. What was this cunning yet elusive figure from hell doing in such a dump as Hawkins? To be honest, there wasn’t an answer to be given, not even one that could have used to try to justify this choice to themselves. They might as well have tossed a dart at a map with their eyes closed, but they didn’t. It was actually more like extended family that did. After (y/n)’s ridiculously haute classe parents kicked them out to go abroad and live with their impoverished uncle, they didn’t really have much of a choice, however; there was a charm to the quietude the town provided in comparison to the rowdy home. Even despite proving to be a rumour mill, there was rare peace that settled upon the town which provided a becoming charm.

Fucking bastard, (Y/N) internally hissed before pushing themselves off of the creaky bed. Coincidentally, that same thought blew through the head of someone a few doors down from their trailer.

“Fucking bastard ,” Eddie gritted through his teeth as he tried to bandage the cut on his forearm, cooly dangling a cigarette from his lips. He worked away at bandaging himself up, the sting of the antiseptic solution burning his fresh wound. The poor man hadn’t had much luck, not just with his grades, but with being considered anything close to remotely human. Eddie “The Freak” Munson they all called him and just about anyone sane knew that he didn’t deserve it, but he was, of course, a metalhead, a Dungeon Master, in the middle of the oh-so-incredible “Satanic Panic”. Naming his club Hellfire sure didn’t feel like the smartest of moves at the moment. If he were honest with himself, it was huge reasoning for the big red target on his chest, and no, not just the snarling demon that adorned his old shirt.

After bandaging himself up, Eddie threw himself onto the bed, finishing up his cigarette and exhaling out the cancerous cloud, the very same that surrounded (y/n) in their trailer a few doors down.

Hawkins High, the hellhole, the place where all souls go to die… The place where after nights of debauchery rumours would spread like a wildfire in a drought. To say the stories and tall tales of (y/n)’s extracurricular didn’t get around was a lie, after all, it was of their own volition that they decided to bed the popular kid but this wasn’t to be expected. The rumours started as soon as they had stepped foot through the door. Some were gracious such as being a freak like that Munson kid, others were downright cruel, the most nefarious being that you were a harlot. To say that was definitely over the line, and it wasn’t like (y/n) solicited sex or anything, but being such a cherry bomb, it made it easy to get what they wanted and when they wanted it. How were they supposed to know that it would end in that prick spreading false accusations of solicitation? (Y/n) found themselves grinding their teeth together. If living in a small town in France had taught them anything, is that being an eyesore, a femme presenting person, who didn’t fit in in the least, put a target on their back, and it looked like it did about the same thing in Hawkins, Indiana. Well, all except for one person.

Eddie Munson, The Prowler, caught (y/n)’s attention on day one. Sharp canines, addictive smile, stupid fucking I don’t give a shit attitude, yeah, just their type, but this is what they aimed to avoid A person they were genuinely interested in? What could possibly go fucking wrong? They didn’t send (y/n) to Hawkins to fall in love with some metal head, Hawkins was supposed to be a punishment and not the place they found true love. Love, what even the fuck was love but an emotion that brought weakness? (Y/n) shook their head before sticking their headphones in and turning up their music as loud as the walkman would allow them to. Love was a weakness, there was more comfort in a fleeting moment than in an emotion that wields the power to rip the happiness from your heart and leave a black hole in its place, sucking all light into it.

When was this god-forsaken day to be over?

❦

The tangled bodies, the sweat, and the moans filled the tiny trailer.

“Fuck yeah baby, oh yes, yes, yes!” The man groaned out as (y/n) lay mostly still. It was almost a nightly ritual at this point. The man, or woman, would buy the booze, (y/n) would take them back to theirs, offer the smokes, and then put on their dominatrix act, but that didn’t always last long. Men liked to take control, tug and yank at their hair, liked to assert dominance over “the whore”. That’s what they were right? Nothing but a cheap whore for a night of fun. Sometimes men would throw in a fiver because they genuinely believed that’s what the agreement was, other times there wasn’t even so much as a goodbye. The nicest person by far had been a man who was clearly trying to have his first time but backed out after (y/n) talked him out of it.

“What are you doing fucking a nobody for the first time? Don’t you want it to be with someone you love?”

“ I don’t know that anybody would love me.”

“ That’s bullshit, look at you. You didn’t try to pay me, you treated me like a human, bought me flowers, whole nine yards, for what? A lay?” They scoffed. “Come on, I’m not gonna take your virginity, but I’ll let you hang out and have a drink.” The man nodded and thus began a night of philosophical conversation and literary analysis.

“Okay sweetheart, I’m done here.” The prick (y/n) took home declared, pulling out, tossing the condom into a corner of the room, and shimmying his pants back on. “Maybe we can do this again sometime, huh?” He offered them a tenner before throwing it at them like a cheap whore when he realised they weren’t taking it.

“I’m not a prostitute.” They called after him as he was leaving and with the clank of the door they let out a “ bitch.” Under their breath. Pulling themselves off the bed, (y/n) decided to light one up and make themselves a coffee before picking up their guitar and flinging themselves onto the worn couch.

Two doors down, Eddie had gotten up from the comfort of his bed and was grabbing his head, pacing back and forth, oblivious to the scandalous acts that had just taken place next door. He couldn’t place his finger on what exactly his Dungeons and Dragons campaign was missing, but it was something rather significant. No, no, they went through the Vecna storyline, he made it nearly impossible for the kids to get themselves out of that one, but they managed. A damsel in distress? To classic. Eddie wanted to scream. He had never had this much trouble in his goddamn life when it came to coming up with ideas for his campaign. A sigh left his lips as he ran a hand through the lion's mane that was his hair. Time to light up I guess , he thought to himself before pulling out a cigarette from behind his ear and marching to the trailer door. He ripped it open in frustration and plopped himself down on the first step, pulling the lighter from his pocket at the same time.

If he didn’t make this the best damn campaign, he’d be fucked. The pupils held him in high regard with expectations that blew through the roof. After all, it was Eddie, the theatrical and dramatic freak. He couldn’t revisit Vecna, could he bring back Kas? He shook his head and scrapped the idea quickly, taking a hit from his cigarette. As soon as the smoke hit his lungs he felt the buzz of nicotine and the gears started turning. He’d have the kids leave the clutches of Vecna’s realm, maybe face a few monsters, and he’d have to introduce a new threat, and interdimensional threat possibly. New monsters, new threats. Transition the kids to a new region? After Vecna wreaked Havoc, he had to introduce new characters, not like he had a choice. Once your character was dead, they were dead… well, Eddie could have included the option to have them unconscious for one to six turns… God, if death-saving rolls were a thing… He cursed at himself and tried to think, wishing he had pulled out his notebook. Could be interesting to force em to go through Bloodstone pass or even the Bloodstone Mines. There was a highly anticipated chapter coming up down the line and so it would give all the more meat to the storyline or he could introduce the forgotten realms, and involve more magic as opposed to total war.

His thoughts were interrupted by the delightful sound of a guitar playing in the background. Snapping his head towards the sound, he wondered how come he’d never heard this before, and he wondered just how sorrowful the person behind the playing must be.

(Y/N) strummed the gloomy chords, letting the heavy emotions fill the air with tension. Of course, making use of the Locrian mode was essential to them, especially since they played doom, haunting the ears of those who bothered to listen. The harrowing tale of their past sorrows, their current misfortunes, and the dark twisted tales of the occult filled what would otherwise be silence. They closed their eyes and lost themselves in the music they were writing, oblivious to the outside world. Music had become a sort of escapism ever since their parents had decided that they weren’t meeting their standards and (y/n) was good . They didn’t leave room for a single doubt on that front. Even those who would diminish them, their accomplishments and their peculiar choices were forced to admit they had a natural talent. It was as if it was an extension of themselves and it never went unnoticed.

(Y/n) played well into the night and eventually tired themselves out completely, having nearly shot their sorrowful voice. Gently, almost lovingly, they placed their guitar in the corner by the bed and tossed any soiled clothing to the ground before turning the light off and crawling under the warm sheets, the smell of sex lingering evermore.

It was lucky for (y/n) that despite waking up late the following day, it was no matter seeing as it was a Saturday. The birds chirping, the sound of those stupid fucking neighbours flowing into the trailer, but no sun beaming through the windows. With a groan, (y/n) pulled themselves up, rubbing their eyes and smearing whatever liner was leftover from the previous night before swinging their legs over the side of their bed and padding over to the kitchen to brew themselves a coffee. They liked their coffee strong and slightly bitter, without sugar or milk, and certainly without the sound of their neighbours having a row. As their coffee brewed, they reached into their cabinet for a mug before slamming the door shut in annoyance. Do they not shut the fuck up?! It wasn’t like the fighting was new, it had been going on for quite some time and if it hadn’t become a daily part of (y/n)’s routine, they didn’t know what had. Usually, the fight would die down by the afternoon, the husband would start his Chevy Citation II, rev the engine and speed off. Sometimes he came back at 4 am, other times he’d leave for days. Rinse and repeat.

Eddie nearly tore his hair out every time the neighbours would argue, he would regularly drown them out with music or his own playing. Sometimes he too would leave, but today was different. They had started fighting as soon as he had talked himself up to leaving his trailer to go talk to (y/n). He had seen them around school, in the music rooms, alone in the lunch room, and he knew their car as soon as it pulled into the trailer park but one thing he hadn’t seen up until last night was (y/n) singing. He found their voice soothing yet haunting, the memory of sitting in the night, smoking, and listening following him to the dawn and compelled him to try to approach. He knew of their reputation but that didn’t matter, hell, even he had a reputation as some kind of cult leader due to his little school club. Hellfire wasn’t satanic, it was far from it. It was just a group of teenagers indulging in a tabletop roleplaying game. Truth be told, it was a fantastic creative outlet for everyone involved and it had brought the gang much closer together, but that didn’t matter to anyone else.

As soon as he heard the screeching of tires and the engine of the Chevy roar, he decided he would make his way over to (y/n)’s trailer. He threw on his Hellfire shirt, and his tattered jeans, before jogging over.

(Y/n) heard a knock on their trailer door and rolled their eyes, could they get a fucking moment of peace? Absolutely not apparently. They grabbed their mug, knuckled turning white, and unintentionally stomped over to the trailer door, ripping it open just before another knock landed. They didn’t give a shit that they were still in a t-shirt and underwear, they didn’t care that their hair was matted or that the remnants of their makeup were smudged across their eyes.

“What do you want?” (Y/n) hissed before being able to process who exactly was standing in front of them.

“My apologies,” The Prowler spoke, eyes wide as saucers, “I didn’t mean to bother you, I can uh…” He turned his head to look back at his trailer. (Y/n)’s eyes flicked over to where he was looking before a grim expression crossed their face. How he knew they lived here was obvious, but didn’t make it any less strange for (y/n). “Listen, I’ll get out of your hair, but I wanted to let you know that I heard you last night,” and with that, the grim expression turned to anger, (y/n) thinking he’d heard them hooking up, “and you sounded really good, I just- yeah.” Eddie rubbed the back of his neck.

“Excuse me?” (y/n) asked in shock. “Get the fuck away from me, you fucking Prowler.” They growled, baring their teeth, and body began to shake. The intensity of the venom in their voice shook Eddie to the core. Nobody had ever called him a Prowler, that was certainly a new name to add to the books. Eyes wide, he started stuttering, unsure of what (y/n) thought he was referring to, imagining that their wires got crossed somewhere.

“No no no!” He tried to backtrack quickly. “Your voice, your singing,” he tried quickly, bringing (y/n)’s anger down a few notches, They stared intently at Eddie, letting out a huff while pursing their lips in thought. So it wasn’t what they had initially thought. The white-hot anger began to subside and they fought the urge to snap back a nasty retort.

“Thanks.” The reply was curt, almost bitter but the venom softened up and the anger subsided. “Is that all you want?” (Y/n) asked, wondering when this waking nightmare would be over.

“I- well,” Eddie rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his usual cocky demeanor fading quickly when around (y/n). He didn’t understand why they had this effect on him, but they did, “you’re new to Hawkins right?” He asked, earning a slow nod from the other, eyes squinting slightly and jaw tightening. “Look, I- I’ve seen how people have treated you, I’ve heard the rumours.” He bit his lip and looked away, fearing he’d be subject to (y/n)’s anger once again. Their demeanor, however, softened a bit. Maybe they should be giving a chance to The Prowler despite that he may have heard about their x-rated activities. “If you need someone, a friend, a shoulder to lean on, just… My trailers right over there.” He pointed his thumb behind him.

(Y/n) couldn’t help but take a better look at Eddie, the curly head of hair, the wide yet soft brown eyes, the crow's feet by his eyes, they could see this becoming dangerous, but was it more dangerous than sleeping around without care? Probably not. They sighed.

“I’ve been a dick.” They state before gently looking away and adding, “I appreciate the gesture, I know you probably think I can’t take care of myself, but I can.” They say, running a hand through their hair, thoughts racing. It would be easier to be a dick, and push Eddie away, but what if… no. No, they wouldn’t allow themselves the luxury.

“It’s not that I don’t think you can, it’s just that we’re freaks, you know? And us freaks, we have each other.” Eddie conceded, he wanted to include those who were cast out, to be there, give them a space to be themselves, and (y/n) was no exception. “Anyway, I came here to tell you that I love your voice, you’ve got a good one for the doom-like songs you're writing.” With that, Eddie turned back and started walking back home.

❦

Over the next few weeks, (y/n) avoided Eddie. He was too kind, and all they could think of was how he would probably be a golden retriever boyfriend. He tried to invite (y/n) to lunch, or even offer them a ride home from time to time. He’d somehow always be around and that made their blood boil and so they decided that it was time to push him away in any way that they could, which so happened to be inviting someone back to their trailer to fuck the desire out.

It was a Tuesday and (y/n) was having a drink at The Hideout, unbeknownst to them, Corroded Coffin, Eddie’s band, was playing. A groan left their lips and they ordered another round, trying to forget about the dashing smile and soft gaze that the metal head shot their way. They needed to get him out of their head and they thought that maybe if they filled their bed with someone else, it would do the trick. Luckily, or rather, unluckily, a tall and handsome man slid into the seat next to (y/n).

“Hey, sugar,” He purred causing them to gag, “can I buy you a drink?” (y/n) looked him up and down, he was built, but his get-up left much to be desired. A tight white t-shirt and blue jeans, nothing special, and yet it would do. His green eyes were piercing and his sandy blonde hair flopped in front of them. He needs a haircut.  

“Depends what you’re offering.” (Y/n) retorted with a little wink before taking a swig of their beer. This is fucking exhausting. What they didn’t realise from this interaction is that Eddie was watching them. To say he didn’t have a soft spot for (y/n) would be a lie, though he tried to justify it by telling himself it’s just physical attraction the more he learned about them, the more drawn to them he became, and it was pretty easy given they were neighbors. He’d often poke his head out the window to see them feeding the birds, watering the little garden they had planted, petting the dogs, and playing with them, and he’d even seen them take in a stray cat. That’s not even touching on their haunting voice.

He was so distracted that he barely registered Jeff talking to him until he snapped his fingers in front of Eddie’s face. Only then did he tear his eyes from the sight he was fixated on - the man dragging (y/n) out by the hand.

“Dude, let’s go, we’re on in a minute.” With his eyes glued to the door, Eddie nodded slowly. When he managed to tear his eyes from the door he made his way to his guitar and picked it up violently before setting everything up, making sure all his pedals were where they belonged on the pedal board and that nothing was loose. He took one look at the guys, then trailed them back to the door, grip tightening on the neck of his guitar.

“Hey everyone, we’re Corroded Coffin, hope you enjoy.” And with that, he let the first chord ring out before throwing himself into a violent performance. To say the guys had seen something like this come from Eddie would be a lie. They hadn’t seen this much rage and passion in a long time. It had to be one of their best sets to date.

❦

“Are you enjoying yourself, sugar?” The man inquired as he went down on (y/n) and all they could do in response was moan. What else were they supposed to do? The man was going at them like a fucking dog licking peanut butter off a spoon. Has he ever even eaten someone out before? “Mmm yeah let me hear you moan baby.” He hummed. God, he spoke way too much.

“Just fuck me already.” They breathed out through half-gritted teeth, waiting for this hell to be over, why they expected any one-night stand to go well was beyond them.

“So fucking needy… Mmm, I like that.” The stranger growled. “You don’t mind if I don’t use a condom right?” With that, (y/n) shot up. “It just feels be-” The man got cut off and pushed away by (y/n)’s foot connecting to his shoulder.

“Get out.” Disbelief was plastered to his face. He went to protest but was promptly and swiftly cut off. “I don’t want your excuses, get up, get dressed, and get out, now! ” they roared before getting up and pulling their panties back on. The man did as instructed while cursing.

“Don’t need to be such a frigid ass bitch. Can’t believe people say you’re an easy lay.” With that, rage flooded (y/n) and they picked up the man’s belongings and swiftly opened the window, throwing them into the mud.

“Get the fuck out, get out of my sight, and so help me god, if you call me a frigid ass bitch again…” They started to shove the man towards the door. “I will cut your fucking dick off. Don’t come back.” And with that pointed threat, they shoved him out the door and slammed it in his face. (Y/n) locked the door before pressing their back to it and sighing, reaching around for a t-shirt before sinking down to the ground. They heard the man cursing as he picked up his clothes and walked off. The relief flooded them slowly but was almost immediately replaced with a feeling of guilt and regret. They felt dirty. For the first time since sleeping around, they felt dirty .

A knock came at their trailer door soon after – or so it seemed – honestly, (y/n) had lost track of time, dipping in and out of full consciousness. They had picked up a cigarette at some point and had started to smoke yet there was no recollection of it at all. Slowly, they got up and peeled the door open only to find Eddie in front and a dumbfounded look on his face.

“What the fuck? ” Eddie let out, eyes softening as he saw you. “Are you okay? He just spat something about you being frigid” Anger overtook him, he had somehow become protective of (y/n) despite the fact that they were avoiding him like the plague. He avoided mentioning that the thick-headed jock spat something or the other about fucking the town freak right after.

“Wha-” (y/n) began but couldn’t put two and two together. In fact, they didn’t understand why the man who was at their door just a couple of weeks ago and hadn’t been there since was so worried., “Eddie… I- Come in.” They tried before moving over to let the man through.

“What did he do? Did he hurt you, (y/n)?” That was the first time he’d used your name and it struck a chord. (Y/n)’s eyes almost softened up, almost , tears brimming their eyes and threatening to spill over. They took a minute, blood roaring through their ears like a river, it was similar to when you’d put a conch shell to your ear, and the pressure in their head was becoming too much.

“I’m… I’m tired.” They broke down, the river of tears spilling over and flowing down their cheeks. “He- No, no, I’m not okay.” And with that Eddie took them into his strong arms, tangling a hand in their hair and the other around their waist. (Y/n) stiffened with shock before gently relaxing into The Prowler, Eddie Munson, the man who seemed to be everywhere they went. He smelled of tobacco, oud, and something a little woodsy, and (y/n) could safely say it was addicting and it scared them how much it made them feel at home with this man.

“It’s okay…” Eddie muttered into (y/n)’s hair. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” He just hoped that you couldn’t feel his heart hammering in his chest. This was the closest he’d been to you and he was so afraid to fuck it up.