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otkuhotgirl · 4 months ago

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─── 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐀 .

# with trafalgar water d. law.

despite the overextended manner with which law behaved, and the fatigue that crept into his soul due to his tendencies of avoiding a decent rest, sleep could not find him in the slightest. when his insomnia lurked around the corner, law could always count on your mouth to tire him out.

⎰ & smut (mdni!) gn!reader. oral (male!receiving). deepthroating. praise kink. no y/n used.

W.C: 2K.

the incessant ticking of the obstinate clock on the wall had the opposite effect of what was meant to be soothing. law had quit on writing the reports that dwelled on his mind, finding that his grip on the pen was unusually harsh — and enough to split it in two. law wasn’t against the vision of black ink on his skin — the tattoos on his body were enough proof of that — yet, when the ink that stained his palm was born from the destruction of one quite expensive and favored pen, pleased was the last adjective he’d use.

he scrubbed his eyes with the cleaner fingers, shutting them with a sense of bubbling rage born from intrinsic exhaustion. the strained muscles of his back began to ache an hour ago. he failed to concentrate on even the smallest of details, his synapses so lethargic he’d probably end up writing their instead of there in his paper. law clenched his jaw; stressed, sleep-deprived, and frustrated.

bepo had knocked on his door ten minutes prior — for the fifth time that night — with the same advice prepared. law’s answer remained equal, empty promises and meaningless deadlines that he had no intention on following. it was but a matter of time until the navigator pulled out his secret weapon, or that was, at least, how you were called under that context.

law sent a piercing gaze towards the closed door, fidgeting and quietly begging for your intervention, as though a religious fool who placed his trust on the force of manifestations. he thought of seeking you out himself, hours prior. yet, during instances drawn to his duties, law was but a rooted tree lost amidst a vexing fog, incapable of moving even one miserable inch; hence the urge to have you. his refugee; his medicine. the surgeon of death — more than a billion-worth bounty hovering over his head —, had succumbed to both the plague and blessing of love. with his head nearing the table’s surface, a weary sigh past his lips, law pictured your face and found that he would have fallen victim to such a feeling a thousand times over, so long as that meant claiming you his.

he heard the scratch of the door against the ground, and perked up upon the knowledge of, at last, having you in his office — for no other crewmate was allowed to barge in without a warning knock.

you walked towards him — slowly —, your hips swaying, malice-filled eyes. law felt but a prey under the gaze of its hunter; one left with a sense of gratitude upon the approach of the searing and delicious taste of death’s kiss.

you sat on the edge of his desk, careful as not to meddle with his papers, and softly removed his hat to caress the disheveled locks of black hair. law surrendered to your touch, sighing with relief.

“it’s getting late,” you stated, drawing circles on his cheek. law intertwined his fingers with your own, pressing his lips to the back of your hand.

“can’t sleep,” he answered, chasing your scent; drowning his nose on the skin of your wrist.

law glanced up at you, enamored. you tilted your head to the side, gears turning as you deconstructed his sentence and stance, figuring the innuendo underneath. there were moments in which his restlessness was a product of his past. from the plague, to the death of cora-san, nightmares hunted him down as though starved beasts aiming at a dying creature. however, in other instances — such as the current one — law was but too overworked to fall asleep. whatever the context of the disease, the cure remained the same: your touch.

you moved to the back of his chair, massaging his shoulders. law relaxed, leaning his head back with a low groan. your lips hovered above his jaw, the tip of your tongue darting out to lick a stripe on his skin. your fingers lost themselves under the fabric of his coat, re-drawing the patterns of the tattoo on his chest.

“and how should i cure your problem, doctor? hands or mouth?”

law breathed out heavily upon the hearing of his title, sounding oh-so-sinfully on your tongue. he cleared his throat. “mouth. doctor’s orders.”

you hummed. law watched through half-lidded eyes as you knelt and crawled under the table, the brief sight of your ass enough to harden his neglected cock. he unzipped his pants, not having the patience for the teasing you, for sure, had in mind.

“getting hasty?” you teased, and law moved in his chair, pressing his crotch closer to where — he guessed — your face was.

“get on with it,” he bit back, searching for the back of your head.

when law did find it, he froze. under his palm was the familiar texture of his hat. the thought of having you wear it, with your face stuffed with his cock, made him desperate. a shambles followed-in-suit to a room, and the desk that had once hidden you from his glance was moved to the other side of the office, papers and pens and books falling over. law ignored the sound and the chaos, forcing your face against his covered erection, eyes trailed to that damned hat.

you pushed his underwear enough to free his cock from its cuffs; your hand gripping it before it had the chance to meet his abdomen. law all but shuddered, one hand gripping his chair as the other bruised the skin of your nape. your movements were slow at first. your thumb rolled over the tip and smeared his pre-cum over his shaft, causing his hips to buckle ever-so-slightly. before law could repeat his command, you moved forward, licking the essence coating his tip and encasing it in your mouth. law gasped, keeping his palm on your head and gritting his teeth at the warmth of your tongue.

“shit,” he cursed, biting the inside of his mouth to avoid louder noises, tasting the metal of blood.

your eyes narrowed, and he could see the resolve in them; the utter determination to tear him in pieces. you sucked, savoring the salty taste before beginning to slide down; another hand clawing down a clothed thigh. law huffed at the sight of you. your eyes had rolled with pleasure when you swallowed him down to the base, his hat secured on your head. with a jolt of overwhelming desire, law rolled his hips up to make you gag.

your head moved on its own, a futile attempt to free itself and retreat. he pushed it back, forcing your nose to brush against his pubes, witnessing the tears pooling in your eyes.

“you can take me,” he stated, hissing for a second at the swirling of your tongue. “you always do— ngh. take me so well, love.”

you hummed, relaxing for a second. law’s glance met yours, and his grip laxed at last, allowing you to take over. you popped off his tip with a gasp, mouth open, briefly regaining the lost air. your hand jerked his shaft, replaced by a sudden lick that traveled from the base to the head in one long stripe. you teased him with the sight of your cock against your hanging tongue; allowing his eyes the grace of his pre-cum latched on the warm muscle.

law trembled, his chest heaving at the swirling movements around his tip. “so gorgeous, make me wanna stuff you so bad, love.”

a whimper spilled from your lips before claiming his shaft yet again. law buckled his hips mid-shout, reprimanding himself for the sound. your hand gripped one of his balls, and the settled pace — with the bobbing of your head —, had him gasping.

he shoved himself down your throat, gripping the edge of his hat. saliva dripped down your opened mouth; hollowed cheeks increasing the pressure around his cock.

“that’s it,” he moaned, rolling his hips as his tip hit the back of your throat.

law felt the muffled whimper around his shaft, transfixed on the sight of your stuffed cheeks; the watery eyes that stared back into his. the room was filled with the erotic, borderline sinful, sounds of your gags; the constant bobbing of your head coating his cock with saliva. law buckled his hips, and your nails dug on his thigh, fingers tugging at the fabric of his pants as you audibly choked. with a harsh grip, he pulled your head back, giving you a few, precious seconds to breathe.

“look at you,” he voiced out in awe. “willing to empty your lungs for the sake of my pleasure.”

law guided his cock closer, fingers curling under his hat and nails digging into your head. “open up, love. just like that.”

your tongue darted out, and he slapped your cheeks with his tip, struggling to drown the urge to cum at the sound of your whimpers; the sight of you, following the movements of his cock with desperate-filled eyes, as though you could not wait to take him again. law placed himself at the entrance of your awaiting mouth, breathing out a moan.

“so pretty like that, all fucked up,” he mused, groaning once your lips claimed him yet again. “fuck, that mouth was made for me.”

the responding moan resonated around him, and law arched his back against the chair, feeling hot under the layers of his coat. his head latched itself on the back of your throat, and the harsh grip on his balls had him on edge. law’s voice sounded pathetic to his own ears when your tongue teased the underside of his dick, his movements growing hectic.

“i’m gonna cum,” he warned through a grunt, struggling to keep his eyes open and glued to your face.

you let out a muffled whimper, begging for it; your mouth nothing but a ruthless lover, swallowing him whole, yet demanding more. his hat fell from your head, and law lost his sense of self, whimpering at his release; his cum painting your throat white, stealing the breath from your lungs. law held you there, spasming with weakened and hectic thrusts throughout his orgasm, crumbling down to ruins as he bore witness to droplets of his essence escaping past the gaps of your stretched lips.

“let me see,” he mumbled, exhausted at the expanse of his own height.

with a teasing, edging suck, you pulled your head back with a pop. a stripe of saliva and cum connected his tip to your lips, and when you opened your mouth to spare him a sight of your whitened tongue, law’s fingers weakly gripped your chin, beckoning you closer.

dried blood lingered on the inside of his mouth, and mingled with the taste of his own seed. his teeth clashed against yours. a meek note of the coffee he drank priorly settled in between. yet, it was one of the best kisses he ever had.

“thank you,” law mumbled, an exhausted and dangling man nearing the edge of a lethal cliff. a soaring feather that remained tethered to the earth as a consequence of your tender grip.

you hummed, pressing a loving kiss to his cheek while zipping his pants. “cured enough to sleep, doctor?”

he smiled — enamored; sweet —, the particular showcase of teeth, born from the devotion directed towards you. the spark on his chest whose light was born from your mere presence. his hat clung to your figure, and law had half the mind to use his devil-fruit to teleport the both of you to his bed, before crumbling against the mattress, blindly searching for your chest.

law pressed his thigh against your core, lazily motioning for you to rub yourself against the fabric. a small giggle echoed through the walls, a sound he wished to steal and seal; a selfish shell of a man who had no desire to share a single thing related to his lover whatsoever.

“there’s no need for that. sleep,” you whispered, caressing his hair. law hugged your waist; drowned his face in your chest.

“want you to feel good,” law insisted, sleep-drunk, drooling on your bare flesh.

“too tired,” you voiced out matter-of-factly. whether he was the subject of such a statement or not, he failed to tell. law fell under the influence of slumber the second thereafter, sheltered in the confines of a loving dome whose barriers were sealed from the looming insomnia outside.

— 🐈‍⬛ : IT’S FUCKING LAW STUPID FRIDAY LET’S GO.

#one piece #op #op x reader #op x you #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece smut #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x you #law x reader #law x you #trafalgar law smut #law smut #trafalgar law x reader #op law

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sinning-23 · 11 months ago

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Hello,

How about a LA luffy where he's dating Reader and he keeps talking about her but no one believes him until she comes and rescue them or something I know not much details but please take this to your account English isn't my first language so excuse me

OMG THIS IS PERFECT! Thank you for the request! I apologize for taking so long to write it I've been so busy and full of writers block its insane! I added a little twist with his and made th reader a gunslinger sooo yeah(for the plot) Anywa here we go! Enjoy

Warnings: None

The strawhat crew was becoming increasingly irritated with how much Luffy would speak of this mystery woman who he claimed to be his 'girlfriend'. In all honestly, neither of them thought he had the romantic capacity to even GET a girlfriend to begin with. But the way he spoke of her...it couldn't all be lies could it?

He mentioned how you'd saved him with your remarkable skills as a gunslinger and you were an amazing shot. He gushed about how it took only one bullet to kill three men who had threatened him and when it was all over you 'pepper his face with kisses'. How you were always there to save him more times than not and that you were just absolutely beautiful. The 'prettiest girl' he'd ever seen as he told it.

"If you guys are so in love why didn't she join you on this little pirate adventure." Nami quips, eyes rolling at the most recent story Luffy had explained. He only tilted his head and smiled as if the answer was just so obvious (it wasn't.)

"It wasn't her dream." He smiles, rocking back and for a bit as Zoro finished off his drink before speaking.

"This wasn't exactly our first choice either but here we are." the swordsman smirks, his arms crossed over his chest.

The smirk was soon replaced with irritation when the waiter went to speak.

"That's different. Besides, I'm sure Luffy wouldn't leave a woman like that all on her lonesome. Right?" Sanji questions, more so trying to convince himself Luffy had more sense than that. But the brunette only shakes his head.

"Nope, she said we would cross paths again one day and I let her be. It was a deal! And now I get to wait until one day I see her beautiful face again." And before anyone could protest or pry any further, Luffy stuffed his face with food.

A sigh rang out from Nami as she leaned against the seating of the booth they're in, only to quickly shoot back up with wide eyes. Since Luffy's bounty had got a hell of a whole lot bigger, there was always the occasional run-in with someone who claimed they'd be getting their money sooner rather than later.

On this particular night though, a gang of about 6 or 7 had strutted up to their booth and slammed his bounty on the cracked wood of the table, making it shake. Zoro paused, debating if these idiots were worth the fight and Luffy continued to eat without a care in the world.

"I'm getting that bounty tonight." Then, what they all assumed was the leader spoke, his hand drawing his sword. This could have gotten ugly rather quickly but the fight seemed to be over with the sound of fired shots ringing through the eatery.

It was so quick you'd almost miss it…each shot followed by another, and one by one each of the men dropped like flies, screams and gasps of frightened patrons filling up the space momentarily. From the darkened corner of the bar stood a woman in a rather large coat that almost touched the floor.

The revolver in her hand rattled before she tucked it away into one of the many pockets that adorned her body. She was a decent height, and her hair was pushed out of her face most likely to keep her line of sight from being obscured. Finally, the once look of disgust that was painted over her features was filled with joy as she stepped over the bodies of the men she'd just laid to waste.

"Luffy!" She squeals, practically vibrating as the Stawhat leaped form his seat and embraced the mystery woman.

This wasn't the usual hug though, Luffy had simply lifted the lady and twirled her, his face buried in the crook of her neck and she giggled and tangled her fingers in his hair.

"I'm sorry did we miss something?" Nami quips, looking to the rest of the crew to confirm they were just as lost.

"This is her! Remember the girl I've been talking about!?" He practically shouts, his hand secure at your waist as that iconic smile plays over his lips.

Oh okay it was finally starting to make sense. Two cinimon rolls but one can and will kill you if they so desire...well-

Nami is the first to laugh, disbelief filling her but the closer she looks the more her laughter and smirk dies down. Luffy's hand was firm at your waist, yours on his chest as you flash a content smile.

"Y/n, meet my crew!" Luffy introduces as you jut your hand out happily, meeting that of whom you soon learn is Usopp and Sanji. Nami was next and Zoro simple noddded in your direction.

"You really know how to pick em! Congratulations on this bounty by the way love." You hum, pressing kisses over Luffy's freckled cheeks.

Damn how much love and affection could you give? It was like every two seconds your lips were pressed somewhere against their Captain’s face! And he didn’t seems to mind at all! Well, not that Luffy was bothered by it but still! With one last kiss to your boyfriend’s face, you usher the crew out of the eatery, sliding the bartender some extra berrie to apologize for the ruckus.

The two of you looked so inseparable like that, hands interlinked and swinging back and forth simultaneously.

“You know what this means don’t you. Usopp teases, sticking his hand out awaiting Nami to fulfil her end of the bargain.

She swears in defeat roller her eyes before paying.

Who wouldn’t make a bet on something as outlandish as their captain having a girlfriend!?

#x reader #one piece #reader is black #one piece live action #i don't care he's hot #headcannons #one piece x reader #opla #luffy opla #opla luffy #monkey d. luffy x reader #luffy x reader #opla luffy x reader

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yandere-wishes · 7 months ago

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⋆⋅☆⋅⋆Doc-Ringo⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

✮ Yandere! Boothill x Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Plot: There's a slick black-clad little gal who's been messing with his bounties recently. Boothill's been dying to rustle her up and take a bite

⁀➷ Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, war trauma, Genie trying to do a cowboy accent.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺: Crimson and Clover by Joan Jett

And I don't hardly know her,

But I think I can love her,

Ah, now when she comes walking over,

I've been waiting to show her,

My mind's such a sweet thing

I want to do everything

What a beautiful feeling

It's not like the movies, they fed us on little white lies.

~💜

The first time he sees you there's a tempest of bullets rattling off his chest. Metal singing metal, as shells vie for an opening. It's all very lethal,

like the center of a rabid dust storm. Kissing death and sucking in her poison. Boothill can't tell where the bullets are coming from only that there's a dozen at a time ringing over his head. He shields his face with the metal of his forearms peaking through the gap to catch a glimpse of black.

Pure black.

That's the first thing he notices as your frenzy yields, You're clad in black from head to toe, even going so far as to dawn an eerie familiar mask. He's seen this scene play out somewhere before, he just can't remember where. "Morning mister", he likes that voice, jejune and teeming with confidence. It reminds him of himself, back when the sunset used to mean something and he could still feel wheat stocks under his soft palms.

"Howdy lil'lady I reckon you're in my way. Mind stepping aside before you get yourself hurt?" Your answer comes in the form of an aimed pistol, spine straight, midnight serape caught on the wind. He thinks you look a little too much like the folks back home -back when there was a home- blood boiling over eager for a fight. His bounty is standing just over yonder, blocked partly by your stubborn shadow. Boothill doesn't think twice before firing two rounds.

He's met with four...

He's in a cheap motel on Penacony, screwing in bolts that came loose. In the end, you laid claim to his bounty. Dragging him away to the hills. He's left growling at the thought, bested by a muddle-fudging fox. Lil gal probably ain't never even been in a proper shoot-out. The screwdriver cracks under his metal fingers. Boothill ain't about to start letting some pretty little thing get in the way of him and his targets.

The TV screen flickers to a melancholy monochrome. The films are old, distorted, crippled in parts. But he keeps them around, much like everything else about him, it's a bygone thing refusing to die.

He still likes to play them from time to time, trying to elicit the tastes of home. Hearing Nick and Graey setting plates out for dinner as his siblings rush downstairs. The movies are older than the new universe in more ways than one.

They come from a simpler time.

He'd always wondered why someone would bother painting such precious things in black and white. Spilling melancholia into picture frames, leaving everything tasting of vodka and vanilla.

It doesn't matter though, not really. All that matters is the sound of hooves on sand and bullets shooting. So long as the cowboys live their stories, everything else can be forgiven.

But this time something's off. The bandit's black mask shines through, gleaming something awful making him grind his sharp teeth. That damn mask, sitting pretty over a sly smirk. it reminds him of you, little cutie with your slick attitude. What bandit goes around doing hero's work anyway? What kinda twisted little lady are you?

He's getting mighty sick of this. Do you think you own the universe or something? "Been seeing way too much of you lately." There's sand in his Synesthesia Beacon his voice coming out horse, brittle. He kicks the head of an IPC lackey trying to drive home a point. "You getting on my nerves cutie". The ground looks nothing short of a graveyard, bodies scattered some piled. The blood paints the sands in a deep maroon, reflecting the glint of the distant stars. The last soldier is cowering behind you, his whimpers singing in Boothill's ears, one more bullet, that's all it'll take. "This one's mine" you mutter, and he wonders for a moment if the dry weather is getting to you too. "Not a chance pumpkin" his gun's drawn, firing bullets before you can even feel for your holster. The smirking bullet impales your abdomen, aimed point blank at the officer's head. But before the last body can be claimed you kick the man out of the way.

"Damn it" Boothill's anger is tangible, he knows you can feel it between your teeth. He's going to kill you, tear off that star-saken mask, and riddle you with bullets. You're getting too confident.

He doesn't notice your bullets at first. Protostars trying to act all rough and mighty. There's a temporary cluster of dust, a fraction of a second where his eyes aren't pinning you down. That's all it takes and then you're off. Sinking into the darkness and swimming away, taking his target with you.

It's only after the initial anger wears off that Boothill notices a tear on his thigh. A letter scrawled on the frayed leather of his pants. So you've started leaving your own marks, ay cutie?

He almost wishes he could feel the sting of your blade on his flesh. Feel your nails scrapping along his shoulders as he pins you to the ground.

Boothill fires at the moon.

Next time.

Next time for sure....

He's been chasing you for some time now. But catching up with you isn't as easy as he first thought. Seems like you go wherever the wind takes you and he's too busy with revenge to be following your capricious whims. The IPC ain't going to kill itself you know. And Boothill damn well wishes you'd start sitting still. He's heard from a reliable source that the IPC soldiers are throwing a little get to together down in one of the bars. Just a happy birthday for a colleague, nothing fancy. The thought alone makes his mouth water, place will be crawling with pests just waiting to be gunned down. Maybe tomorrow he'll try looking for you again, but tonight? Tonight's his night.

The neons have dulled now, they never were terribly bright to begin with. Penacony may be the land of dreams but not even dreams can stop reality from seeping through. The bar's loud, some new pop singer's music blasting from every speaker. Boothill downs his drink, liking how the ice cubes chime like a bad omen. He shoots the speakers first, needing some peace to focus on what comes next. The peace corp's lackeys are drunk, they stumble over themselves trying to reach him. He shoots each one like a kid playing carnival games. It's almost too easy...

The door is stampeded over by a heard of reinforcements. Somehow even in his drunken daze one of those yella-bellied lapdogs called for help. They're swarming the place like panicked rats, pushing past tables and chairs. Firearms aimed at his head. And for the first time, in a long, long time, Boothill feels a sliver of panic run down his bionic spine.

Motherfudger...

Boothill hears the familiar tumult of bodies hitting the ground before he sees what's actually going on. He feels you before he actually sees you. You're pushed up against his back, guns drawn locked, and loaded. "Heard you needed some help" Even though you offer your usual bravado, Boothill still picks up the nervous lilt in your voice, despite everything he thinks he likes it. It almost tastes sweet. "Best get away before you get yourself hurt little fox." "And let you have all the fun? Never."

"Certe murmur pugnando" Boothill laughs, he remembers those very words coming from a buddy of his before a duel. 'At least we'll die fighting' Somethings never change, even if you've carved out every principle from your body with a rusted kitchen knife. You'll always have those pesky morals stuck inside. He hears you chuckle, wonders if you find it odd that a rowdy galaxy ranger such as himself knows a dead language.

Well, he knows a lot about the dead.

The shoot-out lasts longer than he'd have expected.

But the real surprise lies in how neither of you are dead. Boothill's half laid across the bar, looking at you from under his hat. You're making him a drink following his instruction like a good little wife, not contradiction dressed in ebony. Gunpowder withers on his tongue, the bullet smoke permeates the air mixing with the gleeful tang of spilled blood. "Your drinks sure are complicated" you mutter pushing him his cup before picking up a bottle and reading its labels. "What's so hard about it pumpkin? Little bit of white gem and gin. All's you need." He sips your drink slowly, savoring your flavor. He imagines he's gulping you down, holding you for ransom behind his teeth, feeling your delicate little fists pounding against him. "I don't drink" you mumble as you sit across from him, you look so damn elegant, like a little princess from a fairy tale he use to read to a certain someone. You drink deeply from your glass of ice and water. Boothill focuses on the gentle motion of your throat. He licks his lips, trying to push down the thought of ringing such a fragile thing between his palms.

"So little lady, s'about time you start answering some questions...The hell you doing? Running off with my targets?" You set your cup down, eyes locking on his, there's the deficiency he's missed all night. The trigger hair that's just waiting for the right push. "They're not your targets...not really. They're just people. People whose planet got muffed up. I've been trying to gather them all in one place." For a second Boothill thinks you're talking about his planet, his home, his people. But it only takes one more look at you to understand.

"So, how'd yours die?" There's shrapnel in his throat when he asks, open wounds bleeding once more, filling his throat with bitter memories.

You stiffen, and he knows he's thumbing a broken bone, letting his finger dig between the cracks and snapping their frail linings. "Don't know, wasn't there. All I ever got to see were a few limbs, nothing enough to make a full person." you squeeze the glass until your knuckles turn white.

There's vindication rooted in your veins.

He knows the feeling all too well.

"We ain't so different you and I, reckon we make a pretty good team." His metal fingers lace between your soft skin, tracing the lifelines like an old map.

There's a goldmine hidden behind your lips, he imagines he'll have to kiss you to find the little nuggets. Your lips part, eyes filled with an odd-looking sympathy. What he wouldn't give to feel your plump lips bleed between his jagged teeth. "So..." you ask as his mechanic heart skips a beat. "What about yours?"

You've been laughing for five whole minutes. Boothill shouldn't find the noise as ethereal as he does. His anger lays heavily on his bones, he should be even angrier, lounging a bullet through your thick skull. But he finds the noise a little too perfect to disturb its source. Even if it's only created at his expense. Instead, he has half a mind to slap you, hard enough to shut you u and another to kiss you so hard you forget to breathe. "Damn hell so funny, cutie"

You look at him with those luminous eyes. Filled with pain and riddles. Boothill never did like solving puzzles. He only likes tearing things into bits. He needs you spartan, easy to read and use, and kiss. Not something he needs to piece together first.

"Dear stars you have no freaking idea how ironic you are." You say between bursts of spiteful-rooted giggles.

Why do those words sound so haunting like a ghost kiss? they should open phantom pains, but they sure as hell don't. Why do you always leave his head spinning? Boothill rolls his eyes, then leans over to pull down your mask. You jerk back, rewarding him with a dark grimace. You're out the window before he can ask your name.

"See you next time, cowboy"

"Next time I'm drawing blood"

The moment's over.

Fiddlesticks..

That night, Boothill dreams of you. He's lying in a stiff musty bed. It's too dark, even the moon is scared of showing her face.

Boothill dreams of the old saloons back home. Of their cracked wooden floorboards and the worn-out plush of chairs. In the dreams, you're wearing a black lace gown, like the saloon girls used to. He finds it all too funny that even in his dreams you still haunt him in black. Only now you're smiling, really smiling. Not that sly smirk, or mirthless grin you gave him back in the bar on Penacony. No, this here is a genuine smile and he's damn sure he's the one who put it there. You reach out for his hand, he feels warmth.

His

Yours

The dream is thick and dense like swimming through molasses. In another scene he's dragging you through the old doors, laughing as bullets and card chips hit the floor. There's a horse waiting outside. His horse. At least he thinks it used to be his. He pulls you up roughly in front of him. He's high off the feeling of his fingers wrapped around the rugged reins. High off the steed he holds in a vice grip between his thighs.

He's riding faster than he's ever ridden before, clambering for the sunset trying to engulf the sun. You hold on tight, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heart is beating something fierce between his ribs. He feels like an Aeon watching the universe collapse under his galloping feet.

He feels alive.

With the sun's rays behind you, Boothill could almost mistake you for the star-dwelling angels Nick used to tell him about. There's something poetic in all of this. The cowboy standing off against the black fox.

Dare he call it cinematic?

Boothill creeps closer. Tilting his hat and watching you flash a nervous smile through his lashes. "Volo sentire te inter dentes meos" so you know that dead tongue too. "You will soon darling, that's what I'm hoping for" his reply only dwindles your smile.

He's missed the old duels. Missed staring into the eyes of the one who could kill you. It's all a matter of skill and luck. Whose faster, who the aeon will trust?

Somewhere in the distance, the tumble weeds begin to rattle.

"Now"

His bullet glides through the air, piercing through the dust and sand. Your bullet reverberates from your gun a fraction too late and ricochets past his cheek. Leaving a juicy trail of blood.

But his bullet was aimed at your chest.

And Boothill never misses...

You want vengeance he won't deny you it.

So long as you stay by his side.

He'll tuck you away somewhere safe.

Somewhere you won't be leaving him again.

Boothill cradles your body to his chest. "I promised you blood little fox, and Boothill never goes back on his word." His cheeks hurt from smiling as he lays his hat atop your head. He's Picking you up and walking into the sunset. He knows a good ol'doc who'll patch you right up. And then it's a happy life together.

Well for him anyway.

The end

Taglist: @hihellomy @salhanskkdbfkekfb @gasoline-eater @sp1cym0chi

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caplanbuckybarnes · 2 months ago

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In The Lonely Shadows (2/2) Dean W.

Summary: Crowely's always there to help convince you everything's going to be okay after Dean leaves with Lisa & Ben.

the first part of this was requested by my beloved wife @midnight-moonlight-and-mars sometime back in March.

Request: I've got a Crowley request! It can be platonic or romantic. It takes place the year Sam is resurrected and dean is living with Lisa. The reader was close with the Winchesters but after the fight with Lucifer dean abandoned the reader to be with Lisa and cas never answers ( unrequited love maybe?) so the reader teams up with Crowley and becomes like a bounty hunter for him for Lucifer loyalists.

A/N: It's technically not Crowley x reader since she's pining for Dean. Oops, but I hope you enjoy this all the same, my love.

A/N #2: people were rabid about asking me for a part two. So please, enjoy!

WC: 1.7K

Warnings: mentions of loneliness, and blood, the reader feels abandoned and unloved, crowley’s nice, dean returns. sassy & protective crowley

[READ PART ONE HERE]

Read on Ao3!

Dean watched as your chest heaved up and down with every breath you took. The wind was howling outside, with rain pouring down. He was only partially soaked, having run for cover under teh pitiful awning above your hotel door. A suitcase was tucked into one hand and a backpack filled with supplies slung over the shoulder. He'd wanted to say goodbye before he left. But he couldn't. He was a coward, after all. He'd had a few visits from Castiel and Crowley, neither of them saying a word about you.

Though, he asked. He hasn’t spoken a word about Sam, either. The horror of watching Sam fall into the pits of Hell with Adam devastated him. So he ran away. He ran away to the person who would get him away from the hunter’s life, Lisa and Ben. He played pretend for as long as he possibly could.

Until he couldn’t keep up with the facade anymore. All he did was think about you, and the life the pair of you could have had. He’d find himself hovering over your name in his cellphone but never pressing the call button. Oftentimes, he’s stay up late at night, while Lisa laid peacefully next to him sleeping. He knew he couldn’t lie to her forever about what - or who - truly had his heart.

Oftentimes, when he dreamed, it was about you, your face and your hands wrapped tightly in his as you started behind him on hunts. Thats what he loved about you the most, how much you trusted him to protect you.

So months after he departed, he located you in this dingy motel, where rodents and garbage littered the parking lot, and a few street lamps flickered dangerously in this damned storm. He’d gotten a replacement key to your room, claiming to the sketchy old man at the kiosk that he was your husband and you didn’t leave the key outside for him. So, on the threshold of the hotel room is where he stood, his fight or flight response kicking in the moment he laid eyes on you again.

He hadn’t seen you in months, far too long. But not long enough to forget the way your cheeks puffed out while you were embarrassed or the way your hair always fell into your face when you’d laugh at his stupid jokes. He couldn’t forget the way you would shuffle into his warmth at night, either.

God, did he miss the way you infected all of his clothing with your perfumes.

He hesitantly stepped into the room, only to stop midway through in almost a panic. What if you moved on? What if you didn’t want to see him? What if you shot him? He wondered at that moment if you held any protection on you, or if you’d thrown all of it away.

But he took the chance anyway and stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him quietly. He quietly toed out of his shoes and turned around before fully surveying the room. He couldn’t see any other person’s belongings in the room, so he assumed you were indeed alone.

Nervously, he tiptoed to the bed and studied your face for a long moment. He remembered everything about you-- your eyelashes, the dimple on your cheek. He wanted to reach out to you, nearly stopping himself as he felt his arm move without his command. He brushed his fingers against your cheek before he knew what he was doing and stepped back as your eyes had flung open in terror.

“Y/N,Y/N, it’s me, it’s Dean,” he said, reaching behind him for the pistol he always carried with him, though, he would never attempt to hurt you in any sort of way. “Hey, hey.”

“Dean?” you blinked through the darkness of the room. You must have been sleeping. Because you thought you heard Dean’s voice. And you thought you seen him standing mere inches away from where you slept on the bed.

Before he could get the chance to respond, another voice filled the room, a voice you’d come to recognize and acknowledge throughout these last few months.

“She doesn’t need you, Squirrel. She’s doing great without you.” Crowley’s voice echoed in the small room.

Pulling yourself into a sitting position on the bed, you wiped at your eyes before switching your gaze between the pair in front of you. Crowley had been watching you over the weeks, which you had grown weirdly accustomed to, so it was no surprise that he had appeared out of the blue. What had startle you, was the other man standing mere inches away from you. If you just lifted your arm a few inches, you would be able to clasp your hands together.

“You left her high and dry after Moose had fallen into the depths of Hell, where, mind you, he’s been shacking it up with Lucifer. You should hear the agonies and woes from him.”

You could see the agitated twitch in Dean’s cheekbones, even in the poor excuse of light shining through the cracked window curtains.

“But now, back to the matter at hand, hmm?” Crowley snapped his fingers, and the two-night lamps turned on, casting the room in sudden brightness that none of you was prepared for.

“How’s Lisa and Ben?” Crowley smirked as Dean looked entirely uncomfortable at the jabs. “Didn’t want to be a family man anymore, huh? Did she decide she didn’t want your baggage?”

“It’s none of your business, Crowley,” Dean quipped. He snuck a look towards you and almost melted at the sight of tears in your eyelids. He wanted to erase the heartbreak he had caused you. He wanted to erase the pain away from you.

He only wanted you to forgive him. He wanted you and only you. He wished he hadn’t run off after Sam had gone to Hell, but he was broken and insecure. He was scared that you would leave him as well, so he did the only thing he could think of doing at the time: He ran away.

He begged for Lisa to forgive him, and she did. She took him in immediately, even after he explained all that went down with Lucifer and Adam and Sam. She took care of him. And for a while, he could forget all the pain. He could mourn the loss of his brother in peace. But there had always been a hole in his heart that Lisa nor ben would veer be able to fill.

He hadn’t known it at the time until he had sat up the night before and wallowed in misery after having nothing but dreams and nightmares about you for months.

“No harsh words, Not Moose?” Crowley taunted as he took a step toward you, causing Dean to nearly topple backwards onto the bed you were still sitting on. “No quips? Nothing? What do you have to say for yourself? Because while you were playing house, I was left to pick up the piece of her broken heart! How noble of you. Leave her behind to wallow in misery, and now what? You expect her to swoon because you're back? Pathetic."”

You never thought you would see the day when the king of hell would be red in the face at the Winchesters. But here he was, pointing a threatening finger in Dean’s direction while the other man looked like a kicked puppy.

You wanted Crowley to stop the insults at Dean. But the fact that he was protecting you in this way meant so much to you. You never knew how much Crowley actually cared about you.

"I bet she’s just thrilled to have you back. Nothing says 'I care' like a good old-fashioned abandonment, right?" Crowley scoffed.

“Crowley, enough,” you sighed as you finally pushed the duvet away from your body and stood up, causing Dean to look at you with hope. With your request, Crowley quieted down, though he didn’t cease the glare or scowl on his features. Ignoring him, you took a breath, taking Dean’s height in stride. “So, what? You show up at my doorstep and nearly scare me to death, for what?”

“I was wrong,” Dean swallowed, blinking slowly as tears piled against his eyelids. “I never should have left you the way i had. You were mourning Sam as well, and I was a coward for leaving you. I never once stopped thinking about you. I never once let you out of my mind. Lisa knew it, Ben knew it.’

“I’m not forgiving you, Dean.” you held your ground, even as you had to wipe the tears away from your cheeks. “How could I forgive you? Do you know what the hell I’ve been through? You weren’t the only one to lose a brother, you know? Sam was my family as well.”

He opened his mouth, only for you to cut him off.

“It’s been fourteen months, Dean—fourteen long, terrible months. I celebrated Sam’s birthday without you. I celebrated your birthday without you. Crowley was the only one to check with me. Do you know he saved me from death on numerous occasions? That could have been you.”

He looked utterly defeated at the mention of the birthday celebrations. He could only imagine you singing to yourself with some cheap cake and a gas station lighter, wishing for the family you once held as you blew out the candles.

“Dean, I don’t know whether to hit you, kiss you, or put a bullet in you.” you scowled, pushing past him to walk over to the bathroom to wash your face. Leaving the door open, you heard Dean shuffle around Crowley to get to you again.

“I can’t leave you, not again. Never again,” he watched your reflection as you grabbed for a hand towel and wiped the water from your face.

Glaring at him momentarily, you sighed heavily before turning around and leaning against the counter. “Crowley will kill me for this. But I can’t help but think that I’m still in love with you. We can talk more about this in the morning. I had a long few weeks, and I’m absolutely exhausted.”

Eagerly, Dean followed you out of the bathroom, barely noticing Crowley’s absence as he tucked you into the bed before he climbed in himself.

**totally up for a part three IF people want it. So please, please, please, if you enjoyed this reblog this & leave comments.

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alisonwritesimagines · 1 year ago

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Please Don't Be In Love With Someone Else ~LA!Shanks x Reader x LA!Mihawk Imagine~

Summary: You keep waiting for Shanks. But someone new comes along and suddenly, you're not so lonely.

Author’s Note: You read the title correctly. I'm evilly laughing right now as you read this in pain. Also, this is technically a rewrite of the angst ending cause the one I wrote and in my drafts is more fluff than angst.

Angst Ending to I Was Enchanted to Meet You

Reader’s Pronouns: She/Her

Warnings: angst, fluff, but angst to all you Shanks lovers

Side Note: This is a secondary blog. If you comment a question down below, I will not answer since this is not the main blog. Please send the question to my inbox if you want a response back!

Do not repost this anywhere!

It had been years since you last saw Shanks. And it's been a year since you last saw Luffy. Ever since he was old enough to sail off in the world to find the One Piece to become King of the Pirates, you had been by yourself since. Of course you did a lot for your small village to keep you occupied but you still missed your boys.

You were tending to your garden as it was time for you to harvest before it became spoiled and over grown. That was until you heard someone say something behind you.

“You don’t seem like someone who can harm a fly."

You turned around to see the warlord Dracule Mihawk standing before you. You stood up straight to seemed less intimidated.

“I can hurt a fly. Don’t think I’m good at harming anyone else,” you tell him as you crossed your arms.

“I see.”

“I know who you are so what do you want?” You asked.

“I was sent to kill you but in all honesty, I don’t think I can kill you. You’re too beautiful to be killed,” he tells you.

“Who sent you to kill me?” You asked, now worried. You’ve stayed in the island since you were born. Not only that, you stayed even when Luffy left.

“Not to worry now. I don't have any intentions to kill you," he tells you.

"Then what are you still doing here?"

"I'm curious to see why someone would send me to go after you."

"Feel free to stay. Just to tell you, it's going to be quite boring," you tell him.

Mihawk stayed around the next day to watch over you. He didn't understand why Vice Admiral Garp would want a warlord like him to kill a sweet little thing like yourself. You did nothing of the sort that would be considered dangerous or even pirate bounty level dangerous.

"Ow!" You yelled as you accidently burnt yourself with the pan.

"What happened? What's wrong?" Mihawk asked you as he rushed inside your home.

"Just burned myself," you tell him.

Mihawk quickly grabbed your bucket of water before gently putting your finger in the cool liquid.

"Thanks," you tell him.

"Of course."

"I made extras if you'd like. I got used to cooking for two," you tell him.

"Was it for you and your past lover?" Mihawk asked you.

"Not really surprisingly. I used to take care of a little boy who used to live with me who had a bottomless stomach. He wanted to become a pirate so he set sail a year ago," you tell him.

"I see."

"So, dinner?"

"Why not."

—

Mihawk stayed for a couple more weeks before he needed to back out to sea. You stood on the deck as you watched Mihawk get ready to leave.

"So I guess this is farewell?" You asked him.

"For now. I will be back in a month at most," he tells you.

"To finish me off and claim your berry?" You asked.

"No. To come see you again," Mihawk said before sailing off. You shook your head at him before walking back to your home.

You assumed Mihawk was lying or joking when he said he was coming back to see you. But to your surprise, you opened your door to see him standing before you.

"Brought you some new seeds for you to grow in your garden," Mihawk tells you.

"I'm guessing you're staying for dinner?" You asked with a small smile.

"If you'd have me," Mihawk said. You nodded before letting him inside your house.

As much as you didn't want to admit, you fell for Mihawk. Even though part of you hoped for Shanks to come back, you appreciated the fact that no matter how long Mihawk was gone for or even if he was wounded badly, he came back to you. Even though Shanks would come back to you, he hasn't for years.

"Will you be mine?" Mihawk asked you one night. After a midnight stroll, you both headed back to your home. Mihawk stopped you from walking inside by holding your hand.

"What?" You asked in shock.

"Be mine. I've fallen for you Y/n. And I swear to you, I would never let anything happen to you," Mihawk tells you.

"Alright. I'll be yours," you tell him. Mihawk gave you a small smile before pulling you towards him.

"May I kiss you?" Mihawk asked you.

"Yes."

Mihawk cupped your cheek with his hand before leaning in to kiss you.

Shanks rushed over to your home after being away for so many years. He was excited to tell you his adventures and was looking forward to seeing you once again. He knocked on your door, his heart pounding in excitement.

Instead of seeing you, he saw someone else open the door. His smile faltered as he stared at the stranger in front of him.

"May I help you?" The stranger asked him.

"My apologies. I was hoping to find Y/n L/n? The woman who lived here?" Shanks asked.

"Oh. I'm sorry. She's been gone for quite sometime. She left the village I want to say two years ago? Her and her husband moved to another island."

"Her husband?"

"Yes. I'm surprised she married a warlord but he had been kind to the village whenever he was here," the stranger pointed out.

"Do you happened to know her husband's name?"

"I believe it was Dracule Mihawk."

—

Shanks made it to Mihawk's castle where he knew you would be at. After demanding to see you, Mihawk came out to talk to him.

"You should know my wife is resting," Mihawk tells him.

"You took her from me," Shanks angrily tell him.

"I didn't take her from anyone. When I met her, she was alone," Mihawk informs him.

"She never told you about me?" Shanks asked.

"No she has. I just never told her that I knew you."

"Please. Let me see her!" Shanks asked.

"Let me see if she's well enough to move," Mihawk said.

"Is she sick?" Shanks asked.

"Not entirely."

Shanks waited anxiously for you to come down. His eyes widen when he saw Mihawk helping you down. Your stomach was large but he knew that it was because you were pregnant. And what's worse was that it wasn't Shanks's child you were carrying. It was Mihawk's child.

"Shanks?" You asked in shock.

"Hi, Y/n."

You sat in the garden with Shanks alone so you two could talk. Shanks stared at you, admiring your beauty once more. While you thought you were alone, Shanks knew that Mihawk was watching nearby.

“Are you happy my love?” Shanks asked you as he held your hand.

“I am. Hawk Eye makes me happy,” you tell him with a small smile.

“I’m happy that you’re happy.”

“I did wait for you Shanks. I really did. But I feared that if I waited any longer, I’d be too old for you,” you tell him with a frown.

“You could never be too old for me. You could have white hair and many wrinkles and I’d still think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” Shanks tells you. You smiled at him before tearing up.

“I loved you Shanks. And I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you longer."

“Don’t apologize my love. I’m sorry I didn’t come back to you sooner,” Shanks said. You nodded before taking off your makeshift necklace that held the ring Shanks gave to you. You handed it over to Shanks before kissing his cheek.

“I hope life treats you well and I hope you find a woman who will love you endlessly as much as I did,” you tell him.

“And if Hawk Eyes dares to lay a hand on you, come find me. I’ll protect you.”

“I know you will."

"So this is goodbye then huh?" Shanks asked you.

"If you find Luffy, tell him I miss him and love him dearly. And that, he's more than welcome to visit me or find me whenever he wants," you tell him. After all, Luffy was yours and Shanks's unofficial son and you two were his unofficial parents.

"Goodbye, Shanks,” you tell him before giving him a kiss on the cheek once more.

“Goodbye, my love.”

—

You sat on the couch in your lounge room waiting for your son to arrive with his new fiancée. Twenty five years had gone by and you had lived your life. Dracule sat next to you as you both waited for your son to come home. Now that your husband has retired from being a pirate, he had spent his time with you while your children explored the world.

“I wonder what she’ll be like,” you tell your husband.

“I trust his judgement. After all, I chose well didn’t I?” Dracule joked.

“You most certainly did,” you smiled.

“Mom! Dad! I’m home!” You heard your son say.

“Over here!” You called from where you were.

You smiled at your son the moment he walked in but your eyes widen from the sight of the woman next to him. Not only did she have the exact same hair as Shanks, but she also had the same eyes as him. It was no doubt that she was Shanks's daughter.

“Mother. Father. This is my fiancée, May,” your son said proudly. You smiled at the woman before getting up from your chair to greet her.

“It’s nice to meet you, May,” you tell her.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Mrs. Mihawk.”

“Please call me Y/n,” you tell her as you shook her hand. You noticed her necklace with a ring on it. It looked exactly like the one Shanks gave to you from years before.

“I like your necklace,” you say.

“Oh thank you. My father gave it to me. Said it was his prize possession,” she tells you. You felt your heart break a little from what she said.

“Will we be able to meet your parents soon?” You asked.

“Unfortunately no. My mother passed away from childbirth and my father passed away not too long ago,” she tells you. You frown from hearing that.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright. I’m really glad to have met your son,” May tells you. You smiled at her before giving her a hug.

“Well, I know my son will treat you well. And if he doesn’t, you tell me,” you tell her. May smiled at you before looking at your son.

At the end of the night, you stood outside on your balcony as you stared up at the stars.

Maybe this was the universe telling you that in another life, you and Shanks end up together. But you did wish he didn’t have to be gone so soon. You wished that he would’ve came back to you sooner and maybe you two could've had the future you two wanted together.

#shanks x reader #live action shanks #live action shanks x reader #red hair shanks #red hair shanks x reader #dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk x reader #mihawk x reader #live action mihawk x reader #live action mihawk #one piece #one piece live action #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #peter gadiot #steven john ward #enchanted universe #alisonwritesimagines

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averycutesalamander · 21 days ago

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Brighter than the Sun, Bigger than the Moon

wc: 8k. hurt/comfort, angst with a happy (kinda bittersweet?) ending, warning for vague mentions of sex. also up on ao3 if that's your preference

One of the greatest mysteries in the universe is that of soulmates.

They’ve existed for as long as history itself – perhaps even longer. No one knows if it’s the influence of an Aeon, or if it’s something stranger; the most recent theory is that Aha is behind it all, but it’s a joke to even think about getting a straight answer from THEM. Not every soul bond is the same, and they don’t even have to be romantic or sexual; plenty of them start and remain as entirely platonic, but either way, you have a partner for life. The details differ person-by-person as well; some have matching marks, some have a red string, some can't see color until they meet.

Shared dreams are on the uncommon end of the spectrum - even more so when they live on different planets. Such is the case for you and the boy who will later be known as Boothill.

When he first sees you in his dream, he thinks little of it; you’re another unknown face among a sea of strangers. He’s busy climbing a seemingly endless mountain, chasing a spectacularly evasive lizard that’s as large as a cow; Nick has just started talking about teaching him how to ride horses, and damn it all, he just can’t wait. Just when he manages to climb on its back, the earth shakes underneath him, and he starts to slide off – then, out of nowhere, you appear on the beast’s back, grabbing his hand and pulling him back on.

When he really sees you for the first time, he thinks your smile is brighter than the sun.

Even as a kid, he's deeply charmed by you. When he mentions the friend he made in his dream one night during dinner, Nick and Graey are so overjoyed that they light up the whole room with their grins. You're his soulmate – but, really, all he cares about is that you're very funny and nice and are a lot of fun to play with. Every night, you talk and play games and run around in elaborate environments that the two of you create together. The dream can be static, if you want it to be – so the two of you make a giant oak tree in the middle of a field to mark your names on, and mutually decide to meet there every night. Eventually, you start to mark your heights on it; the notches get higher and higher every year, and you joke that you'll need to start climbing branches if he gets much taller.

As a teen, he tries to teach you horseback riding, but it turns out that trying to do things that only one of you understands is a lot harder in the dream, especially when that task involves an animal that neither of you can quite control; eventually, you promise him that one day, you'll visit his home, and he can teach you in person.

That's the thing, though. Neither of you have a damn clue where his planet is. You searched for it when he told you the name, the syllables clear and crisp on his tongue – but you can't find any matches, which leaves you with little to go on. And he certainly won't be able to find you, but…

Both of you try not to worry about it. You'll find some way to meet, eventually. You're soulmates, after all.

You're with him as he grows into an adult, from a sweet boy to an equally sweet man, though he now reserves most of the sugar for you. You're with him the night after he makes his first kill, after the first bloody drops of justice stain his hands. You're with him the night after he claims his first bounty; when you ask how much he got for it, the two of you spend an embarrassing length of time trying to figure out the value of each other's currencies. You're with him the night after he takes his first bullet wound; though he's put on a strong face for Nick and Graey, he lets himself whine dramatically into your neck, bemoaning how fussy Graey has been and how he'll have to obey his order for bed rest, lest he invoke his wrath.

And every step of the way, he's with you, too - comforting you on bad days and celebrating with you on good ones, hugging you through friend breakups and laughing with you over inane drama. When one of your close friends dies, he holds you while you sob, gently rocking you; when you recover, he quietly asks if there's anything you want to do in the dream to remember them by – a memorial. With your voice raw and your lips trembling, you tell him about a tradition on your planet – one where you plant something in memory of the lost; you are obligated to care for it, naturally, and as the plant grows, you will heal with it as well. You decide to plant a cypress, not too far from the oak; he helps you pat down the dirt around it, the dust on your skin washing away with your tears.

There are good times, too. On one of your birthdays, he tries to figure out how to conjure some malt juice for you to try – but the whiskey is awfully hard to get right, and the flavor never quite matches reality. You try to let him taste some bizarre fruity drink from your home, only to have the exact same problem. “Why is it sour?” you grouch, a cute little pout on your lips. “It should be sweet, and just a little tart!” He watches you speak with fond, dreamy eyes, soaking in your warmth like the sun. No, he thinks, the sun doesn't even compare.

You're still fledgling adults when you first tell him you love him.

You say it so simply, so easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world; your head rests on your hands as you lounge in the pleasantly fuzzy grass, your eyes soft and tender in a way he never knows how to handle. “I love you,” you tell him, right in the middle of a fifteen-minute ramble about his latest bounty.

He stops dead, every function in his brain going on pause. After a beat too long, he stutters, “I– Really?”

Your smile widens. “Yeah. Bigger than the moon.”

He throws up his brows dramatically, just in the way that always makes you laugh. “Really?” he drawls, faking skepticism. “The moon’s pretty fuckin’ big, sunshine.”

Your snicker makes his whole body light up with warmth. “Yeah, that's the point.”

As the two of you mature, you get closer - a lot closer, as soulmates often do. The night he chooses to kiss you isn't because of some other special event; perhaps the stars in your dream make you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps he just wants to do it for no reason in particular. Either way, he kisses you, clumsy and wanton and embarrassingly lovestruck, and you reciprocate with just as much passion, making sweet little noises into his mouth as he nibbles at your tongue with blunt teeth.

It becomes routine, then. When he first leaves the waking world and enters your shared dream, he kisses you sweetly in greeting before asking about your day. When it's time to wake, he gives you another as a parting gift - deep and passionate and longing, some nights more than others. And with every night that passes, your touches get a little bolder, a little needier, a little hungrier; he licks into your mouth with enough fervor to steal your breath away, and you moan so prettily under him that he feels like his heart is going to burst from his chest.

The topic of sex comes up eventually, if a bit hesitantly. Somehow, he's more shy about talking about it than you, but after some back-and-forth, both of you agree that you'd like to save it for the real thing. When he sinks into you for the first time, he wants to really feel you, wants to hold you in his arms, wants to nibble at your skin without an inch of distance between the two of you – because as wonderful as it is to kiss you in the dream, he just knows that it won't compare to the real thing.

Eventually, he finds that little girl in the snow; as he tells you about her, about her cheeks rounded with baby fat, about her sweet brown eyes, about the way she tugs on his hair every chance she gets, you smile brilliantly enough to put the sun to shame. You ask what her name is, and he just shrugs. “Never been good at naming things,” he says; he named his first horse Blackjack because he won it in a game of blackjack - simple as that. You laugh – that sweet laugh that always makes his heart skip – and think about it for a time, staring at the impossible stars as you ponder. You rattle off a few names that you think would be cute, mostly just as an idle exercise - but when he hears "Clementine," his eyes light up.

"That's the one," he tells you, staring at you with a love warm enough to melt ice. "That's her name. It's a cute one, ain't it, sunshine?”

He loves you. He's known for years, for his whole life, from the moment you reached down and offered him your hand; he loves you more than the sunlight, more than the shimmering stars in the sky, more than a fresh breeze on a hot summer day. He's always loved you, and not a damn thing will change that.

He'll have to marry you, once the two of you finally meet in person; he thinks he wouldn't be able to look at your hands without imagining a pretty ring on your finger.

And then the men in black arrive.

He's immediately wary, he tells you – but when he describes them in more detail, about the strange device they gave him that granted impossible knowledge, your expression darkens like the sky before a storm. He wishes he felt anything other than dread when you confirm his suspicions.

“That's the IPC,” you mumble, your eyes distant and quietly resentful – he's never seen such a severe look on your face. “You should be careful, honey. They're always bad news, no matter where they go.”

Neither of you could anticipate just how right you were.

Once the fighting begins, your worry increases with every day that passes. “I know it's awful, sweetheart, but… You should try to find somewhere for your folks to escape to.” Your eyes are dull with terror – fear for him, for his family, for his home, for his life. “And you should go with them. No one wins against the IPC.”

He scoffs, prickling subtly. “You're tellin' me to just run? That I should just let ‘em do whatever the fuck they please?”

There's a gravity to your sorrow – like you're grieving a tragedy that hasn't happened yet. “Maybe you'll hate me for saying this, but… yeah, I think you should run.” You turn away from him, wiping your freshly budding tears away. He doesn't move to comfort you. “It's better to lose and survive than to lose and die. At least there would be something left.”

“We ain't gonna lose,” he spits, glowering at your back. He doesn't feel ready to wake up, but he doesn't want to be here anymore. “You'll see.”

It's the first fight you've ever had.

Neither of you know that it will be the last.

They lose.

They're crushed beneath the cruel boot of absolute power, of weaponry that they can barely comprehend. One by one, his siblings, his friends – all of them die, their lives stolen in squabbles that they never win.

For weeks, he doesn't meet you by the oak tree. For weeks, he takes refuge in the dark forest you once played in, the pine needles beginning to crumble from the withering trees. He thinks, and plans, and plots – but he does so alone, still fuming over his hurt pride.

But his pride does nothing for him when the world is aflame, when his home has crumbled into charred wood, when his family has been reduced to ash, when his entire life has gone up in smoke.

When he finally returns to the oak tree, you're already waiting there, your shoulders hunched and the air deathly still. The leaves on the oak are beginning to yellow at the edges; the grass in the field around you has begun to shrivel; the sky has been muddled with clouds so dark that they look like ink.

For a long, long moment, he stands and stares, suddenly feeling as if he's been hollowed out. Then, as if you hear his heart crying out for you, you look up at him and his tear-smeared face and his red-rimmed eyes–

And you know.

He falls to pieces in your arms. You don't breathe a word of anger to him – only quiet, futile comforts and gentle apologies. He cries so hard that he feels like he’s been gutted, like he’s been dissected, like he’s been bled out and left to dry. His anguish and regret and anger bleed from his eyes, staining your dream with grief.

He's an idiot. He was such a fucking idiot, thinking it was a good idea to abandon you after that spat. It seems so goddamn stupid now that he's looking at your tired, worried face, now that he sees the evidence of your pain all around him, in the fields and in the sky.

In that moment, he makes two promises to himself:

One: he'll never leave you alone like that again, no matter what. Even if he's angry, even if he's annoyed, even if he has to go out of his way, even if fate itself tries to keep you apart – he will never leave you.

Two: he's going to slaughter that man.

“I'm gonna fuckin’ butcher him,” he rasps, his voice ragged from sobbing. “The one that gave the order. I'm gonna find that son of a bitch, and I'm gonna make him wish he weren't ever born.”

“Okay,” you respond quietly, like a wisp of smoke. “You'll… It'll be really difficult. If he's an executive…”

“I've got a plan.” His voice sounds more somber than he'd like, but the anger sank beneath the surface the moment he laid eyes on you again, the moment he saw the leaves withering on the oak tree.

He tells you about the half-baked plan he's got brewing. He's going to commandeer a ship and find someone that can make him invincible. While he bears the weakness and complications of flesh and blood, while he's weighed down by his mortality, he'll never be able to slaughter his way to the top.

So he'll cast aside his mortality, his morality, the sanctity of his body.

He has to admit that he's grateful that you don't protest. You don't try to stop him, don't waste your time failing to convince him; you only listen, your eyes sad and dark. And in the following days, you earn his gratitude a thousand times over; when you search for his planet now, you get a match – and with your guidance in this new, terrifying world, he finds a mechanic that will help him begin his hunt in earnest.

(You don't tell him about the official records that the IPC put down for his planet – how his people “died in a mysterious disaster.” His cup is already overflowing with rage; you worry that if it fills any further, he'll collapse.)

The night before he meets with the mechanic is a somber one.

“Please be safe,” you whisper, as fragile as a breath of wind. “Please. Promise you'll come back to me.”

“I promise,” he tells you, firm and earnest. He reaches up, cupping your face in both hands, thick and rough with callouses. “I'll come back, sweetheart. I promise.” Almost hesitantly, tentative to bridge the gap, he presses a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you so much, sunshine.”

The smile you give him is tired and weary – dimmer than the stars.

“I love you too,” you answer, your throat tight, “bigger than the moon.”

You'll be brighter than the sun again, one day – he'll be sure of it. Even if he has to strangle the light from the sky with his bare hands, he'll be sure of it.

He's not quite prepared for the long, aching hours he spends in limbo, while his humanity is surgically removed and replaced with cold, unmoving steel.

The darkness has seeped into every seam of his body, creeping into the cracks of his spirit like an invasive weed, the roots disturbing the fractured pieces of his heart.

He wonders, for a time, if any of this is worth it at all; if his family would even want him to strive for vengeance like this; if Nick and Graey would be happier if he settled down with you and forgot the bitter past, letting the wounds heal, letting the ash turn to dirt until it blooms with new growth. He can almost hear Graey’s voice in his ear. “Nothing can change the past, sweetpea. When something breaks and can’t be fixed, you have to let it go.”

He thinks of you – of your sad, tired eyes, of how desperately you held him when he last dreamed.

The heavy chains of grief bind him, sinking him deeper into the black.

But then he thinks of little Clementine, of her bright laughter, of her wobbling steps – and the doubt is incinerated in a fire hotter than the sun, the chains melting and reforming into an armor that cuts inside and out.

He claws his way out of the dark, his heart burning with rage, his chest aching with sadness.

“Congrats. You’re pretty hard to kill.”

He wants to laugh, bitter and acidic.

Yeah. Yeah, he sure is.

When he prepares to go into rest mode for the first time, a faint note of dread rings in his chest, sharp and inexplicable. Ever since he woke in this new body, he’s felt off – which is to be expected, of course, but…

This feeling – this disconnect, this vertigo, this tension – he can’t quite put his finger on it. And as he drifts into sleep, it nags at him, clinging like a tick.

Except–

It's like he only blinks. One moment, his systems are going into sleep mode, his heart pounding with anticipation; in the next, he's awake again. He checks the time, and it's four hours later.

No.

This can't be happening. This has to be a fluke. He has to be able to fix this.

He can't lose you.

The next day, he slams open the door to the surgeon's dingy back office, his steel fists clenched and his eyes burning. When he demands answers, she merely shrugs with far too much nonchalance.

“Soulmates are pretty tricky. When I removed part of your brain to sync the rest to the neurochip, it probably screwed something up.” She watches him fume with an idle gaze, then shrugs again. “Sorry. It's not like you mentioned it or anything.”

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw groans. “Fix it.”

She sighs, openly exhausted. “I can’t undo what’s already been done – just like I can’t restore your body. You’re out of luck.”

(He’s been out of luck for months.)

For a long, long moment, he considers riddling her full of bullets. But a sense of emptiness begins to sink into him, taking root in his chest, hollowing him out. He feels like he's going to be sick.

He's lost his home, his family, his little Clementine, his life, his body, his dream–

And now he's lost you, too. Because how could he ever find you in a cosmos as vast and infinite as this, when he's not even sure you ever told him the name of your planet?

Just like that, he has another person to grieve.

And one of the worst things about it all?

The IPC doesn't even have all of the blame.

He spends the following years in a sort of daze, clinging to his hatred as an anchor – because it's all he has, now. He loses himself in violence – lets it seep into his core until it's fully saturated his soul. He fills the cracks with IPC blood until he's nearly unrecognizable, until he feels nothing but the visceral excitement that comes with bloodshed. He suffocates the grief under a thousand corpses, and piles on a thousand more for good measure.

Whenever he dreams, now, it's always nightmares – something he's never had to deal with before, blessed as he was with your shared dream. The first is full of flames and ash. He scrambles desperately through miles of burning rubble, his fingers bleeding and broken; thousands of screams echo in his ears, but loudest of all is yours, ragged and broken as you beg him to find you, to come back to you, to join him in the fire – doesn't he want to rest? Doesn't he want to be with you? Doesn't he love you?

“You promised,” you cry, so pained that he feels his heart shatter like glass. “You promised to come back to me.”

He wakes with a heaving breath, feeling very distinctly like he's about to hurl his guts out, his eyes burning with tears that will never spill again.

The nightmares only get worse with time. He sleeps less and less, pushing his systems to the limit, getting upgrades that let him stay awake for longer and longer.

And then, one night, after years of silence, he dreams that he's beneath the oak tree.

The leaves have fallen off, the branches clawing at the black, starless sky. The plains around him are empty and dead, the grass blackened like a fire had raged through. In the far distance, he can see the forest the two of you once ran through; the trunks are bare and charred, and the ground below is coated with lifeless ash.

Your dream is dead.

But there, by the oak tree, just beneath the faded carvings of your names and the notches marking your heights…

A collection of plants, most of which take him some time to identify: the muted red leaves of a sapling spindle tree, tattered and worn; the tall stalks of an asphodel, its flowers dry and browning; bunches of primrose, whose blooms are paler than bone; stout meadow saffrons, whose petals are dusted with frost.

For a long moment, he wonders why they’re there–

And then he remembers what you did when your friend died, all those years ago – and his heart shatters into a thousand pieces, never to be repaired.

He finds himself there a few more times over the years, and it feels like a punishment every time. Most nights, the dream is more of a blur than anything, smeared and warping like he can't focus his eyes. He can't interact with it anymore; it feels more like he's a passing viewer, on the outside looking in through a window blurring with the pouring rain. Always just out of reach.

Always missing you – if it’s even real at all.

On a few occasions, he swears he can hear you talking, your voice indecipherable, but clearly anguished. He mostly convinces himself that these are just delusions – mere wishful thinking.

Once, all he hears is the heartwrenching sound of you sobbing. Maybe not wishful thinking, then.

Every single time, he wonders what he did to earn a fate like this – to earn this kind of torment, this kind of pain, this kind of loss.

No god ever answers.

And then, one day while he's chasing a bounty into a busy marketplace–

He sees you.

He stops dead in the middle of shoving his way through the crowd, deaf to the protests of the people around him. From this angle, from between the moving bodies, the most he can see is a sliver of your face – but he could never forget the swell of your cheeks, the arch of your nose, the shape of your ears, the texture of your hair. It's only a little, but it's enough.

He abandons his bounty without a single thought in his head – now, he's weaving through the crowd with a different target in mind. He's getting closer, only a few bodies separating him from you. His eyes never leave you, his vision tunneling–

When you turn to walk away, you turn toward him – and it's like your gaze is magnetized toward him, like you could sense something was amiss. And when your eyes lock onto his, the entire world grinds to a halt.

You've aged somewhat; the laugh lines on your cheeks are just a little more prominent, but the crease in your brow is new, and your eyes are duller than he remembers. There’s a weariness to you – a sort of permanent exhaustion that he’s never seen on your face.

He doesn't even register that you're rushing toward him, too absorbed in savoring the sight of you after so many years apart. It's only when you're just a few feet away that he murmurs your name, so soft that he's certain the noise of the market has swallowed it, but your eyes widen like you heard him anyway.

He doesn't realize that he's reaching for you until you grasp his hand in yours, cold metal against warm skin; his hands are no longer the shape they used to be – the shape that molded perfectly against your palm. Without a moment of hesitation, you begin to tug him through the crowd, guiding him into a tiny alleyway between two crowded buildings.

The moment you turn to look at him again, you drop your shopping bag to the ground without a second thought. With trembling hands, you reach up and cup his cheeks – cheeks that are too smooth, too cold; cheeks that lack the smatter of freckles he always had, lost and forgotten when his skin was replaced; cheeks that are missing the scars he gathered over the years, like the one he earned falling off a horse for the first time.

You whisper that name – the name of a dead man, of the man he once was, of the man he can never be again – and he's never heard you sound so broken, so desperate; his heart aches like it's been crushed.

“I'm… I'm not him anymore, sunshine,” he rasps, his throat so dry that it feels like his tongue is clogged with ash. “I can't be him anymore.”

“It's still you,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Even if you're different, it's still you.”

His eyes burn so horribly that he wonders if he's actually going to cry, if the weight of his anguish will break the rules of his new body.

Suddenly, you surge forward, wrapping your arms so tightly around him that, if he were still human, you would’ve crushed the air straight out of his lungs. “I thought… I thought you were dead,” you sob, clutching him even tighter, like you're trying to dent his body. “I thought you died during your surgery, or didn't recover, or– or–”

He presses his lips against your temple, his steel arms wrapping tenderly around your shoulders. When he breathes in, your smell hits him all at once; he never could smell you in the dream – only a strange void of scent, like something was removed from his brain before he could process it.

Somehow, you smell familiar. Somehow, you smell like home.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one hand slowly petting the back of your head. “I’m right here.”

He lets you cry into his hold just as you did for him, so many years ago, his chest aching like something inside him shattered to pieces; when your knees begin to fold out from under you, he carefully picks you up with one arm beneath your thighs, bearing your weight with inhuman ease. You take the opportunity to cling your legs around him, gripping him like your life depends on it – like his life depends on it.

He doesn't have a clue how long he holds you like that, rubbing circles into your back as you cry and cry and cry. You calm slowly, your breath hitching and your nose sniffling while you recover. Finally, you ask him to take you home; he carries you in one arm and your groceries in the other, following your guidance down the streets as you cling to him like he's going to disappear from under your grip. When he reaches your apartment, your hands are shaking too hard to unlock the door, so he gently pries the keys from your shivering fingers and carries you inside. You direct him to your bedroom, your groceries abandoned in the entryway.

He settles you into the sheets like you're made of glass, but neither of you want a single millimeter of distance; he cradles you in his arms and curls around you, murmuring quiet reassurances when you begin to shake and cry again.

Finally, when your breathing is calm and even once more, he tentatively asks, “Did… Did you plant flowers in the dream? Under the oak tree?”

You blink up at him with red-rimmed eyes, a little astonished. “How did you… know that?”

“I ended up there, a few times,” he says quietly, thumbing away the remnants of tears from your cheeks. “Thought I was making the whole thing up.”

You stare at him like you can't believe he's real. “...It was for you,” you confess, so quietly that he probably wouldn’t have heard it if he were still human.

His chest aches with a grief that isn't his. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to comfort you; he fears that part of him died like everything else. “I love you,” he rasps, stupid and earnest.

A little smile graces your lips – a little quirk in the corner of your mouth; he feels his heart sing in response. “...Bigger than the moon.”

Your exhaustion catches up to you, sooner or later, and he lets himself rest shortly after you fall into an uneasy sleep, a tiny sliver of hope in his broken heart.

He wakes up under the oak tree.

The dream is clearer than it has been since his rebirth – so sharp and vivid that he can taste the ash from the forest on his tongue. For a fraction of a second, he wonders if he'll be flesh and bone again, if his hands will mold perfectly to yours – but he looks down and finds them to be just as hard and cold as usual.

You don't seem to mind. In fact, you barely seem to think about his new body at all. You still hold his hand the same, still kiss his cheek the same, still hug him the same. He can't bend for you, not anymore – but you bend around him without a breath of complaint.

The two of you talk, eventually, about everything and nothing. You update him on the direction your life has taken, the things that have changed. He doesn’t miss the ways you talk around the worst parts, about the years you spent depressed, about the veil of darkness that overtook your life; you don’t miss how he does the exact same thing. Neither of you press about it.

He stays with you for days, into the indeterminate future. He keeps every thought of his hunt out of sight, out of mind; he's been burning the candle on both ends for years, and now that he's in your arms, the exhaustion has sank its teeth into him.

So he stays. He takes care of you, spoils you rotten, desperate to make up for all of the lost time. You’re absolutely inseparable. Everything goes on pause to integrate him into every second of your life; perhaps that’s not the healthiest course of action, but neither of you are willing to acknowledge it, let alone change it. You talk during the day and while you sleep, and when you aren’t talking, you’re savoring each other’s company in silence.

He relearns you, and you relearn him. He notes all of the ways you’ve changed, all the new scars, the ways your face has shifted with age, the ways your speech has changed. You note all of the subtleties of his new body, his new eyes, his sharpened teeth, the way his feet have themselves been turned into boots. He shows you the cannon built into his left arm, all of the dozens of little utilities and tools built into him, all of the scuffs and bumps and scrapes that he hasn’t repaired yet.

It takes time to settle into something resembling familiarity. There’s a caution between both of you, at first; it’s hard to pin down, but it’s like both of you are terrified that the other is going to disappear, like you can’t let your guard down in case it’s all ripped away.

But he stays, and so do you.

When you first ask him if he wants to make a memorial in the dream for the ones he lost, he thinks his brain functions completely halt.

He never did get the chance to make graves for them – any of them.

After a long, long silence, he swallows, his throat thick with grief, and manages to nod.

After the grave markers are down, it takes him a great deal of time to decide what would be best – what they would like the most. You help him form a rocky hill in the plains, within viewing distance of the old oak, but far enough to be inconspicuous. You grow a small grove of trees to coat the whole area in dappled shade, granting him privacy to work on his own as you busy yourself; growing things in the dream has become a momentous task in the time you’ve been apart, and it’ll take some time to get everything right.

He tries not to think too hard about what to put down. His heart will know best, after all – not his head.

A well-crafted wooden swing, just like the one Nick and Graey had on their porch; a small garden plot, dense with lettuce and artichoke and tomatoes; an eagle’s nest, at the peak of the tallest tree you made; a herd of roaming horses, their spotted coats gleaming in the sunlight; a thin creek with tiny waterfalls and even tinier fish; a thousand other tiny details, one for each of his siblings and friends.

When he makes the clementine tree, he stares at it for several long, aching minutes. He's silent and still for so long that you come to check on him, a furrow in your brow. (He doesn't like that he's becoming familiar with such an expression on your face. Contentment fits you so much better.)

He speaks before you can ask. “I'm alright,” he lies, his voice thick with grief. “I just…”

You approach him slowly, a bit like the way he would with a spooked horse. When you gently reach up to cup his cheeks, it’s only when you smear wetness across his face that he realizes that…

He’s… crying.

He barks out a laugh, bitter and disbelieving.

Of course. Of course he can.

When he manages to compose himself, he turns back to the memorials with blurry eyes.

There's only one thing missing, now.

He could just make it out of thin air, he knows – but that feels… cheap, too simple, too… cold.

It takes hours of effort, as it did the first time, but you sit by him all the while, trying to coax flowers to bloom from the dry, barren earth. The scrape of his knife and the tap of his chisel and the rasp of sandpaper fill the too-silent air. When he finishes his work, his hands ache with phantom pain and his fingers have a few new scrapes – but it's all worth it.

He wills the limbs of the clementine tree to bend into a cradle, sheltered by soft leaves and plump fruit. With a trembling grip, he settles the tiny guitar into the gentle hold of the branches, watching them curl protectively around it, ensuring that it will never fall.

It looks comfortable there, somehow. He can almost picture her in his arms, trying to scramble up the tree with her pudgy little fists, reaching for the strings with clumsy fingers.

She never got to taste the fruit she was named after.

When he bursts into tears again, you stand by his side in an instant, holding him silently in your arms. When he sinks to his knees, brought down by the weight of his anguish, you cradle him against your chest, slowly stroking his hair.

For years, he thought he’d run through this seemingly endless wellspring of grief, that he’d truly hollowed himself out, that he’d manage to excise everything that wasn’t fuel for the raging fire.

For a long while, he stares at the scene he's created – at the swing rocking in the wind, at the eagles flying overhead, at the horses prancing in the field, at the babbling creek, at the tiny blooms on the clementine tree.

He decides there's something else he'd like to add.

Slowly, tentatively, he shifts to look at you. You must see some hesitation in his gaze, because without missing a beat, you cup his cheeks and ask, “Is there anything I can do for you, sweetheart? Ask and it's yours.”

He swallows, working his jaw. “...Y'know that tradition ya taught me about, when we were young? About the plants?"

Your eyes widen into saucers. “You want to…”

“I want you to… help me,” he chokes, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “To… To help me figure out what to plant for who, and to help me keep everything alive.”

You stare at him with a quiet sort of awe, an immense but tender kind of love that feels like the warm swaddle of a blanket. Then, finally, you nod. “Of course,” you croak. “Of course I’ll help you.”

He tells you about all of them – all of the friends he made and lost, all of the siblings he grew up with. One by one, you work through them all, telling him the meanings of the plants you choose for each person.

He tells you about Simon – a smug little bastard he grew up with, who kept his arrogance until the day he died. He'd challenge him to bizarre, impromptu contests at every opportunity, racing him back to the house for dinner and proposing that he'd never be able to catch as many fireflies as him. “Loyal to a fault and dumb as a bag a’ rocks,” Boothill huffs, staring at the jar of softly glowing fireflies he'd set beneath a tree. “Sorry bastard couldn't lasso to save his life.”

You laugh quietly. “Mm… Something to represent loyalty, for sure. Maybe… perseverance? Ambition?”

He hums in agreement. Ambition. Simon really was ambitious, wasn’t he?

Before long, his grave is blooming with tall spikes of red and violet gladiolus, intermingled with white hollyhock, framed by the fuzzy petals of edelweiss.

He tells you about Jess – the snarkiest woman he ever met, and clever to boot. They met early into his bounty hunting days; she approached him in a bar and flirted with him so relentlessly that he almost didn't notice her trying to filch his wallet. Turns out that she'd mistaken him for a target she was hunting, and had a habit of robbing her bounties blind before turning them in and doubling her money – and sometimes she'd even make a bet with them before a game of pool, just to add insult to injury. “Sharp as a nail and wily as a fox, that one,” he laughs, eyeing the pool cue he'd set up against the rocks by the creek.

You nod in contemplation. “Intellect, ingenuity…”

His lip quirks a little, fond and wistful. “Anything to represent a wicked lil’ liar like her?”

You laugh. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

For her grave, you grow brilliant scarlet hyacinths, pencilled cranesbill geranium, and dark red snapdragons.

On and on and on you work, going through every gravestone, the air rich with memories. He laughs when he tells you about Micah – the funniest man he’s ever known, and too damn whimsical for his own good; the first time he took a bullet was after he'd literally shot himself in the foot while mucking around with his gun. He tells you about a man he only ever knew as Bark – a mute gunslinger with wicked aim, who loved to chew on pine bark. He tells you about Beau, a sweet girl that loved her horse more than anything else in the world – but when it came to shooting, there was no one as bloodthirsty as her.

For Nick and Graey, you plant asters – a symbol of love, you say, and of happiness in old age. For Nick, black-eyed susans, coltsfoot, and elderflower; for Graey, magnolias and purple irises.

For Clementine… baby's breath and cinquefoil.

It takes three nights of work to finish everything. By the end of it all, you’ve both made a brilliant garden, rich with splendor and greenery in a dream that’s only just recovering, still brown and dead and barren. But the memorials stay healthy, with his maintenance and your own.

He doesn’t have the words to express his gratitude.

…But as he hugs you tightly to his chest in the dream, fresh tears spilling from his eyes and wetting your skin, he thinks you understand.

He’ll need to leave again, eventually. He knows this. You know this. It’s an unspoken dread – one that neither of you are willing to acknowledge yet. (What if he stops dreaming when he leaves? What if he never comes back? What if you disappear while he’s gone? What if, what if, what if?)

He spends weeks with you, and in that time, the two of you manage to defrost. The light returns to your eyes, and the constant tension in his jaw fades away; you stop clinging to him like a bear trap, letting your body rest; his endless paranoia about you being found by the IPC melts away into something gentler, something more reasonable; your wounds begin to heal, and the wicked sting of grief and loneliness fades to an ache.

The night you first make love is hardly different from any other; perhaps the tender affection in your eyes makes you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps it’s for no reason in particular.

And it really is making love, not simple sex. It takes hours – not because of his limitless stamina, but because both of you refuse to do anything but savor each other. He maps your body in full for the first time, pressing tender kisses to every inch of your skin, making note of the marks he's never gotten the chance to see and keeping track of which spots make you squirm the hardest. You explore his new body with a touch so tender that it makes his heart ache, following every ridge and divot in his plating, tracing the seams, learning all of the markings and vents and ports with a reverence that leaves him dizzy.

The pace is slow and sweet as honey; you worship each other for hours in a melting pot of pleasure and satisfaction, and when he finally enters you, it feels like a missing piece of his soul has clicked into place. He kisses you so gently that your eyes well up with tears, and he presses them away with his lips as he rocks slowly into you. You cling to each other desperately, longingly, passionately, your hands hot on his metal and his fingers strong on your hips.

He makes you come with your name on his tongue. You beg for him so, so sweetly – but you never needed to beg. He would tear the stars from the sky if you asked; he would gift you the universe if you wanted it. When the exhaustion catches up to you both, you fall into the dream together, still unable to keep your hands off each other. He was right – the sensation really is different in the dream.

It’s still wonderful, because it’s you.

He’s surprised that you’re the one to bring up his departure first. You seem… more relaxed about the idea than he expected, too. He himself has been agonizing over it for weeks, the thought nagging in the back of his mind in the limbo between the waking world and the dream. But you bring it up with a sort of resignation in your face, a quiet, sad kind of acceptance that makes him want to hold you and never, ever let go.

(You don’t beg him to stay. You know that he’d cave in an instant, but you also know that he’d be restless for the rest of his life. You know he loves you, but you also know that he’s etched the memories of hatred and grief so deeply into his soul that he could never be happy without resolution.)

You love him more than life itself.

…So you let him go, no matter how reluctant both of you are.

He kisses you with every ounce of passion and love and care in his shell of a body, and he looks you in the eye, and he tells you, “I’ll come back.”

You nod, and though there are tears in your eyes, you are lacking that dim, bitter grief that you once held in a moment just like this, all those years ago. “I know.”

He leans toward you, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll come back. I promise,” he breathes, his voice tense with tears that he can only shed in dreams. “I swear it. I’ll come back. I’ll visit.”

You smile, a fragile little thing. “I know.” You press a kiss to his lips, your tears spilling over. “I know you will.” You cradle his face in your hands, and he feels like his chest caves in at what he sees on your face.

Your eyes are gleaming with love, with trust, with affection. The sun has returned to your gaze.

“I love you,” you murmur, quiet and earnest.

His lips twitch, his eyes burning. “...Bigger than the moon.”

And so he leaves, the salt of your tears stinging bitterly on his tongue.

But he dreams.

It seems like the proximity changed something in him – reignited a piece of himself that died when he did – because when he next sleeps, thousands of light years away from you, he finds himself under that oak tree.

Words can’t express his relief when he sees you sitting beneath its barren canopy, staring at the plants you’d tended to for years in his name. Their growth is wild, untamable – but they’re alive.

You’re both alive, and that’s all that matters.

The dream gradually recovers as both of you do. The dark clouds begin to fade in the twilight of the rising sun; fresh sprigs of grass sprout in the fields; pine trees begin to poke out from the ash; the bitter wind begins to warm. But, perhaps most importantly of all–

There are tiny, fresh buds growing on the jagged branches of the oak tree.

Winter has begun to reach its end, and spring is blossoming beneath the ash.

He'll learn how to love again, how to dream again, even if it isn't the same; even if you've both changed. Because if there's one thing he's always known…

…it's that his love for you is brighter than the sun, and bigger than the moon.

#sal.txt #sal.bttsbttm #boothill #boothill x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #gn reader #x reader #reader insert #this was meant to be a 100 word drabble. oops lol #if you saw this when the formatting was fucked up no you didnt

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ayabeanworks · 1 year ago

Text

Title: Can I meet you again?

Synopsis: AU in which Geto does not defect, but you do instead.

Character: SaShiSu x reader

Series: Let's Meet in the Spring (SaShiSu x reader)

Notes: Literally just heavy angst & sadness. Mentions of death, murder, suicide and reincarnation. Heavy themes. Lots of swearing. Spoilers for JJK season 2 (anime).

Part 2 available here!

Prequel available here!

AU sequel available here!

The songs I had playing while writing this was: - Hero by Alan Walker (Probably played this one the most that it's at the top of my repeated songs Spotify list ☠️) - Apollo (Eurovision ver) by Timebelle - Dancing With Your Ghost by Sasha Sloan

"Oh?"

Shoko stared at you as you waved at her with a bright smile, brows raising in surprise as she took out a new smoke in the Shinjuku smoking area.

You made your way over to her, finding that she wasn't pushing you away. It was good to see a friend after a while, but you weren't too sure if you had that privilege anymore.

For you, you were testing the waters.

"Hey, Shoko." You took out a lighter from your pocket, one-handedly opening it for her to light her cigarette.

"Fancy seeing you here. You need something from me?" She glanced into your direction, taking a shallow inhale and extending her exhale.

You hummed in reply. "Just testing my luck."

"So, just to be sure, are the claims false?"

"Unfortunately, they're true." You could only bring yourself to shrug lightly, looking ahead. From your peripherals, you could see her taking out her phone to call the others.

"Just to be sure again: why?"

"I want to create a world where jujutsu sorcerers don't have to struggle." You didn't elaborate.

"Wow, that's funny!" Shoko laughed lightly, but there really wasn't anything humourous behind it. It was as if she was contemplating asking more. After all, everyone and everything struggles, so what is this righteous talk from you?

"Do you think I'm wrong?" You asked, hearing the faint ringing of her phone as she waited for one of the others to pick up.

"Right or wrong, it was dumb." Shoko didn't even hold back on her words, making you genuinely laugh at how frank she was, regardless had you been granted a bounty.

"Gojo, Geto, [name]'s here with me in Shinjuku." Gojo seemed to say something on the other side, but Shoko retorted, "No way! I don't wanna die." She hung up after conveying her message.

"So, what will you do now?" She turned to you, exhaling a puff of smoke into a ring above her head.

"I don't know. I might see you around, I guess." You took a step forward, facing her. "See you later, Shoko." You knew Gojo and Geto would be here at any moment, but you didn't know if you wanted to face them.

Shoko didn't say anything in response, just watching as the ashes fell from the cigarette between her fingers.

You didn't see, but it was the first time Shoko has made an expression where she was at a loss of what to do.

And, that was the last time you saw Shoko.

"WAIT, [NAME]!" Satoru bellowed out to you as you walked away, in front of the KFC you all used to go to until recently.

He caught up pretty fast...where's Sugu? You sensed his curse energy, but you weren't sure where it was. As for Satoru, he was only a few metres away from you down the slope of the street.

You sighed inwardly, ready to face him. "'toru."

The nickname you usually call him by hurt him more this time around as he registered how unaffectionate your voice was, contrary to the usual. It was devoid of any emotion. Like you didn't care about what you left behind. Like you didn't care about him.

"Explain yourself, [name]!" He demanded, sunglasses further down his nose as he watched you with wide eyes full of emotions of all kinds, but you mainly picked out disbelief and anger.

"There's nothing else to say. You've heard from Shoko." You stated, watching the twitch in his face as he evaluated your dismissive answer.

"So you'll kill anybody who makes life hard for Jujutsu sorcerers? Both sorcerers and non-sorcerers?" Satoru's voice rose in anger.

After all, you did kill an elder a week ago. It was the one that'd been annoying you since forever, the one who tried to get you purposely killed each and every time you went on a mission. Killing him was much easier than you had imagined, though.

"Well, if natural selection isn't going to do anything, I might as well do it instead." You crack a light joke, but your words were serious.

"That's not what I'm asking! I thought you were against killing if there was no meaning to it?!"

"There's a meaning behind everything. A purpose, even."

"No there isn't! You want to make a world where Jujutsu sorcerers don't suffer? That's impossible!"

"Satoru's right, [name]." Geto spoke from behind you, his voice wafting through the air as he went to stand closer to Gojo as he faced you. "There's a purpose to everything, but there's a better way of doing things than say, homicide. Especially for us in the Jujutsu world."

You wanted to scoff. But, you couldn't, because you used to be that way, too. But everything ate away at you, and you just weren't the same person anymore with the same aligning morals. You chose to go down the path you've decided to go down, even if it meant deserting everything you knew before.

"Is it really impossible?" Your voice was light, but the lilt in it was undeniably laced with seriousness. "I wouldn't do this if there was a shred of impossible in it."

The alarm on their faces was really something.

"[name]...you'll need to fight us if you keep going down this path." Suguru spoke his words deliberately, slowly, like he was getting a child to listen to him. He was careful.

Satoru clenched his teeth and fists. He wanted to say that it was impossible yet again, that when you fight them, you'll lose. But, you knew that. You knew, so why?

"Wow, I'll get to fight the 2 strongest sorcerers!" You clapped your hands together once, a smile on your lips, one that didn't reach your eyes. "Maybe so, but you're not my targets. There's some smaller fish compared to you I must get rid of first."

"Why?" Geto voiced both Gojo and his thoughts, a quick glance at Satoru knew he wasn't going to be able to hold a proper conversation without shouting.

"Why?" You echoed his question. "Well, for starters, we're treated like shit, in both worlds regardless sorcerers or non-sorcerers. Do you remember? The elder I killed, he was truly one who deserved to die. The number of times he ignored protests, warnings and more...killing off our sorcerers one by one, do you really believe someone like him being alive is worth all that struggle? For him, he deserves to die for that alone."

Geto was about to open his mouth after a thought, but you interrupted him. "Also, he was a paedophile so he deserves everything that's come his way. The world needs none of those disgusting pigs."

You couldn't forgive him. You couldn't forgive such a disgusting creature existed. When you found out the information coincidently, you knew you had to do something about it.

The anger in your eyes was juxtaposed by the small smile on your lips, one that was almost proud of what you did.

Satoru couldn't contain himself any longer, "Yeah, he was a fucking piece of shit, but killing him? That's made you one of the sorcerers we've got to kill! You're to be executed on sight! You're a hypocrite, [name]. Are you trying to get all the sorcerers you want to protect to come kill you?"

You watched him as he heaved a breath, his eyes feeling heavy on your form as he tried to convey his distraught to you about the whole situation.

You barked out a laugh, a hand landing on your hip as you stared at him, no trace of the smile on your features anymore.

"Hypocrite?" The question lay on the tip of your tongue, before you let out a low chuckle, feeling your throat go dry. "Perhaps you're right; I am. I am a hypocrite who wants death as much as those geezers who send us out to kill ourselves."

"Oh, and you forgot one detail. I don't care about sorcerers and non-sorcerers at all. They're equally as bad as each other. The only difference is that sorcerers have the power to wield cursed energy and use it to destroy curses made up from the normie's emotions." You gave him a half lie. It was easier to push him away. Push him away so he won't be able to break the armour you've put up.

"And what of him dying? Are the elders going to retire themselves? Or will they KILL us sorcerers first?" Your voice became an octave higher as you emphasised words that made you emotional.

"After I kill them, you can then reform the society as you wish. You could probably kill them yourself, 'toru, but you won't take that step. That's why I'll take that step instead." You give him a crooked smile, "There's nothing here worth living for."

"Nothing worth living for?" Satoru repeated your words, taking off his sunglasses, watching you with his blue eyes, and you could see the monstrous waves of emotion behind them. "Are you fucking blind?"

Suguru glanced over at Gojo, hoping he didn't have to inject himself in between to stop it from escalating further.

"No, I am not fucking blind, Satoru!" A chip from your facade broke off, revealing a mess of emotions in the split second your voice broke. "Do you understand how suffocating it is living in this world? Where all your friends die in front of you, or there's a chance they'll die on their next mission? Where the strongest wins - and in this world, if the curses aren't the strongest, the sorcerers at their highest standing are!"

"You know I--" He began, but you cut him off.

"I know you hate them as much as I do! But I'll do whatever it takes to get rid of them, even if it means forsaking you all to do it." You almost sound like you're pleading by the end, your eyes starting to tear up.

"And after. When they're gone, you can reform the system, and control it in the way that works best for this generation." You force a smile to your lips, but it doesn't reach your eyes. "Someone has to be the bad guy, and I'm willing to play the role, even if I may die in the process."

"[name], this can be done differently--"

"I'm tired, Satoru. I've tried. I've tried, and I'm tired. Why don't you understand that?" You whisper, shaking your head. "Do you know how many times I've tried talking to the higher ups, or anybody for that matter? No, you don't. You've been on missions this whole time, so you don't know. Even Suguru doesn't know the full extent of it. Shoko knows a bit, but she's not one who can do much about it."

Suguru and Satoru were silent for a moment, their eyes on you as your expression gave away everything you wanted to say.

"I won't be there, but it's a sacrifice worth making if you all aren't in danger. I don't care about anything else." Your words were soft, soft enough for them to hear you, soft enough for you to hope to convince yourself it was the right way and you didn't make the wrong choice.

Satoru and Suguru were the strongest duo. But, before they were, they were your best friends, along with Shoko. But now? Were you still able to call them your best friends? Did you even have that privilege anymore?

But, this is the path you took. Even if it meant abandoning those that you held dear, it was all for them. The real truth to your purpose and change of heart was to make a world easier for them, and for you, and for everybody who came after you. You didn't want anyone else to experience what you have, and you were going to do whatever you can to make that a reality.

You didn't give a flying fuck about anything else other than your best friends, if you were being honest. If it meant that you won't be by their side anymore, it was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

"So, I won't stop. This world is absolutely fucked. Why save something that can't be saved no more? I'd rather go down fighting. Morals be damned."

Your eyes glistening with tears unshed, you press your lips into a genuine smile. The last genuine smile before giving them a wave, "I guess this is goodbye. The next time I see you, 'toru, Sugu, we'll be enemies."

You turned on your heel, ready to leave, but you felt the curse energy expand from behind you, like they were readying to attack.

But, you kept walking, and nothing happened.

Satoru's outstretched hand fell back down to his side as he swore a string of curses, the pain on his face evident as he watched your figure disappear in the crowd of people.

Suguru had half a mind to get one of his curses to follow you, but he knew you well enough that the curse would be killed the minute you felt his cursed energy, so he didn't even bother.

His clenched his hand into a fist, a bitter taste in his mouth. He remembered back to when he was in a similar situation to you, but you and the others managed to get him out of it. He felt saved, but now, seeing it happen to the very person who helped him, made him shatter inside.

Why did you help him, when you couldn't even help yourself with your own words? Why didn't you let them help you? Why didn't you let them know you were having a hard time? That this was what you were contemplating?

He would have listened. They would have listened. They always would.

He felt a cold shiver go down his spine as he watched the endless stream of pedestrians, ones he used to call 'monkeys' in his head, but when letting go of that thought, you were at the forefront of his mind. It was you who grabbed his hand, you who brought him back.

It was you.

But he wasn't able to bring you back. He wasn't able to bring back the one who had nowhere else to go. The one who didn't know what to do with their emotions. The one who got lost.

But would he really call you lost when you knew what you wanted to do, where you wanted to go?

Suguru knew you weren't malicious. At least, not originally. The essence of you, he knew, was someone who cared greatly. One who had their heart on their sleeve when talking about anything and everything, especially with them. He didn't worry about you because you were always ok. But, there were things you didn't tell them and they didn't know, because you never let that part see the light of the day.

The only thing that Suguru felt in his chest, was regret. Regret so raw he felt cold and numb.

Satoru muttered another string of curses, turning on his heel, "Let's go, Suguru." His voice was small, and he didn't want to say any more.

He pondered all the possibilities of you. But he couldn't make himself understand you like you understood him. Which is what made it even more painful.

"I'm not as strong as you." Were words you once said to Satoru.

A forgotten conversation, one you started when he had come into your room even though the light was off, finding comfort in your presence. He wanted to sleep in the same bed or at least the same room, but you were still awake, sitting up in your bed and watching the stars and sky from your window.

Satoru didn't say anything as he climbed into your double bed, comfort filling his whole being from your calming scent alone. He wouldn't admit it, but it was one of his favourite places to be when he had turmoil in his mind.

"Yeah, you're weak." He mumbled, his face squished against the pillow as he faced you.

He could see the illuminated outline of your features from the moon, finding them captivating as he watched you with half-lidded eyes.

No, you're strong, were the real words he wanted to say. But, he had always called you weak, so he was going to continue. What harm was there?

You turn your head slightly, gazing at him with a soft smile. It was like you knew what he wanted to say, but didn't hold anything against him for saying the opposite of what he truly felt.

"You're right," You whispered. "I'm weak."

You went to close the curtains, slipping back into bed with Satoru as you closed your eyes, ignoring the gaze on you as you drifted off to sleep.

Satoru had a feeling those words were in reference to something else, but he had no idea what. He felt an invisible wall between you and him from the interaction just now, one that shouldn't be there lest he had his infinity on. But he never did unless in certain situations.

"You're plenty strong, [name]." He whispered this, bringing his finger to tap your forehead, before he also went to sleep.

You weren't asleep yet, so you heard his comment. It warmed your heart, the freezing depths of it wanting to thaw. It made you want to spill the inner turmoils of your mind, but you were scared it would taint the bright sun that is Satoru.

Satoru's a lot sweeter than he lets on, you let a small smile grace your lips as you face him to sleep.

Thinking back to that conversation, Satoru leaned back in the chair of your room, wondering where it all went wrong.

Were you trying to reach out to him back then? Or were you asking him for some form of confirmation? Were you trying to let him know you were not alright? What did you want?

He wasn't as good at reading emotions like Suguru was, but he knew something was wrong when something was wrong. He just didn't know how to approach it.

He wondered, if he had indulged you that time, would you have let him in?

"You had another fight with the elders, huh." Suguru stated, seeing your current state. He sat where the vending machines were, having just taken a seat after taking a shower. The can of green tea he had in his hands was opened and given to you, "Drink up."

You held an angry expression prior to this, but being with Suguru made you calm down. You took the green tea and took a small sip, savouring the bitter flavour. It was refreshing.

You handed it back to Suguru, "Thank you." He took it back and took a large gulp, feeling it cool down his body.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" Suguru prodded. He knew something was up. Normally you'd be more like Satoru when you came out pissed from the elders meetings. But this time, you were quiet, more like you were seething, like a volcano about to erupt.

You stared at the ground, wondering what you should start with. You felt that all the words exchanged between you and the elders wasn't listened to, wasn't taken into account. It was like talking to a massive brick wall, one that you had no way to get through to.

"I..." You started, but your throat clammed up. You stopped, waiting for the words to come naturally. When your throat finally decided it was ready to talk, your voice was a whisper. "If the elders disappeared, would this all end?"

Suguru's gaze landed on you, knowing full well what you were thinking. He gave you the green tea again. You took it, and another sip.

"If the elders disappeared, others would take their place."

Suguru could feel something was wrong. The atmosphere was different with you, just like how it was different for him a year ago after the star plasma vessel mission. He could sense it in his very being, something was wrong.

"If the others took their place, would they act the same as the ones now?" You chuckled to yourself, but your voice dropped an octave, "Jujutsu society is trash."

There was a slight panic that welled up inside Suguru, reminding himself of the emotions he himself went through not too long ago.

He could see himself in you, and he hated it. Not the one who had helped to bring him out of it, the one who reached out their hand to bring him back to the light. Not you.

"[name]. You don't hate all sorcerers, do you?" His voice was calm, probing for information for your current state of mind.

Back then, he was on the verge of deciding whether to continue as someone who protected the weak, or someone who didn't care for the weak. And now, you were going through something similar. He wanted to bring you back to him, to the one you saved.

After a moment, you shook your head. "I don't. I just...hate how the elders are sending out young sorcerers to their deaths. I hate how there are young Jujutsu sorcerers being taken away from their families so they can train to be another one of us disposables. I hate how no matter what, the top dogs in this world are absolute trash, who need to be burned at the stake. And don't get me started on curses. They're the worst. I hate them. I hate them so much for taking away so much from everyone. From sorcerers, from non-sorcerers..."

A pregnant pause.

"I hate this world that has curses." Your voice cracked at the end of it as you leaned down, head in your hands as you stared at the ground, a broken whisper of self-awareness, "I hate how I've begun thinking this way."

Suguru didn't know when he had held his breath. Your confession was so raw. You had every right to be angry and frustrated at the system which Jujutsu was. He had also held the same thoughts.

"Sugu..." There was a heartbreaking whine to your voice, one that sounded as if you were on the verge of crying. "I hate this."

An embrace, so gentle, so tender, so soft, enveloped you as his larger body wrapped around yours. You could smell the soap he used as he pushed your face into the crook of his neck, his larger hand stroking your hair as you finally let the tears fall, a broken sob reverberating through your body as you held onto him like he was your lifeline.

"[name], I'm here." He soothes, head gently resting against yours. He closed his eyes, pulling you in closer when he felt you trembling. This was the exact same thing you did for him before, one that soothed him and his tumultuous heart.

The only difference is, you were smaller than before, too. Were you eating properly? You were skinnier. Did you get enough sleep? There were bags under your eyes. Did you take a break? He didn't see the last time you took a break.

You pulled away after a while, eyes puffy and face covered with snot. Suguru didn't even flinch as he grabbed the towel sitting next to him, wiping off any excess liquid from your face. It was gentle, and it reminded you he was the most gentle out of the three, and he'd been in a similar position to you at this moment in time. When you looked up to meet his eyes, you decided, you didn't want to burden him with your thoughts of hate - one time was enough.

"I'll always be here if you need me. You can come to me anytime." His hand went to your cheek and his thumb wiped at the area of your cheekbone. Just like his tender hugs, this was so, so soft that it made you want to cry again, making you nearly regret the decision in your heart.

You could only lean into his hand and give him a nod, eyes closing as you felt fatigue come down on your body, making it feel heavy. You didn't even know you fell asleep so fast that Suguru had to catch you, hauling you up so he could carry you back to your room.

This was the only time you revealed your true thoughts to Suguru, and the only time he has ever seen you this way.

Maybe this was the start of it? Suguru's thoughts when he woke up were clear in his mind. The dream he had was something that really happened, and it hurt him he wasn't able to help you during your hardest moments like you did for him.

He had slept in your bed for the night, finding that he missed you and the comfort you brought him. Your scent was calming to him, and it will forever be a saviour to his soul.

A week before killing the elder, Shoko had found you passed out in the infirmary, half of your body on a chair, and half of it off and on the ground.

She raised a brow at your position, wondering if you were tired and just fell asleep. On closer inspection, she could see the dark circles under your eyes, the thinning of your cheeks, and realised you've lost a lot of weight. The bottle on the chair were a bunch of sleeping pills, open and spilled, indicating you had taken some just prior.

If she wasn't worried about you before, she was definitely worried now.

And when you woke up, you were just like normal, which made Shoko question whether you were just overworked. She did know you fought a lot with the elders and were sent on difficult missions because they were out to get you. So with this information in mind, she was sure you were in need of a proper break, away from everything and everyone.

Which was why she advocated for you to get a break, away from Tokyo, to an island resort with lots of sunshine. A proper 4 day break. Of course, she got Satoru to pay for it since he was loaded and actually owed [name] for a previous thing.

But, the aftermath that came from that was the death of the elder 3 days after coming back.

Did that moment of clarity cause everything to happen? When you were on break, was that when everything went out of control? Was that when you decided this was the path you wanted to take?

You had looked completely back to normal after coming back that the worry Shoko and the boys held for you was almost like a false alarm - but they didn't realise that that in itself was the real alarm.

You were happy - or at least, you were smiling like you did before. It was wonderful to see you back to your regular self, something everyone mutually agreed on by the other sorcerers.

Until you murdered the elder, that is.

That was your first step into the world of depravity, away from the world of Jujutsu, and closer to the world called Hell.

[name]'s heart was soft. It was originally that way, and as you traversed through life, fell and got back up, your heart became stronger. However, it was just an outer layer, like a piece of armour for your fragile heart. You would pretend things were fine until it wasn't, even if you wore your heart on your sleeve, letting the people around you know what you thought, even if they thought you were joking.

It was almost too sudden when you realised all the armour around your soft heart had shattered to pieces.

It was like you lost a part of you that day, and you didn't know what could fix you. You didn't know if you could be fixed. So, you did the only thing you could do.

Pick up the pieces and do your best to put it back together, create a wall for your heart before it gets pierced again.

But before you were able to, a gunshot would shatter your glued armour, shattering in your hands, and your heart was laid bare, bleeding out without any way to stop.

And you wished and wished, for someone to reach out their hands to you and drag you out of your ocean of misery. But, nobody could reach deep enough, and you couldn't reach because you had no strength left to.

You couldn't reach out anymore. No matter how much you wanted, the same fate would await you, and you'd fall into such despair again.

You were tired. You were so, so, so tired.

The ones who made you like this, were ironically the ones who could take you out.

"____." You give them one last smile, a genuine one, as you feel the tears coming down your face, bringing your blade to your neck, before slicing and ending your own life.

You didn't want to die at the hands of your best friends. Not because they're your best friends, but because they would bear the burden of having killed you, and you didn't think they'd be able to take that, especially at the ripe age of 19. So, you'd rather do it for them, making it easier. After all, it would've been close to impossible going up against two of the strongest sorcerers.

You could only hear screams at you from the distance as the pain numbed your mind and body. Geto & Gojo were both screaming your name as they sprinted to you, their panicked shouts becoming background noise as they held onto your body, lifting you up to bring you to Shoko.

Your eyes could only see the terrified blue eyes from Satoru as he carried you on Geto's curse. He seemed to be wanting the curse to go faster, but Geto could only reply in an equally as panicked tone, saying this was his fastest one and that they're going as fast as they could to Shoko.

Your eyes are too beautiful to be panicking, you wanted to say. But, you couldn't. Blood had gotten into your oesophagus, making you struggle to breathe as you coughed and suffocated on your own blood.

"[NAME]! ARE YOU WITH ME?! STAY AWAKE!" Satoru's frantic shouts were barely ringing in your ears, but the creases on his face shouldn't have been there. They were going to give him wrinkles.

With one of the last ounces of your strength, you lifted your hand up to cup his cheek, then gently smooth the line between his brows, giving a weak smile.

Satoru let out a choked sound similar to a sob, understanding exactly what you were doing and what you wanted to say. He held your wrist, supporting you in whatever way he can as he could feel your body heat leaving you. Suguru placed a hand on your cheek, stroking the area under the eye, just like he always did.

It made you feel nostalgic, but you could barely see his expression, since tears had blurred your vision. You wanted to reach for Suguru before you had no more strength, so you gently moved your raised arm in that direction. Satoru, knowing exactly what you were doing, guided your hand to Suguru, who took your hand gently, holding it preciously between his two hands.

"Let's get you home, [name]." Were the last words Geto said to you. By 'home', he meant with them, back to Jujutsu, so they could forget everything that happened and start over. It would just be like those happy days, back when there was nothing to worry about.

In your state, you couldn't make out everything he was saying, but you knew they were kind words by his intonation and the caress he held for your bloodied hand.

You only gave them a smile, one that was apologetic, as you felt your consciousness fading away. The tears that blurred your vision finally fell, and the slight squeeze of your hand in Geto's made him realise that was it.

For you, it was time to sleep. It was a time for you to finally rest your tired mind and body, away from this world, and away from all those that you loved.

Suguru looked over at Satoru, who was biting his lip almost bruisingly as they trembled. With his sunglasses off, he could see everything in detail, including the way your cursed energy stopped, from when your body heat disappeared, and he couldn't feel you anymore. You were a hollow shell of a body now, and the last thing you left them was an apologetic smile on your face.

Away from the battleground, Shoko looked out the window, a pang of sadness hitting her all at once when she realised the screams belonging to Geto & Gojo resonated through the forest. She could barely just hear them, but she knew, the dread that filled her veins was apparent. She knew.

She closed her eyes, taking out the cigarette between her lips as she exstinguished it, her arm covering her eyes as she leaned back in her seat, silent tears falling down her cheeks.

"Quite sad, really. None of you realised [name] suffered this much." Kenjaku sowed the top of your head back together after revealing some information you kept hidden to Suguru & Satoru, and about your last moments and thoughts.

Seeing the despair and shock on their faces was intoxicating, especially when it came to the body he borrowed. Kenjaku knew the amount of love that had been given to the original owner of his current body, and using that, he could disarm even the strongest of sorcerers in the modern day.

It was a pity you were dead, but if you were alive and not dead, Kenjaku wouldn't have been able to take over your body now, would he?

It was especially sweet because the body hadn't even been cremated and still looked the same as it did 10 years ago. And those two who had been responsible for it were standing in front of him, in Shibuya station during Halloween.

Even better because you had died in their arms, so seeing you alive as Kenjaku was more of a sick joke than anything, but he loved that expression on the ones who had essentially allowed you to be this way.

"If only the people around them were able to reach out a hand before their descent into madness, none of this would have happened." Kenjaku ran a hand through your hair.

Satoru let out a low growl from his throat as he watched whoever was in your body use it, control it, and pretend to be you. No one could be you. You were gone. You were gone 10 years ago. And he knew - he knew you were not in front of him.

You died in his arms.

So there was absolutely no way that could be you. Absolutely not!

But, his six eyes said otherwise. It was you. Everything was you. It was the same you who died in his arms 10 years ago, the same you who gave him one last smile before leaving the earth.

It tore him to pieces inside.

Suguru put out an arm in front of Satoru, eyeing the cursed user in your body. He was pretending to be calm, but the way his hands and jaw clenched at the blatant disrepect Kenjaku had for your body was digusting. How dare he exhume your grave and take your body from it?

He felt a cold, almost murderous feeling bubble up inside him as he readied himself for combat.

That was not you. And it couldn't be, even if Satoru's six eyes recognised you to be alive. You weren't alive. You had been lost long ago, and whoever was in front of them was an imposter.

"[name]! How long are you going to let this little bitch take over your body?" Satoru finally burst, pissed at the prospect of someone disrespecting you.

Your hand, reacting almost instantaneously, went straight for the top of the head, right where Kenjaku's brain was. It stabbed straight through the cranium, a crunch eliciting a scream from Kenjaku himself as the brain was stabbed, wounding his real body. Kenjaku used your other arm to stop your attack on his weak point, feeling the blood pour out.

For a moment, it was silent except the light splatter and pitter patter of blood from your body. Suguru and Satoru stared at what happened in front of them, shocked that what Gojo said had ellicited such a response.

Kenjaku pulled your assaulting hand away, holding it in a death grip with the one he could control. The blood dripped down his face as he used his reverse cursed technique to heal the head wound, cracking the sides of his neck after he healed your head and his brain.

"Wow, I can't believe [name] went straight for the kill." Kenjaku laughed to himself. "But that's all there is to it. The soul and body are one, aren't they? Don't think this will happen again." He chuckled and waited for the hand to calm itself.

"Oh, and did you know [name] wrote a letter to each of you? Including Shoko. They knew they'd die so they hid it away in the school. I think they hid it somewhere important for each of you. Even they don't quite remember." Kenjaku couldn't quite recall what the contents of the letters were as the memory itself was fuzzy. He wanted to see it as their strong friendship strained due to his taking over of [name]'s body.

He wondered why this specific memory was blurred out, and he couldn't recall anything from your memories about this specific thing?

It was like you were deliberately making sure you didn't remember it, and deleted the memory from your head so no one could find the letters.

A letter? The strongest duo's eyes narrowed at the imposter in their dead best friend's body, wondering if it's a part of their tricks. But it was also hard to not believe them, since they look like you. And everything about you, they would believe.

Because you were the type of person who would write letters to them.

"I don't know what they say, but they've been there since before [name] died." Kenjaku tapped his temple, "If you can get out of here, I implore you to find them."

That pissed the two off. Kenjaku was implying they wouldn't get out of this alive, or at least, to see the letters that were supposedly left for them. It pissed them off to no end, and they prepared to battle, not wanting to take part of his nonsense any longer.

Dear Satoru,

I'm glad to have met you. I love you. I love Suguru. I love Shoko. I love everyone. We had so many fun times, and it was the best time of my life. Everything was so bright, cheery and brought me so much happiness, I can't even tell you the extent of it.

I hope you don't mind this letter. If you've found it after I've defected or after I'm dead, I can't express with words how much doing this pains me. If I can't use my words, I have to use my actions, right? I hope you don't forgive me for what I've done. It's unacceptable and you have every right to hate me. I've killed innocent people for the purpose of my goal. Horrible, right? I really hope you won't forgive me.

But I know you. You will. You're just that kind of person.

I'll miss your bright blue eyes and white hair. I'll miss your loud and boisturous personality. I'll miss how your heart races every time I hug you. I'll miss you nuzzling into my head when we hug. I'll miss the soft 'sweet dreams' you say every time you carry me to bed after I fall asleep studying. I'll miss when you take photos of me everyday. I'll miss your annoyingness. I'll miss your teasing words every day. I'll miss your blushing cheeks when you're embarrassed. I'll miss your comical, over the top reactions. I'll miss you eating a whole bunch of sweets in one setting. I'll miss the crepe shop we'd often go to. I'll miss how you make me feel safe. I'll miss your voice. I'll miss you.

If reincarnation exists, I want to meet you again. I want to see your smile again. I want to call you 'toru again. I want to give you the biggest hug, and feel the thrum of your heart racing. Then, I'll give you a kiss on your head, just like you always do to me before I sleep.

You're strong, 'toru. Make sure to stay safe and be careful. I don't want to meet you on the other side so soon. Grow up to be even stronger, and reform Jujutsu's society. I know you can do it!

By the way, I left your favourite recipe of the sweets you liked that I made. That way, you can enjoy them anytime.

Love, [name].

P.S. Don't eat so many sweet things at once!!! I don't want you getting cavities!!!

Dear Suguru,

You were the first one to notice anything going on, and for that, I'm grateful. I'm sorry I brushed you off so coldly. I didn't know how to ask for help. I wish I'd have listened to your heartfelt words to rely on you a little more.

If you see this, I've probably already defected or I'm dead. But I just want you to know, I love you. I want to see you again. I miss you. I want to hug you and let you know everything I'm thinking. I want you to give me one of your strong hugs, knocking the air out of me. I also equally want your soft, tender hugs, as you whisper comforting words to me. I want to hear your voice again. I want to run my fingers through your hair again and question why you only use soap on it. I want to cook with you again. Have late night discussions. Cuddle. Piggyback rides. Kisses on the cheek. Allowing me to latch onto you like a koala when I'm cold since you run hot. I miss our times together. I miss you.

If reincarnation is real, we will definitely meet again. I want to see you smile from the bottom of your heart, and enjoy the most delicious food! And, if no curses are in that world, then you'll finally have a food you don't like - I'll be willing to lend an ear so you can whisper it to me! I want to cup your cheeks and tell you you've done well, for enduring during tough times and standing right back up. I want to finally give you a piggyback ride, since I was never able to fulfil that wish here. I want to be able to call you Sugu again.

Stay strong, Sugu. Make sure to stay safe. Since I know you hate the taste of curses, I've left the key to my safe with candies that are really good at cleansing the palette. Don't ever let these get into 'toru's hands or else you'll never see them again. I got these custom made just for you, and I've left a note with instructions on where to get it and what special order it was. I was supposed to give it to you sooner, but I left before then. Hope you enjoy them!

Love, [name].

P.S. Please take care of yourself!!! And don't use soap on your hair!!! Use proper shampoo and conditioner since your hair's so pretty!!!

Dear Shoko,

I'm sorry you probably had to see my dead body.

If I had spilled my heart out to you about my troubles, I wonder if it would've helped? I kept things bottled up for too long and it's become like this. I'm sorry I wasn't able to keep our promise. We didn't get to go to Disneyland like we promised all those months ago - the tickets are just sitting somewhere rotting away. I really wanted to go with you, Sugu and 'toru. It would've been great fun, and we would've made so many memories.

I miss your voice, Shoko. I miss your laugh. Your insults. Your frankness. Your weirdness. Your chillness. You. Heck, I even miss your scent of smoke. I miss you so much. I want to see you.

Can I meet you again? In a world without curses, where we don't need to risk our lives and watch our loved ones die. If I ever get reincarnated, can you find me? Or I can find you? I want to enjoy our times together again, feel the breeze against our skin, sing joyfully, joke around, play around, and take many photos together. That's the only way I want to spend it - and I want it so much you don't even know. In that kind of world, we can finally be happier. We can finally smile geniunely. I'll be able to finally see you again.

I bought some smokes for you and it's in my safe. Suguru has the key. Take some of the candies too, they might help in cleansing your palette every now and then.

I love you.

Love, [name].

P.S. Too much smoking isn't good for you!!! Please quit or at least do it a little less!!! I worry for your lung health...

Trembling hands read their letters as they were found around Jujutsu High school. It had your cursed energy as a seal, but the minute it was touched by any of the three, the seal would break. The letter itself was blank, with a couple of pages for each of them. The words appeared once they injected their cursed energy into it.

Words written by you appeared on the page, covering all the pages given for each letter. As the trio read the letters you had kept hidden from them, they couldn't help but let their unshed tears fall.

They were all known as strong sorcerers who don't cry. But, you brought them to their knees with your sincerity, and you were lost too soon. It was the last thing they had from you, and the warmth in every word of those letters struck a chord deep in their hearts, remembering 10 years ago and the day you had died.

"I kept [name]'s room clean," Suguru started, his eyes glossy. He had already cried, but every time he wanted to read the words off the letter, he was ready to cry again. He didn't want to. "Everything's the same."

It was as if they went down memory lane. Nothing had changed in your room. It was just as Geto said, it was exactly the same.

Whenever Geto had some time, he would clean your room, just like how he knew you would like it. It was something he sometimes did if he stayed over to help you study or just to hang out. So, he knew where everything was.

Immediately going to the safe, he put in a random number, guessing your birthday, then he used the key entrusted to him and unlocked it.

"What a bad password..." Geto couldn't help but laugh lightly, but his laughter died in his throat when he opened the safe.

The first thing the three of them saw was a couple of picture frames, each of them with pictures of the four of them that they remember taking when they were younger. The photos where all of them were happy, grinning and had no care in the world, it made their throats dry, clamming up uncomfortably.

Geto picked up the picture frames, taking a closer look at them with Shoko.

"Oh, look, there's more." Gojo peered in, seeing the promised recipe, bag of lollies, Disneyland tickets and smokes from each of their letters. He took them out and handed them what was gifted.

As they examined the items, Gojo read the recipe, a page written neatly by you. It was as if he could imagine you sitting in your room, writing it just for him while you tasted the different variations that you recommended in the recipe.

Geto put the photos face down, falling flat on his back on your bed as his arm covered his eyes.

Shoko stared at him for a moment, deciding to join him by doing the same thing. Your bed was only a double bed (you had requested a bigger bed for your first paycheck) and didn't have that much space for the three of them, much less four.

Seeing the two of them do the exact same thing, Satoru joined them, but instead, he sat up against your headboard, laying his legs in a cross legged position.

He fipped the picture frames back up, a bittersweet smile on his lips as he basked in the silence and warmth of your room he was so familiar with.

He closed his eyes, and like the others, thought of you.

Would it have been different had you told them everything you were feeling? If you talked through exactly what was causing you grief, and what could be done about it? Were they not enough to help you back up? Would you have felt so suffocated that you chose to die? Would you have still died in their arms? Would Kenjaku have still taken over your body? Still left them behind?

They say sorcerers don't die without regrets.

And they knew if they died, their one and only regret would be you.

At a certain crepe shop, Gojo Satoru waited for his crepe, one he decorated with strawberries, whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate. It was one he used to frequent with his old friend, and he'd come here every week with them to buy a crepe. It wasn't the order he normally went with, but today, he felt nostalgic.

It had been so long since the last time he had visited the crepe shop with you, but it remained fresh in his mind even after reincarnating many times over. What timeline was he in now? He counted 7. That was 7 lifetimes without you. Suguru & Shoko were also counting, and they did whatever they could to find out where you would be. But, each and every one after their first, you were nowhere to be found.

Suguru & Shoko would sometimes come to the crepe shop, but they were also busy making a living in a world without curses. The tragedy from their first life remained fresh in their current ones, holding them so strongly they didn't want to give up.

But unknown to them, you were right under their nose all along, and you frequently went to that same crepe shop at times just before or after they were there, a mysterious force pushing you to the place.

It was at one time, where Satoru thought he saw you, that it reignited the flame that had been dormant for so long, to finally see you, after so many timelines and lifetimes apart.

Your voice, followed by your laughter, and your hand. He had you memorised, and he was so thankful for his good memory that recognised you. It was the closest he got, and when he heard you, saw a part of you, he was sprinting, but you had already disappeared onto the train, and the last thing he saw was the back of your head.

It was brief, but it was enough for his mind to go overdrive and let the others know his findings, that it was possible for them to find you this lifetime, and the crepe shop was the biggest key to it all.

And, when they cracked the code and finally found you, all the memories, feelings and thoughts from their original life came back to them, allowing them to finally see you in a world without curses, even if they had to wait 7 lifetimes.

If they had to put it into years, those 7 lifetimes were equivalent to over 600 years of not seeing you.

But, this lifetime, they finally found you.

Over 600 years in the making, and you also found them.

A/N: I CRIED WRITING THIS. It hurt me 😭 here's part 2!

There's also somewhat of a prequel as well from Geto's POV if you were interested!

Here's also an AU in an alternate timeline with information that takes place directly after the original timing here.

If y'all want some fluff here's the masterlist for the rest of the series 🕊️

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crusty-chronicles · 6 months ago

Note

heey! Good morning/night! So I was thinking about how Kurapika, Feitan and Chrollo would react to their S/O seeking to annihilate all the members of their own family because they think their blood is cursed (in a headcanons form if possible), since whenever someone in their own family gets involved in something this thing It always ends with someone dead/hurt but like on a extreme way. That's why their S/O was so difficult to get close to, and like they are VERY strong, well even if you don't make that request I would like to praise your writing!! 💗💗 (I'm using a translator, so any mistakes I apologize)

Apologies, I don't write for any of the phantom troupe, buuuuuut I do write for Kurapika so these head cannons will be based around him. Thank you 💕

Kurapika With An S/O Who Hunts Down Their Family

—---------------

Cold and calculated.

If you were to ask Kurapika what he thought of you, that's what he would say.

You were always so distant from everybody else. Finding solace in the quiet. Yet you were still very aware of your surroundings.

He'd met you formally as one of Neon’s bodyguards.

You were a blacklist hunter hired for extra help. Your specialty being claiming bounties.

Had he done the research back then, he would've seen that all your targets had one thing in common: they were all related.

But he didn't, and now he was left with the mystery of you.

Why were you here?

What did you gain by helping the Nostrade’s out?

Answers he wouldn't get for a long time.

Not until he'd caught Uvogin and dealt with him, did he learn about your motives.

He was doing his best to suppress his blood lust. Trying to calm himself down before he lashed out. He didn't even notice when you walked in.

Too lost in the feeling of the way blood coated his hands to process your presence.

“This is personal for you, isn't it?” You asked.

It was the first time he's ever heard your voice.

And it had him on edge.

Jumping back in surprise the second it hit his ears. He needed to be alone right now.

One wrong misstep and he'd hurt you.

But you didn't seem afraid. You didn't even acknowledge his disheveled appearance.

Instead taking a step closer.

“Maybe we could help each other out? My next target is someone who owns a pair of Scarlet Eyes.”

His eyes widened before narrowing in hostility. Immediately one of his chains had wrapped around you.

You didn't flinch.

“How do you know about that?” He questioned. His chain tightening around you.

What exactly did you know?

Were you working with someone?

Could you be apart of the troupe?

“You forgot to put your contacts in.”

You gestured towards his eyes.

Oh.

How foolish of him to act so impulsively. He released you. Yet there was a nagging feeling telling him to continue interrogating you.

You knew about the Kurta clan, or at least what happened to it.

And you'd deduced from his reaction that he was connected to them in some way. His own eyes only confirmed it for you.

“I don't plan on being here for long. I'm leaving after the auction. I'll give you some time to think about my offer.” Your voice snapping him from his thoughts.

He already knew his answer, but what he wanted to know was-

“Why?”

“Why would you help me? How does me tagging along benefit you?”

He just couldn't wrap his head around it. What use could he possibly be of to you. Did you just want someone to get their hands dirty for you? Or would this be a true partnership?

“I lost my Hunter license years ago. I unfortunately don't have access to the information I need. And there's places I can't get to without a license,” you explained.

“So you want my license in exchange for information?”

“Not necessarily. I have no desire to keep it. It would just be nice to have some more tools at my disposal. You don't have to say yes. I could always give you the eyes when I'm done.”

No, he needed to be involved. He wouldn't forgive himself if he let someone else avenge his clan, even if it was unintentional.

Thus your partnership began.

You were still distant. Treating your alliance as purely business.

Kurapika didn't mind. It meant he wouldn't get attached to another person. He wouldn't have anyone else to worry about.

But…. there were times when you were warm.

When you allowed yourself to grin so brightly.

When you opened up ever so slightly.

And in those rare moments, he found himself wanting to be close.

When he'd gotten sick in York New, you were taking care of him alongside Leorio.

He remembers the feeling of your hand on his forehead. The coolness of your skin.

He remembers refusing medicine and only accepting when you asked him to.

‘It's for your own good, Kurapika. Please open up.’ your tone cooing.

And he remembers reaching for your hand in his sleep. Awakening blearily to you still grasping it.

In his mind, you were friends to some extent.

He'd looked after you too. The first pair of eyes you collected together, you'd gotten wounded badly by your target.

Bleeding out and yet for some reason, you were dead set on claiming the bounty.

Not stopping until they were dead at your feet. And only then had you collapsed.

He spent days watching over you. Making sure your wounds were clean and stitched up.

A part of him worried he'd lose you.

He couldn't help but scold you when you awoke.

‘Do you have any idea how bad your injuries were? How much blood you lost? Why? Why didn't you just stop?’

You didn't answer him.

Confused as to why he cared so much.

If you died, what did it matter to him?

Maybe a part of you realized your relationship had become more than surface level.

‘I’m sorry,’ you offered.

You were always more careful from then on.

And your trust in the blonde only seemed to grow.

He'd treat your wounds after fights, and you'd take care of his.

When he was overcome with emotion, eyes glowing with his anger, you'd find a way to calm him down. Watching as the red faded little by little.

You should've known something would go wrong.

Things never tended to last when your people were involved.

This target you were chasing was vastly different from your previous ones.

You tried to go it alone, but Kurapika insisted on helping you.

You should've said no.

Your target laid beneath your foot. Kurapika a few feet behind you.

You should've been quicker to end them

But you weren't. You'd had the misfortune of letting them identify you.

An expression of distaste on their features before they spoke.

“So you've finally found me? Some sibling you are.”

You'd immediately taken their life, but the damage had already been done.

“What did they mean by that?” Kurapika questioned. His tone accusing.

“It’s nothing.” You dismissed.

But you'd spent far too much time together for him to fall for it.

“Don't lie to me. All this time.. All this time you were hunting down your family?”

He stood in front of you now, eyes a bright scarlet.

“You don't understand-” You tried to explain.

“What is there to understand!?!” He snapped.

“They're murders!”

“They're your family!”

Did you have any idea what he would have given to spend one last moment with his family? And here you were justifying taking the lives of your own. it made his blood boil.

He trusted you.

“Only by blood. Don't you dare group me in with them!” you screamed.

You refused to be associated with those monsters.

You two stood in silence. You didn't know how to show him the things you'd seen. How to convey the exact opposite of what he was thinking.

He was hurt, that much you could tell.

“Kurapika, they're horrible evil people. Everywhere they go, there's a path of pain and destruction left behind. They're- they're cursed.” You were pleading with him to listen to you. Sounding desperate and crazy in the process.

But you were scared.

Scared of losing him.

“Does that make you cursed? If they're evil, then what does that make you.” He asked. His voice rising as he came closer to you.

“Am I going to end up hurt following you around? Are you gonna end up killing me?”

He was trying to make you see this wasn't the way. That you were going too far by doing this.

You wouldn't hurt him. He knew you wouldn't. If your bloodline was cursed with carnage, surely you would've demonstrated it by now.

“I don't know.” You answered honestly.

“But I have to stop them.” You met his fiery gaze with determination. You weren't backing down.

“You're not like them. Stop while you're ahead.”

Before your anger had consumed you.

“I can't. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

You want to walk past him, stopping when he grabbed your arm.

“Then we'll find another way to stop them.”

He was in too deep with you.

“We?” Your tone was skeptical.

“You still need me right? Justice will prevail. But you cannot stoop to their level to do it.”

Why was he still trying? Why couldn't he just let you go?

“Why do you want to help if what I'm doing goes against your morals.”

You looked up at him once more. The red becoming faded. You could see nothing but a yearning behind his eyes.

“Because you're important to me.”

And you could feel it. The subtle way your heart beat faster.

#hxh x reader #hunter x hunter x reader #hunter x hunter x y/n #hxh x y/n #hunter x hunter #hxh #x reader #hxh kurapika #kurapika x reader #kurapika kurta

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3katanas · 4 months ago

Text

@sirensofthefiveseas asked: 💋 From Vivi

Maybe it was the booze or the fact that they'd been healing partying for several days now that Crocodile was defeated, but he'd easily caught her when she'd jumped into his arms. Sweeping her up into his arms with ease, her weight like a feather compared to what he normally lifted. Only it was the way that he'd caught her that caused something to shift because he wasn't just holding her, but his hand was cupping her ass and suddenly his gaze locked with hers. And it was definitely the booze and nothing else that had him closing the distance between them, lips claiming hers in a surprisingly deep kiss given he'd been laughing only moments before.

#sirensofthefiveseas #bounty claimed (answered)#hope this is ok #i can change it if you want

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twit-ter-pa-ted · 1 year ago

Text

Yes, ma'am.

pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x afab!Reader

warnings: nothing, just flirting!

overview: You're a sea merchant hoping to one day dine at Baratie. What you didn't account for was catching the sous chef's eye.

a/n: i wrote this during a power outage. also i may have gotten carried away with the plot so please bear with me on this

part two — final part

The Baratie was the name of a sea restaurant from the East Blue that you had heard uttered by multiple customers. Being a sea merchant, it wasn't difficult not to.

It hadn't been long since you first started in this line of business, since you reckoned you ought to learn how to defend yourself first before setting sail into a sea full of savage pirates.

And you were right. Multiple tried their luck to rob you of your merchandise, if not your Berry, and all failed.

As odd as it seemed, you had always dreamt of becoming a merchant at sea. Your father was the town's merchant, and that may have had some influence on your own dream. And now that you had achieved just that, a certain restaurant had slowly begun to pique your interest.

Despite roaming the sea for almost three years now, you had yet to run into this sea restaurant you had heard of countless times. The thought of Baratie was starting to irritate you, as was the unlikeliness that you still had yet to find it in the vast sea of the East Blue. You were beginning to think that, unlike for anyone else, you finding it would be like someone finally finding the One Piece.

"Hey, lady, I'm talkin' to ya!" The Z lister pirate's voice boomed. He had announced his name upon crashing through the doors – it might have been something like Guicha Rebel, but you couldn't be sure.

"Sorry. What were you saying?" You leaned on your forearms that rested on the counter in front of you. You swore to listen, but your eyes wandered towards the tent that extended from your cabin and into half of the main deck.

"This right here? Should only be for 500." He held up a sword that he had taken from one of the barrels.

Your eyes turned half-lidded with disinterest. "I know what my shit's worth, pirate."

"And I know this ain't worth 1,000."

"If you don't like it, feel free to leave."

"Hey! I have a 500,000 bounty, you better watch your mouth." You had begun laughing as he brought up his bounty. You pointed at the board behind you which held multiple wanted posters with bounties even twice as high as his.

"Please, I've been in these seas for three years. I've had worse."

You could see the way his eyes widened in fear and realization. There was no way you…

"You're not telling me that…" He had recognized at first glance that they were pirates whose bounties had been claimed. You didn't answer.

"Now, you either buy what you need and leave, or you leave with your bounty." That was always the choice you gave them and more often than not, they chose neither options.

He glared at you for a moment before letting the sword clatter onto the floor and turning around. What came next was something you just couldn't help.

"With a 500,000 bounty, you sure as hell are cheap," you remarked.

He groaned in frustration before he unsheathed his sword, turned around, and threw it your direction. You simply moved your head to avoid it, ignoring how it pierced through your bounty board and taking your pistol from below the counter.

Now, you specifically had your place designed so that you would be at an advantage during any battle despite how many people you were against. You knew how the bullets would ricochet to the blindspots you had behind the barrels when you hit a certain spot on the iron on the wall, specifically built into the wall for that reason.

You ducked behind the counter as the pirate took out his own pistol and aimed for your head. You leaned towards your left to shoot at an iron part of the wall. You heard a grunt come from him as his leg was shot. You straightened again and walked around the counter while the pirate clutched at his leg.

"What…What did you – " His breathing was ragged. He had been shot at before, but not like this.

You took a bullet out of your gun's cylinder, holding it between your index finger and thumb while he fell to his side in pain. You nonchalantly kneeled next to his head. "Burrow Bullets – doesn't exit the body once you shoot it, no matter the distance, which makes it hurt so much worse when you're shot at a short distance because it just burrows."

You grinned at your selfmade product with pride before sliding it back into the cylinder. "Costs 5,000 per pack. Not that you'd be able to buy 'em from me. But I do appreciate doing business with you." It was the last thing he heard from you before the butt of your gun met with his temple.

Predictably, he had a copy of his wanted poster in his pocket. Guicha Reuben. "Huh."

You looked between the unconscious man and the poster. "Rebel sounds better," you said before standing and pinning his poster to your board, pulling his sword out. You inspected it before placing it in the barrel with swords of the price of 500.

* * * * * *

It was your day off. You rarely took day offs, but you felt you had to after getting in a bar fight an island ago. You laid in a hammock that hung beside the main mast with your father's jacket over your face to shield it from the sun.

You froze as you heard something more than the sound of the ocean and the breeze, taking the jacket off your face and standing up.

You thought it was another pirate ship before you looked ahead. Your eyes widened.

Before you could react, you heard the transponder snail sound out in your cabin. You ran to grab it, taking the receiver.

"Yeah?"

The familiar voice of Garp sounded from the snail as he called your name. The Vice Admiral had sent you the snail as you were almost considered a regular at their bases. "How have you been, eh?"

"Get to the point, Garp." He simply chuckled at your straightforwardness.

"There're new pirates in our turf, broker." Garp was your father's old friend. He had been calling you broker for as long as you could remember. You stopped correcting him long ago. "A bugger with a straw hat, a redhead, a long-nose, and Roronoa Zoro."

You couldn't help but raise your brows in surprise. The Roronoa Zoro? Still, you replied nonchalantly – "I'm not a pirate hunter."

You could practically hear him shrug. "I'm just warning you in case you run into one of them."

It was rare for Garp to give you warnings. The last he had given was of Don Krieg, but now he warned you of nameless pirates? "And what makes this band of pirates different from the others?"

It was silent on the other end for a while.

"They defeated Axe-Hand Morgan and escaped his marine base."

* * * * * *

Once the exchange ended between you and Garp, you quickly ran outside and redirected the ship in a panic, as it had started to drift away from the sea restaurant in the distance.

You docked onto its small harbor and entered, greeted by a fishman who questioned you regarding reservations. You simply slipped him a few Berries and got yourself a table.

You had only entered the dining area when a fight ensued, only to be quickly resolved by a blonde waiter who kicked the fighting pair down.

"Great fighter," you heard someone from another booth mutter. You couldn't disagree as you watched the waiter approach a booth with a small bowl of complimentary bread.

You started looking over the menu when you heard someone turn the chair parallel from you in its place, their chest against the back side of the chair as they sat.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing at a shitty restaurant like this?"

Your brows raised in surprise as you dropped the menu. It was the waiter from earlier, a flirty grin now plastered on his lips.

"I thought this was one of the finest restaurants in East Blue?" You teased which caused him to let out a sultry chuckle.

"Oh, darling, it's only one of the finest because I'm here."

"Well…" You trailed off, silently asking for his name as you did.

"Sanji."

You recognized the name. "Sanji the sous chef."

"So you know me?" You nodded. He seemed surprised you did.

"I've heard of Baratie's sous chef. I just didn't know he was a part-time waiter," he remarked.

"Nothing but charity work, really," he retorted smoothly, as if he hadn't been kicked out of the line. "What would the beautiful madam like to have?"

You shrugged, looking at the menu again before dropping it onto the table. "None of these really interest me."

"Naturally, you're simply above anything being served here," he remarked in a heartbeat. He was completely wrapped around your finger despite the fact that he was flirting with a redhead a few tables away just moments ago.

"Think you could whip up something for me, sous chef?"

He nodded, not missing the way you had looked him up and down. "Anything, darling."

You smirked as if to challenge. "I'll leave it up to you. I'm not necessarily picky."

"And what drink would you like with that, my love?" His smile grew wider as he thought of the countless dishes he could possibly make for you, even with the limitations of the supplies in the pantry.

"I would love a strawberry milkshake."

"Coming right up." He began to stand up. You decided to test the waters to see the extent of what he would be willing to do for you despite only meeting you.

"I'm not finished." You started talking again before he could offer an alluring apology. "I want a thin coat of strawberry syrup in the glass, no seeds, whipped cream that's not too whipped, and a strawberry to top it off. I don't want it sour, I want it sweet."

Something about you was different – Sanji could tell. Maybe it was the way you showed him interest while keeping your composure, or maybe it was the way your eyes lit up at his obedience – how you seemed to get off on it. Or maybe it was just you.

He flashed another smile as he stood from his seat. "Yes, ma'am."

a/n: i may or may not already have a part two idea in mind

#one piece #one piece live action #opla #opla sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #sanji #sanji x reader

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aetherdoesthings · 2 months ago

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HALLOWEEN EVENT

forethoughts: Hey guys! No, I'm not dead, I've been taking a break to work on my mental and physical health. This piece is a part of @edgeray's halloween event! Thank you for letting me join, and for the rest I hope you enjoy and have a happy halloween!

notes: goddess!arlecchino, gn!reader, reader is a child

Thunder boomed around you, the rocky terrain under your feet trembling from the shockwaves. Rain was constantly attacking your body, the heavy downpour making the climb harder to accomplish as you held onto your walking stick, keeping the potato sack close to your heart. Just a few more steps, you told yourself. Just a few more steps. What you were experiencing now was nothing like what your village was experiencing down below. You had to do this. For them. For their safety.

A yelp was ripped out of your throat as your sandals slipped on one of the steps, your chin landing first onto the uneven, sharp surface. You grimaced in pain as your teeth sunk into your gum, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth. Your hand clutched onto the potato sack filled with all your village’s treasures, placing it in the nook of your stomach you created from your fall. Pain trembled through your body, your muscles begging you to give up and go home. No, your mind shot back. You had to do this. You were your village’s only hope. With legs that shivered every second and wanted to collapse, you forced yourself into an awkward crawling position, pressing the potato sack next to your chest as you started your climb again. Left, right, left right, you chanted to yourself. Just a few more steps. The sound of lightning became white noise to your ears, the rain becoming a source of comfort to your sweaty and exhausted body as you got closer to the temple. Sharp pebbles found its way beyond your skin, shattered wood from other offerings penetrating your soles as you trudged up the mountain.

Trudging your feet in front of the other, your body collapsed the moment you stepped foot inside the pristine marble temple with crimson ornate patterns, your body under the protection of the roof. No time. You don’t have time to waste. You told yourself, trekking into the center of the temple, until you faced an altar. The altar was made with the villages’ expert architects and builders, as was the whole temple; Not a single scratch nor dust covered its surfaces. The halls were covered with marble statues and extravagant art commissioned by the church of your village, displaying the images of the patron goddess to your village.

Many had deemed your village to be cursed and unfortunate, for legend had it that your patron goddess would steal the souls of the young and take it for Herself. The legends and stories you heard about the deity was enough to make you sleep with one eye open during your entire childhood. The Goddess that had claimed your island as Hers was a just and righteous one as the church proclaimed, however the toll for safety and protection from Her omnipotence was a heavy one. Plague and disaster always found its way to your island; it was Her who kept it away, in exchange for the souls who had not seen nor explored the world. It was the souls of the pure and innocent She seeked, thus every month you’d watch as priests brought children your age up the same stairs you had gone up and never see them again. The next day the sun would shine and farmers would find bountiful harvests.

Your mind raced with the instructions the church had given you on what to do, taking all the treasure inside the damp potato sack and laying it out on the altar, before sinking to your knees, head touching the ground and hands in front of you. You murmured the prayer the bishops had taught you, clenching your eyes shut and praying for an answer.

“Oh, Arlecchino, patron Goddess of our village, answer my pleas!” You cried out, eyes flying to the ceiling. The temple trembled like an earthquake was shaking the mountain the temple was on, as the ground below the altar started to crack, the rocks falling down into an abyss along with all your treasure. You shuffled your body back, away from the hole in the ground that grew crimson vines on the side.

“Mortal, why have you woken me from my slumber?” The temple shook at the blaring voice, as a dark figure emerged from the hole, two crimson crosses staring at your tiny body. Your parents had told you that the Goddess’ cruelty extended only to the elders and those who had committed atrocities towards the young; there was a soft spot for the innocent the Goddess had. But those were only fantasies you filled your head with as you faced the being that could take your life away in a blink of an eye.

You kept your head to the ground and eyes clenched shut, repeating the words the church leaders had told you. “Goddess, I plead to you, the almighty, that you remove the storm and famine that struck my village and spare everyone. Please take these precious artifacts from our village as an offering.”

Your muscles tightened, bracing yourself to have your soul erased from the world. Instead, your body was soaked in warmth and comfort, all sense of fear and trepidation losing its power over your mind. You naturally allowed yourself to sink into the comfort, reclining back on a soft surface that pulled you away from the cold and hard marble ground. The scabs and scars on your knees and foot healed itself without any traces; a light and warm feeling ignited inside your heart.

“Child, why are you injured?” The voice spoke again, this time with a softer edge and calming tone. Your eyes locked onto the source of the voice, reality finding its way to coexist with the serenity that filled your head. You were lying down on a hand. The hand. The hand of the Goddess that killed your people and brought terror to your village. In front of you was Arlecchino Herself, the Goddess allowing you to see Her face fully. Your jaw fell at the sight of the Goddess’ features, as it was a stark difference from the descriptions of the church and the storybooks.

“Do not be afraid.” Words flowed out of those pink lips, the crimson crosses in Her eyes softening its gleam as She observed your body. She was looking at you. You were in Her hands. Despite your mind trying to remind you that your village was in a crisis and you were their only savior, all you could feel was an overwhelming want of comfort and warmth.

“My village…” You managed to stutter out.

“Has doomed themselves for their wrongdoings against one another and the greater good. Greed and evil has consumed your village, the wickedness filling the hearts of even those in the church. The lust for money and power has consumed your village, even though you cannot see it, my dear child. Your village has doomed itself to fall, consumed with sin. No amount of artifacts nor trinkets can save your village.”

My mind went blank, eyes staring into Hers with my mouth ajar, shoulders slumping. What? No. It can’t be. You grew up with these people. How could they be evil?

“Therefore, their fates have been determined and decided. What they are experiencing now is fated. However… yours has not.”

“...W-What?” You stammered, falling back against her fingers. Within the blink of an eye, the same surging feeling of serenity and warmth trampled your worry and fear for the people whom you grew up with.

“You do not deserve to grow up in a world consumed by evil and sin, with those proclaiming to be just but are hypocrites in the dark. I can take you to a place where no harm or bad things can happen to you, my dear, pure child. This world has been doomed, but rest assured that I will not let this world consume you.”

Your mind couldn’t protest; there was something blocking all the senses to tell your brain something wasn’t right and to stay focused on what you were sent here to do. Your body reclined itself against the palm of Arlecchino, fear and worry slipping away into nothingness. The words that poured out of those lips took away all your control of your own body, your eyes shining with curiosity and wondering, pinned to the Goddess.

“Would you like to see what that world may be? All your friends are there. Past, present, and future.” Arlecchino asked, Her lips curling upwards as She brought you closer to her gaze.

Your lips parted, head nodding as a single breath escaped your lips. Your brain couldn’t even comprehend your surroundings and give a reaction accordingly; your mouth moved on a foreign command. In an instant, a familiar feeling of warmth flooded your body. It wasn’t uncomfortable, nor painful. Rather, it felt like the flames fueled by care and comfort, the flames that kept you warm during the harsh winters, not the flames that you saw the elders use to burn those at the stake. But the sight of seeing flesh burning alive was scorched the moment your mind conjured it, and was the other memories you had that once brought you pain.

One moment, you were scrambling up a mountain in the pouring rain and thunder with bruises and scratches on your skin. The next, you were standing in a luscious grass field, the sounds of other children your age laughing grabbing your attention, eager to join them on their fun. A house stood a few yards ahead of you, ornate with vines, the walls made with marble chiseled to perfection. All you wanted to do was play; the concept of worry and fear left your mind.

“Ah, a new arrival.” You looked up. A woman stood before you, a kind and warm smile on her face as she bent down to your eye level. She had white hair that was tied into a ponytail behind her head, crimson crosses in her eyes that only shined with warmth. You thought you saw her before, somewhere, but you didn’t feel like thinking.

“Fret not, nothing will harm you. You may call me Father.” Father picked you up, as you instinctively snuggled against the woman. “Welcome to the House of the Hearth. May your stay be filled with warmth and joy.”

#genshin impact #arlecchino #arlecchino genshin #platonic #aetherwrites #arlecchino x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

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Break-In 3

Character: God the Bounty Hunter

Warnings: this drabble includes elements which may be dark. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+. Please reblog and leave some feedback.

A day off is exactly what you need. Still, your internal clock doesn’t register the break. You wake up at the same time, make your coffee, and contemplate the meaning of life. When the single-serve finishes its churning, you claim your mug and yawn over the brim, blowing away the wisp of steam.

You cross your apartment, the air stuffy with the damp spring evening melding into the warmth of the rising sun. You go to the balcony door and watch the haze of orange behind the cityscape as the dark blue ripples to shades of cerulean. As you let yourself out onto the narrow balcony, you find your way impeded.

Your coffee splashes over the top of the cup and splats onto the figure slumped across the concrete. You sigh and take a sip. The man always shows up when you’re in dire need of caffeine. You look down at him, perplexed at what to do next. He’s too big for you to move on your own and you have the humanity to wonder why he’s passed out.

“Ughhhhhhh,” the catlike intruder groans as he rolls onto his back and you flinch, nearly spilling more upon him.

“Hi,” you peer down dumbly.

His blue eyes flit side to side then angle to the glimpse of the sky beneath the next floor’s balcony. He lets out a deep breath as his brows furrow and ripples line his forehead, “morning.”

Is he saying good morning or is he stating the time? For as little as he’s ever said to you, you’re not certain. You sniff and let it out in a heave.

“Are you hurt?” You ask, giving in.

“I am wounded,” he answers and grits his teeth.

You nod. That doesn’t really help either of you.

“Can you move?”

He grimaces and plants his hands beside him. He pushes himself up with a growl and leans heavily forward. He’s panting from the effort. Shoot.

“Yes,” he puffs.

“Got it,” you cluck.

You back up and reach to set your mug on the ledge that stands under the rows of windows looking out over the balcony. You keep the door open with your foot and come back out. He hugs his stomach as he rubs his bruised temple.

“Do you need help?”

He shakes his head and shifts, reaching for the railing. He hauls himself up with a suppressed grunt and hunches before he can stand straight. His eyes meet yours as he faces you, dragging his foot as he limps forward.

“Concussion, bruised ribs,” he hobbles closer, “foot might be fractured.”

His diagnosis is cool and detached. As if it isn’t his own body. You step back out of the way and he enters the dark apartment. Only the kitchen light and the slowly blooming sunrise glow in the space. He staggers onward and you claim your mug. You’ll wait until you see the bottom to figure this out.

As he falls onto your couch, you go into the kitchen. He sits with his head tilted back and takes straggling breaths through his nose. You take out a second mug, a pod, and tap the brew button. You languish in the tension as you wait for the long grind.

You continue to nurse your own coffee as you bring his out and place it on the square table beside the armrest. He rumbles as he opens his eyes. His pupils are dark pits.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

“Mm,” you push your tip against your teeth, “you know, I’m not too good with blood so...”

“Coffee’s fine,” he sits forward and stymies another groan. He grabs the mug and drinks, sighing in relief. “You got a bed sheet I can ruin?”

You consider him. This is strange. You’ve just accepted that he’s going to come and crash on your couch and there’s nothing you can do about it. Why? It’s probably that knife. He hasn’t hurt you and you don’t want that to change.

“Sure,” you agree with a shrug.

He takes another sip and brings his other hand up to feel the heat through the porcelain. He focuses on the mug and you back up. He isn’t even asking you to help, you just assumed. As you go to grab an old sheet out of the linen chest, you can’t help but wonder what happened to him. You don’t think he’ll be any more chatty about that than anything else.

#god the bounty hunter #break-in #drabble #series #ghosted #dark god the bounty hunter #dark!god the bounty hunter #god the bounty hunter x reader

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aclowntiny · 1 year ago

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Meeting Pirate!Ateez (Female Reader)

This is an old request I'm so sorry OMG! But thank you @matzbear for giving me inspiration to get (semi) historical 🏴‍☠️😁 I GOT SO CARRIED AWAY HELP 💀😂

Warnings: hints of violence/death mentions, fire in one, suggestive at times, depiction of poverty/homelessness in one, LONG POST! lmao the way I’d write a part 2 to this at the drop of a (pirate) hat

☠ Hongjoong ☠

He smirked as he strode into the tavern, satisfied, evidently. Even if you had yet to see the wanted posters, shivering in anticipation-and maybe even something else-at even the depiction’s intense stare, you would have been able to recognize the man as a pirate. It was the way he walked, tilted slightly, legs used to a sailing surface. The confidence with which he moved, swagger suggesting he’d gained control of many a situation and lived to tell about it to anyone who’d listen. The long, roguish coat swirling at his booted feet, the single hoop earring dangling from his left ear, ruby stud adorning the right. Cutlass at his hip.

Outlawed, this man was. Bountied by the crown for what they claimed egregious theft, an epithet you found laughable. They got their knickers twisted over art, artifacts, riches they had stolen from countless around the world. Thieves righting the work of thieves, that was the crew they called the Eightfold.

And the man seating himself boldly before you was the captain. Kim Hongjoong, according to the posters. A face more beautiful than criminal, he glanced around the room with a look of anticipation. Waiting on the rest of his crew, you imagined. Your tavern was one of few that turned a blind eye to piracy, so it was a safe bet the other seven would arrive.

As it was, you made your way to Hongjoong’s table. “A drink while you wait?”

His eyes slid over to you, smile spreading across his face as they met yours- for all the talk, all the images, he looked upon you kindly. “That would be great, thank you, Madam. Nothing too strong, just a light ale if you have it.”

You liked the way he called you Madam. Liked it very much, in fact. “I do indeed. If I was running a tavern without ale, we would be in trouble, wouldn’t we?” You teased, heading back to the bar to grab and fill one of the pewter tankards lined atop the wood.

Foam rose rapidly to the top as you carried it over, setting it gingerly in front of the captain, who fixed you with another look.

“You knew I was waiting for someone,” he said.

You nodded. “The other seven are on their way, I imagine,” you replied matter-of-factly.

Hongjoong grinned, message well-received. “I love this place.”

“I try,” you answer with a smirk, “there is fresh bread in the oven and meat on the stove for when the crew lands.”

He raised his tankard, intense eyes positively glinting in the firelight. “You’re a goddess!” He called out before taking a sip, honeyed words sliding right to the core of your chest.

Smoke choked your lungs, wracking your chest with coughs. With a massive crack, a beam crashed from your tavern’s ceiling behind you, sending you jumping as you pulled your shawl tighter over your face. The torch had almost struck you, but thank the stars, it missed your skirt, leaving your clothing and skin intact for the time being. The heat was closing in on you, though, as panic shot through your steadily pumping limbs.

All you could think of was your next motion, of escape, even as laughter rang out. They’d taken everything from you.

Pirates, the lot of them. Not the Eightfold, but a band of sorry thieves that killed without reason or care. The kind who kept every cent of it, that should have been wanted by the crown, but they pillaged ordinary villages, not crown jewels. Their goal was a slow domination of your country, your home and business their latest target.

Another beam fell, this time closer, and you jumped, arms flailing uselessly above your head in a weak defense. Unlike the torch, this one did connect with your dress. Sweating beneath your layers, you strained, trying fecklessly to free your hem from the fallen, burning wood. For the first time, you risked the shooting pain to your chest to scream for help, scream for someone in your desperation. The fabric of your dress strained also, not giving yet but threatening to rip as your body heaved, almost falling to the wood planks that once rang out with dancing boots. Tears streamed down your face at the mere thought, a sob escaping you with a heavy breath.

But then, you heard it: a voice. “They didn’t.”

You didn’t bother a direct answer. “Help! Help, please,” you called out, voice weak and vision blackening.

And that had been the last you remembered until you woke up in an unfamiliar room, the floor rocking beneath you and a hand closed around your wrist, feeling your pulse as your eyelids fluttered open.

“I knew you’d make it. You’re a goddess.”

You didn’t even have to see clearly to know the voice’s owner was none other than Hongjoong, the pirate captain you’d served numerous times. The one who always threw troublemakers out for you, especially the ones that tried carousing with you. There were times you’d even suspected you’d seen him pull out a knife once he got outside with them, assuring you upon his return you’d never be troubled again, but you could never be sure. You smiled weakly, but your eyes sought a window, the motions feeling awfully like…

“We are still docked. I would hardly whisk you off to sea yet,” he chuckled, the sound a bit uncertain, “Please, please Madam (y/n), stay still.”

Everything you knew had changed in the blink of an eye, but one thing was certain, it hit you as you sat up, coughing and feeling a rasping burn in your fluttering chest: whether by debt or by initiation you would see, but your life was now inexplicably bound to the Eightfold.

☠ Seonghwa ☠

The market was bustling, shoulders knocking yours almost every moment. Flutes and fiddles filled the air from performers hoping for a coin, and the scent of sea breeze wafted through the sunny air. Shouldering your sack, you wound between a fishmonger’s table and a farmer’s honey, wandering closer to the woodworkers and painters.

That day, you were not seeking the necessities, rather preferring something fanciful, indulging the brushes of your fingers over blown glass and thickly-spread paint. A woman’s weaving caught your eye, cords tied into ceiling hangings and finely shaped tapestries of interlaced color. But somehow, there among it all, your eyes fell upon a man with an inkwell.

He sat alone, at a table too small to really be selling much, quill moving deftly, carefully. His dark eyes never moved once from the parchment he bent over, revealing a handsome, serene profile.

“What are you drawing?” You asked, stepping carefully to his side.

Flinching, the man moved his arms to hover over the parchment, his eyes finally leaving it to meet yours widely. “Why?”

You stepped away slightly, taken aback by the startlement in the man’s sparkling eyes. Your hand drifted to your chest and back out as if unsure what to do. “You just looked so focused, that was all. I meant no offense, truly.” Bowing your head, you made to leave again, but his voice beckoned you back.

“It’s a map,” he said, raising his spread arms back from his work.

Gazing over the parchment, you found a detailed representation of your town’s coastline, down even to the groves of trees, all rendered in thin ink swirls quite gorgeous to your eyes.

So many words rose to the front of your brain, then died at your lips. “You are…not from here, then?”

“No,” he shook his head, smiling sadly, “this is only a stop. At least for now. The map will help us remember our way back.”

“So you’re sailing,” your eyes lit up as you gushed, bringing an eager smile to the cartographer’s face, too, “oh, the beauty you must see! How I’ve dreamed of the works of faraway lands, the amazing art!”

“You sound like my captain,” he chuckled, “quite an art lover as well. His vow is to contribute somehow every place we go.”

“That is wonderful,” you continued, a hand resting on the table near the map, “but be warned: I have heard talk of the Eightfold approaching our waters. That their skeleton crew drifts into towns, pillaging, even killing!”

The man’s smile fell into something more thoughtful as he lowered his quill at last, tilting his head as his gaze fixed you. “What if I told you the truth was more complicated than a townsfolk tale? Perhaps not even so bad?”

“What would a man like you know of pirates?” You gaped at the gentle artist. “Unless…you are one of them! Someone like you, and yet you stand with the Eight?”

“I do, and I shall until death.” He rose from his seat, voice dropping lower, tone intent as he stiffened, bracing himself for the descent of his words. “Park Seonghwa, First Mate of the Eight at your service. I think my captain would like to speak with you.”

You gasped, stepping back from the table. “With me? Forgive me, I am but an apprentice. Surely you want my master, or-”

Seonghwa’s eyes saddened slightly. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but the secret is out. Our faces are being plastered around town squares as we speak. It would hardly be safe for either of us if I let you return to town now.”

Your face fell. This elegant man was taking you as a pirate’s hostage? “But- But I- The market,” your words flopped hastily, clumsily out like freshly netted fish upon a deck. As if the market was your greatest concern.

“I know,” the man whispered, soothing tone of his voice almost infuriatingly calm, “have you a handkerchief, by chance?”

“Why?” You bit out.

“If you have one, let me see it.” He didn’t sound angry, in fact this adoptive tone was more akin to that of a disappointed parent.

Sighing, you reached into a fold in your sack, handing off a wad of cloth. Tying it over half his face, Seonghwa motioned out to the stalls you’d just wandered. “As long as nobody questions me, ask it and it is yours. That is the least I can do.”

“You’re going to rob this whole-”

“Buy you what you want before we go,” you heard him chuckle beneath his makeshift veil, “I don’t do it often, but I will remind you that I am in something of a lucrative business. Have you seen the blown-glass figurines yet?”

Something about the upward tilt of his tone clued you in- he was just as excited as you were. Perhaps he’s been looking for an excuse to do more than carry out orders. Shaking your head, you moved back to his side. Telling yourself you were only doing it because the man was likely armed, you agreed to go shopping with the first mate of one of the most famed, feared pirate crews in the seven seas.

He bought you each five little glass animals before ushering you onto his ship, one of which contained a silvery effect because that was his favorite color. Maybe you really did need to learn the truth behind the tales.

☠ Yunho ☠

The sky was bluer than the sea that day. Shifting your grip on your parasol, you made your leisurely way down the wooden steps, careful not to step on your skirts. The beach was your happy place, the spot you sought to quiet unwelcome thoughts beneath the roar of waves.

Inheritance was not supposed to be so lonely. Being the only heir to a fortune was the dream of many, but you’d have far preferred not being the final member of your family, the only one alive to receive the estate. Take all the fine furniture, every painting on your walls, if you could give back your loneliness in exchange. Certainly you’d receive marriage proposals soon enough once the word got out, but why would anyone marry a suitor who only sought your hand for the money they thought it held? Would marriage to a stranger not be simply a small plaster over a larger, bloodier wound? You wanted nothing more than to fall in love, but until then solitude was the finest, nay, the only, solution.

Instead of dwelling on it, you tried to use your newfound fortunes for good and calmed those thoughts that flitted like troublesome mosquitoes at the sea’s edge.

The wind whipped about your head, whistling in your ears as your bare feet fell upon warm, dry sand, ground shifting beneath their gentle weight. Taking step after step further, uncaring of the grains sticking to your feet and clinging to the hem of your skirt, you soon approached the powerful waters. It was low tide. Small waves formed wide crests some distance out from where you stood just out of the water’s reach. Stooping, you picked up a sand dollar, rubbing rough sand off between your fingers. It would go in your shell jar with other pretty seaside offerings.

The sea kept you company, dulling your desire for a conversational partner. Restlessness took over your feet, carrying you toward a gathering of rocks near the raised hills. As a child, you loved squeezing into little hollows and pretending you’d found a new home.

Nostalgia propelled you toward the hill, where you found your lips parting in surprise. A hollow you had found, yet this one looked quite a bit deeper than a divot to crouch in. This was truly a cave.

It was dim, curtained with dangling dried seaweed you timidly parted with the back of your hand, heartbeat picking up as you realized you could have stumbled upon a makeshift home on the sea built beneath the hilltop houses.

You jumped as your foot struck something cold, lifting it at once with aversion before you realized it wasn’t wet, it was…gold?

Gold coins covered the cave floor as if sprayed upon it. Kicking them aside, you squinted into the dim space, moving toward the rocky edge and sliding along that wall toward the center. There, a chest sat, a padlocked box opened to overflow with riches like in every tale of pirates you’d heard.

Your next breath was interrupted by a hand clapping across your mouth, suppressing your shout of alarm. The cold steel of a knife’s edge rested against your throat. Straining, you fought to sink your teeth into the large hand, which released your lips and whirled you around as your body struggled against your captor’s.

“Wait, you’re a woman?”

Your captor was tall, younger than you’d have imagined- near your age, it seemed. His wide-eyed expression was surprisingly innocent for one pressing a blade to your jugular. Clad in a loose-sleeved, open black tunic, high boots, and a much larger blade sheathed at his side, it was little wonder what you’ve stumbled upon.

This was the hiding place of a pirate.

“Yes, I am,” you whispered, fear rising as heat to your face with each small motion of your neck, “why? What do you want with me?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted, deflating slightly, “what brings you here?”

“I- I used to like pretending to explore caves as a child.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Let me go and I leave. I return home and never speak a word. I wish no further fortune. Please,” you begged.

The pirate lowered his knife, a different look in his eyes. Sympathy? Calculation? Then, it fell in favor of a smile.

“That is refreshing. Your…your husband is waiting, isn’t he?”

You shook your head. “I have none. Who but a lonely fool would go running off into a cave?” You joked weakly, a hand waving at the dim expanse. “Truly, I want no trouble. Just admiring the sea.”

“I understand,” the pirate replied, look softening still, “guilty myself, quite frequently. Come, let us leave this hole, huh?”

Not that you had any choice, you thought grimly, glancing one more time at the pair of sheathed blades the man carried as you stepped carefully back out of the rocky hollow and into the sun. With a breath of relief, you looked out upon the calm blue-grey waves again.

“I love looking at the clouds, too,” the pirate told you, pointing a surprisingly fair hand, one which bore a single silver ring upon the little finger, at one fat shape drifting across the sky, “like that one there. Reminds me of a snail!”

Reminds me of a snail? However you thought pirates behaved, this was not it. You chanced another laugh and the man smiled.

“What?” He fixed you with a smile of surprise.

“Not what I expected, that is all.”

“I’m sorry about the knife. That chest, we- This land is very affluent. My friend’s hometown? They have nothing. These riches could rebuild the whole thing from the ground up.”

“Oh, is that what pirates do?” You asked with an arch of your brow and a sardonic smile.

Guilt flashed across the tall man’s face, then steel returned to his eyes. “Not all of it, no. You would not believe what happens unpunished on other shores, though.”

“And you give that to them?” You asked.

“Sometimes,” he nodded, “and that is why I need the comfort of the sea, of my companions at my side. The sea quiets many a memory.”

“I understand that,” you reply, “perhaps both of us are lonely fools, then.”

“You needn’t be,” he shrugged, glancing out along the water again, “care to take a walk? I suppose I owe you.”

“All you pirates deal in is favors,” you tutted, but you still followed him.

You strolled in oddly comfortable silence for some time, feet caked then with sand they sunk into every time the man stooped, plucking something from the sand he never revealed. He looked down at his hands a great deal, occasionally nodding at fallen jellyfish or clouds to show you and once bursting into a run, chasing a squawking seagull and bringing another smile to your lips. You two had entered the shallow edge of the sea, feet submerged and rocks housing the cave were specks on your eyes’ horizon when he finally held out his busy hands. Dangling from them was a string of dainty orange shells. Your head tilted in surprise, you extended your right wrist when he nodded at it, letting him fasten the shells there. This time, his grin was wide, childlike, and he was a new man.

“So,” he asked proudly, “are we even now?”

“For threatening my life? Not yet,” you replied, shaking your head, “not until I meet the whole crew.”

Baffled, the pirate spoke again. “You seek an audience with my captain and crew?”

You crossed your arms, stealing his prior look of victory with pride lifting your chest. “Do you want a safe house on these waters or not?”

☠ Yeosang ☠

“Well, what say you, handsome?”

The man in question’s eyes bugged, tavern torchlight reflected in the shine of their deep irises. “What say me?”

“Yes, you,” you teased, a hand raising to rest on his shoulder, “care for a dance or not? If no, well, I suppose I-”

“I do,” he blurted out, glancing at your hand, “I definitely do. Let us dance.”

And as if he were a different man he stood up from the stone bench and took you in his arms, holding you like you were made of glass and yet turning you effortlessly in time with the crowd’s other couples.

You’d been sat across from him, sipping your drink and listening to him tell a stupid joke about two fish when you decided you had to be his. Something about the dreamy smile, the way he said he wrote a few poems out at sea, the way he was the last to laugh in the little group and how his eyes so clearly lit up with late recognition. So you’d asked him to dance, not even knowing he’d been blessed with that, too.

Soon the raucous tune was melting into a softer shanty, something begging for a slower sway, and you took the opportunity to slide the man’s hands about your waist.

“The moon is full. Why are you not sailing?” You asked him.

“We have business in town here.”

You quirked a brow, head jerking towards the group of three men he’d been sat with. “Like singing and drinking?”

“You may not see it, but I am conducting it.” He smiled cheekily.

“Much like writing your poems, I imagine,” you replied, “it is always on your mind.”

He nodded, then burst into a giggle, eyes falling from yours. “Something like that. And what fine work do you find yourself in?”

“Me? I am a jeweler’s daughter. Unconventional, perhaps, but I am learning the trade.”

“Good at identifying stones, then? And putting all the pieces together? Not to mention the beautiful designs- a valuable skill set indeed,” your dance partner flushed, pulling you that much closer, and something in it sent an ache through your beating heart.

“Thank you,” your eyelashes fluttered, “I try. Say, shall we go where we can see the stars?”

Your bodies stilled, the man nodding and taking your arm, leading you out to the surprisingly solitary patio. As you tapped across the wood, you saw him stealing glances, lips breaking into a wide, involuntary smile.

“Beautiful, just beautiful.” He glanced very fleetingly between the sky and you, as if your chest hadn’t turned enough somersaults for one evening.

You told him your name. He told you his- Yeosang, it was. And that, that and the way he muttered about his favorite constellation being visible, was enough. The two of you had stood about peering widely into each other’s eyes, frozen, waiting on a word- a word you had no need for. Surging forward like the waves you could hear crashing on the shore below, you cupped Yeosang’s cheeks, pulling his lips into yours and smiling at the hum of surprise he gave into the kiss before responding.

Soon, your tongues had resumed the night’s prior dance, each of you pulling back just enough to get a breath in, never daring end the kiss. His lips were soft, never once challenging yours, just savoring the feeling of them, the taste mingled with the salty breeze as he clutched your waist for dear life.

Finally, though, you parted, lips swollen and smiling as you stared into those wide eyes, his hands still resting firmly on you.

“Wow. And here I thought pickpocketing a solid gold watch was my highlight for the evening,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “but I’d turn on my heel and give it back if it meant you’d run off, come with me.”

This time, it was your eyes that bugged, forgetting briefly the starlight reflected in his. “You’re a thief?”

“A pirate,” he corrected, “one who loves shiny things as much as you, I daresay.”

“Ah,” you laughed the shock away, “now I see why my skills are so valuable.”

“I appreciate the craftsmanship too!” He shot back indignantly, hand that wasn’t on your waist rising to rest above his heart. “For pirates, we all love beautiful things, us eight. Building them, taking them apart, sharing them, stealing them. You would be a natural. And even if you weren't I would have you anyway. So, what say you?”

☠ San ☠

Inhaling deeply, you breathed in the warm, comforting aroma of the stew being ladled into the bowl you held out, barely suppressing a sigh. Thanks fell from your lips again and again, yet the old woman just smiled.

“You remind me of my daughter when she was your age. Can you tell me what happened? If you wish it, if you wish not to speak of it, I understand.”

Shaking your head as you took a spoonful of stew, its warmth radiating through you, you spike when you were ready. “I was orphaned some years ago. My family’s landlord had no pity on a young girl, so my meager income was not nearly enough to satisfy him.”

In your hometown, you’d been known as the shoe-shine girl, for that was how you made your money. But years of your former neighbors, people who knew your name and acted as friends, barely doing more to help you than dropping a coin in passing ached nearly worse than homelessness or hunger. A lot of the help came as just enough for them to feel better.

So you found a town with a boardinghouse welcoming enough to let you stay, your first night there heaven as you fell upon a feathered mattress for the first time in what felt like an aeon. Your new home’s proprietor even prepared you a hot meal, and it took everything you had not to yank her into an embrace. No one had hugged you in so long- not that you’d entirely blame them. This was your first day with a full bath in quite some time, too.

After you told the landlady this, she nodded, and without speaking pulled you into her arms just like you’d imagined. Leaning into the warm embrace, you smiled, energized for the first time in quite a while.

You’d shined three pairs of shoes when he sat down. The sound of boots hitting the plank of your makeshift seat alerted you to another presence as you prepared a new rag. As soon as you turned around the man smiled, and you were taken by how handsome he was. Around your age, the man had sharp features, but the kindest face to greet you upon traveling beside your landlady’s. Black hair fell upon his forehead and his dark eyes lit up when you met them. His clothes were nothing formal, in fact you took him to be a worker despite his regal features and the elegant, sweeping bow he gave you from his seated position. Maybe a docker, judging by the muscle his tucked, sleeveless white tunic revealed.

“Might I shine?”

“I daresay you already do,” you replied with a smile, pleased at the flush of his face- did he not receive many compliments? “Few in this area have been so polite or kind to me.”

His mouth fell open in genuine shock. “Even the townsfolk?”

“This one has proven more friendly than my former home,” you replied as you began working on his boots, alternating between looking up to meet the man’s eyes and cleaning the leather as best as you could.

“The people seem good here,” the man agreed, “fair.”

Smiling at the way he glanced at you with the final word, you found yourself torn between drawing out your work and giving the man the most efficient shining you could. He distracted you from your duties enough, pointing out birds that flew overhead and gleefully calling a cat over to stroke while you worked, making sure you took a break to pet her, too. He told you stories of the sea, too- a sailor, it seemed, not just a docker. It made you long for the glittering expanse yourself, the sound of the waves even louder than it could be heard a bit inland at town’s center. The sight of water lapping upon wood, your hands dangling down to greet it, you could almost see it as your customer spoke and scrawled with charcoal on a little pad.

In the shine of it all, the glow of all the kindness you’d suddenly come to enjoy in a day, you forgot to push your coin hat forward when he left, but caught the glint if him dropping something into it regardless as he left, shaking your hand warmly. It was as if life was making up for lost time, apologizing for your wanderings. Good things coming to those who waited.

After watching your latest customer’s trim figure disappear around the corner, sparing you one more glance and wave that fluttered your heart, you turned around, picking up the old hat of your father’s off the cobblestone to peer inside.

Your jaw dropped. Rather than coin, the sailor had placed within the battered band the most gorgeous necklace you had ever laid eyes upon. Dripping with soft pink and yellow topaz, the gold chain sparkled in your hand. The number of gems shocked you, too- its wearer’s neck would be entirely ringed with the oval-cut gems, the largest of which hung on the bottom row. You began rising, ready to chase after the man and tell him you couldn’t accept something like that. How on Earth could a simple sailor even afford something like-

A torn piece of parchment tumbled into your lap, bouncing of your unfolding knee as you stood. Holding the necklace gingerly with your left hand, you smoothed it and picked it up from the ground between your thumb and forefinger. As you walked, hat and necklace clutched tightly in hand, you scanned the note.

‘Miss (y/n),

The way your eyes lit up when I spoke of the sea sparked hope in me- hope for you, hope for the people of this town. Even more now do I wish to give back to them. If you care not to join me and my crew, I will still smile at your beautiful memory, hoping to be met with it again someday. And of course that my gift has helped you earn your deserved lot (though it would look very nice too!).

Fondly,

Choi San (don’t tell anyone this though on account of the wanted thing- I trust the shoe shine girl!)’

Rounding a corner, you picked up speed, taking your skirt in hand and feeling a flood of relief that the lane was not crowded. Soles thudded against stone as you wound past the baker’s stall, catching a glimpse of black hair and white tunic. As if playing a child’s game, you tapped his shoulder as he caught up, relishing in his jump of shock as it melted into a smile. Words failed you as his head tilted, ready to listen; all you could do was hold up the note, nodding.

☠ Mingi ☠

The moment the sound of the windows shattering pierced you, you were on your feet, scurrying towards the nearest doorway. Clanging metal and gunshots rang out behind you as you crawled as close to the ground as you could.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” a deep voice rang out from behind you.

With a shudder, you turned around, seeing a tall, hatted silhouette surrounded by the chandeliers’ light. “You don’t?” You asked, shuffling to a half-seated position, legs folded at your side.

“These people aren’t your friends, are they?

“What makes you say that?” You shot back, arms crossing defiantly in spite of the way your eyes avoided the pistols slung at each of the man’s hips.

“You were willing to leave them for dead,” he chuckled, “you were only interested in saving yourself. Something about that told me these people haven’t exactly shown you much kindness.”

Posture softening, you sighed. “You are, unfortunately, correct. I’m all but being sold into a marriage to a man who’s been nothing but horrible to me.”

The man in the hat glanced beyond the counter you’d been ducked behind. “Er, fellow with a purple jacket? Ponytail?”

You nodded.

“I suspect you will no longer have to marry him. Will you show me up to this house’s main chambers?”

“I will,” you nodded again, wondering if you had much of a choice, “but what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re free,” the man stepped forward once more, this time revealing the kindest smile you’d seen in a long time. Quite a contrast to the guns. “Free, just like me.” He extends a hand, helps you up. “You could even join us on the ship if you find no happiness here.”

As you left the room, making for the stairs, you glanced down at the stiff, fine clothes you hated being yanked into every day. Clothes someone else’s money bought to fabricate a standing, a life for you. You were silent as the tall man, grinning like a charming, eager young boy, shot the lock out of the estate owners’ vault, and filled a sack with jewels.

“What do you want?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He waved his revolver over an array of fine rings, necklaces, bracelets, furs. “I offer you your pick. Even if it is to be your last, this is your first plunder, isn’t it? We always keep a sign of it.”

Eyes drifting across the glittering spoils, one standing out to you immediately, your hand darted out with speed surprising even to you. An onyx seal ring, the shining black surface stamped with the crest of the family you would now never join. You strung it on a chain and fastened it around your neck.

As you looked up to the hatted stranger, your eyes hardened. “I’ll join you on the trip, pirate.”

The pirate with the pistols grinned at you proudly, though a good percentage of it seemed to be self-satisfaction, that he knew you would. “On one condition.”

Your fingers curled into a fist instinctively, used to strings being tied around your actions. “What?”

And then the smirk melted back to the boyish smile as he patted your shoulder gently, reassuringly. “Call me Mingi.”

And as he led you out of the foyer, trying his best to distract you from the handful of bodies laying about the room with sea stories, somehow all you could feel was your numbness fading away, turning to excitement.

☠ Wooyoung ☠

“Hey, now what is a beauty like you doing in a place like this?”

Your eyes practically got sprains from how hard they rolled. As if such words had not been spit at you five times already that very evening. Badly as you wanted to ignore the man, you were serving him. In title of vocation only.

Swiveling on your heels, you bit out, “Making the best bit of coin I can without selling myself.”

At that, the man winced, black hair flowing back as his head bowed slightly. You smirked. Half the men that came through the tavern were all bark, no bite, and that was fine by you. You had enough bite for two after a few years there. Several bruised patrons would have been able to attest to that.

“You’re trying to survive too, aren’t you?” His voice, boisterous moments before, softened to just above a whisper.

Eyeing him suspiciously, you remained where you stood, tugging up the far-too-open-for-your-liking bodice of your dress. “What do you mean?”

“That this world isn’t kind to orphans and outcasts,” he shrugged, running a hand through his hair. He was handsome in a roguish sort of way- clearly not high society, you could tell that much. But you’d have been able to say the same for any clientele of a tavern such as that which employed you. “You are far too beautiful to be cast to the fringes. You should be sailing the high seas, your name inspiring fear, terror, and arou- er, well, anyway, you do not deserve this drudgery.”

You crossed your arms, but leaned closer to where he reclined, boots on the table. “And what would you have me do? Risk whatever the ruffians on the nearest pirate ship would do to a woman?”

He shook his head. “You have that wrong, my dear. Have you hear no tales of the pirate queens? We have much greater respect for women than you’ll find here.”

“Cute words for the man whose first line was the cheapest flirt I’ve ever heard,” you countered.

“I’ll get you a sword as sharp as your words,” he shot back, leaning closer, your noses almost touching. You could feel his breath on your face.

He didn’t back down, so you didn’t either, eyes steeling further.

“I can’t believe you are not a pirate already,” he chuckled, smiling widely, giddily, as he leaned back again, “if you join us, you can smack around all the deserving scoundrels you want. Like those horrible officers you put in their place earlier.”

You’d seen them grab women and throw innocents in their carriage enough times, not to mention not tipping you. Trying their old routine on your coworker was the final straw, and you knew just how to make a tipped tray look like an accident. So did the young, roguish pirate that grinned from your table, apparently. You couldn’t help a proud smirk, one he gladly returned.

Your fingers twitched. The part of you that had been on edge for so long, tired of being grabbed by rowdy patrons and ordered around, wanted nothing more than to land a solid punch upon this man, and yet your heart fluttered with excitement. Perhaps your fighting spirit was in need of a vessel. Seafaring pun intended.

“You take me to your ship tonight,” you told the man, “and I speak to your captain. Anything goes wrong, I will not hesitate to make the seas run red.”

“Oh, I doubt it not,” the man purred, leaning his elbow on the table, chin upon a gloved hand, “well, to celebrate, how’s about a dance?”

Curse the fool, you loved dancing. Well, at least he looked quite fit for it, you reflected as he stood up, movements graceful as he took your hand and whirled you off toward the tavern’s music. And judging by his earnest smile, the pirate loved it as much as you did. He spun you dizzy until you couldn’t help but laugh.

“There we go, now we’re smiling! Can I have a name, then, or do we save that for the captain?”

“Only if you tell me yours,” you chuckled, grip on his firm shoulder tightening a bit when you careened close to an open stool.

“Wooyoung. I sail with the Eightfold- though perhaps we have room for a ninth after all.”

“Don’t push it,” you told him, but the smile you shared as you bobbed about the room said otherwise.

☠Jongho☠

Fortuitous had your father's connections become, it was said, that you had been invited to such a ball. Couples danced in sweeping circles, women's skirts opening like blooming flowers as they whirled around, and you hoped to join them soon. A new dress had even been purchased for the occasion, so you were decked out in a winsome cut of your favorite color as you crossed the glittering ballroom with your drink.

Your opportunity came in the form of a young man you had never seen before approaching you, serious expression melting into a small, handsome smile as he carefully extended a hand, asking if you'd like to dance.

"Certainly," you agreed, and as he led you to the floor you couldn't help staring into the allure of his deep brown eyes.

His hands held you firmly as you waltzed a few songs through, his expression careful and calm as you eventually introduced yourself, asking his name in return.

"Choi Jongho," he replied quietly, as if it were a secret. You hadn’t heard it before, you were certain.

"Well, it truly is a pleasure. Is this your first of such occasions?"

"It is."

You lit up. "Mine too! And who are you acquainted with here-”

A loud smashing of wood resounded behind you, killing your sentence on your lips as you cried out in alarm. Turning you away from the sound, Jongho kept a hand on your shoulder, scanning the room with such calm on his face, you could hardly help but wonder if he expected destruction wherever he went. Leaning into the warm point of contact, you watched awestruck as he launched into the ballroom, meeting a blow by another far more roughly dressed man.

Your hands flew to your face as your dance partner landed a punch himself, the other man attempting to shove him into the drink table in retaliation. He stood his ground, though, as couples scurried across the dance floor, some screaming and some simply muttering indignance, thinking them drunkards. You watched as Jongho lifted the ruffian like he was but a sack of flour, flipping him onto his back and pinning him beneath the heel of his shoe.

“You think I had no cover? The others had you running, it seems,” he shook his head, expression still as if it was a casual conversation, “fight with honor next time. This is our bounty.”

Wide-eyed, you watched as Jongho stood the man up, wiping off the front of his dirty tunic, and hauled him out the door. Half his words were lost upon your ears, but you couldn’t help flushing a bit at his strength. You gaped as he made his way back over to you, bowing his head in apology.

“I am sorry you had to see that,” he told you, smiling earnestly, looking only slightly ruffled for the first time as several ball-goers crowded him, shaking his hand in thanks.

“You have no reason to be, that was amazing!” You gushed, laughingly pulling him free of the crowd to sit at a table. “It was like you knew that man would come crashing in! In fact, it was almost as if…you knew each other.” Your eyes narrowed.

Talks of thieves had drifted through the city of late. Robberies during a dinner or ball, right under the cover of pandemonium. Had that fight been staged?

Jongho sighed. “I was hoping you hadn’t heard that. Believe me or not, that man was no one I care to associate with. Murderous thieves, all they want is gold to line their pockets.”

You frowned slightly, tugging on the sleeve of your fine gown as you searched his eyes. “And you and your…others? What do they want if not that, then? What is your bounty?”

“I won’t lie to you- we steal,” Jongho replied bluntly, straightening his jacket as well, “have you heard the tale of Robin Hood? Think of our crew as the Merry Men, then.”

Cocking a brow, you stepped back and forth. “Robbing the rich to give to the poor?”

Jongho nodded. “The aristocracy has gotten out of hand. Er, no offense.”

“None taken. I am only here for a rare bit of fun. Call my family middle class,” you answered, biting your lip as you processed your dance partner’s admission, catching his stately reflection in one of the estate walls’ looking glasses, “though we are working our way up. Station is the only way to succeed in this world, after all.”

“We want to change that,” Jongho shot back, crossing his arms, gaze lighting as a newly-oiled lamp.

“I cannot blame you. My only task in this world is to marry well and hope I enjoy it. These balls are quite nice, though.”

Jongho snickered at your words before his gaze softened again. “And are you enjoying it?”

“I have no suitors,” you replied, “dancing tonight was my opportunity. All I could hope for was to fall in love tonight.”

“Well, sorry I derailed that. I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

Your chest sunk as he started to walk away, though, every tap of his shoes against marble echoing louder even than the orchestra to you. Without thinking, you reached out, catching his elbow. “No.”

He arched a brow, sending it all but disappearing beneath his shining black bangs. “No?”

“I cannot in good conscience turn back to this all. You are right. Let me help you. I can pretend to lead you out to the garden for a stroll. Meet there with your others.”

And for the first time, Jongho grinned widely at you, an expression joyous enough to send your already jittery heart leaping straight out of your chest. He nodded.

“The Merry Men were never complete without Marion.”

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