#drop in anchor punch

[moonlightwritingf1]

Safe with Me | LN4

^ྀི summary ━━━━━━━ Lando has a nightmare and Y/N comforts him.

^ྀི pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

^ྀི word count ━━━━━━━ 1.3k

^ྀི warnings ━━━━━━━ dying in dream?

Based on this request.

"Y/N… Y/N…" 

Lando’s voice was strained, laced with desperation as he thrashed beside her. His fingers clutched the sheets, breath coming in rapid, uneven gasps, sweat dampening his brow.

Y/N jolted awake, heart hammering as she turned toward him. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating his panicked expression, his eyes still shut—trapped in the grip of whatever nightmare had seized him.

"Lando," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep yet steady. Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "Wake up. It’s just a dream. You’re okay."

His eyes snapped open, wide and disoriented, darting around the room before settling on her. His chest heaved, breath ragged, and she instinctively pressed a hand over his heart, feeling its frantic rhythm beneath her palm.

"You’re safe," she reassured him softly. "It was just a dream."

Lando said nothing. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe. His face burrowed into the crook of her neck, his body tense, muscles coiled like he was bracing for something terrible. She wrapped her arms around him, one hand tracing slow, soothing circles on his back.

What had shaken him so badly? He was always the one who laughed things off, who masked pressure with humor and a shrug. But here, in the quiet of his Monaco apartment, he seemed... unraveling.

"I’m sorry," he murmured against her skin, breath warm as his lips ghosted her neck. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

"Don’t apologize." She pulled back slightly, brushing damp curls from his forehead. "Talk to me. What happened?"

He hesitated, gaze dropping to the tangled sheets. For a moment, she thought he’d retreat into the familiar armor of indifference, but then he exhaled, shoulders slumping.

"I was in the car," he said, voice low, strained. "Something went wrong. I lost control. I felt the impact, the heat… and then…" He swallowed hard. "I thought I lost everything. I thought I lost you."

Her breath caught. She’d never seen him this vulnerable, his usual bravado stripped away. It terrified her—and made her ache for him in a way she hadn’t expected.

"I’m here," she whispered, cupping his face. "You’re not going to lose me, Lando. Not like that. Not ever."

His eyes searched hers, looking for something—reassurance, an anchor in the storm of his thoughts. Slowly, he nodded, hands gripping her waist as if afraid she might disappear. Foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingled in the quiet.

"I just…" His voice faltered. "Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve you. Like I’m not good enough."

The confession hit her like a punch to the gut. She’d spent so long wondering if he truly wanted her, but hearing him voice his own doubts… it shattered something inside her.

"Lando," she breathed, fingers tracing his cheek. "You’re more than enough. You’re incredible. I’m the one who doesn’t feel worthy of you."

His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

She hesitated, her insecurities bubbling to the surface. "I’m not like the girls you’re used to. I don’t have the confidence, the—"

"Stop." His grip on her shoulders tightened. "You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I need. And I don’t care about anyone else. I never have."

Silence stretched between them, their breaths shallow, uneven. Lando’s hands trembled against her skin, his hold almost desperate.

"You’re going to choke me if you keep squeezing like that," she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He didn’t laugh, didn’t loosen his grip. Instead, his fingers dug deeper. "Don’t joke," he muttered. "Don’t…"

She sighed, cupping the back of his head, fingers threading through his curls. "I’m not going anywhere, Lando. Ever."

"You don’t know that," he whispered, voice cracking. "I can’t lose you. I can’t."

"You won’t," she promised, her tone leaving no room for argument. She tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Look at me."

He hesitated, then obeyed. The fear in his eyes made her chest ache.

"I love you," she said, firm and unwavering. "Do you hear me? I love you. And whatever nightmare you’re fighting—you’re not fighting it alone."

His breath hitched, throat working as he swallowed hard.

"I thought… I thought I was dead," he admitted. "And then I thought of you. Of not seeing you again. Not holding you. I couldn’t—"

"You’re alive," she interrupted, hands steady on his face. "I’m alive. We’re here. Focus on that. Focus on me."

Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones, wiping away the dampness she hadn’t realized was there. His eyes searched hers, as if trying to ground himself in the reality of her presence.

"You’re real," he whispered.

"Yes," she murmured, pressing her forehead against his. "And I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Lando. Whether you like it or not."

A shaky laugh escaped him—weak, fragile, but real. "I like it," he admitted. "I’ve never liked anything more."

She smiled, trailing her hand down to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her palm. "Good. Because I’m not letting go. Not now, not ever."

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his body easing. His arms tightened around her, but the desperation softened into something deeper, more secure.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice muffled but sincere. "More than anything."

She traced slow circles on his back, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. "I love you too," she whispered, a vow sealed in the quiet of the room. "You’re it for me, Lando. My forever."

Her words anchored him. The weight he carried seemed to lift as his body gradually relaxed against hers. He didn’t let go, and she didn’t expect him to. She held him, letting the silence speak louder than any reassurance she could give.

Minutes passed, his breathing evening out, his body growing heavy in her arms. Her lips brushed his ear, soft and steady as she whispered, "You're safe with me. Always safe with me." Her voice was a low hum, soothing, like a lullaby for the trembling parts of him. "I’m not going to let anything happen to us, Lando. You’re my everything."

He didn’t speak. His silence was thick, heavy, but his arms around her waist tightened as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath fanned across her neck, warm and ragged still, but slower now. More controlled. He buried his face deeper into the crook of her shoulder, inhaling her in gulps like a man starved for air.

"That’s it," she murmured, her hand tracing slow, deliberate patterns up and down his back. "Just breathe. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere."

His fingers twitched slightly against her hip, a silent acknowledgment. She pressed her lips to his temple—gentle, lingering. "You’re not alone in this, Lando. Never alone."

Still, he stayed quiet, but his hold on her didn’t falter. It was as if words had abandoned him entirely, leaving him only with the need to feel her close, to remind himself she was real, tangible, his. The weight of his trust pressed into her, wordless but unshakable.

She kept whispering, her voice a steady anchor as his breathing finally slowed and deepened. "I love you," she breathed, soft and fierce all at once. "More than anything. My heart, my life... you’re stuck with me."

Her cheek rested against his head, fingers threading through his damp curls. The night wrapped around them, silent but for the rhythm of their breaths. She didn’t sleep yet—couldn’t. Instead, she stayed like that, holding him as he held her, their quiet unease giving way to something deeper. Something unbreakable.

Pressing a soft kiss to his temple, she whispered, "Sleep. I’m here. I’m not leaving."

His face lifted slightly, eyes searching hers once more. The panic had faded, but its shadow lingered. "Promise?"

She didn’t hesitate. "Promise."

A quiet nod, then his eyes closed as he settled against her, his grip still firm but no longer desperate. His trust in her, in this moment, was unwavering.

She stayed awake, her cheek resting against his head, fingers combing through his hair. And as his breathing deepened into sleep, she realized the full weight of being needed—not as a burden, but as a promise she would never break.

[yeyinde]

Fuck please tell me captain price gets to go first! After all, he's the leader, and he has more experience? Gotta teach her right her first time, yea? The others get to watch, maybe get to touch...if the captain lets them..

Fuck I'm foaming at the mouth.

as captain, i think he def gets to go first. if only just to get that outta the way so the others can show you what you've been missing out on.

he doesn't put a lot of weight on first times, but he's a generous Captain and is willing to let Soap and Gaz both have at you, prepare you for him. them. he holds both by the scruff of their necks, too. in full control. always.

and with your legs thrown around Gaz's shoulders, he makes you hold his cigar (don't drop it now, love, or there'll be hell to pay) in your trembling hand for him, keeping it close to his mouth to take a puff whenever the urge strikes.

his are busy, after all—

—busy pushing Gaz's face into your cunt first, letting him feast as Soap palms his bloody hand over your body, punching your nipples. whining for a taste. cock dripping all over the place. like a sloppy, drooling dog.

takes his turn when you're buzzing after being denied so long. poor pussy forced to endure both Gaz and Soap eating you out, sucking on your clit, slipping their fingers inside. but never allowed to cum. they're always ripped back the moment he thinks you might be there, on the edge. you're only allowed to cum on his cock, sweetheart. (and maybe, maybe, if you've been good, he'll let you sit on his face after.)

when he does fuck you for the first time, he makes you feel every inch going inside of you. has Gaz hold your fingers against your rim, feeling for yourself how wide he stretches you, how deep he goes. makes you whine and beg for all sorts of lewd things—his cock deeper in your pussy, Soap's tongue on your clit, Gaz's cock in your mouth, Ghost's hands around your throat.

you're worn out before he even finishes. a shame, too, because Soap barely waits until Price has pulled out before he's shoving his fingers inside of you, cooing in your ear about how messy you are. how badly you must want his cock next. hungry little thing, aren't ye?

Price will probably go last, too. but it's not even really about sex this time when he sits you on his lap, humming at the whimpers you make, overstimulated and sore, as his cock slips inside again. warmed. soaked. you're all messy with each of them, and he rubs it into your skin, makes you suck it off his fingers. with your back flushed to his broad chest, damp curls sticking to your skin, matted from sweat, he holds you like this. big arms anchored around your front, over your belly, holding you there. and just lets you feel the rumble in his chest when he purrs in your ear about how good you've been for them, taking them all, satiating them. how pretty you look all fucked out and sloppy like this.

(and really, love. you belong like this, don't you? the perfect place for you has always been sat, balls deep, on their cocks, taking them. it's about time you learned that, mm?)

[runninriot]

hold on together

for @stervrucht, inspired by this beautiful art piece | rated T | wc: 625 | tags: dealing with post UD trauma, nightmares, emotional hurt/comfort | also on ao3

   "We're alive."

The words hit Eddie like a punch to the gut. He feels like someone’s dropped him into ice cold water, startled awake by the impact. Slowly, the world around him comes into focus.

   "We're alive and we're safe and whatever you saw in your dream isn't real, okay?"

Strong arms wrap around him, giving Eddie something to hold on to, keeping his trembling body steady.

   "You're okay, Eddie. We are okay."

A sob forces its way out of his throat but doesn't have the chance to get very far. Not with Eddie's face pressed against Steve's shoulder - held tight against warm skin. Skin that is damaged, covered in scars that will always remind them that the horrors are real.

Were real.

   "It's over. They can't hurt us anymore. You're safe, I promise."

Steve's voice is a soothing vibration against the shell of his ear, the hand at the back of his head encouraging him to bury his face where he always feels safest, hiding in the space between Steve's shoulder and neck.

   "I'm here, Eddie."

He always is. Always is there to get Eddie through the nights when the monsters seem too real and he can't escape, can't run from his own mind when it's playing those images over and over again. When he can feel the teeth sinking into his flesh and smell the blood. When he feels so cold, so alone, so scared. When he wakes up screaming and drenched in sweat, unable to breathe.

Steve holds him through all of it, never complains about losing sleep, never makes fun of Eddie for crying.

   "I'm sorry, Steve," he says weakly, the words offering no real solace for how fucked up he feels. "I'm so, so sorry for being such a mess."

   "Shh, don't worry. I got you, Eddie."

Steve always does. Is the only one who gets to see Eddie like this. The only one who can catch Eddie when he's falling.

   "It's all gonna be okay. Do you hear me? I love you, baby."

Loves him despite how broken Eddie is. Loves him with all his flaws, loves him with all the burdens of a tattered mind, the trauma, and barely healed wounds. Loves him and keeps him close. Lets him fall apart in his arms before he helps him pick up the pieces time and again.

   "I don't deserve you," Eddie snivels before he dares to look up, teary eyes searching for Steve's hazel ones, "You shouldn't have to put up with me."

Steve takes him in for a few seconds, eyes flitting between Eddie's, seemingly searching for the right words to say. And then his lips curl into a lopsided smile.

   "You're not getting rid of me that easy. Sorry to break it to you but you're stuck with me forever. We're trauma bonded for life, baby."

Eddie laughs, all wet and choked up - he must look disgusting with his puffy eyes and red, blotchy face but Steve kisses him anyway. Kisses him, and holds him, and it's like a dream. A beautiful dream that slowly replaces every last memory of the nightmare he had.

   "Feeling better?" Steve asks when their lips part and Eddie nods, wordlessly follows Steve back underneath the covers where he crawls into waiting arms, quickly drifting, falling back asleep.

Maybe tomorrow, he will be the one offering comfort. Right now, though, Eddie can rest safely in his boyfriend's arms.

Hopefully one day, the recurring nightmares will finally end for both of them. Until then, no matter how hard it gets, they have each other as their anchor. Protected by love as their armour. Two hearts beating for one another, their rhythmic melody a reminder that they made it.

They are alive.

[psychohoneywhiskey]

What about Wade going to a different timelime requested by the TVA years after the Time Ripper. They told him the X-men and the anchor being of that universe were in danger and he needed to make sure they survived and he got rid of the problem for good.

So Wade goes alone to avoid his babygirl having to face the alternative versions of his dead team. He gets to the X mansion and explains them the situation, tells them he is Deadpool, a mercenary sent by a time organization to save them all and they believe him.

Everything was going surprisingly well until, well, it wasn't. And how could he have not thought to ask who the anchor being of that universe was? How could he not notice the absence of a very important person there? He is still surprised (after years of not seeing that amount of rage directed at him from his Logan) to see a younger Logan get to the mansion baring his teeth at him, unseathing his claws and preparing to pounce, seeing him as a threat.

And when he does he tries everything in his power not to hurt him, evading the punches, claws, and 300 pounds of feral Wolverine and not attacking him even once. Eventually, Logan stops confused about the man's playful attitude and the voices of the X-men asking him to calm down. When he asks Wade suspiciously 'why didn't you fight back bub?', Wade just laughs and answers in a tone so soft and sweet and foreign to him 'Well, if this had happened years ago I would have indulged in some fun, I always loved taming a feral Wolvie but I can't bear to hurt an alternative version of my husband now'.

Everything got so quiet he could have heard a pin drop but Wade was solely focused on Logan, watching the similarities to the love of his life who now had some more wrinkles around his eyes and cheeks, a soft healthy body, hair almost fully gray and a sweet smile almost all of the time around him, Laura, their friends, their family. Compared to this Logan who still looked so tense, wary, ready to run.

He stays with them for weeks waiting for the attackers to get there while spending time with this version of Logan. And as the time passes the man understands why other version of him would be head over heels for the mercenary, yeah the man is so damn weird and loud and fucking annoying at times but he has never found someone who could understand him and make him feel the way he does. He starts yearning, for a person, a place he will never have cause it already belongs to someone else and he dreads the moment Wade will leave and not come back ever again. And the X-men notice it, bewildered by Logan's behavior around Deadpool, how he seems to follow his lead as naturally as breathing, how they seem to get what the other is thinking or feeling just by seeing each other and they realize Logan has never been fully theirs cause he is just waiting for someone else to bring him home.

Inevitably when the time comes, and Deadpool saves them, he doesn't even have time to react and say goodbye to the merc cause a weird orange portal opens in the middle of the war field and a blue and yellow suited hand appears through it yanking Wade away, and Logan recognizes a voice so similar to his saying 'you've taken too long Mouth, our daughter's birthday is next week, and we all miss you at home'.

Logan knows all his life he's just been a stray longing for a place to settle but at least now he can hope there is a loud mouth, sarcastic, pretty, and soft mercenary with no filter waiting for him somewhere in his world to take him home.

I apologize for any mistake, I'm not a writer and English is not my first language but I just can't get enough of these men and any of their versions being soft with each other.

[haerenven]

Sniper!, Wifey!

Red-haired shanks x fem¡reader

Summery. The enchantress of the Red-Haired Pirates.

tag(s)&warning(s). Spoiler ep1109&ep1112, absolutely fucking kinda jealousy, insults

As the sky shimmered with the vibrant hues of blue and warm orange, a silent promise hung in the air—the sun would soon dip below the horizon, signaling the close of another day. The Red-Haired Pirates were busying themselves with the preparations to leave, each movement deliberate as they readied their ship for departure. The anchor would soon be raised, and the ship would sail again, leaving behind the tranquil island that had served as a brief respite.

This island, protected under Shanks’ vigilant watch, was a symbol of his power and influence. His Jolly Roger flag fluttered in the breeze, a beacon to all that the island fell under his protection. The crew, aware of the quiet significance of the moment, moved with purpose, knowing that their journey was about to continue under the banner of their beloved captain.

In the midst of the hustle and bustle, you couldn’t help but chuckle softly as you noticed Monster sliding down the ship’s stairs in a comically clumsy manner. With surprising speed, the little creature launched himself and clung to Bonk Punch’s broad shoulder, the burly crew member grunting in surprise. Monster, clearly pleased with himself, let out a triumphant squeak, almost as if boasting about his successful stunt. Bonk Punch rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at his lips as he adjusted the monkey, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

As Shanks gave the command, “Time to drop anchor,” his voice rang through the ship, steady and assured. The sound alone stirred a small smile to your lips—there was something undeniably captivating about the way he carried authority with such effortless ease.

From the edge of the ship, a crew member with golden-blonde hair stepped forward, his stance firm, his voice sharp with urgency. “Boss! The subordinate crews—they’ve already gone ahead to intercept the enemy!”

“They cannot be serious.” Your voice, soft yet laced with unmistakable authority, cut through the air like silk over steel. There was no need to raise it—your tone alone carried enough weight to command attention. A slow blink, a tilt of your head, and a smirk just ghosted your lips, dripping with disbelief. The audacity.

Shanks, ever composed, remained unfazed, his expression a picture of quiet dominance. Without hesitation, he gave his order, his voice smooth but firm. “Tell them to retreat. Once the damage is done, it’s too late.”

His words left no room for argument. His was a command meant to be followed, not debated. And yet, as the wind played with the strands of your hair, you simply exhaled, gaze flicking toward the horizon.

Fools. Some people just didn’t know when to back down.

But that wasn’t your problem. At least, not yet.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa, wait wait wait” As the clamor of running footsteps filled the air, three men from Elbaph suddenly appeared, their clumsy entrance causing them to trip over one another. They sprawled on the ground in a comical heap, their faces sporting wide grins. "What are you talking about, chief?!” they blurted out in a chorus, their words tinged with a mixture of excitement and sheepishness.

Your attempt to contain laughter proved futile as a gentle, sweet chuckle escaped your lips. Shanks, both confused and amused “what are you guys doing!?”, couldn't help but glance in your direction, his features softening upon noticing your subtle display of amusement. He then turned his gaze back toward the trio, awaiting their response.

The three men beamed with determination as one of them declared their intention, "We won't let them harm you!", followed by eager agreement from the others. Shanks smiled appreciatively at their offer, acknowledging their loyalty and care. Before they could embark on their mission, he firmly commanded, Shanks looked at the trio, his smile warm as he recognized their genuine intent. "Well, It means a lot to me your offered," he said appreciatively. With a wave over his shoulder, he then added, "But don't go out to sea." His tone was firm, yet there was a hint of tender care in his voice.

Stepping closer to your beloved, you let out a soft, velvety chuckle, the sound dripping with quiet amusement as the trio behind you protested. Their bickering was entertaining, but your attention was quickly stolen by something far more pressing.

The distant rumble of thousands of footsteps sent a shiver through the ground beneath you. Your instincts sharpened, every muscle tensing as you spun around, eyes widening at the sight before you.

A massive crowd was surging toward you all, their numbers seemingly endless, a relentless tide of bodies moving as one. The air itself felt heavier, thick with the promise of battle.

Your breath hitched for just a second—just long enough to flick your gaze toward Shanks.

His expression remained unreadable, but in the fleeting moment your eyes met, a silent understanding passed between you.

This is about to get messy.

A surge of islanders rushed toward Shanks, their voices overlapping in desperate pleas—

“Don’t go!”

“Let us fight too!”

Their collective cries filled the air, thick with emotion, their determination palpable. And then, amidst the chaos, a blur of ginger hair darted forward. Before anyone could react, a woman threw herself at Shanks, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace, clinging as if her grip alone could anchor him here.

Shanks let out a lighthearted chuckle, unfazed as always. His voice, warm yet unwavering, rose above the noise in an attempt to soothe the crowd. “Now, now, don’t get all worked up…”

Just then, a mechanical voice cut through the commotion, its robotic tone an odd contrast to the emotional scene.“Don’t be so cold, Chief.”

Shanks quirked a brow, his smirk deepening as he glanced toward the source. “Well, am I?” he mused, his usual playful charm intact, completely unbothered by the dozens of hands reaching for his attention.

The red-haired woman tightened her hold, lifting her gaze to him with fiery determination. “Yeah, don’t leave us behind,” she insisted, her voice firm, unwilling to be dismissed so easily.

Shanks finally looked down at her, his smile never wavering. His eyes, bright with amusement, softened just a touch as he replied, “Hey, hey.” His tone was light, teasing, but beneath it lay that same undeniable certainty—the kind that said he had already made his decision.

You moved away from the chaotic scene, You took a quiet step back, slipping into the background while Shanks remained at the center of the commotion, his easy charm drawing them in like moths to a flame. The crowd swarmed around him, voices overlapping, hands reaching— some seeking reassurance, others clinging to him with something far more desperate.

It was nothing new. 

You had long since grown accustomed to watching your man be fawned over by women-fans, admirers, or, depending on how generous you were feeling, some motherfucking sluts who just couldn't seem to find someone else to fill their damn pussyholes.

Alright... maybe that was a bit much. Bad y/n!

Still, the feeling stirring in your chest wasn’t quite jealousy. No, that wasn’t the right word. It was something else. Something quieter, heavier. A mix of familiarity and mild irritation—the kind that came from seeing the same damn thing play out over and over again.

Weren't you?

A massive figure from the Elbaph tribe, a titan who happens to be dorry, chimed in, his voice booming, "When it comes to this, even an emperor can't hold his own!" The other titan who known as brogy chuckled in agreement. The sea of voices surrounding you raised in protest, "Trying to make Shanks change his mind," they pleaded. "No! Chief!, you’re leaving already?”, "Yeah, chief, we finally got to see you!" The crowd's entreaties echoed through the air, the desire for his presence palpable.

With a glance over his shoulder, Shanks let out a low chuckle, his smile as effortless as ever. “Sorry,” he said, his tone light yet certain, “we just dropped by on our way somewhere else.” But as his gaze drifted downward, his expression shifted—just slightly. The amusement in his eyes dimmed as they landed on the woman still clinging to him, her grip stubborn, unwilling to let go.

His voice, though still warm, took on a quiet firmness. “Now, guys, stop clinging onto me.” For a beat, she hesitated—just long enough to test the boundaries of his patience. Then, with clear reluctance, she finally peeled herself away, her touch lingering longer than necessary.

Shanks, however, had already moved on.

You fought against the smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, your inner feminist spirit rising with quiet defiance. But still, there were moments, small and fleeting, when you couldn’t help but feel a sharp twinge of possessiveness. The sight of other women clinging to Shanks, your husband, stirred a cocktail of emotions—pride, irritation, and the undeniable urge to remind the world of your place in his life. Yet, you knew better than to wear your jealousy on your sleeve.

Sniper! Wifey. You hadn’t the faintest clue where or when the nickname had originated, but there it was, following you like a shadow, growing in popularity with each passing day.

At first, you were convinced the “Sniper” part came from your deadly precision with a rifle—how you could hit a target from six meters without any aids, using nothing but your bare eyes and steady hands. But Wifey… now that one had always puzzled you. Was it because you were Shanks’ wife, or perhaps because of the role you had unofficially taken on as the lady of the Red-Haired Pirates?

Regardless, you couldn’t deny the thrill that came with those names. Something about the way they rolled off the crew’s tongues felt… right. Almost like a silent acknowledgment of your place in the grand scheme of things, even if it was a title wrapped in ambiguity.

“We ran into a big name because we stayed too long,” Shanks announced, his voice carrying a weight of casual amusement, as if it were just another detail in the ongoing chaos.

But before anyone could respond, his voice cut through the noise like a blade, sharp and commanding, as he turned toward the ship. The change in his tone was instantaneous—no longer playful, but firm, the kind of voice that demanded attention without needing to raise itself.

“Now, let me through.” The crowd, sensing the shift in his demeanor, hesitated for only a moment. Then, with a collective understanding, they began to part, making room for Shanks as he moved forward. The path cleared, and with each step, his presence seemed to command the very air around him.

As Shanks walked through the crowd, his presence exuded an undeniable aura of confidence and authority. It was a familiar sight to you, the way he could command a room with his mere presence. Memories of the day you two first met flooded your mind, the moment when his charismatic energy had first captivated you. Even now, years later, the memory was vivid, etched in your heart forever.

The day you first laid eyes on Shanks was seared into memory, a moment suspended in time like the hush before a storm. He was a mere rookie then, and you-a guardian of an island untouched by the tides of the outside world. Your home, a quiet and forgotten corner of the East Blue, knew no strangers. The waves whispered only to those born upon its shores, and the land bore no footprints but those of its own people. Outsiders were myths, stories murmured in wary tones, and visitors were rarer than the lull of the restless sea.

So when the Red-Haired Pirates arrived, their presence was not a novelty but an intrusion. They were interlopers in a world that did not belong to them, and you, fierce in your devotion, had no intention of letting them stay.

With no weapon at your disposal, you sought what little you had—a bottle of liquor, cool and smooth in your palm. It was no blade, no steel sharpened for war, but desperation is the mother of invention. You didn't hesitate. In a swift, decisive motion, you brought it crashing down against the nearest rock, the sharp crack splitting the silence like a gunshot. Shards rained down in glittering fragments, but in your grasp remained a jagged piece of glass, its edges keen enough to carve through flesh with ease.

Without a moment's pause, you lunged. The broken glass found its mark, pressing against the bare skin of Shanks' throat. Your breath was steady, your hand unwavering, every fiber of your being burning with fierce resolve.

The Red-Haired crew reacted instantly. Swords left their sheaths, pistols were drawn, the weight of their intent pressing against the air like the crackling tension before a lightning strike. One wrong move, one twitch of your wrist, and the standoff would descend into chaos.

But you did not yield. This was your home. Your land. Your people. And you would not let strangers take it from you.

"I’ll cut your throat! That'll make you step back!"

"You're beautiful."

He spoke, his voice low and filled with an intensity that seemed to shine from within, as if the very weight of the world rested in his gaze. When his eyes met yours, it felt as though he saw the very essence of everything—every star, every moment, every breath. It was as if he saw you not as a mere woman, but as the embodiment of beauty itself, the living, breathing grace that the gods had woven into the fabric of the universe. His words were pure, free of artifice, and yet, in their simplicity, they carried a depth that tugged at something deep within you. In his eyes, you were not just flesh and bone; you were a divine creation, a vision of perfection, as if the heavens themselves had sculpted you from stardust.

And in that moment, your heart fluttered—not with fear, but with a strange, heady warmth that seemed to ignite every nerve in your body. His sincerity was both a balm and a fire, so intense it stole your breath away. Your pulse quickened, and the air around you felt thick with something you couldn’t quite name. It was as if the ground beneath your feet had shifted, leaving you suspended in a delicate balance between certainty and chaos. The butterflies, wild and frantic, swirled within you, their delicate wings beating against your ribs as if they too were drawn to the magnetic pull of his presence.

You were caught—caught in the quiet storm of his gaze, lost in the depths of his words, unable to move, unable to look away. Time itself seemed to slow, leaving only the soft, undeniable truth between you: you were falling.

You barely noticed the sting at first. Not until the sharp scent of blood filled the air, not until warm droplets trickled down your wrist.

Only then did you realize-your grip on the glass had tightened so fiercely, the jagged edge had cut through your own flesh.

As his subordinates cleared a path for him, they waved and offered encouragement, one of them shouting, "Summon us anytime!" Shanks responded with a broad smile, his tone lighthearted as he replied, "Yeah!" Another crew member chimed in, declaring their affection, "We love you!" This prompted a small chuckle from Shanks, amused by their devotion.

As you observed the various women casting admiring glances at Shanks, a sharp pang of jealousy gnawed at your chest, despite your best efforts to suppress it. You didn’t want to admit it, but the sight of other women vying for your man—their eyes sparkling with interest, their flirtatious gestures—stirred something deep within you. The way they batted their eyelashes and twirled their hair around their fingers… it was too obvious, too deliberate, and it irritated you more than you cared to acknowledge.

But then, in an instant, your sadness and frustration faded, replaced by a warmth that seemed to wrap around you like a soft embrace.

As Shanks extended his hand toward you, that familiar, heart-stirring smile spread across his lips—the very same smile that had always sent your heart racing, filling you with an indescribable love that only he could provoke.

In his eyes, there was no need for words. The silent reassurance they held spoke louder than any promise could. It was as though those eyes were whispering to you without sound: 

“I will never find anybody better than you, wifey.”

It was a vow unspoken, yet deeply felt. A devotion that made your heart flutter, like it had found its home in him once more. In that moment, his gesture—his very presence—offered a silent assurance, one that echoed within you with all the certainty of a thousand spoken words.

As your eyes met his, you felt yourself swallowed by a sea of pure love. It radiated from him like a tangible force, so overwhelming that you could see nothing but him, nothing but the affection that poured from his gaze. It was as if Cupid himself had showered him with arrows, embedding a love so deep within him that it glowed in his every glance. The way he looked at you sent a flutter through your chest, stirring a response in you that mirrored the depth of his emotion. A genuine smile tugged at your lips, and the sparkle in your eyes reflected the depth of your affection for him.

With a calm grace, you raised your hand, delicate and soft, and placed it gently in his rough, weathered one. The contrast between your skin and his was striking, but it felt perfect. Shanks’ fingers encircled yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. It was as though he was holding something far more precious than a mere hand—like you were a delicate, priceless diamond to be treasured. His touch was reverent, adoring, as though every moment of contact was an offering, a silent vow to protect and cherish.

You felt the tender caress of his lips against your knuckles, a kiss so soft it felt like a whispered promise. Shanks then lifted his gaze, his eyes filled with love and something deeper, and his voice—deep, powerful, and filled with that unshakable confidence—whispered, “After you, lass.”

A gentle chuckle escaped your lips, the playful undertone in your voice carrying a hint of mockery that you couldn’t quite hide. “Such a gentleman,” you murmured low enough for only him to hear, your words laced with a teasing edge. There was no mistaking the affection in your tone, even with the light jest.

With effortless grace, your steps synchronized as you both ascended the ship’s wooden stairs, your movements in perfect harmony. Each step felt like a silent dance, the rhythm of it drawing you closer together as the world around you seemed to blur into the background.

Shanks stepped onto the first couple of stairs, his hand still holding yours with an affectionate yet firm grip, as though he were clutching onto his most prized possession. His touch was a silent declaration, one that spoke volumes without a single word.

Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, he spoke to his allies, his voice steady and commanding. “Oh, I’ll repeat myself. Tell the ships to return!” The words rang out, carrying an undeniable authority that left no room for hesitation. The crew members, well-accustomed to his unshakable resolve, reacted without question, the strength of his command weaving its way into their actions.

Shanks glanced over his shoulder at his allies, his face breaking into a huge, playful smirk that was utterly uncharacteristic of the usual serious leader. He let out a soft chuckle, his voice light and teasing as he declared, “Our allies are famously weak.”

The moment the words left his lips, the atmosphere shifted entirely. The allies erupted into laughter, the sound echoing across there. Some even collapsed onto the floor, struggling to breathe through their fits of helpless amusement. It was a rare, carefree moment—a side of Shanks that reminded everyone, even in the face of command, how effortlessly he could bring levity to any situation.

“How could you say that! Jeez!” One of them exclaimed between fits of laughter, lying on the ground, completely helpless with his hysterics.

Amidst the chaotic laughter, a distinct, older female voice rang out, her tone warm with affection but still laced with a playful edge. “We survived thanks to you!” she chimed in, adding to the merriment. “We’ve been protected by your flag!”

Her words, though lighthearted, carried an undeniable truth—acknowledging the strength and leadership that Shanks brought to his crew. It only seemed to fuel the laughter even more, as the crew reveled in the comfort of being under his protection and the joy of simply being together.

Shanks, never missing a beat, joined in the lighthearted banter with a grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear, his colossal smirk unwavering. With a playful glint in his eyes, he quipped, “Yeah! Mind your own longevity more than your enemies. Crone Oli!”

The old woman, undeterred by the teasing, laughed louder, her voice warm with familiarity. “Shut up, Chief! How dare you!” she shot back, her playful tone carrying no offense, just a shared sense of camaraderie.

You, unable to hold back a soft laugh, playfully smacked Shanks’ muscular, tanned chest with a light tap, your fingers grazing his skin. With a mock scold, you chided him in a sweet, charming voice, “That was harsh,” though your tone betrayed the amusement you were trying so hard to hide. The subtle warmth in your gaze was all the proof needed—no matter how teasing, you always enjoyed seeing Shanks so carefree.

“See, Y/N-swan!” one of the allies teased, dramatically pouting. “Your husband is so harsh to us allies!” The others chimed in, playing along with exaggerated expressions of mock pain, their laughter filling the air. You simply chuckled softly, entertained by their antics and the lightheartedness of the moment.

But the atmosphere shifted the moment you turned toward Shanks, your energy turning electric, darker and more magnetic. With a slow, deliberate grace, you stepped closer to him, your fingers lightly tracing the sharp curve of his jawline, the touch gentle yet laced with an undeniable intensity.

You leaned in, your voice low and sultry, dripping with a seductive confidence that could melt anyone within a five-foot radius. “Oh, I’ll deal with that attitude,” you purred, your eyes locking with his in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.

The temperature in the air seemed to rise, the playful banter falling away as the raw energy between you two intensified. You were iconic in your grace, your presence commanding attention, and for a moment, it was clear—every single soul around you was entranced, caught in the magnetic pull of your dark feminine energy.

Shanks’ smirk softened, a gentle, knowing smile tugging at his lips as he absorbed the impact of your playful hit against his chest. But he didn’t release your hand. Instead, he placed his larger, warm hand over yours on his chest, holding it steady. “Harsh, you say?” His voice was low and teasing, a glint of affection dancing in his eyes. “But I know you secretly love it,” he teased, the charismatic charm in his tone undeniable.

The smirk on his face deepened, a playful gleam flickering in his eyes, as if daring you to deny it. His gaze was locked onto yours, mischievous and filled with an unspoken understanding.

With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you tried to maintain a semblance of indifference, the picture of a disapproving manager in control. But in truth, you knew the power of his words. You felt the heat in your chest, the pull of his teasing charm. Still, you couldn’t help but appreciate the playful energy between you two—effortlessly electric, filled with that sharp, unmistakable connection.

As you ascended the ship’s wooden floors, the rhythmic sound of your footsteps echoed across the deck. Your every step was in sync, a dance of perfect elegance and quiet confidence. You were iconic—your presence undeniable, captivating. Every movement you made seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken promises, the silent power that made every pair of eyes around you aware that you were a force to be reckoned with.

You didn’t need words to command attention—your very aura spoke for you.

Lime Juice was the first person you encountered on the deck, his lips curling into a playful smirk as his eyes flickered between you and Shanks. His tone dripped with jest as he spoke, “You’re so popular, boss!”

Shanks responded with a hint of mock resignation, his voice laced with amusement but tinged with a sigh, “Tell me about it.” He glanced at you with an affectionate, almost exhausted look, as though he was accustomed to the attention but couldn’t escape it.

You, however, leaned into the moment, your eyes narrowing playfully as you crossed your arms, the embodiment of a mischievous black cat who had just been teased into a corner. Your lips curled into a subtle, almost predatory smirk as you quipped, “And oh, I can see you quite enjoy the attention.” Your eyebrow arched in a silent challenge, the air around you crackling with that undeniable aura of dark feminine energy. You weren’t just aware of the attention—you commanded it, like a panther poised and dangerous.

Shanks chuckled heartily, his lips curling into a mischievous grin as he accepted the playful jab with a gleam in his eyes, but it was clear he adored the fire in your spirit. “Well, don’t you know me all too well, wifey,” he murmured, his voice low, affectionate, and teasing all at once. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and there was a possessive edge to his touch, a reminder that you were his and no one else’s. “So, I’m sure you know how to attract attention too, wifey,” he added, his tone laced with a hint of boastful pride.

You rolled your eyes, the playful sass radiating from you like a silent command. You uncrossed your arms, letting the fabric of your clothes fall just right as you tilted your head. You were a force of nature, a sleek black cat in human form, dripping with that intoxicating energy that made all eyes around you gravitate toward you. Your smile remained, but it was more than just playful—it was a silent declaration, a quiet reminder that nothing would ever come close to matching the pull you and Shanks had, not even the rest of the world. Your eyes, dark yet luminous, sparkled with that deep, unyielding power, your movements smooth and graceful, drawing the attention of everyone, but leaving them with the unmistakable impression that you were untouchable. Iconic, alluring, and impossible to forget.

“Oh, are you sure, hmm?” you replied, your voice dripping with mock nonchalance, a playful flicker in your eyes as you tilted your head. Your words hung in the air, smooth and confident, the type that made people question whether you were just teasing or if there was something far more dangerous beneath the surface.

You stepped closer to Shanks, your presence exuding that effortless grace, but the subtle shift in your posture made it clear that you were a force to be reckoned with. Your lips curled into a small, teasing smirk, the kind that made it impossible for anyone to look away, yet hinted at the wild, untamed energy simmering just beneath the surface.

“Because I don’t think you really know how much attention I can attract,” you added with a slow, deliberate wink, your voice low and laced with that unmistakable allure. The air around you seemed to thicken with tension, your energy undeniable, as if you were the calm before a storm—unpredictable, captivating, and always in control.

 Shanks’ expression softened, his usual playful smirk now mingling with a trace of something deeper. The flicker of admiration in his eyes was unmistakable, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he chuckled, a rich sound that echoed in the quiet tension between you two, his voice thick with a knowing, seductive warmth.

“You think I don’t know?” he mused, his tone teasing but laced with genuine appreciation. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer, the space between you two becoming impossibly thin. His lips hovered dangerously close to your ear as he added, “I know exactly what you can do.”

There was a pulse in the air, electric and filled with the unspoken promise of something wild, something that could ignite at any moment. You leaned in just slightly, your breath mingling with his, your words barely a whisper but heavy with intent.

“Then prove it,” you murmured, your voice a velvet challenge that sent a shiver down his spine, daring him to match your energy. You could feel the shift in the place, the subtle danger that always followed you when you embraced this version of yourself—the one who knew how to command attention and captivate every gaze in there.

His grin returned, now sharper, more confident. “I always do,” he growled, his voice now low and dark, like a promise wrapped in temptation.

And in that moment, everything seemed to pause—the world, the crew, the chaos surrounding you. It was just the two of you, wrapped in an undeniable bond, where the line between affection and temptation blurred into something that made the air burn with unspoken desire. 

As Lucky Roux sauntered over with his signature confidence, a piece of meat hanging from his mouth like it was just another casual snack, you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at his effortless swagger. He was carrying that massive box of supplies like it weighed nothing, as if he were taking a stroll through a marketplace. The creaking sound of the deck as he placed the box down seemed almost like a punctuation to his nonchalance.

“Boss, don’t worry – we’ll take care of him,” Lucky said with a grin that could light up even the darkest corners of the ship, his voice calm, casual, and utterly at ease. You watched him for a moment before shifting your gaze to Shanks, whose reaction wasn’t quite as relaxed. There was something about the way Lucky held that grin, unbothered by the weight of the box or the situation at hand, that didn’t escape Shanks’ discerning eyes.

“Oi, oi, he’s worth 3 million each,” Shanks muttered, his voice edged with caution, his gaze following Lucky as he placed the box down with a solid thud. “Don’t underestimate how fast young people grow up.”

The words carried a layer of wisdom, one that made you admire your husband even more. He wasn’t just the carefree, mischievous pirate captain who could charm anyone with a smile; he was also deeply aware, measured, and experienced. His caution was a quiet reminder of how carefully he navigated the world, no matter how lighthearted he appeared. You loved that about him—the balance he struck between playful exuberance and the quiet respect he had for both the dangers and the people around him.

As Shanks’ gaze met yours for just a moment, you saw the subtle flicker of pride, knowing he had your admiration. You gave him a small smile in return, appreciating his wisdom even more. He could’ve easily dismissed Lucky’s nonchalant attitude, but instead, he offered a gentle reminder—a lesson in underestimating nothing and no one, no matter how insignificant they may seem at first glance.

It was a side of him that you loved, especially because it made you realize that, despite all his power and charisma, Shanks was always grounded, never too far removed from the world he sailed through. It made him, in your eyes, even more formidable.

As you turned your focus back to Shanks, the subtle flirtation, the unspoken words, and the undeniable chemistry between you two lingered in the air, still electric, still magnetic, still perfectly in your control.

He stepped up beside Yasopp, who was perched by the ship’s railing, a telescope in hand as he scanned the horizon. I’ll keep it short. A couple of days ago, we got word that Eustass ‘Captain’ Kidd is heading to Elbaf. Seems like he’s looking to settle a score with the Red-Haired Pirates.

Shanks then turned to Hongo, calling his name with a flicker of urgency in his voice. Hongo responded without hesitation, handing him a piece of paper while starting to speak. “Here—info about Captain Kidd,” he said flatly. One of the crew couldn’t resist adding with a grin, “That’s our Hongo-san, always prepared.”

A sarcastic smile tugged at the corner of Hongo’s lips, his eyes glinting with dry humor as he shot back, “Shut up and keep loading.”

A light laugh escaped your lips, unbidden, as your gaze shifted to Hongo, who was perched casually on a wooden barrel. Watching him, memories began to resurface, weaving their way through your thoughts like familiar ghosts of the past.

Let’s go back to your first encounter with the Red-Haired Pirates—when your emotions overwhelmed you so intensely that your grip tightened around the glass in your hand, shattering it. The jagged shards dug into your palm, and a sharp cry of pain escaped your lips before you even realized what had happened.

The red-haired man with the shabby straw hat on his head turned toward you, his sharp gaze landing on the blood smeared across your hand.

“You’re bleeding,” Shanks said simply, his voice carrying a mix of concern and calm. You had always been quick to understand situations, but in that moment, the pain, the blood, and the sheer presence of the man before you left you disoriented. You stared blankly at your injured hand, unsure of how to respond, until his voice broke through your haze.

“Hongo! We’ve got someone injured!” Shanks called out, his tone firm but reassuring, and for the first time that day, you felt the weight of your vulnerability in his presence.

Though you knew you desperately needed treatment, your pride was far stronger than your pain. The moment he called for the ship’s doctor, you instinctively pulled your hand away from his, cradling your wounded palm against your chest as if shielding it from the world.

His gaze softened as it dropped to meet yours, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. With a calm voice that held no trace of judgment, red-haired said, “We won’t hurt you—we just want to help.”

She shook her head firmly, her voice laced with both strength and defiance as she said, “I don’t want any help. Go back to where you came from, pirates.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, only to be shattered by Shanks’s sudden burst of laughter. His rich, carefree laughter echoed around you, and a cheerful grin spread across his face, lighting up his features. The unexpected warmth of his reaction made your heart race in a way you couldn’t explain, prompting you to clutch your injured hand even tighter against your chest, as if shielding yourself from the strange, unfamiliar feeling stirring within.

The rest of his crew offered friendly smiles, their unexpected warmth leaving you feeling perplexed. You raised a questioning eyebrow, your voice edged with curiosity as you asked, “What’s so funny?”

Shanks gradually calmed his laughter, his cheerful expression softening as he looked at you. “Nothing,” he replied with a hint of amusement still in his tone. “It’s just refreshing to see someone your age standing up for their land like that.”

You frowned, still unconvinced. “I still don’t get what’s funny,” you said, your confusion shifting to skepticism. “And it’s even weirder that you talk like some old man when you look like you’re my age.”

He smiled, the corners of his lips curling with a mix of charm and mischief. “We might be the same age,” he said, his tone light yet sincere. “But anyway, how about you drop the stubborn act and let us help you?”

Despite being a cautious individual with a tendency to struggle with trust, you rely on logic and reason to assess situations. To you, these pirates didn’t seem to pose a significant threat. Their demeanor was unexpectedly kind—they offered help and even smiled warmly, rather than exploiting your seemingly frail appearance. If they were truly malicious, wouldn’t they have attacked you already, and pass you seeking to claim your village and land through violence? Instead, their actions and gestures suggested otherwise, leaving you to question their true intentions.

Yet, in both instances, you nodded in agreement, allowing them to assist you and tend to your wound. The red-haired man smiled briefly before shifting his gaze to a blond young man whose pale, ivory-toned skin seemed almost translucent under the sunlight.

Shanks gently took your hand, guiding you toward his ship with an air of carefree confidence. His cheerful and nonchalant demeanor contrasted sharply with the tension of your earlier encounter. You couldn’t help but frown in surprise at his apparent indifference. Wasn’t it unusual—perhaps even inappropriate—to touch a stranger, especially considering you had threatened him and his crew just moments before?

All you remember is at a small wooden cabin, the faint scent of the sea lingering in the air. Your body sat on a simple wooden bed, covered with a soft white blanket that felt oddly comforting despite your circumstances. One of Your hands rested at your sides while the other extended as the blond-haired man, Hongo, carefully wrapped fresh bandages around your wound with practiced precision.

“We’re done,” Hongo said, his voice calm and soothing as a gentle smile spread across his face. You studied him for a moment, taking in the kindness reflected in his expression, before nodding silently. Finally, you found your voice and softly said, “Thank you.”

“So… I noticed you stood against us, trying to shield your island and your people from harm,” the man named Hongo remarked, his voice carrying a strange blend of admiration and amusement. “Truly, it’s a rare sight—one lone soul willing to defy the odds for the sake of his home and kin.”

He offered a soft, knowing smile, and though you couldn’t quite recall why, a sudden heat rushed to your face. Flustered, you quickly averted your gaze. “Tch… Whatever!” you scoffed, grasping for nonchalance. “It’s not like I did anything remarkable! Anyone would have done the same.”

“Of course,” Hongo said smoothly, his voice carrying a gentle warmth. As he spoke, he casually brushed a stray blonde lock away from his face before offering his hand with an easy smile.

“I’m Hongo, by the way.”

Your eyes flickered to his outstretched hand, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “I know~,” you teased, your tone light and rowdy. But as your gaze dropped for a brief moment, something softened within you. Slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet his, your voice quieter this time.

“I’m Y/N.”

Hongo chuckled at your response, clearly amused by your boldness. “Fair enough,” he said, withdrawing his hand with a smirk. “Still, it’s good to finally put a name to the fiery spirit I’ve been hearing about.”

You rolled your eyes playfully but didn’t deny it. Before you could respond, however, a familiar presence made your heart skip a beat. 

“Getting acquainted, are we?” That voice. That deep, smooth voice you could recognize anywhere. Turning your head, you found yourself meeting his gaze—Shanks. The moment your eyes locked, a warmth spread through your chest, as if the whole world had faded into the background.

He stood there with that easygoing smile of his, but there was something in his expression, something subtle yet unmistakable. A quiet claim. A knowing glint in his eyes that sent your heart fluttering. Hongo glanced between the two of you and smirked, as if he had walked into something unspoken. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” he said, stepping back with a knowing chuckle. “Try not to get too distracted, Captain.”

Shanks let out a soft laugh, but his attention never wavered from you. And as Hongo walked off, it was just the two of you now. “So…” he drawled, tilting his head, that teasing yet utterly endearing smile still playing on his lips. “Were you enjoying his company?”

You huffed, crossing your arms tightly. “I would never. To me, you pirates are nothing but enemies—nothing more, nothing less.”

His grin widened as he stepped closer, his presence utterly intoxicating. “Should I be?” The way he looked at you—soft yet intense, playful yet laced with something deeper—made your breath hitch.

“…Bitch,” you muttered under your breath, barely loud enough to be heard. Shanks chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that sent a prickle down your spine. His eyes, sharp and knowing, lingered on you with an unreadable glint. The dim glow of lantern light flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows over his amused smirk.

His presence was imposing despite his easy demeanor, the kind of calm that felt too controlled, too deliberate. A slow step forward closed the space between you, and though his touch was featherlight as his fingers ghosted along your arm, it left a trail of warmth that burned hotter than it should. “You sure you wanna say that?” he murmured, his voice quiet—too quiet. The usual playfulness laced with something else, something heavier.

The air between you thickened, charged with an unspoken tension. You had seen Shanks laugh off threats, brush aside danger with that same devil-may-care smirk. But this? This felt different. And for the first time, you weren’t entirely sure if you’d pushed too far.

“Would an enemy offer to help treat the hand you so carelessly injured yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and laced with something you couldn’t quite define. And just like that, you were lost in him all over again. She lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes with a flicker of uncertainty before shaking her head. “No…? I mean… I—” she faltered, frustration laced in her voice. “I don’t know.”

“Then we don’t have to be,” he said with quiet certainty, removing his straw hat and placing it over his face as he reclined lazily, resting his head on his arm. His tone was unwavering, effortlessly confident, as if the thought had never been a question to him. You frowned, your brows knitting together in frustration. “What? Of course we do,” you shot back, your voice laced with conviction. “Pirates are all the same—you kill, you steal… it’s what you do.”

“Not all pirates are the same…” he said simply, his voice steady, and you swear you saw a flicker of something—an undeniable spark—in his eyes.

His words carried an unshakable confidence, as if he knew with absolute certainty that his tongue would not fail him. He spoke not just of himself, but of the truth that not all pirates were born to kill, steal, and ruin the lives of others.

And, truth be told, somewhere along the way… you started to believe him.

You snapped back to reality as Shanks’ voice cut through your thoughts, commanding Dorry and Brogy to take their positions. With a quiet sigh, you leaned against the ship’s railing, propping your chin in your palm, watching the scene unfold.

“What a hard-headed fool, Eustass~” you mused, your tone dripping with amusement.

Just a few days ago, while you were all gathered at a bar in a small port along Elbaph’s rugged coast, a familiar scene unfolded before you.

A quiet chuckle slipped past your lips as you watched the scene before you—a young boy with messy pink hair, his eyes filled with determination, persistently plead with Shanks to let him join the crew. He spoke with unwavering confidence, insisting that he’d be of unimaginable value, as if sheer will alone could carve his place among seasoned pirates.

Shanks remained unfazed, his refusal steady and unwavering. But the pink-haired boy wasn’t ready to back down just yet. With unshakable determination, he straightened his shoulders and declared that he wasn’t afraid of getting hurt.

“That’s exactly why I won’t take you,” Shanks replied smoothly, his tone light yet firm.

Still, the boy pressed on, insisting that no one on this island was braver than him—that he was the strongest, the most fearless, the perfect addition to their crew.

A quiet scoff left Shanks’ lips before he shook his head. “Dummy,” he muttered. “I’ll never take a hot-headed brat like you.”

As you watched the flicker of defeat cross the boy’s face, you turned your gaze to your red-haired captain. A hint of amusement danced in your eyes as you murmured, “You’re being a little harsh on the kid~ Sometimes, being too realistic isn’t the best way to handle a child.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, slow and knowing, as his gaze locked onto yours. With effortless ease, he reached for you—his only arm, strong and sure, coiling around your waist like a serpent claiming its prize. His grip was firm, possessive, the heat of his touch seeping through the fabric of your clothes as he pulled you flush against him.

Leaning in, his breath ghosted over your skin, his voice a low murmur laced with amusement and something darker, something indulgent.

“Taking the kid’s side now, are we~?”

A slow, teasing smile curled on your lips as you tilted your head, your fingers trailing up his chest with deliberate ease.

“Someone has to, don’t they?” you murmured, voice dripping with honeyed defiance. Your eyes flickered with challenge, the heat between you crackling like a slow-burning fire. “Besides… it’s a little cruel, don’t you think? Crushing a boy’s dream so easily.”

You pressed in just enough to close the sliver of space between you, your breath mingling with his. “Or is the mighty Red-Haired Shanks afraid of a little heartache?”

Shanks let out a low chuckle, the sound warm and full of amusement, yet laced with something more dangerous beneath the surface. His grip on your waist tightened just enough to remind you who was in control—and it was unmistakably him.

“Heartache?” he mused, his voice a smooth, lazy drawl, each word laced with quiet confidence. “Darling, I’ve faced battles, storms, and men who’d sell their very souls just to see me fail.” His thumb traced an idle circle along your side, a deceptively gentle touch that sent an unexpected tremor through you. “You think a kid’s broken dream could keep me awake at night?”

His smirk deepened as he leaned in, the space between you charged with an undeniable tension. His lips hovered just above yours, his breath a whisper against your skin. “But you…” His voice dipped, lowering into a hushed, almost teasing tone. “You speak as if you understand heartbreak, don’t you?”

His words weren’t a challenge, they were a provocation, drawing you in with their heat.

His thumb continued its slow, deliberate circle, pulling you even closer, his warmth seeping into every inch of your skin. “And as for you…” He grinned, that playful gleam in his eyes never fading. “You’re not just trying to soften me up, are you?”

A sly smile tugged at your lips as you met his gaze, the playful energy between you both palpable. You leaned in just a fraction closer, your voice a teasing whisper, laced with challenge. “I can make you soften with nothing more than the way I play with my hair,” you murmured, your fingers slipping through a strand, twirling it slowly between your fingers. Your eyes never left his, watching for the subtle shift in his expression, the crack in his unshakable facade. You could feel the heat between you growing, the line between playful banter and something far more charged starting to blur.

A slow, teasing grin would spread across his face, his eyes lighting up with that familiar spark of mischief. He’d lean in closer, his breath warm against your ear as his voice dropped to a sultry murmur.

“Oh, really?” he’d say with a chuckle, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “You think you can make me soften just like that?” His gaze would flick to your fingers, twirling the strand of hair, before locking back onto your eyes with a flirtatious intensity.

He’d give a soft, amused laugh and add, “Well, sweetheart, if that’s all it takes, I’m in trouble.” His lips would hover just a breath away from yours, the air thick with unspoken desire. “But don’t think I’ll go down that easily.”

A playful smirk tugged at your lips as you met his intense gaze, the heat between you undeniable. You leaned in just enough to close the distance, your voice dripping with teasing defiance, “shuties,” you purred, the words dripping with confidence as they rolled off your lips, each syllable sweet and playful, but laced with that sultry edge only you could pull off. Your smile curled at the corners, showing just a hint of your gorgeous teeth, a tease in the way your lips parted.

With a deliberate flick of your fingers, you twirled your hair one last time, knowing exactly how it would drive him wild. You held his gaze, your eyes glinting with a mix of challenge and invitation, leaving no doubt you were fully in control of the moment.

He pressed his lips to the rim of the glass, savoring the moment before slowly sipping the rum, each drop disappearing into him with a deliberate, almost reverent slowness—as if the very act of drinking was an indulgence to be relished. He swallowed with purpose, enjoying the burn that lingered, before pulling the glass away from his lips, almost as if drawing out the pleasure to its fullest extent.

In that charged silence, the boy spoke again, his voice hold a tiny hope and resolve. “What do I have to do to convince you?”

Benn Beckmann smirked, his expression nonchalant, as he slowly opened his eyes, the cigarette dangling carelessly between his lips. “Quit messing with the kid, Captain,” he said, his voice smooth and laid-back, yet carrying an undertone of amused warning.

“Don’t mock a kid who’s serious about his dreams,” Lucky Roux said with a grin plastered across his face, the kind of carefree smile that never seemed to leave him. He took a generous bite of the fruit in his hand, chewing leisurely as if the world itself were his to enjoy. “You never know how someone like that might react,” he added, his tone light but with an edge of quiet understanding.

Benn Beckmann exhaled a cloud of smoke, the tendrils curling lazily around his head as he watched the interaction unfold. His eyes were calm, yet sharp, as his voice cut through the moment. “You’d be a fool to underestimate his fighting spirit,” he remarked, the weight of his words lingering in the air. There was a quiet confidence in his tone, as if he had seen countless souls driven by that same reckless resolve.

Yasopp, ever the quiet observer, took a long, slow gulp of rum, feeling the burn as it slid down his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking, his voice steady, but carrying a depth that only experience could bring. “Sometimes,” he said, his gaze distant as if he were recalling distant memories, “those youthful kids do things that can shake the world to its core. It’s a fire you can’t ignore.”

The little boy huffed, frustration flickering in his eyes. “Say something! Come on!”

Shanks let a slow, knowing smile curve at the corner of his lips before finally speaking, his voice smooth, amused. “See? You’re quick to anger.”

The little boy pouted, his gaze fixed on Y/N as he whined, “Y/N-chan~ please convince him~”

She rested her chin lazily on her palm, a soft hum escaping her lips as she watched the scene unfold. The energy around her was playful, effortless, like a black cat waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“Oh~,” she teased, her voice playful, yet dripping with charm, “The little one’s trying to tug at the captain’s soft spot, huh? Clever little thing.” Her words danced through the air, light and teasing, as the crew laughed along, adding their own mock agreements.

Her laughter was like a soft breeze, airy and delicate, carrying the kind of playfulness that made it impossible to resist. She glanced at Shanks, the glint in her eyes both mischievous and warm.

“Well, I’m sorry~,” she purred with a soft smile, her tone drawing out the tease. “But I’m sure you’ll handle it on your own someday~ Who knows—maybe you’ll even beat him.” The last words were a playful promise, before she winked at Shanks, her movements slow, deliberate, like an invitation wrapped in silk, the space between them electric with unspoken temptation.

The door to the bar swung open with a sharp creak, and Rockstar stormed in, breathless, his voice cutting through the casual hum of the crew. “Sorry to interrupt, excuse me!”

All eyes turned, and the soft murmur of the crew died down. Y/N, Beckmann, Lucky, and Yasopp all glanced over, the silence heavy with curiosity. Lucky Roux, his mouth full of food, looked over with an exaggerated frown, his tone thick with mock annoyance. “Of course, you should apologize,” he mumbled through his mouthful. “Don’t interrupt us!”

Rockstar, flustered but determined, spoke quickly, his urgency unmistakable. “Apologies, but it’s an emergency.” He wiped his brow, eyes frantic. “That breasted attacked us!”

Yasopp’s lips curled into a smirk, one eyebrow raised in the perfect mix of mockery and amusement. “What a pain in the ass…” he drawled, his voice low and laced with sarcasm.

Lucky Roux chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat, his large frame towering even in casual repose. “He’s full of energy!” he quipped, his voice booming with playful amusement.

But Rockstar’s distress only grew more evident, his shoulders tense as he straightened. “Our youngsters are out there, squabbling, angry about getting blindsided…” His voice higher , a touch of anxiety creeping into his words. “What should we do? This could turn into a full-blown battle.”

Y/N leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing as she processed the words. There was a flicker of amusement behind her gaze—this situation, the chaos of it all, was a dance she was familiar with. She felt the energy in the room shift, playful yet dangerous, like the calm before a storm.

Shanks finished his drink with a sigh, setting the empty glass down with a quiet clink. “Gee,” he murmured, running a hand through his unruly red hair. “Can’t tell if this is good timing or bad.” His gaze flicked toward the newcomer as he added with a casual chuckle, “We were just about to head out.”

Rising to his feet, he stretched lazily, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of their conversation. “Guess we got a little carried away talking.” Then, a smirk tugged at his lips as he turned to Rockstar, his eyes glinting with something between amusement and nostalgia. “But hey, I’ve run into friends I thought were dead before.” His smirk deepened. “Can’t be helped.”

Benn Beckman’s smirk sharpened, his tone laced with dry amusement as he remarked, “Looks like we’ve managed to rattle the enemy.”

Lucky Roux burst into laughter, shaking his head. “Beck! You can’t just say that! Who do you think they despise the most?”

Beckman exhaled a slow, knowing chuckle, his smirk deepening as he took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing like a distant warning.

You crossed your arms sharply over your chest, your gaze unwavering. You knew exactly what lay beneath their words—after all, it was Beckman who had cost Eustass his arm. A silent understanding passed between you and the First Mate, but neither of you felt the need to say it aloud.

Instead, your eyes lifted toward your man, the red-haired emperor who stood effortlessly commanding in the dim light. His voice cut through the rising energy like a blade. “Prepare the ship.”

Yasopp’s face lit up with excitement. “Are we going to fight, Chief?!” His question was met with a roar of enthusiasm from the crew, fists raised high, voices echoing with untamed exhilaration. You chuckled softly, shaking your head at their boundless eagerness, the energy in the air crackling like a brewing storm.

A small boy tugged his hand in fist , his eyes wide with anticipation of excitement . “Is it gonna be a war, Shanks?”

The red-haired man gazed, his usual carefree aura laced with something heavier, something resolute. “I won’t let this land turn into a battlefield,” he said solemnly, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken promise.

From behind the bar, the blonde bartender propped her elbows up, resting her face in her hands as she sighed dreamily, her voice dripping with admiration. “A man , like no other ~”

Your lashes fluttered as you blinked, once, twice. Oh, for the love of— Your fingers twitched at your side, but you forced yourself to exhale smoothly, tilting your chin ever so slightly. Relax, Y/N. Don’t let jealousy crack your poise. You’ve got this. Stay composed. Stay effortless. Girl hold yourself for the love of feminism! Still, the urge to roll your eyes was too strong to resist.

Yasopp leaned in slightly, his voice dipping into a teasing murmur. “You’re being obvious ~”, Lucky Roux let out a chuckle, amused by the exchange, while Benn Beckman merely smirked, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as if he had already seen through you.

You rolled your eyes, feigning ignorance, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you. “Obvious? About what?” Your voice was smooth, unwavering—but the way Yasopp’s smirk deepened told you he wasn’t buying it.

Yasopp’s grin widened as he tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, you know… just how gracefully you handled that little moment back there.”

Lucky Roux snickered, stuffing another piece of meat into his mouth. “Yeah, real graceful,” he said through a mouthful, his amusement only growing.

Benn, ever the observer, took a slow drag from his cigarette before exhaling, his smirk unreadable. “Nothing wrong with a little jealousy,” he mused, watching you from the corner of his eye. “As long as you don’t let it rattle you.”

You scoffed, tilting your chin up, exuding that effortless poise you refused to let crack. “Jealous? Me?” A soft chuckle escaped your lips, low and honeyed. “You’re all reaching.”

Yasopp leaned back, both hands raised in mock surrender. “Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.”

You flicked your gaze toward Shanks, who had already moved on from the exchange, giving orders to the crew with that signature air of confidence.

Still, something in the way he smirked ever so slightly—as if he knew—sent a slow, teasing heat curling through you.

Damn him.

You raised your middle finger in a slow, deliberate motion , without even sparing them a glance, your expression unbothered, exuding that effortless grace they loved to tease you about. the picture of effortless grace.

Lucky Roux nearly choked on his food before bursting into laughter, clutching his stomach. Yasopp, on the other hand, threw his head back, cackling. “Oh, she’s really feeling it today!” he wheezed, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye.

Benn simply shook his head, taking another drag from his cigarette. “You keep things interesting,” he muttered, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze.

You arched a brow, lips curling into a slow, taunting smile., finally shifting your gaze toward them. “Glad to be your entertainment,” you drawled, voice dripping with faux sweetness. but there was an unmistakable challenge behind it.

Yasopp grinned. “Oh, you do, sweetheart. Every damn day.”, Lucky Roux was still laughing, shaking his head. “No wonder the Chief—” Benn cut him a sharp look, and Lucky quickly stuffed another bite of food into his mouth, muffling whatever he was about to say.

Your gaze flicked toward Shanks instinctively, but he hadn’t turned, still focused on the crew, issuing orders in that easy, commanding tone of his. 

Still… something in the way his shoulders shifted, the faintest tilt of his head, told you he had heard everything, And that damn smirk playing at the corner of his lips? Yeah, he definitely knew.

You looked back at the trio, memories stirring like whispers carried by the wind. To be honest, you weren’t even sure how it happened—how the course of fate had shifted so effortlessly beneath your feet.

At first, when you saw those pirates set foot on your land, something in you bristled. You hadn’t liked it—hadn’t liked them. Their presence alone had pushed you to the edge, sharpening your instincts, making you defensive, fierce. They were outsiders, and you had no reason to trust them.

But that resistance didn’t last long.

Because in what felt like no time at all, Shanks and the Red-Haired Pirates didn’t just earn your trust—they won your heart.

And these three… these three were the first to break past the walls you hadn’t even realized you’d built.

Benn was the first to speak to you. The first to test the waters, to study you with those sharp, knowing eyes of his. He was patient, steady, but undeniably persistent. He wanted your trust, and he wasn’t afraid to work for it. And the craziest part? He was flirtatious. More so than even Shanks at times. It was almost surreal—because everything about Benn screamed wisdom, control, a man too grounded for something as reckless as playful teasing. And yet, there he was, murmuring smooth words with a smirk just sharp enough to make you wonder if he was serious or simply playing the game.

Then there was Yasopp—the one who made you laugh the most. No matter how tense or uncertain things were in the beginning, he had a way of breaking through it. Whether it was some ridiculous magic trick he’d pull out of nowhere, a stupid joke, or an exaggerated story that couldn’t possibly be true (but he swore it was), he always knew how to make you crack a smile. He had that rare gift—one that made the world feel a little lighter just by being in it.

And Lucky Roux… at first glance, he seemed like nothing more than a cheerful, carefree spirit. He laughed easily, smiled even more, carrying an energy so warm, so effortless, that you couldn’t help but enjoy being around him. But as time passed, you saw more. Beneath the laughter, the endless appetite, and the easygoing nature, there was an unwavering loyalty, a quiet understanding of the world that made you respect him even more.

Looking at them now, you realized something.

You had fought so hard against their presence at first, ready to push them away before they could ever get close. But in the end, they hadn’t just become people you trusted.

They had become people you cherished.

You stood side by side with your man and his loyal crew, all gathered atop one of Elbaf’s towering hills. The wind howled through the vast expanse, tugging at your hair, making the crimson of Shanks’ coat ripple like a banner of war. The scent of earth and sea filled the air, mingling with the quiet weight of anticipation.

From below, the booming laughter of Dorry and Brogy echoed like rolling thunder, their voices carrying across the land.

Without looking at them, Shanks spoke, his tone light yet carrying an unmistakable edge. “You two will help me with that.” Then, glancing over his shoulder at the towering giants, his lips curled slightly. “Dorry. Brogy.”

Brogy let out another deep, hearty laugh, his massive axe resting easily in his grip. “No problem, bro!”, Dorry followed suit, his laughter just as thunderous. “Are you gonna fight them, Red-Haired?!” The weight of their words settled in the air, unspoken tension crackling like the wind that swirled around you.

You are thankful. I am more than thankful.

Thankful for the day the Red-Haired Pirates set foot on your remote island, changing the course of your life in ways you never could have foreseen. Thankful that you had stood your ground, faced them head-on—even if, in the beginning, your only intention was to fight them. And thankful, above all, that Red-Haired Shanks is not the kind of man who gives up. That he is a dreamer, a force of nature, a man with a spirit so unyielding it could shape the tides themselves.

And, well… it certainly doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome too.

But beyond even that, you are happy. More than happy.

Because there will never be a day you regret the moment Shanks turned to you with that effortless, knowing smile—the kind that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand stories—and asked you to join his crew.

You still remember how stunned you were, the way your breath hitched as you pointed at yourself. “Me?”

His gaze, warm as the setting sun, locked onto yours. And with all the confidence in the world, he nodded. “You.”

Then, without hesitation, he extended his hand toward you—an unspoken promise, an invitation into a life you had never dared to imagine for yourself.

Your fingers slipped into his, and he pulled you forward, steady and sure. As your feet touched the wooden steps of the Red Force, something deep within you shifted, as if the sea itself had welcomed you home.

And in that moment, as the wind carried the sound of laughter and distant waves, you knew.

There was no turning back.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[etheraltides]

BITTER SWEET ᥫ᭡࿔

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x kook!thornton!Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a rising name in the business world, desperately needs a date for the wedding of the year. With a major investment deal on the line and his image at stake, he finds himself reluctantly turning to the last person he ever expected for help: Topper’s little sister, a girl he’s bickered with since he could remember.

Warning(s): SMUT – p in v penetration (wrap it before you tap it), dirty talk, jealousy. Substance use. +18 only! Minors do not interact.

A/N: Every feedback is welcome <3

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊ Chapter five: Last Day in Paradise ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

The first thing you noticed was warmth. Not the kind of fleeting comfort you got from a blanket on a chilly night, but something deeper, more solid, more alive. It anchored you, a steady rhythm beneath your cheek. Slowly, as your senses returned, you realized it was Rafe

You were lying on his chest, your bare legs tangled with his, his arm wrapped around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. The sheets were tangled at your hips, barely covering the evidence of last night.

The memories came rushing back in waves, each one more vivid than the last. His lips against yours on the balcony, the heat of his touch, the way he had looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Your cheeks burned as the details sharpened — his voice murmuring your name, the press of his body against yours, the way you had whispered yes without hesitation.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing against his chest, the faint scratches of your nails from the night before still visible against his tanned skin. His breathing changed, growing heavier, and you froze as his voice broke the stillness.

“Morning, trouble.”

You swallowed, your heart skipping a beat. His tone was low and gravelly, softened by sleep but carrying the teasing edge that was so unmistakably him.

“Morning,” you murmured back, not daring to lift your head just yet.

“Still hiding?” he asked, amusement lacing his voice.

Your fingers tightened slightly against his chest as you cursed yourself for being so obvious. “I’m not hiding.”

His chuckle rumbled beneath you. “You sure about that? ‘Cause you’ve got your face buried in my chest like you’re trying to disappear.”

You groaned softly, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. “I just… need a second.”

“To what? Process how lucky you are?” His hand shifted on your waist, his fingers brushing against your bare skin, and the smugness in his tone made you want to punch him — and maybe kiss him again.

Finally, you lifted your head, your hair tumbling over your shoulders as you looked up at him. His blue eyes met yours, sharper now as the haze of sleep faded, and his smirk deepened at the sight of your flushed face.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, pushing against his chest in an attempt to sit up.

He caught your wrist before you could go far, his grip firm but gentle. “And you’re blushing,” he pointed out, his voice dropping slightly as his eyes roamed your face.

You tried to tug your hand free, but he didn’t let go, his thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist. “If you keep talking, I’ll—”

“What? Leave?” He raised a brow, his smirk widening. “We both know you’re not going anywhere.”

You glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah? That’s not what you were screaming last night” he shot back, his voice softening just enough as he whispered in his ear, waking goosebumps all over your body.

You huffed, leaning down until your forehead rested against his neck. “I hate you.”

“I think were a bit past that now, don’t you?”

The laugh you let out was involuntary, the sound muffled against his skin, and his hand slid up your back, his fingers trailing along your spine in a way that made you shiver.

…

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the quiet confidence you’d mustered faltered the second Rafe’s gaze locked on you. He was leaning back against the headboard, legs stretched out and arms crossed, his expression unreadable—until he saw you.

His posture shifted immediately, his eyes dragging over you slowly, deliberately, like he was studying you for weakness. Or maybe for something else entirely. His jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a faint smirk, though his gaze lingered far too long on the way the bikini hugged your body.

You froze for a second, your fingers tightening around the ties to your bikini top. “What?”

Rafe’s smirk widened slightly, his eyes darkening as he pushed himself off the bed. He didn’t answer right away, his steps unhurried as he closed the space between you. Finally, when he stopped just a little too close, he tilted his head, his voice low and edged with something sharp.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me right now?”

Your breath hitched, and you tried not to let it show. “It’s just a bikini, Rafe.”

He let out a quiet scoff, his hand coming up to rest against the wall beside your head, boxing you in. “You chose the tiniest one just to taunt me, didn’t you?”

Your cheeks burned under his scrutiny, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Are you done?”

“Not even close.” He leaned in, the heat of his body radiating against yours as he flicked his eyes to the untied strings in your hand. “Turn around.”

Your brows furrowed. “Why?”

He raised a brow and held up a hand, gesturing to the ties. “Unless you plan on walking out there like that, you’re gonna need to tie this.”

Reluctantly, you turned, crossing your arms over your chest and staring at the wall as you felt his fingers brush against your bare back. His movements were slow — too slow. He wasn’t just tying the strings, he was deliberately letting his knuckles graze your skin, his fingertips tracing patterns that made your breath catch.

“You’re taking your time,” you muttered, trying to keep the fluster out of your voice.

“What can I say?” His voice dipped lower, teasing. “I’m a perfectionist.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but the words evaporated when he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

“This thing’s barely holding together,” he murmured, his voice like a smirk given form. “One wave, and it’s over.”

You spun around to face him, your eyes wide as you slapped his chest. “Rafe!”

He caught your wrist easily, his grip firm but playful, his smirk stretching into a full grin. “Relax. I’m just trying to help. A friendly heads up, that’s all.”

“Help less,” you snapped, though your voice betrayed you with its shaky edge, your cheeks burning as you stared at him.

“Noted,” he said, releasing your wrist but not stepping back. His eyes flicked over you once more before he finally moved away, hands in his pockets. “But if you end up needing me to retie it…” He paused, his smirk turning wicked. “You know where to find me.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile as you grabbed your bag and headed for the door. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still blushing,” he called after you, his smug tone chasing you all the way out of the room.

The sun was high in the sky, warming your skin as you lay on the beach chair, your arms stretched out lazily. The soft crash of the waves against the shore blended with the distant hum of conversations and laughter from other beachgoers. You could feel the sun’s rays starting to prick at your shoulders, so you sat up slightly, reaching for the bottle of sunscreen

“Hey.” you said, turning your head toward Rafe, who was sprawled in the chair next to you, sunglasses shielding his eyes but doing nothing to hide the smug, lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “Can you do my back?”

His head tilted, the smirk growing. “You sure you trust me with that?”

You gave him a pointed look, shaking the bottle at him. “Just don’t take forever. My skin is boiling here.”

Rafe chuckled, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the chair. “No promises.” He grabbed the bottle from you, popping the cap open as you turned onto your stomach, propping yourself up on your forearms.

The first touch of the cool lotion against your skin made you shiver, and Rafe’s low chuckle drifted down to you. “Cold?”

“Just get on with it,” you muttered, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

But Rafe wasn’t in any rush. His hands moved slowly, spreading the lotion across your shoulders with deliberate precision. His fingers pressed firmly into your skin, massaging the lotion in circles that felt far more intentional than necessary.

“Relax,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “I’ve got you.”

You let out a soft sigh, though you couldn’t ignore the way his hands lingered, his thumbs pressing into the dip of your lower back, dangerously close to your bikini bottoms.

“Rafe…” you warned, your voice muffled against your arms.

“What?” he asked innocently, his hands pausing for a fraction of a second before continuing lower. “I’m just making sure you’re covered.”

His hands slid down to your thighs, his touch firm as he worked the lotion into your skin. When his fingers brushed the curve of your ass, you shot him a glare over your shoulder.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Completely.” he said with a smirk, his hands unapologetically smoothing lotion over the exposed skin. “You wouldn’t want to burn, would you?”

Your jaw dropped, and before you could think of a response, his palm landed on your ass with a slap that made you squeal.

“Rafe!”

He laughed, leaning back on his heels as he admired his work. “What? That’s prime territory for sunburn. Just doing my part.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, sitting up and snatching the bottle out of his hand.

“And yet,” he said, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a low murmur as he pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, “you keep asking for my help.”

His eyes held yours, a challenge sparking in their depths, and you swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your heart raced under his gaze.

“I won’t anymore.” you shot back, though the bite in your words was undercut by the way you couldn’t quite look away.

Rafe leaned back with a smug grin, clearly pleased with himself as he sprawled back on his chair. “Whatever you say, princess.”

As you turned away, you could still feel his gaze on you, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was enjoying himself a little too much. But the truth was, so were you.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the horizon in streaks of gold and crimson. The ocean glittered under its touch, the waves rolling in gentle, rhythmic crashes against the shore. You’d spent the day alternating between the warmth of the sun and the cool embrace of the sea, trading teasing remarks with Rafe and stealing moments of quiet that neither of you dared break.

Now, as the heat softened into a more forgiving warmth, Rafe was tugging you toward the water again, his grip firm but not forceful. “Come on,” he said, his lips twitching into that cocky, teasing smirk. “You’ve spent the last hour avoiding it.”

You pulled against his hand, dragging your feet through the sand. “It’s freezing, Rafe!”

“Stop being dramatic!” he scoffed, but there was laughter in his tone. He paused, turning to face you, his blue eyes bright with mischief. “What, you scared of a little cold water?”

“I just don’t enjoy the sensation of becoming an icicle.” you shot back, crossing your arms.

“Fine.” He shrugged, his smirk turning into a full grin. “Guess I’ll just have to carry you.”

“Don’t you—Rafe!”

Before you could react, he scooped you up effortlessly, your legs dangling as you flailed against his chest.

“Put me down!” you squealed, but your protests were drowned out by your laughter as he strode toward the waves, the water lapping at his ankles, then his knees.

“See?” he said, grinning down at you. “Not so bad.”

The next thing you knew, you were both in the water, the cool shock of it stealing your breath as he let you go just enough to let the waves pull at you. You shrieked, splashing him in retaliation, and he laughed, his grin boyish and carefree in a way that felt rare.

The playfulness between you ebbed as the moments stretched, replaced by something quieter. The laughter faded, and you found yourself drawn closer to him, his arms instinctively wrapping around you to steady you against the gentle pull of the tide.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The ocean stretched out around you, vast and endless, and the only sound was the rhythmic crash of waves and the distant murmur of the beach behind you.

Rafe’s hands settled on your waist, his grip firm but gentle. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Thanks.”

You blinked, tilting your head up to look at him. His face was unreadable, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “For what?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening like he was fighting with himself. When he finally met your gaze, his expression had shifted — gone was the smirk, the cocky bravado. What you saw instead took your breath away.

Rafe looked… lost. Vulnerable in a way he rarely let show. His brows drew together slightly, as if the words he was about to say were hard for him to admit.

“For putting up with me this weekend.” he said, his voice barely audible over the waves. “For… helping me when you didn’t have to”

You stared at him, startled by the weight of his words. “Rafe…”

“It’s not just this weekend,” he continued, cutting you off, his grip tightening on your waist as if grounding himself. “It’s… everything. The way you…” He broke off, shaking his head like he was frustrated with himself.

“The way I what?” you asked softly, your hand brushing against his chest, trying to coax the words out of him without you even noticing.

His eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, the walls he always kept up cracked just enough for you to see through. “The way you didn’t leave when I wasn’t exactly making it easy.” he said finally, his voice low, raw. “Even when I’m a mess. Even when I’m… me.”

Your chest tightened at the way he said it, like he truly believed he wasn’t worth sticking around for. The bravado, the arrogance — it all felt like a mask now, one he wore to hide just how deeply his loneliness ran.

“Rafe,” you murmured, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek. He flinched slightly at the touch, as if he wasn’t used to being touched so gently, but he didn’t pull away. “You’ve been through a lot and—”

He huffed out a bitter laugh, his eyes dropping to the water between you. “That’s generous.”

“I mean it,” you insisted, your thumb brushing against his cheekbone. “You’re not perfect, Rafe. But nobody is. And the way you see yourself? That’s not permanent. You can… That’s not all I see - not anymore.”

His eyes flicked back up to yours, something vulnerable and searching in them. “How do you see me?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding at the intensity of his gaze. “I see someone who’s trying,” you said finally, your voice steady. “Even if you don’t think you are. I see someone who cares more than he lets on.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his jaw working as he processed your words. Then, his forehead dropped to rest against yours, his eyes slipping shut.

He let out a shaky breath, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you again, there was something softer in his expression. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“What do you mean?” you asked, your lips curving into a faint smile despite the heaviness of the moment.

“You make me think…” He paused, searching for the right words. “You make me think maybe I’m not as screwed up as I feel.”

“Aren’t we all?” you said simply, a smile dangling on your lips.

His lips twitched into something close to a smile, though his eyes still held that flicker of vulnerability. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

“Someone’s gotta keep you in check,” you teased gently.

He laughed softly, the sound almost disbelieving, and for the first time in a long time, it felt real.

The waves lapped at your sides as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a way that felt less possessive and more like he was trying to hold himself together.

“Thank you.” he said again, his voice steadier now, his eyes searching yours.

“Always.” you replied, your fingers brushing against his chest as you held his gaze.

The moment stretched, the weight of it lingering even as the tide pulled at you both. For the first time, it felt like Rafe wasn’t just letting you in — he was trying to keep you in.

Back at the hotel, the charged energy that had simmered between you all day seemed to follow you like a shadow, growing heavier with every passing glance, every fleeting touch. By the time you both found yourselves in the bathroom, it was like the air itself was crackling with electricity.

You were standing at the sink, brushing your damp hair out of your face to apply some pre-poo after a long day in the sun, when Rafe stepped inside. His shirt was gone, the tan he’d picked up over the weekend emphasizing the sharp lines of his chest and the faint dusting of freckles across his shoulders. He moved past you, his arm brushing yours as he reached for a towel hanging near the shower.

It should have been a simple movement, nothing out of the ordinary. But the second his skin grazed yours, the tension that had coiled tight between you all day snapped.

You turned your head, and he was already looking at you, his blue eyes dark and intent, like he’d been waiting for you to crack first.

Neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to.

It happened all at once — his hand reaching for your wrist, your breath catching as he pulled you toward him. His other hand slid to the small of your back, tugging you closer until there wasn’t even an inch of space between you. Then his lips were on yours, hot and insistent, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You gasped against him, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders as he backed you up against the sink. His kiss was urgent, consuming, like he couldn’t get enough of you. And God, you couldn’t get enough of him either.

The towel he’d been holding fell to the floor as his hands roamed your body, one sliding to your waist and the other tangling in your hair. His fingers tightened slightly, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, and you let out a soft, involuntary moan that seemed to undo him completely.

“Shower.” he muttered against your lips, his voice low and rough, and before you could even process the word, he was guiding you backward toward the glass enclosure.

The cool tile of the shower wall met your back just as the spray of hot water burst to life, cascading over both of you. The contrast of sensations made you shiver, but Rafe’s hands were already on you again, grounding you, igniting a heat that burned hotter than the steam enveloping you both.

He pressed you back against the wall, his body flush against yours, and you couldn’t hold back the soft gasp that escaped when you felt the full strength of him. His lips moved to your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, each one lingering like he was memorizing the way you felt beneath him.

“Rafe…” You barely recognized your own voice, breathless and shaky as your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Say it again.” he murmured against your neck, his voice dark and laced with a possessive edge that sent a shiver down your spine. “Shit, call for me again.”

“Rafe.” you repeated, and his name came out like a plea, breaking apart as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear.

His hands slid lower, gripping your hips before traveling down to the backs of your thighs. Without a word, he lifted you effortlessly, pinning you higher against the wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your hands tangling in his damp hair as you brought his lips back to yours.

The kiss was slower this time, but no less intense. His tongue swept against yours, his grip on your thighs tightening as he pulled you closer, holding you like he never wanted to let go. The water cascaded over both of you, but it did little to cool the fire raging between you.

Rafe pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as his chest heaved, both of you catching your breath. His eyes found yours, and the raw intensity in them made your heart skip a beat.

“You drive me insane, you know that?” he said, his voice rough and low, his lips brushing against yours with every word.

Your hands slid down to his jaw, your thumbs brushing against his cheekbones as you smiled faintly. “Good.”

A low growl rumbled in his chest, and before you could say anything else, he kissed you again, harder this time, with a desperation that stole whatever restraint you had left.

The steam swirled around you, the water pouring down like it was trying to drown the fire between you — but it was hopeless. Whatever this was, whatever had built between you over the years, it wasn’t something that could be extinguished. Not now. Not anymore.

Rafe’s grip on your thighs tightened as he set you down gently, the cool tile sending a jolt through your body as he stepped back just enough to let you stand on your own two trembling legs. His eyes never left yours as he reached for the strings of your bikini top, his fingers deftly untying them.

“I’ve wanted to do this all day,” he murmured, his voice thick with need, and you felt your cheeks flush as the material fell away, exposing your bare breasts to the steamy air.

He took a moment to just look at you, his eyes darkening as they roamed over your body, lingering on your hardened nipples and the droplets of water that clung to your skin. Then, as if he couldn’t wait another second, he reached out and cupped one in his hand, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. A bolt of pleasure shot straight to your core, making your knees wobble.

You leaned into his touch, arching your back slightly, and that was all the invitation he needed. His mouth was on you, suckling your nipple into his warm, wet mouth, his tongue flicking against it as you let out a gasp that was quickly muffled by his groan. Your hands found the back of his neck, holding it tightly as his other hand moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention.

But as much as you enjoyed the feeling of his mouth on your breasts, there was something else you craved. Something more. You reached down and tugged at the waistband of his shorts, your eyes never leaving his.

The material slid down his hips, revealing his arousal, thick and heavy, standing proudly against his stomach. Your heart raced as you took him in your hand, his cock hot and velvety-soft, yet so firm. You felt the weight of him, the way he twitched at your touch, and you knew he wanted this as much as you did.

“You like that?” You whispered, a hint of mischief in your voice, watching as his eyes fluttered closed and his head fell back with a groan.

“Fuck yes,” he hissed, his hand coming to cover yours, guiding your strokes. His hips jerked slightly, and you felt his cock throb in your grasp.

The power you had over him was intoxicating, and you reveled in it, stroking him slowly, watching the way his body responded to every touch. You leaned in, your breath warm against his neck as you whispered, “You’re so big.”

Rafe’s eyes snapped open, his gaze locking onto yours, and there was something in it that made your stomach flip — something dark and hungry that mirrored the ache between your legs.

He spins you around, pressing your breasts against the cool glass as he kisses your neck, his hand sliding down to tease your clit while you watch your reflection in the steamy mirror.

The sensation is maddening, and you can't help but arch into his touch, your hips rolling against his palm. The water streams down your back, creating rivulets that trace the curves of your body, and the slickness between your legs only makes your need for him more intense.

"Tell me what you want," Rafe whispers, his breath hot on your skin, his fingers expertly circling your clit. His other hand slides down to your ass, squeezing it gently as he continues to explore your body.

"I want you," you murmur, the words barely audible over the rush of the shower. Your voice is thick with desire, and it sends a jolt of need through him. He groans, his cock pulsing against your bottom.

Rafe’s hand slides from your clit, his fingers slipping into your folds, testing your readiness. You're soaking wet, both from the water and your own arousal, and you push back into his hand, silently begging for more. He teases you, sliding one finger in and out, watching your eyes glaze over in pleasure.

“Do you want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” His voice is a low growl in your ear, and you shiver with excitement. His words added a new dimension to the fire between you, turning your desire up to a fever pitch.

You nod, unable to form coherent words as his fingers delve deeper, filling you. “Yes.” you manage to breathe out, the word little more than a gasp.

“Say it,” he demands, his hand moving faster, his thumb pressing against your clit with just the right amount of pressure. “Tell me you want my cock inside you.”

Your cheeks flush, but you don’t hesitate. “I want your cock inside me, Rafe. Now.” The words feel decadent on your tongue, and you revel in the power of them, the way his eyes darken and his breath hitches.

With a smoldering smile, Rafe turns you around to face him, the water still raining down on both of you. He takes your face in his hands, tilting it up to meet his gaze. His eyes are blazing with lust, but there’s something else in there too — something that makes your heart race faster than the pulsing ache between your legs.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice a command that you can’t resist. You stare up into his eyes as he guides the tip of his cock to your entrance. You gasp as he slides inside you, filling you up with one slow, deliberate stroke. It’s a sensation you’ve never felt before, like he’s claiming you, marking you as his own.

He pins you against the wall, lifts one of your legs, and enters you standing, the water rushing over both of you, heightening every sensation.

The feel of him inside you is overwhelming, his thickness stretching you as he starts to move, his hips pistoning in and out, the water sluicing over your bodies, turning your skin slick and your cries of pleasure muffled by the pounding of the shower. His hand wraps around the back of your thigh, holding your leg up as he takes you, his other hand on your hip to balance you as he drives deeper with every thrust.

“Oh, fuck. Rafe!” you moan, your voice a mix of pleasure and surprise at how good it feels. He groans in response, his eyes locked onto yours, his pupils blown wide with lust.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” he murmurs, his voice a dark, velvet rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “Take it all. Take every inch of me.”

You can’t help the whimper that escapes as he hits that perfect spot, the one that sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Your eyes flutter closed, but he gently taps your cheek with the pad of his thumb, urging you to look at him.

“Keep those eyes on me.” he says, his voice a gruff command that makes your core tighten. You force your lids up and watch him as he continues to pump into you, his movements powerful and deliberate. “Let me see you come for me, baby.”

His hand slides down to your clit, his thumb circling the sensitive bud as he picks up his pace. You feel yourself building closer and closer to the edge, your muscles tightening around him, trying to pull him deeper. “I bet that stupid fucking tourist didn’t get you moaning like this, huh?” he says, his voice thick with arrogance.

You’re surprised at the sudden mention of the guy who had dropped you off at your place two days ago, the one who had barely managed to get your number. But as Rafe’s thumb applies more pressure and his cock hits that spot deep inside you, the memory of the touron fades away, replaced by the reality of the man who’s been under your skin for years.

“So you were jealous, huh?” You ask, your voice teasing despite the way your body is trembling with need. You can’t resist scratching your nails down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles as he fucks you harder against the shower wall.

“Shut up.” Rafe says, a playful smirk curling his lips. But the way his eyes bore into yours says he’s not joking. He wants you to be silent, to only focus on him, on the way he’s claiming you with every stroke.

You lean in closer, your breath a hot whisper in his ear. “Make me, then.” you challenge him, your voice dripping with need and mischief. You bite his earlobe, making him growl before you pull away again, your eyes sparkling with defiance.

Rafe’s smirk widens, the challenge accepted. His strokes become more urgent, his grip on your thigh tightening as he fucks you with a new vigor that has your teeth sinking into your bottom lip. The pleasure builds, coiling in your belly like a tight spring, ready to snap at any moment.

You can feel him thicken inside you, his hips slapping against your ass as he takes you harder. Your nails rake down his back, leaving trails of red against his tanned skin, and he grunts with every thrust, his eyes never leaving yours. The sound of your bodies colliding echoes off the shower walls, mingling with the steady patter of the water.

Then it happens — the orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over you with an intensity that steals the breath from your lungs. You cry out, your muscles tightening around him, and he groans in response, his grip on your thigh and hip almost painful. He pulls out at the last moment, the tip of his cock teasing your clit as he comes, painting your stomach with ropes of hot cum. The sight of him, his head thrown back and his muscles taut with release, sends another shiver of pleasure through you.

You stand there for a moment, panting and trembling, your legs threatening to give out. But Rafe’s arms are around you, holding you up, keeping you close. His chest is heaving, his heart pounding against yours as he presses his forehead to yours.

The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of the shower and your occasional shared laughter as you both rinse off the remnants of your earlier entanglement. The water slides over Rafe’s broad shoulders, droplets tracing the ridges of his muscles as he smirks at you from beneath the spray.

“You’re hogging all the hot water, Cameron.” you tease, nudging him with your elbow.

He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “Or maybe you’re just too slow. Pick up the pace, princess.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so slow if someone didn’t ruin my ability to walk properly.” you shoot back, trying to sound exasperated but failing miserably as your lips twitch into a grin.

Rafe’s low chuckle reverberates in the steam-filled room. “You’re so welcome.” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement and satisfaction.

Your chest tightens at the sound, and you glance away, a shy smile pulling at your lips. It’s maddening, how effortlessly he can unravel you with a single look or a simple quip.

By the time you step out of the shower, the mirror is fogged over, and the bathroom feels stifling. You grab a towel, wrapping it tightly around yourself, already feeling a tug of laziness weighing you down.

Rafe was already drying himself, shaking his wet hair like a dog and laughing when you glare at him. “Relax, princess. You’re already wet.”

“That’s disgusting, Rafe.” But you can’t help the small laugh that escapes you.

Your eyes flick to Rafe’s t-shirt lying casually on the counter while he puts his sweatpants on. Without a second thought, you snag it, pulling it over your head. The fabric hangs loosely, brushing your thighs.

When Rafe notices, his brows lift. “Seriously? My shirt?”

“It was right there.” you reply nonchalantly, smoothing the material as if to make your point. “And I’m too lazy to grab my pajamas. Deal with it.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes dragging over you. Something flashes there — something warm, possessive — but it’s gone before you can place it. “Really?”

“What?” you say innocently, running a hand over the shirt. “It was right there and it’s your fault I can’t walk to my suitcase anyway.”

He narrows his eyes at you but doesn’t argue, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Fine. Keep it. But don’t act surprised when I start charging you rent.”

You scoff, brushing past him as you head toward the bed. “You’re so generous.”

Once you’re under the covers, the soft glow of your phones illuminates the space between you. The easy comfort of scrolling and sharing random videos fills the room. Rafe shows you a clip of some guy trying to skateboard off a roof and failing miserably. You laugh so hard your chest aches, and the sound of Rafe’s deep chuckle beside you makes your heart feel unbearably light.

But as the laughter fades, a familiar weight creeps back into your chest. Tomorrow. The word lingers, flashing in your mind like a warning light. You’ll go back to the Outer Banks, to the suffocating expectations of your mother and family. Rafe will go back to being just Rafe — your brother’s best friend.

“We’re back tomorrow.” you murmur softly, your voice breaking the silence.

Rafe doesn’t respond immediately, but you feel his gaze shift to you. “Yeah.” he says after a moment.

You bite your lip, hesitating. “Back to… normal, I guess.”

His jaw tightens at your words, and for a moment, the room feels heavier. His silence stretches, his expression unreadable as he stares at the ceiling.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” you add quickly, setting your phone aside.

“Didn’t you?” he asks, his tone calm but edged with something heavier.

You swallow, guilt and frustration knotting in your chest. “I just mean…” You pause, your voice trembling. “You’ll go back to being you, and I’ll go back to…”

“Pretending this never happened?” he finishes, his voice low and rough. He didn’t even know why he was frustrated.

You flinch, shaking your head. “No. It’s not like that.” You take a breath, struggling to explain. “It’s just… you know what it’s like with my mom. With my family. Everything has to be perfect. And me…” You trail off, lowering your gaze. “I’m not allowed to just… be myself.”

Rafe shifts beside you, his eyes softening as they lock onto yours. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand reaches out, his fingers brushing over yours. The simple gesture makes your heart clench.

“But we still have tonight.” you add, your voice barely above a whisper.

Something shifts in his expression — less frustration, more heat. A slow smirk tugs at his lips, and he leans closer, his voice dropping low. “Yeah. We do.”

His lips find yours, and the world falls away. It’s not rushed, not frantic, but slow and consuming, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you. His hand cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing along your jaw as his mouth moves against yours. You melt into him, your fingers sliding into his hair as you press closer, closer, like you can’t get enough.

When his tongue brushes against yours, you gasp softly, your heart racing. Heat coils low in your stomach, spreading through your body as his hands slide down to your thighs, pulling you into his lap. You can feel him everywhere — his touch, his warmth, his breath — and it makes your head spin.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless. His forehead presses against yours, and the crooked grin he gives you sends a thrill through your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips curve into a grin. “Alright, one last thing before you’re back to being Little Miss Perfect: wanna smoke?”

You laugh softly, still catching your breath. “I don’t think I’m as perfect as you think.”

“Could’ve fooled me” he says, already grabbing the joint from the metal box on the bedside table.

At some point, you end up on the balcony — the spot you’d jokingly called your “weed place” earlier in the week. The night air feels cool against your skin, and you curl up beside him, your legs draped over his lap as he lights the joint. The first drag is sharp, making your lungs burn, but it quickly fades into a pleasant haze. After a few hits, the haze feels light, freeing.

“Okay, fine,” you say, laughing. “But then… what if fish get bored of swimming all the time? Like, what if they’re just floating there, looking up at the surface and thinking, ‘Wow, I wish I could walk. Or fly.’”

“Fish don’t think that,” Rafe says, grinning. “Fish don’t think at all.”

You gasp, your hand flying to your chest. “Rude. Fish probably have, like, the deepest thoughts. What if they’re out there philosophizing about life? Like, ‘What even is water?’”

That sends you into another fit of giggles, your head falling back against the chair as you clutch your stomach. You don’t even realize Rafe is watching you until you catch the way his smirk softens, his blue eyes warm as they trace over your face.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, his voice low.

“Yeah, well…” You shrug, still smiling. “At least I can say whatever stupid thing pops into my head with you. That’s nice. I don’t have to, like, filter myself.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just reaches out to brush a piece of hair from your face. “Good,” he says softly. “You should always be yourself.”

The joint burns out eventually, but the ease you feel doesn’t fade. When Rafe pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of you mid-laugh, you groan, reaching for it.

“Let me see!”

“Not a chance,” he says, holding it out of reach, grinning.

Fine, you think, grabbing your own phone. “Two can play this game.” You snap a photo of him in the middle of a laugh, his head tilted back.

“Oh, come on.” He groans, reaching for your phone. “That’s terrible!”

“That’s the point,” you say, giggling as you dodge him.

The photo war escalates quickly, and you’re back in his lap before you even realize it, both of you laughing uncontrollably.

The flash goes off.

You pull back, your breath catching as you see the phone in his hand. “Did you just take a picture of that?”

Rafe smirks, his eyes half-lidded. “Maybe.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

His hands trail lazily down your thighs, his smirk darkening. “Maybe I’ll take one more,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

“Yeah?” you ask, your voice a little breathy as your heart pounds in your chest.

He nods, his fingers curling under the hem of his shirt — your shirt — where it brushes your thighs. “You know, for the road.”

A rush of heat spreads through you as you give him a playful smirk, your inhibitions completely gone. Slowly, you grab the hem of the shirt and lift it just enough to flash him.

His eyes darken, his phone already in hand. “Hold that.” he murmurs, his voice rasping, and before you can even think, the flash goes off again.

You laugh, tugging the shirt back down, your cheeks burning. “You’re insane,” you say softly, giggling, the smile lingering.

He grins, setting the phone aside as his hands slide to your waist. “Maybe,” he replies, his lips brushing yours. “But at least now I’ve got a proper party favor from this wedding shit.”

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

TAGLIST: @megiiite @melsunshine @maybankslover @wearemadeofstardust0 @lilithblackkk @slutforoldermen @louxmcl @peter-parkers-gf @yootvi @v4mp1rr3 @evermorx89

[deerspherestudios]

I hope you have a wonderful break! I really enjoyed the new update of the game and I can't wait for more aaa !! <33

And I agree about Mychael having different sides to him, the story feels more authentic and especially combined with the action/motion scenes, the game feels so immersive! I really, really love your work on it! The writing, the coding, the visuals, everything!! Even the bad endings is so heartwrenching </3 (ending 4 is my top fav bad ending hehe)

I also wanna ask how you did the moving scenes with the sprites? Like with Mychael falling off the bed because MC punched him (my fav scene, its so funny) and the one with him snatching MC's wrist to avoid touching the mushrooms. Was it hard to figure it out how to do it?

Aaa sorry for the ramble! >< I really love the game :'D and Mychael! Heres a tight hug for him🫂 <33

I've explained the snatching MC's hand animation here!

As for the punch and some other motions, that's actually Ren'Py's transformations.

Ren'Py Ramblings below:

I'm gonna be 100% honest, a lot of these I took from the Lemma Soft and Reddit forums of people providing codes for various movements. It's incredibly helpful and I'm lucky to have found these and being able to implement them into my game!

I can credit them if people ask me to, but I usually google "hit animation renpy/ drop animation renpy/ tremble animation renpy" and got these!

For the 'slap' at the start of Day 3:

transform drop: zoom 6 xalign 0.5 yalign 0.2 ease 0.2 zoom 1 xalign 0.5 yalign .45 easein .175 yoffset -30 easeout .175 yoffset 0 easeout_cubic 1 yoffset 1200

For the 'slap' in Ending 4:

transform slap: zoom 6 xalign 0.4 yalign 0.5 pause.1 ease 0.2 zoom 1 xalign 0.5 yalign .45 easein .175 yoffset -30 easeout .175 yoffset 0

For the 'trembling' in Ending 4:

transform shake: linear 0.090 xoffset -2 linear 0.090 xoffset +0 linear 0.090 yoffset -2 linear 0.090 yoffset +0 repeat

Afterwards I adjust them to my liking. For example, drop and slap are the exact same, with changes in the position and slight timing, since in drop the beginning anchor point is the center of Mychael's face in the sprite image:

And then implement them afterwards as usual:

show [sprite] at [drop/slap/shake]

Hope that helps!

[aventurineswife]

Can I ask for aventurine with an s/o who looks really giddy and excited except they're actually really nervous and depressive inside to the point they randomly stop acting happy one day and tell Aventurine that he can break up with them anytime he wants since they don't feel sufficient for him? Like they don't think they can compete with the pretty ladies he must see at the casino?-

“You're Everything”

Summary: Aventurine has always been able to read people, but the one person he can't quite figure out is you, his partner. Though outwardly cheerful, you've been hiding insecurities beneath your bright demeanor. One evening, during a quiet moment at home, your walls finally come down as you confess your self-doubt, feeling unworthy of Aventurine’s affection. This revelation shatters the illusion that everything is fine, and Aventurine takes the opportunity to reassure you of your worth.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Romance, Emotional Support, Insecurity, Reassurance, Vulnerability, Tender Moments, Established Relationship, Confessions, Trust.

Warnings: Mild emotional distress, Insecurity/confidence issues, Mild mentions of self-doubt.

A/N: shit why does that sound like me...? 😕💔

Aventurine had always been able to read people, to sense when something wasn’t quite right, when the masks people wore didn’t match the truth lurking beneath. But there was something about you—about how you always wore that giddy, almost dizzying smile—that kept him second-guessing himself. You never seemed to show your hand, always too busy hiding your true feelings behind that infectious energy.

It had taken time, but over the months of your relationship, he’d come to know you better, catching the subtle hints when your laughter wasn’t quite as bright or your movements just a little too stiff. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t worry—his strategic mind always assumed something was amiss, but you had become his anchor. He’d convinced himself that he didn’t need to dig deeper, that everything was fine as long as you looked happy. But deep down, that little seed of doubt always lingered, nestled in the back of his mind.

And that day... that day it all came crashing down.

It started with a quiet evening at home. The two of you had shared a meal, laughed about something trivial, and as always, you had worn that bubbly, almost too-exuberant smile. But there was a shift, a subtle drop in the energy that only someone who had spent so much time with you would notice. The tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes darted away when he met your gaze—it was like a veil had dropped, leaving a raw vulnerability behind.

You didn’t say anything at first, as if waiting for him to notice, to say something. But then, just as he was about to speak, you broke the silence.

"I don't think I'm good enough for you." you muttered, voice strained. Your hands trembled slightly, though you tried to keep them hidden in your lap.

Aventurine’s heart twisted. The moment you said those words, the mask shattered, and the heavy truth hit him. You hadn’t been your usual self—hadn't been genuinely happy—and he knew it was time to uncover the secret you’d been holding in.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying you carefully. “What do you mean by that?” His tone was soft, but there was a depth of concern behind it.

You swallowed, trying to compose yourself, but the words kept slipping out in a rush. "I—I don’t know, I just feel... like you could do so much better. I see how you are at the casino, surrounded by all those beautiful, confident women, and I... I can’t compete with them. I don’t even feel like I’m enough for you. You can... break up with me anytime you want. I wouldn't blame you."

The words hit Aventurine like a sucker punch. He froze for a moment, his usually steady hand twitching as he fought the urge to reach out and pull you into his arms. But instead, he stayed where he was, keeping his distance, allowing the weight of your words to settle between the two of you.

His gaze softened, his eyes fixing on you with an intensity that left no room for doubt. “You think I’m with you because of how you compare to others?” he asked, his voice a little more stern than usual. But underneath it was something deeper—something fragile, as if he was trying to keep his own composure intact.

Your head hung low, and you nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “I don’t know… It just feels like... I’m not enough for someone like you. You deserve someone who can make you happy without all this baggage."

Aventurine let out a small sigh, shaking his head slightly, as if processing the sheer weight of your words. His lips twitched upward into a soft, bittersweet smile, the kind that spoke of knowing something far deeper than surface-level impressions. He stood and walked over to you slowly, his movements calculated, but not with the usual sharpness of someone managing a deal. No, this was different. His steps were careful, as if afraid of shattering the delicate balance between the two of you.

Reaching out, he cupped your chin gently with one hand, lifting your face so you would meet his gaze. "You really think I care about comparing you to other people?" His voice, though steady, held a quiet intensity that resonated through you. "Look at me. Look at me, and understand something."

You blinked up at him, your heart thundering in your chest.

Aventurine exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “What matters to me, what’s always mattered to me, is you. Not the ‘pretty ladies,’ not the ones who look perfect on the outside. I’ve never cared about that. Not when it’s you who can make me laugh when the world feels like it’s closing in. Not when it’s you who makes me feel... human, not just the strategist, not just the Stoneheart. I don’t need anyone else."

You felt a pang in your chest at his words, but it only deepened when he continued.

“You think you're not enough, but you're everything. The fact that you’re here, sharing this with me, means more than you can imagine. You want to know why I chose you?” His voice was softer now, coaxing, as if breaking through a dam that had held so much back. "Because you're you. You don't have to pretend to be someone you're not. You never have to compete with anyone else, not when I’ve already chosen you."

Tears welled in your eyes, but you didn’t wipe them away. His words felt like a balm to wounds you hadn't realized were so deep.

Aventurine gave you a small, sincere smile, his gaze unwavering. “I’m not going anywhere. And if you ever doubt it again, I’ll remind you. But I’m asking you now, don’t doubt yourself. Not for a second. You’re exactly what I need, exactly what I want.”

The weight that had been crushing your chest seemed to lift, and for the first time in a long while, you breathed a little easier. You couldn’t help but let out a shaky laugh, your lips curving upward despite the wetness still on your cheeks.

Aventurine laughed with you, the sound warm and full of tenderness. “There’s that smile again. I’m never letting go of it.” He wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his eyes glimmering with something you couldn’t quite put into words.

In that moment, you understood. You weren’t just his partner. You were his, completely and irrevocably, no matter what the world outside thought or how you felt inside.

And with that, you finally let the real smile break free, one that didn’t feel forced, one that was only for him.

[revelboo]

HIIII! i just wanted to say I have been devouring your writing; you have such a lovely talent for conjuring whole worlds with such brevity.

Hope the sudden spam of likes/reblogs was okay >u<''

Thanks! I’ve gotten a bit used to short form and needing to pack a punch in brief snippets from Twitter’s vss365 writing prompts.

Everything is Alright Pt 26

Starscream x Reader

• This isn’t right. Isn’t what he wanted. You’re supposed to be happy. Thankful. And that black rage washes higher threatening to drown him as his servos curl under into fists with the need to lash out, because it’s all wrong. Then you’re looking up at him, those big eyes afraid, fingers tightening on that stuffed animal. Afraid of him? Afraid for humans you likely don’t even know because deep down you think he’s a monster?

• And he’s yanking his chair back from his desk, the legs screeching on the floor before he slings it against the wall. It’s not enough to bank that fury crackling through him. Not nearly enough. Because he understands that fear on your face. Knows too well the feeling of saying what must be said even though you know there will be repercussions. For a moment, he’s paralyzed, venting raggedly as a memory claws its way out of the dark corners of his processor. Of pain and fear so visceral and inescapable. Megatron in a fury, big hands curling into fists.

• You’d backed away when he’d slung the chair, now you’re staring as he shakes, shoulders hunched, wings trembling and hands curled into claws, servos flexing like he wants to tear something apart. This isn’t just temper, there’s something else going on that you don’t understand. Something that hurts you to watch. “This isn’t right,” he snarls, head dropping as those tremors run wild through his frame. “Why isn’t it right?”

• His rasping voice is cracking with something more than just anger, there’s pain there that lances through you as you clutch the stuffed bear tighter to yourself. You’re terrified of him like this, all too aware that one careless swipe of his hand can break you. “I’m sorry,” you call out, despite the very real fear of pulling his attention back to you. Those red optics are bloody and wild as his helm swings your way and you start trembling. “You’re always taking care of me,” you forge on wanting nothing more than to hide from that stare. He’s going to hurt you this time. You’re sure of it.

• He can’t stop shaking, torn between memories he doesn’t want and the soft sound of your voice. Apologizing even as it wavers in fear. That breaks through the confused rage, his hand slamming against the edge of the desk as he lunges toward that sound. Needing it to anchor him in the sea of pain and hate and self loathing. You stagger back, little frame tense. Scared of him. Moving slowly, he lays his helm down on the desk, unable to stand you looking at him like that. Like how he stares at Megatron in a rage. The feel of your soft, little hand on his cheek almost breaks him. You’re trying to comfort him? Shuttering his optics, he just savors the feel of your gentle touch and your voice, your words. Thanking him and apologizing even as you break. “No one was home,” he growls, because he understands. Wants to reach for you, hook a servo around you and tug you against him. But doesn’t dare. Not yet.

Previous Next

[stxrrnightjxr]

Barty Crouch Jr.

He’s just made a joke. Some stupid joke, about betting on who’d get the last chocolate frog when they returned home. But now Evan was on the ground.

Why was Evan on the ground? This wasn’t time for pranks, they were fighting.

Barty paused his onslaught of spells at the offending aurors, letting the other death eaters go ahead.

“Evan? Come on man, get up.”

Evan didn’t get up. Didn’t move, didn’t even flinch when Barty kicked his foot.

That’s when Barty saw the tear in Evan’s shirt, and the green light that was slowly fading into the shape of a splatter- an ugly splotch on his rose’s chest, right in the center of his sternum, tendrils of magic spreading like roots- though instead of growth, this was infection. This was hurt. This was death.

Barty didn’t understand for a second. Why did he look like that? Why was his Evan growing pale? Why didn’t his crystal blue eyes blink?

Why was he jumping up and punching Barty’s shoulder, laughing about how he’d ‘got him!’?

Barty simply stood there. Looking down at Evan, Evan’s body, like it were some curious thing to behold. This wasn’t real, he couldn’t believe this.

“Crouch! Get over here!”

Barty faintly heard what he thought was Dolohov’s voice, but he couldn’t move his feet. He was anchored to the spot.

He dropped to his knees beside Evan. Evan’s body, Evan’s corpse. A corpse. It wasn’t Evan any longer. Wasn’t his Evan, wasn’t his rose, not his Rosie-

No, not his Rosie. Barty gathered Evan up in his arms. He was pale, and already too stiff. Not his rose. Barty couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t even cry, when he wished to scream. He tucked Evan’s face close to his chest, holding him tight, though his hands shook. Barty buried his face in Evan’s hair, held him like a child.

He supposed he’d be getting that chocolate frog when he returned home.

[ghostlycamil4]

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜, 𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑒, 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝐽𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑂𝑓𝑓 𝐴𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦

ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴵᴺᴳ⠃ ¹⁸⁺ ᶜᴼᴺᵀᴱᴺᵀᵀʰⁱˢ ᵗᵉˣᵗ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵉˣᵖˡⁱᶜⁱᵗ ˡᵃⁿᵍᵘᵃᵍᵉ ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃᵈᵘˡᵗ ˢⁱᵗᵘᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ· ᶜʳᵘᵈᵉ ˡᵃⁿᵍᵘᵃᵍᵉ ᵖʳᵒᵛᵒᶜᵃᵗⁱᵛᵉ ᵗᵒⁿᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵉˣᵖˡⁱᶜⁱᵗ ˢⁱᵗᵘᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵃʳᵉ ᵖʳᵉˢᵉⁿᵗ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰᵒᵘᵗ·

The sun was just starting to creep through the curtains when Bakugo woke up with that all-too-familiar tension between his legs. Not the first time, sure—but that didn’t make it any less fucking annoying. With a low growl, he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles before dragging a hand down under the sheets, where a very obvious tent made his situation clear.

“This is a fucking joke…” he muttered, yanking the blanket up again just to glare at the clear evidence of his problem.

It wasn’t like his sex drive was out of control most of the time, but some days, his own damn body seemed hell-bent on betraying him—pushing him to the edge without any fucking warning. And today was one of those goddamn days.

Worst part? You weren’t there.

You’d left town for some family thing, three whole fucking days away. And while Bakugo would never admit it out loud, your absence had him in a foul mood. But today—of all fucking days—when he needed you most, in the filthiest way possible, you were miles out of reach.

With an exasperated sigh, he dropped back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer some kind of answer. He could take care of it himself—of course he could—but it wasn’t the same. Not even close. Not without your hands on him, dragging down his chest, your nails digging into his back, and fuck—your sweet little moans in his ear.

He unlocked his phone without thinking, thumbed into your chat, and froze. What the fuck was I even gonna say? The dial tone rang before he could hang up, and Bakugo cursed under his breath—he hadn’t meant to call. Too late now.

Then your voice came through, soft and easy.

“Morning, babe.”

Shit. Right in the fucking dick.

“Morning,” he muttered, trying to sound casual as his grip tightened on the phone. “When’re you back?”

“Flight’s on Wednesday,” you said, distracted—blender whirring in the background.

He pictured it instantly: you in his kitchen, that damn sweater slipping off your shoulder, bare legs, tiny shorts…

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growled, mostly to himself.

“Miss me already?” you teased, voice dripping with smug playfulness. You were doing this on purpose—he knew it, and it pissed him off how well it worked.

There was a pause. Just his shaky breathing filling the silence.

Then you got it.

“Oh.”

That one fucking word hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Shut up,” he growled, low and rough—but there was no heat behind it. He was already too far gone.

“That bad, huh?” you purred, voice dipping low—smooth, seductive. Like you were right up against the mic just to mess with his head. “Want me to help you out, babe?”

He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth.

“You’re not here,” he snapped, like it was your damn fault. His voice came out raw, strained. You could practically see it—his hand trailing lower, muscles tight, jaw clenched. “Fuck you.”

“Well… I could just hang up.”

Your tone was syrupy sweet, fake-innocent, and he hated how much it turned him on. You knew exactly what you were doing.

Silence.

One beat. Then another.

“Close your eyes.”

Your voice changed—sharper, darker. A command. And for once, he didn’t argue. He just did it.

And then, a sigh.

“What else?” His voice was rough—gritty, caught somewhere between resistance and surrender. You could picture him perfectly: eyes shut tight, brows drawn in frustration, jaw clenched like he was barely holding it together. Fingers probably digging into the side of his thigh, like he needed to anchor himself to something before he snapped.

“Imagine it’s my hand down there… What would I do first, huh? Would I go slow—make you suffer? Or would you be the one too fucking desperate to wait?”

A strangled growl. “Fuck.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, but that thrill—hot and victorious—rushed through your veins like fire.

“You like it, don’t you? Thinking about me there, lips brushing over you, not giving you what you want…”

“You’re a fucking tease,” he spat. But his voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.

“Ah, but you haven’t told me to stop.”

It was too much.

With a guttural noise, Bakugo arched off the bed, his hand jerking under the sheets with desperate urgency.

“Shut the fuck up and keep talking!”

And so, you did. Slowly, deliberately. Every word like a drop of gasoline on an open flame. You painted filthy little pictures in his head—your hands sliding down his chest, your mouth following right after, teeth scraping over his skin. You told him how wet you were just watching him lose it like that. All because of you.

Every breathless moan, every half-swallowed curse from his end was fucking music.

Then—

“Y/N, sweetie, can you help me with this?”

Your mother. Cheerful. Oblivious.

Ice water.

“Just a sec, Mom!” you answered way too fast, scrambling, the mic shifting as you choked back laughter and panic.

“Yeah, Mom! Coming!” you repeated, followed by a hurried whisper into the phone, “Shit, babe, I gotta—”

Click.

The call dropped before you could even finish the sentence.

Bakugo sat frozen, phone still pressed to his ear, knuckles white, body wound tighter than a goddamn wire.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“This fucking women—!” he snarled into the empty room, but even his rage couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice.

Frustration, hot and raw, coiled in his gut like a bomb that didn’t go off.

The silence in the room was now a cruel joke. The sheets, messy and damp, still smelled like you—that stupidly delicious perfume you wore just to drive him insane. And he was still there, throbbing, left halfway to ruin.

His breath hitched as his hand slid lower, wrapping around himself with a firm, practiced grip.

"You need it that bad?"

Your voice echoed in his head, tangled with the wet, obscene sound of his fist working him with growing urgency. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would be—because it wasn’t you. Because he couldn’t hear your moans, couldn’t feel you squirming beneath his hands.

*"You like knowing I cum just for you, don’t you?"*

“Shut up…” he growled under his breath, but his pulse only spiked higher. The image of your body arched over him was so vivid it hurt.

His hand moved faster, rougher, as if he could fuck the thought of you out of his head—bury it under friction and sheer will.

But god, how he tried to make up for it.

He bit his lip, hard, imagining it was you doing it.

Your teeth sinking into his neck.

Your tongue licking the sweat off his collarbone.

Your mouth trailing down his torso, kissing every scar, every muscle, until you reached exactly where he needed you most.

"If you were here…"

He could almost hear the wet sounds of your mouth on him, your fingers digging into his thighs, the filthy things you’d say when you were just as lost in pleasure as he was.

“God…”

He twisted, hips jerking, hand moving faster—more desperate.

The moan tore from his throat, rough and guttural, as the orgasm crashed over him like a relentless wave. His body arched violently, neck tendons straining to their limit. A ragged curse, a shudder-then heat spilling over his fingers, his stomach, his thoughts going blissfully blank.

“Fuck—!”

When he came back to himself, his half-lidded eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind foggy, limbs heavy as lead.

“You’re a fucking bitch...” he muttered, but there was no anger in his voice—just a hoarse, drowsy satisfaction.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

[captainjamster]

Hey if you're comfortable with it, do you think you write about how 141 would react to finding out you're ticklish? Preferably nsfw. Maybe they just tease you with it or maybe they have a session with you after a while and enjoy how it drives you crazy. It could be poly141 or just a drabble with each members reaction.

I love your writing sm

I'm sorry this took a while anon, thank you so much for your request!! This is the first time I've written about tickling, so I hope it came out alright. I loved researching this lmfao it's so cute

Pairing(s): 141 x reader (separately, not poly or sharing this time sorry! :p) Warnings: Bondage and restraint, tickling, tickling during sex Wordcount: 1.2k Summary: How each of the boys enjoy tickling you :p AO3 Link: Right here! <3

Full drabbles under cut <3

Price loves your laugh; just the sound can get him hard. Maybe you should’ve seen it coming from the first date. It was the first thing he complimented you on in the small bakery – heart eyes over the brim of his coffee cup that had your cheeks red, already breathless at the story between a cheeky sounding sergeant and someone’s poor dog. He stores every terrible joke exchanged amongst his boys, bringing them home just to fill your ears with them, to get anything from that exasperated little giggle to a shocked cackle at some of Ghost’s darker ones – the first time he hears you belly laugh, he writes the beginning of his wedding vows.

For him, there’s a privilege in being allowed to bring you to such a vulnerable state, dazed and breathless, whether it’s scrabbling against the material of his shirt as you’re bent over in hysterics, hiding behind your hands, gasping for air at the comedy he’s been nagging you to watch, or between his thighs against the mattress, straining with hiccupped shrieks and pleads at his weight as he tortures your overstimulated skin. The only thing he uses is his fingers, and he’s stubborn about it, possessive of the tactile connection between his fingertips against your skin. The furthest he goes is a plug in your pussy, with a command to try and keep it there at the threat of a good spanking (though you both know you’re going to fail).

He challenges himself to make you come with just tickling – he neglects your needy pussy, wet and fluttering with arousal, until the delicate dragging of his nails down the plush insides of your thigh has you spasming around nothing.

-

Gaz, poor Gaz. Gaz, with blood under his nails he just can’t scrub, who sees someone’s face with every punch he throws at the bag. He’s heard the way his peers talk all throughout his service – spank their ass, slap their face, tight grip to the throat, till they ache.

There was only one part that ever stuck with him – till they ache.

The only time he raises a hand against you is to watch you squeal in anticipation before it flies down to your stomach, skittering up and down the soft skin as you twist and writhe against the sheets. It’s everything he needs – he can make you cry, beg, scream, with the whisp of a few touches, the softest of caresses. Tracing the marks that scatter your skin, only love bites and the imprints of restraint. On some nights, Gaz loves tying you up and tickling you, watching you squirm and contort against his ropes in an attempt to escape. The knots dip into your flesh, keeping your arms straight and pointed to the metal hook that meets the rope stemming from your wrists, legs spread wide with the thick bar anchoring your feet flat to the ground. His fingers dance over every inch of skin bare to him, honing to the areas you try to pull away from, watching you sway this and that way in peals of laughter as he switches between sides on your ribs.

Unlike Price, he doesn’t care for games – he’ll give you what you want. A toy, his fingers, his cock. Slow and steady, letting the rope drop a little to bend you at the waist, rocking back and forward into him, clenching down those slick and warm walls in sync with each ragged laugh. He doesn’t mind wielding a tickle wand, dragging the feathers up and down your thighs, your armpits, behind your knees. It’s not over until your eyes are puffy, cheeks tear stained as you sag under your own weight, kept suspended by the rope as your knees shake.

-

Soap becomes aware of your ticklish nature very quickly, being such a tactile partner. He’s always touching you – whether it’s an arm around your waist, foot rubbing against your calf, pinkies linked together – and it isn’t long before he unintentionally makes you squeal, accidentally brushing up against one of your most sensitive areas. The noise makes him jump, worried he’s hurt you, but when he sees the red of your cheeks and the shy smile on your face? Oh, it’s over for you.

“Y’ticklish, bonnie?”

He’s all a-grin every time, hands raising menacingly with wiggling fingers.

For a while it stays non-sexual, but poor Johnny can’t help himself. The tickle fights start to linger way past what’s appropriate, making home in his mind – how you get so panicked and squirmy, trying to get away from his fingers, your breathless laugh and gasps as his name whines so desperately from your lips. Your squeals rings through his ears during overdue paperwork in his late nights, so clear that he swears your lips brush across the tips of his ears, and Price avoids looking at him too closely as he turns in the files before leaving.

Sly, smart Johnny starts off slow. When the mood is playful during sex, he purposely rubs his hair and beard up against your neck, your back, feeling you pulse erratically around him with each giggle. He introduces it in increments, a foot in the door as you warm to the idea. Things really get going when he confesses, head buried in the crook of your neck as he groans how the way you flutter around his cock with each giggle brings him so close, and you can't help but laugh at that too. Poor Johnny comes harder than he ever has, and you can't help but want to indulge the glassy, lovestruck expression on his handsome face.

Unlike Gaz, he’d never restrain you - Johnny loves fighting you to stay still, caging you in or dragging you back by the ankle into his reach.

-

For Ghost, he loves the chase and anticipation beforehand, and his favourite way of being a pest – catch him brushing against just the right spot to make you jump and squeal as his arms slip around you, or his chin nuzzles into your neck.

But it starts with a morning of productivity, taken with your own domestic chores in a quiet co-existence. He’s finished a spot-tidy, bringing some discarded rubbish and checking on you in the kitchen. You’re unsuspecting, caught up in your respective daily activities, fixated on the job in front of you – and something hits him. The way you bob along happily to the music in your head, scrubbing at the dishes with a sway in your hips, caught up in your own world. Your happiness is magnetic, beckoning him and basking him in the same warm rush of dopamine. A light bubbles up through his body, something that forces its way from the depths of his chest more often when you’re around, and his feet are moving towards the kitchen before he thinks twice.

“Hey love?”

You hum questioningly, putting elbow grease into a particularly stuck blemish from the morning’s dishes.

“Got somethin’ for you.”

You finally turn around, soapy hands in the air as droplets cascade from them. Simon gives you a second to stare quizzically, watching your expression morph into a pleading grin as his hands creep up from his sides, fingers curling over into a leering grab.

“No! I’m washing dishes, please!”

His grin widens, fingers wiggling threateningly. “Then dry your hands.”

Your hands fall to your shirt, squeezing the material as you ready yourself to bolt. He squares up, arms outstretched, but he doesn’t close them as you swoop by close enough, out the kitchen in a mad dash. Though the chase is superficial, it doesn’t stop the thrill that jolts him with each impending step, following you through to the loungeroom. The sofa keeps him at bay, circling each other in a practiced synchronisation around the furniture as you feint left and right, keeping him guessing which way you’ll take off.

You bluff right to distract him from your plan to run the other way, but Simon lunges left anyway. He’s faster than you can think, reading the tensing of your muscles, and unable to rectify your charade as you scramble, his arms clamp around you in a swooping grab.

And as you gasp and giggle underneath him, something stirs to life.

dividers by cafekitsune

[sillygoose067]

2 Hands

"I just want your two hands on me at all times baby, if you let go... better put 'em right back, fast" -2 Hands by Tate Mcrae

Synopsis: After a long night in Blüdhaven, Dick Grayson learns that love isn’t about grand gestures or perfect words—it’s about staying.

Blüdhaven was finally sleeping.

Or pretending to. The city lay curled beneath a blanket of fog and flickering streetlamps, quiet in that heavy, humming way that settles behind the eyes and breathes into your bones. Up above a weathered boxing gym, in a small apartment that still smelled faintly of sweat and aftershave, Dick Grayson stood in the doorway of the bedroom, silhouette haloed by the warm amber spill of hallway light.

His eyes were on you.

You sat at the edge of his bed, legs folded beneath you, drowning in the soft cotton of one of his old hoodies. It hung off your frame like a memory. The low hum of traffic outside painted your cheekbone in light, and his gaze lingered on the fading bruise beneath your eye. Not out of guilt—he knew better than to question your strength. On some nights, you were the one dragging him home in one piece. But there it was anyway: that quiet ache in his chest, that instinct to draw you in, wrap you up, shelter you from the next fight the world threw your way.

And as always, he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

“You’re overthinking again,” you murmured, not even turning to look.

He exhaled something between a laugh and a sigh, stepping into the room. “Yeah? That obvious?”

“You’ve got a tell,” you said, mouth tugging up at the corners. “Your jaw locks. Like you’re chewing through a whole city’s worth of guilt.”

He dropped down behind you, close enough to feel your warmth but still holding himself back. His hands braced against the bed, one on either side of your thighs. A cage of his own making.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said, low and unsure.

You glanced over your shoulder, brows drawn. “About what?”

“I’ve said I love you a thousand different ways. Brought you food at 2 a.m. after patrol. Taped your ribs, cleaned your cuts. Tried to build something steady in a life that’s always spinning. But sometimes it still feels like I’m missing something.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached for his hand—not like it was made of glass, not like you were asking permission. You grabbed it like it was the only solid thing in a world full of smoke.

“I don’t need flowers, Dick.”

He looked up, eyes searching yours.

“I don’t need you to recite all the ways I’m better than what came before. I don’t need a rooftop proposal or some silver-lined fantasy. I don’t want declarations or diamonds. I want you. Just you. Two hands on me, not going anywhere. Not flinching. Not fading.”

That hit him harder than any punch he’d taken this week.

And maybe it broke something open in him. Maybe that was good.

Because without another word, he moved—slow, reverent. He pulled you back into him like it was instinct, like he’d been meaning to this whole time. Arms wrapping around your waist. Your back against his chest. Your heartbeat syncing to the one behind you. His hands resting at your hips—not possessive, not performative. Just there. Like they belonged.

Like your life depended on it.

And maybe, in some way, his did too.

Because out of all the things he fought for, all the masks he wore and lines he crossed, this—you—were the only thing that didn’t need saving. Didn’t ask for more than what he already had to give. No speeches. No acrobatics. Just the feel of his hands on your skin. Present. Anchored.

And in that quiet, in the hush between heartbeats, he finally understood.

The way your fingers ghosted over his chest like you were checking for a pulse. The way your silence asked for everything his words never could.

So he didn’t speak.

He just held on.

Tighter.

Like you asked.

Like your life needed saving.

Like maybe—just maybe—so did his.

[rillils]

There were times, back then, when Steve was sure he wasn’t going to pull through.

When the fever had consumed him for days, and the breath burned thick in the back of his throat, and Steve felt himself slip too close to the dark place that lived behind his eyelids, across the threshold of his consciousness.

Death, he thought: hovering like a loving mother at his side.

He could feel it, like a cold whisper gusting against his skin, chilling him with words of warning. Soon, it said; and Steve was too weak to do anything but lie there and listen.

He tried to tell Bucky once, drifting out of a delirious sleep.

“If… if death came tomorrow...”

“You’d punch him in the face,” Bucky shushed him softly, carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. The healthy warmth of his hand felt nearly cool against the fevered heat of Steve’s skin, and Steve leaned blindly into the soothing touch, sighing his relief as Bucky’s knuckles stroked his cheek.

Bucky. The world seemed to be fading at the edges, like a sheet of paper burning from the outside in, curling ash-black and falling away piece by piece; but Bucky was still there.

Bucky was made of gentleness and sound, sweet like the sweet nothings he poured in Steve’s ear when Steve slept fitfully, swept into his feverish haze and lost to the world for hours on end.

Bucky was touch: an anchor. Bucky was color, familiar and dependable, like the blue of the sky, the yellow heart of daisies, the stain-black of charcoal.

Steve glimpsed the downturned corners of his mouth, his lovely lovely mouth, red like ripe apples. Steve had dreamed of kissing it once. Twice. Every other night.

Bucky’s cheeks were so pale. His eyes looked so tired, circled by the bruise-like purple of his skin.

He hadn’t been sleeping, Steve knew. Steve had been sleeping, though – he’d stolen Bucky’s share of it while his body burned up from the inside.

“Buck,” Steve rasped, his voice thin and crusty, like plaster peeling off the wall. “If... if I go...”

Bucky shook his head, one curl coming loose from the once careful sweep of his hair. His pretty lips quirked up, a slip of a smile found so easily like he’d rehearsed it a dozen times before.

“Nah. You’re not going anywhere,” he said, collecting Steve’s hand to cradle it in both of his.

Steve’s head lolled sleepily on his pillow, lured by the sound of Bucky’s trembling voice.

“Buck.”

“Shh. You’re staying right here, where I– where I can keep an eye on ya.”

Silence spilled in the room, just for a moment – the space of a sniffle, of a soft, shivery exhale.

“Gotta make sure you don’t get into trouble, don’t I?”

One of Bucky’s hands left him briefly, and when it enveloped him again, there was a wetness there; one little drop trickling from the bridge of his finger, to land cool on Steve’s skin.

“Just. Just like I promised.”

And Steve knew then.

If Death did come; if it seized his wrist with its bone-thin fingers and bade him to follow, Now, child, it is time, Steve would say: No. He’s not ready.

He would think of the apple-red mouth he had never kissed yet, save for in his dreams; of the love he hadn’t quite begun to shape into words. He’d think of the life he’d only just caught a glimpse of, stretched far on the road ahead of him, twined with Bucky’s own as they reached into the future, together. Simply. Always.

No, Steve would tell Death. He’s not ready.

And neither am I.

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: torture, choking, cussing, firearms, Happy in his happy place, racism, home invasion.

Part 29

A Charming Detour - Part 30

The first sound was the sharp crack of glass. You startled awake, heart slamming in your chest as shards rained across the bedroom floor like falling ice.

Your scream caught in your throat before it could escape—frozen in that moment between dream and nightmare.

Juice shot upright beside you, eyes already wild, fingers reaching for you instinctively. "Babe?"

But the shadow at the foot of the bed moved too fast.

Then came the screaming.

Yours.

Juice’s.

The sound of boots thudding hard against wood.

The flashlight beam seared across the room like a gunshot—then hands, rough and unrelenting, tore you from the mattress.

"Juice—!"

You barely got his name out before a powerful arm clamped around your chest and another hand—thick, calloused, and cold—closed around your throat.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was control.

Immediate and absolute.

Your feet kicked beneath you, not even grazing the ground.

The air left your lungs in a tight, startled wheeze as your fingers clawed uselessly at the hand crushing your windpipe.

Your vision blurred.

Panic bloomed behind your eyes like a firework of static.

You could barely hear your own ragged, choked gasps. The blood was pounding too loud in your ears.

Everything shrank to the size of that vice on your neck—how your toes scrambled for contact with the floor that wasn’t there.

How you couldn’t get even a whisper of air.

"Put her down! Put her down!" Juice’s voice was hoarse and desperate.

You saw him—barely—lunging off the bed, shirtless, tattooed skin flashing in the beam of light.

His whole body was straining, raw with fury, but two men caught him mid-charge.

"NO—No, no, baby, look at me—"

But you couldn’t. You were dangling, trembling, mouth open like a fish out of water. Your hands slapped and scraped against the man’s wrist, nails digging in—but it did nothing.

You were just a doll in his grip.

Your lips parted, trying to form his name, but nothing came. Your world narrowed to spots of light and the burn of your lungs. Your legs started to go limp.

Juice saw it.

And it broke him.

"STOP—SHE CAN’T BREATHE—!" His voice cracked like something inside him was tearing. "She’s not part of this, you fucking cowards—"

A heavy punch cracked across Juice’s jaw, silencing him mid-scream.

Blood flew. He staggered, but he kept pushing forward on instinct, dragging his body toward yours.

You felt it when the hand on your throat finally loosened—just a fraction—and you fell, crumpling to your knees, coughing and wheezing, hands trembling as they gripped your neck like you had to hold it together yourself.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

Juice was crawling to you, one eye already swelling shut, blood trickling from his mouth. "Baby—baby, look at me. I’m right here. I’m right here." He was breathless, shattered, but all he cared about was you.

You blinked up at him with tears streaking your face, reaching for him in blind desperation.

Your fingers brushed his hand, and he curled them into his immediately—tight, like an anchor.

"I got you," he whispered, voice breaking. "I got you, baby, I swear—"

Juice coughed blood onto the floor as a heavy boot planted on his spine forced him flat.

Another man—the one who seemed to be in charge—crouched beside him and dragged him up by the neck.

His voice was calm, like a lecture.

"You don’t belong here." His tone turned vicious. "But you knew that, didn’t you?"

Juice’s split lip curled. "Fuck you."

The man let his head drop with a thud. "You think Charming’s a safe little bubble? That your crew can hide under SAMCRO’s protection forever? Zobelle has friends in places that don’t give a shit about patches, do you know how many of us there are?"

Juice tried to lift his head, only to get kicked again in the ribs. You screamed from across the room, your voice breaking in panic.

"Stop it! You’re going to kill him!"

Your bare legs trembled where they pinned you to the wall, the hand at your throat tightening enough to make your voice crack.

The man behind you leered.

"Kill him? Oh no, sweetheart," he sneered. "We’re just getting started. We want him conscious."

He pressed closer. "You know, it's funny. We expected you to be better at hiding—when we heard you were runnin'. Soft little English-sounding thing. Barefoot, scared, all docile like a lamb. Makes it even worse, y'know. Wasting yourself on some greasy fucking spic."

Juice choked on a growl and tried to rise again. The leader slammed a knee down between his shoulder blades.

"That’s what really pisses us off," the man muttered. "You ain’t even one of 'em," he said to you, turning.

"You’re white. Coulda married a banker. A sheriff. Hell, even a trucker. But you shack up with this inked-up little wetback? What’s the deal, huh? Daddy didn’t hug you enough? Or is it the rebel fantasy—little Ms. Runaway wants a ‘bad boy’ to make her feel dangerous?"

You whimpered, frozen, tears spilling down your cheeks. Your fingers dug into the man’s arm at your throat, trying to push him off.

"Why’d you run, sweetheart? What was the point? 'Cause we found you. And if we found you... we can send you back to them."

Juice was shaking now—rage, panic, pain all blurring in his blood-slicked vision. "Get your fucking hands off her," he snarled. "Touch her again, I swear to God I'll put you in the goddamn ground."

"Spic thinks he’s scary," one of them laughed. "You think the world gives a shit about what happens to you, beaner? We disappear you, no one comes looking. But her? She’s our little trophy."

Another leaned toward you and dragged the back of his hand across your cheek, slow and deliberate. "Might even send the video to 'em. Let ‘em see what you look like all broken and tamed."

Juice screamed, raw and helpless. "LEAVE HER ALONE!"

"Look at that," the man sneered. "He bleeds red like the rest of us. But he ain’t one of us. And she will be—by the time we’re done."

The threat hung thick and sickening in the air. Juice could barely breathe. You could barely stand.

But through it all, your eyes kept locking—his busted and terrified, yours wide with horror but unwavering.

You mouthed, I love you, and it nearly broke him more than the beating.

Your home smells like sweat, fear, and violence. Your back scrapes against the bedroom wall as the rough hand at your throat tightens once more—just enough to remind you that you’re helpless, just enough to send your body into trembling panic.

You can’t scream.

You can barely breathe.

The only sound is Juice's ragged voice, trying to rise but getting shoved down again.

One of the men—the ringleader, with dead eyes and a smug grin—leans over Juice.

His knuckles are already red and sticky with Juice's blood. "This is what you get for sticking your dick where it don’t belong," he sneers, drawing a guttural sound from deep in Juice’s throat. "A dog like you don’t get a pretty little wife like that."

Juice tries to lurch forward again, despite the boot pressing into his spine. "Touch her again and I swear to God—" he spits out, only to be silenced by another brutal kick to his ribs.

His body convulses, shoulders curling inward as he groans and coughs wetly.

"You think she’s yours?" the ringleader continues, circling Juice like a vulture. "Think she actually loves you? You ever wonder what she was before she found your sad little ass?"

You manage to wheeze out a broken, "Don’t listen to them, Juan—" but the man holding you cuts you off with a cruel chuckle.

Another man pulls something from his jacket—an old, grainy photo, edges curled and yellowed. He tosses it to the floor in front of Juice. "Here’s your little wife" he taunts.

Juice’s eyes lock onto the image.

His face drains of color.

You see the shift instantly—the way his brow knits, the way his mouth falls open, the breath caught in his throat. He blinks hard, disbelief choking him more than any punch could.

The photo shows you—wide-eyed, standing awkwardly among a group of skinheads.

"She was one of us," the ringleader hisses, leaning down beside Juice’s ear. "You really thought she didn’t come from good stock? That she wasn’t raised to be pure ?"

"No," Juice breathes, shaking his head, voice cracking. "No. You're lying."

"Oh, she left, sure," the man grins. "But it doesn’t change what she was. You think you're special? You think you're not just a rebellion phase?"

Juice lifts his head slowly, turning his bloodied face toward you, eyes full of pain, confusion… heartbreak.

"Baby…" His voice is soft. Broken. "Is it true?"

Your lips tremble. "I didn’t—I swear— Juice, Baby you weren't supposed to know—"

Then the ringleader’s hand tangles in your hair, yanking you back violently. "B-b-b baby please" the ringleader mocked cutting you off

"She didn’t tell you. That’s the part that matters." He jeers at Juice.

They begin dragging him, pulling him backward across the floor.

"NO!" you scream, fighting against the grip still holding you, fingernails clawing at the wall.

Juice thrashes. "DON’T TOUCH HER! DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!" he bellows, voice hoarse, throat raw.

They slam him against the doorframe on the way out, laughing at your sobs. "You want her back? one calls over his shoulder. "Hope you’re still breathing by then."

And just like that, they're gone.

The apartment falls into deafening silence.

You collapse, coughing, the burn of their hands still imprinted around your neck.

The photo lies abandoned by the bed.

That version of you stares up from it, haunting and unfamiliar.

You crawl toward it on shaking limbs, then shove it under the mattress with trembling fingers—like if you hide it deep enough, it won’t be true.

But Juice is gone.

And the truth is out.

Your hands were shaking so badly that it took you three tries to press the right contact.

Blood—Juice’s blood—was still drying under your fingernails.

Your phone lit up, Jax Teller’s name glowing on the screen like a lifeline. You pressed it, barely breathing.

It rang once.

“Yeah—hello?”

You broke instantly.

“Jax...” your voice cracked, brittle, high-pitched with panic. “They took him. They—” you couldn’t even finish.

Silence on the line. Then steel.

“Who?”

His voice was low, deadly.

You swallowed hard. “Zobelle’s men. They—they came in the night, they beat him, they—they said they were gonna hurt him. And they took him—Jax, they took him—”

“Where are you?”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Our place. Please... I don’t know what to do. There was so much blood.”

“Lock the doors. Don’t open for anyone but us. We’re coming.”

He didn’t wait for a goodbye.

The line went dead.

The rumble came first—deep, rolling thunder down the street, like the sky itself was growling.

You were curled up by the door, still wearing Juice’s hoodie, your knees hugged to your chest. The scent of him in the fabric was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Then, like ghosts from the asphalt, the bikes appeared.

Chrome. Leather. Fury.

Jax was the first through the door, gun already drawn. Chibs hot on his heels, followed by Tig, Happy, and Bobby. Their boots hit the hardwood like war drums.

You stared up at them, your eyes swollen and red, lips trembling. “He’s gone. They took him—”

Jax was on his knees in front of you in an instant, his voice softer now but still blazing underneath. “Hey, hey—breathe. We’re gonna get him back.”

You nodded slowly, tears clinging to your lashes. “They said horrible things. They—they told him I’d never love someone like him. That I’d leave him. But I never—I never would, Jax. I swear.”

Chibs crouched beside you, his voice a low murmur with that lilt of care. “Aye, we know, lass. Juice knows too. He’d take a bullet for you.”

Tig, always the wild card, bent and pressed a bloody handprint on the wall, like a silent mark. “They wanted war. Now they get it.”

Happy said nothing, but the look in his eyes promised one thing, Blood.

You stood, still trembling, among these giants of leather and fury. But they circled around you without question—Jax brushing a gentle hand down your arm, Chibs adjusting Juice’s hoodie around your shoulders.

“I’m coming with you.”

Jax blinked. “What? No. You’re staying here where it’s safe.”

“I wasn’t safe here,” you said quietly, voice thin but certain.

“They got in. They hurt him. I need—I need to be there when we find him. He’s gonna be looking for me. He’s gonna be scared I’m gone.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Chibs gave a small nod.

“Lass is right.”

Happy grunted, eyes narrowing. “She rides with me.”

Jax sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Then “Alright. Let’s bring Juice home.”

You didn’t see the fear in their eyes—but it was there.

Not because of the danger. But because they knew what Juice meant to you.

And what you meant to him.

If they didn’t get to him in time...

The night had bled into morning, and with every passing hour, your heartbeat echoed like war drums.

SAMCRO split into pairs—riding hard, chasing leads. You ended up riding with Chibs, your hands gripping the side bar of the Dyna.

You hadn’t spoken much. You couldn’t.

Each spot turned up empty a trailer park in Lodi, a white supremacist hangout outside Stockton, a gas station where Juice’s kutte had last been seen.

Nothing.

Each dead end cut deeper than a blade.

At one stop, a man behind a security camera feed shrugged when you described Juice. You stared him down—quiet, ice-cold—and murmured, “Try again.”

His hands shook as he replayed the footage.

Still nothing.

Your silence unnerved everyone.

Even Chibs kept glancing at you like he didn’t quite know who he was riding with anymore.

The air was sharp with gasoline and desperation as the bikes tore down Route 9, the roar of their engines like wolves howling for blood.

This time you rode with Jax, his jaw clenched, arms tight, every turn of the throttle telling you he was barely holding back.

You were still wearing Juice’s hoodie—hood up—and your hands clenched.

The world was blurry from the tears you wouldn’t let fall.

Juice was out there.

And you had no idea what they were doing to him.

Jax’s phone buzzed over the hum of engines. He pulled off the road fast, tires skidding as the others slowed behind him.

Bobby waved you both into a clearing. Clay was already there, standing next to a kneeling man—a beaten, groaning heap in a black leather vest.

One of Zobelle’s men.

Clay didn’t smile when he saw you. He just tilted his chin.

“You wanted a lead? We got one.”

Back at the lot, the mood shifted.

It wasn’t just business anymore—it was personal. They’d taken one of their own.

And worse, they’d hurt the woman he called baby like she was glass and gold all wrapped into one.

They brought the man into the back of the garage, tied him to a metal chair beneath the flickering overhead light.

You stayed just outside the doorway, your back against the cool wall, your breath shallow.

You didn’t go in.

Inside, Happy paced like a panther. Shirt rolled to the elbows, brass knuckles flashing with every movement. He said nothing at first—just stared.

The guy spit blood on the floor. “You gonna let your little cheerleader watch?”

The words hadn’t even hit the floor before Happy’s fist collided with the man’s mouth. A crack echoed off the walls, and the chair shook beneath the weight of his head snapping back.

Jax leaned against the tool bench nearby, watching, not stopping it. This wasn’t justice.

This was vengeance.

“Where is he?” Happy asked, voice a low growl, steady like a drumbeat before war.

The man coughed, laughed through bloody teeth. “Why?"

He tilted his head toward the door. “She’s cute. Think she screamed when they grabbed her? Bet she cries real pretty too.”

The second punch was worse. Not just a hit—Happy drove his fist like a hammer, splitting the man’s lip and knocking a tooth free. He wiped his knuckles on his jeans, calm as a surgeon.

Happy cracked his knuckles and stared at him like a lion eyeing his next meal.

The room was dim, lit by a single bulb swaying from an overhead beam. Concrete floor, oil-stained. The club had used this space for less savory business before.

You moved to stand in the door as Happy circled him.

“Where is he?” Hap’s voice was low. Steady.

The guy spat at him. “You’ll never see him again. That spic’s as good as dead.”

Happy smiled.

It wasn’t kind.

But even after a solid twenty minutes of controlled violence—knuckles cracking ribs, boots pressing into pressure points—nothing came.

He laughed through the pain.

A fanatic.

You stepped into the room quietly. “Can I try?”

Happy looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“Sweetheart,” Jax said cautiously. “You don’t gotta do this.”

You turned, softness in your voice. “Please. Let me talk to him.”

You pulled a metal stool up and sat in front of him, knees almost touching.

You didn’t yell.

Didn’t raise your voice.

Just tilted your head and gave him a gentle smile.

“Hi.”

He scowled. “What, they gonna let you try and seduce me for answers?”

You gave a quiet laugh. “No, I’m married. To the man you’re torturing.”

He sneered. “You’re the bitch we've been hunting ? Christ. Your wetback's pathetic sweetheart.”

You didn’t flinch. You just leaned in slightly, voice as soft as ever.

“I grew up around people like you. Men who thought fear was the same thing as power. My family used to keep little vials hidden in their sleeves. You ever hear of aconitum?”

He blinked, thrown off.

“Wolfsbane,” you supplied gently. “Causes confusion, nausea, muscle paralysis. They used to put it in beer. Or drip it onto rag wounds. No trace after three hours.”

You reached into your pocket and set a tiny, unmarked bottle on the table beside you.

His entire body went stiff.

Your smile never wavered. “I know which plants slow the heart just enough to fake death. I know which ones cause blisters that look like infections. I know how long it takes to make someone wish they were dead.”

You leaned in, nose nearly touching his. “And the best part is, no one ever suspects the girl with the quiet voice and sad eyes.”

He swallowed. His eyes flicked to the bottle. “You’re bluffing.”

You opened the cap.

The sharp, earthy scent filled the room immediately.

Jax and Tig were both frozen.

Chibs looked like he didn’t know whether to stop you or take notes.

Happy was grinning.

“Tell me where my husband is, please” you whispered.

His resolve cracked. Just a little. His voice hitched. “The warehouse off 9th. One of the back ones—unit 27. It's shielded. No cameras. They don’t take phones inside.”

You capped the bottle.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

You stood, wiped your palms on your jeans, and walked out without another word.

The guys followed slowly, like they were trying to process what they’d just seen.

Happy walked beside you as you moved toward the bikes.

“Remind me not to piss you off,” he muttered.

You gave him the faintest smile. “I've never had to use that knowledge before”

Chibs looked at you sideways. “You gonna tell us what was really in the bottle?”

"It's just loveage, completely harmless" You smirked. "But he didn't know that"

[lil-dragon-rawr]

TOH x DC: One-Sided Identity Shenanigans

Cause like...the Owl House gang didn't bother to make secret identities

Part One, Part Two, Part Four

Masterlist

Jason, finally finding an opportunity to talk to Vee alone during their volunteer shift: hi.

Vee, thinking he's going to blackmail and/or permanently silence her for figuring out his secret identity: *about to have a panic attack*

Jason: so I heard about vigilante bingo

Vee, who was expecting him to say something WAY different: ...huh?

Jason, continuing: I have it on good authority that Spoiler made a deal with Eda to help her win

Vee: ??? (when did Eda have time to talk to Spoiler???)

Jason: but personally I'm rooting for Luz

Vee, still processing the fact that she and Eda are now officially cheating:

Jason: also, expect the other vigilantes to start throwing their hat in the ring soon. They can be really competitive

Jason, patting her on the shoulder as he leaves: okay good talk

(Amity and Luz arriving at Barbara's apartment for girls' night)

Steph, answering the door with an evil glint in her eyes: oh, you must be Babs' new friends! I've heard so much about you >:D

(eventually, the topic switches to vigilantes, thanks to one meddling Steph)

Steph, trying to feed Lumity false information to stop them from getting more points in bingo: you know, I hear the only vigilante who's ever given out autographs is Spoiler

Barbara, also invested in bingo and trying to help her new sister win: *narrowing her eyes* don't listen to Steph, she doesn't know what she's talking about. Spoiler's never given an autograph before. Ask Red Hood

Steph, who knows Jason will absolutely give an autograph to Luz: *glares at Babs*

Luz, who doesn't know they know about the bingo cards: haha why would we want an autograph??

(Batfamily meeting in the cave)

Steph: well we can't all speedrun bingo!

Jason: oh yeah? Who's gonna stop me?

Steph: it was my idea to meddle! I can easily do all the tasks before you can!

Babs, trying to defuse the situation before someone catches a Batarang in the knee: okay, okay. What if we made rules about how much we can interfere?

Steph, still glaring at Jason: ...I'm listening

[THE RULES:

1. The party you aid cannot be aware that you're aiding them - it must appear to be coincidence.

2. You cannot outright say things such as "Got any ice cream around here?" to prompt challenge completion - the subject of the challenge must be brought up by the party you aid.

3. Failure to comply with the above rules results in penalties including, but not limited to, extra patrols, public humiliation, and death by disappointing Alfred. Penalties are decided by Batwoman based on the severity of the rule infraction.]

Gus, on his first day as a news anchor: well folks it looks like we've got some quality rogues active in central Gotham today!

Camera crew, concerned about this kid's apparent apathy towards dangerous criminals:

Gus "I Was The MC For My Friends' Gladiator Match Against The Actual Embodiment Of Fear" Porter: Two-Face just made a move on Gotham National Bank - but oh? What's this? *listening to his earpiece* the temperature is dropping, grab your coats everyone because Mr. Freeze is here for six more weeks of winter!

Kevin the Cameraman, whispering to his coworker Beth: actually I think he's perfect for this

Signal, out alone and having to deal with both Two-Face and Freeze: I cannot live laugh love in these conditions

Gus, ten yards away in front of a camera, glancing back at Signal and winking: *mouthing* I gotchu fam

Real Gus, lying in wait behind a building while Illusion Gus MCs: *traps Mr. Freeze in a mental purgatory of his worst nightmares as soon as Freeze walks by*

Mr. Freeze, suddenly screaming and collapsing: Nora, don't leave me!

Real Gus: oops might have reawakened some trauma there

Signal, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth: *punches a distracted Two-Face and hauls both him and Freeze back to Arkham* don't know what that guy did to Freeze but whatever works ig

Hunter: *enjoying a peaceful night on the balcony with Willow*

Robin, manifesting: woodcarver.

Hunter: ??? Hello???

Robin: I would like to carve a palisman.

Hunter, confused: *looking to Willow for support with the stabby child*

Willow: *thumbs-up*

Hunter, finally getting Robin to talk about his emotions: what do you care about?

Robin, lore dropping like there's no tomorrow: I was genetically engineered to be the perfect combination of my mother and father. Growing up, I was expected to be the heir to both their legacies as the Demon's Head and the Bat. I always thought I wanted to take up the mantle, but it feels like a burden instead of some great destiny.

Hunter, making a few connections: ...you were supposed to fill the role of someone else?

Robin: yes, that's what I just said

Hunter, smiling: me too!

Hunter: though for me I was genetically engineered to be a copy of my former uncle's brother. And I was supposed to serve that uncle as the Golden Guard

Hunter, having a moment: ...and then I found out he was lying about our family and that he was trying to commit genocide

Hunter, spiraling: ...and then I found all the masks of the former Golden Guards...

Hunter: ...and realized he killed them all every time they - we - betrayed him...

Robin:

Hunter: ...and then he killed Flapjack...

Robin, prepared to go to war: let us kill that imbecile for his crimes.

Hunter, appreciating the support: thanks, but it's already taken care of :)

Batman, approaching the Clawthornes: Eda.

Eda: Batman.

Batman, actually kinda trying to help: King is fourteen, correct?

Eda: what's it to you?

Batman: that would place him at the start of high school. It might be good for him to interact with kids his own age.

Eda, squaring up: don't tell me how to parent my kid!

Eda, immediately turning to King: do you wanna go to school?

King: hmm maybe, I don't really know how human schools work and don't want to deal with what Luz went through...

Batman, who has a fourteen year old who also doesn't want to deal with school (but has to anyway to keep up appearances): we could get you a student liaison to shadow. If you want, they could be informed of your situation so you have someone to talk to

King: ...yeah sure sounds interesting

King, approaching The Bingo Council that night: is Batman getting me into school considered an almost-adoption? Cause I feel like if Eda wasn't there he would've adopted me

Eda, crossing her arms: I vote no. Adoption has to go through me and we have to fight for custody

Gus, who wants a point: I argue yes. We all know Batman has an adoption problem and Eda openly challenged his parenting attempts

Vee, off to the side, twiddling her thumbs and wondering if Batman is one of the vigilantes involved in Bingo Interference:

King, walking into class on his first day and seeing the glowering student liaison that everyone seems afraid of: *squints*

Damian: *narrows his eyes, waiting to see what King does*

King: *sips his Starbucks suspiciously*

Current Standings for Vigilante Bingo:

Lumity:

Huntlow:

An argument was made for "have a vigilante crash through your window", but since Robin never technically went inside the apartment, it was vetoed.

Gus and King:

Gus was awarded the "be a hero" square for taking out Mr. Freeze. The council agreed that more effort needs to be made on the "almost adopted by Batman" front. Should Batman try again, King will receive the point.

Eda and Vee:

Vee stewed in silence for the entire council meeting for unknown reasons.