#fishermen villages

[pangeen]

" Dreaming About The North …"

//© Ronald Söthje

[bluechanas]

baby. my baby

[lotusinjadewell]

Phú Yên, Vietnam. Credit to Hoàng Minh Đức.

[todayisafridaynight]

jo the second he finds out masato's a little zesty

[ilikeyoshi]

playing minecraft. found a village of ALL armorers and stone masons. they couldnt raise new kids bc there wasnt a goddamn farmer to pluck the crops and feed them. i had to hand feed these grown ass craftsmen like baby birds.

[angelfoodscake]

the noises that villagers make ....... <3 so skrunkly and cute

[5ammotorcycles]

Green ocean, China

[tanyagotravel]

Must-Eat while touring Algarve, Portugal 

I’ve never devoted a blog about food at any of my destinations traveled before, but was so impressed with the Algarve food that couldn’t skip this one. You will regret it if you don’t pay special attention to the Algarve must-eat meals. I even overcame my prejudices and allergy threats by dipping into South Portuguese cuisine with exotic sauces, gourmet bites, traditional culinary, and…

[evilgwrl]

Arranged marriage! With ghost where she’s from a small island and ghost comes to collect taxes well the island is just a few hundred short they can make it up next year? Right?! Nah ghosts is like mmmmm I’ll take what yall call a princess mean while she’s struggling as much as the other fokes on the island so when Simon takes her way and finds out she’s never lived the simple life he makes it his mission to show her the good that can out of this arrangement smutty if you would 😭 I’m obsessed with the arranged marriage trope with ghost he’s a cutie patootie

Arranged Marriage w/ Simon Riley

Holy moly I love this…

Thank you for this idea @creepytoes88 I hope you don’t mind that I made him a king, I just wanted it to flow with giving her a better life and the tax collection <3

King!Simon Riley x Reader

Archipelago

CW: Being sold by your family to pay off debt, sharing a bath, oral sex (f receiving), orgasm bc simon knows what to do ;)

Word Count: 2,623

Twisted fingers hooked under the bark, knees scraped with stagnant flora, coiling limbs of bushy thorns blistering around the tropical plains. There was a subtle burn that sunk through your thighs, muscles gnawing at your bones before you finally settled on a thick branch, wind hissing in your ear, almost warning you. You paid no attention.

Pupil-blown eyes stared off to the view in front of you, lapping in the vicious strain of turquoise, untouched coral glistening an array of colours under the harsh sun. There was a trickle of sweat that ran down the back of your neck, your hair thrown into a rough bun as you shielded yourself with raggedy, overworked fingers.

You watched the skerries surrounding your island, a flurry of birds swooping low before nestling down on the warmth of the rocky floor. It was a peaceful sight. Nothing but the low crash of waves to be sound, the occasional calling of a fellow Islander working its way through the palms and out of the sand, before landing in your ear.

You felt the prickle of pain shoot through your feet as you landed on the ground, the grass covered in speckles of yellow dust sticking in between your toes as you hurried down to the village. Any bit of tranquillity soon disappeared as your eyes locked into the sight of the townspeople, the Island far too small to accommodate such needing families.

“Y/N! Where have you been? The King shall be here soon and you’re off running with the fairies.”

Your Mother’s tone was harsh and reprimanding, her eyes tight with wrinkles as she scowled, chucking a makeshift broom at you. You weren’t exactly sure what the difference of you sweeping would make, the life you live here, swept or not, is strikingly different to the one of a King. No matter how beautiful your Island is, your feet are permanently stained with grains of sand, skin is littered with dull scars and fresh scratches.

You understood her worry, offering her a gentle, apologetic smile as you followed her bustle of orders. Your Father was the village Chief, a wise man who led the people to survive without the worry of advanced civilisation.

You were seen as a headcase to the others. A woman whose head wasn’t fixed well enough to her shoulders. A dreamer. Your mind was amplified by the need to do more, to see more. Untouched beauty too turns mundane when you’re not allowed to experience it.

As night fell, the waves seemed to settle, burying themselves in the crops of sand that spanned around you, 10-legged creatures hiding away in the cocoon of a cracked shell. Palms slept with the safety of coconuts that would blossom into the town’s delicacy, the meat tender on the tongues of children, the water fuel for the fishermen. There was a large bonfire lit, the earthly crackle occasionally popping as a spark flew out, hissing against the cool air before dispersing into a drag of smoke.  

Girls chattered around you, smoothing down their appearances as they used crushed berries on their lips and the apples of their cheeks. You were never fussed about the King, hardly paying attention to him on his previous arrivals if he even bothered to show up. You took note of his lack of empathy, normally sending one of his men in his place, unbothered by the Island that’s supposed to fall under his command.

You heard the ship pull up, wood striking against the ground as it split between the beach, a carved woman tangled to the figurehead, flowing hair etched between wood and a man’s knife as she breached the island. They were a loud bunch, deep voices echoing across the Isle as your father walked down to greet them formally.

The air grew silent, thick smog suffocating the air as your father appeared, his figure shaking as he hobbled towards you. Toughened hands gripped your cheeks, stroking the sun-kissed skin to comfort you.

“Father, what’s wrong?”

“We- We’re short on our taxes,” he gulped, a hand planted in your matted hair as you scrunched your brows together.

“But how? We’re sensible, we work harder- How?”

“Things happen beyond our understanding sometimes, sweetheart, just know me and your mother love you very much.”

“I know? Why are you-” you stalled “- Why are you telling me this? What’s going on?”

“The King needs a wife,” he hiccupped as realisation set in, spine snapping into a cold flush as you attempted to wriggle free from your father’s grip.

“No-“

“I have to, Y/N, I don’t have a choice!”

“A choice? There’s always a choice! How could you do this to me?” The strain of a sob wracked through your chest, your heart beating eerily slow against your rib cage as you wailed out for your mother who only walked away, her face concealed by strands of hair. Hands coiled around your biceps, dragging you towards the ship as you carried on, cementing your heels into the dirtied sand to anchor yourself.

“Stop resisting,” A harsh voice spoke into your ear, nails breaking the surface of your tender skin as you nipped at the air, wriggling. Your limbs felt mangled as you were thrown over someone’s shoulder, your stomach caving in with a penetrative force as you choked on the air, saline tears streaming down your face.

Aching skin collided with the sand as you were thrown onto the floor, leather boots staring back at you as your head cocked up. His figure was tall, dressed in all black with a row of medals displayed on his breast pocket. His stare was dark, irises the colour of burnt whiskey, pale lashes flickering down at you before looking back up. The rest of his face was covered by a woven garment, handcrafted to perfection, painted with a white skull.

“Did you find it necessary to throw her at my feet like she’s some dog?”

“Your Majesty she was res-“

“It is a yes or no question.”

His voice was thick with malt, a hidden arrogance underlying his words as his eyes spoke for him. A veiny hand was offered to you, light scars tracing his knuckles before he lifted you, admiring you for a brief second.

“She’ll do. I’ll be back in 6 months,” The King spoke roughly.

The sea breeze was tranquil given the circumstances, the ocean rocking your tears to a halt as you huddled yourself away in the captain’s quarters. Your body was trailed with layers of silk, dirtied clothes moulded to your skin as you sniffled. There was a vast smell of salt, almost suffocating you as it burnt through your nose and hair. You scrunched your skin, rubbing at your nostrils before nestling yourself into a pillow.

You awoke to the sound of commotion. You took in the handful of women surrounding you, their hair tied back in a tight bun, protected by a frilly cap. They wore black and white dresses, aprons attached to their fronts and smiles on their faces.

“Good evening, your majesty. Shall we run you a bath?”

You sat up, hands creasing against the sheets below you as your eyes adjusted to the new scenery. You weren’t on the ship anymore.

“Where am I?” You choked out, huffing your chest out to look more intimidating. In reality, you look cowered, skin droopy with betrayal, burst blood vessels evident under your eyes.

“In your private quarters, the King requested we come to you, settle you in.”

You scowled, “I just want to be alone.” They left in a hurry, feet skidding against the floor in a squeak as they shut the large oak doors behind them.

The room was one for Royalty. The large bed was dressed in golden sheets, red swirls detailing the plush headpieces, solid gold baubles along the edges as tall stakes met the ceiling, lace hanging from them for privacy. Your feet hit the polished marble floors; calloused skin not used to such luxury that you almost yelped in unfamiliarity. Glass trickled from the overhead chandelier, an arrangement of crystals advocating flickers of light across the room, an occasional rainbow seeping through like a diamond in the rough.

Oil paintings hung from the walls, detailed gold wrapping around them as the figurines stared at you dauntingly. A plethora of books rested on shelves, a comforting sofa tucked away in the corner, highlights of red bursting through the stuffed pillows, plucked by the finest of feathers.

The room felt suffocating, the air a terminal sickness that wove into your lungs as you realised the severity of the situation. Your father – your parents, had sold you away to the King to pay for lost taxes. You were a miserable sight as you huddled over onto the floor, chest collapsing with cries as you attempted to grip the material beneath your knees, desperate for the sensation of sand.

Simon watched you intently from the door as he cracked it open, a deafening cough sounding from him as you looked up at him, bewildered.

“I understand the circumstances aren’t the best, but your people owed me, and they chose you as collateral.”

“I want to go home,” you hiccupped, facing away from him in humiliation. His leather shoes hit the floor, striding up to you in only a few steps.

“This is your home now, and in a few weeks, we shall be wedded. Whether or not you choose to invite your family is up to you, but I shall not tolerate disrespect. If you didn’t want the maids to tend to you, that’s fine, but I will.”

You watched his stalking figure disappear into another room attached to your quarters, the heavy pour of water indicating that he was running you a bath. You rose to your feet anxiously, popping your head around the corner as you took in the room. A large tub was carved with porcelain, wide in size with golden feet, bubbles guzzling under the powerful stream as the scent of lavender filled the air.

“Undress,” He spoke as you cocked a brow.

“In front of you?” You scoffed.

“You didn’t want the maids, now you have me. Undress.”

Your clothes itched as they were ridden from your skin, bare body flushed under the light as you attempted to conceal yourself from his bruising vision. The water scolded you as you sunk in, muscles relaxing instantly under the soothing oil. It was an irregular feeling.

You heard him shuffle behind you as you turned, eyes gawking wide as you took in his naked figure, cock resting low against his thigh. A squeak slipped through your lips as you turned around in a fluster.

His mask was off, his face a welcoming surprise. His brows were thick, bulging above slit frames, his nose slightly crooked with a masculine appeal to him.

“What are you doing?” you gasped, chest tight, eyes bulging.

“Bathing,” he practically snarled, “move over.”

Your belly felt hot, the unknowing feeling of arousal seeping through your pores as you adjusted in the water, the liquid rising as he stepped in before you were pulled back against him, bottom flushed against his thighs. You were tense.

“Relax, it’s just a bath. We will not do anything until you’re ready but after marriage, I will need heirs.”

“Heirs? I don’t even know your name!”

A hand coiled around your waist, tugging at the tender skin for a moment before it rested, settling at your upper thigh.

“It’s Simon, Y/N.”

“How do you- “

“What kind of King would I be if I didn’t even know the name of the woman I’m marrying?”

The air was hazy with steam, almost suffocating you as you felt yourself relax against his hard chest, delicate twirls of hair tickling against your spine. As your body settled, Simon washed you, entwined rag lubed with delicate soap as he massaged it into the crevices of your skin, any dirt seeping into the water. His fingers were long as they massaged against your scalp, digging any knots out with a gentle force before rinsing it.

You found yourself refreshed as you settled into the sheets once more, body fresh with a floral scent, skin drenched in almond oil, the glistening reflecting against the flame of the fireplace. The bed sunk in as Simon crawled in next to you, menacing frame wracking against yours. It was silent, the usual sound of waves and birds no longer hushing you to sleep.

Your fingers twitched as you played with the hem of your nightgown, letting out a low, exhausted breath.

“I shall not hurt you for as long as you are mine, Y/N. I hope you grow to trust me and understand that I am a man of my word. If you allow me, I would like to show you who I am and the life you can have here.”

You swallowed. There was an itch inside you that couldn’t be scratched, his words only adding fuel to an uncontrollable flame as you turned to face him, cocked up on one arm. Your gown hung low, strap dangerously low on your shoulder as he adjusted his vision back to your face, lips parted with a flushed manner.

“I’ve never experienced anything before.” Your voice was low, an evident streak of self-consciousness staining it as you averted your gaze.

“Let me help you.”

Rugged fingers lifted your gown up, silk resting against your stomach in a hunched manner as Simon gripped at your thighs, spreading them lewdly. He huffed out a hum of appreciation as you jolted in embarrassment. You were so open, so exposed to fresh eyes.

“No one’s ever touched you here?” He asked. You shook your head, gazing down at him with an unspoken innocence. You felt his lips curl against your thigh as he placed a gentle kiss to it, letting it rest against the warm skin before two fingers pulled apart your lips, glistening folds presented before him.

You felt pleasure tickle up your spine as the King placed a small kiss against your clit, a mewl escaping you as you instinctively attempted to press your thighs together. He let out a tsk as he looked up at you, amused by your reaction.

“Relax for me,” he said, arms flushed around your thighs before his tongue soaked up the middle, your juices drenching his lips as you squealed, your fingers wrapping into his dusty hair as he ravaged the taste of you.

The noises you made were wanton, slopping breaths soaking the air as he worked against you, slurping you into his mouth with an aggravated need for you. His teeth grazed against your sensitive clit, wrapping his lips around it before sucking, an obscene scream sounding from you as he continued the assault.

“Taste so fucking good,” he quipped, holding your belly down in place as your hips lifted, clit overstimulated by the amount of pleasure it only just began receiving.

“Sim-Simon, I feel strange- somethings happening,” you croaked, pulling at his hair in an attempt to stop him.

“Let it happen,” he growled, his tongue thrusting against your entrance as a finger pressed against your nub, rubbing it in circular motions as you began to hold your breath.

The pressure in your belly was turmoil like an unknown danger was approaching. Simon didn’t stop, the sound of your breath hicking stirring something primal inside of him as he held you down before the pressure inside you popped, a broken whine piercing the air as you came, hips rocking desperately against the King’s face as he growled against your heat.

He pulled away, spit slick against his chin, cocky smile on his face as you panted, chest rising and falling in a synchronised fashion. Your legs closed instinctively, wetness seeping between your bottom as you shivered, satisfied clit throbbing.

“I’m not done yet, sweetheart.”

[sreenivasm]

https://www.ceoinsightsindia.com/business-inside/fishermen-the-bee-in-the-heart-of-dark-flower-nwid-11386.html

Read more:https://cutt.ly/JB0pGhh

[lotusinjadewell]

A fishing village in Phú Yên, Vietnam. Credit to Tuyên Parafu.

[leadertelugunews]

కాలి బూడిదైన మత్స్యకారుల వలలు షార్ట్‌ సర్క్యూట్‌ కారణమా?

కాలి బూడిదైన మత్స్యకారుల వలలు షార్ట్‌ సర్క్యూట్‌ కారణమా?

విశాఖపట్నం: డాక్‌ లో దాచుకున్న విలువైన మత్స్యకారుల వలలు కాలి బూడిద అయ్యాయి. కాలి పోవడానికి కారణం షార్ట్‌ సర్క్యూట్‌ అని పోలీసులు భావిస్తున్నారు. వీటి విలువ సుమారు 50 లక్షల రూపాయల మేరకు పైనే ఉంటుందని మత్స్యకారులు అంటున్నారు. శుక్రవారం తెల్లవారుజామున ఫిషింగ్‌ హార్బర్‌ లో మత్స్య కారుల వలలు పూర్తిగా అగ్నికి ఆహుతయ్యాయి. విజయనగరం జిల్లాలోని తిప్పలవలస, చింతపల్లి, కంచెరి, ముక్కం గ్రామాలకు చెందిన…

[pretzel-box]

Summary: You're a mortal fisher that catches the attention of an ancient sea god without knowing it.

Tags: Some 'fluff', mortal reader, sea god sebastian

Words: 2,6k

There was a small village that was cradled on the edge of an unknown island like a forgotten secret among humans, made out of solid stone, earth and sand while being shaped by the restless waves of the deep ocean. Narrow cobbled streets would wound between the homes of sun-bleached woods and weathered bricks while fine smoke curled up from the going chimneys, mingling with the salty sea air. Many signs of a life gathered around this place despite its unknown status.

The endless ocean surrounded the village on all sides, an eternal sentinel, its deep blue waves gently lapping at the shoreline as if it were whispering ancient lullabies. The sun hung low in the sky, casting the world in hues of gold and lavender, where the horizon blurred into a seamless meeting of sea and sky. The sound of gulls crying in the distance echoed through the air, carried by the wind that rustled through the tall grasses and wildflowers growing at the island’s edge.

Farther out, where the cliffs rose jagged and defiant against the endless ocean, the waves crashed with a furious roar, sending white spray high into the air. Yet here, within the village, the sea was gentle—a mirror reflecting the sky’s fading light.

Small fishing boats bobbed in the harbor, tethered to wooden posts worn smooth by years of use. Their painted hulls were chipped and faded, yet they held a quiet dignity, as if they had borne witness to centuries of tides, storms, and the steady rhythm of life. Nets hung drying on the docks, draped like lace over the old wood, waiting for the morning light to send the fishermen back to the open sea.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of salt and damp earth. A few villagers, their faces lined with age and the sea’s touch, gathered in quiet conversation near the docks, their voices low, as if unwilling to disturb the peace. Lanterns flickered to life in the twilight, casting a soft, golden glow over the village, like stars scattered across the earth.

As the day gave way to dusk, the village seemed to breathe, a living thing, connected to the ocean and sky in a way that was timeless. The sea, the cliffs, the forest—they were all one with the village, woven into its very being. And as the stars began to emerge, one by one, above the endless horizon, the island seemed to settle into itself, cradled by the ocean’s eternal embrace, waiting for whatever secrets the tides might bring.

"Listen, my child. Our story began long ago, when the gods still walked the earth and the stars were young."

Once upon a time…

The land was molded by the hands of glorious deities, their fingers painting the skies and carving the rivers. They placed the sun on the horizon and the plains upon the earth. The world flourished, but with its growth came envy, as some gods overshadowed others. To gain power, they created life—humans, born from their desire for control.

At first, humans worshiped their creators with devotion, pledging loyalty to one deity, then betraying the next. They defiled the divine in their thirst for more, striking down gods one by one. Until, at last, only humans remained, reigning over the world they had once been given. The gods, once mighty, were destroyed by the very hands that they had shaped.

The lesson was clear for the mortals: gods could not be trusted.

You grew up in the small village, cradled by the sea, raised between the wind and the waves as if you were a child of nature itself. The first thing you learned was your origin, that you were descended from the gods—gods who were flawed and fallible. Your grandparents told you stories of your ancestors, how they fought with their lives for the right to live on this island, battling forces far beyond their comprehension.

Ages ago, a fierce god named Solace ruled over these waters. His rage, directed at both his siblings and their creations, churned the oceans into relentless fury. Your ancestors tried to cross the waters for months, many drowned and many got sacrificed to soothe the will of the deity that ruled in the waters. His anger blinded Solace, his envy and his feelings were like a sharp sword, pointed at himself. Your ancestors tricked him, like they did with so many other deities before. They sealed him into the ocean, robbing him of his necklace that he wore. And after they triumphed over him, the ocean came to rest. All thanks to the necklace that secretly holds Solace his powers.

A necklace that rested around your neck, a family piece that was given down as the generations passed. It was a sea shell pendant, reflecting in beautiful blue-silver hues as if the sea itself was placed upon you. And you wore it with pride.

Your mother gave it to you the day you joined the family tradition, stepping into the life of a fisher. It was a simple gift, passed down through generations, as much a symbol of your heritage as the sea itself. You learned to live in harmony with the waves, to respect the life beneath the surface, and to take only what was needed. Your family had always been blessed by the ocean, and so would you. It was honest work—give and take—where you not only harvested from the sea but also protected it, keeping it clean and honoring its depths.

"Keep calm," you murmured to yourself, the words a quiet mantra as you sat in your small boat. The sun was warm on your back as you focused on tying the loose strings of your net, the gentle rocking of the boat a familiar comfort.

Your mother had taught you to knit the nets in the old traditional way, every knot a connection to your ancestors. Your father, in turn, had shown you the art of fishing—how to hunt with respect, how to make the death of the fish swift and painless, and how to use every part of it in reverence for the life taken. A true fisher never wastes, for the sea gives generously but only to those who understand its balance.

The rhythm of your hands, the whisper of the wind, and the quiet lap of the waves against the boat—they all wove together like a song. You were part of something much larger than yourself, connected to the ancient currents of the sea, just as your family had always been.

You lifted your finished net, admiring the neat knots with a smile of quiet pride. A rush of happiness filled your chest as you hugged the net, feeling accomplished. You had honored the legacy of your ancestors, crafting the tool with care, just as they had done for generations. It was a simple but profound joy, knowing that you were connected to something so old and enduring.

With a steady breath, you prepared to cast the net into the water, hoping for a good catch to feed your family tonight. The gentle hum of the waves blended with your thoughts, and as the net unfurled, you missed the soft snap of a string breaking. But the sudden blue shimmer at the corner of your eye did not go unnoticed.

Your heart dropped as you realized it was your necklace—the one your mother had given you. Somehow, it had tangled itself in the net, and as you began to fish, it slipped from your neck effortlessly, tumbling into the water before you could react. You watched in stunned silence as the delicate jewelry disappeared beneath the surface, swallowed by the depths in an instant.

The sea, ever so calm just moments ago, now seemed impossibly vast and unyielding. That necklace was more than just a piece of jewelry; it was a part of you, a part of your family. And now, it was gone.

It sank slowly, the glimmering stone catching the last rays of sunlight as it shimmered just beneath the surface, suspended in the water like a delicate promise about to be broken. You watched, helpless, as it drifted deeper, the blue hue of the ocean swallowing it whole. Your heart pounded in your chest, a heavy sense of dread filling you as the necklace—your link to your family, your ancestors—vanished silently into the dark water below.

Your hands slackened, the net forgotten, slipping from your grasp into the boat. Without a second thought, instinct took over. Before you even realized what you were doing, you dove headfirst into the water, chasing the fading glint of silver.

The coldness of the ocean hit you like a shock, but you didn’t care. You kicked your legs, your arms pushing against the water, desperately reaching for the necklace as it continued its slow descent. The light above you grew dimmer as you sank deeper, the world around you a muffled echo of the surface. You could barely see now, the shimmering silver reduced to a distant gleam.

The water pressed in on you, chilling your skin and constricting your lungs. Panic began to claw at the edges of your mind, but you couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop. It was more than just an heirloom; it was the weight of your ancestors’ blessings, the legacy of your family, and it was slipping further and further away.

Your lungs began to burn, the pressure of the deep water pressing against your chest, but still, you reached out, fingers stretching into the darkness. The necklace was now just a faint blur, fading into the abyss. Desperation surged through you as your arms flailed in the icy depths.

The darkness was overwhelming, the cold water pressing in on all sides as you sank deeper, the faint shimmer of your necklace vanishing into the abyss. Your chest burned, lungs screaming for air, but your limbs were too heavy, too numb. The weight of the ocean dragged you down, and for a moment, you felt yourself surrendering to the pull, the necklace gone.

But then, something strange happened. A warmth surrounded you, gentle and reassuring, cutting through the icy water. A firm hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you upwards with a strength that felt both human and not. Yet, the darkness caught you and you passed out.

The first thing you felt was a pair of warm lips on yours, innocent, shy and yet somewhat dedicated. A wet hand was placed close to your throat. Then your head shot up as reality caught up to you, the water in your lungs creeping up your throat as you coughed it all out.

Coughing, disoriented, you blinked away the saltwater from your eyes, the world around you blurred. As your vision cleared, you found yourself being held by a man—no, something far more. His eyes, a deep and endless blue, locked onto yours. His presence was as overwhelming as the ocean itself, powerful and ancient, yet there was a softness in the way he held you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. The stranger's arm was still wrapped around you, steadying you against the gentle rocking of the waves. His dark hair flowed around him, as though it were a part of the sea, and his skin, shimmering faintly in the light, seemed to glow with a quiet radiance. He wasn’t human, no, but he felt familiar.

“Breathe,” he whispered, his voice like the soft murmur of the tide, calming and steady.

You did, drawing in deep, shaky breaths, your heart still racing from the shock. “Who… who are you?” you stammered, your voice weak, barely above a whisper.

He gazed at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable but his eyes filled with something tender, something that made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. "Sebastian," he finally said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "I live within these waters."

You nodded slowly, still dazed, as you tried to comprehend what had just happened. The cold of the water, the rush of drowning, and now… this.

Then, the realization hit you like a wave crashing over your head. “My necklace,” you breathed, panic swelling inside you again. You turned to look down into the water, but there was no shimmer, no sign of the silverish blue. “It’s gone… my necklace… I lost it.”

Sebastian’s eyes followed yours, and for a moment, a flicker of something like regret passed over his face. “The sea does not return everything,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a kind of sorrow that seemed to echo from somewhere deep within him. "Not all that it takes can be given back."

Your heart sank, the weight of his words settling heavily inside you. The necklace—your family's necklace—was gone, lost forever to the depths. Tears pricked at your eyes, but you fought them back, not wanting to break down in front of this strange, beautiful man who had saved your life.

Sebastian’s gaze softened as he watched you, and before you could react, his hand reached up, brushing gently against your cheek, his touch feather-light. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and you could hear the sincerity in his voice, the sadness that lingered in his words. “I wish I could have saved it for you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, though the ache in your chest was still raw. “It was my family…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “It was important.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, simply letting his fingers linger against your skin, his presence steady, grounding. “Your family's memory doesn’t live in that necklace,” he said softly, his eyes searching for yours. “It lives in you. In everything you carry with you. That cannot be lost, not to the sea or anything else.”

His words, gentle and warm, wrapped around your heart like a soothing balm. You nodded again, still feeling the loss, but somehow, in his presence, the grief didn’t feel quite so unbearable.

For a moment, you simply floated there together, the waves lapping gently against your bodies, the sun casting a warm, golden light over the surface of the water. Sebastian’s hand stayed close to yours, his touch lingering, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you go.

“Why did you help me?” you asked after a long silence, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you wanted the answer.

Sebastian’s gaze flickered, his deep blue eyes searching yours. “Because,” he said softly, a hint of something more in his voice, something unspoken, “I couldn’t let you go.”

There was something in the way he looked at you, an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. You couldn’t understand it, the pull between you two, but it was undeniable. He had saved you—not just from drowning, but from something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name.

For now, you let the quiet peace of the ocean surround you, content in his presence, even as the necklace drifted farther into the depths, lost but somehow no longer the most important thing in your heart.

You finally took the time to admire his large form, he was as pretty as the mermaids from the childhood stories, as gentle looking as the ocean and his eyes, his eyes were like the ones of a god. You never saw someone like him before, but he mesmerized you.

He had placed you back into your boat, his hand lingered a bit longer on your cheek than anticipated and you could feel a mutual spark between you two.

[venus-haze]

Power in the Blood (Father Paul Hill x Nun!Reader)

Summary: There’s power in the blood. Father Paul knows this. Soon, you will, too.

Note: Female reader who's only referred to as "Sister," but no other descriptors are used. Also, the newspaper clipping isn't on the wall in this, for obvious reasons. I’ve been working on this fic in one way or another for about a year, but watching The Devils (1971) and Immaculate (2024) earlier this year as well as encouragement from my amazing friend @zaras-really-dreamless finally gave me the push I needed to finish it. Major visual inspiration from this scene in particular. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Major canon divergence. Angst, yearning, and unrequited feelings. Elements of Catholic mysticism. Sexually explicit content which involves dubious consent by way of religious manipulation, members of the clergy engaging in sexual acts, oral sex (f. receiving, but it's related to the stigmata and vampirism), blood play.

In retrospect, Crockett Island was the only place it could have happened. Desolation hung over the remote fishing village like fog in the early mornings, when you’d take your walks before the Monsignor awoke, and you heard the woes of the fishermen as they prepared to sail out for the day—oil spills, restrictive fishing laws, better paying jobs on the mainland but leaving everything they knew behind in exchange. Despite coming from the mainland yourself and otherwise alien to the ways of the dying village, your being a woman of the cloth on the largely Catholic (though predominantly non-practicing) island made the islanders trust you, consider you one of their own a bit more than they otherwise would have as you took on the burden of buoying their spirituality as the Monsignor’s health continued failing, and he could no longer fulfill the task himself.

You’d begged the diocese for help, hardly considered yourself equipped to care for the ailing priest and run a parish, however small, essentially on your own. But for a parish as small as St. Patrick’s, you were all the help the diocese would care to send. The letter you received in response to your detailing all of the things Crockett Island’s parishioners desperately needed boiled down to “wait until the old man kicks it.” 

You supposed it was a miracle the diocese even sent you there in the first place. Though most of the islanders took the arrival of a young nun like yourself as a breath of fresh air, Beverly Keane didn’t seem all too pleased to have her self-appointed position as number two at St. Patrick’s knocked down to number three. She seemed to settle down when it became clear you had no interest in engaging in petty politics in a church that barely counted three dozen people for regular Sunday mass attendance. 

The island’s social life, small as it was, interested you more. People were more open to receiving you as a friend than as a representative of the church, undoubtedly put off by Beverly Keane’s self-righteous fanaticism that veered into cruelty. You got to know the regular parishioners, like Erin Greene, who’d grown up on the island, left for some time, and returned pregnant yet eager to become a mother to her unborn baby. She taught at the island’s small school with Beverly, who encouraged you to take up teaching there, obviously hoping to bring a religious curriculum to the tax-payer funded public school. You declined. 

Besides Erin, and to your chagrin Beverly, who was convinced the two of you were compatriots of some kind despite how often you clashed, you found yourself spending increasing amounts of time with Sheriff Hassan. Despite dutifully filling an essential role in the community, he hardly seemed any closer to gaining acceptance despite a year on Crockett Island. 

The day he and Ali moved onto the island, you had a cold, and thus weren’t part of the unofficial welcoming committee. Your head pounded from the sinus pressure when Beverly brought the Monsignor back to the rectory afterward, and you barely heard what she said. You met Sheriff Hassan a few days later, when you were feeling well enough to shop for yourself and the Monsignor for the week. Among your expectations about Hassan Shabazz, his being handsome enough to make your breath hitch for just a moment before introducing yourself wasn’t on the list. But he was understandably weary of you, expecting the same horrendous treatment he undoubtedly received from Beverly. 

Over time, he found you were only interested in buying groceries and not in underhandedly converting him or Ali. You were both lonely outsiders to the island and found some solace in regular conversations about the mainland, or observations about the islanders, occasionally broaching the topic of religion, which had a comfortable place in the space you two shared in the general store, sometimes over a cup of coffee he’d brew for you. 

You admired him. His dedication to his son, the efficacy with which he performed his thankless job, and the unwavering faith he had in his religion, while yours had long lost its luster since you’d become Monsignor Pruitt’s live-in nurse in all but name. 

But the days became your own when the Monsignor made his trip to the Holy Land, ill-advised considering his health. When you voiced your concerns to the parish, your outsider status was paraded through the discussion by Beverly, who insisted you had no way to understand how much the trip meant to the Monsignor, and by extension, every good, practicing Catholic on the island. At the time, to your frustration, she had won. 

Besides, even if he were there, you weren’t sure a man on death’s door himself would have been able to give Mildred Gunning Last Rites. Torrential rain pounded against the rectory when you could barely hear the phone ring. 

You had picked up with a hesitant, “Hello?”

“Sister, it’s—it’s my mom. I think she’s—”

“Sarah, do you want me to come over and see her?”

“Yeah, she’d want that. Just be careful with the rain.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Grabbing a flashlight, you had only half pulled on your raincoat when you hurried outside, in a near sprint to the Gunning house. You almost slipped and fell on the way there, and then you wouldn’t have been any good to anybody, and the last thing Dr. Sarah Gunning needed was to tend to a broken leg while her mother was on her deathbed.

The door was unlocked when you arrived, the house quiet and dark save for a few lamps left on.

“Sarah?” you called out.

She emerged from her mother’s room, eyes red. “I thought I was ready for this a long time ago, but being face-to-face with it…”

“Are you sure this is it?”

“As sure as I can be. She hasn’t been eating. There’s only so much I can do,” Sarah said, her voice breaking in despair. “Sister, I—she’d want you to be here. Even though she didn’t know you very much, I could tell she liked you.”

“Of course,” you whispered, giving her a hug before approaching Mildred’s bedside. 

Despite her labored breathing, she managed a kind smile when you took her weathered hand in yours and prayed the Our Father with as steady of a voice as you could manage. Then, you knelt, pulled the rosary from your raincoat pocket, and prayed until your knees ached and you nearly passed out from exhaustion at staying up so late. You almost thought you had dreamed it, the way she went, as peacefully as drifting off to sleep. It was only the cry of her daughter that pierced through your haze, and you struggled to your feet as you allowed Sarah privacy and called Sheriff Hassan over to certify the death, as was necessary for the burial Mildred would have undoubtedly wanted as a Catholic.

When the Sheriff arrived, about fifteen minutes after you called, you’d become acutely aware your nightgown had soaked through in the rain, and pulled your raincoat more closely over your body, ashamed you’d even forgotten such a detail in your haste.

“I should head back now,” you said. “I’m so sorry again, Sarah. You’ll be in my prayers. I’ll contact the diocese first thing in the morning."

She nodded. "Thank you, Sister."

“Do you need a ride back to the church?” Hassan asked. “This shouldn’t take long.”

You smiled, tempted by his offer, the prospect of spending more time alone with him. Instead, you shook your head. “Thank you, Sheriff. I think I can manage.”

Crockett Island was quiet the following day, when Annie’s son Riley arrived home for the first time in over a decade, following his four year prison sentence. You could tell through his polite greeting he had no interest in speaking with you further than his mother’s introductions. Fair enough.

Monsignor Pruitt was supposed to return that evening, but you had been calling the diocese to try to get confirmation that they could send a priest over to perform the funeral mass if needed. As usual, you got answering machines or the run around of being told to call different offices, none of which could apparently help you. 

When you returned to the rectory after visiting with Sarah Gunning, you noticed the light on in the distance. Beverly had planned to meet the Monsignor at the ferry and bring him home. In all honesty, you couldn’t believe he survived the trip, both there and back.

“Monsignor, it’s me!” you called out. “How was your trip? I’d love to hear about—” You froze when you came face to face with a priest. A priest who wasn’t the Monsignor. Younger, handsome, absolutely unexpected. “Hello. I–I’m sorry, who are you? Father—”

“I’m Father Paul, Paul Hill,” he said kindly. “The diocese sent me.”

“That was quick. I thought they’d been ignoring my messages.”

“Yes, I’m afraid the Monsignor became ill on his trip, and I’m here until he recovers. I hope you don’t mind, I went ahead and brought my things into what I assumed was his room.”

“Please, make yourself at home.” You hastily made a sign of the cross. “But the Monsignor…I don’t think the islanders could take another loss. I’m so sorry, you come here and your first mass is a funeral.”

“Funeral? For who?”

“Mildred Gunning, an elderly parishioner who had been ill with dementia for a few years, I believe. She passed away two nights ago,” you said. “That’s why I’ve been calling the diocese all day. We need someone to perform the funeral mass.”

His deep, brown eyes widened with all the terror of a deer being chased through the woods. “Are–are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I was there when she passed.”

“Did she suffer?”

“No, it was like she had fallen asleep,” you said softly, watching in wonder as tears fell from his eyes. “Father?”

“I’m sorry, Sister. These things affect me deeply.”

You put your hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Can I make you coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please,” he said, his voice empty, an almost far away sound to it.

“While that’s brewing, I’ll call Dr. Gunning, Mildred’s daughter, and let her know you’re here. I don’t think she’d want any deviation from the typical funeral rites. Her mother was quite devout.”

“Yes, I know.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What was that?”

“Yes, I–I figured.”

He retreated into the Monsignor’s room. When you brought the coffee to him, he requested you leave it outside the door, which you found odd. Even more strange was having to tell Beverly that she missed the Monsignor’s arrival because he wasn’t arriving in the first place, and the diocese forgot to tell you that he’d become ill on his trip and Father Paul was serving as his replacement until he recovered. You privately figured the assignment would be more permanent, as yours had unexpectedly become.

Mildred Gunning’s funeral was held in St. Patrick’s Church less than a day later. A simple, solemn affair that saw the church nearly packed for the first time outside of Christmas or Easter. Mildred had lived and died on Crockett Island, everyone knew her in one way or another. Father Paul conducted the funeral mass as if mourning the Pope himself, and you were particularly struck by his grief, the way he nearly fell apart while giving the homily.

He fared no better at the wake that followed the funeral mass, held in the community center. Father Paul was utterly disinterested in speaking with any of the parishioners who tried to introduce themselves to him or sought solace and spiritual guidance in his presence. Thus, the burden once again fell on your shoulders, and you almost thought the diocese would have been better off ignoring your calls after all.

You sighed. You couldn’t let your cynicism get the best of you. It’d be entirely inappropriate for Father Paul to treat Mildred’s wake as a social hour. Besides, people with such deep empathy for others, especially someone they’d never met, were rare, as reminded to you by Beverly, who made her way over to you with a plate of cheese and crackers and a slight sneer on her face.

“I suppose it’s nice and all, but it’s not like he knew the woman,” Beverly muttered.

“He needs time to adjust,” you said. “This isn’t the best way to start out his tenure here.”

“Yes, well, let’s just hope he gets his act together soon.”

You could swear the diocese had you on some kind of blacklist, the way your calls to them went unanswered, letters returned with vague instructions and empty assurances. Father Paul had no idea how long they intended for him to stay on Crockett Island or the condition of Monsignor Pruitt. 

Your living in the rectory made sense when you were caring for the Monsignor, but with Father Paul fully capable of taking care of himself, you wanted to know if you’d be staying on the island, and if so, if separate arrangements would be made for your own housing. The island was too small, too chatty, for you and Father Paul to be living alone for too long before it was turned into something it wasn’t.

The bitter taste of married life settled on your tongue as you took up most of the responsibilities around the rectory while Father Paul moped . The old man could hardly help with cleaning, and you didn’t want him anywhere near the kitchen, but your new roommate was an able-bodied man who could spare to pick up some slack, couldn’t he?

“I made dinner, if you’re hungry,” you said, emerging from the kitchen and into the living room where he sat on the couch. “Just spaghetti and meatballs. The jar sauce from the store isn’t too bad. I usually add—”

“Red wine and oregano to it. I know.”

“Oh,” you said, taken aback by his statement. “I guess Bev told you. Not much of a secret recipe.”

“You’re pretty young for a nun,” he said, turning to you. “What made you want to give up a normal life for this?”

“It’s my vocation. For as long as I can remember, I knew this was what God called me to do. I never wanted another life.” You sat down next to him, sparing a glance around the room. “This is it for me.”

“Crockett Island?”

You conceded a small smile. “I was hoping for somewhere a little more exciting, but I think there’s a chance for something amazing to happen here.”

He shook his head. “That time’s long passed. Look around you, Sister. People are leaving in droves, and the ones who’ve stayed…it’s just too late.”

“Please, Father, I know this island may seem like it’s dying, and presiding over a funeral as your first mass here doesn’t help that, but the people still need guidance,” you pleaded, taking his hands in yours. You couldn’t contend with the diocese sending you to rot with the rest of the island. It couldn’t be for nothing. “The Monsignor is no longer well enough to fill that need, and I couldn’t do it on my own, but together, I think we can do something great if we try. This might be the island’s last chance to have life breathed into it again.”

“Sister—”

“I agree that Crockett Island is hardly a place anymore, but it’s somewhere to start, isn’t it? We couldn’t have been sent here without a reason.”

He swallowed roughly, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You’re right, Sister. I—Thank you.”

You smiled, relief washing over you at his words, at his assurance you wouldn't have to bring revival to Crockett Island on your own. 

Following your conversation with Father Paul, his attitude completely shifted. He was friendlier with the parishioners, taking extra time to spend with Leeza, offering to hold Riley’s AA meetings in the community center to save him a trip to the mainland, and, inexplicably, he liked Beverly, who’d changed her mind about Father Paul since the wake and warmed up to him. The only time he wavered was when he visited with Sarah Gunning, still grieving the loss of her mother and considering moving her practice off of the island.

He’d return to the rectory on those evenings quiet, morose, seeking the comfort you selflessly offered him. A warm embrace in which he’d bury his face in the crook of your neck. A hand to hold and squeeze in his own, intertwining his fingers with yours. Teetering on the brink of an intimacy you’d made vows against, you weren’t quite sure how to bring it up to him, not when he needed you, and you, him, to fill the hunger in your heart for a man you knew you could never have. 

You allowed the beast to live in you. Fed it. Nurtured it. Cared for it. Guarded it with a shameful protectiveness, shielding it from your regular confessions with Father Paul, in which uttering its name would make it real, and thus ripped away from you and destroyed. 

Ash Wednesday and the first week of Lent were resigned to a haze in your memory, hardly able to think of the beginning of the holiest time of the liturgical year without feeling sick. Not after the potluck. You were sure it had been Beverly, Sheriff Hassan was, too. You knew she was cruel, but to harm an animal, something so innocent…You couldn’t stand to be in her presence for long after that, and silently resented Father Paul for keeping her so close. But you supposed everyone had their vices. 

Yours came to a head in a dream, one that felt all too real, that you could hardly remember when you awoke apart from burning hands on your skin, lips pressed to yours, you and Sheriff Hassan in throes of passion. You laid in bed with a lump in your throat and aching between your legs. You hadn’t experienced a dream like that in…you couldn’t even remember.

The entire time you sat through mass, you thought you were going to be sick. You couldn’t concentrate on the readings or the homily. Taking the Eucharist felt wrong, and your hand shook when you brought the communion wafer to your lips when Father Paul handed it to you. Finally, when mass ended, and you were sure the church was empty, you approached him with trepidation.

“Father, I have something I need to confess.”

“Would you like to go to the confessional?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to hide behind it. I need to be transparent and held accountable.”

He nodded. The two of you sat in a pew, facing each other as you crossed yourselves. 

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Three days,” you answered.

“What is it, Sister?”

“I’ve been having lustful thoughts, Father, about someone incredibly close to me, who I care deeply for. Instead of asking the Lord to take these feelings from me, I’ve been indulging in them, and last night I—I had a dream about him. A sexual one that I experienced physical pleasure from.” You were in tears, guilt wracking your body as you spoke. “I’m so ashamed. I should have been stronger. I’ve been sinning against God, exploiting this man in my heart when he’s done nothing to deserve such disrespect. Sheriff Hassan is—”

“Sheriff Hassan?” Father Paul’s gaze darkened ever so slightly, and you leapt to the sheriff’s defense in his absence.

“He didn’t do anything, Father. Nothing more than friendly smiles and kind words, never anything inappropriate. It was me, letting my lustful thoughts ferment instead of nipping them in the bud right away. He committed no sin. It was me.” Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

“Why him?”

You were silent for a moment. “He’s a good man.” Better than most you’d come across. Kind, selfless, just—the virtues that were few and far between among the men of the cloth you had met. Above all else, even when it was difficult, Hassan Shabazz was good. “I love him.”

“You don’t love him, Sister. Lust after him, yes, but you don’t know him, not enough to love him the way you think you do.”

With a shaky, reluctant sigh, you nodded. “Will you help me, Father?”

He took your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Of course, it’s the least I can do after you helped me through the trial God set out for me when I first arrived here.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll get through this together, Sister. Let us pray.”

The following Sunday, you tried to match the enthusiasm he had for ten o’clock mass that morning. You had gotten used to it by then, the way he always seemed to know something you didn’t or was aware of details about the islanders you weren’t keen to even after living there for two years. He was easy to trust, you supposed. 

Sitting in the wooden pew, you focused on following along with mass until the homily following the reading from the Gospel. Father Paul’s homilies were always a bit odd, cryptic, even. You assumed his faith was influenced by mysticism, and sought out books by the likes of St. John of the Cross and St. Francis in an attempt to better understand him. The way he spoke that day unsettled you, a fantastical fanaticism that felt out of place on Crockett Island.

Then, when it was time to receive the Eucharist, there was a solid minute where you were sure you had never hated anyone more in your entire life than you hated him. Telling Leeza Scaroborough to walk, goading the poor girl to step out of her wheelchair in an act of cruelty you couldn’t abide by. You got up from the pew, en route to smack him across the face when she did it. Leeza stood up from her wheelchair, and with tentative steps forward and tears of disbelief and hope in her eyes, she walked up to Father Paul and received the Eucharist.

Everything that followed was a blur, but you knew you were one of the few in attendance who hadn’t broken out into frenzied celebration. Something just wasn’t right. You found yourself hesitant to make eye contact with him when you took communion, and remained quiet even as mass ended, the cacophony of elated voices almost background noise to you.

“I’m sorry, everyone, but I need to speak to our dear Sister in confidence. I’m sure you all understand,” he said, murmurs of affirmation from the congregants who had crowded around him, except for Bev, who had a puss on her face at being excluded.

Father Paul ushered you into the sacristy, closing the door behind you.

“Is something wrong, Sister?” he asked.

“How can anything be wrong? Leeza Scarborough can walk again.”

“Yes, a miracle occurred in this very parish, right before our eyes, yet you seem…hesitant.”

You chewed on your lip before murmuring, “Seeing isn’t always believing.”

“You were the one who told me this island needed life brought back to it, who said we could achieve great things together. Now I’ve done that, by the grace of God Himself, and you have cold feet?”

“It’s not that.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“You know I do,” you said, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. “Maybe my faith is still weak—I’m still weak. I’m sorry, Father.”

“You’re not weak, Sister.”

“I think I’m going to get some air,” you said.

He nodded, distressed by your continued lack of enthusiasm. “Alright.”

Leaving St. Patrick’s through the side door in the sacristy, you tried to muster up the joy and faith you were supposed to feel, but found yourself coming up disappointingly empty. You had seen it with your very own eyes, and had been standing right there when Leeza walked for the first time in years. It couldn’t have been a trick, not orchestrated or premeditated, not by her. But Father Paul seemed so certain. Was his faith that much stronger than yours? Strong enough that he could be a true miracle worker, a vessel of God Himself on Crockett Island of all places?

Even the more skeptical congregants present, like Erin and Riley, had bared witness to it. Could attest to what had happened just as everyone else had, as you could. As a nun, you were undoubtedly expected to believe, be among the most fervent of Father Paul’s advocates. Beverly wasted no time in declaring the act a miracle worthy of the Vatican’s attention. Your faith still wavered despite what should have been undeniable proof. 

You’d lost track of how long you’d been walking around the island, but the sun was beginning to set and you realized you were tired and hungry. The general store wasn’t much farther of a walk from where you ended up while mindlessly wandering, and so you made the trek into town, telling yourself you were getting a few groceries for yourself and Father Paul. Really, the only person you knew you could speak to without judgment would be in there.

When you entered, Hassan greeted you with an emotional distance you expected. He probably figured you’d be among the dozens of people eager to relay Leeza’s miracle to him, underhandedly attempting to invalidate his own faith. 

Grabbing a jar of sauce and a box of pasta, you brought them up to the counter. Your mouth was dry while he rang up the groceries, but you couldn’t help asking, “Have–um–have you seen Leeza recently?” 

He nodded, his lips pressed in a thin line. “Walked right in here and bought a Twinkie earlier.”

“Amazing, how it happened.”

“I know about what happened to Leeza. I don’t believe what happened to Leeza.”

“Neither do I.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” you said. “It felt more like a show was being put on than a miracle. I don’t think she had anything to do with what happened, but he had to have done something. He was so sure she would walk, and I just felt angry, betrayed that he’d make a spectacle in mass. In all honesty, Sheriff, my faith has been wavering for a while, but this didn’t make it any stronger.”

“It makes me feel a little more sane to hear you say that.”

“Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure it’s you.” You smiled, taking the bags of groceries from the counter. “Have a good night, Sheriff.”

“You too, Sister.”

Walking back to the rectory, you wondered if anything would be able to make you change your mind about actually bearing witness to a miracle.

Father Paul hugged you as soon as you walked through the door. “I was about to send out a search party for you.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you, Father. I just needed time to think.”

He looked at the grocery bag in your hand. “And to see the Sheriff.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sister, something incredible is happening here. I need to know you’re on my side,” he said, his urgency striking you like lightning. 

“I am. I want to be. Please just be patient with me. This is—it’s a lot to process.”

“I can’t do this without you,” he said softly, caressing your cheek. “I need you.” His gaze fell to your lips.

“I should start on dinner,” you whispered, pulling away from him.

“Let me, you cook enough for me already,” he said, taking the bag from you. He pulled out the jar of sauce. “Red wine and oregano, right?”

You nodded. “That’s right.”

“Make yourself comfortable out here. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

The following half hour or so was unbearably tense, and you could hardly focus on the book sitting in your lap, The Dialogue of Divine Providence, while he cooked. The two of you ate in near silence, and you retired to your room early, falling asleep almost as soon as you changed into your nightgown and crawled into bed.

Burning pain seared your limbs when you awoke in the middle of the night, the pungent scent of iron assaulting your nose, and for a moment, you thought you were dying. You reached over to the lamp on your nightstand, your arm heavy as you moved it. With trepidation, you pulled the cord, a phantom sensation in your hand as you did so. 

Soft, white light from the bulb illuminated your beside. Lifting your hands to your face, you let out a panicked whimper at the gaping wounds in your palms, gently bleeding crimson and flowing down your arms to your nightgown. The fabric around your torso was blotched with blood, each tinge of pink becoming red with every ragged breath you took. You tried kicking at the covers, but found it excruciatingly difficult, and to your horror, discovered identical wounds to the ones in your hands through both of your feet.

Your hands shook as you screwed your eyes shut, telling yourself it was a dream, and that when you opened your eyes, the blood would be gone, the wounds healed. Except the pain was all too real, pulsing in your wounds, tears stinging your eyes as you choked out a sob. Your simple bedroom, with little more than a bookshelf, desk, chair, and crucifix on the wall, threatened to suffocate you as your panic set in.

A groan pulled from your lips as you pushed yourself out of bed, your legs nearly giving out beneath you. The strange sensation of your bare feet on the wooden floorboards made you feel dizzy, or maybe it was blood loss. Each step forward was more agonizing than the last, but you needed help. You needed someone else to see you, a witness to what was happening. 

“Father Paul!” you cried out from the doorway, your voice hoarse and low, barely carrying across the hallway. “Father, wake up!” Mustering what strength you could, you threw yourself against his bedroom door, your closed, bleeding fist erratically banging against it. “Father, please!”

“Sister, what’s going—” 

As soon as he opened the door, you collapsed into his arms, sending him stumbling backward with the sudden burden of your body on his. He looked at you, gaping at the blood that covered you—and him. 

“Father?” 

“I should call Dr. Gunning.”

You shook your head frantically. “Don’t! Not yet.” 

“What happened?”

“I woke up, and I was like this.” Your bleeding hands clenched around the hem of your nightgown, keeping it at your thighs. “I’m too afraid to look.”

“May I?” he asked, his own hands shaking as his fingers brushed the blood-drenched fabric.

Staring at him for a moment, reckoning with the further vulnerability you were about to display to him, you breathed a soft, “Yes.”

He pulled your nightgown up, the fabric sticking to your skin from the congealed blood. You stared at the ceiling as he lifted the garment over your head, too embarrassed and mortified to acknowledge your body bare before him. His fingertips brushed your torso, and you moaned. In your horror, you looked down to see deep, fresh wounds on your sides.

“Oh my God.”

“Do you know what this is, Sister?”

Tears blurred your vision as you shook your head. “It can’t be stigmata. I’m not pure enough, not devout enough. He’d never—”

“Of course He would. He saw you needed faith, a reminder of His love for you, and look at you now,” Father Paul said with hushed fervor as he took in the state of you. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed your forehead, then pressed his lips to each of your weeping palms, and then your feet. 

Desire twisted in your gut at the sight of him beneath you. He kissed your feet again, a terrifying hunger in his gaze as he brought his lips higher up your legs, his hands brushing your skin with a reverence you felt unworthy of receiving. 

You watched as he dipped his fingers into one of your side wounds and then brought the digits to his mouth, tasting your blood from them. With a ragged breath, he brought his face to your torso. His tongue plunged in the valley of your wound, lapping up the blood that gently flowed from it. A moan tore from your throat, pleasure rolling across your skin as if you truly were a vessel for the divine. Surely it was the same sensation that inspired St. Teresa of Avila’s eroticism, a mystical ecstasy that saw her driven out of villages and cloister herself in search of the purest, incorporeal love.

Except before you knelt a man of God whom you could reach out and touch, eagerly devouring your flesh as if able to find salvation in your blood. His teeth grazed your skin, eliciting a shudder that echoed through you like a worn-out hymn. Words failed you, the pleasure you received from his ravenous consumption of you overtaking the pain from your wounds. 

Holding his head against your side wound, you wanted more, the feeling of him indulging in you. Taste and eat. Everything you felt and saw was in shades of violently blossoming red, deeper and deeper with each curl of his tongue and brush of his fingertips, his unadulterated worship, his veneration for you, serving as the flowing cup of God’s grace and mercy.

Rapturous bliss hummed through you like an ecstatic prayer, pulsing in your wounds on your hands, feet, and sides. You felt like he was part of you, a mystical union between yourself and him.

But just as high as he’d taken you, you quickly came down. The gravity of the situation, of what he’d done, what you’d let him do, weighed on your conscience more heavily than any illicit feeling you’d ever harbored toward Sheriff Hassan.

Father Paul took your face in his hands, eyes glistening with a joyous faith you no longer envied. “Your own miracle, Sister. Do you see it now?”

“You did this to me?” you asked in distressed horror. “You—Who are you?”

“Not me, Sister,” he said. “Here, let me show you. You’ll understand everything. I think you’re ready.”

He held out his hand, and despite everything in you screaming otherwise, you took it.

[togenabi]

breaking news

roronoa zoro (opla) x journalist!reader

♡—you always had a feeling the straw hats could change your life, but meeting zoro shifted the entire world on its axis.

word count♡— 5.4k (omg?)

genre♡— fluff

content notes♡— opla zoro, afab!reader is a journalist whose boss is evil, inaccurate journalism and newspapery, mild violence, kissing/making out, alcohol consumption, long intro so start might be slowish?, no use of y/n, only slightly proofread

also on♡— ao3

author's note ♡— get yourself a man that can kick ass and let you use his arm as a tape dispenser

A stack of papers are slammed onto your desk. The pages are riddled with edits and red marks. Towards the end of the document, the person just started crossing out everything you had written.

“Stories like that won’t sell. It’s highly inappropriate.” Chief Editor Tildie scowls down at you. “Shame that you waste your talents on such rubbish.”

“But it’s not a story.” You mutter under your breath, not meeting her gaze.

“Did you say something?” She bends down, bracing one hand on the backrest of your chair.

“...No, ma’am.” Your response is barely a whisper, but she relents and begins to head back to her office.

“Stick to the politics and gossips, hon. If you know what’s good for you.” 

You almost break your pen in frustration.

All the other journalists in the room witnessed what happened, but they all keep their heads down, buried into their typewriters and desks. No one ever tries to fight for things to change anymore.

The Oceanic Times is such a joke. Why would a newspaper company named after the ocean not be allowed to publish anything related to it? Some people have said that the current chief is running the company to the ground. You’re beginning to think it’s true.

Running your palms over your face, you take deep breaths until you’ve calmed down somewhat. The first thing you see when you uncover your eyes is your article. The one you were so excited and passionate about.

You wrote about Orange Town, they had been suffering after the Buggy Pirates invaded. Everything was destroyed and the residents were imprisoned, forced to be the audience to their own home’s ruin.

Things had stayed that way for months, until the people were saved by pirates. It sounded so unlikely to happen, and yet it did. 

Knowing a scoop when you saw one, you sent a letter to Mayor Boodle along with some berry to donate for the town’s restoration. You tried asking if he wouldn’t mind being interviewed on what happened. 

He agreed. The result was an excellent piece on how a small group of rag-tag startups got the better of Buggy the Clown, saving an entire village from his reign of terror.

…And yet, this is what you get for your hard work. Your fingers trace the red marks and strikethroughs Editor Tildie made.

You know you’re right, people around here could do with some accessible, actual news and well-researched information. But simply knowing what’s right doesn’t come with the power to fix things, doesn’t it? 

The window by your desk offers you a view of the sun setting. It was one of the things that thrilled you when you first started, having a desk on the second floor. You were so determined back then.

It’s getting far too difficult to breathe in here. You grab your pen and treasured notebook, leaving the newsroom behind.

Your feet take you to the harbor. It’s quiet, with only a few fishermen around. You find yourself gazing out into the sea. The waves push and pull and ripple in patterns that calm you down. 

For a world with so many pirates, and many enthralled by the idea of adventure, you’re sure your writing will be appreciated… It will be appreciated here, eventually.

Once, you thought about moving somewhere else. Maybe to a bigger city and work under a more renowned publisher. But you like this town too much for that. There’s a good balance of things; it has all the amenities of a developed town, but is still close enough to adventurous waters. 

This place could be an excellent hub for information. If only you got the chance to show others what you dream of.

You know some people who are eager to leave, however. Some of your friends would give anything to work in some big city paper. You even heard rumors of Chief Editor Tildie applying for work in the East Blue Daily.

Oh, what you’d give to write about real news and the feats people are achieving. Letting out a sigh, you wonder where those upstart pirates are now.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait too long to find the answer. One of your co-workers bursts through the door a few weeks later, holding onto the wall to steady himself and catch his breath.

“Arlong has been defeated!”

Everyone in the newsroom stops what they're doing. Even Chief Editor Tildie looks shocked.

Apparently, Marines were chasing down a group of pirates, and those same pirates saved a village in the Conomi Islands from Arlong.

Pirates saving people? Could it be?

“It’s a new pirate crew, but they’re really powerful!” Your co-worker explains further. “Roronoa Zoro is second in command, and their captain took down Arlong by himself!”

“Does the captain wear a straw hat?” You ask, but something already made you sure he did.

“Yeah, here!” He passes you a wanted poster.

A boy is smiling in the photo, wearing the same straw hat Mayor Boodle mentioned to you. 

“Is that why there have been more pirates around lately?” Editor Tildie says gruffly. “Darn sea lovers should stay at sea.”

No one comments on how Editor Tildie curses like a pirate. You value your jobs (and lives) too much. (But everyone thinks it.)

Another thing no one mentions is the excitement that seems to buzz through everyone. Like an electric current, making the air feel alive and crackle with an energy you haven’t seen in this newsroom in a long while.

News is about to break. You have work to do.

Your research leads you to trace the Straw Hat Pirates’ steps. A map of the East Blue is laid across your desk, and you begin to plot the locations where they’ve been. Holding your breath, you analyze their trail. 

It might not be so far-fetched to say that they could show up here.

You think of the article you wrote on Orange Town. It’s still there, you’ve kept it safe in the trusty notebook you keep strapped to your waist. You couldn’t bear to just scrap it. But, maybe there’s hope for it after all, now that those same pirates rose to prominence in such a short amount of time.

“Still working, huh?” One of the photographers asks you. “We’re all headed for the tavern if you want to join us.”

You smile, but can’t imagine leaving your desk for the foreseeable future. “Thanks, but maybe another night.”

Everyone else leaves, the only light left on in the office is from the lamp on your desk. The night blankets the newsroom in shadows, and you pour over your research in the welcomed silence.

A loud crash is heard outside.

Someone is getting beat up. You were just about to ignore it and chalk it up to a brawl between drunks, but you hear the local librarian yell out in fear.

You sit still for a second, steeling your resolve before rushing out to the scene. You may not know how to fight, but you should at least help the old man get out of there.

The library is the building beside the news publisher’s, so you see everything the moment you step out of the door.

Thankfully, the old librarian seems to be protected by a green-haired swordsman. He stands menacingly against several thugs, his sword glints under the moonlight. 

Not that the thugs look like they have a chance despite their numbers. Two of them are groaning and wounded on the ground, the other two are hiding behind a cart full of books.

The green-haired man raises his blade. “Cowards.” He spits out, looking severely unimpressed.

It seems he intends to strike the other two thugs where they stand, but the librarian begs the swordsman not to damage the cart or the books.

“Please!” The librarian wails. “Not the books!” Are his priorities on straight, you wonder?

“I don’t really care about that.” The man says, getting ready to charge at the men—through the books.

“Wait!” You yell, unable to just stand there. They all look at you with varying degrees of ‘who the hell is she?!’.

You use their surprise to your advantage, running quickly to the cart and pulling it out of the way. Everyone watches, astonished, as you take away the only thing that separated the thugs from the swordsman.

Said swordsman merely shrugs. “Fine.”

He’s so fast his form almost blurs. The thugs scream in fear, and for good reason. They’re cut down in two seconds.

“Oh thank goodness!” The librarian sobs, cradling the books that did not get shredded.

“Would you like some help carrying those inside?” You ask him, but he declines.

“No, it’s alright. Thank you for saving the books my dear. Pirates just can’t seem to fathom not solving things with violence.” 

You’re baffled at how the old man can smile at you then look at the swordsman in disdain in the same breath. Shouldn’t he be grateful his life was protected?

He leaves, heaving the books into the library, but you stop him.

“No, hold on, let us help you.” You try again. “We insist.”

“We do?” The stranger asks incredulously.

“Yes.” You say, gesturing at how the old librarian’s arms are about to give out.

The swordsman looks displeased, but retrieves the books anyway.

“And you, sir,” You turn to the librarian. “You should thank him.”

The old man sputters. 

“Don’t bother.” The stranger says. “Don’t even know why I did.”

The librarian huffs, but his glare falters this time. “...Thank you, lad.”

The green-haired man blinks. Like he doesn’t know what to do after somebody thanks him. It’s strangely endearing.

You both help the librarian get settled inside. It’s still painfully awkward, but you like to think that things turned out well.

The two of you leave the library together. Being in closer proximity, you get a better look at him. He’s exceedingly handsome, but what catches your eye are the three earrings dangling from his left ear.

Your eyes widen in recognition. “Roronoa Zoro.”

“...Do I know you?” He asks, looking at you impassively.

“I’m a journalist.” You say instead of answering him, as you introduce yourself. You point to the newspaper company next door

“Hm.” Is all you get from him. 

You expected many things if you ever met any of the Straw Hats, but extreme disinterest isn’t one of them.

“Do you think I could ask you a few questions?” You ask, hopeful to convince him.

“You get one, and you just asked. So I guess we’re done here.” Zoro says. “Here’s my question, where’s the closest place I can get a drink around here?”

Undeterred, you try to meet him in the middle, “I have a bottle of whiskey in my desk drawer with your name on it.”

When he doesn’t reject you outright, you realize you have a shot at this.

You step towards him, eyes not leaving his as you make him an offer. “How about, I get you a drink, and you answer some questions for me?”

The confidence you feel surging isn’t normal for you, but you lean into it. When else are you going to get this chance?

Zoro studies you, more seriously this time. You can tell the moment his eyes shift that he must see right through to you. That you’re no fighter, but you’re determined. You’ll follow him around town until he gives you what you’re looking for if he disagrees.

To your delight, he nods.

But when you enter the building, you find something that you didn’t expect.

The entire place looks like it had been ransacked. You gasp in horror at the mess. Papers were strewn everywhere, all the desks were in disarray. How could this have happened in the time that you were gone? 

Zoro steps in front of you protectively. A hand hovers on the handle of his blade as he surveys the damage. You can’t help but feel responsible for this.

You should have locked the door. You should have just called it a night. You should have just joined your friends for a drink and worked in the morning like a normal person. You should have—

“This isn’t your fault.” 

Zoro’s back is still to you. For a while, he simply stays still.

Then he says it again. Slower this time, as if to emphasize the words, “This isn’t your fault.”

It’s not much, but it manages to make you pull yourself together. He’s right, it isn’t. So you have to find out who did.

You and Zoro head deeper into the building, taking careful steps in search for clues.

Zoro eyes the staircase leading to the upper floor, and he holds out his arm to block you from going any further.

“What’s wrong?” You ask in a very hushed whisper.

He points up the stairs, where you see the shadow of someone moving.

“I’ll deal with them. Stay here.” He instructs, but you grab his arm before he can take another step.

“No!” You whisper-yell. “I’m going too.”

He gives you that same, unimpressed expression he seems to be so fond of. To be honest, you’re becoming fond of it too. The effect on you is waning, if that's any indication.

“Why do you always look for trouble?” Zoro sighs. “Do what you want.” 

Is it because he’s whispering, or does his voice lack its previous edge when he spoke to you?

You don’t have time to think more on that, however. Zoro begins ascending the stairs. You’ve never been more thankful that the steps are carpeted, your shoes would have clattered loudly otherwise. 

Together, without a sound, you reach the second floor landing. It’s dark, but the damage you see is no better up here. The intruder really left no surface undisturbed. 

Sounds of someone opening and shutting drawers alarms you. Zoro, very carefully, pulls out his sword.

More alarm bells start to ring when Zoro approaches the sound, and you realize it’s coming from your desk.

Zoro holds out an arm again, giving you a look that says stay put this time. Fine. You hang back while he impressively sneaks up behind the intruder without a sound.

The person is rummaging frantically through your desk, making noises that helps Zoro conceal himself. A document falls to the floor, and the shadowed figure kneels down to pick it up. 

Zoro points his blade to their neck before they can get up. They freeze.

You turn on the lamp on the desk nearest you. The light illuminates the room enough that you can finally see the intruder’s face.

Only, it isn’t an intruder.

“Chief Editor Tildie?” You gasp, confused.

Your boss looks like a deer caught in the headlights, but her expression suddenly melts into relief.

“Oh, I’m so glad you two got here! Everything was a mess there were, uh, robbers! Yes, yes—nasty thieves got into the building.” 

That doesn’t make any sense. What would thieves want to steal from a publishing business anyway? 

She cuts you off when you’re about to point out her suspicious behavior, “There were so many of them, I have no idea how they got in! I was going back to pick up some things, and the place was already like this.” 

“My dear…” Editor Tildie looks at you with mock concern, “You didn’t leave the door unlocked, did you?”

How dare she?

“You’re so full of shit.” Zoro tsks, inching his blade closer to her skin. “I would have noticed if a bunch of guys went through the front door.”

You blink when the puzzle clicks in your head. “She was in here the whole time.”

“You can’t prove anything, you wannabe writer!” Editor Tildie bursts out, her expression once again shifting back to panic.

“Who do you think they’re going to believe?” She glares, daring you. “You? Some no-name writer? Or ME, the Chief—”

Zoro knocks her head with the hilt of his sword. She falls with a thud.

You run a hand through your hair, letting out a long sigh. You’re exhausted, but you should really investigate why your boss did all this then try to put the blame on you.

Like the others, your desk was trashed. Even your notes are scattered all over the floor. The map you were painstakingly studying was torn in half. But strangely, the other things you had been working on are missing.

Zoro walks around the desk. “Over here.” He says, having found something.

It’s a large duffel bag, filled to the brim with papers of… rejected articles? You sift through the contents, they all seem to be your co-workers’ recent work. You remember proofreading several of them, everyone has been doing so well lately. 

But why would the Chief Editor steal these after rejecting all of them?

“Could you watch her for a minute, please?” You ask Zoro. “I need to check her office.”

Zoro looks at you strangely, you can’t quite pinpoint his expression. It’s half ‘you’re leaving me here, really?’ and half ‘will you be okay?’.

“Scream if you get into trouble.” He sighs, settling into your office chair. “‘Cause you eventually find it.”

You leave, shaking your head fondly. So he does care.

Inside the Chief Editor’s office, things are a mess as well. You suspect that was probably done to throw investigators off. But she left some things here, and from there, it’s easy to put together what happened.

A briefcase sits on her desk. It’s left open, with several letters lying inside. They’re all correspondence with famous newspapers.

‘The East Blue Daily would be delighted to host your article on the events in Orange Town. Please submit a draft at your earliest convenience. We are excited to...’

You have to set the letter down and stop reading. This bitch was planning to steal everyone’s work. Fury rushes into your head as you let out a disbelieving laugh. How could she do this after tearing everyone down?

It finally makes sense why she never greenlit any of the best articles. She probably sent them to other companies claiming they were her original work.

Judging from the other letters and her packed bags, she likely intended for this to be her last stunt. The Oceanic Times would sink into nothing, and she would be off to work for some famous paper.

And she was right. If you and Zoro hadn’t caught her, no one other than your co-workers would believe you that she did this. And none of you were reputable enough to be considered credible. You would probably have to take the fall for leaving the door unlocked, just like she planned.

Zoro calls out your name when you’ve been in here for a few minutes. Despite how drained and tired you feel, you gather the evidence in the suitcase, carrying it out with you. 

You must look worse than you thought, because Zoro’s brows furrow in concern when he sees you.

Zoro hasn’t gotten up from your chair. He remains silent and still, but his attention on you is unwavering.

“She was planning to steal our work.” You explain, sitting on top of your desk. “I would’ve been powerless.”

“Would’ve been.” Zoro says. “But you’re not.”

When he stands, you worry that he might be leaving you. But instead, he drags Tildie (who you notice has been tied up) and traps her in her own office. Zoro moves a desk to block the door.

As he pushes it, your eyes follow the movement of his arms. You have to turn away to hide your flustered expression. For some reason, you remember Tildie’s words about your article: this is highly inappropriate.

He comes back, reclaiming his (your) chair. His hands reach for something under the desk. Under your legs. This is highly—

All thoughts in your head stop on their tracks when he meets your eyes again. He’s holding the whiskey you mentioned. You were about to mention your surprise that he didn’t drink any yet, but the words die in your throat. It’s entrancing the way his eyes seem to glow the same color as the liquid. 

Zoro taps the glass with his fingers. “I think this bottle has both our names on it.”

If you were in a normal state of mind, you would probably be embarrassed by how much you’re crying in front of Roronoa Zoro. Maybe Zoro would even regret offering you a drink.

You’re not drunk yet, but you’re probably getting there since you’re becoming an emotional mess. Thankfully, Zoro is an excellent listener. You let everything out.

“I just want to write. I want people to read my work.” You sob as you tape your map of the East Blue back together.

Zoro hums, indicating he hears you. One of his arms is extended on your desk, laden with strips of tape. How you managed to use Roronoa Zoro as a tape dispenser is beyond you, but you feel strangely proud of it.

“Why don’t you write, then?” Zoro asks, not taking his eyes off you.

“I can’t!” You sniff before pulling another piece of tape from his skin. “Tildie—that bitch—do you know her? She’s awful, she never approves of our good articles.”

“She’s gone now.” He says. “You can write what you want.” 

“Oh.” Right. He’s right, of course he is. “Okay then.”

There’s a beat of silence while you fix your map. When you’re done, you beam at Zoro.

“I’ll write about you.”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Will you, now?”

“You can bet on it.” Smoothing your fingers over your mended map, you say wistfully, “I wonder where you’ll head off to next.”

Before he can answer that, you voice out a thought that feels strangely sad.

“...I wonder if you’ll come back.”

You can’t even meet his eyes anymore. Half-drunk or not, you knew how embarrassing that was to say. You only met a few hours ago, but why does it feel like you’ll miss him more than anything when he leaves?

“That depends,” Zoro clears his throat. “Are you going to give me a reason to?”

The way your face lit up with shock and happiness was so adorable that it caught Zoro by surprise. He almost lets out a full laugh, but he manages to conceal it with a fake cough.

Leaning down, you grab his shoulder and pull him to you. The office chair rolls over to right where you want him.

This is highly inappropriate… But you can’t help yourself when you respond, “You can bet on that too.”

Kissing Zoro feels electric. You feel your head go fuzzy and your hands are eager to hold onto something. So you hold onto him; the back of his neck—thread your fingers into his hair. He keeps his hands on your waist. They do not wander, but he grips you like you’re some sort of lifeline.

Lifeline.

You break the kiss abruptly, getting an epiphany. This whole experience was a mess, but this could be the lifeline you've been waiting for.

Zoro groans, trying to pull you down for another kiss, but you stop him with a grin, “Do you think I could ask you a few questions?” 

Before the interview, Zoro set some ground rules. A few of them involved you, like how you were not to disclose your relationship unless absolutely necessary, since it could put you in danger.

Others involved his crew, such as he couldn’t go into detail with the members and their abilities. That would just be too risky.

The questions themselves don’t necessarily matter to you, since the interview alone will be a huge boost for The Oceanic Times. So you agree to all of his terms… Including the one where he gets a kiss for each answer he gives.

“When you met Luffy,” You begin, “Did you know that you were going to follow him? Or did it take some convincing?”

“Convincing.” Zoro answers.

You wait for him to elaborate. “...Is that it?”

“Yes.” He responds before nudging you, “That’s two.”

Rolling your eyes playfully, you kiss him twice but pull away before he can deepen it.

He frowns at you, and you laugh as you ask your next question, “So you didn’t plan on becoming a pirate?”

“No.” 

“...”

“...”

“...Zoro, stop making me ask more than one question.” You say, unimpressed.

“Don’t ask questions that can be answered with one word, then.” He quips back challengingly.

You hate that he’s got you there. You miss his lips on purpose, kissing his cheek in retaliation.

“What was that?” Zoro complains.

“A kiss.” You answer smugly as you write things down in your notebook. You hit him with your last question.

“Why do you follow your captain?” 

To your credit, this one makes him think for a minute. 

“...Because we all have dreams, and we’re all going to get there together.”

You smile at him, touched. “That’s beautiful.”

Zoro makes a face, leaning back into his seat. “Nevermind, don’t write that down. I take it back.”

“Aw,” You tease. “I wonder what your captain will say about that.”

Zoro grumbles something about how he shouldn't have answered that, but you can tell he meant it. But not to worry, you weren’t about to write some sap piece his enemies can use against him.

You were going to make breaking news.

That was the plan. Or it was, until you fell asleep at some point during the night. You had pulled over another chair, working your typewriter to the bone as you burned through your adrenaline rush.

You woke up the next morning with Zoro leaning on your shoulder; he was still asleep. You took this quiet minute as an opportunity to admire him.

Things would have gone so much differently if he hadn't been around. You probably would have gone out to help the librarian with those thugs alone, and you wouldn’t have made it back to the office soon enough to catch Tildie.

Realization dawns on you. Tildie probably hired those thugs herself, so that you would be preoccupied. You make a mental note to have those thugs questioned later. 

All that’s happened… It was scary, yet exciting, since Zoro was with you. He makes you feel eager to find the next big story to write about.

He rouses at that moment, eyes slowly blinking awake. He yawns and stretches, and when he properly looks at you, he shakes his head at your expression.

“Now I know what face you make when you want to go looking for trouble.”

After you reach out to the authorities, Zoro leaves to find his crew. You were sure they were worried sick by now, since he’s been gone so long. He tells you that they’re scheduled to leave this afternoon.

You’ll miss him, but you know it’s for the best.

The harbor is bustling with life when you get there, the complete contrast to how it was months ago. Funny how in both times your feet take you here, you’re wondering where a certain group of pirates are.

But your pirate is easy to find, he’s waiting for you by his crew’s ship. 

“Came to give me a reason to come back?” Zoro jests, taking your hand once you’re close enough.

“Couldn’t wait to see you leave, actually.” You joke. He startles you by pulling you close.

You’re about to kiss him when he spots something over your head that makes him frown. Your eyes follow his gaze to find his crew members watching you both.

“Don’t mind us! We’re just enjoying the show!” The one with a bandana on his head yells out.

“Did I miss something? I missed something, didn’t I?” A blond man asks, his face completely flabbergasted.

“I think we all did.” The woman next to him remarks.

“But we’re really happy for you, Zoro!” Their captain cheers and whoops.

Indeed, now might be a good time for the sea to swallow you up. Maybe you should jump?

“Get lost.” Zoro snaps at them. They all holler and laugh, but do as he says.

“Um,” You say. Maybe you should just give him his farewell present to distract yourself from the embarrassment. “I got you this.” You hand him a folded piece of paper.

It’s your article on Orange Town. One of his very first adventures, and the moment you first heard of him retyped on a special kind of stationery and everything. You even made sure the ink is good quality so that it doesn’t fade. (You also spritzed it with your perfume, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

“Ask your friends to read it, please?” You request. “Then tell me what you all think about it.”

Zoro glances at the paper, recognizing how much work you put into it, and how much you went through to get to where you are now. 

“I’m sure it’s perfect.” The soft, small smile he gives you makes you feel weak in the knees.

He pulls you in again, his arms embracing your waist. You respond by draping your arms over his shoulders. Your fingers play with the back of his hair.

“Write to me?” You ask softly, only for him to hear.

“Writing isn't really my thing.”

You pout.

“...I’ll send you a postcard or something.”

A laugh escapes you. That was such a Zoro kind of compromise. “I’ll take it.”

“As for me,” He presses his forehead to yours. “I’ll take this.”

The kiss is different from the kisses you shared last night. Maybe it’s because you don’t know when the next one will be. He kisses you dearly, showing you how much he cares when he holds the sides of your face tenderly.

“...See you soon.” You greet him.

The words strangely get stuck in Zoro’s throat, but he gets them out nonetheless. 

“See you soon.”

…

“Right,” Sanji taps a pen on his notepad. “Does anyone else need anything from the market?”

Luffy approaches him, reading the contents of the list over his shoulder. “Nope! I think you got everything.”

If the captain says so, he must be right. But Sanji makes a face, still feeling like he's missing something. He's double checking the cupboards when Nami walks into the kitchen.

“Nami!” Sanji beams. “Do you need me to get you anything from the market?”

“Sanji thinks he's forgetting something.” Luffy explains to her, pointing to the notepad left on the counter.

Leave it to Nami to figure out what's missing at a glance. “Zoro's newspaper.” She says, and the boys nod in realization at the same time.

“Ah, right.” Sanji scribbles The Oceanic Times onto the list.

“I’m actually really impressed by her.” Nami says on her way to crash on the couch. “She writes well.”

“Damn right she does.” Zoro says, entering the room with Usopp right behind him.

“Yeah but man,” Usopp complains, “You need to let us finish reading. You always hog it or give us a time limit on it.”

Zoro merely shrugs, like that isn’t his concern. “Buy one for yourself then.”

Nami smirks. “She must have you really whipped if you’re marketing for her.”

“I don’t think she needs it, actually.” Luffy comments. “The paper is doing really well, isn’t it?”

A small smile forms on Zoro’s lips. “Damn right it is.”

When he gets his hands on The Oceanic Times later that day, Zoro reads every bit of it. He rereads your name over and over again, proud of the ‘Editor in Chief’ title that goes before it. 

Though he reads every single word, he always skips the small gossip corner first, where anonymous people send in messages or thoughts.

Every week, like clockwork, there’s an anonymous reader who submits messages for her distant lover. When he first saw it, he instantly knew it was you.

‘I heard you were injured. I can’t believe you’re making me worry like this.’

Zoro laughs, and everyone in the kitchen freezes.

He slowly, almost cautiously, glances up from the paper. The Straw Hats look at him with a tricky sparkle in their eyes that makes him uncomfortable.

“Don’t even—” Zoro starts, but it’s too late. Usopp is already standing on his chair, acting like a newspaper salesman.

“Step right up! Read all about it! It’s breaking news: The Roronoa Zoro giggled because of his girlfriend—” 

“You have three seconds to run.” Zoro threatens while folding the newspaper carefully. Usopp runs for his life.

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[harvardfineartslib]

“Could it be that human beings—whether Indian or Japanese—are like fishermen who cast their nets to fish but can only reach relatively shallow waters? We know a lot of things and are constantly learning more, but maybe what we have most in common with each other is what is unknown to us. The depths of the ocean, and our relationship to that world, still remain hidden and mysterious.” - Mayur and Tushar Vayeda

Brothers Mayur and Tushar Vayeda made this artists’ book.  They are from the indigenous Warli community in Maharashtra, western India and grew up in the village of Ganjad. After studying animation and business management in Mumbai, the brothers taught themselves the traditional art of Warli painting.

Warli art is traditionally created by the women in the community, who decorate the walls and floors of their homes, as well as community spaces and for festivals. As such, Warli paintings were temporary, constantly renewed and recreated.

Today, both women and men make Warli painting, and they are also made more permanent on paper or canvas. The Vayeda brothers incorporate traditional Warli painting style but create a new vision.

In this book, the Vayeda brothers tell their journey from Ganjad to a small Japanese island called Awashima, connecting the village stream they knew from their childhood to the deep oceans they encountered in Awashima.

The deep for the text Arun Wolf and Gita Wolf from an oral narrative by Mayur Vayeda and Tushar Vayeda. Chennai : Tara Books, [2020] Vayeda, Mayur [artist] Vayeda, Tushar [artist] HOLLIS number: 99157144381803941