#one piece snippet

[springingsour]

Nice Try... | BLINK One-Shot

The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden light over the vast expanse of the ocean, its gentle waves lapping rhythmically against the hull of a ship that sailed these treacherous but beautiful seas.

The air was filled with salt and adventure, mingling with the sweet fragrance of ripe fruits that rested in a nearby basket.

A well-worn hammock swaying softly with the breeze was on the deck of the ship, hung between two sturdy masts. Nestled within someone, peacefully asleep, a serene expression was seen upon the figure, inhaling the fresh sea air. The hammock gently rocked as the ship glided through the water, creating a soothing lull that harmonised with the distant cries of gulls overhead.

Around the deck, the soft creaking of wooden planks and the occasional rigging clang added to the sea's symphony. The sails billowed, catching the wind with a sound reminiscent of whispers, as the ship sailed steadily toward the horizon, where the sky met the deep blue sea.

Unbeknownst to the sleeping figure, two young boys, crept stealthily across the deck. Their eyes sparkled with mischief as they plotted to sneak up on the sleeping figure. They moved with care, hearts pounding with excitement, hoping to catch their target by surprise and steal away a moment of joy amidst the sprawling ocean.

Together, they giggled in hushed tones, clutching their gear—plump tomatoes and a bucket of water in hand—as they drew ever closer. The boys were ready to unleash their playful ambush, unaware that beneath the figures' tranquil exterior, a spark of cunning awaited its moment to shine.

Two hushed voices floated through the balmy air of the ship, barely audible above the creaking of the wooden deck.

"Shh…! You're going to get us caught…!" whispered one boy, his eyes darting nervously over his shoulder as he meticulously loaded the cloth catapult with a ripe, red tomato. He aimed with precision at a shadowy figure lounging on the deck a distance away, his heart racing with the thrill of mischief.

"I'm being careful; you're the loud one…!" retorted his companion, who was hoisting an old bucket, grinning from ear to ear. The sunlight glinted off the surface of the bucket, revealing an array of plump, juicy tomatoes waiting to be unleashed.

"Okay… 3…" the first boy murmured, his voice trembling with excitement.

"2…" the second boy echoed, his grin widening as they prepared for impact.

"1…!"

With a sudden burst of energy, the bucket was hurled, and the tomatoes soared through the air in a vibrant arc, splattering onto the unsuspecting figure below. The delighted laughter of the young boys erupted like fireworks as they turned on their heels and sprinted away, the thrill of the prank propelling them forward.

However, their glee was short-lived. The wind suddenly blew right past them, and they knew it was too late. In their haste, they collided with the slick, tomato-splattered deck, losing their footing. The next moment, they found themselves sliding unceremoniously across the wet surface, the crew's laughter echoing in a hilariously tangled chorus of surprise and delight.

"AH!" came the startled cry from one boy as he bumped into a pair of legs adorned with gleaming golden sandals.

"HEY!" protested the other, he cried out in pain, rubbing his face where a red spot started to bloom, his tone now mingled with bewilderment as they came to a halt at the feet of a bemused onlooker.

A chuckle rumbled from above as you leaned down, an amused twinkle in your eyes as you surveyed the mess of tomato-stained clothing and exuberant grins before you. The scent of fresh tomatoes hung in the air, mixing with the salty breeze of the sea.

“Good effort, boys… Good effort indeed…” you remarked, an amused grin tugging at your lips as you sank your teeth into the ripe, juicy tomato, the sweet-sour juice bursting against your taste buds. You couldn’t help but relish their antics—the chaotic energy radiating between them was nothing short of contagious. "I suspect this was Shanks' plan this round…?"

Shanks, the red-haired boy with a wild spirit, glanced up at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he adjusted the straw hat perched jauntily on his head, the worn fabric tilting slightly to one side.

“Guilty as charged…!” he proclaimed with mock seriousness, his laughter echoing like music in the air. The sound was infectious, tugging you into a fit of giggles, but it only prompted his companion to exhale dramatically, exasperation painted across his features.

“Geez, you’ve messed it up again, Shanks…” Buggy grumbled, rising to his feet with an exaggerated sigh. He attempted to brush the vibrant tomato stains from his clothes, each swish of his hand only adding to the disarray, the scattered remnants of their playful food fight now colouring his outfit like a poorly executed art piece.

“Oh, come on, Buggy!” Shanks said, his eyes dancing with delight, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in a grin that could light up the darkest of places. “It’s all in good fun! Besides, I thought you liked a bit of adventure!”

Buggy crossed his arms, his frown deepening into a comically exaggerated pout, but you could see the flicker of amusement that danced in his eyes, betraying his true feelings. “Adventure is fine, but next time, can we skip the food fight aspect?” he retorted, trying—and failing—to maintain his stern demeanour.

"Oi! It was your idea too…!" Shanks shot back playfully, laughter and annoyance bubbling between them as they both started to bicker, the light-hearted banter intensifying. They began gripping onto one another, wrestling playfully in a comedic display.

As the bickering escalated, you couldn't help but smirk at the unfolding scene. A sudden awareness of another presence made you turn your head slightly, spotting a certain someone less than pleased.

With a playful roll of your eyes, you decided to interject, desperate to steer the chaos in a new direction. “How about a challenge instead? Whoever gets caught by Rayleigh loses…” Your voice dripped with mischief, your proposal hanging in the air like an enticing promise of adventure.

The prospect of a challenge sparked an immediate flicker of confusion, quickly morphing into palpable fear in the two young pirate apprentices.

"Eh…?" Shanks uttered, a tone of disbelief colouring his words, while Buggy’s expression morphed into one of sheer panic, a shiver running down his spine.

A new game had been set in motion, and with it came the thrill of unpredictability—an adventure that promised more than just laughs.

"Oi! SHANKS! BUGGY! Why is the deck in such a mess!" Called out the voice of the first mate who sounded mad.  

The two boys cast curious glances your way, the realization of what you had done with the other tomatoes slowly creeping into their expressions.

"I couldn't let your hard work go to waste, now could I…?" A playful grin spreads across your face as you sink your teeth into the ripe, juicy fruit, savouring its sweet tang. "I’d start running if I were you…"

With that they darted in opposite directions, you couldn’t help but laugh again, leaning back against the wall to watch the chaos unfold. Their antics reminded you how much fun it was to be around such carefree spirits, each moment promising more laughter and chaos to come.

Buggy suddenly slipped on a stray tomato, sending him sprawling on the floor with a surprised yelp. Shanks doubled over with laughter, momentarily forgetting the danger he was in, while he rushed over to help Buggy up.

"So… the only time I see you two working together is to create more trouble, eh?" he huffed, his voice echoing slightly over the creaking wood of the ship.

Rayleigh, the ever-diligent first mate of the crew, stood with a furrowed brow, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression was a mixture of annoyance and exasperation as he glared at the two boys who had been caught in yet another bout of mischief.

With a sudden crack, the boys cried in unison, clapping their hands to their heads, where Rayleigh’s firm hand had made contact. It was a lesson they had learned time and again: their playful antics had consequences. Yet even in the flurry of their discomfort, there was a flicker of mischief in their eyes, as if they were already plotting their next scheme.

You leaned against the rail, a smirk dancing on your lips beneath your tilted hat. The laughter bubbled quietly within you, your wings fluttering subtly against your face as you enjoyed the spectacle. Rayleigh’s gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, caught yours, and his frown deepened.

"You couldn’t be bothered to stop them…?" he sighed, weariness manifesting in the lines of his face as he turned to face you, but a hint of fondness lay in his tone.

"What…? I didn’t do anything… I was simply resting, Ray…" You replied with feigned innocence, the corners of your mouth curling up into a grin. It was hard to keep up the façade as you strolled past them, adjusting your hat with a nonchalant gesture. Your wings fluttered gently, catching the afternoon light.

As you passed the two boys, their expressions shifted from pain to mischief.

While Rayleigh enforced the rules, you seemed to exist in a realm just a bit more playful, where trouble and laughter often went hand in hand. The stage was set for another day filled with the antics of a crew that thrived on camaraderie—and of course, a little chaos.

Such is the life when you are a pirate of Roger himself.

____________________________________________________

Buggy, grinning: Before you were what?

Shanks: Before I was-

Buggy: What?

Shanks: Before I was inter-

Buggy: Before you were interrupted?

Shanks: Cut me off one more time and I swear I'll-

Buggy: What?

Shanks: *makes frustrated sound*

You, munching on popcorn, enjoying the show: Stop that. Before he hurts you.

Rayleigh: Don't encourage them!

Buggy: I have met some of the most insufferable people. But they also met me.

*Shanks and Buggy are fighting*

Rayleigh, hungover after a night of drinking: I have a headache! Can you guys just be cool?!

You, hand them something: You heard him…

*Shanks and Buggy start fighting while wearing sunglasses and riding skateboards*

You, munching on more popcorn:

You: What doesn't kill me better start running, because now I'm fucking pissed.

Shanks: Onion rings are vegetable doughnuts.

Buggy, used to Shanks being dumb: Sure...

Shanks: Your stomach thinks all potatoes are mashed.

Buggy: Okay?

Shanks: Lasagna is a spaghetti-flavored cake.

Buggy:

Shanks: Lobsters are mermaid scorpio-

Buggy: Jeez! That one is a little-

You, interested as you munch on even more popcorn: No, no, Shanks, keep going.

Shanks: It's not like I try to blow things up, exactly. It just sort of happens. You've got to admit though, fire is fascinating.

Rayleigh: Are you listening to me?

You: *nods*

Rayleigh: What did I just say?

You: *nods*

Rayleigh: ...

You, munch on another dosagee popcorn:

Rayleigh:

You: *Munch*

Rayleigh, snatches your popcorn away: No more!

You: (   - ᷅ ⤙ -᷄ )

______________________________________________________________

[beif0ngs]

ONE PIECE OPENING 25 || THE PEAK BY SEKAI NO OWARI

[agender-wolfie]

Imagine Kid meeting his future partner by being too rowdy and knocking over their art stand or something by accident (being himself) but instead of apologizing, he blames them. Stating that they shouldn’t have been in the way in the first place. And instead of backing down and being a meek little mouse like he expects you to be,you tear into him.

“You listen to me you giant red fuck! I don’t work my ass off, pouring blood, sweat and tears into my work just so wild ass fuckos like you can come in here and tear shit up! You’re either going to clean this up and pay for the damages, or I’m gonna beat your ass!!”

The whole crew was stunned, everyone that didn’t run away in fear of an altercation was stunned, but most of all, Kid was stunned. As soon as you called him a “giant red fuck” his smirk dropped and his mouth hung open while a steady red creeped up his neck and face. The fact that you had the gall to stand up to him in the first place was one thing, but your fiery spirit and your overall passion in the face of a feared pirate is what had his heart thumping and pants becoming a bit tight.

Killer, who had moved close just in case he needed to step in and prevent more trouble, had seen the absolute love struck look on his captains face and let out an amused huff, knowing Kid had finally met his match.

[the-bar-sinister]

Google, you get points this once for understanding the character but that is still not a correct suggestion.

[universe-on-her-shoulders]

Prompt: Martha Jones spots The Fourteenth Doctor around London doing a mundane thing like food shopping. Thank you :)

At first, Martha wasn’t sure. It wasn’t that she didn’t recognise him; she’d know that hair and that side profile anywhere, even if he was now clad in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt instead of the long coat she’d been so used to. He was holding a jar of jam, reading the ingredients with bright interest, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to be in Tesco Express at ten o’clock on a Thursday night shopping for preserves; the basket beside him contained further mundanities like bread and milk, and she was so baffled by all of this that she tried to tell herself that it wasn’t him. It couldn’t possibly be him. He was a Time Lord, for god’s sake; he didn’t do dull things like buy pints of semi-skimmed milk or reduced Kingsmill white loaves.

But then he turned away from the shelf, sticking the jar in his basket, and the look on his face took her breath away. For several seconds she surveyed him as he continued to be unaware of her presence, and she tried to put her finger on what had changed. It was the eyes, she thought; there had been so many ghosts behind them when she’d first known him, and now he looked almost… well, serene. Calm. There were no spectres weighing heavily on his shoulders; there was no lingering pain in the easy, contented expression on his face as he scooped up his basket from his feet – still clad in Converse, because some things could never change – and then finally caught sight of her.

“Oh,” he said, the syllable hanging in the air between them for a moment, and she couldn’t read it; was he pleased to see her? Angry? Sad? Guilty? Was he about to cut and run? Then he beamed from ear to ear, really sincerely beamed, and held out his arms to her for – no, that couldn’t be right. He wanted a hug? Since when had he been a hugger? “Martha Jones!”

“Doctor,” she said reservedly, looking him up and down; he was older than he’d been since she last saw him, but all of the tension and impatient anxiety that he’d held within him seemed to have dissipated in the interceding years. Questions crowded her mind; questions about time and space and clothes and the air of contentment and – “Why are you in Tesco in Richmond?”

“Oh,” he said again, with dawning comprehension. “We’re out of bread.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

“Oh,” he repeated for a third time, then ran a hand through his hair before chancing a glance at the checkouts, and for one awful moment she thought he might be about to bolt. “It’s sort of a long story, actually. Why don’t we pay and find a pub, or something? Unless you’ve got somewhere to be… is Mickey expecting you?”

“He can wait,” she said with amusement, irrationally touched that he’d remembered. “Yeah, alright. Let’s pay.”

“Why are you in Tesco in Richmond?” he enquired, flipping the question back on her with some of the old cheekiness that she was used to. “That’s the real question.”

“Staying with mum for a few weeks while we have the kitchen redone,” she told him as they headed towards the self-checkouts; she started scanning her items while he did the same at an adjacent terminal, and she half expected him to sonic it, or in some way cheat it – space cubes, or god knows what else – but instead he took out an honest-to-god wallet and tapped a perfectly normal credit card on the reader. Her surprise must have shown, because he shot her a sidelong grin as he bundled up his groceries in a canvas tote bag and hefted it onto his shoulder as she swiped her Clubcard and did the same.

“Bit different to the old days, isn’t it?” he said ruefully, and she laughed.

“Yeah, never had you down as a wallet sort of man.”

“It was a present. I lost my last four credit cards.”

“That sounds more like you.”

[varpusvaras]

If someone ever asked Roy what Jason reminded him of, he would've said a cat.

A big, black, fluffy cat that would pretend to not even notice you for half a day, but would then proceed to flop right on top of you when you least expected it and leave you coated in fur.

A very cute, big, black, fluffy cat, of course, if Roy was being precise.

Yeah, that was his boyfriend.

His boyfriend, who was currently curled up on the bed like he truly was the cat he so reminded Roy about, his face pressed against Roy's thigh. Combined with the dimness of the room, it was almost enough to hide the fact that there was a large, nasty bruise covering half of Jason's face at the moment.

Almost.

"How did you even manage to get this?" Roy asked. It was mostly a rhetorical question at that point, just whispered out loud, because it was in the middle of the night and Jason was definitely ninety percent asleep already and was not going to give Roy a coherent answer. That was what one got after finishing up a two-days long mission and then deciding to instantly drive to the other side of the country, instead of staying put and resting after said two-days mission.

To be fair, if Roy was being completely honest, he did like Jason being home sooner than later. It wasn't a particularly big secret that Roy didn't hold much love for Gotham, after all, even if Jason still called the city home as much as he called their house home. He just...felt better when Jason was with him, especially after more grueling missions, and he was pretty sure that Jason knew it, even if they had never outright discussed it out loud.

Jason made a noise under his breath that quite honestly sounded like a kitten whining, and Roy had to bite his lip a little to not laugh at it. It would've been an affectionate laugh, of course, but better not risk it.

"Yeah, yeah." Roy ran his fingers through Jason's hair. "Mister always wearing a helmet. I'm gonna fix it up for you."

Jason made another noise, a softer one this time, and he settled further into the mattress as Roy continued to stroke his hair. Roy waited for a moment, then two, and when he was positive that Jason had fallen asleep, he slowly got up and made his way to the garage.

Despite being probably already bone-tired by arrival, Jason had still meticulously gone through their agreed homecoming routine. Lian knew about their identities, of course, and she was a smart girl, but all of the gear still belonged outside the main house. It had been Jason making most of the rules when it came to his own gear. He hated the thought of others touching it without his permission, and he especially hated even the idea of Lian touching it and somehow getting hurt. Sometimes it was like Jason was convinced that even looking towards any part of his gear would hurt Lian, which was something Roy felt like needed a licenced therapist to fully unpack. He did appreciate the care Jason displayed towards Lian, though, so he wasn't going to complain about it to Jason's face.

Thinking about Lian and Jason's face made Roy grimace. Jason didn't like letting Lian see him hurt, no matter how big or small. A bruise that was covering half of Jason's face was going to be hard to hide, though Roy knew that Jason would somehow be able to manage it. Painfully and by gritting his teeth, but he would.

Roy knew what it was all about. He wasn't stupid.

Roy flicked the lights on in the garage, before making his way to the cabinet Jason had claimed for himself. By this point, Roy had an open invitation to Jason's armor and weapons, as he was the only other person who knew how everything worked precisely. Roy was also pretty sure that Jason knew that Roy liked fixing things up for him, and he let him do it because it was an easier way to accept a display of affection than having to listen someone promise him everything, once again, while holding all the power to take their words back without a warning.

Roy went through the plan of action in his head while he unlocked the cabinet. He would need to fire up the workbench and get the electrical tools out in order to get the helmet fixed. Maybe he could draw up some plans how to make the front more durable while keeping it absorbant enough that it would still be the helmet taking the brunt of the hits and not Jason's head underneath it. It would take some time to figure out, but Jason would probably let him make him a new one if Roy just managed it. It would mean that the times of Jason having hard to hide-injuries would be lessened, after all.

Maybe he could manage to adjust the color, too, just to make it a little less vibrant. Roy was starting to seriously think that the helmet was beginning to act like the red capes in bullfighting, inviting more and more hits directly towards it simply because it was there. He wouldn't have been surprised if it really was so. Gotham was messed up, and the rogues playing a game of "who manages to break in the Red Hood's helmet and face first" sounded entirely plausible. This wasn't the first time Jason had come back sporting similar injuries, though usually they were either a little smaller, or Jason had had to stay in Gotham for longer and they were already fading by the time he got back.

Jason would most likely say no, though. The red was part of his brand at this point, it was meant to make an impression to anyone seeing it. Just Roy's luck that he had fallen for the theather kid who had not yet left the phase behind.

Not that Roy was ever going to say that to Jason. He was fully aware of the fact that he was the one running around with a bow, after all.

What a pair they made.

Roy smiled. What a pair, indeed, he thought, as he pulled the cabinet door open and proceeded to have Jason's helmet stare right at him from the upper shelf.

The helmet, which was very much not broken.

Roy stared at it for a good while. It was definitely the same helmet Jason had left with to Gotham. There was a small scratch on the paint, just unde the left lense, that Jason had meant to paint over but had not had the time yet. Roy had watched him pack it up with his own two eyes.

If Roy was anyone else, he would've been able to convince himself that there was probably a perfectly simple and harmless explanation. But Roy wasn't anyone else. Roy was who he was, and that was someone who had been fighting increasingly dangerous fights since he was a teenager, and who had seen harm being inflected over and over again and the marks it would leave behind.

Roy stared at the helmet. The helmet seemed to stare back at him, silently daring him to say it out loud.

Roy didn't say it. He closed the door and locked it back up, while something cold settled firmly at the bottom of his stomach.

He stood there for just a little longer, gathering himself, before he silently made his way out of the garage the exact same path he had walked in mere moments ago.

Lian was still asleep when Roy checked on her, and so was Jason when he slipped back into the bedroom. He stirred a bit when Roy laid down as well, not enough to wake up, but enough to turn towards Roy. Roy could see the bruise now in all of its glory, stretching across Jason's skin like a shadow.

Jason's hand was laying between them on the bed, and Roy laced their fingers together, gently and carefully.

Jason's hand was warm. It was enough to chase away some of the cold inside Roy, and he held onto it tightly.

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

They need to work on their looks, unfortunately, because each one of them is a little off. Their Nightwing is too bulky, and his costume isn't made with Dick's flexibility in mind. Besides that, he's got an undercut that doesn't match the shaggy way Dick has his hair now, and his blue is too dark. And the swords. Those are different.

Their little Robin looks more like Dick, actually, Dick as he was before Jason's time, with his happy grin and his bright yellow cape. He doesn't match Damian's style at all, and Jason wonders if their intel was out of date. He tucks away his anger (the way he's used to doing, now) at these bastards roping some little kid into whatever con they're trying to pull. They can help the kid after they subdue him, and he stops trying to flip-kick people in the face.

The Red Robin outfit isn't bad, but the guy playing him is way too tall to be Tim. He doesn't use a bo staff, either, clearly preferring the armory of sharp little implements he keeps tucked away in his utility belt, including a wicked looking combat knife.

Which brings Jason to the current pain in his ass, the idiot trying to pass himself off as the Red Hood.

Yeah, they'd split off into pairs to fight. First off, for practicality's sake. Less risk of friendly fire if the only guy you're trying to punch is the one who isn't you. And secondly, it's just what you do, isn't it? Somebody gives you a set up like this, you go along with the poetic justice. No bat is immune to drama.

Jason is regretting that a bit, now. Fake Hood had taken him for a ride, leading him, he now realizes, far away from the warehouse where Nightwing and Robin had initially called in the disturbance. This other guy isn't the powerhouse that Jason is, but that doesn’t matter if Jason can't ever get in a hit. His movements are precise, deadly, and familiar in a way that makes Jason suspect League training. Jason is keeping up, but barely, and that's with the advantage of his guns. The other guy hasn't touched his, still gleaming red in his holsters, and Jason has a sneaking suspicion that they aren't filled with rubber bullets.

They're at a bit of a stalemate, standing on opposite sides of a dark rooftop, and Jason's trying to catch his breath but he can't relax, not when his gaze is locked onto his opponent, waiting for the minute twitch of muscle that will indicate his next move. He's wondering if he could get a shot off, wondering where to aim, when his comm crackles to life.

“Stand down!” Tim snaps in his ear. “Hood, Wing, the alternates aren't currently a threat. Deescalate however you can, and get back to the warehouse. We can explain this whole mess there.”

“Really?” Nightwing asks. He goes on to say something else, something about his doppleganger being incredibly threatening, thank you very much, but Jason stops listening, because there's something going on across the roof.

A mechanically distorted voice says, “What? No, I'd be able to tell. This guy isn't-” The imposter(?) cuts off suddenly, presumably listening to a response.

And then he… giggles.

“That isn't funny, Red,” he says, in contrast to the little peals of laughter making him subtly shake. “You- you get how fucked up that would be, don't you?”

Jason can't figure out what to do. Tim's intel is almost always good, but he can't get himself to stand down, not when, for some reason, that laughter is setting his teeth on fucking edge.

(He knows the reason. He'd know that cadence anywhere, he hears it in his fucking nightmares, but it isnt possible. He's in Arkham, right now, because Batman won't kill him and Jason isn't allowed to kill him and that uncomfortable truce is what got him his family back. Jason would know if he'd broken out, they wouldn't have kept that from him. They wouldn't.)

“Oh shit,” Tim says, and it makes Jason wonder how he knows, “Hood, is your alternate having some kind of fit right now?”

The sound escalates, from breathy little giggles to screeching laughter, and even with the hood's distortion, it's unmistakable.

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

And isn't this exactly some shit that Joker would pull, making a mockery of Jason's family, a twisted parody that fucks with his head? Tim's lying, he's trying to get Jason out of this situation, and Jason gets why, he does, but obviously the rest of them can't (won't) protect him from this, so if he has to take fate into his own hands, he will.

The green is creeping up, but Jason doesn't let it haze over his vision because he has to be in his right mind while he does this, not for them, for himself. As he stalks across the roof, he empties the clip from one of his guns and pulls out the live rounds, loads them into place.

He thinks Tim is calling for him, maybe the others, too, but the chatter over the comm is getting further away the closer he gets to his target. He should be smart, should take the shot, but maybe he's got more pit in his head than he wants to admit, because Joker, still laughing, pulls a knife, and Jason steps into his range to disarm him.

The strike is fast, but compared to the careful movements of before, he's practically telegraphing his actions. Jason sidesteps, and if the blade knicks him when he twists Joker's arm, he doesn't feel it. He's got the clown in a hold, now, and forces him to his knees with the gun against his temple.

If the hood is anything like his own, the bullet won't do it, not even at point blank range. Jason would like to get it off him, would like to see the life leave his eyes, but he doesn't have to. Jason moves the barrel beneath his chin, right where the armor ends. The pit rages inside of him, says this is too easy, says to make him suffer. Jason pushes it down. This is the compromise he'll make, this is what he'll do to try to maintain both his humanity and his peace of mind. The bullet will ricochet off the hood from the inside, will tear through Joker's brain at least twice, and he'll never come back from that, and Jason will finally be free.

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

“Nothing to fucking say?” Jason growls, jostling the clown in his grip, because there's always some joke, some shitty twist.

The Joker just laughs.

“Unhand him this instant!” someone snaps, and Jason's finger twitches but somehow the trigger stays still. And now what's he supposed to do, because of course fucking Nightwing- but wait, that isn't- but it is, he's right there- it's both of them, two Nightwings. Fucking fantastic. Twice the guilt trip.

“Come on, Jay,” the Nightwing who's actually Dick pleads, and hey, what the fuck, codenames? In front of the fucking Joker, Dick? “Let him go, we can explain everything.”

“I'm not doing this again!” rips itself from Jason's throat, and he'll think later about just how wrecked he sounds. “I'm not just standing here and letting him go, Wing, not when one bullet can put a stop to all this, not when I can end him.”

“Jason,” Dick says, slow with forced calm, “that's not the Joker.”

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Jason seethes.

His hand is wrenched to the side, the barrel facing open air, and before he can make a move the unfortunately familiar feeling of a high voltage shock courses through him.

By the time he's stopped seizing, Dick is at his back, supporting him with his own body and with arms under his pits and around his chest in a weird reverse hug. Technically, Jason's hands are free, but they're empty, the gun skidded to somewhere else across the roof.

Dick is murmuring into his ear, “Sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry,” and, “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay,” mantras meant to soothe his brother as much as himself. Jason wants to be angry, wants to snap at him to let go and fucking cut it out, but he's feeling strangely disoriented. He only has enough brainspace to pay attention to one thing, and that's the scene playing out in front of him.

Dick had clearly hauled them back a few steps, but Jason is still uncomfortably close to the bastard version of Nightwing (who, Jason realizes in hindsight, had tazed him while he'd been distracted by his brother, not cool) and the laughing maniac he should've killed. Nightwing is holding onto Joker's shoulders, his hands bouncing as the gasping, shrieking laughter continues.

“I'm going to remove your helmet now,” Nightwing says. He has a slight accent that Jason knows he's heard before, and his tone is professional, almost clipped. And yet, somehow, Jason can tell that this is a gentled version of the man's voice, the sharpest edges sanded away. His hands move from Joker's shoulders to the back of his head, carefully inputting whatever sequence allows for safe removal of the hood. Jason hears a hydraulic hiss when some sort of catch releases, and as Nightwing starts pulling the red metal up and away Jason can't help holding his breath.

At first, he sees what he expected to see. It's the Joker's expression, after all, his laughing face pulled into a rictus grin.

But the grin isn't right, somehow. The man is pale, but his face is unpainted, and the smile stretches wide, too wide, wider than even the Joker ever managed, and after a moment Jason recognizes the red, raised scar tissue on either side of his mouth for what it is.

Then, Jason takes in the actual features of the person in front of him. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, the cheeks, the jaw, the nose.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

The Red Hood, collapsed on his knees in front of him, scarred face bare with no hood or domino to protect him as he struggles under the weight of his own laughter, is Tim Drake.

He's crying.

Jason is suddenly glad that Dick's holding him, because he's certain that he'd be on the ground, otherwise. Then, he realizes that he can't breathe.

Jason knows, logically, that his hood has sensors and filters that keep him safer than he could ever be without it. It is only every once in a while, when something stupid happens, that he regrets that he, a man with claustrophobia, decided to stick his head into a metal bucket.

Dick can probably tell that he's hyperventilating, and doesn't fight him as Jason gets his hands on the back of his neck and pulls off his hood.

Jason gasps in polluted Gotham air, and Tim's eyes snap onto him. Nightwing says, “I'm administering the emergency dose of your medication,” and then stalls, like he's waiting for a response, but all Tim does is laugh and stare. Jason stares back. He can't look away.

Nightwing retrieves a small tubular device, almost like an epipen, and presses it against Tim's leg. That shouldn't work. Tim's wearing body armor, same as the rest of them, and there's no way a needle could pierce it, but Jason looks as Nightwing draws the device away and there's a small raised circle of hard plastic on Tim's thigh that the head of the device fits into perfectly, like it was designed for that purpose. An injection spot, built into Tim's clothing, specifically for whatever drugs fake Nightwing just pumped into him.

Immediately, there's a difference. He doesn't stop laughing, or smiling that horrible fucking smile, but the manic tension is gone. He doesn't look like he'll shatter at a touch anymore, too brittle to be handled. The curve of his spine gentles, muscles no longer pulling it to the point of snapping. Jason watches as slowly, oh so slowly, Tim gets quieter, leans more into Nightwing's hold on him, starts gasping more than laughing.

Dick is talking behind him, into his comm, it sounds like. If it's important, someone will get his attention.

Finally, Tim breaks eye contact. “T- tell him,” he says to Nightwing, struggling between gasps and giggles, “tell him what you, gave me. Jay doesn't, he doesn't like, needles.”

The strange Nightwing turns his head, and Jason gets the impression of a sharp, searching gaze behind his domino. He's nothing like Dick, not at all, but something niggles the back of Jason's mind, some sense of familiarity regardless. He tosses something, and Jason automatically reaches up to catch it.

It's the empty tube of medication, which does seem a lot like an epipen, up close. “It's a combination,” the man says. “The antidote for Joker venom, an antipsychotic, and a mild sedative.”

“What the fuck?” Jason hears from his own mouth as he looks down at the innocuous little tube.

“It's only used in emergencies,” Nightwing adds, and does not clarify any further.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that. He shakes himself out of Dick's hold and grabs an evidence bag out of his jacket. He watches Nightwing, to see if he'll object, but he doesn't. Jason slips the medicine tube inside the bag and tucks it away.

“There you are!” Dick says in a bright tone, one meant to cover his anxiety and relief.

Jason turns, and finds that their roof has gotten a little crowded. All four Robins have arrived, his brothers mingled in with their copies, copies who don't quite match in ways that are now sticking in his brain. Tim, Jason's Tim, is standing right there, pressing his mask against his face like he'd broken the seal on the adhesive, and it isn't sticking quite right. Other than that, he's normal. He's fine.

The Robin, the one in the classic colors who Jason had thought looked a bit like Dick (oh God, could that be-?) gives a little whistle. “Trust Red Hood to cause drama!” he says in a bright tone that is too too familiar (fuck, fuck he is). “Must be a universal constant.” He grins, cheeky, looking past Jason.

Jason isn't processing fast enough to be offended for his own sake, but he turns and checks on Tim, other Tim, the Tim who apparently also has a claim to the Red Hood name. Tim is propped up on Nightwing's shoulder, looking drowsy and relaxed. He's looking back at Robin, and his lips are pressed tightly closed, but he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes.

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

Jason snorts, to get the kid's attention, and rolls his eyes. “Comes with the job description,” he snarks.

The kid lights up. Jason feels distinctly weird, having that smile directed at him, but it's not… bad.

Yeah. This is fine.

-

I'm planning to add a reblog with more information on this au/fic idea, so if you're interested, watch this space.

[fanaticsnail]

WIP Wednesday (Friday)

Thank you @rorywritesjunk for the tag. I am so looking forward to the Howl's Au you're doing!

Here is a cut from the next installment of Doffy's pollen I've been working on for the past little while. If there's something on my WIP list you're curious about, I'm happy to give a little snippet of what I've been chipping away at.

Play Stupid Games, Win Stupid Prizes: Doflamingo x Reader Part 2

Synopsis: You've been invited to a soiree at the World Government HQ at the request of your friend, Maria, who is attending with her latest beau, Bogard. Doflamingo intentionally didn't ask you to attend on his arm, and is attempting to make you jealous by bringing two of his concubines with him. You decide to 'get even' by suggesting Sir Crocodile aid you in making him jealous in return.

Word Count: 460 (Just a snippet of a larger fic)

Context: You and Doflamingo have a love-hate relationship. He loves you, you hate him. He tried to drug you with the dust of the lust plant, only for your drinking glasses to be swapped at the last minute. He was in need of a reprieve and coerced you to "help him out". You did, but it doesn't make you hate him any less.

What to expect in this next installment: Drinking, jealous Doflamingo, sloppy drunk Doflamingo, pathetic Doflamingo, kissing Sir Crocodile, enjoying the company of Sir Crocodile, Doflamingo cornering you in a private room....

“Sir Crocodile,” you arch your back further on the bar and look up at him through your eyelashes, “Would you be up for a little game?” He arches his brow up, placing his cigar in his teeth before breathing in a gulping lungfull of sour smoke.

“Up to no good again are you?” He asked, the cool rumble of his voice shaking your spine in joyful anticipation. You nodded, subtle enough not to draw attention away from Doflamingo as he continued consuming his concubines’ mouths vigorously. “State your terms,” Sir Crocodile asked with a light purr.

“An exchange, sir,” you cocked your head, playfully biting your lip as you hummed at him, “I’ll buy you a glass of anything you want, if you would grant me a single kiss.” Sir Crocodile’s interest peaked, his eyes widening ever so slightly as you continued your suggestion. 

“Doflamingo is attempting to make me jealous,” you noted, prompting Crocodile to look at him from the corner of his eye, “And I simply do not care.” Crocodile hummed in thought, enjoying another deep drag from his cigar, nodding at you to resume your explanation. 

“I don’t want him, and I need him to know I don’t want him,” you confessed as Crocodile placed his cigar in the steel tray beside him, “I would rather chew glass than endure his attention a moment longer, so I thought perhaps if I were to enjoy the attention of another,” you drew up your index and middle fingers on the bar, playfully walking the digits atop the mahogany surface, “He might leave me in peace.” 

“And I was the easier mark to make between all those here present?” Sir Crocodile hunched down to your level, looking deeply into your eyes with his stalking orbs. 

“Not at all, sir,” you smirked, eyes darting between his with flirtatious mischief, “I chose you because I thought, one: Sir Crocodile would likely need something interesting to cure his boredom amongst the marines and fellow warlords,” you inched your fingers ever closer to his golden hook, looking down at it while you hovered your fingertips over the metallic surface, “And, two: Sir Crocodile is the most handsome man in this room, and it would be an absolute delight to hold his attention, even if naught for a moment.” 

A slow chuckle emitted from deep within his throat, his eyes falling half-lidded as his smile grew wider and more playful beneath his scarred cheeks. 

“A single drink for a single kiss,” he confirmed with a curt nod, his right hand collecting yours from atop his hook and pressing a gentle kiss on your knuckles, “Or a bottle of my choosing, and you would be more than welcome to continue singing my praises atop my knee for the night, Princess.”

[thehoardofthegreatdragon]

—-

“You can cook?” Shanks said as they stepped inside Mihawk’s private kitchen. His eyes were open wide, that indomitable smile lost to surprise. 

Mihawk slid the door shut, fingers steady. “Naturally. You can’t?”

“I can stick a fish on a sword and grill it,” Shanks admitted, shrugging into Mihawk’s space, and wrapping an arm around his waist. The left, of course. Shanks was predictable enough to damn them both, for all that his actions were carved in a language Mihawk couldn’t speak. “Not much more than that.”

“Hopeless,” Mihawk judged. 

“A captain,” Shanks corrected, smiling. “I’ve got a crew to do the cooking— and a lover too, it looks like. You going to make me dinner, pretty bird?”

“Not if you call me that again,” Mihawk answered, shaking Shanks and the arm away.  

[wolfsbanesparks]

Trick or Treat!

*Throws 2 candys at you and steals the bowl of candy*

Happy Halloween!

I hope you're not squeamish! This one includes descriptions of a dead body (obviously from Pretty Little Thing)

Blood dripped down his face, slipping down from his nose and mouth, leaving dark red trails down his cheeks, almost like tear tracks. His head lolled to the side, his unseeing eyes boring into Billy’s, silently begging for help, silently damning him for not saving him. He almost wished they would come back, that they would go back to torturing him, anything not to be left alone with the body, the reminder of how badly he had failed, the promise of what his future would hold.

[hey-august]

👀 it's time for another sneak peek...........

For once, the smarmy look on Buggy’s face flickered. Bushy eyebrows raised slightly in surprise and the corners of his smile fell before transforming into a hungry wolfish grin. Leaning back in his chair, the captain beckoned you closer with a tantalizing curl of two fingers.

This was your moment. As you walked forwards, Buggy reclined and spread his legs into an indecently dominant pose. Another twitch from his finger told you to lower yourself. You were more than glad to kneel before your captain. Trapped between his body heat and your desire, you barely noticed the rough wood floor digging into your bare knees.

A gloved hand floated over and cupped your chin. The leather from his performance gloves was rich and velvety. Softening into his touch, you felt a twinge of worry that you might melt completely. Meeting his watchful gaze, the worry dissipated. You wanted nothing more than to dissolve, to fall apart because of him.

[omegaovaries]

prompt: injuries; ghosts | ao3

Sabo’s workload increases in the days after meeting Luffy again in Dressrosa and consuming the Mera Mera no Mi. Another Warlord has been defeated and the Revolutionary Army is quick to use this to their advantage – taking over weak spots in Doflamingo’s smuggling regime, intercepting illegal weapons and cutting off slave trade routes where they can, welcoming new brothers and sisters who have been inspired to join. So admittedly, it takes a few days before Sabo is doing more than just passing the fuck out after doing and doing and doing for long days on end. 

At first, he thinks he’s imagining it. Past injuries are known to behave in mysterious ways – amputees get phantom limbs, those with lost senses gain strength in their remaining ones, sometimes there are still flare ups even without stressors and when everything is going okay. 

Sabo is used to it. A considerable part of his body is covered in burn scars after all. He’s no stranger to old and aching injuries. 

Those aren’t the ones that hurt him the most though.

The one that hurts the most isn’t even a physical injury at all. It’s in the posters that hang from his walls, it’s the flashes of smiles and freckles seen on other people, it’s the fruit that he’s consumed. It’s Ace. 

His twin yet older brother, his other half, his Ace. How cruel the world is to have him finally remember when it’s too late. How cruel to have them have been in the New World together and somehow never crossing paths. 

He thinks he can feel gentle fingers trail across the burns on his face, that he can feel warm hands massage his shoulders when they’re too tense, can feel someone playfully pulling errant strands of hair that fall around his face, thinks he can feel arms winding around his waist when he lays awake at night, exhausted mind still restless and whirring. 

He’s too afraid to say anything in case it’s not real. His mind had tried its hardest to push memories of Ace away, but Sabo is nothing but just as selfish and possessive as his pirate brothers. If Ace’s ghost is the only way he can have him now, well, there are worse things that could haunt him.  

[the-bar-sinister]

He watched as Zoro glanced over at the others. "Well, captain, I guess I wouldn't be thrilled if you decided you wanted us to sail under another man's flag." "Would you leave?" Luffy was gripped with a sudden terrible panic that Zoro's soft look and little shake of his head immediately assuaged. "Never." Two years ago, in the first few months when they had met, Luffy was sure that the answer would have been 'yes'. He let go of Zoro's hand and twined his arms around his arm in a curling spiral instead, walking as close to him as possible. They were quiet together for a moment, bathed in the last warm rays of twilight and the soft chatter of the rest of the Straw Hats, and the former Heart Pirates and Doflamingo– all of them surrounded by the greater, distant noise of the crowd and Uta's song. When Luffy had been little, talking with Ace and Sabo about how they'd all be pirate captains, he didn't really understand what that meant, or why it meant that the three of them couldn't sail together. It had been Zoro who taught Luffy what being a captain meant. He still wasn't sure that he understood it. Or maybe it was more that there was a part of him that didn't quite like the answer. Pride. Pride and rank. It made him think of the marines.  And he hated it.

-WIP sneak peek: Deicide: Red Shift chapter 15 (upcoming).

[themonotonysyndrome]

“So. A wolf this time.” 

“You are insufferable!” 

Alexis hisses only to helplessly moan, her nails - beautiful black acrylic claws littered with tiny diamonds - dig deep into the silk pillow when William licks a wet stripe between her legs. That pillow and the bedsheet certainly won’t survive come morning. 

Speaking of come - 

“What number are we in right now? Four?” William muses, pleasant as if he’s talking about the weather and not how wet his mouth and chin are. He’s on a roll tonight. For once his hellion of a ‘daughter’ allowed him to whisk her away to her favourite restaurant the moment she returned to Dahlia with a trail of murder and one fledgling House reduced to rubbled. Porter was quite adamant that his report was to be on top of today’s mountain paperwork on William’s desk. Alexis adorned many unkind words like the jewelleries she so adore and William is well familiar with her brand of appetite for petty destruction, vindictiveness and sex. Each follow after one another. Hence, why she’s now in his bed in nothing but glittering nails and high heels. 

“Up yours, old man.” Even when she sneers, Alexis Getty (again and again, she rebuffs his surname but never the privileges and power that come with it. What a silly girl.) is devastatingly beautiful. The kind that brings ruin to any poor fools that stumbled into her bed. Samuel, unfortunately, learned it the hard way.

(TBC)

[thisisallthehattersfault]

Pops has always smelled like peaches. It was the first thing Marco had noticed about the man, way back when he’d been nothing but a panicked pup stowing away on the wrong ship. The crew had been stupid enough to pick a fight with Whitebeard, and Marco had been cowering behind a stack of barrels, hoping the violence would pass him by, when all of a sudden he’d been scooped up and draped over the shoulder of an absolutely massive pirate, and Marco would have probably passed out from the panic if he hadn’t been so completely thrown off-guard by the rich, thick scent of an Omega.

Marco had still had a pup’s nose at the time, so the scent didn’t really register as much more than sweet and fruity and safety, comfort, I have you now. After his first rut, he’d scaled up Pops’s coat and stuck his face in the man’s neck and marveled at the smell of peaches and cream and strong black tea, caramel and cloves. He’d immediately gotten scent-drunk off the warm, rich sweetness of the old man’s affection, and the only reason he didn’t tip back and fall right off his shoulder is because Pops reached up in time to catch him.

Omegas are pretty rare on the seas. Not as much as the World Government tries to make them out to be of course, but there is some truth to the stereotypes; if you run into an Omega traveling with a pirate crew, it’s even odds they’re on that ship against their will. Not that that’s any less true with any other type of criminal, of course. Gangsters on land and pirates at sea and nobles in their feasting halls, it’s always the same — bullies go for the easy target, for the weak and the vulnerable, the young and the desperate and the naive. They fall on the feeble like ants to a corpse, and pick you clean.

It had honestly scared Marco at first, how open Whitebeard was about his sex. The man didn’t take scent-blockers. He didn’t bind his chest. When his heats came — and they came like clockwork every three months, because he wasn’t on suppressants either — he’d bundle himself and most of his small crew away into his nest, and yowl shamelessly for food or cuddles or for someone to start up a song. Part of the reason it took so long for Marco to accept that this was a permanent thing, that Whitebeard was keeping him and Marco didn’t need to keep a bag packed and an eye on the exit, was because he was so, so sure the loud, unruly, shameless Omega would be taught a lesson soon enough.

It had scared him, frustrated him. Made him wary. Nobody is allowed to be that free, he’d wanted to explain to Whitebeard, who for some reason just didn’t seem to get it. Nobody is allowed to be that happy with themselves. You’re too loud. You’re too proud. You’re too comfortable in your own skin. It doesn’t matter that you’re big and strong, they’ll kill you.

They’ll kill you, and I’ll be on my own again.

Eventually, somewhere between the second and the twentieth would-be challenger Whitebeard wiped the floor with, Marco started to realize that the man was more than big and strong, he was powerful. Powerful enough, maybe, to be loud. Powerful enough to be free, without worrying that someone would cage him for it. Marco watched the man who called him son conquer impossible challenges and defeat unbeatable enemies like it was easy, and somewhere along the line he forgot to hold onto his fear. Marco stopped sleeping with his shoes on, he unpacked that bag he’d been hiding in his locker, and then one day when the sun was high and the waters calm and Pop’s scent was syrupy-sweet with happiness, Marco had said “Pops-yoi? Would you bond me?”

And Whitebeard had. It was a little awkward — his fangs are long enough to puncture clear through Marco’s throat — but Whitebeard had been so, so careful, piercing the scent gland in Marco’s neck with the tip of one fang and injecting the venom deep into his blood stream. Then, to Marco’s stunned disbelief, Pops had picked him up and draped him over his shoulder and asked for a bite of his own.

That’s how it starts. An Omega with no pack and a boy with no parents and the peach-sweet summer scent now sunk into the both of them, on a rickety ship that won’t survive the year and with a handful of scavenged crew-mates that will either leave or choose to stay forever before that year is up. Those that choose to stay practically line up when they see the bond wounds on Marco and Pops, clambering for a chance to bite and be bitten. By the time they’re in Water 7 buying a used ship (it will be years still before the Moby is commissioned) Marco is a part of something he can’t remember ever being a part of before.

A pack.

[belovedsteelandmoss]

Light Passing Through

Sanji dreamed of a love he could hold with both hands and a worn wooden table and children all around it.

By now, Sanji had thrown away his chances at such a life.

He was a pirate and a chef.

He loved both his captain and his job.

He dreamed of a sea of abundance and life.

He was not stupid enough to long for more.

He tried to remember not to long for more.

But sometimes he wondered, what were the chances of meeting someone like that anyways? Someone you could love, and who would love you equally in return? Sanji wondered how anyone was supposed to know what love looked like. Was the woman selling him tomatoes in the last port the one who would love him in all his inadequacies? The math of finding true love was impossible, surely.

-

Zoro gets hurt and Sanji carries him back to the ship and watches over him.

Named after Visible World by Richard Siken because no one gets Sanji like Siken does.

1,438 words, General Audiences, Blood/Injury Mention

Link to read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60057658

Or read below the cut

It was supposed to be a simple mission, especially for the two of them. Go figure that the swordsman would find a way to get his abdomen slashed open the one moment Sanji wasn’t watching. Which led them to the situation they were in now.

“I’m bleeding on your prissy clothes” Zoro murmured against his neck, puffs of air, rough and broken by pain.

“Don’t worry, I’ll beat your ass later, Mossy.” Sanji’s voice was stained with dread and agony. The forest ground was smooth and he moved swiftly, trying not to jostle the swordsman on his back.

“Cook” Zoro said, voice wavering and sounding more distant by the second.

“Woah there, Marimo, stay with me,” Sanji huffed, gripping the white sheath of Wado with renewed vigor. He knew he was pressing bloody prints into the delicately engraved wood. Zoro would surely try to kill him later, when he realized that Sanji had grabbed the first sheath that would come off of Zoro with an easy yank. He would probably even kill Sanji from the grave if he heard the quiet groaning of the sheath where it was tucked beneath the brutish man’s ass.

Sanji thought of the brand new suit jacket he had tied around the swordsman’s bleeding torso. He didn’t feel that bad.

“Talk to me, shitty swordsman” Sanji prompted, squinting through the patterned shadows the trees threw on them, trying to estimate the distance back to The Thousand Sunny.

The man stayed silent, slumped forward with his nose pressing sharply into the back of Sanji’s neck.

“Hey!” Sanji hollered, trying to resist the urge to jostle the dying man.

“Hmmmm” Zoro groaned, one leg briefly kicking the air as if Sanji was waking him up from one of his naps on deck and he was being mildly inconvenienced.

“Hey Mossy, why three swords?” Sanji asked, not knowing where the question had come from and not caring. The ship was going to come into view any second, once the trees broke away to the shore. Anything to keep Zoro awake until then.

“Sanji-“ Zoro said quietly, causing Sanji to stumble, nearly sending both of them falling into a bank of thorny bushes. Zoro grunted with pain at the sudden movement but continued his low murmurs.

“Three, get it? Ichi, Ni, Sanji-“

Sanji shuddered despite himself. The swordsman was incoherent and was continuing to mumble about numbers and swords and Sanji. Sanji hated hearing about the number three and swords in the same sentence as his name.

As if by some kind of fate, the tree line appeared and in the distance, the Thousand Sunny glowed in the late afternoon sun. Sanji immediately kicked them upward, skywalking them straight to the infirmary doors on deck.

“Ok got it, we are almost there, hang on a little longer.” Sanji twisted, kicking the air with efficient pushes. In the distance, he saw movement on deck as the alarm was raised.

Behind him, Zoro whispered just barely loud enough to hear over the sea breeze and Usoop screaming for Chopper across the remaining beach.

“Two swords for my dream. And one sword for Kuina’s.”

With that, Zoro promptly passed out just before Sanji’s feet met the deck.

-

Sanji brushed the short spikes of green hair plastered to Zoro’s forehead back. His golden skin was pallid and wet with cold sweat. Sanji watched in the darkness of the infirmary as his own hand shook. He felt wrung-out and hollow, like the moonlight might pass right through him as it shone through the portholes.

Chopper snored quietly, head down on his desk, having collapsed after Zoro was stable and Sanji had brought him his late dinner. The young reindeer had eaten and turned back to making notes on the exact treatment Zoro had undergone. He had made it only a few more minutes before Sanji watched his head dip down with sleep.

Sanji glanced at Chopper now, chest tight with something like fear.

Sanji raised his hand, turning it slowly, watching the way the moonlight shone blue through his flesh. Illuminating him from within. The delicate bone of his hands, which he was always so careful to protect, were the only things capable of stopping the light. That didn’t seem right.

If anything should keep the light from passing through, it should be the ache in Sanji’s chest. Robin had once told him that moonlight was light from the sun rebounding off the moon’s surface to reach Earth. It seemed like a waste to block the light that had traveled all that way just before it landed on Zoro’s bandaged chest. Sanji dropped his hand to the cot, fingering at the worn blanket that was draped over Zoro’s legs. The moonlight shone on stark white bandages against golden skin.

Sanji thought of Zoro bleeding out on the deck of the Baratie. Clutching his sword, floating in a pool of tears and blood. His chest stretched open, singing death's sweet call into the salty morning air. Sanji had watched it all, stricken as a practical stranger danced the edge of life but still proclaimed his dream in spite of his suffering. All for a dream he was too inexperienced to realize. And yet, Sanji still remembered how he felt that morning. That was the morning he had decided to leave the only home he had ever loved enough to miss in favor of the All Blue. All this time, his journey had begun with the swordsman’s blood.

In Sanji’s lap, Zoro’s three swords lay, sheaths scrubbed suspiciously clean. He did not dare to breathe it out loud, but Zoro had taught him something he would never again forget.

He did not need permission to chase his dream.

Sanji melted into Zoro’s side, three sheathed swords clanking softly. Sanji was desperate and cold and Zoro was warm with fever. Sanji leaned close, turning his face away from the portholes, as if the moon itself was watching. And gently, slowly, he pressed his lips against Zoro’s forehead.

-

For all the memories Sanji had of his mother, he couldn’t remember a single time she talked about his father.

When he was younger he thought that surely they had loved each other once. Sanji was never quite sure what had changed.

Sometimes though, in the years after his mother’s death, he would imagine what his parents had been like in love. He imagined that Sora made Judge soft, and that Judge made Sora brave. He dreamed of his family impossibly together, of tripping over his brothers when his mother called them all to dinner. He dreamed of a warm kitchen with a wooden table, crowded with chairs to accommodate a gaggle of children. He dreamed of his father resting a gentle hand on his mothers knee after she had finished serving the meal and sat down. Of the soft and knowing smile his mother would reply with.

When Sanji shook away his nightmares, clawing at his iron helmet, he would hold the image in his mind until it was worn like an old photograph.

When Sanji woke to the feeling of his stomach eating itself, he would imagine a warm kitchen with a love for himself.

When Sanji gasped awake in the men’s bunk room, he would drown out the sound of his captain's snores with his thoughts of children’s laughter.

By now, Sanji had thrown away his chances at such a life.

He was a pirate and a chef.

He loved both his captain and his job.

He dreamed of a sea of abundance and life.

He was not stupid enough to long for more.

He tried to remember not to long for more.

But sometimes he wondered, what were the chances of meeting someone like that anyways? Someone you could love, and who would love you equally in return? Sanji wondered how anyone was supposed to know what love looked like. Was the woman selling him tomatoes in the last port the one who would love him in all his inadequacies? The math of finding true love was impossible, surely.

So he did not long for more.

Instead, he bounced from place to place and found his meaning elsewhere.

This kiss has to last me the rest of my life, Sanji thought.

Surrounded by darkness, propped over Zoro’s unmoving form, with the scent of steel and blood in his nose, Sanji thought that he had never been so lucky. He could live out his life with just his dream and his crew if he just had this one kiss.

It was something new to remember when he woke up in the middle of the night.