#ship: Death & Her Mercy

[corpium]

Ansur!Tav fic in which Ansur reincarnates as Tav and slowly realizes his dream guardian is awfully familiar in the worst fucking way. This could be a horribly dramatic, tragic story.

however, I propose instead... comedy!

Let the companions suffer through them constantly bitching at each other. Maybe somehow Ansur is still an undead spirit posessing Tav so Emps is like "who's the abomination now??" and Astarion's like "now wait just a second, there's nothing wrong with being undead" and Minthara's casually dropping super wise truth bombs on them about their relationship and Karlach and Wyll ship it

[the-silver-chronicles]

Siblings Q&A | Silva & Elsa Omar ONESHOT

Tagged by @raresbaby and @inafieldofdaisies

Tagging @voidika @icecutioner @socially-awkward-skeleton @derelictheretic @shallow-gravy @direwombat @strangefable @strafethesesinners @rhettsabbott @josephseedismyfather @josephslittledeputy @imogenkol @cloudofbutterflies92 @skoll-sun-eater @cassietrn @carlosoliveiraa @adelaidedrubman @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook @afarcryfrommymain @aceghosts @turbo-virgins @shellibisshe @deputy-morgan-malone @softtidesworld @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @florbelles @sleepyconfusedpotato @titiagls @minilev @yokobai @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @justasmolbard @alypink @thesingularityseries and @nightwingshero + anyone else who wants to join. Taglist here.

Hey guys, SimpleGenius here! Decided to turn this short Q&A into a legitimate Oneshot for The Silver Chronicles, involving two OCs of mine; Silva and her younger half-sister, Elsa, set in a time in Hope County where Silva had no knowledge of Eden's Gate and the Omar's experienced a time of normalcy. There should be nothing but fluff, yes-siree. Oneshot below the cut:

The buzz of the worn-out camcorder complimented the numbing visuals of the frozen static, but swiftly the unused device booted up.

The specter on the screen was both haunting and ethereal, a memory from a time so much simpler. A normality so sparse in time.

With her trusty camcorder in hand, Elsa admired herself in the mirror. Hair twisted in many small blonde braids, wearing a white sundress laced with magenta patterns that looked like flowers.

The camcorder fizzled, the screen going blank for a moment. She gave it a good whack, faded red paint dusting her black gloves, and the camcorder proceeded to work like normal.

Elsa carried the camcorder away from the mirror, passing through into a lounge. Her hermana, dressed in a yellow flannel and black jeans, her dark hair flowing past her shoulders, seated on their couch having a cup of coffee.

"You ready, Sylvie?" Elsa asked, shuffling cards out of frame. Sylvester placed her cup onto the coffee table, laced gloves fixing creases on a dress she's not wearing. Realizing this, she stops the action and awkwardly cups her knees.

"Si, uh, seguro," Sylvester muttered out, clearing her throat, "How does this work?"

"Essentially, from what Rae-Rae told me, this is a fun little game where siblings answer questions for that net-work mambo-jumbo," Elsa explained, and again shuffled the flash cards she prepared.

"And since we're both sane enough to not invite people to put their noses into where they don't belong, I thought maybe, instead of doing this for strangers, we do it for Persephone," Elsa elaborates further.

Sylvester blinks, grey eyes staring at her younger hermana like a doe caught in headlights. She tilts her head, her right cheek sunk in, chewing her inner cheek.

"Elsa, she's una," Sylvester points out.

"Yeah, I know that," Elsa sighs, understanding but exasperated, "But she won't be for long. When she's older, we can show her this. Let her get to know her mamá and tía some more."

Sylvester's lips didn't quite frown, but she wasn't unconvinced either. "Derecha," she nodded, still wrapping her head around the camcorder's functions.

Elsa was likely grinning behind the camcorder, "Exactly! Now, to make this a bit more fun, I shuffled the questions out of order. Now let's begin."

Elsa showed the flash cards, the shuffle complete, and flipped over the first one.

"Question 19: Who has the worst ideas?" Elsa asked aloud.

Sylvester snorted, uncharacteristic of the person she's supposed to be, a small teasing smile on her healing chapped lips, "Well we both know who that is."

Elsa let out an exaggerated gasp, feigned offense, "Why Sylvie, I am but a respectable, humble and pious shopkeeper. Do you insinuate that I am anything but?"

"Bold words coming from the local daredevil who likes to worry her hermana to near-death," Sylvester retorts, arms crossed.

"...I'm guessing Rae-Rae snitched about my escapes on her roof?"

Sylvester had no need to answer, though Elsa must have seen that she had nothing to worry over, as Sylvester's smile held only amusement.

"Next question," Elsa declared, moving on, "Number 7: Most stable romantic life?"

Both wondered briefly, and Elsa states, "I gotta give this one to you Sylvie. You managed one relationship with Irene far longer than any ones I've had in our time here."

Sylvester narrows her eyes at Elsa, raising a quizzical brow, "Is that so? You and Ezekiel were like two peas in a pod every time you both talked with each other."

"That was brief, and we weren't official. Just some one-upping through flirtation. And he had been a real jerk at first, remember? At least you and Irene had a better start," Elsa deflects, waving a hand onscreen as she desperately denied her hermana's accusations.

Sylvester merely nods her head in feigned agreement as Elsa brings out the next question.

"Question 12: Best memory together?"

Sylvester leaned back on the couch, looking up for a moment. With Sylvester pondering which memory she liked the most, Elsa already found one.

"I'd say buying this residence," Elsa admits, "A place we can forever call our home. Wouldn't you agree?"

Sylvester looked to Elsa, and gave a short nod, "Si, it is up there. But... I'd say my favorite would be when it first rained. Just... playing and dancing like kids do... like we should have been allowed to do."

Elsa must have sensed the solemness in her voice, and replied, "At least we got to do it."

Sylvester hummed, appreciative of that fact.

"Question 15: Would you rather not being able to shower for a month or have the same clothes for a month?"

Sylvester was immediate in her response, "Not shower for a month, obviously. We can just bathe in baths instead."

Elsa laughed, cheerful and loud, "Never thought you'd be the one to take advantage of a loophole Sylvie."

Sylvester smile wholeheartedly, grey eyes sincere as she admitted, "I learned the best from my crafty little hermana."

"Aww," Elsa lightheartedly cooed, and proceeded forward, "Question 5: Who sleeps the most?"

Sylvester raised her hand, "Mother of one very curious and fussy niñita, right here."

"No arguments there," Elsa replied, "Question 14: Dream trip together?"

In a moment of synchronized thought between hermanas, they both state, "Spain."

"Question 16: Who's the older one?"

Sylvester raised her hand once again. Elsa flipped to the next flash card, "Question 10: Who had a weird phase?"

Both pondered for a moment, trying to think of any moment in their lives of such a phase.

"I don't think we were ever given a chance to do so," Elsa states. Sylvester hummed in agreement, shaking her head in confirmation.

"Alright then! Question 6..."

Elsa paused, reading the flash card: 'Who's Mom and Dad's favorite? (If there is one?)'

Sylvester waits, worry building in her gut, and asks, "What's the question?"

Elsa hesitated, but responded, "Who's.... mo- ahem, father's favorite..."

Sylvester briefly gaped, but recovered, stating, "Well, we both know the answer to that question is neither of us."

Elsa hummed, throwing the card away as she proceeded with the next one, "Question 18: Role Model? Mine's you, of course. But who's yours Sylvie?"

"I'd have to say Paul," Sylvester mustered out, clearing her throat, "He saved me after all. Raised me. Gave me something that we were denied."

"I wish I got to meet him," Elsa admits, "From what you told me, he was funny and dramatic."

Sylvester smiled at Elsa's words, "You two would have adored each other."

Allowing Sylvester a moment to keep herself together, Elsa proceeded to the next card, "Question 3: Who eats the most?"

She raised her hand this time, the various rings displayed for the camcorder to catch, "That'd be me! Speaking of which..."

Sylvester cringed, swiftly adding, "I had a sandwich earlier."

But Elsa was not deterred, "While that's good, you skipped breakfast nor have you had any fruits or snacks prior to lunch."

"I'll have something later," Sylvester flimsily promised. Elsa, not satisfied, retorts, "I'll hold you to that."

"Question 8: Worst habit of each one?"

Sylvester sighed, "Well, you already know mine. Though your recklessness is concerning considering your condition Elsa."

"I'm not made of glass, Sylvie."

"Elsa, your bones are brittle and break easily."

"...Okay I'm a little like glass, but I'm not stupid. I can take care of myself. I know what I'm doing when I climb a tree, or go bungee jumping or help Rae-Rae around her farm," Elsa defends. Her hermana replies, "I... I know that Elsa, but even so, you've been seeking out riskier and riskier thrills lately, and I can't... help but worry."

"I appreciate it," Elsa assures, and adds, "But you worry way too often."

Sylvester doesn't argue, and Elsa takes advantage of the momentary silence, "Question 4: Who has been on the weirdest situations?"

Neither hermana could think of either one being in a "weird" situation. Sylvester opted to gesture to Elsa, "Well, given your escapades so far, I vote you."

Elsa huffed, "Seeking thrill is not the same as getting stuck in chance and strange situations."

"And how likely am I going to be in such situations?"

Elsa mumbles, indistinctly playful, and moves on, "Question 20: A GIANT insect is on the wall, who's taking care of it?"

Sylvester raises a brow, "Whoever finds it first."

"Pfft, a bug ain't that scary," Elsa comments, "Question 17: Describe each other in three words."

Elsa and Sylvester held gaze for a moment blurted out their answer.

"My badass worrywart-hermana." "Daring little hermana."

There was a silent beat before both responded to such descriptions.

"Surely that is four words, Elsa," Sylvester argued, but Elsa interrupted with her pointer finger as she replied, "Ah, but you forget my lovely older hermana, the power a hyphen holds."

Sylvester shook her head in disbelief, but did not debate further as Elsa brought forth the next question, "Question 1: Who looks the... ah mierda, another one?"

'Who looks the most like dad?' the question read.

"Is it another relating to... him?" Sylvester tested, her lips pursed in a thin line, her voice softer and quieter than normal. Her grey eyes dulled, hands clenched into her jeans.

Elsa sighs, a hand going out of the camcorder's view, probably to play with her blonde locks, and most likely undo a braid in the process.

"I... Do you mind if we skip this one?" Elsa asks, and Sylvester eagerly nods, much to Elsa's relief, "Question 11: Best cook of the family?"

Elsa answers before Sylvester could have a chance, "Yeah, I can't cook for shit, that's you right there, Sylvie."

Sylvester closes mouth, making no comment on Elsa's lack of culinary skill. Elsa flips the next flash card, "Question 9: Who's the most dramatic?! Why that would be me!"

Sylvester nodded with absolute certainty.

"Question 8: Worst habit of each one?"

Sylvester beat Elsa to the tea, "I got this. I'm a nagging worrywart who forgets her own needs sometimes, and you, mi querida hermana, are a crafty daredevil with a big ego that often gets you into trouble."

"Hah! Wow, you know me so well," Elsa said, flipping to the next flash card, but mentions, "However, you're wrong in your description; you're not a nagger."

Sylvester doesn't visibly react to this, but she seems to be stuck in a forlorn gaze. However, the next question snaps her out of this odd pause, and Sylvester listens attentively.

"Question 13... uh, worst memory together?"

Sylvester and Elsa pondered together, brainstorming.

"Our entire childhood was jodido and never the best," Elsa mentions. Sylvester frowns, and points out, "Si, but the run for the docks weren't any better."

Elsa couldn't not hum in agreement, and she moves on, "Last Question. Number 2: Who looks the most like mom...?"

Sylvester looks baffled as Elsa blows a raspberry, "Irrelevant. We've never met nor did we have the same mother."

Elsa throws away that flashcard out of the camcorder's view, much to Sylvester's visible annoyance.

"And... that's it. We finished the game. Yay!" Elsa lightly cheered, her camcorder focusing on Sylvester, "So... food for thought?"

Silva watched herself, younger and with so much more innocence, more hope, than she had now. The camcorder in her gloved hands was running hot, the flashing sunset-red indicating a coming end, but she could care less, holding onto the memory in her hands for as long as she could.

Sylvester chewed her inner cheek and said, "Besides two nosy ones, I'd say it was... nice?"

Elsa's mock offended gasp was as exaggerated as the younger hermana's mannerisms had always been, "Just 'nice'? This is a memorial moment for the both of us. It is evidence for Persephone to watch and rewatch for years to come."

Elsa placed the camcorder on the coffee table, and sat down next to Sylvester on the couch, a big grin spread out, pearly teeth shown. She grabs a hold of Sylvester's laced gloved hands, despite the latter's exasperation over the former's words.

"Wasn't it you who emphasized the importance of this? To immortalize ourselves through memories our family can visit decades after we're gone? Whether it be through ink, our voices or our image? You have to agree that this is quite a viable way to do that," Elsa assures Sylvester, who's doubt dissipated the longer she thought.

The camcorder began to buffer, the orange-red blinking faster, but Silva continued to watch, wanting to savoir this for as long as she could.

Sylvester's grey eyes looked to Elsa, softly asking, "Okay. But I have to ask; are you sure?"

Elsa laughed, her dimples caught by the camcorder's lens, as she says-

Nothing.

The camcorder's screen was blank, only reflecting Silva. The blinking light gone, the heat prevalent, and despite desperately pushing the power button repeatedly, Silva knew she wouldn't get those reassuring words she needed to hear. Not now. Nor ever again.

Silva's shoulders slumped, still sat down on the old wooden floor in the decrepit corpse of her home. The home she had taken care of for almost a decade. Even after her hermana's death, despite the ache for her visits. Even after Persephone's passing, though the yearning for her hija's laughter echoing in the halls hurt more and more with their absence.

And now... her residence, her home, was nothing more than a burned and decrepit husk full of dust and debris. All the memories that mattered, all the memories she held close to her, the journals, the photos, the shrines they rested under, were all tattered and ripped and frayed and singed and gone. Just gone.

And now... with exception to Silva's own visage of Elsa... the last thing of her hermana that she could have shown to her familia, could no longer function. The Collapse had reduced the resources required to charge such a small device to ash. Even if something survived, the camcorder was aged, and had some bugs.

Silva flipped the lid screen closed, clutching the little camcorder in her gloved hands, pushing it against her chest as she let out a shaky breath. The foliage that claimed her house rustled as a breeze swept past.

She shook where she sat, holding onto the pain, the knowledge that change has come and another chance away from her before she could appreciate it.

The wood creaked, and Silva didn't want to look at her amor's beautiful face, didn't want to shoulder her with more of her own pain and grief. But a dainty hand cupped her face, and Silva couldn't resist, relenting to her beloved's request.

Her tearful grey eyes connected with the warm green of Faith's. Her beloved, her esposa, her amor. Her Faith.

I am hers. And she is mine. As we both vowed.

And Silva wouldn't hide herself away from her. Couldn't. Even if she tried. How could she? They both knew the best and worst of each other. Intimately.

There was no judgement pitting them against one another anymore. Like now, there was only understanding. The grief for a present that they could no longer return to.

Silva did not resist the tears that fell across her cheeks. Nor did she push away Faith when she wrapped her arms around her. An embrace that held a strength that others underestimated about her. Both possessive and a comfort. All to tell Silva, I'm here.

Silva felt two more pairs of arms hold around her. The first was of her inventive Azriel, her grip unyielding as she buried herself into Silva's shoulder, just like she had done when she found her at age nine.

And the second came from her youngest. Her Mercy, clutching onto her with small hands, light-brown hair nuzzling into her body, perhaps not quite knowing why her madre was sad now that they were out of the bunker, but doing her best to lighten the load with her presence.

Silva placed down the old camcorder, and did her best to compensate in the embrace by wrapping her arms around her Faith and precious hijas. Her familia.

The grief was ever present, but this time, Silva would not be lost to it.

[A/n] I lied, the fluff was merely a front, there's only angst here. Well, mostly at least. Set before Old Dusk (the New Dawn WIP), with only a camcorder showing pre-Silva's Hope stuff. They probably only recently left Silva's bunker and well, Silva's obviously gonna be depressed about the state of everything. At least she has her family to keep her grounded? Also I haven't written in a while, so if it was repetitive or tone death, my bad, I've been trying to get my motivation back. Anywho, hope you enjoyed this lovely (and angsty) oneshot, and see y'all in the next one!

[children-of-epiales]

Template by gibbarts

Ship: Death and Her Mercy

Sen's pic ofc came from here

[a-person-on-the-internet]

After reading the notes:

I get the idea that jimmy experiencing A Consequence For His Actions sounds like it would be a good ending AU, but… let’s be honest this wouldn’t fix anything. It’ll make it worse.

What if...

What would happen if they had changed places?...

[lullabyes22-blog]

"I think the cycle only ends when you find the will to walk away."

Got a lot of Q's for this in my inbox. Figured I'd just address them here.

tw: mentions of suicide, suicidal ideation

Re: the ending of S2:

Jinx did not die.

She symbolically killed her old self, and with it, her last ties to the past that imprisoned her. She understood that for her sister to move on and live her life - be happy without guilt - she'd have to renounce the bonds that held them together.

Her talk with ghostly Silco was the 'sign-off' she'd been waiting for, ever his dutiful daughter. Throughout S2, she kept hoping he'd haunt her, and in doing so, offer some impetus given her aimlessness. Maybe just straight up boss her around, and tell her how she's supposed to exist now that he's no longer there to be a (subversive if loving) guiding hand.

But it was the promise of time (as represented by Ekko) healing old wounds, and the courage to feel, as she once had - a hopeful child with a hopeful future - that allowed Jinx to commit impetus to action.

Her blimp-ship in the climactic battle is a tribute to Isha - but also to the child in Jinx's own fractured psyche: Powder. She's letting both little girls have one last hurrah before she takes care of business - and cuts off the last oaths, duties and commitments that bind her to a past whose parameters she's outgrown.

Better still, she knows she's got the capacity to outgrow them.

That was the point of Jinx's arc with Isha, and why, no matter my misgivings on Isha's character herself, I found Jinx's trajectory towards a more nurturing and fun-loving figure more life-affirming and positive than the straightforward 'Daddy's Villain Goes Postal' shtick.

It's even why there's a minigame titled Jinx Fixes Everything. It's Jinx, struggling and stumbling, as she tries to rewrite her narrative, and finds in herself the capacity to do good.

To fix things that seem irreparably broken.

And to understand why she's reached this stage, we've got to let go of our tendency to project our own stuff onto Jinx (precious meow meow, unrepentant terrorist, manic pixie crazypants, edgy hot psycho) and acknowledge the purpose she plays in Arcane's thematic structure.

Jinx's character comes off as a death-seeker, and that's no shocker. She is hounded by terrible guilt and loss. She's got blood on her hands, and ghosts on her heels, and no matter what she does, she can't seem to be rid of them. Her inner mind's fractured, her mannerisms ooze pure chaos, and she seems a creature of pure feral impulse and no mercy.

That's the Jinx we're accustomed to seeing in S1 - except that's also both the front she's most likely to put on during that timeline, and the persona that is necessary for her to inhabit to survive, as Silco's daughter and his top enforcer.

Then Silco kicks the bucket, she symbolically fulfills his dream by shooting at the Council HQ, she accepts that she must inhabit this path of shadows and loneliness (as symbolized by her starkly decorated chair in the tea party scene), she accepts the fragmented push-and-pull between past and present, and...

And now what?

Silco's given her a semblance of direction for six years, and he's gone. Vi, the sister she'd hoped would return, and whom she'd hinged so many childishly idealized hopes on, is herself traumatized, and afraid of what her sister's become.

Jinx has her shadows and her loneliness. Jinx is traumatized. Jinx is suicidal.

But Jinx is still, whatever else, alive.

And all living things need connections.

That's why we as the audience enjoy her little found family dynamic with Isha and Sevika. It's Jinx, taking the first tentative steps to reach out to people beyond Silco and Vi, and realizing, wow, she enjoys the pay-off.

And all throughout S2, we see Jinx growing more and more comfortable in this newfound space - even jealously guarding it at the expense of Zaun's liberty, and Silco's wishes, because she can't bear to lose what she's found.

And what she finds empowers her enough that, when Warwick shows up, she's actually willing to reach out to Vi, and call upon their family connection, because Jinx is learning the value of bonds, not as baling hooks of guilt, but as buoys to carry her forward.

That's the story Jinx's relationships serve to tell in S2. Each one shapes the choice she makes in the finale. Until she learns to accept the past (Vi), to lay the monsters to rest (Silco and Vander/Warwick), forgive herself (Caitlyn) trust that time heals all wounds (Ekko), and hope for happier new beginning (Isha), she'll never trust herself enough to just seize the chance.

Jinx's culminating arc is not about death, much less self-erasure. It's about resurrection, and embracing the sublime chaos of a freed mind, and a lightened spirit. That's what she craves beyond simple death, and what her baptism by fire, blood and riverwater, has been about.

Each trial grinds her down into someone else. Someone new.

Someone closer to who she is meant to be, rather than who she's expected to be.

That's why she's so glad to make the sacrifice for Vi. She's not dying as an act of self-immolation. She's giving her sister - the one who's proven she'll never give up on her - the ultimate gift, and showing Vi that she deserves to live.

She needs Vi to live, so Jinx, the persona, can finally die.

"He (Silco) didn't make Jinx. You did."

She's basically saying, "I love you, I will always be with you, but you are no longer responsible for my actions. Please move forward with your life, and grant me the choice to do the same."

It's two sisters embracing everything they've meant to each other, acknowledging the pain weighing them down on both sides, and welcoming the new so they can each slough off old paradigms and live life as a whole person - or at least take steps to remembering what wholeness feels like.

That's the reason the show's final shots linger on the Hexgate tunnels, Jinx's monkey bomb, and the aircraft.

It's the show's way of reminding us that Jinx has ascended to a different version of her identity - one removed from the past that haunted her. It's Jinx, finally striking out alone, away from the sister whose memory she clung so desperately to, and who was, in turn, horrified by her hand in making Powder a monster (perceived guilt or real, fandom may debate ad nauseum) due to past mistakes and abandonment.

The ending of Arcane isn't tragic. It's deeply hopeful, and serves as a reminder that no matter how damaged you think you are, and no matter how monstrous the world finds you, there are still ways to come back to yourself - or to walk the path toward a new you.

Jinx is symbolized by crows. Jinx is shown with firelights emerging from her mouth. Jinx is depicted holding a torch like Janna ushering in the winds of change.

Thematically, Jinx is change.

And the best way she can embody that change is to write her story, and make it her own.

[msfantasy-anime]

That’s my Wife you Jerk!

Monkey D. Luffy x Reader

Request: Luffy rescues his wife from the Big Mom pirates

Warning: based on whole cake island arch. Do not proceed if you do not want spoilers.

Part V

Now looking back, you could kick yourself silly for not taking Luffy up on his offer to join his crew when you had the chance.

In your fears of being chased and caught by the marines, you denied your a chance for adventure with the Straw Hat pirates.

It was so fun being with them that night. Why did you refuse Luffy’s offer?

Now you get to bask in your regret after having been chased and caught by the Big Mom pirates.

Standing before the pirate emperor, you wished you hadn’t gone aboard the merchants ship, when instead, you could’ve been on the thousand sunny, sipping cocktails and sunbathing on the deck grass.

A long fight later, and the merchants ship crew are long dead, and your fate remains at the mercy of Big Mom who took a keen interest in your strength.

“Ma-ma-ma-ma! You’re quite an interesting find! You must be the strongest Haki user I’ve ever seen, and by my experience, that’s definitely saying something. I think I’ll spare you.” Big Mom announces making you feel grateful at the prospects at your survival “You’ll be quite a fine addition to my family.” The feeling of relief is quickly fleeting, spiralling to defeat.

Once you’re married in, there is no escaping Big Mom.

“I’m already married.” You say, hoping to any god listening that Big Mom will spare your life and not force you to marry someone from her hoard.

“I’m well aware Monkey. Y/n.” Big Mom waives your excuse. “I think you would suit my son Katakuri just fine. Two strong Haki users are bound to heir a strong Haki protege.”

“Hell no! Listen here lady. I’m not marrying anyone! I’ve already got a husband, and that’s how it’s staying!” You challenge. Fears be damned, if you’re loosing your freedom, then it’s not a life worth living for.

“What makes you think you’ve got a choice girl?!” Big Moms voice seeps with venom. “You’d seriously rather die? What kind of idiot are you?”

“There’s no life if there is no freedom!” Your yell back, voice booming across the room with determination.

“Don’t you throw out your conquerors Haki to me you little brat! Listen here girl, that rubber idiot is on his way to my Island to take back his crew mate Sanji.” Your eyes bulge at the news. “Yes, that’s right. Vinsmoke Sanji is here marrying my daughter. Marry my son with no fuss and I won’t squash Straw hat.” You stare up unbothered at her threat. “Mark my words. If you become difficult, I’ll make sure Sanji has a hard and unhappy life.” Big Mom grins at your crumbling resolve.

You thought of Luffy and all of your past adventures together, and many more adventures ahead. That’s all you needed to reinvigorate your resolve. “Shove it hag! Sanji is a big boy, I’ll remind him where he belongs!” Big Moms vein pops from her forehead. “I’m not gonna marry your son and I’m not gonna join your stupid crew, because I already have a Captain! And my husband- he’s going to be king of the pirates!” You yell with all your might, making sure everyone felt the authenticity of your claim.

“Marriage or Death?!” Big Moms voice booms. But not a moment sooner, Luffy blasts through the wall, his hand impossibly inflated.

“That’s my wife you Jerk!” And with all his might, Luffy’s fist comes smashing down.

Dust fills the air, blinding you. Hearing the familiar echos of Luffy’s sandals, you begin to speak out. “Luffy! Take me home to the Thousand Sunny!” You demand, your wobbling lip coming to a stand still at Luffy’s maddening grin.

“Took ya long enough. Comm’on, the crews waitin’ for you.”

[itneverendshere]

THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE - r. c (+18)

WARNINGS: smut; kidnapping; violence; blood. pairing: maybank!reader

◛ masterlist

The sun dipped low, painting the Outer Banks marshes in shades of fiery orange. Tensions between Kooks and Pogues had hit a fever pitch, and in the middle of it all?

Rafe Cameron, the last person you'd want to encounter. 

Ever. 

Every run-in with him left a bitter taste in your mouth. It was like he had a knack for getting under your skin. Arrogant, volatile, downright psychotic — he was a fucking walking disaster. Each interaction with him sucked the life out of you, you were convinced that nothing good could ever come from being around him.

And yet, there you were, another Maybank, caught in the mess of the island's most influential family feud. You knew the risks, but loyalty drove you forward. And now you were in deep shit.

Your plan had been reckless, driven by the desperate need to save Sarah from her deranged family and retrieve Pope's stolen cross. Everything had gone smoothly until chaos erupted, and you found yourself abruptly yanked away from the corridor by a strong grip on your arm, before you could even call out for your brother and Kie.

Another hand clamped over your mouth, stifling any attempts to scream. In a mattr of seconds, you were dragged into a dark cabin, the men's hold on you unyielding. Struggling was futile and stupid against his iron grip, he tossed you inside like you were trash, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him.

The gravity of your situation hit hard immediately – you were alone, at the mercy of the Cameron's. Ward Cameron, the man who'd silenced anyone who dared oppose him, even going as far as faking his own death, kidnapping his own daughter, and manipulating his son into committing murder. 

Because in his sick twisted world, family trumped everything, even murder.

Great. This was fantastic.

Your mind raced as you took in your surroundings. The cabin was small and sparsely furnished: a bunk, a tiny porthole high on the wall, and a single chair bolted to the floor. There was a hum of the ship's engines, reminding you that you were far from land and any chance of immediate rescue.

You quickly checked your options but there weren't many, the door was solid, and you didn't have anything strong enough to force it open. Fuck, fuck fuck. 

You took a deep breath, trying not to lose your shit, panic wouldn't help; you needed a plan. But then, like a nightmare come to life, the devil himself stepped into the room, his eyes piercing as they landed on you. The man who had captured you stood behind him, a smug grin on his face. 

Rafe was visibly surprised to see you, but he quickly concealed it behind his usual deranged expression. His forehead glistened with sweat, his hair damp and sticking to his temples while his shirt clung to his back, soaked through from the scorching heat, beads of perspiration trickled down his face. He wiped his brow with a weary hand and his gun gleamed ominously in the faint light.

"Well shit,” Rafe's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Look what we have here. Didn't expect to see ya again so soon pretty Maybank.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but your mind was racing with questions. Where were your friends? Were they safe? Was your brother even alive?

Before you could ask, Rafe continued, his tone mocking. 

"Your brother really did a number on you, huh? Left you behind without a second thought. Typical Maybank shit, always knew your kind was unreliable."

Son of a bitch.

You clenched your fists, fighting to keep your composure. "You're lying," you countered, "He wouldn't leave me."

Not unless he was forced to.

Rafe chuckled, a humorless sound. "Believe what you want. They left, now, you're my problem. Lucky me."

“You’re lying.”

His eyes gleamed dangerously as he walked towards you, you took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. The cold, metal wall pressed against your back, mirroring the chill that settled in your bones.

It felt like you were being hunted.

"What am doing with you?" he mused, tilting his head as if genuinely contemplating your fate. The gun in his hand swung lazily at his side, but you knew better than to think it wasn't ready to be used at any given moment. You knew what he'd done before.

You swallowed hard, your mind frantically searching for a way out of this hellhole. He was unpredictable and volatile; years of snorting cocaine and family trauma did that to some people. But maybe you could reason with him. You were always a litte too good and hopeful for your own good.

“Rafe, listen. You don't have to do this. Let me go and we can both walk away from this. No one has to get hurt."

Again. 

His laugh was bitter, like you were trying to humor him,"You think I'm gonna let you go just 'cause you asked nicely?" He stepped closer, his breath hot against your face. "Nah. You're going to stay right here until I decide what to do with you.“ 

You tried to keep your breathing steady, but all you felt was fear, the odds had never been so against you.

"What do you want? The cross? We can make a deal."

No, you couldn't.

His eyes narrowed, the amusement fading. 

"You think this is about money? About that fucking cross? This is about power. Control. And right now...huh, shit, I control you." He leaned in, his voice a deadly whisper. "The cross is mine now. How do you feel about the Bahamas?”

What the fuck did that even mean?

Your top lip curled in disgust, “I’d rather drown.”

His smile twisted into something even darker. “I think you’re worth more alive, at least for now.”

You refused to show him any more fear.

“To you? Or Ward? Do you only get this cocky when daddy’s not around to rein you in?”

Rafe’s expression hardened, you knew you were pushing it.

He leaned in close, his blue eyes unforgiving even in the dim light, “Watch your fucking mouth, Maybank. You don’t know anything about my family.”

You laughed bitterly, unable to stop yourself. If you were going to die you might as well take advantage of it.

“Yeah, no. You're right. Just that you're dad’s little lapdog, doing his dirty work while he pretends to be some upstanding citizen. And where’s your mom in all this? Oh! She left.”

The punch came so fast, you didn’t see it coming.

Pain exploded across your jaw, and you tasted blood while grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You don’t fucking talk about her, dirty pogue.”

Anger took over you hotter than the pain, yeah your jaw throbbed, but the rage was stronger. You wanted to hit him back, to wipe that smug look off his stupid face, make him feel the hurt he had inflicted on you.

Your fists clenched at your sides, every muscle in your body burning with desire for retribution. You spat blood at his face, proud to see him flinch while glaring up at him defiantly.

“You’re just a puppet. Your sister hates you, your dad uses you, and deep down, you know you will never be more than his bitch.” 

His grip tightened painfully, rough fingers digging into your flesh, lips twitching into a snarl, but you didn’t flinch. If you were going down, you’d go down fighting.

His eyes flickered with something you’d never seen in him, before he released you, stepping back. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? So tough.”

“Smarter than you,” you shot back. “At least I know who I am. What are you, Rafe?“

He stared at you, tongue pressed against his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. Then he laughed, a harsh, grating sound that sent chills down your spine. His hand reached out, and your breath stilled throat tightening as he fiddled with a lock of your hair. He’d let out another laugh, entirely dismissive of the way you’d felt.

“You’ve got guts, Maybank. It's gonna get you killed.“

You wiped the blood from your mouth, “I’ve survived worse than you.”

And you had.

If anything prepared you for violence, drugs, and pain, was living with Luke Maybank your entire life. Maybe if you didn’t hate Rafe with every fiber of your being, after everything he’d done, you’d feel sorry for him. But you didn’t, and he sure as hell didn't feel sorry for you. 

The room was silent except for the sound of the ship’s engines, but then Rafe turned on his heel, motioning to the man by the door.

“Watch her. Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Do I look like fucking Michael Phelps? Where the fuck would I go? We’re on a ship you crazy bastar—Hey! Rafe! Open the fucking door!” 

The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the small cabin. You listened to his footsteps fade away, feeling a sense of dread settle in your chest.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into? They could kill you, dispose your body in the ocean and no would care. No one would think you’d gone missing, because you were a Maybank and that’s what your kind of people did, apparently.

Your brother would probably assume you were dead, he’d try to get justice and fail in the end, because the rich always won.

The musty air of the cabin felt oppressive as you turned away from the small porthole, where the bright sun and endless expanse of blue ocean mocked you from beyond.

The days melded into one another, marked only by the delivery of meals and the sporadic presence of Rafe. You had hoped for some clarity, some clue of what your future looked like, but his visits offered nothing but insults or complete silence.

Charming.

You paced the small room, your mind racing with the possibilities of what they had planned for you. The guard remained a silent sentinel, a constant reminder that escape was not an option. But then, the cabin door creaked open again, and you tensed as Ward Cameron stepped in.

Great, because crazy number one hadn't been enough.

He gave a nod to the guard, who stepped out, leaving you alone with the man who held your fate in his hands. A fucking lunatic with enough means to play for all the dramatics he enjoyed. Great.

"Get comfortable," Ward announced, "We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

"The Bahamas," he replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "A little slice of paradise, if you will."

"And what happens then?" you pressed, needing to know more.

Ward studied you for a moment, “Keep out of sight, stay quiet. Rafe and I have some business to attend to, and we can't afford any distractions."

"And if I refuse?" you challenged, though you knew the answer.

Ward's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it, you knew he enjoyed watching people squirm around like worthless worms.

"Let's not be stupid, sweetheart. You're here because you know too much. Refusing isn't an option. Cooperation, however…”

A chill ran down your spine at his words.

The answer was very clear, and you realized that your only chance was to play along, at least until you could figure out a way to escape this nightmare.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Eventually, you felt the ship slow, the engines quieting as you approached your destination and when the door opened again, Rafe was there, that stupid frown always attached to his face.

"Time to go," he motioned for you to follow, hardly sparing you a look. "Move."

You stepped out onto the deck, the warm, salty breeze hitting your face as you looked around.

The sight of the lush, tropical landscape did little to ease your anxiety, you were being held captive. You were led to a smaller boat, and soon you were speeding towards a secluded island, the main landmass of the Bahamas visible in the distance.

You were a world away from the familiar streets and faces of The Cut.

It was straight out of a postcard, something you and JJ would fantasize about while high of your asses and writing bucklists. 

God, JJ.

You only hoped he made it, you’d never gone a day without each other before you were dragged into this mess last summer. It wasn’t fair. You only wanted enough money to get by, an easy fix to get everything sorted, finish college, ship your dad somewhere far away from you two. But Ward’s greedy ass had to ruin everything.

As the boat neared the shore, you couldn't ignore the feeling of impending doom. Were you going to die out there? In between pristine beaches and swaying palm trees? Alone?

Rafe’s hand gripped your arm, his grasp tight, blunt nails digging into your tanned skin as he led you onto the sandy beach, Ward followed close behind, as he surveyed the scene before him.

"This way," he said, his voice cutting through the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.

You followed obediently, your mind already racing with possibilities.

Escape seemed unlikely, but there was still a slim hope that you could find a way out of this mess, eventually, even if it took you months.

The path led deeper into the heart of the island, the dense foliage casting long shadows as the sun began to set. You could feel Ward and Rafe's gazes on you, watching their prey.

Finally, you reached a clearing, and your heart sank as you saw what awaited you...a small house, in the middle of nowhere. Oh god, you were a dead woman. 

“This will be your home for the time being." Ward said it like he was offering you a vacation rental and not kidnapping you, such a fucking lunatic.

You wanted to demand more answers, but you knew it was futile and there was little fight left in you from how tired you'd been feeling.

“Rafe will be keeping you company."

The way Rafe’s head snapped in his father’s direction told you more than what you needed to know.

Once again, daddy dearest was calling the shots without taking his opinion into consideration. Ward’s casual cruelty was suffocating, reminding you of the power he had over everyone.

As he turned to leave, leaving no space of negotiations or pleadings, Rafe’s eyes bored into yours, no questions asked, only blind devotion to his father. 

The door slammed shut, leaving you alone with him once more. He looked at you, resentment playing across his face, like this was your fault and not theirs.

“I’m not going to make this easy for you," You hissed, “I’m not dying here. Not with you.” 

Rafe chuckled, greasy bangs moving as he shook his head, “You really think you have a choice here?” He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in the confined space, “You think you’re special? Nah, Maybank. He’ll get rid of you eventually, don’t worry.”

“Exactly. He will, not you. You don’t have any control either and I think you hate being here as much as I do, that shit makes us both prisoners.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown off guard, “Stay out my fucking way or I’ll kill you myself.”

You were sure he wouldn't, only if Ward asked him to.

He’d fucked up enough before, when he accidentally shot Sarah and didn’t look the slightest bit apologetic. You knew he wouldn’t do it again, not if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulder and his trust fund. Ward Cameron hated slips ups, hated even more the monster he raised, but he sure came in handy when he needed him. 

"Empty threats," you squared your shoulders. "I've dealt with bigger monsters than you."

He only stared at you, eyes bloodshot red, perhaps from the lack of sleep or maybe because he was high off his mind, you didn’t care to ask. Just as quickly, his usual sneer returned.

"Enjoy your stay, Maybank.”

With that, he turned and left the room, him and the stupid slamming of doors.

You had to get out, you knew it wouldn't be easy, but you were a Maybank—survival was in your blood. You took stock of your surroundings once more, this time with a sharper eye.

The walls were thin, the windows barred, but there had to be some weakness, some way to exploit the situation. You ran your fingers along the seams of the walls, looking for anything that might give.

Your mind raced through every piece of advice JJ had ever given you about breaking and entering. You’d done a lot of that over the years, and while most people thought you pogues were simply criminals, they never cared enough to ask why you and your brother spent so much time in and out of the sheriff’s department. 

So, what if two dirty, no-good kids were barely hanging on for dear life? No one gave a shit. 

Weeks blurred into each other marked by the same routine.

Rafe's visits, Ward's passive aggressive threats, and the endless search for an opportunity to escape.

You watched Rafe carefully, noting his every move, his every interaction with Ward, noticing how the later belittled him at every chance he got, treating him more like a tool than a son.

It was a toxic dynamic, one that made you wonder if Rafe was as much a victim as you were. You’d seen bits and pieces before, but Sarah had described Ward as some sort of saint up until recently.

She hadn't done the same for Rafe. Their dynamic was so different from what you were used to. You and JJ were like two peas in a pod, you’d die for him and you know he would do the same, no questions asked. If there was one good thing in your life, it was your brother. 

You couldn't help but feel a little pity for him, despite everything he'd done. He was a product of his environment, molded by a father who saw him as nothing more than a means to an end.  It was easy to spot his weakness if you spent enough time in the same room, the secretive moments of doubt and vulnerability.

His hands would shake every time Ward raised his voice, he would bite his nails to hide the embarrassment booming in his cheeks and he never walked into his father’s space or any other room without announcing his presence.

It gave you whiplash. 

You began to argue less with him, your animosity giving way to a grudging understanding. You hated feeling so…forgiving, this boy had done unspeakable things to you and your friends, to your family…and there you were.

Feeling sorry for him like you didn’t know better. 

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the small house, Rafe brought you dinner. He placed the plate on the table, his movements tense, his expression unusually subdued, strangely so, you’d memorized that expression.

You didn’t even have to ask to understand what had gotten under his skin.

"Why do you let him treat you like that?" you asked, not understanding why you did it.

You regretted the words the moment they came out of your lips, but there was something inside itching you to ask. 

His eyes snapped to yours, "What the hell do you know about it?" At this point he just sounded tired. 

"I understand,” you replied, thinking of your own father. "I know what it's like to want to prove yourself, to be more than what they think you are."

Rafe's jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to the floor, for a moment, he looked lost, like a boy searching for something he could never find.

"You don't know shit," he muttered, but there was no conviction in his voice.

"I know enough," you said quietly. "You don't have to keep doing this. You don't have to be his puppet."

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "You think it's that simple?"

"Maybe not. But you can choose to be better than him. You can choose to stop this.”

Rafe looked at you, really looked at you, for the first time and it was borderline unnerving. The weight of his stare, how way your stomach flip-flopped under his attention. 

“Shut the fuck up and eat, Maybank."

But beneath it all, there was something else, you’d seen before, when you looked at yourself in the mirror after you took the biggest beating of your life and Luke finally got thrown into jail: hope. 

He didn't say anything, just turned and walked out, leaving you alone.

The days continued to pass, but something changed. Rafe was less hostile to you, more contemplative. He didn't treat you as roughly, didn't hurl as many insults. It was a small change, but it was there.

 That's when you finally began to see a way out, not just for yourself, but, maybe, for him too.

You knew what he did, what he was capable of, but no one deserved to rot in hell with someone like Ward. You needed to bide your time, wait for the right moment, and when that moment came, you had to be ready to act. 

Another day began with the same oppressive humid heat, the sun had just started to rise, casting golden hue over the island. You were in the small kitchen of the house, preparing a meager breakfast from the limited supplies you had that day.

The routine had become almost mechanical, a way to keep your mind occupied and stave off the panic.

Rafe entered the kitchen, eyes barely open as he wiped the sleep away. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the sound of the liquid hitting the glass breaking the silence. Very healthy.

He stood with his back to you, staring out the window. 

“What’s Luke like?”

You froze, your hands pausing mid-motion. It was more than an unexpected question, it made you want to hurl on the spot even though you hadn’t had anything to eat yet. 

“Why do you want to know?" you asked cautiously, wondering if it was some kind of trick question.

He shrugged, still not turning to face you. "

Just curious. You Maybanks are a tight bunch, right? So what's he like?"

Tight bunch…that was one way to put it. 

You took a deep breath, trying to decide how much to reveal. "He’s a drunk, a thief. But he's still my dad."

He finally turned to look at you, his eyes narrowing. "So why do you stick around? Why not just leave him?"

You knew what he was trying to do, giving you a taste of your own medicine. You couldn’t blame him. 

"Because he's family, and sometimes, family is all you have. Even when they’re terrible, even when they hurt you, sometimes you can’t just walk away."

"Family's supposed to be everything, right?" His voice carried a bitter edge, hinting at his unresolved inner conflicts that you'd grown accustomed to.

"That's what they say."

He took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Must be tough, having a dad like that."

Tough? It was heartbreaking. Knowing that the one person who was supposed to love you, cherish you and protect you for life never gave a single fuck about his kids? Yeah, sure it’s “tough”.

"Guess we have that in common.”

Rafe looked away, "Yeah, we do." He set his glass down with a heavy thud, the sound resonating in the small kitchen.

The two of you stood in silence, but then he took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"I get it," he said quietly. "More than you know."

You watched him, the way his fingers ran along the rim of the glass. "Then why do you keep doing this? You don’t have to."

“It's not that simple," he snapped. "I killed someone. For him.” 

It was the first time he had said those words out loud, it made him sick to his stomach. He'd been scared and high enough to do something so reckless, just so they wouldn’t take away his dad. 

"We always have a choice," you countered, "Maybe not the best ones, but we can always choose to be better."

He shook his head, turning away. "You don't know anything," he muttered, but there was less conviction in his words than before.

"I know enough," you watched his retreating back. "And so do you."

He paused at the doorway, his hand gripping the frame tightly.

Without turning around, he spoke, his voice strained. "I'll see you later."

As he left, the kitchen felt colder, but you knew you had reached him, even if just a little, and that gave you hope.

After that, Rafe’s visits were less frequent, and when he did come by, there was an uneasy tension between you both. You couldn't tell if it was because of your last conversation or the sheer exhaustion of being trapped in this toxic cycle. Still, every interaction seemed to chip away at the walls he'd built around himself, showing you little glimpses of the person he might have been, had his life taken a different path.

Tonight, the air is still, the only sound is the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

You have been biding your time, watching for the perfect moment to make your run for it. The house is quiet, Ward is gone and you haven’t seen Rafe in two days. By now, you know how the guards outside fell asleep before 2am like clockwork. 

You can it. 

This is your chance, you can’t afford to waste it.

You move silently, slipping out of the small bedroom and into the hallway. Every creak of the wooden floorboards seems to echo in the stillness, and you hold your breath, praying you won’t get caught.

Your heart races as you slowly turn the handle of the front door, wincing at the faint click that accompanies the action. Once outside, you glance around, ensuring the coast is clear, then make your way towards the small boat moored at the edge of the beach.

The plan is simple: get to the boat, start the engine, and head for the main island where you can find help. You keep low, moving quickly but cautiously, like a cat. The boat is within reach when a noise behind you makes your blood run cold. 

The crunch of gravel underfoot makes you want to cry.

You turn sharply, and in the moonlight, the silhouette of one of the guards emerges from the shadows, it's the asshole who got you here in the first place. He’s closer than you had anticipated.

Your heart pounds, adrenaline moving through your veins as you break into a sprint, abandoning stealth for speed.

"Stop!" the guard shouts, his voice carrying across the trees.

You don’t dare to look back, your eyes locked on the boat when you hear a loud noise split the night—a gunshot. That's when you feel a searing pain in your arm, but you don't stop, pushing through, your goal now just a few yards away.

Another gunshot rings out, but you are too focused to notice where it lands. You reach the boat, hands trembling as you fumble with the ropes. The pain in your arm intensifies, but you force yourself to keep moving, when suddenly, a heavy hand grabs your shoulder, spinning you around.

You struggle, kicking and thrashing, but he’s stronger as he knocks you to the ground, pinning you down as he radioes for backup.

"Get your hands off me!"

It feels all to familiar. You hate very second of it.

"Got her," he says into the radio, his terrible breath hot against your ear. You try to wriggle free, but his grip only tightens and moments later, two more guards arrive, hauling you to your feet and dragging you back towards the house.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

The sting in your arm is painful reminder of your failed attempt as they pull you inside, your brief taste of freedom slipping away.

You were so fucking close.

Moments feel like hours as you sit in the chair, the pain in your arm throbbing with each heartbeat, they don't even try to stop the bleeding.

Then the quiet murmurs of the guards outside is interrupted by the heavy, hurried footsteps of someone approaching. The door flies open, and there stands Rafe, disheveled and wild-eyed, a gun clutched tightly in his hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” he barks as his gaze scans the room, landing on you. 

The sight of the blood staining your arm makes his expression change from bewilderment to fury. He storms towards you, his eyes blazing.

“What happened?” he all but demands. Before you can answer, he whirls around to face the guards who re-enters the room. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Rafe shouts, waving his gun erratically. “She’s bleeding! I try to sleep in peace and this is what I fucking come back to?”

The guards exchange nervous glances, shifting uncomfortably under his glare. “She was trying to escape, Mr. Cameron,” one of them stammers out. “We had to stop her.”

His expression twists with rage.

“So you fucking shot her?” His voice drips with incredulity. “Do you even understand what you’ve done? My father wants her in once piece.”

The guard who caught you tries to explain, but Rafe cuts him off.

“Shut up. Just... shut up.” He turns back to you, his eyes softening slightly as he takes in the sight of your injured arm, or maybe the pain is making you delirious.

 “We need to get that cleaned up,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. Without another word, he holsters his gun and gently takes your uninjured arm, pulling you to your feet as the guards look on, unsure of what to do or say. 

He shoots them a deadly look. “Get out before I shoot you bitches myself.”

Once Ward’s men leave, he runs a hand through his long hair, pacing the small room before finally stopping in front of you.

He looks pissed as he sneers at you, his voice dripping with exasperation, "I thought you had some brains in that pretty little head of yours," he spats out, practically screaming in your face, "What were you even thinking? Do you realize how close you came to getting yourself killed?"

You try to speak, to defend yourself, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His words come fast, "You could've died out there! A bullet barely missed you—do you even understand how lucky you are?"

The monologue doesn't stop there.

His fists clench at his sides, "I just don't get it. Do you think you're invincible? Because you're not. You're just..." He stops himself, taking a deep breath as if trying to control his temper while he paces around th room, unable to stay put, "You're just reckless," he continues, his voice still seething, "You didn’t think about the consequences, about what it would do to..."

What?

"Don't act like you give a shit about me," you call after him, your voice trembling. You don't know if it's the pain or the weird pull in your stomach making you feel all weird and fuzzy inside.

He stops in his tracks, his back stiffening for a moment before slowly turning to face you.

"I don't," he retorts, "But my ass is on the line too. You think Ward won't come down on me if something happens to you?"

You take a step towards him, despite the throbbing pain in your arm, not buying his bullshit speech.

"So this is all about you, then? Your precious ass and how it looks to Ward? Typical Cameron bullshit, only caring about themselves."

Rafe's eyes narrow, "You don't know what you're talking about," his voice is dangerously low. "You think this is easy for me? Keeping you safe, dealing with all this? I gotta keep everything under control."

“Here we go again," You scoff through your nose. "Control? You think dragging me back here, shooting at me, is control? It's chaos, Rafe. You're just as trapped as I am, and you can't stand it."

His face twists showcasing his wrath, and he takes a step towards you, closing the distance.

"You don’t understand the pressure I'm under. The expectations, the demands. I didn’t ask for any of this."

"And neither did I," you shoot back, a strict finger aimed at his face in warning, “So shut the fuck up.”

He takes another step, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. You think this is just about me? It's about keeping everything from falling apart. It's about—"

Before he can finish, you grab the front of his shirt, pulling him even closer, your faces almost touching.

“I don’t care about your excuses, Rafe. I don’t care about your pressures or your fucking control. All I know is I’m not staying here.”

The look he gives you was filled with enough ire to have a hint of satisfaction sparking in your chest, the hollow beneath his dark brows deepening as his pretty features contorted. 

His breath comes in short, sharp bursts, his hands come up, gripping your waist, not gently but not roughly either, as if he can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

"You're impossible," he hisses, like the snake he is.

"And you’re a coward.”

The next moment happens without much thinking, without any thinking, really.

Rafe’s grip tightens, before you can process what is happening, his lips crash into yours with a ferocity that you never saw coming.

His mouth is demanding, punishing, and you, like an idiot, kiss him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even if you want to push him away.

The kiss is all rough, there's only room for anger and frustration after all you been through, a collision of two souls damaged beyond repair to recognize the depths of their own pain.

You should know better.

And yet, beneath the layers of animosity and resentment, there is a stupid spark—as if you are both too messed up to understand how much you need each other. Each fingertip of his leaves an imprint wherever he touches, and some sick twisted part of you finds that attractive. It’s like he’s fighting to contain this fury within him, to keep it from overwhelming you both, but you want it.

If someone told you you’d be kissing Rafe fucking Cameron of all people just a month ago, you’d think they were crazy. And yet… 

All you want are his hands on your body, his warm skin against your own.

Oh his hands.

They roam over your lower back, over your waist again. You breathe out a sigh of relief, taking the collar of his shirt in both your hands as you pull him closer, relishing in his warmth. He smells like whiskey and cigarettes, and while you grew up hating that particular combination, it worked on him.

He pulls away slowly, your lips the last to part, and blinks down at you. You watch him lick his bottom lip, swollen, wet with both of your spits, taking in the sight of you.

“’You’re bleeding—“

“Shut the fuck up.”

His blue eyes flare with renewed anger, turning almost black. He doesn’t answer verbally; instead, he takes a half step back before swooping you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly.

With a swift motion, Rafe carries you to the dining table, and you barely have time to register the cool wood against your back before he’s on you again, his body pressing down on yours with a desperation that matches your own.

There’s no tenderness there, don't be fooled.

He pries your lips apart again, his tongue sweeping in as he kisses you deeply, his mouth moving invasively over yours. His fingers grip your jaw with a vice-like hold, angling your head the way he wants to.

A strange sensation flutters beneath your skin, and you wrap your legs around his hips, closing the distance between your bodies as he presses flush against your center.

His hands move with such intent, slipping under your shirt, his fingers tracing every curve with a delicious blend of roughness and urgency. Your hands tangle in his hair, urging him closer as your kiss deepens, his body is so close it's making you breathless.

You tug at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons because you just can’t wait. He lets out a deep, sexy growl that makes a shiver run down your spine. His hands are all over you, touching your skin and leaving fiery trails wherever they go.

"You're impossible," he repeats against your lips, all ragged as he leans down closer to your collarbone, to catch the scent on your skin, and he can’t tell if you are amused or annoyed from the way your cheeks round.

"And you’re an asshole,” your voice comes out breathless.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, the tip of his nose brushing against yours slightly "Drive me fucking crazy.”

"Good," you reply, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him down again. You can feel the tension in his body, you know he’s holding back on you, but you don’t want control.

You want to lose yourself in this moment, to forget everything you've been through and just feel.

Rafe seems to sense it, his hands becoming more insistent, his touch more possessive. He lifts you slightly, positioning you better on the table, his body slotting perfectly between your legs, the friction is exquisite.

"Rafe," He almost falls to his knees at the soft whimper that leaves your lips, unable to stop the jerk of his hips forward.

He responds instantly, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer as he kisses you with a fervor that leaves you dizzy. The table creakes under your combined weight, but neither of you care as your hand grabs his forearm, over the veins strained from his grip on you, your nails sinking into the skin exposed.

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your eyes locking with his. There’s a wildness there, and for the first time in your life, you like it.

You reach up, tracing his jaw with your fingers, feeling the grown out stubble beneath your touch as his mouth leaves a trail of fire in its wake on your neck. A noise of pleasure slips from your mouth as he palms at your tits, thumb grazing across your nipple as his teeth graze your collarbone, kissing down, littering your skin bite marks.

"I hate you," you pant, pouring as much venom into your words as possible. Your thighs tighten around his hips, feeling every inch of his cock against you.

“Your body doesn’t,” He replies, each syllable slowly drawn from his throat.

“Fucking asshole.”

“Fucking brat.”

You open your mouth to hiss something at him, to fight back, show him that you are the one in charge, but the intention dies the moment Rafe cups you through your shorts.

A pathetic excuse of shorts due to the heat.

Heat blooms in your stomach, melting into a torrent want that floods your skin and leaves you breathless. His determined blue eyes pierce into yours, watching as he presses the heel of his palm against the apex of your thighs, his middle finger tracing your pussy and applying light pressure to the sensitive dip between your legs.

“Cat got your tongue, pretty?” He asks, lips brushing over your mouth, loose bangs brushing against your brow. “Thought you had more fire in you.”

He moves your shorts and underwear out of the way and your lips part on a sharp inhale as you feel him touch you for the first time.

You can't think properly while he's doing this, it's been too long and your brain feels to mushy to form a proper sentence.

“Yeah, thought so.” 

"God, I h-hate you," you whisper again, the words almost a prayer, a futile attempt to cling to the anger that has fueled you for so long.

But even as you say it, you know it’s was a lie. Partly. You hate how much you need him right now, how you crave his touch, his dominance.

Perhaps you’ve been locked away from society for too long, that’s gotta be the only plausible reason for you to let Rafe Cameron touch you.

He smirks, "No, you don’t.” 

You do. At least you used to, everything is confusing now.

He teases you, his touch light, drawing out your frustration, your need. "Tell me what you want," he murmurs against your lips.

You bite back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. But the need is so overwhelming, you nearly give in.

“Fuck you," you spit out.

He chuckles, fingers finally slipping inside you, curling and stroking in a way that makes your hips buck against his hand. Oh, he was going to ruin you.

"That's right," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Let me hear you."

A broken moan escapes your lips, and you arch into his touch, your body writhing with need. His fingers move easily with how wet you are, finding all the right spots, making you drip all over his hand.

You hate that he's so good.

"Rafe," you finally gasp, the words ripped from your throat by the pleasure. "P-Please, I need you."

You'd be embarrassed later.

His smirk widens as he pulls his fingers away, making you whimper in frustration. He doesn’t make you wait long, though. With swift, practiced movements, he frees himself from his pants, the sight of him hard and ready making your mouth water. 

Without a word, he positions himself between your legs, the head of his pretty cock teasing your entrance.

"You ready?"

You nod, your eyes locking with his, "Please.”

He doesn’t need any further encouragement.

With a single, powerful thrust, he buries himself inside yo, not giving you any time to second guess it. The sensation overwhelming, your back arches involuntarily, your lips parting as fills you completely in a way you have never imagined.

He rolls his hips firmly against yours, and your head tips back as his cock rubs perfectly against you. You don't think you ever felt so full.

He doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath, giving you another firm roll of his hips, testing you out, figuring out his rhythm.

His movements are hard and relentless, pounding into you, knocking the breath from your lungs with each forceful thrust, barely giving you time to adjust. Not that you want slow.

You cling to him, your nails digging into his muscular back, your body moving in perfect rhythm with his. The table creaks and groans beneath you, but you don’t care.

All that matters is the man above you, his hands grip your hips, pulling you closer, deeper, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. You can feel him losing control, his need matching your own. Maybe it's been too long for him too.

Your eyes squeeze shut, blocking him out so you can pretend you weren't stupid enough to let the man that ruined your life fuck the living hell out of you.

"Eyes on me,” he growls, his voice all commanding. "Lemme see you.”

Even though you really want to shut him out, you just can’t fight the crazy pull he has over you. His voice is like a force of nature, making you open your eyes against your better judgment.

Seeing him above you, his face twisting with need and determination sends chills down your spine. His eyes are locked onto yours, filled with this intensity you never seen before and that leaves you breathless. No one had ever looked at you like that during sex.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with approval. It makes you want to run for the hills, "Fuck—Oh, fuck. Y-You're sucking me in so nicely, huh?"

With each thrust, he drives you closer to your orgasm, your body responding to him in ways you can’t hold back. He leaves you gasping, moaning, begging for more. You don't even know what you're doing anymore but his name keeps slipping from your lips in a broken, desperate plea, and he answers with his movements becoming more frenzied.

"Fuck," His is strained. "...Feels so fucking good."

You can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. Your entire world has narrowed to the feel of him inside you, to the overwhelming pleasure that consumes you.

"Rafe," you whimper, the sound barely more than a breath. "I'm—I can't..."

He understands.

His pace quickens even more, his thrusts becoming almost brutal in their intensity. "Come for me," he commands his voice a whisper against your earlobe that sends shivers down your spine. "Let go."

His words push you over the edge, and you come with a scream, your body convulsing around him, squeezing him for all he's worth.

It's nothing you ever felt before, an explosion of pleasure that makes you lose it. So this was what great sex felt like?

Rafe follows you as you milk him for all he's worth, crashing through him with a force that leaves him shaking on top of you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged against your skin as he rides out his orgasm, groaning as his movements slow down, until he finally stills, still buried deep inside you.

For a moment, everything is still, but then he lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, there is something almost tender about him.

“Y-You—“ He sighs, pausing, “Don’t pull that shit again. I’ll get you out, okay? 

“Rafe...“

Before you can process his words, before you can question or argue, his lips are on yours again. Differently this time. Gentle. 

Devastating, almost. 

“You’re still bleeding Maybank.”

Right.

He fucked you good enough to forget about the pain.

The moment of vulnerability between you evaporates, leaving you with the realization of your situation.

You just fucked Rafe Cameron. On a table. After being shot.

You push at his chest, forcing him to back off slightly, and hiss through clenched teeth when he twitches inside you.

“Then do something about it."

He just stands there, staring at you as if he has never seen you before, as if he’s truly seeing you for the first time despite having known you since you were seven, despite all the moments marked by violence and terror. 

You hate every second of it because your heart is practically leaping out of your chest.

No one has ever looked at you like that before.

Then he simply shakes his head, coming closer again, resting his forehead against yours, hands back on your thighs, fingers pressing as if he needs to ensure that you are real, that everything’s real.

“We’re getting out.”

You want to believe in him more than anything. In that moment, it’s the only thing that matters. Even if it sounds stupid. You need it, at least for now.

“Yeah?"

“Yeah, pretty Maybank. You and me."

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

[charafansmile]

Asriel could easily be like the god of familial love, of hopes and dreams, partnerships (friendships, companionship, puppy love if you must) and children/youth and then when he's flowey he could be the god of betrayal and spite, ala nemesis and eris. Still rooted in the ideas of love but twisted into what happens when love turns sour. Still a god of youth but also a god of lost time. Actually making him a minor god of time would also really work to tie into his character. Him being Pandora and the box at the same time would be interesting.

Transcript: ooh are we talking about reapertale? okay time to bring flowey into it because i was actually thinking about him recently—

first off, unrelated tangent, i think they did chara pretty decently? like, they used to be kind, but they were betrayed by monsterkind, etc etc. i like that, it honestly brings up what i think is a tragically unexplored part of their character. they hate monsterkind in some way for being so nice, and i think that’s why we can drive them to support genocide so quickly. i do think they shouldn’t have been evil right off the bat, of course, but hey! they’re a mythological figure. that stuff happens a lot in mythology, and more importantly it works in tangent to undertale.

flowey, though. god. amnesia does not suit him. they stripped him of character and expected him to still be flowey. it’s illogical. really reflects the early fandom’s perception of flowey and asriel as entirely different people. like being a flower makes you want to kill people or something. smh.

sorry i turned the topic to flowey but like. does he have to be the embodiment of despair. him being obsessed with chara is in-character i guess but he does it in such an out-of-character way. honestly that’s a big problem with every au! they make him a sweet little guy without actually addressing the roots of his canon problems. i mean, that or they make him the living embodiment of evil. they gave him the chara treatment, seriously.

he has so many layers though. it’s hard to fit him into one category. personally i’d make him some kind of pandora’s box thing. like an embodiment of the world’s pestilences where he used to be a closed box. helps highlight that he didn’t change, the box was always there, dying just opened it.

that might not make any sense. but man i’m tired of people making flowey chara’s lapdog. when in genocide he clearly sees himself as a partner in crime, at least until the end. (and then he defies them and ruins the whole killing humanity thing. so.) and don’t even get me started on pacifist. he tries to kill you repeatedly because he thinks you’re chara.

flowey is driven by (platonic!!) love. but it’s not the soft love you see on greeting cards or tv. it’s angry love. aggressive love. he’d do anything for the person he loves. even kill them.

honestly, maybe flowey would work better as a god of love. (yes i headcanon him as aroace but still.) “asriel” is soft, caring love. hugs and kisses and warm blankets and all that. “flowey” is the kind of love that slaps you in the face to get you up in the morning. he’s possessive, angry, passionate.

WHOO this got long.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Do You Love?

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x wife!reader

Summary: Feyd is soft for his wife and only wants to know if she loves him. His wife just wants him to come home.

Notes/Warnings: fluff and a little angst and very light smut (still 18+), softy-soft Feyd, probably could do with a wedding prequel if people were interested, im sure there are typos. I think that's it.

Words: 1400

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist

He hates being away from you. Can't bear it. It takes less than two days for withdrawal from your lack of presence to settle in, and when it hits, it hits hard. The luminescence of your smile that threatens the darkness within him on his worst days; the delicate suppleness of your skin that introduced him to the softness and warmth of a human body; the specific quality and tone of your voice when you whisper and whimper and moan in his ear—he needs it. He needs you. He craves you until the second you’re in his arms again. He just wishes he could understand if you feel the same. He wishes he could know if you love him as much as he does you.

When you came into his life, you were a pawn for peace. A gift from one Great House to another. A reluctant bride who couldn’t choke back her tears on her wedding day. He’ll never forget the saltiness that lingered on his lips after the kiss that bound you to him forever. He can still feel the pang in his heart from seeing you finch when he guided the strap of your nightgown off your shoulder. 

It took ages for you to shed your fear; to allow him to hold you and kiss you and be inside of you, but those many months of ‘two steps forward, one step back’ have left him in a paralyzing state of identity crisis and uncertainty. You’ve turned him into a man who begs for scraps of reassurance that you care for him rather than a man who shows no mercy for love; a man so preoccupied with thoughts of his wife’s affection that not even his enemies are granted his full attention as he watches the light drain from their eyes. 

From the moment he leaves, he anticipates his return so you can quell his agitation, at least to some degree. The same words echo in his head each time he steps off a Harkonnen ship to search for you—hug me, hold me, kiss me, let my body inside of yours, tell me you love me—and in recent months you haven’t failed to do those things, with the exception of the last request. The day you tell him you love him will be the day he stops fearing you'll eventually grow bored with him. On that day, he’ll be happy, at peace. He’ll be unafraid of what his future with you will bring.

—

Reader POV

He often goes to Arrakis for a week or two, that’s not new. He must monitor things and fight Fremen when necessary. However, this time was different. There was something foreign in his eyes after he kissed your palm and boarded his ship to depart. Sadness? Pain? Worry? All three? You didn’t know, but it terrified you from how little he tried to disguise it. With each departure, it’s seemed his mood has worsened and you can't decipher its cause.

Now, ten days later, your fingernails are worn to nubs and dark circles have found home under your eyes from nightmares interrupting your sleep. They’re different every night but they always end with Feyd not coming home to you, and you don’t know how to cope. You tell yourself you’re crazy, that there’s no possibility of him being taken down with a Fremen knife or gobbled up by a sandworm or blown to bits from his ship getting shot out of the sky. He’s too smart, too quick, too trained for such things to claim his life. At the same time, however, the last person whose death you dreamt of was your mother’s, and while it’s rare your dreams are prophetic, that one came to fruition not five days later. Who is to say your dreams of your husband are not the same?

But you can’t lose Feyd, not when it feels like you just got him. When you married, your dread of navigating a new husband and life on Giedi Prime—both of which have a reputation for being cold and desolate and harsh—crippled your ability to see him for who he is. It’s only been the last few months that you’ve let yourself love and understand him, and you can’t imagine a reality in which you wake one morning knowing you will never have him again. You wouldn’t survive it. 

But you won't have to, because he's fine, perfectly safe—that's what you tell yourself. He told you he wouldn’t be away long and he wouldn’t say that unless he believed it, right?

Then again, believing he would be home soon doesn’t mean fate agrees. What if he's already gone? Wait, no. No, he wouldn't do that to you. He'll be home because he always makes it home. He’s fine. He’s safe. He would never leave you. You nod to yourself, swallowing hard. He’s fine. He’s safe. He would never leave. He’s fine. He’s safe. He would never leave.

--

Your body curls into the first touch of warmth you’ve had in a week and a half as a heavy weight rests in the dip of your waist and tugs you against a solid form. Plush lips ghost your temple. A heartbeat thrums in your ear and you feel the rise and fall of a chest. 

Oh, you like this dream. He’s so real in this dream. It’s the first dream where death is not at his heels.

“You don’t know how I miss you,” he mutters into your ear. Stands of your loose hair brush back from your face. “How unbearable it is.”

His voice is so clear, so beautiful and vivid that it’s almost like he’s really with you. Humming contently, you huddle further into him. “Then stop leaving me,” you mumble.

Breath catches in his chest, no longer moving at a steady rhythm. “You're awake?”

Your brows knit—that's not a very ‘dream-like’ question; it threatens your lovely illusion—and then your eyes snap open. 

“Feyd?” His nose is an inch from yours. Your hand raises to cup his cheek, just to see if he is real, and you gasp at how warm his skin is under your palm. “You're here,” you cry, quickly pushing him onto his back and crawling on top of him. 

You press your lips to his, hard. A whimper is pulled from your throat when he parts his mouth so you can get a taste of his tongue. Yes, he’s definitely real. 

Hands trail down your back to your ass, squeezing two handfuls of flesh and pushing your pelvis down onto his. He’s already hard and thick and pressing into you, the matching thin material of your nightgown and his sleep pants doing a pathetic job of maintaining any sort of barrier. 

Feyd slowly drags the ink-toned silk up the curves and dimples of your body until it pools at your waist. Fingers graze your skin as they move lower to slide through your slick bare folds, and at his touch, your brain goes absolutely fuzzy. You’re unashamedly desperate, refusing to take any longer to get what you need, but when you finally free him from his pants and he thrusts up into you, you both find yourselves stopping. The kiss breaks and you simply breathe in each other’s breaths as he stays nestled deep inside you. 

Your forehead falls to his. A fresh tear that you hadn’t noticed in your eye lands on his cheek. “You're ok,” you gently whimper, reassuring yourself of his safety. His nose nudges yours.

“When am I not?” he whispers as he catches the next tear with his thumb before it drops from your lower lashes. 

“In my nightmares.”

His brow pinches in curiosity, cock twitching within your walls. “You dream about me?” 

You lightly nod. “I thought this was a dream.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a sickening feeling you weren’t going to make it back this time. I know it was a routine trip, but I just couldn’t shake it,” you say. “And that would’ve killed me, Feyd. I love you.”

Feyd sucks in a short stream of air as his hips slightly buck up against yours. “You love me?” he repeats.

“Yes,” you exhale, riding the little high of pleasure that came from the sharp involuntary shift of his hips. “I was so scared to be right.”

Feyd's arms tighten around you and he tilts his chin up to connect your lips. Kisses travel along the line of your jaw and down the length of your neck. His tongue dips into the hollow of your throat. 

“I love you,” he tells you.

Your stuffy chuckle settles into a grin. “I know you do.”

---

tag: @avidreader73

[littlesparklight]

You stand above your brother in his bed, occupied now by more than just pillows and blankets, for the woman at his back is fair and terrifying, even in sleep. You look between them, and you stand above your brother and think -

Is it too late to kill him now?

There are no ships on the horizon - yet - and if you present a body along with the stolen wife when the husband turns up, will that break the omen your mother dreamed?

Is it too late to kill him now?

You drop your hand down - perhaps to close around his throat, another already clutching one of those many, many pillows, and in the dark it'd be easy, wouldn't it? All you do is caress his cheek, your fingers digging stiffly into the pillow. He exhales, a tender shallow ease of breath, and there is this little smile on his lips.

You stand above your brother in his bed, there are ships on the shore, and you have cursed him for a plague, a bane, a cruelty raised by the Olympian to bring your house down, and -

it's too late to kill him now.

It'd be easy to do it, however. You carry a dagger at your belt even now, having left your own bed. Or you could perhaps stir up one of your other brothers, the city, some of your father's council. The baby was almost killed once, after all; what would it matter if it was realized now? Kin-blood believed to have been spilled is surely no less polluting than it being done in reality. The attempt might only have been in the handing over of a fragile infant into another's hands, handed over into the bosom of a mountain, wild and no place for such a tender little being.

But the mountain had been merciful, and nurtured instead of torn asunder, and now you're standing above your brother in his bed.

It's too late to kill him now, but would anyone blame you, blame anyone at all they might suspect, as much as they hate him, a hatred unsaid? Simmering. You don't know how he walks through the palace, the city, his life and not cower from the knowledge; he can't not know.

Your brother - pretty, soft, laughing, shining - doomed and dooming all of you from the start. What does an infant know of causing death? Your father tried to kill an innocent. Some of your brothers attempted it next, an innocent only wishing to reclaim what he thought belonged to him and them not knowing who the slave they felt so insulted by was.

Perhaps it's only fair he will kill you all, merely by existing, by batting those ridiculous lashes to lure the woman still sleeping at his back out of her home, her marriage, her life, and into yours.

You stand above your brother in his bed, and brush your knuckles down his cheek.

It's too late to kill him now, and no matter that you've cursed him and wished him dead - to his face, to your parents' faces, but never to anyone else's - with every angry word to spit at him there's always this echo of the wide, wide eyes, the trembling hand in yours as you help him up from kneeling next to the altar in your head.

Your little brother, that you failed to protect when he was born. And what are you if you don't protect? It's too late to kill him now, anyway. Was always too late.

You meet the gleaming whites of Helen's gaze in the darkness, watching her smooth her grip on your brother's arm into a stroke. Both of you can feel the relief staining the air as you turn away, pretending like she wasn't ready to help you.

You leave your brother in his bed.

[yandere-wishes]

⋆𐙚⋆ Imagine being Darth Vader/ Anakin's presious little darling. You're the only thing that keeps him living, keeps him from tearing his chest open and clawing out his black dysfunctional heart. You're the only good thing in his life.

⋆𐙚⋆ That's why he keeps you locked up on Mustafar, in a dark, somber castle surrounded by lava. It's how he can insure your safety. Make sure you're always waiting for him alone and scared. It's easy to believe that your sweet smile is because of him, much easier than believing you're despreatly starved for company.

⋆𐙚⋆ Anakin's fairytale ends when Obi Wan learns of your existence. Learns that Anakin has taken an unwilling bride and locked her away on a planet of eternal night. Old habits die hard, and despite all his failures, Obi Wan is still a Jedi. He knows he has to rescue you.

⋆𐙚⋆ Imagine running through Mustafar. Fingers laced with a Jedi master who smells of sweet desert fruits and dying suns. Running through forests and jumping over lava streams. You can hear Anakin behind you. His rage ripples through the air, thick and menacing. You smell the burn of bark as his saber slashes through the trees. His screams of rage burn your ears. But you see the starship. You taste freedom in the back of your mouth. You're so so close.

⋆𐙚⋆ You only let go of Obi Wan's hand when you're inside the starship, and the hatch is sealed shut behind you. Only let out a breath when the engine roars and the ship lifts into the air. Obi Wan sits at the pilot seat, rotten nostalgia coursing through his veins. He offers you his smiles his golden smile, trying to reassure you that you're finally finally safe. And you believe him...at least for a moment.

⋆𐙚⋆ The starship rattles, shaking you and him from your seats. The engines scream the metal frame creaks and bends. You dare a glance outside a shattering window only to see him. Vader's arm is raised, fingers stretching, power radiates through him, pulling the thousend ton ship from the air. It's funny to think that one man holds so much power. You cower on the floor knees to your chest. Doe eyes overflowing with tears, you knew freedom was too good to be true. Obi Wan tries to wrangle the ship from Vader, but there is no hope left...

⋆𐙚⋆ All too soon, the ship crashes back onto igneous land. The metalic doors and walls are peeled off harshly as Vader uses the force to rummage through the wreckage. Your bruised and battered body is pulled towards him. His furious grasp snakes around your neck. "YOU LEFT ME, YOU ABANDONED ME." it's hard to miss the sprinkles of pain upon the rage-filled timber of his voice. "Ani, I'm sor-" you try to choke out, despreat for a mercy you know will not be granted. "LIAR".

⋆𐙚⋆ He doesn't kill you. He can't. He may be rage born and hatred raised. But you... you are truly something special, something that deserves punishment, not death. Anakin drags you back to his fortress. Leaving Obi Wan bleeding amongst the wreckage...

[rollinouttahere-writes]

Breaking Point Chapter 3

Whitebeard Pirates x Teen GN Reader

4.3k words

First / Prev

Summary: You're in the thick of it now. On a pirate ship surrounded by enemies and powerless against them. What will these bloodthirsty brutes do to you now that you're at their mercy?

Warning: mild suicidal ideation, mentions of drugging, cancer mention, trauma responses

Many questions race through your mind as Elise pushes you down the long hall of the Moby Dick. Namely: Why you? What did you do to deserve this fate? What would that fate even be?

One thing seems certain. You won't survive this. Of course you won't. You're completely defenseless around one of the most powerful pirate crews on the planet, and you're a marine. Well, a former marine, but you doubt they know or care about that fact. 

Sweat is beading on your face and back as you sit in a petrified silence because even the heavy dose of sedatives you believe they have you on can only numb your mind so much. An inescapable sense of dread looms over you, getting heavier every second as you draw nearer to the door at the end of the hall. 

Would Elise take you back to the infirmary if you pretended to faint? It might be worth a shot… Or maybe that would just make her double down on her alleged quest to get you fresh air. You're usually an enviable strategist, but your disordered and foggy thinking does nothing to bely that fact. You couldn't think your way out of a paper sack right now. 

Thatch quickens his step to get to the door first. He looks completely relaxed and carefree about this funeral procession in disguise. Which you suppose makes sense. A marine's death is probably downright mundane to a pirate. You don't fault them for such a mentality. Admittedly, a pirate's death was just as unremarkable to you as a marine. It was a fact of war. 

And now it was your turn to be a casualty of it. 

The sunbeams that shine through after the door is opened momentarily blind you, which is equal parts relieving and distressing. You're spared the sight of what is to come, but your brain is left to fill in the blanks on its own, and it never shows you less than the worst case scenario. 

Images of pirates lying in wait with their weapons at the ready flash through your mind. In your mind, they’d been given a covert heads-up that you were on route to your life’s terminus. This medical gurney would become your deathbed in a matter of seconds as they used your body as a pincushion for their weapons. 

As your eyes adjusted to the light and made sense of their surroundings, you found yourself… very much not surrounded. Thatch was there, and you could assume Elise was still the one pushing you, but no one else was in your immediate vicinity.

That’s not to say that there weren’t any other pirates here, you could see many. But they were just casually milling about with no real sense of urgency. They haven’t seen you yet. Perhaps the assumption that they knew you were coming was off base. Certainly their behavior will change once they realize you’re here.

Elise hums as she pushes you over to the taffrail so you can have a scenic ocean view as you’re murdered. How considerate. Maybe they plan to simply toss you overboard and let your devil fruit status take the reigns in your demise?

Rather than taking in the sight, you scan the open deck of the ship. More specifically, you’re logging who all is here. Much to your mounting horror, you spot a majority of the division commanders. Diamond Jozu, Flintlock Pistol Izou, Vista of the Flower Swords, all of the heavy hitters of the Whitebeard’s are lurking nearby. Even Fire Fist Ace is here, and now you don’t have the means to counter his flames. You are so dead. You wouldn’t be able to fight your way out of here even if they removed the seastone cuffs.

Lastly, your eyes settle on the large and imposing figure of Whitebeard himself. You were well versed on who he was, any marine worth their salt was, but even still you were startled by the sheer size of him. His looming frame cast a wide shadow across the deck and all the way over to you, encompassing you fully.

Height aside, there was something else that struck you about him. There was talk of his failing health, but no one had clear answers on its severity. You never would have guessed it was this bad. The drip stand behind him had multiple IV bags hanging from it, several chest tubes were attached to him, and he even had a nasal cannula that you almost missed thanks to his mustache. What appeared to be an entire ward of nurses were hard at work around him.

Then the absolute worst thing happens. While you are blatantly gawking at Whitebeard, he turns his head and makes eye contact with you. You instinctively look away and press yourself back into the thin mattress of your gurney as if it will swallow you up and take you far away from here. It does not. Woe.

A rumbling laugh rolls off of the captain as he bears witness to your nonsensical actions. You sink back even more, but you can’t help but look his way again. He’s still looking at you, and he appears to be amused more than anything. It seems strange to you at first, but you suppose someone like yourself really doesn’t prompt a serious reaction from someone as powerful as him. You were nothing to him even in peak condition. Even in his poor health, you know better than to underestimate him.

His grin was relaxed as he regarded you. “So you’re finally awake,” he shifts and props his chin up on one hand, “and in better spirits, I hope?”

What the hell were you supposed to do with that? Answering felt ridiculous, but ignoring him felt downright stupid. Whitebeard wasn’t someone that you could just up and snub! That would be like telling Big Mom to piss off! Should you be honest and say that no, your spirits are in fact quite abysmal, or are you supposed to lie and say that you’re just peachy keen?! Oh, but now you’ve been silently staring at him for too long, you’re making it weird! In a frantic attempt to save face and not give him a reason to be angry at you, you nod your head up and down and blurt out an answer, “I-I’m fine, sir!”

Whitebeard’s eyebrows raise slightly, then he laughs again, this time much harder. Probably over the way your voice cracked, if you had to guess. You sounded like one of the fresh recruits rather than a seasoned marine. Akainu would never approve of you speaking in such a disgraceful manner.

“It’s been a while since someone called me that. You can drop the formalities, my child, this is a pirate ship.”

What did he just call you? Is he… belittling you? By using such a juvenile term to describe you, it certainly felt that way. Is this a joke to him? Are you a joke to him?

“Hey!” You're startled by the sudden proximity of a new voice. You break away from your staring contest with an Emperor and see that Fire Fist Ace is strolling on over to you. He flashes a relaxed, boyish grin your way and perches himself up on the railing next to you. “You're looking like you're feeling better. That's a relief.”

A relief? You fail to see how that would be “relieving” to anyone here. You eye the pirate suspiciously, trying to figure out what he's up to. He's seemingly trying to get you to lower your guard, though you have no idea why. Such a tactic is unnecessary when you're already physically restrained and weakened. As you size him up, you notice some bandages on his right hand. 

Isn't he supposed to be a logia fruit user? Injuries shouldn't be a problem for him. 

Ace follows your gaze to his hand. “Oh, you don't have to worry about that. It's not that bad, I'll be fine.” He lifts the hand up and flexes it open and shut as if to prove his statement.

His wording confuses you. Is he implying that you have a reason to be worried about that? Did you do that to him? Surely you didn't. Your zoan fruit would be largely ineffective in a physical attack against him, and you feel pretty confident in assuming that you didn't spontaneously develop Armament Haki and then forget about it. 

Damn whatever medicine they gave you and the memory loss that came with it. This situation is bad enough as it stands. You don't need to heap confusion on top of it. 

“So this is the marine you and Marco caught? I'll admit I was expecting a bit more… fury?” The flower swords wielder, Vista, had come up on your other side and was now bent down to examine you closely. “Come on, don't you have some threats to shout? Curses to hurl?”

Before your sluggish body can retreat back from having your personal space invaded, Elise pushes his face away with a huff and then swats at the hand he had placed on the sidebar of your gurney. She speaks sternly, reminding you of a mother scolding a child, “Don't antagonize them, I much prefer them like this to how they were. And watch where you're putting your hands, you almost snagged the IV line.”

Yet again, you were in awe of her fearlessness when confronting infamous pirates. Was she truly that brave, or was she somehow naive to how dangerous criminals like these people can be?

Vista, shockingly, immediately concedes and holds his hands up in a placating manner, “Sorry, Sorry! I'll be more careful next time, ‘lise!” 

Elise rolls her eyes, but there's a playful lilt to her tone, “Yeah right, I'm sure I'll have to correct you again before my shift is over, flower boy.”

The way they conversed reminded you of what you'd hear amongst your platoon. A well earned rapport built up over months or even years of a kind of teamwork that can only be wrought from surviving life threatening situations together. Genuinely speaking, you'd never really thought about the fact that pirates would have such bonds. The treachery and the survival of the fittest mindsets that were so commonplace in piracy would surely sabotage such a relationship from forming, right?

Dwelling on this puzzling revelation isn't really an option for you, unfortunately. Not when more of Whitebeard's crew was encroaching on you. 

No doubt, you were probably something of a roadside attraction to them. A (former) high ranking marine whose reputation was built around the fact that you were the child of Admiral Akainu, but now you were reduced to some aloof inpatient strapped to a bed. You suppose the way they stare at you isn't all that far off how you gawked at their captain. Both were sorry falls from grace- not that you would ever even think to dare to say that of Whitebeard. The drugs in your system were keeping you from being that suicidal. 

Ace slipped down from the railing and propped an arm up on the top of your raised up gurney. As you turn your head to see what he's up to, his other arm darts out and tosses your blanket up over you so that it's covering your exposed arm. 

For a moment, you're just vaguely confused. What was the point of that? Did he think- and moreover, care- that you were cold? You stare down at where the thin sheet is draped over your arm, hoping that answers will jump out at you given that you've been sorely lacking in them today. What about your arm was worth hiding?

Wait. 

The scar. 

He was covering up your burn for you. In typical fashion, you feel a distinct lack of clarity despite technically getting an answer. Everyone on this damned ship spoke nonsense, and their behavior was even more mystifying. What was his angle? What did he have to gain from helping you cover a scar before the whole crew could spot it? His expression belies no clear answer. He's looking away and acting like he didn't do anything. 

More and more pirates were meandering over to you, which kept you from trying to press the Fire Fist for answers. Flintlock Pistol Izou was standing near the foot of the bed and looming over you with an intimidating presence as his eyes pierced into yours, seemingly looking for something that only he knows about. 

His painted lips quirk into a half smile, “So what is it like to be on a pirate ship for the first time?”

The straps on your legs and the handcuff around one of your wrists are brought fully to your attention following his question. You make a display out of squirming uncomfortably against them, “A little restrictive, if I'm being honest.” Also terrifying, but you aren't about to vocalize that. 

Some chuckles echo through the crowd you've amassed. Thatch shifts on his feet, then consults Elise, “It wouldn't hurt to let them walk around, would it?”

Elise sighs and looks conflicted, “It would be good for them to stretch their legs, but I was hoping to wait until Marco was back before we tried that.”

Hold on. Were they seriously considering it? Wow. You really aren't shit to them if they're fine with the idea of freeing you. It's a bit of a blow to your ego, frankly.

Vista interjects, “All of us are here, we can help keep an eye on them.” Elise makes a hum of continued uncertainty, so he tacks on, “Just let the kid walk around a bit, it’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” Elise relents. “I'll go get a portable stand for the IV.” She fishes a key out of her pocket and hands it to Thatch before departing. Given that she was the closest thing you had to a safety net around these pirates, her absence was immediately felt. To an extent, you felt like she was keeping everyone else at bay, but now they were free to act however they want.

Thatch approaches you casually, coming off as entirely unconcerned about what you may or may not do upon release. His carefree attitude left you feeling enviable. You were anything but right now. Your eyes flit back and forth between the faces of everyone crowded around you. There had to be dozens of people circling you, not counting Whitebeard himself in the distance. 

Yeah, it made sense why no one was worried about you harming anyone. You had no chance against anyone here, even one-on-one. The whole mob could easily tear you to shreds. Why they hadn’t already was beyond you. Maybe they wanted you free first for the sport of the hunt. Not that there would be much of a hunt. There was nothing in this world left for you to flee to. Laying down and dying was much more appealing than fighting a pointless battle.

The cuff that was locked around a bar on the bed clicks open. Thatch stares at the other one, looking considerably more uncertain about undoing that one. He gnaws at his lip for a moment, then sighs, “We should probably leave that one on until Marco’s here. Let me just…” He holds the cuff on your wrist, grabs the chain connecting it to the other, and then rips it clean off on the first try. “There we go. That should be more comfortable.”

For a few seconds, you just stare at him wide-eyed. That casual display of strength HAD to be an intimidation tactic. This was apparently absolutely nothing new to him, seeing as all that he did after casually ripping apart seastone cuffs was set to work on undoing the straps still holding down your legs.

This crew really was on a whole other level from anyone else. They’d earned the right to be a part of an Emperor’s army.

Once all of your limbs were free, he held out his hands to you, “Here, let me help you down.”

“No,” you recoil back and shake your head, “I can do that on my own.” Thatch holds his hands up and steps back to give you space, which surprises you, but you try not to dwell on it. You resituate the sheet so that it’s draped around you like a shawl and covering your arm. You’ll just say you’re cold if anyone asks. You slide off the gurney and onto your feet, then immediately start backing away from the crowd.

But Vista abruptly grabs your arm and pulls you back. Involuntarily, you flinch. Your shoulders jump up and your free arm raises into a defensive stance. Here it was. This was it. The pack was ready to tear you limb from limb for everything that you’d done as a marine.

“Whoa there.” His grip on your arm loosens, enough to be noticeable, but not enough for you to be able to pull away. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but you were going to rip your IV out if you kept going.”

Your… Oh. Dammit. You’re so stupid! In a sorry attempt to save face, you mutter out a quiet, “I wasn’t scared.” Ugh. That sounded fake even to you. The slight tremble in your voice was a dead giveaway. How pathetic. You get a little bit of drugs in your system and you’re reduced to a whimpering cowardly mess.

Vista hesitantly releases your arm, his hand hovering over it briefly to see if you’d try to move away again. You didn’t. He pats your shoulder before pulling away, “See? Everything is okay.”

It most certainly was not, but you don’t say as much. You’ve made enough of a fool of yourself. The last thing you needed was to keep running your mouth and start crying or something else humiliating like that. You pull the blanket around yourself tighter and stare down at your feet. There wasn’t much of a point in watching the people around you when there was nothing you could do about them. Whatever happens, happens. 

A door opens nearby, and you can hear a set of footsteps and the sound of wheels rolling over the wooden flooring of the deck. Pink shoes come into your line of sight. Elise is back. The liquid inside the IV bag swishes softly as she moves it to the mobile stand, “There we go! How are you feeling? Are you lightheaded at all?”

You shake your head, “No. I’m fine.” You hazard a glance at Elise and see her smiling back at you. What was there to be so damned happy about?

Her smile persists despite your terse response, “That’s great! Now, what do you want to do?”

Huh? “What do I… want to do?”

“Yeah. Do you want to go for a walk? We could go to the kitchen and get you something to eat if you’re still hungry.” She stares at your mystified expression expectantly, but her smile starts to droop when all you do is continue to stare at her. “Or we could do something else if you want. What do you usually do for fun?”

“For fun? I was a marine, I didn’t have time for “fun”, don’t be ridiculous.” Your entire life has been training, sparring, and studying. Fun was for children, not soldiers.

Elise’s mouth hangs open in surprise, the smile finally gone. She shakes her head and steps closer to you, “Hey now, don’t say that! Come on, surely you had at least one hobby. Like something that you did to relax after a long day?”

“To relax after a long day? You mean sleeping?”

“No!” Elise pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs sharply, “No, I mean an activity, not something you have to do to survive. Something fun.” You just stare at her blankly, and her hands find purchase on her hips, “Give me an example. Tell me something that someone might do for fun. It can be anyone or anything.”

Why was she so hung up on this? You huff out a sigh and look down at the floor again. What was something “fun”? Well, one thing comes to mind. Memories of Akainu tending to his precious bonsai trees flash behind your eyes. “Does gardening count?”

“Yes! Do you like gardening?”

“No.” Your expression twists into a bitter scowl, “I do not.” You hated those damned trees. They were completely useless, yet Akainu treated them better than anything and anyone.

“O-Okay! Um, how about we try something new then?” It would seem the hatred within your words took her by surprise. It honestly surprised you a little, too. You never emoted this much.

Similarly, you were never this confused, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you should give a new hobby a try. I think that would help you to feel much better.” Elise is smiling hopefully at you.

She really was bound and determined on this matter, wasn’t she? “What am I even supposed to do?”

Thatch steps forward, “A lot of people enjoy baking as a hobby. I could show you the ropes if you’ll let me.”

Izou speaks up next, “Tea preparation can be an artform in and of itself if you take it seriously enough. You could try that.”

Elise claps her hand together, “Oh, what about watercoloring? I would be more than happy to share my supplies with you!”

Everyone around you starts calling out random hobbies with enthusiasm. Sewing, reading, flower pressing, hiking, pottery, origami, fishing, the suggestions don’t end. This was completely and utterly baffling. It was entirely nonsensical. They should be killing you, or ransoming you at the very least. Why were they doing this?

What even was this? You didn’t have a word to describe their actions.

—

Teach sat away from the crowd. He had no desire to be around that cutthroat little shit. Last time he was this close to you, you damn near slit his throat open. His finger ghosts over the scar on his neck from where one of your talons cut him. Had you aimed just a little higher, his jugular would have been torn open.

What the fuck was Whitebeard thinking? His old age was definitely getting to him.

A quick glance up at the captain all but confirmed his thoughts. The old man was watching the spectacle with open bemusement. He’s definitely gone soft. An unsurprising development given his poor health. Anyone’s mind would begin deteriorating when cancer was eating them alive from the inside out.

“Are you really sure about this, old man?” He can’t help himself, he needs more insight on what’s running through that fool’s mind.

Whitebeard turns his head to look at him, “Am I sure about what?”

“That marine.”

“That child is no more a threat than any of the nurses on board.” Teach begged to differ on that front. The worst any of them had done to him was wrinkle their noses at him. “Besides, from what Marco told me about what they said after being captured, it sounds to me like they are a former marine.”

Does that make any difference? Once a marine, always a marine. Hating and killing pirates was in your blood.

A quiet, rumbling chuckle escapes Whitebeard, “Come now, don’t tell me you’re scared of the kid.”

“Me? Scared? Perish the thought!” Teach laughs and hopes that it sounds convincing. “I would just hate to see anyone get hurt because of them.”

His concern is waved off, “You worry too much, my son. They aren’t going to hurt anyone, I can tell. I’ve been around for a long time, I have become a good judge of character by this point.”

Teach chuckles at his words, “Yeah, you’re right, pops. Sorry I ever doubted you.” Good judge of character, his ass. What a stupid old fool.

“Pops!” One of the crew members not fawning over the marine hurries over to the captain. What was his name? Teach couldn’t be bothered to remember. There were far too many people crammed onto this ship for that.

“Yes, Colsman?” How the hell was Whitebeard able to keep track of all these names and the unremarkable faces attached to them? Ridiculous. 

“You have a call coming in.”

Whitebeard sighs, “That Admiral really isn’t getting the hint, is he?”

“It isn’t coming from Marineford.” Colsman inches closer, a combination of confusion and apprehension on his face, “It’s originating from Totto Land.”

That definitely got the old man’s attention. And Teach’s, if he’s being honest. Big Mom was quite literally the last person he was expecting to hear from today. Whitebeard sits up straight, “What does Lin Lin want?”

“That’s the weird part, it isn’t Big Mom on the line. It’s a different woman, but she’s adamantly refusing to disclose who she is to anyone but you. She insists that the matter is urgent and involves,” he cocks his head back at the marine, “them.”

Whitebeard stares at Colsman, then at you. He nods, “Very well. I’ll take the call in my quarters.” The nurses all set to work on mobilizing his medical equipment to follow him, and Teach finds himself wanting to do the same. Then again, he’s sure that the nurses will be forced out of the room for the duration of the call. He doubts that he’d be able to eavesdrop without being caught.

Teach looks over at the marine again. What could the Big Mom Pirates possibly want with you? Was there some use to you that he wasn’t aware of? He supposes that he’ll have ample opportunity to find out so long as he continues playing his cards right.

Your wings have been clipped, after all. He doesn’t need to be scared of you now.

Taglist: @twotrucksinatree @tigerstarstorm @mu5hro0m @brooks-real @one-piecelover @ratchetprime211 @ithoughtthinks @simpfor2dpeoole @vinillies @selfindulgenceisthekey

[children-of-epiales]

Let's freaking go bois YEEEEEEE

♥️👙Á👠🍒👅☂️☜☞∀ for my beloved Lara and Sage and/or Reaper and Sens or Fury and Plague idk dealer's choice <3

For you my Beloved Bestie, I shall do all 3!

Death & Her Mercy (Rouen "Reaper" BlakexNéon “Sens” Ngoma Mutombo ||Rainbow Six Siege)

❤ : Where on their body is your muse most sensitive?

My gal is most sensitive along her bikini area, inner thighs, neck (more toward her collarbone) and hip dips. Anyone who wants to be handsy and touches her there will def get a reaction (fun fact: her thighs are very ticklish, which Sens would probably find out very quickly).

For Sens, I think they're the type to be sensitive on the neck and their ears. Reaper finds this out when she actually tries to whisper in Sens' ear about something normal and she startles them.

👙-Favorite outfit in the bedroom?

Reaper isn't actually into dressing up for specific occasions, but she would try; this being said, she tries to stay between keeping it "simple" and adding a lil bit more Spice when she's feeling bold. So she'll probably wear some nice lingerie (not the complex strappy stuff but different stuff) under either a nightie, a mesh dress, or a regular oversized shirt. She does own Nice nightgowns that she originally wears for herself when she's feeling Fancy, but ofc she gets even to show them off to Sens.

Idk if this counts as an "outfit", though Reaper does like to see Sens in those tanks they wear (example in the vector glare siege story). That and something like unbuttoned beach shirts (example like the Hawaiian vacation shirts), or anything that Sens can wear loosely.

Á : Is your muse loud in bed?

While I think they are on the same level when it comes to making noise, Reaper takes the cake as the loudest; when they first start having sex, Reaper tries desperately to Be Quiet and always ends up failing miserably since she moans and curses and gasps more than Sens does. Sens can make their fair share of noise too, but they save it for my gal's ears, and I think Sens is more heavy breathing, gasping, and some moaning in comparison.

👠-Do they watch pornography? If so, what kind?

Reaper doesn't watch porn bc she personally doesn't care for it and knows 99.9% of porn is meant for guys anyway. Sens actually just doesn't strike me as someone who would be into it either, maybe they would do it, with Reaper's permission or ask if they could watch something together, for new spicy ideas?

🍒-When and how did they lose their virginity, if they have?

Reaper would have no shame in revealing that she, in her late twenties, is still a virgin. She never really had the opportunity to have sex when she was younger, nor was she interested in doing so due to sex being something really personal for her.

Again, I'm not sure if Sens would have done the tango. They're very sweet and sociable, not that that has to mean they've had sex nor that they've had a romantic relationship. Honestly idk, I think if they did, maybe in their early-mid twenties? Comfort sex or a friends-with-benefits thing?

👅-Would they rather give or receive oral sex?

Reaper loves to receive, so she offers to give so much in exchange.

Sens feels like a giver, so I think there's some balance here.

☂ : How long does it take your muse to hit climax, usually?

Sooooo Reaper actually takes a lil minute before hits climax (it sounds weird to give an amount of time, but so I'm not vague about this, I'm taking 30 minutes minmum, even if she's initially in The Mood unless that's not a long time idk).

I think it depends for Sens, if they're in The Mood I think they climax pretty quickly (10-15 minutes), otherwise they don't take too long nor too soon.

☜ : Does your muse like to top?/☞ : Does your muse like to bottom?

Reaper is a Bottom, like she can try to top but it'll look just too cute.

Me thinks Sens could be a pro at switching.

∀ : Your muse’s favorite position?

Reaper: missionary, lotus, from behind (preferably standing and/or against a wall, also pinned), missionary with legs over the shoulders

Sens: cowgirl, spooning but facing each other, facing each other against the wall/on a counter, standing missionary

*****

A Game of Cat & Mouse (Lorelei "Plague" CapuletxLuna "Fury" Pajeot ||Rainbow Six Siege)

❤ : Where on their body is your muse most sensitive?

Fury's most sensitive spots are her inner thighs and behind her knees, and her navel and lower stomach.

Plague's spots are their shoulder blades, sides and lower back, and their scalp.

👙-Favorite outfit in the bedroom?

Fury's motto is "comfort is sexy" (jk), so wearing baggy clothes, pajamas, etc. actually gets her going (especially when it makes it easier for her to reach the Spots), and she is not afraid to admit she's a sucker for the fancy military uniforms in the bedroom.

Plague isn't really into the whole outfit thing, so they go with whatever Luna likes.

Á : Is your muse loud in bed?

Luna is not loud in bed; she's a heavy breather, soft moaner, and sometimes even giggles (that's just her).

Plague is not loud either actually. They curse, groan, and (thought they fruitlessly try not to) even whimper, but none of it gets past the room.

👠-Do they watch pornography? If so, what kind?

Luna does occasionally, strictly lesbian and/or masturbation, she'll offer Plague to watch it with her if they feel up to it.

Plague doesn't watch porn. They discovered it when they were younger and it was Not The Right time, of course that was awhile ago and they know Luna doesn't watch "extreme" stuff so it's fine.

🍒-When and how did they lose their virginity, if they have?

Luna masturbated when she was younger, which I'm not sure if that counts (some ppl says it does, I wouldn't so I'll count this as a fun fact). Otherwise, she has no experience before Plague.

Plague is not experienced in anything at all. They grew up in a very straight-laced family and when they got their freedom, sex was not one of the things on their mind.

👅-Would they rather give or receive oral sex?

Both Fury and Plague are givers, really. Between the two though, Luna leans more toward giving or receiving.

☂ : How long does it take your muse to hit climax, usually?

Luna usually climaxes first. It doesn't take her very long at all.

Plague definitely takes longer, especially when they have sex with Fury for the first time, and they become more comfortable over time.

☜ : Does your muse like to top?/☞ : Does your muse like to bottom?

Fury is the top, literally every time (which she has no complaints about), and Plague is the bottom.

∀ : Your muse’s favorite position?

Fury: really anything that doesn't require flexibility (bc my pilot is NOT flexible)

Plague: spooning, missionary, lotus, reverse cowgirl, etc (anything where they can be close to Fury)

*****

Falling Into Your Spells (Lara Darling-JóźwiakxSage O'Malley ||Fandomless)

❤ : Where on their body is your muse most sensitive?

Lara's sensitive spots are her inner wrists/forearms, hips, the small of her back & lower back, and her mouth.

Sage's are his neck (especially the nape), shoulders/shoulder blades, and stomach/lower stomach.

👙-Favorite outfit in the bedroom?

These two are the kind that have certain clothes that the other gets really turned on by, which they do take advantage of (they do try and wear clothing that pair well together, so it's not random or mismatched).

Á : Is your muse loud in bed?

They are both loud ones, except Lara's the one who's embarrassed about it. She lets out the high-pitched squeals and cries and can curse and ramble but Sage is the most talkative of the two.

👠-Do they watch pornography? If so, what kind?

Once in a blue moon they might watch a video or two to get things going. It's not really their thing.

🍒-When and how did they lose their virginity, if they have?

Lara experienced oral sex once and that was it. Otherwise, they both have no experience.

👅-Would they rather give or receive oral sex?

Lara really is both a giver and receiver, while Sage is a giver.

☂ : How long does it take your muse to hit climax, usually?

They both take awhile (20-30 minutes), though Lara usually finishes first.

☜ : Does your muse like to top?/ ☞ : Does your muse like to bottom?

Sage is a switch that prefers to top, and Lara is a bottom.

∀ : Your muse’s favorite position?

Lara: spooning, doggy style, doggy style with bottom up, cowgirl/reverse cowgirl, sitting (this one sounds weird ik)

Sage: missionary (modified), spooning (modified), reverse sitting, spooning, doggy style standing

[luna-azzurra]

Pirate (m) x Royal (f) prompts/dialogue?

Dialogue Prompts—

❖ Tethered by Circumstance

Royal: “You really expect me to dine with a pirate?” Pirate: “Call it dinner. Call it a truce. Call it your only chance to stay alive until morning.” Royal: “I’d rather starve.” Pirate: [leans in] “Then starve beside me, Princess. I’m not hungry either.”

❖ Threats That Aren’t Quite Lies

Pirate: “Don’t look at me like that unless you want to be kissed or killed.” Royal: “And which would you choose?” Pirate: “…That depends. Would you kiss me back?”

❖ High Stakes, Low Voice

Royal: “You’re enjoying this. Me, helpless.” Pirate: “No. I’m enjoying you trying to pretend you’re helpless. There’s a difference.” Royal: “You think you know me?” Pirate: “No. But I’d burn a fleet to find out.”

❖ Bitter Truce

Royal: “If you touch me again, I swear—” Pirate: “You’ll what? Call your guards? You’re on my ship now. My rules. My ropes. My mercy.” Royal: “Then I hope your mercy is short-lived.” Pirate: “Darling, it always is.”

❖ The Betrayal (That Wasn’t)

Pirate: “You think I don’t know you were sent to kill me?” Royal: “If I was, you'd be dead.” Pirate: “Then either you’ve grown soft... or you’ve grown fond.” Royal: “I haven’t decided which is worse.”

Scene Prompts—

❖ Forced Proximity, But Make It Life-Or-Death

They’re caught in a cave during a rising tide. He lifts her onto a ledge, their bodies pressed close as water floods below. She’s shivering, angry, panicked. He says nothing for a long moment—then quietly presses his forehead to hers and mutters, “If we die here, at least I’ll die remembering you finally shut up.” Later, when they survive, she pretends not to remember he held her hand the whole time.

❖ The Dance at the Enemy's Masquerade

They reunite in disguise. She’s undercover at a noble’s ball, and he’s infiltrated the same event—masked, suited, dangerous. He pulls her into a dance to keep her from being spotted. They’re inches apart. Neither speaks of the past. But every step is a memory. Every glance, a scar. When the music ends, he whispers against her ear: “Next time, Princess, don’t leave your dagger where I can find it.” She reaches for it—gone. Her thigh holster’s empty.

❖ Enemies by Blood, Allies by Fire

When her kingdom is attacked by traitors from within, he shows up to save her—not out of nobility, but because no one gets to kill her but him. He fights by her side in the burning palace, sword flashing like a storm. She spits blood, cornered. He appears behind her: “I told you not to die. I meant it.” Later, she finds his hands trembling from wounds—but he won’t let her see.

❖ Tenderness in the Shadows

She stitches a wound on his shoulder after a failed raid. He won’t meet her eyes, for once not smirking or teasing—just quiet. Exposed. Human. Royal: “You’re not what I expected.” Pirate: “Neither are you. Guess we’re both disappointments.” Pause. Royal: “Not to me.”

❖ Final Battle? Final Confession.

He’s ready to be executed. Shackled, bloody, bruised. She walks in. Crown on her head. Voice like steel. But her hands tremble. Royal: “Give me one reason not to sign your death warrant.” Pirate: “Because you still look at me like I’m not a monster. And that might be the only truth I have left.” She doesn’t sign it. But she doesn’t unshackle him either.

Bonus Little One-Liner Feels

“You hate me, Princess, but you never run.”

“We’re not enemies, love. We’re just a story no one dares to tell.”

“You can’t keep looking at me like I’m worth saving. I’m not.”

“You smell like fire and silk. I should have known you’d ruin me.”

“You keep trying to win. But I never asked you to fight me.”

“I don’t want your kingdom. Just you. Damn your crown.”

[ii11y]

tethered in red - dazai x reader

bound by a deepening obsession, the story follows a mission gone wrong—an ambush laced with betrayal, bloodshed, and the terrifying possibility of loss. as the world around you burns, dazai holds you like it’s the last time—loving you with a desperation only born from death. its raw. its unhinged. its the kind of love that destroys and saves at the same time.

warnings: 18+ explicit content, graphic violence,injury, blood, obsessive love, breakdowns, nsfw, angst, betrayal, possessiveness, mentions of death.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

the cigarette between chuuyas fingers burned low, the ash hanging off the end like a whisper away from collapse. you were sitting on a rooftop just outside the port mafias southern compound, the wind stirring strands of your hair across your face, the dying sun bleeding out behind the yokohama skyline.

your back ached. your ribs were still sore from last week’s assignment. but that wasn’t what made you uneasy.

it was him.

dazai sat beside you on the ledge, one leg dangling, the other pulled to his chest, his chin resting atop it. his eyes were fixed on the city, but you knew he wasn’t seeing it. he was far away. somewhere in the dark, fucked-up parts of his mind that not even you were allowed to follow.

chuuya flicked the ash off his cigarette, exhaling a long drag. “he’s been like that since yesterday,” he muttered, nodding toward dazai. “ever since Mori called you in.”

your stomach twisted. you knew the pattern. the summons. the silence. dazai always shut down right before something bad.

you reached for him anyway.

“osamu.”

his eyes didn’t move. but he answered.

“hmm?”

“is something wrong?"

a pause.

and then, softly, “no.”

⸻

the elevator to moris private chambers always felt like a descent into the underworld. your stomach dropped as the lift sank below the normal levels, into the depths where sunlight and mercy couldn’t reach.

the hallway outside his office was cold. clean. the kind of sterile that hospitals tried to mimic but never quite captured. like a morgue pretending to be a sanctuary.

you knocked once.

the door opened itself.

inside, mori sat behind his desk, tea steaming gently beside an untouched chessboard. elise stood nearby in her doll-like form, eyes unblinking, mouth curled into a cruel half-smile. the air tasted faintly of antiseptic and copper—like blood scrubbed just a little too late.

“come in,” mori said, gesturing.

dazai walked ahead of you. his shoulders were tight, his hands buried in his pockets. you followed in silence, every instinct screaming at you to turn around.

“you’re both here because i trust you,” mori said, steepling his fingers. “there’s a traitor. a former associate named yanagi. he’s been leaking intel to the government. we believe he’ll be at a decommissioned shipyard tonight. the location is secure, minimal risk.”

you frowned. “then why us?”

mori smiled, and it made your skin crawl.

“because i want to be absolutely certain he doesn’t walk away.”

that was the first red flag.

the second came when dazai asked, “you said minimal risk. you're sure?”

mori didn’t blink.

“positive.”

but dazai didn’t believe him.

you could see it in the way his fingers flexed. in the flicker in his eyes. in the silence that followed.

“fine,” dazai said at last, before adding on coldly, “but if anything happens to her, ill ensure you regret it."

moris smile never changed.

"oh. i'd expect nothing less.”

⸻

the docks were drowning in mist. the air was wet, thick with salt and steel. you and dazai moved like shadows through the decaying ruins of what used to be a shipping port — cranes long dead, containers left to rust like forgotten coffins.

something felt wrong.

the silence was too complete.

your heart thudded in your chest as you scanned the area. “we are being watched,” you whispered.

dazai didn’t answer.

then the fog shifted.

masked figures on the rooftops. behind the crates. lurking in the shadows.

too many.

far too many.

it was a setup.

you didn’t have time to shout before the first bullet shattered a pipe beside your head, spraying steam and fire. dazai tackled you to the ground as a barrage of gunfire tore through the air.

then came the knives.

the screaming.

the blood.

⸻

the world erupted into hell.

bullets split the fog, hot lead searing through steel and air. your body moved on instinct—rolling behind a rusted crate, your breathing ragged, ribs screaming. dazai was already on his feet, two guns drawn, eyes wild like a cornered wolf. not a strategist. not a trickster. a killer

you counted eight, then ten.

too many.

this wasn’t a takedown.

It was an execution.

your fingers shook as you reloaded. “they knew we were coming,” you hissed, throat raw.

“no,” Dazai spat, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it. “mori knew.”

that truth tasted worse than blood.

the first wave came fast—black masks, gleaming knives, footfalls like thunder on wet steel. dazai moved like water, bullets slicing through skulls, a knife in his off-hand spinning a man’s body into the air like a ragdoll. blood sprayed across your cheek—warm, thick, coppery.

you didnt have time to think.

you stabbed upward into a chest, felt the rib crack. pulled free. kicked. shot. the violence was mindless, primal. you didn’t know who you were killing anymore. only that it was you or them.

and then it happened.

a blade slid into your side.

you gasped—eyes wide—as warmth flooded your ribs.

you turned, instinct firing too slow, too late.

the masked man grinned behind blood-stained teeth—his knife lifting again.

but dazai screamed.

the kind of scream that tears through your spine and nestles in your bones.

it was raw. animalistic. like something in him snapped.

he was on the man in seconds. tackled him. pinned him. punched him. over..

and over.

and over.

blood coated dazai’s knuckles like war paint. the man’s skull caved in before he was even dead.

and dazai didn’t stop.

you reached out, voice trembling. “osamu—stop—”

but his eyes were gone.

gone.

lost in a place no one could reach.

you had to grab his wrist to pull him back to the surface.

he blinked.

breathed.

his chest heaved like he’d been drowning.

and then he saw you. really saw you.

the blood at your waist.

the pain in your eyes.

his hands were shaking.

“oh god,” he whispered, “you’re bleeding—you’re bleeding—”

you collapsed into him, darkness curling at the edges of your vision.

⸻

you came to in the back of a black sedan, the engine roaring like a beast through the night.

rain lashed against the windshield in violent slashes, the sky sobbing above Yokohama.

dazai was holding you, cradling you.

one hand pressed against your side, the other brushing your damp hair back from your face.

he was covered in blood.

yours. theirs. his own.

you blinked, throat dry. “…are we dead?”

chuuya barked a laugh from the front seat. “not yet. almost wrecked my car picking your dumbasses up, though.”

you tried to sit up. dazai stopped you with a gentle but firm hand.

“don’t move,” he whispered. his voice was wrecked. hoarse. strained. “you’re still bleeding.”

you looked at him.

really looked.

his eyes were wild. his pupils too wide, his jaw clenched tight.

you reached for his face. “you saved me.”

his hands tightened on you like he was scared you’d vanish. “no. i failed you. i let him send us into that trap. i didn’t see it. i should’ve known.”

your vision blurred again—not from pain this time, but the sheer weight of his guilt.

“it’s not your fault,” you murmured.

but he didn’t answer.

just held you tighter.

⸻

The Safehouse — 3:02 a.m.

the room was warm.

quiet.

the chaos was gone, but it lived inside your skin now.

the safehouse was nothing more than an old warehouse in the outskirts of the city—converted into a loft with makeshift walls, one bloodstained couch, a mattress on the floor, and a single bulb casting soft yellow light.

you lay on that mattress, wrapped in clean bandages, sweat still clinging to your skin from the fever. your side ached like hell.

dazai sat beside you, shirtless, arms slicked in dried blood and fresh bruises. he hadn’t left your side in hours.

“why are you still here?” you whispered.

his head tilted, eyes tired. “where else would I go?”

you looked at each other

and in that silence, something broke.

he leaned down—slow, unsure at first—until his forehead pressed against yours.

“i thought i lost you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it cracked. “i thought you were dying in my arms and i couldn’t do anything.”

his lips brushed your brow. your temple. your nose.

“i wanted to kill them all. i did. and it wasn’t enough.”

your hand rose to cup his jaw. “i'm still here.”

his eyes closed.

and when they opened—something unhinged glowed behind them.

“you don’t understand,” he murmured, “i need you. if you ever die, i die with you.”

you shivered.

not from fear.

but from knowing he meant it.

⸻

dazai hadn’t stopped touching you since the moment chuuya dropped you off. he hadn’t let you stand, hadn’t let you breathe without his hand ghosting your skin like he needed confirmation that you were still real.

his fingers trembled where they rested on your hip, just above the edge of the bandage that wrapped your ribs. he looked down at you like you were a dying star, burning too hot—too bright—and about to vanish.

you saw it in his eyes.

that brittle kind of love that turns to ruin if it’s not touched back.

you shifted, your palm brushing over his bare chest. "osamu,” you whispered. “im here.”

that’s all it took.

he kissed you.

not gently.

this wasn’t a kiss, it was a collapse.

a collision of everything unsaid—all the times he didn’t say he loved you because he thought he’d lose you anyway. his lips bruised yours, frantic and deep, his body already pressing you down into the mattress like he needed you to anchor him to earth.

his voice was hoarse against your mouth. “i need you. i need you right now.”

You nodded silently.

that was all the permission he needed.

⸻

nsfw

touch like prayer.

dazai stripped you slowly, even though his hands were shaking. he pulled your shirt over your head like he was peeling back armor, revealing battle wounds he blamed himself for.

his fingers ghosted along your side, where the gauze clung tight. his lips followed, kissing everything except the wound. reverent. careful. like if he touched it, it would kill him.

“i almost lost you,” he murmured, breath hot against your ribs. “and I haven’t even—god, i haven’t loved you enough yet.”

you cupped his face. “then love me.”

and oh. he did.

he kissed your neck like it was sacred. bit lightly beneath your ear, then soothed it with his tongue. he pressed his mouth to your shoulder, down your collarbone, until your skin was flushed and trembling beneath his touch.

and then—your back.

he guided you onto your stomach with a tenderness that broke you.

his mouth followed the line of your spine.

one kiss at a time.

vertebrae by vertebrae.

a trail of heat and worship.

“you don’t understand,” he whispered, voice shaking, “you are the only thing in this world that makes me want to stay.”

and when he pushed inside you—it wasn’t slow.

it was urgent.

raw. desperate.

his breath hitched in your ear, hands digging into your hips like he was holding on for dear life.you gasped, body arching into him, feeling everything.

the stretch. the fullness. the emotion.

he moved like he was memorizing you.

“you feel so fucking good,” he groaned. “perfect. i don’t deserve this— i don’t deserve you.”

your hand reached back to find him, to tangle in his hair, to ground him.

“'samu” you whispered. “please. i need all of you.”

he lost it.

thrust harder. deeper.

your breath caught with every snap of his hips, every low, desperate moan he pressed against your skin. he worshipped every inch of you—your back, your neck, the shell of your ear—like he was imprinting himself onto your body.

abd you—you burned.

your body sang for him, trembled beneath him, opened to him like he was the only thing that ever made you feel whole.

when the first wave hit, it shattered you.

you sobbed his name, nails clawing at the sheets, as your orgasm ripped through you—hot, sharp, endless.

but he didn’t stop.

he couldn’t.

bot when he was this close to losing everything.

he flipped you gently, kissed the tears from your cheeks, slid back inside while you were still sensitive and trembling.

round two was even worse.

even deeper. slower. but devastating.

he looked into your eyes the whole time.

watched you come undone again.

held you while you cried into his mouth.

and still—he didn’t stop.

your legs shook. your throat was raw from moaning his name. yoy couldn’t think anymore—couldn’t speak. you just felt.

he finally came with a gasp like a man dying.

your name on his tongue like a last prayer.

he held you after. breathless. sweating. shaking.

his voice cracked against your neck. “youre mine. i don’t care if it’s selfish—i need you to be mine.”

you nodded.

“always.”

and in the silence that followed—he kissed you again.

softer this time.

but no less desperate.

⸻

thank u for reading!! if u made it this far lmk what u thought as this is the first fic ive ever wrote 🙏🙏

[fanaticsnail]

It's not what it looks like!

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 2,800+

Synopsis: The ship has taken on a few more guests, the overcrowded Straw-Hat vessel now struggling to accommodate the number. Offering your room to the prisoner, Caesar Clown, you returned to find a sight you were ill-prepared to meet. Caesar had found your secret, and had them over his nose and mouth while chasing his high into his gloved fist.

Warnings: Caesar Clown x f!reader, MDNI, NSFW, 18+, smut, panty sniffing, finger sucking, masturbating, praise kink, exhibitionism, dirty talk, prisoner x captor, Straw-Hat reader, Caesar is a yandere creep - but we love him like that, lingerie kink, you like to dress up beneath your clothes for yourself.

Notes: a gift for @imveryyellow who said they recently ran out of Caesar content. I have been wanting to write him for a while, and this was exactly the opportunity I needed to take him to a solo fic. I hope you like your present!

Legs hanging limply over the edge of the much smaller bed frame, Caesar whimpered and panted into the shroud of lace covering his lips and nose. Eyes scrunched tightly shut, chains rattled together in a sinful shuffle over his thighs. Larger, white coat removed, his yellow jumpsuit was as far down his arms as he could stretch it, his feet and legs exposed while the fabric danced over his body like a flag waving in surrender. 

Hands circling the girth of his cock, he pumped it maniacally in his gloved hands. Each rough motion was complemented by a deep inhale of the clean pair of lace panties covering his nose and mouth. The scent of floral fabric softener, clean eucalyptus detergent, and the scent of your lingering perfume from your wrists flooded his senses as he desperately pistoned his cock in his leather gloves. 

He was close, his breaths coming out in rough and desperate pants. Inhaling deeply, his tongue lulled out and gently dampened the crotch of your panties, pleading for just a taste of what they shroud on the regular. His cock bobbed, pearlescent precum rolling down the clothed thumb of his right hand while his left rose to his face. His middle and unity finger collected the fabric and thrust it into his parted lips, mouthing and fucking his gloved fingers with his lips. 

“ Hha-h, fuck. Just a little more, nghh-,” he whimpered, crying into the fabric and muffling his moans. A soft fall of pathetic tears fled from the corners of his eyes as his hips bucked up into his hands. He knew he didn’t have much longer until one of the other straw-hats would come and get him, but he needed this release. He was so pent up from the capture, so needy and desperate to cum it almost hurt. 

Just as he nearly hit the pinnacle of his release, the handle of the door clicked and began to creak wide. Caesar’s eyes widened, having no time to hook the holes of his jumpsuit back over his body, nor discard the panties from covering his face. 

“Caesar, looks like you’ve got me today! I hope you’re ready to get out to the mess hall for some break- Ah-!” you gasped, your eyes meeting the golden hue of his panicked orbs. Shock wrote itself over your features, leaning against the door and clicking it shut hastily with your ass. “What the fuck are you-? Are those my panties!?” 

The mercy of the straw-hats, the softness after the carnage that placed him on their vessel and in their hands. That was who you were. The ship’s botanist, specializing in different types of plants and their uses for medicinal and weaponizing purposes. Usopp, Sanji and you all worked quite well together, the surgeon of death also enjoying your informative knowledge regarding uses of leaves, saps, and bark as balm for wounds. 

As soon as Caesar’s eyes initially found yours, he was welcomed to a kindness that was foreign for a man such as him. He was smitten, willing to do just about anything to find himself in your good graces. At the offer of your room to house him, willing to bunk with Robin in Nami’s quarters: who gave up her own room to house Law, Caesar’s heart was swollen and as engorged as his large cock pulsating in his hand. 

This was the first night he had slept in your room, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t peruse the drawers and cabinets for your personal effects. The room smelled as sweet as you did, plants and dried flowers pressed within pages of your extensive collection of journals. 

Expecting to find more of your books and findings within your desk, he was shocked to spy an array of clean lingerie. Lightning struck his heart as his eyes widened, the innocent image of you within his mind shattering and replaced by a sexual lust he had no business in rising. The next few steps were made in haste: springing himself from his clothes and viciously fisting the rising bulge in his pants while inhaling the sweet fragrance of a random pair of your collection of panties. 

“I-I-I can explain-!” he desperately attempted to relay, spitting the lace from his lips and scrambling to find the words he needed to sate your wrath, “-It’s not what it looks like! I swear! I wasn’t-.”

“-Masturbating with my lingerie in your mouth?!” you whisper in a curt hiss, flicking the lock on your door behind you and stomping over to your desk, “You had to pick that pair?” Your whine caught him off guard, lips pouting as you adjusted your collection and refolded the mess he made by hastily grabbing the lace, “I was going to wear those today, damn it.” 

Caesar’s eyes widened, his jaw shuddering, and throat gulping back a collection of saliva behind his lips.

“You’re not upset that I’m-,” he begins, halted by your hissed whisper to cut him off.

“-Touching your cock? No, it’s yours. It’s a part of you,” you offer him quickly over your shoulder, ignoring him as you shut the drawer in your desk, “It’s natural. I get it, truly. We’re all pent up after that battle, and thinking about what’s likely waiting for us in Dressrosa is only making it worse.” Turning to face the ten foot giant on your bed, you cross your arms and scowl at him.

“What I am angry about is the fact that you were slobbering all over my panties while doing it. Those don’t belong to you. They’re mine,” you curl up your lip in a grimace, eyes falling to where your lacey pair of bottoms were pooled on the floor. Rolling your head back over your shoulders, you huff out an exhale of frustration, “I don’t get many luxuries while sailing with my crew. My collection of lingerie is one of my few interests that are explicitly mine. I don’t share them, that’s why they’re in my desk and not in my bedside table.” 

Caesar slunk back against your mattress, wanting to become one with the pillow and duvet. At this turn in conversation, he didn’t know if he should feel validated in pleasuring himself, or ashamed at the fact he was using your panties as a channel for his obsession. Looking down to your toes tapping on the wooden floor, arms crossed over your chest, and brow raised at his slinking position, Caesar couldn’t help the twitch in his cock. 

He was so close to release, he could barely contain it. The way you scowled at him made his desire worsen. His cock needed it, his balls sucked into his abdomen and swelling the veins engorging his shaft, prompting his eyes to round and plead at you. 

Truthfully, you had no idea what you expected when you offered the prisoner your room. Perhaps someone else should’ve given him theirs, likely Franky. Considering the ship had no brig, you had nowhere to place him. You knew he needed at least some autonomy, truly not wanting to see the scientist be target practice for Zoro’s throwing knife skills anymore. In honesty, you both pitied him and found him attractive. Using his knowledge and skills with elixirs and potions to craft and chanel his genius had you interested, but the fact he was so willing to listen to you and follow your instructions like a giant puppy had you smitten. 

Eyes traveling down to his bobbing cock, glistening with the first pearls of his sticky release on your bed had a possessive wave overcome you. 

“Well, don’t stop on my account,” you offered him with a smirk, leaning your hips back on your desk and nodding towards his cock. Caesar felt his heart palpitate, expanding in his chest and flooding his cheeks with a rosy blush.

“Y-You-... You want-... I can-...?” he stuttered and fell over his words, the jumpsuit and shackles jingling as he hastily covered his cock, “You want-... Me to finish?” 

“Do you want to finish?” you giggled at him, floating your gaze over his body before peering into his soul through his widened eyes, “Or do you want to be all rigid and frustrated at the breakfast table?” He choked on his breath, sputtering as he hastily moved to sit up on your bed. 

“I can’t with you watching me like that!” he exclaimed, his brows furrowing and scrambling his thoughts, “It’s private.”

“My, my. How the tables have turned,” you chuckle, stepping forward towards the bed. “Need I remind you,” you give him a shove on the shoulders, “You’re in my quarters,” you move your head to his forehead, pushing him back so he lies flat on your pillows, “And in my bed.” Reaching down, you collect your damp pair of saliva-coated panties and place them on his chest, “And have been using my panties in your mouth to stifle your cute little moans. Now, go on. Finish.”

Reaching forward, you collect his right hand and draw it beneath the shroud of his jumpsuit, wrapping it around his cock without touching it. 

“I-I-I can’t,” he whimpered, his cock betraying him as his hips automatically bucked up into his fist at the first form of contact. He searched your face, his eyes begging and pleading with you to not watch him while he does this. 

“Urgh, Caesar,” you roll your eyes, stepping away from his hands and hovering over his face. Gently flicking your index finger over his dewy cheek, you hum down at him with your eyes half-lidded, “We both know you can, you want to, and you need to. Just do it already so I can go to breakfast.” You purr down at him. 

He gulps back a whine at your orders, feeling humiliated at how close you were to him while being ordered to complete his shame to its conclusion. He looked down at the panties on his chest and back up into your eyes, his lips quivering and begging. 

“I-... Do you think…?” he stuttered, darting his rounded eyes between yours, “Can you…?” His eyes flickered down to your panties on his chest, down to your waist, and back up to your eyes once more. “...Can you put them in my mouth again?” 

“Absolutely not,” you giggle at him, gently caressing his cheek with mischief twinkling in your eyes. “Those are mine. I’ve only put them on your chest to serve as a reminder as to why I’m pissed off at you in the first place. You’re too cute to stay angry at, Clown. Gotta keep them where I can see them, while not stifling those little sounds I know you make.”

“Nghhm-!” Caesar groaned as he began pumping his cock at your praise. He kept eye contact with you, his shame evident in each slow thrust. He pleaded, begged and whined for you to break away your attention so he could focus on meeting his bliss. He had a thought that floated over his eyes that he quickly stifled away in a bid to not catch your focus.

“What was that, Clown? What just floated into that intelligent, pretty head of yours, hm?” you asked him, gently cooing at him while he rocked his body into his cock. He whined, trying not to cum immediately at more of your praise. 

Looking down at your body once more, he gulped back his nerves and spat out his confession. 

“Please sit on my face,” he hurriedly cried out for you, “Sit on my face, grab my horns, and let me taste the panties you have on. I need you to, please. Please sit on me.”

A laugh fled from your lips as you considered his request. Catching your breath, you offered him a soft purred, “But if I sit on your face, I'd miss the show-.”

“-Face my chest and hold onto my horns behind you. Let me feel you, please. I need you,” he whispered, gently using your name to further emphasize his words. You shook your head at him, slowly reaching beneath your larger shirt and hooking your pants down your thighs to pool at the floor. The larger shirt you were wearing was girdled at the smallest point of your waist, the hem falling just above the middle of your thighs. 

Hooking your panties over your thumbs, you step out of your pants and gently draw your used panties up to his face. 

“I'm not going to sit on your face, Caesar,” you wrap the crotch of your underwear over your fingers and raise it to his lips, “But I will let you suck on this pair while I watch you fuck yourself. It's the least I can do.”

Pressing your fingers to his lips, Caesar moaned and opened his mouth to welcome your digits in. Gently rocking your fingers on his tongue, the larger clown desperately sucked around the damp pair of lingerie you were grinding over his palate. 

Whining and keening, he eagerly sucked the essence of your honeyed slick from the pair. His cock desperately twitched and his motions picked up. The chains rattled and his jumpsuit flopped with each rustling motion. You giggled at his eagerness, clenching your thighs together and watching in earnest as he began to unravel himself. 

“You gonna cum, big boy? Gonna make a mess?” you pout at him, catching his eyes as his movements pick up. Circling his tip, he used shallow thrusts up to keep from spilling over completely. “C'mon, baby. Let me see. Cum for me. Put on a little show for me. Make a mess in my bed and let me see you cum.”

“Mmmmph-! 'Umming-!” he muffled around your fingers, tears of joy slipping from his eyes as he chased his high. Feeling his abdomen snap, hot spurts of his release shot up and painted his yellow jumpsuit and chest with wave after wave of uncoiling ropes. Sticky ribbons of his ecstasy painted his body, prompting you to empathetically moan at the display. 

He rutt against his body, bucking his hips in languid thrusts as he rode through his high. Be felt humiliated, overjoyed, supported, and chastised by your attention while he completed his moment in solitude. 

Pulling your panties from his lips, you curtly rose your hand up and slapped him across the cheek with the heel of your palm. He squealed out a soft scream in horror, more shocked as you met him with a smile. 

“That was for taking my panties without my permission,” you nodded sternly at him, stooping down to be at eye level. Parting your lips, you hastily collect his beneath yours and kiss him earnestly. Pulling away with a humming pop, you gaze up through your eyelashes at him, “And that was for using your listening ears and putting on a little performance for me.” 

You stroll over to your desk and search through your assortment of lingerie before settling on a fresh pair. Undressing the rest of the way, you unclasped your corsetted bralette and began to assemble a more scandalous assortment of lingerie over your body. Fishnets, cut outs, garters, girdles, and body chains: items that nobody would even know was beneath your flowy shirts and tanned pants, were put casually over your skin. Completing the look with a strappy thong, you turn to Caesar and give him a soft wink. 

“Clean yourself up, Clown,” you giggle at him, watching as his jaw fell slack and eyes glazed over at your body. “I want breakfast, and it's my job to look after you today-.”

“-Do you always wear something like that beneath your baggy clothes?” he whined in a loud moan, hastily using the two pairs of panties you left on him to clean himself with. You nod in glee, your smile warm in contrast to your scandalous assortment of clothes. 

“Yes. I like to feel pretty while I work,” you shrug, looking down at the arrangement and giving it a final nod, “Now hurry up. I'm hungry.”

Caesar emitted a shuddering moan as he cleaned and redressed himself, stealing glances at you as you shrouded yourself in a fresh shirt and pair of pants. He gulped back his nerves once more, gently offering a soft question out like a puppy returning a ball thrown by their owner and placing it timidly at their feet. 

“Do you think I could convince you to ride my face later?” he asked you, peering at you over your shoulder. You laugh wholeheartedly at the question, finally both dressed, and sauntering over to Caesar Clown’s looming form. Reaching for his hand, you gave him a gentle squeeze while darting your eyes down at the shackles. 

“The thong I'm wearing…” you nod down to your pants, Caesar knowing exactly what was under them and visualizing it while you spoke, “...is crotchless. Yes, I will ride your face in it later, thank you for asking so nicely. Again, we're all a little pent up, and I think you're quite sweet beneath all that insanity.”

Caesar’s cock, regardless as to the earlier release, remained half-hard for the duration of the day. Each time he gawked at you, he remembered the assortment of lingerie hiding beneath and eyes blackened at the promise of what was to come. He was going to smile up at you, eagerly lap at your cunt with a smile on his face, while you keened and whined, gripping his horns and chasing your bliss on his lengthy tongue and pointed nose. 

He could hardly wait.

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