#the inclusion of pirates | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tinysunshine · 7 days ago

Text

✧˖° 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘 (𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐒) °˖✧

‎ [ 𝐧𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: age difference, ddlg elements (no daddy kink), dumbification, reader is very ditzy, negan is protective, dom/sub dynamic, fingering, creampie, slightly rough sex, dacryphilia, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation

warnings and triggers: dumb! reader, name-calling, mentions of violence and death, negan is extremely manipulative, bullying, reader is a little insecure, dubcon

word count: 7k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe. slightly dead dove.

It’s beautiful, and Negan’s pretty sure this blind obedience and worship you have for him is the best kind of love he’s ever received. He’d do anything to keep you this docile. This trusting. This dumb, about who he is and what he does. You think he’s the nicest guy in the world, and you’re a sweet little thing. Why would he ever want to change that perception?

It’s funny, because when he was growing up, Negan never wanted to play with dolls.

He was a regular kid. A regular boy, who liked toy cars and dinosaurs, dug in the dirt and killed spiders and dared his friends to eat ants. Threw rocks at squirrels and played pirates and cowboys, stayed outside until the streetlights turned off. Average. Grew up to be above average, sure, but the fundamental parts of what make him a man have been inside of him since day one.

He’s mean. He’s pretty damn selfish, and he’d be the first to admit that. He’s rough, he’s aggressive, and sometimes he gets so mad he swears he can feel his dick chub up in his pants - especially when he hears the sound of another grown man begging, crying, or pleading. It’s not a gay thing, of course - more like a fucked up thing, but he knows he’s not alone in it.

He’s around men all day. Sees them hurt each other, mostly at his orders - but it’s all in good fun. At least for him. Men like that shit. They love to hurt, even if they say they don’t, and the little secret that most women don’t understand is that they like to be the one who’s hurt sometimes. Most of them won’t admit it, but Negan will.

It feels good, to get smacked in the face or to spit a tooth out after a gnarly punch to the cheek (but Negan’s got a dentist under this thumb, so he can enjoy that feeling, he’s lucky, he knows). When his vision gets blurry and his nose bleeds, ribs aching after a good fight - phew. Negan loves that shit. Knows every other man does too.��

That excitement, the frustration, all of it spreading through his body like a wildfire until he feels his hand curl into a fist to get his retribution. It’s almost as good as an orgasm, because it makes him feel alive. What’s more human than pain?

Negan Smith is a man, through and through. Always has been, always will be.

Which makes it so funny, such a crazy twist of fate, that his favorite toy is now you.

His perfect, little doll.

Crazy how life works out, huh?

────

When Negan found you, you were all alone.

Well, you thought you were alone.

You were staying at a run-down farm house that Negan’s men found because they were looking for a group of people that tried to fuck him over. A group of scared fucking pathetic excuses for men, which disgusted Negan to no end. He wants to terrify people, sure - gets a thrill, and an erection out of it. But seeing people sweat before he’s even opened his mouth is just infuriating.

What if he was a nice guy? They’d never know. Pretty fucked up, Negan thinks, judging someone based on their appearance.

The group started firing at his men before they even got out of their truck, and then they had to be chased, and when Negan’s men lost them he had to get involved. A few days came and went before they were finally found, and just in perfect time too - because those men must’ve seen that you were staying alone at the house and were planning to fuck you over.

Fuck you too. Negan heard them planning it by some trees about a half a mile away from the house, before he beat in their brains with his bat.

Now, Negan knows he’s a monster. But he’d never gang up on a woman with his men. It’s tasteless. Disgusting. Tacky, deplorable. Weak.

Because him? Well, Negan came on to you all on his own.

His first thought when he found you, completely clueless about the fate that awaited you, on the front porch of a farm house that had surely seen better days, was that you were cute.

Too cute to be alive in this world, living on your own. Negan has a lot of wives, yeah, but they all looked like shit when he found them. He just has an eye for that sort of thing - finding beauty in the things nobody else can see.

He saw it in all those women he forced to be his bride - beauty in their features all dirtied up from time on the road that he knew would be pretty again after a shower and some lip gloss. Beauty, in the blood under the nails of his men, the fragility of human life and the almost unbreakable spirit. Beauty, in all the luxuries he used to take for granted before walkers became a thing and changed everything.

Negan knows beauty when he sees it, and when he saw you, he realized he'd laid his eyes on the most beautiful thing still left in this world.

When you saw him, you didn’t panic. When you saw his men, you didn’t even frown. Instead, on that little porch, you arched an eyebrow and looked at him curiously. You were sitting down on the ground, a pair of tiny, denim shorts on and scuffed up boots. Negan noticed that you had a little flower tucked behind your ear, and he wondered if you were insanely brave or just stupid.

Either way, he was intrigued.

“You alone?” He asked a question that would have alarm bells going on in just about anyone else’s head. But not yours. No, you took it a step further than Negan could’ve anticipated. You stood up, walked to him, and gave him a hug.

Negan thought it was a trap. He really did. Was sure that this was going to be the way he finally died, and goddamnit - maybe he deserved it. Clever fucking asshole, whoever designed this honeypot of a beautiful girl all alone, looking like she was waiting to be rescued.

But it wasn’t a trap.

You were actually happy to see him and his men. You pulled away from the hug and let out a sigh of relief, blowing a piece of hair out of your face with a cute expression. You smiled, and Negan realized how much he missed the look of innocence. He didn't realize how long it'd been since he'd last seen it. “I’m so happy you’re here,” you said, taking the flower out from behind your ear. You handed it to him. “It was so scary being all alone.”

────

You’re beautiful, but that’s the least interesting thing about you. Don’t get Negan wrong though - you are beautiful. Fucking perfect, like a little doll, with soft skin and perky tits and a sweet smile whenever you get your way.

Which makes you perfect for Negan, because you’re also about as brainless as a doll, pretty head all empty, and whatever he tells you to do, whatever he thinks, whatever he wants - you agree. That simple, that smooth. Even Negan was impressed when he realized just how ditzy you were.

He’s not trying to be insulting either. People have different strengths, and using your brain is not one of yours. You’re so fucking hot though, that it doesn’t really matter what you say or do. Your passivity, your cuteness, the big eyed look you give him whenever you’re confused about something he says (which is frequently) - Negan could cum in his pants just thinking about it.

You’re special to him.

The minute he brought you home, he hated the guts of every single one of his wives. Although, maybe hate is too strong of a word. Because Negan doesn't even hate them, truthfully, because he doesn't even think of them. Once he had you in his presence, you took up so much of his time that he was shocked (and pleased) that someone didn’t try to overthrow his position as leader in his absence.

He knew from the minute he had you in his truck, leaving that farm house, that you’d end up meaning a lot to him. The day he found you, he had his men walk around the little house you were staying in, looking for any valuables. There were some, and even though Negan found you charming, he still didn’t know you. Didn’t know if that happy to not be alone thing was an act or not.

He drilled you, asked you questions and tried to scare you a little bit, but it was impossible to frighten you - which frightened him. He’ll admit, you spooked him with your naivety back then. It was creepy as shit.

You just kept giggling, kept standing too close to him, and when Negan finally made his men look through the house, you took a seat on the old couch in the living room. “So nice of them to help me with my stuff. I’ve been alone here since my brother never came back after he went looking for something for us to eat. I’m really lonely. Really hungry too.” It was obvious to Negan at that moment, just how clueless you really were - but it was also really fucking cute.

He’d spent so much time fighting, arguing, forcing - and finally having someone give in without resistance was nice. That day, he found himself sitting back on the couch in front of you, and then you made the move to get up and sit next to him. Clueless. Dangerous, your innocence.

But deep down, in a thought Negan didn’t even want to admit to himself -

It was nice to be around someone who wasn’t scared of him. Someone he didn’t have to force.

“We only just met, kid. Personal space,” he remembers saying, but you just laughed. Sweet and hungry, you said. Negan couldn’t wait to bring you home and feed you. He was already wondering where you would fit in, hating himself for being worried about how the other women would treat you if he threw you in with his wives. Maybe you could teach them a thing or two, about being nice. But then again.

His wives are bitches. Although Negan can’t say he doesn’t understand why.

“You play baseball?” You asked, looking towards his bat that was resting beside his foot while he held onto it. He was in a state of disbelief. He couldn’t understand how someone could be so, so -

“No, honey, I don’t. You pullin’ my leg or something? Or are you really just that,” stupid, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. Because your bottom lip jutted out like you were about to cry, then your eyes filled with tears, and Negan loves to hurt people to see how far he can take it until they try to hurt him back - but with you, he knew you wouldn’t fight back.

Took a lot of the fun out of it, so he quickly changed the subject. It’s only fun to make a beautiful woman cry when it serves a purpose, and Negan didn’t see any purpose in hurting someone as…you know what? He’s got nothing nice to say, he won’t say anything at all.

“How’s this,” he said instead, placing a hand on your knee. Your skin was warm under his palm, soft where his rough fingers touched you. “You come back with us, and you can eat whatever you want. As much as you want. You in?”

Truth be told, Negan planned on bringing you back with him, regardless of if you wanted to come, at this point. Because when he touched your knee, you put your hand on top of his, and that was all it fucking took to disarm him.

Little bunny, not scared of the big bad wolf. Now that’s a fairy tale Negan’s never heard of -

He’s always liked to write his own rules, anyway.

────

Negan calls you his bunny, and you like it, but you think you like being called doll better.

He tells you all the time that you look like a doll. No matter what time of day, no matter what you look like, he’ll never stop giving you that compliment. It always makes your face heat up, and sometimes it even turns you on.

What can you say? You’re a woman, and being by Negan’s side makes you feel more feminine than you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

He treats you like you’re breakable. Gives your forehead kisses, brings you food, takes care of all your needs. The truth is, you’ve always been treated like you’re breakable, but nobody ever acted like they enjoyed having to take care of you. Negan says he’s happy that you need him so much, and you like that.

You like being the kind of woman who gets protected. The kind of woman who gets doted on and adored. Ever since you met Negan, your nails have been clean and your knees have been without a bandage, your tummy has been full - you didn’t think you’d ever feel clean and pretty again, until he swept you off your feet like you always dreamed would happen to you.

Negan has a lot of pet names for you. Bunny, doll - those are just a few. Sometimes you wonder if he even knows your real name, because he never says it. Baby, sweetheart, cutie. Darling. Everytime he opens his mouth to say something in regards to you, something sweet is coming out of it.

You’ve only been with him a few months, but you love him so much you can’t stand it. You want to be around him all the time, but it’s just not possible, he says.

You don’t know what Negan does when he leaves his, yours, the room you both share, because you spend most of your time in there. Sometimes you go out, with him, or with one of his men that you met that day at the farmhouse, but if Negan’s not taking you out, you don’t really want to go anywhere.

You’re happy to stay in the room. There’s books, although you don’t really read…but there’s plenty of things to do to keep yourself busy. Most of the time, you just sleep. Sometimes it’s a little boring, waiting for Negan, but you’re eternally grateful for being able to nap again. Life on the road was scary, stressful.

“You’re not built for life out there, baby,” Negan told you once, which translated to life without me, but it’s not like you disagreed. You were sitting on his lap, your head resting on his shoulder, asking him to tell you about his day. You love the stories he tells you, because they make you feel even more grateful to be somewhere safe.

Negan is so good to you.

You know that Negan is in charge of the place you’re at, and that makes you feel funny, and lucky, to be the woman he chose. You know it’s practically the apocalypse and all, but you’re sure he had a lot of women he could’ve chosen to date. He’s handsome, so handsome, and he’s the nicest, most generous man you’ve ever met.

He gives people jobs, and medical care. He has a system to kill off all the walkers that come too close to the building, and it’s so smart that you know he must’ve come up with it himself. He has so many supporters and people that respect him - which tells you all you need to know, about him being an amazing leader. When he walks in a room, everyone gets quiet, and that makes you feel giddy, knowing the amount of power he holds.

Although, it shouldn’t exactly surprise you. Negan was able to get power over you pretty quickly, but that’s only because you let him. It’s just -

You don’t know how else to be. You’ve always been this way - ditzy, head full of air, dumb. You’ve heard it your entire life, which is maybe why it feels so good to hear Negan call you nice things. To love that you might not be the, what was it your father always said to you? Not the brightest candle on the birthday cake? Not the sharpest tool in the shed?

You know you sound dumb - but you like sounding dumb. You like that Negan is around to think for you, to tell you what to do and when to do it. He tells you what you should be thinking, and you listen.

Negan knows best. You could hardly survive on your own for a week, and look at what he built.

Sometimes though, no matter how strong a leader Negan is, things get hard.

Bad things happen, little bunny, he tells you, patting his lap for you to take a seat. You do, and you look up at him with wide eyes, ready for whatever he plans on telling you. You know it has to be serious, because he didn’t ask you to take your clothes off yet. That’s usually the first thing out of his mouth, whenever he’s back in the room for the night.

Negan tells you that sometimes, people break his rules, and when that happens, they have to be punished. He asks if you heard anything while he was out, any screams or any loud voices - but you shake your head. You arch a brow, curious. “Why?” You ask, and he stares at you for a moment, tongue licking over his bottom lip. Then he grins, and you smile back cluelessly.

“That’s it, huh?” He says, but you know not to reply. You don’t need to. Talking out loud, Negan explained to you.

Sometimes he’s just in shock, is all, about how clueless you really are.

He maneuvers you easily, his little doll, into straddling his lap. Bucks his hips up, so you can feel what you’re doing to him just by existing. He killed three men today, burned the face off of another, and you’re looking at him like he hung all the stars in the sky.

It’s beautiful, and Negan’s pretty sure this blind obedience and worship you have for him is the best kind of love he’s ever received. He’d do anything to keep you this docile. This trusting.

This dumb, about who he is and what he does. You think he’s the nicest guy in the world, and you’re a sweet little thing. Why would he ever want to change that perception?

He reaches his hand between your bodies, to lift up the bottom of the big shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, to feel how wet you are. No panties, because he told you that they don’t exist anymore. Just - they were all taken. He didn’t know if you’d seriously believe that, but you do, and it’s just too good to be true.

“Don’t mean to worry you about all that grown up, scary stuff, honey,” he fakes an apology, loves that your little cunt is ready for him, wet, shaved all proper, sucking his finger in when he starts prodding at your opening. You whine, biting on the inside of your cheek because his fingers are so long and you love the attention after you’ve spent all day alone.

You're not even offended at his little insult. Grown up stuff, as if you're not a full adult yourself. You're too busy focusing on the feeling of his ownership, the fact that you quite literally exist for him, like any good toy does.

Although, be real. Being finger fucked or not, it's unlikely you would've understood that comment was an insult anyway.

It’s your special time together, moments like these, and if it’s even possible - you become more brainless. Let him play with your pussy, let him push you down on the couch, slip his dick inside of you, make you so full that sometimes the feeling scares you a little, but you like it nonetheless.

Your favorite part about the sex is how it feels to be in Negan’s arms after. Warm, body loose, his cum dripping out of you as he tucks you into bed. Back at that farmhouse, all alone, you cried yourself to sleep every night. There were so many scary noises, so much land that you could only imagine the horror that was lurking outside. When your family was alive, you were still scared -

They’d just tell you to shut up. But not Negan.

There’s no fear with Negan, you think, closing your eyes as his arms wrap around you.

You’re the safest you could possibly be. You think about this while your drift off to sleep, but Negan thinks the opposite -

He’s the face of nightmares to more people than he can name, but you cling to him like he’s your savior.

────

“You got any brains in that head? Or is it just filled with ribbons and whatever that frilly shit you’ve got on is called?” Dave, one of the men you hate most in this world, snaps the strap of your tank top against your shoulder so hard that it makes you want to cry. Your eyes fill up with tears, and in typical you fashion, you stomp your foot and use what little strength you have to push him away from you. Your bottom lip trembles.

“Leave me alone,” you whine (beg), arms crossed over yourself protectively when Dave finally steps back.

He’s not alone - a few moments ago, you screamed and the men patrolling the compound heard and came running. But they did nothing to help, and instead, have made you feel bad about screaming at all. As if you could control your reaction to a fucking spider crawling across the toe of your shoe. Brand new shoes, you must add, because don’t these men understand how hard it is to get new shit nowadays?

Don’t they understand how scary and dangerous spiders are?

The honest truth is that it doesn’t cross your mind that these are the same men that risked their life to get you the shoes you’re wearing, but. They don’t have to be so mean.

“No. You’re such a dumbass. Screaming like that’s fuckin’ dangerous,” another man says, and you don’t even know his name but being reprimanded like this makes you cry. Being called a dumbass makes you want to sob. You admit that, yeah, maybe you’re a little airheaded sometimes. Maybe you’re a little clueless, when adjusting to life in this new, yucky world, but fuck - would it kill people to be nice?

Name calling is never the answer.

“I’m not dumb,” you say softly, with no confidence in your voice. You should have known better than to leave the room without asking anyone to escort you.

There’s no rule that says you can’t leave the room, but you’ve been at the sanctuary for months now, and you rarely leave the room you share with Negan unless he’s with you. Out of all the men that work for him - the only ones that treat you decently are the ones that were with him that day they found you at the farmhouse.

The times you do leave the room, everyone treats you so weird. They’re all cruel, whispering about how stupid you are when you walk past, holding Negan’s hand. Or they just stare at you, which makes you feel insecure. It’s even worse when they ask you questions, because no matter how hard you think about the answer, they’re unhappy with it.

You think to a few weeks ago, when you walked past a room with a bunch of women just sitting around. Negan said you weren’t allowed to go in there, but when his back was turned later that day, you walked over there to talk to some of them.

“Negan know you’re here?” One of them asked, looking nervously behind your shoulder. Your brows furrowed, confused.

“Huh? Uh, no, but it’s okay. I just never see any other women here, I,” but she cut you off, and you heard hushed whispers in the corner of the room where a small group of women sat together.

“You should go,” she said, dismissing you, and that was the last time you left the room. In the room, you’re safe.

You’ve got things to do, and a big collection of stuff that makes you happy that Negan got for you. Clothes, magazines, even if they are old. Purses and things to color with, to paint with. You keep pretty busy most days. Plus, his side of the bed smells like him, and you love to nap next to it when he’s not around.

You only left the room today because Negan didn’t come back last night, and you’re worried about him and very upset and lonely.

You walked around the sanctuary, wondering where he could possibly be, when a spider crawled across your shoe and, well. Here you are.

“A spider isn’t a fuckin’ emergency. Jesus fuck, I swear, Negan’s a sick son of a bitch for even fucking you. ‘S like you got a problem or something,” Dave says, and you wish you could just walk away and run back to the room, where you’d be safe, surrounded by all the things that make you happy - but they’re all blocking your path.

“Yeah, man,” the other one says. You wish you weren’t so bad with names. “Scared of a spider but not scared of the fuckin’ walkers outside,” he scoffs, and somehow you find it in you to defend yourself. You wish you could say more, but you just can’t. It’s so frustrating, not being able to come up with anything to say on the spot.

“Walkers used to be human. Spiders are icky bugs. I’m scared of bugs, not humans. I didn’t mean to scream,” but nobody is listening to you.

“It’s not right, Negan fuckin’ you. Weird as shit. You got something wrong with you? Dropped on your head as a baby? Can’t feel right fuckin’ a dumbass doll, you’re real cute though,” and he just goes on and on while the other men laugh, and you can’t help it, tears are pouring.

“I just want to find Negan. Where is he?” You try to wipe your eyes, hating yourself for being such a big baby. Hating yourself, for not paying better attention to the layout of your new home when Negan gave you a tour, because you were so focused on the feeling of holding his hand, that you paid no attention to almost everything else. You hate how dependent on him you are, and you wonder if he hates it too.

Maybe he’s been gone because he’s sick of you. Maybe he’s going to bring you back to the farmhouse, because he doesn’t like you anymore. Maybe everyone else told him why they don’t like you, and now he believes them, and he’s such a good leader that -

Footsteps, and then you hear the slow, deliberate chuckle you’ve come to know so well. You’d recognize Negan anywhere, even with your eyes closed. He rounds the corner, behind Dave and the other men, and they scramble like they’re stepping on hot coals with bare feet, making room for him.

“Ohhh, no no no,” he says, voice like honey, and you wonder why. You wonder why he’s happy, until it clicks in your brain that this might be the sarcasm your brother used to always talk about. “See, I might let a lotta things go. But talking to her like that? That’s just beggin’ for a lesson in respect.”

Negan doesn’t yell. Just tilts his head, eyes narrowing in on the men who were just being big old meanies to you. Your crying stops, but you’re so upset that you don’t even run to Negan like you normally would. You look down, towards your shoe, where Negan uses the tip of his bat to kill the spider that wandered off.

“Go to our room, bunny. You know how to get back there, don’t you, sweet girl?”

You don’t, not really, and you must freeze for long enough that Negan takes his eyes off the men and shakes his head. Then his eyes focus on you, and he nods in the direction to go.

“That way, baby,” he says with a sigh, and then you scamper off.

────

Negan’s pissed -

It’s been a long time since he’s felt this emotion, but the truth is that he’s pissed at himself.

He should have known better than to leave you alone overnight. He didn’t intend to be gone so long, but shit happened that he had to handle, and you’d been so easy to manage since you arrived. So good. So happy and at peace with what he gives you, eager for isolation in a way that even surprised him.

He didn’t think you’d even notice if he was gone, but that was his mistake - because the minute he found you back in the room, crying your eyes out again, he set his bat by the door and hoped to god that you were dumb enough to not notice the literal pieces of brain stuck to it. Dave, and the others who were dumb enough to fuck with you?

They were handled, and Negan finds it kind of funny that they had the nerve to insult your intelligence. As if speaking to you like that wasn’t about the stupidest, most suicidal thing a man at the sanctuary could do.

“I’m so sorry, Negan. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” you sob, even as he sits down beside you and pulls your tiny frame into his lap. You latch onto him, sniffling and shaking your head, obviously disappointed at the way you acted.

You’re such a good girl, that even when you don’t break the rules, you’re still worried about getting into trouble. Desperate for his approval, eager to please, eyes that look like that when they’re filled with tears.

Jesus fucking -

Negan’s painfully hard, and he’s ready to take his cock out and tell you to lick it, bunny, yeah, like a lollipop, but he’s got to make you feel better first. His sweet girl, his best girl, worried that he might be mad at her.

“You’re not in trouble, baby, you know that? Did nothing wrong. Dave and the others will be taken care of, don’t you worry,” he rubs your back with one big hand, doesn’t even try to mask the fake concern and damn near baby talk just to make you feel better. Anyone else would be able to see right through it, but not you.

Fuck, even that thought makes him harder.

“I don’t know why they don’t like me, but,” you stutter out. “It’s not a big deal. Guess I’m just being a baby, I just missed you, and I got lost, and then there was the spider and,” Negan has to stop you there.

“Not a big deal?” he echoes you, voice low and no longer sugar sweet. “Baby, someone made you cry. That is a big deal. That’s a fucking world-ending deal.”

Negan’s never felt this way about a woman. Protective. Sure, he’s felt possessive about his wives, will burn the face off of any fucking bastard who tries to touch them even if he’s ignoring them, but he could care less what actually happens to them.

But you? Knowing that you were lonely. Lost, all dumb and cute wandering around the sanctuary. It was risky, he’ll admit, to have you think it’s alright for you to just walk around freely. What if you saw something that changed the way you thought about him? What if you hurt yourself, what is someone tried to touch you? He makes a mental note to think of some excuse to have you stay in the room from now on, unless he’s with you. Something to scare you.

Just thinking about those fucking pieces of shit upsetting you - he might have to dig their decaying corpses out of the guts of the walkers he fed them to, just to kill them again.

You’re nervous. He can tell, by how tense you are on his lap. Wordlessly, he grabs your hips and forces you to sit, enjoys the feeling of his bulge bumping up against the thin fabric that hides your cunt. No more underwear - fucking genius of him.

“Look, honey,” he starts, sighing again as if it’s hard for him to say this. “I wouldn’t hurt a fly. You know that -”

“You killed a spider, though. That’s kind of like a fly.”

Are you fucking serious? Negan ignores that. At least you’re not crying anymore.

“Baby, I don’t want to hurt anyone, but anyone messing with you needs to have some consequences,” you’re pouting, and you look like you’re about to cry again, so he changes the subject. That’s always easy to do with you, and he feels a rush of affection for his sweet, dumb girl.

Gently, he pushes you off his lap so he can stand, then he grabs your hand to lead you to the bed. He takes your clothes off first, sitting on the edge of the bed while you’re standing between his legs, and he rubs his hands up and down your sides.

So soft. So perfect, your cute little skirt falling to the floor. He helps you step out of it because he knows how clumsy you are, and when your breasts are bare he grabs both of them in his hands, rubs his thumbs over your nipples, lets the sexy sounds you make go straight to his dick.

“Where were you, Negan?” You ask, and that surprises him. Takes him aback, because you never ask him questions like that. If you were any other woman, he might think that you were trying to catch him in a lie or something - but because you’re you, he just leans in and kisses you, fists a hand in the back of your hair while he does it, a little roughly.

You told him once, that he was too rough, and he told you that all men are like that if they really like a woman. That’s all he had to say. You believed him. Even asked him after that, on a night he was all gentle, if he still liked you.

His dick gets harder, if possible, thinking about it.

“You don’t need to worry your little head about that, alright? I’ll be honest with you, baby - I’ll probably need to go out again tonight,” he ignores your frown by standing, pushing you down on the bed. You’re on your stomach, and then he pats you on the ass, and you’re so good that you remember what that means. What you’re supposed to do. You get on all fours, and you don’t even whine like usual when he pushes down on your back to get you to arch.

You don’t question him further, but maybe that’s because he takes his belt off, unzips his pants, takes his dick out and gets behind you on the bed. He runs the head of his cock, leaking, between your folds, grins at the way you’re trying to suck him in. Greedy little thing, how badly you want his cock.

He presses in a little, just to tease you, and you make small noises and move your hips a little. “What a good girl,” he talks out loud, but he knows that his girl likes a lot of praise. “Doesn’t matter how long I keep you on a shelf, dolly, does it? You’d be here, waiting for me. Ready for me, however I want you. Fuck,” he groans, when he bottoms out inside of you.

Your pussy is better than all of his wives combined, but maybe that’s just because you’re his. His to break in, his to mold to his own liking. His to fuck, his to keep, his girl, his toy, his doll. Those other women - they weren’t even his to start with, which was a little fun, part of the appeal - but it’s nothing like this. Nothing is as good as this.

Negan fucks you, and you take it. Honestly, it used to freak him out a little, how submissive you are. Just laying there, however he asks you to, keeping quiet if not for the little noises you make. You cum fast, whenever he touches your clit or finds that spot inside of you, and he knows it’s because you never touch yourself.

He asked you once, if you play with yourself when he’s gone, but you looked at him like he was crazy. “Don’t know how to,” you said, all embarrassed, but Negan wants to keep you that way. Like a pot that boils only for him, his little magic lamp. A few thrusts here, his fingers or a lick there and - boom. Squeezing his cock so tight it feels like it’s about to break off. Perfect.

He cums deep inside of you, hopes that one day he’ll be able to knock you up, but he’s still a little nervous about how you’d be as a mother. Maybe he could get one of his wives to help out if that happened, or maybe -

He pulls his dick out of you, sweaty and spent, trying to screw his head back on straight. Maybe he should not even be thinking about starting a family right now. He’s got enough on his plate as is, especially when you turn around and look at him with hearts in your eyes, making grabby hands at him that just look too innocent when you’ve got his spunk leaking out of your pussy.

Negan lays down with you, and you lay your head on his chest, drawing hearts and little shapes with your finger on his skin while he catches his breath.

“Bunny,” he warns after a few minutes, and you look towards him, position yourself on your stomach with your hands flat on his chest, your head balanced on top of them. You’re looking at him like he’s the sun, and shit if it's not waning on his evil streak just a little bit. You’re fucking precious.

“I don’t want to leave you, but I have some business to take care of,” and then your happy look fades.

Even so, you try to snuggle closer, until he literally just pulls you closer.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. What if someone hurts you, and you never come back?” Your voice is quiet, sad, and Negan almost blows his entire cover right there, almost wants to tell you that there’s no bigger monster than him just to tame your anxiety.

Instead, he changes the story. Tells you that there’s some insane guy out there, with a group of people who are taking supplies away from the sanctuary. They want to hurt people, they want to hurt him, but he’s arranging a peaceful talk and hopefully, they’ll agree. He’ll have plenty of backup, of course, and you know how good I am at staying calm, honey, and then you’re at ease, kissing him all sloppy because you miss him already, and really, it’s a perfect send off.

“Good girl,” he tells you later, when you make it easy for him to leave. You don’t give him any shit. After fucking you, he spent a few hours just playing with you. Making you try on some of the new clothes he found you, he did a new puzzle with you (you’re surprisingly good at puzzles, and he’s impressed), and then he counted how many fingers you could take in your sweet little cunt before cumming (four).

You had good quality time together, which is why his praise means so much. But who are you kidding: Negan’s praise is the most important thing in the world to you.

When he says goodbye, he makes you promise (pinky promise) to stay in the room. That someone will bring you food, but he’ll be back in the morning. You promise, stand up on your tip toes when he teases you by holding his hand higher than you can reach, but you end up grabbing his closed fist and you press a kiss to his outstretched pinky. Then you kiss him, and he asks you to keep his bed warm. Stay pretty for him, he says, shutting the door. Keep bein’ sweet.

When the door locks behind him, Negan thinks about you the entire way to the car, even with his men following him. He should feel bad about the way he treats you, but he doesn’t.

He tells you stories, half-truths painted in bright colors. You think he keeps people safe, that he’s a good person who does things for the greater good, and you’re always amazed that he’s willing to protect people like you, who can’t do anything without someone else calling the shots.

It’s not so wrong though, he thinks, wanting to keep you in the dark. Someone like you deserves an opportunity to stay soft. If anything, he’s doing you a favor, keeping you sheltered like this.

You stay soft, you stay blind to the cold, hard truth about the fucked up world around you. About the man you share your bed with.

He’ll kill and hurt and do whatever he has to do to survive, and because he finds a thrill in it - and you'll stay locked up like a pretty doll on a shelf, spending your days applying lotion and trying on pretty dresses, doing your puzzles and looking through your magazines. Dumb and oblivious and waiting on him to give you a purpose. Perfect.

Negan’s not a romantic, but he thinks that there’s something safe about not knowing the truth. Something kind of beautiful about believing in the myth of a good man.

That night, before Negan steps out of his trailer, before he lines up every member of the fucking group he’s been itching to put in their place for much too long now, he looks in his pocket for the picture of you that he snapped on a polaroid camera. Pretty, sweet, sitting on his couch in a pink tank top and a little white skirt.

You’re beautiful, and you think he’s good.

If he looks hard enough at you, he wonders if he’ll start to convince himself of it too.

Negan Smith is a bad man, he knows - but he thinks you might be sweet enough for the both of you.

#negan smith ㅤ♡#negan x reader #negan smut #negan x you #negan smith x reader #negan smith x you #negan smith smut #twd x reader #twd smut #twd imagine #twd x you #twd x y/n #negan smith

315 notes · View notes

brekkie-e · 8 months ago

Text

Veilgaurd exists in such a weird spot on the morality circuit to me. It's so clear that they've got overt inclusivity messaging all over the place. To the point of ludicrousy at times (looking at you Lords of Fortune i.e. Jake and the Neverland Pirates.) When they're trying to make a point about what is morally good and the correct point of view™️ they hit you over the head with it. Thinking about Taash's dialogues about the Lords not stealing anything "cultural, you know- important" and their codex entry about gender. It's not that any of these messages or sentiments are wrong. But the way they are handled in the story is so at odds with a piece of media rated for mature audiences.

And then. And then the game turns around and makes the Antaam the most egregiously racist depiction of the Qunari in the series to date. The fact they managed that is kind of amazing in and of itself because I think the goal was to minimize the Qunari dilemma. By saying "not all Qunari! Just the Antaam!" It's similar to what they're aiming for with the Venatori and Tevinter.

The problem is though, now they've backed in to a corner where the warring Qunari faction is under the umbrella of "ridiculous disney villian that we don't explore further than that." And in doing so paint almost every Qunari that follows the Qun as a mindless brute that wears next to nothing and spends most of the game growling. Which is just. Deeply unsettling to see in a game that is trying so hard to be woke you feel like youre watching them pat themselves on the back as you play.

Like how do you double down so so hard on the inclusivity in so many aspects, and then turn around and do that?

I mean how did Dragon Age 2, a game that came out in 2011, portray the Qunari characters as so much more nuanced and intelligent than the 2024 Inclusivity Champion? Not to mention Kirkwall as a whole actually explores Tevinter's slavery problem on a much deeper level than Minrathous does? The narration Varric gives about the Gallows and the slave trade in the span of 30 seconds discusses more about the Tevinter Empire's relationship with slavery than Veilgaurd does in the entire game. That's without even mentioning Fenris.

Now I'm not claiming any of the previous titles were without their own mis-steps here. Im just a little irritated by how much this game reeks of hypocrisy at points.

#brekkie thoughts #bioware critical #dragon age critical #veilgaurd critical #dragon age the veilgaurd #datv

1K notes · View notes

thebibliosphere · 2 years ago

Note

I both believe "poor people deserve art" and "artists deserve food", but it's hard to reconcile those beliefs. I blame capitalism. And I suppose it mostly matters who you're stealing from?

I don't mean to question you at all, I'm against people pirating your stories. I guess I was just wondering if you had more thoughts regarding the reconciliation the two beliefs I quoted above.

I think the reconciliation is working toward a future where things are better, and authors and artists don't have to beg people not to steal from them because they think every author is Stephen King, who wouldn't notice if you stole the pennies found under his couch when in reality most of us are hunting for spare change down the back of the couch because we are earning below minimum wage.

We need people to embrace the idea that art belongs to the working class, both in terms of consumption but also creation.

If you don't support the working-class creators, you'll only end up with rich fucks with no scope of the world beyond their own narrow view of privilege.

Indie creators are actually working very hard to change the way the industry works, and the publishing industry is shitting itself over it. They don't like the success some of us are having. It's why they keep upping prices while slashing corners on their own production (while never affecting the man at the top) to try and stay competitive within the rat race they've created.

They're not interested in the proliferation of art. They're not interested in making sure their authors can afford to live. They don't want more diversity. They don't want inclusion. They want profit at whatever the cost.

And while indie creators very much need to get paid because we live in a capitalistic society and everything is burning down around us, and a carton of eggs now costs more than what I earn per hour, our creativity is directly at odds with the type of profiteering big publishers want.

The money should go to the writers. Not the CEOs. The money should go to the workers in the print houses. Not the CEOs. No one needs the kind of wealth these people have. It's obscene. We need direct action against these conglomerates. We need unionization. We need a means to fight back so that we can make art and make it accessible.

So, how do we do that? I don't know. I'm just a very tired, disabled creator doing my best to keep my head above water. But I think getting people to realize that art and books are worth saving up for would be a good start.

That putting money in the pockets of creators is just as important as your own enjoyment of their art. Because if there aren't any artists, you've got nothing.

Getting them involved with their local libraries would also be a great start. Educating them on how the industry works is part of that. The number of people telling me they had no idea libraries paid authors is staggering. And that's intentional. It's a by-product of right-wing propaganda to make you think libraries are worthless and just sap taxpayers' money.

They're not.

If they were, the fash wouldn't be trying so hard to take them away.

Basically, we need working-class solidarity and for certain people on the left to rid themselves of the idea that just because something isn't borne of manual labor, it doesn't have worth. We need the artists and the dreamers as much as we need to bricklayers and the craftsmen. Otherwise, what's the fucking point of it all?

#sorry #this isn't an actionable answer to your question #I don't know what that answer is #I just need people to realize art is not the exclusive creation of the wealthy #and treating it as such is making everything worse

4K notes · View notes

cripplecharacters · 1 month ago

Note

How would I handle writing this like missing limbs, wheelchair users, conjoined twins, serious burns, and hearing issues in a fictional/ medieval-fantasy setting were surgeries, prosthetics and other modern technologies are not available? I want my stories to have a lot of disabled and disfigured characters while also not falling into harmful tropes and stereotypes(motivations being solely about being disabled or the villain is evil because their disfigured etc.) but I’m not sure what my limits are when it comes to a specific time period we’re technology is extremely limited.

Hi asker,

In advance: this is a very long post.

The thing about disabilities is that they exist whether you have the technology for them or not. And the thing about surgeries and prosthetics is that they are very, very, very old.

Pretty much all the information in this ask is from Wikipedia, by the way. When it's not, I'll give you a link.

The oldest known amputation is 31,000 years old, and the next oldest known one is 7,000 years ago. 7,000 years ago is like 6000 BC, well before the medieval era, even if we're using medieval to mean the very very start of it in 500 CE. 6000 BC is, well, 6500 years before 500 CE. People were doing surgeries in Ancient Greece and Ancient India and Ancient Egypt and Ancient China. Were they less successful, on average, than modern surgeries? Yeah, definitely, considering infection risks and germ theory if nothing else at all. But surgery existed, and "surgeon" was an established title and job by the medieval era. A lot of technology is older than you think.

And in the same way, people with serious burns, missing limbs, and hearing loss have existed for a very long time.

I'll start with hearing loss because its inclusion in this ask surprised me the most. This doesn't affect someone's lifespan, and it doesn't require any technology to live with. Sign languages develop wherever deaf people are, because people want and need to communicate with each other, and if not that then things like pen and paper or drawing symbols. Some people today with different degrees of hearing loss & deafness exist without ever putting on a hearing aid or cochlear implant.

As to conjoined twins, they are very rare. Half are stillborn, a third of non-stillborn twins die shortly after birth. They have better survival rates today than in the past. And even then, there are reports of conjoined twins who are either older children or even adults, for a very long time. Here is a link to a paper called "The 3,000-year history of conjoined twins."

Chang and Eng Bunker (1811-1874) would likely have been successfully separated today, but they existed as conjoined twins in their time died at age 63. Earlier still, Lazarus and Joannes Baptista Collaredo (1617- at least 1646) were a case of conjoined heterophagus twins; Joannes Baptista was a parasitic twin and much smaller than Lazarus, and reportedly could not speak or move his body parts independently. But they still both lived until at least age 29. Older still, the oldest mention we have I think, Augustine of Hippo in 415 CE mentions what was likely conjoined twins. So they can exist.

When it comes to missing limbs, they don't have to affect lifespan. They can, but they don't have to. Missing limbs can be congenital, and congenital amputees don't necessarily need a prosthetic. Today, most upper limb amputees, congenital or not, straight up don't use a prosthetic. And limb differences exist regardless of if prosthetics do.

Even then, prosthetics are very, very old. The first one that we know of for a limb is around 1000 BC in Ancient Egypt. Pliny the Elder, born in 23 or 24 CE, talks about a prosthetic hand. The Capua Leg is from around 300 BC, and for a time was the oldest known limb prosthetic. For a non-directly-real example, how many pirates in movies have you seen with peg legs and hook hands? That's because people using both of those things have existed for a long time. François Le Clerc (died in 1563) was a privateer who had a peg leg. François de la Noue (1531-1591) was a captain who had his arm amputated and then had an arm prosthetic with a hook. (Big century for guys named François and prosthetics I guess lol.) Götz von Berlichingen (1480-1562) had two different prosthetics for the hand he got traumatically amputated.

Which goes into the point: survivable amputations are very old. Some are like von Berlichingen, and are lost in an accident, which the person survives. But some are surgical, like de La Noue above; his arm was injured by bullets and amputated later. Celsus described one as far back as in the 1st century. I mean, I'm sure they were miserable, what with no anesthesia, but they existed, and people lived. (Maybe your fantasy world has magical anesthesia?) Here is a paper called "On some paleopathological examples of amputation and the implications for healthcare in 13th-17th century Lithuania," which in the abstract alone mentions specifically that one skeleton showed signs of healing.

Wheelchairs are also very old, by the way. They aren't exactly like our wheelchairs today, but the first ones we know of are around 525 CE. Other things, wheelchair-adjacent but not quite, were used before that. I mean, as long as people who cannot walk have existed, they have needed to move to other places for whatever reason. Wheels getting involved is the easiest way to get that done.

Last but not least, burns. These are related to amputations, because a severe enough burn – 3rd degree or 4th degree – needs surgery as treatment so you don't die, and amputation is surgery. And, like mentioned above, surgeries, specifically amputations, have existed for a very long time.

If your world has magic, why can't this extend to burn care and amputation as well? I don't mean completely healing a 4th degree burn that goes right to the bone, especially because 4th degree burns just don't heal, there's not enough left, but perhaps magic helps prevent infection to nearby sites, or, again, works as painkiller when it comes to an amputation or promotes faster healing of the amputation itself.

But either way, if you survive a burn, even with significant functional impairment afterwards, then you are already alive, and you might make use of things we've mentioned above like prosthetics or wheelchairs.

Sure, if a technology isn't there then it isn't there. We don't have Leg Regrowing Technology, meaning some people who used to have legs and lost them don't still have legs. But that doesn't mean we don't have any way at all whatsoever to support said people, and the same can be said of any era.

Hope this helps,

mod sparrow

#historical setting #fantasy setting #historical reference #historical fiction #prosthetics #anonymous #wheelchairs #deaf character #limb differences #conjoined twins representation #burn survivor representation #mod sparrow #with thanks to mod sasza for help as well #amputee representation

190 notes · View notes

heretyc · 2 months ago

Text

Modern! Domestic Lives with Prime Assets would Include...

* Modern meaning in our era [2020s]. These are my headcanons of them and what they'd do outside of the Outlast Trials universe where they're not murderers. The only exception to that rule is Franco considering his mob business. Enjoy. :D

Coyle —

Drinking beer on the porch as he watches a storm in the distance.

Adopting a dog at some point [a large breed, either a golden retriever or a dobermann].

Wearing matching sunglasses.

Helping him trim his beard.

Hearing him ramble about communists.

Helping him with his phone [he has no idea how the fucker works].

Helping him with his ranch [he'd 100% have a ranch somewhere in Oklahoma or Montana]. I'm thinking something like this:

Having a high reputation due to Leland's effect on people.

Hearing his stories from his time in the Marines. Then learning he actually hates water.

Helping him repair cars - he has a ton. Once they work, you watch him make bank from them. He then gives you a wad of cash, grumbling under his breath that "you should spoil yourself".

Hiking together. He lives by a nature trial.

ATV'ing. He loves that shit.

Going to gun shows.

Getting daily massages due to how strong his hands are.

Having a strong sense of justice due to Leland's connections with the police.

Having tons of sex...with the inclusion of his kink for electricity.

Having him protect you with his life.

Having him train you in self defense and how to work with guns.

Wearing the funniest couple's shirts because he finds that shit hilarious. Corny, but hilarious.

Going on random drives through the countryside on sunny days.

Watching him not give a shit about a potential natural disaster. He WILL sit on his porch and say, "if I can't fuckin' see it, it ain't happening".

Him looking away if you commit a crime. Like pirating, shoplifting, etc. Just don't threaten his values and you're good.

Him being hella annoyed during COVID and hating masks, but he wears them anyway.

Him always filling the cart at grocery stores because his ass eats all the food within a week. Expect constant trips.

Him winning food competitions. His stomach is a black hole.

Franco —

Being absolutely spoiled because his wealth does nothing but grow. Making hundreds of thousands a week will do that to you.

Sharing Cuban cigars [if you smoke].

Living in Louisiana most of the time [when business isn't concerned]. He enjoys New York, but Louisiana is his home. I'd imagine something like this near the bayou:

Him having a large collection of old and new cars.

Him being an excellent cook, and making you tons of authentic Italiano cusine, as well as Louisiana and New York specialties. He once tried to mix gumbo with pizza...he made it work, for some reason.

Going on vacation every single month. Most of it is business, some of it is for fun. His men once took over Bora Bora, so...he technically owns it, now. You go there all the time.

Constant. Partying.

Only having the best of the best. The best food, the best clothes, the best furniture.

Him being confused about Mafia AU in fanfiction. "The fuck is a "Mafia BTS AU?"

Him hating The Godfather and criticizing it.

Him answering any questions you might have about mafia business.

Having an "allowance".

Him having a fondness for shopping; specifically new suits and shoes.

Having to calm him down when he's angry; he's got an itchy trigger finger.

Having your initials carved into the side of Lupara.

Having him stare at your teeth almost with a fondness.

Spending winters in hotter climates; he can't stand snow. He does love "snow", though. [If you catch my drift.]

Always having sweets in the house. He has a stash.

Listening to old music as he works on making bullets.

Not being able to hide anything from him; he can read people scarily well.

Him taking COVID quite seriously; dumbass may have eaten dirt as a child but he still can't handle being sick.

Having the bathroom sink be full of skincare.

Having a ton of laundry detergents in the laundry room; he can't stand getting his suits dirty, so he washes them constantly.

Having the swamp in your backyard be full of alligators because he feeds them "rats". [People who betrayed him in some way]. He managed to name them, too. They're...strangely docile.

Him never mentioning his father, and trying to keep him at bay.

Late night drives when the both of you are bored as fuck.

Sleeping in all the time; he's lazy sometimes.

Him patching you up after you get a minor injury.

Country club visits.

Him teaching you self defense in case something goes wrong.

Having guards around his properties 24/7 if he's in a "war" with another mafioso. He wins, obviously, but...yeah.

Taking both cargo ship and cruise ship trips, both owned by him. He has a yacht, but it's in Cuba at his other property, and that's only used when he's in the clear.

The government being a tad too afraid to touch you.

Phyllis —

Helping her with her show, and featuring on it a few times.

Her show becoming a popularity among adults due to its vulgar themes; despite being aimed toward children, it's now featured on Adult Swim due to them not taking Phyllis seriously. I mean, who offers drugs to kids unironically?

Having to get Dr. Futterman's approval before being near his daughter. You get it quite fast. He's just a goose puppet real human being with real human feelings, after all.

Living in a cottage; she's a cottagecore girly. Something like this:

Watching her paint, and sometimes being her muse.

Buying tons of art supplies from Michaels.

Her not really caring about COVID; she spends all of her time away from people, anyway. She just speaks to you, her father and the producers. [Zoom exists for her to do the latter.]

Her making homemade foods; jams, ice creams, etc. She'd be a "crunchy" person, despite her love of drugs.

Her reading books to children at libraries.

Being a taste tester for her foods.

Always having her check your teeth for cavities.

Having her do your dental work.

Holding her yarn as she knits. [She took it up during COVID, she loves it.]

Making hats for Dr. Futterman.

Having to deal with Dr. Futterman's jokes.

Having your own garden; she takes excellent care of it.

Her loving storms, and comforting you if you have a phobia of them.

Sitting in rocking chairs and watching the clouds in the sky.

Every wall of the cottage being full of paintings.

Helping her run her social medias.

Watching old TV shows, like I Love Lucy and Golden Girls.

Her wearing nothing but floral gowns.

Her buying pet piranhas. They're in a fish tank in the living room...they're her babies, for some reason.

Her loving musicals. She loves Heathers, Sweeney Todd and CATS. [The OG's remember seeing the old CATS posters on billboards. I can hear my bones creaking...yeesh]

Her also enjoying opera; since learning she has the voice for it, she loves to sing and test herself.

Having a very...very...active sex life.

#outlast #outlast trials #the outlast trials #outlast fanfiction #outlast x reader #franco barbi #franco barbi x reader #leland coyle x reader #coyle x reader #coyle #leland coyle #phyllis futterman #phyllis futterman x reader #mother gooseberry #outlast fandom #mother gooseberry x reader

204 notes · View notes

velvetvisionsaurora · 4 months ago

Text

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

Want to be notified when a chapter is updated? Join the Taglist!

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist

Chapter 6

Echoes of the Past

The officers' mess was bathed in morning light as Ella approached. Conversation drifted through the partially open door, along with the smell of fresh bread and something spiced.

"Absolutely not!" Wooyoung's protest carried clearly. "You can't possibly think dried fish is an acceptable breakfast food."

"Nutritionally superior," came Mingi's response.

"Nutrition isn't the only thing that matters at breakfast," Seonghwa countered. "Morale affects crew performance."

"Which is why we need both," Yunho said. "Wooyoung's pastries and Mingi's proteins."

A chuckle—Hongjoong, Ella guessed—followed this solution. Their easy banter created an unexpected tightness in her chest. She lingered outside, reluctant to interrupt what felt like a private moment.

Before she could decide whether to enter, Wooyoung appeared in the doorway, a basket of bread in his hands. His surprised expression turned to welcome.

"Ella! Perfect timing—I was just taking these out of the oven." He gestured for her to enter, adding in a whisper, "Save me from these heathens who think breakfast should be practical rather than joyful."

His easy inclusion momentarily disarmed her. Ella found herself smiling despite her carefully maintained barriers.

"Surely there's room for both," she suggested, stepping inside.

The other officers turned at her entrance. Hongjoong straightened slightly. Seonghwa nodded politely. Yunho offered a gentle smile, while Mingi's gaze briefly met hers before shifting away.

"Join us," Hongjoong invited, indicating an empty chair. "Breakfast this morning has become quite the debate."

"Only because some people don't understand the importance of properly spiced morning pastries," Wooyoung declared, setting the basket in the center of the table.

The bread was golden-crusted, spiral-shaped, and dusted with cinnamon and sugar. The sight triggered a memory—a small boy arranging similar spirals on a makeshift plate, calling them "magic wheels" that would carry them away from danger.

"Cinnamon wheels," she said before she could stop herself.

Wooyoung froze, his hand still on the basket. "You recognize them?"

His tone carried such hope that Ella immediately regretted the slip. "The shape is distinctive," she said carefully. "And the smell is unmistakable."

"My specialty," Wooyoung confirmed, though his expression showed disappointment. "An old recipe I've worked on for years."

As they ate breakfast, Ella noticed a shift in the atmosphere. The easy banter had diminished, replaced by more careful conversation. Hongjoong discussed the day's sailing conditions, Seonghwa commented on supplies they needed at their next port, and Yunho detailed repairs scheduled for the rigging.

The change wasn't obvious—nothing in their manner suggested suspicion—but Ella sensed she had altered the dynamic by recognizing the pastries. Wooyoung, normally chatty, seemed particularly affected, his usual energy slightly subdued as he watched her break one of the cinnamon wheels in half.

Ella participated in the conversation carefully—offering useful information about shipping routes and trading patterns while watching each officer's responses. Seonghwa's questions revealed his methodical mind as he asked about Blackwell's security protocols. Yunho inquired about navigational markers used by Southern Trade Company vessels. Even Mingi occasionally asked precise questions about weaponry or harbor defenses.

Throughout, Hongjoong watched with that searching gaze she'd noticed since their first meeting. Unlike previous interrogations she'd endured, his questions never pressed into territory she was reluctant to discuss. When she hesitated over details of Blackwell's private quarters, he immediately changed the subject.

This consistent respect for her boundaries continued to unsettle her. Fifteen years of captivity had taught her that all information extraction had its price, that apparent consideration usually masked more sophisticated manipulation. Yet the pattern aboard the ATEEZ suggested something different—a genuine respect for her choice to share or withhold.

"The weather looks perfect for stargazing tonight," Yunho mentioned as breakfast concluded. "If you're still interested?"

Ella nodded, finding herself genuinely looking forward to it despite her usual caution. "I would enjoy that."

"Great." His smile warmed his features. "Sunset on the observation deck, then?"

As the officers dispersed to their duties, Hongjoong addressed her directly. "You're welcome to explore the ship today," he said. "The crew knows you have access to non-restricted areas."

"And what areas are restricted?" she asked, testing the boundaries of this apparent freedom.

"Only the munitions storage and my private navigation room when I'm not present," he replied without hesitation. "Standard security protocol rather than specific limitation for you."

The honesty of his response further disrupted her expectations. No false pretenses, no illusion of complete freedom later to be revealed as conditional. Just straightforward boundaries that acknowledged both trust and reasonable precaution.

"Thank you, Captain," she said, the formality shielding her growing confusion. "I appreciate that."

Hongjoong studied her for a moment, as if about to say something more, then simply nodded before leaving. Ella found herself alone in the officers' mess, the remnants of breakfast still scattered across the table—evidence of communal living so different from the rigid hierarchy she'd endured under Blackwell.

As she helped gather the dishes, a habit from years of service, she noticed a small wooden object that had been hidden beneath Mingi's plate. A tiny, perfectly carved compass rose embedded in wood, its points meticulously detailed despite its small size. She picked it up carefully, studying the craftsmanship. Something about the small carving tugged at her memory—not just from her brief time aboard the ATEEZ, but from somewhere deeper in her past.

"He marks everything he creates," Wooyoung's voice came from the doorway, startling her. "Mingi's compass signature."

Ella carefully set the carving back where she'd found it. "It's beautiful work."

"Always has been," Wooyoung agreed, moving to collect the remaining dishes. His hands worked with practiced efficiency despite his theatrical personality. "Even as a child, he could make wood speak."

The casual reference to their shared childhood created an opening too valuable to ignore.

"You've all known each other since childhood?" she asked, keeping her tone casual as she helped stack plates.

Wooyoung nodded, his expression softening. "We grew up together aboard—a ship, all of us cabin boys before we formed the ATEEZ."

The confirmation sent a quiet tremor through her carefully maintained composure. Five cabin boys? Five protective boys, where she had given them special nicknames, where she had entrusted Mr. Hugs to them before being sold at auction.

"That must have created strong bonds," she observed neutrally, despite her quickening heartbeat.

"The strongest," Wooyoung confirmed, suddenly serious. "We became family—the only one any of us had." He hesitated, then added casually, "There were six of us, originally."

Ella's hands stilled momentarily over the dishes. "Six?"

"Yes, six captured children." Wooyoung explained, watching her reaction. "They were separated from us during an escape attempt in Halazia. We... lost them."

The reference to their shared history hung in the air between them. Fifteen years of survival instinct screamed at Ella to deflect, to maintain her protective disguise. Yet something else—something buried beneath years of calculated self-preservation—urged acknowledgment.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, choosing words that offered sympathy without confirmation. "That must have been devastating for children to experience."

"It defined us," Wooyoung admitted, a rare solemnity replacing his usual animation. "We made an oath that night. To find them, no matter the cost."

The implications were impossible to misinterpret. This wasn't casual conversation; it was deliberate disclosure—an opening offered without demand for reciprocation.

"And have you?" she asked, the question emerging before she could stop it.

Wooyoung's eyes met hers with unexpected intensity. "Possibly, only time will tell," he said simply. Then, before she could respond, his characteristic smile returned as he gathered the stacked dishes. "But that's a story for another time. Enjoy your exploration today, Ella."

He departed with his usual flourish, leaving her alone with implications too significant to process hastily. The conversation had confirmed what she'd begun to suspect: these men believed she was the lost girl from their childhood. Their behavior—the careful consideration, the absence of pressure despite clear interest in her connection to Blackwell, the subtle tests of recognition—reflected this conviction.

As she finished tidying the breakfast remnants, Ella considered her position with new clarity. If they believed she was y/n, why not confront her directly? What purpose did this elaborate dance of hints serve?

And more importantly—what would happen if she confirmed their suspicions? Would they expect the frightened five-year-old they had known, unaltered despite fifteen years of captivity and calculated survival? Would her value to them diminish once curiosity was satisfied and childhood oath fulfilled?

The small compass marking caught her attention once more. She picked it up again, running her fingers over its smooth surface. Something about this specific design triggered a deeper memory than she had initially recognized—not just from brief observation aboard the ATEEZ, but from somewhere in her fragmented childhood.

She returned the compass to its place, a decision forming in her mind. Today's exploration would have new purpose: not just observing the ATEEZ and its crew, but seeking evidence to confirm or refute Wooyoung's claim. If these men had truly searched for y/n for fifteen years, tangible proof would exist somewhere aboard this ship.

With this resolution guiding her, Ella left the officers' mess, stepping into the corridor with renewed determination. Whatever game was being played aboard the ATEEZ, she would uncover its rules before deciding whether to acknowledge her true identity—whether to become the y/n once more after fifteen years.

Sunset painted the western horizon in orange and purple as Ella made her way to the observation deck. Her day of exploration had produce useful and jarring knowledge.

Despite the ATEEZ's reputation for ruthless efficiency in battle, its internal culture reflected principles beyond mere piracy. Guards maintained careful watch for danger without unnecessary intimidation. Weapons were meticulously maintained, with gunners practicing precision drills with calculated force rather than chaotic violence.

More relevant to her personal investigation, she'd discovered subtle evidence supporting Wooyoung's claim: a locked sea chest in the captain's cabin glimpsed through a partially open door, navigational charts marking systematic search patterns through ports known for slave trading, and most significantly, a worn ledger in the quartermaster's office listing auction houses visited repeatedly over fifteen years, each entry containing the notation "N.F." in carefully maintained columns.

None meant definitive proof, yet collectively they added up to commitment beyond mere coincidence or recent fabrication.

Yunho awaited her at the observation deck's railing, his tall frame silhouetted against the fading light. Unlike their previous encounters, he appeared slightly nervous, his usual gentle confidence edged with tension.

"You came," he said as she approached, relief evident in his voice.

“Of course," she replied, somewhat puzzled by his uncertainty.

He smiled, relaxing slightly. "Some find other priorities as sunset approaches. The sky changes quickly this time of year."

The observation deck provided clear skies in all directions, with specially designed railings that incorporated Star gazing tools. Technology typically reserved for military ships rather than merchant or pirate craft.

"This is impressive," she acknowledged, running her fingers over a calibrated sighting apparatus. "Not standard equipment for most vessels."

"The ATEEZ was designed for specific purpose," Yunho explained, pride in his voice. "Navigation and tracking capabilities were prioritized during construction."

"Tracking slave ships?" she asked directly.

He nodded, neither surprised by her intuitive leap nor hesitant to confirm it. "Among other targets. Captain Hongjoong has particular interest in disrupting the Southern Trade Company's operations."

"Because of Blackwell's business practices? Or something more personal?"

The question hung between them as the last sliver of sun disappeared beneath the horizon. Yunho considered her for a long moment.

"Both," he finally answered. "Though the full explanation is the captain's to share when he chooses."

Darkness gathered around them as the first stars appeared, tiny points of light emerging against the deepening blue. Ella tilted her head back, absorbing the vast canopy with familiar wonder. Despite fifteen years of captivity, the stars had remained constant companions—visible through high windows, from ship decks during transfers between owners, even reflected in harbor waters during rare moments alone.

"There," Yunho said softly, pointing toward the eastern sky. "Orion rises early this season."

The familiar constellation took shape as her eyes adjusted to the darkness—the three aligned stars of his belt, the four corners marking shoulders and feet, the nebulous glow of his sword.

"And there," she responded, gesturing toward the southeast, "Canis Major follows faithfully."

"With Sirius leading the way," Yunho completed, genuine pleasure warming his voice. "You really do know your stars."

"They were... consistent," she explained, choosing words carefully. "When everything else changed—owners, locations, circumstances—the stars remained the same. They provided stability when nothing else did."

The admission revealed more than she typically allowed, yet something about the quiet darkness and Yunho's gentle presence encouraged it. Unlike her calculated openings with Hongjoong or Seonghwa, designed to extract reciprocal information, this felt genuinely conversational.

"They guided us too," Yunho said quietly. "Through some very dark periods."

The statement seemed weighted with significance beyond its literal meaning, but he didn't elaborate further. Instead, he pointed out other constellations as they appeared—Cassiopeia's distinctive W, the Great Square of Pegasus, the faint cluster of the Pleiades.

For nearly an hour, they engaged in astronomical observation, Yunho occasionally adjusting a small telescope mounted to the railing to show her particularly interesting features. His knowledge was impressive, combining navigational functionality with genuine appreciation for celestial beauty.

"That one," she said eventually, pointing to a relatively dim star near the horizon, "what's its name?"

Yunho smiled, something bittersweet crossing his features. "It doesn't have an official designation in most navigational charts. But... I've always called it y/n's Star."

The direct reference to her true name created a momentary silence between them. Ella's heartbeat accelerated, though she maintained her outward composure.

"Why that name?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral despite internal turmoil.

Yunho's gaze remained fixed on the distant point of light. "Because it's small but resilient, easy to overlook unless you know exactly where to look." He paused, then added softly, "And because I promised someone once that I'd give her a star of her own."

The memory surfaced unbidden—a tall boy lifting a small girl to see through a porthole, telling fantastic stories about the night sky, promising that one day she'd have her very own star "right next to mine, so we can always find each other."

Ella swallowed against unexpected emotion. "A meaningful promise."

"The most important I've ever made," Yunho confirmed, finally turning to look directly at her. "One I intend to keep, even if she doesn't remember making it."

The implicit acknowledgment hung between them, an opening without demand. Ella felt the weight of potential recognition—the vulnerability of being known after fifteen years of necessary anonymity. Part of her urged acknowledgment, craved the connection this gentle man offered without pressure. Another part, forged through years of calculated survival, counseled continued caution.

Before she could formulate a response that balanced these competing impulses, a flare of light streaked across the sky—a meteor burning briefly before disappearing into darkness.

"Make a wish," Yunho said softly, the childhood phrase emerging naturally.

Despite herself, Ella closed her eyes momentarily, an old ritual from before captivity had taught her the futility of wishes. When she opened them again, she found Yunho watching her with gentle curiosity.

"Did you wish for something?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted. "Though I know better than to expect fulfillment."

"Sometimes wishes do come true," he countered, his voice gentle but certain. "Sometimes people find what they've been searching for, even after many years of looking."

The pointed reference was impossible to misinterpret. Like Wooyoung's earlier disclosure, it offered recognition without demanding acknowledgment—a space for truth without pressure for immediate revelation.

"And sometimes," she responded carefully, "what they find isn't what they remembered. Time changes people, Yunho. Especially difficult time."

He nodded, accepting this caution without offense. "It changes everyone involved. The searchers as well as the sought."

Another comfortable silence settled between them as more stars appeared overhead. Ella found herself increasingly at ease in Yunho's presence, his patient approach creating space for reflection rather than tactical response. Unlike most interactions during her captivity, this conversation flowed without underlying power dynamics—a genuine exchange between equals despite the circumstances of her rescue.

"May I show you something?" Yunho asked eventually. "A navigational technique specific to the ATEEZ."

At her nod, he guided her to a particular sighting tool mounted to the railing. "This was designed by Mingi and Seonghwa together," he explained. "It allows us to track specific star patterns and calculate our position with unusual precision."

As she examined the device, Yunho pointed out a small symbol engraved near its base—a simplified compass rose with five distinct points.

"Our marker," he explained. "It appears on all our specialized equipment."

"Five points," she observed. "One for each officer?"

"Originally, yes." His fingers traced the familiar pattern. "Though the symbolism has evolved over time."

She studied the engraving more closely, noting how four points formed a protective circle around the fifth. The design suggested more than mere representation—it implied relationship, purpose, commitment. Protection.

"We should head back down," Yunho suggested as a cool breeze strengthened from the north. "The temperature drops quickly once full darkness sets in."

As they moved toward the stairs, Ella was struck by sudden dizziness—a wave of lightheadedness that forced her to grasp the railing for support. Yunho immediately stepped closer, concern evident in his expression.

"Are you alright?"

"Just dizzy," she assured him, though the sensation persisted. "I'm fine."

"You're pale," he observed, professional assessment replacing casual concern. "How long has it been since you've been in open air for extended periods?"

The question gave her pause. Under Blackwell's ownership, her movements had been strictly controlled, outdoor access limited to supervised transfers between properties or occasional garden duties under guard.

"Some time," she admitted reluctantly.

"Come with me," Yunho decided, offering his arm for support. "You need to see our ship's doctor. This could be simple adjustment to sea air after prolonged confinement, but better to have you examined properly."

Ella initially hesitated at the mention of a doctor—medical examinations during her captivity had rarely been pleasant experiences—but the persistent lightheadedness suggested genuine need rather than excessive concern.

"Very well," she agreed, accepting his offered arm with measured trust. "Lead the way."

The medical bay occupied a surprisingly spacious compartment on the ATEEZ's lower deck, equipped with ventilation systems more sophisticated than Ella had observed elsewhere on the ship. As Yunho guided her through the doorway, the clinical space revealed itself to be unexpectedly welcoming—well-organized but softened by small touches that distinguished it from the other medical quarters she'd encountered during captivity.

"Yeosang?" Yunho called, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet space. "Are you here?"

Ella's breath caught in her lungs hearing that name. Her eyes moved around the space, searching in a practiced way that wouldn't alert Yunho to her frazzled state.

Movement from an adjacent small room answered his question as a young man emerged, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. He paused in the doorway, his gaze locking with Ella's in immediate, unmistakable recognition.

In that frozen moment, an entire history passed between them—seven years in Blackwell's household, a young boy's gentle hands treating a frightened girl's injuries, subtle kindnesses offered at tremendous personal risk.

Yeosang—the eight-year-old healer's apprentice who had become her only friend and ally under Blackwell's cruel ownership. The teenager whose forced separation had been deliberately orchestrated to teach her the futility of attachment.

His eyes widened fractionally, the distinctive birthmark near his left eye momentarily crinkling with suppressed emotion before his features smoothed into professional composure. It happened so quickly that Yunho, glancing between them, noticed nothing amiss.

"Yunho," Yeosang acknowledged, his voice betraying nothing despite the storm Ella could see raging behind his carefully controlled expression. "What brings you here?"

"Ella experienced dizziness on the observation deck," Yunho explained, unaware of the silent communication happening before him. "Possible reaction to extended exposure after prolonged confinement."

Yeosang nodded, his assessment appearing purely clinical though Ella recognized the subtle softening around his eyes that had always betrayed his true feelings. "Sit," he directed, gesturing toward the examination table. "When did the symptoms begin?"

As Ella complied, she maintained her own composure through years of practiced concealment, though her heart raced with the effort of containing her reaction. This was the boy she had once called "Angel" in the privacy of their whispered conversations—her protector and friend, the one whose forced sale had broken something fundamental in her twelve-year-old heart.

"Just a few minutes ago," she answered, watching as he gathered examination tools with the same precise movements she remembered from childhood, when he had treated her injuries with materials secretly collected from the manor's gardens. "It came suddenly."

"Any nausea? Visual disturbances?" His questions were clinically specific yet delivered with the gentle intonation she remembered from countless clandestine treatments in the shadows of Blackwell's mansion.

"No," she confirmed, carefully maintaining the pretense of unfamiliarity for Yunho's benefit. "Just lightheadedness and slight disorientation."

Yeosang's fingers pressed against her wrist to check her pulse, the touch containing the same careful respect for boundaries he had always shown. His eyes fixed deliberately on a point past her shoulder rather than meeting her gaze directly—a precaution she recognized as self-protection against revealing emotion.

"Your pulse is elevated," he noted, releasing her wrist. "Breathe deeply, please."

As he continued his examination, Ella noticed what Yunho could not see—the slight tremor in Yeosang's normally steady hands, the careful maintenance of physical distance beyond what medical procedure required, the deliberate avoidance of extended eye contact.

Most telling was a small wooden object partially visible within a half-open drawer near the examination table—a small wooden trinket box with distinctive compass marking inlaid on its lid. The same compass design she had noticed at breakfast, the one that had triggered deeper memory she couldn't quite place.

"Your blood pressure is likely affected by environmental changes," Yeosang concluded, stepping back slightly. "Prolonged confinement followed by sudden exposure to open sea air, combined with potential nutritional deficiencies common to..." he hesitated briefly, a flicker of shared memory passing between them, "...those who have been in captivity."

The careful phrasing registered as their old code—clinical terminology that disguised deeper meaning. During their childhood under Blackwell, Yeosang had developed a system of double meanings, medical terms that conveyed warning or comfort without alerting their captors.

"I'll prepare a tonic," he continued, moving to a shelf containing various prepared medicines. "Mild adaptogens with mineral support. It should stabilize your system while you adjust to ship conditions."

He selected a small bottle, measuring its contents with precise attention before adding drops of another substance and shaking the mixture thoroughly. His back to Yunho, he allowed himself a single unguarded glance at Ella—a look containing such complex emotion that her breath caught momentarily.

Recognition. Relief. Residual pain. Protective vigilance. All compressed into a single moment before his professional mask returned.

"Yeosang joined us two years ago," Yunho explained, apparently noticing nothing unusual in their interaction. "Best doctor in the seven seas, though his bedside manner occasionally lacks Wooyoung's charm."

"Fortunately, medicine doesn't require theatrical flourish to be effective," Yeosang responded dryly, the familiar deadpan delivery so characteristic of the boy she had known that Ella nearly smiled despite her carefully maintained facade. "Unlike cooking, which apparently depends entirely on dramatic presentation."

Despite his deadpan delivery, something like affection colored the doctor's tone, revealing genuine connection with the crew despite his carefully maintained professional distance. Ella found herself wondering at Yeosang's journey from Blackwell's household to the ATEEZ—whether the officers knew of their shared history, whether he had recognized her immediately or only upon seeing her in his medical bay.

"Drink this," Yeosang instructed, returning with a small cup containing amber liquid. "All of it, please."

The directive—one she'd heard countless times during childhood illnesses—carried the same gentle authority that had always characterized his care. Ella accepted the cup without hesitation, recognizing the familiar aroma of his signature healing blend, and swallowed the contents.

"The taste is better than I expected," she remarked carefully, a coded acknowledgment of recognition that Yunho would interpret as mere politeness.

"I've refined the formula over the years," Yeosang replied with equal care, taking the empty cup. Their fingers brushed momentarily, the brief contact conveying more than words could safely express in Yunho's presence.

"Thank you," she said simply, the gratitude encompassing far more than the immediate treatment.

Yeosang nodded, his professional demeanor maintained despite the slight softening around his eyes that only she would recognize as emotional response. "You should rest for the remainder of the evening. I'll prepare a week's supply of the tonic for continued support."

"Is that necessary?" she asked, the dizziness already subsiding. "I feel better already."

"Prevention rather than crisis response," he replied simply. "A philosophy that extends beyond medicine."

The phrase was one he had often repeated during their childhood—a principle he had taught her when treating minor injuries before they could worsen into conditions that would draw unwanted attention from Blackwell. The deliberate echo of their shared past confirmed what his expression had already revealed: he remembered everything.

"Here," Yeosang said, returning with a small bottle containing amber liquid. "Three drops in water, morning and evening."

As she accepted the medicine, their fingers brushed again—a contact that appeared accidental but conveyed deliberate reassurance. The gesture was so familiar, so characteristic of how they had communicated under surveillance, that Ella had to force herself to maintain a neutral expression.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said formally, the professional title serving as shield for Yunho's benefit.

"Rest well," Yeosang replied with equal formality, though his eyes held promise of future conversation outside watchful observation.

As Yunho escorted her toward the door, she glanced back for a final assessment. Yeosang had moved to his desk, making notes with practiced efficiency that revealed nothing of the emotional recognition she had witnessed in his initial reaction. Only the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed inner turmoil carefully disguised beneath professional detachment.

"He's an excellent doctor despite his reserved manner," Yunho commented as they moved through the corridor toward her cabin. "The crew would face far worse fates without his skills after battle."

The casual reference to combat reminded Ella that despite the ATEEZ's unusual culture, it remained a pirate vessel—its black sails feared throughout the maritime world, its reputation built on ruthless efficiency against chosen targets rather than indiscriminate violence. These men were not merely sailors but fighters, their hands equally skilled at healing and harm depending on circumstance.

"He seems very proficient," she agreed neutrally, her mind still reeling from unexpected reunion despite outward composure.

"Especially considering his past," Yunho added, then stopped suddenly, as if realizing he might be revealing information beyond his right to share. "But that's his story to tell if he chooses."

The hesitation confirmed what she had already suspected—Yeosang maintained privacy about his history, his connection to Blackwell unknown to the crew despite their campaign against the slave trader. The realization created additional complexity in her already complicated situation: not only did the ATEEZ officers believe she might be their lost y/n , but they had unknowingly brought aboard the one person who could confirm her identity through separate experience.

"I appreciate his assistance," she said simply, redirecting conversation away from dangerous territory.

As they reached her cabin door, Yunho hesitated. "Will you be comfortable alone? I could have someone bring you dinner if you'd prefer not to join the officers this evening."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine," she assured him. "The tonic is already working. I simply need rest."

He nodded, accepting her assessment without pressing further—another example of the respect for boundaries that characterized the ATEEZ officers despite their fearsome reputation. The apparent contradiction continued to intrigue her: men known for ruthless efficiency in battle showing such careful consideration in personal interactions.

"Sleep well," Yunho said, stepping back from her doorway. "Our next conversation with the stars will wait for another night."

As he departed, Ella entered her cabin and closed the door firmly behind her. For several long moments, she simply stood motionless, allowing the carefully maintained composure of the past hours to dissolve into genuine emotion. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed them against her face, breath coming in short gasps as the shock of recognition finally registered fully.

Yeosang. Here, aboard the same ship that had somehow collected five boys from The Crimson Serpent—the five who had tried and failed to protect her, followed now by the sixth who had sustained her through seven years of captivity under Blackwell's control.

The coincidence was too precise to be accidental, yet Yunho's casual introduction suggested the officers might not know of her connection to their ship's doctor. The implications raced through her mind as she paced the small confines of her cabin. If Yeosang had joined the ATEEZ two years ago as Yunho claimed, he had arrived long after the crew began their campaign against Blackwell. His presence represented separate convergence rather than coordinated search.

Did he know they sought y/n? Did they know his history with Blackwell included connection to the very girl they had sworn to find?

As she sank onto her bunk, the dizziness returning briefly with the emotional impact of discovery, Ella's mind drifted back to her childhood years in Blackwell's household—to the unexpected ally who had been ripped away from her like everything she cared for.

—————

Blackwell's Estate - Fourteen Years Earlier

Six-year-old y/n crouched beneath the servants' staircase, her small body contorted to fit the narrow hiding space as she waited for the household's daily inspection to conclude. One year in Victor Blackwell's ownership had taught her which moments permitted temporary invisibility, which infractions earned tolerable punishment versus genuine danger.

"You shouldn't be here," came a familiar whisper as a shadow fell across her hiding place. "Blackwell's inspecting the east wing personally today."

She looked up to find Yeosang—no longer the uncertain child from the auction house but a more confident nine-year-old who had established himself as valuable through his expanding medical knowledge. His position as the doctor's assistant gave him mobility throughout the household denied to most child servants, freedom he regularly risked to check on her welfare.

"Cook said I took extra bread," she whispered back, fear evident despite her attempted bravery. "I didn't, but she needs someone to blame for the missing loaf."

Yeosang's expression darkened momentarily before smoothing into practiced neutrality. "Come with me. The doctor's quarantining the laundry staff for suspected fever. No one will check the medicine storage today."

He extended his hand, offering assistance she had learned to accept despite initial wariness. Unlike other household staff who viewed each other as competition for limited resources and favor, Yeosang had demonstrated consistent protection without demanding payment or submission in return.

They navigated the mansion's servants' passages with practiced stealth, utilizing routes mapped through shared exploration during rare moments of unsupervised time. The medicine storage—a small room adjacent to the doctor's office—remained one of the few spaces where Blackwell rarely ventured personally, his aversion to illness known throughout the household.

Once safely inside, y/n relaxed slightly, her small shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch. "Thank you," she whispered, the gratitude encompassing more than just this current assistance.

Yeosang nodded acknowledgment, his own posture remaining alert despite their relative safety. "I found something yesterday," he said after ensuring the door was securely closed. "In the garden, near the west wall where the old oak fell during winter storms."

From his pocket, he withdrew an object wrapped in clean bandage cloth. With careful movements that suggested treasured discovery, he unwrapped the bundle to reveal a small wooden carving—not the rough bird he had given her at the auction house, but a more sophisticated animal figure. A tiny wolf, perfectly proportioned despite its miniature size, its details remarkably precise from pointed ears to textured fur.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, reaching out but stopping short of touching, afraid her hands might somehow damage its delicate features.

"Look at the bottom," Yeosang urged, gently turning the carving to reveal its underside.

There, carved with remarkable precision, sat a tiny compass rose—five points arranged in perfect symmetry, the craftsmanship suggesting specialized tools rather than improvised implements. The symbol stirred something in her memory, a fleeting connection to her time before Blackwell that disappeared before she could fully grasp it.

"Who made it?" she asked, finally daring to trace the compass marking with one careful finger.

"I don't know," Yeosang admitted. "It was half-buried in disturbed soil near the garden wall—like someone tossed it over from outside the estate."

The mystery of its origin added to the carving's significance, transforming it from mere object to potential message from the world beyond Blackwell's controlled domain. For children whose movements were constantly monitored and restricted, such connection to unknown outside forces represented rare hope.

"Keep it," Yeosang said, pressing the wolf into her palm. "Hide it somewhere safe. When things become difficult, remember that beauty exists beyond these walls, that someone took time to create this even though it served no practical purpose."

She clutched the carving carefully, its solid presence providing comfort beyond its size. "But you found it," she protested weakly. "You should keep it."

Yeosang shook his head slightly. "I have more freedom than you," he said, wisdom beyond his years evident in his assessment. "More opportunities for small pleasures through my duties. You need this more."

The generosity—giving away his discovery despite its obvious value—sealed the connection forming between them, transforming cautious alliance into genuine friendship. Unlike the calculated exchanges that characterized most relationships within Blackwell's household, where every favor expected repayment and every kindness concealed potential manipulation, Yeosang's gift came without evident advantage to himself.

"Thank you, Angel," she whispered, the nickname emerging spontaneously. When his expression registered confusion, she explained shyly: "Because you help when no one else will. Like guardian angels in the stories my mother used to tell."

Something shifted in his carefully controlled expression—surprise followed by unfamiliar warmth. No one in Blackwell's household used names beyond functional designations; personal identifiers represented connection that their owner deliberately discouraged among his property.

"We should return before they notice our absence," he said finally, though his tone carried new softness despite the practical words. "Different passages to avoid suspicion. You take the service corridor, I'll go through the main hallway."

As they prepared to separate, y/n impulsively pressed the wooden wolf back into his hands. "You keep it safe for now," she said. "My hiding places aren't secure enough yet. We can pass it between us when either needs it most."

The suggestion—sharing their sole treasure rather than claiming individual ownership—created connection beyond simple friendship. Through this exchange, they established their first deliberate resistance against Blackwell's systematic isolation of his household staff, their first shared secret that belonged to them alone.

Yeosang accepted the carving with solemn understanding of its significance. "Until next time," he agreed, carefully concealing it within his clothing before checking the corridor for witnesses.

Neither child recognized that the wooden wolf with its distinctive compass marking represented connection beyond their immediate circumstances—that its creator was one of five boys who had sworn blood oath to find a lost girl, that its compass rose symbolized promise rather than merely decorative detail. For them, it simply represented tangible proof that somewhere beyond Blackwell's walls, beauty survived despite cruelty—a small hope that sustained them through increasingly difficult years ahead.

Present

Exhaustion finally overcame her. Tomorrow would bring necessary decisions about potentially revealing her identity, strategic assessment of her position aboard the ATEEZ, and careful communication with Yeosang away from watchful eyes and ears.

But tonight, cradled in the gentle rocking of a pirate vessel feared throughout maritime waters for precision and ruthlessness, Ella whispered her nightly ritual with new understanding of its significance: "Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy."

And for the first time in years, she added without hesitation, "Angel."

Six names. Six protectors. Six separate threads of connection woven together against impossible odds into a single pattern she was only beginning to comprehend. The compass that had guided five cabin boys toward vengeance and purpose now pointed toward recognition and potential restoration—if she found courage to claim identity long buried beneath necessary disguise.

Outside her cabin, the black-sailed ATEEZ continued its relentless progress through night waters, its fearsome reputation flowing before it like shadow across waves, its crew unaware that the sacred oath driving fifteen years of mission had already been fulfilled.

Taglist: @hopeless-lovex0 @frankielou02 @jilxxasu @kur0kki @lezleeferguson-120 @uniquecloudbread @miniverse-zen @symmieangela

#ateez fanfic #ateez pirate au #ateez x reader #hongjoong x reader #mingi x reader #seonghwa x reader #wooyoung x reader #ateez smut #hongjoong #jeong yunho

187 notes · View notes

fanaticsnail · 5 days ago

Text

Craving Your Touch

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 2,600+

Synopsis: Although the Kid Pirates were beyond tactile in their love language, the only touch Wire found himself longing for was yours: a former marine joining the ranks of their crew with a properness to your language Wire continuously makes fun at.

Themes: Wire x gn!reader, yearning, swearing, one piece fluff, feelings, Wire has long hair, Kid Pirates Dynamic, love, friends to lovers, first kiss, Wire is starved for touch.

Notes: I just needed some romance for this beautiful man.

The first time Wire welcomed your touch against his body, the taller Kid Pirate stood in a hunched position over the bordering beam along the perimeter of the Victoria Punk. His eyes were peering along the horizon and squinting in the sunset as the warmth marred his gaze. With no prompting from him, your approach was soft, quiet, gentle: three aspects of life he seemed to have forgotten existed amongst the rambunctious crew of over thirty members.

“Commander,” you whispered as your hand moved to squeeze his bicep gently, “Vice-Captain Killer’s asked for you in the meeting space. Something about the leaders of each gang and cohabitation resources.” Wire arched his brow, smirking while gently turning his chin to face you.

“Killer use all those words?” he teased while relishing in your touch gently rubbing circles into his skin with the pad of your thumb.

“I may have added some flourish to his words,” you smirked in response, “But the sentiment remains the same. The Vice-Captain needs you. Commander Heat and Captain Kid will also be in attendance.”

“So many pretty words today,” he snorted out at you, “Sure you joined the right crew?” Finally turning to face you, he tried his best to maintain contact with your hand to no avail. Your grip slid from his arm as he rose to full stature. He was tall. Too tall.

“Any crew which has me serving by your side is the right crew, Commander,” you confessed quietly, bowing and turning on your heel away from him. His eyes trailed after you as he felt his breath travel with you in shock. Shaking off his stupor, he made his way towards the meeting space, all the while wondering just how he could earn more of your presence by his side. More of that gentle touch.

The second time he welcomed your touch against his skin, he was more prepared. He had been intentionally opening himself up to receive your touch, yet the only few people who would approach him was Heat for a butt of his head against Wire’s affectionately, or Dive running at full speed to be caught within his arms. Yet, sitting against the booth in a dingy tavern with Kid cackling hard at a story retelling by Bubblegum, inclusive of gestures and interpretive dance, was the next time he felt your touch.

Falling beside him as smoothly as cool shadow, Wire felt your back press against his and slowly slot yourself in the vacant space Heat was in moments ago. His arm was lying along the beams of the leathery backrest of the booth. It was too easy to mask his motions with a coughed laugh as his arm moved to frame your shoulders in a soft embrace.

The world was silenced in that moment. Bubblegum’s storytelling was now stilled, Kid's laugh stunted, and the atmosphere swollen with a lingering need beneath the gathering of his favourite people. As your hands moved up to grasp his across your body, his eyes fluttered to a completely shut. Your fingers danced along each perimeter of each digit, focussing on lacing and unlacing with his own. Your secondary hand held him stationary while your teasing touch had him breathless.

And just as your touch began, it ended by Heat stumbling back into the booth and tipping his ales on your thighs accidentally.

“Ah, fuck-!” the blue haired commander slurred as he attempted to clean you off with the napkins placed sporadically on the table, “Sorry, had one too many and lost my seat-, hangonaminut. I din' lose shit, yer in my fuckin’ seat!”

After that moment, Wire had found soft moments here and there where he was intentionally asking without words for more of your touch. It wasn't that the crew wasn't involved with touch, in fact, they were one of the more tactile and hands on affectionate crews on each of the seas. From grappling, to snuggling, to sleeping in a heaped pile: the Kid Pirates were all for welcoming a touch to their bodies.

It just wasn't your touch.

From catching frayed ends of his stockings with your flintlock lighter, to giving his forearm a playful and affectionate pinch before splitting off in away parties, Wire longed for the moment of a more intentional touch. He would find that moment with you lingering in the mouth of the severed sea beast head, watching Dive swimming along the base of the ship with Boogie and Hip.

Wire approached intentionally. He drew himself down beside you while unclasping his lengthy, black cloak from his collar and letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously. Sitting beside you, he drew his knees to the side of him and slowly moved his body to a reclined position beside your sitting form.

“Are you alright, Commander?” your voice warmed the air with that softness he'd been craving all that time ago. His craving for your touch had him humbling himself in this very moment. His head slowly placed itself in your lap as his eyes fluttered shut.

“I've been thinking about you,” Wire admits while reopening his eyes and peering out at the playful preteen splashing her crewmates, “About your place here with us. How proper you speak ‘n shit. You sure you joined the right crew?” With a small scoff, your smile was found within that soft laugh he loved so deeply.

As he moved to ask for clarity in your laughter, he was silenced by the presence of your hands on the crown of his head. Gently raking through his hair, your hands were the only thing he could focus on. Those digits caressing each point within the circuitry of his soul, kissing him with the tenderness to your gentle touch. Your skilled hands farmed his bliss by pressing circles into his skin.

Wrapping his curls within your digits, tugging gently at the nape of his skin, and dipping down the borders of his groomed facial hair, Wire gasped out at your touch only to softly moan as your blunt fingernails trailed crescent-shaped lightning along his features.

“I reiterate, Commander Wire,” your gentle confession woke his glazed eyes to meet with yours, “Any crew which has me serving by your side is the crew I want to belong to.”

Wire’s eyes darted between yours while your gaze focussed on detangling and scratching along his silken locks. Those dark curls sprung back in a coiled twang in each gentle touch. Usually Wire was quite particular about his hair beneath the shroud of his cloak, standoffish, abrasive, combative to a single finger brushing within his carefully maintained hair on the high seas - save for this touch right now.

He wanted this. He craved this. He needed this more than he truly anticipated. He yearned for you and the touch your hands provided to him. His breath hitched as your hands weaved their magic in randomised intervals.

“Is that so?” he gasped gently, “Why?”

“When you first found me, what was your initial impression?” you asked him in a low-spoken whisper, “Aside from: ‘World Government scum, taste my boot heel and be punctured by my trident, Marine!’ I mean. Honest to goodness impression, sir.”

“I never said that.”

“You thought it,” you teased him in return, “Tell me what your impression was of me, commander. I want to know.”

“Touch,” Wire whispered gently as his significantly larger hands found your smaller wrists, “Hands.”

“Descriptive, sir, I like it,” you teased him with a playful scrunch of your nose, “I mean it, sir. What was your impression of me?” Turning in your lap, Wire humbled himself to remain below your eyeline while resting on his forearms. His lashes fluttered while his gaze focussed on your lips.

“You were soft, yet hard,” he confessed softly, refusing to look away from your chin and lips, “Someone with no loyalty to the crew, yet pleaded for leniency for the littlen.” Wire spoke softly as his left hand reached out for your right hand, “You drew Dive to yer side and protected her from yer captain’s anger. One hand holding her, the other ready to fight.”

“It’s what the marines were meant for, commander. Protecting the innocent from lawlessness.”

“We grew up without that shit in the south. You forget that, don't ya?” Wire shook his head while his hand gently found yours, “Your touch was soft with Dive. She was only little at the time. Boogie was a new Da, his missus leavin’ him with his baby before fuckin’ off. Yer hands,” he laced his fingers with yours, the stretch splaying them due to the vast girth of each digit, “Gentlest touch she's ever felt in her life. The touch half the damn crew's bin cravin’ their lifetimes.”

“Now that's just sad-.”

“-I wasn't finished,” Wire cut you off while rising to sit beside you. His tousled curls were a deal messier than they began, falling past his shoulders down to pool at the mid of his spine, “You asked for a damn first impression, yer gonna get it. Your hands, yer damn touch,” his fingers gripped past your knuckles and tugged gently on your hand, drawing it towards his body with your attention to follow. “I’ve been haunted by the ghost of it.”

Tugging your hand towards him, he turned your arm to press the back of your hand flush against his cheek. Fluttering his eyes closed, Wire gave himself over to the feeling of your hand caressing his skin. Inhaling deeply, he drew his eyes to yours on the exhale.

“I should be directing questions to you,” Wire’s voice punctured you with his accusatory tone, “The fuck you mean by all those words, hm? ‘Any crew with you,’ blah, fuckin’ blah. Make it make sense.” Wire unlaced his fingers from yours and placed your palm against his cheek, “Yerv' said it more than once. Why?”

Although his words were harsh, his delivery was warm. He leaned into the touch with his eyes flickering to a relaxed close. The giggles of Dive with Boogie and Hip lingered in the air with the crash of waves kissing the hull of the Punk. Inhaling a deep breath, you harden your resolve while gently caressing his whiskered skin.

“You offered the same sentiment, commander. Albeit, I would use different words.”

“Always so fuckin’ proper,” Wire chuckled with a smirk, “Why don' ya speak yer damn mind?” he used his palm pressed to your knuckles to further claim his cheek beneath the heel of your palm, “I want t’understand. Give yer words over.”

“I reiterate, sir,” you use your thumb to gently caress the commander's skin, “Any crew which has me serving by your side is the correct crew for me. You, sir,” you move your hand to cup his chin, tugging his attention to your eyes, “Your presence. Your attention. The fact you are so defensive over the younger or more vulnerable members of the crew, commander.” Arching your back down, you drew your face closer to his and gently shared breaths with one another.

“If I was not serving you and our captain, I would be asking you if you were serving the correct captain also, sir,” you admitted with a smile, “Strong sense of right and wrong, loyal to a fault-.”

“-I ain't marine material, honey,” Wire interrupted you, “An’ neither are you.” He moved to fully sit beside you, towering over you with his looming height. Moving his hand up, he mirrored your sentiment by bringing his hand to your cheek. Although he was forward with his actions and reserved outwardly, he internally screamed in joy at being this close to you. His internal monologue was celebrating with firecrackers and a twelve piece brass ensemble at simply bringing his touch to your face.

“You're correct, sir,” you retorted in a soft gasp, “I am no longer a marine.” Drawing yourself up to your knees, you moved your unoccupied hand up to clutch his shoulder, “I am a pirate.” Moving forward, you slowly pushed Wire back in place, straddling his lap while his legs messily flopped to his side, “A Kid Pirate, sir,” you cupped the back of his head as his lengthy hair bunched in heaps of darkened curls at the nape of his neck and beyond, “And I am yours.”

Wire did not know what he was expecting whilst on the mission of receiving your touch, but a confession of desire was far beyond any list he had made internally. Wire externally was stoic with a whisper of playfulness in his reserved smile. Internally, he was beyond shrieking in absolute joy. His hands immediately drew themselves to a broad splay in the mid of your back, coaxing you into his body while crying in bliss at your soft touch resting on his skin.

“Mine, huh?” Wire smirked as you settled yourself in his lap, “Why me?”

Although his words were cocky and confident, that underlying uncertainty was what held your attention. That boyish, subtle and innocent question is what held him hostage to your touch - craving you beyond natural capacity. As he waited for your question, his hands moved to your waist and held you completely stationary as you adjusted your stance. Solidifying your perch, you fluttered your eyes half-lidded while darting your eyes to his lips.

“You commanded a gang, sir,” you confirm with him, “Keeping all those you love alive whilst in a lawless land.” Your hands moved to wrap around his neck while you continued, “And humbling yourself to serve a man uniting four gangs as a single, cohesive crew.”

“Same could be said for Kid, Heat, n’Killer,” he chuckled as you settled on his lap. Scoffing at him, you leaned down with a flirtatious wave of genuinity.

“But Kid, Killer, and Heat don't crave my touch the same way you do, Commander,” you whispered softly with a toothy smile. Wire choked on his gasp, especially so as your hands moved up to cradle his larger face in your hands. Stooping lower into your embrace, Wire drew his attention down to your lips and between your eyes with his fixed, hazel gaze.

“You noticed?”

“How could I not, sir?”

At that soft confession, Wire cradled you against his body as if you were the most fragile and most coveted item in the universe. More precious than Beri, more precious than treasure, more precious than the One Piece itself: you were his treasure. You were his treasure. A pirate with his heart's desire in his very embrace. Wire held you so tenderly you felt every emotion tingling beneath his touch.

“And should I want more of your touch?” Wire asked as his lips moved dangerously close to your own. Hovering his lips above yours, Wire’s inner self was screaming at him to simply reach out and take all there was to give of you - yet he withheld whilst waiting for your absolute consent. Almost sensing this, your smile drew itself closer to his.

“I am, and forever will be, yours, sir,” you whispered against his lips, “My hand, my touch, are yours for the taking.”

With the laughter of the green haired pre-teen with her father and aunt ricocheting alongside the waves against the hull of the ship, Wire welcomed your lips against his in an inviting kiss. There it was: the touch he was craving from the moment he first met you. That romantic sentiment was finally met with his lips pressed in a gentle touch against your own, all whilst leaving his kiss as an opening for more with your own.

The first time Wire welcomed your kiss against his own, the taller Kid Pirate sat in a hunched position beneath the shade of the overhanging fish head at the hull of the Victoria Punk. His eyes closed as he lingered in your touch. With no prompting from you, his kiss was soft, quiet, gentle: three aspects of life he seemed to have forgotten existed amongst the rambunctious crew of over thirty members - only to be reawakened now with you against him.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @mermaniaa @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel @nocturnalrorobin

#one piece #x reader #op wire #one piece wire #x gn!reader #kid pirates #one piece fanfiction #wire x reader

98 notes · View notes