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standfucker · 8 months

Text

Engravings

inspired by the following comment on my last SH fic:

Couldn't stop thinking about it, which eventually led to this.

Characters: Sanji

Reader: GN, they/them

Word Count: 6.2k

CW: Hurt/Comfort, SH, SH scars, auditory hallucinations, PTSD, mental institution-related trauma. No shipping, ace-friendly

Summary: It’s Sanji. You’re immediately, wholeheartedly certain. It’s Sanji, and he knows.

AO3 Link

"I’m listening to everything / please, tell me everything"

Nothing’s happened.

The sea is calm, the sun is shining, and the breeze is strong. All in all, a great day for sailing.

Nothing’s happened…

No recent squabbles among the crew, no surprises from sea beasts, no battles with pirates or Marines.

There’s no reason to feel the way you do. No trigger or logic to it. But you feel it anyway.

It’s like there’s an invisible filter over everything. Nothing looks different. Things sound different, though. The sounds of the waves and wind, the snapping of sailcloth and rope, the din of the crew’s voices. All of it wavers, like someone has their hand on a universal volume dial, yanking it back and forth at random. Sometimes the sounds are piercingly loud, like they’re right next to your ears, making you resist the urge to cover them. Sometimes the sounds blend into the background of everything else in a low, dull hum–so distorted that you have to focus to parse what’s being said to you.

The sound issue is your second tip-off that you’re having that kind of day. The first is the sense that the Sunny feels too small. And, crushingly, overwhelmingly, it feels like your fault. Irrational, but you can’t shake it. Really, it’s stupid: On the outside, it just looks like you’re hanging out next to your crewmates, making idle conversation. Inwardly, there’s such a deep feeling of guilt for just being there that you’re ready to throw yourself overboard.

You try to cope. You really do. You make an effort, mentally talking yourself through it.

I am allowed to take up space. I am allowed to exist.

You want to cry. You want to get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness. It doesn’t make sense, and there’s no cause you can identify. You feel like you’re going to throw up.

No one notices. How could they? Your mask is calm smiles and practiced eye contact, formed with easy jokes and interest in what the others say. Your mask is years in the making, thick with each layer you’ve added to seal in the cracks. It’s heavy and ugly, but it keeps you safe.

I am allowed to exist.

There’s no danger. You can’t explain why your fight-or-flight response is going off. There’s something wrong with you, and no one can see it because the problem is deep in the wiring. You can’t even see it. But you can feel it, and it feels so god-awful you don’t know how to endure it.

You feel yourself shaking from head to toe, so much so that it’s hard to keep your balance. But when you look down, your body is completely still. The noise around you blends together and buzzes like static, harsh on your ears. Then it gets louder.

I am allowed to exist.

You want to crawl in a hole and hide.

I am…

You excuse yourself–casually, collectedly–and head for the ship’s interior. You know what you’re going to do before you even start moving, like the decision’s already been made for you. A certainty that settles in your system, something to hold onto. The background noise grows even louder.

You stumble into the bathroom. As soon as you shut the door, all sound cuts out.

You can’t hear anything. Not even the sea, nor the creaking wood of the ship. The room shifts, draws away from you until you have tunnel vision. Your vision warps, then focuses on the cabinet above the sink until you can see nothing else. Just like before.

It’s been a few weeks since the last time.

The background noise slowly picks up, but it’s distant, like you’re hearing it coming from a different ship. You reach for the cabinet.

What are you doing?

You open the cabinet. It’s organized so each crewmate’s stuff is clustered together, with the common items at the bottom. Your gaze passes over your deodorant, your nail clippers, your toothbrush, and settles on your straight razor.

Aren’t you too old for this?

You take your razor. From the common items, you take a bottle of alcohol. You fold up some tissue paper.

What would the crew think?

It’s hard to ignore the thoughts. But like any bully, they usually go away if you don’t give them energy. Usually.

The razor’s weight in your hand is comforting. It shouldn’t be, but it is. You unfold it, wipe down the blade with some alcohol. Then you lift up your sleeve and slide it over your shoulder.

This stretch of sea has been balmy. With the pleasant weather, you’ve worn a t-shirt, the short sleeves going just less than halfway down your arm. Underneath them, high up on your shoulder, are the scars. Faint and healed, a few shades lighter than your skin tone. Noticeable in the light, but that’s why you don’t participate in the group baths.

The background noise gets louder again. You think you hear shouting, faintly, but that’s normal for the crew. It barely registers over your heartbeat.

Your heart is beating harder than before, dull thumps in your chest that seem to echo. Anticipating, ready.

Everything is going to be okay.

Finally. Finally. A hurt you can make sense of. Small, controlled. Yours.

There’s supposed to be a rush, you’ve heard. You don’t feel one. But there is a difference. The tunnel vision stops, the filter lifts. The world snaps back into place, the sound goes back to normal.

That’s when you really notice the shouting, no longer muffled by brain static. Something’s off. You focus. It doesn’t sound argumentative, like Zoro and Sanji. Nor is it playful, like Luffy or Franky’s might be. It’s startled and panicky, immediately grabbing your attention and making your adrenaline surge.

A second later, you hear an echoing BOOM, followed by an ear-splitting crunching of wood. It’s a sound you recognize, one you’ve heard before–a cannonball tearing into the ship.

You’re under attack.

For just a moment, you stare at your equipment, caught off guard. Then you pull yourself together–take your feelings and compartmentalize them for later dealing with–and tear out of the bathroom, dropping the tissue in the process. Your pistols are in their case, in the sleeping quarters. You need to get to them before you can join the fight…

The enemy pirates are strong–for a New World crew. Unfortunately for them, they’re completely outclassed by Luffy alone, much less the combined strength of the Straw Hats. Still, the numbers favor the enemy, and the battle is tiring enough to be distracting. Enough so that you forgot about what you were doing before it started. It’s only an hour into helping Franky patch up the ship, when you feel your shirt sleeve catch on your scabs, that you remember.

Then you realize you left your equipment out in the bathroom.

The razor. The alcohol. The bloody tissue paper.

Panic floods your system. You drop your tools and jump up as if electrocuted, all but flying to the bathroom. Has anyone used it since the fight?

Please no, please please please be wrong.

You kick the door open. It bangs harshly against the wall.

The equipment is gone. Your stomach sinks.

No no no no no.

You open the cabinet. Everything’s been returned to its place. Your straight razor has been folded and put away, as has the alcohol. The used tissue paper is gone. Not in the trash, either. Whoever it was must have discarded it in the toilet.

No no no no no!

Who?

Who was it? You run through the possibilities in your head. Zoro? No, he wouldn’t clean up after someone else’s mess. Neither would Nami. At least, not for free. And what about the rest of the crew?

Whoever it was, would they even know what they saw? Surely they’d just think you cut yourself shaving. That was the only explanation, right? Even if the patterns on the tissue paper were distinct, the stains shaped into blurry, beaded lines–unless they had done it before, there’s no way they’d know. Right?

This time, when you shiver, it’s for real, not just a figment of your imagination. What would happen if you were found out? At best you’d be kicked out of the crew. At worst…

I’ll get locked up again.

You feel ill. Dizzy and nauseated with the prospect. You try not to spiral, try to get a grip before panic can take hold. The best you can do is to close the door behind you, sit on the floor, and take deep breaths.

You’re not sure how long you’re there–minutes, hours–but you don’t get up until someone knocks on the door.

“You almost done?” Usopp calls from the other side.

Swallowing hard, you find your voice. “Yeah. Just a sec.”

Usopp doesn’t so much as give you a second glance when you pass him. It’s not him.

You’re hypervigilant the rest of the day, scrutinizing every action, every word from your crewmates. Nothing seems different, but that only makes you more paranoid.

Nami offers you a tangerine. The simple action sets off a cascade of racing thoughts: Is she trying to make you feel better? Because she knows? Did she tell anyone? Did she tell Chopper? Luffy?

Every interaction is like that–an innocuous action that makes you flip out internally.

Franky gives you a gift: A cute little wind-up frog toy, made from scrap metal. He says it's to thank you for helping with repairs. You scan his face, but he’s only grinning proudly. Not Franky, either.

Zoro invites you to drink with him. Brook plays a song you like. Robin hands you a book she’s just finished, saying it might suit your tastes. Nothing unusual, but enough to make you second guess everything. Each time, you cling to your mask, holding it so tightly to your face that you can barely breathe.

The next day, Sanji cooks your favorite meal for dinner. That wouldn’t be too weird, except you know for a fact that your favorite involves pricy ingredients that he prefers to save. You know this because he mentioned it, years ago, when he was teaching you how to make the dish.

You and Sanji had joined the Straw Hats at the same time. Two weeks before Luffy had shown up, you had tried and failed to dine-and-dash from Baratie. Zeff forced you to work to pay it off, plus an extra week to “teach you a lesson.” That was when you got to know Sanji. Unlike the rest of the chefs, he wasn’t mad at you for what you did. He even taught you some of the basics of cooking. As the only soft presence on the floating restaurant, you grew attached, and that feeling of reliance never really left since then. You were drawn to his air of confidence and self-assuredness, but mostly to the fact that he never hid who he was, even when who he was could be straight-up idiotic at times. But you still respected that about him.

You always liked to hang out around the cook, helping him prepare meals with what you learned at Baratie. You both fought well together, having each others’ backs in battle despite your different fighting styles. It was safe to say that he was your favorite crewmate, and though you weren’t sure what he thought of you, you viewed him as your closest friend.

So you really, really don’t want it to be Sanji.

You appraise his expression, his movement, his actions. It all seems normal, on the surface. And yet, it feels off somehow, but you can’t tell if that’s just the paranoia speaking.

“How is it?” Sanji inquires.

You stare for a second. It’s not a question he usually asks–he knows it’s your favorite and he knows you think it’s amazing. Maybe it’s just your imagination, but the smile doesn’t seem to reach his eyes.

“Delicious, as always,” you say. Your own smile lights up your face, the way you’ve carefully practiced. “What’s the occasion?”

He pauses, rubs the back of his neck. “No reason, really. I just thought that it’s been a while since we’ve had it.”

That evening, you’re alone at the port side of the ship, leaning against the railing and looking out at the night sea. Sometimes it helps with your racing thoughts. This time, it does nothing. Nothing keeps you from fixating on the situation. You feel like you’re hanging by a thread, like at any moment you’ll get kicked off the crew, and then your whole world will unravel. And it’s entirely your fault.

The questions won’t stop repeating themselves: Who was it? Did they know?

Behind you, someone clears their throat. You whirl around a bit too quickly and steady yourself with a hand on the railing. Sanji’s standing there with his hands in his pockets. Something about his posture sets alarm bells off in your head. He’s too stiff, trying too hard to appear composed.

“Hey, Y/n,” Sanji says gently, “can I talk to you about something?”

It’s Sanji.

You’re immediately, wholeheartedly certain. It’s Sanji, and he knows.

You gape at him for a moment, then collect yourself. The mask comes back on.

“Actually, I’m pretty tired. Gonna turn in for the night. Tomorrow, okay?” you dismiss, and go to walk past him.

“Wait a second, Y/n,” he reaches to grab your wrist, but you yank it away before he can.

“Don’t!” you snap, stepping back, then quickly correct yourself. “I mean–don’t surprise me like that! We’ll talk tomorrow. I really should sleep...”

Sanji frowns, hand slowly lowering, and you make a hasty retreat.

The rest of the week is torture. You’re constantly avoiding Sanji wherever possible. He doesn’t strike up conversation when the others are around, which only makes you more certain that he knows. You ensure that you’re never alone with him, and if he does approach you by himself, you make yourself scarce. It becomes harder and harder to hide that you’re avoiding him. The crew takes notice–it’s not difficult considering you and Sanji are normally close.

Zoro’s the first to say something.

“Oi, Y/n. Did you have a fight with the cook or something?” he asks bluntly.

“No, we didn’t,” you reply.

Zoro’s eyes narrow slightly. “Well, you’re both acting weird.”

Some of the others are looking your way, now. Anxiety sours your stomach. You hold your mask steady as he continues.

“You’ve been kind of flighty lately. And he’s oddly subdued,” Zoro says, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, since he’s finally quiet for once, but it’s annoying. Would you just talk to him?”

“Uh…yeah, sure thing.”

Obviously, you don’t talk to Sanji. You keep evading him at every turn, only growing more distressed with each passing day. You know you can’t dodge the issue forever, but the moment you stop is the moment you’ll get kicked off the crew or worse, and that thought makes you want to die.

But the Sunny is only so large, and eventually, Sanji manages to corner you one night at the bow of the ship. You have your back to the figurehead, throat dry as you face him. Brook is up in the crow’s nest, keeping watch. Everyone else is asleep. It’s just you two, and you know you’ve run out of luck.

“We need to talk, Y/n,” Sanji says firmly.

Your throat goes dry. “Now?”

“Right now. No more running,” he says, taking a few steps closer. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly.”

There’s no getting out of it anymore. “...Alright.” you say. Your heart pounds harder, palms growing damp.

Sanji takes a long drag off his cigarette, then stubs it out–that’s when your adrenaline really spikes, when you know you’re in for it. He looks you in the eye.

“Should you have access to firearms?”

The question hits you like a brick, stunning you into wide-eyed silence. You open your mouth, then close it, unable to respond for a second.

“...What are you talking about?” you try.

“Given how you’ve been avoiding me,” he says coolly, “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I’m–I’m not following.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Y/n!” he snaps, and you cringe. “Of everything you’re hiding, this is the one thing I’m going to find out. I’m not asking. You’re going to tell me or I’m going to tell Chopper. So answer me, right now: Are you safe around guns?”

You can’t take another step back, but you instinctively try anyway, your heel scraping the wood of the ship. But there’s nothing you can do. The mask crumbles, years and years of desperate crafting turning to dust in an instant.

“God, Sanji,” you respond, “what am I supposed to say to that?”

“The truth,” he says.

“And if you didn’t like my answer, what would you do? Take them away from me?”

“Yes.” His tone is unyielding, his eyes hard.

Yours start to sting at the corners. “And what after that? You’ll have me–” you bite your tongue to keep the tears from forming, “–you’ll have me kicked off the crew?”

“I never said that,” he says stiffly, “you don’t get it–”

“You don’t get it!” you bite back, voice rising. You lower it before continuing, “you don’t know anything.”

“I know you’re cutting.”

You flinch. The words sting. It’s not a pleasant sting this time. You turn your head, unable to look him in the eye.

“It’s just…” Sanji says, and there’s a touch of hurt in his voice, “after everything we’ve been through, I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” you say automatically.

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

That stings even deeper. You shake your head. “I do, Sanji, but this is different.”

“Why?”

“It’s none of your business!” you bite. Bile rises in your throat at your venom; you hate being callous.

“My friend’s hurting themselves,” Sanji replies thinly, “that makes it my business.”

“That isn’t how this works!” you argue. “You don’t get to know everything about me just because you don’t like this!”

“Don’t I?”

“No!”

“You don’t feel safe with me.”

That one’s like a punch to the gut. You can’t tell what’s worse, the words themselves or the way he’s looking at you. That one hurts the most, because it’s true.

“...No,” you say after a moment, then steel yourself. “You’re right. I don’t. I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Sanji, please.”

“Don’t you plead now,” Sanji says, his tone hardening. “Don’t you put me in this position, Y/n.”

“I don’t have a choice, Sanji. I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Why?”

“Sanji!”

“Why?!”

“Because last time I trusted someone with this, I lost everything!” you blurt out. “I was institutionalized, okay?! Locked up! Is that what you wanted to know? Are you satisfied now?”

Your words echo in the silence that follows. He stares, jaw dropped slightly. You’re shaking, for real this time, and the words pour from you like a dam unblocked.

“You don’t know how humiliating it is, Sanji, to have the strings on all your clothes cut off, to be given only felt tip pens to write with, to not have doors, to have a scheduled bed time. To have all your choices taken away.” Your vision blurs as you continue. “I couldn’t do anything. It was like a prison. The other patients didn’t give a shit. The staff definitely didn’t give a shit. And all the while, they drained me of all my savings, until I didn’t have a single berri to my name. Then they kicked me to the curb. The one who reported me didn’t want to be associated with a crazy person. Neither did the rest of my friends. I was homeless. I had no one and nothing! That’s why I fled my home island, and that’s why I tried to dine and dash at Baratie.”

Sanji looks taken aback. He blinks quickly, then stares down at the deck. “What would you have me do, then?”

“This is supposed to be private!” You cover your face, fighting back tears. “You need–you need to keep your mouth shut and mind your business! I don't want anyone’s ‘support.’ You were never supposed to know.” You take a shaky breath and lower your hands. “If you really care, you’ll keep it to yourself, you’ll forget what you saw, and if you tell anyone…I won’t stick around to make the same mistake twice.”

Despite what you say, you already know it’s too late. There’s no going back, and now that he knows, it’s only a matter of time until you’re left behind. You bite your tongue to keep from crying at the thought, but you have to bite harder this time. The tears keep threatening to spill anyway, until you’re tasting iron.

Sanji is quiet. He pulls out his cigarettes and lights one, not speaking until after he takes a drag. “…Do you regret joining the crew?”

“Joining the Straw Hats was the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” you say honestly. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“But you aren’t happy, are you?”

“Multiply something by zero and you get zero, right?” You look away, guilt eating at you. Experience tells you that no one wants to hear this. “I’m not trying to sound dramatic. I just… I don’t work right.”

“I don’t think you’re being dramatic.”

For some reason, that, more than anything else, breaks you. The first tears slip past your defense. You say nothing, lower lip trembling.

Sanji takes another slow drag of his cig and exhales away from your direction. “I don’t know how I missed it.”

“I do,” you say. “At the hospital, they…” the words die in your throat as the memories surge forward. “They…they…” You can’t finish, but tears begin streaming down your cheeks. You shake your head. “Let’s just say, after that, I learned not to ever give anything away. Never again.”

“They did something to you.”

You barely nod. Already you feel yourself slipping into a flashback, feel the nurses holding you down and the needle jabbing into your flesh.

“I’m sorry,” Sanji says, taking a step toward you, and then another, until he can reach out and gently touch your forearm. The touch brings you back, grounding you so that you’re back in the present. But the gentle action, and Sanji’s soft expression, only makes the tears flow faster, makes your nose run. You shrug.

“It must have been scary.”

Slowly, you nod again.

“Will you answer my question, Y/n? Please?” Sanji asks. “Please, I need to know you’re safe around guns. Will you at least tell me that much?”

You swallow the lump in your throat and wipe your face. When you answer, you look him in the eye so he knows you’re telling the truth. “Yeah. I’m… Yeah.”

Sanji sighs, his shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank goodness. Okay. Can I ask you something else?” At your nod, he goes on. “How long have you been feeling like this? Before the hospital, I mean.”

“...Since I was young,” you sniff. “I’ve been ‘coping’ on and off for years.”

Sanji sticks his hands in his pockets. “Okay. Can I see?”

“What?” The question catches you so off-guard that you stop crying. “I’m–I’m sorry?”

“You’re not going to show Chopper, right?” Sanji says. “So–”

“You’re not gonna tell him?” you cut him off, surprised.

“I haven't decided yet,” he admits. “I don’t want to go against your wishes, Y/n. But I don’t know the extent of the damage. Just… Just, let me see?”

“No.” You’re shocked at his audacity. What’s he thinking? Of course you can’t do that.

“I won’t judge. I swear, I just want to know you’re okay,” Sanji says.

“You can say that, but…” you rub your arm. “Be real. You’ll never look at me the same way again.”

“It won’t change how I think of you.”

“It will!” you shout, then lower your voice. “It will, forever. There’s no going back once that line is crossed and you see me for what I really am.”

He frowns. “Which is?”

“A freak!”

Neither of you say anything for a moment. Then you shake your head again. “I’m sorry, Sanji. But a guy like you–strong, handsome, confident–you wouldn’t understand.”

Sanji gets a weird look on his face, one you’ve never seen in all the years you’ve sailed with him. He looks to the side, then down, then up. His drags on his cigarette become long and harsh, finishing it in three breaths. He lights another, making a face. Then he nods to himself, like he’s decided something.

“Okay,” Sanji says. “There’s something I want you to see.”

You frown. When Sanji puts his hands on the hem of his pants, you frown deeper. He pauses.

“Um. Just trust me, okay? I promise I’m not doing anything weird–just wait a sec.”

He slides down his pants, and you have no idea what’s going through his head until his pale upper thighs are exposed. Then, finally, you understand, and you cover your mouth in shock.

Both of his upper thighs are covered in a myriad of scars. There must be over a hundred, clustered just above where shorts would hide them. Most of them are big, inches long and criss-crossed with each other. A few are keloid scars, thick and raised above the skin.

Your stare could burn a hole through his flesh. Slowly, you look up at him. Sanji has a faint blush on his face, looking sheepish.

“Guys like me can be freaks too,” he says simply.

You’re in complete disbelief. You keep looking back from the scars to his face. It’s too much to process–where would you even begin? Sanji, of everyone on the crew–Sanji’s like you? Brave, unwavering, gallant Sanji? Of everyone? When you don’t respond, he speaks again.

“See, Y/n? You’re not alone.”

Tears sting the corners of your eyes again. You find your voice. “Yours are old.”

“Yeah. I got lucky. Had someone’s support.” Sanji smiles slightly, in a way that he only does when thinking of…

“Zeff?”

“Yeah. He eventually found out.” Sanji laughs nervously. “At first he freaked out. Thought I was using kitchen knives. After he calmed down, he told me…he told me he wouldn’t abandon me over that, because what kind of parent would that make him?” His expression wavers like he’s trying not to cry.

You, on the other hand, start crying again the moment you hear the word “abandoned.” You realize that’s precisely how you felt back then.

Sanji grabs your shoulders so you look up at him. “You’re not getting kicked off of the crew.”

“...I’m not?” you ask, voice small and pathetic.

“No. I promise.” Sanji squeezes your shoulders reassuringly. “No one else needs to know. But, Y/n, I’m not going to leave you to deal with this alone. So, will you show me?”

“...You won’t tell anyone?”

“I won’t. I swear on my honor. This stays between us.” He lowers his arms.

You bite your lip, sniffing. You shut your eyes, mustering up your courage, and nod. Sanji waits patiently as you breathe slowly to steady yourself. You hesitate before peeling back your sleeve, exposing your upper arm.

He’s quiet as he inspects the damage. Unlike his old scars, yours have yet to finish healing, still in the scabbing stage. A ladder of thin, dark red lines decorate your upper arm and shoulder. You look between your cuts and his scars. Yours aren’t as deep as what Sanji had done, which you feel weirdly ashamed about.

Sanji’s hand comes up, hovering over your cuts like he’s going to touch them, but then he rests it on your forearm instead. Despite the clear evidence that he won’t judge you, you’re still self-conscious, so you break the silence.

“The scabs catch on my sleeves,” you say awkwardly.

Sanji nods. “I had to bandage my thigh so it wouldn’t bleed through while I was working. It always felt so…”

“Stupid,” you both say. Then you both smile at the unexpected camaraderie.

“What’s really stupid is how long I went thinking I was the only one,” you say, “and all this time, you…” You gesture vaguely.

“Can you do something for me?” Sanji asks. “Whatever you’re using–I’m not going to take anything from you. But in exchange, I want you to talk to me. We can talk in the galley, when it’s just us two.”

“I don’t know how to talk about it.”

How could you, after what had been done to you? After everyone you used to trust turned their backs? Knowing that Sanji understood you couldn’t fix the mental scars left behind by others. You could try to rationalize it, but just thinking about discussing the past made your throat dry up.

“If I told you about mine first, would it make you more comfortable?” Sanji offers.

You balk. “You–you don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind, if it means helping you.” Sanji says earnestly. “You can tell me anything. I won’t judge. How could I? We’re the same.”

Something broken inside you changes right then. Deep engravings fill with gold like broken pottery, sealing some of the cracks in your soul. Unmasked and exposed, Sanji sees into you, and he doesn’t waver or turn. He smiles, gently and softly and lovingly. Your eyes fill with fresh tears.

Sanji holds out his pinky finger. “Freaks?”

You smile from ear to ear, even as the tears start flowing again, and lock pinkies with him. “Freaks.”

So caught up in the moment are the two of you that neither one notices when Zoro appears until it’s too late.

He’s further down the deck, but standing right under one of the ship’s lights, so you can see him smile. “Hey, you guys are–” he starts, then notices Sanji’s pants. His smile instantly turns to a look of indignation, then rage. “What the hell?!”

Sanji scrambles to pull up his pants as Zoro charges.

“What the hell are you doing to Y/n, you creep?!” Zoro yells.

You hurriedly pull down your sleeve and move in front of Sanji, holding your arms up. “Wait a sec, Zoro!”

“I-It’s not what it looks like!” Sanji cries.

Zoro screeches to a halt right in front of you, but then stretches over your shoulder to snarl at Sanji. “You better have a good explanation for this, shitty cook!”

You grab Zoro’s arms to hold him back. Not that you could ever hope to overpower him, but you know he’s too brotherly toward you to push you out of the way. “Zoro!”

“What?” Zoro turns his focus on you, “what did he do? I’ll kick his ass for you, Y/n.”

“No, that’s–”

Sanji interjects, “I didn’t–”

“We were…”

Zoro relaxes somewhat, now frowning and looking at both of you weirdly. “What exactly were you guys doing?”

Really, being in the middle of the night, it’s not a good look. You and Sanji are both caught off guard. Fumbling hard, you both speak at once.

“I was looking at a fungal infection!” you say.

“They were removing a tick!” Sanji says at the same time.

Both of you glance at each other.

“Tick,” you correct.

“Fungal,” Sanji says.

Zoro blinks. “A fungal tick?”

You both just nod.

Zoro stares between you two, then relaxes. “Oh... Okay. Good of you to not wake Chopper.” He nods and turns, leaving the two of you to it.

So flooded with relief are you that it’s staggering. You mentally thank the stars that Zoro is a simple and straightforward type of guy.

You and Sanji watch Zoro walk away. Once he’s out of earshot, you both look at each other.

Then you both burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, clutching your chest.

Sanji wipes away a tear. “That was close, huh?”

The laughter dies down into giggles before you calm yourselves, grinning at each other. Then you’re both throwing your arms around the other in a tight embrace, squeezing like you’ve never been hugged before in your lives. You bury your face in Sanji’s chest, he rests his head on yours. Your fingers dig into the other’s clothing, soaking in the warmth and the comfort that you could only get from someone who truly understood. You stay like that for a few minutes, quiet, close, and held.

“Are you sure?” you whisper after a minute. “That you want to deal with this? With me? What if I never get better?”

“Nothing’s set in stone but the poneglyphs,” Sanji replies, running a hand over your head so you look up at him. “Our future hasn’t been determined.”

“Our future?”

“You and me and the rest of the crew. There’s still time to grow, and to change.” He holds the back of your head tenderly.

“When does that time run out?” you ask, uncertain.

“It doesn’t.” Sanji smiles down at you. “As long as we’re alive, there’s another chance. That opportunity is always there.”

You smile back, then press your face into his chest again. Sanji squeezes you tighter.

“Tomorrow,” you mumble into his shirt. “Let’s talk tomorrow. I’m tired.”

“I bet.”

“I never want to hide from you again.”

You feel Sanji kiss the top of your head. “And I never want to make you cry again.”

“I want to tell you everything.”

“I’ll listen.”

You both stay like that for a while longer, each second spent there healing something within yourselves.

It will take weeks to figure out how to talk about your troubles. When you’re up for it, you talk in the galley as Sanji cooks, you helping him out as usual with prep and cleanup. It’s even longer before Sanji learns everything. In the interim, you become the only Straw Hat to learn of Sanji’s past before he ever gets a wedding invite.

Like worn muscles rebuilding, like bone regrowing stronger, the scars you’ve revealed to each other, both physical and mental, strengthen your bond more than anything else ever could.

"let it out, let me in, take a hold of my hand / there's nothing like another soul that's been cut up the same" -Handwritten, The Gaslight Anthem

#one piece x reader #sanji x reader #reader insert #one piece imagines #zen writes

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marlynnofmany · 10 months

Text

Scary Stories in Space

If you’ve ever wanted to experience the rapt attention of bodybuilder-shaped swamp monster/goldfish crosses, who are equal parts muscles, fins, and floaty silk clothes with absolutely zero interest in blinking, then I can’t speak highly enough of telling ghosts stories to a pair of Frillians.

That hadn’t been the plan; it just came up in conversation while we tidied the storage hold. Our ship was going to take on a lot of cargo soon. There were things on the floor that needing picking up, which was boring, so we passed the time with stories.

As it turns out, Frillians love ghost stories.

“Then what happened??” asked Blip when I paused for effect. She’d frozen in place holding a wrench and a heat sensor, wide-eyed in a cloud of fluttering silks and fins, all electric blue and bright red and deeply invested in my story. Her brother Blop was her mirror in aqua and lavender.

“Then,” I said, picking up a crowbar, “When he went to let her out of the car, he found a hook on the door handle!” I caught the crowbar on my hand dramatically.

“Ohhh!” they chorused with a gratifying flinch, for all the world like frat bros watching someone get hit in the nuts. “Near miss! Oh, wow!”

I grinned and put the crowbar in a cabinet while they rehashed the very simple story to each other. I’d already told them a few others, and I was going to run out of stories before they ran out of enthusiasm.

Blip asked, “What do you think they did when they found that?”

With a shudder like a bird fluffing feathers, Blop suggested, “Throw it as far away as possible? Run into the house?”

Blip nodded, fins still flared slightly. “Maybe both. Then call the authorities.”

I walked past to collect a stray cable. “I don’t know about the authorities where you’re from, but mine wouldn’t have been much help.”

The twins discussed this some more, then agreed that the best response would be to run screaming into the house and lock every door they could find. Only then did they remember that they were supposed to be cleaning, and resume putting stuff away.

After three seconds of silence, Blop asked, “Know any more?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Lemme think.” I shelved a box and looked around the room for inspiration. No ghosts hid in this storage hold, though it had been home to many an animal cargo. The reinforced clear pen was still empty, and had been for a while — our cargos were mostly boxes these days. The door to the hallway stood open, and I almost had a thought about some doorway-based haunting, but couldn’t pin it down. I moved to stack a few stale tubs of animal food while I thought.

Then my cat Telly walked in, recently free to roam the ship on a provisional basis, and I had an idea. The fact that Telly had made a beeline for Blip’s spare overcoat helped. She burrowed right under, sniffing out the shrimp sticks that were undoubtedly hidden in several pockets.

Neither Frillian noticed.

“There was one story,” I said, watching them both perk up like meerkats. Fishy, musclebound meerkats. “The legend of the Pants With Nobody Inside Them.”

“Pants With Nobody Inside Them?” they dutifully asked.

I tugged at my own pant leg. “People where I’m from wear a lot of clothes that are shaped to fit our bodies, and have the same silhouette when they’re empty. Just imagine how creepy and unsettling it must have been for the first person to venture into a dark forest at night, and see the shape of another human — but only the bottom half. Walking … steadily … towards them.” I took slow and deliberate strides toward the far side of the animal pen, drawing their gaze away from the shrimp stick excavation.

“That sounds terrifying,” Blip declared. “Did they run?”

“Oh, you bet they did!” I said, jogging slowly in place, then speeding up. “But the pants ran after.”

Blop squeaked in fear, muscly arms bent to bring his hands to his mouth.

They had no idea how hard I was working not to laugh. “That first person got away, and so did the next. But it kept happening, and the pants got faster each time. People started to worry about going outside, and wonder about their own clothes — they’d look at a pair of pants on the floor, and imagine it starting to get up on its own. Then OH JEEZ WHAT’S THAT?!” I pointed through the clear walls of the pen.

Both Frillians whirled and screamed at the sight of — as promised — an item of clothing moving around.

Telly bolted in panic, with one shrimp stick in her mouth and several others scattering in all directions. I heard someone down the hall yelp, though it was hard to make out over the Frillians screaming.

“WHAT WAS THAT?”

“WAS THAT AN ANIMAL?”

“WAIT, THAT WAS YOUR ANIMAL, WASN’T IT?”

“WHAT WAS IT DOING IN MY COAT??”

I leaned against a wall, laughing. I couldn’t hold it back any more. “Stealing your shrimp sticks,” I managed. “Sorry.”

After a little more yelling and hyperventilating, during which three other crew members came to see what the emergency was, they finally calmed down. The rest of the crew was waved away.

“So,” Blip said, clearly determined to speak evenly, “How does the story end?”

I was still grinning. “Somebody makes friends with the pants. They were chasing after people because they were lonely.”

“What!” Blip exclaimed, fins spread and eyes wide, which just made me burst into laughter again. Blop echoed her.

“It’s a children’s story,” I explained. “I think the pants wanted to dance with other people. Or they wanted someone to wear them; I honestly don’t remember the details. But they were lonely.”

Blop shook his head. “Lonely haunted clothing,” he said. “Your planet sure has some memorable ones.”

Blip picked up her coat at arm’s length, and I couldn’t tell if she was looking for damage or ghosts. “Maybe it was hungry,” she suggested.

“I’m sure many ghosts like shrimp sticks,” I said, picking one up from the floor. “I’ll bet we could think up a new story about that. Maybe they’re haunted by the ghosts of the shrimp, mad about being eaten?”

Their dismayed expressions told me that such a story might ruin their favorite snack for them.

“Or,” I said, turning on my heel, “We could think up a story about a haunted… stun gun! Maybe it keeps a ghostly copy of all the people it’s stunned. How do you think a story like that would work?”

To my delight, Blip and Blop proved just as interested in composing new stories as listening to old ones. The rest of the tidying session passed quickly.

I take no responsibility for the nightmares they inflicted on the rest of the crew.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come!

(And yes that’s a reference to the Dr Seuss story.)

#my writing #The Token Human #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #humans are storytellers #ghost stories #featuring the return of everybody's favorite space himbos #even though one's a girl #their species handles gender differently anyway #they definitely qualify #writeblr #writers on Tumblr

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letsquestjess · 17 days

Note

So I heard you were doing fic requests (I stumbled on a post lol)

I'm not a big x Reader fan (sry 😭) but is it okay if I just request the bad batch relaxing on a forest planet in a cozy cabin? I just think that huddling up next to a fireplace, hot soup and hot cocoa would be the ultimate way to relax 😅

(Also writing this request reminded me of a drawing of Cross chilling in a cabin that I made a while back, is it okay if I tag you when I post it?)

Thank you and have a nice day! :D

Hello! Thank you so much for the request! Of course you can tag me in the Crosshair cabin post, it sounds so sweet! 😊💜

By the Warmth of the Fire

Summary: The Batch go on a relaxing retreat to a cabin in the woods.

Word count: 904

Warnings: None.

-- -- -- -- --

“That shower definitely beats the one on the ship,” Hunter said, padding out of his bedroom and tying up his almost dry hair into a quick bun before readjusting his bandana. Despite his efforts to tame the flowing curls, a couple of stubborn strands still flopped over the red fabric.

The worn fireplace crackled, casting a soft, welcoming glow over the open living space. The metal poker on the stand had been scorched until the original metallic shine dulled beneath the constant heat, and Hunter was careful when he balanced the deceptive weight of it and nudged the larger surviving logs.

“Where are the others?” Echo asked as he set the steaming bowls of soup onto the coffee table. Crosshair trailed closely behind with a tray of hot chocolate, placing each on the stone slab by the fire to keep them warm.

“They shouldn’t be too long,” Hunter replied. Settling into the nearest armchair, he sank into the plush cushions and accepted the bowl Echo handed to him. He took a sniff of the curling steam and recognised the scent. “This one of Gregor’s?”

“Yeah. When I told him we were coming out here, he gave me the recipe and it seemed easy enough to put together.”

The door groaned in protest as Omega, Tech, and Wrecker pushed their way inside, shutting out the biting wind and tracking snow behind them.

“We’ve been waiting for you three,” Echo chuckled, assisting his sister in removing her coat and hanging it on the hooks. He guided her to a comfortable spot in front of the crackling fire and placed a bowl of soup in her hands. “Careful, it’s still hot.”

With a nod, the girl brought a spoonful to her lips and blew on it before taking a sip. “It’s good,” she said as Crosshair draped a blanket over her shoulders.

“The smell’s making me hungry,” Wrecker groaned. His stomach growled as he dumped the armful of chopped logs onto the dwindling pile and grabbed his dinner. He ignored the spoon and sipped straight from the bowl, letting out a small, satisfied belch. “Tastes great,” he declared, digging back in. “We got anymore?”

“There’s about half a pan left,” Echo said. “I also cut up one of the fresh loaves if anyone wants some bread.” Sitting himself down on the sofa beside Tech, he took the last serving and savoured the warm, heartening aroma. His brothers tucked into their meals, and the sound of spoons on ceramic and slurps mingled with the crackle of the fire as it put up a valiant effort against the gusts invading the chimney.

“How did your exploration go?” Hunter asked, glancing between Omega and Tech.

“We didn’t go far, like we promised,” Omega replied, “but we saw a flock of ice birds.”

“Arcasia birds,” Tech corrected gently. “I believe they were preparing to migrate underground, otherwise we would not have seen them.”

“Sounds fun,” Hunter said. “Did you get a look at the trail?”

“The snow is clearing, so if we wanted to go on a hike up to the springs, tomorrow would be the optimal day for it,” Tech replied.

The tracker relished the warmth of the soup as he drained the last spoonful and set the empty bowl onto the low table. “We can head out in the morning,” he suggested. “So long as we don’t have any heavy snowfall overnight.”

As a howl ravaged down the chimney, Wrecker swiftly shoved the mantlepiece guards up to prevent the ashes from scattering. “Looks to be getting colder,” he commented, ensuring none of the smouldering flecks had managed to reach Omega. “Might be best to grab those extra blankets from the attic.”

“Oh,” Omega said with a spark of excitement, “I have an idea. If it’s going to be cold, we could bring the bedrolls in here and sleep by the fire.”

“I brought Sabacc cards so we could always play a few rounds before bed,” Crosshair added, and Omega threw him a competitive grin.

Hunter nodded in approval to the plan. “Okay, but if there are any arguments like last time, we’re leaving those cards here.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Crosshair reasoned.

“Finish your soup,” Hunter told him in a commanding yet light tone.

Omega wasted no time in grabbing her share of hot chocolate after she had cleaned her bowl. She took a small sip, relishing the sweetness, and offered the other mugs to her brothers as they mopped up the rest of their dinner with the fresh bread. Crosshair directed her to the Sabacc cards, and mug in hand, she disappeared into the back bedroom and reappeared moments later with them.

Hunter nestled into his seat and glanced around at his siblings. On the sofa, Echo indulged Tech’s ramblings, asking him about the various bird species he had encountered during his trek as he flipped through the pictures on his datapad, while Crosshair, Wrecker, and Omega got to work setting up the game. The brawler’s raucous guffaws warmed the room as he clapped Crosshair on the shoulder in amusement, and the sniper returned a tickled laugh.

“Hunter?”

Hunter’s attention lifted to Omega as she presented him with a set of cards.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” he replied, a smile spreading across his face as he graciously took the playing cards. “Come on, I’ve got games to win before we go to bed.”

#fic asks #fic request #tbb #the bad batch #tbb fanfic #tbb fanfiction #the bad batch fic #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb hunter #tbb echo #tbb crosshair #tbb wrecker #tbb tech #tbb omega

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thebest-medicine · 6 months

Text

Day 23: Incoherent

Tickletober 2023 - Critical Role - C2 Mighty Nein - lee!Fjord, brief lee!Jester

[see my other tickletober 2023 fics]

A/N: Fjorester my beloved. I need their silly energy in my life. Little snippet of Jester tickling Fjord and then asking him to do the same to her (a lil fluff, a little sexy, whatever ya feel *eyebrow waggle*)

Words: 1,050

—

“Ah. Oh no. No- no Jessie- ahaHAWAIT!” Fjord squealed before descending into giddy laughter.

“Wait? What do you want me to wait for?” Jester asked innocently — her fingers, on the other hand, were quite guilty of the quick, nimble scribbling they’d begun inflicting on Fjord’s sides.

His head shook side to side against the pillow beneath it, occasionally bumping into his elbows on either side. His arms twitched and pulled against the silks tethering them to their bed above his head. Jester’s fingers sent electric tingles up his bared torso everywhere they touched. They plucked at his sides and then began spidering wildly over his belly.

“Aha- I can’t- I hehehehe- AHAHAHA AHH NOHOHOHO- THAHAT TICKLES! THAT TICKLES HAHA- AHAHA JESS!”

“Well, duh, Fjord! It’s supposed to tickle!”

The next few minutes were hazy — fuzzy in the best sort of way. Jester was smiling at him, tickling and teasing him to bits. She brought out so much in him that he hadn’t expected, and she had so many silly, wonderful ideas for expressing affection. In the midst of one, she squeezed at his hips a few times, getting a yelp for her efforts.

“I can’t believe how cute you are when you’re getting tickled Fjord! Your face is so cute! I have to draw it for you some time.”

“NOHOHOHO!” Fjord cried through his cackles.

Jester’s grin widened as she got an idea. A few more quick squeezes to Fjord’s abdomen and she pushed up, hauling herself off of his hips and running over to her sketch book.

Fjord took a few deep breaths, some broken up with lingering laughter, and stared at the ceiling as he happily accepted the short break. “Wh- what are you planning now?” He asked — sounding a little teasing and giddy, and a lot nervous.

Jester spun around, a smirk on her face as she wiggled her eyebrows at him. In her hand, she held up her sketching pencil.

Fjord swallowed, watching her. His giggling started back up again.

Jester perched atop him, eyes hungry. He felt his stomach twist with anticipation, excitement, and nerves. She took the pencil in her hand as though to start a lovely drawing, except that she had the pointy end up.

Fjord shook his head. Jester nodded encouragingly, the hand not holding her pencil grabbed at the top of his underwear and pulled the waistband down a bit. She lightly drug the back of the pencil back and forth over his hip. Fjord gasped and burst into giggles. His legs kicked out on the bed behind Jester.

“Ahaha no- nonono!” Fjord whined.

“Yes yes yes!” Jester chirped in response. She drew figures and circles and whimsical patterns all over the lower section of his tummy, the front of his ribs and chest, his sides, and even up into his armpits and along his neck.

Tracing the pencil along each rib on one side as she made her way back down to his sides, Jester started wiggling and pinching along the other side of his torso with her free hand.

Fjord’s laughter grew louder as he wriggled side to side at her two fronted assault. His smile could cause bones to melt, but his laugh was like a cannonball of delight. It was the sort of gut-deep, boisterous sound that ricocheted off the walls of the ship like thunder - and it was impossible for Jester not to grin in the middle of the storm.

Dropping her pencil, she made a sound of delight and started scribbling up his sides. Fjord wheezed and cackled, his eyes squeezed shut with tears in the corners of them.

Fjord was already pretty far gone, but he still reacted viscerally to the sound of Jester sucking in a deep breath. “NO- NAHAHAHA NOOO NAHAHOT THAT!” He pleaded.

“Aww, are you too ticklish?”

“STAHAHAHOP HAHA NO- JES DON’T DO IHIHIHIT!” Fjord wailed.

“Oh alright… I’ll just give you a couple raspberries. Let me know if it tickles too much, okay Fjord?”

Her fingers continued to scribble and crawl their way from his hips to his armpits, which would have had him in plenty of hysterics on its own. Her lips, adding poison to the dagger, pressed down softly on the middle of his belly before she let out a loud, ticklish vibration against his abs.

Fjord pretended to ignore the shriek that fell from his lips when she started, and each additional squealing wail that followed when she continued.

“NAHA- STAH- I CAN’T AHHH HAHA AHAHAA-” His thundering cackles quickly devolved into shouts and gasps between wails of desperate laughter.

It wasn’t until her nails began to scratch unbearably under both of his arms and she decided to blow her next raspberry on his side that Fjord cried out “SP-SPRINKLE!” between hoarse booms of laughter.

Jester withdrew with a grin, sitting upright over him and taking in his exasperated, ravaged state. “Wow, you did really good Fjord! I was pretty mean..” She winked.

Fjord felt a blush rise to his cheeks in spite of his already warm face. “Heh, thanks.”

“Okay.” Jester leaned in, peppering his cheeks with kisses as she untied the silks from his wrists, leaving the restraints hooked up to the bed. “Okay, okay! Me next!!”

Blissed out smile on his face, Fjord took his jelly arms and wrapped them around Jester’s wiggling form, pulling her in close for a cuddle. “You’re too good at that.” He mumbled as he pulled her in to be the little spoon, both of them still giggling. “I’m so tired now, I need to nap first.” He sighed dramatically, closing his eyes as his legs wrapped around Jester’s.

He pretended to start snoring, exaggerated and loud, and Jester squealed adorably. Then, “sleep-walking” fingers began to trace ticklish paths around Jester’s ribs and sides, over to her stomach, down near her hips.

“Ah ehehe Fjord!” Jester squeaked out as she giggled harder.

A loud snoring sound, and then Fjord mumbled. “Fjord’s sleeping.”

“Nohohoho he’s nohot! Fjord’s tickling!”

Another fake snore. “No he’s not. He’s sleeping.” Jester felt him take a deep breath, chest rising to press further into her back. A long, exaggerated snore. “But when he wakes up. He’s really gonna get you.”

“Hehe hehehee oh nohoho-”

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icejinlov3r · 2 months

Text

ART CONTEST!!! - Frieza and Frost’s Fashion Show!!

So, I’m very much burnt out from writing (at least from my big stories, I’ll probably still drop occasional oneshots) and am taking a small hiatus. But turns hiatus can be a bit boring. So how am I gonna change that?

By hosting a random art contest for fun!!

I thought this might be a fun little thing to drop. No idea how many participants they’ll actually be, but we’ll see 😁😁.

So, here’s how it’ll work. The theme will be my two fav bois, Frieza and Frost. Specifically, with the two of them wearing cute outfits that you guys come up with! There will be a time limit of one week (meaning March 26th, 2024 is the due date). And when that day comes, I’ll share everyone’s drawings in giant post - make it a little “fashion show” for everyone to see! And then the next day, I’ll set up votes so YOU guys can vote on the winner!

I’m gonna have votes set up for different categories too, such as “cutest outfits” or “most unique outfits” that people can also vote on. But the main winner at the end will get to request a drawing from me - on any character, fandom, or ship they want!

There are gonna be a few rules, but really it’s more like a guideline on the contest:

You don’t have to draw ship art of Frieza and Frost together - just a simple piece with these two wearing an outfit of your choice will suffice, or even two separate pics of each individual character will work (that said, ship art is welcome too).

They don’t have to wear matching outfits, have them wear whatever you come up with.

You are not limited just because both characters are male - you can dress them up in either male or female outfits, but they both only require ONE outfit each.

If you want to dress them up in outfits from a crossover show (for example, dress Frieza up as Alastor from Hazbin Hotel, etc) you can absolutely do that.

You can have Frieza and Frost be in any form you want - obviously most people recognize their final forms, but I’d be delighted to see them in their first forms, or Frieza in Golden Form.

Art can be digital or on paper, you’re free to choose.

You don’t have to follow me to participate - everyone is welcome!

Okay, now for the ACTUAL rules: please keep your outfits and drawings PG-13. I don’t know how many minors actually follow me, or look at my content, but I wanna make this available to everyone.

Leave some sort of signature on your art. I know most artists do anyway, but I don’t want anyone’s art to get stolen.

No AI art. I shouldn’t have to explain why.

And finally, please show good sportsmanship. No matter what category someone wins, or who wins the contest at the end, the point of this is just to have fun and show the creativity of many artists! If I catch word any any artists harassing me or other artists for any reason related to the contest, your art will immediately be disqualified. No if, ands, or buts. Be respectful.

Okay, I think that covers everything, but if I need to, I’ll update this later. Like I said, you have one week to submit your art. You can either DM it to me in my private messaging, or send it in my inbox - just don’t do it anonymously, otherwise giving proper credit to your art will be much more difficult. In any case, good luck, and I can’t wait to see your guy’s art!

@anonymous-harpy @bluberryboom @justme068 @purrfectcellz @gojiberry-bbq @airplaneear2 @amiz06-certified-b1mb0

(These are just great artists I’m tagging to see if they’re interested 😊)

#dragon ball series #frieza #frostdbs #friezaxfrost #art contest #lets all have fun!!#And I’m admittedly nervous how this’ll go lol #artists on tumblr #icejin

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crinkled-emotions · 4 months

Text

Day 25: Secret Santa

Hi hi! This one, again, would have made... so much more sense... had I published on Dec 25th 😂

Ship: Hangster (I'm in such a Hangster mood rn please disregard)

The original prompt:

Maverick finished cutting and folding paper then tossed them into his helmet, opening the airstream door and calling out to the Daggers who were floating around the hangar. Hangman, Bob, Payback and Rooster were lying on Maverick’s couches in front of his TV, squabbling about a football game. Phoenix and Coyote were playing table tennis and Fanboy was on a running commentary, earning an eyeroll from the other two. Rooster glanced up from where he was sitting on the floor between Bob’s legs, an eyebrow raised.

“What’s up, Mav?”

“Come grab a piece of paper each; the name you draw is who you’re buying for this year’s Secret Santa.”

“Hangman if I draw your name know you’re not getting anything,” Phoenix said as she climbed over the back of the couch between Bob and Payback, the first one to grab a name from the hat... helmet.

“Please tell me that’s not the one you’re using at the moment,” Rooster complained to Maverick as he reached up to grab one himself.

“Okay, I won’t tell you that.”

“Phoenix if I get you, I’m getting you tickets to the next Longhorns game,” Hangman said as he accidentally tripped over Rooster who was back on the floor after grabbing his paper.

“Getting yourself tickets to the next Longhorns game,” Bob muttered. Hangman smirked.

“Why not, right?”

“Just when I thought you’d changed, Bagman,” Phoenix sighed as she flopped into a spot on the couch. Once everyone had their piece of paper Maverick shooed them off to go back to causing chaos in the rest of the hangar. With everyone else distracted, Rooster opened his paper for a second time and winced. He stood, touching Maverick’s arm in passing.

“Hey, I forgot; I have PT first thing tomorrow morning. I’m gonna head back now and get some sleep beforehand. It’s been great out here this week, thanks Mav.”

Maverick regarded him for a moment, then smiled at him.

“Back still giving you trouble?”

“It never got better after I ejected, but PT helps.”

“That’s good, kid. Keep up with it. Let me know when you get home, yeah?”

“Gotcha.”

Maverick gave him a quick hug and Rooster went over to the rest of the Daggers to let them know he was heading out, earning a groan from Phoenix and a look from Hangman. If anyone could tell he was bullshitting, it was probably those two.

“You good, man?” Coyote asked. He was also so very perceptive when it came to bullshit.

“Fine, it’s just- y’know, I don’t really want to miss PT if it’s the only thing that helps my back, especially because I can’t do my usual gym routine at the moment.”

“Ah, gotcha. Okay man, we’ll probably see you later, we’re all thinking of going out for dinner sometime next week if you’re down?”

“Only if you’re paying, Javy,” Rooster grinned. The two bumped shoulders in good jest then Phoenix gave him a hug.

“Call me if you want to talk about it,” she said subtly as she pulled away.

“Thanks, Tash.”

With that he waved goodbye to the others and got into the Bronco, starting the engine and letting it warm up whilst he connected his phone to the new Bluetooth system he’d managed to connect about a month ago. He took a deep breath, glancing toward the others who were still having fun in the hangar and wondered if they’d figured out what was going on.

“That was weird, right?”

Phoenix hummed when Hangman appeared at her side, lining up her next shot on the pool table.

“You and I both know he freezes like that for no reason sometimes. He’d say something if it was serious-“

“-Trace.”

Hangman sent her a look and Phoenix cleared her throat.

“You’re right, that’s wishful thinking. We both know he doesn’t have PT for another week so what made him run for the hills?”

“The threat of commitment?” Hangman suggested, earning a pool cue to the gut. She continued to be a good shot, apparently. The pair glanced up when the airstream door opened and Maverick quietly slipped inside. They exchanged a look, and Phoenix reached for her phone.

“I don’t think they had a fight, we would’ve heard it, but I’m just gonna make sure he’s okay,” she muttered as she typed out a text. Hangman hummed.

“I’ll go see if I can get it out of Mav. He doesn’t go quiet unless it’s to do with a Bradshaw.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Phoenix pleaded. She went back to her pool game and Hangman approached Coyote and Bob.

“Hey, did either of you see when Mav’s mood changed?”

“As far as I’m aware it didn’t-“

“-when we all checked who we had for Secret Santa.”

Coyote was quick to dismiss it but Bob’s wallflower personality had the gossip Hangman needed. He was quick to ruffle Bob’s perfectly styled hair, glancing over his shoulder.

“Hey Phoenix, I got it!”

Phoenix: did you fight with Mav? (sent: 1:32pm)

Rooster: no? (sent: 6:30pm)

Rooster: what would make you think that? (sent: 6:31pm)

Phoenix: you pretty much ran out of the hangar and you’re not a runner anymore (sent: 6:32pm)

Rooster: look (sent: 6:35pm)

Rooster: it’s nothing (sent: 6:35pm)

Phoenix: you drove the 4 hours back to San Diego for no reason (sent: 6:40pm)

Rooster: do we really have to do this? I have PT (sent: 6:45pm)

Phoenix: bullshit (sent: 6:46pm)

Phoenix: if it’s not a big deal you would have already dealt with it (sent: 6:47pm)

Rooster: seriously Tash it’s nothing (sent: 6:48pm)

Phoenix: fine (sent: 7pm)

Phoenix: but I’m here if you want to get it off your chest (sent: 7:01pm)

Rooster: I know (sent: 7:02pm)

Rooster: but thanks (sent: 7:03pm)

Phoenix: I got your back (sent: 7:04pm)

Hangman had let Maverick go for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, but after dinner and a couple beers he sidled over and flopped onto the couch beside him.

“So; you and Roos have a fight?”

“No...?”

“Just checkin’, he left like his tail was on fire.”

“He’s your boyfriend isn’t he?” Maverick replied, an eyebrow raised. Hangman cleared his throat.

“Don’t change the subject, sir. Something changed when we did the Secret Santa draw; is everything okay?”

“You don’t give up, do you?” Maverick sighed, “but fine, as long as you don’t tell him.”

He reached into his pocket, offering the piece of paper he’d drawn last. Hangman opened it and whistled.

“You got something in mind?”

“Maybe. It’s... I dunno, it’s probably stupid, but-“

“-it won’t be stupid, and you’re not gonna piss him off. He’s come a long way since the Dagger mission, Mav, don’t worry about that.”

Maverick hummed, but his gaze remained on his lap. Hangman gently bumped his shoulder.

“If it helps, I’ll go and check on him tomorrow. I was thinking of heading back anyway, leave isn’t super long this time and I have to do a couple things before they torture me on base.”

That earned a chuckle and Hangman took it as a win.

Rooster wasn’t entirely surprised to find Hangman in his kitchen when he came back from his morning run, making what looked like coffee and breakfast. They shared a gentle kiss against the counter, Hangman offering the cup of liquid gold he was drinking to his partner.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” He started. Rooster shook his head.

“I need a shower first.”

Hangman frowned but he slowly nodded.

“Okay; go shower and then we’re going to talk. No slipping out a window, yeah? We’re too old for that shit.”

Rooster snorted, pressing a kiss to his lips before heading upstairs. Hangman sighed.

Hangman: he’s being cagey (sent: 8:45am)

Phoenix: duh (sent: 8:46am)

When Rooster returned, freshly showered and ready for the day, he took the plate offered and the couple went to the dining table. Whilst they ate they made light conversation, planning out what they wanted to do over the next couple of days other than a date night and making out on Rooster’s couch. Their plates quickly became empty and Hangman took Rooster by the hand.

“Babe,” he started softly, “tell me what’s going on in your head.”

Despite popular belief, Hangman wasn’t a pet names guy, he leaned more toward nicknames and variations of callsigns; the way he said babe told Rooster he was serious. Rooster’s gaze fell to the dining table, spotting various stains on the tabletop.

“It’s dumb,” he muttered. Hangman squeezed his hand.

“Probably, but I want to hear it anyway.”

“I got Mav for the Secret Santa. I knew there was a chance, I just didn’t think it would happen. There’s six other names I could have drawn, y’know?”

“That makes sense. You worried about it not being good enough for him?”

“It’s our first Christmas after coming back together; I think I broke his heart last year when I told him you and me were going to Australia for Christmas so I wouldn’t be around. I just want it to mean something.”

Hangman’s brows furrowed.

“I didn’t know he’d offered to have you last Christmas, but it makes sense now. You were unhinged in Australia, honey.”

Rooster snorted. When Hangman stood to approach him he instinctively opened his arms to let him into his space.

“Look, there’s a couple things you need to remember; one, I love you. Two, Mav adores you. Three, you could give him a plain white mug and he’d still treasure it because it came from you, B. He doesn’t care about what he gets, just that you’re there.”

Rooster hummed.

“You know this is why I keep you around, right?”

“Oh; so it’s not the great sex?”

“That too.”

Christmas Day rolled around and the Daggers plus Penny and Amelia gathered at the hangar, sharing a meal and playing football on the tarmac. Amelia had quickly integrated herself into the group of adults around her; as much as Penny was a great mom Amelia found that she also liked talking to Phoenix, a great role model for younger girls like her. Penny and Maverick sat back to watch them hand in hand, exchanging a fond look when Bob tackled Payback and everyone cheered for him.

“He’s come a long way,” Penny said. Maverick hummed.

“It shows in the air, too. He’s always had confidence in the air but it’s only grown-“

“-oh, no, I was talking about Rooster.”

Maverick’s gaze tracked around the group, finding his godson with his boyfriend. Amelia approached them and Rooster smiled at her, leaving Hangman’s side to listen to what she had to say.

“I’d say he’s finally found peace,” Maverick agreed. Penny squeezed his hand.

“Have you?”

“Who knows.”

Amelia came running to the two adults, tugging at Maverick’s hand.

“C’mon, Rooster wants to do Secret Santa.”

“Oh, does he?” Penny teased, exchanging a look with her partner. Maverick hefted himself out of his seat.

“We better not keep him waiting. Go round up the others, Amelia.”

She took off to the others, yelling for them. Penny bumped Maverick’s shoulder.

“Do you want to tell me why you’ve been so cagey lately?”

“Me? Cagey? Just trying not to get myself sent to another foreign country, Penny,” he replied. She gave him the look, the same one he’d just seen Hangman give Rooster, and winced.

“I got Rooster for Secret Santa and I’m a little worried about what I got him.”

“You’re worried he’s going to throw another temper tantrum? I really don’t think he’s got it in him anymore, honey.”

“I know... I think. I don’t want to risk it.”

“Okay, well, Hangman’s here, Phoenix is here, I’m here. We’re not going to let him ruin Christmas if that what he feels he needs to do.”

Penny squeezed his hand and they went to join the others who had gathered around the Christmas tree toward the back of the hangar.

“Phoenix.”

“Thanks, Amelia.”

Phoenix took the wrapped present from the younger girl, watching her hand the rest of them around. Rooster’s came as a wrapped large box, whilst Maverick’s was flatter but more rectangular. The others tore into theirs but it took a minute for Rooster and Maverick to pull off the paper. Rooster was the first to pop open his box and he immediately tossed the box on to Hangman’s lap to give Maverick a hug.

“I didn’t know you kept it,” he muttered. Maverick breathed a sigh.

“I found it last week, thought you might want it back.”

“What is it?” Phoenix asked Hangman, who reached into the box and produced a tiny airplane toy. When Rooster returned to his side he took the toy back, keeping it close to him. Hangman frowned but chose not to question it at that moment, instead flipping open the envelope he’d been handed.

“Oh, would you look at that! Longhorns tickets. I wonder who did that?” He said in a way that told everyone exactly what had happened.

“How the fuck did you draw yourself?” Bob groaned at the same time the others laughed. Hangman smirked.

“I’m just that good, Baby on board. I’m so good, in fact, that Rooster-“

“-open yours, Mav, before I have to cover Amelia’s ears,” Phoenix pleaded. Maverick gently opened the box and his eyes softened.

“All these years I thought I’d lost it. Where did you find it?”

At first the team assumed he was talking to Penny, but Rooster was the one to speak up.

“A couple weeks ago, I was cleaning out the Bronco and I found it wedged in a really weird spot. Never noticed it before, thought you might want it back.

“Guys, being mysterious is fun when you’re not pushing sixty,” Amelia groaned. Penny gently swatted her arm whilst the others laughed. Maverick rolled his eyes, holding up what looked like a keyring that had seen better days.

“I bought this when Bradley was born. I don’t believe in luck but this thing went everywhere with me and it kept me safe. The one time I didn’t have it, well... we lost Goose that day and I searched for it every day after. I had no idea it was in that damn truck of his.”

The others went quiet, Hangman reaching subtly for Rooster’s hand between them. Finally, Rooster cleared his throat.

“You never told me that.”

“I know, kid.”

“Is that Tasmania?” Phoenix blurted, standing from her seat and gesturing vaguely toward the desert outside the hangar doors.

“What does that even- oh. Yeah, goddamn, that looks like it! C’mon guys.”

Hangman followed along, gesturing with a (not) subtle head tilt toward the hangar doors. Everyone but Maverick and Rooster made a swift exit, giving them a moment to themselves.

“I’m really glad you could be here this year, Bradley. I’m not upset about Australia, you do know that right?”

“It’s good to hear it,” Rooster confessed. Maverick hummed.

“Let’s start fresh in the new year, huh? Stop running and try talking?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They shared a look, then laughed.

“I can’t believe you still had it,” Rooster muttered.

“Always. Thought you might want it back, give it to your kids some day.”

“This is a real cockblock, Roos. I’m trying to get laid and you’re staring at that toy?”

“Shush, Jake.”

Rooster lifted the toy to the tent light, showing a crack in one of the wings. Hangman huffed, making himself comfortable against Rooster’s shoulder and sending him a look.

“Why are you so hooked on that toy?”

“My mom said it was the last thing I got from my dad. We went to see him and Mav at TOPGUN and it was only a couple days later that he...”

Rooster cleared his throat.

“You know the story.”

“Wow... what’s the crack in the wing from?”

“I cried for, like, three hours. I was playing with it in the park and some older kid took it, stepped on it, then called me a baby. I was six. It took Mav and mom about an hour to fix it, but when they went to give it back to me I was hiding under Mav’s leather jacket and sobbing. Apparently the crying stopped the second I had it back.”

Hangman laughed, reaching up to press a kiss to his lips.

“That’s adorable; I’ll be telling Phoenix that one later.”

Rooster hummed, finally tucking the toy into his backpack and using his body weight to flip them.

“Sorry, you said something about getting laid?”

“Tell me more,” Hangman grinned.

#G's Dec 2023 Prompts!#Bradley Rooster Bradshaw #Bradley Bradshaw #Rooster #Callsign: Rooster #Natasha Phoenix Trace #Natasha Trace #Phoenix #Callsign: Phoenix #Jake Hangman Seresin #Jake Seresin #Hangman #Callsign: Hangman #Pete Maverick Mitchell #Pete Mitchell #Maverick #Callsign: Maverick #Hangster #hurt/comfort

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groggygrogu · 4 months

Note

Hello! I was just hit with a rush of "this is perfect!" I really don't care about like if you wanna do all of these, but any one of them is good for Din x reader. Like it's basically Mando sex appeal in a post. (Or any of the other Mandalorians really if you're feeling it)

i love this !! disclaimer i wrote this in one hour at about 1am i hope you enjoy <33

gn reader x din djarin

mature rating

815 words

—

You’re not quite sure how it happened - how you got from one point to the next. One moment, you’re fumbling around in the cockpit trying to get Mando’s fucking metal contraption off the ground as the man himself fights off the last of your attackers while hanging from the back of his ship.

And the next, well the next moment, you’re against the back of the cockpit, hips pinned to the wall by Mando gripping your thighs. His thumbs are tracing circles just below your hips and you’re still not quite sure how you got here.

Not that you’re complaining.

“Mando?” You say, already breathless at where this might be going. You think it was him that led you to this position. You certainly don’t remember making the call.

“Din.” He says in reply.

“Wha-”

“My name, is Din.”

“Din.” It sounds good on your tongue. You swallow as he tilts his head up to look at you and trace the bottom of his helmet with your thumb. “Din, is this- what do- um.”

Your already jumbled train of a thought comes to a screeching halt as his finger comes up to trace the zipper on your pants.

“I want to make you feel good,” he says quietly. “Is that okay?”

“Y- yeah. Yes, please.”

“I was scared today,” he murmurs, face directed at your crotch as he unclasps your flight pants. “Too many near misses.”

“I know Mand- Din.”

He moves to pull them off fully when he pauses. “Is that a knife? Inside your pants?”

“S’hidden,” you whine, not entirely concentrating on what he’s saying.

“That’s not safe.”

“It’s covered.”

After a huff but no more comment, he pulls them down to your ankles before being hindered by your heavy boots. With the patience of a saint, he unlaces them both slowly and lifts your feet out of them.

The discovery of three more knives follows.

“Three?”

“Get up here, you,” you laugh, tugging on his shoulders gently. “Clutching your pearls over a couple of knives, honestly.”

“I don’t have any pearls.”

You ignore him and his endearing habit of taking everything you say entirely literally. You let yourself imagine what he’d look like in pearls, just for a second.

Your hands rest on his fully armoured chest. “Can I take this off?”

You almost don’t catch the tiny nod he gives you but you think you could give a master class on how to read the mandalorian by now. He bends down first to pull off his own boots and a good three stashed pointy things with each one. You shake your head fondly and tap his helmet as he stands back up. The metal chest plate comes off first and then the perfectly shaped pieces along each arm before you can start to peel off his flight suit.

Then it’s your turn to baulk as under each plate, he seems to have hidden ridiculous amounts of extra ammo. And ridiculous contraptions on each wrist that while you have caught flashes of them still come as a surprise. You tug off each glove, taking the extra time to feel the soft part of his palm with your finger tips.

He shivers as your fingers draw a path down his chest so his bellybutton. You wonder when he was last touched like this, or touched at all.

The hold-out blaster tucked under his waistband is your final straw and you can’t help but snort.

“So that’s how you made it out of that situation back on Tatooine, huh?”

A smug nod.

You scoff and butt your head against this helmet - a familiar action in an entirely new context. You don’t hate it.

Din had remained silent up until this point, allowing you to take in the skin you’d never seen before, under the lights of the control panel. But now he grunts, questioning what’s wrong.

“Din, do you think the both of us may be a little paranoid?”

“No.”

“No?” you query, winkling out the dagger he’d managed to squeeze into his holster along with his usual pistol. You hold it up to his helmet trying to stifle a laugh.

You can almost see him frowning, not that you should have any concept of that but you just do somehow. His focus is back on you now, deft fingers untying the laces of your own far simpler armour. You’re not sure if he’s trying to be funny or not but you still giggle as he pats you down before fully removing it. The smoke bomb he finds loosely taped to the inside of the leather stops him.

“Maybe,” he allows. “Maybe a bit paranoid.”

You sigh and press the quickest kiss to his shoulder, allowing yourself some plausible deniability. Though you’re not sure why.

“Keep going,” he whispers, his newly bare hands hovering in the space between you. “Please.”

“Whatever you need, Din.”

#the mandelorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x gn!reader #gn!reader #anon ask #requests

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kay-elle-cee · 9 months

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A restless waves rise and fall microfic (series). 🏴‍☠️ Pirate Jily AU. @jilymicrofics August Prompt 9: Discrete || 859 Words

“Love, I believe someone is staring at you.”

Lily lifts her gaze from the map in front of them, allowing her eyes to trail over to where her husband’s staring.

Across the bustling tavern from them a man leans against the wall, knuckles clenched tightly around a tankard in his hand as his eyes—beady and black and set in a pale face framed by slick black curtains of hair—remain fixed on the captain and first mate of The Minnie.

An echo of panic shoots through her veins as she keeps her face cool and unbothered, dropping her eyes back down to the map with little interest.

“Ah, yes. We were on a crew together.” Lily pauses, drawing a line of dashes on the map towards their next destination before letting out a sigh. “He’s the reason I went ashore all those years ago. Well, main reason. It was a piss poor ship to be on, all in all.”

“That was the…” James trails off, trying to recall all the stories she’s told him. “Sailing Serpent?”

Lily nods, reaching for her drink and taking a swig as she looks at him. “Aye. And that captain—Mulciber—the worst I’ve ever served under. Bullied his crew, thought he was too important to fail and nearly got us killed several times over.”

“And is that him?”

“No,” she answers, pursing her lips and looking back down at the map. “That’s Severus Snape. The Serpent’s keeper of the code and pain in my bloody side. He was hell-bent on proving there was something funny going on with Lawrence Evans.”

James stiffens beside her. “Did he…figure you out?”

Lily shakes her head, “No, but nearly. He had a hunch and was obsessive about proving himself right. I don’t know what his angle was but…” her brow furrows as she’s taken into a far-away memory, “…that was not a ship I wanted to be found out on.”

A warm hand covers hers on the table and she’s pulled out of the memory, into the present of her new life. Her open, honest, freeing life. The wrinkle in her brow smooths and she gives James a soft smile.

“Jumped ship at The Republic of Pirates and never looked back,” Lily says with a raised chin and a quirk of her eyebrow, flipping her palm up and laces her fingers with his. “I’d say I’ve done pretty well for myself.”

His hand squeezes hers and they sit there for a moment, smiling and lost in the sparkle of each other’s eyes when the sound of a throat clearing jolts them back to the present.

James’ other hand surreptitiously drops to his sheathed sword as their attention turns to this newcomer—Severus Snape—whose eyes dart from Lily to James and back again.

“Pardon the interruption,” he begins cooly and wholly unapologetic, his eyes fixated on Lily, “but you look quite familiar.”

Lily makes an effort to stay calm, drawing strength from not only the presence of James beside her, but the Potter heirloom—her wedding ring—that hangs discretely around her neck and tucked into her shirt for safekeeping. The physical reminder of the life she's built.

She raises an eyebrow. “I’ve gotten that before. I imagine it’s the hair.”

Snape’s eyes roam her face and she has to fight not to shift under the scrutiny. “No, I’m quite certain we’ve met—I realize this sounds ridiculous, but were you ever aboard The Sailing Serpent?”

Lily blinks, and she can feel James’ hand tight on hers, his eyes watching closely for any signs of distress. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“You’re sure? You look nearly identical to an old crewmate." He squints, eyes glinting with suspicion, and Lily practically feels him imagining her with short, tied-back hair and a deep voice. "Lawrence Evans?”

Expression still neutral, she shrugs, but takes care to make her voice light even in its firmness. “Don’t know any Evanses. The name’s Potter.” Her hold on James' hand strengthens. "Lily Potter."

Severus Snape's black eyes flicker once more between her and James and whatever conclusion he comes to, he nods and steps back with a soured grimace. “My mistake.” With a final scan of her face, he turns and walks away, but something in Lily's stomach sits heavy, not convinced in the slightest that he's content with the interaction.

“Lily Potter,” James hums lowly, and she can hear the grin in his voice as it pulls her out of her worry—she’s still Evans on the ship, so he relishes every public reminder of their union. His hand drops from hers and snakes around her shoulders, pulling her tight. “You’re magnificent.”

Her heart pounds—from the adrenaline, from the love—but her eyes dart around the room. “If Snape’s here, Mulciber’s likely not far behind. We should get back to the ship and avoid them if we can.”

When her eyes meet his after scanning the room, they’re close to her and shining with pride behind his glasses, and whatever unpleasantness Snape’s presence had wrought melts away. She leans forward, pressing her lips against his. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yes, love, I do.” He gives her another kiss. “Now let’s go.”

Read on Ao3 (and subscribe there to see these a bit earlier)

#ripples in the water #restless waves rise and fall #jily #pirate au #jilymicrofics #jple #james potter #lily evans #kelsey writes #kay elle cee

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envysnest · 3 months

Text

Pity the Mayfly (ch. 1/?) - an Astarion/Tav fic

Ao3 Link Here

Chapters: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6

You had come to the Gate to forget your past, discard your elven name, and pursue alchemy against your family's wishes. On a visit to your old keep, you're found by the Nautiloid, and everything tilts sideways.

When the gith’yanki asks your name, you say the first thing that comes to mind: “Tavvendish.” You add, “Tav, for short. I know it’s a mouthful.”

“The pronunciation of your name,” she snaps, “is not of any concern to me. Our priority is escaping this ghaik monstrosity.” She grabs your forearm. “I am Lae’zel, of Creche K’liir. There is but one way to pronounce my name. You will call me Lae’zel. Now.” She turns and points. “We go.”

------------

There’s another woman on the ship: a half-elf named Shadowheart. She appraises you with a tight mouth. If there’s something odd about your name, she doesn’t mention it. But, as you two wander the beach, she doesn’t have to: it reads in her eyes, in the way she watches you with suspicion.

You try to make conversation. “Where are you from, sister?”

“Do not use your wood elf customs on me,” she replies. “I was not raised with them. ‘Shadowheart’ will do just fine.”

You roll your eyes. “I am from the Gate,” you say pointedly. “Where are you from?”

“I am also from the Gate." Shadowheart pauses to flip a corpse over; she digs through its pockets, finds a few gold pieces, and pockets them. She offers no further information, and neither do you.

------------

Truthfully, you were on your way home for the first time in ages. You brought your latest batch of Lesser Harpy Spider antivenom with you.

Fox’s Keep took half a tenday to reach from the southern Gate. It was day four, and unseasonably hot. You were due to stop in neighboring Cliffside Keep that night. By suppertime, you would sit in front of a hand-hewn wooden table, courtesy of your wood-working family. Twenty-four hours from that, you would be in your childhood bedroom in Fox’s Keep.

You carefully lined your eyes in blue. All you had for reference was a hand mirror that shined sunlight directly into your eyes. Prior visits had sparked rude comments about your skin: prying questions about being tired, or overworked, or disheveled. You knew to make up your face now.

You looked down at the ground and waved a hand over the blue eye paint, willing it to dry without smudging on your browbone. A pretty face didn’t stop the comments, but it at least quelled them. You could always switch the topic to your work if they didn't stop. You did, deep down, like the eye paint on you; if you had to make these damnable visits to your old keep, supplying them with medicine against those woods, you would at least look good doing it.

A shadow darkened the sky above you. You looked up.

And then—

------------

There is a dagger at your neck and a hissing voice in your ear.

“Do not move,” it says. “And don’t make a sound. I don’t want to cut that pretty little throat of yours. Do we understand each other?”

His dagger presses directly into the space where your tattoo cuts down your throat. You swallow and feel its keen blade against your flesh.

You nod at the sky.

“Good girl,” murmurs the voice.

Where is Shadowheart? you think. Your heart races. There is a pale hand at your sternum, a leg wrapped around yours. You know how this dance ends, have borne witness to it dozens of times. You want to say something cutting— that you are finishing your monthly blood, that you are a witch, that you will slit his throat for the courtesy— and yet you cannot move, your body obediently going still for what you know is next.

The man adjusts his grip on the dagger. “You were on that ship,” he says. “I saw you. You are going to tell me everything. Nod if you understand.”

He is drawing this out. You nod.

“That’s a good pet. What were you doing on that ship? Talk.”

“Taken,” you wheeze, trying not to cut yourself in two on the dagger.

“From?”

“Cliffside— Keep—”

“You’re a-ways from home, little woodling.” The dagger presses incrementally deeper. “Why?”

So the Nautiloid had crashed somewhere new, after all. Just how far was far?

You lick your lips. “—visiting—my old keep—” A bead of sweat trickles down your brow, seeping into your eye. It stings. “—I— I bring medicine—”

“You’re a healer?” The man’s tone changes: it is now tentatively hopeful. The dagger eases, just the slightest bit; you can turn your head to face him.

“Opposite—” You look up into his face. The man’s eyes are a strange, ruby-red; you’ve never seen anything like it. “I make antivenom—poi—poisons, usually—”

Someone makes a distressed noise behind you: Shadowheart, back from scavenging. “Unhand her at once!” she snaps.

“Stay out of this!” the man shouts at her.

Something in your brain squirms— gives—

And suddenly, the dagger is gone from your throat.

You feel like the tadpole will bore its way out of your skull from your left eye socket. The man yelps with pain. You can sit up, but your head pounds, and you fall back down on the dirt.

Memories spill into your brain: the acrid smell of liquor, flesh-on-flesh, the laughter of a full tavern. The moon is full and bright, and you are so very hungry—

And then it’s gone. You open your eyes. The sun shines brightly above you.

“What the hell was that?” the man cries. He holds his head, face creased with agony. “And what,” he snaps at you, “did they do to me?”

Shadowheart reaches down to you. You take her hand, and she hauls you to your feet in one swift pull. “To us,” she says. “Lucky you. Looks like you have a tadpole, too.”

You cough. “With Lae’zel, that makes four of us.” You watch the man as, scowling, he stands and dusts the dirt from his breeches. He's maybe your height, and you are not a short woman. Perhaps you could've thrown him off of you.

Shadowheart raises her chin defiantly. “I’m not entirely sold on keeping the gith. For all we know, she could be dead.”

The man’s voice: “A gith, you say? This just became interesting.”

You pick up your brimmed hat from the path; it’s faintly crumpled. A shame: you had saved for months to buy it. “Provided you keep your daggers in your pockets," you say to him, "You can come along, too. We should stay together.”

“Tavvendish,” hisses Shadowheart. “Really?”

Meanwhile, the man laughs beside you: a floating, haughty sound, like wind chimes. “And what makes you think I want to come with you?”

But before you can speak, he shakes his head. “Let’s start over. My name is Astarion.” He smiles; he reminds you of a particularly sated cat. “Who might I be speaking to?”

Your stomach drops. Was it only elves on that blasted ship? you think.

“Tav,” you say, and you brace for his reaction.

But Astarion doesn’t comment on your unusual name. The other man takes your hand and merely bows again. “Charmed, my dear.” He kisses the back of your hand.

His lips are ice-cold.

You snatch your hand away and, when Astarion turns to Shadowheart, wipe it discreetly on the back of your robes. You reach down for your pack and staff. The tips of your ears burn.

Shadowheart does not offer her hand to Astarion. “Shadowheart.” And then, to you: “We should keep moving.”

Astarion gestures to the path. “By all means,” he says. “Lead the way.”

------------

The wreckage teems with corpses and reeks of old blood. Intellect Devourers skitter around your ankles, whispering join us join us join us join us in reedy voices that make you feel vaguely ill. You put your staff through one. It squeals, like nails on stone, before going limp. As your new companions explore around you, you dig out your scalpel and split the Intellect Devourer in two. You excise the grey, slimy cerebellum and wrap it in wax paper from your pack.

You hear Astarion scoff at you from across the room. “How vile.”

You glare at him. “Sorry for making the best out of a bad situation.”

He leans against an empty mind-flayer pod, making a show of examining his nails. “A poisoner,” he says idly. “I’m sure drinking that swill,” and here he twirls a finger at the Intellect Devourer blood on your hands, “will make anyone sick.” He picks at something underneath his thumbnail, the very picture of chilly disinterest. “Tavvendish, was it?”

“Tav is fine—”

His eyes flick up to yours. “Duly noted, Tavvendish.”

You feel your hackles raise. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of your name, but his smug attitude makes you feel suddenly, terribly violent. Anger, familiar and horrible, rises up in your gut.

Astarion raises an eyebrow and smirks.

You stand, brandishing your staff—

A piercing whistle comes from the cliffs above you. Shadowheart’s head is just visible over its lip. “There’s another path up here,” she calls. “It has signage. We may be near civilization.”

Astarion shouts back up to her. “We’re coming,” he says. “Just as soon as the witch is done dissecting everything.”

You make a fist— twirl your pointer finger— aim it at Astarion—

Shadowheart interrupts before you can finish casting Fire Bolt. “Quickly, then! The sun is already beginning to wane.”

You scowl and drop your hand, thwarted. Astarion widens his eyes at you, like your second brother when he gets what he wants. “You heard the lady,” he purrs. “Let’s go.”

You tromp up the hills behind him, keeping a purposeful distance. Astarion is blissfully silent; whatever energy he had before, he must now direct into huffing and puffing up the cliffside with you. Orange dirt nests under your fingernails, turns your palms the color of ripe apricots.

Astarion reaches the top before you do and offers a hand down. You ignore it.

Now at the top of the cliff, you sigh with relief. Why had you packed so much for such a short visit home?

Astarion’s feet tap impatiently in your eyeline. “You lied, by the by,” he says above you. “You are from Fox’s Keep, not Cliffside.”

You wince. So Astarion had seen into your brain, just as you, presumably, had seen into his.

What exactly had Astarion seen?

And what did you see?

You reluctantly get to your feet. Rusty dirt clings to your robes, far beyond the capability of any Prestidigitation spell. You’ll have to change into fresh ones as soon as you’re able. Shadowheart places a stabilizing hand on your back.

“It’s rather a long story,” you say. “I’m not exactly— Fox’s Keep is my mother keep.”

Shadowheart lets out a little huh next to you, but she doesn’t say anything more.

You continue, “I live in the Gate, currently.”

“Oh?” Astarion leans in towards you. “And what keep do you belong to there?”

“I don’t—” You sigh with defeat. “Have one.”

Astarion gasps and presses his fingers to his lips. “Oh, my,” he says, the very picture of Upper-City shock and awe. “An exile. I’ve never seen a wood elf expelled from her keep.”

You scowl at him. “I am no—”

“Hellooo!” calls a male voice. “A little help, please!”

------------

“Baldur’s Gate,” said your Nana with a sneer, “is a dirty, unsafe city.”

Yes, you replied, but at least there aren’t ten potion-makers to a block there, and that earned you another night of screaming and slammed doors. You lied awake all night, tears drying on your face, listening to the grandfather clock tick away in the hall.

Baldur’s Gate, at least to you, represented opportunity: It was a place where you could be anyone.

Anyone but… you.

You're fascinated by the wrong things: flowers blooming and dying, an asp sinking its fangs into a squealing rabbit, mushrooms glowing in the dark. Nature beckons to you as death beckons to the weak with an open palm. You learned Knock just so you could dig into the library's forbidden texts: necromancy, mind control, poisons. You withstood the resulting beatings from the Bookkeeper family with pride.

Inspired by the many encyclopedias you read, you taught yourself how to milk venom from a viper. It was a thrilling day when you finally encouraged a Golden Asp to latch to a milking jar. You had felt something tender crack open within you, watching those first clear drops slide down into the glass below. The venom sparkled in the sunlight.

Your family, the Carvers, is one of wood-workers: both of your parents, and your Nana and Papa on both sides, and your great-grandparents before them. Your mother is a furniture-maker from Cliffside Keep; your father, a maker of wooden hunting decoys from Fox’s Keep. The two had fallen slowly in in love during regular visits to trade. They had expected a son when they had you; you were given a masculine name anyway. You have seven younger siblings, two of which are identical twins: good luck for wood elves, a sign of a fertile and happy marriage. Your interest in alchemistry— in something other than wood-working— soiled that.

“What would an alchemist’s family name be?” your mother sighed at you one afternoon. Your newest sibling dozed in her arms. “Poisoner? It’s a hideous profession. Don’t even think about it.”

The problem was that you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You argued with your parents, your grandparents, your siblings. You resented the forced time in the workshop, sanding down wood furniture until your arms and abdominals ached. When you were unable to trance, you drew what you found growing in the forest: snakes and spiders and insects crawling in the grass. You found a snake’s nest one afternoon, the eggs already hatched and abandoned, and you sat next to it for hours, dutifully sketching your findings. You taught your friends simple cantrips, little tricks to make them gasp and giggle.

One of your sisters stole your notebook from your shared bedroom and, laughing all the while, showed it to your parents. Then the parchment and ink was taken away, and you were given more useless wood to sand. You beat her about the ears for this, and when she cried for your parents, they took away your candles, too.

I hate this place, you thought one night. I hate my stupid boy name and I hate stupid wood and after my Trial I’ll start my own keep someday, someplace far from here, and I’ll learn all the spells I want.

You wished, fervently, to be given a girl’s name at your Trial. You resolved to beg the Wood Mother for one, if needed. Tavvendish was a child who was doomed to varnish wood for eternity. This new elf, you decided, this adult, would be an alchemist, and she would have a pretty, feminine name.

The week of your Trial couldn't come soon enough.

And then it arrived.

------------

Gale is sweet and talkative and gods, you hate him already.

“A fellow scholar!” he chirps at you, clasping his hands together with excitement. “Two wizards are better than one, or so they say.”

Lae’zel dusts herself off from the cage she was just in, as if your party hadn’t had to rescue her. You dig through the trapper's belongings with her, looking for anything useful.

“There’s balsam growing there,” you say over your shoulder to Gale. You point at a few scraggly flowers growing along the path. “Would you mind?”

Gale— the idiot-- happily obliges. He produces lacquered scissors from his pack— oh, you definitely hate him— and, with clinical efficiency, begins snipping flowers. “Have we an alchemist on our hands?” he says. “I’ve got some mushrooms gathering dust in my pouch. I might give them to you to extract.”

Astarion calls to you two from over a tiefling’s bloodied corpse. “Oh, don’t touch her, Gale. She’s covered in goodness-knows from the Nautiloid.”

“You don’t say?” Gale calls back to him. He smirks at you, wagging the scissors in your direction. “A thrifty one, then.”

How in the realms had Astarion heard you two? You ignore him and address Gale instead. “I have some supplies in my pack,” you say, “but certainly not enough for five individuals. And most of it is…" You teeter your hand back-and-forth. "Toxic.”

Gale sighs. “What a shame.”

The deceased have some drow poison and a few meager healing potions. Something is better than nothing, you suppose. You pass a healing potion to Lae’zel, who accepts it with a terse nod.

Gale’s shadow falls over you, and he offers the balsam flowers with open palms. His trimming is immaculate; you admire the bulbs for a moment before dropping them, one by one, into your pouch.

“I can’t help but notice,” Gale says slowly, and you tense. “You’re a wood elf, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you say stiffly. You stand up.

“How fascinating!” Gale tucks his hands behind his back, the very picture of polite curiosity. “Your kind are rather reclusive, as you know. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of talking to a wood elf in Waterdeep.”

You could kill him.

Gale leans in. “What keep are you from, may I ask?”

You sigh. “Can everyone stop asking me that?”

Gale takes a step back. Hurt flits across his face, quick as lightning. In the next moment, it’s gone. He gives you a little bow. “My sincerest apologies,” he says, and he sounds genuine. “I don’t mean to pry.”

You sling your pack over your shoulder with a grunt. “Fox’s Keep,” you say, guilt lancing through you at the name. “It was my mother keep. I live in the Gate at the moment.”

“Fox’s Keep!” Gale trails after you. “Excellent strawberry wine. Some of the finest and sweetest I’ve tasted.”

Astarion, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel are several steps ahead of you on the path. The road trudges upwards at a steady thirty-degree angle. From beside you, Gale wipes sweat from his brow. Your pack clinks with glass bottles.

“We certainly do love our wine,” you huff.

“I heard you all have trades,” he says. “What is your family name?” Before you can answer, he laughs and shakes his head. “Look at me, prying again. The curse of an academic.”

“Carver.” You stop at the side of the road to examine a bushel of Autumncrocus, hoping Gale will get the hint and leave you alone.

He doesn’t.

“Wood-workers?” he asks. “A noble profession.”

You cut the stems with your paring knife. “Mm-hmm.”

He squints up at the sky. “So how does a wood-worker get into alchemy?”

You shove the Autumncrocus directly into your robe pockets and start back up the path. “By disappointing her family,” you spit over your shoulder. “That’s how.”

Gale is blessedly silent after that.

------------

There is an overturned fruit cart in a clearing up ahead. The produce looks ripe enough, and it doesn't smell of rot. Gale suggests-- annoyingly-- that your party takes a break to eat and regroup.

The five of you idle in the clearing, overlooking the Nautiloid. You are desperately thirsty, but who knows how the Nautiloid has polluted the Chionthar below? Better to drink the juice from some bruised oranges.

You remove your leather hat. At least it's a pleasant day to be kidnapped— illithidnapped?— tadpoled? You squint down at the wreckage. The Nautoloid’s tentacles splay across the valley, like a lazy teenager lounging in the sun. Smoke rises faintly from the wreckage. The site, despite everything, is almost...peaceful.

“What,” Astarion asks, voice dripping with disdain, “is that?”

You turn to him. He’s already crossed the clearing to stand close to you. “What’s what?”

He reaches for you and—

Drags a finger along the bridge of your nose.

Along your scar.

You freeze.

“This wretched thing,” he says, watching the path his cold finger takes. The scar arcs over the bridge of your nose, then splits in two over your right cheekbone; he takes the path down to your jawbone first.

You can’t move. No one’s ever touched you so blatantly before.

Well—

Not since—

Astarion is still talking. “It ruins your lovely face,” he sighs. He returns to where the scar bisects on your right cheek. He traces the other line this time, the one leading to your right earlobe. “Pray tell, what happened to you, poor thing?”

You move your mouth, but no sound comes out. You keep your arms rigid at your side. Shock keeps you planted in the dirt, though every part of you wants to run.

His hands are so cold.

When you don’t respond, Astarion clicks his tongue. He-- finally-- withdraws his hand and puts it on his hip. He tilts his head to the side. “Cat got your tongue?” he asks you, eyes deceptively wide.

“You know it’s rude to touch other people without asking?” you choke out.

He barks out a harsh laugh. “Don’t I ever, darling!”

He steps in. Astarion is a close talker, you realize, the worst kind: you go cross-eyed trying to follow him. “But really,” he says, and you can smell his breath, smell how vaguely chemical it is, “I must know. Did someone hurt you?”

You take a step back. Astarion follows.

You growl at him, but Astarion’s smirk widens.

Finally, you relent: “I tried to cast Witch Bolt,” you sigh, “and it backfired and cast on me.” You do a tiny, sarcastic curtsey. “And now I have a Witch Bolt across my face forever.”

“A Witch Bolt for a witch,” he says with obvious glee. “At least people know not to come close again.”

“Indeed,” you snap. “Everyone but you.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. His smirk widens. “Don’t be cross, my dear. I think it really suits you.”

You wince and shoulder past him. “Thank you for calling me wretched, brother.”

“Oh, come now!” he calls after you. “I find it quite interesting!”

#pity the mayfly #momofics

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ourtearsofrain · 4 months

Text

Chapter 3- Into It Deeper

Pairings: Jake Kiszka x Reader

Genre: angst?

Word Count: little over 1.7 k

Warnings: sword fight with Sammy (no one gets hurt)

--------------------------------------------------------

You stand, stretching before you make your way towards him. He hesitates at the door, his hand unmoving on the knob.

“Wait- before we go out there, you need to know something. I know the Kiszka’s very well and if they don’t decide to kill you, they’ll make you prove your usefulness. Do you know your way with a sword?”

You nod, offering no other explanation.

“Good. Knowing them, they will make you fight one of us, my guess is Joshua or Samuel. We all have weaknesses, and I’m only telling you now to give you a fighting chance.”

Saying nothing, you wait patiently for him to continue.

“Joshua is partially deaf in his left ear. He’ll tell you it’s because the first man he killed screamed so loud it ruptured his eardrum but, he actually stood too close to a cannon firing when he was a kid. Jacob has a bad knee, took a bullet to the right one when he was 16. It’s not bad enough that it impairs him when fighting, but if you hit the side of it, he immediately crumples. Now Samuel has the worst weakness, if they give you an option of who to fight, choose him. He gets too cocky when he notices any sign of weakness from his opponent, when he knows he’s bound to win. He’ll draw it out and tease them, makes a real show of it. If you fight him and you fake near defeat well enough, you’re bound to catch him off guard.”

He finishes, waiting for any reaction from you. He gets none as you stare blankly at him.

“And you? What’s your weakness?”

He throws you a sheepish sideways smile. “I get too focused, especially if I have a bow in my hands. I can think of nothing other than that, which is great if I’m fighting one opponent, but not so much if there’s multiple. What about you?”

You think for a moment, deciding you could trust him with this as he just did with you.

“I underestimate myself. Especially if I know my opponent has a better chance of winning. Once that gets into my head, I’m bound to self-sabotage.”

“Well, when they do make you fight, stay out of your head. I’ve known them my whole life, if you remember what I said, you have just as much a chance of winning as they do.”

He goes to open the door before you stop him, placing your hand on his forearm.

“Thank you, Danny.”

“Of course. I know what it’s like to be surrounded by pirates, knowing some of them wanted you dead. Know that you have a friend here, Polaris.”

With that he opens the door, beginning to walk down the corridor as you trail behind him. As soon as you reach the deck, your eyes go wide at the beauty surrounding you. The ships have docked in a massive cavern, a waterfall at its entrance hiding it from prying eyes. Within this cavern, a “town” sits, buildings set against the rock on high planks keeping them above the water. Lanterns light the space, each building having many hung against their sides. The sound of joyous yelling, laughter, and music reaches your ears as you gaze in awe from the distance of the ship.

“Welcome to The Garden.” Danny says with a smile. “Kellen Kiszka built this place, for his family and our allies. It’s a safe haven for us. Whenever we need to lie low or restock, we come here.”

“It’s- beautiful.” You breath out, your voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s home.”

“Good to see you still alive, Polaris. Thanks for not killing them, Daniel.”

You turn, seeing Jacob making his way from the helm towards you.

“No problem, Captain.”

Jacob stops next to you, looking you over from head to toe to ensure no harm had come upon you. When he’s satisfied not even finding the smallest scratch, he motions towards the dock.

“Well, shall we?”

You and Danny follow him as he makes his way off the ship, joining the small groups of his and Joshuas crew as they make their way towards the lively city. You hear a sharp whistle from behind you, turning to see Joshua holding a small lantern with Samuel, making their way towards you, Danny, and Jacob through the crowd.

“We need to talk. All of you.” Joshua says shortly, his jaw clenched and body language tense.

He takes the lead of the group, expecting the rest of you to follow him. Just before you reach the town, he splits off to the side, down a lesser worn path towards a small building, its lanterns unlit as it sits alone in the dark. Joshua is the first to enter, immediately busying himself with lighting each lantern in the room with the one in his hand. As the candles cast light across the room, you take it in, seeing nothing but a large open space, the only “decorations” being swords and daggers hung on the walls.

“Our father used to train us here, when we were too young to join him on his travels. We haven’t used it in years.” He turns towards you, glaring as he sizes you up. “But tonight, we will use it to see if you are fit to join us.”

Remembering the conversation you and Danny had had back on the ship, you feign surprise and confusion.

“What-“

“First, you choose your weapons. Then you’ll choose your opponent.” He explains, motioning you towards the racks of blades on the walls. “So, choose.”

You walk towards one, first grabbing a small dagger and strapping it around your hips, the blade laying against your right side. Next, you take a sword off the wall, testing its weight in your hands, your back to the group as they watch you.

This one. Perfectly balanced, like it was made for me.

You turn back towards the group, taking its hilt in your hand and holding it lazily at your side as you flash your most innocent eyes at them.

“Is this a good one?”

Samuel and Joshua erupt into laughter, thinking you surely had no chance in a match against one of them. Jacob’s mouth draws into a thin line, his jaw clenching at your “lack” of knowledge. Daniel is the only one who has not lost faith as he tries to keep a smile off his lips at your act.

“Yes, it’s a fucking good one.” Joshua says pointedly when he stops laughing. “Now, choose your opponent.”

You eye the group carefully, putting on your best show at making it seem as if it was hard to choose between them.

“Samuel.”

Your response shocks the group, as all but Danny expected you to choose Jacob or Daniel, knowing they would show the most mercy. Samuels eyes glint with a raging fire as he grins maniacally.

“Finally. I’ve been wanting to cut you down since the moment you stepped onto our ship.”

“My ship, Samuel.” Jacob cuts in.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter now. You can’t protect them here.” He draws his sword as he takes a step towards you. “Don’t worry, pet. I’ll make your death quick.”

You remember how you had fought when your father first began teaching you, mirroring your old clumsy motions as he walks towards you. You grasp the hilt with both hands, your arms stiff as you hold it in front of your body, pointing at Samuel as he hungrily eyes you. Both of your feet are planted under your hips, fully facing him as his body rotates, his sword hand closest to you.

He makes the first move, slashing at your blade with his own as he steps forward. Your grasp loosens, and the hilt drops from your left hands grip, still managing to stay within the right as he laughs.

“C’mon, at least try. It’s no fun to kill such an inexperienced opponent.”

You back away from him, intentionally backing yourself into a wall. He sees his chance and takes it, jabbing the tip towards your stomach, jumping forward as he does it. You manage to step to the side, but his free hand catches you, drawing your back against his front as he holds the blade to your throat.

“Told you I’d make it quick.” Is all he says before you elbow his gut, slipping out of his grasp and away from him as he recovers.

“So, we’re playing dirty, huh? I was going to show you mercy.”

He arcs his blade towards you once more, and you bring your own up to block it, instantly stepping out of his reach once more. He growls, baring his teeth as he makes another advance. Once again, you block it, attempting to step away from him. His left hand shoots out to grip your arm, throwing you to the floor, your sword clattering against the wood feet away from your hand.

He walks towards you slowly, his blade pointing straight at you as you crawl backwards on the floor. The point reaches your throat, nudging your chin up to force you to meet his gaze, your face twisted into an expression of terror.

“Beg. Beg for mercy.” His face is alight with elation, already imagining your blood pooling on the floor beneath him.

You let your act drop, your face deadpanning as you stare up at him. “No.”

Before he can process the response you kick his hand, sending his sword flying across the room. You stand rapidly, tackling him around the middle and sending you both to the floor. You land on top of him, straddling him as you unsheathe your dagger, holding the edge against his throat firmly enough for him to feel the sting of it.

He looks up at you with wide eyes, his mind racing as it catches up to the events that just unfolded.

“Beg.” You spit, rage dripping from your words. “Beg for mercy.”

His hands come up in surrender, his breath catching as you press down into his throat with your dagger.

“Mercy- Mercy.” His voice is broken, fear clawing at his insides as he breathes heavily.

You remove the dagger, placing it back in its sheath as you stand. You pick your sword up, intentionally flashing it around in a show of your true skill with a blade before grabbing Samuels as well. You flip it in your hand, catching the tip before offering the hilt to the man still on the floor. You turn towards the three men still standing, Joshua and Jacobs jaws dropped in awe as Danny smiles at you.

“So, am I good enough to join you?”

--------------------------------------------------------

A/N: the title, of course, is taken from the lyrics to The Indigo Streak

#greta van fleet #gvf fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #jake gvf #jake kiszka x reader #pirates #pirate jake kiszka

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little-diable · 2 years

Text

Darkness - Halbrand (smut)

As promised, I finally got to sit down and write a Halbrand drabble. Please reblog and like if you enjoyed reading this. I'd appreciate it. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Halbrand catches the reader admiring the stars, and while the ship sails ahead to Middle Earth, he makes her feel things no Human nor Sindarin words could ever describe.

Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex, somewhat public sex

Pairing: Halbrand x Elf!fem!reader

The stars were twinkling in the sky, blinking one by one as if they were telling a story - each waiting for their turn. She couldn’t draw her eyes away from them, and had never been able to stop admiring the finest and rawest beauty this world could offer her.

“What do you see? Up there, I mean.” His voice ripped her out of her thoughts, forcing her eyes away from the sky. Her heart skipped a beat as her eyes met his, momentarily losing her trail of thought.

From the moment their paths had crossed on that forsaken raft, he had made her feel like this. A feeling no human nor Sindarin words could manage to describe.

“Secrets. Long forgotten stories of the ones whose names we no longer remember.” Halbrand took a step closer, and another, till he came to rest next to her, hands placed on the wooden railing of the ship, right next to hers. With her teeth biting the inside of her cheek, (y/n) forced herself to stare ahead, not wanting to lose herself in his closeness.

“If being on that raft for endless nights taught me one thing, it was to admire what I’ve never allowed myself to admire before.” Her breath hitched in her chest as he slowly placed his hand on top of hers, interlacing their fingers. Perhaps she should have pushed him away. Perhaps she should have chased the distance he was currently minimising. And yet she didn’t. She couldn’t.

“Do you fear the days ahead?” It took Halbrand a moment to reply, he turned his body towards hers, fingers still interlaced as his other hand found her cheek. He studied her features, held the same expression she had when she had admired the sky above. Heat rushed through her body like the river flowing through Valinor, taking over every part of her body.

“I don’t fear much, the only thing I fear is the uneasiness lying ahead.” Halbrand squeezed her hand, distracting her from his words. With his eyes flickering down to her lips, he pulled her closer, not sparing any attention to the closeby soldiers. Stuck in a trance neither of them had ever felt before, she felt his breath teasing her lips, wanting to draw her in.

An impatient huff rumbled through her, hoping that he’d give in and finally press his lips against hers, wanting to chase the contact mere humans would describe with the most loving words imaginable. With a chuckle clawing through him, Halbrand kissed her, lips perfectly moulding against hers.

(Y/n)’s body worked on its own, arms finding their way around his neck, pulling the smirking man even closer. His hands were no longer searching hers, though placed on her waist to keep her in place, not daring to let go of (y/n). Both had a hard time breathing, hearts racing too fast for their bodies to catch up with, urged on by the carnal desire to feel and experience more than this.

With a sigh he pulled away from her, staring at her for a few seconds before he started to pull her along. No further words were spoken as Halbrand guided (y/n) down to the bottom of the ship, having a place in mind that could offer some kind of privacy to the two. Halbrand took in his surroundings before he pushed her into the small cabin, lips searching hers once again.

They were engulfed by darkness, though a darkness so comforting, (y/n) didn’t spare any thoughts on the dangers lingering in this very cabin. Halbrand’s calloused fingers did quick work of her uniform, helping her out of the metal, exposing her body with every piece finding its way to the ground. (Y/n)’s fingers did work of their own, desperate to feel his warm skin beneath her fingers.

She found herself pressed against the nearest wall as the last piece of clothing was torn off her body, leaving Halbrand to explore the skin he couldn’t see in the dark. One of her hands trailed down his upper body, tracing the carefully chiselled muscles - one by one - before she reached her destination.

“Fuck,” Halbrand moaned against her lips, eyes fluttering close to relish in the unfamiliar touch. She pumped him slow at first, not wanting to rush the moment, and yet (y/n) couldn’t help but hope to hear his voice again. But before his vocal cords could produce yet another sound, he pulled her hand off his cock.

Without another warning, Halbrand pulled one of her legs around his waist, hand disappearing between her thighs. She was dripping for him, desperate to feel him buried inside of her like she had dreamt of him doing for days on end now. Her head fell against his shoulder, muffling the sound of her moans.

“Shh, gotta be quiet, we don’t want to wake the others, do we?” A spurt of adrenaline shot through her, head slowly shaking from left to right. His fingers circled her clit, adding more pressure to his touch as Halbrand kept on teasing her, dragging out the moment. Whimpers, moans and silent beggings rolled off her tongue, hoping that he’d give in and fuck her, giving the two what they’ve been desperate for.

And as if he no longer could hold back, Halbrand let go of her for a moment, only to align himself with her heat. He pulled her in for a searing kiss, distracting her from the feeling of his cock slowly sinking into her tightness. Their moans were swallowed by their close contact, hearts singing a tune of lust and adoration, hoping that the moment would never pass.

A devilish grin tugged on Halbrand’s lips, she pulsed around him, moans growing louder with every ferocious thrust. He fucked her against the wall, leaving his marks, claiming her as his. And she loved every second of it, not daring to think about the ones lying nearby.

“God,” Halbrand groaned, eyes squeezed shut as he tightened his grip on her leg, nails leaving marks behind on her skin. “We should have done this much sooner.”

(Y/n) couldn’t reply, too focused on her arising high, hand disappearing between their bodies to circle her clit, pushing her further towards the edge. Her walls fluttered around his cock, trying to pull him even closer, begging him to pick up the pace of his thrusts. Their moans bled together, forming a moment so raw, so intimate, neither Halbrand or (y/n) ever experienced before.

“Cum for me, love.” With a deep breath sucked into her aching lungs, (y/n) came on his cock. He had to cover her mouth with his hand, drowning out her moans. And with one last thrust, Halbrand followed her down the edge, imprinting himself on her walls, heat thumping through her system.

“I got you, hold on.” Sweet nothings were murmured as he pulled out of her, keeping her close to stabilise her trembling frame. And as they were standing there, engulfed by darkness, they were sure that they were admiring something far more beautiful than the twinkling stars.

Please like and reblog if you’ve enjoyed reading this, come talk to me about my writing, let’s spill some tea or thirst over our favorite people. xxx

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#Halbrand imagine #rings of power #halbrand smut

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