#the scabbard speaks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

paperultra · 8 months

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mise en rose.

Pairing: OPLA!Roronoa Zoro x Reader Word Count: 3,806 words Warnings: Swearing, alcohol use

The tune that your father used to whistle now leaves your lips the same way it left his.

Notes skip offkey across the water as your boat rocks gently, waves lapping up against the wooden sides. The moon shines brightly overhead. You shift in place and wait for a tug on your fishing line, the basket at your feet waiting patiently for its first meal.

Archy will be happy if you actually catch something for once. There’s not a lot of fish around here, and you’re not exactly sure why; something about the aquatic plants in the area, or if you were to believe the old man in the village square, a curse that swallows anything with fins that swims too close. The last time you caught something was months ago, and it was tiny and more bone than flesh.

You don’t really care. It’s enough to just sit out here and feel the waves.

Cheeks puffing up with air for another round of music, you let your gaze drift out towards the ocean and abruptly freeze.

There’s something floating in the distance.

A piece of debris. Wood from a hull, a scrap of sail perhaps?

The thought that it may be the remnant of a ship destroyed at sea is enough for you to reel in your line and start rowing towards it, anticipation bubbling up and drowning out any thoughts of a midnight snack.

You get close enough and your anticipation gives way to shock.

“Oh, shit.”

The guy clinging to the chunk of wood stirs and lifts his head, and you almost hit him upside the head with your oar.

“Oh, shit. You’re alive.”

—

“You say you’re going out fishing and you come back with a half-dead man with three swords?” Archy looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm, but this time, you don’t blame him. This is certainly uncharted territory and your older brother is hopeless without a map. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What was I supposed to do, leave him to die?”

“I dunno! Yeah!” he gestures to the waterlogged man lying halfway on the living room couch, one arm and leg hanging off the side. “Look at him. He’s probably a pirate!”

“Damn, you think?” Crouching down, you drag your eyes across Swordsman’s ragged clothing and grin. You might’ve just rescued someone with a bounty on his head. “That’d be so cool.”

“That would not be cool.”

You shrug. “Well, I brought him in already, so you might as well help me unless you want a dead body in our living room.”

“You little –” Taking a deep breath, Archy pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, loud groan, and you know that you’ve won once more. “Fine. But as soon as he’s even a little bit better, we’re calling the Marines.”

“Okay,” you agree amicably. “So, what do we do first?”

“We have to undress him and warm him up.”

“Got it.” Your eager fingers go straight for the swords.

The man comes to life without warning. Seizing your wrist, he cracks one eye open and speaks in a low and rasping voice.

“Don’t. Touch. My swords.”

“Uh,” you say.

“We got to get everything off, mate,” Archy grumbles, and your guest turns his glare onto your brother. “I know how to clean swords and scabbards. I’ll dry them off and put them under the couch afterward.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

With a grunt, Swordsman pushes you away and attempts to sit up. He struggles for a full minute, jaw clenched and muscles trembling; his arms, strong and sturdy as they are, look like they’ll buckle at any moment.

Your eyebrows shoot up to the ceiling when he actually manages to prop himself up.

“Well, that’s impressive,” you mutter, making eye contact with Archy. He rolls his eyes. “Can you remove your clothes and wrap yourself up too?”

It takes a few moments before Swordsman has enough breath to respond. “I’m fine,” he says once he can.

“You’re really not,” Archy replies.

“You’re probably really dehydrated,” you say. “How long were you out there?”

The man stares at you, opens his mouth, pauses.

“Three days. Maybe.”

You gape. “You spent three days floating in the East Blue and you’re not dead?” You look at his neck for gills. “Are you a fishman or something?”

“No.”

“Really? I mean, I never met any fishmen before, so …”

His eye twitches. “I’m not a fishman.”

“Well, okay, if you say so.”

What a weird guy. Then again, you’ve heard that all sorts of characters traverse the Blue Sea. Devil fruit users, talking animals, clowns. A person who can survive the ocean for a couple days on a piece of wood is hardly out of the question.

“You’re dehydrated, in any case,” you conclude. “I’ll get you some water.”

—

After gruffly accepting a glass of water and putting on some dry clothes, Swordsman proceeds to “sleep it off” for the next twenty-four hours. When he finally wakes up, it’s in the middle of the night and you’ve just started rereading your favorite book.

“Oh, he’s awake,” you say when he stirs, swinging your feet off the coffee table and leaning forward in your chair to observe.

He grimaces under the dim light of your lamp, lifting an arm to press it over his eyes. “How long was I out,” he grouses.

“’Bout a day.”

“Shit.” He wriggles around in the fuzzy blanket you’ve wrapped around him. Once he’s loosened its hold enough, he sits up slowly and looks around, expression equal parts drowsy and wary. “Where –”

“Archy took your swords and cleaned them. They’re under the couch.”

“I told you not to touch them.”

“I didn’t. My brother did.”

Casting you the most unamused glare, Swordsman bends over to look underneath the couch. He pulls his swords out and places them in his lap, inspecting the white one first with a care that makes you rest your chin in your hand, curious and charmed. His brow furrows and you know that he finds your brother’s work to be satisfactory when he moves on to inspect the other two.

“Our uncle was a bladesmith in Loguetown. He taught Archy a thing or two before he passed.”

“You’re bladesmiths?”

“Coopers. Uncle was the rebel, I guess.” You close your book and stand up. “There’s leftover soup in the fridge. I’ll heat up the broth for you.”

This time, the man does not refuse your help and only nods. As you head to the kitchen and start to reheat the soup, you glance over and catch him sipping from the glass of water you’d topped off while he was asleep. Somehow, even that small action intrigues you. You smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Ladling the steaming broth into a small bowl, you stick a spoon in and walk back to where Swordsman is, sitting beside him. “Here you go. Don’t drink it too fast, and all that.”

He takes the soup, blows on a spoonful, tastes it. His eyes close, and something funny happens in your stomach when he opens them again to look at you.

“’S good.”

“Really?” He nods and puts the bowl to his lips to drink directly from it. “Thanks.”

You let him finish the miso broth in silence. It gives you time to stare at him some more; even with the horrible sunburn and petroleum jelly smeared everywhere, he’s a very handsome man, that much you can tell, with broad shoulders and a pretty face and hair as green as forest moss. The three earrings on his left ear gleam gold and sway with every movement he makes.

“Are you gonna keep staring at me, or are you gonna ask me questions?”

“Hm? Oh!” Shaking your head in slight bewilderment, you smile. “Yeah, I guess it would be good to ask some questions … so, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Roronoa Zoro.”

You tilt your head with a frown. “Roronoa Zoro.” You taste the name in your mouth. “That sounds really familiar. Are you a pirate?”

“No. I hunt them.”

“You hunt them?”

“That’s what I said.”

You look at his swords again. His earrings. Three and three.

Shooting up from the couch, you dash to Archy’s room and slam the door open.

“Archimead! Wake up!” You grab your brother’s shoulders and rattle him.

“Shit – what?!” he gargles, pushing your face away with one meaty hand and sitting up. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“It’s Roronoa Zoro!”

“What?”

“The guy in our living room,” you shriek at him, practically shaking, “is the Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro. I fished Roronoa Zoro out of the fucking ocean.”

Archy stops rubbing his eye. “What.”

Soon enough, Zoro faces both you and your brother in the living room once more.

“You’re Roronoa Zoro? For real?” Archy asks him.

Zoro blinks up him. “Yeah.”

“Can you prove it?”

“‘Can you prove it’ – Archy, look at him. He’s got three earrings in his left ear and three fucking swords.”

“He could be some sort of copycat. We have no idea what Roronoa Zoro actually looks like.”

“You’re such a pessimist. Nobody would lug around three swords if they couldn’t use all of them at once.” You turn your attention back onto Zoro. “How the hell did you get stranded out there?”

He looks between the two of you, waiting for a moment before crossing his arms. “I was headed to Mirror Ball Island, but the boat I was on got caught in a whirlpool,” he says, displeased. “Then I got separated from the rest of the crew. Don’t know if they survived or not.”

“Mirror Ball Island?” you repeat. “That’s a three-day journey from here, at least.”

“Where’s here?”

“Dokusha Village.” You open one of the books on the table and point to a tiny strip of coast you’d labeled on the edge of the East Blue map. “Right there. You could buy a boat and sail west, straight to Mirror Ball Island.”

“I don’t have any beri on me right now,” Zoro says.

“Oh, yeah. Of course you don’t.” Archy puts his hands on his hips. “Well, the merchant ship is coming by in two weeks. If you’re all good by then, you can hitch a ride.”

“I’ll be fine by tomorrow night.”

You snort, closing the book and reclining back. “The rate you’re going, I don’t doubt it. Does that mean you want to leave earlier? You’ll still need a boat and supplies. Food, water, towels, sleeping gear. That all costs money. I mean, we could lend you some, but still.”

“I’ll work for it,” Zoro replies. “I don’t take and give nothing in return.”

Both you and Archy give a hum of approval.

—

True to his word, Roronoa Zoro is up and off the couch by the fourth day.

He doesn’t have a clue as to how to make barrels or buckets, which is expected, so he ends up helping with the grunt work of carrying staves into the workshop and stacking finished barrels. Other than that, there’s not much for him to do.

“Sorry if it’s boring,” you apologize during lunch, speaking through a mouthful of sandwich. “You’re kind of just hired muscle.”

Zoro shrugs, chewing on his own sandwich. Two girls walking by – Phoebe and Iris, the blacksmith’s daughters – spot him on the bench and giggle, hurrying past with glances over their shoulders. He appears not to care. “It’s fine.”

“I think you’re even stronger than my brother. Is it because of your training as a swordsman?”

“Probably,” he says.

“When did you start?”

“When I was eight.”

You nod sagely. “Not surprised. I’ve been helping around the workshop since I was a kid, and I only just finished my apprenticeship a few weeks ago. It’s good to start young.”

It seems that Zoro agrees by the way he grunts, stuffing the last piece of crust into his mouth.

When he’s done, you muster the courage to ask, “What’s it like, being a bounty hunter?”

Zoro raises an eyebrow at you. Then he gazes back out at the street. “It’s fine,” he responds. “Makes good money.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Yeah, but, like, is it fun? Do you spend a lot of time at sea? See a lot of different places? Stuff like that.”

“I don’t do it for fun. My only goal is to become the world’s greatest swordsman.” He leans back and puts his hands behind his head. “It’s a shitton of traveling, both on ships and on land. I’ve been all over the East Blue.”

“Wow.” The word comes out as a sigh. You crunch longingly on a carrot stick. “That sounds amazing. It’s my dream to travel all over the world on a ship.”

“How come you’re here, then?”

You wince, hushing him hastily. Glancing behind you, you clear your throat and lean in to speak softly. “Archy hates the ocean. He worked on a merchant ship for a few months when he was eighteen and got super sick.” Upon reading Zoro’s blank expression, you clarify, “I can’t just leave him. I’m the only family he’s got now, and his younger sibling to boot. So Dokusha Village it is.”

“You’re staying because of your brother.”

“Yeah. I love him, so it’s fine.” There’s a familiar ache in your chest, but you push it down and elbow Zoro’s ribs in jest. (He doesn’t even move a muscle. Geez.) “Makes okay money. I got a bunch of adventure books to live through, anyway.”

It’s a little hard to meet your lunch companion’s eyes after that. You eat the rest of your carrots in silence, pretending to be occupied with finishing them. Zoro doesn’t utter another word.

But as the two of you get back to work, he seems a little warmer, a little less stiff. You make a silly joke and Zoro huffs out something that almost sounds like a laugh while Archy threatens to stick you in a rum barrel and roll you down a hill.

Perhaps you’ve made another friend.

—

“What are you making?”

You blow off the wood dust, closing one eye to cut a fin just right. “Shark. See?”

The bonfire you’d made crackles just a few feet away as you place the half-finished carving into Zoro’s palm. He picks it up with his other hand and twists it around, touching with intention, and you almost feel self-conscious with the way he’s examining it.

“Nice,” he finally says, and the praise makes you giddy. He hands the shark back to you.

“Thanks. I had a lot of practice.”

Zoro rests his elbows on the rock behind him and takes another swig of sake. You resume carving the shark’s fins, bare feet buried in the cool sand.

Archy’s on a date for once, so he left the two of you to your own devices for the night with a distracted wave goodbye and a warning that he’ll be back late. You took that as a chance to break into the alcohol after supper and drag Zoro down to the beach. The swordsman was willing to come along, though you suspect it was mostly for the sake.

“Ain’t that your third bottle?”

“I can hold my liquor.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “No need to brag.”

He wipes his mouth, dark brown eyes black in the firelight. They glint like steel when he looks over at you, but he doesn’t say anything – not that you’re surprised; sometimes Zoro just looks at whatever he wants without any reason. He’s not particularly complicated in that sense.

(You like that. Too many things in life are complicated.)

“Hey, Zoro.”

“Hm.”

Your lips purse. “Do you think my brother will get married one day?”

“How am I supposed to know?” His tone is flat.

“Well, I dunno! It’s just a question.” You frown, slowing in your work. “It’s just that after our parents died, he’s been too busy looking after me and the shop to court someone. He’s turning thirty next year and most people his age have settled down already. I feel kind of bad.”

“It’s not your fault,” Zoro says. “Wouldn’t he have more time now, anyway, since you can take care of yourself?”

“I think he’s been out for so long he doesn’t know how to date anymore.”

Zoro downs the rest of his sake. You know that there’s no advice he can give you regarding Archy’s marriage prospects, which doesn’t surprise you either. You suppose you just need someone to listen. It’s not like you can talk to Archy about it.

“Hell,” you remember, “I’m expected to be married by now, too. I’ve never even been on a date.”

“Really?”

“Nope. Why, are you surprised?”

Stretching his legs out in front of him, Zoro yawns and closes his eyes. “You just seem like the type.”

“What do you mean?”

“You talk a lot,” he says.

You burst out laughing. “Yeah, I do. Would that make me a good date?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“I’m guessing you’ve never been on one, either?”

Zoro shrugs. He doesn’t look too torn up about it. “Waste of time,” he mutters.

Your grin widens. “Figured you’d say that,” you drawl, digging your blade into the shark’s mouth. “Dating doesn’t really help you become the world’s greatest swordsman, does it?”

“Nope.”

“I still think it might be fun, though. If you’re with the right person.” With that, you brush away the last curl of wood from your carving. After admiring it for a few seconds, you offer the shark to Zoro, bumping the nose softly against his cheek. He opens his eyes and turns his head to squint at it. “Here you go. All yours.”

His brow furrows as he takes it.

“It’s a going away gift. Since you’re leaving tomorrow,” you say. Folding your knife and putting it down beside you, you grab your bottle of sake and gulp down half of what remains. “Don’t forget it.”

One of the logs in the bonfire crumbles, falling into the coals. Orange sparks fly up into the smoke and disappear just as quickly. You poke at the fire with a stick, trying not to think about how sad you’re going to be tomorrow morning.

“I won’t forget,” Zoro says.

“I know.”

—

It’s almost dawn, and the family boat is packed up and ready to set sail.

“Got everything?” Archy asks, lowering into a squat to scan over all the supplies.

“Yeah.” The swordsman drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks again for the boat.”

“It’s nothing.” Your brother elbows your arm, and you sway. “Oi. He said thank you.”

“I know,” you mumble. For the first time this morning, you spare Zoro a glance and smile at him, but it’s shaky and fake and you really hate how your voice wobbles when you say, “You don’t have to thank us. Just have a safe – have a safe –” Your voice cracks, and you look down at your feet, eyes burning. “Have a safe trip,” you finish quietly.

You can feel two pairs of eyes on you as your vision goes blurry. Shit. This is so embarrassing.

The fact of the matter is that Roronoa Zoro has been in Dokusha Village for only a week, and you’re already missing him like he’s been in your life for years. You’re going to watch him get into your family’s fishing boat and sail away, the wind at his back, the East Blue before him, and you will remain on the dock with your big brother beside you and your dream in your head.

You’re being selfish, but it’s not … it’s not fair.

Archy puts his hand on your shoulder and says your name.

You wipe your nose. “What?”

“… I’ve been thinking.” He sounds hesitant, taking in a deep breath and letting it go slowly, carefully. “You’ve always wanted to travel the world on a ship.”

It’s like the world tilts on its axis.

Rigidly, you look up at your brother, eyes wide.

“I’m not dumb, you know. You’ve only stayed here because of me,” Archy says. “I’m the one who’s supposed to look after you and protect you. But you’ve been able to do that for yourself for a while, now. Right?”

“Archy.” You swallow. “What are you …?”

“I talked with Zoro last night. He’s willing to take you to Mirror Ball Island, if you want.” His smile is crooked, but it trembles at the corners as he continues. “You know how to sail, how to navigate. We’ll just have to add some extra stuff to the boat.”

You can barely breathe.

“There’s plenty of merchant ships there,” Zoro adds, leaning on his sword. “Your skills are valuable. Just be willing to pull your own weight, and they’ll take you on board. If not, I’ll tell them to.”

“You don’t have to –” Now you’re full-on bawling. You throw your arms around Archy, who wraps you in a bear hug, and then around Zoro, who stiffens. “Thank you so much. Thank you thank you thank you.”

“No problem,” Zoro mumbles, patting you on the back. When you let go to beam at him, he averts his eyes and rubs the back of his neck. “Just hurry up.”

Nodding, you dash back up to your house, Archy following close behind. You grab your bag, throw what you need into it, snatch your hat from your bedpost. Less than twenty minutes pass before you’re all ready to go.

“Got everything?” Archy asks once more at the dock. You nod and look at Zoro, who nods as well. “All right.”

You hug Archy for the last time. Tears spill over and down your cheeks. “Thank you for everything, big bro. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, kid.” His voice is rough and trembly, muffled against your head. “Come back to visit sometime, okay?”

“Okay.”

Getting into the boat with Zoro, you help him check the rigging and hoist the sail. Archy unties the vessel and pushes the two of you off. As you float away, he waves, and you wave back, staring as he gets smaller and smaller.

“I’m not turning back,” Zoro tells you as you eventually settle in your seat. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Is it?

You cast one last glance back at Dokusha Village, at the small point of your brother. Then you look out at the broad expanse of the ocean. And you feel many things – joy, sadness, apprehension – but above all that, you feel –

Free.

“Yes,” you say firmly. You push your hat down and smile at Zoro, and this time, it’s genuine. “It is.”

Zoro smiles back. And as the sun begins to warm your face, you whistle your father’s song and think about the journey to come.

#opla #one piece #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro #opla zoro #one piece live action #opla fanfiction #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #fluff #once again i underestimated how long this would take. hoowee #opla zoro my grumpy old man :)#good thing reader is coming along otherwise he'd NEVER make it to mirror ball island rip

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atlasllm · 2 years

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forever sad that one of my daiso runs i needed scissors and i saw this lovely turquoise one that came with its own SCISSORS SCABBARD but it turned out to be for only lefties </3

#atlas speaks;#i love dani but i wanted a scissors scabbard too :(#...also how do you get tape residue off of scissors asking for a friend

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sugumii · 11 months

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Jing Yuan x implied! Fem Reader: Please, Mom?!

Warnings: None

Synopsis: Your son, Yanqing, asks to spar with you after his father rejects him for being too busy with paperwork. Jing Yuan catches you two and decides to tease the two of you

Sweat covered your entire body as you collapsed to the ground, your sword falling beside your body. Your back rested comfortably against the grass while the wind blew pleasantly against your warm body.

“Finally finished with today’s training… hah…” You mumbled to yourself, gasping for air.

“Mom! Mom!” A voice called in the distance, one belonging to a familiar boy.

You turned your head in the direction of the voice only to see a blonde male running up to you with a bright smile on his face as he waved his arm to you in greeting. He soon made it in front of your body gasping and huffing for air, bending over with one hand on his knee to catch his breath. You watched in mild amusement at the boy who attempted to catch his breath before quickly straightening up. He held a sword in its scabbard in both of his hands and excitedly asked you,

“May we spar together today, Mom? The general- I mean... father... said he was too busy with paperwork so he couldn't join me for today's match!" He complained.

You grinned at the boy’s excited rambling and raised a hand to signal him to quiet down. He stopped talking immediately and peered down at you with hopeful eyes.

“Yanqing, I just finished training for today…” You began, watching the young boy visibly deflate at your words. Disappointment emitted from his being. “But... I suppose we can spar... only for a few minutes though. I'm quite exhausted from today's session.”

Yanqing instantly perked up with shining eyes. “Really?! Thank you so much, mom! I can't wait to get stronger and finally beat the Gen- dad at a sparring match!”

You chuckled at his self-correction and watched the young boy quickly settle down next to you. He continued rambling about how the general told him he has only ever lost to you and that if he could beat you he could eventually best him one day. You giggled at your husband's mention of you and chimed in every now and then with words of advice on the techniques he wanted to improve on, earning a hearty “Thank you, mother!” In response and a notebook being pulled out so the student could record notes.

After a few minutes, the both of you stood up and prepared to take your battle stances. With your sword in hand, you waited for him to make the first offense. Yanqing soon picked up on this and readied his blade with a determined gaze, preparing to launch at you at full speed. Before he could make a move, however, a chuckle was heard approaching the two of you.

“Yanqing, you never waste a precious moment, do you? You still have much to learn about patience I see.”

You both paused your battle and turned to look at where the voice was coming from. You smiled at the sight of your beautiful husband making his way towards the both of you. Jing Yuan’s golden eyes met yours in a loving gaze before redirecting his attention to the young boy behind you.

“Ah- father… I just wanted to spar with Mother since you said you were too busy! The more I train the faster I can gain the strength to beat you.”

“True strength also comes from patience, young one. Something you still have yet to fully grasp.” The general replied, now standing before the boy. Yanqing looked down in shame and apologized to the elder.

“I apologize, I just really want to win against you just once, Father… you spoke so highly of Mother's combat experience that I thought if I could win against her, then I could have a greater chance at beating you.”

You placed a hand on Yanqing’s shoulder as a sign of reassurance, gaining both his and your husband’s attention before speaking.

“Don’t be so hard on him, dear. He's just a boy who still has much to learn from you. If I recall correctly, you were just as eager to become stronger, just like him.” You teased.

The silver-haired male's cheeks flushed a pink hue as Yanqing gasped and looked up at his father with a shocked look on his face. He was curious to know if what his mother had said was true. Was he really like the general when he was younger? How long did it take for him to get to where he was now? How strong was he at his age? Stronger than him, perhaps?

“That was ancient history, beloved… no need to speak on the past.”

“Uh-huh.” You said, placing your hand on his flushed cheek as he gazed at you in slight embarrassment. “Even then, Yanqing is showing great progress in achieving his goals. Let him spar with me for a bit dear, besides… I'm a bit tired as it is. I will only last for a few minutes.”

“Yeah! Please, Father! It'll only be for a few minutes like she said. Mom's already finished training as it is…” Yanqing piped up, causing both of you to turn your attention to the pleading male. He held his hands clasped together in a prayer like notion in front of his face.

“I promise to also wash the dishes if you let me! I’ll even take the trash out and-“

“Very well. I’ll allow it.” Your husband agrees, chest rumbling with an amused chuckle. You smiled at the two and picked up your blade from the ground, continuing to tune into their conversation. “However I expect you to keep true to your word. And also to exercise patience more.”

“Yes, general…”

“But first… allow me to steal away your mother for a brief moment. I do believe I deserve a kiss for completing my tedious paperwork.” Jing Yuan smiled slyly, grabbing your waist and pulling you in. You blushed as Yanqing shrieked and covered his eyes, attempting to burn the image of the general's closed eyes and puckered lips inching closer towards your face.

“DAD! NOT IN FRONT OF ME! AAAH- PLEASE GET A ROOM!”

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oxbellows · 13 days

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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.

Perhaps.

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.

He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

He reached the top of the stairs.

A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.

Boromir dropped to his knees.

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

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sleepinthrumyalarms · 1 year

Text

— daddy issues

pairing: wednesday addams x fem!oni!reader

warnings: prejudice, toxic child-parent relationship

summary: wednesday gets to meet her demonic girlfriend's father, and the image isn't far too different from her expectations

word count: 2.6k

The second day of the Parents' Weekend had rolled over, and most of the Nevermore students were busy spending quality time with their parents. But Wednesday... couldn't. She didn't exactly plan getting her father out of jail as a bonding activity, but now with him behind bars and her mother completely and utterly devastated, as her dear brother had told her, the girl was completely alone.

Even (Y/n) wasn’t by her side then.

The oni had been... distant since the arrival of her father. Wednesday could only get a single glimpse of him on the first day — a tall, rough - looking man of forties with thin moustache and beard, and on the bridge of his nose sat a long pale scar. She could see scars peeking out from the formal haori adorning his frame, much bigger and painful looking ones, and Wednesday wondered if oni demons really were as invincible as (Y/n) had always stated.

Just like his youngling, the man had big tusks sticking out of his mouth, and the slitted eyes under his bushy brows narrowed in an almost judgmental way when he stepped into the quad.

Oh, well. She couldn't blame him. She herself judged everyone in the school on daily basis.

So, on Sunday, walking down the empty corridor with her fencing gear bag in hand, Wednesday decided to let some steam off practicing by herself. As much as she didn't want to admit, being away from her demon even for a single day was an excruciating torture. Of course, that was a tad bit dramatic — the ravenette was her own person, perfectly capable of existing by herself, but... she liked existing with (Y/n) by her side, too. She made existence a little more bearable.

Quickly changing into the fencing uniform, rapier in hand, Wednesday walked out of the locker room, heading towards the big wooden doors. As she grabbed the handle, she froze at the sound of voices speaking on the other side. Craning her head closer to the entrance, Wednesday held her breath to listen.

There were sounds of steel hitting steel, then came a rough male voice.

"Not good enough, (Y/n). Again."

The clanking followed again, then an angry huff.

"Again." The same firm stern voice repeated.

Wednesday opened the door quietly to peek inside the fencing hall. In the center of the big well – lit room stood the man Wednesday had seen the day before – (Y/n)’s father. His hand was resting on the handle of his sheathed blade and it seemed like the older demon didn’t move a muscle – his posture was unmoving, stone – like, and he resembled a statue of a giant mythical creature guarding a spiritual temple.

A few feet from the man was (Y/n) herself. She was clad in her black and (f/c) haori draped over a soft kimono, and on her usual hakama pants the demon had her scabbard strapped firmly to the belt. Her clawed hands were gripping her sword, knuckles white and breaths heavy. An angry vein throbbed on her forehead, brow glistening with sweat, and she blew out air to get her hair our of her face.

Wednesday had never seen the demon girl wield her blade before. She'd lie if she said it wasn't immensely attractive.

"Your emotions are clouding your mind,” (Y/n)’s father noted, fist wrapping around his katana to unsheathe it again, the steel making a pleasant sound as it slid out of the scabbard, “Focus."

The two demons circled each other, swords bare and ready for the other to strike, and then with a fast movement of her legs (Y/n) lunged, pushing off the ground to land a hit on her opponent. Every single one of her swift slashes was dodged, then the man’s blade connected with hers with a loud clash. The demon girl’s hands shook as she tried to overpower her father, gritting her teeth, and Wednesday watched steam seep from between the gaps in her tusks.

Then, a sharp swing of the swordsman’s arms, and (Y/n) was on the ground in a blink of an eye, katana cluttering down on the floor. Groaning, the oni sat up, clutching her side, and Wednesday gasped quietly at the sight of a deep bloody gash on her middle. She was ready to rush over to her aid – but then, as if by a miracle, the wound healed up, leaving only a slashed spot on the fabric behind.

"You've been neglecting your training for too long, (Y/n). A real battle not only would’ve swept you off your feet, but sent your head rolling in an instant. War requires preparation." The older demon boomed, looking down at his child.

"We've been over this, father," (Y/n) frowned, grabbing her katana off the marble floor, "There's no war to prepare for." She stood back up begrudgingly.

"A true warrior must always be prepared. Remember what your clan strives for, (Y/n). It's a big responsibility. I need to make sure you're capable enough to bear it when you take over in my stead."

There it was again. The usual 'heir' talk. God, how much (Y/n) loathed it, and it was always the same, no less. She wished she didn’t have to go through it, but she kept silent.

"Again.”

Huffing, the younger oni clutched the handle in her palms, ready to repeat her exercise and mentally preparing herself for another humiliating defeat, before her gaze flicked over behind her father’s back – and the demon's face instantly lit up.

“Wednesday.” The ravenette’s name came out in an exhale, as if the demon felt heaviness leave her shoulders at the sight of the smaller girl.

Her father turned his head to look, and his slitted eyes narrowed, “I thought our training session was supposed to be private.”

Moving closer to stand in front the man, (Y/n) made a show of sheathing her blade into her saya loudly, then bowed at the waist, “I’m taking a time out.” She grumbled, turning to walk up to Wednesday.

“Hey, snookums. How are you?”

“Better than you, I’m guessing,” Wednesday replied bitterly, eyeing the hole in the oni’s clothes, “That was a little bit savage. Even for me.”

(Y/n) sighed, raising her hand to scratch at her cheek lazily, “Eh. I’ve endured worse. Father says pain establishes discipline. ‘The more you bleed in practice, the less you bleed in battle’,” she quoted with a chuckle.

“Not really a good reason to cut up your own daughter, don’t you think?”

Before the demon could utter a response, her father walked up, towering over both girls, hands behind his back, “That’s the simplest humane mindset, to be expected from a fragile human. Demons are much more hard to break,” then he coughed into his first, and his gaze softened just a bit, “You must be Wednesday Addams. Though not as brief as I would’ve preferred her to, (Y/n) spoke of you in her letters,” he ignored the embarrassed sputtering of his daughter, bowing his head, “My name is (F/n) (L/n), the acting head of the (L/n) clan. I hope my rebellious child wasn’t too much of a handful for the lady.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. (L/n),” Wednesday replied, “And I assure you I’m not as soft as I might seem. Did you know that certain centipedes kill prey fifteen times their size?”

(L/n)’s eyes glistened, and he raised an eyebrow with a small smirk on his toothy lips, “Hm. I’ll be sure to remember,” the man's gaze slid to Wednesday's rapier, "I assume you came to train. I’ll leave you two to it," then he turned to his daughter, eyes stern, “Don’t forget the ceremony at five, (Y/n). Tardiness won’t be tolerated.”

The male demon turned on his heels and headed towards the exit, opening the doors and leaving the hall.

(Y/n) sighed, looking down at Wednesday apologetically, "Sorry about that. Father's been around for centuries. He witnessed the fall of the last shogunate and fought in wars back when humans were deemed a threat and an enemy for us. It's been... hard for him to readapt. Not that I'm trying to justify his words."

"For centuries?" Wednesday seemed to mull the information over, "How old are you, (Y/n)?"

The demon quickly averted her eyes nervously, a blush on her cheeks, "You don't ask an oni lady that."

Her gaze then turned a bit sorrowful, and she looked down at the floor, hand gripping her scabbard tightly, "Nothing good about immortality. He always tells me how in five hundred years I'll live to see this world crumble to dust with everyone and everything I love gone...That's why I must get my priorities straight and, you know... Avoid attachments. Especially to humans."

Raising a pale hand to (Y/n)’s face, Wednesday gently rubbed some dirt off her cheek, obviously the result of the demon girl falling to the floor countless times, "Good thing I don't plan on letting you go. I hope he understands that." Stepping away from the demon, she drew her blade, stance perfect and gaze determined, “Winner draws first blood.”

The demon girl smiled, tusks bare in a happy grin that one would probably find a bit off — putting, but made Wednesday’s heart flutter, "Let's see if you can handle me, then."

“Is there something... above friendly to your relationship with Ms. Addams?” (F/n) asked, placing his shogi piece on the board and looking up at his daughter.

She didn’t answer at once – there was color on her cheeks, and (Y/n) rubbed at her neck, sheepishly looking down at her knees where she sat in a seiza position opposite her father in front of the board, “There is. For the past couple of months I’ve been proud to call Wednesday my significant other,” scrutinizing the board, she moved her piece to the left square, “It was a long process, but we’re comfortable together now.”

The older demon hummed, looking back down at the board and grabbing another piece, “I hope you do realise what you’re committing yourself to.”

“I do. It’s... not a simple physical attraction.”

“That’s not what I meant,” (L/n)’s painted king piece clattered against the wood, “Humans are unreliable. Weak and fragile. Is this what you aim to do? To dirty your pure bloodline with a human creature? You'll outlive and bury the girl, (Y/n).”

(Y/n) frowned, and her stomach churned at the thought, “There’s nothing dirty about humans, father. Your perception of them has been outdated for a while now,” mulling over her next move, she moved a different piece, “I understand your skepticism but... I’m afraid I don’t share it.”

“For a true leader his duties must come above all else," the man said firmly, “It’s an obligation you were brought into this world with. Your ancestors have been bleeding to fulfill them for centuries – do you think you have a right to sabotage them, to devalue the sacrifices of your forefathers?”

(Y/n) clenched her fists on her knees, trying her best to keep her voice leveled, “Well, those duties seem like a total bullshit if they’re going to stop me from loving a human,” she moved a piece with a clawed finger, but her mind was far away from the game by now, “I don’t want to be a true leader if the whole concept of being one is just old traditions and worldviews that restrict me in being who I am.”

The older oni stared down at his daughter with furrowed brows, “Your words disappoint me, (Y/n).”

“I don’t care!” The girl snapped finally, looking up at her father, teeth gritted, “It has always been about my duties and never about what I want and who I am! I’ll gladly give up the title, the whole clan be damned, if it means I’ll finally find freedom from those godforsaken chains you try so hard to keep me in!”

The girl seethed, anger burning in her slitted eyes, the words she had been burying in her chest for such a long time finding their way out, completely unfiltered.

“Such dishonor..." The male oni muttered, shaking his head, "What would your mother say?”

(Y/n)’s eyes widened at the words. She felt bitter tears well up in her eyes, and raising her arm to rub at them with the sleeve of her haori roughly the oni got up from the floor, turning around and leaving the room without saying anything.

Wednesday worked on her typewriter, slender fingers pressing the keys swiftly as her eyes traced over the words. As she typed, she kept glancing out the window, longingly watching the sky get darker every time she looked.

Thing climbed up her desk, seemingly noticing the worried aura of the ravenette, and gestured to catch her attention.

“Yes, (Y/n) is indeed taking her time. I’m sure she has a good reason to.” She said quietly, turning back to her paper.

It had been a few hours since the demon girl left to see her father, and Wednesday wondered if something had gone wrong. Although (Y/n)’s family issues were none of her business, she couldn’t help but feel some kind of disdain towards the clan leader. Knowing the older (L/n), Wednesday wouldn’t be surprised if he made his daughter commit seppuku a bunch of times just for sake of some petty ‘discipline’. This kind of relationship was practically alien to the ravenette – her own father adored and pampered her endlessly, always encouraging the girl to speak up her mind, and she never had to hang her head low in his presence or bow at the waist in front of him.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door of her dorm opening, making Wednesday turn in her seat. (Y/n) stepped inside, closing the door queitly, and smiled at the smaller girl.

"Hey."

Her voice was hoarse, as if she had been crying her throat out, and as she walked over to where the ravenette was sat, Wednesday noticed the reddness in her eyes.

"(Y/n). What took you so long?" She stood up from her chair, stepping closer to the demon, "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, sorry for the hold up. I'm good," the oni's gaze slid over to the typewriter, "Are you gonna be done soon?"

Wednesday had half an hour of her writing time left, but... she could tell that could wait.

"Yes. I'm finished already." She turned to the machine, getting the paper out to put it into the formed stack.

(Y/n) hummed, walking over to Wednesday's bed and sitting on the edge, and the ravenette moved to stand between her legs. She grabbed the demon's hand, slender fingers tacing the palm, "Do you want to talk about anything?"

The oni girl shook her head silently, then, closing her eyes tightly, butted it against Wednesday's middle, burying her face in her clothes. She sighed into it, deep and heavy, and the smaller female wrapped her hands around the demon, manicured fingers scratching at her scalp.

"Sometimes I wish I was born different." Wednesday heard her mutter, words muffled by the black fabric of her sweatshirt.

She thought for a moment, digits never slowing their movements in the (h/c) tresses, before replying, "I think you're a distinguished specimen just the way you are."

(Y/n)'s shoulders shook, and for a second the ravenette thought she had said something wrong, but then the demon lifted her face to look up at her, and Wednesday realised the taller girl was smiling, "That's the weirdest way to tell someone they're a nice person."

Wednesday frowned, pinching (Y/n)'s shoulder resentfully, "Take it or leave it, (Y/n)."

"Sorry, sorry. Thank you. I think you're perfect, too." She chuckled.

#wednesday #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday netflix #wednesday x reader #wednesday 2022 #netflix wednesday #wednesday addams #wednesday x you #wednesday imagine #wednesday the series #wednesday addams x y/n #imagine #female reader #wednesday x fem!reader #wednesday x female reader

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xshines · 1 month

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mizu x reader enemies to lovers

sry for being inactive, im lazy af; also i might continue this one

Falling pieces of snow slowly began to cover the surface of the broken sword, thrown somewhere in the distance on the cold ground, no longer incapable of saving you. The cold snow slowly began to compact and melt beneath your shivering, warm body. The cold metal of your rival's sword blade hugs your thin neck. You dared to look up at her as she hovered over you, her expression blank. She finally has you. She looks at you lying so pathetically in front of her now. She squints those blue eyes of hers to scan you once again, your scratches, your torn clothes, a moment longer she lingers on your torn side, which stains your clothes and the snow beneath you with a dark crimson. But finally her eyes land on your face, finally able to take a closer look at the face of one that has been getting under her skin so much lately. Her enemy. Oh, how she hated you.

You know your fate very well, you are very aware of what is about to happen. Even though your body is shaking from exhaustion, from the snow and cold wind, you try not to show your fear. Despite your increasingly throbbing wound, you don't even hiss or whine. You're not asking for mercy. On the contrary, you frown and even give her that defiant look. Like you're daring her to cut your neck.

She hesitates, hesitates the longer she looks into those big eyes of yours. She has killed countless men, but their facial expressions were different, they were afraid, they were begging, they were screaming, asking for mercy. You are different. The sight of your helpless body, covered with blood dripping from your side, invokes sympathy and nostalgia in your eyes. For some reason, she finds in them a strange innocence that she herself was stripped of a long, long time ago. You look so soft. You look so pretty. “You’re so young…” her voice whispers while her eyes stare into your face. You could only wonder why she hadn't yet swung her blade and sliced your neck cleanly once and for all. "Does it matter now?" You answer in an equally quiet, hoarse voice. The cold wind blows strands of hair and sticks them slightly to your forehead.

Your words echoes in her head. She is brave. You haven’t shown fear nor pleaded for life, which makes her feel…something. She is strong. The cold blade still doesn't pierce the soft skin. "Why didn't you ask for mercy...?" She speaks quietly, only a silent breeze passes by, whispering snow in her hair. She is special. Not many survive an encounter with her, even those who have begged and fallen to their knees.

More and more you felt the blood flowing down your side, staining your clothes and coloring the snow. You just snorted at her question. Despite how much blood you've already lost, you still collect the remaining energy to growl in response. "I am not a dog. I'm not going to whine for mercy." You even dared to give her that determined look again.

All sorts of thoughts were running through Mizu's head now. She’s not afraid. She doesn't know her place. She's just like me. She lowers her katana. Her enemy is more than just an enemy.

"What are you doing?" The question falls from your lips as your eyes follow the blade as it moves away from your neck. „You should kill me.”

The moral monologue battles deep within Mizu. She still wants me to kill her. I should kill her. With the sound of the blade, Mizu raises her sword and returns it to its scabbard. Her gaze falters — a rare moment of weakness. "How old are you?" She steps closer as her voice echoes in the snow-covered landscape, while her blue eyes scan their enemy's body, taking in every tiny detail — bruises, scars, wounds. A glance at the blood that continues to seep down your side and stain the snow. An unexpected feeling, unknown to her, wells within her. An urge to protect this young person, as if you had reminded her of her younger self.

This sudden change in attitude surprises you. You swallow, gritting your teeth as you consider whether to answer the question or ignore it. After all, you no longer have a weapon, and even if you wanted to get up and run away, with this wound by your side, it wouldn't be difficult to catch up with you. "… 20." Mizu frowns when she hears the answer. She really is just like me. You are only a few years younger than her, but you have already chosen this terrible path of violence. “Stand up” she demands quietly. You look sharply at Mizu, as if trying to feel the catch. Slowly, you tuck your legs and push yourself up into a sitting position with your arms. You grit your teeth and widen your eyes as now your wound reminds you even more of its existence. After a moment of deep breaths, you gather yourself to get up. You'd rather bite your tongue than hiss in pain in the presence of your enemy, and finally you slowly, swaying slightly, stand in front of her.

Mizu’s gaze remains fixed on her rival, not taking her eyes off you for a single second. She sheaths her katana entirely, and a soft snow breeze fills her senses. The sound of snow crunching beneath her enemy’s feet resonates inside her mind, echoing inside of her heart. "What is your name?"

You think for a moment. You don't have the strength to think about why she's suddenly asking you so much information about you. The only thing you focus on is the throbbing pain at your side. "[Y/N]" You reply quietly, your head slightly bowed as you grab your side and try to apply pressure to your wound. “[Y/N]…” Mizu repeats after you. Her enemy’s name echoes in her mind, as if a whisper. The cold wind passes by, caressing her senses, touching her face with invisible fingers, carrying a hint of fresh winter air. Her blue eyes soften, as if looking at the most beautiful thing in existence. “Your name…is beautiful…" she sighs, unable to take her eyes off her enemy. “…like you,” Your face relaxed slightly at this sudden compliment. It's been a long time since anyone complimented you or your appearance. You opened your mouth as if you wanted to say something, but after a while you remembered the situation you were in and frowned again. She is your enemy. „Shut up” You groaned, unable to hold in the pain any longer. You lowered your head and clenched your eyes and teeth. When you looked at your hand, entirely stained with blood, you shuddered. Mizu watched your reaction very carefully. Deep down, she admired you for still having the nerve to tell her to shut up despite bleeding profusely and being on the verge of death. She's strong. She’s beautiful. “I’m taking you with me,” Mizu said sternly, as she approached you. She lifted you, her enemy into her arms.

Her closest enemy. Oh, how she adored you.

#bes mizu #blue eye samurai #mizu #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #bes #blue eye samurai x reader #mizu bes #mizu x s/o #mizu x y/n #mizu x you #enemies to lovers #enemies #lovers #mizu enemies to lovers #enemies but not rlly enemies #wlw #wlw x reader #mizu fanart

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fanaticsnail · 7 months

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The Apprentice - Part 2

Ok, ok, ok. The Mihawk mind-rot got to me. I will absolutely be making another part. I really enjoy this dynamic and honestly, any excuse to bring out my wide range of wine collection to enjoy while I write.

Warnings: blood, cursing, nudity (no graphic smut, but suggestive themes: minors beware).

Part 1 here.

Word Count: 4,455

“You’re wrong,” the disinterested voice carried over as grunts and echoes of combat reverberated among the tavern walls. Unsure as to how the fight first broke out within the polished walls and at such intensity as it was; you were thrown amongst the flurry to ‘rid the pestilence from presenting their grotesque stature and cleanse the grounds before your lord’ as your mentor so eloquently put it.

You utilised your leg to thrust upwards and capture the jaw of one of the brutes challenging you, while twisting your body around mid-kick and throwing a bar stool at one of the men approaching Mihawk, who had yet to lift a finger to defend himself.

To say things hadn’t changed between you would not be a complete and utter lie. Although neither of you spoke on your former passionate exchange with one another from three weeks ago, you noticed your mentor would choose his words more wisely with you; as such was his negotiation at continuing your apprenticeship. However, you had noticed he was more careful with you in your training; not pushing you further to reach beyond your physical limitations and not entertaining you by prodding you with insults. You had also noticed he had not been seeking out nor actively engaging in whoring his body out from port to port, causing him to remain slightly more on edge.

You missed it, truly: the bickering, the hatred, the intensity. In its place, you now found rocky and unsure waters that were yet to be tested but always crashing against the coastal shore between you both; building its choppy intensity the further you avoided speaking about the kiss.

As to completely dance around the subject matter while continuing your training, you both pulled yourselves to the one thing that brought about your mutual enjoyment: wine.

“How am I wrong, my lord?” you asked him, reaching into your thigh holster and retrieving three throwing knives and releasing them from your hand; pinning a victim to the wall by their shirt sleeves.

He released a groan in disinterest and turned to the bar and reached his hand below it to bring up a freshly decantated bottle of wine he ordered prior to combat ensuing. He began reaching for a glass to empty the liquid into to drink from it, only to find the glass shattering within his fingertips as one of your blades flew at it. He snapped his gaze at you with a deep frown, only to meet with your own smirk before you turned to rid another incoming brute from their ability to breathe by plunging your sword up into their jaw.

“Why would you ever think shattering my wine glass be a good idea, Apprentice?” he scolded you with his intense, hawk-like yellow eyes.

“To get a rise out of you,” you smirked at your thoughts, choosing to grace him with your vocal response: “because you were about to pour yourself a glass. And that-,”

Your words became halted as you withdrew your blade from within the cranium of your prior victim, turning to slash at the final remaining pirate of the crew that engaged you; cutting him from shoulder to bladder in one fell swipe, “-is my job,” you added, sheathing your blade within your scabbard.

You sauntered over to the bar, stepping around the various fallen bodies that lay in pools of their own blood. Moving your fingertips to the neck of the decanter, you contained the subtle hitch in your breath to the best of your abilities as your fingertips grazed your mentor’s as you took the crystal object into your grasp. You craned your neck over the bar and located a fresh wine glass and set its base to rest against the felt material, rising the lip of the vessel to bring the crimson liquid to meet and pool at the bottom of the chalice.

You placed your index and middle finger at the base of the glass, setting aside the decanter while swirling the liquid in the glass against the bar.

Bringing the crystal glass upwards, you turned to your mentor and made to grant the glass within his outstretched and awaiting hand. You presented the glass to him, narrowing your eyes at him as he narrowed his own at yours.

Refusing to be the one to shy away from the gaze first, you were surprised as the mighty Dracule Mihawk relented in his visual challenge of you to turn his sights to the crimson liquid within the glass and swirling it to release more of the bouquet.

He brought the wine up towards his nose and inhaled the liquid first before brining his moustache-clad lips and tongue up to the glass and taking a small sip. He chirped the liquid within his lips as he inhaled a whistle through his partly puckered mouth, savouring the flavour.

“This is meant to be a Malbec,” he snarled, “why does it taste like Petit Verdot?”

You scoffed at him and rolled your eyes, gesturing out to take the glass from between his fingers and sip from the contents; raising the chalice mouth to your lips and sipping a small amount to roll over your tongue.

“Because it’s both, my lord,” you rolled your eyes and crossed your unoccupied arm over your waist and leant your back against the bar to recline your shoulders against it. You rose the glass again to your lips before passing the half-drunken vessel back to its rightful owner.

“It’s a classic Bordeaux. I can taste Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Cabernet Franc in here too,” you shrugged and fluttered your eyelashes at him.

Mihawk growled and turned to face the tavern keeper, who was cowering behind the bar and covering his head with his arms to make himself as small as possible.

“You said this was a Malbec,” he roared at the cowering man, “and you give me a Bordeaux?”

You looked down and shook your head, a small smirk pulling at your lips at his animosity. He placed the glass against the bar with a small huff of his shoulders, and rolled his neck back to release a small crack from behind it.

“If you are that desperate for a Malbec, my lord,” you raised your eyebrow in suggestion, “I did see a tour advertised in the next town over.”

He brought his yellow hued eyes to meet with yours once more, intrigue pulling at his face.

“We could pick up a couple dozen,” you shrugged your shoulders, “and then I can put them with the other mid-range varietals when I completely reorganise your cellar to intensities rather than alphabetised varietals.”

“You see, Apprentice,” he engaged you, and at long last reaching out his right arm for you to take, “that is where you are wrong.”

“Oh?” you asked with a quirk of your brow, lacing your left arm within his own and allowing him to escort you out of the completely ransacked tavern.

“I like knowing I have the Malbec with the Merlot,” he continued, “and the Syrah with the Shiraz.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed under your breath at his comment.

“The Malbec and the Merlot can stay, as will the Syrah and the Shiraz,” you continued, “but I refuse to place the Cognac with the Champagne. That’s illegal.”

He sniffed out a small snicker at your comment, looking down with smiling eyes; hoping you didn’t catch his affectionate gaze.

“You put your sparkling’s with your apéritifs, your white varietals building in intensity: the chardonnays near the rose,” you listed off while nodding your head, gesturing with your right hand the exact floor plan of Mihawk’s cellar on Kuraigana Island.

He trailed his eyes over your blood-spattered face, noticing how your hair lay slightly different than the day before as he zoned your words out as you spoke them.

“-What possessed you to put all of the Pinots in the same place. Honestly,” his attention immediately snapped back at your words as you made your way to the inn you were staying in, “for someone with such disdain for Pinot Noir, you sure keep a fair few.”

“What did you say, Apprentice?” he quirked at you, eyes narrowing at your former words spoken.

“Pinot Noir, my lord,” you reiterated, “does not belong next to Pinot Gris or Pinot Grigio. You can keep it next to the Pinot Meunier, but you must let me rearrange the cellar.”

He sighed before reaching into his long jacket pocket, retrieving an embroidered pocket square from within and wordlessly passing it to you with a roll of his eyes.

“What is this for, my lord?” you asked him, clasping your hand around the material; hand meeting the fingers of one of the warlords of the sea.

“Your face,” he uttered disinterestedly, “you made a mess. You know how I despise mess.”

Bringing your sights to one of the windows of a shop front, you had indeed manage to collect a fair amount of the dark, metallic substance over your face and neck in the thralls of your ferocity. You growled as you began swiping at your skin to rid it of the blood atop it, groaning as much of the liquid had congealed and solidified against your skin; making it next to impossible to clear it from your face without soap and water.

You clutched the material and unfolded it, absentmindedly tracing your fingertips around the golden “D” and “M” as you refolded the soiled material and placed it in your side satchel.

No comment was made about the noises that had been released in frustration. It could be said that you missed his banter a little, but as you had got what you wanted; you negated your thoughts and chose to say nothing about it.

As the both of you continued to walk toe in toe with one another, you passed a large arched entranceway to a sandstone building; bamboo trees and fine bleached coarse pebbles lining the pathway towards the open entrance of the building. Your eyes widened and mouth drew up into a smile as you read the sign beside the archway.

“An onsen,” you gasped, turning your attention back to Mihawk. He halted his movements and craned his head to look at you with complete and utter disregard.

“No,” he uttered, turning back around and continuing to make his journey onwards,

“Oh, please, my lord,” you almost begged, “I’m desperate to submerge myself in deep waters to relax.”

Stretching your arms to arch above your head, you almost felt the calming of your overused muscles as the scents of perfumed bathwater drew its way to your nose; solidifying your resolve.

“There’s bathwater at the inn. We can’t waste valuable wine-tasting hours on something as time consuming as a bath house,” he called over his shoulder, “come, Apprentice.”

Your body froze, a reactionary response to the final words he spoke to you over your shoulder; thighs clenching slightly together as a rosy blush found its way to your face.

Not one step was made from your body as you drew your arms back down from its extension as you laced them together to circle your front and tapped your foot against the pavement. Mihawk, too, halted his movements and clicked his neck to the side to release the knot-riddled tension within his shoulders. You smirked at him, reading the fine print on the side of the building.

You hardened your resolve, approaching your master as you laced your hands around the crook of his left arm and brought your lips up to his ear.

“They have an on-sight masseuse,” you purred into his ear, whispering suggestively, “could relieve some of the tension in your neck.”

Yellow, hawk-like eyes snapped to meet yours as he angled his refined jaw down to gaze into your blood-spattered face. His lips curled up into almost a snarl before he exhaled a sigh, relenting to your insistence.

“Fine,” he groaned, turning back towards the archway of the onsen and bringing his right hand to rest atop your laced fingertips around his left arm to keep you against him. You hadn’t walked in such proximity like this since you relinquished your resignation request, enjoying the closeness between you and your mentor.

Your heels began grinding the pebbled floor beneath your weight, more so Mihawk’s as his mighty blade Yoru lay equipped against his back. A giddy sensation rose in your chest as you walked past the entrance and found the front desk, manned by a fishman.

“Weapons are to remain as checked items at the front desk,” he addressed you, prompting you to eagerly part with your blade as it hung loosely at your side. Mihawk looked at your overzealous removal of your several compartments of weapons with disapproval as he, too, reached his hand behind his back and withdrew Yoru from its scabbard; placing it atop the counter.

Reaching down and unclasping your thigh hilt, you felt the watchful eyes of your mentor bare into you as you fiddled with the buckle. After unequipping yourself of your weapons, you huffed out your breath in excitement as a broad smile fell over your face.

“If that will be all your arms,” the fishman smiled, gesturing to the entranceway of the side room, “welcome to our onsen.”

“Thank you, sir,” you said with a polite nod of your head.

“You may disrobe in the changing room,” he gestured to another section of the front desk, “towels and bathrobes are available on the hooks in the ensuite. Please place any used objects in the baskets at the front before you leave.”

Your gaze turned to the side counter, noticing a taped-off area.

“Ah,” the fishman followed your gaze, “yes. Unfortunately we are undergoing some renovations in the men’s area. The women’s bath is also currently occupied by an elderly rehabilitation group using the healing waters to rid their joints of arthric pain.”

Mihawk tensed his shoulders and inhaled an agitated breath through his nose.

“We currently have the cool plunge, showers, and mixed communal bath available,” he continued, “and we also have a masseuse in the hammam should you desire their services.”

Your mentor made to reequip himself of his mighty blade, only to have his actions halted as you pressed a hand against his chest while addressing the fishman once again.

“Thank you, sir,” you spoke, “do you have any baskets we could use to store our clothing? My mentor,” you turned your sites towards Mihawk and narrowed your eyes at him, “is in desperate need for the hammam and I,” you turned your warm gaze back to the front desk, “honestly can’t wait to utilise the waters.”

You felt a low rumble-like growl form within the chest of your mentor as your hand lay flush against it, relishing in the fury you had managed to pull from your boss. You missed this.

“There are several lockers you can use to place your clothing within,” he nodded with a smile.

You thanked him and relaced your arms within your mentor’s and practically dragged him into the changing room.

“Halt your enthusiasm, apprentice,” he uttered out an order to you, “we won’t be staying for long. Hot shower, cold plunge and a quick dip: Malbec awaits.”

You laughed at his command and shook your head at him as you began to disrobe and place your clothes in a neat pile within one of the cubical booths of the onsen room. As you stripped to your undergarments, you clasped one of the bathrobes provided and wrapped it around your shoulders before removing the final two items of clothing.

Sighing in relief, you placed your arms within the sleeves of the bathrobe and laced the material around the front of you, turning around to see the muscular bare back of your mentor as he brought his own robe up and over his shoulders. A small blush rose itself once again to your cheeks as you turned your head to look at the artwork on the walls in front of you.

After tying his bath robe, he turned to face you; noticing your eyeline focussing on a painting of a large cherry blossom tree.

“Shall we, then?” he uttered disinterestedly, eyes trailing over your robe-wrapped form as you turned to face him.

“Thank you, my lord,” you said with a nod of respect.

“For what now, Apprentice?” he rolled his eyes and made to open the doors of the communal bath.

“For allowing me this privilege, sir,” you said, trailing behind him as he brought his hands up to the sliding double doors. He halted his gaze and arched his head back around to face you.

“Just this once, Apprentice,” he warned you, narrowing his eyes. A small smile almost broke through his lips as he watched you beam with giddy anticipation.

He slid the doors open to reveal a beautifully maintained garden with several varieties of cropped trees, rock garden and layers of naturally occurring waterfalls cascade the area. The smile that was so beautifully almost breaking through his sinister gaze all but fell completely from his face at the next words spoken.

“Hawk-Eyes, you old gloomy prick!” a voice called, prompting you to bring your sites to rest on one of the many men within the bath waters, “what are the odds?”

The gentlemen that so unceremoniously addressed your mentor had a large smile on his face, three scars over his left eye and a mess of currently damp red hair. Several other men around him were also adorning battle scars, carefree attitudes and broad smiles on their faces.

“Absolutely not,” your mentor spoke, turning back towards the double doors.

“Who’s that you got with you?” the man spoke again, looking to you and threw you a small wink.

You furrowed your brows at his attention and allowed a small scowl to pull over your face. Narrowing your eyes at him, you turned to your mentor and placed your hand on his retreating wrist to halt him in place; prompting him to glare at you with his intense yellow eyes.

“Sir,” you addressed the redhead in front of you.

“Miss,” he taunted you with a slight smirk. You inhaled a sharp breath at his mocking tone before releasing Mihawk’s wrist from its place collected in your grasp.

You sighed out an angry breath, “I have had a particularly long day and I was so looking forward to a relaxing bath. If it be all the same to you, I would prefer it if you withheld your taunts from bringing them against my mentor.”

Turning back to face your boss, you grit your teeth and whispered at him; “Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah and Malbec. And I’ll leave the cellar alphabetised, even though it’s impractical.”

He allowed a small growl to escape his lips before he rolled his eyes at your negotiation and brought his rebuttal against you with a smirk; “and we only remain here for a shower and a cold plunge. Absolutely no talking with Shanks or his sorry excuse for a crew.”

You narrowed your eyes at him as you watched his gaze soften at you, nodding his chin over to the showerheads lining the wall behind a bamboo screen; “go rinse your face. You still have a small amount of blood on your cheek.”

“Oh, and you despise mess, my lord,” you taunted him with a smirk.

“Watch your tone, Apprentice,” he warned you with a low growl, prompting you to smile and release him from your grip and make to the showers with towel in hand.

“She’s a bit of a feisty one,” Shanks called to Mihawk with a chuckle, as the yellow-eyed man made his way over to the baths, “bet she keeps you young.”

“And what is that meant to mean, you drunken idiot?” he spat at his old associate with venomousity.

Shanks raised his single right hand defensively with a teasing smile.

“I meant no disrespect,” he said with a small shake of his head, “who you choose to warm your bed is no business of my own. You sure know how to choose them, though. She’s stunning-.”

“She’s my apprentice,” he hissed at the redhead as he disrobed and hung the large object on a hook on the sandstone wall.

Wolf-whistles and hollers were called from the Red-Hair Pirates at that comment, prompting Mihawk to harden his stare.

“Is that how it is, then?” Shanks laughed at Mihawk.

The warlord made his way to join the Red-Hair pirates within the warm waters of the onsen and audibly sighed as the heat penetrated his aching muscles. He dipped his raven hair below the waters and allowed the water to begin healing his body of their pent up afflictions.

He then released a groan as he turned to see the large grin on the red-headed captain who brought himself next to him.

“How is it going then, the training,” he asked with interest, his eyes playfully twinkling behind his brown eyes, “sword user, then?”

“She has a great many talents,” he uttered with complete disinterest at continuing the conversation, “but swords and knives are her greatest strengths.”

Shanks hummed in response, nodding in deep thought while scratching his stubbled chin with his right hand.

“Are you planning on going for a drink after this?” he asked curiously, “my men and I could use a couple of brews.”

Mihawk released a small exasperated sigh, “I will not have your carefree crew undo all of my hard work I have drilled into my apprentice.”

Shanks laughed and tossed his head back before stifling his laughter, teetering it off into a low chuckle.

“If you wanted to be alone with her, you should just say so,” he teased him with a playful punch against Mihawk’s shoulder.

After a brisk shower, you readorned yourself with the robe provided and walked away from the screen and back into the view of your mentor and his former associates.

Before you could take a step towards the onsen bath, your mentor rose a hand to halt your movements before pointing to the small pool at the side of the bath.

“Cold plunge,” he ordered monotonously, “then back to the inn.”

You narrowed your eyes and a snarl pulled its way at the lefthand corner of your upper lip.

“Oh, lighten up,” the redhead spoke up with a laugh, “disregard that, love. Come and join us!”

The motley crew of pirates all cheered at the aspect of you joining them within the warm waters, and the desire you had was also prominent. However, not one step was made in either direction as you kept your gaze locked on your mentor to await his new command or dismissal of his prior order.

Mihawk huffed a sigh and narrowed his yellow-eyes at you before he again addressed you.

“Cold plunge,” he again reiterated, “then five minutes in the onsen.”

“Ten,” you smirked your rebuttal at him and rose your left eyebrow upwards.

“Eight,” he reiterated, “and you have to do the cold plunge twice.”

You laughed as you disrobed to bare yourself completely before the assortment of pirates and your current boss. Both you and Mihawk regularly would change in front of one another to equip yourselves ready for battle, not really caring if one glance was shared between you or not. Of late, however, the intensity of the rising tension between you had those looks trailing between you last longer than the average glance.

Not ashamed of your body in the slightest, you turned to retreat to the many hooks lining the sandstone wall and began to place your towel on the bench below. You moved to place the robe on the hook beside your mentor’s own robe and began psyching yourself up to jump into the icy depths of the cold plunge.

You made it to the ledge of the small, circular pool and arched your shoulders back and rolled your head. After releasing a small shaky breath, you brought your right foot outwards and sprung your left foot upwards, falling towards the dark and deep cool water.

Your body became overwhelmed at the icy waters as you plunged into the deep waters. You kicked your legs and resurfaced, gasping in a large breath as you did so. Your feet found the ladder and you hoisted yourself above the water with ease, shaking slightly under the cold as you made your way toward the shallows of the onsen as you gracefully made your descent.

Although the bathwater was a warm 37C, you felt every inch burning into you as the ice-water from the cold-plunge rewrote your internal body temperature. As you sat against one of the many walls of the onsen, you reclined your head to rest against the ledge, closing your eyes and sighing as the warmth overcame you.

“I’m Shanks,” you heard a voice address you. You cracked open your right eye and glanced at him before promptly shutting your eyes once again.

“And I’ve been forbidden from entertaining this conversation,” you smirked and scrunched up your nose.

“Really, Mihawk?” the redhead called, prompting a wide smile to bring itself on your face as your view remained obstructed by your closed eyelids, “you banned me?”

“That I did,” your boss said offhandedly, “and you’ve only got four minutes remaining, Apprentice.”

You groaned as you arched your shoulders, relishing in the warm, scented waters as they worked at your relaxing your muscles.

“And why would he ban me, I wonder,” the voice cooed at you with a slight taunt.

“Although curious myself,” you sighed, “again, you’re contraband. No talking.”

Shanks laughed at your dismissal of him before resting his body beside yours and relishing in the glare that was baring into him at his proximity.

“Then we won’t talk,” he smirked before turning his head and whispered in your ear; “nod or shake your head. Are you sweet on your boss?”

Your jaw fell slack in shock as you opened your eyes to look at the playful features of the redhead beside you. You made to reprimand him vocally for his suggestion, halting as you turned to meet the gaze of Mihawk.

Trailing your eyes over his raven hair before flittering your gaze down to his finely maintained facial hair, pulling your sights down to the lips that so roughly engaged you earlier in the month.

“Nod or shake,” Shanks uttered in a voice below a whisper. Almost invisible to the untrained eye, a subtle nod was all the confirmation required for the redhead to sigh out a laugh.

“Good girl,” he praised you in a low tone before whispering, “now let’s make him angry.”

Part 3

#one piece #opla #x reader #one piece live action #opla fic #mihawk fic #mihawk x reader #one piece mihawk #dracule mihawk #mihawk #shanks opla #red haired shanks #shanks

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manszen · 3 months

Text

valentine’s day

pairing. fem!reader x trafalgar law.

summary. law wonders how he can make it up to you.

contains. fluff, established relationship.

word count. 1.2k.

note. i may or may not have word vomited with this one.

anyone could tell from the first impression that law isn’t someone you would consider a romantic.

his usually tight expression says so. he’s dry and blunt, gets easily irritated when something is out of his control — well, that’s just the way he is. but for whatever reason, you admire him for it.

he’s aware of where your relationship with him stands. it’s right there on the edge of a precipice, bound to tip over to the side that burdens the other. a beautiful disaster awaiting, so to speak.

his reason? you’re kind and he’s not. you’re gentle. he’s ruthless. you’re radiant. he’s gloomy.

polar opposites in every aspect. yet somehow, it works.

the two of you work.

it’s a bit unusual for him to be immersed in the thoughts of you. not that he doesn’t think of you — he does. but most of the time his mind is already preoccupied with his responsibilities as a captain, and as a doctor next.

he’s carrying multiple lives in his hands, after all.

but once he realizes there’s no one else in the rented inn that he shares with the rest of the crew, he allows himself to wonder about you just a little bit more.

you care for him, that much is obvious. when he forgets to do it for himself, you’re already there. gingerly reminding him that he’s the expert and he should know better. that even doctors need their rest and help from other people. all the while donning a cheeky smile on your face.

you take care of him all the more when no one else can reach him. sometimes at night, when the memories of his tormenting childhood come back to haunt him, you’re there — stroking the anxious creases between his brows, the frown curling on his lips; and the only thing helping him to calm down is your hushed whispers of ‘i’m here, you’re safe’, your tender embrace that soothes his inner child.

you’re that loving. and you never once complained at his own lack of sympathy, or at least, the little amount thereof.

the fact that you’re even used to his little episodes of isolation, his sudden avoidance from people that have nothing to do with you, you never kicked up a fuss.

it’s why he finds you disarming and beguiling at the same time.

and it makes him mad — so, so mad — that he’s difficult the way he is.

you don’t complain nor demand anything from him. as far as he can recall, it’s always you that gives, never takes anything for yourself.

it’s as if you already know he cares for you in a strange but honest way, and that is enough on its own.

law distractedly closes the medical book in his hand that’s long forgotten since he started thinking of you. suddenly, he feels worthless, trapped in his own body.

there’s a high chance you would feel unappreciated if this slack behavior of his goes on. he’s aware that most couples often express their affection — either by corny declarations or expensive gifts, whichever works — and that exactly where his dilemma lies.

he doesn’t do any of those.

he doesn’t feel the need to do any of those.

but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t do any of those.

he groans. he can feel a headache coming from miles away. when he closes his eyes for a quick rest, he imagines you playfully scowling and ready to berate him for overworking his brain yet again.

“damn it,” he shakes his head. this is why he tries not to delve into his feelings. you make him feel warm all over and giddy.

he glances at the scenery past the open windows, watching the gentle wind breeze through the row of bushes outside. he sees something that piques his interest, and upon confirmation, unintentionally uses his powers to check it a tiny bit closer.

“room,” he commands, and the pale blue sphere immediately covers the area with him at its center. he unsheathes kikoku from her scabbard, and expertly severs the object he has his eyes on.

once he thinks he got it, he snatches a random napkin on the table and directs again, “shambles.”

whatever is exchanged in the center of his palm brings out a soft smile to his lips.

“hey, captain.”

in his haste, law hides his flustered hands beneath the table. “hey, you’re back early,” he coughs, seeing you so picturesque at the inn’s entry way.

“my feet are tired.” yawning, you saunter over to him. “did you have fun?”

“more or less. want to retire for the night?”

you nod.

he collects his things before leading you back to his room. he makes sure to not show his hands to you, but even if he does, you’re more fixated on the trinkets that are scattered around in the hallway.

“i think i like this inn better than the last one,” you muse.

he grunts as a reply, but then remembers about his earlier agenda — his newfound agenda of becoming a better boyfriend. “same here,” he says in between his teeth, earning him a puzzled look and an even more amused smile from you.

you don’t comment on his behavior. it’s silent for a while, only the sounds of your footsteps could be heard across the floor. he opens the door to his room, side-stepping to let you in first, which again, earned him a skeptical glance.

“ladies first,” he tries to be smooth, but heaven knows it sounds incredibly hoarse.

still, he’s grateful you don’t make a jab at him. you obediently enter his room and he follows after you. he watches your expression change from being wide-eyed to droopy, and there’s a silly little smile on your face as you sigh, “alone finally.”

you’re not alone, technically speaking. he’s with you inside the room. but law bites his tongue, refraining from letting his crude mouth run loose. instead, he observes you like a hawk as you stretch your arms above your head, yawning ungracefully as you do.

you’re saying something unintelligible. maybe asking what his plans are after dinner, or maybe when is the right time to go back sailing the seas. but he couldn’t care less about any of that.

right now, he’s deeply and immensely attracted, and he finds himself walking closer to you.

god damn it. how could someone look so beautiful and unguarded at the same time?

“law?”

“hmm?”

“are you alright?”

he’s now a few inches away from you, and with the height difference, you have nothing else to do but to look up at him. it makes him smirk, “never been better.”

you bite your lip.

“i missed you,” law admits after a moment, becoming serious all of a sudden.

he watches your eyes go wide, before lifting up one tattooed hand to brush your hair behind your ear, sneaking something through the strands of your hair.

a subtle fragrance drifts in the space between, and you reach out to touch where his hand has just been, “what’s this?”

“it’s hydrangea,” he mumbles, taking a long look at you then deciding that it suits you. it suits you very well, much to his relief. “it means gratitude and apology.”

you giggle. although, bewilderment is still apparent in your eyes, “what did you do this time, law?”

he shrugs. he’s not particularly asking for forgiveness, simply that he feels the need to do something — to give you something since he’s usually the one on the receiving end.

“already forgiven.”

law rolls his eyes, the grin you're wearing is too infectious. “you’re so easy to please.”

you chuckle, appreciating the flower — his flower — that he sneakily placed by your ear.

“and you’re a bit of a romantic when you want to be.”

stealing, modifying, translating, or reposting this work on other platforms is strictly discouraged.

#own post #one piece imagine #one piece fluff #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar d water law imagine #trafalgar d water law fluff #trafalgar d water law x reader #trafalgar d water law x you #trafalgar d water law x y/n #trafalgar law #trafalgar law imagine #trafalgar law fluff #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law x you #trafalgar law x y/n

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realisticfanfictions · 4 months

Text

Being Sanji's Girlfriend & Baratie's Head Waitress - Part 4.

Sanji x Waitress!Reader: Part One, Part Two, Part Three.

Working at Baratie wasn't without its challenges, and the fights that sprung up because of them weren't rare either. You and your boyfriend never sweated the small stuff, after all working in a high stress environment made you, well, stressed. But maybe some things can't be resolved that easily.

Tags: Sanji x Reader, Waitress!Reader, constant bickering, mostly fluff with some angst, (heavy) swearing.

A/N: Initially going into this, I was planning to have the fishmen come in and have the Mihawk fight, but it was a bit more important to set up some more character dynamics before I moved onto 5k words of action scenes. So here's a nice bit of LORE(tm) and a bit more about how Y/N thinks. Next part I promise is 100% action, and I can't wait to show ya'll what I've come up with for Y/N's weapon! It's so cool.

Word Count is 3,421. Hope you enjoy!

Tag list (comment to join!): @siriuslyblackonback @jvhoons

"So, you're really going to fight him?"

Zoro, not looking up from cleaning his swords, nodded. "It's my dream." He explained, observing the blades for any damage. After he challenged the swordsman, the next few things happened rather quickly. The scramble to get Luffy as if that'll somehow convince him to stand down, the captain instead supporting his first mate's goal, and Nami storming off upset. It all passed by in a blur, and now you were alone with Zoro in their ship.

You nodded and turned to look out of the porthole, observing the calm seas that rocked the boat. "I guess dreams are worth dying for." You sighed and leaned back in your chair. "Sucks you met Mihawk too early."

His jaw tightened, and set down his sword. "If I run now, I'll never become the world's greatest swordsman."

You hummed and watched him through the reflection on the glass. "Honour, huh?" You mused and nibbled on the tip of your thumb. "How ridiculous. You're just like Sanji, uncompromising."

"Don't compare me to that shitbag." He snapped and sheathed his sword, clicking it shut in its scabbard. "Speaking of, why are you with him?"

Confused by his words, you looked over at him. "What do you mean?"

"He cheats on you, doesn't he?" He questioned and turned to face you, leaning against the cabinet. "He seemed pretty friendly with Nami a couple hours ago."

You chuckled. "That's just Sanji. He's obsessed with women. It's more," You thought of the words. "It's like having a dog that you love and care for, and though you go up and pet other dogs, you don't abandon your own dog for some random one on the street."

Zoro's eyebrows raised. "You do realise you just called yourself a bitch, right?"

You rolled your eyes and flipped him off. "Shut up. He's just chivalrous, that's all."

"Well, I'd be watching him if I were you." He walked over, his long strides making it seem effortless to reach you. "Guys like that don't tend to keep only one dog."

You opened your mouth to retort, but shut it and stood chest to chest with him. "Just focus on not dying, alright?" His eyes squinted ever so slightly, and he leaned down close to you, gazing directly into your eyes. "What are you doing?"

He stares for a moment, and then straightens himself back up. "Nothing."

You quirked an eyebrow. "Alright, I'm going home to my boyfriend."

"Wasn't trying to make a move." He retorted and stepped aside, letting you walk past him. "(Y/N)?" You placed a hand on the door frame and turned. "Be careful."

You looked him up and down. "Try not to die."

Mihawk's eyes haunted you like a ghostly presence that you couldn't shake off. It was like you could feel those piercing eyes all over your body, every inch of skin was tainted and you hated it. You always have.

The door to you and Sanji's shared room creaked open, and you popped your head inside. You didn't know what to expect, but Sanji jolting himself upright on the chair that sat in the corner of your room wasn't exactly one of them. The door softly clicked closed behind you, and you slowly walked up to him, his eyes on you the entire time as you sat on his lap. You positioned yourself sideways and leaned your head against his chest, reveling in his warmth when he wrapped his arms around you and placed a kiss against your scalp. Sanji's thumb rubbed circles in your thigh, more of an anxious gesture than anything, as he pressed many more kisses against your skin. You sighed and relaxed into him. "I may have overreacted." You started, ripping the band-aid off. "And I apologise."

He nodded. "Thank you for that. Sorry for not finding you sooner."

You shook your head against his chest. "I was drinking, you would've killed my buzz." You paused. "But I guess it was ruined anyway."

"Oh, I'm sorry-"

He stopped when you held up a hand. "I didn't mean you, Sanji." You opened your mouth, but couldn't find the words. Or rather, you found them, you just didn't want to share them. "A man came asking after our new chore boy."

You felt Sanji tense under you. "Are you okay?"

Mihawk's eyes restraining came to mind. "I'll be fine," You picked at a loose thread. "But Zoro won't."

Your boyfriend's hand stopped and pulled back to look you in the eye. "Zoro?"

"Luffy's friend, the guy with the swords. The idiot challenged him to a duel."

Sanji's head tilted. "Why?"

You let out a small sigh and untangled yourself from him, walking a couple feet to your dresser and pulling out a change of clothes. "Because they're idiots with a death wish." You said as you peeled off your top with a groan. "Fuck. Thank God I don't have work tomorrow."

He watched you for a moment as you shimmied out of your clothes and slipped into some pajamas. "Sweetheart, I'm not really comfortable with you drinking with pirates. I mean, it's a bit dangerous-"

You scoffed, pulling an oversized shirt over your head. "They're not pirates," You said as you tugged the shirt down, barely bothering to notice it was a gag shirt with an octopus on a bowl of rice. "Hell, they barely qualify as sailors." But when Sanji didn't respond, you paused. "Oh, you mean was I drinking with Zoro." You turned around to face him. He was leaning forwards in his chair, leg bouncing. You sighed and walked over to him. "He was just my drinking partner, and he's most likely going to die tomorrow." You run your hand through his blond locks. "It'll be fine. You don't have to worry."

"I'll have to trust you then." He said with a smile, then laughed when your gentle pat turned into a frantic scratch. "Hey! Not the hair!"

A smirk split across your face. "I don't know, Sanji. You might just have to trust me!"

He chuckled and grabbed your hands, pulling you forward onto him and wrapping you in his arms. "You know what I mean."

"I guess I'll just trust you-"

"Yep!"

"And trust that you're doing a good job! And- Sanji!" You squeaked when your boyfriend ambushed you with a barrage of soft kisses pressed across any bit of skin he could reach. "You tasteless toad! You're two tablespoons of terrible!"

"Two tablespoons of terrible." He repeated in a strange voice and you giggled when he tried to tickle you. "Oh no! The tickling toad has come to torment you!"

You push his hands away and trap his face in your hands. "You twat." You smiled and gave him a lingering kiss.

When you parted, he gave a soft smile. "And you even ended it with a 't', brilliant."

You quirked an eyebrow. "You weirdo."

He mirrored you. "And I somehow love you."

"But weirdly, you love me very weirdly."

He nodded. "Birds of a feather."

"If we're birds, you're a flamingo."

"Why?"

"Because if I wasn't dating you, I'd think you were a bit of a flamingo."

He gasped. "Then you'd be a penguin, because you bring me rocks."

You leaned back and gave him a look. "Because I bring you rocks?"

He nodded. "Yeah, you even put them on me. And you help me get my rocks off."

He laughed as you hit him. "Sanji! That's so bad!"

Your hands were caught and you were pulled into his chest, both of you giggling and stealing kisses from each other while occasionally snuggling impossibly closer. Sure, you might be a bad person - but you liked who you were with Sanji. And that's all you really cared about.

You lied. That night you couldn't sleep with hundreds of thousands of millions of thoughts racing through your mind. You felt like you were a greyhound chasing down a slightly too-fast rabbit, every time you got close, sleep just slipped through your fingers. Your gaze drifted from the ceiling where you were counting the nails in the boards, and over to your boyfriend. His sleeping face made a million butterflies emerge from their cocoons in your stomach, your heart beating against your rib cage like an angry gorilla. But something about this wasn't right, and you couldn't go to sleep without doing something about it.

Careful to not wake your peaceful boyfriend, you slowly lifted his arm from around your waist and placed it on his pillow, heart aching at the sight of him trying to seek your warmth. Even in sleep he wanted to be close to you. Grabbing your pillow, you gently tucked it under his searching hand and he brought it to his chest with a soft groan, the smell of you satiating him.

You rolled out of bed and tip-toed over the squeaky floorboards, wincing every time the floor made a sound. After looking back each time and taking moments between each footstep, you made it through the door and quickly shut it behind you. The early morning's chilly air struck you, but you ignored the goosebumps rising under your skin and continued on. It felt strange walking without your heels clicking against the floorboards, but you weren't looking to make noise, or look fashionable in this instance.

The Overnights were rooms for guests who've either had too much to drink, or who pay extra to stay overnight to hookup, or just to stay, again, overnight. You passed by the many in-use rooms filled with snoring and other unseemly sounds, rolling your eyes at the disgusting slobs behind the doors. A room stood out amongst the others, however, and you knew it held what you were seeking. The aura that emanated from it was unmistakable.

You reached into your hair and pulled out a bobby pin, sticking it in between your teeth to open it and then jammed it into the lock. All the locks were the same on the Baratie, and you only had to jimmy the locks, moving the pins frantically within, to open it without much effort. The door clicked open and you gently pushed it open.

When you stepped inside, you felt it. The blade at your neck. Without a second thought, you pushed it from your jugular and grabbed the silver candlestick on the hallway table, holding it firmly as the blade was struck against it. It sliced through with ease and a sharp burning went through your cheek, knowing that if you hadn't moved your head, it would've went through your eye. "You're slow." Came the hauntingly beautiful, yet unsettling voice from your nightmares.

You hissed and shoved his sword away from your face. "You haven't seen me in seven years, and the first thing that comes from your mouth is criticism? How shocking."

"Six." He corrected, and the room was suddenly bathed in a low yellow hue. Dracule Mihawk was a terrifying man. His golden, ringed eyes glowed in the dim light and when they looked you over, it felt like he was observing your soul and picking it apart with the grace one would picking the petals off of a flower. Those eyes locked onto yours. "It's been six years."

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him. The room was a similar layout to your own, with the only difference being the minimalist design and abhorrent amount of red wine. You knew the latter didn't come from the room. Rather, they came from his personal stash that would deem any other man an alcoholic. But Mihawk was simply old-fashioned, born in the wrong non-vampiric century if you will.

He sheathed his famed black blade Yoru in one smooth motion and danced past you, sitting gracefully in his armchair and crossing one leg over the other. Your eyes drifted over to his hat hung on a hook and reached out to run your fingers against the silky feather. "Don't touch it." The old swordsman warned behind you, picking up his book and flipping over the next page. "I despise disorganisation. It needs to be acceptable for my duel tomorrow. Or rather, in the upcoming moments since you have woken me up at such an ungodly hour."

Despite your reluctance, your arm retracted almost on its own. "You were already awake, asshat." You turned around and crossed your arms. "And it'll be creased anyway, so it doesn't matter if-"

"Not necessarily." His words were as sharp as his gaze. "If we go by that barbaric logic, it doesn't matter if a man is murdered since we all die in one way or another."

You scoffed and returned his look with your own glare. "I'm not too sure, you're more experienced when it comes to murdering men."

Mihawk picked up his expensive crystal wine glass, and took a long, silent sip of his Tarapaca. It was placed back down onto the table with a clink. He leaned back in his chair which squeaked as he did so, and interlocked his fingers. "Why are you here, (Y/N)?"

"I was going to ask you the same question."

His head tilted for a moment, before righting itself. "I'm here for Monkey D. Luffy."

You hadn't realised your shoulders were tensed until they drooped down. "That's it?"

He nodded. "I am only here as an obligation to Garp to collect his grandson."

To your annoyance, your throat tightened. "I thought that was an excuse."

"It wasn't." The man you hated sat in his chair completely unbothered. His eyes lingered on you for a moment, before drifting back to his book. He flipped the page. "'But tell me, at the time of those sweet sighs, by what and in what manner Love conceded that you should know your dubious desires?'"

Pathetically, you felt stinging at the corners of your eyes. "'And she said to me: “There is no greater sorrow then to recall our times of joy in wretchedness.”'" You breathed in through your nose. "Inferno, by Dante Alighieri."

"From?"

You cleared your throat. "Divine Comedy."

"What year?"

You took in a breath and shook your head. "1321?"

He said nothing and turned the page. You stood silently, wanting to run but having no strength to do so. His gaze finally lifted to meet yours. "Is that all?"

A chill ran over your skin, and you were once again reminded of the kind of man he was. There was a lot you wanted to say to Dracule Mihawk. So much hatred and anguish that you had to endure, all the suffering handed to you by the well-manicured hands of the greatest swordsman in the world. You hated him. "Unless you want to say anything?"

His eyes held yours for a moment. "Goodnight."

"Go fuck yourself." You practically grew fangs and spat venom at him. Spinning on your heel, you kicked the wall where his hat hung and stormed out of the room.

A scream bubbled in your throat. Your nails dug into your palms, and your lips were bloodied from ripping them open. He had no- you couldn't- he was such a-

As you turned a corner, you felt something pinch the base of your skull and you whipped around. Pulling your gun and aiming it, you locked eyes with the other swordsman in your life. Zoro, bathed in moonlight, turned his attention from his swords to you. The rag he was cleaning his blade with stopped and he was focused solely on you. "I think I know who you are."

You scoffed and shoved your gun back in its holster. "Well, apparently most people don't, so I'll take anything at this point." He was quiet, and your lips tightened into a smile. "Want a drink?"

The door opened with a click and Zoro whistled. "Nice trick."

You put the bobby pin back in your hair with a smile. "Thanks." The Baratie after-hours was a sight to behold, but the bar was even better. You smiled at Zoro and guided him around the front of the bar where the shutters were closed.

"Thought you said it's open all night."

You looked behind you as you bent down to the latch holding the fish's mouth closed. "I said you couldn't get anything on tap around three in the morning," You unhooked the chain and pulled it free from the floor. "Didn't say that the bar was open. Come help me." You shuffled to the side to make room for him, and grabbed onto the shudders. He appeared by your side and hooked his fingers under the shudders next to yours, you both nodded to each other and grunted as you lifted the shudders. You expected it to be heavier, but with Zoro it lifted with surprising ease. The moonlight poured in and illuminated the bar, shining through the empty bottles of booze and creating a kaleidoscope of colours.

The green-haired swordsman chuckled and looked around. "I've never been in a bar after hours." He sat down on a nearby couch normally reserved for V.I.Ps. "It feels naughty."

You shrugged, walking over to the bar and reaching over. "Yeah well, if we're caught I'll probably get fired, so don't fuck around." Your fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle and you hoisted it to eye-level. "You a rum guy?"

He smiled and gave a half-shrug. "I'm a booze guy."

"Good answer." You said and carried over two shot glasses for the both of you. Sitting down, you tugged off the cork with your teeth and poured yourselves shots. You raised your glasses. "To you dying tomorrow."

His eyebrows raised. "To me surviving tomorrow." He corrected and clinked his glass against yours, keeping his eyes on you as you took a shot together. He sighed, flicking his head and nodding. "That's good."

You nodded and sniffed. "It's very good." You filled your glasses again. "Only the best shit for the only guy that knows me." You gulped it down, and didn't wait for him to finish before filling yours back up.

He chuckled. "I'm the one dying tomorrow, and here you are drinking like it's the end of the world."

"Yeah, well," You sniffed and swirled around the liquid in your glass. "My life kind of fucking sucks at the moment. So, I think I deserve to get shit-faced."

Zoro tilted his head and licked his teeth. "I bet you had a miserable childhood."

You laughed and leaned back, tears pricking at yours eyes as you nodded. "Understatement of the century." You said under your breath and looked up at him, forcing a smile. "I grew up on some private land owned by nobles."

He nodded. "You said that."

"Yeah, but what I didn't tell you was I wasn't born there. My Dad, being father of the fucking year, didn't want to care for a baby so he dumped me with some workers. Then, when I truly got attached to my family and finally was accepted as a member of the community, he just came back and picked me up. Like I was some type of broken watch he left to be repaired." You shook your head and reveled in the burn of the rum as it slid down your throat and warmed your stomach. "And ever since then, he's just tormented me. Even when I got away from him, it's like he's always there just watching me - waiting for me to mess up. And you know, all the shit that I did to make him proud of me? Every late night reading libraries' worth of books just in case he quizzed me on it in the morning. Every lesson in combat styles, or how to sense others, whatever the hell that means. Most of the scars I have are from trying myself to him. But never once was I told 'Good job (Y/N)', or that he was proud of me. He never even smiled at me." You finished the shot and placed it down onto the table. "And you know what fucking sucks? After all this time, all the anguish he's put me through? All I want him to look at me and tell me that he loves me."

Zoro looked at his glass and his mouth tightened into a fine line. "I know the feeling." His eyes drifted back to yours. "To shitty parents?" He offered, raising his glass.

You chuckled and shook your head, but poured yourself a glass and raised it. "The shittiest."

A/N: Um, okay this was pretty heavy and it took me a while to write because I wanted to make it actually matter. I think there'll be a few more parts and then we'll be finished with the Baratie saga! Then, I might take a break and do maybe another series/one-shot while I properly plan the next part. We'll also be naming this series! The poll has concluded and within the next couple of days, we'll be figuring out the name! Comment down if you have any suggestions, or want to join the tag list! <3

P.S: When the Baratie saga is done, I'll release it all as one part so that it'll be easier to re-read. It'll be a bit of its own thing, so stay tuned haha.

#sanji x reader #opla sanji x reader #opla sanji x y/n #opla x reader #one piece live action #opla sanji #opla zoro #opla

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