You don't remember how you got here, and when your eyes finally blink open slowly, stung by the light, you notice that you're not floating. You're falling! You're falling from the sky, and beneath you, there's the vast open ocean.
The world goes white as you hit the water.
Where's up? Where's down? Where's home? So many questions, but you don't know how to answer them. What you do know, however, is that you can do nothing but rely on the help of those kind pirates who fished you out of the sea.
_____
~ 6.000 words I Part 1/? >> Next Part
You don’t remember falling asleep.
There’s a stillness at first… an odd… weightless calm. A strange kind of peace as wind brushes against your face like a whisper, cool and constant, tugging gently at your clothes.
You’re floating… or maybe flying… or maybe…
Your eyes blink open slowly, stung by the light.
The sky is wide and blue above you, impossibly endless, streaked with lazy clouds. You squint against the sun, trying to make sense of it, your thoughts sluggish and tangled.
Then it hits you.
You’re not floating… You’re falling!
Instantly, panic slams into your chest as your senses snap into focus. The wind isn’t gentle anymore, but roaring past your ears, pulling at your limbs like it wants to tear you apart and you flail, trying to twist your body, to see. To understand.
You look down.
A vast, glittering ocean stretches beneath you. Endless. Deep. Unforgiving.
Your breath catches in your throat and you open your mouth to scream, but the sound never comes. The sea rushes up to meet you like a fist. And then… Impact.
The world goes white as you hit the water.
A violent, crushing cold slams into your body. It wraps around you like chains, stealing the air from your lungs before you can even scream. But you try anyway.
A desperate, instinctive sound bubbles out of your throat, but all that rushes in is salt water. It burns going down, stinging your nose, your throat, your chest. Then, panic claws at your insides and you thrash, coughing and choking, your limbs flailing in every direction.
Where’s up?
Everything is spinning. The surface… where is the surface?
Your arms cut through the water blindly. Your legs kick, heavy and slow, your clothes dragging you down like anchors. Still, you fight them. You fight the pull even though your chest screams for air and your vision flickers at the edges.
Move. Just move. Don’t stop.
Then, suddenly, light. There’s a shimmer above and you push toward it, muscles burning, and just when your lungs are ready to give out you finally break the surface.
Immediately, air crashes into you like a second impact. You gasp, coughing violently, sucking in oxygen like it’s the only thing keeping your soul tethered to your body. You float there, just barely, limbs trembling, waves rocking you as you try to figure out what the hell just happened.
You suck in another deep breath, the air ragged in your throat, your chest still tight from the salt water you swallowed. But then something shifts.
A shadow falls over you, blotting out the sun.
You blink through the sting in your eyes, struggling to focus. The glint of sunlight off polished wood. The creak of rigging. A towering hull rising above you like a fortress.
A ship. No. A giant ship.
Your head tips back so far it nearly unhinges your neck. It towers over you like a floating fortress, casting a shadow across the water. The hull alone could be a cliffside, and above it, lined up along the railing, are people.
Dozens of them.
They stare down in eerie silence, frozen in mid-motion. Shirtless or half-dressed, all of them are sun-darkened and scarred from battle or sea. Some wear bandanas. One has a pipe in his mouth, forgotten. Another’s wide grin falters into a confused grimace like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
Which… to be fair, neither do you.
You notice how one man holds a half-eaten apple. Another grips a mop, water still dripping from it. And someone with a tattooed arm blinks slowly, brow furrowed. Then, somewhere behind them, someone mutters, “What the hell…”
The moment hangs. Breathless. Unreal.
The moment hangs… suspended and unreal.
Your heart is still hammering from the fall, from the shock of cold, from the sheer insanity of whatever just happened. You don’t even know what to say. So, you just float there, staring up at them like a shipwrecked ghost.
Then, finally, someone up top speaks. A deep voice. Calm. Curious. “…Well, that’s a first.”
Instantly, laughter breaks out, scattered and startled, like the world just unpaused.
But you’re not laughing with them.
Instead, you cough again, harder this time. Saltwater burns your throat, and your libs are beginning to shake from the cold. Then, you lift a trembling hand, barely above the surface, but enough to remind them that you’re still here. Still sinking.
And then… Silence.
The laughter cuts off like a knife and every muscle, every motion on that deck pivots at once. Their focus narrows.
“Rope! Now!” someone bellows and instantly boots thunder across the planks. Voices overlap, sharp, commanding, urgent but ever chaotic.
“She’s slipping under!” One who doesn’t dare to take his eyes off you yells to the others behind him.
“Tie it off at the post!” You hear another man demanding but don’t really understand what he means by that.
“Get it to her hands,” another yells. “Don’t miss!”
The shift is staggering. They truly move like a crew that’s done this a hundred times… different emergencies, same urgency. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
Then, a thick rope sails through the air in a perfect arc and lands with a splash in front of you only a moment later. The end bobs on the waves, close. Close enough to grab.
So, you lunge for it with what little strength you have left. Your fingers fumble the coarse fiber once and then twice before they catch. It’s rough, wet, and heavy in your grip. Your hands can barely close around it, muscles trembling from cold and exhaustion.
But you hold on.
And the second you do, the rope goes taunt with a holt that nearly rips it from your grip. You bite down a cry and cling harder, using your entire body to keep from slipping free.
“Got her!” You hear one of the many voices say.
“Pull!” Comes the command. “One three!”
“One!”
“Two!”
“Three!”
The rope goes taunt with a violent jerk. The ship looms closer with every pull, growing massive, real, and overwhelming. The wooden hull, dark and slick with seawater, rushes up toward you like it’s breathing.
You look up and notice how the figures become sharper now: faces set in grim focus, muscles straining, boots braces against the deck.
Your arms burn as they begin to pull you out of the water and up the wall of their gigantic ship. And this is when it happens… you’re halfway up when the rhythm falters and your grip buckles just slightly causing your body to drop a few inches with a jolt.
Someone screams, “She’s slipping!”
“Hold on!” another bellows.
“Don’t let go, girl!”
“I’m trying,” you gasp out, voice hoarse and thin, but it tears from your throat like a promise. Still, the rope sears your palms, and your shoulders scream with every inch, but you refuse to let go.
The moment wavers. A beat too long. Too quiet.
And then you hear them again. “Pull faster!”
“Get her over the railing!” another one commands. “Now!”
They move like a tide, like one force with many arms as the ship sways beneath them, but their footing holds. Rope certainly burns against calloused hands as they heave, yelling to each other, pushing harder and faster.
And then, finally, your fingers scrape wood.
Instantly, hands grab for you. Rough, strong, certain as they drag you the rest of the way up and over, your body half-limp as you’re hauled across the railing and slammed down onto solid deck with a wet thud.
Saltwater pools beneath you. Your lungs seize in a breathless cough. All around you: heavy boots, wide eyes, and panting chests.
You made it.
Barely.
But you made it.
Before you can catch a breath, however, shadows fall over you… dozens of them and those shadows have questions… equally as many. The questions come at you in a tangle of voices, some sharp, some concerned, all too fast to track.
Someone even crouches in front of you, waving a hand. “Is she breathing?” Before getting pulled back by someone else. “Get away from her. We don’t know where the hell she even comes from.”
“She fell out of the sky, right?” another one asks. “You guys saw that too, right?”
“Oi, look at me,” one of them approaches you again. “Are you okay?”
“Someone get her water!”
Smack, like the person who said that got hit on his head. “No, idiot, she just had water. She needs to breathe!”
They’re everywhere, hovering, pacing, shouting over one another. You can’t even tell who’s speaking anymore. You whip your head from one face to the next, blinking past the salt and panic, trying to find something to latch onto.
But every voice blurs into the next.
The whole time your heart is still racing, your body is soaked and shaking, and the deck feels like it’s slowly tilting beneath you. This is when you notice that your head spins.
But then, cutting through it all like a blade through cloth you hear a single voice. Calm. Deep. Steady. “Give her some space, yoi.”
And just like that, the noise falters. The men were still, parting like the sea. You don’t know who spoke, not yet, but every one of the men around you listens.
And suddenly, you can breathe again.
Then you hear it... boots thud softly against the deck in a measured and unhurried way. A figure steps into view as the others instinctively move aside, making space like this happens all the time, like they know better than to argue.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself to your level. Blond hair, tousled by the sea breeze, and a calm, steady gaze.
“You’re alright?” he asks, voice low, almost warm. “Can you stand, yoi?”
You blink at him, your body swaying slightly where you sit. You try. Really, you do. Your arms tremble as you push against the soaked wood. Legs unsteady beneath you, like they’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like.
You only manage to rise halfway, and then your knees buckle. However, before you can fall, hands catch you. Strong, sure, without hesitation.
“I’ve got you,” he says simply.
You don’t have the strength to argue. One arm slips around your waist with ease, his other hand steadying your shoulder as he helps you to your feet. The world tilts again, and you feel the heat of his body against yours, anchoring you against the spinning deck.
However, he doesn’t rush you. Just waits, holding you steady while the rest of the men watch in a rare moment of quiet.
“Better, yoi?” he asks.
You nod faintly, too exhausted to speak, but grateful for the calm within the storm. Unfortunately, you barely have time to settle into the quiet before the air shifts again, heaving now. Thicker.
A low rumble rolls across the deck, not from the sea, but from the ship itself. The wood creaks beneath massive, deliberate footsteps. The kind that silences conversations. The kind that demands attention without a single word.
The crew straightens, parting once more, but this time with a reverence that is much more than simple respect. And then you feel him before you even see him.
A towering shadow stretches across the deck, causing you to lift your head, slowly, hesitantly, and then you see him.
A giant of a man, broad as the mast, with a crescent mustache like the arc of the moon and the presence so vast it swallows the sky. His coat drapes from his shoulders like a cape, billowing behind him, and every step he takes feels like thunder rolling across the sea.
Your breath catches.
Your knees go weak.
And for a terrifying second, you think you might actually pass out because he’s looking straight at you.
And though his expression isn’t unkind, it’s simply too much. Too big, too real. Like staring at a legend dragged out of storybooks and given flesh and blood and impossible size.
Your body trembles and without thinking, your hands clutch at the man beside you, digging into the damp fabric of his purple shirt, desperate for something steady, something human.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrug you off, but his arm tightens slightly around you, holding you firm, grounding you as the giant approaches. He stops just a few feet away, his shadow spilling over you.
You can barely breathe.
He tilts his head down to look at you properly. Eyes sharp, but not cruel. Curious, maybe. Calculating. His voice, when it comes, is like distant thunder, deep, rolling, and heavy enough to settle in your bones.
“Well now,” he rumbles, the corners of his mouth lifting in something that might be a smile, though it feels like it could crush you. “You’ve had quite the fall, haven’t you?”
You flinch, unable to answer. Your lips part, but no sound comes. Your throat tightens as the weight of his gaze presses harder. Your fingers curl tighter into the shirt beneath your hands, nails digging in for anchor.
Your breath shutters. A trembling whimper catches in your throat, barely swallowed down.
The silence stretches and the giant studies you for a beat longer before his gaze shifts to the man you’re clinging to.
“Marco,” he says, voice quieter now, but still full of the steady authority. “Son, what’s going on here?”
The name echoes in your ears. Marco. The man you’re holding onto is called Marco.
He doesn’t move right away. Just exhales, like he expected the question, and nods once, his voice calm when he answers. “She has barely said anything so far, Oyaji. We know as much as you do. No ship in sight. She dropped right out of the damn sky.”
There’s a flicker of something in Marco’s voice. Not quiet concern, he’s too composed for that, but careful watchfulness. Like he’s trying to puzzle you out without scaring you off.
Whitebeard’s gaze returns to you. Those piercing eyes soften just slightly, not in weakness, but with the patience of a man who’s led armies and raised many sones. Then, unsuspectedly, he lowers himself to one knee with a creak of wood, his massive form folding down until his face is closer to yours.
“Can you speak, girl?” he asks, not unkindly. “Are you hurt? Do you remember what happened?”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Your throat tightens again, jaw trembling. The words are there, somewhere, buried under the weight of too many eyes and too much adrenaline. But your body won’t cooperate. All you can do is stare.
A muscle feathers in Marco’s jaw and he speaks again, low and even.
“I think she’s in shock, yoi,” he says, half to the giant man in front of him, half to the crew around him. “We pulled her out just a few minutes ago. Could barely hold onto the rope.” He glances down at you. “She’s still shaking.”
Whitebeard hums deep in his chest, thoughtful again. “Any idea where she came from? Skypia, maybe?”
“No,” Marco says with a quiet shake of his head. “No clues… it’s just her.”
Silence stretches again.
Then Whitebeard shifts slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “What should we call you, then?” he asks, his tone dripping toward something. “Got a name, haven’t you?”
You open your mouth again. The tremble in your hands spreads up your arms. Your lips part.
Still nothing.
Marco glances down at you, his voice quieter now. “If you can’t talk, that’s alright. We’re not gonna hurt y—”
You say your name. One word. Just one single word.
It’s barely more than a breath. Cracked and hoarse, like your vocal cords are waking up after being asleep for days. But it’s there. The word slips past your lips and into the silence like a stone breaking the surface of a still pond.
The reaction is instant.
The entire crew jolts like a wave hits them. Someone even whistles softly, while another mutters, “She spoke…”
Dozens of heads snap toward you. Eyes wide. Brows raised. Even Marco glances down at you, surprised, but faintly amused too, the corners of his mouth twitching like he hadn’t expected you to jump in just yet.
Then Whitebeard’s grin spreads beneath his mustache, slow and wide, but not unkind. There’s something startling warm in it despite the sheer size of him, the way his presence fills every inch of space like the tide rolling in.
Then, with a rumble in his chest and the creak of wood beneath him, he rises to his full height. It’s like a mountain standing up.
The deck seems smaller now. The air is heavier. You instinctively shrink a little, still half-curled against Marco’s side, heart hammering at your ribs. But Whitebeard doesn’t look angry. He looks… pleased.
He repeats your name as if tasting the shape of it. His voice is low and rich and deep enough to silence every whisper behind him. “That’s a good name.”
“I am Edward Newgate,” he says, his voice rolling like distant thunder. “But the world knows me as Whitebeard.” He flashes you a wide, toothy grin, imposing and warm all at once, a contradiction you feel in your bones.
“And now you’re standing on my ship, girl,” he continues, with something like pride in his voice. “So, that makes you my guest.”
A pause.
You try to take in the information. He’s the captain and he has a name. Moreover, you’re a guest on his ship… does that come with responsibilities? Are you supposed to do something? And for how long are you allowed to stay?
More importantly, how long do you need to stay before you can get home?
Home… The word hits like a stone dropping into still water. Where is home?
You reach for it, mentally, fumbling through the fog, but all you get is a dull throb behind your eyes. A sharp pulse that tightens your jaw. Then your breath catches. It’s like chasing the memory of a dream already slipping through your fingers.
You wince.
Suddenly, Marco’s voice breaks through the haze, calm but firm. “She’s not doing too well,” he says, the shift in his tone enough to command attention without raising his voice. “We should get her checked out.”
Whitebeard gives a small nod, expression softening. “Take her to the nurses,” he says. “Let them see to her.”
Marco moves immediately, steadying you with a hand at your back, the other light on your arm. His grip is warm as ever… grounding.
“Come on,” he murmurs, dipping his head a little to catch your eyes. “Let’s get you looked at, yoi.”
You nod, even if your legs feel like soaked rope beneath you. Even if your head is still spinning.
You walk or rather, Marco walks, and you stumble beside him like a half-drowned rag doll. Luckily he keeps a firm grip on you and adjusts his pace without saying anything.
The wooden planks creak underfoot as he guides you toward the stairs that lead below deck, each step a blur of movement and murmured voices behind you. All of this still doesn’t make sense to you but somehow, with Marco’s warm presence beside you and the sea breeze brushing against your soaked clothes, you know everything’ll be alright.
Then it hits.
A sudden, sharp stab behind your eyes, like a knife of white-hot pressure driving straight through your skull. You don’t even have time to process it before your body jerks, your breath catches and you cry out.
It’s short, raw, startled. You hadn’t meant to make a sound, but the pain rips it out of you anyway.
Marco stops instantly. “What – yoi?!”
You barely register the alarm in his voice. The world is tilting. Burring. Spinning. You hear footsteps rush in, voices rising again around you. It’s like someone cranked up the volume and then hit mute all at once.
For a moment the pain pulses, heavy and cold, and then a wave crashes inside your mind, and your knees fully give out.
However, you don’t hit the floor as you lose consciousness. You feel arms around you, Marco’s probably, and then… everything goes black.
__________________
POV: Fushichou Marco
You go limp in his arms so fast it takes Marco a second to register it.
One moment, you’re stumbling beside him, breathing hard but upright and the next, you’re just gone. Out cold. Heavy and unresponsive.
Of course, he catches you without thinking, one arm locked around your shoulders while the other finds its way around your waist to sturdy you, keeping you from crumbling to the deck. And for a while, he holds you there.
Still.
And for another moment, all he does is stare.
Your face is pale, and your breath is shallow. Whatever hit you, it wasn’t just exhaustion alone. He heard that sound you made. Sharp and pained, like something stabbed straight into your mind. And now you’re out cold in his arms, dead weight and completely defenseless.
Around him, his brothers are already buzzing again.
“Did you see that?!”
“Yes,” another male voice breathes an answer. “She just dropped.”
“Is she dead?” No, you’re not, and he could tell them that if he wasn’t so focused on making sure you're breathing isn’t something he’s making up.
“Is it a power? A curse? What if –“
Marco tries to tune them out. Their voices layer over each other, fast and agitates, overlapping questions and wild theories. He doesn’t try to answer any of them. He doesn’t even look up.
He just keeps holding you, his brows drawn, lips pressed into a tight line, and then…
“Enough.”
Whitebeard’s voice cuts through the noise like thunder and the deck falls silent in an instant. This is when Marco realizes that he is holding his breath.
He adjusts his hold, shifting you so he can lean down and scoop you fully into his arms. You’re light. Not feather-light, but easy enough for him to lift without effort. His grip is careful, supporting your head, keeping you steady as he turns and walks back to where Whitebeard waits, still towering and unreadable.
Marco looks up at him.
“You ever seen anything like this before, Pops?” he asks, quiet, serious. “She just… seized up, yoi. Like something hit her from the inside.”
Whitebeard doesn’t answer immediately. He hums, a low, thoughtful sound as he strokes his mustache. His gaze lingers on your unconscious face, and for a moment the entire crew watches him. Waiting. Hanging on the silence.
Then he exhales and shakes his head. “No.”
Just that. A single word, heavy with finality.
The disappointment ripples through the crew like a wave. A few sigh even and one guy actually groans. No one says it, but Marco knows what they’re all thinking: “If even Pops hasn’t seen it, what the hell are we dealing with?”
He doesn’t ask again.
He just nods once and turns to carry you below deck, your limp form cradled against him, still and silent. He’s determined to get you to one of the nurses. This is the least they can do to make sure you’re not hurt.
So, Marco carries you gently, his arms steady despite the tension still riding on his shoulder. He walks with purpose to the wooden door that leads below the deck.
There, the air is cooler and quieter, lit only by the low flicker of lanterns, swaying slightly with the ship. Here, where the chaos can’t reach, Marco finally exhales the breath he’d been holding.
His shoulders dropped just a fraction, but enough to show the tight coil in his chest had loosened. You’re still curled against him, limb and unresponsive, and that alone has his stomach in knots.
“Let’s get you checked out, yoi,” he murmurs more to himself than to you, voice soft but hoarse, the worry still lodged in his throat.
However, he only manages a few steps down the corridor before the creak of the door behind him draws his attention. Footsteps follow, unhurried but certain, and when Marco glances back he meets Thatch’s eyes.
His brother’s usual easygoing grin is gone, replaced by something much heavier.
“You alright carrying her by yourself?” Thatch asks after a beat, his voice low. “I can take her if your arm’s gettin’ tired.”
“I’ve got her,” Marco says, not even hesitating. “She’s light.”
Thatch’s gaze lingers on you. “She didn’t look light when she nearly hit the deck like that.”
Marco doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even have the time to come up with a suitable reply before his brother voices another question that’s been on his mind.
“You think the nurse can help her?” Thatch’s voice is quiet, careful, eyes drifting down to you. There’s no blood, no bruises, but you had nearly collapsed in front of everyone, and that image hasn’t left his mind yet.
Marco looks down at you too.
If it weren’t for the way your body leaned so heavily into him, the way your breathing shivered just slightly out of rhythm, you’d almost seem like you were just resting. Peaceful. But Marco knows better.
“It can’t hurt, yoi,” he answers.
Then Marco adjusts his grip on you slightly, cradling you closer as he starts walking again. His shoes thud softly against the wooden floor, the rhythm of footsteps now joined by Thatch’s beside him.
They don’t speak for another moment, just walk, the silence between them easy, familiar.
Then Thatch exhales a low breath, raking a hand through his pomaded hair. “I’ve never seen someone do what she did,” he mutters. “Scared the hell outta me.”
Marco nods once, eyes fixed ahead. “Me too, yoi.”
After a pause, Thatch tries again. “You think it’s exhaustion? Or—?”
“Hard to say,” Marco interrupts, jaw tight. “That’s why we’re going to the infirmary.”
Thatch holds his tongue for a moment, then nods. “Right.”
Thatch doesn’t push. He just walks beside him, matching Marco’s pace, his usual grin still nowhere in sight. And as they round the last corner, the scent of herbs and disinfectant wafting from the infirmary.
They push the door open and enter, causing one of the nurses to look up from her desk as the two men walk inside.
“Hi, can you help her?” Marco asks, voice low but steady, commanding even. “She just collapsed on deck.”
Instantly, the nurse rises, ushering them to come closer and put you on a bed close by. “Bring her in. Over here… put her down gently.”
Marco moves toward the indicated bed, adjusting his hold on you one last time before laying you down with a careful touch.
Meanwhile, Thatch hovers at the edge of the room, arms crossed, frowning. “Let us know what you find, alright?”
The nurse nods. “We’ll take care of her.”
At a moment Marco lingers near your side, gaze focused on you. He can’t help himself but feel responsible for you. Maybe it’s because of the way you clung to him or because he’s the first division commander.
Whatever it is… he pushes the feeling aside and turns to join Thatch by the door.
__________________
POV: You
You wake slowly, drifting up from the depths of sleep and the first thing you notice is that it’s dark. So dark, for a moment you think your eyes are still closed. But no, there’s a faint sliver of orange light cutting across the room, spilling through a small window.
The sun hasn’t risen yet, but it’s on its way.
You’re lying on your back, stiff, the blanket heavy across your legs. There’s a faint sound like a small beep, or just the distant creak of wood shifting as the ship rocks. All you do is take it in for a moment before you move.
You turn your head slowly, instantly noticing a thin tube running from your arm to a bag hung beside the bed, the clear liquid.
“That’s probably medicine,” you mutter, trying to make sense of the situation.
Then with a breath, you reach over and pinch the tubing above the needle, steadying your hand as you ease it from your skin. Thankfully it comes out clean, with only a sting left behind. So, you set the needle aside carefully.
Next, you sit up, the blanket slipping down your waist. A chill brushes your skin and you let your feet fall to the floor and pause. No dizziness. No nausea. Good enough.
You rise slowly, pushing the blanket the rest of the way off, and take a few careful steps in the quiet infirmary, looking around. The room you’re in is small, tucked somewhere deep inside the ship probably.
There are a few other beds neatly made, but they are untouched. It looks like you’re the only one here at the moment. It’s only you and the cabinets lined on one wall, and the faint scent of alcohol and herbs, hanging in the air.
“How long did I sleep?” you wonder, voicing your question out loud even though no one’s here to answer it.
“I should go and find someone,” you eventually decide and begin to move slowly, taking your first step.
The floor is cool beneath your feet and as you walk you glance down, causing you to only now notice the white gown you’re wearing. Thin cotton. Loose. It reaches your knees and does little to keep you warm.
No shoes, however, nor socks.
You look around one more, scanning for your clothes or at the very least slippers, but there’s nothing. Just folded linens on a shelf and a locked cabinet in the corner.
Great.
Still, standing here won’t get you anywhere. So, barefoot and unsure, you pad softly to the wooden door, pushing it open once you reach it. It creaks when you open it, the sound far too loud in the hush of the pre-dawn hour.
Beyond it, the corridor stretches out into dim flickering candlelight and shadows.
With each step wooden planks beneath your feet creak, accompanying the sound of the ship groaning now and then, a reminder that you’re still out at sea.
You walk straight ahead, arms crossed lightly over your chest, more for comfort than warmth, But then you reach an intersection and pause.
“Left or right?” you murmur to yourself, voice barely above a whisper.
After a moment’s hesitation, you turn right.
You walk… and walk… The passage twists and turns, splitting off again and again like the ship was designed to confuse anyone who didn’t know it by heart. You pass doors, which are closed, silent, and anonymous, but some are marked with faint names or symbols you don’t recognize.
However, the whole time you hear no voices or footsteps. Just your own breathing, your own light steps, and the occasional flicker of a candle mounted in iron brackets on the wall.
You walk for what feels like forever and you’re just about ready to give up and settle against a wall somewhere when something catches your attention.
Not a sound.
A smell.
The warm, rich scent of fresh coffee curls through the air, faint at first, then stronger with each step.
You follow it like a lifeline, barefoot and silent, until it leads you to a large set of double doors made out of sturdy wood with two round windows cut into them, fogged slightly with warmth from the other side.
Carefully you peer through the glass.
A massive hall stretches out beyond the doors with long tables, benches, and high ceilings. It’s obviously a dining hall. Quiet and empty. And to the side, another pair of double doors.
Just as you glance toward them, they suddenly burst open, pushed by a shoulder. A man steps through, balancing several trays in his hands, steam curling from the plates and mugs.
You watch him move with confidence in the way only someone who’s done this a thousand times can be. Broad shoulders. Thick brown hair carefully styled as pristine as his beard. He walks over to the buffet counter and begins setting things down.
And then… he turns and your eyes meet.
Instantly, panic grips you.
“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath, crouching down below the window. Your bare feet press against the cool floor, your heart hammering.
Are you even allowed to be here? Should you run? But where the hell would you go?
However, before you can decide, the door behind you creaks open, and the man you just saw steps through it, grinning down at you like finding people crouched outside of the galley is the most normal thing in the world.
“Well, look who woke up,” he says warmly, voice rich with amusement. “Feeling any better?”
You blink up at him, startled and awkward, before forcing a hesitant smile. “Y-yeah… Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Nonsense.” He waves a hand. “You’re not intruding. You’re probably hungry, hm?”
You open your mouth to say something else, but he’s already reaching down, offering a hand. Hesitantly, but not wanting to be rude, you take it, and he pulls you to your feet in one smooth motion.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll fix you something before the others get to the buffet first. I’m Thatch, by the way,” he adds with a grin over his shoulder. “And in case you haven’t noticed it by now, I’m the cook around here.”
And just like that, Thatch guides you through the open doors and the warm smell of breakfast hits you full-force once you’re inside. You smell eggs, butter, and something sweet baking somewhere in the back ovens.
He gestures for you to sit down at one of the long benches, and you do as he says. However, somehow the white gown you’re wearing feels even more out of place in a room that smells so much like a home.
“What do you like?” he asks, already halfway to the buffet.
You hesitate, fingers curling lightly on the edge of the table. The question is too normal. Too real. “I’m fine with anything.”
Thatch chuckles at your answer. “Alright, I see what I can do.”
You watch as he moves behind the counter, quick and precise, loading a plate like it’s second nature because it probably is to him. However, he doesn’t slap food on… he builds it. Neatly. Generously. Thoughtfully.
And moments later, he returns and places the full plate in front of you: fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, golden toast with a pat of butter already melting in the enter. Even a few slices of fresh orange and melon brighten the side.
And let’s not forget the steaming cup of coffee.
Thatch then sits across from you with a satisfied look, arms resting casually on the table.
You simply blink down at the food. “Thank you,” you say quietly.
“It’s nothing,” he smiles but doesn’t push you to eat, just waits patiently.
You reach for the toast first, tearing a small bite off and popping it into your mouth. It’s warm and buttery, and you close your eyes for a second, letting the taste settle. Your stomach turns a little, more out of nerves than hunger, but it stays down.
It’s good… really good.
The silence between you is comfortable. Thatch doesn’t ask you questions, doesn’t pressure you to talk. At this moment it’s just the two of you in a quiet space, eating breakfast.
So, you chew slowly and glance up at Thatch, who’s sipping his own coffee, which he got once he saw you’re pleased with what he brought you from the buffet. There’s an easy smile on his face and you’re truly grateful for his presence.
But when you’re only halfway through your toast, the peace suddenly shatters.
A bang as one of the outer doors slam open, then another, and suddenly the quiet dining hall is quickly flooded with noise.
A wave of men pour in, shouting and grumbling and laughing, their voices bouncing off the high wooden beams. Surprised you freeze mid-bite, blinking at the sudden crowd like a deer caught in headlights.
“I swear, if I don’t get food in the next minute I’ll eat my own damn boot,” one of the pirates grumbles before grabbing a plate and putting breakfast items on it.
“Thatch, you better not have made that weird eggplant thing again!” Another one laughs and claps the cook on his shoulder while passing by.
“God forbid I serve them vegetables…” mutters Thatch into his coffee before taking another sip.
As more and more men pour in, setting seats or straight up walking to the buffet to grab something to eat, it’s getting louder and louder and thus more chaotic. You try to ignore them as much as possible and focus on your own food, chewing on an orange slice.
But they're impossible to ignore…
“Move it, I want the bacon!”
“Oi, save some for the rest of us, glutton!”
They storm the buffet like pirates who haven’t seen food in a week. Plates clatter, utensils clash, and voices rise in a chaotic chorus of hunger and friendly insults. You can’t help but stare, wide-eyed as a fight nearly breaks out over beacon.
Across from you, Thatch sighs. A deep, soul-weary sigh.
You glance over at him.
He’s slouched in his seat now, elbows on the table, chin resting in one hand. He watches the scene unfold like a man who’s seen it a hundred times and has lost every single battle.
“They treat my food like it’s war rations,” he mutters. “Love? Care? My did I even bother?”
You blink at him.
Then blink at the scene of chaos unfolding just meters away, observing grown men shoveling eggs onto plates like they’re in a race to survive, bickering over toast and knocking over someone’s juice.
You glance back at Thatch. He’s still watching them with the same pained look of betrayal.
“They’re monsters,” he adds flatly.
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. However, as Thatch glances back at you, catching your expression there is no way you can hide what you’re thinking and he knows that.
“What?” he asks, deadpan. “You think I’m being dramatic, don’t you?”
You just shrug, taking another bite of fruit. “A little… maybe… but I still understand, I really do. I can’t imagine how much work preparing all of this must have been and it’s really good. Delicious.”
“Thank you.” He places a hand over his heart, showing you how much your words mean to him in such times of distress, completely ignoring the first part of your answer.
A moment passes before a loud burp echoes from the buffet, followed by someone yelling. “Thatch! The coffee’s cold!”
You don't remember how you got here, and when your eyes finally blink open slowly, stung by the light, you notice that you're not floating. You're falling! You're falling from the sky, and beneath you, there's the vast open ocean.
The world goes white as you hit the water.
Where's up? Where's down? Where's home? So many questions, but you don't know how to answer them. What you do know, however, is that you can do nothing but rely on the help of those kind pirates who fished you out of the sea.
_____
~ 8.000 words l Part 5/? << Previous Part
The next morning you head to the bathroom like any other morning to find it blessedly quiet when you push open the door, toothbrush already dangling from your mouth and hair sticking out in five directions.
Inside you’re not expecting much, but what you get is a half-dead Ace leaning over one of the many sinks staring at it like it’s the sole reason why he feels so shitty right now.
He’s shirtless, of course, why would Ace ever not be shirtless a towel is draped over his shoulders, still damp like he gave up halfway through drying off. Moreover, one hand is braced against the edge of the porcelain, knuckles white, while the other rubs sluggish circles at his temple.
You freeze in the doorway, toothbrush bobbing slightly in your mouth. “…Wow. You look like you lost a fight.”
Ace groans, not even bothering to look at you. “I did… against sake… and Pops… and you, probably.”
You step inside, smirking as you grab your toothbrush out of your mouth to speak more clearly. “So, basically everyone.”
“Don’t do this, please,” Ace suddenly mumbles, not even lifting his head. “It’s too early for berating.”
Shrugging you run your toothbrush under the tap. “I’m not trying to berate you, Ace. I’m just concerned... and maybe have a little second-hand embarrassment when I remember what happened yesterday.”
Ace finally lifts his head to glare at you through the mirror. It's not very threatening. His hair is a ruffled mess, flattened oddly on one side like he fell asleep on something that wasn’t his soft bed, and there’s a faint smudge of soy sauce near the corner of his mouth.
You raise your brows, meeting his gaze in the reflection as you begin brushing again, the minty foam building up fast. “Did you eat noodles in the middle of the night?”
Ace blinks, eyes narrowing in confusion as he wipes at his mouth with two fingers. He stares at the smudge like it might just tell him what happened last night when he clearly doesn’t remember.
“I think so…” he says slowly.
“Hmm,” you rinse, spitting into the sink next to him. “And let me guess, then you fell asleep on the floor of the kitchen?”
“Table,” he mutters, with the kind of conviction only someone half-sure can manage. “I think I made it to the table.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Well, that’s something.”
Suddenly, Ace groans louder this time and buries his face in his hands. “Why does my soul hurt?”
You reach out and give him a pat on the back—not hard, but firm enough to jostle him slightly. “That’s what you get for trying to drink Whitebeard under the table.”
“You dared me,” he accuses, voice muffled.
You roll your eyes. “I said one drink, not six.”
“I was bonding.”
“Sure.”
Ace snorts despite himself, shoulders shaking faintly. “I vaguely remember you cheering me on, you know.”
“I did cheer,” you agree remembering too how impressive it was that Ace was feeling well enough to go back to Whitebeard to have a second drink with him. “I also told you to stop after the third round, but you called me a coward.”
“That still sounds like me,” he says, finally lifting his head again. His smirk is weak, but it’s there.
You shake your head again and look at him a moment longer. His eyes are puffy, and there’s a faint scratch near his jaw, which you didn’t notice before. Ace might’ve slid off the table in his sleep...
Your expression softens. “But with all honesty… are you alright?”
He pauses, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Just… paying the price.”
You hesitate, then gently wrap your fingers around his forearm. He stiffens at the contact, just a flicker of surprise in his expression, but he doesn’t pull away. His skin is warm and almost feverish, but you chalk that up to the hangover.
“Come on,” you say softly. “You’ll feel better once you eat something.”
Ace doesn’t move at first, like his body is still debating whether it wants to function today. But then, with a quiet groan of effort, he lets you tug him gently toward the door.
Outside the corridor is still mercifully quiet as you make your way toward the galley. And halfway there, Ace leans heavily on your shoulder.
“You smell like mint,” he mutters.
“You smell like soy sauce and regret,” you shoot back.
Ace chuckles under his breath. “Don’t let me die at the table.”
“No promises,” you say, bumping his hip with yours as you push open the galley door.
Inside the galley, it’s already buzzing, though buzzing might be generous. It’s more like a low, hungover groaning with the occasional chair scraping. A few crewmates sit slumped over bowls of rice or bread crusts, avoiding eye contact with anything brighter than a lantern.
You lead Ace past all the tables toward the breakfast buffet, surprised to see that there is no line. “What do you want to eat? I can grab it for you.”
“Bread,” Ace mutters, holding onto you like the walk from the bathroom to the dining hall cost him almost all of his energy.
You blink. “Just bread?”
He nods solemnly if asking for more could cost him greatly. “And tea. Strong.”
You sigh, grab two plates, and start filling yours—eggs, toast, a mug of blessed coffee. Then, for him, just two lonely slices of bread and a dark, steaming mug of tea that smells potent enough to strip paint.
And when you turn around, you spot Thatch and Izou at a table not far from you with three open chairs. So, you steer Ace toward it, and he drops heavily into the seat like a dying man. Then you settle in beside him and place his plate in front of him.
Thatch is the first one to notice how you slide the plate with only two slices of bread toward Ace and how Ace peels the crust off of one of the slices and dunks it into his tea.
“Well,” Thatch says, not even trying to hide his amusement, “this is depressing.”
“I’m doing my best,” Ace mutters, taking a bite and making a face like his stomach is already fighting back.
“Your best used to be twelve eggs and a whole fish,” Thatch reminds him.
“That Ace is dead,” he says flatly, staring into the tea like it holds the meaning of life. “I’m what’s left.”
Before you can comment, however, there’s a sharp click of the tongue from across the table.
“Oh please, don’t act like you’re on your deathbed,” Izou drawls, leaning back slightly, staring at Ace with all the poise of a man who never suffers hangovers. His makeup is flawless, of course, and his robe isn’t even wrinkled. “You did this to yourself, Ace. Now, take it like a man.”
Ace grunts, dragging his plate protectively closer, as if Izou might confiscate that to prove his point.
A beat of silence follows like everyone is debating if it’s worth it to continue poking fun at Ace or if they should find another target. And this is when Thatch’s eyes meet yours. They linger for a moment and soon he begins to grin widely.
“Speaking of last night,” he begins, slow and dangerous.
You brace immediately. “Don’t.”
„We know you apparently don’t like the chairs we have on board very much. So, if you’re still not comfortable where you’re sitting,” he continues, “I’m sure Marco’s lap is still free.”
Your hand freezes halfway to your cup. “Excuse me? May I remind you that this was a dare?”
Izou doesn’t even look up from his tea. “Sure, but I distinctly remember saying two rounds. You stayed put for… what, half an hour?”
You nearly choke. “It wasn’t that long.”
Ace snorts into his tea, clearly regaining strength from your suffering. “Might have been even longer.”
“No, it wasn’t,” you slap your palm against your forehead. “I hate everyone here.”
Slowly you slide down in your chair inch by inch, contemplating the logistics of vanishing under the table entirely and not coming back up until everyone’s gone. You’re even halfway there when suddenly a shift in the air pulls you back.
A shadow passes over the group. Then Marco sets his coffee down at the head of the table, his expression unreadable… except for the slight twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Morning,” he says, calm as ever. His gaze flicks from Thatch to you, lingering. “Did I miss something, yoi?”
The look he gives you is all innocent curiosity. Polished. Polite. But the twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away—he knows what you all talked about just a few seconds ago. Of course, he knows. So, you decide to glance up, leveling him with a dry stare.
“Marco,” you say, slow and measured, “don’t even start, and please drink your coffee before I end you with this spoon.”
He lifts his mug in a mock toast. “So violent first thing in the morning. Are you always like this, or is it only when I’m involved, yoi?”
You narrow your eyes. “Only when I’m being publicly bullied.”
“Hmm,” he hums, taking a sip, eyes never leaving yours. “I don’t know what you’re hinting at.”
“Sure,” you reply flatly. “Let me remind you that you didn’t mention when the two rounds were over yesterday, either. All of this could be easily avoided.”
He tilts his head, all mock confusion and lazy charm. “Avoided? Why would I stop you when you looked so comfortable?”
You scoff. “Comfortable? I was squirming—”
“Please don’t remind me,” Marco cuts in quickly, suddenly very interested in his coffee as his gaze flicks away.
You blink.
Then you realize.
You go quiet. So does he.
Your face heats up instantly, and you turn your head in the opposite direction just as fast.
There’s a long, excruciating pause.
Thatch, unfortunately, chooses that exact moment to squint between the two of you. “Okay… what the hell are you two talking about?”
Marco simply sips his coffee like nothing happened, gaze fixed on some spot in the middle distance—too casual to be innocent. You, meanwhile, pretend your toast is more interesting than anything else you’ve ever seen, chewing it with much more care than necessary.
Across the table, Thatch is watching the two of you with narrowed eyes, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that just got significantly more interesting.
And then Ace saves you both by groaning beside you with all the drama of a man on his deathbed.
“Please,” he mutters, forehead thudding against the table, “please be quiet. I’m pretty sure I’m dying.”
You bite back a smile and scoot your chair a little closer. “You’re not dying,” you say gently, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “Just very, very hungover.”
He makes a pitiful sound.
“Poor baby,” Thatch sings, which earns him a lazy death glare from Ace, but that’s about all the energy he can spare.
You keep rubbing his back, light and rhythmic. “Want me to grab some painkillers from the nurses after breakfast?”
Ace lifts his head just enough to look at you. His hair is still a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes red-rimmed, but when he meets your gaze, something flickers in those dark eyes. Hope. Relief. A little shine of gratitude.
“You’re a saint,” he says, voice rough but sincere.
You laugh softly. “You’re dramatic.”
“Still a saint,” he insists, before his head drops back onto his folded arms. “Let me know if they offer anything that cures regret too.”
You glance around at the pile of toast crusts and the steaming mug of tea he’s barely touched.
“I’ll ask,” you say, smiling. “But I think you might be a lost cause.”
Ace groans again.
Eventually Ace lifts his head from the table with a sigh that sounds like it carries the weight of ten years’ regret. Then he pushes himself to his feet like gravity is suddenly ten times stronger.
“I’m going back to bed,” he croaks, rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand. “If anyone needs me, wait until I’m dead and then try again.”
You lean back in your seat, arms loosely crossed. “I’ll find you later with those painkillers, alright?”
He pauses in the doorway, blinking slowly back at you. “You’re an angel. Don’t let them corrupt you.”
“Too late,” Thatch mumbles through a mouthful of rice.
Ace waves a limp hand like a farewell salute, then stumbles off, dragging his feet like he’s marching to his own funeral.
You sip your coffee and wait a beat, letting the moment settle, before you glance around the table. “Okay… but where is his room?”
Marco raises a brow like he’s surprised you don’t know.
Even Izou blinks. “You don’t know?”
You frown. “No? Should I?”
Izou smirks into his cup. “Well, you’ve already been to my room. I figured you were catching on.”
Thatch leans in with a grin. “All the commanders have private quarters down the same hallway. Ace’s is a few doors down from Izou’s.”
You pause, processing. “Wait. You guys all live in a line?”
“Like a very dysfunctional dorm,” Marco says dryly, without looking up from his coffee.
Izou gestures gracefully with his cup. “Mine’s second from the end. Ace is three doors down on the same side then. Marco’s is at the far back. Biggest one, naturally.”
You blink. “Of course.”
Thatch wiggles his brows. “If you get lost, just follow the sound of snoring or something mumbling and winning. I’m sure you’ll find Ace eventually.”
„Alright,“ you say, rising to your feet and gathering your tray. “Thanks for the directions.”
As you start to turn, Marco’s voice follows, light and casual: “Yoi, just try not to end up in the wrong room. I think most of the other commanders are still sleeping and Vista for example doesn’t like getting woken up after he drank the night away.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder. “I think I got it, but yours is the last one, right? If I struggle to find Ace’s room I just see if you’re there and ask for help.”
“Sure, yoi,” Marco replies, hiding a soft smile behind his coffee mug from Izou and Thatch. “You do that.”
Now there is nothing else to say. So, you simply disappear through the doorway. However, unbeknownst to you, Marco’s gaze follows you until the door swings shut behind you. And then, for a long second, he just stares at the spot you vanished through, coffee halfway to his mouth.
Next, he exhales a short breath through his nose, head tilting slightly, and a crooked smile tugs at his lips.
_______________
You easily make your way toward the infirmary through the ship’s halls, which are surprisingly still quiet. It seems that it’s truly not only Ace, who’s still shaking off hangovers.
As you duck through the wide wooden doorway to the ship’s small medical wing, greeted by the faint scent of antiseptic and herbs, a nurse instantly glances up from a logbook and gives you a curious once-over. “Let me guess. Thatch overdid it again?”
“Close,” you say with a small smile. “Ace. He’s barely upright and looks like death.”
She rolls her eyes and reaches into a drawer, pulling out a small paper packet filled with a hangover mix. “Tell him he’s not special. Everyone looked like hell after drinking with Pops.”
“Pretty sure he still thinks he’s special.”
“Of course he does. They all do.” She hands over the packet. “Water, light food, and maybe keep him out of direct sunlight. He’ll be human again by dinner.”
“Thanks,” you say, pocketing it and heading out.
The nurse waves you off as you turn back toward the hallway, the packet tucked safely into your pocket.
Next, you make it to the commanders’ hallway without getting lost, and thanks to Izou’s directions you manage to find Ace’s door just fine. So, you knock gently on the wooden door, but there’s no response.
You knock again, firmer this time. “Ace? It’s me.”
There’s a beat of silence, but then a groggy voice from the other side finally answers: “… The door’s unlocked.”
You push it open slowly, stepping inside. The room is dim, only a sliver of light cutting through the curtains. The space smells faintly of sea salt, smoke, and something warm and sun-baked… something distinctly Ace. He’s flopped out on his mattress, one arm over his face, sheets tangled around his waist.
You approach quietly, setting the small packet on his bedside table. “I got your painkillers. Also, the nurse says to avoid sunlight and responsibility until further notice.”
Ace peeks out from under his arm, squinting at you like you’ve personally delivered salvation with those few words.
“You're the best,” he croaks.
“Now you’re just stroking my ego.” You sit on the edge of the bed and nudge his shoulder gently. “Do you think you can sit up for a second?”
He groans, but obeys slowly, with much dramatic effort, propping himself up against the headboard. You pass him the pills and a glass of water from the nightstand nearby. Ace only hesitates for a moment like he’s gathering enough energy, but then he takes both the pills and the water from you gently.
“Thanks for checking on me,” Ace mumbles before taking the pills and washing them down with a few gulps of water.
You glance at him, softer now. “Of course.”
Then there’s a long pause… peaceful, not awkward. He leans his head back and lets out a long breath before sliding down until his head meets his soft pillow. And you stay just a little longer, keeping him company in the hush of the room.
Eventually, you watch how Ace starts dozing off again, his breaths evening out, painkillers clearly doing their job.
For a moment you don’t move to leave just yet, watching Ace exhale one long, pitiful groan. However, he twists and turns even so slightly, causing the bedsheet to ride low on his hips, while his hair sticks out in every direction.
He looks miserable still.
So, you reach over and gently adjust the pillow beneath his head, then pull the corner of the sheet back up to cover him properly.
“You’re like a heat lamp with a pulse,” you murmur. “I hope you’re not running a fever…”
Ace grumbles something you don’t quite understand, but it earns him a small smile anyway as you settle back into the chair beside his bed, resting your chin in your hand, watching him with observant eyes.
You sit in the stillness for a while, listening to the low creak of the ship and the gentle rhythm of the sea beyond the hull. Ace has drifted off again, but his sleep is anything but peaceful.
He twitches now and then, eyebrows drawn, breath catching every so often like he’s stuck in some half-remembered nightmare. A crease forms between his brows, and his fingers curl slightly in the sheets like he's bracing for something.
You watch him for a moment, weighing your next move.
Then… quietly and carefully… You reach out.
Your fingers brush the edge of his messy black hair, and you smooth it back gently, letting your hand settle there. It’s soft and damp at the roots from sweat, warm with residual heat that never seems to leave his body. You slowly run your fingers through the strands, combing them back from his forehead with a tenderness you’re not sure he’s used to.
And, just like that, his breathing evens out and the tight lines on his face begin to ease. Moreover, his body slackens beneath the blanket, shoulders sinking into the mattress as the storm behind his closed eyes fades. You watch the change in real time, his whole self softening under your touch.
You keep going, slow and rhythmic, fingertips barely ghosting through his hair now.
“Good,” you whisper. “Just rest, Ace.”
There’s no answer—not even a twitch, but you feel something loosen in your chest when he doesn’t stir again. Just peaceful breathing and the quiet pulse of heat between your hand and his temple.
You stay like that longer than you meant to, watching over him, hand still carding gently through his hair. Then a soft knock taps against the wooden door and you glance up, startled but quiet, your hand instinctively stilling in Ace’s hair as the door slowly opens.
Marco steps in, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. His gaze sweeps over the room, settling first on Ace, then on you.
“How is he, yoi?” Marco asks softly, voice low so it won’t disturb the sleeping man.
You offer a small smile, brushing one last strand of hair off Ace’s forehead before letting your hand fall to your lap. “Sleeping. Finally. He wasn’t doing great at first.”
Marco nods once, eyes calm, unreadable as usual. “And you stayed?”
You glance at Ace’s sleeping form and then back at Marco. “I didn’t plan to. Just… couldn’t leave him like that, but I don’t want to hover.”
Then you take a breath and slowly rise from the chair, careful not to wake Ace in the process.
“But I should probably let him rest now,” you say while walking to exit the room through the doorway in which Marco still stands.
Thankfully Marco steps aside to give you space as you step out and once you’re in the corridor he closes the door quietly before he turns to face you. “I also meant to ask how you’re feeling, yoi?”
You blink at him, caught off guard. “Me?”
“You drank too. Quite a bit actually, if I remember right.” His tone is light, but his eyes are sharp, watchful in that way of his.
You shrug. “I’m fine. Just tired. Nothing a mop and some sea air won’t fix.”
Instantly, Marco raises one brow in that slow, amused way of his. “You’re going to mop the decks? Seriously?”
“Yup.” You flash him a grin right before putting both hands on your hips showing that you and your tired body are both ready for the task. “Some of us have chores.”
“You’re not wrong, but you need rest too, yoi.”
“I’m fine, really.”
Those words earn you a sideways look from him. “I’m not buying that. So, go and lie down - doctor’s orders … or I’ll carry you and tuck you in myself.”
You blink. „You wouldn’t“
For a moment you’re pretty sure that he wouldn’t, but the smirk tugging at his lips says otherwise. “Don’t test me.”
„No way you’re actually going to tuck me in when I refuse to take a nap,” you chuckle narrowing your eyes at that tall man in front of you.
He raises a brow. “Just refuse to rest and see for yourself… or you could just ask nicely, yoi.”
He’s not backing down and you don’t know what causes you to take this as some kind of twisted challenge. You give him another look, head tilted, lashes fluttering in mock innocence as a smile spreads on your lips.
“Alright,” you think to yourself, “Two people can play this game.”
“Marco,” you say sweetly, drawing out his name, “will you please tuck me in?”
There’s a pause. A beat of silence where you can see the exact moment he short-circuits. Then his lips part like he wasn’t expecting you to call his bluff, and then he huffs out a laugh —low and surprised.
“You’re trouble,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I asked nicely, didn’t I?” you say, elbowing him as you start walking again.
He falls into step beside you, that crooked grin still tugging at his mouth. “Tch. I liked you better when you were shy and timid.”
You shoot him a look, raising a brow. Marco grins wider clearly recovering, but still a little red in the ears. “Back when you used to trip over your words and barely could look me and anyone else in the eye.”
You snort. “Liar.“
The hallway stretches quietly as you both slow near the crew quarters. Your room isn’t far now, and you can already feel your body starting to give in to the promise of a mattress and a moment of peace.
And when you finally reach your room Marco walks a step behind you, gaze flickering between you and the door. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you reach for the handle.
Then you pause, turning back to him with a small grin. “I’ll be back in like… thirty minutes tops.”
Marco’s brow rises. “That’s not how naps work, yoi.”
You wave a hand at him dismissively. “It’s not a nap. It’s a short, completely unnecessary recharge.”
Marco leans against the doorframe like he’s heard plenty of excuses in his time. “Unnecessary, huh?”
“Yup.” You push open the door, stepping inside. “Just thirty minutes. Then I’m back to mopping the decks.”
Marco chuckles, low and warm. “Sure… We’ll see about that. Sleep well.“
You give him another lazy smile as you finally step inside, the door easing shut behind you. And for the first time that morning, you allow yourself to actually feel the exhaustion in your bones as you sink into your mattress.
You let yourself rest… just for thirty minutes… maybe forty, but definitely not longer than an hour.
Probably.
________________________
Slowly, you wake from what might’ve been the world’s greatest nap. You feel well-rested like you could conquer the damn world.
But when you blink open your eyes, a contest smile still tugging at your lips, you’re met with nothing but darkness and you frown.
“What the…?” you mumble, sitting up and rubbing sleep from your eyes. Your gaze sweeps around the small room and then it hits you. Slowly at first, then all at once.
“No, no, no, no…” You gasp, throwing the blanket off and scrambling to your feet.
You burst out of your room, rushing down the narrow hallways of the Moby Dick, bare feet thudding against the wooden floor as you make a beeline for the deck doors.
You shove them open, stepping into the crisp night air. A cool breeze brushes your face as your eyes adjust and then slowly you lift your head to stare up at the vast sky… at the endless blanket of stars glittering above you.
“Fuck,” you mutter, eyes darting from one shimmering star to the next. “I slept through the whole damn day.”
For a moment you just stand there, staring up at the sky like maybe if you wait long enough it’ll change. That it’ll suddenly shift to blue with lazy clouds drifting by, proving you wrong… proving that it’s not night yet.
But nothing happens.
Instead, a voice cuts through the quiet. “Slept well, yoi?”
You turn to find Marco leaning casually against the railing, moonlight catching in his hair, amusement gleaming in his eyes. There’s even a smirk tugging at his lips like he’s been waiting just for this moment.
You sigh and drag yourself over to him. A groan escapes you as you slump against the railing, eyes shut, unwilling to look at him just yet.
“Thirty minutes, you said?” he drawls, one brow lifted.
“Shut up,” you grumble, which only makes him laugh.
“You’re always this cranky after a nap or am I just lucky?” he teases, nudging your arm with his elbow.
You finally crack an eye open and glance sideways at him. “Why didn’t you wake me when I didn’t show up after thirty minutes?”
Marco shrugs, tilting his head back to admire the stars. “Why would I?”
“Because that’s what you do when someone clearly oversleeps,” you huff.
He chuckles again, infuriatingly calm. So, you punch his arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get your point across.
“Oi,” he says with a mock wince, rubbing the spot. “That’s how you thank someone for letting you sleep in when you clearly needed it?”
You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile already creeping up at the corner of your mouth. He meant well.
“Don’t try to act like you did me a favor,” you grumble regardless, arms crossing as you shoot him a side-eye. “What are you doing out here anyway?”
Marco leans back a little more, still staring up at the sky. You shift to mirror him, though your arms stay folded.
“I’m just looking at the stars,” he says simply.
“Seriously?” you glance at him, brows raised. “You’re just… looking at the stars?”
He smirks. “Surprised?”
You hesitate. “A little. I didn’t really peg you as someone who’d do that.”
Marco hums low in his throat, gaze still fixed above. “It’s not really about the stars, yoi. It’s about the quiet. Night’s the only time this ship shuts up for a bit.”
You nod slowly, eyes flicking skyward. The stars are brighter out here, no city lights to drown them out. Just the sea, the sky, and the soft creak of the ship.
“I see… do you even know any constellations?” you ask, turning your head slightly toward him.
Marco glances at you, brow arched. “Are you quizzing me now?”
“Maybe,” you say, a smile ghosting across your lips.
“I know a few,” he says, a quiet laugh escaping him at you challenge. “That one there…“ he lifts a hand, pointing toward a cluster of stars off to the right, “… that’s Orion. You can tell by the belt. Three stars in a row.”
You follow the direction of his finger, squinting a little until you see it. “Huh.”
“And over there,” Marco nods to the left, “that curve’s part of the Big Dipper. Looks like a ladle, kind of, yoi. Hard to miss once you’ve seen it.”
You glance sideways at him. “When’d you learn all of this?”
He shrugs. “When you’re on night watch enough times, you either start naming the stars or talking to yourself. At least this way I sound a little less crazy.”
You grin. “Debatable.”
He smirks back. “Alright then, smartass. Your turn, yoi. Impress me.”
You blink. “My turn?”
Marco gestures toward the sky with a raised brow. “Name one.”
You raise your hand confidently after some hesitation, scanning the sky until your eyes lock on the brightest star you can find.”
“That one,” you say, pointing. “That’s the polar star, right?”
There’s a beat of silence before Marco lets out a chuckle. You glance over, and before you can ask, he steps just a little closer.
“Not quiet,” he murmurs, reaching out and gently curling his fingers around your wrist. Your breath catches slightly as he adjusts your arm, angling it a few degrees to the left.
“There,” he says, voice softer now. “That’s the polar star.”
You follow his guidance and spot it. It’s smaller than the one you picked, but steady and unmoving.
“Oh,” you blink. “Why isn’t the brightest one?”
“It’s not about brightness,” Marco explains. “It’s about position. The polar star’s always fixed in the same spot right above the North. That’s what makes it useful.”
You lower your arm, eyes still on the sky. “I thought it’d be more… obvious.”
“Most important things usually aren’t,” he replies, just quiet enough that it feels like he might not have meant to say it aloud.
You glance at him, but he’s already looking back up again, relaxed and unreadable.
“Did you ever need to use it?” you ask, eyes returning back to the stars, but you’re not really focused on them anymore.
Marco turns his head slightly, and now you’re hyperaware of how close he is. The space between you is barely there, the air warmer where his hand brushes your arm, but neither of you steps back.
“In an emergency, I mean,” you add, voice a little softer now.
There’s a pause. For a moment, all you hear is the ship creaking gently in the night and the faint splash of waves against the ship.
“Yeah,” Marco says eventually. “A few times, yoi.”
You glance at him, and he doesn’t look at you right away. His gaze is still fixed on the sky – on the steady little star. Then he begins to elaborate.
“Storms, broken compasses, you name it…” he says, voice thoughtful. “Sometimes the polar star’s the only thing that tells you where you are or at least that you’re not lost.”
That last part feels heavier, like it came out without permission. So, you don’t say anything right away. You just look at him, watching the way the wind shifts his hair, the quiet crease between his brows.
Then softly you add, “But you always made it back.”
This causes him to finally turn to look at you, the corner of his mouth lifting just a bit. “Guess I did.”
You don’t know what possesses you, but your fingers carefully brush his – barely a touch, but it’s there. Testing. And more shockingly he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts ever so slightly closer.
It’s nothing dramatic. Just a quiet lean, like gravity’s tugging him in your direction. Like he’s trying not to spook the moment, not to draw attention to it, but the air between you hums all the same.
Suddenly, your breath catches as you look at him.
He’s really close now. Closer than he was a moment ago. The glow of the stars reflects in his eyes, soft and flickering, and you can see the way his gaze flickers from your eyes to your lips and back again.
You’re not saying anything and neither is he, but it feels like, if either of you so much as breathes wrong, this invisible thread between you might snap or tighten.
Your heart pounds in your ears, lips parted, breath shallow. The world has shrunk down to just you and Marco, and the silver of space between your mouths.
Moreover, the air feels impossibly charged, every second stretching out as his face hovers near yours. The space between you shrinks, his lips almost brushing yours, so close that the smallest movement could close the gap.
And then you feel it… He’s about to close the distance and you’re right there. You don’t pull away. You can’t for some reason, but then –
“Marco!” a voice shouts from above, sharp and clear. “There’s a ship on the horizon. Port side!”
Marco straightens almost instantly, the shift so smooth it’s like nothing has happened. Like you hadn’t just been a breath away from kissing him.
You blink, trying to catch up, your body still humming from the closeness.
Meanwhile, Marco glances up toward the crow’s nest, squinting into the dark. “You’re sure?” he calls out, his voice steady but slightly rougher than usual.
“Yeah,” the crewman shouts back. “I just saw its sails catch the moonlight. They’re moving fast.”
Marco nods, apparently not needing more information. Then he turns to you. “Go below deck, yoi,” he says, low and firm. “Back to your room. Lock the door and wait there.”
The words hit harder than they should. Not just because they cut the moment short, but because of the way he says them. There’s no teasing and no smile, just quiet, serious urgency.
You blink. “Is that really necessary?”
He looks at you and doesn’t speak right away, but the look in his eyes is enough and you know now that this is not a suggestion. It’s not up for debate. So, you finally nod, even if your stomach tightens.
“Okay.”
He gives a small nod in return, then turns away, already shouting orders as he moves toward the helm.
You, however, don’t look back. You simply start walking, bare feet hitting the wooden boards as the stillness of the night begins to fracture. Behind you, voices rise as crew members wake, boots hitting the deck, shouted names, hurried footsteps.
And then, finally, you shut the door behind you and turn the lock with a soft click. Next, you press your back against the wood, like you can hold the chaos out with your own body, but the walls feel thinner now, like it won’t protect you.
You hear more boots first, pounding above, quick and heavy. More and more of them, a storm building overhead. Shouts follow. Voices calling names, barking orders and then there’s the screech of something metal being dragged.
You’re not ready for what comes next.
The first clash of blades makes you jump. The sound is too loud and too close. A harsh scrape of steel against steel. Then another. And another. Fast. Brutal. Moreover, gunfire cracks through the air, causing you to gasp, stumbling back from the door.
You can hear them fighting. Not far away. Right above you.
Suddenly, something slams against the deck with a force that rattles the walls. Dust sifts down from the ceiling and you freeze, breath caught in your throat, staring upward like the boards might give way.
Your hands fly to your ears. You press hard, trying to shut it out, trying to will yourself somewhere else – anywhere else.
“This isn’t real,” you tell yourself. “This can’t be real.”
But it is and it’s happening right above you.
You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe, try to remember how. In. Out. In again. To distract yourself you picture home or at least try it. Your quiet living room, the soft couch, warm blanket, your favorite mug curled in your hands. You don’t care how much your head hurts from remembering, you try anyway.
But even those images slowly fade, like trying to hold onto a dream after you’re already waking up and your throat tightens. Your hands are shaking.
A gunshot cracks again, louder this time. You flinch violently, a whimper escaping before you can swallow it back.
You hate this.
Hate being down here.
Useless. Powerless. Alone.
You finally step away from the door and press your back against the nearest wall, knees folding beneath you as your arms wrap tightly around yourself like that might hold you together.
And this is when your racing mind involuntarily conjures images you don’t want to see… images of Ace, Izou, Thatch, and Marco fighting… of them getting hurt… and the possibility of them dying above while you hide down here sinks in.
So, you shut your eyes tighter.
You know they’re strong. They have to, right? But even strong people make mistakes or get overrun and eventually… die…
You bury your face in your knees as another loud shout echoes above—closer this time, maybe near the main mast. Then, something heavy hits the deck. A crash. More yelling. Then the ship tilts ever so slightly and you cling to the floor like it might keep you safe.
The sounds above stretch on forever… clashing steel, gunfire, shouts of pain and rage they all blend into something relentless. You’ve even stopped counting the minutes, but then – slowly – the noises above change.
It doesn’t stop all at once, but it winds down unevenly, like a storm moving on in pieces. The footsteps are slower now and the shouts fade into a murmur.
Then, finally – silence.
The fight is over. You know it. You feel it.
Still, you wait another moment, listening hard just in case, and then you push yourself to your feet, your legs unsteady beneath you. Next, your hand lingers on the lock. For a second, you hesitate.
Then you unlock the door and step into the hall.
The corridor is dim, swaying gently with the motions of the sea. It smells like smoke and metal, and something faintly acrid beneath it.
Your bare feet lead you to the doors to the deck. And when you finally push open the doors to the deck, the night air hits your face again, but this time it’s somehow sharper. But it’s the scene that greets you that stills you completely.
It looks like a war zone.
The wooden boards are scuffed and splinted, strained dark in places you don’t want to look at too closely. A pistol lies discarded near the mast, smoking faintly. Blood smears trail in long arcs where wounded were dragged or carried away.
But the crew is still standing.
Some lean on each other. Some sit slumped against barrels, nursing cuts or bruises. A few are laughing breathless and shaky but laughing.
Your eyes search frantically, however, your heart is climbing higher in your chest.
You spot Izou first, sitting on a coil of rope, his pristine kimono dirtied with soot and blood. He’s cleaning his pistol when he glances up, seeing you. He gives a tired smile and a reassuring nod.
You nod back and the corners of your mouth twitch upwards. You’re glad he’s okay.
Then you see Thatch by the railing, somehow still managing a crooked grin. He turns to you and flashes a wink, clearly doing fine too. “You missed the show!”
You shake your head, not believing how someone can crack jokes after a fight.
“Ace?” you eventually call out after not seeing him, not liking the unease that spreads through you with every lingering second.
“Here!” The reply is instant, followed by the sound of boots. He jogs over, streaked with ash and sweat, a cut on his cheeks and blood on his sleeve, but he’s alive. “You should have seen me fight!”
Ace’s grin is wild and exhausted as he stops in front of you and you can’t help but pull him into a tight hug. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Ace stiffs in your arms and before he can hug you back you let go and take a step back, looking around for the last person still missing. “Have you seen Marco?”
Ace blinks and then points over his shoulder. “He’s over there.”
Instantly, you follow the direction with your eyes and Ace’s is right. Your heart skips a beat as you spot him near the helm, quietly talking to someone, his back half-turned, but most importantly, he looks whole. No blood you can see, no limp.
But the moment he turns and his eyes meet yours, you feel like your heart stops. He looks you over, inspecting you with the same care you did to him. And only when he’s sure you’re fine does a lazy grin slowly spread on his lips.
You smile back.
No words are needed. Not now.
You finally exhale, tension bleeding from your shoulders as the adrenaline fades. Then you glance at Ace again and nudge him lightly with your elbow. “Alright, you said I should’ve seen you fight, so go on. Brag away.”
Ace grins, and just like that, the tired lines on his face seem a little less sharp. “We had ‘em cornered on the starboard side. A couple of them tried to double back, but I sent a wall of fire across the deck. Boom—scared the hell out of ‘em. One guy actually jumped into the ocean.”
Your eyes widen. “…Fire?”
Ace raises a brow, like he’s only just remembering that you’re not from around here and this might include you not knowing about devil fruits. “Oh. Right. Guess I never mentioned that part.”
You blink. “No. You didn’t mention setting people on fire, Ace.”
With a sheepish laugh, he lifts a hand and with the smallest flick of his fingers—fwsh—a flicker of flame dances across his knuckles. No flint, no matches. Just… fire, like it lives under his skin.
You stare. “How are you doing that?”
“Devil Fruit,” he says casually, like it’s no big deal. “Specifically the Mera Mera no Mi. It gave me the power to control and turn into fire.”
You look at him like he’s grown a second head. “You ate a fruit and now you’re made of fire?”
Ace snorts. “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“Because it is ridiculous!” You motion vaguely to the flame still curling around his fingers. “Is this normal? Is this… common?”
He finally lets the fire wink out, shouldering a crate that’s in the way to put it away as the two of you start walking again. “Devil Fruits are rare. Each one’s different like some give you power over elements, some turn you into animals, others are just… weird. But the tradeoff is the same: you lose the ability to swim.”
You frown. “Wait. You’re a pirate who can’t swim?”
“Yup, but don’t worry,” Ace flashes you a toothy grin. “That’s what the crew is for.”
You stare at him for another beat, trying to absorb it all. Talking about fire like it’s nothing. Magic fruit. Pirates who can’t swim.
“…I’m gonna need a drink after this.”
Ace laughs. “Yeah, you and me both.”
"Right," you breathe, watching the crew slowly begin to clean up the deck. You bend down to grab a fallen length of rope, shaking off bits of ash. “So, you scared them and one jumped into the ocean?”
Ace snorts, grabbing a busted crate and hoisting it effortlessly. “Yup. Poor guy didn’t even look. He just dove over the railing like his pants were on fire. Honestly, they might’ve been.”
You roll your eyes with a smirk.
“I’m just saying.” He grins, unrepentant. “Anyway, after that, the rest panicked. Some tried to climb the rigging, others ran below deck. They weren’t organized and honestly, I don’t think they knew who we are until we started fighting. Pff, morons.”
You snort. “That’s comforting.”
Ace shrugs, shifting the crate onto a more stable pile. “It’s happened before. Some of these small-fry crews are just trying to make a name for themselves. And sometimes they pick the wrong ship, and boom - suddenly they’re facing Whitebeard’s division commanders.”
You glance around at the crew. Even after a fight, there’s a quiet efficiency to their movements. No shouting. No panic. Just teamwork. As if they’ve done this a hundred times. Well, they probably have.
“I don’t get it,” you say, tossing a splintered plank overboard. “Wouldn’t Whitebeard’s flag be a deterrent?”
Ace grins, wiping sweat and soot from his brow. “You’d think. But pirates are greedy, not smart. They see a big target and assume it means big treasure or they don’t bother to look closely enough to recognize our flag.”
Before you can reply, a familiar voice calls out across the deck.
“Oi! You two done gossiping or what?” Marco’s voice cuts through the bustle, calm but unmistakably teasing. You glance up to see him standing near the opposite side of the deck, arms crossed, that ever-present smirk on his face. “Hurry it up, yoi. We're heading in.”
You open your mouth to reply but are cut off by a shout from behind Marco.
“We’re saving you a seat in the galley!” Thatch hollers, one hand cupped around his mouth, the other already waving a tankard.
Next to Thatch, Izou doesn’t even look your way, he’s casually examining his nails. “Five more minutes and I’m drinking your share of the rum, too,” he adds, voice smooth as silk.
Ace groans. “Okay, okay, we get it!”
You can’t help but grin, brushing ash from your hands. “Guess we'd better hurry.”
Ace claps a hand on your back as you both start toward the others. “Let’s go. Wouldn’t want to miss the dramatic retelling of how Thatch tripped on a mop and knocked out two guys again.”
“Again?” you ask with a laugh.
“Every time,” Ace confirms.
And with that, you follow him across the deck, the sounds of laughter and the warm glow of lamplight spilling from the galley drawing you in like a promise of peace, if only for tonight.
For a ASL + Thatch Fanfic I’m writing, have had Tumblr before but not for long so let’s see. Might post other artworks if I feel the vibe is right. ヾ(๑╹◡╹)ﾉ"
The fic is on AO3 under the same username pretty much.
"…Who is that," Curt muttered, the curtain rods creaking as he leaned forward, squinting through the window glass. "Tell me that is not who I think it is."
There was a lazy shuffle from the sun-warmed ledge, where Rod was curled. He cracked one eye open, lifted the curtain with two fingers, and blinked slowly.
"Who we peepin’?"
Curt’s arms folded tight. "That dude."
Rod didn’t even lift his head. "What dude."
"Him!" Curt flailed a hand toward the street. "Tall, dark, emotionally constipated. That one."
Rod tilted his head, squinted. "Man…Nah. Noooope."
Curt thumped the windowsill with his palm. "Ain’t no way. That ain’t him… Oh, hell no! Not the motorcycle. He still riding that loud-ass tin can like it don’t got three recalls and a damn parking ticket?"
Rod finally leaned in, catching sight of the figure. A wheezy laugh escaped as he shook his head. "And look! He still got them damn glasses!"
Curt frowned, leaning closer for confirmation. "Them glasses ain’t even prescription. Man out here choosing to see blurry. Blind to red flags, blind to closure, blind to everything but his own bullshit."
Rod kept watching, head tilted. "I still don’t get how he pulled them."
"I know, right?" Curt threw his hands up. "Our baby. Sweet, hot, emotionally competent baby. And him ?"
Rod snorted. "Still managed to score. Got more game than you, apparently."
Curt turned with mock offense. "Wow. So I’m catching strays now?"
Rod raised both brows. "If the shoe fits, Casanova."
Curt glared at him, then looked back out the window with narrowed eyes. "But come on. You think it’s the cheekbones?"
Rod huffed. "Fuck no."
“Yeah, me neither.” Curt’s grin spread slow, mischievous. He gave his turquoise drapes a flick. “Think if I whip these open fast enough, I could smack him with ’em? Like—shmack! Right across the nose?”
Rod grinned too—lazy, mean. "You try it, I’ll drop the curtain rod. Straight to the dome. He won’t even know what hit him. We’ll blame it on Hector. Say it was a gust of fall air, tragic freak accident."
Curt opened his mouth to reply—then yelped.
"OW—hey! Buddy, off!"
Curt glanced down, already wincing, just in time to catch the culprit red-pawed—Sprite. Mateo’s little wire-made cat was pawing mercilessly at the hem of his beloved drapes, one thread already snagged and dangling loose.
Rod barked out a laugh and bent down, scooping up the wiry little menace like it weighed nothing. Sprite’s legs wiggled in the air, metal paws still swiping at the fabric like it had unfinished business.
Holding the squirming cat midair, Rod called over his shoulder, “Hey, Mat! One of your little goblins is acting up again!”
In the living room, Mateo didn’t look up. He was still kneeling by the couch, a folded blanket resting across his arms.
"Sorry, guys! I’ll come get her in a bit. She’s just exploring."
Mateo stayed focused, quiet in that way he always was when he was being careful. He folded the softest blanket twice over, smoothing it across the couch, checking the corners and tugging it gently into place.
He didn’t say much, but it was obvious what he was doing. He was getting the space ready, just in case your ex ended up coming inside.
Because if that happened, if you were going to feel even a little shaken, or small, or cold, Mateo wanted comfort to be waiting for you.
So he placed the blanket exactly where he wanted you to sit, right between Dante and Hector.
Dante was busy flickering softly behind the grate, nudging at his logs with gentle warmth. Hector hummed low from the vent in the wall, sending out soft, warm air. Together, they made a quiet pocket of comfort at the edge of fall.
He wasn’t the only one moving around the house. It didn’t take long after that. With your hurried footsteps and rushed breathing echoing through the house, the others caught on quickly.
Needless to say, news of your ex’s impending arrival spread fast. And they were worried.
You hadn’t told them everything. You didn’t need to. They saw it in the way your voice dipped when you said his name, in the way your shoulders flinched at sudden footsteps, in the tension that never really left your body.
Of course they noticed! They were made for you, after all.
That was the thing about being objects, they weren’t just things. They were yours. Your comfort, your routines, your love made real in whatever shape they could take.
Strange, not-quite-human companions tucked into the bones of your home. They’d long since adapted to their in-between state; Half here, half not, bound to objects. Not human, no. But still able to do things for you.
They could still offer what they were made for.
Mateo’s blanket is never far, always finding its way over your knees the moment the room begins to chill.
Daisuke’s cup seems to know when you're reaching for it, the handle quietly turning to meet your hand, like it’s been waiting all morning.
Timothy’s alarm softens on the mornings after a hard night, letting you wake slow and safe instead of startled.
Dorian opens a little wider when you come home late. He once told you that he can’t sleep until you’re inside.
Cabrizzio never lets you eat alone if he can help it. Even leftovers end up plated like fine dining.
Skips draws shadows across your room when it’s time for bed, like hands pulling sleep around your shoulders.
Volt and Eddie give the faintest zaps to your fingers when you get too close to the fuse box. Just enough to make you stop and think twice before you hurt yourself.
Cam rarely moves through the house, but he always manages to tidy up after you. Wrappers, receipts, stray socks, all scooped away before you even notice they’re gone.
Hector leaves notes near every vent, tiny curls of paper with scrawled affirmations or half-written love stories just for you.
They all move with the house’s old bones, like ghosts with warm hands.
They’d been shaped by you. By your routines, your comfort, your heart. Everything you needed, they became. And right now, what you needed was someone watching your back.
They couldn’t touch your ex. Couldn’t throw him out or bar the door, (though Dorian would’ve loved to try), but they were there.
You open the door slower than you mean to.
That early morning hush hangs thick in the air, the sky behind is still washed in that gray-blue blur just before the day begins. It’s the kind of hour where everything feels half-formed.
And Iseul is standing exactly where you hoped he wouldn’t be.
You look up, and for a breathless second, the sight of his face catches you off guard.
He’s too tall for your porch. Too sharply dressed for the quiet of your street. Too much, always too much.
And for a moment, all you can do is stare.
God—He’s still beautiful. Devastatingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw cut from diamond.
He hasn’t changed much. Or maybe that’s the problem. That same impossible elegance, untouched by time, untouched by your heartbreak.
Iseul smiles. Like your stunned silence is something he’d been waiting to hear.
"Oh," he says softly, like your appearance surprises him, even though it obviously doesn’t. "There you are. Finally, I was beginning to think I hallucinated the whole agreement."
You blink, voice dry in your throat. "You’re the one who scheduled this. For seven."
He grimaces in mock offense, placing a hand lightly over his chest like you’ve said something terribly cruel. "And already, I’m being punished. Deservedly, of course. Don’t worry. I’m not here to fight." A beat. "Well. Not with you, anyway."
You don’t respond to his joke. Just shift slightly, the weight of the box in your arms suddenly awkward.
He watches you, eyes dragging slowly across your face, over your hair, your clothes, your bare feet in the doorway. There’s nothing lewd in it, not exactly, but the weight of it lingers.
Then he exhales, soft and low. "You didn’t even get a chance to wake up properly. God, look at me, barging in like this. I’m such an ass."
You shake your head before you even mean to. "No, it’s… really, it’s fine."
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his weight, adjusts the set of his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, even though his presence is anything but.
‘"I didn’t sleep either," he says, almost thoughtful. "Kept thinking about how I left things. How I left you. Which…" He trails off, glancing down at the wood beneath his feet. A bitter little laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Not exactly my proudest exit."
You press your lips together, not trusting your voice. Because he’s right, and you hate how your chest tightens in response. How the ache of it feels familiar.
He looks back up, and his expression is so gentle it’s almost cruel. "I’ll be quick. You don’t even have to let me in. I just…" He hesitates. "God… Baby, I wanted to see you. That’s selfish. I know."
He reaches for the box, hands brushing against yours as he takes it from you. His fingers are ice-cold, visibly raw at the knuckles, skin flushed deep red from the cold and chapped enough to crack.
His hands, gloveless, tremble just faintly as he shifts the box under his arm. He says nothing about it. But he watches your face as you notice, his eyes catching the flicker of concern that passes through you like wind through a curtain.
A part of you wonders, not for the first time, if he did it on purpose.
That’s all he needs.
"…Unless you’d rather I wait out here," he says, adjusting the box slightly. Iseul makes sure to exaggerate the shaking of his hands. "I’d understand. Honestly. I mean—Look at me. Such a fucking mess."
He smiles, and it’s perfect. Crooked and bashful. His box of things is tucked neatly beneath one arm, but he makes no move to leave.
From the edge of your vision, you catch the faintest movement. Dorian’s hand settles slowly on the back of the door, his brows drawn in tight concern. Everything in him pleads for you not to let your ex in.
But then your gaze falls again to Iseul’s hands.
Skin too pale in the joints where circulation’s gone slack. He hadn’t even worn gloves. The sight of it hits you in the gut. That familiar, terrible pang, sharp and hot and blooming just beneath your ribs.
You know it’s a trap. You know how this goes. But guilt is already slipping past your guard, whispering that you can’t just leave him like this, not in the cold.
"…Okay," you murmur. "I’ll make you some coffee. But then…" your voice falters. "Then you have to go."
For a split second, Iseul’s mask slips. You catch the flicker of something triumphant just beneath the surface, just behind his eyes.
Then his smile spreads, slow and easy, all teeth and charm like a wolf who knows exactly where your throat is.
"Of course," he says brightly, as though your offer were the most natural thing in the world. "Lead the way."
You step back, and he follows, footsteps soundless. The second Iseul crosses the threshold, the front door slams shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack that rings through the house like a warning.
You flinch, the sound jolting straight through your spine, but you don’t turn around. You can feel the heat of Dorian’s anger behind you.
Iseul glances over his shoulder at the door, his expression soft with confusion that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, lips curving into something light, almost amused, as if none of it touches him at all.
"Huh," he says, the laugh he lets out thin and breathy. "Strong winds around here, I guess."
"Yeah," you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you turn on your heel and head for the kitchen. "I’ll, um—I’ll make you something to drink. You can warm up by Dan —by the fireplace!"
You nearly fumble, the syllables wobbling on your tongue before you smother them in motion, moving too fast and speaking too brightly. "Won’t be long!"
As your footsteps vanish down the hall, Iseul lets the act go.
The pleasant curve of his mouth disappears like mist in the cold. His shoulders settle, not from exhaustion, but from relief.
That mask, the careful arrangement of charm and softness, the version of himself that you could still stomach, takes effort to maintain. Even now, after all the wreckage he left in his wake, you still need him to be palatable.
He exhales through his nose and drops the box of old things to the floor with a dull thud, not sparing it a glance. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and feline. He doesn’t expect to find much. You were never good at hiding the things that mattered.
His gaze lands on the blanket that Mateo draped across the back of the couch, something heavy and hand-knit, worn soft with use. He steps closer and lets his fingers trail across the weave, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth.
The fabric is wrong. The texture, the color, the way it slumps, this wasn’t chosen with him in mind.
From the far end of the room, just past the curve of the armchair, Mateo stands still as stone, cradling Davi against his chest.
You told Mateo once, in the lull between conversations, when you still couldn’t quite meet your own eyes in the mirror, that Iseul had hated soft things. Fuzzy blankets, plush rugs, anything that looked too lived-in or too comforting. He said they made your apartment feel cheap. You’d stopped buying soft things after that. Stopped keeping anything cozy within reach. Curated your home to keep him calm, polished it smooth so nothing could catch and spark.
That blanket, the one in Iseul’s hands now, doesn’t belong to that past. You bought it the week after the breakup. You wrapped yourself in it that first night alone and wept into its threads until the shape of you pressed into the fibers.
And that’s why Mateo loves it. Because it loves you back.
Davi shifts faintly in his arms as if the little creature can already sense the air turning heavier. Mateo sighs and soothes a hand along the top of his head.
"Stay calm, cariño," he whispers, voice warm with love and low with knowing. "Don’t worry. They’ve been through worse than this… and they’re not alone anymore."
Iseul continues to drift through the space, his gaze sweeping lazily over the familiar angles of the room. When he reaches the coffee table, he pauses.
A tea set rests there, simple and carefully arranged. Two handmade teacups sit side by side, slightly uneven, imperfect in shape. They’re not expensive, not delicate bone china, but they carry a quiet kind of care.
He lifts one cup between his fingers, turning it toward the light. The surface is smooth with no cracks and no chips. It’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. And maybe that’s why it irritates him.
His grip tightens, just slightly.
CRACK.
A hairline fracture splits along the handle. A satisfied smile creeps on his lips and he sets it back down too gently, like nothing happened.
From across the room, Daisuke flinches. His hand lifts to his upper arm, where a thin line now splits the surface of his form. He draws in a sharp breath but doesn’t cry out. Instead, his eyes snap to Iseul, dark with something quieter than fury. It isn’t the pain that gets to him. It’s the intent.
The cups hadn’t been expensive. They weren’t part of some matching set. Just a pair of handmade pieces from a pottery class you took during one of the rougher months. One handle sat crooked, the glaze had pooled too thick at the base. But Daisuke had loved it from the moment you handed it to him.
On the mantle, Dante watches closely as Daisuke retreats into the kitchen, his posture rigid, every movement clipped with restrained anger. The faint clink of a glass being set down echoes from beyond the doorway.
Iseul shifts a step closer to the fire and Dante’s eyes narrow. A low, warning scoff crackles in his chest, the sound dry and sharp as ember-crushed charcoal. No warmth rises to meet the man. The flames in the hearth flicker once, then shrink, curling in on themselves.
Iseul pauses in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow as he watches the way the flames flicker and pull away from him, guttering low. For a moment, one flame flares sharp and fast. It looked almost like a face, twisted and bared.
Dante feels the heat surge, that old instinct to lunge, to reach out and scorch the skin clean off the man who once hollowed you out. But he pulls it back, swallows it down, chains it to the pit of his fire.
The flames gutter. Iseul blinks, and the snarling flare is gone.
"Right," he mutters to no one. "Losing it already."
He assumes the fireplace simply hasn’t been stocked and turns to look for a heater, anything that might explain the biting chill still hanging in the air. His gaze catches on a vent tucked high near the ceiling, and just below it, three sticky notes cling to the wall. The edges are curled, the paper yellowing slightly, as if they’ve been left there long enough to become part of the room.
Without thinking, he reaches out and peels one free. The handwriting is careful, pressed deep into the paper like the words had weight.
"If I am to haunt this world, let it be only in your shadow. Let me linger on your skin, let me rot behind your walls so long as I am near you still."
—H.
Iseul’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t mean to pick up the next one, but his fingers move before the thought can catch up.
"I loved you before I had the words for it. I will love you long after language or the air I give you to breathe fails me."
—H.
His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
Of course. You already had someone else.
You always were starved for affection. The kind of person who’d fall in love with anything that looked at you too long. A sad little sponge, he thinks, soaking up the first drop of attention like it was holy.
Another note waits beneath the vent, edges folded inward, like it wanted to stay hidden. He unfolds it anyway.
"You are my first thought. The one I bleed into morning, still tasting you on the cusp of sleep. And my final sin at night, when the vents groan and the air turns too still with the silence thick with the ghost of your warmth. I ache where you once pressed your name into me. A lie I forgive with trembling hands, because I cannot bear the truth of a house where even the air refuses to forget you."
—H.
This one, Iseul crumples.
Behind him, unseen, Héctor grips the edge of the vent with both hands. His knuckles bleach bone-white from fury held tight beneath his skin. The metal groans in protest like it might tear away from Wallace just to mirror the rage building in him.
Frost begins to spread across the grille in delicate, violent veins, blooming outward like rot in reverse. A sudden current tears through the room and hits Iseul square in the back.
The man shudders at the sudden drop in temperature but doesn’t turn around. Instead, his eyes fall to the space beside the armrest of the couch. An open book lies face down, its spine creased with use.
A romance novel. Its title in Italian, the cover soft and worn at the edges. He picks it up slowly, brows drawing together in mild confusion. You never liked this genre.
But as he flips through the pages, he finds margin notes scribbled in looping cursive. Passages are underlined. Tiny hearts, faintly highlighted, bloom in the corners of certain lines. The handwriting isn’t yours. The language isn’t one you speak.
His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "Some European lover boy, huh?"
He lingers on the page, thumb digging into the spine. “You always did bend yourself into whatever shape someone else found beautiful. Guess it only took the loudest voice to drown out the rest of you.”
Before he can read any further, a cabinet door slams somewhere in the kitchen. Iseul lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he sees you shuffle past the doorway, heading toward the sound. You disappear from view, but your voice carries low. It sounds like you're comforting someone.
Interesting.
With a hum, he slides the book back into place, just slightly off-center from the pillow beside it. Then he straightens his coat, adjusts the lay of his collar, and exhales through his nose.
So your new boyfriend is hiding in the kitchen.
Noted.
He’ll be sure to pay a visit later.
Cabrizzio was still buzzing, tight and coiled like a kettle seconds from screaming. His hip slammed against the counter as he helped Daisuke ease into the chair.
“Che bastardo,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Breaks you like you’re nothing.”
Cam rolled in from the sink, arms folded like steel. “Please. You know him. Give that guy anything good, and he ruins it—just to see what crawls out of the wreckage.”
Daisuke said nothing at first. He sat motionless, the fine crack down his arm gleaming like a scar etched in porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm as ever yet edged.
“He has not changed. Still rot beneath a fresh coat of paint. Still, I am… displeased he laid a hand on me.”
“Displeased?” Cam’s brow shot up. “Displeased is what you say when someone scuffs your finish. This?” He scoffed. “If I had fists, I’d be swinging.”
Cabrizzio circled behind Daisuke, movements gentler now. “Coward with a poet’s mouth and a spine made of string. Twists words into honey, then watches you choke on it. That’s why they stayed. That’s why they still tremble.”
The soft scuff of feet drew their attention. You stood at the threshold, teetering. Red-eyed, hollowed, holding yourself like something fragile. And tucked just behind you, Tony, carrying a repair kit in one hand, a bottle of ceramic-safe glue in the other.
"Don’ you worry, baby," Tony said, one gloved hand running firm and slow down your back. "I’m gonna get him fixed up real nice. Betta than new, eh? You’ll see. Like he never even chipped."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just that look. That quiet guilt spilling out of your posture, pooling in the space between you and Daisuke.
Cam clocked it instantly and made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. If you apologize for that shitstain’s tantrum, I swear."
"I should’ve—" you tried, voice cracking.
"No."
Daisuke’s tone was soft but absolute. "You should not have had to."
Tony pressed a kiss to your head as he passed, then knelt beside Daisuke with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. He set the repair kit down and began sorting through his tools.
" Hey. This ain’t on you, alright ? You didn’t break nothin’. You just—" he gave a sharp sniff, working the cap off the glue, "—got stuck cleanin’ up after a stronzo who ain’t got the balls to own what he ruins."
Daisuke inclined his chipped side slightly toward you. "I am fine. Please. Let us not make too much of a fuss about this. You are already shaken as it is. There is no need to add to the pile."
You opened your mouth to protest, but Cabrizzio was already stepping in, holding a tray in both hands. His eyes found yours gently, earnest and sure.
"Here," he said. "Vai, amore. You have what it takes to get him out of here. Of this, we are certain."
"The blue mug, it is yours," he continued, gesturing lightly. "The other…" He gave a little, almost theatrical shrug. "That one is for him . It’s one of Kopi’s—how you say—special blends. Very strong. Very… unique."
You arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder to see Kopi stifling a laugh, steam coiling up around her like a mischievous spirit.
"What?" she said, grinning. "You think I wouldn’t doctor the brew? Please. That man needs something stronger than coffee."
Cam muttered from the corner, dry as ever. "And maybe a boot to the head."
Tony, still crouched by Daisuke’s side, didn’t look up. "Save the boot. I need both hands for the glue."
The tension, brittle just moments ago, had begun to thaw. Cabrizzio shifted closer and gently set the tray into your hands. His voice dropped, sincere beneath all its velvet.
"Va bene," he said. "We hold the line here. But you… you go face your ghost, tesoro."
By the time you return, the tray balanced carefully in your hands and the mugs of coffee cradled in both palms, your expression is already betraying you. There’s guilt in your eyes poorly hidden beneath the thin mask of a smile.
"Sorry," you say, voice too light, too rushed, as you set the mugs down on the coffee table. "The coffee machine was acting up. Took forever to heat."
Iseul nods, faintly, but his attention isn’t on your words. He’s watching you. The twitch in your fingers. The way your shoulders won’t quite relax. The way you avoid his eyes.
He hums like he’s listening, but he’s not.
His gaze drifts, catches on the mark just beneath your jaw. A bruise, dark and fresh, blooming where someone else had their mouth on you. It lingers there a moment, unreadable, but too still to be nothing.
Last night. Maybe this morning. Someone else got close. Close enough to touch, to make you laugh. The way you used to laugh for him.
Then his eyes land on the jacket draped around your shoulders. Oversized, deep green, a bold stitched H on the chest.
His jaw shifts.
In his pocket, his fingers close around the crumpled love note he swiped earlier. He doesn’t need to unfold it—he remembers the signature.
H.
His eyes narrow. He feels it now, that familiar heat building in the back of his throat. A greedy kind of ache. The sick, sour taste of something being taken from him.
"Iseul…?"
He blinks slowly, shoulders rolling back as he forces out a breath and smooths over his reaction with something charming, almost bashful.
"Trouble with the machine, huh?" he says, eyes still locked on the bruise like it’s the only thing in the room. "That happens. You always did have a complicated relationship with appliances."
You can’t see many of them right now — the dateables. Not fully. Some seem to be giving you space, hiding just outside your field of vision, not wanting to crowd you. But their presence is still here.
You laugh, awkward and light, trying to fill the space. "Yeah… never really did get along with them."
You hear the soft rustle of a curtain shifting in offense, the faint clink of a teacup being set a little too hard on wood. You catch low murmurs, indistinct but annoyed, a collective grumble of affectionate protest.
You bite back a smile. They heard that. They didn’t like your little self-drag. And as always, they’ve got your back.
After handing Iseul his mug, you sink into the spot Mateo so clearly prepared for you, the cushion still warm, the blanket tucked and draped just right, soft as breath against your skin.
Kopi’s coffee steams gently in your hands. You take a slow sip and exhale through your nose. It’s perfect, of course. She always knows exactly how you take it.
Isuel takes a sip of his own drink, eyes still fastened to your throat like he’s trying to memorize the bruised skin. His expression twitches, the blend clearly not to his taste. The bitterness punches through first, and his lips pull into a faint grimace.
You giggle at the look on his face, and almost on cue, the room begins to warm.
A quiet hum stirs from above, followed by the low, comforting sigh of heat drifting from the vents — Héctor. At the same time, the fireplace flickers to life, a lazy, gentle flame rising without fanfare. Dante, as always, never needing to be asked.
Only then do you realize how cold the room had been when you first came in.
You glance toward the hearth, searching for answers, but Dante pointedly avoids your gaze. You hide a small smile behind your mug.
Yeah. They don’t like him. Not one bit.
It’s been thirty whole damn minutes.
You’re tense, shoulders tight, knees drawn close, as you watch Iseul take his goddamn time with the coffee. He swirls it like a food critic, savoring it as if it’s aged wine and not a rushed brew from a coffee machine.
He glances over the rim of his mug at you.
"So," he starts, voice low and falsely casual, like this is just any other day. "Still living on your own?"
He takes another sip before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. Shifts on the couch. Something about it clearly doesn’t sit right with him. After a beat, he stands.
A slow step forward.
“You always said you liked the quiet,” he murmurs.
You don’t answer. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your grip on your mug tightens.
He steps even closer, and the heat of him creeps into your space. "But too much quiet? That starts to feel lonely."
Your body pulls back before you even realize it. Your spine presses deeper into the couch, legs curling tighter, breath caught in your throat. The moment’s too close, too familiar. His words feel like fingers trying to pick a lock in your chest. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wishing you could disappear into the fabric.
Then the window slams open.
BANG.
A gust of wind bursts through the room like a thrown punch. Curt’s turquoise curtains fly up, sharp and sudden, catching the draft like sails in a storm. They whip straight into Iseul’s face with the kind of precision that feels personal.
"Ow—what the hell?" He stumbles back, arm flailing, mug sloshing dangerously. The curtains wrap and slap around his head like they’ve got a score to settle.
You jolt upright, clutching your own mug as you watch the scene unfold. Just as Iseul manages to peel one curtain away, the rod above gives up entirely. It tears loose from the wall and crashes down with a sharp, metallic thunk.
Right on his head.
He yelps again, the sound half-muffled by fabric, as the rod bounces off his shoulder and clatters to the floor.
Silence follows.
You glance over at Curt and Rod. Rod was still sprawled out on the floor, and Curt was still draped over Iseul, both of them laughing like idiots. Clearly proud of what they just caused.
And even with the knot still tight in your chest, their laughter is infectious. You feel it bubbling up before you can stop it. You duck your head behind your mug, trying to swallow it down. But it’s there, warm and bright at the back of your throat. You laugh. Loudly.
Iseul hears it.
“For fuck’s sake, I’ve had it!”
His mug slams down on the table, coffee sloshing out in a sharp arc. The crack of ceramic on wood snaps. Then he’s moving, crossing the space with all the weight of a storm breaking loose.
You barely set your cup aside before he’s on you.
Strong fingers twist into the front of your tank top. He yanks hard, dragging you upright. Your spine jars against the couch. Your breath catches. And suddenly, he’s right there. Face contorted, jaw clenched, eyes no longer pretending.
“You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice rising. “That what this is? One taste of someone giving a damn and suddenly I’m beneath you?”
“Iseul—” Your voice trembles. “You’re hurting me.”
He leans in. Sneering.
Your hands push against his chest, trying to create space, but he doesn’t budge. His grip only tightens.
"Only thing you were ever good for was serving someone else . Smiling real nice, keeping quiet, doing what you were told. That’s what he likes, right?" His gaze drops to your neck, to the bruise there. His mouth curls. "Bet you make it easy for him. Real easy."
His grip tightens again, and you cry out, short and sharp.
"You think you’ve got power now? You think this is yours ? You think this quiet little house makes you strong?"
The light above flickers once. Then again. Then again.
The air shifts. Thickens. The hairs along your arms stand up. The room hums in energy. But Iseul doesn’t notice.
"I fucking built you!" he shouts, spit flying. "I was the only one who saw you when you were nothing! You’re useful. That’s all you are. And when he’s done using you, you’ll come crawling back just like you always do—"
SNAP.
The lamp beside you explodes in a shower of sparks.
A searing bolt of electricity arcs from the socket and strikes Iseul directly in the shoulder. The sound is blinding, a sizzling pop followed by the sharp smell of burning fabric and ozone.
Iseul screams, a real scream this time as his body jerks from the force. His hand rips from your shirt and he stumbles backward.
Smoke curls from the seams of his jacket. His fingers twitch, convulsing slightly. His mouth works soundlessly for a second before breath finally claws its way out of him.
You're frozen, heartbeat hammering in your ears, until you feel a hand, Mateo’s, press gently against your back. A blanket falls over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as he eases you away from the couch. His voice is quiet in your ear, his hands snaking up to cover your eyes.
He guides you out of the living room just as Curt and Rod snap the blinds shut, one after the other. A moment later, Dorian turns the lock on the front door with a click.
Iseul’s head snaps upward.
His eyes flick wildly across the room, darting from shadow to shadow, searching for something that makes sense of what just happened. But nothing answers.
From the corners of the room, shadowed tendrils begin to unfurl along the walls, crawling slowly. Electricity crackles wildly through the air, lightbulbs pulsing in rapid flickers. The vents scream to life, spewing blasts of blistering heat. At the same time, the fireplace surges upward, flames roaring with such intensity they seem desperate to claw their way free from the stone.
Then the voice comes. One thAT does not belong in any human throat.
It is low and massive as if spoken through bone and ash. The sound slithers through the room with a crushing weight that makes the walls creak.
"You dare lay hands on my penumbra?"
The words strike Iseul like a blow. His chest seizes. His breath falters. His feet scramble for purchase, slipping on his spilled coffee and the mess of his own panic.
From the darkest stretch of shadow near the hearth, something begins to rise.
Claws drag against the floorboards as the figure pulls itself upright. It straightens slowly, body is nothing but thick, writhing shadow, built like smoke given mass, trembling at the edges where reality tries and fails to reject it.
Horns curve back from its head, the bone chipped and darkened with time. The creature’s jaw hangs open in a twisted grin, and beyond it lies nothing but blackness, cavernous and unnatural, rimmed with glinting teeth that don’t belong to any animal that ever walked this earth.
It steps forward once.
Iseul stumbles backward, mouth open, lips shaping a scream that never comes. It dies somewhere in his throat, strangled by fear.
The voice returns, softer now.
"You think this house is yours to haunt?" it rasps, almost gently, though the fury hasn’t left. "You think they are yours to hurt?"
Then, from somewhere else, a second voice cuts in. “Oh, dear… you’ve really done it now.”
A crack of blue light splits the ceiling, blinding as a camera flash. Electricity tears through the air, hissing like a live wire. It strikes without warning, snapping at Iseul’s feet, then coiling up his limbs in spiraling arcs of white-blue light.
Then the shadows come. They pour in fast, fluid and wrong, slithering out from corners, crawling from beneath furniture. One clamps tight around his ankle. Another coils around his wrist, then his throat, then his chest—Iseul is yanked upward an inch from the floor.
Then, everything goes black.
You’re nestled in Mateo’s arms, wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and his warmth. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling against your back, and every now and then he leans down to press gentle kisses to your cheek.
Betty and Dirk are curled up beside you, equally content. Betty snores lightly at your other side, her arm twitching every so often in some lazy dream, while Dirk is sprawled across your stomach. He lets out a little grunt when you shift but doesn’t move.
The Hanks have claimed every inch of your room that isn’t bed. The boys are stretched across the floor, perched on chairs, hanging off the dresser. At least two of them are attempting to build a fort using your laundry.
They’re loud and ridiculous and refuse to let the heaviness settle too deep. Jokes fly across the room. Laughter spills over itself.
Downstairs, the sounds change. You hear Volt’s low, crackling growl, Eddie’s deeper rumble, Skip’s voice cutting through every now and then, and under it all, Dorian’s voice echoes.
A sudden shout erupts and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Mateo notices and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple.
His voice is soft in your ear. "Don’t worry, mi vida. They’ve got it."
You just nod and let your head rest back against Mateo’s shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you in a way that nothing else can right now.
"Babe, watch this!" one of the Hanks calls out and when you glance over, you see Hank 4 trying to do a handstand in the narrow space between the dresser and the door.
He manages to hold it for maybe two seconds before toppling over in a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into Hank 2 on the way down.
"Bro!"
You shake your head with a quiet smile, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite everything. Absolute idiots.
You must have drifted off at some point, but when you wake, there’s a stillness to the house. There are no more raised voices echoing from downstairs. No snarls. No low growls vibrating through the floorboards.
Then, the door creaks open, quiet and cautious.
You lift your head from Mateo’s shoulder to see Curt and Rod stepping in. They hover in the doorway for a moment like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. Curt offers a small, tentative smile as he approaches.
"Hey, baby," he murmurs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than usual.
Rod trails behind him, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw set tight.
“We just came to say that we screwed up,” Curt says at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We never meant for it to get that far.”
Rod nods, stepping forward slowly. "We thought pissing him off would throw him. Knock him off balance so he wouldn’t try anything. But it backfired. He zeroed in on you." His voice wavers. "And you got hurt. Because of us."
Curt sits on the edge of the bed beside you and gently brushes his knuckles across the back of your hand. "We love you, okay? We were trying to protect you — in our own dumb way. We didn’t think he’d snap like that."
You shake your head, not in anger but in exhaustion. "Guys, it’s okay. Really. I’m just glad it’s over. Iseul has a temper — you didn’t make him like that."
"You’re too good to us, baby," Rod says quietly, a guilty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a slow breath, then tilts his head toward the hallway, listening.
"Um. So... what’s going on down there?" you ask, hesitant, a twist of anxiety in your stomach.
Rod’s lips twitch into a smirk. "Oh, they’re jumping him."
“ Were jumping him,” Curt mutters, elbowing Rod sharply before glancing at you with a flash of guilt.
“It’s fine now, though!” he adds quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “They’re just doing cleanup. Hoove, Kopi, Wyndolyn—everyone’s on it. They’ve got it handled.”
“And he is not coming back here again, baby,” Curt says firmly as he strides across the room. With a little flourish, he yanks open the bedroom curtain. “See for yourself.”
You twist in Mateo’s arms and peer out the window. Down on the street, Iseul is scrambling across the lawn, blood on his collar and panic in his step. He throws one last look over his shoulder before kicking his motorcycle into gear. The engine screams as he peels away, tires skidding across the pavement before disappearing into the night.
Behind you, Curt mutters, "That’s what I thought," under his breath.
You exhale, slowly, like the last of the tension is finally allowed to leave your body.
Rod flops down onto the foot of the bed with a familiar, lazy grin. "Anyway, there’s a lot of people asking for you."
You groan, burying your face deeper into Mateo’s arms. "Let me guess. House meeting?"
"You bet," Rod says. "Mayor Celia’s already planning it. Full agenda and everything."
You sigh again. "Everyone’s going to treat me like I’m made of glass."
"Well, duh, babe," Hank 5 says, raising his eyebrows like it’s obvious. "You almost got hit by your nerd ex. We’re not just gonna not worry."
"Facts," Hank 1 calls from the closet, digging through a pile of hoodies. "You're the house baby now. Minimum of five check-ins a day from us!"
"They’re already our baby," Hank 3 grins, popping his head up from behind the couch. "I’ve just been waiting for everyone else to catch up."
You roll your eyes. "You’re all idiots."
Curt smirks, flopping beside Rod. "Certified, baby. But we’re your idiots."
Mateo chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. "I swear this is all coming from a place of love. You’re not alone in this. Not for a second."
From your stomach, Dirk snores loudly.
"See? Even he agrees, babe."
thanks so much for the love you all showed! sorry i couldn't include everyone :( next chapter will, however, be full on comfort! each datable will have their own little scene with you! i will try my best to add a lotta them!
A scenario where Shepard jokes with Vega, saying she's practically Garrus' wife now after she promotes him to her XO during the war, resulting in them unintentionally spending a lot more time together.
The joke goes over Vega's head, and he goes to congratulate Garrus personally. Garrus is confused, and Vega promises to keep the "secret marriage" a secret. Garrus now has to figure out how in the hell he accidentally proposed to and married a human and how is he supposed to tell his dad he missed the unplanned wedding and the ceremonial meeting of his fiancé. He was almost 30, but this was going to get him grounded for at least another 30 years or maybe even life.
Was he supposed to get his new wife a gift? Where they supposed to get matching tattoos like Turians? He could've sworn he read somewhere that humans consummated their vows the same way Turians do. Where did he go wrong dammit!?
He adores the idea of Shepard being his wife and loves knowing that she was so excited that she even told Vega about it. He just now has to figure out how he married her in the first place without her knowing he doesn't know. Because then she'll think he never wanted to marry her, and that is NOT the case. Maybe Tali will know? No way. She'd just call him a bosh'tet. Wrex will also call him a professional idiot. Liara won't judge, but he's sure she still hasn't gotten over her crush on the Commander, and he doesn't want to rub his new marriage in her face. Maybe Joker will tell him if he promises him the new fornax issue.
Garrus has had his fair share of giving his dad a pseudo aneurysm, but this one was going to send him into cardiac arrest for sure when he finds out his son married a woman the family didn't even meet. He needs a drink...after he finishes bribing Edi to scrub away everything she just heard him say out loud.
Garrus doesn't know that Vega is the galaxy's worst secret keeper, telling Shepard he's keeping the secret marriage a secret unwilling to let Shepard convince him that she's actually not married yet. She goes to see Garrus to have a good laugh about Vega's idiocy but walks into Garrus telling Edi he will use Shepard's override if she doesn't get rid of something.
Garrus is absolutely mortified and gives the cheesiest greeting to his "wife." She assumes Vega already brought the joke to Garrus but she's not overlooking him trying to be suspicious with Edi. He recovers, mentioning it was for his sesrch history for a gift he wanted to get her. He did intend to get her a gift so the phrase wasn't a complete lie...
She jokes about it and calls him her husband. Garrus, the realist he is, does not take this as a joke. She leaves him to his vices, and Garrus is now in a full-blown panic. He needs to understand what he did, and he needs to know now.
(If my brain gets any more random ideas, I'll at least finish and provide a resolution to this concept, lol. Feel free to offer your own ending)
snowghoul
romaincrisis
stormborns
kaledo-art
gummygunk
2087
kianamaiart
izzy806
