ocean drama.

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[smarties-art]

Cover art for @mrosenkov´s fanfiction Heart Beats Slow!

Please check out her amazing writing ♥

[mrosenkov]

“Join me,” Jacob says one night, breaking the quiet of Roth’s whiskey drenched room. “Join us.”

Jacob’s perched on the arm of the lounge, watching as Roth breathes deep from a cigar. His face is half-shadowed by candlelight, leaning against his desk, all sharp lines and long limbs, patchwork suit hanging from his shoulders. And Jacob’s staring, does not look away—not even when Roth lifts his face to him, holding his gaze, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Whatever are you asking, Jacob dear? I already have my own gang.”

He feels the prick of annoyance at that, Roth well aware of his intention. But Jacob does not indulge it, leaning forward, elbows on knees, pressing, “C’mon, Roth. Aren’t you a little curious?”

As if to prove the point, Jacob stretches his arm, exposing his hidden blade with one smooth flick of his wrist, before sheathing it much the same.

Roth watches, seemingly indifferent. He breathes in deep, taking the cigar out of his mouth and exhaling slowly, cloud of smoke obscuring his features. Then says, voice firm, “No.”

Three in the morning, and the curtains have closed, the silence suffocating on this cold, rainy night in the Alhambra. Why he came, Jacob could not say. He has never been a theatre man, the scene much more fit for his sister’s taste. But the invitation had been offered, the stage showing a retelling of Shakespeare’s Othello, and after Roth had poured him a glass, and another, and another.

On his seventh drink, cheeks pleasantly warm, walking home in the rainy, piss-ridden streets of London had never looked more displeasing to Jacob in his life.

“Why not?” he asks, feeling too confident, too bold. “Imagine what you could become, Roth.”

He stands and walks over to Roth, and he’s grinning, because he knows that works on some people—even his sister falling prey to his smile more often than not. But Roth is about as indifferent as they come, watching him with nothing more than mild curiosity as Jacob takes the cigar from his fingers and breathes the smoke in deep.

He exhales it in Roth’s face, almost whispering, “Look at you. You’d be perfect for it—you and me, all of London, crushing Starrick—”

“Jacob, darling, let me stop you there.” He leans forward, and Jacob feels his heart in his throat then, suddenly dropping all confidence and nearly stumbling backwards to get away, unsure of what—how—breathe.

But Roth merely takes the cigar from his hands, tapping it lightly over the ashtray on his desk. “It’s this simple,” he continues, placing it back between his teeth, “no one will tell me what to do. A bird should be free, darling, don’t you think?”

Jacob thinks, I am. And he thinks, No one tells me what to do.

But he knows across the city, his sister is still awake, hunched over her desk with books and books open before her about shit Jacob doesn’t understand—will never understand. And he thinks about training with his father, that feeling of suffocation every morning, never good enough, always too undisciplined.

And behind, asleep, huddled in the corner of the cage, Roth’s crow does not fly.

“Yeah.” Jacob’s mouth is dry. Voice so quiet. “Yeah, I do.”

Roth grins, devilish in the diminishing candlelight. “I’m so glad you understand, my dear.”

That morning, as Jacob leaves the Alhambra, Roth’s heady, smoked scent clouds his mind. And it’s hard to think anything else in the world exists beyond that.

[jamiel417]

ＳＨＡＭＢＬＥＳ

[januariat]

sketch fanart for halogen heart by @chokefriends, the image of doffy becoming nightmarish in the soul realm really stuck with me

[mrosenkov]

Why are you so great and cool and incredible

i ask the same of you every single day

[politenuclearbomb]

i call these "law gets his ass beat, has feelings about it"

[mrosenkov]

Mutsu knows whatever step he takes, she will take one in the depth of his shadow. 

(set just after rakuyou, gen)

Mutsu wakes suddenly, blank walls of the Kairinmaru’s infirmary welcoming her to consciousness. It takes her a moment, her breath shaking, as she tries to remember—as she tries to piece the world together around her.

Another dream. How bizarre. Just months ago Mutsu was lucky if she slept at all, and now all she can do is sleep, her mind plagued with nightmares—seeing again and again the gun explode—the bullet, heading straight for him, death to take him.

Mutsu bites down hard on her lip, and slowly pulls herself up to sit, careful she doesn’t stretch her abdomen. It throbs with pain from the effort, stitches around her wound tight. She lays a gentle hand over the bandage, leaning back into the pillow.

And breathes, and breathes, breathe.

Earth sky outside tells her it’s been at least a day she’s been asleep for, the horizon edging to gold through the port window. Night soon. She stares, watching as the sun slowly sets, afraid to move lest she split open her injury. She thinks about calling for someone to get her some water, lend her their company for distraction—and almost does, too, until—

Until.

They enter the infirmary without looking her way, the Kiheitai captain first, then Sakamoto, following idly. Takasugi is clearly still not in a good way, limping to the bed diagonal to her own. He grabs from the bedside an assortment of things—money, a notebook, his katana which rests at the headboard.

He looks down to it, balancing the sword in his open palm. His eye is dark.

Sakamoto watches him warily. “I still don’t get it.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

It sounds like it should be a biting remark, but there is a surprising amount of understanding in his voice, a softness to it that Mutsu would never have expected from someone like Takasugi. He sinks down into the bed, and without hesitation, Sakamoto follows, taking the space next to him. They both stare at the katana, the silence screaming.

“Listen. Tatsuma.” Takasugi wraps his hand around the sword, gripping it tight enough she hears the saya clink. “Before I go… About what happened before—”

“Oi, oi, Bakasugi.” Sakamoto looks up from the sword, to the window straight ahead. The sun is low, now, bathing the room in a pool of gold. His glasses flash in the light. “Haha, don’t go all soft on me now.”

“Yeah? That’s it, then?” Takasugi’s voice drops low. “Suppose you’re just going to go back to your normal, idiotic self. Nothing happened, eh?”

Mutsu feels her heart plummet. She can see, clearly, Sakamoto’s shoulders sag, like a sudden incredible weight has been dropped on him. He leans forward, elbows on knees, looking down at his shaking hands in the sunlight.

“Ten of my crew died.” His voice is whisper soft, barely audible.

“Yeah.” Takasugi slams the tip of his saya on the ground, the sound causing Sakamoto to flinch. He puts all his weight on the handle in hand, using it to help him up. He stands over her captain, and leans down, dangerously close. “Why the fuck did you do it, Tatsuma? Why did you come back?”

Sakamoto doesn’t answer. She’s holding her breath, watching him, stomach swimming with nausea. She wants to touch his hand, hold them until they stop shaking. She wants to kick him out the window, knock some sense into him, try to get him to laugh again. She, selfishly, desperately, wants him to do something, anything.

Anything but the silence he sits in now.

Takasugi straightens, sliding his sword into his belt loop. “When you left the war, you should never have come back. Not for that idiot out there, not for Zura. Not for me.” He pauses, then, “Next time, I will kill you. If I see you doing that again, I will kill you.”

Sakamoto lets out a huff of breath. She’s sure it’s meant to be a laugh, but there’s no mirth behind it, nothing like himself.

“Too late now, isn’t it? I pulled them into this battle, and they died. I brought Mutsu into this battle, and she almost died. F-for me.” He looks up then, directly at Takasugi, and says, voice low, “And I would do it all again. Maybe yer the idiot, Bakasugi. All three of ya. I will be at yer side, at Kintoki’s side, at Zura’s side—right until the end.” 

Takasugi looks away, resting his arm on the handle of his katana. “Stop looking at the past, Tatsuma.”

“Ahahaha!” A laugh. A real one. She stares at him. Her heart is beating so fast. “I will when you three do, yeah?”

It might be the light—the shadows playing tricks on her eyes—but Mutsu swears she sees the lightest touch of a smile dance across Takasugi’s face. He lets his arm fall to his side, and starts to leave the infirmary, Sakamoto standing slowly.

“Fine. Then I guess this isn’t goodbye—to you, or your vice captain.” 

Takasugi casts a look back at her. She feels her heart stop for a beat, the realisation that he had known she’d been listening. She wants to say something but all she can bring herself to do is hold his gaze—and then she blinks, and he’s gone.

“I’m sorry,” she finds herself saying, voice raw from disuse.

She looks to Sakamoto, who stares out the window, his expression indecipherable. She doesn’t know what she apologises for. Eavesdropping? For taking the bullet that was meant for him? For following him blindly, once again, into another foolish plan of his own making?

She could be sorry for all of it. She could be sorry for none of it. She feels like a child again, pretending she isn’t lost at his side, knowing whatever step he takes she will take it in his shadow.

“Ahahaha haha! Don’t worry, Mutsu.” He smiles at her, face shining. But there’s something about it. Something is not right. Something that makes her chest tighten. “Get some rest! Tomorrow, we’ll leave Earth. I think we’ve spent enough time on the ground.”

He turns, waving at her over his shoulder. She watches him walk, mouth dry, desperate for something to come out, any word to make him stay. But as he turns around the corner, she notices, then. Sees it, shocked she had not spotted it before.

Takasugi’s words replay in her head, echoing,

“When you left the war, you should never have come back.”

She sits, staring at Sakamoto’s gun on the empty infirmary bed, ghosts of the past haunting the room. It glints in the last rays of sunlight, as if moving, as if alive.

And that is the last time Mutsu sees her captain.

(hey! you can also find me sharing fandom thoughts and wips on twitter)

[onirx]

Happy new year from bird lady!! 

[mrosenkov]

(first mate).

kid & killer.

It’s Saturday night, their second night on the Grand Line, and the whole crew is fast asleep after a long day of battling dangerous seas and stormy weather. He watches the deceptive calm from his post in the crow’s nest, muscles tight and sore, eyes dry and itchy. Recounts their day to the very second, agonising on what they could do better, how to handle the next cyclone, remembering to fix the tear in their upper sail—there’s a leak somewhere, he remembers that, too, but where, where—

Killer runs a hand through his hair and yawns. “Hull.” That’s right. “Leak in the hull, don’t forget that.”

“Nah, fixed it.”

“Oh.”

It’s not like Killer is in love.

Nothing like that.

And it’s not like Killer is searching for love.

Nothing that simple.

He would call it purpose, if it even had a name; which he is sure it doesn’t—sure it never could.

All he knows is that his heart beats a funny beat, one that’s all pitter-patter, one that’s all, thudthudthud thud, full of adrenaline and anticipation. All he knows is that he knows. That he—

“Right.” He stretches as Kid steps up by his side, covered in dust and grime with that feral smile. He reeks of metal and sweat, heat radiating off his bare skin despite the wintery breeze. “Fix the tear in the sail?”

Kid snorts. “Nup. Do I pay you to do nothing?”

“You don’t pay me at all.”

He laughs at that.

Beneath them, the boat rolls with every wave, the gentle slap on oak the only sound for miles. Killer yawns again, looking beyond the horizon, salt and metal and rope and sweat flooding each breath he takes, every exhale dizzying his chest with a blissful lightness.

You see, Killer belongs here, on this sea, by his side. There is no future for him anywhere, but the tug of determination draws him to Kid; and as the wind picks up, the chill too bitter to ignore, he moves closer to his captain, their shoulders brushing lightly.

“Man, I’m so—” Kid shines as he stares across the water, eyes following the stars that lead them forward, “—I’m so fucking excited.”

There are so many things Killer could say in that moment, so many things to say. I’m glad I’m here; I’ll follow you to the ends of nowhere; Captain. But he likes to fill in the gaps of Kid’s person—knows him well enough to do so—and says only what he needs to, what Kid wants to hear:

“Me too.”

And there is a promise in that agreement, firm as a sailor’s hitch between them, and he lets his breath go with the next wave, Kid’s barking laughter his only answer.

It’s not the start of something. It’s nowhere near the end. As long as he’s here, Killer doesn’t care what, or where, it is, really.

 law & penguin.

Sabaody. That’s when it’s clear. Crystal clarity, Ikkaku would say, in that annoying voice of hers (the real haughty one, you know how it goes).

They’ve only docked for an hour, walking around. Walking, walking, a lot of walking. Shachi convinced Law to stop at one of the little stalls that sells fried fish sticks, bought a bunch; then, of course, Bepo wanted to stop at a dozen more—so yeah, what should take twenty minutes takes an hour, and he’s feeling pretty pissed off, all hot in this dumb jumpsuit, Shachi just blah, blah, blah in his right ear.

They’re passing the shitty pub when Law puts one hand out.

This is how it goes for them, right: Law moves, barely a centimetre, and they all stop. It’s how it’s always been. How it always will be. He doesn’t have to say anything (never does), just one finger, one hand, a small shift in the way he holds his nodachi, and they’re all there, every part of them, every thing they can offer.

“Wait.”

They do.

He leaves them for about a minute—long enough for Bepo to start his nervous dance-thing, peaking around the corner to see what Law is doing. Shachi says something like, “Just wait!” and Bepo apologises. Shachi complains about him apologising. He says sorry again—

And then Law’s back, suddenly, out-of-nowhere.

“Penguin. Shachi.” Law hands him a scrap of paper with a number on it. Drawls, voice oddly quiet, “I want you to go around and rip down any wanted posters of mine you see. Meet me here in an hour. Bepo, come with me.”

Bepo straightens like he’s been electrocuted. “Aye, aye, captain!”

 They find about a hundred wanted posters in total. He’s got them in his hand, and it’s on their way to the meeting place, Shachi still talking non-stop, that he realises it.

It is—

Like a blinding light.

A submarine. A lower bounty. The silence. Calmness. A devil fruit almost no one knows of.

There’s havoc all around them, chaos from all the other supernova’s in one place, but as they walk up to the rendezvous (a slave auction, huh), Law leaning against the wall, Celestial Dragon’s breezing by like they can’t even see him—

Well.

“You good?” Law asks, straightening as they walk up. He jerks his thumb to the door on his right. “Thought we could have some fun.”

A wry smirk plays the corners of his mouth, one Penguin remembers from all those years ago, one he cannot help but return. Reminds him of long cold winters, endless nights under the pressing ocean—reminds him of fires on freezing shores, four bodies huddled together for warmth, a boy—a kid—who will lead them to the end of the world.

“Aye, captain.”

Law’s eyes shine.

 They’ll write him down in history books, you know.

 luffy & zoro (& sanji).

He’s a dumbass.

But.

Well. There are things Luffy knows. Things Zoro doesn’t.

So, it goes a little like this:

Their eyes make contact across the disorder of the battlefield, and Luffy isn’t there, and then he is there, so abruptly, so suddenly, that Zoro actually stumbles a bit.

“Oi, oi—”

Luffy grabs his arm. “Let’s go.”

“Like.” There’s this yelling behind him from a marine, clang of metal, Shit Cook cursing. Zoro licks his lips and it tastes like blood, Luffy’s eyes burning into him. “Like, run?”

“Yes.” One. Two. A frown. “No.”

Whatever.

It’s not like—like Zoro is averse to running away. Running away is a choice. Not one that he would personally make. But still a choice.

Luffy tugs his arm.

Right.

“Oi!” Zoro turns, his free arm swinging out and blocking a blow from a ballsy marine, yelling, “Shit Cook! Let’s go!”

Sanji spins around, looking like literal fire he’s that mad. “What—”

He sees Luffy and stops.

See, there are things Luffy knows. Things Sanji doesn’t.

Shit Cook’s by their side in an instant.

“Let’s go,” Luffy says again.

And they do.

 So, it goes a little like this:

Nami asks, voice shrill, “Luffy! What are you doing?”

And Franky just listens, turning the ship away from the marines, evading them with proficient skill, Luffy launching to his spot on the figurehead.

Sanji has his cigarette packet in his hand, taps a stick out and lights it. Blows smoke into the air with a sigh.

His eyes linger on Zoro’s for a moment too long.

“Don’t question it,” he mutters.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Shit Cook snaps back.

Behind them, the ten marine ships in pursuit explode.

Just. Explode.

Unbelievably bright. Inexplicably loud.

Luffy’s laughter breaks through the chaos, full and whole and free.

 Yeah, he’s a dumbass.

But.

[mrosenkov]

He has found some peace at the back of the ship, on the quarter deck near the mikan trees and main mast. Sits with a book, but does not read, does not even glance its way once he puts it on the ground, Kikoku leaning on the wall at its side. He just watches the sky, edging to blue. Just … sits and breathes. In and out. Just sits, elbows on his knees, pressing fingers into his temples, rubbing at his eyes, wiping the salt-crust from his face, and thinking, thinking, think.

His foot taps the deck. He cracks his knuckles. He thinks about Bepo. Wonders about Penguin. The Polar Tang. Tries not to think about all of them, sitting in the galley, crowded around the table, Uni shuffling a deck of cards. Dealing him in even though he never plays.

It becomes very real then. A sudden wave crashes into the hull of the ship and Luffy laughs, nearly falling overboard, Nami yells, and Law… feels it then, so incredibly, so intensely, that he can barely breathe.

So lost in a memory, Law almost misses the sound of a heeled boot stride across the deck, as someone comes to sit by his side. 

Brook has, in his palm, a silver tray with two empty tea cups and a matching teapot. The set is delicately painted with blue and purple flowers, each one more detailed than the last. He places the tray on the bench between them.

“Sanji-san told me earlier that this tea set was made in the North Blue.” Without a word, he pours the contents of the pot into both cups, right to the brim, the rich, familiar smell of black tea steaming the air.

“Law-san, would you like a cup of tea?”

Keep reading

[piratedrouge]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

But she is a wild bird with hair like bright green poison and eyes like topaz fire, and she will not be tamed by the likes of these insects.

tagging @mrosenkov for the inspiration and @daonepiece for the encouragement. thank you so much! :)

[diovllo]

just to rile him up

(for @mrosenkov who wrote my fav and best fanfic 'Rust' you all should check it out!)

[mrosenkov]

Hey! Since I like Gintama, and I'm pretty sure you like Gintama too, can I ask what your favourite Gintama episodes are? Or is that a really difficult question to answer?

of course! i find it hard to answer just because... well it’s probably easier to say which episodes i didn’t like. but if i had to pick, the whole rakuyo arc is just excellent, i feel i could watch it again and again and still find things that i missed. also ep 189  Radio Exercises Are Socials For Boys And Girls because i like to cry and make myself sad.

[mrosenkov]

This is Call Out Time and you know it

[mrosenkov]

I know you saw the previous ask do it coward

sorry new phone who this

[mrosenkov]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

It’s not that Hijikata hasn’t killed people before. The world is black and white, you see, and he follows a code—the samurai code, his code—and there are bad people and good people, and sometimes bad people die. Sometimes they don’t. And these men—the men whose blood stains his uniform, knots in his hair, whose taste still sits on the tip of his tongue, despite the tobacco—they were bad. He knows.

They were bad, he knows.

And yet, that isn’t why their blood is on his hands. That isn’t why he killed as many as his sword could reach, before he would die with it gripped in his fist.

after Mitsuba’s death, Hijikata grieves.

[mrosenkov]

Can I ask, how long have you been writing for? Your one of my favorite writers and I would give anything to write words like you do. Please never stop 😭

aw, thank you!! this is so sweet...

uh, i’ve been writing for nearly twenty years now (confession: my first ever finished story was a self-insert lion king fanfic i wrote at 7 :’)). writing is really just practice, patience with yourself and a willingness to learn from your mistakes. don’t put too much pressure on yourself and please don’t compare your writing to others. part of what makes fics beautiful is how different we all write from one another and the different stories we tell. <3