I loved the 2000's, so this was a real treat to design. I was only cognitive for like a couple years of it but i still remember a lot of the fashion from when it was going on. ESPECIALLLY. the short sleeves over the long sleeve shirts. 2000's loved their layers.
So Luffy was pretty easy to design. He was the first one i designed. i love when theres an easy translation for the Sunny and Merry into AU's.
Ace is very heavily inspired by Avril Lavigne. I was having trouble with designing him, but then Complicated by Avril came on the 2000's playlist i was watching/listening to for inspiration, and suddenly i understood everything. It all made sense to me.
Ace was M A D E for this au. I was thinking that as i was drawing him, but then i realized that Ace literally was made in like 2001 so... yeah. he was made for the 2000's.
Sabo was the last one i finished, i wasnt feeling too inspired with him, but i talked with friends who were more cognitive during that time than I, and one of them provided me a very helpful article about fashion trends at the time that included football and basketball jerseys. I put him into each of those, but none of them fit him quite well. I then put him in a baseball jersey, and although it makes him look the 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉, it fit him best. So i kept it.
I did get to put Usopp in the basketball jersey though so it wasnt all for naught.
Franky's hair was also very easily translated into the 2000's, like every boy had that hair, besides the mullet tail at the bottom but franky's just built different like that.
cute little painfully nerdy 2000s ellie williams x popular bimbo fem reader part 3
since yall hornballs wanted smut so badly 🙄
cw : smut, public sex in class, degradation, ellie’s horny fantasies, wet dreams, plot twist kinda
the bell rings. you don’t rush to your seat—you never do. you glide in late like always, cherry gum in your mouth, tight hot pink juicy couture velour zip up barley zipped up with your black lacy VS push up bra peeking through. a boy stares. you don’t care. you’re too busy reapplying your gloss with your middle finger.
ellie sees you before you see her, she recognizes your heavy, dreamy scent of the love spell body spray from 5 miles away.
she’s already at her desk, hood up, legs bouncing under the table like she’s got an energy drink in her bloodstream. which, honestly? she probably does. her fingers are smudged with pencil and her notebooks half open, little doodles of swords and boobs peeking through the lined paper. she’s not ready. for anything.
mr. brooks clears his throat.
“alright, students. group projects. DNA replication and genetic variation. pages 94 through 99. picked your partners for you.”
groans ripple across the room. you roll your eyes, zoning out as he goes on to list random pairs of students in the class… “david and rebecca, ashley and karen, adrian and braxton, becky and jared-“ then suddenly.
“y/n and… ellie.”
you look up from your manicured hands in your lap instantly, silence. you make a disgusted look. brows furrowed, lips pouted.
but ellie? she jerks in her seat like someone pulled a string in her back. her eyes snap up and lock on you, wide behind her crooked-ass glasses. her whole face goes red—forehead, ears, even her damn neck. she freezes. then immediately starts fumbling with her the spirals on her notebook, like she thinks if she looks busy enough, maybe you’ll ignore her.
you don’t.
you sigh heavily as you take your time walking over, swinging your hips just enough to make two boys whisper. you drop your bag next to her desk. she looks at it like it’s a bomb.
you sit down.
“so,” you say, voice flat, bored, already annoyed. “you gonna write the whole thing or just f*ck yourself to it?”
she chokes. like physically chokes, hand flying to her chest, eyes bugging out. she tries to answer, fails, tries again, and somehow makes it worse.
“i—i don’t—i wasn’t—f*ck mysel-?—no—what—”
you stare. blow a bubble. let it pop, then giggle in her face.
her face is ruined. her mouth opens and closes like a fish. she looks like she wants to die. and then crawl under the desk. and then die again.
you lean in, just a little, enough for your perfume to hit her nose.
“i still remember that sketchbook from last week by the way.”
ellie flinches.
“i wasn’t—you know.. it’s for anatomy,” she blurts, which makes no sense, and she knows it. “not like, your—i didn’t mean your anatomy, just—like—the concept of anatomy, which, like, technically—f*ck—”
you tilt your head.
ellie covers her face with her hands and groans, long and low, like she’s in pain.
“do you touch yourself to those with your hoodie on, or do you take it off to set the mood?”
“please,” she whispers. “please shut up.”
you giggle again, soft and wicked.
adrian—your adrian—is three rows in front of y’all, hearing the whole thing. you haven’t even acknowledged him since class started either.
ellie peeks through her fingers. she’s twitchy. sweaty. miserable. and when you pull your chair closer, she damn near leaps out of her skin.
“we’re gonna get an A,” you hum, dragging her open textbook toward you. “you’re gonna do all the work. and you’re gonna keep your nasty little sketchbook zipped up tight.”
she nods. small. frail.
“say ‘yes, ma’am.’”
“…yes, ma’am.”
you smile. pop another bubble.
this is gonna be fun.
ellie keeps her eyes locked on the textbook. she hasn’t spoken in five minutes. not since the “yes, ma’am.” her handwriting’s shaking. her cheeks are red. her hoodie sleeves are halfway over her fingers again, clenched tight like she’s praying.
you lean back in your seat, legs spread just a little wider, flipping your hair over your shoulder. her eyes flicker for a second—just a second—to the inside of your thigh under the desk.
you catch it.
“are you even paying attention?” you ask, fake sweet. “or are you too busy trying not to cum in your boxers?”
her pencil snaps in half.
“i’m—i’m paying attention,” she mumbles, head down, the tips of her ears red like she’s been slapped. “mitosis. cell cycle. S-phase. DNA replication. i—i know it.”
you hum. press your knee against hers under the desk. she jerks back like she’s been shocked. you look down at her shaky hand on the table. long, twitchy fingers. drum and guitar callused.
slowly, you reach out. grab her wrist. guide it down.
“wh—what are you—” she tries to pull away, but she’s weak. pathetic. you’re stronger. meaner. so much prettier. you press her hand against your bare thigh, just above the hem of your skirt. warm skin. smooth. soft.
she stops breathing.
“f*ck,” she whispers, wide-eyed, voice cracking. “you—you can’t—i’ll f*cking—”
you don’t let go.
“don’t be a p*ssy,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded. “it’s just a little skin, right? nothing you haven’t seen in your nasty little sketches.”
her fingers twitch.
you push her hand higher. just a little.
the edge of your thong peeks out. she squeezes her eyes shut, like she can block it out. but her fingers stay.
shaking. burning. gripping your thigh like it’s keeping her alive. ellie whimpers.
you smile, slow and wicked and keep her hand right where it is. she doesn’t move at first.
your fingers are still around her wrist, soft but firm, like a leash she doesn’t want to escape. her palm is pressed flat to your thigh, skin burning hot, nails barely grazing you. you’re looking ahead like nothing’s happening. like you’re so fucking bored. like her hand being between your legs is just part of your routine.
ellie’s brain? completely fried. ‘f*ck. f*ck. f*ck’ she thought.
she doesn’t know where to look. her eyes are flicking between the worksheet and your lip gloss and your thigh and the window and the corner of the floor like any of it will help her not lose it.
her face is flushed. her mouth’s dry. her hoodie’s too hot and her fingers are twitching because all she can think about is—
‘she’s soft. she’s so soft. i can’t—f*ck—i can’t.’
you’re right next to her. in the flesh. warm. sighing softly. looking down, pencil in hand while pretending to read the textbook like her hand isn’t right there.
and now?
her fingers start to move.
slow. slight. like she doesn’t even realize at first. like muscle memory. like her horniness has taken over completely.
she slides the tips up, just a little.
then down.
tiny little strokes. featherlight. testing you. seeing what she can get away with.
you shift in your seat.
press your legs together.
you don’t look at her. but you don’t stop her either.
so she keeps going.
and her heart is slamming in her chest.
she’s so wet in her boxers, her clit becoming a rapid beating second heartbeat to the point it’s actually painful. ellie thinks she might cum just from this.
her fingers dip slightly beneath the curve of your thigh. under the edge of your thong. just barely.
her breath stutters.
you’re wet. not soaked. not dripping. just warm and soft and slightly damp and f*ckf*ck—
she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning. her forehead hits the desk. just for a second. to ground herself.
you look at her finally. say nothing. just smirk. and she knows you know exactly what you’re doing.
she doesn’t say a word. she just keeps stroking.
slow, pathetic, desperate.
and no one can see a thing.
yet, her fingers go still when she feels it. the way your c*nt clenches as she pushes past the edge of your soaked thong.
how easy it is to slip in.
how tight you are. how f*cking warm you are.
like you’ve been waiting.
ellie lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding—shaky, low—and stares at your face like it’s the only thing that matters.
you’re still looking at your notes. like this is nothing.
like her fingers aren’t buried inside you right now, moving slow, dragging against that soft spot she’s imagined so many times her body could do it with her eyes closed.
and it kinda is.
her fingers start working in that perfect rhythm she’s practiced—on herself, in the dark, in the shower, during her breakdowns after seeing you in a mini skirt.
she curls them just right.
presses deep.
slides out slick and slow, then back in, faster.
you twitch.
your thighs shift.
but you don’t look at her.
and that’s what makes her lose it.
“f*ck,” she whispers. her head is down, lips barely moving. “you’re gonna make me cum in my f*ckin’ boxers, sh*t.”
you don’t flinch. you just turn the page in the textbook, lip caught between your teeth.
ellie’s eyes flicker to your mouth.
her fingers thrust deeper. faster. the sound is obscene but muffled by the low hum of the class, the hum of the lights, the buzz of old ac.
“this p*ssy’s so f*ckin’ warm,” she whispers, voice cracked. “you’re gonna—geez—you’re gonna ruin me.”
you pulse around her. her legs shake.
she’s gritting her teeth. trying not to grunt. trying not to moan.
“can’t believe i get to finger you in bio,” she breathes, nose brushing your shoulder. “you’re so mean to me—so f*ckin’ mean—and you’re so wet. you like this? letting the loser do this to you?”
your pencil scratches across the paper like nothing’s happening.
you’re breathing harder now. lips parted. eyes still down.
but your hips start moving—tiny little rocks forward against her fingers—and that’s when ellie knows you’re close.
she curves them deep, presses her palm against your clit, and starts pumping harder.
you clamp your thighs.
grip the edge of your worksheet.
swallow a whimper.
“good f*ckin’ girl,” she mutters, barely audible. “take it. just take it. i’ll make you cum so hard you won’t walk to 5th period.”
and you?
you turn your head just slightly.
lips brush her ear.
“then do it, perv.”
ellie’s gone. she’s imagined this so many times. in her sketchbook. in the shower. in her f*cking dreams.
you sitting on her lap, whispering in her ear, your lip gloss smearing on her neck, your tits bouncing while you ride her neon green strap—
you calling her a freak while grinding on her face—
you licking her fingers while sitting on her bed like a brat—
suddenly, she jerks awake with a sharp inhale, eyes wide, hoodie tangled around her arms, face flushed, sheets kicked off the bed.
her room’s still dark, lit only by the faint glow of her lava lamp and the blinking red light of her PS3. her sketchbook’s open next to her—flipped to a half-finished drawing of you sitting on her lap with your thong around one ankle.
her hand’s still in her boxers.
and yeah… they’re soaked.
disgusting. tragic. predictable.
ellie groans. drags her forearm over her face like it’ll wipe the sin away. mutters to herself.
“f*ck”
her voice cracks. she rolls onto her back, staring at the popcorn textured ceiling. her stomach flips. her hips twitch.
and suddenly she’s grinding her hand into her boxers again—again—because the image won’t leave her brain.
your face when you bit your lip.
your whisper in her ear.
your p*ssy squeezing her fingers like it needed her.
it’s too bad this is one of them. just another one of her pathetic dreams.
It's early in the morning.. maybe around six, seven even. Somebody has broken into Jamie's house, it's just Reaper, they've infiltrated his bathroom and are rifling around in the cupboards. Loudly, with the lights on.
They surely didn’t hear the front door open and close, since they’re probably still digging through things. And they definitely don’t notice that Jamie’s now standing in the bathroom doorway, duffle bag dangling from one hand as he blearily watches them.
His short hair is still damp from when he took a shower before getting home, the only thing he uses his ten-dollar gym membership for, and his face looks sullen and tired. Pretty typical after a night of running around in the woods.
He continues staring, hoping they finally realize he’s there, but he shortly gives up and clears his throat. “Why is my house a mess?”
