Hobby writer, born in 2001, with too many cats and free time. Cursed to live in a reality in which freedom, happiness and love have little meaning. Sooo...let's dive into fiction, I guess?? đ´ââ ď¸Mainly One Pieceđ´ââ ď¸
: ĚĚâ Here you can find (mostly) all links to my stories. Sometimes it is not up to date, but I try my best! You can also find some important information about this blog here.
⚠࣪ Ë âš ŕŁŞ Ë âš ŕŁŞ Ë âš ŕŁŞ Ë
Hi!
About the blog:
The majority of my works are allowed for everyone and have no age restrictions. However, please always refer to the notes above the respective chapter.
Most of the reader perspectives have no gender (they/them) and are named Y/N (your name). However, it can happen that a reader is female, which I try to say in the notes or so. Even more so in my long stories, while my Oneshot's tend to be without specific gender.
You are always welcome to send me your wishes or ideas. However, I cannot promise whether I will accept and write them.
I see every comment and every message, but I can't always answer or respond to them. Please understand.
I often have fixed scedules on when a chapter will be posted, but if this is not the case, I am probably sick, busy or something else. Please wait patiently, I will get back to you.
After the current stories are done, the following stories will start:
Smeared Lipstick | Genre: Gore, Romance | Killer x Reader
Basic loser | Genre: Comedy, Romance | Genma x Reader
â°â⤠About me
Finally, some information about me!
We're all friends on this blog, so feel free to talk to me casually!
Anyways, you can call me Yoomi.
I was born in 2001 and work as a content manager (phew), have 4 cats (let me tell you, I end up being a cat granny) and a dog! Since I live in Germany, my English is definitely not always perfect - I try to improve and ask DeepL for help with difficult questions, haha.
I'm introverted, but happy and content with myself and my life. If I have one wish for the future, it's to meet new people and gain new perspectives.
As I already said, we're friends now that u read this here. In case you really want to get to know me, you're welcome to hit me up!
Summary: In the bustling shipyard of Water 7, youâre just an apprentice with a hopeless crush on Paulie â rope expert, decency enforcer, and utterly oblivious shipwright. Between flying sawdust, flustered hearts, and far too many lectures about âproper sleeves,â youâre set on proving that some things are worth tying your heart to⌠even if he keeps trying to untangle it.
Note: Here we go!
romantic comedy ¡ slow burn ¡ hopeless crush ¡ unrequited (for now) love ¡ shipyard shenanigans ¡ lighthearted vibes ¡ banter ¡ oblivious love interest ¡ found family ¡ Water 7 setting ¡ gender-neutral reader ¡ wholesome humor ¡ mild language ¡ mutual pining (eventually) ¡ rope safety lectures ¡ fluff with a sprinkle of angst
Water 7 smells like sawdust and salt and the metal tang of tools hot from work. Youâve grown to love that smell. It clings to the canals like a second tide, rising in the morning when the shipwrights fling their doors open and skiffs knock soft against stone, and falling in the evening when laughter pours out of taverns and the glowbugs come up from the reedbeds.
But it is strongest at Dock OneâGalley-Laâs proudest yardâwhere ropes lie in great sleeping coils and scaffolds gnarl around skeletons of ships being born. Itâs strongest there because of him.
âQuit standing around like a post!â Paulie shouts from atop a rib of timber. The sun throws a halo across his hair, and the rope braid over his shoulder looks like itâs considering leaping off to do the job for him. âWe need that caulking bucket, not your dreamy stare!â
Your fingers tighten around the handle of the bucket you are, in fact, holding. You were not, strictly speaking, staring. You wereâŚobserving. Appreciating the geometry of a working man in motion, the clean economy of his stride, the way his hands find rope like itâs part of his body.
âRight, yes! Caulking. Coming!â
You jog across the plankwayâcarefully, carefully; youâve learned that Dock One has two speeds: the professionalsâ blur, and your speed, which is âtry not to trip while being in love.â The canal below laps and glitters. A yagara bull noses along the edge, snorting like it finds you interesting, which is comforting. It means youâre not the only one in this city drawn to loud creatures with strong shoulders.
Paulie reaches down a hand. You give him the bucket and a smile that you know is obvious. He does not take the smile. He does not even acknowledge the smile. He snatches the bucket and snaps, âAnd roll your sleeves down! This is a respectable dock, not a peep show!â
You glance at your forearms, which the Gods of Practical Labor had made you bare precisely two inches past the wrist because itâs hot and the work is messy. Before you can respond, heâs already flung a canvas at you with the velocity of a cannon. It drapes over your head and shoulders, smelling of pitch and sun-warm rope.
âIndecent,â he mutters, and strides away along the beam.
You wrestle free of the canvas, cheeks warm. âItâs an elbow, Paulie,â you say to the sky, which is less likely to scold you. âNot a scandalous opera.â
The sky, like Paulie, is unmoved.
You roll your sleeves obediently to present only a conservative hint of wrist, then set about your actual job: not getting in the way. On your first week at Galley-La, you had tried very hard to be indispensable and nearly became a permanent addition to a half-framed keel. Now, in your third week, your duties have clarified: carry things. Sweep. Fetch coffee. Laugh at Luluâs jokes. Nod gravely when Tilestone flexes at the lumber because, apparently, that helps. Avoid Kaku when he starts naming the angles of your posture. And document everything in your little notebook so you can ask better questions later, questions that prove you deserve to be here.
And, of course, orbit Paulie.
Heâs everywhere at once: on the scaffold barking checklists, on the ground tying three knots in the time it takes you to blink, on the pier shouting at a tourist for leaning too far over a line. You wonder if he eats rope for breakfast. You wonder if he could braid water. You wonder if he knows your heart has put its own little bollards around itself with his name on the side, marked in white paint, because that is what it feels like: mooring yourself to someone who treats your crisis of adoration like a minor nuisance in the daily schedule.
âStop daydreaming and hold this steady!â he calls, suddenly in front of you again, swiping your broom out of your hands to push the beam into place. He is close enough that your chest says, ah, so this is how ship bells must feel when the sea swallows sound.
You plant your feet and brace the beam, because this is something you can do. Paulie wedges the caulking iron into a crack and tests the pitch. It fits with a satisfying tuck. âGood,â he says, and you hold that word in your mouth like a sweet. Then he adds, âFor a beginner.â
You swallow the sweet whole, unchewed. âYou could just say âgood,â you know.â
âI did,â he replies, lips twitching. âThen I clarified.â
You should not smile. You smile anyway.
By noon, Dock One is a roaring hive. New lumber arrivesâaromatic cedar that makes the whole gang pause. âSmell that!â Tilestone cries, waving his arms. âThatâs the perfume of the seaâs future!â
âPerfume is indecent,â Paulie says without missing a beat.
âRope-boy,â Lulu drawls, âyouâd call a sandwich indecent if it forgot its top slice.â
âBecause it is!â Paulie barks. âWhat are we teaching the apprentices? That you can leave things exposed and call it a meal?â He points a reprimanding finger at the universe at large. âNo. No, sir. Two slices. Tie it up. Secure your sandwich.â
You laugh, which draws his glare like a magnet. âYou agree with him?â he demands, affronted that the concept of sandwich decorum could be up for debate.
âI think commitment to structural integrity is attractive,â you say before your good sense can intercept your mouth. Tilestone chokes. Lulu grins. Kaku, passing by, murmurs something about ninety-degree comments.
Paulieâs ears pinken. He turns so fast his rope whip whistles. âApprentice,â he says to you without looking. âGo to Canal Street Two. Pick up the order from Jittaâs Hardware. Tell him itâs for Paulie, Dock One. If he tries to upsell you on those flimsy imported spikes, say the words âfalse head, seizes under stressâ and leave.â
You salute with mock solemnity to mask the explosion in your chest. A mission from Paulie himself. Also, a walk through Water 7, which means time alone to gather your foolish heart back into its chest.
On the street outside, the light refracts off the canal like a thousand small celebrations. Yagara bulls ferry passengers along, their horns adorned with strings of bells that chime every time a wake bumps the stone. Vendors hawk fried seaweed squares and little paper cones of candied nuts. There is a child standing at the edge of the water, making faces at his reflection; his mother drags him away by the collar. A trio of shipwrights from Dock Three argue about the ethics of varnish in the sun.
You walk, thinking the thoughts of a person whose crush is a hurricane with excellent carpentry: yes, he follows rules that exist only in his head; yes, his modesty has its own gravitational pull; yes, he is oblivious and stubborn and says things like secure your sandwich with conviction. But he also notices stray nails and children leaning too far over the railings and the angle of a beam a quarter inch off true. He makes things safe even if it annoys him to do so. And in a city of tides, safety is a love letter.
Jittaâs Hardware is a narrow shop with more drawers than you thought could physically exist. It smells like oil and old ideas. Jitta himself is behind the counter, feet up, reading a newspaper with his nose so close itâs a wonder the ink hasnât jumped onto his face.
âGalley-La,â you say, breathless. âOrder for Dock One.â
Jitta lowers the paper, frowns in concentration, and eventually produces a slip. âRings, tar, spikes.â He eyes you over his spectacles. âYou sure you donât want the deluxe spikes? Imported. They shine.â
âFalse head,â you recite, proud, âseizes under stress.â
Jittaâs mouth twists. âPaulie sent you.â
âYes.â
âThen you know not to drop that crate.â He points at a wooden box on the floor that is either filled with metal or, from the way it threatens your spine, a pocket of condensed gravity.
You take a breath, plant your feet, and lift. Your knees write you a formal apology, to be delivered later, possibly accompanied by ice.
The return trip is a holiday of tiny disasters. A yagara bull sneezes, startling you into sidestepping a childâs toy boat, which sends you into a display of broom handles, which clatters like departing geese and causes a cluster of tourists to applaud as if this were a planned performance. You bow, because dignity is optional when the crate youâre carrying has entered into a relationship with gravity that excludes you. When you finally reach Dock One, your vision is edged with sparkles, and youâre composing last words.
âWhere were you?â Paulie demands, appearing at your elbow. He takes the crate like itâs a loaf of bread. Oh, to be a rope. âI sent you for hardware, not a scenic tour.â
You want to say I did both and I thought about you the whole time, neither of which you say. You say, âRan into a yagara sneeze,â which is true and encapsulates the problem that is your life.
âOf course you did,â he says, and rolls his eyes. Butâthis is importantâbut he adds, âGood work.â Itâs half to the crate, half to you, and your insides do that thing where they transform into confetti.
Afternoon work hums. You fetch, hold, sweep. You learn the names of things twice: what theyâre called and what Paulie calls them. A ratâs nest of lines becomes ârope crime.â Sawdust on the floor becomes âlaceration confetti.â An unprotected knee is âa lawsuit waiting to happen.â You add these to your notebook with care, both to learn the dock and because writing them feels like copying a spellbook.
When you next look up, heâs sliding down a rope like itâs a ribbon, landing on the pier with a swing of his legs that youâre certain is unnecessary and executed purely to make your heart make that small painful sound. He straightens, flicks a splinter off his glove, and looks at youâdirectly at you.
âYou,â he says. âCome.â
You follow. What else could you do? He leads you to a narrow skiffâa rude little thing with a patched hull and a name in flaking paint that might once have been Lucky. A coil of line sits in the middle like a pet. He points at the bow. âI need you to ferry this to the far pier. Iâll be across with the main line. Youâll hand it up.â
âMe?â You sound brave and confident (you do not). âHand up a rope? I can hand up a rope.â
âYou can,â he says, like a command. âAnd you will keep three points of contact at all times. You will not lean out. If anyone whistles at you from another boat, you will not turn your head. You will ignore compliments. You will move like a person who knows they are precious cargo.â
He says it so gravely that your throat tightens. âYes,â you manage.
âAnd button your collar.â
You do. He watches, nods once in stern approval, and thenâgently, which you do not think he knows how to do ordinarilyâhe settles the coil into your hands and steps back. The skiff bobs. The canal looks suddenly like an exam. The far pier looks like graduation.
You push off. The city gathers itself around you: bridges like clever eyebrows, laundry lines like bunting, small boats nosing like dogs. You keep your gaze on your destination and steer with little strokes, terrified of overcorrecting, determined not to make a spectacle. When a pair of teenagers on a passing bull-wherry wolf-whistle, you lock your eyes on a point in space and become a statue. I am a respectable dock person, you think sternly. I am invisible. I am a beige wall.
You arrive. You do not break anything. You do not fall in. Your heart does a parade. Paulie appears on the pier above, rope over his shoulder, the sun catching on his goggles. He nods. âHand it up.â
You toss the line with both hands and that careful, teacher-approved arc you practiced with apples in your lodging when no one else was looking. It loops over the post with a tidy grace that makes Tilestone swear in admiration somewhere behind you. Paulieâs mouth opens as if he is about to praise you, then seems to become aware of itself and clamps shut. He tightens the line. âAdequate,â he says.
âAdequate,â you echo, dizzy with triumph. Youâd embroider the word on a pillow if you owned one.
The rest of the afternoon passes in the softened glow that follows surviving something precarious in front of someone who matters. The city leans toward evening. Shadows lengthen; gulls hold congress on the pilings and gossip like aunts. A light breeze carries the promise of a sea change, not an Aqua Laguna loomingâjust the ordinary smoothing of the day into evening. You sweep the last of the sawdust into a bin and set your broom against a post.
âApprentice,â Paulie says, materializing with that uncanny ability he has to be everywhere youâre least prepared. He nods at a covered knot of canvas on a bench. âFor you.â
You look. Lift the corner. Itâs a lunch pail, the handle oiled, the lid tied down withâof courseâa neat little hitch. Inside are two onigiri, a skewer of pickled daikon, and a wad of fried fish wrapped in paper. Your stomach, which had been making polite throat-clearing noises all afternoon, breaks into full opera.
âIâthisâ?â
âYou didnât eat,â he says, folding his arms. âYou get wobbly when you donât eat. Wobbly people fall in canals. Do not fall in my canal.â
Your chest is suddenly too small for your ribs. You grip the pail. âThank you,â you say softly.
âDonât thank me.â He waves a hand, almost panicked by the sincerity floating in the air. âThank the fish. And. And keep your shirt buttoned.â He turns. Stops. Without looking back, he adds, âGood work today.â
You sit on the bench as if your knees have been unknotted, and you eat slowly so you can store the taste of this moment alongside the smell of sawdust and the sound of rope sliding through callused hands. Around you, Dock One unwinds into evening. Lulu debates fate with a seagull. Kaku explains to no one that the pitch of the sunset is approximately twenty-seven degrees. Tilestone laughs like a kettle coming to boil. Paulie moves through the last tasks of the day, a quiet certainty in the making of things safe.
After the tools are put away and the tarps pulled tight, after the last checklist box is inked and the last line is coiled into a sleeping spiral, the crew drifts away to their own tides. You stand at the edge of the pier and watch the city light its lanterns. The canal takes each tiny flame and returns it doubled, tripled, a festival on the water.
âDonât lean,â Paulie says behind you.
âIâm not leaning,â you lie, inching back.
He comes to stand beside you, just close enough that the heat of him registers in your skin like an approaching hearth. You donât look at him, because if you do, you will say something unwise. You look at the reflections. You say, because words must go somewhere, âIâm serious, you know.â
âHm?â
âAboutâŚthis. Me.â You stare harder at the water. âAbout liking you. Itâs not a funny joke Iâm trying on to pass the time.â
There is a soft mechanical sound as he adjusts his goggles up into his hair. You feel the movement more than you see it. Paulie exhales as if measuring a piece of wood heâs not sure fits the plan. âYouâre earnest,â he says at last. âEarnest people get hurt.â
âIâm not glass,â you say.
âClose enough,â he mutters, and you canât help it: you laugh.
âPaulie,â you say, and the name comes out like stepping onto a plank youâre pretty sure will hold. âYou donât have to take me seriously. Iâm doing that part. Just⌠donât tell me not to, and donât call it a joke.â
Silence. The water flickers silver and gold, then settles into a more modest brass. Somewhere, a musician tunes a shamisen on a balcony. A yagara bull sighs like a bellows.
âAt Dock One,â he says carefully, âwe secure what we care about. So it doesnât drift.â
âOkay,â you whisper.
He clears his throat, embarrassed by his own sincerity. âYouâll be late. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Come back and⌠be adequate again tomorrow.â
âIs that a compliment?â
âItâs a goal,â he says, but the edge of his mouth betrays him.
You turn to go. The city opens like a fan, evening wind soft against your face, wooden balconies cluttered with plants and laundry, laughter running along the rails. You take three steps and hear rope hiss. You glance back.
Heâs tossed you something. Instinct reaches up before your mind does, and your hand closes around it. Itâs a small knot: a loop tied in a neat, compact bend, practical and tidy, a shipwrightâs gesture in place of a flower.
âFor your notebook,â he says, not quite meeting your eyes. âPractice it. It holds under strain.â
You nod, because your throat is too tight for grace. You tuck the knot into your pocket like a talisman and set off along the pier, each lantern a bead on the eveningâs string. Behind you, you hear him pull a tarp tighter than the wind requires, because safety is his love letter and he writes it even when no one is watching.
Water 7 murmurs. The canals keep their own counsel. You step into the cityâs gentle night with a knot in your pocket, a new word embroidered on your ribsâadequateâand a plan, stubborn as a length of rope: learn, steady, show him youâre not glass. If he wants everything secured, you will become the thing that knows how to tie itself to a life here and to him.
And tomorrow, with your collar buttoned and your sleeves modest, you will throw that line even cleaner. You will ferry the skiff like a professional. You will memorize the knots until your fingers dream in loops. And one dayâone dayâwhen you say his name, it wonât feel like a step into air. It will feel like placing your foot on wood you helped cut, sand, and lay; it will feel like a deck you helped build, steady under your weight.
Tonight, though, you make it home on the last yagara, eat the last of the fish cold on your window ledge, and hold the little rope loop up to the moon until the silver makes it glow. Then you put it under your pillow and sleep like someone who has tied something down so it canât drift away.
Summary: Princess Y/Nâs kingdom is falling apart, and her familyâs only hope is her marriage to a cruel, old king. Desperate, she makes a reckless choice one nightâand wakes up in Niji Vinsmokeâs bed. Now, caught between a dangerous engagement and Nijiâs growing interest, Y/N must navigate a deadly game of survival where one wrong move could cost her everything.
Note: And the end. Thank you for every read, like, comment and shares. It is not the end for the Vinsmoke brothers, in december it's getting green around here. Also! Thr first chapter of Dock One (Paulie x gn Reader) will be posted as well. :)
Female Reader. Sensitive topics. Hard language. Slight Gore. Slow Updates. Enemies to lovers. Sex mentioned. Forced marriage. Death mentioned. Sensitive topics. Abuse. Blood. Mention of virginity loss.
The days after the duel blurred together.
At first, no one spoke about the fight itself. The officials drafted the report, Judge reviewed it, Zeangâs delegation signed it with stiff, trembling hands. The story that reached the world was simple: Prince Niji Vinsmoke defeated his brother Ichiji in an officially sanctioned duel. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But everyone on that deck knew the truth wasnât that clean.
Zeang kept his poise through the ceremony, offering polite congratulations, but the fury behind his eyes was unmistakable. Within hours his ships were preparing to depart, banners rolled tight, crew silent. By dawn the next day, they were gone.
A week later, rumors drifted back across the sea. A storm, they said. A malfunction in the navigation systems.
Three of Zeangâs ships sank before reaching safe waters.
No survivors.
No explanations.
Germa called it unfortunate.
Judge called it natureâs course.
Niji said nothing.
Twelve days after the battle of the brothers, you were married.
It wasnât grand. GERMA didnât do grand â only precise. The ceremony took place on the main deck beneath the midday sun, with the ocean stretched out around you like a mirror. Your gown shimmered faintly in the wind; his uniform gleamed spotless, not a trace of the duel remaining.
Judge officiated. Your parents stood beside you. The words were brief, efficient, binding.
When it was done, Niji leaned close just long enough to whisper, âGuess youâre really stuck with me now.â
His tone was teasing, but his eyes said something quieter. Something you didnât press him to name.
Life after that was⌠strange. Manageable.
You never expected love â not the kind youâd once dreamed about â but what you found was a rhythm that made sense. He didnât cage you. He didnât order you around. You learned how to talk without always fighting, how to move around each other without losing yourselves. Sometimes he even smiled for real.
Freedom, in its own sharp-edged way.
Your parents returned home soon after the wedding, relieved, proud, a little wary. Their letters arrived sealed and careful, always ending with we trust youâre safe.
And Hitomi? She married a prince her own age â from a kingdom known more for its gardens than its armies. You found out through an official announcement weeks later: a photograph of her standing beside him, both of them smiling with practiced grace. She looked⌠content. Maybe even happy.
When you showed the clipping to Niji, he barely glanced at it. âGood for her,â he said, and went back to his tools.
At night, when the ship is quiet and the world beyond the porthole is nothing but waves and sky, you sometimes think about how it all began â the bet, the fight, the railing, the fall. The way everything spun out of control and somehow landed here.
It isnât a fairytale. It never was.
But itâs yours.
And somewhere in the hum of the ship, beneath the steady rhythm of machinery and the heartbeat beside you, that old warmth still lingers â stubborn, alive, and impossible to forget.
The hum of the engines is the heartbeat of the ship. After a while you start to hear it even when it isnât there. It fills the background as you sprawl across the wide bunk that technically isnât yours, a book open in front of you, bare feet pressed against the cool sheets. The lights above are a little too bright, but you like them; they make the pages glow. They make the room feel alive.
Outside the porthole the sea rolls by in endless gray-blue ribbons. GERMA doesnât anchor; it drifts, always moving, always humming. Youâve learned to sleep with that sound, to read with it, to breathe with it.
The door hisses open.
âYouâre in my room again.â
The voice is unmistakableâsharp, faintly incredulous, with that rough edge that always gives away when heâs more tired than angry.
You donât look up. âTechnically itâs our room now.â
Thereâs the smallest pause, the sound of metal boots on the floor, then a quiet scoff.
âDonât start that. Youâve got your own quarters. Whole section of the deck Judge insisted on. Go use it.â
You turn a page with deliberate care. âBut your lightingâs better.â
âMy lighting?â he repeats, deadpan.
âAnd the view,â you add. âAnd the chair. And the bed.â
He makes a noise that could mean anything from disbelief to surrender. âMy bed,â he corrects.
You lift your eyes. Heâs standing a few steps inside the room, still half in uniform, jacket unzipped. His hairâs damp from training, the blue catching the overhead light. He looks annoyed, but youâve been around him long enough to see the fatigue underneathâthe way his shoulders settle when heâs home.
âPeace,â you say, pretending to read again. âThatâs what you said, right? You wanted your peace?â
âSomething like that.â
âWell, Iâm very peaceful.â
He laughs once, quietly, tossing his gloves onto the table. âYou are the least peaceful person Iâve ever met.â
âFlattery will get you everywhere.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âYou say that every day.â
âAnd you keep proving me right.â
You close the book, mark the page with your thumb, and grin at him. âYou like me here.â
He raises an eyebrow. âDo I?â
âYes. After training, you always come back, act all dramatic about me stealing your space, then stay anyway. Itâs a pattern.â
âMaybe Iâm checking that you havenât broken anything.â
You gesture to the pristine walls. âDo I look destructive to you?â
âDo you want me to answer that honestly?â
He crosses his arms but the corner of his mouth twitches. The flicker of amusement softens his face just enough to make you forget, for a heartbeat, who he used to be. He still carries himself like a weapon, but lately, when he walks into this room, he lets the armor loosen.
âAdmit it,â you say. âYouâd miss me if I actually stayed in my own quarters.â
âKeep dreaming.â
âI do. Itâs entertaining.â
He exhales, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ridiculous woman, and sits down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. He doesnât look at you right away, just at his gloves on the table, the faint lines across his knuckles. The silence between you stretches, filled only by the engineâs hum and the faint rhythm of waves against steel.
You rest your chin on your knee. âYou worked too long again.â
âI trained,â he corrects.
âYou call it training. I call it trying to break every bone you have for fun.â
He glances sideways. âYou worried about me?â
âOf course not,â you say too quickly.
He smirks. âLiar.â
You toss a pillow at him. He catches it easily, sets it beside him without comment. The look he gives you now is half challenge, half curiosity.
âWhy are you really in here, Y/N?â
You shrug. âBecause itâs quiet.â
âItâs never quiet when youâre around.â
âThen why donât you make me leave?â
He doesnât answer. He leans back, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like heâs weighing whether itâs worth pretending. âBecause if I throw you out,â he says finally, âyouâll just come back.â
You smile, triumphant. âExactly.â
He shakes his head, defeated but not unhappy. âYouâre trouble.â
âAnd yet you still married me.â
âDonât remind me.â
âWhy not? I think itâs adorable.â
âYou have a strange definition of adorable.â
âYou married me,â you remind him again, teasing. âThat says something.â
He groans quietly, running a hand through his hair. âYouâre going to drive me insane.â
âAlready have,â you say, settling back against the pillows. âBut you like it.â
He looks at you properly now, eyes tracing your grin, the way you fold your legs under you, the open book sliding half off your lap. Whatever retort he had dies before it reaches his mouth. He just exhales slowly, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âI try.â
He turns his head away, hiding the rest of the smile. âIf youâre staying, at least move over. Youâre taking up all the space.â
âSee?â you say, scooting a little but not much. âYou do like having me here.â
âDonât push it.â
You hold up your book again, pretending to read, and he sits beside you. The bed creaks slightly, the space between you small but comfortable. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint bite of ozone that never quite leaves his clothes.
A few minutes pass like thatâquiet, companionable, normal in a way you never thought possible. When you glance over, heâs leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed, listening to the engines. Not guarding, not performing, just breathing.
You smile to yourself and whisper without looking up, âTold you.â
He opens one eye. âTold me what?â
âThat you like me here.â
He rolls his eyes, but he doesnât move away. âYouâre insufferable.â
âYouâre comfortable,â you counter.
For a second he looks as if heâll argue. Then he sighs, small and resigned, and lets his head rest back against the wall again. âMaybe.â
You grin and turn the page. Outside, the sea murmurs against the hull. Inside, the two of you sit in easy silenceâmocking, teasing, alive. The world hasnât changed much, but you have. And so has he.
The ship hums on, carrying both of you forward, the sound of its engines blending with the soft crackle of something warmer that neither of you bother to name.
Summary: When Pro Hero Hawks notices a quiet woman working across the street, she becomes an unexpected calm in his double life of secrets and danger. But when his mission collides with her world, ordinary days turn into something far more perilousâand the line between protection and obsession begins to blur.
Note: I released it on private yesterday. I am sorryâ
Female Reader. Slow Burn Romance. Suspense / Thriller. Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers. Mutual Pining. Protective Hawks. Double Agent Hawks. Secret Meetings & Spying. Being Watched / Stalking Themes. Boundary Issues. Power Imbalance. Moral Ambiguity. Hurt/Comfort. First Aid / Wound Care. Violence. Blood. Threats of Violence. Sensitive Topics. Mentions of Past Abuse/Neglect. Financial Hardship / Poverty. Food Insecurity. Anxiety / Paranoia. Home Invasion. Strong Language.
The calendar didnât lie.
(Y/N) had stared at the little squares until the numbers blurredâpen hovering, never touching downâcounting without admitting she was counting. Weeks folded into a month and then half of another. In all that time, not a single day had passed without him.
Hawks.
He arrived like weather: red and bright and unapologetic, gusting into her small shop and scattering her neat routines like papers. Somehow heâd convinced her the mess looked better.
Now she had regulars she hadnât asked for: teenagers who giggled behind shelves of ceramic figures, office workers who âjust happened to be on lunch in the area,â even a few adults who pretended to examine postcards while their eyes never left the door. They werenât there for wind chimes.
She hated that her stomach noticed the bell before her ears did. Hated that her pulse had learned the exact weight of his wings on the air.
Nearly noon.
She wiped her hands on a cloth that was already clean and told herself she was not anticipating anything.
The bell chimed.
Cold air and sunlight slipped in around red. Feathers stirred the dust the way laughter stirs a quiet room.
âYo,â he said, easy, the way he always did.
The girl in the corner made a sound like a swallowed squeal and bent over bracelets she wasnât reading.
âRight on time,â (Y/N) muttered without looking up from nothing in particular.
âLunch is a sacred appointment,â he said, leaning his elbows on her counter like it had been built for them. Gold eyes took her inâquick, careful, cataloguingâthen softened at something he found there.
She didnât realize sheâd been holding her breath until it left her in a small sigh. He tilted his head.
âWhat?â he asked, a grin threatening.
âNothing.â She set the cloth down harder than necessary. âThinking.â
âDangerous habit.â
âMaybe.â She looked up, and he was close in a way that made space feel optional. âIâve been doing a lot of that lately.â
Something in him shiftedânot smile, not frown. A tilt of attention.
âOh yeah?â he said.
âYeah.â Her mouth was dry and she pushed through anyway. âItâs been over a month since you started⌠this.â She gestured at the space between them, the shop, the ribbon around his wrist. âSince you made yourself part of my life.â
âBest decision Iâve made in a while,â he said, light because it cost less to be.
âAnd my shop suddenly has more people who donât care what I sell. They care about you.â
âOccupational hazard,â he said, unapologetic. âSorry about the giggles.â
âAnd every day,â she continued, steadier now, âsame time. Like Iâm supposed to expect you. Like I shouldâŚâ
Her throat stuck on the next words. He waited, not helping.
ââŚbe okay with it,â she finished, low.
He didnât laugh it off. Wings drew closer to his back; the brightness in his eyes thinned to curiosity. âAnd are you?â
It landed heavy. Her hands curled against the counterâs edge. Honesty slid out before pride could catch it.
âIâm getting used to it.â
For once, he didnât make a joke. The answer did something to his face she couldnât name, a quiet relief that didnât ask anything in return.
âI still donât understand it,â she added quickly before the moment could hold. âYou said weâre friends. But friends actually⌠know things. I donât know anything real about you.â
âYou know my favorite hobby,â he said, straight-faced. âAnd you havenât thrown anything at me when I am here and living up to it.â
She gave him a look that would have made lesser men retreat. âIâm serious.â
âSo am I,â he started, then let the smirk drop because for once, levity didnât fit. He drummed his fingers on the woodâfour taps, a pauseâfeathers rousing and settling as if thinking with him.
âAlright,â he said. âYou want answers, not headlines. Fair warning: some doors stay closed.â
âIâm not asking for the whole house,â she said, quiet. âJust proof there is one.â
He held her gaze long enough to make the air feel textured. When he spoke, his voice had sand in it.
âMy childhood wasnât easy.â
He put the words down gently and didnât pick them back up. She nodded, feeling the shape of the thing without asking to see it.
âFavorite foodâs chicken,â he added, a crooked grin sliding in to spare them both. âPredictable. Versatile. Delicious.â
âObviously,â she said, and the corner of her mouth betrayed her with a curve.
âColorâs red,â he said. âObvious again.â
âA little.â
âIt suits me,â he said, as if reading from a list heâd decided could be public without consequence.
Her shoulders eased despite herself. The ordinary lowered him to earth in ways talk of missions never could.
âSeason?â she asked before she could tell herself not to ask anything else.
âFall,â he said without hesitation. âBest skies. Airâs sharp. Keeps me awake.â His eyes had gone somewhere else for a heartbeat, and when they returned, they brought a piece of that height with them.
âYou fly for fun,â she said, not a question.
âOf course,â he said. âCanât waste these on patrols.â He lifted a wing just enough to catch light. The girl in the corner whispered oh; (Y/N) barely noticed. âWork is work. The sky isââ
âFreedom,â she finished for him, soft.
Something flickered in his face. âAddictive,â he said, equally soft. âBut yeah.â
She looked down at her hands, then around her small, grounded shop. âMaybe thatâs why you come here.â
He tilted his head. âHow do you figure.â
âThis place pins you,â she said, surprising herself with the gentleness of it. âMakes you be a person. Maybe you need that.â
Silence stretched between them, not sharp, not emptyâcharged. He smiled without showing teeth. Less for show. More like agreement.
âCareful,â he murmured. âYouâre starting to sound like you know me.â
She was the one to break it, because if she didnât, something else would. âOkay, then fair. Favorite foodâchicken. Colorâred. Childhoodânot easy.â She swallowed around the last one. âThatâs something. Not a lot.â
âAsk for too much,â he warned lightly, âIâll think youâre falling for me.â
Her glare did most of the talking. âDonât deflect.â
âI donât deflect,â he said, and the humor thinned again, exposing something steadier. âI choose.â
âThen choose to tell me a true thing.â
He weighed her with that hawk attention, then nodded once as if agreeing with himself.
âI grew up where no one looked twice unless you were trouble,â he said. âOr useful.â
Her breath pulled tight. âThatâsââ
âDoorâs closed there,â he said gently, palm up: enough. âBut you can keep the key if that helps.â
It didnât, and it did. She nodded. âFine.â
âGood.â Some of the lightness returned. âThen you get to answer one.â
She blinked. âWhat?â
âYour turn,â he said, already pleased. âFavorite food. And donât say salad.â
A sound escaped her that lived somewhere between scoff and laugh. âItâs not salad.â
âThank god,â he said solemnly. âI was going to stage an intervention.â
The bell didnât ring again. The lunch rush that never really happened didnât arrive. He unwrapped takeout with a practiced efficiency and ate like someone who could do anything quickly without making it look rushed. She ate a sandwich the way you eat when youâve told your body food is optional.
âYouâre staring,â he said around a noodle, not looking up.
âIâm not.â
âYou are,â he said, amused and not unkind. âWork on your subtlety. Itâll help when you spy on me later.â
She rolled her eyes for formâs sake. He grinned like heâd gotten what he came for.
âYouâve been ignoring those,â he said, chin toward the stack of delivery boxes by the back wall. âSince Monday. Theyâre starting to feel unwanted.â
âIâll get to them.â
âIâll get to them faster,â he said cheerfully, already on his feet. At his fingersâ flick, a thin fraction of red separated, slipped across the room, and kissed open the tape with surgical care.
âThatâs cheating,â she said, joining him anyway.
âEfficient,â he corrected. âIâm a civil servant. Iâm obligated to model best practices.â
They worked in an easy rhythm: he set up, she sorted; he made space, she filled it. Mugs shone glossy in the light. She reached for one tipping from its nest and so did he; their hands met around the smooth curve of porcelain.
Warm. Solid. The shock of steady.
She didnât notice first. He did. A beat of stillness, eyes flicking to their hands, heat touching the shell of his ear where hair didnât hide it.
Then she saw, went pink, and pulled back too fast. The mug wobbled. She caught it to her chest like evidence. âIâI didnâtââ
âEasy,â he said, which did not help. âNo harm done.â
âIt was an accident.â
âMost interesting things are,â he said, smile small but genuine. âYou noticed it too.â
She hated that he was right and hated more that he was kind about it. Silence took the edges off the moment; she tore open the next box with more force than necessary.
Behind her, a quiet laugh: not mocking. Pleased.
âHey,â he said after a few minutes of cardboard and counting. His voice had dropped into the register he rarely used in public. âWe donât get a lot of moments like this.â
âLike what.â
âQuiet.â He took a step closer but didnât crowd her. âNo eyes. No noise. Just⌠us.â
The word snagged on something inside her. She turned. The look he gave her wasnât a lineâit was a reckoning.
âYouâve been careful,â he said. âMore than before. Checking the locks twice. Watching your reflection when you pass the window.â His gaze ticked to the door and back. âThatâs on me.â
Her fingers tightened on the box. âWhat are you saying.â
âThat you didnât ask for this orbit,â he said, running a hand through his hair until it stood the way it always did, more wind than style. âBut youâre in it. And people who look at me for the wrong reasons might look through me and see you.â
The room shrank; the air grew heavy. âPeople,â she echoed.
He shook his head once. âNo names. No map. But a truth: if anything happens around you, the gravity is mine.â
The anger, the fear, the ridiculous warmthâeverything in her tried to move at once. She picked one thing and stood on it. âThen why not stay away.â
For a split second, he looked surprised. Then he offered a tired smile that had too much honesty in it to be strategy. âBecause I canât.â
The answer dropped between them and ripples reached places she didnât want to name.
âYou shouldnât say things like that,â she whispered.
âProbably not,â he said. âBut better you hear truth badly timed than lies delivered sweet.â
She held onto cardboard because it was real and rough and didnât look back at her. âSo what am I supposed to do with that.â
âBe careful,â he said immediately. âKeep your head down when you can. Andââ the edge in his voice easedââtrust that Iâm not going to let anything happen to you.â
She let out something like a laugh that hurt on the way up. âYou want trust from someone you keep secrets from.â
âI want you to trust that if Iâm here, it isnât for nothing,â he said. âAnd that I keep my promises even when I donât explain them.â
The cat chose that moment to announce itself from the counter with a complaining chirp. (Y/N) scratched behind its ear to hide the way her mouth was trying to betray her. Feathers whispered behind herâa small retreat that gave space without leaving.
âThat night,â she said finally, voice thin. âIn the alley. The person you were withâwere they⌠dangerous.â
His face changed. Not much. Enough. âYes.â
âAnd if Iâd been seenââ
âYou werenât,â he said, firm enough to stop the thought before it grew teeth. âI made sure of it.â
She searched his expression and found no room for doubt. The knot in her chest pulled tighter and looser at once.
âWill I ever be safe,â she asked, âeven without you here.â
âThatâs the goal,â he said, and looked older saying it.
âNot reassuring.â
âThe best kind of truth rarely is.â
Silence built a tent around them and for a while they both let it stand. Then, in that Hawks way of his, he cut a hole in one side and let light in.
âI watched you before the alley,â he said, as if confessing to stealing something small and significant. âNot creepy. Okay, a little creepy. But Iâm busy. If I choose to waste time, it means something.â
She went still. âYou watched me.â
âYou stood out,â he said. âEveryone else sprinted. You moved like time couldnât bully you. Head down. Glasses slipping. Stubborn in a way that said youâd learned how, not been born with it. Boring,â he added, delighted. âAnd so interesting I couldnât stop.â
âThat isnât a compliment.â
âIt is to me,â he said. âBoring is safe. I forget what safe looks like until I see it.â
Before she could decide whether to be offended or warmed, he moved.
Not fast. Not like a hero. Deliberate. Closing the distance until the details of him were too available: the scar through his brow, the early line at the corner of his mouth that laughter couldnât erase, the heat in the air he carried with him.
âWhat are youââ she began, then broke off as something small wobbledâone of the porcelain foxes on the shelf behind her, teetering on the edge of disaster.
He could have flicked a feather and saved it. He reached past her instead, brushing her side with his arm, steadying the fox with careful fingers.
âAll that fuss,â he murmured, voice low enough to thread under her skin. The grin that followed was close enough to count. âOver something fragile.â
âYou couldâve used your feathers,â she managed.
âI could have,â he said, not moving back. âBut then Iâd miss this.â
The look on her face. The heat in her cheeks. The awareness cracked open between them.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
His phone broke the spell with ruthless timing. He sighed, checked the screen, and she watched focus drop over him like a visor. The casual mask slid back into place so smoothly it made her ache.
âDuty,â he said lightly, though his eyes had gone sharp. He tucked the phone away, stepped back, and the room remembered how big it was.
âGuess Iâll save the rest for next time,â he added, because he couldnât help himself. âDonât miss me too much.â
The bell marked his exit. The space heâd taken didnât seal behind him for a long minute. (Y/N) realized her knees were not committed to holding her up and leaned harder into the counter until they promised to behave.
Evening took the city down a few notches. The cold came in quiet. (Y/N) pulled her hood up and kept her head down, the cat trotting along with the confidence of an animal who believed doors opened for it.
You probably shouldnât walk alone in the dark anymore.
She scanned shadows because now she always scanned shadows. Every long shape under a streetlamp could have held a watcher. Every reflection in a window might have been a second set of eyes. She hated what fear did to the familiarâhow it made the block sheâd lived on for months feel like a mouth that might close.
And under the fear, like a second current, something she hated maybe more: the fact that the only solid under her feet was a promise from a man who lived by keeping things unsaid.
She unlocked her door with fingers that tried to rush and punished herself by going slower. Inside: curtains already drawn, bolts already set, the small grace of heat humming to life on time. The cat stretched, then collapsed theatrically on the rug as if walking home had been labor.
She slid her back down the door and sat with her knees up and her arms around them, the apartment dim around her without feeling empty.
Trust should have terrified her. It did. But it also let her lungs fill all the way for the first time since sheâd stepped into the dark.
Maybe she would always be a person who counted locks and listened for taps. Maybe safety would never be a thing she owned, only a thing she borrowed.
But for now, in this small room with its secondhand warmth and its ridiculous cat, she believed one thing enough to put her head back and close her eyes:
If she fell, he would catch her before the ground remembered her name.
Summary: After losing her memory in a storm, a young Marine remembers only the name âMihawkâ and sets out to find him, convinced he holds the key to her past.
Note: Well, and here we have it, Y/N's past. It was, well, not that easy for me back then to really find a plot that I liked. But now, Y/N can focus on rebuilding herself, her past and maybe...a certain relationship.
Female Reader. Memory Loss. Slow Burn. Dark Themes. Psychological Manipulation. Violence. Blood. Death. Mentions of past intimacy. Power imbalance. Obsession. Slow-building tension. Emotional distress. Amnesia. Enemies to lovers. Gore. Gaslighting. Kidnapping. Torture. Isolation. Betrayal. Hints of sexual content.
The dawn came pale and brittle.
A thin veil of fog clung to the horizon, blurring the line between sea and sky. The air was heavy with salt and silence, the kind that made every sound seem louder â the groan of the mast, the flap of canvas, the rhythmic lap of waves against wood.
You had stopped trying to make sense of him long ago, and yet⌠you still wanted to. That was the most dangerous part.
You hadnât slept after that conversation. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice again â that maddening calm, that deliberate ambiguity.
It was not meaningless.
Whatever that meant.
By the time the first slant of sunlight broke through the mist, Mihawk was already standing at the helm of his ship. His posture was as immaculate as ever â no sign of fatigue, no trace of last nightâs tension. He might as well have been carved from the same dark wood his ship was made of.
When he caught you watching him from your own deck, he didnât speak. He merely gestured â a small, silent motion with two fingers â for you to follow.
You hesitated only a moment before untying the connecting ropes. Your smaller vessel drifted closer until you could stepped across the space that separated the two. The sound of your boots against the wood seemed almost intrusive in the quiet.
âWhere are we going?â you asked.
Mihawk didnât turn his head. âYouâll see.â
The fog thickened as the morning wore on, swallowing the sun until the sea turned gray and shapeless. Time slipped strangely here â minutes stretching thin, the rhythm of waves becoming hypnotic. You stood straight, squinting through the mist, until a shape began to emerge on the horizon.
Of course.
You almost laughed. You shouldâve known better than to expect a straight answer.
At first, you thought it was a mirage â a ripple of darker gray against the endless pallor. Then it solidified: jagged cliffs, blackened trees, and the faint skeletal outline of what might once have been fortifications.
A chill crept down your spine.
As they drew closer, the details sharpened. The shoreline was choked with wreckage â splintered ships, rusted cannons, half-buried blades jutting from the sand like bones. The air grew still, thick with the scent of salt and old metal.
The island looked⌠wrong.
Not deserted â dead.
Your throat tightened.
You stepped onto the shore cautiously. The sand felt coarse, mixed with ash and fragments of something that glittered faintly in the light â not shells, not stone.
Glass. Melted glass.
âWhat is this place?â you asked quietly, scanning the desolation. âA battlefield?â
Mihawk followed you onto the shore, his boots sinking into the gray sand with slow, deliberate steps. âOnce,â he said. âLong ago.â
You turned toward him. âYouâve been here before.â
A faint pause. âYes.â
The single word carried weight. You felt it immediately â that subtle current of something unsaid, pulling beneath the surface.
You stopped when you saw it â a crater carved deep into the hillside, as if the world itself had been torn open. The edges were scorched, streaked with soot. Around it lay shattered blades, splintered spears, rusted bits of armor. The ground bore dark stains that the rain hadnât washed away.
You started walking. The path wound upward toward a ridge, where the remains of fortifications jutted against the sky â scorched stone, blackened beams, a collapsed watchtower leaning like a broken spine. The higher you climbed, the more the scent changed: from salt to something older, deeper.
Burnt powder. Charred earth.
A shiver crawled through you. The air felt too thick to breathe. âThisâŚâ you whispered. âThis looks likeââ
The word wouldnât come out.
Your pulse quickened. Images flickered at the edge of your mind â flashes of movement, a roar in your ears, the stench of blood. You pressed a hand to your temple, fighting to focus, but the fog in your head pulsed with color and sound. Screams. Fire. A voice shouting your name.
You swayed.
Mihawk was beside you in an instant, his hand catching your elbow before you could stumble. His grip was steady â grounding. But his expression remained inscrutable.
âWhat is this?â you managed, breath trembling. âWhy bring me here?â
His eyes met yours â calm, unblinking, like the sea after a storm. âBecause you asked to remember,â he said simply.
Your stomach dropped. âThisâthis is whereââ
He didnât answer. He didnât need to. His silence was confirmation enough.
You tore your arm free and took a step back, gaze darting over the ruins, the blood-stained earth, the weapons left to rot. Every detail pressed against your skull like a memory clawing its way out. The dream flooded back â the admiralâs voice, the blackened ground, and him, standing in the chaos.
You turned back toward Mihawk, heart hammering. âYou knew,â you accused, voice barely steady. âYou knew what this place was.â
His expression didnât change. âYes.â
âHow could youââ You broke off, shaking your head. âWhy bring me here? Why make meââ
âBecause truth demands confrontation,â he interrupted, his voice a low, unwavering thread through the wind. âYou will not remember by running from it.â
You stared at him, chest tight. âYou think this will help?â
âI know it will.â His gaze drifted over the landscape, his tone almost contemplative. âThis island remembers even when men forget. The ground does not lie.â
You swallowed hard, eyes burning. âAnd you?â you whispered. âDo you remember it?â
Mihawkâs eyes flicked back to yours. âEvery moment.â
The wind rose, carrying the faint scent of ash from somewhere deeper inland. You turned away, unable to meet his gaze anymore. The horizon swam before your eyes, blurred by the ghosts of memories you werenât ready to face.
Behind you, Mihawk stood silent, the sea wind stirring his coat. He watched you without a word â the hawk surveying the aftermath of a hunt long finished.
He had brought you here to make you remember.
And part of you feared that when you finally did, you might wish you hadnât.
You followed the faint curve of a shattered road, every step stirring dust that shimmered faintly in the pale light. The silence was absolute, the kind that seemed to hum inside your skull. Not even gulls dared circle above.
Mihawk trailed a short distance behind â soundless, composed, his presence a cold anchor at your back. He didnât guide you, didnât speak. He didnât have to. You could feel it: he wanted you to walk this path. He had brought you here for this.
At first, you tried to keep your mind blank. To think only of the sea, the sound of waves far below the cliffs. But memory was a patient predator. It circled, closing in.
A flicker â faint, sharp â like a match striking in the dark.
You stopped, breath catching. Your fingers brushed the wall beside you â blackened stone, cracked through the middle. When you looked closer, you saw faint carvings half-consumed by soot. Symbols. Swirling lines, waves, stars. Your peopleâs script.
A childâs laugh.
The scent of salt and smoke.
A womanâs voice calling your name.
Then â silence. Screaming silence.
You staggered back, heart pounding. âNoâŚâ
But the air shifted. The fog that had blanketed the island thinned, and for a heartbeat you could almost see them â ghostly shapes moving through the ruins. Men hauling water. Women mending sails. Children chasing each other through the narrow paths. Their laughter drifted like echoes from another world.
You squeezed your eyes shut. âStop,â you whispered. But the ghosts didnât stop. They only grew louder.
Gunfire cracked in the distance.
Your breath hitched. The phantom smell of gunpowder hit your lungs, searing and thick. You heard shouting now â commands barked in Marine voices, boots pounding the ground, the shriek of cannon fire. The images came faster, disjointed â flashes of red and black, of flags burning, of steel clashing in the narrow alleys.
Your knees gave out before you realized youâd fallen. The sand scraped your palms raw. You pressed them to your ears, trying to drown out the rising roar, but the voices only sharpened, clear as daylight now.
You saw yourself then â not as you were now, but younger, your hair matted with ash, eyes bright with fury and fear. You were shouting orders, dragging a wounded man by the arm. Behind you, the world burned.
âEvacuate the harborâ!â
âTheyâre firing on civiliansâ!â
âGet the children belowâ!â
And then â him.
Mihawk.
The vision hit like a blade. He appeared through the smoke, coat torn, blade in hand, eyes cold and unyielding. You remembered the shock that had frozen your body then â seeing him amidst the chaos, realizing the man youâd once reported on, was cutting his way through the very people you were trying to save.
Then everything turned to fire.
You remembered shouting his name.
You remembered him looking up â pausing â just for a breath.
You gasped, stumbling to your feet, clutching your head. âStopâpleaseâstop!â
Behind you, Mihawk didnât move. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze tracked every tremor, every breath.
You turned on him, shaking. âYouââ Your voice broke. âYou were...Youââ
Your words faltered as another wave of memory hit â the explosion at the ridge, the deafening blast that threw you backward, the heat swallowing everything. The last thing youâd seen before darkness had taken you was his silhouette against the fire, walking toward you.
Your knees buckled. You hit the ground hard, breath ragged. Tears blurred your vision, though you couldnât tell if they were from pain, smoke, or memory.
âI remember,â you whispered, voice raw. âGod, I rememberâŚâ
The ghosts didnât vanish â not yet. They lingered at the edges of your sight: a mother clutching her child, a man falling with a shout cut short. You reached for them, for something solid, but your hand met only air.
When you finally looked up, Mihawk was closer â no longer behind you, but beside. He hadnât touched you, but his shadow fell over yours.
Your voice trembled. âYou killed them.â
He didnât flinch. âI killed many,â he said quietly. âMarines. Soldiers. Rebels. I no longer distinguish.â
Your nails dug into your palms. âYou were supposed to protect them.â
âI was not,â he said, tone flat. âI was never sent to protect anyone.â
That truth burned hotter than fire. âThen why me?â you whispered. âWhy did you take me?â
He regarded you for a long, silent moment. Then, as the wind shifted and scattered ash across the dead field, he said, âBecause you were still alive.â
The answer hit you like a slap â not cruel, just brutally honest. It was so perfectly him. Simple. Cold. Yet you could hear what he didnât say beneath it â the faint echo of something that had stopped him that day. Something he would never admit aloud.
You drew a shaking breath. The last pieces were falling into place now. The clanâs laughter. The blood. The sea. The moment youâd reached for him through the smoke and he hadnât raised his blade.
Tears stung your eyes, unbidden. âI tried to save them,â you said. âI thought if I just⌠if I could reach them before the Marines didââ
âYou could not,â he interrupted softly. âNo one could.â
You turned your face toward him, the ache in your chest unbearable. âAnd you still brought me here. To relive all this.â
âYes,â he said simply.
âWhy?â Your voice cracked on the word.
âSo you will stop pretending the past is something you can run from.â
You wanted to hate him for it. You wanted to scream. But all you could do was stare at the horizon, the ruins bathed in a sickly morning light, the wind whispering through what remained of your peopleâs graves.
Slowly, the ghosts faded. The smoke dissipated. All that was left was silence â and Mihawk, standing in it like a monument.
Your voice came out hollow. âIâm the only survivor?â
His eyes didnât leave yours. âThat is what I believed.â
You blinked up at him. âBelieved?â
He inclined his head slightly, the faintest shift. âThere were rumors. Ships that fled before the bombardment. Children taken inland. I do not know if they lived.â His tone didnât change, but something in it softened. âI did not look.â
âBecause you didnât care?â you asked bitterly.
He studied you for a long moment. âBecause I would have killed what I found,â he said quietly. âAnd I had already decided once not to.â
The words stole your breath.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind carried the sound of the sea â distant, indifferent.
You closed your eyes, letting the memories settle, no longer fighting them. The horror, the grief, the truth â they were yours to bear.
When you opened your eyes again, Mihawk was already turning back toward the shore, his coat stirring around his boots like smoke.
âThere is nothing left for you here.â
You hesitated, glancing once more at the ruins. The wind whispered through them, carrying with it a faint sound â maybe the sea, maybe something else. Then you followed him, because you always did, and because for the first time since youâd met him, you finally understood what it meant when he said:
I could not.
The Cleansing of Ardium...Well.
It began, as most tragedies do, with an order sealed in wax and blood.
The Gorosei called it a containment directive. To the rest of the world, it was known as Operation Duskfall â a classified Marine mission to extinguish an âunauthorized presenceâ on the island of Ardium. The truth, buried beneath decades of silence, was far simpler and infinitely crueler: the Elders feared what they could not control.
The people of Ardium â the so-called Listeners â were a small, isolated clan. They could sense the sea, feel the faintest vibrations in the current, hear what others could not. Not sorcery, not science â just an instinct passed through blood. It frightened the Government. Some whispered that, if the clanâs ability matured, they might hear the Voice of the Worlditself â truths the Gorosei had buried centuries ago.
So the Elders decided: the clan would not exist.
Y/N was not a warrior of that clan. She barely remembered its shores, having been taken from the island as a child and absorbed into Marine service. No one expected greatness from her â least of all herself. She wasnât disciplined enough for swordsmanship, too impulsive for proper rank. She stumbled where others marched, tripped over her scabbard, lost her weapon more often than she drew it.
But she looked. She listened. She had that quiet intuition that made her a useful scout, even if she never truly understood why.
When Mihawk gained the title of Warlord, she was assigned to him â not as an ally, but as an observer. A low-ranking Marine with a pen, a logbook, and orders to report every movement of the worldâs greatest swordsman. The job should have killed her. It nearly did â several times.
And yet, each time she almost died, he pulled her back.
A banditâs blade, a collapsing pier, a storm that ripped her ship in two â Mihawk saved her not out of duty, but out of⌠something else. Irritation, perhaps. Curiosity. Amusement. She was hopeless, ridiculous â and persistent. Always watching him, always asking questions he refused to answer.
Then, one day, she was gone.
Transferred, they said. Reassigned. Lost at sea. Mihawk accepted the explanation at first, until silence stretched too long. Then the questions began â quiet, almost careless ones. No answers came.
He didnât know it then, but the same day he noticed her absence, Operation Duskfall had begun.
The directive came from the top: the Listeners of Ardium were to be âpurified.â
The Gorosei wanted no survivors, no records, no sympathy.
When he received her reassignment papers, stamped with Tokumaâs authority, he had understood too late what they meant.
The Marines mobilized under Admiral Tokuma, who carried the Eldersâ personal seal.
Among his officers was Captain Aritomi, a veteran known for his quiet honor. He had trained Y/N since her enlistment. Sheâd been like a younger sister â unskilled, reckless, but full of spirit.
By the time he reached her, she was already aboard the fleet, staring at the coordinates that led to a place she somehow recognized â though she didnât yet remember why.
âThey said there are civilians,â she argued. âFamilies. We canât justââ
âYou canât go ashore,â Aritomi told her as the ships neared Ardium.
His voice was low, urgent. âOrders are absolute. You donât understand whatâs coming.â
âWe can,â he interrupted, bitterness twisting his words. âWe will. Thatâs the order.â
When she tried to push past him, he caught her wrist. His hand shook. âIf you go down there, theyâll call you a traitor. Youâll die with them.â
She stared at him, wide-eyed. âThen what do you expect me to do?â
But she didnât run.
He hesitated â the first time he had ever disobeyed silence.
âRun,â he said. âRun, and donât come back.â
The cannons fired before dawn.
The first volley reduced the harbor to splinters. The second buried the forests in smoke. By the third, the air itself burned.
The Marines advanced through the ashes, rifles drawn, blades glinting. They expected resistance. What they found were families â the remnants of a people trying to flee.
The Goroseiâs orders allowed no exceptions.
Y/N ran through the chaos, shouting herself hoarse, pulling wounded from the rubble. Her training meant nothing here. She didnât know how to fight, only how to stand between the dying and the ones who killed them.
And then she saw him.
Mihawk, walking through the fire. Yoru gleamed black and gold in the light of the burning sky. He had been summoned under the false pretense of quelling a pirate uprising. He expected challenge; he found massacre.
Aritomi reached her before Mihawk did. A cannon blast had torn the street apart; Y/N was bleeding, barely conscious. He hauled her up, half-dragging her toward the cliffs.
For a moment, they only stared. Recognition. Shock.
Then the next shell fell.
âYou have to go,â he rasped. âI canât stop this.â
âAritomiââ
âIf you stay, theyâll kill you. And Iâll have to let them.â His grip tightened on her shoulders. âI canât defy the order. Not them. Not the Elders.â
His eyes burned, wet with smoke and grief. âBut I wonât kill you either.â
He shoved her toward the edge of the ridge â toward the dark figure waiting beyond the smoke.
âGo,â Aritomi said. âHeâll keep you alive. Thatâs all I can do.â
The next explosion swallowed him whole.
Mihawk caught her as the shockwave hit. Her body was limp, the back of her head slick with blood. For once, he hesitated. The ground trembled beneath his boots, screams fading beneath the roar of the sea. He looked down at her face â soot-streaked, eyes fluttering â and something in him refused.
He turned from the fire and carried her to his ship.
Behind him, Ardium died.
The report listed zero survivors. The Elders congratulated themselves on a âclean operation.â
Mihawk gave no statement. He neither confirmed nor denied his presence.
Y/N awoke days later on a remote island, her memory fractured and rewritten by pain.
She didnât know who she was, only that the man who left her there had eyes like sunlight on a blade.
And now, as the tide draws them back to that glass-coated shore, the sea whispers what the Elders tried to bury:
that history does not forget,
and neither do the dead.
The wind had changed.
It came cold from the east, carrying the scent of ash and salt and something older â something that made your stomach twist before your mind caught up. The air pressed against your skin like a memory, and when you breathed it in, your head began to ache. Not the dull, tired ache of exhaustion â this one was sharp, buried deep, clawing to get out.
You staggered, one hand bracing against a half-collapsed wall. The stone was warm, too warm, as though it still remembered the fire that had once consumed it. Every heartbeat throbbed behind your eyes. Fragments flickered there â flashes of faces, smoke, the sound of cannons splitting the sky.
And Aritomi. The man who had killed Renji...And yet...
You saw him in the haze â his uniform half torn, his hands shaking as he shoved you toward the cliff, shouting something you couldnât quite make out through the roar. His mouth moved again and again, and finally, the words found you.
Run, kid. Donât look back.
You clutched your head, gasping. The world tilted. You could still feel his hand on your arm, the way heâd pushed you â not out of anger, but out of desperation. The smell of blood, the grit of gunpowder in your mouth, the heat of the explosion that swallowed him whole. Youâd forgotten that sound â how it didnât even sound like fire, more like the earth itself had screamed.
Your knees hit the ground before you realized you were falling. The glass-sand sliced your palms, but you barely felt it. Everything hurt and nothing did.
Behind you, footsteps â steady, slow. The kind you would know anywhere.
âMihawk,â you breathed, though it came out more like a plea than a name.
He didnât answer right away. His shadow fell over you, cutting through the harsh light. You could feel his gaze on the back of your neck. For a moment, you hated it. You wanted him to say something, anything, but all he did was stand there, calm, unmoved, as if waiting for you to finish drowning.
The pain surged again, a knife behind your temples. The world around you blurred â the ruins melting into memory. You saw the beach again, the Marines shouting, Mihawkâs silhouette through the smoke, blood on your hands. The smell of salt turned to iron. You heard your own voice screaming, though you couldnât remember what for.
When it finally ebbed, you were trembling.
You looked up at Mihawk, your voice hoarse. âHe was trying to save me.â
It wasnât a question. It was the only truth that made sense anymore.
You let out a hollow laugh. It cracked halfway through. âAnd what was mine?â
Mihawkâs expression didnât shift, but his eyes softened just enough to tell you he knew.
âHe made his choice,â he said quietly. âAs did I.â
He tilted his head slightly, gaze unreadable. âTo live.â
The wind picked up, scattering dust and ash across the ruins. You could taste it on your tongue, bitter and dry. The ocean was just a dull shimmer at the edge of the world now â no longer blue, just gray.
You shook your head, pressing your palms against your temples, trying to steady yourself. âThen why does it feel like I didnât?â
The words came out before you could stop them â trembling, broken, too honest.
You didnât meet his eyes when you said the next part.
âBecause I canât feel anything anymore.â
You wanted to cry, to rage, to scream, but there was nothing left. The memories had burned it all away. You were full of ghosts, and yet somehow empty.
Mihawk didnât touch you, didnât move closer, but his voice, when it came, was quieter than youâd ever heard it.
âMemories return as wounds first,â he said. âPain is the price of truth.â
You looked up at him then, searching his face for anger, for pity â for something. But there was only calm, the kind that came after ruin. His coat stirred in the wind, his eyes catching the fading light, and for the first time, you realized he wasnât as untouched by this place as he looked.
You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest almost unbearable. âI lost everything.â
His gaze lingered a moment longer before drifting toward the horizon. âYou survived,â he said simply. âThat is not nothing.â
You almost laughed at that â bitter, quiet. âIt feels like it.â
Mihawk said nothing more. He turned away, the movement smooth, deliberate. His boots crunched over the scorched sand as he started toward the shore. He didnât tell you to follow. He didnât have to.
You sat there for a long while, watching his back against the dying light, the sea whispering to the glass around you. The ghosts were gone now, the echoes fading. Only the ache remained â dull, constant, familiar.
When you finally stood, your legs trembled. The wind tugged at your coat, cold and relentless. You turned toward the sea â the same sea that had taken everything from you â and for a fleeting moment, you thought you heard it breathe.
I want to write as well but always compare myself to others ......do you have any tips?
Itâs totally normal to compare yourself to others, I do it too. Sometimes I think Iâm not âgood enough,â or that maybe I should just quit because everyone else seems so much better.
But hereâs the thing: thatâs all in your head. Itâs not real. No matter how âgoodâ you are at writing, there will always be people who enjoy your work. Theyâll connect with your style, use your stories to relax, or just escape reality for a while. And if someone doesnât like it? They simply wonât read it â thatâs it.
Personally, I find Tumblr to be a pretty positive place. When there is hate, itâs usually just ignorance, which, honestly, is easier to deal with.
At the end of the day, you write for yourself. As long as you enjoy it, itâs always worth it.
Will all your works now have a fixed time for release or not?
Yes and no.
The works from this year will still follow a fixed release schedule.
However, the stories for next year will work a bit differently: theyâll update after a certain reaction target is reached or once Iâve finished at least two more chapters.
So for example â if chapter 3 is already posted, youâd get chapter 4 either when the reaction goal is met or when Iâve completed chapter 6. That way, I know that:
A) people are genuinely interested in the story, and/or
B) I have enough time to write without rushing anything.
Yes, that might mean some stories take longer breaks here and there, but in the end, youâll get a better result and Iâll know itâs being written for someone whoâs reading it, not just for the "bin".
Of course, oneshots are excluded from this ârule.â Iâll be opening my request box once every month, and during that time, Iâll pick and write some of your ideas and wishes.
Paulie won the poll for the story thatâll fill Sweet Innocenceâs slot until December!
Iâm really looking forward to working on it! Iâve already started revisiting my original drafts, writing, and turning them into chapters. This oneâs going to be light entertainment, a nice little break from the heavier themes of the other stories.
It was a close race with Yonji, so everyone who voted for him can look forward to him getting his own story in the future, too! I donât have any concrete plans for that one yet, so if you have ideas or requests, drop them in the comments or my ask box. :) âĄ
The next Missing Ghost chapter will finally shed light on Y/Nâs past, or at least parts of it.
Iâm saying this deliberately, since Iâve received quite a few messages asking about the romantic side of the story. Itâs really important to me that everything between Y/N and Mihawk develops naturally, not in a forced way. And letâs be honest, Mihawk is not the kind of man who rushes anything. Especially not with someone who isnât in the best state of mind.
After this chapter, weâll definitely see more progress in their relationship, but how the final chapter ends is, well, up to you.
Summary: When Pro Hero Hawks notices a quiet woman working across the street, she becomes an unexpected calm in his double life of secrets and danger. But when his mission collides with her world, ordinary days turn into something far more perilousâand the line between protection and obsession begins to blur.
Note: A bit late today, since I was with a friend, but here is the next chapter.
Female Reader. Slow Burn Romance. Suspense / Thriller. Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers. Mutual Pining. Protective Hawks. Double Agent Hawks. Secret Meetings & Spying. Being Watched / Stalking Themes. Boundary Issues. Power Imbalance. Moral Ambiguity. Hurt/Comfort. First Aid / Wound Care. Violence. Blood. Threats of Violence. Sensitive Topics. Mentions of Past Abuse/Neglect. Financial Hardship / Poverty. Food Insecurity. Anxiety / Paranoia. Home Invasion. Strong Language.
Evenings always put a little gravity in her bones. Not the bad kindâjust a slow tide that made the world feel heavier and more honest. The sky had gone the grey-blue of a healing bruise when (Y/N) flipped the deadbolt on Whimsy Wonders.
Click.
One turn.
Then two.
She held the keys a breath longer than necessary. Metal cooled her palm. Habit said go home. Instinct said look up.
Across the street, a girl stood in the seam of two buildings like sheâd stepped out of the dusk and hadnât decided whether to stay. Pale coat rumpled as if sheâd slept in it. Hair pulled up, strands falling messily around a face that should have softened her, but didnât. It wasnât the clothes. It wasnât the posture.
It was the eyes.
Locked on (Y/N)âs. Wide. Bright. Too bright. Drinking in her face like a test she intended to pass.
(Y/N) stilled. The girl didnât blink.
Something in the stillness was wrong. Not theatricalâoff. Like a smile put on the wrong face.
The smile arrived a moment later. Slow. Private. A joke delivered to the wrong recipient.
(Y/N)âs heart kicked once, hard. She meant to look away. She couldnât.
A warm hand touched her shoulder.
âHey.â
Her stomach dropped, fear detonating and thenâstupidlyâresolving when she turned and found him. Hood up. Golden eyes banked under the shadow. No grin. No billboard ease. Just⌠present. Steady.
She flicked back across the street on reflex.
Gone.
No retreating coat. No footsteps. Just an empty strip of sidewalk the city pretended had always been empty.
âWho was that?â she asked, hating how thin her voice sounded.
âDunno,â he said, too smoothly to be true. His body angled in front of hers without making a show of itâhands in his pockets, shoulders loose, stance that read as casual and behaved like a shield. âYou okay?â
She nodded because the alternative was unspooling on the sidewalk. Hawks turned his head to the street again, attention scanning places most people didnât know existed.
He turned back with a smile that didnât reach the places smiles should. âYou think your catâs gonna yell at me if I show up again?â
âWhat?â
âFeisty little thing,â he said. âMight be jealous.â
The fog in her head refused to clear, but the instruction did. He nodded at her door.
âGo home,â he said, voice gentled at the edges. âLock up. Curtains closed. Youâll be fine.â
He stepped away before she could argue, hood down, head lowered, shrinking himself into the evening like a regular man going somewhere ordinary. Behind her eyelids, though, when she finally blinked, the wrong smile remainedâetched like a thumbprint on glass.
She walked home without listening to the city. Her keys wobbled in the lock. One turn. Two. Inside. Lock. Chain. Slide the bolt. She leaned her back to the door and let her eyes close long enough to lie to herself:Â This is safe.
The cat lifted its head from the arm of the chairâthe laziest of acknowledgementsâand resettled. It had learned the rhythms of her door. So, apparently, had other things.
Curtains, heâd said.
She drew them shut. The thin fabric didnât do much except trick her brain into letting go of one corner of fear. Lights low. One lamp. She sat on the bed and refused the urge to listen to the hallway.
Time made itself long on purpose. When her thoughts finally thinned to something she could almost step overâ
Two soft knocks, measured, found the door.
She and the cat sat up together. The apartment held its breath.
ââŚWhat do you want?â she called, grateful her voice came out level.
âLet me in,â Hawks said. Not a command; not quite a request. âPlease.â
Every piece of her wanted to say no. Instead: âStay there.â
She slid to the door, looked through the peephole. Hood back. Eyes up. A paper bag in his hand. Both palms visible when he heard the chain shift.
âHouse rule,â she said through the door. âYou knock. I decide. No tricks.â
âDeal,â he said immediately.
She cracked the door to the length of the chain.
He passed the bag into the gap like contraband. âI brought food.â
âWhy.â
âBecause your fridge made me sad,â he said simply, looking at her like that was a reasonable answer. âAnd the catâs been judging your menu.â
Annoyance kept her warmer than the heater did. âYou donât get to make my life your project.â
âThen consider it mine,â he offered. âTemporary loan. Interest-free.â
She kept the chain. He didnât push. They stood like that for a beat too long, air cooling between them, until pride lost to the smell of something warm in the bag and the memory of how light dinner had been last night.
She unhooked the chain. Opened the door wider. âTwo rules,â she said as he stepped in. âYou announce yourself. And you donât touch locks or windows.â
âBoth sound like excellent ways to avoid getting yelled at,â he said, and managed not to grin.
He did not make a show of looking around her space. He set the bag on the counter, moved like a guest, and unpacked quick, efficient, guilty contents: eggs, instant noodles, fruit in a plastic tub, a small army of canned things, a boring loaf of bread, andâsomehowâtwo ridiculous foil pouches of cat pâtĂŠ that made the cat wearily reconsider its brand loyalty. He tucked dry cat food into the cupboard heâd installed without admitting heâd installed it.
(Y/N) crossed her arms so she wouldnât hug herself. âIs this surveillance, pity, or boredom.â
âNone,â he said, quiet. âInsurance.â
âFor whom.â
âBoth of us.â
âNot comforting.â
He leaned against the counter, meeting her look dead on. The usual tilt of his mouth smoothed out. âSomeone was watching you tonight,â he said. He didnât describe the pale coat; he didnât have to. âThe kind of attention you donât want. If I can make your day two percent safer by making your life five percent less emptyââ He lifted a shoulder. âThatâs arithmetic I like.â
âYou donât know me,â she said, because it was safer than thank you.
He studied her a moment, then let it pass. âOkay,â he said. âThen Iâm just a neighbor with groceries. You can tell me to leave now, and I will. Or you can let me boil pasta and pretend we both eat regularly.â
Her chest ached with a ridiculous, stubborn, specific gratitude that came out crooked. âYouâre not boiling anything.â
âCommanding,â he said, amused in spite of himself, then stepped back from the stove. âIâll watch the door.â
She didnât ask what that meant. She knew. He stood where he could see the bolt and the window, loose and humming with that quiet readiness that made his stillness feel like motion paused mid-air.
When he leftâbecause she made him, because she needed him toâhe put his hand on the frame and waited. âText when you get a phone again,â he said. âUntil then, I knock.â
âYouâll ask,â she said, âbefore you do anything.â
âIâll ask,â he said, and for once it sounded like a promise heâd drafted days ago.
He hesitated. âYouâre not alone,â he added, gently enough that it didnât bruise. âEven when you want to be.â
The door shut with courtesy. The quiet returned with less weight.
She fed the cat one of the ridiculous pouches on principle. It forgave her everything she had never apologized for.
Keigo stood two blocks away on a roofline with his hands in his pockets and the wind in his hair, letting the city run under him without ever touching him. Feathers hung off his back like lazy satellites, listening to doors, to alleyways, to the quick, bright pulse that told him sheâd stopped shaking.
He had been trained to be seen and to be invisible. To turn charm into weapon and silence into shelter. Most days, he could choose which man to be.
She complicated choice.
It wasnât the tiny apartment or the empty fridge or even the way she pretended not to need the heater heâd quietly made work again. He knew that life; poverty was a language his bones remembered. It wasnât the cat either, though the ridiculous animal had put its paw on his wing and demanded entertainment like it had paid for a ticket.
It was the look heâd caught on a face across from herâa pale coat and a smile that meant blood when it chose to.
Togaâs attention was a knife with a ribbon on it. Once it tied itself to something, it didnât unknot easily.
He could have saved the mission more cleanly by stepping away. Let the world erase her in the way it erases anyone ordinary. But the neat answer didnât hold when fear reached into his chest and closed a fist around an old, familiar corner.
He was good at pretending he didnât miss ordinary. He was less good when ordinary learned his name.
He wanted to keep her safe for the reasons he could admit to the Commission. He wanted to keep her safe for a few he couldnât. And somewhere under both lived something he hadnât had time for since heâd been a kid stealing heat from vents in winter.
Curiosity is a soft word for hunger.
Okay, then. If he couldnât disappear from her life without making it worse, he could do the opposite: be visible where it counted. Give the block a message that traveled faster than rumor.
He rolled his neck, feeling the pull where wings anchored into muscle, and let red unfurl into the night like a warning flag.
He didnât stop coming.
Not in a way that felt like surveillance. Not in a way that let her pretend heâd forgotten her. At first it was smallâa knock on his way past the shop, a paper bag left on the counter when she was busy with a customer, a feather that tidied itself off the sill when her back was turned. Presence without pressure.
He talked the way people with fans learn to talkâeasy, practiced, a handful of good stories thrown like bread to ducks. It should have been irritating. It was. It was alsoâsometimesâfunny. She hated that.
Then he started asking questions, and the irritation organized itself into something sharper.
âHow long have you worked here?â Reasonable.
âDo you actually like it, or is it just rent?â Annoying.
âYou always push your glasses up with your left hand.â Not a question. Not fair.
âYou restock that shelf three times when youâre stressed.â Rude.
âYou smell like lavender tea today.â Unnecessary.
âDo you eat chocolate instead of lunch because itâs quick or because it feels like cheating?â Unwelcome.
She ignored him professionally. Then pointedly. Then with all the snubs sheâd learned when men mistook customer service for invitation.
He noticed anyway. Noted, is what it felt like. Not with a predatorâs interest; with the care of someone taking apart a clock and laying the gears out in order to understand time.
He never used it to win. He never pressed where it hurt. He simply⌠knew. And knowing showed up as coffee on cold mornings and as silence when she needed it and as a perfectly normal conversation about candle scents right after heâd stepped between her and a man whose eyes stuck to women a beat too long.
On the day he didnât show, the quiet took up more space than it had any right to. She told herself it was the absence of annoyance. She restocked the same shelf four times like an animal returning to a path because it held the shape of safety.
The next afternoon he came in on a draft of winter and attention, wings out because heâd decided to send messages with surface instead of secrets. The bell above the door tried to compete with the rustle of feathers; it lost.
He didnât hide. He filled the room, bright and impossible, and every part of the city that noticed him noticed where he was.
âYouâre open,â he said like it was good news that belonged to him. âI thought you mightâve gone into hiding.â
âYou canât just walk in here like that,â she said, because it was the only place to put the static under her skin.
âLike what,â he asked, and gave her the kind of grin that used to live on posters. âLike a paying customer?â
âYou never buy anything.â
He tipped his head. âI get distracted by the shopkeeper.â
Heat crawled into her face like betrayal. She turned receipts into a stack they had never asked to be part of. He stole the room with his body and then stood still like heâd earned it.
âWhy hide,â he asked softly. âI am who I am. Might as well let the neighborhood see it.â
She hated him a little for how that workedâhow his visibility bled into a kind of protection, how having him here changed the air in ways she could not afford to rely on. She hated how her pulse answered anyway.
âWhat do you want, Hawks.â
He leaned his elbows on the counter across from her, the old wood groaning in a way that made her consider sending it a sympathy card. âDangerous question to ask me,â he murmured.
âDonât,â she said, because the ground already felt like edges.
He laughed under his breath, and the sound was almost gentle. âRelax. Iâm just here to be a very annoying deterrent.â
âShow off, you mean.â
âSame thing,â he said, thenâso quietly she almost missed itââAnd to make sure you ate.â
She refused to look at the bag heâd put by the register. He refused to stop existing.
âFine,â she said, not to the food. To the fact of him. âFine.â
That night, in the kitchen that was no longer entirely hers, she set her mug down like a marker and watched him play the ribbon game with the cat. Something in her snapped on a clean line.
âWeâre not friends.â
He glanced up, a smile halfway in place. She cut it off.
âYou donât live here. You donât get to act like this is yours. You ask questions; you bring food; you play with the cat and then leave. I donât know you. Not really. I donât even know your real name.â
He should have parried. He didnât. The humor evaporated, not like an act dropped, but like a truth stood up.
âEven if I could tell you,â he said, voice low, âI shouldnât.â
That was somehow the worst answerâits honesty making the rules feel like choices, even when they werenât.
âThen stop acting like weâre something weâre not.â
Long quiet. He broke it with less armor than sheâd ever seen on him.
âIâm not pretending,â he said.
She opened her mouth to argue.
âMaybe you are,â he added, and went back to the stove like the conversation could exist in the same room as boiling water.
She hated him.
Later, by the door, with the cat a streak of indifference between them, she said the thing that had been using up all her oxygen.
âI wonât tell anyone.â
âI know.â
âIâm safe now. You fixed it. You can go.â
âBut you donât want to be alone,â he said, not cruelly. Like heâd laid her life out on a table and seen which pieces fit together and which ones didnât. âYouâve built something that looks like solitude and runs on fear. Itâs good engineering. Itâs not a home.â
âYou donât know me.â
âI know how your voice thins when you lie,â he said, stepping in slow enough to give her time to stop him. âI know you pretend you donât care whoâs at the door and then listen for footsteps anyway. I know you look toward my window when you think youâre not doing anything at all.â
He stopped before heat became touch. She could smell soap and wind and something clean that the city never gave back.
âI shouldnât be here,â he said, mostly to himself. âBut I am. And you havenât told me to leave.â
âGo,â she whispered.
He didnât move.
âPlease.â
He stepped back immediately. It shouldnât have mattered that he listened to please. It did.
âIâll come by tomorrow,â he said at the door.
âWhy.â
He let himself smile, just enough to be a promise. âBecause youâll be waiting.â
When the latch caught, the apartment rearranged itself back into its small, familiar shape and refused to feel like it fit.
She sat on the bed and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes until sparks crawled there. The cat purred at her shins, insistently alive.
Morning brought the kind of sleepiness that lives in bone. She opened the shop because muscle memory had always carried her when the rest of her couldnât. She was still fighting a receipt roll when the bell chimed and a bright rush of feathers made all other noises optional.
He filled the doorway with his edges turned down and his presence turned up. No hood. No pretense. Red in the kind of light that had been made to set red off.
âMornin,â he said.
âYou canâtââ She caught herself, then tried again. âThis is a shop. People see.â
âThatâs the point,â he said, letting a feather tip the bell to silence. âSometimes hiding makes the wrong people curious.â
âYou still donât buy anything,â she said, purely out of spite.
He walked the aisle, fingers politely off the merchandise but attention on every exit and angle. He stopped at the ribbon display. Picked oneâcheap, red, edges clean.
âIâll take this,â he said, and the grin he gave her had no edge on it at all. âFinally making me legitimate.â
She rang him up because thatâs what happened in her lifeâshe did the next thing. He untied his old joke of a ribbon from where it lived around his wrist, threaded the new one through his fingers, andâhow dare heâlooked shy for a second.
âMaybe,â he said, still studying the ribbon instead of her, âI am your friend.â He didnât look up until he had a second sentence ready. âBut I can be the kind that watches the door and shuts up when you need quiet.â
Her throat tightened. âTerms,â she managed, because she needed something to hold. âNo after-hours unless I ask. Knock. Donât unlock. In the shop, youâre a customer. If you come here, you buy something. No⌠showboating.â
His eyes did that gold-warm thing that read as sunset if sunsets could agree to keep secrets. âDeal,â he said. âAll of it.â
âAnd the girl,â she forced herself to add. âIf you see herââ
âIâll see her,â he said. âYou wonât.â
She passed him the little paper bag with the ribbon inside. He touched it with too much care for something that cost less than a coffee.
On his way out, he paused under the bell and lowered his voice so only the counter could hear it. âIf something knocks, itâs me. And Iâve learned to ask.â
The door closed. The bell chime faded. The shop breathed.
(Y/N) stood very still until her hands stopped shaking, then turned the ledger to a clean page and wrote the date at the top because thatâs what you do when your life changes and pretends it hasnât.
Across the street, glass threw the morning back at itself. Somewhere above the sightlines, a feather nested where brick met shadow and kept its own kind of watch.
Summary: Princess Y/Nâs kingdom is falling apart, and her familyâs only hope is her marriage to a cruel, old king. Desperate, she makes a reckless choice one nightâand wakes up in Niji Vinsmokeâs bed. Now, caught between a dangerous engagement and Nijiâs growing interest, Y/N must navigate a deadly game of survival where one wrong move could cost her everything.
Note: My, my. We are nearly done..
Female Reader. Sensitive topics. Hard language. Slight Gore. Slow Updates. Enemies to lovers. Sex mentioned. Forced marriage. Death mentioned. Sensitive topics. Abuse. Blood. Mention of virginity loss.
There was a time when he thought his mother was weak.
Pathetic, even.
He remembers it faintly â the softness of her voice, the way her hand would brush his hair back, the way she smiled like the world wasnât a cold, empty place. It never made sense to him. Why smile when it only made you vulnerable? Why care, when caring meant pain?
Back then, he didnât understand her at all.
When she told him she loved him, he didnât feel anything. He didnât even know what that meant. Love was a word people threw around when they wanted something. Judge never said it. Ichiji never said it. Yonji didnât even think about it. And Sanjiâ
Sanji had too much of it.
Sanji cried. He disobeyed. He wanted to cook, to laugh, to make people happy.
And she encouraged it.
That was the part that stung the most.
He remembers standing in the doorway, watching her fuss over Sanji, brushing soot from his face after some stupid kitchen experiment. She looked at him like he was special. Like there was something worth saving.
Niji never got that look.
Heâd been too busy trying to impress their father â standing taller, training harder, beating everyone who dared challenge him. Every bruise was a badge. Every scar, proof that he was strong. That he could be perfect.
And Judge praised him for it.
Not often, but enough.
That was what mattered. That was supposed to matter.
He stopped going to her after that.
Stopped listening to her soft voice, stopped letting her fuss over him, stopped accepting the gentle smiles she gave when she thought no one was watching.
Because warmth was weakness.
And weakness got erased in GERMA.
Then she died.
He didnât cry. None of them did. He didnât even know what crying felt like.
But he remembered her eyes. He remembered the stubborn warmth there â the same warmth heâd pushed away over and over again.
He thought heâd forgotten it.
Buried it under discipline and training and blood.
He almost convinced himself it was gone for good.
Until you.
He doesnât know how or when it started. Maybe it was that first time you talked back to him without fear. Maybe it was the railing, when you fell and he saw you disappear below the deck, and something inside him snapped. Maybe it was that stupid kiss â the one that still wonât leave his head.
Whatever it is, itâs the same feeling. The same warmth. That same, infuriating pull that makes his chest tighten in ways he hates.
Itâs ridiculous.
Itâs dangerous.
Itâs you.
And as much as he wants to crush it, to rip it out, to go back to being the perfect, unfeeling soldier he was trained to be⌠he canât.
Not anymore.
Because somewhere between his motherâs ghost and your voice, between the memories of warmth and the taste of electricity in his blood, Niji realizes the truth he doesnât want to face:
He doesnât want to lose that warmth again.
Even if it makes him weak.
Even if it destroys him.
The roar of the crowd snaps him back to the present.
He opens his eyes â blood dripping down his temple, smoke curling around him. Ichiji stands across the field, expression calm and certain. The crowd thinks itâs over. Judge watches silently. Zeang smiles.
Niji lifts his head slowly.
His ribs ache, his mouth tastes like iron, but thereâs a flicker of something under his skin. He pushes himself to his feet, electricity sparking from his shoulders. Blue light crawls along his arms like fire waking up after a storm.
He grins â not his usual cocky smirk, but something sharper, realer. âYou talk too much, Ichiji.â
Ichijiâs eyes narrow slightly. âYou can barely stand.â
âStill enough to knock you down,â Niji says, his voice low, steady.
He raises his hand. The hum of energy deepens, filling the air with a vibration that makes your seat tremble. The spectators murmur. Even Yonji leans forward, eyes gleaming.
And then, for the first time in his life, Niji fights â not for approval, not for pride â but for something he canât even name.
Something warm.
You can hear it â that low, electric hum that always comes before Niji moves. Heâs still bleeding, still swaying slightly, but his stance has changed. Shoulders loose, head tilted, eyes locked on Ichiji like heâs finally decided to stop pretending.
The crowd murmurs; the tension feels thick enough to choke on.
Ichiji exhales, the faintest hint of irritation showing in his perfectly composed expression.
âYou shouldâve stayed down,â he says evenly. âYouâve already lost.â
Nijiâs grin widens, a smear of blood on his lip making it look almost feral. âYouâd like that, huh?â
He lunges forward.
Their bodies collide again in a blur of motion and sound. The crash of impact rings through the deck as sparks and smoke explode between them. This time, Niji doesnât hold back â every hit is faster, sharper, fueled by something more than pride.
Ichiji blocks, counterattacks, but his strikes donât land as cleanly now. Niji slips through openings, fists glowing, laughter spilling between each impact.
âStill think youâre better?â Niji taunts, voice ragged but strong.
Ichijiâs jaw tightens. âAlways have been.â
âThen whyââ Niji ducks under a swing, drives a punch into his brotherâs ribs that sends a ripple of blue light through the air, ââdo you look mad?â
Ichijiâs eyes flash. He shoves Niji back with a burst of energy, panting slightly â the first sign of strain.
âYouâve turned this family into a joke,â he hisses. âOver her. Over someââ
âSay her name,â Niji growls, stepping forward.
Ichiji hesitates. For just a heartbeat.
Niji grins, humorless. âCanât even do that, huh? All that control and you still canât admit what youâre angry about.â
Their fists meet mid-air â a thunderous crack of force that ripples through the arena. The barrier lights flare as the shockwave hits it. You flinch, the sound rattling your bones.
Ichiji snarls, voice raised for the first time. âYouâve lost your mind! You think this is about her? About you wanting something?â
He swings again; Niji catches his wrist. They lock, struggling, faces inches apart.
âItâs about you losing everything you were made to be!â Ichiji shoves him back, his composure fracturing at last. âYou were perfect â a soldier! A weapon! And now look at youâbleeding for someone whoâll never understand what we are!â
Niji laughs, breathless, voice shaking with something raw. âYou think I donât know that? I donât even understand it myself.â He wipes blood from his mouth, eyes blazing. âBut for once in my life, I donât care what weâre supposed to be.â
Ichiji freezes for half a second.
Niji steps forward again, electricity crawling up his arms. âYou can keep pretending weâre just tools, but you feel it too, donât you? That⌠whatever the hell it is.â
âShut up,â Ichiji snaps.
âYou do,â Niji presses. âYou just bury it deeper.â
Ichijiâs punch comes fast â almost desperate. Niji blocks it, counters, grabs his brotherâs arm, and slams him to the ground with a burst of energy that lights up the field. The arena shakes. The crowd gasps.
You rise to your feet without realizing it, heart hammering. The light fades, revealing Ichiji half-kneeling, a streak of red marring his pristine uniform.
Niji stands above him, chest heaving, every muscle trembling from exertion. âYou can call me weak all you want,â he pants, âbut at least I feel something.â
Ichiji glares up at him. The fury there is sharp â but beneath it, something else flickers. Sadness? Recognition? Itâs gone as quickly as it appears.
âYouâre pathetic,â Ichiji mutters, but his voice lacks its earlier venom.
Niji tilts his head, smirking faintly. âThen why arenât you getting up?â
Ichiji doesnât answer. He stares at the steel beneath him, at his own blood, at the faint blue crackle of energy still dancing along Nijiâs arms. For the first time, he looks⌠uncertain.
Because he knows.
Whether or not he wins this fight â Niji wonât stop. Not for Judge, not for GERMA, not even for himself. If it means keeping you, heâll destroy himself doing it.
And GERMA canât afford to lose him.
Ichijiâs lips part in a quiet exhale, the faintest smirk ghosting across them. âIdiot,â he whispers. âYou really would, wouldnât you?â
Niji frowns, not catching the words. âWhat?â
Ichiji meets his gaze â calm now, resigned. âFine. Have it your way.â
He pushes himself up slowly, dusts off his gloves, and raises one hand. The judge overseeing the match leans forward, unsure whatâs happening. Ichijiâs tone is flat, final.
âI yield.â
The words ripple through the air like a shockwave.
You blink, certain you misheard. The crowd erupts in shouts and confusion. Even Judgeâs expression flickers â a rare crack in his composure.
Niji just⌠stares.
âWhat?â
Ichiji steps past him without looking back. âYou heard me.â
And then, quieter, only Niji can hear:
âDonât make me regret it.â
He leaves the arena.
Niji stands there, unmoving, breath ragged, eyes wide â victory landing on him like something heavy instead of sweet. The cheers around him are distant.
Up in the stands, you canât move either. Relief floods you first â then confusion, then something that you canât quite name.
Because even from where you sit, you can tell:
Ichiji didnât lose.
He let him win.
And the look on Nijiâs face says he knows it too.
He storms past the judges, past the medics who try to stop him, past Ichijiâs retreating back. The crowd parts instinctively â no one wants to be in his way. A trail of faint blue sparks follows him across the deck until he vanishes through the exit gate.
You donât breathe until heâs gone.
For a heartbeat the field stays loud: Judge rising to his feet, Zeangâs men shouting, officials confirming the outcome. But none of it reaches you. You can still see the look on Nijiâs face as he left â not triumphant, not relieved.
Angry. Confused. Betrayed.
Because he knew.
Everyone did.
That wasnât a victory. It was a mercy.
Youâre still staring at the now-empty arena when a shadow falls over you. Yonji stood, a grin already tugging at his mouth.
âWell,â he drawls, stretching his arms behind his head, âguess that makes you family now, huh?â
You blink at him. âWhat?â
He smirks, teeth flashing. âCome on, princess. Niji wins, dealâs sealed. Congratulations. Youâre practically a Vinsmoke.â He chuckles, low and rough. âWelcome to the circus.â
You canât even summon a reply. The words slide past you like static.
Nijiâs victoryâif you can call it thatâfeels hollow in your chest.
âI need to go,â you say suddenly, standing so fast the chair scrapes the floor.
âHey, whereââ Yonji starts, but youâre already moving.
The corridors blur around you as you run, boots clanging against the metal floor. Guards glance up, startled, but no one dares stop you. You follow the direction Niji vanished, the electric tang of ozone still faint in the air.
You donât know what youâll say when you find him.
You just know you have to.
Because no matter what the crowd cheered, he didnât win â not the way he wanted to. And whatever this strange thing between you is, itâs pulling you after him all over again.
You find him two decks down, in one of the side corridors that leads to the lower labs.
The door is half open. The light inside flickers faintly â cold, white, unforgiving.
Heâs there, standing in the middle of the room, fists still wrapped, blood dried along the edge of his jaw. The air smells like ozone and metal. A dent mars the wall beside him where, apparently, heâs already hit it once.
He doesnât turn when you step in.
âGo away.â
His voice is low, rough. Not tired â furious.
You hover at the threshold, unsure if you should move closer. âNijiââ
He spins, glare sharp enough to cut through the air.
âWhat are you doing here?â
You open your mouth, but he keeps talking, the words spilling out fast, angry, and jagged.
âYou think this was a win? You thinkââ He gestures toward the ceiling, where the faint echo of cheering still lingers. âThat was a joke. He gave it to me. Like Iâm some kid who needs a damn favor.â
He paces, each step heavy. Sparks flicker briefly around his boots, dying out as fast as they appear. âAll that noise, all that fighting, and for what? For him to hand it over because heâs scared of losing me?â He laughs once â bitter, hollow. âI donât need their pity.â
You flinch when he slams his hand against the table, the sound sharp in the enclosed space.
He exhales hard through his nose, eyes closing for a second. âAnd youâŚâ
He turns toward you, jaw tight. âYou shouldnât be here either. Thisââ He waves between you both, searching for the word and not finding it. âItâs a mess. You saw what it cost.â
âI donât care,â you say quietly.
That makes him pause.
He looks at you like he doesnât believe you, like heâs waiting for you to laugh, to take it back. But you donât. You stand there, chest tight, hands clenched at your sides. âI just⌠needed to see you.â
For a moment, the room is nothing but the hum of the ship and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
Then he moves.
Not a lunge, not a threat â just one step, then another, until heâs standing close enough that you can see the tremor still running through his hands. His anger hasnât vanished; itâs burning quieter now, mixed with something else.
He studies your face, eyes searching, as if trying to understand why youâre still here after everything.
âYou really donât get it,â he mutters finally. âYou donât know what youâre doing to me.â
You swallow hard. âThen tell me.â
He doesnât. Instead, he lets out a shaky laugh that sounds almost like disbelief. âYou always have to push, donât you?â
Another step closer. The faint smell of ozone lingers between you.
His hand lifts halfway, hovers near your face, then drops again as he looks away. âI didnât need him to let me win,â he says quietly. âI just neededââ
He stops, catches himself, shakes his head. âForget it.â
You barely whisper, âWhat did you need?â
He looks back at you, expression darker than before. And whatever words heâd been about to find never come out.
He steps that last inch forward, close enough that the heat of him brushes your skin. The fight, the anger, the confusion â it all condenses into that single moment.
No smile. No speech. Just the quiet, steady look of someone who finally takes whatâs his â not out of pride, but because he canât not.
The ship hums around you, steady and endless, as everything else falls away.
Is there any plot or character you don't write for?
I write most tropes â some I love, some not so much.
What I donât enjoy is writing pure filth thatâs only focused on that. If I include intimate scenes, it has to make sense in the story and feel right for the characters.
As for characters, I obviously donât write for ones I donât know. But as soon as Iâm familiar with a character, Iâm open to writing for them â whether I personally like them or not.
I donât usually write âkidsâ tho. If I write an x character story, the character is at least 17 years old, though I feel most comfortable with characters who are 20+. That's just a personal thing.
May I ask who it is on your profile picture? đŤśđť
Of course!
That's CĂş from the fate universe. Most people know him due to Fate/Stay Night.
Although I got to know him through Fate Grand Order (the game).
I love him deeply and never changed my profile picture, so, yeah, it's him! I am planning on writing more Oneshot's for the Fate community, not now, but soon enough. Fate is, with One Piece, one of my big anime passions after all!
For Christmas, Iâm planning to write a few oneshots, which Iâll post on December 24th. I know not everyone celebrates Christmas, so think of it more as a cozy end-of-the-year treat.
Hereâs where you come in: Send me all your wishes!
No matter the fandom, with or without a plot, character traits, or reader gender. Go wild â the more the better. If I get more than 15 requests, Iâll simply spread them out over two days so nothing gets rushed.
Iâll remind you again in December, but feel free to start sending your ideas already!
As promised, hereâs the schedule for the upcoming chapters.
The short story (poll is still open!) will be posted spontaneously and will have about 4 to 5 chapters.
â° Time zone: GMT / UTC+01:00
Starting in December, weâll have a little âspecial timeâ â with a new door every day, meaning at least one update from the new stories daily. Based on your feedback, Iâve also made a few changes to the characters.
For spoilers about who itâll be, check below the cut.
Week 1
Fri, Oct 17 â Sweet Innocent Ch.11
Sun, Oct 19 â Boring Love Ch.4
Week 2
Wed, Oct 22 â Missing Ghost Ch.13
Sat, Oct 25 â Boring Love Ch.5
Week 3
Wed, Oct 29 â Sweet Innocent Ch.12 (finale)
Sat, Nov 1 â Boring Love Ch.6
Week 4
Wed, Nov 5 â Missing Ghost Ch.14
Sat, Nov 8 â Boring Love Ch.7
Week 5
Wed, Nov 12 â Missing Ghost Ch.15
Sat, Nov 15 â Boring Love Ch.8
Week 6
Wed, Nov 19 â Missing Ghost Ch.16
Sat, Nov 22 â Boring Love Ch.9
Week 7
Wed, Nov 26 â Missing Ghost Ch.17
Sat, Nov 29 â Boring Love Ch.10 (final)
Sun, Nov 30 â Missing Ghost Ch.18 (final)
Everything wraps before Dec 1.
Sanemi modern AU | kny
Trafalgar Law | One Piece
The second place of the poll â as for now probably Yonji (One Piece) or Paulie (One Piece)