Yoomi

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?? 🏴‍☠️Mainly One Piece🏴‍☠️

[yoomiwrites]

Masterlist

: ̗̀➛ 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.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

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.

Thank you! ♡

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╰┈➤ One Piece Stuff

Since I have a lot One Piece content & will have even more, it has it's own masterlist that you can find here: One Piece Masterlist

╰┈➤ Arcane Stuff

We won

Reader x Ekko

Chapter: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Genre: Angst, Romance & a bit fluff

□ In progress

■ Finished

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Comfort

Reader x Mel

Chapter: 1

Genre: Fluff, Angst

□ In progress

■ Finished

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

╰┈➤ Jujutsu Kaisen Stuff

Flustered

Reader x Gojo

Chapter: 1

Genre: Fluff

□ In progress

■ Finished

╰┈➤ My hero academia

My boring love

F!Reader x Hawks

Genre: Drama, fluff, angst, comedy

Chapter: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

■ in progress

□ finished

╰┈➤ Future Work

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

╰┈➤ 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!

Much love to you! ♡

[yoomiwrites]

Do/did you celebrate Halloween?

Yes! I usually go for the candy run with my nephews and although I'm too old to get candy, I like to wear costumes.

This year it was the Bomb-Devil! (And later the night Ghost from cod)

[yoomiwrites]

Dock One

Summary: In the bustling shipyard of Water 7, you’re just an apprentice with a hopeless crush on Paulie — rope expert, decency enforcer, and utterly oblivious shipwright. Between flying sawdust, flustered hearts, and far too many lectures about “proper sleeves,” you’re 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. You’ve 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 One—Galley-La’s proudest yard—where ropes lie in great sleeping coils and scaffolds gnarl around skeletons of ships being born. It’s strongest there because of him.

“Quit standing around like a post!” 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 it’s considering leaping off to do the job for him. “We need that caulking bucket, not your dreamy stare!”

Your fingers tighten around the handle of the bucket you are, in fact, holding. You were not, strictly speaking, staring. You were…observing. Appreciating the geometry of a working man in motion, the clean economy of his stride, the way his hands find rope like it’s part of his body.

“Right, yes! Caulking. Coming!”

You jog across the plankway—carefully, carefully; you’ve learned that Dock One has two speeds: the professionals’ blur, and your speed, which is “try not to trip while being in love.” The canal below laps and glitters. A yagara bull noses along the edge, snorting like it finds you interesting, which is comforting. It means you’re 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, “And roll your sleeves down! This is a respectable dock, not a peep show!”

You glance at your forearms, which the Gods of Practical Labor had made you bare precisely two inches past the wrist because it’s hot and the work is messy. Before you can respond, he’s 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.

“Indecent,” he mutters, and strides away along the beam.

You wrestle free of the canvas, cheeks warm. “It’s an elbow, Paulie,” you say to the sky, which is less likely to scold you. “Not a scandalous opera.”

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 Lulu’s 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.

He’s 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.

“Stop daydreaming and hold this steady!” 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. “Good,” he says, and you hold that word in your mouth like a sweet. Then he adds, “For a beginner.”

You swallow the sweet whole, unchewed. “You could just say ‘good,’ you know.”

“I did,” he replies, lips twitching. “Then I clarified.”

You should not smile. You smile anyway.

By noon, Dock One is a roaring hive. New lumber arrives—aromatic cedar that makes the whole gang pause. “Smell that!” Tilestone cries, waving his arms. “That’s the perfume of the sea’s future!”

“Perfume is indecent,” Paulie says without missing a beat.

“Rope-boy,” Lulu drawls, “you’d call a sandwich indecent if it forgot its top slice.”

“Because it is!” Paulie barks. “What are we teaching the apprentices? That you can leave things exposed and call it a meal?” He points a reprimanding finger at the universe at large. “No. No, sir. Two slices. Tie it up. Secure your sandwich.”

You laugh, which draws his glare like a magnet. “You agree with him?” he demands, affronted that the concept of sandwich decorum could be up for debate.

“I think commitment to structural integrity is attractive,” you say before your good sense can intercept your mouth. Tilestone chokes. Lulu grins. Kaku, passing by, murmurs something about ninety-degree comments.

Paulie’s ears pinken. He turns so fast his rope whip whistles. “Apprentice,” he says to you without looking. “Go to Canal Street Two. Pick up the order from Jitta’s Hardware. Tell him it’s for Paulie, Dock One. If he tries to upsell you on those flimsy imported spikes, say the words ‘false head, seizes under stress’ and leave.”

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.

Jitta’s 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 it’s a wonder the ink hasn’t jumped onto his face.

“Galley-La,” you say, breathless. “Order for Dock One.”

Jitta lowers the paper, frowns in concentration, and eventually produces a slip. “Rings, tar, spikes.” He eyes you over his spectacles. “You sure you don’t want the deluxe spikes? Imported. They shine.”

“False head,” you recite, proud, “seizes under stress.”

Jitta’s mouth twists. “Paulie sent you.”

“Yes.”

“Then you know not to drop that crate.” 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 child’s 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 you’re carrying has entered into a relationship with gravity that excludes you. When you finally reach Dock One, your vision is edged with sparkles, and you’re composing last words.

“Where were you?” Paulie demands, appearing at your elbow. He takes the crate like it’s a loaf of bread. Oh, to be a rope. “I sent you for hardware, not a scenic tour.”

You want to say I did both and I thought about you the whole time, neither of which you say. You say, “Ran into a yagara sneeze,” which is true and encapsulates the problem that is your life.

“Of course you did,” he says, and rolls his eyes. But—this is important—but he adds, “Good work.” It’s 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 they’re called and what Paulie calls them. A rat’s nest of lines becomes “rope crime.” Sawdust on the floor becomes “laceration confetti.” An unprotected knee is “a lawsuit waiting to happen.” 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, he’s sliding down a rope like it’s a ribbon, landing on the pier with a swing of his legs that you’re 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 you—directly at you.

“You,” he says. “Come.”

You follow. What else could you do? He leads you to a narrow skiff—a 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. “I need you to ferry this to the far pier. I’ll be across with the main line. You’ll hand it up.”

“Me?” You sound brave and confident (you do not). “Hand up a rope? I can hand up a rope.”

“You can,” he says, like a command. “And 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.”

He says it so gravely that your throat tightens. “Yes,” you manage.

“And button your collar.”

You do. He watches, nods once in stern approval, and then—gently, which you do not think he knows how to do ordinarily—he 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. “Hand it up.”

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. Paulie’s mouth opens as if he is about to praise you, then seems to become aware of itself and clamps shut. He tightens the line. “Adequate,” he says.

“Adequate,” you echo, dizzy with triumph. You’d 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 looming—just 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.

“Apprentice,” Paulie says, materializing with that uncanny ability he has to be everywhere you’re least prepared. He nods at a covered knot of canvas on a bench. “For you.”

You look. Lift the corner. It’s a lunch pail, the handle oiled, the lid tied down with—of course—a 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.

“I—this—?”

“You didn’t eat,” he says, folding his arms. “You get wobbly when you don’t eat. Wobbly people fall in canals. Do not fall in my canal.”

Your chest is suddenly too small for your ribs. You grip the pail. “Thank you,” you say softly.

“Don’t thank me.” He waves a hand, almost panicked by the sincerity floating in the air. “Thank the fish. And. And keep your shirt buttoned.” He turns. Stops. Without looking back, he adds, “Good work today.”

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.

“Don’t lean,” Paulie says behind you.

“I’m not leaning,” 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 don’t look at him, because if you do, you will say something unwise. You look at the reflections. You say, because words must go somewhere, “I’m serious, you know.”

“Hm?”

“About…this. Me.” You stare harder at the water. “About liking you. It’s not a funny joke I’m trying on to pass the time.”

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 he’s not sure fits the plan. “You’re earnest,” he says at last. “Earnest people get hurt.”

“I’m not glass,” you say.

“Close enough,” he mutters, and you can’t help it: you laugh.

“Paulie,” you say, and the name comes out like stepping onto a plank you’re pretty sure will hold. “You don’t have to take me seriously. I’m doing that part. Just… don’t tell me not to, and don’t call it a joke.”

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.

“At Dock One,” he says carefully, “we secure what we care about. So it doesn’t drift.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

He clears his throat, embarrassed by his own sincerity. “You’ll be late. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Come back and… be adequate again tomorrow.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a goal,” 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.

He’s tossed you something. Instinct reaches up before your mind does, and your hand closes around it. It’s a small knot: a loop tied in a neat, compact bend, practical and tidy, a shipwright’s gesture in place of a flower.

“For your notebook,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes. “Practice it. It holds under strain.”

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 evening’s 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 city’s gentle night with a knot in your pocket, a new word embroidered on your ribs—adequate—and a plan, stubborn as a length of rope: learn, steady, show him you’re 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 day—one day—when you say his name, it won’t 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 can’t drift away.

[yoomiwrites]

Sweet Innocence¹²

Summary: Princess Y/N’s kingdom is falling apart, and her family’s only hope is her marriage to a cruel, old king. Desperate, she makes a reckless choice one night—and wakes up in Niji Vinsmoke’s bed. Now, caught between a dangerous engagement and Niji’s 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, Zeang’s 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 wasn’t 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 Zeang’s ships sank before reaching safe waters.

No survivors.

No explanations.

Germa called it unfortunate.

Judge called it nature’s course.

Niji said nothing.

Twelve days after the battle of the brothers, you were married.

It wasn’t grand. GERMA didn’t do grand — 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, “Guess you’re really stuck with me now.”

His tone was teasing, but his eyes said something quieter. Something you didn’t press him to name.

Life after that was… strange. Manageable.

You never expected love — not the kind you’d once dreamed about — but what you found was a rhythm that made sense. He didn’t cage you. He didn’t 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 you’re safe.

And Hitomi? She married a prince her own age — 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. “Good for her,” 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 — the bet, the fight, the railing, the fall. The way everything spun out of control and somehow landed here.

It isn’t a fairytale. It never was.

But it’s 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 — 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 isn’t there. It fills the background as you sprawl across the wide bunk that technically isn’t 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 doesn’t anchor; it drifts, always moving, always humming. You’ve learned to sleep with that sound, to read with it, to breathe with it.

The door hisses open.

“You’re in my room again.”

The voice is unmistakable—sharp, faintly incredulous, with that rough edge that always gives away when he’s more tired than angry.

You don’t look up. “Technically it’s our room now.”

There’s the smallest pause, the sound of metal boots on the floor, then a quiet scoff.

“Don’t start that. You’ve got your own quarters. Whole section of the deck Judge insisted on. Go use it.”

You turn a page with deliberate care. “But your lighting’s better.”

“My lighting?” he repeats, deadpan.

“And the view,” you add. “And the chair. And the bed.”

He makes a noise that could mean anything from disbelief to surrender. “My bed,” he corrects.

You lift your eyes. He’s standing a few steps inside the room, still half in uniform, jacket unzipped. His hair’s damp from training, the blue catching the overhead light. He looks annoyed, but you’ve been around him long enough to see the fatigue underneath—the way his shoulders settle when he’s home.

“Peace,” you say, pretending to read again. “That’s what you said, right? You wanted your peace?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I’m very peaceful.”

He laughs once, quietly, tossing his gloves onto the table. “You are the least peaceful person I’ve ever met.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You say that every day.”

“And you keep proving me right.”

You close the book, mark the page with your thumb, and grin at him. “You like me here.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do I?”

“Yes. After training, you always come back, act all dramatic about me stealing your space, then stay anyway. It’s a pattern.”

“Maybe I’m checking that you haven’t broken anything.”

You gesture to the pristine walls. “Do I look destructive to you?”

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

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.

“Admit it,” you say. “You’d miss me if I actually stayed in my own quarters.”

“Keep dreaming.”

“I do. It’s entertaining.”

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 doesn’t 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 engine’s hum and the faint rhythm of waves against steel.

You rest your chin on your knee. “You worked too long again.”

“I trained,” he corrects.

“You call it training. I call it trying to break every bone you have for fun.”

He glances sideways. “You worried about me?”

“Of course not,” you say too quickly.

He smirks. “Liar.”

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.

“Why are you really in here, Y/N?”

You shrug. “Because it’s quiet.”

“It’s never quiet when you’re around.”

“Then why don’t you make me leave?”

He doesn’t answer. He leans back, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s weighing whether it’s worth pretending. “Because if I throw you out,” he says finally, “you’ll just come back.”

You smile, triumphant. “Exactly.”

He shakes his head, defeated but not unhappy. “You’re trouble.”

“And yet you still married me.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Why not? I think it’s adorable.”

“You have a strange definition of adorable.”

“You married me,” you remind him again, teasing. “That says something.”

He groans quietly, running a hand through his hair. “You’re going to drive me insane.”

“Already have,” you say, settling back against the pillows. “But you like it.”

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. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I try.”

He turns his head away, hiding the rest of the smile. “If you’re staying, at least move over. You’re taking up all the space.”

“See?” you say, scooting a little but not much. “You do like having me here.”

“Don’t push it.”

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 that—quiet, companionable, normal in a way you never thought possible. When you glance over, he’s 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, “Told you.”

He opens one eye. “Told me what?”

“That you like me here.”

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move away. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re comfortable,” you counter.

For a second he looks as if he’ll argue. Then he sighs, small and resigned, and lets his head rest back against the wall again. “Maybe.”

You grin and turn the page. Outside, the sea murmurs against the hull. Inside, the two of you sit in easy silence—mocking, teasing, alive. The world hasn’t 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.

[yoomiwrites]

Boring Love⁵

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 perilous—and the line between protection and obsession begins to blur.

Note: I released it on private yesterday. I am sorry—

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 didn’t lie.

(Y/N) had stared at the little squares until the numbers blurred—pen hovering, never touching down—counting 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 he’d convinced her the mess looked better.

Now she had regulars she hadn’t asked for: teenagers who giggled behind shelves of ceramic figures, office workers who “just happened to be on lunch in the area,” even a few adults who pretended to examine postcards while their eyes never left the door. They weren’t 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.

“Yo,” 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 wasn’t reading.

“Right on time,” (Y/N) muttered without looking up from nothing in particular.

“Lunch is a sacred appointment,” he said, leaning his elbows on her counter like it had been built for them. Gold eyes took her in—quick, careful, cataloguing—then softened at something he found there.

She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it left her in a small sigh. He tilted his head.

“What?” he asked, a grin threatening.

“Nothing.” She set the cloth down harder than necessary. “Thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“Maybe.” She looked up, and he was close in a way that made space feel optional. “I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

Something in him shifted—not smile, not frown. A tilt of attention.

“Oh yeah?” he said.

“Yeah.” Her mouth was dry and she pushed through anyway. “It’s been over a month since you started… this.” She gestured at the space between them, the shop, the ribbon around his wrist. “Since you made yourself part of my life.”

“Best decision I’ve made in a while,” he said, light because it cost less to be.

“And my shop suddenly has more people who don’t care what I sell. They care about you.”

“Occupational hazard,” he said, unapologetic. “Sorry about the giggles.”

“And every day,” she continued, steadier now, “same time. Like I’m supposed to expect you. Like I should…”

Her throat stuck on the next words. He waited, not helping.

“…be okay with it,” she finished, low.

He didn’t laugh it off. Wings drew closer to his back; the brightness in his eyes thinned to curiosity. “And are you?”

It landed heavy. Her hands curled against the counter’s edge. Honesty slid out before pride could catch it.

“I’m getting used to it.”

For once, he didn’t make a joke. The answer did something to his face she couldn’t name, a quiet relief that didn’t ask anything in return.

“I still don’t understand it,” she added quickly before the moment could hold. “You said we’re friends. But friends actually… know things. I don’t know anything real about you.”

“You know my favorite hobby,” he said, straight-faced. “And you haven’t thrown anything at me when I am here and living up to it.”

She gave him a look that would have made lesser men retreat. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he started, then let the smirk drop because for once, levity didn’t fit. He drummed his fingers on the wood—four taps, a pause—feathers rousing and settling as if thinking with him.

“Alright,” he said. “You want answers, not headlines. Fair warning: some doors stay closed.”

“I’m not asking for the whole house,” she said, quiet. “Just proof there is one.”

He held her gaze long enough to make the air feel textured. When he spoke, his voice had sand in it.

“My childhood wasn’t easy.”

He put the words down gently and didn’t pick them back up. She nodded, feeling the shape of the thing without asking to see it.

“Favorite food’s chicken,” he added, a crooked grin sliding in to spare them both. “Predictable. Versatile. Delicious.”

“Obviously,” she said, and the corner of her mouth betrayed her with a curve.

“Color’s red,” he said. “Obvious again.”

“A little.”

“It suits me,” he said, as if reading from a list he’d decided could be public without consequence.

Her shoulders eased despite herself. The ordinary lowered him to earth in ways talk of missions never could.

“Season?” she asked before she could tell herself not to ask anything else.

“Fall,” he said without hesitation. “Best skies. Air’s sharp. Keeps me awake.” His eyes had gone somewhere else for a heartbeat, and when they returned, they brought a piece of that height with them.

“You fly for fun,” she said, not a question.

“Of course,” he said. “Can’t waste these on patrols.” He lifted a wing just enough to catch light. The girl in the corner whispered oh; (Y/N) barely noticed. “Work is work. The sky is—”

“Freedom,” she finished for him, soft.

Something flickered in his face. “Addictive,” he said, equally soft. “But yeah.”

She looked down at her hands, then around her small, grounded shop. “Maybe that’s why you come here.”

He tilted his head. “How do you figure.”

“This place pins you,” she said, surprising herself with the gentleness of it. “Makes you be a person. Maybe you need that.”

Silence stretched between them, not sharp, not empty—charged. He smiled without showing teeth. Less for show. More like agreement.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re starting to sound like you know me.”

She was the one to break it, because if she didn’t, something else would. “Okay, then fair. Favorite food—chicken. Color—red. Childhood—not easy.” She swallowed around the last one. “That’s something. Not a lot.”

“Ask for too much,” he warned lightly, “I’ll think you’re falling for me.”

Her glare did most of the talking. “Don’t deflect.”

“I don’t deflect,” he said, and the humor thinned again, exposing something steadier. “I choose.”

“Then choose to tell me a true thing.”

He weighed her with that hawk attention, then nodded once as if agreeing with himself.

“I grew up where no one looked twice unless you were trouble,” he said. “Or useful.”

Her breath pulled tight. “That’s—”

“Door’s closed there,” he said gently, palm up: enough. “But you can keep the key if that helps.”

It didn’t, and it did. She nodded. “Fine.”

“Good.” Some of the lightness returned. “Then you get to answer one.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your turn,” he said, already pleased. “Favorite food. And don’t say salad.”

A sound escaped her that lived somewhere between scoff and laugh. “It’s not salad.”

“Thank god,” he said solemnly. “I was going to stage an intervention.”

The bell didn’t ring again. The lunch rush that never really happened didn’t 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 you’ve told your body food is optional.

“You’re staring,” he said around a noodle, not looking up.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, amused and not unkind. “Work on your subtlety. It’ll help when you spy on me later.”

She rolled her eyes for form’s sake. He grinned like he’d gotten what he came for.

“You’ve been ignoring those,” he said, chin toward the stack of delivery boxes by the back wall. “Since Monday. They’re starting to feel unwanted.”

“I’ll get to them.”

“I’ll get to them faster,” he said cheerfully, already on his feet. At his fingers’ flick, a thin fraction of red separated, slipped across the room, and kissed open the tape with surgical care.

“That’s cheating,” she said, joining him anyway.

“Efficient,” he corrected. “I’m a civil servant. I’m obligated to model best practices.”

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 didn’t notice first. He did. A beat of stillness, eyes flicking to their hands, heat touching the shell of his ear where hair didn’t hide it.

Then she saw, went pink, and pulled back too fast. The mug wobbled. She caught it to her chest like evidence. “I—I didn’t—”

“Easy,” he said, which did not help. “No harm done.”

“It was an accident.”

“Most interesting things are,” he said, smile small but genuine. “You noticed it too.”

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.

“Hey,” he said after a few minutes of cardboard and counting. His voice had dropped into the register he rarely used in public. “We don’t get a lot of moments like this.”

“Like what.”

“Quiet.” He took a step closer but didn’t crowd her. “No eyes. No noise. Just… us.”

The word snagged on something inside her. She turned. The look he gave her wasn’t a line—it was a reckoning.

“You’ve been careful,” he said. “More than before. Checking the locks twice. Watching your reflection when you pass the window.” His gaze ticked to the door and back. “That’s on me.”

Her fingers tightened on the box. “What are you saying.”

“That you didn’t ask for this orbit,” he said, running a hand through his hair until it stood the way it always did, more wind than style. “But you’re in it. And people who look at me for the wrong reasons might look through me and see you.”

The room shrank; the air grew heavy. “People,” she echoed.

He shook his head once. “No names. No map. But a truth: if anything happens around you, the gravity is mine.”

The anger, the fear, the ridiculous warmth—everything in her tried to move at once. She picked one thing and stood on it. “Then why not stay away.”

For a split second, he looked surprised. Then he offered a tired smile that had too much honesty in it to be strategy. “Because I can’t.”

The answer dropped between them and ripples reached places she didn’t want to name.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she whispered.

“Probably not,” he said. “But better you hear truth badly timed than lies delivered sweet.”

She held onto cardboard because it was real and rough and didn’t look back at her. “So what am I supposed to do with that.”

“Be careful,” he said immediately. “Keep your head down when you can. And—” the edge in his voice eased—“trust that I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She let out something like a laugh that hurt on the way up. “You want trust from someone you keep secrets from.”

“I want you to trust that if I’m here, it isn’t for nothing,” he said. “And that I keep my promises even when I don’t explain them.”

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 her—a small retreat that gave space without leaving.

“That night,” she said finally, voice thin. “In the alley. The person you were with—were they… dangerous.”

His face changed. Not much. Enough. “Yes.”

“And if I’d been seen—”

“You weren’t,” he said, firm enough to stop the thought before it grew teeth. “I made sure of it.”

She searched his expression and found no room for doubt. The knot in her chest pulled tighter and looser at once.

“Will I ever be safe,” she asked, “even without you here.”

“That’s the goal,” he said, and looked older saying it.

“Not reassuring.”

“The best kind of truth rarely is.”

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.

“I watched you before the alley,” he said, as if confessing to stealing something small and significant. “Not creepy. Okay, a little creepy. But I’m busy. If I choose to waste time, it means something.”

She went still. “You watched me.”

“You stood out,” he said. “Everyone else sprinted. You moved like time couldn’t bully you. Head down. Glasses slipping. Stubborn in a way that said you’d learned how, not been born with it. Boring,” he added, delighted. “And so interesting I couldn’t stop.”

“That isn’t a compliment.”

“It is to me,” he said. “Boring is safe. I forget what safe looks like until I see it.”

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 couldn’t erase, the heat in the air he carried with him.

“What are you—” she began, then broke off as something small wobbled—one 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.

“All that fuss,” he murmured, voice low enough to thread under her skin. The grin that followed was close enough to count. “Over something fragile.”

“You could’ve used your feathers,” she managed.

“I could have,” he said, not moving back. “But then I’d miss this.”

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.

“Duty,” he said lightly, though his eyes had gone sharp. He tucked the phone away, stepped back, and the room remembered how big it was.

“Guess I’ll save the rest for next time,” he added, because he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t miss me too much.”

The bell marked his exit. The space he’d taken didn’t 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 shouldn’t 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 familiar—how it made the block she’d 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 she’d 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.

Taglist: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @lowkeylouffaine @justyna4a

[yoomiwrites]

Missing Ghost¹³

Summary: After losing her memory in a storm, a young Marine remembers only the name “Mihawk” 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 — 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 hadn’t slept after that conversation. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice again — 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 — no sign of fatigue, no trace of last night’s 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 didn’t speak. He merely gestured — a small, silent motion with two fingers — 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.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

Mihawk didn’t turn his head. “You’ll see.”

The fog thickened as the morning wore on, swallowing the sun until the sea turned gray and shapeless. Time slipped strangely here — 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 should’ve known better than to expect a straight answer.

At first, you thought it was a mirage — 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 — 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 — 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 — not shells, not stone.

Glass. Melted glass.

“What is this place?” you asked quietly, scanning the desolation. “A battlefield?”

Mihawk followed you onto the shore, his boots sinking into the gray sand with slow, deliberate steps. “Once,” he said. “Long ago.”

You turned toward him. “You’ve been here before.”

A faint pause. “Yes.”

The single word carried weight. You felt it immediately — that subtle current of something unsaid, pulling beneath the surface.

You stopped when you saw it — 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 hadn’t washed away.

You started walking. The path wound upward toward a ridge, where the remains of fortifications jutted against the sky — 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. “This…” you whispered. “This looks like—”

The word wouldn’t come out.

Your pulse quickened. Images flickered at the edge of your mind — 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 — grounding. But his expression remained inscrutable.

“What is this?” you managed, breath trembling. “Why bring me here?”

His eyes met yours — calm, unblinking, like the sea after a storm. “Because you asked to remember,” he said simply.

Your stomach dropped. “This—this is where—”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t 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 — the admiral’s voice, the blackened ground, and him, standing in the chaos.

You turned back toward Mihawk, heart hammering. “You knew,” you accused, voice barely steady. “You knew what this place was.”

His expression didn’t change. “Yes.”

“How could you—” You broke off, shaking your head. “Why bring me here? Why make me—”

“Because truth demands confrontation,” he interrupted, his voice a low, unwavering thread through the wind. “You will not remember by running from it.”

You stared at him, chest tight. “You think this will help?”

“I know it will.” His gaze drifted over the landscape, his tone almost contemplative. “This island remembers even when men forget. The ground does not lie.”

You swallowed hard, eyes burning. “And you?” you whispered. “Do you remember it?”

Mihawk’s eyes flicked back to yours. “Every moment.”

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 weren’t ready to face.

Behind you, Mihawk stood silent, the sea wind stirring his coat. He watched you without a word — 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 hadn’t.

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 — soundless, composed, his presence a cold anchor at your back. He didn’t guide you, didn’t speak. He didn’t 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 — faint, sharp — like a match striking in the dark.

You stopped, breath catching. Your fingers brushed the wall beside you — blackened stone, cracked through the middle. When you looked closer, you saw faint carvings half-consumed by soot. Symbols. Swirling lines, waves, stars. Your people’s script.

A child’s laugh.

The scent of salt and smoke.

A woman’s voice calling your name.

Then — silence. Screaming silence.

You staggered back, heart pounding. “No…”

But the air shifted. The fog that had blanketed the island thinned, and for a heartbeat you could almost see them — 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. “Stop,” you whispered. But the ghosts didn’t 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 — commands barked in Marine voices, boots pounding the ground, the shriek of cannon fire. The images came faster, disjointed — flashes of red and black, of flags burning, of steel clashing in the narrow alleys.

Your knees gave out before you realized you’d 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 — 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.

“Evacuate the harbor—!”

“They’re firing on civilians—!”

“Get the children below—!”

And then — 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 — seeing him amidst the chaos, realizing the man you’d 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 — pausing — just for a breath.

You gasped, stumbling to your feet, clutching your head. “Stop—please—stop!”

Behind you, Mihawk didn’t move. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze tracked every tremor, every breath.

You turned on him, shaking. “You—” Your voice broke. “You were...You—”

Your words faltered as another wave of memory hit — the explosion at the ridge, the deafening blast that threw you backward, the heat swallowing everything. The last thing you’d 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 couldn’t tell if they were from pain, smoke, or memory.

“I remember,” you whispered, voice raw. “God, I remember…”

The ghosts didn’t vanish — 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 — no longer behind you, but beside. He hadn’t touched you, but his shadow fell over yours.

Your voice trembled. “You killed them.”

He didn’t flinch. “I killed many,” he said quietly. “Marines. Soldiers. Rebels. I no longer distinguish.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “You were supposed to protect them.”

“I was not,” he said, tone flat. “I was never sent to protect anyone.”

That truth burned hotter than fire. “Then why me?” you whispered. “Why did you take me?”

He regarded you for a long, silent moment. Then, as the wind shifted and scattered ash across the dead field, he said, “Because you were still alive.”

The answer hit you like a slap — not cruel, just brutally honest. It was so perfectly him. Simple. Cold. Yet you could hear what he didn’t say beneath it — 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 clan’s laughter. The blood. The sea. The moment you’d reached for him through the smoke and he hadn’t raised his blade.

Tears stung your eyes, unbidden. “I tried to save them,” you said. “I thought if I just… if I could reach them before the Marines did—”

“You could not,” he interrupted softly. “No one could.”

You turned your face toward him, the ache in your chest unbearable. “And you still brought me here. To relive all this.”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Why?” Your voice cracked on the word.

“So you will stop pretending the past is something you can run from.”

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 people’s graves.

Slowly, the ghosts faded. The smoke dissipated. All that was left was silence — and Mihawk, standing in it like a monument.

Your voice came out hollow. “I’m the only survivor?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “That is what I believed.”

You blinked up at him. “Believed?”

He inclined his head slightly, the faintest shift. “There were rumors. Ships that fled before the bombardment. Children taken inland. I do not know if they lived.” His tone didn’t change, but something in it softened. “I did not look.”

“Because you didn’t care?” you asked bitterly.

He studied you for a long moment. “Because I would have killed what I found,” he said quietly. “And I had already decided once not to.”

The words stole your breath.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind carried the sound of the sea — distant, indifferent.

You closed your eyes, letting the memories settle, no longer fighting them. The horror, the grief, the truth — 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.

“There is nothing left for you here.”

You hesitated, glancing once more at the ruins. The wind whispered through them, carrying with it a faint sound — maybe the sea, maybe something else. Then you followed him, because you always did, and because for the first time since you’d 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 — a classified Marine mission to extinguish an “unauthorized presence” 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 — the so-called Listeners — 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 — just an instinct passed through blood. It frightened the Government. Some whispered that, if the clan’s ability matured, they might hear the Voice of the Worlditself — 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 — least of all herself. She wasn’t 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 — 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 world’s greatest swordsman. The job should have killed her. It nearly did — several times.

And yet, each time she almost died, he pulled her back.

A bandit’s blade, a collapsing pier, a storm that ripped her ship in two — Mihawk saved her not out of duty, but out of… something else. Irritation, perhaps. Curiosity. Amusement. She was hopeless, ridiculous — 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 — quiet, almost careless ones. No answers came.

He didn’t 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 “purified.”

The Gorosei wanted no survivors, no records, no sympathy.

When he received her reassignment papers, stamped with Tokuma’s authority, he had understood too late what they meant.

The Marines mobilized under Admiral Tokuma, who carried the Elders’ personal seal.

Among his officers was Captain Aritomi, a veteran known for his quiet honor. He had trained Y/N since her enlistment. She’d been like a younger sister — 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 — though she didn’t yet remember why.

“They said there are civilians,” she argued. “Families. We can’t just—”

“You can’t go ashore,” Aritomi told her as the ships neared Ardium.

His voice was low, urgent. “Orders are absolute. You don’t understand what’s coming.”

“We can,” he interrupted, bitterness twisting his words. “We will. That’s the order.”

When she tried to push past him, he caught her wrist. His hand shook. “If you go down there, they’ll call you a traitor. You’ll die with them.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Then what do you expect me to do?”

But she didn’t run.

He hesitated — the first time he had ever disobeyed silence.

“Run,” he said. “Run, and don’t come back.”

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 — the remnants of a people trying to flee.

The Gorosei’s orders allowed no exceptions.

Y/N ran through the chaos, shouting herself hoarse, pulling wounded from the rubble. Her training meant nothing here. She didn’t 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.

“You have to go,” he rasped. “I can’t stop this.”

“Aritomi—”

“If you stay, they’ll kill you. And I’ll have to let them.” His grip tightened on her shoulders. “I can’t defy the order. Not them. Not the Elders.”

His eyes burned, wet with smoke and grief. “But I won’t kill you either.”

He shoved her toward the edge of the ridge — toward the dark figure waiting beyond the smoke.

“Go,” Aritomi said. “He’ll keep you alive. That’s all I can do.”

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 — soot-streaked, eyes fluttering — 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 “clean operation.”

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 didn’t 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — his uniform half torn, his hands shaking as he shoved you toward the cliff, shouting something you couldn’t quite make out through the roar. His mouth moved again and again, and finally, the words found you.

Run, kid. Don’t look back.

You clutched your head, gasping. The world tilted. You could still feel his hand on your arm, the way he’d pushed you — 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. You’d forgotten that sound — how it didn’t 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 — steady, slow. The kind you would know anywhere.

“Mihawk,” you breathed, though it came out more like a plea than a name.

He didn’t 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 — the ruins melting into memory. You saw the beach again, the Marines shouting, Mihawk’s silhouette through the smoke, blood on your hands. The smell of salt turned to iron. You heard your own voice screaming, though you couldn’t remember what for.

When it finally ebbed, you were trembling.

You looked up at Mihawk, your voice hoarse. “He was trying to save me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was the only truth that made sense anymore.

You let out a hollow laugh. It cracked halfway through. “And what was mine?”

Mihawk’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes softened just enough to tell you he knew.

“He made his choice,” he said quietly. “As did I.”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze unreadable. “To live.”

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 — no longer blue, just gray.

You shook your head, pressing your palms against your temples, trying to steady yourself. “Then why does it feel like I didn’t?”

The words came out before you could stop them — trembling, broken, too honest.

You didn’t meet his eyes when you said the next part.

“Because I can’t feel anything anymore.”

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 didn’t touch you, didn’t move closer, but his voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Memories return as wounds first,” he said. “Pain is the price of truth.”

You looked up at him then, searching his face for anger, for pity — 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 wasn’t as untouched by this place as he looked.

You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest almost unbearable. “I lost everything.”

His gaze lingered a moment longer before drifting toward the horizon. “You survived,” he said simply. “That is not nothing.”

You almost laughed at that — bitter, quiet. “It feels like it.”

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 didn’t tell you to follow. He didn’t 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 — dull, constant, familiar.

When you finally stood, your legs trembled. The wind tugged at your coat, cold and relentless. You turned toward the sea — the same sea that had taken everything from you — and for a fleeting moment, you thought you heard it breathe.

[yoomiwrites]

I want to write as well but always compare myself to others ......do you have any tips?

It’s totally normal to compare yourself to others, I do it too. Sometimes I think I’m not “good enough,” or that maybe I should just quit because everyone else seems so much better.

But here’s the thing: that’s all in your head. It’s not real. No matter how “good” you are at writing, there will always be people who enjoy your work. They’ll connect with your style, use your stories to relax, or just escape reality for a while. And if someone doesn’t like it? They simply won’t read it — that’s it.

Personally, I find Tumblr to be a pretty positive place. When there is hate, it’s 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, it’s always worth it.

[yoomiwrites]

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: they’ll update after a certain reaction target is reached or once I’ve finished at least two more chapters.

So for example — if chapter 3 is already posted, you’d get chapter 4 either when the reaction goal is met or when I’ve 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, you’ll get a better result and I’ll know it’s being written for someone who’s reading it, not just for the "bin".

Of course, oneshots are excluded from this “rule.” I’ll be opening my request box once every month, and during that time, I’ll pick and write some of your ideas and wishes.

[yoomiwrites]

Where are you from?

I'm from Germany :)

[yoomiwrites]

Paulie won the poll for the story that’ll fill Sweet Innocence’s slot until December!

I’m really looking forward to working on it! I’ve already started revisiting my original drafts, writing, and turning them into chapters. This one’s 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 don’t have any concrete plans for that one yet, so if you have ideas or requests, drop them in the comments or my ask box. :) ♡

[yoomiwrites]

Missing Ghost spoiler / romance question

The next Missing Ghost chapter will finally shed light on Y/N’s past, or at least parts of it.

I’m saying this deliberately, since I’ve received quite a few messages asking about the romantic side of the story. It’s really important to me that everything between Y/N and Mihawk develops naturally, not in a forced way. And let’s be honest, Mihawk is not the kind of man who rushes anything. Especially not with someone who isn’t in the best state of mind.

After this chapter, we’ll definitely see more progress in their relationship, but how the final chapter ends is, well, up to you.

[yoomiwrites]

Boring Love⁴

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 perilous—and 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 kind—just 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 she’d stepped out of the dusk and hadn’t decided whether to stay. Pale coat rumpled as if she’d slept in it. Hair pulled up, strands falling messily around a face that should have softened her, but didn’t. It wasn’t the clothes. It wasn’t the posture.

It was the eyes.

Locked on (Y/N)’s. Wide. Bright. Too bright. Drinking in her face like a test she intended to pass.

(Y/N) stilled. The girl didn’t blink.

Something in the stillness was wrong. Not theatrical—off. 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)’s heart kicked once, hard. She meant to look away. She couldn’t.

A warm hand touched her shoulder.

“Hey.”

Her stomach dropped, fear detonating and then—stupidly—resolving 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.

“Who was that?” she asked, hating how thin her voice sounded.

“Dunno,” he said, too smoothly to be true. His body angled in front of hers without making a show of it—hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, stance that read as casual and behaved like a shield. “You okay?”

She nodded because the alternative was unspooling on the sidewalk. Hawks turned his head to the street again, attention scanning places most people didn’t know existed.

He turned back with a smile that didn’t reach the places smiles should. “You think your cat’s gonna yell at me if I show up again?”

“What?”

“Feisty little thing,” he said. “Might be jealous.”

The fog in her head refused to clear, but the instruction did. He nodded at her door.

“Go home,” he said, voice gentled at the edges. “Lock up. Curtains closed. You’ll be fine.”

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 remained—etched 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: This is safe.

The cat lifted its head from the arm of the chair—the laziest of acknowledgements—and resettled. It had learned the rhythms of her door. So, apparently, had other things.

Curtains, he’d said.

She drew them shut. The thin fabric didn’t 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 over—

Two soft knocks, measured, found the door.

She and the cat sat up together. The apartment held its breath.

“…What do you want?” she called, grateful her voice came out level.

“Let me in,” Hawks said. Not a command; not quite a request. “Please.”

Every piece of her wanted to say no. Instead: “Stay there.”

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.

“House rule,” she said through the door. “You knock. I decide. No tricks.”

“Deal,” he said immediately.

She cracked the door to the length of the chain.

He passed the bag into the gap like contraband. “I brought food.”

“Why.”

“Because your fridge made me sad,” he said simply, looking at her like that was a reasonable answer. “And the cat’s been judging your menu.”

Annoyance kept her warmer than the heater did. “You don’t get to make my life your project.”

“Then consider it mine,” he offered. “Temporary loan. Interest-free.”

She kept the chain. He didn’t 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. “Two rules,” she said as he stepped in. “You announce yourself. And you don’t touch locks or windows.”

“Both sound like excellent ways to avoid getting yelled at,” 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, and—somehow—two ridiculous foil pouches of cat pâté that made the cat wearily reconsider its brand loyalty. He tucked dry cat food into the cupboard he’d installed without admitting he’d installed it.

(Y/N) crossed her arms so she wouldn’t hug herself. “Is this surveillance, pity, or boredom.”

“None,” he said, quiet. “Insurance.”

“For whom.”

“Both of us.”

“Not comforting.”

He leaned against the counter, meeting her look dead on. The usual tilt of his mouth smoothed out. “Someone was watching you tonight,” he said. He didn’t describe the pale coat; he didn’t have to. “The kind of attention you don’t want. If I can make your day two percent safer by making your life five percent less empty—” He lifted a shoulder. “That’s arithmetic I like.”

“You don’t know me,” she said, because it was safer than thank you.

He studied her a moment, then let it pass. “Okay,” he said. “Then I’m 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.”

Her chest ached with a ridiculous, stubborn, specific gratitude that came out crooked. “You’re not boiling anything.”

“Commanding,” he said, amused in spite of himself, then stepped back from the stove. “I’ll watch the door.”

She didn’t 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 left—because she made him, because she needed him to—he put his hand on the frame and waited. “Text when you get a phone again,” he said. “Until then, I knock.”

“You’ll ask,” she said, “before you do anything.”

“I’ll ask,” he said, and for once it sounded like a promise he’d drafted days ago.

He hesitated. “You’re not alone,” he added, gently enough that it didn’t bruise. “Even when you want to be.”

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 she’d 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 wasn’t the tiny apartment or the empty fridge or even the way she pretended not to need the heater he’d quietly made work again. He knew that life; poverty was a language his bones remembered. It wasn’t 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 he’d caught on a face across from her—a pale coat and a smile that meant blood when it chose to.

Toga’s attention was a knife with a ribbon on it. Once it tied itself to something, it didn’t 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 didn’t hold when fear reached into his chest and closed a fist around an old, familiar corner.

He was good at pretending he didn’t 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 couldn’t. And somewhere under both lived something he hadn’t had time for since he’d been a kid stealing heat from vents in winter.

Curiosity is a soft word for hunger.

Okay, then. If he couldn’t 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 didn’t stop coming.

Not in a way that felt like surveillance. Not in a way that let her pretend he’d forgotten her. At first it was small—a 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 talk—easy, practiced, a handful of good stories thrown like bread to ducks. It should have been irritating. It was. It was also—sometimes—funny. She hated that.

Then he started asking questions, and the irritation organized itself into something sharper.

“How long have you worked here?” Reasonable.

“Do you actually like it, or is it just rent?” Annoying.

“You always push your glasses up with your left hand.” Not a question. Not fair.

“You restock that shelf three times when you’re stressed.” Rude.

“You smell like lavender tea today.” Unnecessary.

“Do you eat chocolate instead of lunch because it’s quick or because it feels like cheating?” Unwelcome.

She ignored him professionally. Then pointedly. Then with all the snubs she’d learned when men mistook customer service for invitation.

He noticed anyway. Noted, is what it felt like. Not with a predator’s 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 he’d stepped between her and a man whose eyes stuck to women a beat too long.

On the day he didn’t 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 he’d 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 didn’t hide. He filled the room, bright and impossible, and every part of the city that noticed him noticed where he was.

“You’re open,” he said like it was good news that belonged to him. “I thought you might’ve gone into hiding.”

“You can’t just walk in here like that,” she said, because it was the only place to put the static under her skin.

“Like what,” he asked, and gave her the kind of grin that used to live on posters. “Like a paying customer?”

“You never buy anything.”

He tipped his head. “I get distracted by the shopkeeper.”

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 he’d earned it.

“Why hide,” he asked softly. “I am who I am. Might as well let the neighborhood see it.”

She hated him a little for how that worked—how 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.

“What do you want, Hawks.”

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. “Dangerous question to ask me,” he murmured.

“Don’t,” she said, because the ground already felt like edges.

He laughed under his breath, and the sound was almost gentle. “Relax. I’m just here to be a very annoying deterrent.”

“Show off, you mean.”

“Same thing,” he said, then—so quietly she almost missed it—“And to make sure you ate.”

She refused to look at the bag he’d put by the register. He refused to stop existing.

“Fine,” she said, not to the food. To the fact of him. “Fine.”

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.

“We’re not friends.”

He glanced up, a smile halfway in place. She cut it off.

“You don’t live here. You don’t get to act like this is yours. You ask questions; you bring food; you play with the cat and then leave. I don’t know you. Not really. I don’t even know your real name.”

He should have parried. He didn’t. The humor evaporated, not like an act dropped, but like a truth stood up.

“Even if I could tell you,” he said, voice low, “I shouldn’t.”

That was somehow the worst answer—its honesty making the rules feel like choices, even when they weren’t.

“Then stop acting like we’re something we’re not.”

Long quiet. He broke it with less armor than she’d ever seen on him.

“I’m not pretending,” he said.

She opened her mouth to argue.

“Maybe you are,” 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.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know.”

“I’m safe now. You fixed it. You can go.”

“But you don’t want to be alone,” he said, not cruelly. Like he’d laid her life out on a table and seen which pieces fit together and which ones didn’t. “You’ve built something that looks like solitude and runs on fear. It’s good engineering. It’s not a home.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know how your voice thins when you lie,” he said, stepping in slow enough to give her time to stop him. “I know you pretend you don’t care who’s at the door and then listen for footsteps anyway. I know you look toward my window when you think you’re not doing anything at all.”

He stopped before heat became touch. She could smell soap and wind and something clean that the city never gave back.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, mostly to himself. “But I am. And you haven’t told me to leave.”

“Go,” she whispered.

He didn’t move.

“Please.”

He stepped back immediately. It shouldn’t have mattered that he listened to please. It did.

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” he said at the door.

“Why.”

He let himself smile, just enough to be a promise. “Because you’ll be waiting.”

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 couldn’t. 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.

“Mornin,” he said.

“You can’t—” She caught herself, then tried again. “This is a shop. People see.”

“That’s the point,” he said, letting a feather tip the bell to silence. “Sometimes hiding makes the wrong people curious.”

“You still don’t buy anything,” 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 one—cheap, red, edges clean.

“I’ll take this,” he said, and the grin he gave her had no edge on it at all. “Finally making me legitimate.”

She rang him up because that’s what happened in her life—she 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, and—how dare he—looked shy for a second.

“Maybe,” he said, still studying the ribbon instead of her, “I am your friend.” He didn’t look up until he had a second sentence ready. “But I can be the kind that watches the door and shuts up when you need quiet.”

Her throat tightened. “Terms,” she managed, because she needed something to hold. “No after-hours unless I ask. Knock. Don’t unlock. In the shop, you’re a customer. If you come here, you buy something. No… showboating.”

His eyes did that gold-warm thing that read as sunset if sunsets could agree to keep secrets. “Deal,” he said. “All of it.”

“And the girl,” she forced herself to add. “If you see her—”

“I’ll see her,” he said. “You won’t.”

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. “If something knocks, it’s me. And I’ve learned to ask.”

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 that’s what you do when your life changes and pretends it hasn’t.

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.

Taglist: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @lowkeylouffaine @justyna4a

[yoomiwrites]

Sweet Innocence¹¹

Summary: Princess Y/N’s kingdom is falling apart, and her family’s only hope is her marriage to a cruel, old king. Desperate, she makes a reckless choice one night—and wakes up in Niji Vinsmoke’s bed. Now, caught between a dangerous engagement and Niji’s 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 — the softness of her voice, the way her hand would brush his hair back, the way she smiled like the world wasn’t 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 didn’t understand her at all.

When she told him she loved him, he didn’t feel anything. He didn’t 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 didn’t even think about it. And Sanji—

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.

He’d been too busy trying to impress their father — 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 didn’t cry. None of them did. He didn’t even know what crying felt like.

But he remembered her eyes. He remembered the stubborn warmth there — the same warmth he’d pushed away over and over again.

He thought he’d forgotten it.

Buried it under discipline and training and blood.

He almost convinced himself it was gone for good.

Until you.

He doesn’t 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 — the one that still won’t leave his head.

Whatever it is, it’s the same feeling. The same warmth. That same, infuriating pull that makes his chest tighten in ways he hates.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s dangerous.

It’s 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 can’t.

Not anymore.

Because somewhere between his mother’s ghost and your voice, between the memories of warmth and the taste of electricity in his blood, Niji realizes the truth he doesn’t want to face:

He doesn’t 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 — blood dripping down his temple, smoke curling around him. Ichiji stands across the field, expression calm and certain. The crowd thinks it’s over. Judge watches silently. Zeang smiles.

Niji lifts his head slowly.

His ribs ache, his mouth tastes like iron, but there’s 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 — not his usual cocky smirk, but something sharper, realer. “You talk too much, Ichiji.”

Ichiji’s eyes narrow slightly. “You can barely stand.”

“Still enough to knock you down,” 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 — not for approval, not for pride — but for something he can’t even name.

Something warm.

You can hear it — that low, electric hum that always comes before Niji moves. He’s still bleeding, still swaying slightly, but his stance has changed. Shoulders loose, head tilted, eyes locked on Ichiji like he’s 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.

“You should’ve stayed down,” he says evenly. “You’ve already lost.”

Niji’s grin widens, a smear of blood on his lip making it look almost feral. “You’d like that, huh?”

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 doesn’t hold back — every hit is faster, sharper, fueled by something more than pride.

Ichiji blocks, counterattacks, but his strikes don’t land as cleanly now. Niji slips through openings, fists glowing, laughter spilling between each impact.

“Still think you’re better?” Niji taunts, voice ragged but strong.

Ichiji’s jaw tightens. “Always have been.”

“Then why—” Niji ducks under a swing, drives a punch into his brother’s ribs that sends a ripple of blue light through the air, “—do you look mad?”

Ichiji’s eyes flash. He shoves Niji back with a burst of energy, panting slightly — the first sign of strain.

“You’ve turned this family into a joke,” he hisses. “Over her. Over some—”

“Say her name,” Niji growls, stepping forward.

Ichiji hesitates. For just a heartbeat.

Niji grins, humorless. “Can’t even do that, huh? All that control and you still can’t admit what you’re angry about.”

Their fists meet mid-air — 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. “You’ve lost your mind! You think this is about her? About you wanting something?”

He swings again; Niji catches his wrist. They lock, struggling, faces inches apart.

“It’s about you losing everything you were made to be!” Ichiji shoves him back, his composure fracturing at last. “You were perfect — a soldier! A weapon! And now look at you—bleeding for someone who’ll never understand what we are!”

Niji laughs, breathless, voice shaking with something raw. “You think I don’t know that? I don’t even understand it myself.” He wipes blood from his mouth, eyes blazing. “But for once in my life, I don’t care what we’re supposed to be.”

Ichiji freezes for half a second.

Niji steps forward again, electricity crawling up his arms. “You can keep pretending we’re just tools, but you feel it too, don’t you? That… whatever the hell it is.”

“Shut up,” Ichiji snaps.

“You do,” Niji presses. “You just bury it deeper.”

Ichiji’s punch comes fast — almost desperate. Niji blocks it, counters, grabs his brother’s 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. “You can call me weak all you want,” he pants, “but at least I feel something.”

Ichiji glares up at him. The fury there is sharp — but beneath it, something else flickers. Sadness? Recognition? It’s gone as quickly as it appears.

“You’re pathetic,” Ichiji mutters, but his voice lacks its earlier venom.

Niji tilts his head, smirking faintly. “Then why aren’t you getting up?”

Ichiji doesn’t answer. He stares at the steel beneath him, at his own blood, at the faint blue crackle of energy still dancing along Niji’s arms. For the first time, he looks… uncertain.

Because he knows.

Whether or not he wins this fight — Niji won’t stop. Not for Judge, not for GERMA, not even for himself. If it means keeping you, he’ll destroy himself doing it.

And GERMA can’t afford to lose him.

Ichiji’s lips part in a quiet exhale, the faintest smirk ghosting across them. “Idiot,” he whispers. “You really would, wouldn’t you?”

Niji frowns, not catching the words. “What?”

Ichiji meets his gaze — calm now, resigned. “Fine. Have it your way.”

He pushes himself up slowly, dusts off his gloves, and raises one hand. The judge overseeing the match leans forward, unsure what’s happening. Ichiji’s tone is flat, final.

“I yield.”

The words ripple through the air like a shockwave.

You blink, certain you misheard. The crowd erupts in shouts and confusion. Even Judge’s expression flickers — a rare crack in his composure.

Niji just… stares.

“What?”

Ichiji steps past him without looking back. “You heard me.”

And then, quieter, only Niji can hear:

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He leaves the arena.

Niji stands there, unmoving, breath ragged, eyes wide — victory landing on him like something heavy instead of sweet. The cheers around him are distant.

Up in the stands, you can’t move either. Relief floods you first — then confusion, then something that you can’t quite name.

Because even from where you sit, you can tell:

Ichiji didn’t lose.

He let him win.

And the look on Niji’s face says he knows it too.

He storms past the judges, past the medics who try to stop him, past Ichiji’s retreating back. The crowd parts instinctively — 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 don’t breathe until he’s gone.

For a heartbeat the field stays loud: Judge rising to his feet, Zeang’s men shouting, officials confirming the outcome. But none of it reaches you. You can still see the look on Niji’s face as he left — not triumphant, not relieved.

Angry. Confused. Betrayed.

Because he knew.

Everyone did.

That wasn’t a victory. It was a mercy.

You’re still staring at the now-empty arena when a shadow falls over you. Yonji stood, a grin already tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he drawls, stretching his arms behind his head, “guess that makes you family now, huh?”

You blink at him. “What?”

He smirks, teeth flashing. “Come on, princess. Niji wins, deal’s sealed. Congratulations. You’re practically a Vinsmoke.” He chuckles, low and rough. “Welcome to the circus.”

You can’t even summon a reply. The words slide past you like static.

Niji’s victory—if you can call it that—feels hollow in your chest.

“I need to go,” you say suddenly, standing so fast the chair scrapes the floor.

“Hey, where—” Yonji starts, but you’re 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 don’t know what you’ll say when you find him.

You just know you have to.

Because no matter what the crowd cheered, he didn’t win — not the way he wanted to. And whatever this strange thing between you is, it’s 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 — cold, white, unforgiving.

He’s 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, he’s already hit it once.

He doesn’t turn when you step in.

“Go away.”

His voice is low, rough. Not tired — furious.

You hover at the threshold, unsure if you should move closer. “Niji—”

He spins, glare sharp enough to cut through the air.

“What are you doing here?”

You open your mouth, but he keeps talking, the words spilling out fast, angry, and jagged.

“You think this was a win? You think—” He gestures toward the ceiling, where the faint echo of cheering still lingers. “That was a joke. He gave it to me. Like I’m some kid who needs a damn favor.”

He paces, each step heavy. Sparks flicker briefly around his boots, dying out as fast as they appear. “All that noise, all that fighting, and for what? For him to hand it over because he’s scared of losing me?” He laughs once — bitter, hollow. “I don’t need their pity.”

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. “And you…”

He turns toward you, jaw tight. “You shouldn’t be here either. This—” He waves between you both, searching for the word and not finding it. “It’s a mess. You saw what it cost.”

“I don’t care,” you say quietly.

That makes him pause.

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, like he’s waiting for you to laugh, to take it back. But you don’t. You stand there, chest tight, hands clenched at your sides. “I just… needed to see you.”

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 — just one step, then another, until he’s standing close enough that you can see the tremor still running through his hands. His anger hasn’t vanished; it’s burning quieter now, mixed with something else.

He studies your face, eyes searching, as if trying to understand why you’re still here after everything.

“You really don’t get it,” he mutters finally. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You swallow hard. “Then tell me.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a shaky laugh that sounds almost like disbelief. “You always have to push, don’t you?”

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. “I didn’t need him to let me win,” he says quietly. “I just needed—”

He stops, catches himself, shakes his head. “Forget it.”

You barely whisper, “What did you need?”

He looks back at you, expression darker than before. And whatever words he’d 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 — it all condenses into that single moment.

No smile. No speech. Just the quiet, steady look of someone who finally takes what’s his — not out of pride, but because he can’t not.

The ship hums around you, steady and endless, as everything else falls away.

[yoomiwrites]

Is there any plot or character you don't write for?

I write most tropes — some I love, some not so much.

What I don’t enjoy is writing pure filth that’s 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 don’t write for ones I don’t know. But as soon as I’m familiar with a character, I’m open to writing for them — whether I personally like them or not.

I don’t usually write “kids” 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.

Hope that answers your question!

[yoomiwrites]

May I ask who it is on your profile picture? 🫶🏻

Of course!

That's Cú 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!

Do you know any works of the fate series?

yes

no

Voting ended onOct 16, 2025

[yoomiwrites]

Just a quick note!

For Christmas, I’m planning to write a few oneshots, which I’ll post on December 24th. I know not everyone celebrates Christmas, so think of it more as a cozy end-of-the-year treat.

Here’s 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 — the more the better. If I get more than 15 requests, I’ll simply spread them out over two days so nothing gets rushed.

I’ll remind you again in December, but feel free to start sending your ideas already!

[yoomiwrites]

As promised, here’s 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.

⏰ Time zone: GMT / UTC+01:00

Starting in December, we’ll have a little “special time” — with a new door every day, meaning at least one update from the new stories daily. Based on your feedback, I’ve also made a few changes to the characters.

For spoilers about who it’ll be, check below the cut.

Week 1

Fri, Oct 17 — Sweet Innocent Ch.11

Sun, Oct 19 — Boring Love Ch.4

Week 2

Wed, Oct 22 — Missing Ghost Ch.13

Sat, Oct 25 — Boring Love Ch.5

Week 3

Wed, Oct 29 — Sweet Innocent Ch.12 (finale)

Sat, Nov 1 — Boring Love Ch.6

Week 4

Wed, Nov 5 — Missing Ghost Ch.14

Sat, Nov 8 — Boring Love Ch.7

Week 5

Wed, Nov 12 — Missing Ghost Ch.15

Sat, Nov 15 — Boring Love Ch.8

Week 6

Wed, Nov 19 — Missing Ghost Ch.16

Sat, Nov 22 — Boring Love Ch.9

Week 7

Wed, Nov 26 — Missing Ghost Ch.17

Sat, Nov 29 — Boring Love Ch.10 (final)

Sun, Nov 30 — Missing Ghost Ch.18 (final)

Everything wraps before Dec 1.

Sanemi modern AU | kny

Trafalgar Law | One Piece

The second place of the poll – as for now probably Yonji (One Piece) or Paulie (One Piece)