The sky above the Isle is cloudy and grey. The kind of grey that presses down on buildings, making them look worse than they are. The kind that turns everything into a bruise, yellowed, aching, just shy of rotten. The light that filters through is dim, soft, and makes everything feel like a half-formed dream. One of the bad ones. The kind you wake up from still clenching your fists.

The voices around you are loud, cheers, jeers, angry shouting, but you can’t be bothered to try and understand. Just noise. All of it. They aren’t cheering for you. They never are.

The boy who tried to take your things is sprawled on the broken pavement. Face swollen, eye already closing, blood leaking from his lip as he spits out a broken tooth. He looks up at you, still angry. Still dumb enough to think he could win.

Stupid.

Your knuckles are bleeding. Your breath is still coming too fast. As you sit up and look down at the boy, you smile. It’s too wide. Too sharp. The blood smeared across your mouth only makes it worse.

“You want my territory? Earn it,” you growl, voice ragged.

He doesn’t move.

Smart. Too late, but smart.

You give him one last kick to the ribs, not hard, just enough to make a point, then turn and disappear into the nearest alley. You don’t stay for the reactions. They’re already fading, like everything else. Cheers always do. They aren’t real. Not for you. Only for the fight.

Your boots crunch over broken glass and something wet you don’t bother to look at. The alley stinks like garbage and something chemical. Familiar. Comforting, in a way.

People scatter when they see you. It always hurts, that silence and fear after a fight. It’s like everyone’s asking themselves if they’re next.

Your hand throbs with every heartbeat, warm and slick in your pocket. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, and you can’t tell if it’s yours or his. Probably both.

You hate how your vision blurs at the edges. How the buzz in your ears isn’t adrenaline, but exhaustion.

For now, you walk with purpose, even if you don’t know where you’re going. Standing still makes you feel like you might sink into the concrete and vanish.

And if you disappeared? Would anyone care?

Your father wouldn’t, even if he were alive. He was a man with no attachments, had you with some woman he found on a lonely night after he was first thrown onto the Isle. He only ever paid attention to you for training.

So you pushed harder, seeking his attention in training, even when your legs were black and blue, even when exhaustion burrowed deep into your bones and left you in too much pain to sleep.

You thought training was the only time he’d ever talk to you… until your first fight.

You lost, your father’s ways didn’t beat dirty fighting. Two held you by the arms while the third slammed a fist into your stomach.

That was the first time your father spoke to you about anything that wasn’t a correction. Maybe you imagined it, but you swore you saw a flicker of concern in his eyes, quickly buried under anger. But that little bit of concern felt good in a way you didn’t even know you could feel.

You remember the first time he said your name without yelling it. You were eleven, your lip split and blood running down your shirt. He looked at you, not with pride, not even disappointment, just recognition. And that was enough to hook you like a fish.

You started chasing that look like an addict after a fix.

He only noticed you when you came home bleeding, a black eye here, a busted lip there. Suddenly, he was talking to you. Asking questions. Telling you to be careful, to not embarrass him, even if it was through clenched teeth. That had to mean something, right? That had to count.

He never asked what started the fights. Never asked if you won because you wanted to or because you had to. All he saw was blood. All you saw was that he finally saw you.

So you chased it, getting into more fights, winning them just to see that flicker of pride in Shan Yu’s face. And after his death, you looked for that emotion somewhere else.

Maybe if you got hurt badly enough, someone would finally notice. Finally look. Finally worry. Worry felt like love. At least to you. It always had.

You wonder what kind of scream would finally get someone to come running. If you drowned yourself in front of Uma’s crew, would they cheer or mourn? Would anyone even lie and say you were strong?

Even if it didn’t feel good, it still felt like something.

You reach the old building near the market and start climbing, your body moving on autopilot. This place has been yours for a while now, one of the only places you can go when you want to be alone, or when you want someone to follow. And right now, you don’t even know which it is.

A shadow moves behind you, fast and familiar.

You don’t think. Your heart thumps in your ears as you spin, blade already drawn, and press it to the intruder’s throat.

You don’t ease up. Not right away.

The edge of the blade rests against skin, not deep enough to cut, but enough to threaten. Enough to say don’t push me. Enough to say I don’t trust easy. Even you.

Then you hear it.

That voice. His voice.

“Careful, sweetheart.”

Smooth. Unbothered. Like he isn’t just one heartbeat away from bleeding. Like this isn’t the tenth time he’s caught you mid-swing.

You exhale, slow and shaky, the tension draining from your shoulders like a deflating balloon. You lower the knife, but your grip stays tight.

You don’t apologize. You never do.

You look him in the eyes, even with blood still dripping from your nose and bruises along your throat, and straighten, looking him up and down.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on me.”

Jay raises an eyebrow, amused in that cocky, infuriating way only he can be. “You were the one storming off like a rabid wolf. I followed to make sure you didn’t bite someone’s head off.”

You snort, blood still fresh on your tongue. “Too late.”

His eyes flick down to your hands, split, raw, starting to shake now that the adrenaline’s fading. He doesn’t comment, just steps closer. Closing the space like he always does. And like always, you let him.

“You keep doing this,” he says, voice low, “and one day someone’s gonna gut you in your sleep.”

You shrug. “Let them try.”

But he doesn’t laugh. Not this time.

His fingers reach for your hand, slow, careful. Giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t.

He scans your face, looking for your reaction. His thumb brushes a cut on your knuckle, gentle. You flinch.

“Still hurts,” he says quietly. Obvious.

You look at him. Really look. And something behind your eyes flickers, a crack in the mask. Not weakness. Not regret. Just… weight. The kind that sits in your chest and steals your air.

Something twists in your stomach, a sick kind of satisfaction at seeing him worry. Like proof that you matter. That you still exist.

“Everything hurts, Jay,” you whisper. “I don’t remember the last time something didn’t.”

It comes out smaller than you meant. Like it slipped past your defenses before you could pull it back.

The wind threatens to swallow the words, but he hears them. He always does.

His hand tightens around yours.

“I know.”

And for a second, just one, you lean into him. You let the world fall away. Let the knife hang loose at your side. Let your broken, bloodied hand be held like it’s something worth holding.

You’ll blame it on the adrenaline later. You’ll joke about being dramatic or tired or losing too much blood. But he’ll know better.

You’re running thin.

So when you hug him, really hug him, arms squeezing tight even though it hurts, even though the bruises scream in protest, it’s not a slip.

You think about pushing him away, saying something cruel to cover up the tightness in your throat. But your arms don’t move. Neither does he. For once, the silence isn’t sharp, it’s warm. It wraps around you like a bandage. Like a maybe.

“You scare me when you do this,” he says, voice low. “Because I never know if it’s the last time I’ll see you still breathing.”

You want to tell him you scare yourself, too. That sometimes, when the world goes quiet, the only voice left is the one that wants you gone. You hate needing him. Hate the way his presence makes you feel something other than rage or nothing at all.

But you don’t step back. Not yet.

_______________________________________

i learned how to write x reader fics, hahaha, english is weird

Uma~ Where are we going?" I ask. My boots hit the ground as I hum waiting patiently on Uma's answer. Although I had just met the girl yesterday, I felt as if I could trust her. Or maybe that was just my soul aching for a game to be played.

Uma glanced down at me with a mixture of amusement and fondness as we strolled down the unfamiliar cobblestone paths of this peculiar town. Bystanders stared and gawked at my skipping, which only seemed to entertain me further. I waved at them with an impish grin, feeling a thrill of mischief in the curious gazes that followed us.

"Well, Madeline," Uma replied, her voice carrying a hint of mystery and adventure, "I am going to introduce you to my crew. The nastiest, roughest, pirate crew in the entire world." Her voice drips with pride as she talks about her crew.

I tilted my head, curiosity piqued as I hum. "Well if you believe that. I guess I believe it too." I nod, my eyes filled with curiosity as they scan through the area.

Uma chuckled softly, her long hair catching the sunlight as we turned down another alleyway lined with quaint shops and quirky signage. "Well I'm glad." 

Excitement bubbled up inside me as we neared the meeting place of her crew. It was as if I had stepped into a storybook, where each alleyway held the promise of adventure and every stranger might be a character with a role to play.

As we continued our journey through the bustling town, Uma and I fell into an easy rhythm of conversation and exploration. She pointed out little stores that had the best food, or best clothes. The easiest places to steal from, though I didn't really care that much.

"Why do you trust me so easily, Madeline?" Uma asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us.

I paused, considering her question seriously. "I suppose I trust you because... you're different," I admitted, a small smile playing on my lips. "You seem like someone who understands the magic in stories and the stories in magic."

I watch a soft smile play at her lips. "I'm glad. You remind me much of my first mate Harry when I first met him. Very trusting and loyal. He still is, but now I just toned down the very trusting part." She chuckles. "That boy just went around putting his heart on his sleeve. He believed every word I told. Had to teach him how to be careful with trusting people. He learned though, now I'm proud to say he is the roughest pirate of them all. Well after me of course." She ended with a smile.

"You sound very proud and protective of him." I smile softly at her, my eyes twinkling with excitement about meeting this boy. "Is there something between the two of you? Maybe a romance?" My eyebrow's rose in question.

She barked out a laugh, shaking her head. "No. God no. Harry and I are just mates. I view him as a brother."

I hum and nod, as we begin to walk in a comfortable silence.

As Uma barged into Ursula's Fish and Chips with her characteristic flair, announcing her return with a boisterous yell, the atmosphere in the rusty, broken-looking shop shifted. Among the cacophony of calls and excited yells, a singular, echoing cackle pierced through.

From the shadows emerged a figure who seemed to embody the very essence of a swashbuckling pirate. Clad in a full pirate outfit that seemed straight out of a storybook, he strode towards us with a cool, confident demeanor. My eyes couldn't help but trace the details of his attire—the long red coat, the polished black boots, and the hat that crowned his head with a rakish tilt.

But it was his face that drew my attention next—a face adorned with black smudged eyeliner that accentuated his piercing blue-eyed gaze and added to his rugged charm. He looked every bit the part of a dashing pirate, exuding an air of adventure and mystery that instantly captured my imagination.

As he approached, a playful smirk played on his lips, his eyes locking briefly with mine before turning to Uma. "Back already, Uma?" he teased, his voice carrying a hint of amusement and a touch of something deeper that I couldn't quite place.

Uma grinned back at him, clearly accustomed to their banter. "Had to come back sooner or later, Harry," she replied, her tone laced with equal parts familiarity and mischief.

I could feel my ears pin back at his thick accented voice. My head pokes out from behind Uma as I make eye contact with the boy I had been waiting oh-so patiently to meet.

Flashing him a large toothy grin. I step out from behind Uma.

Harry's eyes widened slightly in surprise as I emerged from behind Uma, flashing him a toothy grin that I hoped conveyed my excitement and admiration. His thick, accented voice had caught me off guard, a detail Uma had never mentioned but one that added an intriguing layer to his charm.

"And who might this ravishing beauty be?" His rough accent asked.

"Madeline Cheshire," I introduced myself with a hint of playfulness, emphasizing my surname with a nod to the whimsical nature of Wonderland itself. "Here to help."

His lips curled into a broader smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement and something deeper, something that hinted at a shared understanding of the extraordinary. He extended his hand towards mine, the gesture both polite and tinged with a subtle challenge.

"A pleasure, Madeline Cheshire," he replied warmly, his grip firm yet gentle as our hands met. "I'm Harry Hook, pleased to make your acquaintance."

The moment our hands touched, a spark seemed to pass between us, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that had already begun to form. I couldn't help but be drawn in by his charisma, his confidence, and the aura of adventure that surrounded him like a cloak.

Uma observed our exchange with a knowing smile, clearly amused by the unfolding dynamic between us. "I think you two are going to get along just fine," she remarked, her voice tinged with amusement.

Harry chuckled softly, releasing my hand with a lingering touch that sent a thrill through me. "Well then, Madeline Cheshire," he said, his tone light but with an undertone of intrigue, "shall we see what trouble we can stir up together in the Isle?"

I met his gaze with a grin, feeling a rush of excitement and anticipation. "Absolutely, Hook," I replied, my voice filled with determination and a touch of mischief. "Lead the way."